SWEETHEARTS.

Alas! that the plural should be necessary. But they do grow so fast, and then a stern mamma takes them away to a horrid place called England, and never again will the lonely bachelor be allowed to kiss and worship them. But others follow fast, and fickle mankind is consoled.

My most serious affair was with a goldenheaded maiden, who, for reasons unknown, christened me 66 my darlin'." Pardon the "g;" she was just three years old, and a "g" or an "r" were things she despised. No shy or bashful maiden this; openly she appropriated me and mine.

"I'se comin' to tea with you, my darlin'; what cake shall you have ?" or else it was, "You send Ayah home and take me for a dwive!" But when before a room full of people she gravely said, "I must go now or else my darlin' will not be able to see me in

my bath," a rapid retreat became necessary to save my blushes.

Kathleen Mavourneen, better known as "Her Serene Highness," next played the deuce with my feelings. Though little over two years old, she was a finished coquette, and somewhat inclined to tyranny. The way she bullied her dad was a caution, and her brethren bowed in slavish submission to her behests. The little monkey was almost too beautiful, and unless she takes to green spectacles, her great violet eyes will do terrible execution sixteen years from now.

When pleased with my general conduct, H.S.H. allowed me to sit beside her at dinner and gaze respectfully at her dainty feeding, but at other times I was sternly told to "Do 'way, 'orrid man! "

After the daily game of lawn tennis, Kathleen often honoured me by "dwivin' my geegees home," and very important the mite looked holding the end of the reins. But one luckless day I ventured to give a

lady friend a lift, and called out for H.S.H. She toddled up, ayah and bearer escorted as usual, caught sight of the fair intruder, then with withering scorn she hurled these words at me, "U'se got another lady; I shan't tome!" My infidelity was not forgiven till the present of a small gazelle restored me to favour some weeks later.

In startling contrast to this imperious little lady was the romping Daisy; no courtly airs and graces here, but, instead, a warm and sympathetic heart. How gentle the four-year-old maiden could be no one but the invalid mother knew; how deftly the little hands placed the damp handkerchiefs on the burning brows and fanned and petted her "sweetest mummie was hidden from other eyes. The Daisy we knew was the fearless little rider who bucketed her father's polo ponies across country, and entertained a sovereign contempt for anyone who funked.

Having heard us one day discussing whether or not to blister the foreleg of a

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black pony, rightly christened "Shaitan," a kicking, biting, fiendish animal, she made tracks for his stall, and, to our horror, knelt down and gravely examined the groggy limb. To rush forward and drag her away would have been fatal; Shaitan stood like a lamb, and after awhile Daisy got up and came back We went into the house and took

to us. it neat.

May a rich and honourable man some day have the good luck to marry Daisy.

Alas! what can I tell about my last sweetheart. Her face that of an angel, but horribile dictu, there issued from those dainty little lips floods of vile, low Hindustani, such as is used by low-class sweepers. Her mother was a beauty, and, not to be in the way of admirers, the poor child was constantly left with the servants, and naturally picked up their ways and words. She did not, thank God, understand fully the hideous nature of what she said. It was terribly sad.

Did I say that mothers carried away all our sweethearts beyond the seas? Would that it were so; but, alas! the thousand little graves, with their piteous words of tender farewell, are silent witnesses to the contrary. A careless moment, during which Sunnylocks escapes joyfully from the darkened nursery, to revel a brief while in the bright sunshine yonder, pursuit, and capture; surely no harm can ensue. Towards evening the little maid grows listless, and father hears no joyous welcome as he returns from the long day's work. Fever, burning, consuming, destroying fever seizes the little victim, and ere morning the weeping mother hears the gentle, fluttering sigh which tells her all is over. Hush! dear one, hush! and ere it be too late, turn those tear-stained eyes heavenward. See the silver gleaming of that angel's wings. See how tenderly our little one is held in those bright arms, and how she smiles-free now and for ever from pain or care.