Don Pasquale was an old bachelor, and as wealthy as he was old. He was saving, credulous, and obstinate. But for all that Don Pasquale was the best-hearted of dons.

Now he had a nephew, whose name was Ernesto. This youth had been continually either falling from the heights of his uncle’s approbation, or to the depths of his displeasure, only to be raised again the next day. But at last Ernesto forfeited the don’s approbation altogether, for he fell in love with Norina, of whom the don had no good opinion, though, in truth, he had never seen her. In the first place, according to the don, she was flighty; in the second place, she was impatient; in the third place, she was fiery; and the old bachelor had a horror of fiery women.

So when his nephew showed a disposition to speak in praise of his lady love, the don grew so obstinate and ill-tempered, that his friend, Doctor Malatesta, no longer recognized him as the old bachelor companion: Doctor Malatesta had known the bachelor don for more years than he would like to name, and known the nephew as long as the don himself, so he was like one of the family. It may also be stated that the doctor was a practical joker.

There is but a fourth party to this little tale—though she cannot be called one of the family—we mean Norina, a young widow, a delightful widow, perhaps impatient, as the don had declared, nay, perhaps even fiery, but for all that she was affectionate and sincere, and amazingly fond of Ernesto.

Well, it may be said at once, that the nephew persisted in adoring Norina; the old don then marked out a line of conduct, the effect of which was, that he sat in his breakfast parlor one fine morning, impatiently waiting for his friend Malatesta, and snappishly looking at the clock. Being old and a leetle deaf, he took the first sound he heard to be the doctor’s step—’twas only the wind; then he thought of the “pill” he had prepared for his obstinate nephew, moreover his insulting nephew, for that relation had gone so far as to indecently call him a donkey—call him, Don Pasquale—a donkey.

In the midst of his silent anger, the doctor arrived, a pleasant middle-aged gentleman, with a jolly, pleasant face.

“Well, well,” said the don.

“Well, indeed,” said the doctor.

“What, you have found—”

“Yes, indeed.”

The don embraced his friend in the Italian manner, and thereupon did not see the laugh that spread over the doctor’s merry countenance.

“Now for her portrait,” said the don; “I am all attention.”

“She is as beautiful as an angel who has missed her way, and wandered to earth; she is as fresh as a newly-blown lily, and her eyes are like darts that pierce the very heart—and whether you shall most admire the blackness of her hair, or the beauty of her smile, who shall say?”

“Blessed is the man who is blessed with such a wife.”

“And her modesty, and her grace, and her charity!”

“Yes, yes, doctor; and her family!”

“Such a family!”

“And her name—”

“Her name is Malatesta.”

“What! is she related to you?”

“A little; she’s my sister.”

“Oh, dear brother! when shall I see her?”

“To-morrow.”

“’Tis an age! this very instant!”

“Ah!” said the doctor, “I can deny naught to a friend.”

Again the don embraced the doctor.

This second embrace was not so long as the first. The don ejected his friend from his arms, and said rapidly, “Go, go, go.”

Left to himself, it may be remarked the old don danced with glee. If you have not seen a gingerly old gentleman in such a situation, you have lost a sight. He was in the midst of this practice, when his nephew, Ernesto came running into the room.

“Good morning, nephew! You may sit down.”

“Surely, surely, uncle!”

“Don’t be afraid.”

“Surely, surely, uncle!”

“I am not going to scold you. Tell me, did I not, precisely two months ago, offer you the hand of a lady, as rich as beautiful, and as noble as both?”

“Surely, surely, uncle!”

“And did I not promise to give you all I had?”

“At your death—surely, surely.”

“And did I not say if you refused, I would marry her myself?”

“That is, marry somebody else—surely, surely.”

“Well, you did refuse; now, I offer you this young lady again—will you marry her?”

“Surely, surely—NO.”

“No!”

“No.”

“You homeless fellow, you!”

“You turn me out, uncle?”

“Yes, I do, to make room for your aunt.”

“You marry?”

“Surely, surely, nephew; I myself, the Don Pasquale, in very flesh and bone.”

“You take my breath away!”

“Yes, I myself, the Don Pasquale, sane and sound, I marry.”

“’Tis a comedy!”

“Is it? Till to-morrow; wait till to-morrow.”

“Sir, I will.”

“Yes, but not here, in Don Pasquale’s house.”

