out of his head in the matter," said I, "but | imagination, all disappeared with him, scarce-tation, scorched by the summer sun, and exI supposed there was such a case still hang ing on." "Out of his head!" laughed the lawyer. "Yes, and he'll never get into it again. You should see him some time when he jumps out of it a good distance. I'll be bound he's tearing about now." I was repelled by the man's apparent heartlessness, but I wished to know more, and I went on: "But how is be left ignorant, and, may I ask, was there any ground for hope when he first entertained the matter?" "Oh, that's easily explained," said Tyrel, carelessly. "I manage the matter. He came to me at the first, and I thought there was a chance, and told him so. We kept at it, and when the chance was gone, I could not bear to tell him, and pushed the matter off, and so I've been pushing it off ever since. It costs me no labor now. I make a little show of business now and then when he gets uneasy, and that quiets him. If I were to tell him now, it would be all up with the poor man," "But surely this must have been, and be a tax upon your money and time," said I, with the beginning of a new feeling of respect toward this man. now, "So that is your high-toned American notion, is it?" laughed he, harshly. "Do you think we do every thing for pay? that we humor a light-headed old man in order to rob his pockets? The less of such comments you make in his ears or mine, the better." I was silent from sheer perplexity how I could state the matter over again to remove an uncalled for interpretation. Finally I gave it up, and asked further: "Does Miss Bodley understand all this?" We had just reached Fountain Court, and I was slackening my pace. He stopped, placed his hand on my shoulder, much as I suppose an officer might clap his hand on a man he meant to arrest, held it a moment, and said: "Yes, she does understand it-we both understand it, and if you understand me, you will hold your tongue about the whole business, if you ever see Miss Bodley again." He released me, and with no further words strode off. I retreated down the rat-hole sort of entrance to my court, an entrance so undistinguishable that I should fancy a new-comer might have to put up some landmark outside, lest he should go away from his home in the morning and never be able to find it again; for my part, I always had first to discover the linen-draper's shop next door before I could be sure of my port. I am almost ashamed to confess that the sole reason why I was living in Number Three of that shabby, dingy court was one of pure sentiment. There, in that dirty precinct, Blake saw his visions, and there finally was overtaken by Death, whom he had so far outrun that he seemed to have traversed a goodly portion of the new country before actually transferred to it by the last enemy. Mere contact certainly brought ine no share in those strange apparitions. The host of wise men, of kings, and of shadowy substances, known only in the realm of Blake's ly delaying, I fear, to comfort the forlorn widow, even though she had, in her husband's lifetime, been admitted as a partial witness of the spectacle. But in my then romantic enthusiasm for Blake's genius, of which I am not a whit ashamed, though now a little amused at it, I seized upon the most trivial occasions for identifying myself with his memory; and indeed I had so worked some of his conceptions into my brain that, whether I would or not, they inevitably af fected my judgment even upon matters very remote apparently from their province. Thus it was that this evening, sitting down in my lodging, I went over the singular experience of the past few hours, unconsciously applying to it the touch-stone of Blake's nature. I remembered among the "Proverbs of Hell," contained in Blake's "Marriage of Heaven and Hell," an enigmatical one which ran- "The bird a nest, the spider a web, man friendship," and I had conceived it as hint ing at the uses to which men variously put friendship, some making of it a soft and pleasant shelter, some a trap for the unwary. I had myself so long been without friends that in the first glad surprise I had flown to them, as a bird to its long hidden and lost nest; but now the old skeptical feelings, engendered by pertinacious solitude, returned upon me, and I wondered whether I might not be a foolish fly rushing to a silly death. "I must act with circumspection, with prudence," said I to myself, as I recalled Tyrel's words and my own heedlessness that evening; and then I laughed as another of Blake's proverbs was suggested by the word-"Prudence is a rich, ugly old maid courted by Incapacity." Was Blake my good spirit whispering these little warnings into my willing ears? I looked around the room: it was the rear room, the one used by him as kitchen, studio, living- and bedroom, and answered one or two of these purposes for me now. I fancied again the little, noble-headed man bending over his table, while the faithful Kate stirred the pot at the fire. The domestic life of Blake always had interested me, little as I knew about it, but I had thought of his wife as absorbed gradually into himself, until she came to live only at his motion; and now, looking at this picture, the figure by the fire dissolved