CHAPTER XVIII.

THE DENOUEMENT.

THE events of the past few weeks seemed to Charles Bramble more like

dream than reality; he could hardly compose his mind sufficiently to

realize the serious bearings of his present situation. Of course, it was

now useless longer to disguise his relationship to Robert, who had lost

his life by means of the poisoned barb which Maud had intended for his

brother. Charles took possession of his body, and informed all those

necessary duties that his own feelings suggested, and form required. The

second officer of the ship assumed the command vacated by Captain

Robert's death, and as the time had now arrived for the return of the

vessel to England, he sailed at once for Liverpool.

Though Charles was loth to be separated from Helen, yet he urged upon

herself and mother to join the English man-of-war, in which they could

secure the most comfortable and safest passage to Liverpool; while for

himself, there was still left business matters which it was imperative

for him to consummate before he left the region where he was. It was at

last decided that the mother and daughter should improve this mode of

conveyance home, and Helen reluctantly bade him she so tenderly loved a

tearful farewell, and in secret they pledged to each other their hearts

for life.

Charles Bramble watched the receding ship which contained her so dear to

him, until it was a mere speck upon the waters, and then felt that it

was possibly the last token he might ever see of her. The path before

him was not one strewn with roses, he had serious dangers to encounter,

a long voyage to make, and an unhealthy climate to endure; for he must

cross the ocean, he found, in order to settle honorably with those men

who had placed such unlimited faith in his integrity. But he had no ship

or craft of any sort at his command, and must wait an opportunity for

reaching the West Indies, doubtless, on board some vessel in the trade

which he had just abandoned.

Don Leonardo seemed to little heed the death of his daughter. In fact,

he did not trouble himself to inquire into its particulars, further than

to understand the immediate cause. He was a sensual and intemperate man,

half of whose life was passed under the effects of unnatural stimulus,

and provided his appetite was not interfered with, cared little what

befell others. Since the English man-of-war had sailed, his barracoons

began to fill once more with negroes from the interior, and he was now

prepared to ship a cargo by the first adventurer's vessel which should

arrive. The funds which Charles Bramble had brought out from Cuba to

Africa, were consigned to Don Leonardo, and he of course would do with

the money as he pleased; he therefore proposed to charter the first

vessel that came, and ship a cargo the same as he would have done in the

"Sea Witch."

It was not long before one of those flat, low, dark clipper schooners

hove in sight and ran into the bay. She was small, sat deep in the

water, was scarcely three hundred tons burthen, but managed to stow

three hundred and forty negroes with ease, and would have taken more had

not intelligence from the lookouts been brought in, that a square rig

was coming down the coast. Charles Bramble hesitated whether he should

embark in this craft. It was consigned to his former owners, the very

men he wished to meet. He might have to wait for months in order to

obtain another chance, it was hardly a matter of choice with him, but

became one of necessity, and he embarked accordingly.

Charles Bramble was no sooner fairly at sea than he was filled with

amazement at the condition of matters on board the slaver. Himself

accustomed to enforce the most rigid discipline, he here saw a perfect

bedlam; a crew of some thirty people, composed of the vilest of the

vile, who must have been shipped only with an eye to numbers, and no

regard for character or stability. Added to this, the captain, though a

man of some experience as a seaman, had no control of the crew, and was

quite at a loss how to manage them. Twice was Charles Bramble obliged to

interfere between the crew and the captain before they were three days

at sea; and by his stern, calm will he succeeded in preventing open

mutiny by the crew. The fact was, the most desperate part of the

foremast hands knew very well that the money sent out to purchase

slaves, was still on board in good golden doubloons, and they were

secretly scheming to take the schooner, kill the officers and

appropriate the gold.

Charles Bramble was accustomed to deal with such spirits; he was

well-armed at all hours, and prepared for the very trouble which was to

come, inasmuch as he had anticipated it. There were two mates and the

captain, beside himself, who might be relied upon to stand by the vessel

and the owners' rights, but they had fearful odds against them. There

was also a lad who had gone out in the "Sea Witch" as cabin boy, whom

Charles Bramble was now bringing back with him to his family in Cuba,

the boy having escaped the massacre which occurred when the "Sea Witch"

was burned, and who had been living at Leonardo's factory. On him also

he felt he could rely. The boy soon discovered the mutiny that was

hatching, and told the captain secretly that it would occur at the

moment land was announced from the mast-head on making the islands of

the West Indies.

This was all the information necessary for Charles Bramble, to whom the

captain of the schooner gave up all control, to prepare for the

emergency. He completely armed the four parties on whom he could rely,

and bade them wait for orders from him, but when he gave those orders to

act instantly and without pausing for further consideration. The crew

were somewhat puzzled to see their chief officer give up even the

sailing of the vessel to him who had come on board as a passenger, but

they could not but also perceive that he who acted as the captain now,

was a very different man to deal with, and one who knew his business.

They saw that the schooner was made to sail better than ever before,

that the crew were kept in their places and busy, an important thing at

sea, and though they were still resolved to make the attempt, they did

not like the appearance of matters.

Scarcely had the lookout after a short passage descried the first land,

and hailed the deck with "land ho!" when a change was instantly observed

among the crew. Captain Bramble, however, was on the watch, and so were

his backers; and seeing this, he instantly called one of the ringleaders

aft, and bade him sternly to lay his hand to a rope and pull it taut.

The man instinctively obeyed at first, subdued by the calm, stern front

of the man who addressed him, but in a moment more he ceased and turned

towards the officer flatly declining duty, at the same time beckoning

the hands forward to come to the quarter-deck. Captain Bramble paused

one second of time and repeated his order. It was not obeyed, and in the

next instant the man lay a corpse with a bullet through his brains at

the feet of his officer!

This prompt punishment for a moment checked the action of the rest, but

it was only for a moment when they moved aft in a body.

"Hold, where you are!" shouted the young but determined commander. "The

man who advances another step dies!"

All paused, save two of the most daring of the rascals who continued to

press on. Captain Ratlin now bade the mates to shoot the first man who

came aft unbidden, while he marched a few paces forward, and once more

bid them stand. They heeded him not, and the foremost one fell with a

bullet though his heart! Captain Ratlin instantly drew a fresh weapon

from his bosom and presented it at the other foremost man, "fall back,

fall back, you imps of darkness, fall back, I say, or you die!"

The crew had not counted on this summary treatment, they were beaten and

mastered; the culprit addressed sneaked back among the crew trembling

with fear.

Captain Ratlin returned to the quarter-deck, received fresh arms from

one of the mates, and then calmly began to issue orders for the sailing

of the vessel, as though nothing had occurred to interfere with the

business routine of the day. Those orders were promptly obeyed. The

master spirit there had asserted its control, and established it, too;

and a more orderly crew never moored a slave ship on the south side of

Cuba, than were soon busily engaged in that duty after the set of sun on

the day when this bold attempt at mutiny had occurred.

This little affair, which came very near to costing Charles Bramble his

life, was in one sense a fortunate one, since it put him on the best of

terms with the owners, who had entrusted him with the "Sea Witch," and

who now pressed a gratuity of $2000 upon him for his part of the present

voyage, and forwarded him safely without expense on his return voyage to

England. This additional amount of funds to his already handsome sum of

personal property, gave him some $10,000 dollars of ready money, which

he took with him to his homestead at Bramble Park. The money enabled him

not only to clear the estate of all encumbrances, but also to make his

mother, now aged and bed-ridden, comfortable.

But he was soon married, and with Helen Huntington, whose estates joined

those of Bramble Park, he obtained a large fortune; but best of all, he

took to his arms a sweet, intelligent and loving wife. She with whom he

had played in childhood amid these very scenes, she whom he had rescued

upon the waters of the ocean, she who had loved and reformed him.

THE END.

LA TARANTULA.

BY GIDDINGS H. BALLOU.

IT was scarce past the meridian of a warm summer's day, when from the inn

of old Gaspar Varni, underneath the heights of Sorento, might have been

heard the sound of viols, and the deep notes of the bassoon ringing

clear from amidst the clash of merry voices. Music and careless mirth,

the never failing concomitants of an Italian holiday, were here in full

ascendency; for the birthday of the portly host happening to fall on the

anniversary of St. Geronimo, the yearly festival which served to

celebrate the two in one, was a matter of no small interest to the

villagers. The dining room was filled almost to suffocation, and it were

a matter admitting of doubt, whether the chagrined few who chanced by

lateness of arrival, or other causes, to be excluded from seats at

table, were not to be envied rather than pitied in the endurance of

their deprivation.

Such a doubt, perhaps, was entertained by an individual dressed in a

peasant's frock and a slouched hat, who, pausing in the open doorway,

regarded the mixed assembly with a half smile, not wanting a certain

superciliousness which in other circumstances would have provoked

instant observation. Now, however, the full swing of common enjoyment

rendered every one blind to what the looker-on took no trouble to

conceal. Nor did he at all lower his disdainful regard, when a veteran

clad in a sort of military undress, arose from the opposite side of the

tables, and waving a wine-cup in his hand, drew on himself the general

attention.

"Comrades," he said, "I give to you, Napoleon! my noble master, who, six

years ago, delivered me with his own hand the shoulder-knot of a

sergeant of the guard. Napoleon!--the soldier's true friend, and the

greatest man on earth. Green be his memory forever!"

The words were scarce out of his mouth, when a youth, some twenty years

of age, sprang up and hastily replied:

"What right hast thou, Jean Maret, thus to celebrate in our midst, the

praises of our tyrant? Dost thou deem our spirits dead to all generous

emotion? A curse on the usurper who burned our country with fire, and

poured out the blood of its children like water! May just Heaven pour

down indignation on his head!"

This speech produced an instant commotion. Angry words were bandied back

and forth, and bright steel already flashed in the light, when the

sturdy voice of old Gaspar surmounted the din.

"What means this tumult?" he cried. "Shall a few wine-warmed words thus

set you all agog, my merry men? Come, you forget yourselves in giving

way to such causeless rage. And thou, Gulielmo, leave thy saucy quips.

How darest thou thus spoil good cheer?"

The youth, with a grieved countenance, turned to go.

"'Tis not," he said, "that I fear for threats, especially from Master

Jean. Yet since thou commandest, I needs must yield."

So saying, he passed out of the door, while the tumult having ceased, a

whisper went round the room:

"Gaspar has a fine daughter; 'tis she who commands through him."

The mirth, for a moment rudely stayed, again proceeded. Goblets clinked

and wine flowed merrily, till the host, striking his hand on the table,

again addressed the company:

"Good people and neighbors all," he said, "I pledge you here my future

son-in-law. Drink deep then; the wine is good, I trust, and at all

events the toast merits our good will."

