before whom she knelt knew her not, even in the fair morning light. "Mercy, mercy for my father!" she implored.

"Who is thy father, maiden ?" asked Sir Roger, kindly.

"Richard Thorne, whom false-tongued men have maliciously accused of being a poacher. Good Sir Roger, be merciful to him! he is foully belied."

66

Bessy Thorne, such words are idle. On the oath of good men, upright and just, has thy father been accused, and the law must take its course."

"Oh, spare him, Sir! He is, indeed, no poacher; only, upon that miserable evening when he was dragged from our home, had he shot a few hares and pheasants; but it was the first offence, and he will never do the like again."

"My poor child," said Sir Roger, gently, "would it had been the first offence!' then I might have listened to thy prayer. Yet thy father has long been suspected as a daring poacher, and my keepers but waited for a certain proof against him."

"My boy, dost thou remember my wife, thy beautiful Aunt Alice?”

"Do I remember her, Sir Hugh! Methinks I see her at this moment; and I could never tire of gazing upon her fair portrait which hangs in our old gallery."

"Clarence Wyllde, I loved my Alice as though she had been an angel; and when God took ber to himself, my heart was crushed. England became dreary to me, and I went from it to other lands. My only child-a sweet babe—Alice, I left with a family servant. I had no relatives with whom I cared to place her, and this woman had nursed her from her birth. Kind and tender-hearted I knew Cicely Wells to be, faithful and upright I also believed her; but in this I was mistaken. On my return, the news reached me that my Alice was dead, and I visited her nurse but to have it confirmed. From the grave they pointed to me as my child's I had the bones removed and placed with those of my wife. Then again I went forth from England, more lonely, more heart-aweary than before;" and here Sir Hugh paused, and passed his hand over

"But he hath been most cruelly and falsely his eyes. slandered," earnestly urged Bessy.

"Answer me truly this question, maiden: Hath not thy father often before the night of which thou spoke brought home game?"

"Yes, good Sir; but to me he ever affirmed most solemnly that such had been the keeper's gift."

"He basely deceived thee, then. And now, poor child, plead no longer; 'tis of no avail."

But Bessy Thorne, with passionate tears and sobs, clung the more closely to Sir Roger, and besought him urgently to have mercy upon her father. "Spare him! send him not to jail!"

"This is but a waste of words, Bessy Thorne," returned the old man, growing weary of her entreaties; "I cannot grant thy request. And now thou mayst leave me."

Quickly Bessy Thorne sprang to her feet, and turned to leave the room. As she did so, her eyes fell, for the first time, upon Clarence Wyllde, who earnestly and pityingly regarded her. Blushing deeply, the maiden moved towards the door; but ere she reached it, young Wyllde, with gentle courtesy, opened and held it for her. The young stranger's gaze for a moment thrilled the peasant girl, but only for a moment; and, as she hurried down the long passage, Clarence Wyllde saw her slender figure bent in grief, and heard her sweet voice sadly murmuring, "My father! alas, my father!"

"Clarence, thou hadst ever thine own way since thou wert a boy. I never could refuse thee aught; and, since thou desirest it so earnestly, I will tell thee my trouble."

"Thanks, kind uncle; I will do my best to soothe thy grief;" and the young man respectfully touched his lips to Sir Hugh Wyllde's hand. "Are we alone, Clarence?" and Sir Hugh half raised himself from the massive walnut chair in which he sat, and glanced searchingly round the large chamber.

Save ourselves, there is no one here."

But, uncle," said Clarence Wyllde, after a silence of several moments, "may I not ask why these events of years ago do now so trouble thee "