into that of the brownish maid whom I had in the evening seen engaged in her simple preparation for tea-making. I saw her profile again, and then I recollected that I had forgotten to ask her if it were really she whom I had seen copying at the museum. "Well, I will ask her to-morrow," I said to myself, and, in a more Christmas frame of mind than I had ventured to hope for that afternoon, I went to bed. posed to all the fury of the winter storms, it is, as it were, excluded from all the civilization to which it lies so near. The fierce blasts of autumn pile the sand-of which it is principally composed, and from which it takes its name-into shapeless heaps, which, settled and congealed by the frosts and snows of winter, become small hills, among which lie sheltered valleys where the sun shines warm. The coast is jagged with rocks, and dangerous with breakers, and is dreaded by all who go down into that sea in ships. The desolate, sandy shore is scooped by the action of the winds and waves into caverns where, long after the sun has warmed the | valleys, the ice glitters and the snow lies white. In all the place there is not soil enough to bear a tree; but in the sheltered nooks earth sufficient may be gathered to form a garden, where in the summer the inhabitants may rest their sand-wearied eyes with the sight of herbs and flowers. The inhabitants ? Yes, even in Sable Island human life is possible. Even there human hearts beat joyously, and eyes weep tears of sorrow. Some years ago-never mind how many -there dwelt there an elderly Frenchman of the name of André Duroche. What bad first induced him to select it as his place of residence was not then, and will never now be, krown. He was poor certainly, but in a civilized community he might have earned a far better livelihood than he made by attend ing to the light-house which was his charge. He appeared to be a man of some education and cultivation, had traveled much, and pos sessed considerable knowledge of men and books; and yet he had lived for fifteen years in this desolate and deserted spot by his own choice and without seeking change. While the subject was new, those who cared to speculate upon it had decided that either some great wrong-doing or some great grief had driven him from the haunts of men; but, his harmless life being taken into con sideration, the first theory was soon abandoned. The last remained possible, and some bold spirits had even ventured to sound André in the hope of solving the mystery but they were met either by baffling evasions or a direct refusal to impart any informa tion; and, long before the time of which I speak, all speculation had ceased, and Andre pursued his own way unquestioned and unme lested. It was a very quiet way. His household consisted of his only child, a daughter, who French as was her father, possessed an Eng lish fairness and purity of feature and com plexion, and spoke English as her mother tongue; the old woman, Scotch by nation and a fisherman's widow, who had accompanie him to the island as her nurse; and the lad a native of a New England village, who helpe him tend the light. This singularly-com posed family did not, as is usually the cas live in the light-house. The latter stood o the point of a high ledge of rock, and wa easily and safely reached at all times, eve at high water and in storms; but it was cessarily much exposed, and André had pr vided a dwelling for private life secure from winds and waves. Even in this desert spot it had been possible to give it, after years of toil and care, a look of home; it was protected by high sand-banks from the winter storms, and open to the southern sun; in summer a few hardy creepers trailed their green vines and displayed their blossoms up to the low eaves, and bright flowers made the little garden gay; and even in winter the carefully-tended plants in the window, and the canary with his cheerful song, reminded one in the midst of present desolation of both past and future joys. Their life was simple. Old Nancy superintended household matters, and had been successively nurse and governess, and was 10w companion, to her young charge; the ad performed the rough labor, and assisted n the work of the light-house; André's ocupations were in the summer to cultivate the garden, to fish, and to lay in the stores for heir long winter captivity; and in the short inter days to educate his daughter, which, 8 she had now reached woman's estate, was task nearly at an end. At night, summer nd winter, there was always the care of the ight. Virginie Duroche was eighteen years old. he was, if not exactly beautiful, possessed f that charm which youth, health, and innoence combined must always give, and to the ther who idolized and the nurse who woriped her she was of course simply perct. In infancy her merry voice and thoughtss happiness had made the gloomy dwelling eerful; as she grew older, and sense and E it awoke, her bright sallies and artless en avors had won her father back to smiles; d now the whole charm of graceful womhood was shed over her home. It was no doubt a somewhat dull and seided life for one so young and naturally gay; but Virginie never thought of comint-she knew no other. As a child she sisted (or hindered) in Nancy's household rk, she played