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unworthy doubt, and yet he quickened his pace, and it was with something like an agitated manner he entered his own mansion.

When he opened the door of the apartment in which he had left his daughter with Cauthleen tete à tete, he was surprised at the deep unbroken hush that reigned within it. The place was filled with a confused and jarring light, the candles had burned down to their sockets, and were flickering and flashing with their usual sickly glare, while the light of the morning, now beginning to shine out with its broad, distinct gleam, no longer stole but forced a bold way through the chinks of the shutters, and refusing to mingle with its costly, but pale and artificial representative, seemed for a time to be fitfully struggling for that supremacy it was by and bye so gloriously to assert; and thus bewildered rather than enlightened the senses subject to its influence.

Mr. Butler advanced to the fire-side, and there indeed a spectacle, as lovely as imagination could picture, met his eye. In his long-backed easy chair sat and slept his idolized daughter. She was leaning back in one corner, and in that position her fair cheek rested upon her equally fair and delicate hand, her rounded and beautifully proportioned arm, forming as it were the polished and snowy pillar of which these tapering fingers, in their graceful outline, were the classic capital. From the inclined position, her raven hair-far brighter and darker than the wild bird's wing, which, taking advantage of night and sleep to escape from its silken bonds, had flowed in rich profusion, and in every possible variety of form, whether ringlet, tress or braid, over brow, and cheek, and hand, and then rested in shining masses upon her fair and sinless bosom. Her form was hushed into complete repose, and at nature's unstudied and graceful disposition, was indeed a picture of exquisite and surpassing loveliness.

She slept softly and deeply-not merely the sleep of innocence and health, but what was strange indeed in her present position, that of smiling happiness. Misery had been certainly driven from the usurpation of her thoughts, and hope, their legitimate but exiled sovereign, and all her bright attendants installed in the tyrant's place; for there was a flush on her cheek, which nothing but the joy of such a restoration could call up. She had evidently heard something that night which had produced a most cheering and inspiriting effect upon her mind; for the blissful ideas that were disporting themselves within, could not be kept back altogether by sleep or silence, but would wander on the confines of expression. She was constantly murmuring undistinguishable, because disjointed phrases, and it was plain to perceive that the fragments were the links of a golden, not an iron chain. As her father stood over her, gazing upon her with feelings which only such a father could experience for such a child, one sentence alone became intelligible. In one hand she tightly grasped a curiously folded, but well-sealed paper; pressing this closely to her heart, she said softly,

"This, let what will come of the morrow, will make him happy, yes, very happy."

Who would blame that father-that man who wept at such a scene as this; or coldly say the drops which flowed became not the years or brow of his manhood. None, and it is no discredit to Mr. Butler to say he wept plenteous tears of pride and fear, hope and distrust, sanguine expectation, and yet chilling apprehension. Two words in her short sentence had loosed the fountains of his feelings, "to-morrow" and "happy." The terms as regarded their fortunes were indissolubly connected. Indeed the latter so depended on the former that by its termination was to be decided whether the bright-omened word was ever again to be pronounced by their little circle.

"To-morrow, and happiness for him," murmured Mr. Butler, "strange association, I would not have believed had I not heard it, that even in sleep she would connect such contradictory ideas. But be it so. Let her be happy in those dreams from whose enchantment her waking will be so sad a one." Bending down over her he continued, "a father's fondest blessing on thee, my lovely and cherished darling, and His too of whom we are well and wisely told, otherwise pain and misfortune would be maddening and intolerable,-that He loves best where He chastens most. Doubtless, lovely and beloved treasure of my soul, when he fashioned thee so good, so pure, so beautiful, only as it would seem to our finite and agonized perception, to be blasted the keenest, and withered the soonest; He had His own wise ends in so doing, and these it is vain to fathom, as it is impious to doubt. Sleep on, beloved one; rest so sound and sweet as this will revive thy heart, for the trial of thy waking hours. One kiss will I steal from thee, ere I turn to my many and agitating pursuits."

