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Gordon," for the smile and glance were both meant for Fitzmorris; and, if I mistake not, they have met before. Aye, Fitz, where got you that sentimental looking rose? come, come, confess! confess!"

"From a lady, certainly," said Reginald Burley, looking attentively at the flower," for it is an artificial blossom-was it stolen from a lady's girdle or from her hair?

But Fitzmorris heeded them not,-his thoughts were with the beautiful unknown, and he saw only her slight figure in all he looked on; he heard only her low soft voice in every sound that fell upon his ear.

What avails it to procrastinate? Fitzmorris soon gained an interest in the young and unsuspicious heart of Donna Reta de ——, and he learnt her history from her own lips on a fine clear evening in the commencement of February. She had given to him from the balcony a small key, tied with a bow of white ribbon ; this key opened a door in the high wall, which stretched along on one side of the house; and beyond the garden which it enclosed-a cold, blank, formal, terracelike space was a beautiful orange grove. Unlike the February of our own ungenial climate, Lisbon was even then rich in orange blossoms, and gay with the first spring flowers, Fitzmorris would have selected just such a spot for his first meeting with the dark-eyed beauty, but thus chosen by herself, how doubly rich was the clear calm foliage of the trees, how doubly redolent were the flowers with perfume! He awaited not long the coming of his gentle mistress; her step was hurried, and her breathing quick and agitated—a long veil was cast over her head, and fell gracefully on her shoulders, and her figure was enveloped in a mantle of sable velvet. Fitzmorris looked on her, silent from excess of feeling, as she approached him in the clear cold light of a spring moon-there was something almost unearthly in her dark figure gliding noiselessly along, in striking relief against the cloudless sky, and the silver-topped trees quivering in the light.

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Englishman," she said in a low tone, as she extended her hand, " you know not what I dare in thus meeting you-I scarcely know myself-but from you I fear nothing." Fitzmorris could have listened to her for ever-surely so sweet a voice had never fallen upon his ear before! and she stood beside him, with her small white hand resting upon his arm, and her dark eyes, full of the assurance which her tongue had breathed, and the low, soft, Italian-that language which his mother loved!-all gave such a nameless charm to her beauty; sufficient, more than sufficient, of itself, that he was silent. "You wish to know my history, Englishman; it is enough that you do so, to ensure the recital-listen to me then ;-Father or mother know I not; from my childhood I have been told to give these sacred names to those with whom I pass my life, but my heart coldly cast back their claim-I knew, I felt, that I was not their child. There is a son, too! heavens-that I should give a brother's right to such a wretch! Never-though I were cast on the world, an alien from every house and from every heart!

Yet am

I his debtor, there were times when methought he lauded my beauty with somewhat more than a brother's praise; young as I am, I dared to tell him this, and he replied I will disguise nothing from you; stranger as you would appear in the cold eyes of an ill-judging world, young Englishman, I look upon you otherwise;

the heart does not mete out its friendship or its affections by giving dates; at least mine does not. Francisco answered me in as high a tone, he was not my brother.' I bounded as it seemed from the ground I stood on with delight; it was enough-the cold, harsh, ungenial spirits with whom I dwelt, were bound to me by no ties of kindred or affection; but who then was I? it is to tell you this I have met you here-to bid you a long, a final farewell I know your nation; that is, I know it by books; child as I am in years, I have lived on with so little to engage my thoughts or affections, that I have looked for objects of excitement and of love among the great and the good of other countries; I have learnt that the men of your's are cold, haughty, and jealous of their honour: I have valued them for these very qualities; perhaps also I had another and a deeper cause-women may smile with the gay, and laugh out with the light hearted, but they love only those who are devoted to themselves, and it may be also in proportion as difficult to fix a woman, in her first dream of affection, ever pictures to herself that she is to be an idol; there are some who have a niche for every form which attracts a passing plaudit, but those whom the world calls cold, are wary ere they yield up the one hidden shrine, destined for the object of their unchangeable affections: but I delay my story-I am reluctant to wrench asunder the inexplicable link which seems to unite us, but I am resolved: how often as you have stood beneath my balcony, have I essayed to tell you all, and could not-shall I be forgiven? Surely it is difficult to deprive yourself of the only joy which life has ever afforded to your acceptance; the full deep joy of answering and of corresponding feelings, yet I will do it for I owe it to you, and to myself—Francisco told me all; father or mother I shall never know

never to save a father's pride and a mother's fame." -She paused, and a low convulsive sob met the ear of her auditor; he did not speak, but he folded his arms around her, and her head sunk heavily on his shoulder; the low breeze swept monotonously and languidly through the orange trees, and the clear cold moon shed its light full on the face of the beautiful Portuguese; a large tear fell on her cheek, and Fitzmorris wiped it away in silence- his heart scarcely beat-his senses were stunned-a fatal question faultered on his tongue, and he could not ask it. Suddenly the hour chimed from the steeple of a neighbouring church, and Donna Reta started in dismay,-" So soon-but it is better so," and she turned hurriedly to depart.

