"Which is just come !" repeated Miss Basil, in dismay, thinking of young Hendall. "Joanna, what do you mean by such an expression? But it is no matter what you mean, you silly, thoughtless child; it is my duty to warn you, without fear or favor, that youth is a snare and a delusion !" Miss Basil had great faith in the power of pious song; when nothing else would subdue the recalcitrant Joauna, she sang to her; Joanna might protest in the beginning, but, before the strain was brought to a close, she was dumb and spiritless. So, now, by way of persuading her obdurate young auditor to a better frame of mind, she began immediately to sing, in a fearfully high key:

"This world is all a fleeting show,

For man's delusion given."

Joanna clapped her hands over her ears and frowned.

"Pamela! Pamela !" she cried, "your hymns are doleful, and I hate them; and I love the world, the beautiful, beautiful world; and I am glad that I am young! Everybody, yes, everybody, would rather be young than old!"

But this remonstrance only moved Miss Basil to sing the louder, in a voice of nasal melancholy, while Joanna, with her eyes fixed upon the orchard where the sun was shining, and the bees were coming and going among the apple-blooms, thought, impatiently:

"Such dolefulness may do for people that have had the rheumatism, but it doesn't suit me. How can she, in a world of apple-blossoms?"

But a change was about to come over the spirit of her dream. Just as Miss Basil sang the last line of the last verse, Mrs. Basil looked in at the open door, with disapproval written on every line of her calm, handsome face.

'Pamela," said she, in a voice which, though, cold, was soft and silvery, contrasting strangely with the discordant tones that had just ceased—" Pamela, excuse me, but really you cannot be aware how very loud your singing is, nor how trying to a person out of health. My nephew cannot bear it; he begs that you will spare him."

Now, Miss Basil was not vain of her voice; indeed, she had no reason to be; but neither was she ashamed of her singing. She sang as she did every thing else, from a sense of duty, and she could not see how any rightminded person could object to a purely religious exercise. However, as she was not disposed to consider young Hendall a rightminded person, she only said:

"I didn't suppose I could be heard upstairs."

She was busying herself with the young man's breakfast all the while, and Mrs. Basil, seeing these preparations going on, was pleased to show, by a nod and a smile, as she withdrew, closing the door behind her, that she was appeased.

If there was any discipline to which Miss Basil resorted, more irksome than another to Joanna, it was this doleful singing, and ordinarily she rejoiced at any interruption; but now she began to feel, with a bitterness she had never known before, that a stranger

had assumed the rule in her old home. This was a feature of the case she had not contemplated when she so complacently acquiesced in the title "master of Basilwood," that Miss Basil had bestowed; and she stood now with angry eyes fixed on the door through which Mrs. Basil had disappeared.

"He's the master here, child, as I told you," said Miss Basil, with a sort of grim satisfaction, for once interpreting Joanna's thoughts aright.

"If you are not to sing, it cannot be helped, I suppose," said Joanna, hoarsely; "but you see if I don't find some way to worry the life out of him ! "

"Joanna, Joanna!" said Miss Basil, tremulously, "you show an unchristian spirit. All tribulation is for our good." She was glad to see Joanna in such a frame of mind, but, all the same, she thought it ought to be rebuked.

"I don't believe it!" cried Joanna, recklessly. "It doesn't do me good; and you don't like it any better than I do. Why should he be master here?"

Child, I have explained it to you, time and again," said matter-of-fact Miss Basil. Your grandfather-"

"I know," interrupted Joanna; "I know all about my grandfather. He wasn't a man to wear out his soul making money, like old Mr. John Hendall; more's the pity for us!"

"It's all the same in the end, child; for all Mr. John Hendall's money, the Hendalls, now, are little better off than ourselves," said Miss Basil, not without a sort of latent satisfaction.

"Basilwood belongs to them," said Joanna, gloomily; "and we can't help it."

"Joanna we could go away?" said Miss Basil, suddenly. It might be desirable, she thought, to familiarize Joanna with that idea.

"Leave Basilwood? My Basilwood, where I have lived all my life!" cried Joanna, turning white at the mere suggestion. "O 'Mela, do you think it must come to that ? "

"I suppose it must, in time," said Miss Basil, with studied resignation. "You see already that there is an end to my singing. But you should not say 'my Basilwood,' Joanna, for Basilwood is not, and never will be, yours." It was desirable, Miss Basil thought, to foster the promising enmity that Joanna was beginning to entertain toward Mrs. Baeil's nephew; she did not take into consideration the dangerous nature of a rebound from such a sentiment.