"Be patient, boy, and thou shalt know. After my second return, I took thee, my brother's orphan child, to my lonely home and heart; and well hast thou repaid my love, good Clarence. But I linger in my tale. When last in London, I was summoned to the deathbed of Cicely Wells; and, with her dying breath, what think you. nephew, that woman told me? What, but that. to her knowledge, my child had never died, and the tale of her sickness and death was a fearful falsehood! And when I questioned her why she had so deceived me, she confessed that Alice had suddenly and darkly disappeared, a few weeks before my return; and, dreading my anger for her carelessness, she had thus concealed the truth. Cicely Wells went on to say," con tinued Sir Hugh, his voice trembling as he spoke. "that she had placed in the babe's hands a little Bible, which I had given to my Alice, and which by mistake had found its way amongst the child's clothes. This Bible was richly clasped with gold, and the glitter thereof pleased the babe: and thus she left her for a little while, playing within the cottage door. But Alice was gone when she came back; and, from that day to this-sixteen years ago,-she hath never been heard of Cicely Wells carefully hushed the matter, yet secretly made inquiries, but could only learn that a company of strolling gipsies had been in the neighbourhood, and then she knew that, tempts! by the child's rich clothing, and the golden clasps of the Bible,-for it, likewise, had vanished.— that they had stolen her away. On her dying bed, whilst the death-rattle was almost sounding in her throat, Cicely Wells confessed all this me, and prayed my forgiveness; and I forgave her, though she hath deceived me most cruelly The stately form of Sir Hugh was bowed with grief, and he hid his face from Clarence.

"Oh, my uncle," said Clarence Wyllde, has fine face lighting up with earnest affection. "grieve not so hopelessly; there is a something I know not what, which tells me that thy A lives, and that we will yet find her."

THE POACHER'S DAUGHTER.

"Now may Heaven bless thee, boy, for thy cheering words! Since I listened to Cicely Wells' deathbed confession, I have thought of my child as lost to me, as dying in wretchedness and misery; and to my brain this has been madness."

"Sir Hugh, thou hast been to me as a father; I owe thee much, and it were a small repayment of my debt to seek for thee thy child. I pledge then my honour, if she lives, to find her; and may God help me so to do."

Clarence Wyllde bent him at his uncle's feet as he thus spoke, and Sir Hugh placed his hand upon his sunny hair, and fervently blessed him.

Before a blazing fire, in the wide old sittingroom, Sir Roger Stuart and his guests were seated, and whilst autumn winds wailed mournfully round the Hall, they talked cheerfully-almost gaily.

Without, a very different scene was transpiring. Three figures stole cautiously round the side of the keep, and in the dim light of the cloudshrouded moon, it could be seen one was a woman, closely cloaked, the two others, rough-looking men, coarsely habited.

"Master Allan, tread more softly, I pray thee," said the sweet, low voice of Bessy Thorne; "should the keeper be near, and hear thy heavy step, all is lost."

"If I can help it, my good friend Richard Thorne shall not be lost; but hark ye, maiden, not only for his, but thy own sweet sake, have I attempted this. I do mind me how tenderly thou didst nurse my wife last year, and for this I have ever been grateful."

"Good Will Allan, talk not of that, but haste thee, now, and thou, kind Master Davis, help him to fling that rope to yon gratings; my father but waits to seize it, and if ye love him, linger not."

The rope was flung, and Richard Thorne, climbing up the keep window, whose iron bars had been previously loosened, had clutched the end with eager fingers, when a bright light shone in the room, and the poacher, bewildered and startled, lost his hold, and fell with a heavy crash, back upon the floor.

"There lie, thou rascal poacher!" thundered the keeper; "tis well that to-morrow thou goest to Taunton gaol, or else thy cunning would soon free thee."

At the sound of the keeper's voice, the two men cast down the rope and fled, whilst Bessy Thorne, shrieking wildly, fell as one dead, upon the ground.

soon come to.

"There, lay her down gently, wife; she will And so, poor lass, it was thy mad freak to save thy father!" and the keeper looked pityingly upon the ashy face of Bessy Thorne. "All thanks to Ralph Wilson, for advising me of this attempt. Had it not been for him," continued the man, "I would have lost my dainty prisoner."

Unpitying Ralph Wilson! Revenge indeed is cruel, 'tis like the fierce flames of an angry fire.