"Stay but one moment,' gasped out Fitzmorris, "but one-wherefore do you thus speak in a language foreign to the country in which you dwell?"

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Francisco says," replied the lady faintly, "that it was my mother's wish, because she loved it."

Fitzmorris clung trembling to a tree, as he grasped her arm to detain her, "Tell me that mother's name.' "Never: this only I must not, cannot grant, even to you,"

"Rash girl, you must-or, answer me—was it this ?” and his every feature was convulsed, as he breathed into her ear, in a shrill whisper, the name of his own.

"Let me go!" screamed the affrighted girl, as she lowered beneath his fixed and death-like gaze, but he held her fast; let me go-I say not aught--here, under heaven, I swear that her name shall never pass my lips; how or what knowest thou ?”

"It is enough," said Fitzmorris, in a hollow and bewildered accent, "I have guessed rightly-what had I to do with affection or with happiness?-what had I to do with thee?-was not the world wide enough, that we have thus jostled each other in the path of life?— from my boyhood I have been the sport of fate-the seal of misery was set on my brow, even at my birth, and years cannot wear out its impress ;-other men are born amid hopes, and smiles, and endearments,-I came into the world only to be greeted with tears, and coldness, and regret and now I must fulfil my destiny -yes, you have said well, we meet no more."

"Yet, yet," exclaimed the soul-broken girl, as the tears of bitterness coursed each other down her blanched cheek," though we part, it may surely be less sternly -look not on me as it were with loathing-I did not betray my mother-I know not whence you have learnt my secret."

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"Hearken, and I will tell you, said Fitzmorris, in the same cold and passionless tone, while his lips quivered, and his eyes were dilated by emotion; close, while I whisper to you how I learnt it; aye, and more than it." She obeyed, and as he ceased speaking, she fell senseless in his arms. Fitzmorris hung over her in agony; the momentary excitement of blended horror and hopelessness failed beneath affection-"Reta," he breathed out painfully, my first, my only -ha! my brain burns speak to me, my- -Sister!-but one word-but one-but no, no, it is better thusbetter-let the anguish of our parting be all my ownsurely I can bear this; I who have been tutored in suffering for years." For a moment he sunk on his knee, and remained gazing fixedly on the senseless form he upheld for a moment he pressed his lips to her brow, and to her cheek, and then with a convulsive effort he bore her to the terrace near the house, and beat forcibly on the door; in the next instant, drawing his cap deeper on his brow, he sprang through the gate by which he had entered the garden, and disappeared.

In a short time orders were received for the British troops to move up the country, and Fitzmorris went with his regiment.

THE SEA.

O DEEP, unfathomable sea!

Thou seem'st to me a grave
Meet for immortal souls;

Boundless, mysterious, undefined sensations
Rush on the stricken heart,

Beneath the terrors of thy frown;
Anon the scene is changed,
And, brightly beautiful,

Thy gently-heaving bosom swells to meet
The west wind's balmy kisses.
Oh, solemn, gloomy sea!

Oh, smiling, placid sea!

Within thy breast my home shall be!

THE OFFICER'S WIDOW.

SOME years ago a lady, whose superior manners excited, on her first arrival, a sort of nine-days' wonder amongst the gossips of the neighbourhood, occupied apartments in-street, Brompton. Her countenance was interesting rather than handsome,-her easy car

riage evidently marked the lady, and her behaviour, though rather reserved, was polite, but exhibited that proneness to touchiness often observable in persons of decayed fortune, who, in their intercourse, with the world, seem continually recurring to the past, whilst others. think but of the present.

In her case there was nothing either singular or romantic. She was the widow of an officer whose love of pleasure had dissipated his fortune, leaving her, at his death, without any other support than the pension allowed by government, which, however liberal it may be, when compared with the resources of the country and the number to whom it is extended, is still barely enough to procure the absolute necessaries, much less the comforts of life.