The youth here grew very disconsolate, for indeed he was thinking if his uncle cut him off with that proverbial shilling, he would have to resign the promised hand of somebody whom he had no objection to marry whatever.

Meanwhile the don was watching him attentively, and half hoping that the youth would consent.

Said Ernesto, after the dismal pause, “Uncle, just two words.”

“Three—young man.”

“Don’t be rash—consult Doctor Malatesta.”

“Sir—I have consulted him.”

“And what is his advice?”

“He is as willing for the match as I. Oh, you may look astonished—as willing for the match as I. In fact, nephew—between ourselves—SHE IS HIS SISTER!”

“The doctor’s?”

“Well, he said so.”

Poor Ernesto. The doctor had always been his best friend, and when the crashing announcement came, he thought Doctor Malatesta would be his man-at-arms, and now it seemed he had gone over to the enemy. And he looked even more dismal than before, for now, not only had his old love drifted away from him, but his old friend too.

The don saw these dismal marks of misery with dolorous satisfaction—the satisfaction arose out of his pride—and the dolor was buried in his heart. But for all that he showed his nephew to the door, though it should be said to his honor, that he did not dance when he was alone again.

CHAPTER II.

Norina, the young widow who had caused all that commotion at the don’s domicile, was not so rich as she was beautiful. If she had been, she would have been besieged with lovers; but she was rich enough to have a home of her own, and she was sitting in it reading on that very morning when the don directed his young nephew’s shoes to the street door.

The doctor had told her he should want her for a certain plot, though he had carefully only raised her curiosity without confiding particulars, and she had taken up the book to divert herself till the doctor, by appointment, should be there.

The book was a romantic old love tale, and she had got as far as, “Her looks were so heavenly, so delightful, that the Knight Richard, enraptured, fell at her feet, and vowed eternal fidelity,” when she flung it down, exclaiming to herself, that she did not want the heavenly lady’s instructions in the art of love-making. She well knew the power of glance in time and place, the effect of a smile, a tear, silence, a word; in fact, this vivacious little widow believed herself a coquette, though in reality, there was not a more earnest little woman in the whole world, when it was a question of her love for Ernesto. She did love him. She would plague him by flirting with third parties; but she could always turn his anger into smiles. Well, she was thinking of Ernesto, when a letter came to her in the handwriting of that youth. Ah! how all the bright looks went out of the face a moment after, and the letter was opened. She read it through, and was reading it again, when the doctor, without waiting for any ceremony, ran in and up to the little lady—for she was little.

“Good news,” he cried, “strategem—”

“Not a word of it, doctor,” and she thrust the letter into his hands.

He read: “‘My dear Norina, I write to you with a broken heart.’ (The poor young man) ‘Don Pasquale, advised by that scoundrel’ (that’s me, beyond a doubt, poor young man), ‘by that false, double-faced Doctor Malatesta’ (as I thought) ‘will marry a sister of his, and he turns me out of doors. And so love tells me I must run away from you. Therefore, good bye, good bye. May you be happy, ’tis the dearest wish of Ernesto.’ How glad you must be to receive this letter.”

“Glad, doctor!” she exclaimed, in tears.

“Why, next time you see him, he’ll be more loving than ever.”

“When will that be—perhaps, perhaps, he’s gone!”

“And perhaps not. He shall know our plans at once.”

“Our plans, what are they?”

“You know to punish his nephew, the don would marry!”

“Is that our plan, doctor?”

“Well, well, seeing him determined, I seconded him!”

“Oh!”

“To serve you, and Ernesto—I have spoken to the don of my sister. You shall pass for her. You appear before him, he falls in love with you!”

“Well!”

“Then he marries you!”

“Oh!”

“Don’t scream. He marries you, and yet he does not. My nephew Charles shall personate a notary. Then, married, I leave the rest to you, ’tis your business to drive him mad, as of course you know. Then, then we will do with him as we please.

“Ah, ah, ah, ah!” (no more tears now, unless from laughter,) “ah, ah, ah, ah, ah, oh! Oh, how I’ll teaze him—how I’ll worry him—how he shall repent—ah, ah, ah.”

“Oh but not at first!”

“Oh, dear no! shall I be merry, or downcast, or reserved?”

“No, not at all.”

“Shall I weep, or cry?”

“No, you must appear a simple country lass.”

