I must take a very thin crust, or one traveller's biscuit, and a little Hock and Seltzer; although I'm in that horrid situation, neither possessing appetite, nor wanting refreshment. What shall I do now? Who can write when the sun shines? It's a warm, soft, sunny day, though in March. I'll lie down on the lawn and play with my Italian greyhound. Don't think me a puppy for having one. It was given to me by. That's a sufficient excuse, is it not? Now Hyacinth, now my Hyacinth, now my own dog; try to leap over me!—frolick away, my beautiful one; I love thee, and have not I cause? What confidence have you violated? What sacred oaths have you outraged? Have you proved a craven in the hour of trial? Have I found you wanting when I called, or false when I fondled? Why do you start so, my pretty dog? Why are your eyes so fixed, your ears so erect. Pretty creature! does any thing frighten you? Kiss me, my own Hya-