her solitary games among sand-hills, and learned faithfully the less set her by her father as soon as under ncy's guidance she had mounted the first inful steps in the ladder of knowledge. r grand delight was to accompany her far when he went to the light-house on his htly duty. She loved to see the lamps mmed and the reflectors burnished; to k out over the heaving sea (invisible from home) and think of the safety the friendlight afforded to those upon its treacherdepths; to listen to the wind which, vever calm it might be inland, always nded in that exposed spot; to put in orthe few books and papers which emyed her father during his lonely watch, arrange for him the couch on which he k his rest; or to sit for a few minutes the outer balcony while the darkness fell, the solemn hush of night came down r land and sea. But she was never perted to remain long. Her father always k her home, and left her with a kiss and Messing in Nancy's care; while he returned vatch the beacon till morning paled its ndly rays. $7. ceived a dread of the sea, and employed and Perhaps Virginie might not have been so André Duroche made no objection. He learned to like Floyd Lossing, as the young man was called, and was perhaps not averse to his child's securing an efficient protector by whom she could be cared for and beloved. So, on ascertaining that the account Floyd gave of himself was true, and on being assured that his daughter's young affections were irrevocably fixed, he gave his consent, and Floyd and Virginie were solemnly betrothed. But Floyd could not marry at once, even if André would have allowed it while Virginie was still so young. His small savings had been invested in the wrecked vessel, and were lost, and he must begin the world again. That, with youth, hope, and love on his side, was not much; but the separation it must entail on the young people was a great deal. Yet it could not be helped. Floyd could not make the means to support a wife on Sable Island, and Virginie could not become his wife until he had done so; so, as the surest way to a final meeting, they resolved to part, and did so with many kisses, protestations, and, on Virginie's side, some tears, and, for sole comfort, the hope of the future, and Floyd's assurance that they should meet as often as could be. · That was two years ago, and three times Floyd had redeemed his promise and visited his betrothed. On the first two occasions the wished for fulfillment of their hopes seemed no nearer than before; but the third time he left Virginie with a fluttering heart, a blushing cheek, and downcast eyes. He had a sure prospect of permanent employment on shore; he had saved sufficient to establish a home for his bride, and perhaps before winter, certainly in the succeeding spring, he would return and claim her. Here was the secret of Virginie's trembling happiness and shy bloom; here was the impulse that led her to cultivate housewifely arts, the object of the work that occupied her delicate fingers with an industry unknown before. It was all for Floyd-that she might be a good and useful as well as a loving wife to him. Floyd had left her in May, and, as the summer waned and the autumn drew on, Virginie's anxiety and unexpressed excitement grew more and more intense - unexpressed but not unobserved. Old Nancy; who watched her nursling with devoted interest and care, would sometimes, sore against her inclination, warn her of the instability of all human happiness. "Ye think too much of him, honey," she would say in her homely speech, while the soft look and tone, and the tender touch of the rough hand on the bright hair, contradicted the words. "There's no' a man in all the world that's deserving of all thought ye give him. Dinna build too much on it, darling of my heart. God knows I pray night and day for his safety and your happiness; but the sea's treacherous and may be his grave yet, and the heart of man is deceitful and he may forget ye still." "The sea's treacherous, I know, Nancy," Virginie would reply, with her head upon her nurse's knee, as they sat before the winter fire or in the soft spring sunshine at the door. "The sea is strong, but God is stronger than the sea, and will hear my prayers; and, as for forgetting-" the happy, trustful face supplied the unuttered words. But the time was too near now for any more of Nancy's warnings. She would not for the world have dashed her darling's hopes by look or word. August came and went; September passed, with all its autumn glory of sea and sky; October, veiled in cloud-wreaths, joined the long procession, and also vanished in the past. The hope deferred calmed Virginie's fever of expectation, but no shadow of fear or doubt found entrance to her mind. If ever Nancy wondered why Floyd had not yet appeared, "He will come when he is ready," Virginie would reply; "he said it might be spring." And when October had departed, when the last vestiges of autumn were gone and undisguised winter had set in, she resigned herself to wait again. Waiting is women's work; they know it, and they do not find it hard. "I shall not see him now till the spring," said Virginie. "He will come for me when he has made my home. I would not have him come through the rocks and the surf in the winter. He will come in