overboard. Such at least was the impression of
the boatman on land; and he could scarcely be mistaken.So far as he could see, Mr. Easton did not rise to the surface. The cold
numbed him, and he sunk, not to rise again. The bereaved wife stood
upright for a moment in the boat, gazing on the water that had swallowed
up her husband before her eyes. Then she too was seen to be in it; but
not one of the two or three, who witnessed the fearful sight, could tell
whether she threw herself in, or whether she fell in, senseless. That
secret will never be solved; and what matters it to us, though the
manner of the widowed wife's death was so remarkable, that I cannot
refrain from mentioning it? In talking it over, they agreed that she did
not sink at all. As she fell, the water inflated her dress, and she was
buoyed-up, floating; though there was no sign of life or movement on her
part, observable to the agonized spectators. After a time--I forget
whether it was half an hour, or half a day--the remains of what once was
loved as Mary Verner were wafted tranquilly to the shore. Assistance
also having been procured, Mr. Easton's body was dragged-up from the
bottom of the lake. One grave in a church-yard in Essex now holds the
coffins of the ill-fated pair.And was there no effort at rescue? Could nothing be done? This idea will
have crossed the reader's mind. It suggested many questions to me, with
which I plied the boatman, who seemed to feel keenly in them the
bitterness of unintended reproach. But his explanation--grievous as it
was--was satisfactory. There was no boat, no raft, no means of reaching
the spot. "Two of us," said he, "plunged up to our necks into the water,
in the irrepressible desire to swim out to them; though we knew that it
was certain death to go beyond our depth. Besides, Monsieur," he added
with touching simplicity, "I can't help fancying that the poor lady was
dead before she fell out of the boat. Monsieur knew her; doesn't he
think that her heart was already broken?""God help her, and all of us, my brave friend; I have not the smallest
doubt of it!"

TOSSING UP FOR A HUSBAND.

I.
The Marchioness was at her toilet. Florine and Aspasia, her two
ladies'-maids, were busy powdering, as it were with hoar-frost, the
bewitching widow.She was a widow, this Marchioness, a widow of twenty-three; and wealthy,
as very few persons were any longer at the court of Louis XV., her
godfather.Three-and-twenty years earlier, his Majesty had held her at the

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