ance, and await his coming. He would drive over to the next station-ten miles-and take the train there.

Her answer was irrelevant, "What a pity you will have to drive so far this warm morning."

"Never mind the drive," said her uncle; "what is it?" "Nothing," she replied. "I am very foolish, I suppose. Uncle Edward," she added, impetuously, "you do not know how hard it is to have your best friend leaving you for so long; no one to care whether you live or die. I saw it all up at the house there, and it choked me-always alone, alone, alone, and-and-"

"Here you are," he subjoined. His voice was husky and forced; the firm, set lip and dilated nostril showed a struggle was taking place; but its continuance was of short duration. It passed, and with all the tenderness of a brother he soothed Margaret's perturbed mood. Half an hour later, and they arrived at the station, where John was waiting; and the thoughtful composure of her manner augured well for the continuance of a more self-reliant state of mind.

It was evening of the same day of Mr. Campbell's departure. The moon shone brightly, and in its white light, thrown far across the old-fashioned hall of their house, Margaret was quietly pacing to and fro. The unusual events of that day formed an epoch in her life, and by their influence a style and degree of thought was awakened to which she had before been a stranger. However slight the touch of fate that arouses girlhood from its dreams, it is irrevocable; the woman-spirit enters those heart chambers, nevermore to be banished. Existence has a new meaning, and although the tints in her picture of the future are laid on in colors unnaturally bright, the most experienced may well hesitate to anticipate the labor of time, and tone down its brilliancy.

A murmuring sound of conversation, proceeding from a room at the extremity of the hall, began to invade the quietude of the place, and its increasing loudness at length attracted Margaret's attention. The voices were those of Miss Campbell and John. Her own. name vigerously pronounced by one, and the earnest, deprecating reply of the other, fixed her to the spot. A nameless misgiving crept to her heart. What did this mean? Why did a strange timidity seem to tie her hand and foot? The conversation within, now fast warming into loud discussion, related to her. She would be brave, and solve the perplexing mystery. With a determined step she approached the door, and threw it wide open. The silence was instantaneous. John was aghast. Miss Campbell made for the opposite door, muttering, "Listeners never hear any good of themselves;" but Margaret quickly intercepted her.

"Aunt," said she, "what can I hear ill? What do you mean?"

thing on earth for Margaret, but betray his master's secret.

Excited beyond measure by painful curiosity, and fearing the result of his cogitations, Margaret broke forth in passionate exclamation, "Tell me, tell me, John, It is cruel, wicked to torture me so. You always said you were my friend-do, do tell me!"

Completely softened by this appeal, he determined to make a clean breast of it. "Tisn't nothing to make such a fuss about," said he ; "only ye see ye didn't have any father, after all--that's the way it was-nor no mother either, for that matter."

This startling assertion, sifted to its grain of truth, resulted to Margaret in the knowledge that, instead of being the child of Hugh Campbell, sent from the West Indies after the death of its mother, and rescued from shipwreck by John, then a lusty sailor, Hugh's infant was a boy, and she the child of some hapless passenger unknown. Before the mistake was discovered, the little waif had so endeared herself to the kind mother of the Campbells, that no thought of parting was ever entertained. After the death of Mr. Hugh Campbell, her precious elder son, the child, from accidental association with his memory, became dearer every day, and no one ever remembered that there were no ties of consanguinity between the pretty child and the happy family that lived in the old House on the Hill.

Mrs. Campbell's death and the advent of a daughter of old Mr. Campbell by a former marriage as housekeeper, broke the spell rudely to the senses of Mr. Edward Campbell, and all his care had not shielded the young girl from learning the fact in the harshest manner possible. To an inexperienced girl this isolated position was almost fearful.

Miss Campbell's opposition to Margaret arose, not so much from personal aversion, as from an avaricious longing for a share in the property of her half-brother, which she saw was in a fair way to be appropriated to the young maiden who supposed him her father. A revelation some day to the unconscious Margaret had been the tacit understanding of the family.

One day, Miss Campbell, provoked at her brother's protracted silence and indifference, on hearing him allude to business matters, skilfully touched the only vulnerable point in his armor of proof.

"For my part, Edward," said she, "I think it is hardly respectable for you to keep a young woman grown in such ignorance of who she is. Why, she couldn't treat you more familiarly if you were her own father."

"Am I doing her injustice, think you?" he asked, his whole manner changing.