the spring." It is daily expectation that wears the mind. It is daily disappointment that barasses and makes life a burden to be borne. It is a definite time in the future, however distant, and patience is easy. When Virginie had settled to the satisfaction of her own mind that Floyd could not come in the present, she could calmly and contentedly wait for the future. She felt no doubt and no fear; and the Flower of Sable Island had bloomed no more brightly under the June sunshine than in November's blasts and snows. November is never, at the best of times, a cheerful season, and this year it was especially bleak and wild. Masses of dark, snow-laden clouds trailed their heavy folds across the sky; the fierce northeast wind hurried over the island, bearing with it sheets of sleet and sand, and the roar of the breakers was never silent. The frost-king wears a grim aspect sometimes, and he had assumed his darkest frown this year on Sable Island. One dark and gloomy day toward the end of the month was drawing to its close, and André Duroche was preparing for his night's watch. He had been restless all day; a nervousness he was unable to control appeared to have taken possession of him; his words were few and hasty, and his face was haggard and worn. The evening meal had been prepared, but he had tasted nothing; and, when he rose to go to the light-house, it was in the manner of a man who dreads what he is about to do. "What ails you, father? asked Virginię, when he came in for the third time after an examination of the sky. "The wind is high and the clouds are threatening, but we have had such nights before." Nothing, my child, nothing," he an swered, quickly. Then be hesitated, turned again to the door, and again drew back. "There'll be a storm to-night such as we seldom see," he said, slowly, and as if against his will. "Did you see the yellow stain in the south as the sun went down?" Nancy nodded, and as she looked at him a strange expression came over her face, and she put down her work and gazed fixedly. "Is it snowing, father?" asked Virginie. "Your sleeve is white." He shivered. "Ay, it's as thick as a blanket already, and the snow's driving fast." "Ye must make the lamps do their duty, and burn their best," said Nancy. "Ye'll maybe never know the good they do this night. And, see ye, keep Rody with ye till the morn; we hae nae need of him here." André again took up his lantern and turned away. Then, apparently by a sudden and painful effort, and with a strange light in his eyes, he glanced back and beckoned to Nancy. She instantly and eagerly obeyed his summons, and they went out together into the snow. God grant ye be, "What ails ye, André Duroche? This "Are ye mad, André ? night, of all nights in the year? " and that ye do not in your sober senses con"You remember the night, then?" he template so frightfu' a crime. Give me the asked, hoarsely. lantern; ye shall not go nigh the lamps this night. Stay and guard the darlin', and before ye sleep ask pardon, whether ye meant it or not, for the awfu' thought ye have harbored in your mind." Ay, I remember. Is it like the 24th of November would pass over and I forget? Do you forget? But what ails ye? I've never seen ye this way-" "Nancy," he interrupted, "will you watch the lamps for me to-night? It may save my soul. I am a lost man else—” "The saints between us and harm! What do ye mean?" her.' "Nancy, I was warned last night. I saw "That I may never sin! Tell me how. Did ye dream it?" 'No, Nancy, it was no dream, all the worse for me. I had been asleep, an uneasy| sleep of a few moments, and when I opened my eyes she stood before me, as plain as I see you now." "She is dead, then," said Nancy, solemnly. "The heavens be her bed! I hope 'tis no sin to say it, for say it I must and will! I believe she was as sinless as the darling child within there." "Bless you for that, Nancy; but―0 my God!" be suddenly exclaimed, as he dropped the light and lifted his clasped hands-" to have striven with temptation so long, and to yield now! to have baffled Satan for so many | years, only to fall his prey at last! In this last corner of the habitable globe hast thou found me, O mine enemy!" "André Duroche, the night is falling fast. Be still, and tell me what ye want and what ye mean." "She stood before me, Nancy, as though she had risen from the grave." The woman crossed herself. "I could not speak or stir, but she spoke to me; I heard her words as clear as I hear yours now: 'André Duroche, you did me foul wrong. I sinned a little, but I suffered much; and who made you my judge? I am at peace now; but I come to remind you of your oath. He has crossed your path at last; let the light out to-morrow night, and I shall be avenged!' That was all, Nancy; but the horror of it has been on me ever since; I see and hear her now." "Ye dreamed it. If she is dead (rest her soul!), she is in peace too great to trouble herself with this world and its revenges. Let it be." "I did not dream. To-night he will be in my power. Am I to forget my oath-forego my righteous vengeance, and let him go?" "For him I say nothing. He brewed his ain cup, and it fits that he sud drink it-and in God's time so he will. But revenge is an awfu' thing, André; do not ye take it in your ain hand." The