swollen, his eyes bloodshot and wandering, and the Dr's experienced glance discovered he was in a raging fever. He was put to bed, at once, and nursed for days, as tenderly as if he were a brother. Alas! poor stranger! he died in the delirium of fever, without once waking to consciousness, without once thanking these kind Samaritans, unknown, unlamented. He sleeps now in Amalbena's deserted garden. WRITTEN FOR THE LITTLE PILGRIM. REVERIES OF A STUDENT. BY TICK. without a triumph, or a tribute from any human being." Then the Angel gently soothed them, saying, "Weep not; your season is not yet ended, and something may still be done. Strive earnestly until I come again to take the worthiest flowers home to dwell with me." Smiling upon them, he spread his wings, and remaining in their sight for a moment like a brilliant speck in the clear sky, hastened to his palace. One bright morning, the Angel of the Flowers left his mansion to visit his charges, and learn from them how well they filled the station allotted them here on earth. And when, after speeding along through the fleecy clouds, he at last folded his On another occasion, a young man, a paymas-glittering wings, he had arrived in the realm of ter to some troops stationed near Amalbena, be- the flowers. Around him were blooming the came a frequent visitor, and attached them to him most beautiful plants, breathing forth the most by his amiable and gentlemanly manners, al- delicious odors, and delighting the eye that gazed though at times he was sad to moodiness. For upon them. As the Angel approached, they all Kirrie, he seemed to entertain a peculiar affec- bent in reverence, and then silently waited for tion-her sweet childish ways were so refreshing him to address himself to them. He stood for a to his heart, and made him think of his own young moment looking about him, as if admiring the sisters. But, unless we are good, and upright, and splendor of the scene, and then approaching each honorable, we must not expect to be prosperous in turn, he sought to learn from it what it had been others who had prided themselves so much upon doing to gratify the mortals among whom it dwelt, and happy, and the stain of guilt was on this young These and other events, too numerous to mention, but all painful truths, were but the precursors to the troubles and annoyances they experienced from the Indians, about which I shall tell you, in my concluding story. WRITTEN FOR THE LITTLE PILGRIM. GONE TO SLEEP. BY KATE HARRINGTON. Close the curtains gently, softly, Over which dim shadows creep; Look! those flaxen curls are lying See the tiny pearl-gems peep; While a low voice seems to utter, "Minnie's only gone to sleep." Why in sorrow bends the mother Hand and cheek, neck, lip and brow? Gone, but not to briefly slumber, As when here she closed her eyes, After many days the Angel stood again among the flowers to receive the final account of their labors. The Tulip drew her faded robes about her, and bade the Angel look back to his record, and consider if any greater or nobler triumph could be obtained over man than that which she had won. The Rose, the Camelia, and all the their achievements, were fading away like the Tulip, but with their failing breath they repeated their former tales with even greater haughtiness than before. This time also the Angel listened silently, and passed on to the Violets and Mignonettes, who stood apart in a retired corner. And this time they were weeping, and answered tremblingly, "We have striven, O master, and have indeed wrought something, but it is very little compared with our sisters' labors. We have breathed upon a child, and he grew up to be loving and obedient to his parents, kind and obliging to all about him, We have given and scorning every wicked act. a laughing girl a fount of warm affections, and made her delight in relieving the poor and wretched, and giving consolation to the afflicted. We have tried our power not upon the mind and the passions, but only upon the hearts of men, and all that we have done has been to keep them warm with love and sympathy. Our success has been so slight, and the result of our toil so small, that our sisters have told us that our labor has been thrown away, and that not only have we not help The Angel passed on to the Rose, who was standing near the Tulip, and she answered to his question, "I, indeed, have not the beauty of my sister, but I have a charm which she can never possess-that of exaling a sweet odor to delight the senses of men. She, to be sure, may gained man onward to greatness and honor, but we their admiration, but her reign is short, while I steal gently over them, and wrapping them in a dreamy atmosphere of fragrance, can long retain them in luxurious ease." As the Angel continued his inquiries, he found all the flowers boasting of their power over the passions and minds of mortals. The Camelia had wreathed herself in a maiden's hair, and by the aid of a band of pearls, had transformed her from an