Joanna burst into tears. "It shall be mine!" she sobbed, childishly.

"Joanna," said Miss Basil, who could see but one way by which Joanna could obtain possession of Basilwood, "if you ever say that again, I shall be seriously displeased with you."

"Yes," sobbed Joanna, "it's envy, and hatred, and malice, and all uncharitableness, 'Mela, I know, to say so; but I can't help it. Never, never, any more, will it be the same place to us. And you took such comfort in your singing, too! I wish he had never come! His old breakfast is getting cold, and I am glad of it; I hope it will disagree with him, I do!"

"Joanna, Joanna!" said Miss Basil, rebukingly. It was very gratifying that Joanna should take a dislike to young Hendall, but she ought not to wish him harm.

"But I do, 'Mela," persisted Joanna; "and when I feel wicked, you might as well. let me enjoy it." With which startling remonstrance she walked out of the room.

"Joanna ought not to indulge such senti ments," Miss Basil said to herself, regretful ly; "but it is some satisfaction to know that, after all, I did not sing that hymn in vain."

MARION WALLING.

THE

HE knowledge of the one crowning folly in the career of Marion Walling came to be mine on a September night two years. since, and it was brought to me by the one man who could explain it best.

She had run a cruel, brilliant course through all the capitals of Europe, but in obedience to a sentiment of love for home-a sentiment the presence of which in her breast was an inconsistency that I cannot pretend to account for she returned to this country with the avowed intention of helping it in its many infirmities, and of teaching others how to become true Americans.

She was twenty-five years of age, and she possessed a wealth that was practically boundless. She was a descendant of a family that had been noted for the beauty of its women, and upon her face and form there had fallen by selection, one might say, the finest and purest graces of half a score of generations. But she had used these charms in the work of Satan. Her society-life, extending over a period of seven years, was marked here and there with those fearful offenses that no one knows how to punish, and yet the criminality of which no one dares to palliate.

To generate love in the most guarded breast, and to set on fire the most tranquil nature, was her special prerogative, and most wickedly did she exercise it.

To her captives, to be forewarned was not to be forearmed. It availed little to prince or poet to be advised of her nature, for each fell at her will, and without the trace of a struggle. In casting them aside she showed no mercy. She snapped the threads with both hands, and then turned away without & word of pity or regret.

But she found on her return to America that this more independent society looked askance upon her in spite of her wealth and position, and that, for once, disapprobation could be rendered disquieting. She retired to her country-seat, and, surrounded by a gallant company of friends, she caused the belief to go abroad that she had at last taken the true views of her place and use in the world, and that she was ready to assume her share of its burdens.

The law-firm with which I was connected had charge of her own and her father's es tates, and I therefore had frequent occasion to visit the household, and I became conver sant, to a certain extent, with what took place beneath the roof.

as c

r fo

eat

Arthur Thurman appeared on the scene in the spring of the year succeeding that of the Wallings' return, and to the utter consternation of his friends he yielded at once to the daughter's marks of favor, and conducted himself as her suitor. I knew him, probably, better than any one else in the world, and I became the recipient of his confidences. He was a man of wealth and position, and he possessed an unusually active and forcible mind. He was thirty-six years of age, handsome, in capital physical health, and he possessed an ambition that kept him alert and au courant with all that was moving in the world.

This ambition was to take part in politics, a sea of impurity that he was anxious to assist in clarifying, and I have no doubt that it was upon this matter that he and the farseeing Marion Walling struck their first sympathies.

I recall now that I have seen the two, arm-in-arm, walk up and down in the shrub'bery-paths, talking of economic and diplomatic subjects for hours, her finely-cut and intelligent face actually glowing with enthusiasm and understanding, and the attitude of her slender form, clad in its splendid dress, betraying the most intense vitality.

Thurman, without question, knew of her arts abroad; and I, believing that he must have long since given them due weight in the consideration of his own case, did not presume to speak of them. I perceived, I thought, that they both had taken the highest ground, and that nothing but the conviction that they were fitted for each other in every sense had brought about the present state of affairs.

And that they were fitted for each other, and singularly so, did not admit of doubt. Had it been possible to obliterate the scores upon Miss Walling's record, marriage between the two would have been hailed with delight by society everywhere.