“And I will. See how do I manage? oh, thank you, thank you—no, that is—but I’d rather not—you’re very, very humble servant, sir. Ah, ah, ah!”

“Brava, that will do.”

“And I must hold my head down, like a goose!”

“And your lips pursed up.”

“Like an old maid. Oh! sir, I am ashamed. I’d rather not—your humble servant, sir! Ah, ah, ah!”

“Come, let us go.”

“Yes, oh, I shall die of laughing before we get there. Sir, your most obedient—ah, ah, ah, ah, ah!”

CHAPTER III.

Don Pasquale got himself up in such style for the reception of his bride that his own servants did not know him. In fact he hardly knew himself, and felt rather taller. But he was not comfortable, and indeed as he gave his servants orders to admit none but the doctor and the person who might be with him, he blushed rather red, which last word is superfluous, for no don in the world could blush blue! Well, the servants departed; he danced again, and then growing tired he was fatigued with waiting.

Soon they arrived. The doctor pushing his “sister” forward with angry jerks. As for her, with her veil down over her meek face, she was uttering cries of fright and mild opposition.

“Courage, courage, sister.”

“Oh, dear me—that is—I can’t—please, brother, do not leave me.”

Here the don danced up to the young lady, adjusting his necktie gracefully round his neck.

“Something like a giggle was heard, but the next moment a voice from under the veil said,

“Oh, dear, dear, dear, I can’t—that is, I’d rather go away. Please, brother, don’t—don’t leave me.”

“Do not be afraid.”

“Oh, I’d rather stand behind.” And behind she went.

The doctor went up to the don apologetically, saying that the poor girl was but just fresh from the convent. In fact, he said, she was naturally of a wild disposition, and it was for the don to tame her.

“Oh, brother, brother, come here.”

“Just one moment, sister—”

“Suppose some one should come in, I should faint.” Here the young and bashful widow covered her mouth with her hand, and laughed.

Said the don to himself, keeping away from the lady, whose face had not yet turned towards him, “If her face is equal to her voice, Don Pasquale, you lucky man you, you have waited for something.”

“Brother, brother, I don’t like to be left alone.”

“My dear, you are not alone, I am here, and here is Don Pasquale.”

“Oh! oh! a man!—oh my goodness! a man,—oh take me away—a man! oh I never!” Here there was another laugh.

Here the don congratulated himself more than ever.

And here, also, the Doctor said to himself, “Poor old fellow.”

Then he added, “Don’t be afraid, sister, this is the noble Don Pasquale.”

“Oh indeed!”

Don Pasquale made as low a bow as a stout old gentleman could. The timid young lady made him a sweeping curtesy.

“Thank you, sir—your most obedient. Oh, oh.” Here the don was taking her hand.

“Oh loving hand,” muttered the old don.

And while he pranced off after three chairs, there was another laugh, suppressed, from under the veil.

Each chair the doctor set down with a puff and a bang, and at last he sat himself down in the center one.

“What do you think of her?” (in a low voice to the don.)

“What indeed! But that veil?” (in a lower voice to the doctor.)

“Oh! she would not dare to speak to a man, unveiled. Talk to her a little; see if your dispositions agree. Then we will question the veil.”

“Hum—hum—(courage, don, courage)—Am delighted—have the honor—your brother—Dr. Malatesta—pray did you speak?”

Here she got up and made him another curtesy. “Oh—sir your most obedient—sir.”

“I was going to say, no doubt you like company of an evening.”

“Oh dear no. We never do at the convent. We always go to bed.”

“Ah, but you sometimes went to the theatre?”

“Oh!—dear,—what—is—that? I’m sure—I never wished to go there.”

“Delightful,” thought the old don, and added, “And pray, now, how did you pass your time?”

“Oh, sir, in sewing, and knitting, and embroidering, and sometimes I played with the pretty little cats.”

“Ah, ah.” (doctor.)

“Dear me, doctor, pray be still; ’tis rude to laugh, even at one’s sister. But doctor, that veil!”

“Dear sister, remove thy veil.”

“Oh! no, I couldn’t—before a man.”

“But I bid you.”

“Oh yes—oh yes, brother—I obey.”

The don rose in honor of this act, but no sooner did he see the dove-like face, than he fell upon his seat again with a crash.

“Pray, Don Pasquale, what’s the matter?”

“Can’t tell, doctor. But it seemed to go right through me—speak for me, doctor. Tell her how I love her.”