man did not seem to hear her. His gaze was fixed on the leaden sky, now fast darkening, from which the snow was falling soft and thick. "It would be so easy," he said, musingly and as if speaking to himself. "I have but to put out the light, and the ship—” Nancy saw his meaning at last. Her eyes dilated with horror, but her old, spare form grew erect with dignity, and her voice took the majesty of stern rebuke. He made no answer, but suffered her to take the light from his hand, turned away, and entered the house. She noticed that he moved in a dull, heavy, stupid way, and followed him, to inform Virginie herself of the change of plan. It was nothing but the truth to say that André was not quite himself, and that she thought it better to take the watch; on one or two rare occasions of illness the same change had been made, and Virginie was quite satisfied. She undertook to cheer her father out of his gloomy mood, and Nancy was soon on her way, accompanied by Rody, to the light-house. The room in which André kept watch was just as usual. His perturbation had not interfered with the discharge of his daily duty. The lamps were all in order, and, with the boy's assistance, Nancy had soon kindled the glow which was at once a warning and an assurance of safety. When the coals in the brazier were lighted and the room had grown warm, she took the Bible from the table and began to read, while the boy Rody sat in one of the windows and watched the snow-flakes falling in the gleam outside. But Nancy could not rest. André's strange delusion, as she tried to believe it, dwelt on her mind, and she repented having left him in his present state alone with Virginie. There was no help, so far as she was concerned; the lamps must be watched, and as certainly André must not on this night be allowed to approach them; but she could perform the easy task alone, and, however lonely she might be, she resolved to do so. She dismissed Rody; she went with him to the lower door, impressing on him to be very careful of his young mistress, and warning him that it might be well to keep an eye on his master if he could do so unobserved. The lad promised fidelity and departed, and Nancy returned to the upper room alone. It is a lonesome thing to sit alone in a lighted room, whose black, uncurtained win dows stare at you from all sides, while the snow falls and the wind wails without. Darkness falls early in the end of November; the hands of the little clock on the shelf had barely reached five when Nancy had lit the lamps, and by the time they pointed to nine she felt convinced the night would never come to an end. She read her Bible derout ly, but, alas! the sacred words soon swan before her eyes; she plied her knitting-ne dles nervously, but their industrious click only served to soothe her into a more drowsy state than before. She paced the room, and listened to the wind; it was not highdré's prognostications of storm had not been verified, and she trusted that the remainder of his dreams would prove equally untrae "After all, why sud not I rest a wee?" she thought. "I shall never wake all night the lamps are all safe, and I may as w close my eyes now as later on." She went the round of the lamps to see that they really were safe-she descended the stairs and carefully locked the outer door-and returning she disposed herself, not on the couch where André was accustomed to take his rest, but, in order that she might not sleep too well or too long, in a most uneasy posture, with her arms upon the table and her head upon her arms. It was a little past nine when Nancy's eyes closed in heavy sleep. The timepiece traveled its round once, twice, and Nancy had not awakened. The third hour was nearly ended, the hands of the dial pointed almost to midnight, when cramped, and stiff, and dizzy, she came back from her dreams to the knowledge of the things of this world. Where was she? What had happened? She had closed her eyes on an atmosphere of warmth, and on a glow of light; she opened them in black darkness, and full upon er poured a chill blast of the winter, midLight wind. She rubbed her eyes. Was she dream. ng? Alas! it was no dream. No gleam enightened her from the extinguished lamps, ut by the faint gleam of the dying embers a the brazier she discerned the form of Anré Duroche opposite to her on the other ide of the table. His presence explained all -the darkness, the open window, and the last which had aroused her, and suggested hat might be the awful consequences of er fatal sleep. Was he madman or demon? e might have been either, as he sat before er, beating the table with his restless finrs, and with the triumphant malice of gratied vengeance in his face. Nancy saw at a ance the uselessness of speech, and rose, k at heart, to return to her neglected duty; it André stayed her for a moment. "" They ve winked long enough," he said," and you y light them when you will; but listen-I ve heard it twice already-when the third ne comes I shall know that I have fulfilled oath." He raised his hand, and, horroricken as she was, Nancy could not but ey his command. And it came, and Nancy heard and underod it but too well. The wind had died ay, and through the open window came a g, despairing cry, more like the shriek of Et spirits than