The wine was forthwith lifted to lip, and at the word, the generous

liquid, blushing with deeper hue than even did the landlord's jolly

nose, was drained to the uttermost drop, and the cups, turned bottom up,

were replaced on the board. As the ring of the metal ceased, Master

Jean, grizzle-haired and scarred with the marks of war, rose up and

grimly smiled around.

"Mates," he said, "I am not apt at making fine speeches, though I can

feel as many thanks as another. I'll give you then, our jolly host and

his sweet daughter. Than he, no better rules the roast between here and

the salt sea. And what maiden can compare with her in loveliness?"

This speech was received with the most decided applause by the rest of

the company, who seemed eager to evince their approbation of all things

at present said and done, by steadfast application to the festivities of

the occasion.

Meantime, far removed from their boisterous cheer, sat within her little

chamber the maiden, weeping at thought of the dreaded marriage-day,

towards which the hours were rapidly hastening.

"O, Gulielmo!" such were the thoughts which she murmured, "shall I be

able to support life forever removed from thee? Alas! the fate which so

ruthlessly severs our mutual loves!"

Meanwhile, Gulielmo roamed the hills, his heart swelling with sadness.

What use in longer adherence to home and the lowly shepherd's lot? No,

he would no longer tamely submit to poverty and the contempt which it

entailed on its victim. The moment was now arrived when he must bid

adieu to Rosa, loved in vain, and to Sorento, spot hitherto so loved and

lonely. Thus musing, he began to trace on the sandy soil a rude outline,

which certainly bore a striking resemblance to Rosa's pretty features.

"Well done, Master Gulielmo!" suddenly exclaimed a strange voice.

The startled youth looked up, and in so doing cast his eye on a face

which seemed not altogether unknown to his remembrance. The stranger

possessed a visage bold and finely formed, a piercing eye, and a

strongly-marked mouth set beneath a classic nose; while his tawny color

told a life exposed to daily wind, and sun, and rain.

"Art thou a student of the art which is our country's pride?" continued

the latter, "or does love inspire the skill which thou hast here

displayed?"

"I am no student," Gulielmo replied; "and yet I daily try, in my

unknowing way, to counterfeit the forms which I see."

"It were pity then," rejoined the other, "that such as thou should idly

waste those talents which when duly trained would surely bring their

owner fame and wealth. Suppose for instance that some great lord, or

other noble patron of the arts, should send thee a couple of years to

Rome;--but I forget. Perchance the maid whom thou hast pictured here,

might interpose her pretty face to spoil so fair a plan?"

"Alas!" said Gulielmo, quickly, "she is not for me. And though I see

that you are jesting, I tell you truly that I would go where any chance

might lead me, so that I might never see her or Sorento again."

"I do not jest," answered the stranger. "Indeed, I know your story

already. I was present just now at the inn, when you and Jean Maret fell

at variance. And, friend Gulielmo, I know of a certain lord who I am

confident will do you the office which your talents require. He is a

Russian prince, of generous hand, although of a somewhat rough exterior.

Take courage; perchance affairs may have a better turn. And if the

Russian, as no doubt he will, shall take thee under his wing, mayhap old

Gaspar's purpose may yield some grace to thy ill-prospered love. Hie

home then, and wait a little for the flood of fortune. I've faith that

thy ill-luck will shortly change to good."

The stranger turned away. Gulielmo, in mute surprise, watched his steps

a while, and then hastened along the winding path which led him back to

his own cottage door.

CHAPTER II.

PAS SEUL BY MOONLIGHT.

The moon hung high in silver light above the village and the quiet

fields which lay beyond, when a gallant train came in order down the

unfrequented street. Appareled gaily, each cavalier wore roquelaure and

belt, and in their midst they bore a prisoner--the veteran Jean.

Reaching at length the grassy market-place, they halted and formed a

ring, in the midst of which they placed their captive. Some of the

number drew from underneath their short cloaks instruments of music,

while others cleared their throats as if about to sing. Presently there

stepped apart a masked form, who thus gave command in a rude sort of

rhyme:

"Hola, my merry mountaineers,

Prepare a festive lay;

Our gallant friend will measure trip

While we a song essay."

Each other masker thereupon drew a rapier, and turned its point to centre.

"Unbind the captive, give him room;

Now, friend, pray mind your play.

Strike up, my lads, and heed your time,

And merrily troll away."

At the word, the others commenced in deep, hoarse voices:

"An old graybeard a wooing came,

"Ha! ha! ha!

With plenty of brass, but little brain,

Tira la la!

Merrily round we go,

Merrily.

All in a circle O,

Cheerily!

Right joyful was the gaffer gray,

La la la!

And who so blithe as he I pray?

Tira la la!

Merrily round we go.

Alas! the change of time and tide,

Ah! ha! ha!

That gaffer's joy to grief should glide,

Tira la la!

Merrily round we go."

"Trip on, friend Jean," the leader said; "thou laggest wretchedly. Let

me spirit thee with this good steel rod; 'twill move thee most

famously."

Jean Maret, in spite of himself, discovered great agility on this

occasion. He could hardly have moved with more readiness in the rustic

cotillon among the village lads and lasses. Nevertheless, not a few

oaths escaped him, doubly provoked as he was by the composure of his

tormentors, and the laughter of the surrounding spectators. But swifter

still flew the brisk burden, "Tira la la."

"Good people all," the chief now said, "we have piped this man to play,

and now that we the pipes have tuned, 'tis fair his purse should pay."

"Villain!" replied the veteran, testily, "ye shall not have a doit!"

"Good luck, our friend's not satisfied," returned the mask. "And yet

we've done our best. Well then, Jean Maret, we will offer you a change.

Doubtless you have seen the dance which is inspired by the bite of our

famous black spider. Let us see if our good steel may not be able to

supply the place of the spider. Come then, my lads, strike up 'La

Tarantula.'"

Again Jean was forced to display his powers of agility, as flew the

music and the accompanying voices, onward and still on, with

ever-increasing rapidity. At length his obstinacy was overcome, as much

by the absurdity of the affair as its personal inconvenience.

"Cease, cease," he cried; "have done with this, and the money you demand

shall be forthcoming. A pack of fiends were better companions, I trow,

than your blackamoor troop. Let me on, then, and I will lead you to my

cash-box, and after you have there satisfied yourselves, I pray you to

go your ways like honest thieves, as you are."

"Take heed what you say, Jean," replied the chief masker. "We are

honest, that is true enough, and we only want a fair payment for our

services. Our band never performs for a less price than a thousand

crowns, nor will we ask more than this of a worthy soldier like

yourself. So lead the way, my friend, we follow close on your steps."

With jingling steel and shrilly pipe, the troop retraced its course,

till on arriving at the lodging-place of Jean Maret, the latter paid

down the needful scot, indulging himself while counting out the coin in

various hearty objurgations which seemed to add no little to the

amusement of his hearers. Meanwhile, from mouth to mouth, among the

villagers, who gathered round the scene, passed the whispered murmur:

"Sartello, the bandit chief, and his followers!"

The person thus indicated turned to the shrinking crowd, and lifting the

mask from his face, he addressed them thus:

"Good friends, our play is finished. The players through me, desire to

make you their most respectful bow, thanking you for your good company.

We rejoice to see that you are pleased with our endeavors for your

amusement, and will hope that when next we chance to meet, we may

therein be as fortunate as now."

At the word, each of the troop made a low obeisance, and with their

leader, quickly retreated from the village. By slow degrees, the streets

were cleared, though here and there a few lingered along to talk over

the occurrences of the night. It was not till near the dawn of morn that

the village again became quiet, when in the early dew, a carriage drove

swiftly up to the inn, the door of which the coachman, having leaped

from his seat, banged with might and main. At length old Gaspar thrust

his night-capped head from an upper window.

"What means this cursed din?" he angrily exclaimed.

"Come down--come down!" the coachman replied, in a gruff voice. "Here is

Prince Reklovstt waiting at your door."

"Good Heaven!" exclaimed the landlord, withdrawing his head in a

fluster. "It can be no common prince, this, with such a jaw-breaking

name. Here Francesco, Rosa, wife, all of you! hurry, haste down stairs

as quickly as you can!"

The household were quickly astir, the doors were unbarred, and Gaspar

presented himself before the prince, who had just descended from the

carriage. The Russian lord--for any one would have known him as such by

his appearance--possessed a long beard, thick eyebrows, and eyes, whose

look was chiefly a chilly and impenetrable stare.

"He must be monstrous rich," thought Gaspar; "he has such a bearish way

with him."

The coachman, who seemed also to serve as interpreter, now addressed the

host in tolerable Italian, easy enough to be understood, though

interspersed now and then with some queer sounding words.

"The prince wishes to breakfast. Quick then! bring a turkey, a quart of

brandy, a cup of fat, a good cheese pie, and a reindeer's tongue."

The landlord was filled with astonishment and respect.

"O, servant of a mighty lord!" he said, "our larder is to-day somewhat

scant, for crowds of guests have scoured our house of all its choicest

fare. But we will give you the very best we have, if you will deign to

accept it."

The coachman seemed disturbed, but consulted the prince, who answered

him with a frown and a growl of foreign words.

"Mine host!" rejoined the interpreter, "the prince doth condescend to

accept. But be sure, whatever else fails, that the brandy is good."

The coachman and his master now engaged themselves in a harsh-sounding

conversation, wherein one would have judged that the vowels were far

less plentiful than the consonants. Near half an hour thus passed,

when--wondrous speed!--a half cooked fowl was placed on the table,

together with olives, grapes, and sour brown bread. The Russian lord

upon seeing this rare repast spread before him, gave vent to what

sounded very like a Sclavonic invective, but nevertheless plunged his

knife into the midst of the fowl, and carved and growled, and growled

and eat, apparently bent on the most murderous havoc. Meantime, his

servant turned to Gaspar.

"The prince hath heard one of your village youths, by name, Gulielmo

Massani, commended much for his high talent and great pictorial skill."

"Ah!" murmured Gaspar, to himself, "heard one ever such elegant

discourse?"

"The prince last evening met upon the road an old acquaintance, who told

him much concerning this lad; recounted his whole history, and told how

he drew wonderful resemblances of birds, and beasts, and men."

"'Tis true," replied Gaspar. "Strange that I should never have thought

of it before."

"So, therefore, the prince offers to patronize the gifted youth, and

send him a couple of years or more to Rome, where he will be able to

make himself a perfect artist, and get fortune at such a rate that he

can soon roll in gold."

"San Dominic!" said the host; "surely Gulielmo's luck has turned. They

say that Jean, last night, was robbed of more than half his store, and

so, I do not know--but Rosa--"

"You're right," interrupted the other speaker. "Two hundred crowns are

yours, provided Rosa waits two years against Gulielmo's safe return."

"Ahem!" exclaimed the somewhat surprised landlord. "How comes it that

you know of this? And yet the girl grieves sorely. I will take you at

your word."