The son,

Although she had married with the consent of her family, yet the extravagance of her husband soon excited their disapprobation, and during his life, a coldness existed between them. At his death, however, they felt it necessary "to do something." who had been designed for the artillery, was placed with an engineer: and as their pride would not suffer her to degrade her family, by endeavouring to maintain herself, they made a trifling addition to her pension: a selfish bounty, which tacitly compelled her to appear like a lady, without giving her the means of doing so; and her life was a daily sacrifice of comfort to showor, to sum up her miseries at once, she was a poor gen

tle-woman.

Amidst all her troubles, she however had some consolation, and looked forward to the time when her son's clerkship should expire, and he would be able to reside at home. She might also have other hopes, and expect through his means, to escape from her present dependent situation. But her hopes, whatever they were, were doomed to be frustarted. For some months before the time she had expected so anxiously, Edwardhad been unwell with a severe cold, which ere long settled on his lungs. His mother had often wished him to have advice, or whenever she saw him his cough rendered her uneasy; but he postponed it from time to time in expectation of getting better. Those who have to keep up appearances on a limited income, and eke out their scanty pittance to support a character above their means, will readily believe that his apparent neglect was in reality economy. It was, however, a mistaken thrift,. He was compelled, partly from weakness, and partly in search of a purer air, to decline a lucrative situation offered him by his master, and go to his mother's. The change of scene had a temporary effect; but when its novelty had subsided, his disorder revived with increased power: and though his illness had not reached that point when even friends despair, yet a glance at his countenance was sufficient to convince a medical eye, that his recovery was almost hopeless. He nevertheless continued to take exercise when the weather permitted, (for the latter part of the spring was very unsettled); and at the commencement of summer again experienced, for a short time, a cheerfulness of spirits, which he mistook for a renovation of health. But as the heat increased, his debility returned; and before the beginning of autumn, he became so weak as to be rarely able to leave the house, and grew peevish in proportion to the progress of his disorder. To detail this minutely would be tedious. Like all comsumptive patients, he kept gradually declining,

His

whilst the flattering nature of his complaint prevented him from suspecting his danger. It became his chief amusement to get his broken-hearted mother to sit by him, and listen to the plans he had formed for the re-establishment of his health, by a trip into the country, when he was able to support the journey, and the course of life he intended to pursue on his recovery; a circumstance which seemed barely possible even to a mother's hopes, and utterly visionary to a stranger, weakness daily continued to increase, and in a few weeks he was confined to his bed, whilst it was clear his dissolution was fast approaching. The decay of body had moreover a corresponding effect upon his mind. He would inquire about circumstances which had never taken place, and be angry when contradicted or not understood. He also became capricious, and, if the term can be applied to a person in his situation, unreasonable, requiring the constant attendance of his mother, and never permitting her to be absent a moment, without angrily commanding her return. In the earlier stages of his complaint, he had been considerate; but now he daily expressed a wish for delicacies, which it seemed cruelty to deny, and useless to procure; for when they were gotten they were rarely touched. The expenses, too, of illness had greatly diminished her little fund, and she found that money would soon be required for absolute necessaries. Indeed, for some time past she had been wavering between her dread of approaching want, and her dislike of applying to her relations; but having written them an account of Edward's illness, she was in daily hopes of receiving an unasked-for-supply. Some, however, took no notice of her letters; and those who occasionally visited her in consequence of them, were precisely the persons who were unable to afford her any material assistance. At last, an occurrence, trifling in itself, confirmed her resolution, of making a direct application.

She was one day sitting by Edward's bedside, when he suddenly asked for some strawberries.

I have none, my dear," replied his mother, "for they are out of season."

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"Then give me some grapes.' "I have not any either, my love." "Well, then," said he,

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give me whatever you

have." The knowledge that she had nothing he would touch, rendered her unwilling, if not unable, to answer, and she remained silent.

He

"What, have you nothing to give me, mother?" he exclaimed, after waiting a few minutes in expectation of her reply; and throwing himself back on his pillow, covered his face with his hands, and turned from her; but she could perceive by his half-suppressed sobs, that he was weeping. As this can be told, it seems nothing; but his mother experienced a sickness of the heart, which no misfortunes of her own could have produced. That evening she wrote to one of her brothers. was busily engaged with the affairs of a charity, of which he was a governor, and her letter remained unnoticed for nearly a week, when an answer arrived, enclosing a remittance. It came too late to be of service to her feelings; she had struggled five days with fatigue, suspense, and despair, during which time she had seen her son, if I may so express myself, gradually exhale. He now took nothing but a little drink, and a few days, or even hours, seemed likely to be his last.

