ing to the top and sitting there. Now, no matter what I thought. I sat there, whistling, and singing, and watching, until presently I saw that the whole stretch of beach was wet with the incoming tide. I listened; no sound save the sough of the wind, the dull roar and plash of the waves, or the shrill scream of a sea-bird. Then I drew myself along the ledge, and peered over. Nothing could I see but the black mouth of the cave-nothing. Still, I knew that she was there, and in my savage glee I could have shouted aloud.

But I only sang, and watched the water as I sang. It crept up apace, higher, higher, higher. I paused in my song and listened. No sound yet; nothing save the cry of the gulls, the plash of the waves, and the moaning of the wind. I waited, lying always prone upon the rock, and peering over the frowning

front.

How long would this last, I asked myself. For fifteen minutes, at all events, for I knew that by that time the cave would be entirely submerged. I drew out my watch. Fifteen minutes to wait! Five minutes passed; ten passed; fifteen had almost passed. The agony of suspense grew unendurable.

"Will she die as she has lived?'' I cried. "Will she be proud and vindictive to the very last? Then let her die!"

I said it, and I meant it, but I shuddered, and hid my face in my hands as I lay there. Then such a sudden fear and horror stole over me, such a surge of pity and shame and wild remorse! Was it too late! I remember asking myself that in a dazed, helpless way, as I arose and peered again at the angry water. Was it too late?

"Cornelia!" I called. 66

'Cornelia, answer me!"

But even at that moment my voice died away in a hoarse murmur, for on the receding wave now floated a human form. What madness overcame me at the sight? A woman's form-a woman, and I had killed her!

With a great cry I leaped into the sea. I sank, arose, then struck out boldly. I neared the body, seized it, and battling with the tide, now bore my burden with desperate determination, and would have gone down with it, perhaps, had not a mighty wave caught me in its swell and dashed me on the shingly shelf I sought to reach. Then up the path I ran-on, on, until I gained the little iron gate that gave into the abbeygrounds. It was unlocked. I dashed it open, and, never paus ing, sped swiftly on. Then people came about me. I heard voices; and, ah, I cannot remember. Indeed, I remember only that my cry never ceased:

"It is true. Cornelia?"

At the sound of my voice, the heavy lids parted, and the

eyes-those big black eyes that had always so offended me— were slowly raised to mine.

"Cornelia !" I called again; and then I stooped down until my face almost touched hers. "Cornelia, speak to me!"' And she spoke to me, her arms about my neck, her eyes looking into mine.

"I die," she murmured. "I die-and-I love you! It was all my fault, for when I heard you I was afraid, and hid there. And you saved me. It is very sweet to go, remembering that you risked your life-for me. Ah, forgive and pity me! I could not help it. I have always loved you-and-I-havesuffered."

Yes, that was what she said to me-her murderer. No taunt, no accusation, no reproach, even; just that, "I love you!" And then the poor lips quivered in a little sob. The white

"Yes, in a few weeks. As soon as he returns from Italy." Do you ask if I was jealous? Ah, I had done with jealousy, and all passion that could give birth to it; and this gracious, kindly woman understood that well. Nay, more-she understood me.

"You love her now?" she said, softy. And I answered: "I love her."

Yes, I love her, and I wait. Patiently, patiently I wait, in bonds that death has riveted, and death alone can break.

THE TOMTE GUBBE.

A RECENT traveler gives the following description of a popular superstition in Sweden:

the homestead, answering, I fancy, to our 'Little Puck.' The "Neither do they forget the 'Tomte Gubbe,' or old man of

'Tomter' are believed to be the souls of the slaves of the ancient Scandinavians. Whilst their masters were engaged in buccaneering expeditions, these men guarded and looked after the homestead. Hence the industrious habits attributed to them; and as they died idolaters, it is believed they will follow their present occupations until Doomsday. The Tomte Gubbe' is a friendly elf, and, to insure a continuance of his good offices, stir-about-as also a little tobacco, and one or more diminutive drinkables and eatables-particularly Jul Gröt,' or Christmas articles of clothing, are placed in the oven or on the barn-floor both of which he is supposed to visit nightly-for the use of the little gentleman.

"In stature the Tomte Gubbe' is a mere child, but in appearance, as seen in the illustration, a little old man. He is usually clad in a gray jacket, of home-woven woolen stuff, kneebreeches, and clumsy shoes, and wears a red night-cap.

