MY NAME. THERE was a tree-a flourishing tree Stood by a gentle stream, And its noble stem, fair, strong, and free, Became so precious a thing to me, That it haunted my midnight dream. For I loved to look on its branches bright So graceful and so green, And I loved to watch the golden light Come rushing down the sapphire height To sleep in its leafy screen. I sat at its root and sang its praise, And wished I were a bird, whose days Could be spent on its boughs in roundelays, Far richer than my poor rhyme. I carved my name on that fair tree With deep and earnest mark, And something of a triumph glee Came over my youthful heart to see The letters live on the bark. I wrought each line with doting care, And thought, as the last was done, That in after years I might come back there And see how that brave tree still would bear My name in the summer sun. Fond child of Hope! I went again When a lengthened span had passed, And I sought the tree, with a busy brain, That pictured the letters as clear and plain As when I beheld them last. But my spirit met a chilling cloud In that cherished memory spot, For the name of which I had been so proud Had been hidden long in a rugged shroud, And was but a graceless blot. The letters graved with joyous care Had lost all shapely trace, The tree had grown more grand and fair, But my poor name-oh nothing was there Save a blurred and knotted place! I stood and gazed-and thus, I said, Has many a trusting one Been proud of the impress they have made They thought they had carved their name on a thing They have fondly dreamt of finding it there But alas! Time plays a guileful part, And many have lived to see, With Disappointment's baneful smart, Their name blotted out in some loved heart As mine from the cherished tree. ELIZA COOK. DIAMOND DUST. THE aspersions of libellers may be compared to fuller's earth, which, though it may seem to dirt you at first, only leaves you more pure and spotless when it is rubbed off. To be thrown upon one's own resources is to be cast into the very lap of fortune, for our faculties then undergo a development, and display an energy, of which they were previously unsusceptible. IN the library of the world, men have hitherto been ranged according to the form, the size, and the binding. The time is coming when they will take rank and order according to their contents and intrinsic merits. EVERY man has two Arabias in his heart. The one full of freshness, fertility, and odour; the other sandy, arid, and desert. GREAT businesses turn on a little pin. Love matches are often formed by people, who pay for a month of honey with a life of vinegar. THE character and mind of the person who commends us should be considered, before we set a value on his esteem. HE who fears not is to be feared. THINK not of doing as you like; do as you ought to do. POETS are the chemists of sentiment, who analyze and purify it. Ir opinion has cried your name up, let modesty cry your heart down, lest you deceive it, or it deceives you. There is no less danger in a great name than in a bad one; and no less honour in deserving praise, than in enduring it. ANTIQUITY-the stalking-horse on which knaves and bigots invariably mount, when they want to ride over the timid and credulous. THE every-day cares and duties which men call drudgery are the weights and counterpoises of the clock of Time, giving its pendulum a truer vibration, and its hands a regular motion; and when they cease to hang upon the wheels, the pendulum no longer swings, the hands no longer move, the clock stands still. WE never can be hurt but by ourselves. If our reason be what it ought, and our actions according to it, we are invulnerable. HE that lets the sun go down upon his wrath, and goes angry to bed, is like to have the devil for his bed. fellow. THE hypocrite is the deadly nightshade of humanity. IMMODERATE Sorrow is a species of tardy suicide. DESPAIR is the offspring of fear, laziness, and impatience. FORM is good, but not formality. We have yet to learn that the difficulty of a task imposed by duty-a difficulty too often of our own increasing in the case of temper-can excuse us from attempting it. We stay the stream!-we embank the sea! Are human passions alone-those fearful torrents of destruction-those terrific, devastating floods, destroying the immortal with the mortal-to be left without a check or bound? BETTER kind friends than cold kindred. NEVER make a friend of a coward; his heart is a dung-hill, while suspicion is the only cock that ever crows on it. Printed and Published for the Proprietor, by JOHN OWEN CLARKE, (of No. 8, Canonbury Villas, in the Parish of St. Mary, Islington, in the County of Middlesex) at his Printing Office, No. 3, Raquet Court, Fleet Street, in the Parish of St. Bride, in the City of London, Saturday, April 20, 1850. BEGGING PHILANTHROPY. THE great art of begging has probably now reached its climax in this country. As particular centuries are distinguished for the development of the several arts which have characterized them: as, for instance, one century is distinguished as the century of pointed gothic architecture, another of the high style in painting, another of missal and manuscript illumination, and so on,-probably, in future times, the nineteenth century may emphatically be characterized as the century of begging. We speak not now of the begging of