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Well, 'experience is a dear school, but fools will learn in no other.' There's Minerva Hall now, that would be a match worth talking about; ten thousand easy, I suppose, she will bring to the man who is fortunate enough to win her; besides her wit and the queenly air she has. It does one good to see her come sailing down the street; head up, and such a bust; and her slender foot fairly scorning the ground she walks on. They say such women are apt to have tempers; but I think that is half humbug; and any way, no man will object to a little spirit of the right sort. It's spicy. As to her being heartless, that's all nonsense too; every woman has a heart, only every man hasn't the wit to lay his hand upon it. Trust mo to find the soft spot in a woman; once get your hand fairly wound in among the heart strings, and you can manage the proudest of them. Now Minerva has a sort of weakness for me; I know that; I've seen it this long time, and on the whole, I don't believe I shall ever do better than to take her."

The doctor paused, and I think a vision of the pretty cottage, and its fairer inmate flitted across his brain, for he grew more deeply pensive, and a gleam of tenderness softened his dark eye. But presently he muttered, "Pshaw! that will never do; she hasn't the dimes."

Things grew hazy in his brain for awhile; and then, as if just arrived at a sudden resolution, he started up, arrayed himself for a walk, and went out into the darkness. When he came back, it was as the affianced husband of Minerva Hall.

A short time elapsed, to the doctor it seemed very short, until she was brought home to preside as Mrs. Winthrop over his household.

It may be doubted whether, even on his wedding night, the doctor felt himself supremely blest; but perhaps the first real tangible drop of bitterness in his cup was tasted when he saw his handsome wife stand before her mirror, and divest herself of a very handsome set of false teeth, and two or three heavy braids of hair. These slight operations, together with the washing off of a coat of rouge and pearl-powder, wrought quite a transformation in the beautiful Miss Hall.

One morning, shortly after, Mrs. Winthrop was going shopping, and desired her liege lord to supply her with the necessary funds.

"I am extremely sorry," replied the doctor, blandly, "but really, my dear, I haven't the money by me this morning."

The full, red lip, whose pout during the courtship had been so bewitching, swelled now in earnest in a way that wasn't half as fascinating.

"A pretty reply to make to my first request for money; doubtless this is only the commencement of the insults which I shall be called upon to endure," said the bride.

The doctor was a little heated, and replied, "Very likely, madam; for when I married an heiress, I expected her to find herself in pin-money."

"You did, eh? So you married me for my money, did you; and you have the impudence to tell me of it to my face too, actually before the honeymoon is over. It is shameful, sir; it is outrageous."

The doctor strove to apologize; but the virago had the advantage of him, and she continued to pour out the torrent of invective long after he had placed the door between them and was hurrying down street. As this scene had commenced at the breakfast-table, its effects upon the children, who were present, can be better imagined than described. That day the doctor took the pains to ascertain the amount of Miss Winthrop's "fortune." It turned out to consist in the use of five thousand dollars. Subsequent discoveries proved to him that, as the result of the lady's extravagance, her account at the banker's was usually overdrawn.

The delightsomeness of the doctor's evenings at home may be imagined. Generally his resource, after tea, was the newspaper or periodical; or if the household atmosphere was too stormy, he betook himself to a small upper room, which was usually denominated his study. Sitting there one evening, while his wife was entertaining two or three fascinating young gentlemen in the parlor, he heard a timid knock at the door, and his little golden-haired Amy entered; his first born, his pet, the namesake of his early love. She led her younger brother by the hand, and both were crying.

The doctor's heart was touched. By some strange forgetfulness, he seemed never, till this moment, to have taken into consideration the claims of his children in his choice of a step-mother for them. Now, as if in a magic-glass, the enormity of his conduct in this respect was held up before him. Stretching out his hands, he said tenderly,

"Come here, Amy, darling, and tell me what grieves you."

Amy glided gently into his embrace, and Harry climbed noiselessly to his father's knee.

"Please, papa," said Amy, timidly, "is the new mother to be always our mother; or will she go away, by-and-by, as our own mamma did?"

The doctor's eyes filled with tears.

"Why do you ask me such a question, my dear?" he inquired, with a choking voice.