The significance of their relations grew stronger and stronger as the summer passed, and the formal announcement of their betrothal was daily expected. That there were some anxious ones among the friends I am not able to deny, and for my own part I confess that I felt great uneasiness.

September came, and Thurman was at "Labill." I received letters from him from time to time, mainly upon matters of business, yet he invested even the driest topics with a lightness and gayety that I, of course, knew well enough how to interpret.

On the evening of the 18th of the month I sat in my parlor in my bachelor quarters in the city, amusing myself with a terrier, when Thurman was announced. He followed the servant closely with a heavy, quick, and staggering step, and, pausing on my threshold, fixed upon me a pair of the wildest eyes that it has ever been my lot to see. He was as white as chalk, and his dress, disordered by a long carriage- ride, hung loosely about his

person.

and

I knew at a glance what had happened, my heart sank like lead. I leaped up, and seizing his hand led him to a seat. He looked at me with painful inquiry in his

eyes.

"I think I understand," said I. He nodded quickly in response, and replied in a loud voice:

"Thank God! You spare me the humiliation of putting it in words!"

He had been rejected, without reason or qualification. The woman had refused him as she would have denied a favor to an impertinent servant. He had implored neither grace nor explanation, but had quitted the place within the hour, and had driven hither at the utmost speed.

"What shall I do?" demanded he, in the tone of one drowning in the ocean. Talk," "said I.

He obeyed, and may I be forgiven for bringing down upon the head of a human being the rage and bitterness that Thurman poured out upon Marion Walling! He went through with it as if he were summing up against a prisoner at the bar, and he ransacked the whole arsenal of invective to find words to suit his interpretation of her act.

This

His language appalled me. I did not attempt to stop it; but, closing all the doors and windows, in order that he might not be heard by other ears than mine, I permitted the mad stream to flow on to its end. end did not come until five o'clock the next morning. Thurman was a widely-read, widely-traveled, and widely-cultivated man, and every emotion that he felt had a thousand points of contact with his mind. This sudden and cruel unseating of his desires, desires based upon all that was pure and manly, awoke a multitude of resentments that I could not comprehend, but which filled me with awe as I witnessed their manifestation.

He remained, half secreted, in my chamber for three days. At the end of that time he had begun to analyze his disappointment, and to resolve it into its ingredients. He made me one short speech that contained this passage:

"I have searched the world for ten years to find a woman that possessed the talents that God has given to Marion Walling. When I met her there came that divine flash of intelligence that told me that my search was at an end.

"The warmth of our intercourse had a spontaneity that filled me with assurance that all was well. I have never had my confidence disturbed, I have never felt the slightest trace of doubt, I have never held any attitude toward her than that of suitor, for our affection sprung into life at full bloom; and that I should ever hold myself toward her as a friend never occurred to me. What, then, condemned me to so much pain? Perhaps her vanity required just one more victim. Ah, how bitter it is to find that one has fallen by such a sting as that!"

On the 22d I was summoned to Lahill. I said nothing to Thurman, but went quickly. I left him writing a political treatise, but with the pallid face and wasted form of a monk who had suffered a lengthened fast. His eyes were large and excessively bright, and his hand trembled like a leaf.

At Lahill I was ushered at once into the office-parlor. The father and daughter were both there. I conducted myself with circumspection, for I perceived that both felt as

sured that I had a knowledge of Thurman's story.

It appeared that it had been deemed necessary for me to go to the western part of Ohio to examine personally the condition of the grape-plantations there, in which the Wallings possessed large interest. The season had promised but poorly, and the mortgagees were desirous of gaining exact information. This was natural, no doubt, but why was I sent on this particular year? I looked, perhaps incautiously, at Marion. She was standing erect by a small table a few yards off, holding between her hands an ebony whist-counter, which, when turned, gave forth a rattle. Her light hair was brushed high from her white forehead, her head was raised, and her dress, which was of a delicate muslin, was gathered about her figure in such a way that she was made to seem taller than she was. Her keen face was turned toward me, and her clear-blue eyes were fastened steadfastly upon my face. There is a manner of delivering a look that almost pries open the lips, and this look was just such a one. I made up my mind that it was at her suggestion that I was sent to foreign parts.

Mr. Walling gave me numberless instructions. The whist-counter began to rattle. Marion broke in upon her father, saying:

"Is it not very simple? If the grapes will not ripen, the farmers must fail. If we give Mr. Weymouth discretion, we cannot give him advice."