“Courage, old friend. She does not seem indisposed towards thee. Now tell me, sister—this gentleman—do you like him?”

After casting a glance at the don who was admiring his own legs, she said. “—I—I—I think I do.”

“She consents, don; she is yours!”

“Oh bliss; oh joy; oh delight, oh!”

Here came another of those mysterious laughs.

Said then the don in a loud voice (when he had recovered it,) “A notary.”

“Ah, don, a notary is not like a glass of wine, ever at hand; but anticipating this joyful moment, I have brought a notary with us.”

“Quick, quick, quick,” said the don.

“Yes, yes, yes,” replied the doctor, and running; but he returned immediately, with the false notary, Nephew Charles.

Solemnly this functionary walked to a table, sat down a mass of black folds, and severely took up a pen.

Then said the doctor pompously, and dictating to the grave notary, “On the one part, et cetera, et cetera, Sophronia Malatesta, residing et cetera, et cetera, and the rest of it. And on the other part, Don Pasquale, et cetera, et cetera, residing at et cetera, et cetera, and also all the rest of it.”

The notary, writing hurriedly, soon completed the work.

“Very good!” said the proud don, “and then continue—which above-named gentleman (I mean myself,) from this hour, makes over one half his goods and property, by a deed of gift made before his death, to his most beloved wife.”

This was also written in a hurry.

“Bless you! bless you!” said the doctor.

“Bl-l-less you, sir, your obedient,” chimed in the lady.

The notary gravely held out the pen for signatures. Thereupon the don seized it, and speedily signed his name.

“Oh, dear sir, I’d rather not; no, don’t brother.”

For the doctor was again pushing her forward. The modest woman didn’t like to sign, and again her face was buried in her handkerchief.

“Where are the witnesses?” said the grave notary.

And at this moment, the voice of a gentleman named Ernesto was heard at high words with the obdurate footman. The face of the lady thereupon grew very grave, and indeed she dropped her pen.

“Back, back!” shouted Ernesto, without the room.

And the lady was forced to confess to herself, that she now really began to tremble.

And so also did the doctor tremble, for Ernesto had not been informed of these plans, and he might in consequences spoil all.

At this moment there was a rush at the door, the next moment it was flung open, and in the doorway stood the young nephew.

“Sir,” said this latter, “I came to take my leave of you, and I am debarred your presence as though I were a robber.”

“We were busy, young man, very busy when you came to the door; however, now you are here, stop; sign—witness. Let the bride advance.”

Tableau.

The “young man” was about explaining, when he felt his coat pulled. Then the doctor said quite solemnly, “This is Sophronia—my sister.”

“So—who?”

“So that you be quiet—never mind who,” said the doctor, lowly. “For your own sake, be still—be dumb: excuse him, don—the poor youth, I will explain all to him.” And as the old don bowed in his own absurd fashion, the doctor led the youth on one side, and thus admonished him: “Now, if you wish to be your own enemy and Norina’s, go on; but if you are not your own enemy and Norina’s, don’t.”

“Just so—but—”

“Yes—exactly—don’t, as I said before; come and sign the contract.”

Which, with great doubt still, the jealous lover did.

Said the stern notary, rising from his chair, “You are man and wife.”

The writer would respectfully have it understood that he is in no way responsible for this astounding free and easy marriage; far be it from him so to dispose of brides. But he opines that ’tis a way they have in Spain.

Upon that notarial announcement, the don was faint with joy, and the next moment he was nearly faint with surprise.

For hardly was the contract completed, hardly had the astounding notarial intimation been given, than the bride throws aside her veil, and with it her meek look. Let it not, however, he said she assumed a bold look—say rather, an easy, cool, pleasant countenance.

The don advanced towards the lady to give her a marital embrace, but she gently pushed him back. “Softly pray; calm your ardor; you should first entreat permission.”

“And I do!”—

“And I do not permit.”

The don fell plump upon his chair, and looked unmeaningly after the notary, who was quietly withdrawing.

“Ah, ah, oh,” said the youth Ernesto, as he saw the blank expression on his uncle’s face.

“Sir Nephew, how dare you laugh. Quit this house. Begone!”

“Begone, don, fie!” said the new wife contemptuously. “What rudeness! Pray remain, sir.” Then turning rapidly to the don, she said, “I must teach you better manners.”

“Doctor Malatesta!” said the astounded don.

