DON'T ASK FOR THE TOLL. SEE POEM ON PAGE 178.

was succeeded by Davoud Pasha, another Armenian | Catholic, and a native of Constantinople. He was for many years in the diplomatic service of the Porte, and at one time was its Turkish Chargé d'Affaires at Berlin.

several years the Turkish Ambassador at St. Petersburg. His European education, and experience in diplomatic service, eminently qualified him for the post of Governorship of Lebanon. But having incurred the displeasure of

the French, at the expiration of his term, seven years, he possession of a secret opinion in regard to gentlemen who was replaced by one of whom very little is known. left their wives to solitude and dullness, to find pleasure by themselves.

Wassa Pasha, the actual ruler of Lebanon, is an Albanian Prince, of the sect known as the Miridites, who are the Roman Catholics of Albania. Untrammeled with any knowledge of the world, nor versed in the wiles of diplomacy, but a mere creature of the French, when the next outbreak takes place he will certainly not be the man to cope with it, and it is feared his administration will rather hasten the catastrophe.

DON'T ASK FOR THE TOLL.

THE breeze on the river fell light as a feather,

Just curling the water to catch the sun's beam,
When Sir Rowland and Mysie both came down together,
But each on an opposite side of the stream.
He came with his rod for the trout and the grayling,
She was going with her rake to help in the hay.

It was only a footbridge without any railing,

And Sir Rowland and Mysie met on it half way. He smiled in her face as a blush o'er it stole, "I can't let you pass,"

He cried, "pretty lass,

Unless you are willing to pay me the toll."

"The toll!" she exclaimed. "I have never paid any;
Scores of times upon scores I have passed over free,
Please, sir, let me by! I haven't a penny;

The hay is all cut, and they're waiting for me."
"I am Lord of the Manor," he answered, "so, honey,
My manorial rights I don't mean to miss.
You haven't your purse; well, I don't want your monev;
The toll that I ask for is only a kiss;
But till I get one, the bridge I'll patrol;

I won't let you pass,

No! I won't pretty lass,

Till you've paid me a kiss by way of the toll."

Down under the bridge the sly trout were rushing,

The clouds they were sailing along in the sky,
Mysie said not a word, but her cheeks they were flushing,
Her bosom heaved fast, fire gleamed in her eye.
She looked in her anger the queen of haymakers,

As with her rake sceptre she dealt him a blow,
And the owner of river and bridge and broad acres
Went down with a splash to the fishes below.
"It is lucky," she cried, "that the water is shoal.
Next time a poor lass

Wishes by you to pass,

My lord of bad manners, don't ask for the toll!"

Mr. S. elevated his eyebrows and pursed out his lips in a highly exasperating manner, and committed the unpardonable offense of saying nothing.

Thereupon Mrs. S. lost control of that exceedingly useful but somewhat unruly member her tongue-and made clear as sunlight the aforesaid secret opinion, which, strange to say, failed to reflect credit on the purposed course of her lord and master.

George was not the man to take an imputation against his honor calmly, and he informed Mrs. S., in exceedingly terse style, that whatever plans he chose to adopt were in no way a matter for her approval or disapproval, and hinted that he had advanced sufficiently on the highway of life to be able to discriminate between an inclination to remain at home and a desire to go out, without the assistance of any one.

Then Mrs. Stanley assured Mr. S., with great politeness, that she should be charmed to have him go-indeed, looked forward with great eagerness to the moment when the hall-door should close behind him for the day, and she be at liberty to amuse herself without sacrificing every thought to an unworthy subject-name not mentioned.

Mr. S. returned the courtesy by begging permission to retire from the table; which being granted, he left the room with an elaborate bow and exaggerated show of careless ease.

For full ten minutes he stood before the window in the little reception-room, with hands thrust deep into pockets, and eyes staring vacantly out of the window, secretly expecting a repentant little wife to steal in upon him. But as the little wife was by no means repentant, and was herself waiting in secret hope of his return, feeling terribly aggrieved all the time, Mr. S. was allowed to continue his survey of the street in uninterrupted solitude.

Becoming weary of this, after fifteen minutes spent in gnawing his mustache, that gentleman pounded out into the hall, whipped on his overcoat, thrust his hat on his head, and left the house with a slam, muttering to himself as he went a remark not altogether complimentary to the sulky little woman at the breakfast-table, or worthy of a husband of three months' standing.

Mrs. Stanley heard the door slam behind her angry spouse, and instantly burst into a flood of tears, partly of

A QUARREL AND WHAT CAME OF IT. disappointment, partly of temper.

BY MARIE HAZEN.
CHAPTER I.

MR. AND MRS. GEORGE STANLEY had had a quarrel-a quarrel of the short, sharp order commonly known as a spat. Mr. Stanley had retired from the breakfast-table in some haste, and was cooling his heels-and temper, tooin the small reception-room at the end of the hall.

Mrs. Stanley still sat behind the urn, with flashing eyes and frowning brow, tapping the spoon she held in her fingers against the side of her teacup in a nervous, irritated sort of manner.

The fact was, Mr. and Mrs. Stanley had been married but a short time, and this was their first real difficulty, and began in this way:

Mr. S. had, after a few moments' devotion to the fragrant coffee and delicate rolls, signified his intention to absent himself from the domestic dinner-table, dine with Tom Clifford at the club, and "drop in" at the theatre during the evening.

Mrs. S. took exceptions instantly, and intimated the

Novelists are fond of asserting that the rivers of tears which their heroines constantly weep make them look still more beautiful; but Mrs. Stanley's tears, I am sorry to say, only had the ordinary effect-they made her head ache and gave her a red nose. Consequently, as there was no one present to pet her, or be harrowed into abject contrition at sight of them, she wisely concluded to reserve the supply, and turn her attention to concocting some plan of revenge.

Was she to be treated in this style, and tamely submit? Certainly not! But what was to be done? That was the question which caused the little lady to knit her white brow and tap her dainty slippered foot.

George must be brought to book shortly and severely; that was clear as daylight. But how?

Several plans suggested themselves, but as all of them entailed more or less suffering upon herself, she aban doned them, and still continued to think with perplexed face. Just then, as she began to despair of hitting upon the right thing, her friend and confidant, Miss Fortescue, came rushing in,

"Oh, George !" she moaned, "how wrong and foolish "I'll tell you what to do," said she, suddenly, after a I was! I am so sorry! Oh-0-0-0! I wish I was homefew moments' reflection. "Mrs. Dodge gives a yachting-how I wish I was home! Oh-o-o! Oh, my!" party to-day. You have an invitation-so have I. Let's go. Afterward do you come home to dinner with me, and in the evening we will make brother Ned take us out to the theatre! It's just the thing !" she cried, clapping her hands and waltzing around the room. "We will take good care not to get home till after Mr. Stanley does; and won't he be frightened!"

"Oh, indeed!-didn't you? Perhaps you were really Poor Mrs. Stanley lay groaning on the cushioned in love with Mr. Hunter, instead of pretending you were !"