innocent, guileless creature, to a heartless, proud coquette, dazzling like the noonday sun, but cold as the moonlight. The Lily had indeed kept the maiden, over whom she exerted her influence, pure and guilt less of any crime, but she had given her a heart cold and passionless, and a chilling dignity fit only for the cloisters of some Gothic convent. The Tiger-Lily had inspired a happy, careless boy, with the love of arms and war, and urged him on through fire, desolation and death to win the wreath of fame, and had given him the title of a mighty conqueror. In answer to these and many similar statements, the Angel only bent his head in silence, and went his way. Just as he was about to leave the kingdom, he saw a group of little flowers-Violets and Mignonettes they were,-weeping as if their hearts would break; and when he asked them why they lamented thus, they responded with many sobs; "We, alas, of all the flowers have nothing to record; we have watched long and patiently for an opportunity to try our ability, but our bolder, loftier sisters have been beforehand with us, and we alone must mourn a season wasted, vanished have impeded his progress, and rendered ourselves liable to thy displeasure. But we pray thee, pardon us, for we have done our best." They looked up pleadingly into the angel's face, and lo! his eyes were glistening with tear drops. But he wiped them quickly away, and answered, "That influence is the greatest and best which makes man purest and holiest, and it approaches nearest to that of our Father, to whom we are all responsible for our acts and their consequences. Your sisters have only made man haughty, coldhearted and ambitious, but you have made him gentle, loving, yes, even as a little child. They have given him the love of honor, dignity and wealth, but you have bestowed upon him the love of God, and his neighbor. You have given that talisman which alone can protect him in life, and make him worthy of heaven,—a meek and obedient heart. You have not, indeed, aided his advancement in worldly prosperity, but you have insured him unending glory and happiness hereafter. Though you have worked humbly and in silence, your labors have yielded the golden fruit, and yours is the reward." The angel folded to his breast the little flowers, now smiling through their tears, and sped away with them to his glorious mansion. The dark Spirit of Death blew a blast upon the trembling, wailing flowers of pride and sloth, and they fell withered at his feet. A man should never be ashamed to own he has been in the wrong, which is but saying, in other words, that he is wiser to-day than he was yesterday.-POPE. WRITTEN FOR THE LITTLE PILGRIM. MY LITTLE SCHOOL. BY KADIJAH. “Dear mamma, do you see the pretty flowers that the good God has sent us during the night? What glowing colors, and what a delicious perfume! But my cousin Amanda tells me that flowers have a language-she has a little book which teaches it-how I wish that I too could learn the language of flowers!" he owns a noble Newfoundland dog, who usually remains at home during the absence of his owner the small dog was following his master's wagon at market. It happened that frequently, while through East Cambridge, a large quarrelsome dog attacked the pet and worried him exceedingly. One day last week, soon after starting for market, the man observed that both his dogs were follow. ing him. Preferring that the Newfoundland dog should remain at home, he drove him back; but the dog was determined to follow, although he I am so charmed with this school of mine, I cannot refrain from describing it to some of the children who read the "Little Pilgrim." It is quite novel in one respect, having but one pupil, a little girl of seven years. She seats herself in her arm chair with her books, and, after bestowing a fresh morning kiss on her teacher, begins with showing her a beautiful Lily, whose flexible stem neighborhood of the quarrelsome dog, the attack her arithmetic, as this is the least attractive to her young imagination of all her studies. She sings the multiplication table through in her own wild way, making a pretty tune for the five times five, and ten times two. So making a pleasure and a pastime of this task, it is soon over, to be pleasantly anticipated the next day. I do not compel her to sit like a miniature woman all during school hours, but allow her to exercise her muscles in the variety of ways her Physiology tells about, the rotatory and the hinge motion ! The Geography lesson, is sometimes interspersed with blowing bubbles and then she asks me to locate China and the United States on the translucent little rainbow world that bursts with the asking. We have sailed around the world many times in our fancy, and traveled many foreign lands. We have been to the "Geyser springs," and boiled an egg in its water, looked into the crater of "Vesuvius," and gathered grapes with the Swiss children in their green valleys. Reading is left to her own selection, and of course