The courier nodded and spake to his master, who, with a pompous air,

told in his open hand the glittering gold, which was seen transferred to

Gaspar's eager grasp.

"And now where is this same Gulielmo?" inquired the courier. "Bring him

hither as quickly as possible. I doubt not, when he hears of his

advancement, that he will leap for joy."

The youth presently arrived. The courier informed him of the matter in

hand, while the prince nodded his head most graciously, and smiled so

grim a smile that all the servants looked on dismayed.

"Haste," said the courier to Gulielmo, "pack up your knapsack as quickly

as may be, and bid Rosa adieu, for it is time that we were on the road

for Rome. There thou shalt undertake the painter's art, and work for

fame and bread. And, if all works prosperously, you shall soon be able

to wed the fairest maid of all the land."

An hour passed; the carriage drew up before the inn door, the host

delivered his most obsequious bow, fair Rosa bade farewell to her lover,

the prince and Gulielmo entered the stately vehicle, and, with a loud

crack of the coachman's whip, the travellers set out for Rome.

CHAPTER III.

THE STUDENT'S RETURN.

THE two years had elapsed, when on a bright June afternoon, a weary

pilgrim halted within a grove which overlooked the village of Sorento.

He gazed around for a moment, as if in expectation of some one, and then

sat down upon a mossy stone.

"It was here," said he, "that he bade me wait on my return. And yet--"

"He is with you," said Sartello, leaving the scraggy laurel behind which

he had concealed himself. "What cheer brings thou from Rome, my gallant

lad'? Certes, thy look is loftier and manlier now, whatever fortune thou

hast had."

"Kind friend," replied the youth, "I may say that I have had both good

and ill fortune; though mostly good, if thou dost agree with my opinion.

I bring, through intercession of the pope, a pardon from our king. And

thou and thine, if henceforth ye are pleased to remain at peace, will be

accepted by the law which now holds your lives forfeit."

Sartello grasped with a vice-like pressure the hand which the youth held

out.

"I am well repaid, Gulielmo, for what little I have done in thy behalf,

since thou hast thus brought me my heart's desire. No more will we roam

the land, outlaws from honest men. We will till and toil, and freely

live, scathless and void of care. But of thyself, what speed? say

quickly."

The youth frankly smiled.

"My pocket is rather low," he said, "although my hopes are not. I have

gained some honor, whatever its worth may be. And now, how fares the

gentle maid whom I so long to see?"

"Ah," replied Sartello, shaking his head sadly, "these women are indeed

a puzzle. I fear much that Rosa's mind has changed since your departure.

Absence, as the poets say, is love's worst bane. But let her go,

Gulielmo; fairer charms than hers will soon ease your pain."

Gulielmo stood for a moment as colorless as marble.

"Is this the reward," he said, at length, "of all my weary toil?"

"Pray comfort yourself," replied his friend. "I may as well tell you the

worst at once. They say that her wedding-dress is prepared. Jean Maret's

gold, and the importunities of old Gaspar, have been too much, fancy,

for her fickle resolution."

A single tear fell from Gulielmo, notwithstanding the proud compressure

of his lips.

"Let it be so," said he. "I will make no words about it. Neither will I

shun her sight. I will face it out, and shame them who think to flout me

thus."

"Bravo, my lad!" exclaimed Sartello. "I find that you are of the true

stuff. So come along; the hour is already near, when she is to change

her name. I feared at first to tell you the tale, but am glad to learn

that my fears were needless."

Gulielmo's burning cheek might have sown the pain which raged within his

breast: but, nevertheless, he accompanied Sartello with a firm and

confident stop till they reached the inn where the guests had already

begun to assemble. In the porch, by the side of Jean Maret, sat Rosa,

with a few flowers in her hair, her countenance as sweet to view as the

first blush of a May morn. But when she met the fiery glance which

Gulielmo cast upon her, she seemed abashed, and half turned toward her

companion, with a silent appeal of the eyes. The priest now arrived, and

all was made ready, Gulielmo looking on with a heated brain, and a

feverish sickness gnawing at his heart. He was only able to see a single

lovely face, in which a sudden sadness seemed to dim its former smiling

grace.

"Why wait we?" bluffly exclaimed Jean Maret. "The priest awaits, the

bride is ready. Gulielmo Massani, come forward; Rosa has chosen you as

bridesman."

"Scoundrel!" replied Gulielmo, "dare no jests with me, else your life

may fail you before your wedding is over."

"My wedding may be near at hand," returned Jean; "but I fear much that

Rosa will hardly be my bride. Go, fair maid, and lead this stubborn

youth hither. If all else fail, I think that thou wilt be able to hold

him captive."

Rosa sprang from the porch to meet Gulielmo. Flinging her lily arms

about his neck, her head reclining on his breast:

"Thou art mine," she said; "whether poor or rich, it is the same to me.

Pardon this deceit; it was not my will to give thee needless pain."

"How is this?" Gulielmo was with difficulty able to say. "Your bridal--"

"Come, your place!" interrupted Jean. "There, take her hand. How dull

you are! It seems to me that after all I should make the readiest groom

of the two."

"Not so!" exclaimed Gulielmo. "But I must not allow you to be deceived,

however little my tale may profit me."

"Hold then a moment," Sartello cried. "Your hand, friend Jean; I think

you bear no ill-will. Or if you do, the settlement we'll postpone, till

this present affair shall be concluded. Here, then, in this bag which I

deliver you, you will find a thousand crowns, a forced loan to aid

Gulielmo's studious years; and with the sum, five hundred crowns by way

of interest. I enacted the Russian on a certain occasion,--a counterfeit

lord,--and yet not altogether so, as you will own when you have heard my

story. Four years ago, I held the title of Prince of Cornaro, where I,

in the midst of a beautiful country, upheld the privileges of a lord.

But one luckless day I joined a secret band, which sought to change the

rule by which Italy was swayed. We failed, and I was forced to fly my

native towers, to roam the mountain depths as the chief of lawless men.

My wide estates were confiscated to the service of the crown. But this

noble youth has now obtained for me a full pardon from the king for all

past misdeeds. The sovereign also freely restores me to my former rank

and possessions."

He ceased, and every voice was raised in applause.

"Hail, Prince of Cornaro!" was the general exclamation.

"Prince," cried Jean Maret, "I give you thanks for the thousand crowns.

The odd five hundred I will give towards Rosa's dowry."

"Nay," rejoined the prince; "the half thou mayst; it is all that thou

canst be permitted, for I desire to find some room to add to Rosa's

store."

"Ha!" said old Gaspar, with a laugh. "Although not rich, her suitor is

yet certain he brings her riches."

"Good sir," replied Gulielmo, "I can show you but little coin, it is

true; yet you may perceive some gain will be mine if you but choose to

read this obligation."

Thereupon he delivered a slip of parchment into the hand of the host,

who turning it once or twice round in the vain attempt to decipher its

intention, passed it to the prince, saying:

"I pray your excellency to read it. My eyes are somewhat weak, and

indeed my scholarship is not so good as it once was."

"Know all (read the prince, after naming the date), that I will pay to

order of Gulielmo Massani, or his lawful heirs, four thousand crowns,

with interest, as soon hereafter as demand may be made. BENVOGLIO."

"The Cardinal Benvoglio," said the prince. "Indeed, the lad hath

prospered well. But come, the wedding lags. First, let us tie this

youthful pair, and after that we'll join the revel on the green, where

Jean and I will teach you all how to dance 'LA TARANTULA.'"

THE GOLDSMITH OF PARIS.

BY H. W. LORING.

IN the good old days of France the fair, when no one dared question the

divine right of the sovereign, or the purity of the church,--when the

rights of the feudal seigneurs were unchallenged, and they could head or

hang, mutilate or quarter their vassals at their pleasure,--when

freedom was a word as unmeaning as it is now tinder his sacred majesty,

Napoleon the Third, there came to the capital, from Touraine, an

artizan, named Anseau, who was as cunning in his trade of goldsmith as

Benvenuto Cellini, the half-mad artificer of Florence. He became a

burgess of Paris, and a subject of the king, whose high protection he

purchased by many presents, both of works of art and good red gold. He

inhabited a house built by himself, near the church of St. Leu, in the

Rue St. Denys, where his forge was well known to half the amateurs of

fine jewelry. He was a man of pure morals and persevering industry;

always laboring, always improving, constantly learning new secrets and

new receipts, and seeking everywhere for new fashions and devices to

attract and gratify his customers. When the night was far advanced, the

soldiers of the guard and the revellers returning from their carousals,

always saw a lighted lamp at the casement of the goldsmith's workshop,

where he was hammering, carving, chiseling and filing,--in a word,

laboring at those marvels of ingenuity and toil which made the delight

of the ladies and the minions of the court. He was a man who lived in

the fear of God, and in a wholesome dread of robbers, nobles, and noise.

He was gentle and moderate of speech, courteous to noble, monk and

burgess, so that he might be said to have no enemy.

Claude Anseau was strongly built. His arms were rounded and muscular,

and his hand had the grip of an iron vice. His broad shoulders reminded

the learned of the giant Atlas; his white teeth seemed as if they were

formed for masticating iron. His countenance, though placid, was full of

resolution, and his glance was so keen that it might have melted gold,

though the limpid lustre of his eyes tempered their burning ardor. In a

word, though a peaceable man, the goldsmith was not one to be insulted

with impunity, and perhaps it was a knowledge of his physical qualities

that secured him from attack in those stormy days of ruffianly violence.

Yet sometimes, in spite of his accumulating wealth and tranquil life,

the loneliness of the goldsmith made him restless. He was not insensible

to beauty, and often, as he wrought a wedding ring for the finger of

some fair damsel, he thought with what delight he could forge one for

some gentle creature who would love him for himself and not for the

riches that called him lord. Then he would sally forth and hie to the

river-side, and pass long hours in the dreamy reveries of an artist.

One day as he was strolling, in this tender frame of mind, along the

left bank of the Seine, he came to the meadow afterwards called the Pre

aux Clercs, which was then in the domain of the Abbey of St. Germain,

and not in that of the University. There, finding himself in the open

fields, he encountered a poor girl, who addressed him with the simple

salutation:--"God save you, my lord!"

The musical intonation of her voice, chiming in with the melodious

images that then filled the goldsmith's busy brain, impressed him so

pleasantly that he turned, and saw that the damsel was holding a cow by

a tether, while it was browsing the rank grass that grew upon the

borders of a ditch.

"My child," said he, "how is it that you are pasturing your cow on the

Sabbath? Know you not that it is forbidden, and that you are in danger

of imprisonment?"

"My lord," replied the girl, casting down her eyes, "I have nothing to

fear, because I belong to the abbey. My lord abbot has given us license

to feed our cow here after sunset."

"Then you love your cow better than the safety of your soul," said the

goldsmith.