"Well, now, you needn't fire up so," said Miss Campbell. "The girl's well enough off. I dare say she'd behave herself

A contemptuous curl of the lip showed that her brother fully understood her, yet he promised to suffer no long time to elapse before Margaret should be acquainted with the particulars of her history.

On the morning when this story opens, Miss Campbell had vainly endeavored to compel Edward to fulfil his promise before taking the projected trip, and not half satisfied with his stern and peremptory refusal, she meant to indemnify herself, now he was gone, by opposing various orders which he had given to their old servant, relative to Margaret's comfort, since they spoke too plainly, according to her interpretation, the hold she had upon Edward's affections. Margaret, overhearing part of this conversation, a disclosure was of course inevitable.

Old John, misled by Margaret's composure, and glad to avenge himself on Miss Campbell, amplified his statement by many disclosures of Edward's firmness and her opposition, thereby sadly aggravating the wound already made.

"Thank you, John-you have done quite right to let me know all," said Margaret. "Mr. Campbell will thank you himself when he returns," she added, after John had finished his narration. And, almost overcome by suppressed emotion, she hurried away to her own room.

tree, but the fair girl who gave him his morning meal must pass many weary days before she could stand there again with so light a heart.

The morning sunbeams crept in at her window the next day, the morning hours grew late, the old housedog, with the gentlest vibration of his drooping tail, stood wistfully looking up the staircase, but no merry Meg appeared. The house had a portentous silence about it. Miss Campbell guessed the truth, but was too proud or too frightened to ask a word. John would have been inconsolable had not this slip of paper found its way to his hand:

"GOOD-BYE, DEAR JOHN-You have done your duty, now I shall perform mine. Do not be troubled because I am gone; one of these days you will see me again. Gratefully yours, "MARGAERT."

As it was John sat all day in his old-fashioned pantry with his face buried in his hands.

The leaves of summer had faded, the bright tints of autumn' grown brown and sere, winter had come and gone, and it was early in the month of March. A furious snowstorm had been all day driving its white masses in blinding sheets hither and thither. The roads were effaced, and the whole landscape succumbed without a protest to the victor. The day had declined, and not a single hoofmark sullied the purity of the ample drive that led to the door of the House on the Hill. The broad front was dark and inhospitable, not a light twinkled at its windows as a beacon to belated travellers or an earnest of welcome to the returning wanderer.

Presently a carriage, drawn by a pair of strong horses, plunging breast-high through the drifts, turned into the drive, drew up before the door, and Edward Campbell sprang from the vehicle. Making the house resound to the raps he plied with the huge brass knocker, he dismissed the driver with a douceur that warmed him all the way to the village. It was long before the door was opened, and then cautiously, by a strange housemaid.

"How dark you are. Where are they all? Did you not expect me?" were the rapid inquiries that followed one another as Mr. Campbell hurried to the parlor, the servant following and beginning a reply to each without finishing any. But no one was there to greet the traveller. The room was dark and the fire burned low-the atmosphere of home was more chilling than that without. He paused.

"Where is Miss Margaret?" he asked.

"Miss Margaret! Why, she hasn't come back, sir." "Come back?" said he. "From where! Where has she gone?"

The old servant told him all. An indignant flush overspread his features as he listened to the recital. He had no words to express the useless anger that agitated him. But where was she now? How could he communicate with her? Where was the light of his home from whom he had looked for so warm a welcome? she who made the life of the spacious old homestead? How changed and cold now! With these anxious recollections occupying him he did not notice John's movements.

A slight rap was made on the door, and, on opening it, John started in amazement; but, being checked by an uplifted finger, he admitted the visitor, and silently resumed his seat. A movement or whisper in the room finally aroused Mr. Campgirlish figure, habited in bonnet and shawl, seated by the door, bell, and listlessly he turned his head to discover the cause. A

met his eye.

With one bound he sprang towards her, and caught her in his arms, with an embrace he had never before ventured to give. Love-passion, deep, ardent, was in his eyes; it would not be suppressed, and he covered her with kisses.

'Why, uncle Edward, I did not think you would be so glad to see me. But I determined you should find me here when you came, and I have watched for you so long," she added, piteously.

"Poor child!" he murmured, stroking her brown hair and soft cheeks rosy with the frosty air.