“Don Pasquale!” said the doctor in the same tone.

“This is quite another woman, doctor.”

“I am turned to stone, don.”

“What does she mean?”

“By your leave, I’ll ask her.” And the doctor luckily turned away, for his red face was quivering.

As for the lady Norina, she marched with dignity up to and against the don, and thus terribly spoke. “You are too old, too stout, too slow, to take charge of a young wife through the streets; this young cavalier shall be my BEAU!”

“Oh, dear NO.”

“And pray who will prevent it?”

“I will.”

“You said—”

“I will.”

“Indeed.” (Here she tenderly approached him, and stroked his friendly old grey head.) “Dear husband; now forget those horrid words ‘I will,’ or at least leave them with me, with me alone, for the wife should be obeyed.”

“But—but!”

“But us no buts, dear man. Be still, I say. What, are you one of those men who will not be led by kindness? what, would you dare!”

Here there was a dull rap distinctly heard, it was a knock on the don’s expostulating knuckles.

“Am I awake?” asked the don of himself. “What has happened? blows I think! Pray what shall come next?”

In fact, the don looked as though petrified—dreaming—struck by lightning, as though he were anybody but himself.

“Courage, don, courage,” said the doctor.

“Courage, oh dear,” said Don Pasquale, the married man sinking lower and lower in his chair.

Suddenly the new lady of the house flew at the bell, and rang it till the room seemed made of bells. As a servant entered, she cast the implement at him.

“Let all the servants come directly, rascal.”

“Oh, heavens!” sighed Don Pasquale.

Two servants and the steward came running in a moment after at a tremendous pace.

“Three! Three beggarly servants. Three. As for you, steward. Bow lower, sir, bow lower” (stamp of the foot); “listen to these my orders. Turn those cubs away at once. Get new servants, good looking young men that will do us credit; two dozen will do.”

“Oh, heaven!” exclaimed Don Pasquale.

“Steward,” (another stamp of the foot) “how dare you turn away. Let there be two new carriages this very evening in MY stables; as for MY new horses, I leave the choice to you. And as for these apartments, they are frightful, they shall be rebuilt. And as for this horrid furniture, it shall be burnt.”

“Oh, heaven! have you done ma’m?”

“No, man. Steward (greater stamp of the foot than ever,) how dare you not keep your eyes on me? Let everything, everywhere, always be in the first style, so that people may respect us. Begone, fool!”

“And pray now ma’m,” suggested the don, “who pays?”

“And pray now sir, who should know better than you?”

“Oh, heaven! Pray am I master, or am I not?”

“You are not—master, where I am! Zounds!” She flings over a chair.

“Sister, sister,” said the doctor, but the sister did not even look at him. She flew at the don as well as she could, seeing she was a wingless angel; and arrived within a quarter of an inch of his head, bade him, in the most impassioned language, depart.

“Tell me, some one, have I married her?”

“Ah, you poor man you,” said the new wife; with a sneer.

Here the don went off into a roaring, yelping, yelling rage, tearing his own clothes, dilapidating his own walls with his own head, and damaging his personal appearance with nobody’s hands but his own.

“Oh, brother, brother,” shrieked the doctor, dashing after the don, who was taking a tour of destruction all round the drawing-room to the north, while his lady was doing precisely the same thing to the south.

“Oh, will anybody tell me,” asked the don—“am I mad?”

Well, Norina in her rage worked round to where Ernesto was standing—and then she was wearing her own natural bright face, and reaching that youth she uttered this little speech. “Ah! well—Ernesto”—To which the youth answered—“Ah! dear Norina.”

So it may be supposed that both were gratified.

The next moment she had recommenced her sail round the room: but by this time the doctor had run up to the don and deftly turned him away from this affectionate little duet of soft words.

“My goodness, don, what a pulse—eighty, ninety, one hundred and twenty, twenty-five—Don Pasquale you must straightway go to BED!”

CHAPTER IV.

The don’s pulse was moderate by a late hour the next day; and having obtained the permission of the doctor, who had sedately watched all night by the bed, to go down stairs, the poor gentleman crept down as though he had never danced in all his life.

And what a sight when he reached that drawing-room of his! To the right, dresses; to the left, dresses; in front, band-boxes; behind, the same; lace, bobbins, furs, scarfs, shoes, gloves and—bills! a large number, all in a nice little heap in the centre of the table. He sat down in the middle of all this invasion, and stared about him as though he was anybody else in a strange place, rather than Don Pasquale.