The doating father was about gently touching with his lips the polished forehead of his lovely daughter, when a sharp grasp, as if the talon of a fierce bird had suddenly alighted on it, was laid upon his shoulder. Turning quickly round in some surprise, he beheld Cauthleen Rhu, her finger raised as a gesture of silence, as she hissed rather than whispered into his ear the words,

“Ugh, sir, ugh, wake her not for the love of heaven-see how happy she is, smilin' in her sleep, as the infants do when they say the angels are whispering with them; and who knows this minnte, but some of the blessed ones themselves, this night of nights, pitying her misfortunes, and loving her for her beauty and gentleness, has stolen down to tell some bright words of comfort and consolation to one whose heart is as pure and sinless as any baby bantling. She will sleep soundly and happily for a long time yet to come, for I have taken the curse and the darkness of the past from her, as regards the fair fame and early fortunes of him who is the life-pulse of her being; and there, you see that paper, sir, she is hugging to her young bosom, as if it was its cherished offspring; in it she has a joy, a pride, a light of the future for him which hard fortune may clutch at, but never reach."

"How shall I ever be able to reward you for this noble part you are acting," exclaimed Mr. Butler, gazing upon the crooked decrepid creature

before him with an admiration which her appearance certainly never could warrant. "Strange and mysterious as your ways are, and stern and forbidding the more prominent features of your character, there yet seems lodged within you so commanding a power of doing good or evil, at least in this present eventful crisis; and you evince so strong a desire to save him in whom all our hopes are centered, that something like a wondering fear is mixed up with the gratitude that is due to you. Would that I possessed an equal power, as I do the wish to reward."

"Reward me," replied the hag. "Ugh, there was a time an' ye could easily do it. Bright goold, and shinin' silver was my price for many a day. But mark ye! the time will come when I will ask ye for my reward, and see that ye be forthcoming with it at the given hour. Come, sir! ye have talked of a reward, and your anxiety to bestow a fitting one. Place your fair and honest hand within mine, and give me your honourable pledge that if ever Cauthleen Rhu comes to ask for her reward, it shall be freely given."

"O, most willingly do I give the pledge," said Mr. Butler. my hand and word on it.”

"Ugh, that will do," said the hag.

"There is

"And now let us to our own work

in the business, for the sun that has come up above the world, since we spoke first, must not set, if we can help it, in shame and sorrow upon the noble-hearted and the beautiful."

They drew aside to a table, at a remote end of the room, and there for a considerable time Cauthleen continued to narrate a story of such fearful interest as to absorb every faculty of the listener's soul. Indeed, sometimes it was painful to see the effects the details had upon him. Alternately his face grew pale and crimson, as the horrors he heard varied in their character; and clasping his hands together and looking upwards he would exclaim at every sentence, "Gracious God, can this be possible?"

The story was indeed one of fearful interest, for with the exception of some facts, which powerful reasons restrained her from communicating, such as the relationship which existed between Macklin and the soldier, the concealment of the money, and their own anxious pursuit of it,—she told him nearly all the particulars of the several careers of early crime and matured guilt of red stains blotting the morning path-way of life, and crimsoning afresh its evening and downward course-of love, guilty from its first conceptions, and sinful and shameful in all its subsequent developement-of revenge, merciless and unsparing; and hatred which in its combination with selfishness, possessed all a devil's craft and all a devil's malignity.

When she had concluded, the feelings of the old man were too strongly affected by horror and amazement, to offer a single observation upon the narrative he had heard. The hag respected his silence for a few minutes, by acting similarly on her part, after which, resuming, she said,

"You now see, sir, that the soldier had a bad purpose of his own in going to Tracy's house that night-that let who will have dashed out

the old man's brains, he was the cause of the scuffle, by being there on the night in question; and you further know, that I can prove every tittle of this against him, though he were to swear a thousand oaths to the contrary. Ugh, that I can, let him challenge the worst, even unwittingly, and I may pluck the proudest feather from his crest. But then, sir, it will be a risk of death. I know them well, ugh, too well; they never pardon, never pity; and on me, were I to betray them, and I cannot save him else, they would track me to the gates of hell to have satisfaction on me. Ugh, that they would, besides I have been neck deep in the villany and mischief of this, and, bad as I am, I shrink back from the exposure of my old shame; swear to me then that it is only when all else fails-when there is no other hope, no other way to save him, that you will call upon me, and I will be ready at the summons.” "I do swear most solemnly," said Mr. Butler.