"I promise thee faithfully, that all that lies in
my power, I will do for thee," earnestly replied
Clarence Wyllde, as he gazed with profound admi-
ration upon the lovely face of Bessy Thorne.
The cottage girl smiled through her tears, and
dropping a low courtesy, turned away.
"Stay a moment, maiden," said young Wyllde
"In order to plead thy cause the better
gently.
with Sir Roger, 'tis fitting that I know something
of this fall, which thou tellest me thy father re-
ceived. How came he by it?"

Then Bessy Thorne answered firmly, "Yesternight, young sir, two of my father's fast friends and myself, did go to the keep with a strong rope provided for his escape. My father had climbed to the window, and grasped the rope, but suddenly the keeper came upon him, and affrighted, he fell heavily to the ground, and this morning the village leech doth count him sorely hurt."

"Such untiring devotion, I never before witnessed; I honour thee for it, fair maiden!" and Clarence Wyllde respectfully raised her hand to his lips; but Bessy Thorne quickly withdrew it, and thanking him gravely, yet gently, for his promise, hurried across the park. Clarence Wyllde watched her till she passed the hawthorn hedge, and then he went back to the Hall. He thought of the poacher's daughter very often during his walk, she was so lovely, noble, and fair.

"But, Sir Roger, I would have thee remember that this is the first favour I have asked of thee since I came to the Hall, and therefore I shall take it most unkindly if thou refusest me."

"Have thine own way, Clarence," returned Sir Roger, smiling in the young man's handsome "there is no refusing thee. But I must face; make one stipulation: take Sir Hugh with thee, and visit the poacher, so that thou mayest truly report of him. If he indeed be so grievously hurt, I pledge thee my word that he shall not be removed to Taunton gaol. I would go with thee to the keep, did not these fierce twinges of gout forbid ;" and Sir Roger glanced deprecatingly at his leg, as it lay upon a cushion.

Gladly thanking Sir Roger for his promise, To Sir Hugh Clarence Wyllde left the room. the young man talked earnestly of the poacher's daughter,-of her beauty, her noble devotion and sweet affection for her father, so that, when he had finished, his uncle, smiling at his warmth, expressed some desire to see Bessy Thorne. "Of a truth, Clarence, were I to judge thy heart by thy tongue, I should say this maiden had won it outright. But what think ye, my boy, of being the poacher's son-in-law ?-how wilt that agree with thy pride?"

The crimson blood mantled the cheek of Clarence Wyllde, and, glancing reproachfully at his uncle, he made no answer.

"Forgive me, Clarence," said Sir Hugh, placing his hand affectionately upon his nephew's shoulder; “I did but jest with thee. And now let us talk of another matter,-of my child, my lost Alice."

was

As the two wended their way to "the keep," they talked of Alice, Sir Hugh despairingly, Clarence Wyllde hopefully. "The keep" but a temporary place of confinement for those who were destined for Taunton gaol. It stood some distance from the Hall, hard by the keeper's lodge. When Sir Hugh and Clarence Wyllde

EROS.

"Help! help! good sir, bring the leech!" said Bessy, in terror, turning to Clarence Wyllde.

"Bring him not!" gasped Richard Thorne; "let me die in peace. I was warned that if I overwrought myself I would haste my deathhour;-now that it has come, do thou, my Bess, hold my head upon thy bosom."

The golden sunlight streamed in the windows On of the keep. It fell on a strange scene. the low pallet lay the poacher, his head resting upon the breast of the fair girl, whose slender, white fingers lingered lovingly among the masses Near by stood Sir of his matted black hair. Hugh, his face bearing the impress of great emotion, and his majestic figure slightly bent, as he The dark gazed pityingly upon the dying man. blue eyes of Clarence Wyllde were lit up with a mournful expression, as he knelt at the foot of the pallet, and earnestly regarded Richard Thorne and the sad, lovely face of her who partially supported him. The girl bent over the dying poacher, and spoke softly to him. Her voice was low, and often choked with sobs, but her words were of Heaven, and mercy, and he to whom she spake groaned out with fervour, "God be merciful to me a sinner!"