"Of a truth, my lord, the animal furnishes half our subsistence."

"I marvel," said the good goldsmith, "to see you thus poorly clad and

barefoot on the Sabbath. Thou art fair to look upon, and thou must needs

have suitors from the city."

"Nay, my lord," replied the girl, showing a bracelet that clasped her

rounded left arm; "I belong to the abbey." And she cast so sad a look on

the good burgess that his heart sank within him.

"How is this?" he resumed,--and he touched the bracelet, whereon were

engraven the arms of the Abbey of St. Germain.

"My lord, I am the daughter of a serf. Thus, whoever should unite

himself to me in marriage would become a serf himself, were he a burgess

of Paris, and would belong, body and goods, to the abbey. For this

reason I am shunned by every one. But it is not this that saddens me--it

is the dread of being married to a serf by command of my lord abbot, to

perpetuate a race of slaves. Were I the fairest in the land, lovers

would avoid me like the plague."

"And how old are you, my dear?" asked the goldsmith.

"I know not, my lord," replied the girl; "but my lord abbot has it

written down."

This great misery touched the heart of the good man, who for a long time

had himself eaten the bread of misfortune. He conformed his pace to that

of the girl, and they moved in this way towards the river in perfect

silence. The burgess looked on her fair brow, her regal form, her dusty

but delicately-formed feet, and the sweet countenance which seemed the

true portrait of St. Genevieve, the patron saint of Paris.

"You have a fine cow," said the goldsmith.

"Would you like a little milk?" replied she. "These early days of May

are so warm, and you are so far from the city."

In fact, the shy was cloudless and burned like a forge. This simple

offer, made without the hope of a return, the only gift in the power of

the poor girl, touched the heart of the goldsmith, and he wished that he

cold see her on a throne and all Paris at her feet.

"No, ma mie," replied he; "I am not thirsty--but I would that I could

free you."

"It cannot be; and I shall die the property of the abbey. For a long

time we have lived here, from father to son, from mother to daughter.

Like my poor ancestors, I shall pass my days upon this land, for the

abbot does not loose his prey."

"What!" cried the goldsmith, "has no gallant been tempted by your bright

eyes to buy your liberty, as I bought mine of the king?"

"Truly, it would cost too much. Therefore those I pleased at first sight

went at they came."

"And you never thought of fleeing to another country with a lover, on a

fleet courser?"

"O, yes. But, my lord, if I were taken I should lose my life, and my

lover, if he were a lord, his land. I am not worth such sacrifice. Then

the arms of the abbey are longer than my feet are swift. Besides, I live

here, in obedience to Heaven that has placed me here."

"And what does your father, maiden?"

"He is a vine-dresser, in the gardens of the abbey."

"And your mother?"

"She is a laundress."

"And what is your name?"

"I have no name, my lord. My father was baptized Etienne, my dear mother

is la Etienne, and I am Tiennette, at your service."

"Tiennette," said the goldsmith, "never has maiden pleased me as thou

dost. Hence, as I saw thee at the moment when I was firmly resolved to

take a helpmate, I think I see a special providence in our meeting, and

if I am not unpleasing in thine eyes, I pray thee to accept me a lover."

The girl cast down her eyes. These words were uttered in such a sort,

with tone so grave and manner so penetrating, that Tiennette wept.

"No, my lord," replied she, "I should bring you a thousand troubles and

an evil fortune. For a poor serf, it is enough that I have heard your

generous proffer."

"Ah!" cried Claude, "you know not with whom you have to deal." He

crossed himself, clasped his hands, and said:--"I here vow to Saint

Eloi, under whose protection is my noble craft, to make two inches of

enamelled silver, adorned with the utmost labor I can bestow. One shall

be for the statue of my lady the virgin, and the other for my patron

saint, if I succeed, to the end that I may give thanks for the

emancipation of Tiennette, here present, and for whom I pray their high

assistance. Moreover, I vow, by my eternal salvation, to prosecute this

enterprise with courage, to expend therein all that I possess, and to

abandon it only with my life. Heaven hath heard me, and thou, fair one,"

he added, turning to the girl.

"Ah, my lord! My cow is running across the field," cried she weeping, at

the knees of the good man. "I will love you all my life--but recall your

vow."

"Let us seek the cow," said the goldsmith, raising her, without daring

to imprint a kiss upon her lips.

"Yes," said she, "for I shall be beaten."

The goldsmith ran after the cow, which recked little of their loves. But

she was seized by the horns, and held in the grasp of Claude as in an

iron vice. For a trifle he would have hurled her into the air.

"Farewell, dearest. If you go into the city, come to my house, near St.

Leu. I am called Master Anseau, and am the goldsmith of our seigneur,

the king of France, at the sign of St. Eloi. Promise me to be in this

field the next Sabbath, and I will not fail to come, though it were

raining halberts."

"I will, my lord. And, in the meanwhile, my prayers shall ascend to

heaven for your welfare."

There she remained standing, like a saint carved in stone, stirring not,

until she could no longer see the burgess, who retired with slow steps,

turning every now and then to look upon her. And even when he was long

lost to sight, she remained there until nightfall, lost in reverie, and

not certain whether what had happened was a dream or bright reality. It

was late when she returned home, where she was beaten for her

tardiness,--but she did not feel the blows.

The good burgess, on his part, lost his appetite, closed his shop, and

wandered about, thinking only of the maiden of St. Germain, seeing her

image everywhere. On the morrow, he took his way towards the abbey, in

great apprehension, but still determined to speak to my lord abbot. But

as he bethought him that it would be most prudent to put himself under

the protection of some powerful courtier, he retraced his steps, and

sought out the royal chamberlain, whose favor he had gained by various

courtesies, and especially by the gift of a rare chain to the lady whom

he loved. The chamberlain readily promised his assistance, had his horse

saddled and a hackney made ready for the goldsmith, with whom he came

presently to the abbey, and demanded to see the abbot, who was then

Monseigneur Hugo de Senecterre, and was ninety-three years old. Being

come into the hall, with the goldsmith, who was trembling in expectation

of his doom, the chamberlain prayed the Abbot Hugo to grant him a favor

in advance, which could be easily done, and would do him pleasure.

Whereat, the wily abbot shook his head, and replied that it was

expressly forbidden by the canons to plight one's faith in this manner.

"The matter is this, then, my dear father," said the chamberlain. "The

goldsmith of the court, here, has conceived a great love for a girl

belonging to the abbey, and I charge you, as you would have me grant the

favors you may seek hereafter, to liberate this girl."

"Who is she?" asked the abbot of the burgess.

"She is named Tiennette," replied the goldsmith, timidly.

"Oh! ho!" said the good old Hugo, smiling. "Then the bait has brought us

a good fish. This in a grave case, and I cannot decide it alone."

"I know, father, what these words are worth," said the chamberlain,

frowning.

"Beau sire," replied the abbot, "do you know what the girl is worth?"

The abbot sent for Tiennette, telling his clerk to dress her in her best

clothes, and make her as brave as possible.

"Your love is in danger," said the chamberlain to the goldsmith, drawing

him one side. "Abandon this fancy; you will find everywhere, even at

court, young and pretty women who will willingly accept your hand, and

the king will help you to acquire an estate and title--you have gold

enough."

The goldsmith shook his head. "I have made my choice, and embarked on my

adventure," said he.

"Then you must purchase the manumission of this girl. I know the monks.

With them, money can accomplish everything."

"My lord," said the goldsmith to the abbot, turning towards him, "you

have it in charge and trust to represent here on earth the bounty of

Providence, which is always kind to us, and has infinite treasures of

mercy for our miseries. Now I will enshrine you, for the rest of my

days, each night and morning in my prayers, if you will aid me to obtain

this girl in marriage. And I will fashion you a box to enclose the holy

Eucharist, so cunningly wrought, and so enriched with gold and precious

stones, and figures of winged angels, that another such shall never be

in Christendom,--it shall remain unique, shall rejoice your eyes, and so

glorify your altar that the people of the city, foreign lords--all,

shall hasten to see it, so wondrous shall it be."

"My son," replied the abbot, "you have lost your senses. If you are

resolved to have this girl in wedlock, your property and person will

escheat to the chapter of the abbey."

"Yes, my lord, I am devoted to this poor girl, and more touched by her

misery and truly Christian heart, than by her personal perfections. But

I am," said he, with tears in his eyes, "yet more astonished at your

hardness, and I say it, though I know my fate is in your hands. Yes, my

lord, I know the law. Thus, if my goods must fall into your possession,

if I become a serf, if I lose my home and my citizenship, I shall yet

keep the skill developed by my culture and my studies, and which lies

here," he added, touching his forehead, "in a place where God alone,

besides myself, is master. And your whole abbey cannot purchase the

creation of my brain. You will have my body and my wife, but nothing can

give you my genius, not even tortures, for I am stronger than iron is

hard, and more patient than suffering is great."

Having said this, the goldsmith, enraged at the calmness of the abbot,

who seemed resolved to secure the good man's doubloons to the abbey,

dealt such a blow with his fist on an oaken chair, it flew in pieces as

if struck by a sledge-hammer.

"See, my lord, what a serf you will have, and how of an artificer of

divine things you will make a draught-horse."

"My son," replied the abbot, calmly, "you have wrongfully broken mine

oaken chair and lightly judged my heart. This girl belongs to the abbey,

and not to me. I am the faithful administrator of the rights and usages

of this glorious monastery. Although I may, indeed, liberate this girl

and her heirs, I owe an account to God and to the abbey. Now, since

there has been here an altar, serfs and monks, id est, from time

immemorial, never has there been an instance of a burgess becoming the

property of the abbey by marriage with a serf. Hence, need there is of

exercising this right, that it may not be lost, effete and obsolete, and

fall into desuetude, the which would occasion troubles manifold. And

this is of greater advantage for the state and for the abbey than your

boxes, however beautiful they may be, seeing that we have a fund which

will enable us to purchase jewels and bravery, and that no money can

establish customs and laws. I appeal to my lord, the king's chamberlain,

who is witness of the pains infinite our sovereign taketh each day to do

battle for the establishment of his ordinances."

"This is to shut my mouth," said the chamberlain.

The goldsmith, who was no great clerk, remained silent and pensive.

Hereupon came Tiennette, clad in glorious apparel, wearing a robe of

white wool, with her hair tastefully dressed, and, withal, so royally

beautiful, that the goldsmith was petrified with ecstasy, and the

chamberlain confessed that he had never seen so perfect a creature.

Then, thinking that there was too great danger to the goldsmith in this

spectacle, he carried him off to the city, and begged him to think no

more of the affair, since the abbey would never yield so beautiful a

prize.