"He always dwells with people, and it is believed that those with whom he takes up his abode are sure to prosper in the world; as a consequence, he is welcome everywhere. The greatest cleanliness and thriftin s3 must, however, prevail in nothing must be defiled, nothing wasted. He himself is very the establishment, or otherwise he is sure to take his departure;

laborious, and during the Summer and Autumnal months is often seen bearing an ear of corn or a straw, that he has picked up on the premises, to its proper place. His pace at such times is very slow, and at every few steps he stops to take breath, as if laboring under the heaviest burden. A peasant, observing his 'Tomte Gubbe' thus lightly laden, laughed, we are told,

somewhat rudely, and said to him, 'Of what use is it that thou bringest me this trifle?' The question gave great offense to the little old man, and very shortly afterward he betook himself elsewhere. His late host, who was previously in good circumstances, quickly fell into poverty and misery, whereas the poor squatter, to whose homestead the Tomte removed, soon became rich and flourishing.

of the ruins, and the indolent, careless manner of the inhabitants of huts built between the massive rocks, are studies for the artist and historian.

These inhabitants are poor Fellahs and Bedouins. The children serve as goatherds, and among the colossal ruins the goats gambol all the day, while their brown-skinned keepers, seated near some projecting ruin, relapse into an indifference to earthly things, peculiar to their nature.

WALLACHIAN FEMALE PEASANTS.

WALLACHIA was, in the days of Augustus Cæsar, part of the country called Dacia, a name made immortal by Byron's famous stanzas in "Childe Harold," describing the dying gladiator. Our readers will possibly not object to our quoting some of the lines:

"He heard it, but he heeded not; his eyes

Were with his heart, and that was far away.
He recked not of the life he lost, nor prize;
But where his rude hut by the Danube lay;
There were his young barbarians all at play,
There was their Dacian mother-he, their sire,
Butchered to make a Roman holiday.

All this rushed with his blood. Shall he expire,
And unavenged? Arise, ye Goths, and glut your ire!"
Poetry has few passages equal to the two stanzas of which
the above are the closing lines.

It is not so fanciful, or dreamy, as the mere matter-of-fact men may suppose, when we remark that the young women of Wallachia, whose picture we engrave on page 44, may be the descendants of that identical man who was slaughtered to make sport for the then masters of the world.

THE CARNIVAL IN VENICE.

VENICE, the City of the Sea, will ever be famous, not only on account of its peculiar construction, being founded on piles of wood driven into the sea, but for the fame it has acquired for its wonderful commercial activity, and the importance it occupied some centuries ago, before England was the great centre of mercantile wealth.

A writer of some four centuries ago has said that Venice was a city only to be seen once, for to enjoy it twice would be death. We all know the old proverb in favor of the beauty of Naples See Naples and die "--but he went on to say that "what the picturesque scenery of Naples did, the voluptuousness of Venice effectually performed."

Lord Byron, in his "Beppo," has drawn a most lifelike picture of what Venice was during the carnival, and our artist has given a very graphic sketch of the scene which meets the eye of those who have to endure its license.

It is, in fact, the orgie which a superstitious and involuntary debauchee bids adieu to-the inevitable abstinence which is a necessity of a fatal faith.

HACIENDA DE PATOS, NEAR SALTILLO, MEXICO.

THE Mexican haciendas, like our old Southern plantations, are often of great size. Near Saltillo is the large and superb hacienda of Patos, belonging to one of the greatest landed proprietors of that country, Don Sanchez, Navarro, who possesses more than 5,400 square miles in Coahuila. This hacienda has a population of 2,000, is situated in the midst of a very fertile plain, watered by two little rivers running through a series of cañons, amid which are sheltered and cultivated valleys. The population of this hacienda is clustered around the proprietor's rich mansion, and forms a little village, each house having its garden. Amid this group of houses and trees is a large but simple church, well built and well ministered. Its two fine chapels, and some paintings of the best Spanish school, add to its interior attractions. From the church to the manorhouse is a garden of roses and dahlias of the most varied kinds. The vegetable garden, vineyard, and orchard, are all of the finest description.

THE LITTLE SCARECROW.

SHE is up in yonder field,

Mid the new-sown corn; She'll be there until the eve,

She has been there since the morn.
Oh, the pretty little creature,
With her bright blue eye,

I heard her noisy clapper,
And her scarecrow cry.

I paused to mark the child-
She was very fair and young;
She told me she was six,

With her merry little tongue.
In her hand she held her hat,
Which the wild wind swayed;
And purple were the feet
Of the scarecrow maid.
More happy than a queen,

Though scanty was her food,
The child that sang her song
To that clapper-music rude.
This the maiden's simple lay,

As she warbled in her nook, "Here clapping every day, I scare the robber-rook !"

TELL YOUR WIFE.