The "uncle Edward" sobered him; he had forgotten himself. But he felt it was a moment to live for, thus to have her all his own, even for an instant. She was now seated quietly by his side, her hand in his, question and answer following each other rapidly, until all was explained that Margaret could tell ; and Edward, too, content in hearing her voice, thought no more of past or future. At length Margaret started from her seat.

"It is getting very late," she said. "Ishonld have gone home before this."

"Gone home! you will remain here, of course," said Mr. Campbell.

"I cannot, dear uncle," she replied.

Pshaw, it is absurd for you to go out again in this storm! I only wonder how you ever got here," he urged, a gloomy frown crossing his brow.

Margaret only smiled sadly, but went on fastening her shawl without any hesitation.

"If you will go," he said, coldly, seeing her persist, "I will have the horse put to, and take you."

"Pray, do no such thing, dear uncle; John will do just as well, and you are so tired."

He paid no attention to her opposition, and they set out. Little was said by either during the drive of three or four miles.

It was useless to question the servant. A chill struck to his heart-his misgivings, then, were ominous; this was the reason he had failed to receive any, save a formal epistle from old John, who mentioned nothing, and he had attributed it all to their being missent or some other casualty. Where were his own letters? A light which the servant brought in at this moment disclosed on the table some half-dozen of those addressed to Margaret unopened. There was nothing for it but to wait an explanation-patiently, if he could-for John had gone to the village, and Miss Campbell was prudently absent on a visit. An hour passed, and still John had not returned, while Mr. Campbell anxiously paced the floor, marking every sound. At length the door opened, and soon a heavy tramp approached the room. Edward started to the door, and the two, master and man, met with that honest grip of the hand which stamps true friends, whatever the disparity of station.

John needed no question; but pointing at once to the letters, he said, "I knew, master, it was no use telling you. It would only hinder you so much longer. I was pretty sure she was doing well somewhere." And fumbling in an inner pocket of his ample jacket, he drew forth several soiled bits of paper, on which was traced in hardly legible characters, from being so much worn-"I am well, John."

Mr. Campbell took the slips of paper almost tenderly, and after regarding them awhile, asked, "How did it happen,

John?"

perceive that though affectionate and frank as ever, there was a sensitive shyness in Margaret's manner; and with pain he was forced to acknowledge that the breach once made of her leaving his house, every succeeding event must necessarily widen it. When they arrived at the very humble dwelling of nurse Brown, he was more than ever struck by Margaret's firmness in making such a place a preferable home to the one she had fled from. It would have been a struggle to leave her even now, but he felt it was only for a time. With rather a moody 'good-night" in answer to her cheerful one, they separated. But her spirits were partly assumed; Margaret had expected to feel very happy on Edward Campbell's return.

She had lived on the thought through a dreary winter, making nurse Brown inquire so carefully for the exact moment. But now it had come, and passed, and there was a feeling of unrest, almost disappointment. Long after midnight she sat watching the dying embers, feeling helpless and lonely. The wind whistled drearily around the unsheltered cottage; the cold grew intense, and forced her to seek her little chamber. So little do we know of our coming fate, though it hovers upon the very threshold.

The next day Mr. Campbell was early on his way to the cottage. Had Margaret been the poor friendless girl she thought herself, his course would be too temptingly clear to be resisted; though it might be taking advantage of her youth and inexperience, he would plead his great love, urge her to come to him, and, folding her to his true heart, take the dove back to

the nest that was so lonely without her.

himself that utterly crushed thoughts like these. An integrity severe almost to sternness ruled his life, and, laying an iron hand upon the softness of his nature, he took his course calmly, and met Margaret as a brother might.

In breathless amazed silence Margaret listened to the details which Mr. Campbell gave her. Her parentage was discovered. Don Jose de Zoro and his wife had perished in that wreck from which she and John alone were saved. The estate to which she became heiress was very handsome, and, on the death of an aged grandmother, it would be greatly augmented. He did not speak of the accidental circumstances that had given him a clue to these facts; of the neglect of his own business, and of the toil, perplexity and litigation that he had surmounted to put her in possession of her rights; he simply stated the facts, and told her smilingly she must submit to his dictatorship for two years, as he had constituted himself her guardian, in default of a better, until she was of age. Henceforth, Margaret Campbell was the Donna Marguerita de Zoro.

Calm prosperity gives little food for the narrator-and Marparet prospered. To her glowing southern nature she gave free play. Taking a pretty villa in the village, about a mile from her old home, she constituted nurse Brown her housekeeper, filled it with every luxury, and was as happy as a queen. Men soon discovered a beauty they did not dream existed in that quiet village, and women a grace and manner they declared inimitable. Always near, but like a statue on which this beauty and display had no effect, was Edward Campbell.

