while her hands were for an instant stretched toward it, as if in recognition.

"Ha, you know this portrait, then?" asked the baron.

The fair stranger answered, in the most musical voice in the world, "Ah yes, yes-I know it indeed. It was the dearest treasure of our family, and now I see it again all will be well."

Struck by these mysterious words the baron prevailed on the young lady to explain them. She did so briefly and with an artless frankness that left no doubt of her truth.

"I sought the lady baroness," she said, timidly, Isolely to entreat that she would if possible re store the picture to us. Our family was impoverished in the late revolution; my father left us nothing save an honorable name. My brother, who is in the Austrian service, divides his lieutenant's pay with our mother, and it barely sufficed, with what we could earn by incessant toil and with the most careful frugality, to supply our wants. When we came to this city my mother was seized with illness; I could not earn so much as before and was obliged to sell one after another all the dearly prized relics of the family. That portrait was the last. At the time when it was sold my parent was lying in the delirium of fever and I forgot," she blushed deeply as she spoke, tain papers within the frame which are of value to none but ourselves.

66 cer

"It is only within a short time," continued the fair narrator, " that my mother has recovered sufficiently to miss the picture. When I was forced to confess the truth her grief was frightful to me. She has fallen since into a deep melancholy, being persuaded that we are to be destroyed-now that we have lost that precious heirloom by some calamity-and that my brother will be the first victim."

The young girl's words were interrupted by tears, but she struggled to compose herself and proceeded, "I could no longer bear to see the anguish of my unhappy parent. I made diligent inquiries after the purchaser of the picture,

heard your name and hastened hither. My request may seem too bold, but the lady baroness will understand- -"

"The baron does also," cried Wahlen, deeply moved. How could I wish to detain what you so justly prize? The picture is yours; permit me only the privilege of seeing it sometimes at your house, for I have really a great admiration for it."

The young girl thanked him with one of those looks which reward for any sacrifice. "My brother," she said, casting down her eyes, "will repay by your permission the sum paid for the portrait. I know not how to thank you, sir, for the favor and kindness you have shown, unless by inviting you to come and behold my mother's joy at the restoration of her treasure."

He

This was just what the baron wished. summoned the servants and ordered them to remove the picture, while he offered the young lady his arm to escort her home.

The painting was placed in the apartment of th invalid lady P, while she was yet in the slumber in which Katharine, so was her daughter named, had left her. It was not long, however, before she awoke. Her eyes fell on the recovered prize and in rapture she exclaimed, My child my Katharine! We shall be happy again!"

Her exclamation was prophetic. That the baron obtained leave to visit her frequently was natural, after the favor he had conferred; that he should be charmed with the lovely Katharine was equally natural. The recovery of lady Pthe wooing and the marriage which took place at the end of the year followed also as matters of course. The fateful picture was restored to its place in Wahlen's library, till the marriage of his brother-in law, who claimed it as the representation of the family. To compensate himself for the loss the baron had his fair young wife painted in the same costume, and always insisted that she bore a striking resemblance to the some time Queen of England.

"By thy side would I be,

My life I'll give for thee,

Then wherefore leav'st thou me ?"

He questioned loudly.

"Ay, for thy sake I'd die,

Or in a dungeon lie,

And though all these should fly,
Yet would I never."
Rudely the warm words rang,
And from the couch he sprang,

As at the trumpet's clang,

Bold, ardent ever.

Slow moved each solemn shade,

Fitful the lamp-light played,

In ghostly twist and braid,

From floor to ceiling; Couch, board and clumsy fold Of hangings quaint and old, Grey with the dust and mould, But half revealing.

Earnest was Peter's vow,
But on the Saviour's brow
Settled a shadow now,
Pity and sorrow;
Zealous, brave, fond and true,
That loyal heart he knew,
But a quick glance he threw
On the stern morrow.

Pity and sorrow twined;
Still, was the fallen mind
Frail and to frailty blind,

Stained and sin-shattered;
Though, on that darkened breast,
Once by God's signet pressed,
Did some rare jewels rest,

His hand had scattered.

Mildly, low answered He,
"Sayest, thou wilt die for me?
Ere midnight's darkness flee,
Morn's light is shown thee,

Ere to the waking sky,

Thrice shrills the watch-cock's cry,

Loud will thy lips deny

That thou hast known me."

THERE is, generally, little to interest a boy at school, and particularly if that school be situated in the midst of a pleasant country village, and the time a Summer afternoon, when the sun is pouring his glowing beams through the open windows and every breath of air is laden with the fragrance it has gathered from the gardens which surround the homely temple of learning. There is little, we say, to interest a boy in the dry routine of school room duties-either in making bad imitations of round hand copies or overcoming the difficulties of the multiplication table. Such at least appeared to be the universal feeling of my fellow schoolmates when, on such an afternoon, we cast wistful looks at the green fields beyond and prepared, as we had previously arranged, to present a humble petition to the master to be permitted to leave a little earlier than usual.

The schoolmaster-poor old Bray!-was a very worthy person, albeit a strict disciplinarian. He was a remarkably little man, with a very red face, and wore a very wiry-haired wig. He moreover never flogged a boy except in the legitimate position, by having him first hoisted on the back of another, and thus, as he used to say, presenting him a fair mark.' If anything, Mr. Bray was a little too much given to flogging, and although this was considered by the parents of the boys his only fault, it was just such a one as no other virtues could redeem, so far at least as they were concerned.

Master Bray was a good man though, in the common acceptation of the term. He was a local preacher too, and several evenings of the week and three times of a Sunday, the schoolroom became a temple of worship, and he edified the people of the village with his expoundings of the dark passages of scripture. As to the amount of light he threw upon the said passages we are not prepared to say; for at that time we were a wilful and a bad boy, and the repugnance we felt to the school-room during the six days of the week, was increased to an unholy horror on the seventh; and so we were deprived of master Bray's scriptural light. However we refer to him only as a schoolmaster and as such we are free to admit that, bating the floggings, he was a very good, kind, pains-taking, patient old gentleman.

On the afternoon in question I was deputed a committee of one to present the said petition and, with many inward misgivings, slunk up to the side of his high stool and handed in the important document. If brevity be the soul of excellence as well as of wit our petition must have been unqualifiedly good, for it contained only the following words :

"If you please-it is so fine we should like to leave an hour before the time; and as in duty bound we will ever pray," &c., &c. We probably intended to say play, and in that case, doubtless, we should have been much nearer the truth.

Mr. Bray adjusted his spectacles and having quickly digested the contents of the petition, cried out in a sharp voice which was a damper to our hopes:

"Who desires to leave his studies before the proper time?"

There was a general silence for the space of a minute, when Bobby Tremaine rose and replied, faintly:

-

"The sunbeam is on her grave now; may I go?"

Mr. Bray drew forth his pocket handkerchief and blew his nose violently, and, while his lip trembled with emotion, we just caught the words: "Go-my poor boy-go."

Bobby disappeared quickly, and a loud rap on the desk gave notice that we were about to know the result of our request.

There are circumstances under which the most repulsive persons will seem if not beautiful at least good-looking, and as we looked at the schoolmaster, who, fixing his feet firmly on one of the rounds of the stool, rose to speak to us, his whole appearance seemed to have undergone a change, as though a sunbeam had shone upon his heart and given to his nature softness and beauty. The tone of his voice was tender and musical-his manner kind and paternal, and with difficulty he prevented the tears from breaking the boundaries he had fixed for them.

"My boys," he said, "I will give you the indulgence you desire this time, and I don't think you will take advantage of your old master's kindwho is moved by the affliction of one of your schoolmates. The poor youth, who is by this

ness,