In fact, the chapter signified to the poor lover that, if he married

this girl, he must resolve to abandon his property and house to the

abbey, and to acknowledge himself a serf; and that then, by special

grace, the abbey would allow him to remain in his house, on condition of

his furnishing an inventory of his goods, of his paying a tribute every

year, and coming annually, for a fortnight, to lodge in a burg

appertaining to the domain, in order to make act of serfdom. The

goldsmith, to whom every one spoke of the obstinacy of the monks, saw

plainly that the abbey would adhere inflexibly to this sentence, and was

driven to the verge of despair. At one time he thought of setting fire

to the four corners of the monastery,--at another, he proposed to

inveigle the abbot into some place where he might torment him till he

signed the manumission papers of Tiennette,--in fine, he projected a

thousand schemes, which all evaporated into air. But, after many

lamentations, he thought he would carry off the girl to some secure

place, whence nothing could draw him, and made his preparations in

consequence, thinking that, once out of the kingdom, his friends or the

sovereign could manage the monks and bring them to reason. The good man

reckoned without his host, for, on going to the meadow, he missed

Tiennette, and learned that she was kept in the abbey so rigorously,

that, to gain possession of her, he would have to besiege the monastery.

Then master Anseau rent the air with complaints and lamentations, and,

throughout Paris, the citizens and housewives spoke of nothing but this

adventure, the noise of which was such, that the king, meeting the old

abbot at court, asked him why, in this juncture, he did not yield to the

great love of his goldsmith, and practise a little Christian charity.

"Because, my lord," replied the priest, "all rights are linked together,

like the part of a suit of armor, and if one fail, the whole falls to

pieces. If this girl were taken from us, against our will, and the usage

were not observed, soon your subjects would deprive you of your crown,

and great seditions would arise in all parts, to the end of abolishing

the tithes and taxes which press so heavily upon the people."

The king was silenced. Every one was anxious to learn the end of this

adventure. So great was the curiosity, that several lords wagered that

the goldsmith would abandon his suit, while the ladies took the opposite

side. The goldsmith having complained with tears to the queen that the

monks had deprived him of the sight of his beloved, she thought it

detestable and oppressive. Whereupon, pursuant to her command, the

goldsmith was allowed to go daily to the parlor of the abbey, where he

saw Tiennette; but always in the company of an aged monk, and attired in

true magnificence, like a lady. It was with great difficulty that he

persuaded her to accept the sacrifice he was compelled to make of his

liberty, but she finally consented.

When the city was made acquainted with the submission of the goldsmith,

who, for the love of his lady, abandoned his fortune and his liberty,

every one was anxious to see him. The ladies of the court encumbered

themselves with jewels they did not need, to make a pretext for talking

with him. But if some of them approached Tiennette in beauty, none

possessed her heart. At last, at the approach of the hour of servitude

and love, Anseau melted all his gold into a royal crown, which he inlaid

with all his pearls and diamonds; then coming secretly to the queen, he

gave it into her hands, saying:

"My lady, I know not in whose hands to trust my faith and fortune but

yours. To-morrow everything found in my house will become the property

of those accursed monks, who have no pity on me. Deign, then, to take

care of this. It is a poor return for the pleasure I enjoyed by your

means, of seeing her I love, since no treasure is worth one of her

glances. I know not what will become of me--but if, one day, my children

become free, I have a faith in your generosity as a woman and a queen."

"Well said, good man," replied the queen. "The abbey may one day have

need of my assistance, and then I will remember this."

There was an immense crowd in the abbey church at the espousals of

Tiennette, to whom the queen presented a wedding dress, and whom the

king authorized to wear earrings and jewels. When the handsome couple

came from the abbey to the lodgings of Anseau, who had become a serf,

near St. Leu, there were torches at the windows to sec them pass, and in

the street two lines of people, as at a royal progress. The poor husband

had wrought a silver bracelet, which he wore upon his left arm, in token

of his belonging to the abbey of St. Germain. Then, notwithstanding his

servitude, they cried, "Noel, Noel!" as to a new king. And the good man

saluted courteously, happy as a lover, and pleased with the homage each

one paid to the grace and modesty of Tiennette. Then the good goldsmith

found green branches, and a crown of bluettes on his doorposts, and the

principal persons of the quarter were all there, who, to do him honor,

saluted him with music, and cried out, "You will always be a noble man,

in spite of the abbey!"

Tiennette was delighted with her handsome lodgings, and the crowd of

customers who came and went, delighted with her charms. The honey-moon

passed, there came one day, in great pomp, old abbot Hugo, their lord

and master, who entered the house, which belonged no more to the

goldsmith, but to the chapter, and, being there, said to the newly

married pair:

"My children, you are free, and quit of all claims on the part of the

abbey. And I must tell you that, from the first, I was greatly moved

with the love which linked you to each other. Thus, the rights of the

abbey having been recognized, I determined to complete your joy, after

having proved your loyalty. And this manumission shall cost you

nothing."

Having said this, he touched them lightly on the cheeks, and they

kneeled at his feet and wept for joy. The goldsmith apprised the people

who had collected in the street of the bounty and blessing of the good

abbot Hugo. Then, in great honor, Anseau held the bridle of his mare, as

far as the gate of Bussy. On the way, having taken a sack of money with

him, he threw the pieces to the poor and suffering, crying:

"Largesse! largesse to God! God save and guard the abbey! Long live the

good Lord Hugo!"

The abbot, of course, was severely reproached by his chapter, who had

opened their jaws to devour the rich booty. Thus, a year afterwards, the

good man Hugo falling sick, his prior told him that it was a punishment

of Heaven, because he had neglected their sacred interests.

"If I judge this man aright," replied the abbot, "he will remember what

he owes us."

In fact, this day happening to be the anniversary of the marriage, a

monk came to announce that the goldsmith begged his benefactor to

receive him. When he appeared in the hall where the abbot was, he

displayed two marvellous caskets, which, from that time, no workman has

surpassed in any place of the Christian world, and which were called

"the vow of perseverance in love." These two treasures are, as every one

knows, placed on the high altar of the church; and are judged to be of

inestimable workmanship, since the goldsmith had expended all he had on

them.

Nevertheless, this gift, instead of emptying his treasury, filled it to

overflowing, because it so increased his fame and profits that he was

able to purchase broad lands and letters of nobility, and founded the

house of Anseau, which has since been in high honor in Touraine.

MISS HENDERSON'S THANKSGIVING DAY.

BY HORATIO ALGER, JR.

THANKSGIVING day dawned clearly and frostily upon the little village of

Castleton Hollow. The stage, which connected daily with the nearest

railroad station--for as yet Castleton Hollow had not arrived at the

dignity of one of its own--came fully freighted both inside and out.

There were children and children's children, who, in the pursuit of

fortune, had strayed away from the homes where they first saw the light,

but who were now returning to revive around the old familiar hearth the

associations and recollections of their early days.

Great were the preparations among the housewives of Castleton Hollow.

That must indeed be a poor household which, on this occasion, could not

boast its turkey and plum pudding, those well-established dishes, not to

mention its long rows of pies--apple, mince and pumpkin--wherewith the

Thanksgiving board is wont to be garnished.

But it is not of the households generally that I propose to speak. Let

the reader accompany me in imagination to a rather prim-looking brick

mansion, situated on the principal street, but at some distance back,

being separated from it by a front yard. Between this yard and the

fence, ran a prim-looking hedge of very formal cut, being cropped in the

most careful manner, lest one twig should by chance have the presumption

to grow higher than its kindred. It was a two story house, containing in

each story one room on either side of the front door, making, of course,

four in all.

If we go in, we shall find the outward primness well supported by the

appearance of things within. In the front parlor--we may peep through

the door, but it would be high treason in the present moistened state of

our boots, to step within its sacred precincts--there are six high

backed chairs standing in state, two at each window. One can easily see

from the general arrangement of the furniture, that from romping

children, unceremonious kittens, and unhallowed intruders generally,

this room is most sacredly guarded.

Without speaking particularly of the other rooms, which, though not

furnished in so stately a manner, bear a family resemblance to "the best

room," we will usher the reader into the opposite room, where he will

find the owner and occupant of this prim-looking residence.

Courteous reader, Miss Hetty Henderson. Miss Hetty Henderson, let me

make you acquainted with this lady (or gentleman), who is desirous of

knowing you better.

Miss Hetty Henderson, with whom the reader has just passed through the

ceremony of introduction, is a maiden of some thirty-five summers,

attired in a sober-looking dress, of irreproachable neatness, but most

formal cut. She is the only occupant of the house, of which likewise she

is proprietor. Her father, who was the village physician, died some ten

years since, leaving to Hetty, or perhaps I should give her full name,

Henrietta, his only child, the house in which he lived, and some four

thousand dollars in bank stock, on the income of which she lived very

comfortably.

Somehow, Miss Hetty had never married, though, such is the mercenary

nature of man, the rumor of her inheritance brought to her feet several

suitors. But Miss Hetty had resolved never to marry--at least, this was

her invariable answer to matrimonial offers, and so after a time it came

to be understood that she was fixed for life--an old maid. What reasons

impelled her to this course were not known, but possibly the reader will

be furnished with a clue before he finishes this narrative.

Meanwhile, the invariable effect of a single and solitary life combined,

attended Hetty. She grow precise, prim and methodical to a painful

degree. It would have been quite a relish if one could have detected a

stray thread even upon her well swept carpet, but such was never the

case.

On this particular day--this Thanksgiving day of which we are

speaking--Miss Hetty had completed her culinary preparations, that is,

she had stuffed her turkey, and put it in the oven, and kneaded her

pudding, for, though but one would be present at the dinner, and that

herself, her conscience would not have acquitted her, if she had not

made all the preparations to which she had been accustomed on such

occasions.

This done, she sat down to her knitting, casting a glance every now and

then at the oven to make sure that all was going on well. It was a quiet

morning, and Miss Hetty began to think to the clicking of her knitting

needles.

"After all," thought she, "it's rather solitary taking dinner alone, and

that on Thanksgiving day. I remember a long time ago, when my father was

living, and my brothers and sisters, what a merry time we used to have

round eth table. But they are all dead, and I--I alone am left!"

Miss Hetty sighed, but after a while the recollections of those old

times returned. She tried to shake them off, but they had a fascination

about them after all, and would not go at her bidding.

"There used to be another there," thought she, "Nick Anderson. He, too,

I fear, is dead."

Hetty heaved a thoughtful sigh, and a faint color came into her cheeks.

She had reason. This Nicholas Anderson had been a medical student,

apprenticed to her father, or rather placed with him to be prepared for

his profession. He was, perhaps, a year older than Hetty, and had

regarded her with more than ordinary warmth of affection. He had, in

fact, proposed to her, and had been conditionally accepted, on a year's

probation. The trouble was, he was a little disposed to be wild, and

being naturally of a lively and careless temperament, did not exercise

sufficient discrimination in the choice of his associates. Hetty had

loved him as warmly as one of her nature could love. She was not one who

would be drawn away beyond the dictates of reason and judgment by the

force of affection. Still it was not without a feeling of deep

sorrow--deeper than her calm manner led him to suspect--that at the end

of the year's probation, she informed Anderson that the result of his

trial was not favorable to his suit, and that henceforth he must give

up all thoughts of her.

