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CHAPTER LXXXI.

Sir Jaspar had listened to this narrative with trembling interest, and a species of emotion that was indefinable; his head bent forward, and his mouth nearly as wide open, from the fear of losing a word, as his eyes, from eagerness not to lose a look: but, when it was finished, he exclaimed, in a sort of transport, "Is this all? Joy, then, to great Cæsar! Why "tis nothing! My little fairies are all skipping in ecstacy; while the wickeder imps are making faces and wry mouths, not to see mischief enough in the wind to afford them a supper! This a marriage? Why you are free as air!

"The little birds that fly,
With careless ease, from tree to tree,"

are not more at liberty. Ah! fair enslaver! were I as unshackled!"—

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