the mere poor: their "looped and windowed raggedness" has, in all ages, appealed to the charity of givers, very much in the same manner as now; and we leave others to deal with this branch of the question. But we speak of the genteel beggars-the respectable, well-dressed artists, who come before us on gilt-edged note-paper, sealed with a crest; those who, with the sweetest possible smile, insinuate under our eyes a subscription list headed by a lord, or a nicely ruled pass-book, each page of which is headed by a sum set down in pounds, from fifty downwards; those consummate tacticians, who fear no rebuff, are ready to encounter any degree of resistance, to remove all manner of objections on the part of the Beggee, and whose gentle persistence is usually rewarded by a most reluctant subscription. Now the cause is a favourite city Charity, under royal or noble patronage-now it is a particular fund-or it is a bazaar, or a ball, or a fete, for some charitable purpose. Reams of prospectuses and circulars are printed and distributed, and when the harvest comes to be reaped, it is really astonishing to find how productive it has proved. The host of active agencies employed on such occasions is immense. Paragraphs (accompanying advertisements, which are paid for,) are got into the leading newspapers; committees are formed, with governors and governesses, chairmen and chairwomen, secretaries and treasurers-habit making the working of this moneygetting machinery quite perfect. It is soon at full work; pass-books and subscription-lists, in the hands of ladies and gentlemen, are diligently performing their circuits from door to door, and from street to street. The presentees thereof are quite eloquent in the advocacy of the cause for which they beg; and the habit of giving so [PRICE 1d. grows upon people--the example of others giving proves so contagious upon them, that, whether they can afford to give or not, people subscribe, and their names appear in the printed lists accordingly. Then there springs up suddenly a Testimonial mania! Such a host of subscriptions are got up, that one would think everybody was going to give a testimonial to everybody. A friend steps in-"Fine morning, Sir!" "Very!" "I think, Sir, you are a personal friend of Mr. A. ?" "I know Mr. A. very well, and have been obliged to him on several occasions." "Ah! you are just the man I wanted, Sir!" "How?" "Why, his friends propose to present him with a testimonial, and we wish you to head the list!" Here is a stunner! But how to edge off! You refuse to head the list, on some plea of modesty perhaps; but, you cannot refuse to subscribe, for there are the "obligations," already confessed. The kind gentleman, who has called, will take your subscription under any conditions. You cannot shake him off. You are "milked ;" and forthwith your name is advertized in the newspapers. "B. C. - Esq. In several recent instances, it has happened that the man, towards whose testimonial you have thus subscribed, is little better than a swindler-he has been robbing the poor through the medium of a Savings' Bank, or he has been fleecing the public by his crafty mismanagement of some Railway Company. But the begging has succeeded, and he has meanwhile got his testimonial. The cause of these beggars is always quite a model cause, whether it be in a small way; as for instance, to buy a new horse for some serious carter, (whose old horse has just died,) left with a wife and eight small children unprovided for; or to help some equally worthy man, desirous of emigrating, to get to Australia; or to buy a mangle for an old worn-out servant, her mistress being the beggar, a most charitable woman at other people's expense; or to set up some deserving man in business, you finding the capital; all are equally excellent and pressing cases, and eloquence and persuasion rarely fail in their object. Oftener, it is some great public cause; and the duty is urged upon you of forthwith paying down your money. Societies of all kinds-religious, social, and political-are organized for the purpose of collecting and expending the contributions of the givers. Many are the pleas to give urged upon you: you must give "according as it hath been pros- advancement, education, and progress; in giving them a pered you in the world;" you must not give because Mr. fair stage, and a free opportunity of well-doing; in So and So has given, and what will people say if such abolishing needless restraint, removing practical wrongs, as you do not give?" you must give, to show the power of and giving up all unfair advantages. The benevolent must the voluntary principle; you must give because a rival have courage and clear perception. Let them not delude sect is giving, and we cannot be behind them. The themselves with thinking that they are doing their duty begging-box is placed everywhere-in the church-on by the suffering classes, when they are merely giving the banker's counter-in the lobby of the private dwel- their money. The rich can help the poor in a far better ling. Pound-cards and shilling-cards are distributed way: they can do them justice. Nor will opportunities among friends to be filled up; young ladies solicit be wanting at all times, for the display of the moral and young gentlemen for money, and young gentlemen social amenities of life. All classes can help each otheryoung