The venerable gentleman bowed his white head in respect to this plain truth, and the other glanced at me again, as if to say, "Now speak of what I would have you."

I declined to do so. I pursued matters of pure business, and kept Thurman in the background. The whist-counter began its whirring a third time. I arose to go.

"And do you come from town, and yet fail to bring us the news, sir?" said the daughter, flushing with anger, yet smiling most sweetly.

"What news would please you best, Miss Marion ? ""

Oh, the news that one's ears burn for. What do the men say about our dinner to the literati?

She tried three times to lead me thus. I refused to follow, and I thought at last that she would catch me by the arm as I turned away. Her color came and went like a girl's, and two or three times she tripped in her speech. I would have wagered all I owned that Marion Walling had never made two such exhibitions of her anxiety in all her life.

I got into the carriage and rode away alone. The path to the gate was somewhat devious, and the day was stormy-two reasons why the driver proceeded slowly. Just as we reached the last turn of the drive, I heard the clatter of the wicket that opened from the wood-path. The carriage stopped. I looked out and beheld Marion. She was covered with a cloak, and she panted heavily for breath. She was drenched with water, and her face was pale. She must have run like a deer to have caught us. She came forward two or three uncertain steps, and then missed her footing.

At the hour of my arrival at Middle Bass, a flat, low-lying island, Thurman was out walking. I gained a hint of the direction he had taken, and I followed him. I came, after

She stretched out her arm to save herself, and she caught the rim of the muddied wheel with her beautiful hand. She drew it back soiled to the wrist. Her hair had fallen over her face, and the shock had made her speech-half an hour, to the gate-way of the Reinhart less.

In an instant she started as if with an electric shock. The indignity of her position brought back her dignity. She drew back like lightning, and cried to the driver to go on. She bent upon me a swift look of rage and hauteur, and raised her head and figure | to their full height. I left her standing thus in the rain.

Should I tell Thurman of this? I own that I debated long, and that I was disposed to keep the matter to myself. My sense of justice, however, got the better of my will, and I presumed that I had been but the accidental discoverer of the something that belonged to him.

Therefore, upon my return to my chambers, I detailed every jot and tittle of the talk and its contingencies. I laid great stress upon the last scene-the scene at the gate.

Thurman, who was standing, raised his hand in a truly grand fashion, and cried in a deep voice-a voice that thrills me to this day

"Too late!"

Then he walked to his table like a paralytic, and, sitting down, pretended to write, but never was there a sadder pretense. In a moment, he was bent over the table convulsed with emotion.

On the next day I proposed that he should travel with me to Ohio.

"Yes," he replied, "I will go."
Those were his words, but their sense

was

"I will determinedly cut myself loose from this infernal witchery: God guide my hand!"

I did not delay an hour. My task was plain.

Our destination was one of the islands in the famous group that lie at the western end of Lake Erie, a few miles north of Sandusky City. I was obliged to spend three days among the shore plantations before crossing to these islands, and I persuaded Thurman to go on before me and arrange for quarters at the hotel at Middle Bass. Having finished my business, I followed in due time. I discovered, by-the-way, that the Concord grape, which is the staple crop of these farms, was growing unevenly; and that the Catawbas, in consequence of the lack of rains, had not filled out, and would not, in all likelihood, bring good prices from the wine-men. farmers (most of them were Germans) were despondent, and, while making all allowances for the business tenet which demanded that they look upon the dark side of all things, I could not but perceive that their ways were to be hard for that season at least.

The

The Wallings had hitherto been lenient with their debtors, but, having become impatient of slow and scant returns, they had determined, of late, to pursue a more rigid policy. I was the unhappy medium by which this policy was carried out, but I contrived to do my duty and to speak my harsh words with sufficient grace to ward off all ill-feeling.

farm, and, as it was one of those in which my principals had an interest, it occurred to me to stop for a moment to find out how matters were going there. I walked down a long lane between two wide fields of ripening fruit, thinking far more, I admit, of the beauty of the day and the delicious warmth of the air than I did of profit and loss. All was as quiet and sunny as the heart could wish, and a sweet fragrance filled the air almost to repletion. At the distance of a quarter of a mile lay the sparkling waters of the placid lake, and at the edge of the land there stood a thin line of tall old oaks, the giant branches of which, half naked and half dressed in a gloomy verdure, reached upward toward the sky like human arms. Reinhart's house was old, and it was painted red. It was surrounded by low willows, and its yard and its high-pitched roof were in shade.