To his vehement asseverations, promises and protestations, she returned

the same steady and inflexible answer, and, at the close of the

interview, he left her, quite as full of indignation against her as of

grief for his rejection.

That night his clothing was packed up, and lowered from the window, and

when the next morning dawned it was found that he had left the house,

and as was intimated in a slight note pencilled and left on the table in

his room, never to return again.

While Miss Henderson's mind was far back in the past, she had not

observed the approach of a man, shabbily attired, accompanied by a

little girl, apparently some eight years of age. The man's face bore the

impress of many cares and hardships. The little girl was of delicate

appearance, and an occasional shiver showed that her garments were too

thin to protect her sufficiently from the inclemency of the weather.

"This is the place, Henrietta," said the traveller at length, pausing at

the head of the gravelled walk which led up to the front door of the

prim-looking brick house.

Together they entered, and a moment afterwards, just as Miss Hetty was

preparing to lay the cloth for dinner, a knock sounded through the

house.

"Goodness!" said Miss Hetty, fluttered, "who can it be that wants to see

me at this hour?"

Smoothing down her apron, and giving a look at the glass to make sure

that her hair was in order, she hastened to the door.

"Will it be asking too much, madam, to request a seat by your fire for

myself and little girl for a few moments? It is very cold."

Miss Hetty could feel that it was cold. Somehow, too, the appealing

expression of the little girl's face touched her, so she threw the door

wide open, and bade them enter.

Miss Hetty went on preparing the table for dinner. A most delightful

odor issued from the oven, one door of which was open, lest the turkey

should overdo. Miss Hetty could not help observing the wistful glance

cast by that little girl towards the tempting dish as she placed it on

the table.

"Poor little creature," thought she, "I suppose it is a long time since

she has had a good dinner."

Then the thought struck her: "Here I am alone to eat all this. There is

plenty enough for half a dozen. How much these poor people would relish

it."

By this time the table was arranged.

"Sir," said she, turning to the traveller, "you look as if you were

hungry as well as cold. If you and your little daughter would like to

sit up, I should be happy to have you."

"Thank you, madam," was the grateful reply. "We are hungry, and shall be

much indebted to your kindness."

It was rather a novel situation for Miss Hetty, sitting at the head of

the table, dispensing food to others beside herself. There was something

rather agreeable about it.

"Will you have some of the dressing, little girl--I have to call you

that, for I don't know your name," she added, in an inquiring tone.

"Her name is Henrietta, but I generally call her Hetty," said the

traveller.

"What!" said Miss Hetty, dropping the spoon in surprise.

"She was named after a very dear friend of mine," said he, sighing.

"May I ask," said Miss Hetty, with excusable curiosity, "what was the

name of this friend. I begin to feel quite an interest in your little

girl," she added, half apologetically.

"Her name was Henrietta Henderson," said the stranger.

"Why, that is my name," ejaculated Miss Hetty.

"And she was named after you," said the stranger, composedly.

"Why, who in the world are you?" she asked, her heart beginning to beat

unwontedly fast.

"Then you don't remember me?" said he, rising, and looking steadily at

Miss Hetty. "Yet you knew me well in bygone days--none better. At one

time it was thought you would have joined your destiny to mine--"

"Nick Anderson!" said Miss Hetty, rising in confusion.

"You are right. You rejected me, because you did not feel secure of my

principles. The next day, in despair at your refusal, I left the house,

and, ere forty-eight hours had passed, was on my way to India. I had not

formed the design of going to India in particular, but in my then state

of mind I cared not whither I went. One resolution I formed, that I

would prove by my conduct that your apprehensions were ill-founded. I

got into a profitable business. In time I married--not that I had

forgotten you, but that I was solitary and needed companionship. I had

ceased to hope for yours. By-and-by a daughter was born. True to my old

love, I named her Hetty, and pleased myself with the thought that she

bore some resemblance to you. Since then, my wife has died, misfortunes

have come upon me, and I found myself deprived of all my property. Then

came yearnings for my native soil. I have returned, as you see, not as I

departed, but poor and careworn."

While Nicholas was speaking, Miss Hetty's mind was filled with

conflicting emotions. At length, extending her hand frankly, she said:

"I feel that I was too hasty, Nicholas. I should have tried you longer.

But at least I may repair my injustice. I have enough for us all. You

shall come and live with me."

"I can only accept your generous offer on one condition," said Nicholas.

"And what is that?"

"That you will be my wife!"

A vivid blush came over Miss Hetty's countenance. She couldn't think of

such a thing, she said. Nevertheless, an hour afterwards the two united

lovers had fixed upon the marriage day.

The house does not look so prim as it used to do. The yard is redolent

with many fragrant flowers; the front door is half open, revealing a

little girl playing with a kitten.

"Hetty," says a matronly lady, "you have got the ball of yarn all over

the floor. What would your father say if he should see it?"

"Never mind, mother, it was only kitty that did it."

Marriage has filled up a void in the heart of Miss Hetty. Though not so

prim, or perhaps careful, as she used to be, she is a good deal happier.

Three hearts are filled with thankfulness at every return of MISS

HENDERSON'S THANKSGIVING DAY.

THE FIREMAN.

BY MISS M. C. MONTAIGNE.

IN one of the old-fashioned mansions which stand, or stood, on Broadway,

lived Alderman Edgerton. Nothing could have induced Miss May Edgerton to

reside six months in the old brick house had it not been inhabited by

her grandmother before her, and been built by her great-grandfather. As

it was, she had a real affection for the antiquated place, with its

curiously-carved door-knocker, its oaken staircase, and broad chimneys

with their heavy franklins. She was a sweet, wild, restless little

butterfly, with beauty enough to make her the heroine of the most

extravagant romance, and good as she was beautiful.

Little May had never known a sorrow, and in fact existence had but one

bugbear for her--that was, the fates in the shape of her parents, had

decreed that she should not marry, nor engage herself positively, until

she had met a certain young gentleman, upon whom like commands had been

imposed by his equally solicitous parents. The name, it must be

confessed, impressed May favorably--Walter Cunningham; there was

something manly about it, and she spent more time than she would like to

acknowledge, in speculations regarding its owner, for to May,

notwithstanding what Will Shakspeare has said to the contrary, there was

a very great deal in a name. By some chance she had never met him. She

had passed most of her life, for what crimes she could not tell, in a

sort of prison, ycleped a fashionable boarding-school, and the greater

part of the vacations had been spent with a rich maiden aunt and an old

bachelor uncle in the city of Brotherly Love. A few days previous to her

liberation from this "durance vile," Walter Cunningham had set out for

Paris, where he was to remain as long as suited his convenience.

May had just returned home, and having learned this little piece of

news, which she very properly deemed not at all complimentary to

herself, was in as vexable a mood as her amiability ever allowed. Her

cousin Hal suddenly entered the room in a rather boisterous manner, with

the exclamation:

"Hurrah! May, I am going to be a fireman!"

"So I should suspect," returned May, a little pettishly.

"Suspect?" said Hal, sobering down in a moment.

May laughed.

"Why will you join such a set of rowdies, Hal? I should think it quite

beneath me!"

"Rowdies! Those loafers who hang about the companies, attracted by the

excitement and the noise, do not belong to the department."

"You know the old adage, Hal,--'People are known by the company they

keep,' that is, 'birds of a feather flock together.'"

"Why, May, this is too bad! They are the noblest fellows in the world."

"Noble! I have lived too long in Philadelphia not to know something

about firemen. They used to frighten me almost out of my senses. Once we

thought they would set fire to the whole city, murder the people and

drink their blood! O, such a savage set you never saw!"

Hal laughed outright.

"Shoot the men, strangle the women, and swallow the children alive!" he

echoed, mockingly.

"It is no subject for jesting, Mr. Hal Delancey. Philadelphia is not the

only place. Take up the papers any morning, and what will you find under

the Williamsburgh head? Accounts of riots, street-battles, and

plunderings, in all of which the firemen have had a conspicuous part,

and New York is not much better."

"Well, May, you do make out the firemen to be a miserable set, most

assuredly. Now, if I had not already committed myself," continued Hal,

jestingly, "almost you would persuade me to denounce this gang of

rowdies, murderers and robbers; but the Rubicon is passed!"

"I do detest a fireman above all men!" ejaculated May, emphatically, as

Hal left the house to go down town and procure his equipment. Little did

either of them dream what was to be the scene of his first fire.

May's too sound slumbers were disturbed about twelve o'clock that night

by a confused rush of sounds, cries, shrieks, crackling beams and

falling timbers. She wrapped her dressing-gown around her, and rushed to

the door. Unclasping the bolts, she threw it open, but hastily closed it

again, for smoke and flame rushed in, almost suffocating her.

"O, God, save me!" she murmured, huskily, flying to the window, only to

gaze upon a scene which sent dismay to her heart. Clouds of flame and

smoke enveloped everything. For a moment the bursting mass of fire was

stayed by a huge stream of water, and she caught a glimpse of the crowd

below.

There were men, boys, engines, ladders, furniture, all heaped together

in confusion; but the smoke and flame rolled forth with renewed anger

after their momentary check, and all was blank again. She cried for

help, but her voice was lost in the universal din. The heat became

intense, the flame knocked at her very door to demand admittance; she

heard its fiery tongue flap against the panels, a few moments more and

its scorching arms would clasp her in their embrace of death. She knelt

one moment, her soul was in that prayer; she rushed again with almost

hopeless agony to the window. O, joy! and yet how terrible! That moment

when the flame relaxed to gain new energy, a fireman had discovered her

frail form in the glare of the light. He did not hesitate an instant;

his soul was made of such stern stuff as common minds cannot appreciate.

He raised the first ladder within his reach against the wall--a

miserable thing, already half-burned,--and springing on it, ascended

amid the flames.

He had scarcely reached the top of the third story, when he felt it bend

beneath him; he heard the shriek above, the cries below, and turning,

sprang to the ground unharmed, as his treacherous support fell crackling

in the blaze. A shout of joy arose at his wonderful escape, and now they

poured a constant, steady stream beneath the window at which May's face

was discovered by all. A moment, and another ladder, much stouter than

the first, was raised. The undismayed fireman ran up its trembling

rounds, amid the stifling smoke, the eager flames wrapping themselves

around him as he passed; a moment more, and he had reached the terrified

May, caught her hand and lifted her to his side. She gazed a second on

his speaking face--there was a world of meaning in it; she asked no

question--he uttered not a word, but by his eye and hand guided her down

that fiery, dizzy path, so full of danger and of death. A fresh burst of

flame defied the stream of water; it flashed around them while all below

was as silent as the grave, naught heard but the hissing of the blaze

and the crackling of the timbers. May would have fallen, shrinking from

the embrace of the relentless flame; but the fireman caught her in his

arms and leaped to the ground just as the second ladder fell. O, then

there were cries of wild delight, and with renewed vigor the dauntless

men worked against the fire. May's friends came crowding around her; her

father clasped her in his trembling arms, with a whispered "O, May! May!

you are safe!--the old house may burn now!" and the mother shied such

tears as only thankful mothers weep.