the "Little Pilgrim" is read over and over again, till much of it becomes household words. The last year's numbers are to be bound in a neat volume, to preserve it as a beautiful reminiscence of happy childhood. As her attachment to the "Little Pilgrim" is so heartfelt and earnest, I would not for the world interrupt it, but entreat him to continue to give us the light of his countenance. Spelling and writing are mere amusements to my little scholar, for think of the thousand letters that have to be dispatched to Kitty and Rolla, the glorious old dog in the country, and the host of cousins. Then, with a little improvising on the piano, and a little dancing, school is over. For recreation, we walk down Broadway to see "Landseer's" most beautiful picture of the "Twins." I wish all city children could see this wonderful creation of genius. They would feel as if they were romping among the green pastures, and over the hills, and would long to lead the pretty lambs" away-but the two " shepherd dogs" watching their charge, with their great, intelligent, human eyes, will keep them safe! Now my dainty little "Friend," should you smile approvingly on this simple sketch, I shall not have whiled away a moment in vain. TRANSLATED FOR THE LITTLE PILGRIM. THE LANGUAGE OF FLOWERS. FROM THE FRENCH OF MADAME DE LA ROCHIIRE. On a beautiful morning in early Spring, Cecilia, a charming girl, twelve years of age, was walking in the garden. Her mother stood at the open door and watched with loving look this sweet child, as she sometimes bent her graceful head over tufts of flowers, and sometimes raised her clear blue eyes to Heaven. And the mother thought to herself, " of all the flowers in the garden, my Cecilia is the loveliest and the purest, and none of the plants can compare with her for grace and freshness." Then Cecilia, perceiving her mother, ran to her, embraced her tenderly, and said, Then the mother, taking Cecilia by the hand, led her towards the middle of the parterre, and rose with grace and majesty, said, "This white flower is the emblem of innocence, which should be the chief ornament of a young girl. This red Rose, whose open chalice exhales so sweet an odor, is the image of beauty, which takes and gives a charm through the perfume of virtue. This other, which proudly flaunts its bright petals, but which is environed with thorns, represents the pleasures of life, which we can never taste unmingled with sorrow. The pretty Violet, which hides itself under the grass, is the emblem of modesty; and the Marguerite' of the fields, that of simplicity. The Mysotis and Pensie, recall to you the memory of friends. Immortelles' teach you to prefer the imperishable goods of another world, to the frivolous attractions which glitter but a few bright moments. Sensitive Plant, which shrinks from the lightest touch, is the image of delicate modesty; and the Heliotrope, which ever turns to the sun, reminds you that you should without ceasing lift your heart unto your Creator. The "This, my dear daughter, is the flower language that a young Christian maiden should learn." WRITTEN FOR THE LITTLE PILGRIM. A FLOWER INCIDENT. "No, I can't, my child," replied the father. was a second time started home. On reaching the upon the little dog was repeated; but instead of running from the enemy as he hitherto had done, the little pet maintained his ground. His Newfoundland companion promptly came to the rescue, attacked the quarrelsome dog, gave him a sound thrashing, and sent him sculking off. The wrongs of the little dog having been redressed, his companion quietly trotted back to his master's house, and the pet has, from that time to the present, daily followed his master to market, without molestation. The larger dog has since made no attempt to leave his home.-Boston paper. WRITTEN FOR THE LITTLE PILGRIM. A MOTHER'S PRAYER. BY CORNELIA J. M. JORDAN, God of Mercy! Father, Friend, Low he lies-his baby cheek Raise our little Willie! All day long his head hath lain Helpless little Willie. Do not take our Willie. Watch our little Willie. Or if it should be Thy will, And so I gave it to him, for he seemed really to love it. As he walked away with it in his tiny fingers, I had many a thought. That flower will mingle itself among his young affections, and must certainly have a redeeming influence upon his little heart. Why did he ask me for it? He said he wanted to smell it, and love it, and put it in a tumbler of water, and keep it to look at. And sure enough, when I went to his room at night, where he lay dreaming, there was the little flower in a tumbler of water on a stand, like a little watcher, breathing an influence, however unconsciously, over the soul of that child. For who can tell the thought, the feeling, the sympa. thy, it stirred up in him, when I gave it to him, and he took it away to put in water for himself? I slept better that night, after thus seeing the flower. Give your children flowers. Flowers and children. What a mingling of the sweet, deep sympathies, which are the breath and perfume of life. Give the child a flower. No matter if it does spoil the bouquet; it may save the child. For a flower has a lesson of love and GRACE GREENWOOD & LEANDER K. LIPPINCOTT. beauty which no one can read so well as children. SELECTED. A Dog Story.