He was still sitting staring about when a hairdresser passed quickly through the room. The next moment a lady’s maid appeared at the door. “Good gracious,” said she, “ain’t my lady a scolding—do be quick with the diaments!”

“Please, miss,” said a second servant to the lady’s maid, “here’s the milliner.”

“Then let the milliner come quick.”

The milliner rushed past the don, so to speak, smothered in boxes.

At the door she was met by another waiting-woman, dashing off to the carriage with a cloak, a bouquet, and a scent-bottle. All these paraphernalia were handed to a footman, and then back the woman came, and crashed up against the fourth body menial—“me lady’s fan! me lady’s gloves! me lady’s veil!”

The second footman without the door fell upon, and bore away these things.

“Me lady’s carriage!”

“Storms and——” something else said Don Pasquale, and with an effort fell upon the pile of bills. “To dressmaker, 100 dollars—oh! dear me! To coach-maker, six hundred—worse and worse. Twice as much to the jeweller. To horses—horses! I wish they’d carry all to——,” again the don used a highly improper atom of speech.

Then the don in an awful whisper said, “Here she is!”

In she came, like several ladies of state, and dressed as surely never pupil at a convent had ever been dressed before. She did not see him as she passed on, not she; but he stopped her—rather hoped he would excuse her, and faintly desired to know whither she was going.

She loudly desired to be informed what that was to him—she was going out!

Again he faintly and in a slightly sarcastical tone observed that a husband might take the liberty of objecting.

“A husband might take the liberty, and it certainly was a liberty; and indeed, a husband might even object, but that was no reason why the wife should obey. It was the duty of such a man to see, and hold his tongue; indeed, common sense would tell him to hold his tongue; for, she would ask him, was he listened to when he did speak?”

“Take care, take care.”

“It were wise, don, to take care of yourself.”

“Go to your room, ma’am.”

“You were best in yours. Go to bed, and to sleep. We will talk about this to-morrow.”

“You shall not pass.”

“Ah! you fill up the door. Indeed—don.”

“Yes.”

“Pray, now move.”

“I will not.”

“Ah!”

What is it makes fire flash in the old eyes of the new husband? Was it a humiliating box on the ear—the right ear? Yes—yes.

She came out from the door-way.

Meanwhile the young Norina asked herself if she were not going too far.

“Then I may go now?”

“Yes, go where you like. Go anywhere, so that you don’t come back.”

“I shall then see you to-morrow—hem!”

“You will find my doors closed.”

“Bah! be not a tyrant, poor grandfather. Sleep well, and when the morning comes, I will call you.”

And she sailed out grandly.

“Divorce, divorce!” he shrieked out as the lady left him—“divorce! if this is wedlock—what’s that?”

That was a paper which Norina had dropped on going out.

He picked it up, after some effort. “Another horrid bill, I find one in every corner—eh! what! ah!”—(here he read.) “‘Between nine and ten I shall be at that part of the garden which looks to the north; for greater precaution try to let me in through the secret door. I shall warn you by singing. Adieu.’ I shall go mad, I, Don Pasquale—I shall go mad. Malatesta, send for Malatesta. Here, some one—anyone—ALL—go fetch Doctor Malatesta. All—I say—all.” And out he tumbled from the room.

Then came the servant’s parliament. “Up and down. Up and down. Did you ever? First a bell this way—then a bell that way. Who could bear it? Did you ever, now? Horrid. Not a moment’s peace. A good house—yes, a good house. But still, why she made a piece of work when her breakfast went up, and when her dinner went up, too. Then there was a disturbance when she went out. He flies into a passion, she flies into a worse passion than ever, and then they fought! Lor! Oh yes! She hit him. You don’t say so!”

When footsteps were heard approaching, the house adjourned.

It was the doctor and Ernesto, still plotting. Ernesto was to appear at the secret door, and he was to take great care that the don should not recognize him. Here the heavy step of that luckless gentleman was heard coming towards the room, so that Ernesto fled like guilt.

The don came in paler, and colder, and more dejected than ever.

“Don Pasquale!”

“A living corpse, brother.”

“The matter—what is the matter?”

“I wish,” said the gentleman to himself, “I wish I had rather given a thousand Norinas to Ernesto.”

