MARY. And did you ask yourself all those questions when you married Mr. Markwell.

MRS. M. All! yes, and many more. (sits.)

MARY. Ah! my case is different.

MRS. M. Indeed!

MARY. (sitting) I've been going to be married such a very long time, ever since I was six years old, and I'm quite accustomed to the idea of marrying cousin Charles. It was the last wish of my dear mother and his Our uncle, now our only relative, has always spoken to us about it as an affair settled and agreed on long ago. So you see my marriage is not so alarming after all-to-day or tomorrow it's the same thing-he was my cousin, and he will be my husband as they always intended, and that's all. MRS. M. Well, your resignation is, perhaps, natural for your cousin Charles is very handsome.

MARY. (with indifference) Do you think so?

MRS. M. Yes, don't you?

MARY. Perhaps so. I am scarcely able to judge.

MRS. M. (aside) Poor child, she does not understand her position. (aloud) Ah! (sighing.)

MARY. What's the matter?

MRS. M. Nothing.

MARY. You look as if you pitied me.
MRS. M. I!

MARY. Yes, and you said, "ah!"

MRS. M. Well, then, my love I must tell you that marriage is not at all the matter-of-course affair that you suppose it.

MARY. NO?

MRS. M. Not at all.

MARY. Why then, what is it?

MRS. M. I'll tell you my love-a momentous occurrence -the great sensation act of life's drama of which the denouement may be happiness or misery. Ah, my dear, when once we have borne a part in the play ourselves you can't imagine what interest we take in watching the other performers, and I must say I am disappointed

MARY. Disappointed!

MRS. M. Yes, your uncle wrote to invite me here on the auspicious day, as he termed it; my heart beat at the thought. I came down here with my nerves strung up to the proper palpitation pitch, I brought with me a love of a dress, and a duck of a bonnet, I came to witness a world of sweet surprise and emotions, the blushes of the bride, the eagerness of the bridegroom, the sympathetic sighs

of anxious friends, the waving handkerchief from the earriage window, to see the launch of Love's frail bark on the dim ocean of futurity-in short, to read the one poetical page in a life's history, and what do I find? two commonplace young people who have been told to get married like good children, and who do as they're bid, in a cold blooded methodical way in the interval between the practising of a sonata, and the cracking of a doublebarrelled gun, it's unexampled-unheard of.

MARY. Is it? Charles never told me so, but then he never says anything about it.

MRS. M. Never says anything! what a poetical courtship!

MARY. Courtship, what's that?

MRS. M. Dan Cupid's ferry boat, my love; but ask Charles and he'll explain.

MARY. I don't think he will, he's so stupid, he never explains anything.

MRS. M. But does he never say agreeable things, pay you little attentions, praise your looks, your hair, your dress, whisper soft nothings, in short, never make love? MARY. If that's the proper way to make love, he certainly never does.

MRS. M. Then, my dear, he's the oddest lover in the world.

MARY, Indeed! then you think he doesn't make love like other people?

MRS. M. I'm sure of it.

MARY. Dear me, you've made me quite uncomfortable; perhaps he doesn't care for me at all.

MRS. I'm afraid, my poor child, it looks very like it. (noise of gun fired outside-starting) Good heavens! what

is that?

MARY. Nothing, only Charles come back from shooting --he always discharges his gun under the windows to let us know he is coming.

MRS. M. A charming mode of announcement, certainly.

Enter CHARLES, C., dressed in straw hat, and shooting jacket -he is carrying a gun, and smoking a cigar.

CHARLES. (not seeing MRS. MARKWELL, and kissing MARY on forehead) Good morning, little wife, good morning; wipe my forehead, there's a dear, I'm quite done up.

MRS. M. (aside) Done up! quite a model bridegroom. MARY. (with indifference) Any sport?

CHARLES. (placing gun at back) No, nothing worth speaking of a couple of rabbits.

MRS. M. A provision for the wedding dinner, I presume. CHARLES. Ah, my dear Mrs. Markwell, this is indeed a surprise-why I've not seen you these two years. MRS. M. Time enough to be forgotten.

CHARLES. Forgotten! why I'm always talking to Mary about you.

MRS. M. (aside) Then that's what she meant by his never saying anything.

CHARLES. And how is your worthy husband.

MARY. (aside to him) She's a widow.

CHARLES. A widow, my dear madam, I sincerely congrat

MARY. (pulling his coat) What are you saying!

CHARLES. I mean condole with you, though one can hardly regret any cause that brings so charming a person among us.

MRS. M. (aside) Pretty well for a man who never says anything. (aloud) I did not know you country gentlemen were so gallant.

CHARLES. We want inspiration, madam, but (bowing) we always find pretty words for pretty women.

MARY. Upon my word! So then I am no inspiration, as you call it.

CHARLES. Oh, that's a different thing altogether. You go for nothing you know, you're my little wife. (chucks her under the chin, she turns away sulkily.)