As I turned out of the grape-field I saw, sitting side by side, upon a bench beneath the rugged bole of one of these trees, Thurman and a sweet-faced girl of eighteen. She was bareheaded, and her golden hair was plaited and bound up in a tight knot behind. Her dress was of a dark-brown stuff, and from beneath her skirts there projected two pretty feet, crossed and composed. She was knitting a blue sock, and she was listening at the same time, with her head cast down, and inclined slightly upon one side, to what my friend was saying, and he was saying it most earnestly, though by no means secretly.

I recognized at once the daughter of Reinhart, for I had seen her there years before, and she was then a most lovable child. She was now a woman, and I have never seen a more innocent face than that which she raised when I first made my presence known.

Thurman showed no signs of discomfiture, but he welcomed me warmly. Seibelthat was the girl's name-led us about the place, showing us all the sights.

"These

are the old-country wooden panniers that we gather grapes in. These are the pipes that the wine runs into. This is the wine-pressah, I do so long to see it run again! I press the grapes myself sometimes. Did you ever hear the stream of red wine flow into the empty pipes? it makes such a little roar!" and she laughed and showed her white teeth. I did not see Reinhart. He was absent in Toledo, I think.

When we were about to go, Thurman put out his hand. Seibel put hers into it fairly, and looked him in the face-not with that abominable sham frankness that knows its own name, but with natural thoughtlessness.

The season was most charming, and I did not hesitate to make up my mind to spend a month on the island. The greater number of the summer visitors had long since departed, and the long walks and the shady groves were almost entirely deserted. Now and then, in a long walk, one caught a glimpse of a city dress, or heard the ring of a city

laugh, but it was not often; the glorious sunlight, now doubly yellow, poured down upon the silent fields and the white roads, and every thing paused for the grapes to ripen.

Thurman went every day to Reinhart's house, and I frequently went with him. Finally Reinhart himself, urged by the good wife whose anxious face I had more than once seen peering cautiously through her vine-covered windows at the group upon the bench, came and put the question in a goodnatured, roundabout way:

"Isn't your friend a lonely sort of fellow to be hanging round our Seibel so much? What do you think?

"I'll speak to him," said I.
I did so. Thurman replied, quietly:

"I am going to marry her."
"What!"

"It is true."

"But your heart, your spirit, your entire nature, must be antagonistic to love! You are fresh from one of those defeats that drive men mad, or out of the world. It is impossible for you to stimulate a new passion." "That is very true."

"Then explain.”

"Listen: I admit that there is ruin somewhere. I observe myself from without myself, and I see that I am ill, that I am purposeless, that I am full of sorrow and regret. I go through a slight calculation, and I perceive that I must recover myself in order to be of any further use in the world. You admit that. Very well. Then, instead of tak ing usual measures-by usual measures I mean the slow processes of time and travelI take a heroic measure. I force upon my attention an object whose nature is such that my distracted spirit and outraged sensibilities must soom assimilate with it. I find in Seibel a creature of absolute purity, elevated moral sense, ardent disposition, and unquestioning trust. I am as certain that my heart will entertain her at some time in the future as I am that we now talk together. I do not say that the memory of my real position does not agitate me at times even before her face, but I am resolved to hold her to my breast until her nature does its healing, purifying work, and then I shall hold her forever."

This was his idea, and faithfully did be labor to carry it into execution. It touched me to the quick to see him go out pale and languid fresh from some new realization of his pain, and seek in the grape-fields this fairfaced, simple-hearted child, and walk beside her hour after hour, bending his intelligence with an iron will upon the things that gave her interest and gratification. Reinhart and his wife took my word for it that they need: have no fear, and so Thurman found a wel come from both at their house. He dined with them often, ate of their rough dishes, and looked pleased at their simple surround ings. On these occasions Seibel was gay and unaffected, and she would sit beside him happy at his contentment.

Meanwhile, the grapes ripened poorly and the buyers who were abroad shook their heads. I sent intelligence to the Wal lings through the office, and proposed to wait until the gathering-season came, for it would

posed

for i

then be easier to judge of the financial prospects of the farmers.

From a friend who wrote, I learned that the news of Thurman's rejection by Miss Walling had produced a fierce indignation against her among the people who knew the parties, and that she had gone into a semiretirement. It also appeared that it was not generally known where Thurman had flown to an ignorance that I had no wish to dissipate.