ladies. Thus we have the public running about the wise can instruct the ignorant-the strong can help asking each other for subscriptions, and millions of the weak-the successful can aid the struggling; and all money are yearly gathered in this way, from the willing this can be done without superciliousness, without and unwilling-from those who give because they like, 'condescension," without the air of "doing charity." and from those who give because they cannot, dare not, Above all, the influential classes can aid the poorer or "do not like" to refuse. Let any man be so unfor- classes in all efforts at co-operation for their own imtunate as to be selected by his fellow-citizens as a provement. They can plant associations, and invite all common-councilman, an alderman, a mayor, or a member men to join as partners, not as mere recipients, as, for of Parliament, and he is immediately pounced upon by instance, in the movements that are now set on foot for all the charity seekers, by all the beggars, public and the Improvement of the dwellings of the Industrious private. Begging letters come pouring in upon him, Classes; the Freehold Land Movement, Building Soand his door is visited by men and women with pass-cieties, Benefit and Life Assurance Societies; these probooks. He does not like to be "shabby," and he ceed on the true principle of philanthropic action, subscribes to a most fearful extent. If he is not an enabling the poor to be their own helpers, and their ambitious man, he takes the first opportunity of freeing own elevators. Many similar movements might be himself of office; and looks back upon the period during instanced. which he held it, as a time of painful victimization. 66 Yet, the merely begging and distributing mania is still Now, many of the causes, in which such a host of far too rife. It is the fashion of the day, among those philanthropic beggars are thus engaged, are no doubt very who do not see below the surface of society and are conpraiseworthy and proper; and the objects they have in tented with treating surface symptoms after the manview are just and benevolent. Yet, the philanthropy ner of quacks. One mischievous result, in addition to has usually a very seedy side, which is too frequently over- those above alluded to, is the host of impostors, which looked. In the first place, the money-getting philan- the general encouragement given to begging calls into thropists proceed upon the false assumption, that good existence. Joseph Ady is but the type of a large class works are to be performed mainly through the agency of of knaves, who live by taking advantage of the charitable money; and "Give! give! give!" is their cry. But, the disposition of the public. They sometimes cheat the greatest and most beneficial changes in society have never, unwary by the bait of "something to their advantage." in any age, been accomplished by means of money. At other times they get up agonizing pictures of distressMoney will not elevate and ennoble a man's aspirations, represent themselves as literary persons, in the last exnor root out the evils which afflict him. Money will fail tremity of hunger, and rarely fail to extract large sums to accomplish any great moral reform; money cannot from the benevolent money-givers. Only the other day, develope the best powers of men; money cannot teach a scoundrel of this large class hired a furnished lodging love, cannot inculcate virtue, cannot propagate faith. in the name of one of our most distinguished authoresses, A few earnest hearts will do more in any of these works and from thence addressed letters, couched in the most than a thousand purses of gold. Paul planted the Chris-piteous and eloquent language, to all the high Dignitaries tian religion over half an empire, while he kept himself of State, to lords, ladies, bishops, and other people of by tent-making. Look at the great moral and social revo-distinction; and, in the course of a few days, letters full lutions of the world: none of them were effected by money, of money came flowing in. The knave was discovered, least of all by subscriptions and collections. We would and decamped; but, in the meantime he had played have men moved by a resolute purpose, and an earnest upon the weakness of the benevolent, and taxed it for his sense of right, of truth, and of justice. It is not possible to vile purposes. This system of begging has now grown elevate a depressed class by presenting the several mem-into a trade, and there are thriving beggars who keep bers thereof with tickets for soup; nor to remedy the mischiefs of social oppression, by providing the victims with Elizabethan poor-houses. Remove the hindrances to self-help, which stand in the way of the poor man, and he can dispense with your alms. Be just to him, and he will not seek for your charity. It is just possible-nay, very probable, that in attempting to remedy social suffering by the distribution of money, you are only feeding the evil-meddling instead of mending, and tinkering up the effects while you are continuing the causes which produce it. Moreover, the fact of accepting charity is in all cases injurious to that self-respect and pride of character, which are the springs of all true and manly action. And when this charity is offered in lieu of justice, and in postponement of its higher claims, it is not only a