the utterance of any thing earth. The roar of the distant breakers, the dash of the waves at the foot of the er, stifled the wrench of splitting timbers the crash of falling spars; but they could drown that piercing cry of human agony he wail that went up from the pitiless night sea to the relentless midnight heavfrom the doomed and dying crew. The woman fell upon her knees. "And at midnight there was a cry made, old, the bridegroom cometh!' God foryou and me, André Duroche, the blood of c we have sent this night to their mare-bed in the sea!" spring comes, even to Sable Island, and e as elsewhere in her genial smiles the my cruelty of Winter is all forgotten. il breezes, May sunshine and showers, their will everywhere, and bring buoyto drooping hearts, smiles to sombre faces, and brightness to faded eyes. Virginie Duroche, who was neither faded nor drooping, and to whom this spring was to be the most eventful and the happiest season of her life, welcomed each day with a fresh hope and a brighter bloom. André, gloomy as was his wont, showed but little the influence of the cheering season; but even Nancy shook off to some extent the oppression that had hung over her like a cloud through the winter, much to Virginie's wonderment and distress. For many a long week, indeed, after that terrible November night, had the remembrance of it haunted the old woman like a phantom horror never to be shaken off: day after day had she feared to approach the sea, lest it should cast at her feet the ghastly tokens of the wreck night after night had she trembled to close her eyes, dreading to live again those awful moments in her dreams. But time passed and brought no sign. No fragment, not the smallest, ever came to shore to tell that a goodly vessel had been swallowed by the waves. Home was as peaceful as ever; Virginie smiled her gay smiles and trilled her gay songs; the bird warbled and the flowers bloomed; till at last Nancy was tempted to think, and tried hard to believe, that the fearful cry which was the only evidence of the consequences of her sin (for so she deemed her almost involuntary slumber) had been but the invention of her fancy, or the wail of the winter wind. It was far on in May before Virginie, glad as she was to escape from her winter bondage, ventured to extend her walks far from home. Indeed, she rarely left home now, for every day brought nearer the chance of Floyd's coming, and suppose she were away when he arrived! She sometimes climbed the sand-hills to gaze out over the sea; but more frequently she busied herself in some employment that would be either pleasurable or profitable to Floyd. Floyd-nothing but Floyd now-filled her thoughts and her heart. She came one day to Nancy dressed for a walk. "I am going down on the shore, ma bonne," she said. "Something tells me I shall see him to-day-but I am restless-I cannot wait at home. I want the foam on my cheek and the breeze in my hair. Kiss me—I am going down on the shore where the north wind blows." Nancy watched the lithe figure disappear over the nearest hill. "God grant he may come!" she said; "but the time grows long. My mind misgives me - he sud hae been here before." The day wore on, and the sun shone and the wind blew; but no Floyd came, and no Virginie returned. The mid-day meal was over, the sun was already sinking, the shadows of the sand-hills grew long and dark, and at last Nancy became alarmed and summoned André. "Ye'll have to gae seek the child, André," she told him. "She's been gone since morn, and no sign. She'll hae lost her way amang the rocks, ere now." "No fear, Nancy. She knows them as well as you or I." "She went north, and the caves are deep and dark along the shore. If ye dinna gae, I'll gae mysel'! 'Tis late enough now." André prepared to start, his own face assuming a look of anxiety when he heard how long Virginie had been absent; and Nancy, who, once alarmed, felt her fears gather fresh force by expression, resolved to accompany him. It was a walk of some length to the north shore. They knew all Virginie's favorite haunts and searched them, but Virginie was not there. They called, they examined every sheltered nook, André ascended the highest point he could find and gazed eagerly round, Nancy wrung her hands and made the rocks resound with hoarse cries for her darling, but all in vain. No answering call reached their listening ears, no flutter of her garments met their watchful eyes. "We must search the caves one by one, Nancy; she has most likely fallen asleep in one of the caves." Nancy strove to agree, but she could not utter the words. She felt in her heart how unlikely was the supposition. And by this time the sun was low, and the caves were growing dim. In and out, among the rocks, through the sand - hills, and among the water-worn caverns, went the seekers, with hearts growing heavier and hopes growing fainter each moment that few. They separated, they met again, they searched apart and together, till they thought they had examined every inch of ground. "Is it best to look here, Nancy?" They had stopped before a narrow aperture in the rocks, almost drifted up with sand. "Is there room for her to have passed in, do you think? Shall we search here?" "What sud take her into that hole?" demanded Nancy, who