Week after week in October went by, and still the song of love was sung without let or hinderance. I saw the two sitting beside the shore in the long, sweet afternoons, idly listening to the waves, or devoutly listening to each other. Thurman was succeeding. I noted signs of returning strength in his manner, and an increased vigor in his method of talking. These proofs were slight, to be sure, but they were positive as far as they went.

On the 23d of October, at a late hour in the afternoon, I received a note by messenger who came from a club-hotel at the lower part of the island.

It invited me to call at once on a matter of pressing importance, and it was signed by Marion Walling.

I was thunderstruck. She had found us out, and was upon the ground with no good purpose. What unhappy fate had led her here? Thurman was not present. I hastened to obey the summons.

Miss Walling received me in a private I parlor, one of those poor rooms scantily furnished with the cheap material of wateringplace grandeur.

I was astonished, nay, shocked at the change that bad taken place in Miss Walling's appearance. She had become wasted in face and person, and her features, always serious in expression, were now most sad. Her large, dark eyes turned upon me with a look of appeal that I had never beheld before, and her voice, at this somewhat important moment, almost escaped her mastery. She was alone, and she received me without formality.

"You see that I am here," she said, with a faint smile. I bowed. "We have been here, father and I, for three days."

I did not conceal my surprise. She hesi tated a moment, and then said, with painful deliberation-a deliberation which enabled her to compose herself before the utterance of each word :

"Mr. Weymouth, you know why I am here. I feel that I could not deceive you even if I would, for it has been your ill-fortune to discover that I am weak-or rather, perhaps, that I am strong-for I have come at last to count it a strength to be able to love. Tell me, is what I have seen true?"

The word "true" fell from her lips with So strange an accent that I could not but comprehend much of its significance. therefore hesitated, but at length replied: "Yes, I believe it to be true."

"Is it possible that it can be any thing more than an attempt to solace himself for the pain that I inflicted upon him?" "Yes, it is."

"You are sure?"

"I am."

I

"Possibly he has told you that it is.-Yes? -Then can you repeat what he said?"

I did so. I did not convey any of my own feeling, but I think that I gave Thurman's in full. It was a hard task, for I could see the listener shudder and droop under the successive assurances that all was lost to her.

After I had finished there was a long silence. I looked downward, not caring to witness the perturbation of my companion. After a minute I was aroused by a movement on her part. I looked up. A great change had come over her. Her cheeks were flushed with color, her eyes had lost their mournfulness and were now bright and piercing. She stood erect, and faced me with an air of aggression.

'Knowing your aptitude for business, I have no doubt that, in spite of the demands that friendship has made upon your time and attention, you have observed the condition of the Reinhart farm?

I indicated that I had.

"It is clear to you, I suppose, then, that its tenant will again fail to meet his engagements with us?"

"I have not seen enough yet to warrant such a decision."

"Ah-then you are troubled with blindness! I have examined every thing; I think that nothing has escaped me. I request you to take steps for the foreclosure of its mortgage."

The motive of this was only too plain. A sudden revolution in her temper had made it possible for her to conceive this fierce but feeble plan to gain her object. I, of course, could not be instrumental in the transaction of business that arose from such sources, and I said so in as many words.

She gave me an angry reply.

This enabled me to address to her a speech which treated, I think, of every phase of her conduct in the matter with Thurman, and every sentiment that had been evolved from the outrage. I did not spare her. The indignation that I felt found ready words, and, I think, if I recall these words with any degree of accuracy, they must have told keenly upon her.

appearance.

He looked much as he had looked upon the day that he came from his defeat at Lahill.

He fixed his eyes upon me, and, passing by, went on into his own chamber. He opened his trunk, searched in it for a moment, closed it, and then came back, still walking rapidly. He gained the door before I could utter a word.

"Thurman! Thurman!"

"Weymouth," cried he, suddenly, "give me your word that you have not interfered against me over there." He nodded in the direction of Seibel's house.

I give you my word that I have not." "Good! I knew that. May God bless and keep you, my dear, good friend!"

In an instant he was gone. He descended the stairs, crossed the hall, crossed the echoing piazza, and then his footsteps were lost upon the lawn.