mockery and a delusion, but, it approximates very much to the character of an insult. their staff of clerks and book-keepers. One cannot help loving the tenderness of heart of the feeling classes, who are thus remorselessly victimized by the beggars; although at the same time we cannot help deploring the superficiality of philanthropy, in which we fear in too many cases it has its origin. A GHOST STORY. LOUDLY the tempest raged over mountain and valley, forest and plain. The wind rushed and roared through the tall and gloomy firs, as though the spirits of the storm were playing their maddest music, in wild joy that the earth had become as it were the field of their boisterous sports. On flew the gale over the dark and dreary Let the benevolent then feel, that the best proof which country, now whirling through the streets of a busy they can give of their earnestness in the cause of the town, now scaring some peaceful village, howling in the poor, is, not in bestowing gifts of money upon them, but chimneys, screeching among the queer old gables, and in repealing all those restrictions which hinder their self-making the rusty weather-cocks creak again. Bolus had it all his own way, and was beside himself with turbulence. Far different was the scene in the comfortable study of worthy pastor Barrenkamp, where he sat with his wife, the good Frau pastorin, and two of his old friends-the schoolmaster, and the steward of the manor. A quiet conversation was going on, interrupted from time to time by the whiffs from three pipes, and the sips which the smokers took from the tankards of warm beer that stood on the massive oaken table. The fire blazed brightly on the hearth, and except when a fiercer blast or heavier gust of rain shook the window, the talk went on as though the party sought to forget the tempestuous weather outside. It was during a pause, while the pastor rose and drawing aside the curtain peered out into the darkness, that the steward said: "You did quite right, Frau pastorin, in being a little out of the common way to-day, and taking up your quarters in this snug apartment, for the great room is anything but comfortable in such weather. Yet it is worse cutside; and at times one cannot help fancying that strange words and spoken tones are heard in the howling wind-I should not like to cross the churchyard to-night." "Not cross the churchyard?" replied the pastor, with a smile, as he returned from the window, "what are you afraid of, friend steward? Ha, ha, a man of your years-" My best Herr pastor," rejoined the steward, shifting hither and thither on his seat, "with me it is not a question of fear, I am not a wicked man myself, and do not believe in ghosts, why then should I be afraid? Yet-" "Yet," said the pastor laughing, with a playful glance at the speaker, "yet! our good steward leaves a back door open." "Nay," was the answer, "I meant only with respect to the churchyard. I know as well as any other that the dead rest quietly there below, without coming up at night to sit upon the cold mounds and play at hide and seek behind the white tomb-stones; but I purposely avoid any useless excitement, which always causes me a head-ache and discomfort afterwards. There is something disagreeable to fancy that you see forms in white garments, flitting about among the waving willows and shrubs in the dim twilight, and that every minute somebody is coming behind you. For the same reason, I do not like to sit alone in a room at night with my back towards a half-open door. I know well enough that no one is in the other room, and that no one can come to me from thence, and yet, strange to say, I cannot rest until I either turn myself round, or shut the door." Presently the two guests departed, resisting all inducements to pass the night at the parsonage, on account of the weather: the wife began to remove the drinking vessels from the table, suddenly she uttered an exclamation of terror, and one of the jugs falling from her hand broke into shivers on the floor. "What's the matter with you?" asked the pastor, turning hastily round to his wife, who stood ashy pale, listening with intense attention towards the window. Nothing however was to be heard outside but the wind, and occasional gusts of rain from the driving clouds. "It was again that same cry for help," she replied in a hollow whisper, "the same tone and-Heinrich-as I hope for Heaven's aid in my last need-it sounded exactly like my father's voice." She hid her face in her hands, and a shudder ran through her whole frame. Folly," replied her husband petulantly, lifting his black cap from off his left ear, "folly! the silly tales have excited you, and now you begin to see and hear ghosts. We will go to bed, it is sleeping-time; and tomorrow, with the bright daylight all your sad and anxious thoughts will pass away." But the pastorin's feelings had been too much worked upon to be quieted by soothing words. "I feel," she said, "the schoolmaster is quite right, there are supernatural powers; it cannot be otherwise. For when we know that the smallest drop of water is inhabited by innumerable living creatures, how dare we presume that the illimitable ether-space, which surrounds the universe, is hollow and empty. No, it is not possible; round about, within and above us something moves and works. Distant objects affect us but little, perhaps