"Bessy, I am cold,-cold; and 'tis growing dark. Where art thou? I cannot see thee;' and, as Richard Thorne stretched out his hand, the weeping girl fondly grasped it. "Sir Hugh, be kind to her, love her, and"-the poacher's voice died to a whisper, and he gasped as though for breath. Once again he spoke. "Bessy, call me father, ere I die; call me

Father, dear father!" sobbed forth Bessy, kissing the cold brow of him who had so faithA faint smile fully loved and cherished her. came round the mouth of Richard Thorne; but the death-spasm drove it away, and in a few moments he lay, pale and rigid, dead upon the low pallet.

Sir Hugh Wyllde tenderly lifted his daughter from the floor. "Bessy Thorne no longer, but Alice Wyllde,-my own precious child, whom I have loved and mourned long years as lost,-hide thy tears upon thy father's bosom, my darling; I will not chide thy grief."

Alice Wyllde clung closely to Sir Hugh, whom already she began to love; and he, smiling upon his nephew, said:

"The future is full of mystery, good Clarence. When thou broughtest me to this poor man's bed, how little we thought here to find our Alice! How little I looked to find in her whom men did call 'the poacher's daughter,' and of whom to me thou spakest so earnestly, my own child, my Thou hast well kept thy long-ago-lost bird. promise, my noble boy: may God bless thee for it." Clarence Wyllde, bowing low, kissed the hand of the fair, weeping Alice, and begged a share in her affections, as a newly found, yet loving, cousin.

Some years later, Sir Hugh Wyllde presented to the circle of nobility his daughter, the lovely Lady Alice. She was admired, and looked upon with no slight interest; for, with the fame of her beauty went the strange, romantic tale of her early life, and restoration to her father in Somersetshire. The betrothal of the Lady Alice to her noble cousin, Sir Clarence Wyllde, soon also became public. Few were aware, however, that Clarence Wyllde's attachment to the fair Alice commenced in days when she was known only as Bessy Thorne, the poacher's daughter.

And what of Ralph Wilson? In his malignant hatred, he cursed his betrayal of Richard Thorne, as, through it, Sir Hugh Wyllde discovered his daughter, and elevated her at once to her rightful 'Tis a wise ordinance of Providence that rank. the machinations of the wicked often recoil upon themselves, or else serve, in a way least expected, to benefit and bless those they wish to injure.

EROS.

BY SARAH ANDERTON.

I SOUGHT the first link of that golden chain
God lowers through his creatures, till the end
Dips, wavers, sways uncertain in the Human.
I sought to find the extremest point of rays
Which, passing through the angels in swift fire,
Reach us alone in faint and waning strengths:
I sought thine evidence,-Eternity!

To grasp the electric wire that carries down
Those deep vibrations from the core of Life,
Which, feeling, we lose dread of death, and know
Ourselves the blood that wanders from God's
heart.

Straightway before me a strange figure stood,
Heaped over with disguises: on its brow
A crown imperial, glittering like a belt
Of starry systems, and above the crown
The cap of Folly, noisy with its bells:

A massive wreath drooped heavy from the neck,
Made of all flowers, with warm and blinding
hues,

And dizzying aroma.

More than half

The form concealing, a black mantle hung;
But through its rents that form's white texture
shone,

Like moonlight through a ruin; and the folds
Could not bind down two silver-plumèd wings

That jutted from the shoulders, broad and bright.
About the ankles and the wrists were chains,
And, twisted o'er them, little blossom-bands
Of valley lilies and forget-me-nots.

A poniard, fastened in the zone, dripped down
Fresh crimson blood, staining the dove-like flow-

crown

From the

Of kingship, to the fetters of the slave,
I wear all badges. But in vain these limbs,
That shame the shining Asphodel of Heaven,
He covers with his weakness and his sin;
He cannot mar or change me: I retain
My primal beauty, he can only hide!
And when God speaks unto his waiting Angel
All this disguise will leave me, like a cloud,
Through which, an upward flame, I spring to
Him.

The pearl thou seekest in my heart He drops,
As in a jasper cup: within Love's breast
The germ of man's eternity is closed!"

THE GRAY LADY.

FROM THE GERMAN OF AUGUST SCHRADER.

BY FLORENCE ARDEN.

(Concluded from page 231.)