I cannot say what stupidity kept me wondering, as I did, for fifteen minutes about the reason and force of both his act and words. I sat like a mummy, and with my wits as dead as if I were asleep. I had not made up my mind what to do, and it was not until the clock struck the hour of five that I divested myself of the mist that involved me.

Then I leaped to my feet with the question in my mouth, "What did he take from his trunk?" I ran into his room, and found the box locked and the key gone.

I had once seen a hall-porter spring a lock with a well-placed, vigorous kick. I tried this kick. It succeeded; the lid flew up, and I seized it. I looked for Thurman's pistol-case. As I now fully expected, one of the glittering weapons was gone.

I

Now, then, for Reinhart's house! caught up my hat, and was out-of-doors in an instant. It was not a time for roads and corners, and I took a straight line over fences, through yards, and across vineyards, and never halted for an instant. And well I might not. I had upon my shoulders the blame for this crisis. I ran like a fox.

I came up to the old red house with its clumped wood by a side-path that, being

caught glimpses, while I was yet thirty yards away, of figures moving in the little courtyard.

I was about to burst in upon them, when their positions and behavior deterred me.

There were present Thurman, Seibel, and Reinhart. Thurman, almost facing the covert where I was, was standing beside the bole of one of the willows. The girl was locked close in his arms, with her head turned sideways and upward upon his breast. Her eyes were closed, but between their lids there trickled a few tears-not a hot current that denoted a turbulent passion, but those scant drops that utter woe sometimes wrings from one whom it has paralyzed.

The father, who had instinctively bared his head, grasped the skirt of his daughter's dress with his gnarled hand, and, with the rim of his hat half covering his trembling lips, sought to draw her away.

For one splendid instant they stood thus, All was absolutely silent. Even the rustle of the leaves was hushed, and the failing

What a scene was this for me!-I who could divine the agonies that beset them all. I had but to utter a word to dissolve these agonies-I had but to apprise Thurman of the cause of the sudden change in Reinhart's sordid mind to explode the sorrow that seemed to impend-but I did not move. I was entranced, allured by the poetic spectacle.

man all. He bowed gravely, but said nothing -not a word. He and Seibel were married within the week, and I believe them to be perfectly happy. ALBERT F. WEBSTER.

CUBAN LITERATURE.

Who else has ever pictured in such sublime language a scene whose “expressive silence" best can sing? Even upon the brink of those mighty falls, the palm-trees of Cuba sigh through the wanderer's thoughts, and whisper sadly of the misery that abounds in their shade.

Where, too, can we find so genuine a thrill of poetic feeling and manly passion as are shown in the following extract from "The

shoulder, her head sank upon her breast, and, guided by her father's hand, she made a step backward. Had it not been for the glaring brilliancy of Thurman's eyes, I believe I should have thought him dead, notwithstanding his upright position. He was as white as chalk, his cheeks were "dragged " upon his face, and his lips were parted over his set teeth. His shoulders were lowered, and his form was so bent that it did not seem that he could sustain it a moment.

From Seibel's lips there burst a long cry that partly resembled the groan of a man and partly the wailing of a child. She did not look at Thurman. Her fortitude was something sublime. The two, father and daughter, drew away inch by inch, the former growing more resolute and the latter more mild.

What was this to end in? Could the girl's filial love withstand this frightful test? Could Thurman's spirit bear yet another outrage?

I felt a touch upon my arm.

Before I turned I knew whose face I was to meet. It seemed as natural that Marion Walling should be there as that any criminal should be present at his own arraignment.

She whispered distinctly:

"Prevent this! Send her back to him! Tell Reinhart that I will not interfere. Hasten, in the name of Mercy!

I looked at her for an instant. From her lips these words were simply heroic. They were against the spirit of the whole of her willful life. With one breath she dammed up the fierce current of her desires-a current that had heretofore swept all obstacles before it-and for this cause!

She was pallid, and tears stood in her eyes. Tears from Marion Walling!

I turned and walked quickly into the court-yard, and was beside Reinhart in a moment. I whispered to him. He quitted his hold upon his daughter's dress. She flew to Thurman like an arrow. I heard them kiss each other, and I led Reinhart away. Miss Walling had left the place, and I did not see her until that night at a late hour.