-A market-man who daily comes to this city from his residence in Cambridge, followed by a pet dog of diminutive size, relates a true dog story as follows:-Besides his little pet, And above yon starry dome, THE LITTLE PILGRIM, A MONTHLY JOURNAL FOR GIRLS AND BOYS. EDITED BY TERMS.-Fifty Cents a year for a single copy, or Ten copies for Four Dollars-payable in advance. City subscriptions can be left at the Office of the SATURDAY EVENING POST, No. 66 South Third Street. Subscriptions and all business communications to be addressed, post-paid, at our risk, to LEANDER K. LIPPINCOTT, Philadelphia. Mamma," said Herbert softly, "how young and handsome Grandpapa looks to-night!" "I know why," said little Harry, with a very getting well, and 'cause he wasn't drowned in the great deep sea!" When Dr. Annesley came to read a portion of Scripture for the evening service, Philip, who sat close beside his aged father, said, shading his face with his hand, " Brother, will you please to read the parable of the Prodigal Son." Dr. Annesley did not hesitate for an instant to leave the comfort and pleasant talk he was enjoy-wise look, "it's all for Uncle Philip; 'cause he's ing, to go when duty called him through the tempestuous night, and not one of his loving family thought of murmuring or remonstrating. He did not return until morning, and then he brought some one with him; his patient, wrapped in shawls and blankets, whom he lifted carefully from the carriage in his strong arms, carried gently into the house and laid on a bed, in a room which had long been unoccupied. but which Mrs. Annesley, at her husband's request, had prepared for an invalid inmate, that very morning. About half an hour after this arrival, Dr. Annesley entered his father's chamber. He found the good old man sitting by his window, reading over the Psalms in a low, fervent tone. He was so absorbed that he did not notice the approach of his son, till a hand was laid gently on his shoulder. "Why, bless me, Hugh," he exclaimed, "how you startled me! pray what brings you here so early?" "Unusual business, dear father," replied the Doctor, "I have something of much moment to tell you. Do you think yon can bear it?" "I will try," answered the old man bracing himself, yet trembling visibly. "Well, father, the young sailor whom I was called to see last night, was-" "Oh, I know! I know! my poor, lost boy! my Philip!" cried Sir Hugh, covering his pale his hands "Is he dead?" "No, dear father, and he may possiDLY He is very penitent and sorrowful. He says he would have written to you long ago, if he had dared that he was on the way home when he was taken ill-coming to entreat your forgiveness, and that if you will grant it to him now, he can die content." "And he shall have it!" cried Sir Hugh, "for I too often erred, through over-indulgence and sometimes through over-severity. I will go to him at once. Get me my cloak, my hat!" "You will not need them," said the Doctor, smiling," Philip is in his old room." When the father and brother reached the bedside of the young sailor, they found that he had fallen asleep. He looked very ill-his sun-burnt face had grown almost fair in his long sicknesshis sunken cheeks were slightly flushed with fever, and his long hair was scattered in disorder over the pillow. As Sir Hugh gazed upon the sad face before him, he seemed to see in it the face of his dear Idead wife, and what was more strange, that of his first-born son who died in early childhood. When at length the young man'opened his eyes, and saw his father bending over him, he seemed frightened and turned away his face. But the old man clasped him tenderly in his arms, as though he had been a child, and murmured with tears, "Philip, my son, my darling boy! I thank God, who has given you back to me !" "Oh, father! do you indeed forgive me for all, all," cried poor Philip, winding his thin arms about his old father's neck. "As I hope to be forgiven," said Sir Hugh, solemnly. They kept not exactly a "merry" but a very happy Christmas that season, at Annesley House. There were no invited guests present, but Uncle Philip, now convalescent, left his chamber for the When the Doctor ceased reading, he saw that Philip had dropped his face on his father's shoulder, and that the old man had laid his hand on his son's head, and was looking upward for God's blessing on the repentent prodigal. And God did bless him, and made him ever after a faithful son and a good man. And God blessed all that household, for they loved him and one another, and strove to do good to all the world. WRITTEN FOR THE LITTLE PILGRIM. THE SNOW FLAKES. BY NANNIE. Pretty little snow flakes white, With a motion soft and light, Floating down to