If you are in trouble or a difficulty, tell your wife—that is, if Ten to one, her invention you have one-all about it at once. will solve your difficulty sooner than all your logic. The wit of woman has been praised, but her instincts are quicker and keener than her reason. Take counsel with your wife, or your mother, or sister, and be assured light will flash upon your darkness. Women are too commonly pronounced shallow in all but purely womanish affairs. No philosophical student of the sex thus judges them. Their intuitions, or insights, are subtile, and if they cannot see a cat in the dark cupboard, there is no cat there.

In counseling a man to tell his wife, we would go further, and advise him to keep none of his affairs from her. Many a home has been happily saved and many a fortune retrieved by man's full confidence in his "better half." Woman is far more a seer and prophet than a man, if she have a fair chance. As a general rule, wives confide the minutest of their plans and thoughts to their husbands, having no involvements to screen from them. Why not reciprocate, if but for the pleasure of meeting confidence with confidence?

We are certain that no man succeeds so well in the world as he who, taking a partner for life, makes her the partner of all his purposes and hopes. What is wrong of his impulses or judgment she will check and set right with her almost universally right instincts.

HABITS.-Like flakes of snow, that fall unperceived upon the earth, the seemingly unimportant events of life succeed one another. As the snow gathers together, so are our habits formed; no single flake that is added to the pile produces a exhibit, a man's character; but as the tempest hurls the avasensible change; no single action creates, however it may lanche down the mountain, and overwhelms the inhabitant and his habitation, so passion, acting upon the elements of mischief, which pernicious habits have brought together by imperceptible accumulations, may overthrow the edifice of truth and virtue.

THE lightest man in the world is the Frenchman, the heaviest the German, the most serious the Englishman, the most vivacious the Swiss, the proudest the Spaniard, most humble the Russian, most enterprising the Pole, the largest the Turk, widest-awake the American, and the sleepiest the Hottentot. The Italian has all the vices and virtues combined.

S

AMALIE.

CHAPTER I.

TILL, it is exceedingly pleasant to have a woman at hand who believes in you," quoth the stout counselor, with the blasé air of a man of the world.

"Ay, it would be so, doubtless, if such a thing were possible," asserted the countess, grimly; "but, for my part, I am convinced that no woman can know a man well and believe in him. Don't stare, Herr Esslingen-it's rude; besides, I mean what I say. I always mean what I say."

No one could look at Louisa, Countess von Aremberg, and doubt her assertion. She was a woman of thirty-eight, with a sallow, colorless complexion, light-gray eyes, and brown hair, streaked with gray. Just the sort of woman to say bitter things, and mean them, too.

"No; it is simply impossible," she continued, with shrill volubility. "But let that go. Why are we disputing about such absurdities as men and truth? I was telling you of my many narrow escapes from death. I have not told you, however, of what happened this morning. I was walking in the park with the Fraulein, Amalie, when paf! a ball was sent whistling by me-just before my very eyes, in fact." "Gracious Heaven!"

Really, I cannot tell,

Herr Counselor."

"What!" cried the

countess, starting up, excitedly. "Dare you say that you do not know? Dare you-oh, Heaven! grant me patience! Patience, good God-patience!"

And then she sank down upon the sofa again, and fell to weeping bitterly.

This unexpected proceeding had the effect of arousing the worthy visitor from his habitual state of stolid self-complacency. With a lumbering attempt at sprightliness, he crossed the room to the girl.

"Fraulein," he whispered, between the sobs, "I must go really, I must. I am not strong, you see, and this sort of VOL. XXXI., No. 1-4

thing quite unnerves me. I cannot longer listen to it. It is better that I should go."

"Go, but,

"Yes, go," returned Amalie, in the same tone. for Heaven's sake, say nothing of all this. Every one would ridicule the poor creature, and she is ill, you know."

"I shall obey you, charming Amalie," gallantly kissing the soft white hand that rested in his

Charming Amalie followed this evident admirer to the door, where he paused.

"Fraulein, why will you not marry me at once? You surely know that I love you. Why, then, will you so obstinately persist in remaining here-a slave to that jealous creature, a victim of her venomous insults ?''

"Mein Herr," came the blandly dignified response, "you misunderstand us altogether. The countess is not jealous, nor am I a victim. As for the other affair, why, I can only answer, as I always have done-No! Adieu, Mein Herr."

Away went the stout suitor in a pretty temper, and back to the mourner did Amalie betake herself. The anguish was still painfully audible.

"Madame" commenced the girl.

But the other interrupted, her tear-stained face crimson with rage: "Do not speak to me! Let me not hear the sound of your