He

Throughout two quickly lapsing years he had guarded and watched over Margaret, but now he was about to relinquish her affairs into the hands of a trusty man of business, and become himself free. And it was quite time. His face, always refined and intellectual, had of late become like chiselled marble. had overrated his strength; the task he set himself was the severest a man can undertake. No one thought, as on entering those brilliantly lighted rooms, in which Margaret was seen, radiant and surrounded with admirers, that the dignified man whom she would always compel to her side marked every look and tone with a jealous anguish that was eating away life.

One evening in June, the sun just resting in gold and purple on the horizon, Mr. Campbell rode up to Margaret's gate, and was about dismounting.

"My young lady is out riding with the Vernons," said the gardener, respectfully touching his hat.

"When she returns, Jones, give her this," said Mr. Campbell, scrawling a few words upon his card, and rode away.

Merry voices soon announced the arrival of the lady, and with bows and smiles Margaret bade her laughing friends good-bye.

"Walk the pony about," she said to the groom. "I shall go out again when Mr. Campbell comes."

"If you please, ma'am, he has just been here, and left something for you," said Jones.

"How provoking!" And Margaret rushed into the house to procure the missive.

"P. P. C.! What does the man mean?" she whispered. "Pour prendre congé !-called to take leave!" Turning the card the following met her eye: "I wanted to have seen you, Maggie. I have decided to go abroad since we talked of it. Perhaps I shall call in the morning, if not too busy getting off."

"Perhaps !" she exclaimed, passionately, her eyes flashing under the plume of her riding-hat. "Perhaps indeed!" And gathering up her dress, she caught her gloves, which had dropped on the floor, and in a moment was again mounted. "Jones, which road did Mr. Campbell take?" she asked, hurriedly, and, waving back the groom, she dashed off the way he pointed.

Mr. Campbell had chosen the least frequented road, and was riding slowly and thoughtfully along, when his reverie was disturbed by the noise of rapid hoofs approaching; an instant, and Margaret drew rein at his side.

"You have given me such a ride!" she explained, panting. "I should think so," said Edward. "How warm you look -you must not do that again-you'll kill yourself."

"Not I," said Margaret; "but see that you do not do the like

"You cannot be surprised, Margaret," he replied; "we have talked of this so long, and now, with Mr. Moffat's assistance, you will get on very well without me." "Mr. Moffat!" she said. "What has he to do with it? I do not want you to go."

"My darling," he said, looking kindly at her, "I think it is best for me to do so."

"Why, you ought to be content here. I do not think there is any need of your going," she urged.

"You are wilful, my pet," said Mr. Campbell.

With me!" he bitterly ejaculated, breaking through the calm restraint be had imposed on himself. Yes, as my wife, my life, my soul, no other way, and I am not yet mad enough to dream of that."

"Neither am I mad," said Margaret ; "and yet I dream." "Margaret!" he whispered.

"Yes. And you are very cruel to make me offer myself," she said, brushing a tear from her downcast eye.

an unusual proportion of oxygen, destined for the respiration of the future chicken.

SIPHONIA ELASTIC.

THE Siphonia Elastic is a native of Brazil and Guinea, and is one of the most fruitful of the gum tree class. From its juice is manufactured a variety of articles, all, more or less, of great utility.

INSIDE AN EGGSHELL.

ORDER prevails so wonderfully and so beautifully in all Nature's works, that it appears to us marvellous, indeed, that persons can be found who can doubt that the hand who made them is Divine. Indeed, the whole scheme of Nature is so well adapted to the physical wants of both man and animal, supplying them with that which is necessary for their comfort in all the different regions of the earth, that it would be impossible for mere chance to have produced a scheme so perfect. It is not, however, to convince the sceptical that we write, but to call the attention of the unthinking to a few of Nature's most wonderful works; which, so far from their being out of the reach of ordinary persons, are to be seen chiefly in connection with those things which are most familiar to us.

As our knowledge becomes extended, we see more fully how completely and accurately everything in Nature works, and each step we advance on the road shows us how intimately all things are connected one with the other, so that the necessity of all that happens becomes more and more evident, and we see more clearly the wisdom of each contrivance.