earth. When, a child, on you I gazed, Half delighted, half amazed, Then I said you were Each a pretty, little cloak, Which one of the fairy folk nor cast, And hastening from her home on high, Where the sunset clouds do lie, To the earth had come, Summoned to attend a ball In the elf-king's palace hall, Underneath the ground. And each fairy as she passed Into the hall, her mantle cast On the ground above. Grass, and house, and trees grew white, Covered o'er with snow flakes light, Flung by fairy hands. And none of the fairy train But left them there to fade, When the warm beams of the sun Made them gently, one by one, Melt from sight away. Thus I dreamed in days gone by, As I watched the snow-flakes fly, Thickly through the air. And when now I see them fall, Covering house-tops, trees, and all, With their robe of white, Then bring they back my childhood's days, And all my childhood's thoughts and plays, As by some magic art. And so I love them doubly well, For their own beauty, and the spell By which they bring to me, The memory of my childhood's years, Of childhood's wishes, hopes, and fears, And thoughts of fairy land. WRITTEN FOR THE LITTLE PILGRIM. THE LITTLE EMIGRANT BOY. The road that led from my home to the little red school-house under the bill, was not much traveled, except by us school children; yet it passed through a very beautiful part of old Arundel. It ran close by the stone church, with its paved courts and great oaken doors, made strong to keep the red men out, while the people met to pray; then it went by the mill-dam, a small silvery sheet of water, set in a frame of bright green turf, and reflecting by day the graceful branches of the willow that grew on its margin, and by night, each twinkling star shone in its still waters until there seemed, to my childish mind, to be a heaven both above and beneath me. Then came the rocks, the old moss-covered rocks, scattered through the woods in all their fantastic shapes. It was here little Ellen Grey came every Saturday evening to meet me, and her Aunt Alice came down from the old place, and taught us some beautiful lesson from the book of life. On the day of which I am going to write, I had reached the rocks too soon, so I sat down under the birch tree to wait for the others. Presently I saw lying on the grass near me, a bundle of wool, pinned up in an old torn handkerchief. I looked round to find the owner, but as I saw no one, I concluded it belonged to some poor person, who was carrying it to the factory to be carded, and thought I, he has gone into the orchard to gather some fruit. Aunt Alice and Ellen came just then, and I soon forgot all about the wool and its owner, in listening to aunt Alice's teachings. I seem to see her now, as she leaned her head against the tree, her soft flaxen curls floating about her thin face like a veil of light, and the long lashes lying on her white chicchu, as She closed kår eyes, sometimes to shut out the sunshine. But it was her voice that ever charmed us most. It was low and gentle, like the murmuring of a tiny brook, and yet it was full of earnestness. It sank deep into our childish hearts on this day, when she told us the story of the child whom Jesus sat beside him on the mount. How in my heart I envied that little child who had thus sat beside his Saviour, and felt the touch of his holy hands, and listened to the words he spake "as never man spake." Ellen had laid her head in Aunt Alice's lap, and seemed straining her eyes to look up through the thick leaves overhead into the blue sky, that she too might see her Lord; suddenly she started up, exclaiming Look! look! Aunt Alice!" and there, peering down into our upturned faces, was a pair of the blackest eyes I had ever seen, shining out from a mass of uncombed hair of the same raven hue. "Come down, little boy," said Aunt Alice, softly, and the child answered"I am coming." He crawled out the whole length of the limb, and then swung himself to the ground. He was a small boy, not much larger than Ellen. He stood quite unabashed, poising himself on one foot, and holding in his hand the remnant of an old straw hat, round which he had twisted a wreath of the gay lilies of the meadow. It seemed strange for such a wild looking boy to care for flowers, and I said "Little boy, what made you trim your hat with lilies ?" "The angel likes them," was his strange reply. Aunt Alice bade him come and sit down beside her, and tell her something about himself. I trembled for her white dress, but the strange boy did not touch it, but threw himself on a rock near her, and began slowly to unwind the red flowers from his hat. "Now tell me your name and where you live," said Ellen. "My name is Walter, that's all, for I sha'nt be called by Joe Hardy's name, because I am no child of his. I live down by the copper-mines now, but I havn't got any home here, I had one in the old country." "Where ?" asked Ellen, her eyes filling instantly with tears at the thoughts of a child without a home or