spoke roughly to conceal the indefinable dread that had crept over her. " But, maybe, 'tis as well to look. Hae ye a light wi' ye?" "Yes," he answered, and passed in, she following close upon his steps. The cave was quite dark, for, though the entrance admitted them, they in entering excluded the faint daylight that yet remained. André struck a light, but his hand shook, and he dropped the feeble spark upon the ground. "Call, Nancy," he whispered. "I thought I saw some one there." She called, "Virginie!" but no answer came. "The cave's empty," she said, “but strike another light." Then, as she felt him tremble, she took it from him, and in her firmer fingers its blaze illuminated the cavern with a faint glow, and the seekers saw that their search was ended. The cave was not empty-it contained two figures. Before them, where the winter waves had cast him, and the winter winds had drifted his tomb around him, Floyd lay stretched, stiff and silent; and beside him lay Virginie, where she had fallen senseless, clasping his cold hand. His promise and her presentiment were both fulfilled they had met in the spring! Did Virginie die? No. Did she go mad? No. To soft and gentle natures such as hers, resignation comes more naturally than rebellion, and youth and health are hard to kill. She never knew that to the hand of her own father she in all human probability owed her lover's death and the desolation of her life. She never knew that Floyd's anxiety to be with her had led him, in the fatal winter season, into the fated ship supposed by her father to contain his mortal foe. She never knew that all those winter months, when she with gay songs and happy heart, was preparing for the life they were to share together, he had lain so near her, icebound, stiff, and silent, with the wind singing his requiem and the sand for his shroud. Nancy guessed it all; the terrible mystery was clear to her; but she kept the secret, as the winds and waves had done. But the Flower of Sable Island drooped and faded; her day was ended ere it had well begun. Smiles and songs were laid aside with the marriage-garments she was never to wear, and her life henceforth knew but one task-the tendance of the poor, foolish father, who never, from the moment that he saw the destruction which his hand had wrought, recovered sense again. Virginie believed it was grief for her alone that had so afflicted him, and Nancy never undeceived her; her one duty was the care of him, her one mournful pleasure the rearing of flowers with which to deck Floyd's grave. Nancy still inhabits the cottage, but the light-house is in other hands. She stays, she says, in the hope that dragging out her life in the haunted scene of her sin and sorrow may expiate the past. She is alone; and in the sheltered nook where Floyd was buried there are now three graves instead of one. THE PERUVIAN AMAZON AND ITS TRIBUTARIES.* NOTES FROM A JOURNAL OF TRAVEL. IV. June 1st.-To-day reached the mouth of a small, rapid river, entering into the Pachitea, on the right side of the latter. This, one of our old poperos told us, was called " Yuyu "False Pichis," from the fact Pichis," or that it had once been mistaken for the river Pichis by a priest, who was traveling up the Pachitea. There was a fine sand-bank here for a camping-ground, and it had certainly been used as such by some padre on a former occasion, as he had stuck out a few plantaintrees for the benefit of himself and crew on some return-day. This old popero, as well as several other Indians among our canoe-crews, belongs to one of the missionary stations on the Ucayali; and, on a former occasion, when some of the padres had passed from the Ucayali to Ocopa in the Andes Mountains, had accompanied them up the Pachitea and Palcazu to the mouth of the Mayro. For this reason they were procured to accompany our expedition. The remarkable manner in which Indians recollect landmarks and measure distances would, at first, before reflecting that they have little else with which to charge their memories, strike one with wonder. And, as these long miles had been wearily toiled over before, and measured by * Continued from JOURNAL, No. 847. the falling of many a dishonest drop of sweat, it was not strange that they now remembered every gravel-bed and turn in the river. We endeavor always to stop for the night on a sand-spit, or on an island, so that the view will be unobstructed for at least a few yards around us. These suitable camping points occur at long intervals on the Pachitea; but our old Indian recollects them every one, and so regulates the speed of the canoes that we almost invariably reach one in time to prepare for the night. Our manner of asking for and receiving information from these ancient mariners is very interesting. One of our party is of rather a restless disposition, and at least a dozen times a day inquires of the popero in his canoe, in bad Spanish and worse Inca, how far we have to go before coming to the next stoppingplace. The old "" aborigine "looks at him for a while in silence, and then, if deigning any reply at all, does it by majestically extending his bony arm in the direction we are going up the river, and then, slowly waving his hand back and forth an interminable number of times, makes a downward