MRS. M. Wife! not yet.

CHARLES. Oh yes, my dear madam, we've been married these ten years.

MRS. M. Married ten years!

CHARLES. Well it's the same thing, meant to be married ever since we were children, we drag a perpetual chain. MARY. (sighing) Ah, yes, a perpetual chain.

MRS. M. So, so, both in the same song.

CHARLES. And to make matters more pleasant, I see Mary's in the sulks.

MARY. And what if I am, haven't I enough to make me -left alone all the morning?

CHARLES. Why, my dear. I leave you alone every morning.

MARY. I know it, and I don't like it. Why are you not like other people? why do you not ride in Dan Cupid's ferry boat?

CHARLES. What!

MARY. Why don't you leave that nasty gun? why don't you say agreeable things?

CHARLES. Agreeable things--I don't understand.

MARY. No sir, but I do, and I insist upon it. Why don't you pay me little attentions, praise my looks, my hair, my dress? why don't you whisper soft nothings-in short, why don't you make love?

CHARLES. Now, my dear madam, I appeal to you, what on earth can a fellow find to say to a girl whom he sees at breakfast every morning of his life in a perpetual course of coffee and curl papers?

MARY. Curl papers! it's an abominable falsehood!

CHARLES. And when I do begin to talk you're always at that piano, and the only answer I get ist-r-m-r-r-r-tor-rn. (imitating running of scales) I'm sure those infernal scales are enough to weigh any man's spirits down.

MARY. I'm sure my piano is quite as interesting as those landscapes that you're always pestering me to look at— the dreadful daubs!

CHARLES. Daubs! that's a nice remark for a wife.

MARY. Quite as kind as coffee and curl papers from a husband.

CHARLES. Very well, Miss Mary! ( both huffed, take stage MARY. Very well, Mr. Charles! up in opposite directions MRS. M. What a charming commencement of conjugal comfort.

MUDDLE. (outside) Very well, very well, for goodness sake don't worry me, confound it all, I've nothing to do with it.

MRS. M. Who's that?

MARY. Only uncle come back from fishing, don't you recognise his voice?

MRS. M. No, my love, but I do the family temper.

MUDDLE. (speaking off as he enters, c.) Very well, let the housekeeper and the cook settle it between them-I've nothing to do with it, I'm sure the fuss and the worry and the botheration's enough to drive a man mad.

MRS. M. Why, my dear sir, you appear quite put out. MUDDLE. My dear madam, I'm not only put out, but I'm upset-everything's upset to-day and the whole house is topsy turvey, everything's out of the usual course. MRS. M. Dear me, I don't perceive it.

MARY. La, my dear, uncle's always in a pucker about trifles.

MUDDLE. Trifles! is the marriage a trifle! and the lawyer a trifle ? and the settlements a trifle? to say

nothing of the dinner, and my being compelled to wear my dress coat that's a mile too small for me, and being put out of one's usual course.

MRS. M. I am sorry, my dear sir, if my arrival has added to your discomfort.

MUDDLE. Not at all, my dear friend, not at all, I expected you-but you see every morning of my life for the last fifteen years I've made it a practice to go fishing, and just as they came to tell me you were here, I had got a beautiful bleak at the end of my line, and the fellow startled me so that I lost him-the first bite I'd had since four this morning. Well, children, squabbling as usual? (they rise and come down.)

MARY. It's all his fault.

CHARLES. On the contrary, uncle, she picked a quarrel with me.

MUDDLE. Oh, yes, it's the old story-they've been squabbling, my dear madam, ever since they were children. Ah, theirs will be a happy match-nothing like diversity of disposition.

MRS. M. I don't quite understand that, unless you mean that in marriage, as in homoeopathy, love cures love.

MUDDLE. My meaning to a T, my dear madam, but much better expressed.

MARY. (coaxingly, putting her hand on his arm) Uncle, dear!

MUDDLE. Well, Mary, my dear!

MARY. Is-is this marriage quite decided on!

MUDDLE. Decided! is the girl mad! a thing that was always intended-that has been settled for the last fifteen years. Oh, for goodness sake let us get it over and have done with it.

CHARLES. Yes, let's get it over, and have done with it. MARY. Yes, let's do it, and have done with it. (they go up, she sits at work, and he plays with the lock of his gunsitting back to back, opposite sides.)

MRS. M. (aside) Poor young people-'twould be a kindness to break off such a union.

MUDDLE. Ah, madam, what a day-I am the most unfortunate of uncles.

MRS. M. (mysteriously) I comprehend-in fact, I wished to speak to you upon the subject.

MUDDLE. (offering chair) I shall be delighted to have your assistance in so important an arrangement.

MRS. M. You see it requires great delicacy. (sits, .) MUDDLE. Oh, yes, of course, I wish to have every deli