The morrow was one of those beautiful days, which sometimes in the middle of autumn gladden the declining year. The bed-room of Edward commanded

a view of some fields, whose verdure was yet bright, and looked brighter in the light of an unclouded sun. A few solitary individuals, apparently attracted by the fineness of the afternoon, were strolling about them. Several groups of children were in various parts of them engaged at play, and their bursts of merriment, softened by distance, came upon the ear with that peculiar melody which Goldsmith has noticed. A few cattle were basking in the sunshine, and the very dogs seemed enlivened by the spirit-cheering influence of this "latter spring.' Mrs. E--had walked to the window to exchange the faint and sickly atmosphere of her apartments for the freshness of the open air, when her attention was suddenly attracted by hearing her son draw his breath rather harder than usual; and turning her head, she perceived his countenance distorted by a series of slight convulsions. Although dreadfully shocked she rallied her spirits and rushed to the bed. As she bent over the body and endeavoured to raise it, she felt his breath for a moment upon her cheek: a convulsion rather stronger than she had yet seen, accompanied the expiration, and immediately afterwards his countenance settled into the rigid placidity of death.

It was some minutes before his mother could believe he had expired; and she continued unconsciously to press her lips upon his, until the falling jaw and glazing eye convinced her that all was over, and she sunk upon the bed in a state of stupefaction. Even the entrance of the girl who waited on her did not arouse her, nor was it until she heard her loss confirmed by the scream of her servant, that she awoke to consciousness, and burst into tears, which, indeed, restored her to herself, but only to enable her to feel her misery.

The

The

The night of her son's death was the first time, for several weeks, that Mrs. E-had attempted to take any regular repose, and she never rested worse, stimulus which had hitherto supported her was removed, and had left behind it a debility and nervous irritation, which almost amounted to insanity, Her sleep, if sleep it could be called, was broken and disturbed. early part of the night she passed in that horrible state between slumber and consciousness, which frequently accompanies fever, or follows intense excitement, and must be felt to be fully comprehended. All the adventures of her former life passed confusedly before her, accompanied with those physical impossibilities, that union of contradiction, and that strong sense of reality, which is only to be felt in dreams. She conferred with the changed-the dead:" she visited the scenes of her childhood, and then again underwent, with even aggravated horrors, the sufferings of the last few weeks. At length her misery became too powerful for slumber, and she awoke in a state of delirium during which she could not believe that her son was dead-the past appearing like a fearful dream, horrible, yet untrue. At last, nature could endure no more, and she sunk into that sound sleep which sometimes betokens a mind at ease, but as frequently absolute exhaustion, and awoke the next morning with fresh capabilities of suffering. Although her relations had neglected her whilst their assistance would have been kind, if not serviceable ; yet her loss was no sooner known than they overwhelmed her with offers of friendship. One took upon himself

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the trouble of the funeral, accompanied with a delicate hint, that he would defray the expense. Some made her an offer of anything their house contained; and others wished her to go home to theirs. To her, how

ever, the place that contained her son's relics was dearer than any other, and, declining the offers that were made her, she remained in the house until the day appointed for the funeral, in a state of mind not to be described.

It was on one of those lowering, cold, and misty mornings, which are so frequent in our climate, especially during the autumnal season, and when the dreariness of nature seems to harmonize with grief, that the quiet street in which Mrs. E-resided, was disturbed by the preparations for the funeral. Eight mourners had expressed their wish to follow him to the tomb; and the necessary arrangements for their accommodation created a considerable bustle within the house, whilst the cavalcade without had attracted all the idlers of the Upon the wretched moneighbourhood to the spot. ther, however, all internal and external noise was lost. She had sat the whole of the morning by the coffin in a state of abstraction; and even when the assistants entered to remove the body, she remained insensible of their presence. For some time they waited in silence; but at length a lady, who was with her, perceiving that they were unobserved, took her by the arm and gently endeavoured to remove her. The action seemed to recall her to herself; for, throwing a look of unutterable anguish upon the coffin, accompanied with several convulsive shudders, she endeavoured to leave the place; but after advancing a few paces her strength failed her, and she would have fallen had not one of the attendants caught her; and she was conveyed senseless from the room.