because our nerves are not sufficiently delicate to become sensible of them; I can scarcely describe my idea, but it seems to me that some are in closer affinity between us-perhaps magnetic -than others, and so act upon us as a foreboding consciousness." "I cannot comprehend you at all," replied the pastor with a smile. "It is now the third night," continued his wife, "that I feel this same anxious unrest. You know that on the first evening, just before bed-time, I received that letter from home telling us of my father's illness." Only an obstinate cold, as your mother stated, which probably has quite left him by this time." "No, not a cold, Heinrich, it is a worse case than that, or why did she send the letter express, and why her subsequent silence? The intelligence could have been here in nine hours by railway." "Come, child," retorted Barrenkamp, "let us go to bed, and to-morrow we will talk quietly over the matter. See, the wind at last has swept the sky clear, and the moon shines with friendly light in at the window, when the storm abates we shall have fine weather. Come, little one, be my brave wife: you surely are not terrified at ghost stories?" As was to be expected, this turn to the conversation on such a night led on to the supernatural. If the pastorin attributed phantoms to the workings of a lively imagination, the schoolmaster on the contrary declared his belief in forebodings and warnings; and one and the other had "No, Heinrich, not at ghost stories," whispered the some fearful mystery to relate, or some plausible expla- Frau, staring with almost lustreless eyes into the corner nation to offer. The steward had once encountered a of the room, now scarcely illuminated by the diminishing phantom on the skirts of a forest, which there was every lamp-light-" certainly not afraid of tales, I have already reason to believe was that of his brother, who, when a nearly forgotten what the steward and schoolmaster resoldier, had been killed and buried on the spot where lated, but it is in myself; and I feel that now, at this very the shade disappeared; and the schoolmaster harrowed moment, something is taking place among my friends. the feelings of his auditors by an account of what befel However much I resist, still I cannot get the image of a gay young lieutenant, who one night called on his my father out of my mind. I see him continually, with image to step forth from a large looking-glass, before pale and mournful face, in his green dressing gown, which he stood in a lonely room. In one of the pauses and black cap, pass and repass before me, twirling his the good Frau started up, pale with alarm, declaring she steel watch chain, which he did only when sick or sufferhad heard a faint cry for help at a distance; the school-ing; and so plainly do I hear the gentle clink, that I master tried to persuade her it was but the over-excitement of imagination, and the pastor looked again out of the window, but saw nothing except the rudely shaken branches of trees in the dismal darkness. have looked behind me many times to see what could be the cause-but it sounds only in my ear-you-the others have not perceived it." $ "You are excited to night, child, that is the sole cause," answered the pastor soothingly; "come, once railway conductor for expedition, that you may receive to bed; it is late, and I am tired: besides the lamp it to day. Comfort my poor sister. will go out, all the oil seems to be gone." more, As he ceased, a low, plaintive tone was heard, which sounded like a distant cry of distress,-whether from the court-yard or the house itself was not easy to decide-in the noise of the yet violent wind. Suddenly too, the flame of the lamp expired, and the pastor, who, in consequence of his wife's alarm, could not himself repress an uneasy feeling, was about to fetch a candle that stood in the adjoining chamber, when the Frau seized him hastily and convulsively by the arm, and with a voice half-choked by terror whispered, while pointing to the door with out-stretched arm-" See, see there!" The two were standing in the shadow of the wall in the now darkened room, while a single moon-ray fell on the opposite staircase door; but, dimmed by a thin curtain, the objects on which it shone were confused and indistinct. Nevertheless the pastor and his wife saw the polished latch lift up, and the usually creaking door open slowly without the least noise, and a form glide in, whose aspect made the blood in their veins stand still,-there was the green dressing-gown, the black cap, the tall pale figure. The pastorin stood, her eyes almost starting from their sockets, her mouth half-open, her arm still outstretched towards the spectre, while her husband no longer able to dispute the evidence of his own eyes, remained transfixed in bewildered surprise. In another moment, the hitherto motionless form moved slowly across the dark side of the room, and a sound was heard like the clink of steel against steel. Barrenkamp felt a tighter grasp on his arm, and possessed by a vague terror scarcely knew whether to stand still or rush forwards. Then his wife's hold slackened, and she would have fallen but for his ready support. When he turned again towards the apparition it had disappeared, and the moon shone calmly into the quiet room. His wife had fainted; he carried her to the bed in the next