“A good thing to know,” thought the doctor, as the don thus spoke. Then aloud, “But pray explain yourself.”

“Half my income spent in ribbons; but that is nothing.”

“Dear me—go on.”

“To the theatre she will go—but also that is nothing.”

“Dear me—proceed.”

“My ears she boxes with a will—that is nothing.”

“Indeed—indeed.”

“But just look here. I think that’s something, surely.”

Here he handed the horrid letter to the doctor, whose horror was unapproachable when he had read it minutely.

“Stone, don, I’m stone.”

“So am I. Revenge! revenge!”

“Surely don. Revenge! revenge!”

“And I have the means. Sit down.”

“The means.”

“To the garden on tip toe—you and I—we softly go—on and on behind each tree—fearing one of them should see—then upon them straight we fall—and loudly for assistance call. Then to prison off they go—and thus am I avenged you know. And now doctor if you can—please devise a better plan.”

“Very good; but,” said the doctor, “he had a better plan, which he would divulge only on one condition, namely, that the don should agree to all he should propose.”

The don was too fallen to oppose, so, with this arrangement, away they trundled towards the garden.

CHAPTER V.

In the garden, where the last scene of the don’s married life was to take place, and in the moonlight, tripped Norina—a young widow again—to the secret garden gate. Click, click went the lock, and the next moment Ernesto was at her little feet, vowing in the warmest manner that he loved her.

Barely had he got through a dozen protestations when there was the flashing of a few rays from a dark lantern all up and down the garden walks, and there was the cranching of the don’s heavy legs in the gravel, followed by the lighter walk of the intriguing doctor.

The doctor quite cleverly showed the little lantern rays as he slid behind from tree to tree, and as he did not see Ernesto glide away to the house.

All of a sudden, and with a terrific lunge, he dashed before Norina, and started open the dark little lantern full in her face.

“Thieves! thieves!”

“Hush, ma’am, where is he?”

“Who, the thief—thieves! thieves!”

“No, ma’am, he—who was whispering in your ear.”

“Sir, how dare you. There was no one here.”

Whereon the don shot the dark lantern all round and about, like clock-work.

“Sir, I say again, how DARE you, there was no one here.”

“Pray what were you doing at this dark spot, at this hour of midnight?”

“Enjoying the cool air and the moonlight.”

“Begone ma’am—out of my house, ma’am.”

“Sir, what tone is this?”

“I say, begone ma’am.”

“A pretty tale; this house is mine, and in it I’ll remain.”

“Ten thousand bombs, you won’t.”

“Ten thousand bombs I will.”

“Don Pasquale, Don Pasquale,” said the doctor, “pray leave it all to me. Sister, I would spare you.”

“Would you, sir, indeed.”

“To-morrow, a new bride will be brought to this house.”

“How dare you, sir, indeed.”

Don Pasquale paid great attention to the dialogue.

“And pray whose bride?”

“Ernesto’s, Norina. That contemptible, coquettish, arrant widow!”

Don Pasquale felt some satisfaction, and cried out, “Bravo, doctor.”

“That odious woman, here in spite of me. Norina and I under the same roof. Never, I’ll leave the house first.”

“DO.”

“But stop, stop, brother. Perhaps this is a trick. I must be sure of it.”

The doctor went up to the don and said, “Then Don Pasquale, you must let them marry, or she’ll never go.”

“Never? Will she when they are married?”

“Here—house! who is there? Why, as I’m a doctor, ’tis Ernesto.”

“Well, well.”

“I, Doctor Malatesta, speaking for Don Pasquale, grant you the hand of Norina, and an income of four thousand dollars a year.”

“Dear uncle, is this true?”

“Dear nephew, yes it is.”

“And I (stamp of the foot) oppose it.”

“And I (don, shaking his head) do not. Go and fetch her, some one; go and fetch her straight.”

Said the doctor. “No one need go far, for she, Norina’s here.”

“What—what—what—what—what!”

Here Norina made a full curtsey.

“Then where’s Sophronia!”

“I’d not be sure, dear don, she should be in her convent.”

“And the marriage, doctor.”

“A glimpse, dear don, of what your future might have been.”

“Dear—dear—dear—dear—dear! Thank heaven. Still—”

“Come don, be generous.”

Need it be said where the two “young people” were at this particular moment—of course, at the don’s stout feet.

The don blessed them in the usual manner, and the young people rose, happy.