Advantage was taken of her situation to remove the body, and it was hoped she would not have regained her senses until the procession had left the house; but she recovered too quickly for herself, and gazing wildly around her, inquired. in a heart-broken voice, if they had taken him away. At that moment the trampling of the horses caught her ear, and before any one suspected her intention, she darted to a window which overlooked the road the funeral was to take, and remained gazing at the procession whilst it continued in sight, with a fixed intenseness of agony, more resembling that of a statue than a human being; and on losing sight of it by a turning in the road, she was seized with another fit, and again conveyed insensible to her chamber.

But I must hasten to a conclusion, Her relations, to do them justice, had acted rather from carelessness than humanity: and they now did all they could to repair her loss, but in vain. She yet lives, and, in point of worldly comforts, is in a far better situation than before; but the settled melancholy of her countenance and perpetual sadness of manners, show her to be one of those for whom life, in the words of the French moralist, " may have length of days, but can have no future,"

MUTABILITY.

I SAW two children intertwine
Their arms around each other,
Like the young tendrils of a vine
About its nearest brother;
And ever and anon,

As gaily they ran on.

They looked into each other's face,
Anticipating an embrace,

I saw those two when they were men-

I watched them meet one day;

They touch'd each other's hands, and thenEach went on his own way.

There did not seem a tie

Of love, a bond or chain,

To make them turn the lingering eye,

Or grasp the hand again.

This is a page in our life's book

We all of us turn over

The web is rent,

The hour-glass spent

And, oh! the path we once forsook,?
How seldom we recover!

Our days are broken into parts,
And every remnant has a tale
Of the abandonment of hearts,
Would make our freshest hopes grow pale;
And, when we talk of Friendship, mutter,
We know not what it is we utter.

I care not that our love may be
Deep as the everlasting sea-
But not the falling of a star,
The darting of a sun-born beam,
Compared with what our spirits are,
And what unto ourselves we seem,
Is tortured with a life so small,
So wretchedly ephemeral,

As these our phantom-like communious,
The fellow-souls' fraternal union.

THE BROWNIE OF THE BLACK HAGGS.

WHEN the Sprots were lairds of Wheelhope, which is now a long time ago, there was one of the ladies who was very badly spoken of in the country. People did not openly assert that Lady Wheelhope was a witch, but every one had an aversion even at hearing her named. In short, Lady Wheelhope was accounted a very bad woman. She was an inexorable tyrant in her family, quarelled with her servants, often cursing them, striking them, and turning them away; especially if they were religious, for these she could not endure, but Whenever she suspected them of every thing bad.

found out any of the servant men of the laird's establishment for religious characters, she soon gave them up to the military, and got them shot; and several girls that were regular in their devotions, she was supposed to have popped off with poison.

As for the laird, he was a big, dun-faced, pluffy body, that cared neither for good nor evil, and did not well know the one from the other. He laughed outright at his lady's tantrums and barley-hoods; and the greater the rage she got into, the laird thought it the better sport. One day, when two servant maids came running to him, in great agitation, and told him that his lady had felled one of their companions, the laird laughed heartily at them, and said he did not doubt it.

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Why, sir, how can you laugh?" said they, poor girl is killed.”

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Very likely, very likely," said the laird. Well, it will teach her to take care who she angers again." And, sir, your lady will be hanged."

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"Very likely; well, it will learn her how to strike so rashly again-Ha, ha, ha! Will it not Jessy ?'' But when this same Jessy died suddenly one morning, the laird was greatly confounded, and seemed dimly

to comprehend that that there had been unfair play going. There was little doubt she was taken off by poison but whether the lady did it through jealousy or not, was never divulged; but it greatly bamboozled and astonished the poor laird, for his nerves failed him, and his whole frame became paralytic.

This death made a great noise among the common people; but there was no protection for the life of the subject in those days.

After this, the lady walked softly for the space of two or three years. She saw that she had rendered herself odious, and had entirely lost her husband's countenance, which she liked worst of all. But the evil propensity could not be overcome; and a poor boy, whom the laird, out of sheer compassion, had taken into his service, being found dead one morning, the country people could no longer be restrained; so they went in a body to the Sheriff, and insisted on an investigation. It was proved that she detested the boy, and often threatened him, and had given him brose and butter the afternoon before he died; but the cause was ultimately dismissed, and the pursuers fined.