Among the more curious studies which present themselves to the observant mind, is that of the production of a chicken from an egg. If we think but for a moment, we cannot fail to see that it is one of the most wonderful in nature. We all know that by the process of incubation—that is, by the application of heat, aided by the influence of atmospheric air-we obtain from the interior of the shell a chicken, which, though when first hatched is only partially developed, is yet sufficiently so to produce the fully developed fowl. It follows, therefore, that the egg must contain all the material for the production of the various parts of the chicken-not only the flesh and blood, but the feathers, claws, bones, nerves, cells and membranes, and, what is more wonderful, the vital principle, which gives life and motion to the whole.

Let us proceed, then, to ascertain the contents and describe the anatomy of an egg, prior to the commencement of incubation. On breaking the shell, the first thing that presents itself to our view is a colorless liquid, which we call the white of an egg, but which is called by chemists albumen; the yolk consists of more of the same substance mixed up with about thirty per cent. of oil or yellow fatty matter. It therefore appears that albumen forms the principal contents of an egg. The shell is a calcareous or chalky substance, formed by particles of chalk being deposited in small spaces which intervene between a sort of network of fibres which extends over the whole of the shell; an arrangement that gives the necessary protection without cutting off the contents of the shell from that communica

tion with the air which is necessary for the development of the embryo chicken. Immediately beneath the shell is a sort of skin or membrane, which, if carefully examined, will be found to consist of two layers; and at the larger end of the egg these separate, leaving a space which is filled with air, containing

whitish speck, which is supposed to be the germinating point or first rudiments of the future chicken; and this, by a similar arrangement, always rises to the highest point, and therefore in the most favorable position for receiving the heat necessary for carrying on the vital process.

Remembering that albumen forms eight-tenths of the contents of an egg, while the oil or fatty matter does not exceed one-tenth, it will be obvious that albumen is the starting point of the whole series of tissues that constitute the organs which are the seat of vital action in the chicken. Albumen, therefore, seems to be a very extraordinary substance, and its importance, both to man and animal, cannot be well overestimated, seeing that it holds the first place in the formation of their young; and, consequently, we find their blood contains it in large quantities. Indeed, everywhere throughout organised nature we find the phenomenon of life depending on its presence in the blood or other fluids; and we may further say, that only those substances which contain it form nutritious articles of food.

One important property which albumen possesses is that of dissolving bone-earth, and, by means of the blood, conveying it to all parts of the system; and we may also mention, by the way, that it has another very valuable quality, that of neutralising the effects of one of our most violent poisons, corrosive sublimate." This property of dissolving bone-earth is another beautiful contrivance of nature for the distribution of the earthy matter necessary for the formation of the bones. Without some such scheme, the bones would not enlarge at the same rate as the body, and it would be impossible for the human frame to sustain the increased bulk of flesh.

Thus far, we have ascertained that, as an alimentary substance, the contents of an egg is not only highly nutritious, but also that albumen, its principal contents, is necessary for the full development of the animal world.

Albumen, however, is not an elementary substance; let us see, then, by chemical analysis, what are the contents of an egg. It will be impossible to give the relative proportions of the different constituents of an egg with more than a moderate degree of accuracy, because there are so many remarkable instances of variation in the chemical properties of different eggs, that, were we to attempt it, we should only mislead our readers. But we shall be near the average, if we say it is usually about fifty-five parts of carbon, or, as it is more familiarly understood, charcoal; twenty-two of a mixture of oxygen, phosphorus and sulphur; sixteen of nitrogen and seven of hydrogen. The shell is composed of carbonate of lime and magnesia, with about two per cent. of animal matter; or thus-two per cent. of animal matter, one of phosphate, the remainder being carbonate of lime or hard chalk, with a slight trace of carbonate of magnesia.

Our knowledge does not as yet enable us to trace the use of all these substances in the formation of a chicken; but we may say that the phosphorus yields phosphoric acid to aid in forming the bones, but of the earthy matter necessary for their complete development we find no trace; and, therefore, we imagine the shell to be the source from whence it is obtained, though there does not appear to be any communication between it and the vessels of the chicken.

The first indication of the permanent fabric of the chicken, and which is observable on the second day of incubation, is called the "primitive trace," which is, in fact, the foundation of the vertebral column or backbone. In the first instance, it is very minute, being a mere streak or furrow; but in time it

In all cases in which thi po 30a is supposed to have been taken, the whites of one or two eggs in their raw stata should be alministerel immediately.