But the noble fireman was gone; in vain Hal endeavored to gain some

particulars concerning him, from the members of the company to which he

belonged. They told him that not a single black ball had been cost

against him, although he was a stranger to them all, save the foreman

for he carried his claim to confidence in his honest face. He always

pays his dues, never shrank from duty, was kind and gentlemanly--what

more could they desire. The foreman himself was obstinately silent

concerning the history of his friend, muttering his name in such an

undertone that Hal could not understand it. On the morrow, all New York

was echoing with his praises. So brave, so rashly brave a thing had not

been done in years, though every week the noble firemen hazarded their

lives for the safety of the city.

Hal met May with a pale, a haggard face. He had thought her safe until

he saw the stranger fireman on the ladder and learned his errand. He

loved his cousin, and had suffered almost the agonies of death. May

burst into tears.

"O, Hal, what do I not owe to a fireman!"

Hal then recalled for the first time her words of the previous day.

"Do you despise the firemen now, May?"

"Despise them? God forbid! How devoted!--how self sacrificing!--how

humane!--how noble to risk one's life for an entire stranger! O, Harry,

I wish we could learn his name, that we might at least thank him. I

shall never forget the first moment when he grasped my hand; it was the

first that I had hoped to live. It seemed to me there was something of a

divinity in his eyes as I met their gaze, and I did not fear to descend

into the very flames. But I know now what it was--the noble,

self-forgetting, heaven-trusting soul shining through those eyes, which

spoke to mine and bade me fear not, but trust in God."

Hal was silent for a moment; then he said, slowly and sorrowfully:

"Every fireman could not have acted thus. O, May, will you forgive me? I

felt that I could not. He impressed me with a kind of awe when after the

first ladder had fallen he raised a second, as determined as before. He

would have died rather than have given you up!"

It was a long while before the thought of Walter Cunningham crossed the

mind of May Edgerton, and then she dwelt upon it but for a moment. A

fireman had become an object of intense interest to her. Blue coats,

brass buttons and epaulets sank into shameful insignificance beside the

negligent costume of a fireman, and let Hal call, "Here, May, comes a

glazed cap and a red shirt!" and she was at the window in an instant.

One day Hal returned home with a face glowing with excitement.

"I have seen him, uncle! May, I have seen the stranger fireman!"

"Where? where?" was the quick response.

"There was a tremendous fire down town to-day, burning through from

street to street. --'s book establishment, which has so long

enlightened all the country, now illumined a good part of the city in

quite another manner. The paper flew in every direction. All New York

was there, and the stranger among the rest. Every one saw him, the

firemen recognized him, and he worked like a brave fellow. There was

more than one noble deed done to-day, for many a life was in peril."

Hal's eyes glistened now, for he had saved a life himself. "The poor

girls who stitched the books had to be taken down by ladders from the

upper stories; no one can tell how many were rescued by our hero! The

flames leaped from story to story, resistless, swallowing up everything;

the giant work of years, the productions of great minds, all fading, as

man must himself, into ashes, ashes!"

"But, Hal, our fireman--did you not follow him?"

"Indeed I did!--up through Fulton into Broadway; up, up, up, until he

hurried down Waverley Street, I after him, and suddenly disappeared

among the old gray walls of the university. I went in, walked all

through the halls, made a dozen inquiries, but in vain. I reckon he is a

will-o'the-wisp."

Scarce a week, had flown by before another terrific fire excited all the

city. People began to think that every important building on the island

was destined to the flames. The hall where Jenny Lind had sung, where

little Jullien with his magic bow had won laurels, and the larger

Jullien enchanted the multitude; the hall which had echoed to the voice

of Daniel Webster, which was redolent with memories of greatness,

goodness and delight, was wrapped in the devouring element. Hal Delancey

was quickly on the ground, but the strange fireman already had the pipe

of his company. He walked amid the flames with a fearless, yet far from

defiant air, reminding Hal only of Shadrach, Meshach and Abednego in the

fiery furnace. He was everywhere, where work was to be done, gliding

over sinking beams, the example for all, giving prompt orders, as

promptly obeyed, every fireman rallying around him with hearty good

will, all jealousy cast aside, their watchword "Duty."

Towards morning, when the danger to other buildings was past, Harry

closely watched the stranger, who seemed to mark him too, and with two

members of his company determined to follow him and find out who he was,

not only that his cousin and her father might have the poor felicity of

thanking him, but because he was himself entranced by the manner of the

man, and like May, saw something mysteriously beautiful shining through

his eyes. The three--a young lawyer, a Wall Street merchant, and

Hal--now tracked the fireman's steps with a "zeal worthy of a better

cause." Hal did not think he was showing any very good manners in thus

pursuing a person who quite evidently did not wish to be known; still he

had once accosted the stranger in a gentlemanly manner, and received no

satisfactory reply, so now he had decided, cost what it might, to make

what discoveries he was able to, with or without leave.

This time it was down, down Broadway, through Fulton to Peck Slip. The

stranger's light, almost boyish form moved swiftly, but evenly onward,

while behind him fell the measured tread of Hal and his companions.

Arrived at the pier, instead of crossing over by the ferry, the stranger

unloosed a small boat, and springing into it, seized the oars, turning

back a half scornful, half merry glance at his pursuers. Hal was not to

be outwitted thus. He quickly procured a boat, and the three soon

overtook the stranger. They rowed silently along, not a word spoken from

either boat, the oars falling musically upon the waves, darkness still

brooding over the waters. The stranger made no attempt to land, but held

on his course up the East River until they approached Hurl Gate.

"I do believe we are following the devil!" exclaimed the lawyer,

suddenly, recalling some of his questionable deeds, as he heard the roar

of the whirlpools, and saw the foam glistening in the dim light.

"He never came in such a shape as that!" laughed Hal, whose admiration

of the stranger momentarily increased as he watched his skilful

pilotage.

"Indeed, Delancey, I am not at all ready to make an intimate

acquaintance with the 'Pot,' or 'Frying Pan,'" again exclaimed the

lawyer fireman.

Still, Hal insisted upon following, in hopes the stranger would tack

about.

"You have no fears?" said Hal, to his brother fireman, the merchant.

"Why no," he returned, calculatingly; "that is, if the risk is not too

great."

Now the waters became wilder, lashing against the rocks, leaping and

foaming; it was a dangerous thing to venture much farther, they must

turn back now or not at all; a few strokes more and they must keep on

steadily through the gate--one false movement would be their

destruction. The stranger's bark gradually distanced them--they saw it

enter among the whirling eddies--he missed the sound of their measured

strokes, glanced back, lost the balance of his oars, his boat upset, and

Hal saw neither no more. There, on that moonless, starless night, when

the darkness was blackest, just before the dawn, the brave fireman had

gone down in that whistling, groaning, shrieking, moaning, Tartarean

whirlpool! Mute horror stood on every face. Hal's grasp slackened; the

lawyer quickly seized the oars, and turned the boat's prow towards the

city.

"Do you not think we could save him?" gasped Hal, his face like the face

of the dead.

"Save him!" ejaculated the lawyer; "that's worse than mad! Malafert

alone can raise his bones along with 'Pot Rock.'"

Hal groaned aloud. Perhaps the stranger had no intention of going up the

river, until driven by them. It was a miserable thought, and hung with a

leaden weight upon Hal's spirit. He remained at home all the next day,

worn out and dejected. May rallied him.

"How I pity you, poor firemen! You get up at all times of the night,

work like soldiers on a campaign, and sometimes do not even get a 'thank

you' for your pay. You know I told you never to be a fireman!"

"I wish I had followed your advice," answered Hal, with something very

like a groan.

May started. She noticed how very pale he was, and bade him lie down on

the sofa. She brought a cushion, and sat down by his side.

"Now, Hal, you must tell me what troubles you. Has any one been

slandering the firemen? I will not permit that now, since I have so kind

a cousin in their ranks," said May, with a wicked little smile.

In vain she racked her brain for something to amuse him; Hal would not

be amused. She bade him come to the window and watch the fountain in

Union Park, but he strolled back immediately to the luxurious sofa, and

buried his face in his hands. At last he could endure his horrid secret

no longer; it scorched his brain and withered his very heart.

"May, you have not asked me if I saw the mysterious fireman last night?"

May could not trust her voice to reply.

"He was at the fire."

"Was he?"

"I tell you he was," returned Hal, pettishly. "When I say he was, I do

not mean that he was not. I followed him after the fire."

"Did you?"

"Good heavens, you will drive me mad!" Hal sprang to his feet. "I

followed him I say--ay, to the death!"

Then ensued a rapid recital of all that had passed, Hal was excited

beyond endurance, every nerve was stretched to its utmost, and the

purple veins stood out boldly on his white forehead. He did not wait for

May to say a word, but abruptly ended his narrative with:

"Was not this a pretty way to reward him for saving the life of my

cousin--my sister. O, God, must the roar of that terrible whirlpool ring

in my ears forever?" He gazed a moment on May's countenance of

speechless sorrow, and rushed from the room.

For a long time Hal and May scarcely spoke to each other. He felt as

though he had wronged her, and was always restless in her society. He

would not bear to receive the thousand cousinly attentions which May had

always lavished on him, and which she now performed mechanically; he

hated to see the suppers by the corner of the grate, and after a few

evenings would not notice them; but above all he could not endure that

very, very sad expression in May's eyes--for worlds he would have wished

not to be able to translate it. The time for his wedding was fast

drawing nigh, and he knew he should be miserable if May did not smile

upon his bridal.

Weeks passed, and Delancey did not go to a fire; he paid his fines and

remained at home. But he could not sleep while the bells were

ringing--somehow they reminded him of that still night at Hurl Gate. By

degrees the coldness wore off between May and himself, and she consented

to be Emily's, his Emily's bridesmaid.

One night, however, the bell had a solemn summons in it, which Hal could

not resist. It tolled as though for a funeral, and spoke to his very

heart. He threw on his fire-clothes and hastened down town. Delancey

soon reached the scene of destruction. The flames were carousing in all

their mad mirth, as though they were to be the cause of no sorrow, no

pain, no death. Hal's courage was soon excited; he leaped upon the

burning rafters, rescuing goods from destruction, telling where a stream

was needed; but suddenly he became paralyzed--he heard a voice which had

often rung in his ear amid like scenes, a greater genius than his own

was at work. He learned that he was innocent, even indirectly, of the

stranger's death. Joy thrilled through every vein, he could have faced

any peril, however great. Regardless of the angry blaze, he made his way

through fire and smoke to the stranger's side. The fireman paused in his

labor a moment, grasped Hal's hand, and with a smile, in which mingled a

dash of triumph, said:

"You see I am safe."