room, and, hurriedly lighting the candle, hastened back to the study, down the stairs, along all the passages, examined every lock, found the house-door fast, crossed the court-yard, and knocked at the sexton's chamber, but in vain, the old man had been long asleep and was not to be roused. The stillness was unearthly, and yet there seemed to be a flitting and whispering, and the sweep of rustling garments went up and down the passages and stairs. A shudder seized the usually fearless man, and it was only by an effort that he kept down a choking sensation in his breast. "It must be the wind," he said, as though to check his alarm, at the same time flying rather than walking back to his room. Here, however, he recovered himself; and, having woke the maid to attend to her mistress, he again searched the whole house, and went out to the yard gate, but nothing appeared to have been disturbed, and the mysterious apparition was still unaccounted for. As soon as daylight appeared, and his wife had sunk into a quiet and refreshing sleep, he shut himself up in his study, the whole forenoon, to arrange and seal various papers and writings. Shortly after dinner the postman brought a letter. Barrenkamp tore it open, looked at the signature-it was from his sister-in-law, and with glistening eyes read the hastily-written and scarcely legible lines : Dear Brother-in-law.-Providence visited us yestereven in a melancholy and terrible manner. Between ten and half-past my dear father died, apparently from a ruptured blood-vessel. Impart the awful news to Eliza with caution. Ah, his last earnest desire was to see her once more before his end. Come over here if possible, but Eliza will hardly be able as yet to endure your absence. I write in the night, and send the letter by a Yours, REGINE. Two months went by: the cold and bare dreariness of winter had given place to the soft breath, and lovely green of early spring. It was pleasant and cheerful in the parsonage garden, where under a sweet-blooming apple-tree sat the pastor and his wife, the latter but just arisen from a long and severe illness. Her strength of constitution had at last conquered the burning fever, and her feeble look revived at the sight of the active and glorious world. But, the melancholy of the convalescent, her heavy hour-long dreaming and brooding, the terror which seized her if left alone for a minute in the evenings, all too plainly showed she had not forgotten the fearful hour of terror, but that the painful recollection yet remained and preyed upon her. This care and anxiety troubled Barrenkamp's heart, as he sat holding his wife's thin hand, and looking sorrowfully on her pale features, at the same time abstaining carefully from any remark which might renew her anguish. He had acquainted no one with the events of that dreadful night, except his old friend, the schoolmaster, who now believed more firmly than ever in warnings and omens. The worthy couple were still sitting in silence when the lower garden gate opened, and Munzer, the aged sexton, came with the schoolmaster along the broad central path, and both, on their approach, cordially congratulated the patient on her first appearance out of doors after her convalescence, while the old grave-digger delivered a letter to the pastor which required immediate attention. The good man perused it hastily, and then said, as he rose from his seat and turned towards the house : "I shall have the answer ready in a few minutes Munzer, and you can take it back with you at once. Stay both of you for a little while with my wife, and help her to pass the time; she will like to hear the village gossip again." "How do you do, Sexton?" said the pastorin, holding out her white and shrunken hand-"you look well; this spring weather seems to agree with you. Sit down by me-and you, schoolmaster, pray take a seat-how does your garden come on, your cow, and your little field? We have not seen one another for a long time." "Ah, best Frau pastorin," replied the grey-haired sexton, taking the offered band, "not for eight whole weeks, not since that night when the storm tore up the old linden tree in the churchyard by the roots; and blew down Nebbeck's chimney-stack, yonder in the village, which came near falling on his youngest child. That was an awful night in all respects, and for my part I shall never forget it as long as I live. You, Frau pastorin, fell ill then, and were obliged to lay by. I remember quite well how on the next morning-but good heaven, is anything the matter with you?" "After all, it is rather too cool for you out here, Frau pastorin," interrupted the schoolmaster quickly, wishing to cut as short as possible a conversation of such a tendency. "You would be better in-doors in your warm room. Perhaps I may lead you in?" "Thank you, thank you, Herr schoolmaster," answered the invalid, holding her handkerchief for a few moments to her eyes. It was the first time, since her father's death, that the fatal evening had been mentioned in her presence, and she was unwilling that the emotions thereby excited should be noticed. "It was only a passing faintness," she said, with a half smile; "my former strength is not yet come back; it will soon be over. But do not be uneasy, Munzer, you said that night was an awful one, did you-did anything happen to you that you will not be able to forget it?" |