She sent for me at her hotel and said: "I beg that you will, if possible, keep it secret from Mr. Thurman that I have been here. If it is not possible, endeavor to make him think that I have had no hand in his affairs. If that is not possible, make it clear at least that I now perceive how guilty toward him I have been. Say that I humble myself before him—that I, too, have pain pain that I fear will never leave me !"

that the sorrowful events which have marked the history of Spain's richest possession, and enlisted the sympathies of the outside world, have caused the literature of the island to be almost wholly overlooked. More strange it is that, amid the cares and vexations arising from civil and political strife, Cuba should have produced any writers capable of interesting the general public by the vigor, beauty, and dignity of their work.

When treating the literature of any people it is always well to begin with its poetry. We find no difficulty in choosing the names of Heredia, Milanes, and Placido, as three Cuban poets to whom all praise is due. Indeed, the best productions of the Cuban mind must be sought in the realm of poetry. As in older lands, the poet, the morning-star of the mind, is also the patriot in the minstrel, and is recognized as such by the government.

The three poets whose names we have just written are the representatives of as many classes of the population in the cities. To unfold, in brief, their character and temper, may only be perchance to picture the impulses of the higher order of Cuban minds.

José Maria Heredia was the son of a patriot, and was born at Santiago de Cuba in 1803. For nearly sixteen years he lived in Mexico, and then, removing to Havana, began the practice of the law. Being naturally gifted, and possessing a high degree of intelligence, it was to be expected that Heredia would draw down upon himself the suspicions of a government which believed that "information should not become general in the island." Proscribed by ignorance and malice, Heredia came to America, where he remained but a short time.

In 1826 he went again into Mexico, and there became Assistant Secretary of State, afterward a judge on the Supreme bench, and finally a senator of the republic. He died, in office, on the 6th of May, 1839, dearly beloved on account of his integrity, charity, and amiability of character. Although he passed away in exile, he never forgot the land which gave him birth, or ceased to lament the down-trodden fortune of his fellowcountrymen.

It is unnecessary for the present to indulge any thorough criticism of Heredia's writings. But this much may be said: as a poet, the dignity of his thoughts, the harmony of his versification, and the graces of his language, fully support his claim to the high rank which his countrymen have assigned to him.

"Fair land of Cuba! on thy shores are seen
Life's far extremes of noble and of mean;
The world of sense in matchless beauty dressed,
And nameless horrors hid within thy breast.
Ordained of Heaven the fairest flower of earth,
False to thy gifts, and reckless of thy birth!
The tyrant's clamor and the slave's sad cry,
With the sharp lash in insolent reply-
Such are the sounds that echo on thy plains,
While virtue faints, and vice unblushing reigns.
"Rise, and to power a daring heart oppose !
Confront with death these worse than death-like
woes.

Unfailing valor chains the flying fate;
Who dares to die shall win the conqueror's
state!

What hast thou, Cuban? Life itself resign—
Thy very grave is insecurely thine!
Thy blood, thy treasure, poured like tropic rain
From tyrant bands to feed the soil of Spain.
If it be truth that nations still must bear
The crushing yoke, the wasting fetters wear-
If to the people this be Heaven's decree
To clasp their shame, nor struggle to be free,
From truth so base my heart indignant turns,
With freedom's frenzy all my spirit burns,
That rage which ruled the Roman's soul of fire,
And filled thy heart, Columbia's patriot sire!
Cuba, thou still shalt rise, as pure, as bright
As thy free air-as full of living light:
Free as the waves that foam around thy strands,
Kissing thy shores, and curling o'er thy sands!"

Milanes, unlike Heredia, was a plebeian by birth, and belonged strictly to the mercantile class. Very little is related of his public life, while of his domestic life we can only catch a glimpse occasionally in his verse. Always despondent and always melancholy, his soul could give origin only to strains of a sad, mystical fervor.

Says his brother: "He was inspired with the noble enthusiasm of accomplishing a great social mission, and, possessed of faiths and hope, selected for the subject of his songs moral or philosophical ideas." While reading the plaintive murmurs of Milanes, we are often reminded of the sonnets of Ca. moens, or the complaints of Tasso.. And when we are told that the poet's conscious. ness of the wrongs of his country finally over powered his reason, we need not be surprised We have now to speak of Placido-or of Gabriel de la Concepcion Valdes, for such was his real name-who was born a mulatto, bre a pariah, and fell a victim to the tyranny of the government.

We need not here record any particular of his career, for surely we shall find then nowhere written down, and, besides, the work cares but little for the homely annals of martyr. There is one scene, however, in th life of Placido, which ought not be forgotten It interprets the inspiration which made hin

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