swoop toward his feet-all of which signifies that we will change our direction as many times as he has waved his hand-and then make a straight pull for the camping-ground. A few days since we met with a serious misfortune in the upsetting of the pilot's boat, causing the loss of his gun and fishing-tackle. This man is a Brazilian Indian, but the regular pilot of one of the Peruvian steamers, and is accompanying us on this expedition in order to become acquainted with this river, so as to bring his boat up. In addition to his knowledge of sand-banks, currents, etc., he is one of the most magnificent huntsmen I ever saw, and, up to the time of his loss, kept us supplied with an abundance of fine game. Of course, the variety of animal life differs with the country through which we are passing. For a considerable distance after enter ing the Pachitea the banks were steep, and the country elevated, as a general thing; and in the space of three days this Indian gave us at least fifteen varieties of game, all delicious eating. Now, we are dependent upon our salt-fish and rice, with an occasional meal of canned meat, helped out by such large animals as can be struck by a ball from an army-carbine shot from a canoe; or such game as can be killed along the bank by one of the commission who fortunately possesses a breech-loading shot-gun. So far, there do not seem to be many turtle in this river. There is, however, one reptile, highly prized as food in this country, the iguana. In the last few days we have seen a good many of them, but have not succeeded in capturing any. It is an immense green lizard, with a notched back and a pouch under the throat, and from nose to tip of tail measures from six to seven feet. The other day, while ascending some rapids, we shot one on an overhanging tree. We could not stop; and, although the blood was trickling from it, it held on until the last canoe had passed, and then dropped into the water. The Indians, when they catch the iguana, frequently secure it by making a loop in the tail and hanging it over a stake. Strange to say, we never find any fruit fit to eat growing wild in the forest. The only approximation to an edible fruit which I have seen since entering the Pachitea is a variety of the palm-nut, known as the vegetable ivory, and which, in its soft state, tastes like a piece of slippery-elm bark, and is about as tempting. As our time is limited in consequence of not being able to take many supplies, and as we can form no idea as to the distance we may have to traverse, every minute has to be devoted to the legitimate duty of pushing the survey as rapidly as pos sible up the river; and, therefore, we cannot enter the forest for any distance from the river-bank. Consequently, my remarks em brace only a narrow belt of country on both sides of the river, and about a mile each in width. But, from the position of the mountains and the character of the banks, I should think that there was a similarity in the country far back from both banks, a great deal of high land, never overflowed, and suitable on the Pachitea for farming and grazing. June 4th.-This morning, at eleven A. M., we arrived at the confluence of the Palcazu and Pichis Rivers, which form the Pachitea. The Pichis is a fine, deep-looking stream; and, as soon as we obtain observations at this point, we will commence its explora. tions. As it is an entirely unknown and unexplored river, we look forward to it with great interest. Since our experience at "Chonta Isla," we have tried no more flat-top houses, always stopping for the night in time to allow the Indians to build a sharp-roofed one. They erect it in an incredibly short time. Each Indian carries a big knife at his waist; and saplings for framework, palm-leaves for thatch, and bark to supply the use of nails, are all close at hand. In fifteen minutes they would put up a shelter large enough to accommodate the whole commission, and proof against a hard shower. As we might have to remain for several days, we constructed quite a substantial shelter at this point, with the hope of finding it in good preservation upon our return down the river. June 6th.-Mouth of river Pichis-latitude 9° 54' 9" south; longitude 74° 58′ 45′ west of Greenwich; distance from Brazilian frontier, twelve hundred and fifty-six miles; elevation above sea, 188.365 metres. After having remained here for two days, for the purpose of determining the position of the mouth of the river, at 10.50 A. M. we entered the Rio Pichis, and took up the line of sail for its head-waters. Here, our Peruvian don after having taken charge of our letters for the United States, with many protestations of friendship and good wishes for our brill iant success, left us. His destination was Lima, by way of the city of Huanuco; and which in order to reach he had to go thirty miles up the river Palcazu in canoes, and then take the trail kept open by the padres in their annual visits from the stations on the Ucayali to and from the College of Ocopa the headquarters of the Franciscan Order, Peru. The water of the Pichis is, at this particular time of the year, quite clear; and the current, and the appearance of the banks indicate a bold stream flowing through pampa country. The indications of animal le |