No one can tell to what height of wickedness she might now have proceeded, had not a check of a very singular kind been laid upon her. Among the servants that came home at the next term, was one who called himself Merodach; and a strange person he was. He had the form of a boy, but the features of one a hundred years old, save that his eyes had a brilliancy and restlessness, which was very extraordinary, bearing a strong resemblance to the eyes of a well-known species of monkey. He was froward and perverse in all his actions, and disregarded the pleasure or displeasure of any person; but he performed his work well, and with apparent ease. From the moment that he entered the house, the lady conceived a mortal antipathy against him, and besought the laird to turn him a way. But the laird, of himself, never turned away any body, and moreover he had hired him for a trivial wage, and the fellow neither wanted activity and perseverance. The natural consequenee of this arrangement was, that the lady instantly set herself about to make Merodach's life as bitter as it was possible, in order to get early quit of a domestic every way so disgusting. Her hatred of him was not like a common antipathy entertained by one human being against another-she hated him as one might a toad or an adder; and his occupation of jotteryman (as the laird termed his servant of all work), keeping him always about her hand, it must have proved highly disagreeable.

She scolded him, she raged at him, but he only mocked her wrath, and gigled and laughed at her, with the most provoking derision She tried to fell him again and again, but never, with all her address, could she hit him; and never did she make a blow at him, that she did not repent it. She was heavy and unweildy, and he as quick in his motions as a monkey; besides, he generally had her in such an uugovernable iage, that when she flew at him, she hardly knew what she was doing. At one time she guided her blows towards him, but he at the same instant avoided it with such dexterity, that she knocked down the chief hind, or foresman and then Merodach gigled so heartily, that, lifting the kitchen poker, she threw it at him with a full design of knocking out his brains; but the missile only broke every plate and ashet on the kitchendresser.

In a word, the Lady of Wheelhope's inveterate malignity against this one object, was like the rod of Moses, that swallowed up all the rest of the serpents. All her wicked and evil propensities seemed to be superseded by it, if not utterly absorbed in its virtues. The rest of the family now lived in comparative peace and quietness; for early and late her malevolence was venting itself against the jotteryman, and him alone. It was a delirium of hatred and vengeance, on which the whole bent and bias of her inclination was set. She could not stay from the creature's presence, for in the intervals when absent from him, she spent her breath in curses and execrations; and then, not able to rest, she ran again to seek him, her eyes gleaming with anticipated delights of vengeance, while, ever and anon, all the scaith, ridicule, and the harm, redounded on herself,

Was it not strange that she could not get quit of this sole annoyance of her life? One would have thought she easily might. But by this time there was nothing farther from her intention: she wanted vengeance, full, adequate, and delicious vengeance, on her audacious opponent. But he was a strange and terrible creature, and the means of retaliation came always, as it were, to his hand.

Bread and sweet milk was the only fare that Merodach cared for, and he having bargained for that, would not want it, though he often got it with a curse and with ill will. The Lady having intentionally kept back his wonted allowance for some days, on the Sabbath morning following, she set him down a bowl of rich sweet milk, well drugged with a deadly poison, and then she lingered in a litle ante-room to watch the success of her plot, and prevent any other creature from tasting of the poison. Merodach came in, and the housemaid says to him, "There is your breakfast, creature."

"Oho! my lady has been liberal this morning," said he; but I am beforehand with her. Here, little Missie, you seem very hungry to-day-take you my breakfast." And with that he set the beverage down to the lady's little spaniel. It so happened that the lady's only son came at that instant into the ante-room, seeking her, and teazing his mamma about something that took her attention from the hall table for a space. When she looked again, and saw Missie lapping up the sweet milk, she burst from her lobby like a dragon, screaming as if her head had been on fire, kicked the bowl and the remainder of its contents against the wall, and lifting Missie in her hosom. she retreated hastily, crying all the way.

"Ha, ha, ha—I have you now!" cried Merodach, as she vanished from the hall.

Poor Missie died immediately, and very privately! indeed, she would have died and been buried, and never one have seen her, save her mistress, had not Merodach, by a luck that never failed him, popped his nose over the flower-garden wall, just as his lady was laying her favourite in a grave of her own digging. She not perceiving her tormentor, plied on at her task, apostrophising the insensate little carcase-"Ah! poor dear little creature, thou hast had a hard fortune, and hast drank of the bitter portion that was not intended for thee; but he shall drink it three times double, for thy sake!" "Is that little Missie?" said the eldrich voice of the jotteryman, close to the lady's ear. She uttered a loud scream, and sunk on the bank. Missie" continued the creature in a tone of mockery,

Alack for poor little

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