LEFT.

IT was not Hancock this time who was left, but myself. I was not running for President, though, but only for one of those giddy girls again. It was in a stationer's shop where I first saw her. She was standing before a counter, and as I entered she glanced beseechingly toward me with her "violet velvet eyes, over which the silken fringes hung with such tender madonna grace." After a few such glances, that settled it. I could not help breaking my vow only to marry a girl with a million dollars and one lung. Soon she left the shop, and as I hurried past the counter where she had been standing I saw a card on the show-case. I seized it and followed, but when I reached the street she had disappeared. Looking at the card I had picked up, I read, "Miss Rosalie Rosehorn, 323 Ham Street." I was disappointed at first, but after reflecting that Ham Street was situated in the English quarter of the city, the inhabitants of which, although descended from English workingmen, formed what they called the ancient aristocracy (?), I decided not to give up the search. I pondered several days over how I should try to meet her again, and at last decided to call at her house. So, one afternoon, putting on silk hat, frock coat, gaiters, &c., I sallied in town, looking as la-da-da and mashful as possible. Arriving at the house, I rang; the door was quickly opened by a little girl, who, on seeing me, ran through the hall shouting, "Here he is, at last." Surprised at such a reception, I hesitated, thinking it some deep-laid plot to entrap me, but finally I entered. In a moment an elderly lady came rushing downstairs, and in one breath exclaimed, "So you are the doctor, are you? Well, come right up, for Rose is very sick." The plot thickens, I thought; but I was bound to continue, whatever the consequences might be, and I was only too eager when I thought that Rose was probably the fair one for whom I was searching. I followed, and was led to a little room in the top of the house. On entering, I saw at a glance it was a domestic's room. My disappointment was keen. The lady explained that one of her servants had been suddenly taken ill, and, as her family physician was out of town, she had called me. I felt of the servant's pulse, and counted 323 beats per minute. Then, taking from my pocket a little vial of homoeopathic pills which I chanced to have, I dissolved one in a tumblerful of water, and told her to take a teaspoonful every three hours. While preparing the decoction I innocently asked how Miss Rosalie was this afternoon. "Rosalie who?" replied the lady, "there is no one of that name here." I begged her pardon, explaining that I was very absentminded, and was thinking of another patient. As soon as possible I left the house, muttering something about duplex soleratum tornatum and my luck. After walking a few blocks, it began to dawn upon me that it was not the young lady's but a sample card I had picked up at the stationer's. My chagrin was great, but it could not be compared to the dread I have had since then, for passing the house next day I noticed hanging from one of the windows a little red flag, denoting that some one in the house was sick with a contagious disease. I went home and burned all the clothes I wore on the day of my call. This happened a month ago, and I am all right up to the present date. It was a narrow escape, though. Since I have calmly considered the matter, I have come to the conclusion that Rosalie (?) was looking at my tie, perhaps, or the shortness of my coat, instead of me. Reader, take my advice and experience; leave cards alone.