torment to the brute creation. Sometimes a
horse or ox, engaged in agricultural work in the
fields, is clad in trousers—two pairs, of course—
to guard its legs from this maddening scourge—
the driver himself being tolerably well protected
if he have a pipe in his mouth; for both mosquito
and gallinipper detest the fumes of tobacco, and
keep at a respectable distance from an earnest
smoker. Pioneers in the wilderness, land-surveyors,
geologists, naturalists, and others, who
have to explore new regions, become so
accustomed and hardened to the mosquitoes and
gallinippers as to think little of them; but it is
the pipe or the cigar by day, and the camp-fire by
night, which keeps them at a distance; or no
amount of familiarity with the nuisance would
ever reconcile anybody to its infliction. But
Europe and America, though subject to pests
like these, are comparatively happy. The
grievance, if great, is to be borne; and a
gallinipper, atrocious as he is, is an angel of grace
and mercy compared with a fly called the
seroot, which, Sir Samuel White Baker tells
us, infests Abyssinia. "The animals," he
says, "are almost worried to death by the
countless flies, especially by that species that
drives the camels from the country. This
peculiar fly is about the size of a wasp, with an
orange-coloured body, with black and white
rings; the proboscis is terrific; it is double,
and appears to be disproportioned, being two-
thirds the length of the entire insect. When
this fly attacks an animal or man, it pierces the
skin instantaneously, like the prick of a red-hot
needle driven deep into the flesh, at the same
time the insect exerts every muscle of its body
by buzzing with its wings as it buries the
instrument to its greatest depth. The blood
starts from the wound immediately, and
continues to flow for a considerable time; this is
an attraction to other flies in great numbers,
many of which lay their eggs upon the wound."
Better to endure the ills we have, than fly to
others that we know not of. Better English
flies and gnats, better American mosquitoes
and gallinippers, than such a flying fiend as the
Abyssinian seroot.

             THE DEAR GIRL

BY THE AUTHOR OF "BELLA DONNA," "NEVER
             FORGOTTEN," &c.

CHAPTER XXVI. THE LITTLE DINNER

IN the interval, Vivian and Lucy wandered
about, on this joyful day of the fair, inexpressibly
happy. At "six sharp" they were at the
café, where a neat little table for four had been
laid, and the best dinner of the place ordered.
Other tables near them were filled with guests.
It was a busy time.

They waited a long time, and soon guessed,
what was the truth, that the fitful Dacres had
forgotten the whole, and had "picked up"
some yet more pleasant friends, with whom he
had gone off to dine at a far better establishment.

"I am not sorry," said Vivian. "We have
waited long enough; and, had I been consulted,
I should not have had that officer—at least, with
you."

"He was charming," said Lucy, slyly. She
was in great spirits. "And so gallant! And I
am so sorry he is not here."

"Why should we not have our little dinner?"
said Vivian. "No one knows us here."

"Oh, I should so like it!" said Lucy, clasping
her hands. "As for the gossips, I can
despise them. It is enough for them to say it,
and I will go against them. Besides," she
added, gravely, "if poor Harco came back and
found us gone away— "

"Yes," said Vivian; "let us have our little
dinner, and let me enjoy life while I may."

Women at other tables noticed the pair with
interest. They called him "beau garçon." It
was in the garden of the café, which was
surrounded with arbours and little tables set out,
and lamps already twinkling among the trees.
Music, although of an indifferent sort, was
playing in the centre. By-and-by there was
to be a dance. Soldiers of the infantry of
the line, hands deep in pockets, were lounging
about, waiting for that blissful amusement.
One had already planned how he would humbly,
and with all politeness, secure the hand of the
charming "mees" who was sitting in the
arbour.

"Oh, this is happiness!" said Lucy, in
delight. "What a charming day to think of!"

"And something for me, too, when I—But
I will have no foreboding. I will never be
gloomy; and whatever you do with me, or
however you treat me, you shall see no change on
my face, no wild eyes nor wicked glances."

Lucy laughed. "I know why you say that,
and who you are thinking of. It is a little
absurd, and people think it strange. Poor Mr.
West! and yet I so pity him."

"Pity him!" said Vivian, warmly. "l am afraid
there is a morbid vindictiveness under all that. It
is speaking too gently of him. As for me, he
glares at me, as I pass him, in a way that would
be alarming, if it were not comical. Poor
soul! Yet I dare say he was preyed upon by
this delusion of being injured, until it has taken
hold of him. Sometimes he seems to be a little
unsettled in his mind."

"That occurred to me, too," said Lucy,
gravely, and with much concern. "And yet he
is so changed. He was once—and not long ago
—oh! so noble, so kind, so chivalrous! I would
have done anything for him, and liked him so
much; but even then he was odd," added
Lucy doubtfully. "Curious—for papa wished
me to promise to marry him, and he wished
it; and I had come that very day from Miss
Pringle's, and had never seen any one," went
on Lucy, apologetically. "But he took such
a curious turn, and wouldn't hear of it. He
said I must wait for years, perhaps, and must
learn to like him, so that, unless I felt I could do
so after along, long time, it must not be thought
of. He forced this on me, and made it a bargain."