"It's enough" said the hag, "I am satisfied. I have other work before me now, but I will be at time and place when wanted." And ere her words had died away, she had glided with her usual stealthy pace from the apartment, and left the mansion with the care and secrecy of a familiar inmate.

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It was the strong vitality

By which its every throb did live and move.

And yet he was alone;

Seeking, in vain, for one

Heart's sympathy.

A visionary he had been

From boyhood's early day;

And in his brain's creations he had seen

Hosts of those bright, false things

A poet's fancy brings

To strew his way.

But there was one, of brightness

Far above all the rest; a shadowy form

Radiant with seraph beams of Heaven's own brightness,

That by a strange, sweet charm

His loneliness did cheer;

And when most cold and drear

His pathway would have been, 'twas there to warm.

In the still night, as he did pore

Over old History's page;

Or studied the unholy lore
Of ancient magic sage;

Or revel'd in the visions caught

From some famed bard's majestic thought,

Pour'd forth in lofty song,

Perchance to kingly throng

That form was with him, wheresoe'er he went;
Cheering the solitude in which his hours were spent.

Whether he rambled through the forest glade ;

Or lay to watch the bubbling of the fountain;
Or by the ocean's margin, if he stray'd;

Or scaled the eagle's haunt upon the mountain :

Wherever God was manifested-with the fair,
The soft, the wild, the beauteous, the sublime,-
Midst which the poet lives his span of time,—
Still was it there.

It was but fancy's dream;
Yet still he cherish'd it,

Till part of his existence it did seem. He felt the cold, false worldlings all unfit To comprehend his mind.

And though he never hoped to find

His vision realised, he aye did cherish it.

Yet it did cross his path at last;

A living form of light:

The bright embodiment of what had pass'd
For many a day before his mental sight.

She was a being made to love

All loveliness, and clothed in grace-
Albeit, at times, her lofty spirit strove
With woman's gentle pace.

Thenceforth, unto the poet's eye,
She was the polestar of his sky;

His guide, his guard, his hope, his trust, his joy;
A burning light, that cold nor darkness could destroy.

None save the poet e'er can know

The deep intensity

With which the poet loves; how it doth grow

An all consuming power;

A flame that doth devour

Whate'er may interfere with its sole sovereignity.

She was to him the vital breath

On which his being hung.

Whether in calm or tempest, life or death,

Her's was his first, last thought;

No fond hope fancy wrought,

But round her clung.

The fountain's seal was broken

Now, and at her feet was pour'd the long pent stream
Of buried feeling. Were her name but spoken,

His eye would flash with brighter beam;

And at her finger's touch,

Through every vein would rush

The fever'd blood, as swift as flies the lightning's gleam.

It is a strange infatuation-and

It boots not now to tell

His feeling when his lips first touch'd that hand;

Or of the darkness that round him would dwell

The day he saw her not.

Or how he all forgot,

When she was by his side and talk'd to him,
The fever that was preying on his strength:
Or how the sunny noontide sky look'd dim
Unless he saw it light up her dark eye.
Alas! how seldom on the strong intensity
Of fervid feeling such as his, at length
Does happiness await.-I will not say

Whether it was his lot to meet it here;-
Or if he found his deep love cast away-

If he did feel himself beloved again-how dear

That consciousness to him, oh who could know?

Ah, me! how few could understand him-even she-
His own-knew not the overflow

Of thoughts that burn'd, exhaustless as a sea!

F.

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