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hands, whom she permits to seek for what she wants, to wait upon her, to be useful to her in a thousand pleasant ways. Above all, one who understands that he must renounce the whole sex for her sweet sake, and bask in no woman's smiles, and hang upon no woman's words, but hers. But, by and by, the fickle Melinda grows tired of his assiduities, discards the favorite, and indulges in all the agreeable excitement of electing his successor, who becomes equally infatuated, equally subservient to her will, and, in time, equally wearisome.

Mr. Belmont, if he sometimes feels Othello pangs, conceals them too carefully ever to be classed with jealous husbands. He is virtually shut out of the charmed circle which his wife's magic draws around her. He sits at a distance, trying to look as though he were occupied with other interests, but secretly drinking in the musical rise and fall of her voice, softened to the low tone of high breeding; hearkening to the rippling gushes of her exultant laughter listening to her sparkling thoughts, sham jewels dropped into gilt setting of glittering words; admiring the half voluptuous contour of her form, which is strikingly displayed by some picturesque attitude; smiling inwardly at the captivating changefulness, the bewitching caprices that keep her devotees on the qui vive to watch her varying moods, and weakly glorying in the sensation she creates, the admiration she excites.

Perhaps Mr. Belmont, who is a man of some