"Do you forgive my rudeness?" asked Hal.

"Entirely!" was the ready response, and they went to work again.

In a few minutes Hal was separated from his friend--for he felt that he

was his friend, and could have worked at his side until his last

strength was expended. Retiring from the burning building to gather new

vigor for the conflict, a sight glared before his eyes as he gazed

backward for a moment, which froze his blood and made him groan with

horror. The rear wall of the building, at a moment when no one expected

it, with a crash, an eloquent yell of terror, fell, How many brave men

were buried beneath the ruins, none could say. Hal saw the stranger

falling with the timbers and the mass of brick he strained his gaze to

mark where he should rest, but lost sight of him beneath the piled-up

beams and stones.

"A brave heart has perished!" cried Hal, thinking of but one of the many

who had fallen sacrifices to their noble heroism. All night long the

saddened, horrified firemen worked in subduing the flames and

extricating the bruised bodies of the victims. Some still breathed,

others were but slightly injured, but many more were drawn forth whose

lips were still in death, their brave arms nerveless, and their hearts

pulseless forever. O, it was a night of agony, of terror and dismay! The

fireman's risk of life is not poetry, nor a romance of zeal, or picture

wrought by the imagination. It is an earnest, solemn, terrible thing, as

they could witness who stood around those blackened corses on that

midnight of woe.

Hal searched with undiminished care for the noble stranger, until his

worn energies required repose. In vain did he gaze upon the recovered

bodies to find that of the fireman it was not there, Towards morning

they found his cap; they knew it by the strange device--the anchor and

the cross emblazoned on its front, above the number of his company.

"A fitting death for him to die!" said clergymen, as they recalled his

bravery, the majesty of his mien, the benevolence of every action.

The news of the disaster spread through the city with the speed of

lightning. Friends hastened to the spot, and O, what joy for some to

find the loved one safe!--what worse than agony for others to gaze upon

the features of their search all locked in ghastly death! With

conflicting emotions, Delancey told May Edgerton of his last meeting

with the strange fireman. A gush of thankfulness shot through her heart

that he had not perished that dark night in Hurl Gate, that he had met

an honorable doom. Hal preserved his cap as an incentive to goodness and

greatness, and longed to be worthy to place on his own the mysterious

device of the stranger.

The funeral obsequies of the deceased firemen were celebrated by all the

pomp esteem could propose, or grief bestow. Mary Edgerton stood by the

window as the long ranks of firemen filed round the park, all wearing

the badge of mourning, the trumpets wreathed in crape, the banners

lowered, the muffled drums beating the sad march to the grave. All the

flags of the city were at half-mast, the fire bells tolled mournfully,

and when, wearied with their sorrowful duty, their cadences for a while

died away in gloomy silence, the bells of Trinity took up the wail in

chiming the requiem to the dead. Everywhere reigned breathless silence,

broken only by these sounds of woe.

As May gazed on the slow procession, her eye was attracted by the emblem

on a fireman's cap--it was the same--an anchor and a cross! That form,

it could be no other, the face was turned towards her, it was the

stranger fireman! His very step bespoke the man, as with folded arms and

solemn tread he followed in the funeral cortege.

That evening Hal Delancey returned home, his countenance beaming with

joy, in strange contrast with the gloom of the day. "May, he is safe

again!" was his first exclamation, "He is a perfect Neptune, Vulcan,

master of fire and flood. Neither the surging eddies of Hurl Gate, nor

ghastly flames and crashing beams have been able to overcome him. How he

escaped he scarcely knows, and yet he does not bear a scar. So skilful,

so agile, so brave, so dominant over all dangers, we easily might fancy

him one of the old heathen deities!"

The next day there was to be some public literary exercise at the

university, to which the alderman's family had been invited. May

remembered Hal's once saying that he saw the fireman disappear somewhere

around that venerable building, so an early hour found her seated at her

father's side in the solemn-looking chapel, watching the arrival of the

spectators, but more particularly the entrance of the students. The

exercises commenced, still May had discovered no face resembling the

fireman of her dreams. Several essays were pronounced with ease and

grace, and the alderman took a fitting occasion to make a complimentary

remark to one of the officers of the institution who was seated near

him. "Exactly, exactly," echoed the professor, "but wait until young

Sherwood speaks!"

Marion Sherwood was called, and there arose from among the heavy folds

of the curtain that had almost entirely concealed him, a student who

advanced with the dignity of a Jupiter and the grace of an Apollo. Duty

was his theme. The words flowed in a resistless torrent from his lips.

Every thought breathed beauty and sublimity, every gesture was the

"poetry of motion." More than once did the entranced May Edgerton catch

the dark eyes of the orator fixed with an almost scrutinizing gaze upon

her face. The walls rang with applause as he resumed his seat; bouquets

were showered at his feet by beauty's hand, the excited students called

out "Sherwood, Sherwood!" he had surpassed himself. May scarcely heard a

word that followed. She was delighted to find that she had not deceived

herself, that in intellectual strength he equalled the promise of his

daring.

At the close of the exercises Marion Sherwood would have hastened away,

but the chancellor detained him. "Alderman Edgerton desires an

introduction to you, sir," deliberately remarked the chancellor. Marion

bowed. The alderman, after the first greeting, caught his hand. "I

cannot be deceived, sir; you are the gallant youth who so nobly rescued

my daughter from a terrible death." Again Marion bowed, hesitatingly,

striving to withdraw his hand from the alderman's grasp. "Will you not

permit me at least to thank you?" said Mr. Edgerton, in a wounded tone.

Young Sherwood had not the slightest intention of offending him, and

wished to hasten away only to escape observation. Now, however, with his

usual generosity, he forgot his own inclinations, and permitted himself

to be overwhelmed with expressions of heartfelt gratitude. He suddenly

checked the alderman's torrent of eloquence by requesting an

introduction to his daughter, who stood in the shadow of a pillar

awaiting her father. May Edgerton's one little sentence of earnest

thanks, speaking through every feature, was more grateful to the young

student than all her father's words. One mutual glance made them friends

in more than name. Now many an evening found Marion Sherwood whiling

away a student's idle hours in the luxuriant drawing-room of Mr.

Edgerton. May and he together read their favorite poets and the old

classic writers, his daring mind stored with philosophy, guiding her

wild imagination, her gentle goodness beguiling his holder thoughts into

the paths of virtue. O, it was blissful thus to mingle their day-dreams,

encircling themselves in rainbows of hope and stars lit by each other's

eyes, all breathing upon them beauty and blessings. May had already

wreathed the unknown fireman in all the attributes of virtue and of

manliness; happy was she to find them realized in Marion. And he, when

sitting in the shadows of the old marble pile, gazing up at the

brilliant sky, had pictured a being beautiful and good, whose soul could

comprehend the yearnings of his own, and this he found in May. Thus

their two souls grew together, until their thoughts, their hopes, their

very lives seemed one.

When Marion Sherwood requested of Mr. Edgerton the hand of his daughter,

and learned that she was not free, at least until she had met a certain

gentleman who was every day expected, his soul recoiled with a sudden

sting; he had so leaned upon this staff of happiness, and now it bent

like a fragile reed. May laughed in scorn that she should prefer any one

to Marion, but he learned that the stranger was talented, handsome,

wealthy, everything that a lady would desire in her favored suitor. If

he did not release her, she was not free, and could he be adamant to the

captivating charms of guileless, spiritual, beautiful May!

Scarcely had a day passed after Marion--whom May and her father knew

only as one of Nature's noblemen--had learned this wretched news which

sank into his heart like a poisoned dagger, when the vessel arrived

which bore Walter Cunningham, his mother and step-father from France. A

few miserable days passed--miserable they were to May and Marion, and

the evening was appointed when Cunningham and his parents should call at

the alderman's and May's fate, in part, at least, be decided. Marion

also was to be there. He arrived early, unknowing even the name of his

rival. He concealed himself among the flowers in the conservatory,

pacing up and down the fragrant, embowered walks with hasty step and

anxious heart. How fondly memory roved back over the jewelled past,

glistening with departed joys; how fearfully imagination strove to

penetrate the gloomy future; how tremblingly did he await the bursting

storm of the blackened present.

The guests had arrived, and Marion was summoned to the drawing-room.

With jealous care he had dressed himself in a fireman's costume made of

rich materials, which wonderfully became him, that it might remind May

what he had dared for her, and what had rendered them so dear unto each

other. He stood with folded arms, his eyes fixed upon May Edgerton,

scarcely daring to glance at the stranger. Suddenly he lifted his eves

to the pale face of his rival, which was bowed towards the floor.

"Walter!" he cried.

"Marion!" was the startled response.

"Choose, May! choose between us!" exclaimed Marion, with glistening eyes

and extended hand.

"With your leave, Mr. Cunningham," she said joyfully, speaking to

Walter, but placing her hand in that of Sherwood.

"Man proposes, God disposes." A weight was lifted from Cunningham's

heart. While abroad, negligent of his promise to his parents, he had

woed and won a lovely girl to whom he had been privately married a few

weeks before setting sail for home, with the promise of a speedy return.

So desirous did he find his parents that May Edgerton should be his

wife, that he did not dare confess his recreancy, but relied upon the

hope that May's affections were already engaged, and thus she would save

him in part from the anger of his parents. Why did not Mr. and Mrs.

Sherwood frown and scold at May's poor taste! Why! Because they loved

their son Marion quite as well his half-brother, Walter Cunningham, and

were easily reconciled to the change of suitors, especially when they

learned Walter had already secured a most estimable wife.

Marion had heard that his brother was engaged conditionally to some

"proud, beauty heiress" of New York, and was not at all displeased to

have him renounce all claim to his promised bride, when he found to his

astonishment that it was his own May Edgerton, whom Cunningham confessed

it would have been no difficult thing to love.

"Only to think of May Edgerton marrying a fireman!" exclaimed Hal

Delancey, in great glee, as the wedding, which passed off as all

weddings should, without a cloud upon heart, face, or sky.

May blushed and whispered to Marion that if ever there was a benevolent,

noble, trustworthy man upon the earth, it was a true-hearted fireman.

If my recital has enlarged one contracted soul, has persuaded one mind

to throw aside false prejudices, has taught one child of luxury to look

with sympathetic admiration on those who devote themselves so nobly to

the public good, has encouraged one bold heart to labor with more

exalted zeal in the cause of humanity, this "ower true tale" has not

been written in vain.

THE END