parents. "Across the ocean, little girl, I lived in quite another place, and the Hardys were all quite different people in their own country. But since they have come over here, and get so much money from Lord Perth, they are not like the same family. Joe drinks hard, and his wife can scarcely live with him. Oh, it's a dreadful life to lead! If it wasn't for the angel I couldn't stand it." "Who do you mean, child? That is no one's name, there are no angels except in heaven," said aunt Alice. "She is the old General's daughter, the same that owns the mines. I believe her name is Angela, but they all call her Angel, because she is so good. She teaches all the poor miners' children, just as you teach these, ma'am,—and she loves lilies, and that is why I gather them." "But why," I asked, "do you say these people you live with are not your father and mother; did you ever have any others?" At these words a sudden change came over the strange boy's whole appearance. The fierce light went out of his eyes, and some painful memories were evidently busy at his heart, for he folded his brown hands on his knee, and looked down thoughtfully at the lilies at his feet. He was not thinking of them, but of his home across the sea, for presently he said "Long ago, many years it seems, though only two summers have come and gone since we left Scotland, I lived with the Hardys, on Lord Perth's place, in a snug cottage just beyond the porter's lodge. But I never staid at home, I used to go wandering over the castle grounds, and sometimes the lord took me with him through the old castle, and showed me the great rooms hung with curtains of rich cloth, or pictures of the ancient lords of Perthshire. I was never called Joe Hardy's child, nor treated as his children were. Besides being permitted to go to the castle, I went often to an old gray stone house where the minister lived. He was a stern, cold man to all the country folks, but he was kind to me, because his daughter loved me." "Lord Perth," the boy answered doggedly, with none of the tenderness that characterized his tone, when speaking of the lady. Aunt Alice fell into a reverie, as she looked first at the pictures and then at Walter; but the last red rays of the setting sun reminded us all that day was departing. "I must go," said Walter, "for I shall not be able to get to the mill before dark, and I have several miles to go." "You must come home with me," said Aunt Alice, "and stay to night, I will send your wool to mill and have it carded for you in the morning early. What are you going to do with it?" "Dame Watson, Mrs. Hardy's mother, has promised to knit me some stockings out of it, for the winter, and the Angel gave it to me from off her own pet lamb." The stern father would not consent to his only child marrying a papist, and the weak girl, who seemed to have always yielded implicitly to the guidance of Lord Perth's impetuous temper, consented to wed him secretly. A priest performed the ceremony for them, and was bribed to keep silence about it. The old woman prated much of the beautiful Amy's goodness and love for her husband, but the reckless Lord Perth grew tired of her gentleness, and when there came to visit him his cousin Isabella, accompanied by her mother, the worldly aunt exerted a great influence over him, and her gay daughter, with her wild, free ways and merry laugh, soon made him forget his solemn vows. Her temper suited him better than the subdued spirit of his now fading wife. Their child (the little Walter) had never been That night, as we sat on the little porch in the acknowledged as his heir, but had been reared by moonlight, Walter finished his sad story. the Hardys. The lady at the minister's, he said, never appeared to notice him when others were by, but once when he had come upon her suddenly as she sat alone in an arbor, she had taken him in her arms and kissed him, while her cheeks were all wet with tears, and then she had prayed over him and called him her child. Shortly after this, he remembered Lord Perth having had a great many long talks with the Hardys, and one night a noise in the room where he slept had awakened him, and looking up he saw the face of the dear lady bending over him; she put the locket about his neck,and then she took from her bosom a gold cross, and Joe Hardy knelt down and kissed it, promising solemnly never to take the chain off Walter's neck. Then the lady had kissed him many times and left him. Walter remembered that her cheek had been bright and red, but her hands, he said, were cold as ice. A few days after this visit, the Hardys had set sail for America, Lord Perth accompanying them as far as Glasgow. Such was the substance of Walter's story, though I have not attempted to give it in his own pretty Scottish dialect. Aunt Alice determined to know the truth of the whole matter. Her brother Robert was a celebrated lawyer, as well as a kind and generous man, and he readily promised to take Walter home in his chaise, and call and see Gen. Armstrong, to