'Twas Bertha, who found me fresh and gay, and who smiled as she kissed me. We gossiped like sisters as I dressed.

I was a real woman now, and my pretty aunt treated me as one. She drew certain secrets from me that seemed to interest her greatly and questioning me, I told her what took place.

She seemed much surprised when I said that I had felt great pleasure four times, while Charles had only done it to me once. Evidently the slight amount of my husband's virile strength, compared to the vigour of hers, surprised her greatly.

The day passed away, and, as my husband was a great sportsman, he went out shooting. I took a walk with Bertha.

We all met at dinner, and passed the evening with a little music.

Night arrived, but how different from the two preceding ones; Charles popped an ugly silk handkerchief on his head, chatted about our early departure, about our new house, amp;c. but never a word about love, not even a caress; he embraced me coldly, and slept.

I awoke on the morrow before he did, and a terrible longing seized me to look at the instrument that I had only felt twice, and which did not much resemble Monsieur B.'s in size or strength. I was favoured by circumstances. It was warm, and Charles had thrown off the sheet, that only just hid the particular part. Luckily, his shirt had been pulled up;

I had only to draw down the sheet a little, with infinite prudence, and I caught sight of the sad tool which was to be my only consolation.

What a difference, indeed, to that of Monsieur B.! Small, wrinkled, and in a shrivelled skin, one could hardly guess at the presence of its limp head, that reposed on his thigh.