learn from him any information about the Hardys that he might possess. Aunt Alice begged to accompany him. Accordingly they all three left home early in the morning. Aunt Alice told us that when they came in sight of the place, they found a great crowd collected about Joe Hardy's door, and a couple of officers were Here the boy's lip quivered and a tear stole from under his downcast eyes, and rolled off his thin, pale cheek. His voice sank to a whisper, and I could only catch the word "Mother." He looked round as if fearful of being over-leading the miserable man towards the magistrate's heard, but seeing no one, he came closer to Aunt Alice, and unfastening his ragged jacket, he drew from his bosom a small gold locket, suspended round his neck by a chain of steel. "I cannot take it off, dear lady, for she put it here, but I will show it to you if I die for it!" he said passionately. office. When the crowd had dispersed, they went in, and found Mrs. Hardy trying to quiet a set of disorderly children, herself the noisiest of the party, and frightful to look upon, with her face bleeding from a cut that her husband had just inflicted in his madness. By the fire-place sat the old lady Walter had spoken of. There were still He touched a spring, and there was the minia- some remains of gentility in her appearance, and ture of a delicate looking girl, with hair and eyes she rose and saluted the strangers respectfully. not unlike those of our Aunt Alice, and features In answer to uncle Robert's questions, she seemsmall as those of a child. We could see no like-ed at first afraid to divulge anything, but his manness to Walter in the gentle countenance of the lady, but when he touched another spring and showed us the face of a dark, yet wonderfully handsome man, a single glance showed the strong resemblance; there were the same flashing eyes and jet black hair, the thin nostrils, and finely curved lips; in short, the boy's face was almost a duplicate of the picture. "Who is it?" we all asked at once, ner soon convinced her that he was not to be trifled with, while Aunt Alice's gentleness soothed her fears. Much that Walter was too young to understand, she explained fully. When he resolved to send Walter with the Hardys over the sea, poor Amy had submitted, only asking to see her child once before he left. The dame's story of the last interview was very like Walter's account. A few terrible threats bad crushed the lawful wife and sealed her lips, so that when the great lord led the gay belle to the altar, and made her the Lady Perth, none dreamed that while the procession passed by the kirk, from an upper window there was looking out upon them a fair young woman, now dying, but whom the wicked lord had promised at that same altar, to love and cherish while life should last. The old dame swayed to and fro, and clasped her withered hands on her breast, when she spoke of their departure from the homes of their fathers. No luck, she was sure, would ever come of itthe gold of the wicked was a curse-there had been nothing but rioting and drinking, from the day they had landed in America. Just as Uncle Robert was preparing to leave, some one rapped at the door, and Gen. Armstrong was admitted. He scarcely noticed any one, but walking straight up to Mrs. Hardy he bade her hand to him any papers she had lately received from Europe. Thoroughly frightened, the poor woman obeyed readily, and drew from an old disorderly chest several letters, soiled and rumpled, but written in a bold dashing style. The General called to Uncle Robert, saying, "Come, my young friend, and help me to unravel this iniquitous plot," and looking over his shoulder, the lawyer read several letters from Lord Perth, all speaking of large sums of money having been sent to America, and charging them to be kind to his little boy, and to "send him to school." It was evident from the whole tone of the letters, that the Hardys had been very different people in their own country, from what they were at pre sent. Gen. Armstrong said that Hardy had attempted to use a knife on one of the officers, and that on searching him to secure it, a part of one of Lord Perth's letters had been found on him. Mutilated as it was, it contained sufficient to rouse suspicions, for it was full of injunctions to secrecy. As soon as Aunt Alice could gain his attention, she asked after his little Angela, and the General invited them home to dine with him. I must give Aunt Alice's own words, when she described to me the sweet child. She was not in the house when we came in, Lord Perth, she told them, was a Romish noble-but presently the General walked to the door and man, owning a vast estate on the river Tay. While whistled a little bird-tune, and at once a light, yet very young, he had met and wooed Amy little form came flying up the avenue, her straw Campbell, the daughter of a staid Presbyterian hat hanging on her arm, and brown curls blown divine. back from a full, round face, beaming with the |