and sugar and various condiments necessary in the composition of what all foreigners call "ponche."

D'Oraine heeded not his occupation, nor his invitation to partake of the beverage, but continued pacing along the room, the kettle steaming and hissing more gaily than before. The unhappy man paused suddenly, and by a rapid and violent movement overturned it with his foot. "Are you mad!" exclaimed the affrighted story-teller, springing back from the scalding water.

"No," replied D'Oraine, with a scowl not easily forgotten; "I am not, but you try to make me so;-did I not tell you that noise reminded me of my mother; and still you suffered it to continue!"

He seized a tumbler, and drank off its contents before he replaced in on the table, then sat down, covered his face with his hands, and remained silent. It was a silence his companion did not care to interrupt. The rain pattered against the window; the fire, nearly extinguished by the water, emitted a low, sullen, whispering noise, fizzing and crackling occasionally-a dissatisfied accompaniment to the moaning winds which roamed unceasingly outside the house.

Suddenly he raised his head, and observed that his companion was adding to the spirits already in his glass.

"A little more," he said, "and you will not be able to tell me what-did not you say, or did I dream it, that you had some new idea-some plan-some-what was it ?"

"Bah!-it is this!" replied Muskito, slapping a huge flask-" it is this that engenders good fellowship ;-talk of the effects of good-heartedness,-they are nothing when compared to those produced by good brandy !---try another, and another :--think of the play-house song we heard what was it?

"Oh, let us the canakin clink.””

"Did not you say you had an idea?"

"An idea!" repeated the active Muskito,--“ one idea! ---ay, a thousand! Why, what poverty do you suppose could come upon me to restrict me to one idea?---but try her on this tack, and try it at once; or if you want courage, why I'll try my skill; though, certainly, the reception she gave me, when I waited on her here, was not particularly encouraging; she seemed to forget that I had the

honour of addressing her in London; moreover, that old hag, Max-Max---something, assured me I had a pretty fair chance."

"Did you pay her for the assurance?"

"No, I PROMISED,---I make it a rule never to pay beforehand; it is a bad custom, and denotes mistrust,---nor after ---because that betrays punctuality, which is a most ungentlemanly habit!”

"What is it you propose?"

"Tell her that her mother is dying or dead, and that she can have no chance of seeing her for the last time, unless she writes and prevails on her uncle to do what you have before required.”

D'Oraine shook his head.

“Or tell her that her mother is gone mad, raving mad, and that nothing would so soon restore her to her senses as having her daughter with her-work that well up, and my life upon it, it will tell; talk to her about strait-waistcoats and cruel keepers---and regrets"

"I think," said D'Oraine, "we may leave our regrets out of the question."

"Well, perhaps so. Only this, you must be promptmust be decided,—no shilly-shally. Every hour our danger increases, and, though no human being but Jaques suspects there is a woman in the house, though in our present disguise we are totally unknown—and believed, by any of the few who see us occasionally pass and repass to our solitary house, to be diametrically opposite to what we are, still it is impossible, in a country. where the law creeps in at every keyhole and every nook, to be always on the alert: it is not upon only one account that we dread apprehension, but on many. I think the mad story would rouze her."

"I fear it would be no story."

66

Perhaps that fact would quiet your conscience?" sneered Muskito.

"Thank you,—my conscience is, I dare say, as quiet as other people's,” replied D'Oraine, in pretty much the same style and tone.

"Bon! mon ami! But do not let us quarrel-we are embarked together-let us get the vessel into port, or rather out of port. A tithe of what we had a right to expect from this tour de force would send us across the Atlantic, with many more letters of recommendation than I have seen for some months. You have never lived

among the Yankees as I have! It is a glorious country! Here I'll drink your success, my friend, and Yankle Doodle !"

"A fine country for a young man," observed D'Oraine, "but not for one who has grown nearly grey amongst the luxuries and gaieties of civilized Europe. However, there is no other country left than that far off refuge for the destitute-so go we must; but it will be cruel to tamper with her in this manner."

"It is almost time for you to talk of age," said Muskito, contemptuously, "when you drivel as you do! What is over you?"

"A shadow of my mother's nature, I suppose," replied D'Oraine, sighing heavily. "I have been thinking of her to-night-and she has not crossed my mind for many a long day before."

"Psha! Come, man, take a hair of the dog who bit you so wofully last night,—draw in to the table—there, that will do. We men of desperate fortunes are ever desperately glorious! The excitement is worth the danger. You see I never talk of the girl's beauty. We are past the age for that it is the gold-the gold! Come, bear a bright heart, man! Now you must screw it up—and keep a rousing spirit! Nothing cooled by her distress, stick to your point! Hark! Why the wind rises-there again! The boughs of that old tree lash against the lattice. She is moving in her room.”

I am glad of it. She sits all day, or stands-her brow pressed against that cold window," said D'Oraine,

"And last night I vow she never slept. I was watching for you-and there she went-pace-pace-tramp-tramp up and down the room,-like some caged animal. Again! -how the old tree creaks!—and yet the wind seems lower than it was an hour past."

"Hush!" exclaimed D'Oraine, starting to his feet, and changing colour. "Hush!-did you not hear a noise?" "No-nor did you,” said Muskito, though he turned pale, for every trifling noise alarmed him. "What noise did you imagine?

"A scream -a suppressed scream."

"Had it been suppressed," replied Muskito, " you had not heard it, it is but the creaking of the great chair upstairs the Covenanter's chair the old dame called it, of whom we took this house."

"Are your pistols loaded?" inquired D'Oraine, wiping the moisture from his brow,

"Ay," replied his comrade.

"I don't see them," he persisted.

"Shall I put them under your nose?" inquired Muskito, sharply.

"Do," replied D'Oraine.

enemy's country."

"You know we live in an

"There, then," said the other, as he flung them down; "and now let us decide about this girl once and for ever!"

I HAVE endeavoured to describe persons as they really are, and circumstances as they really occurred,―not to create human beings, endow them with the attributes either of angels or their opposites,—and, having plunged them into all manner of difficulties, suffer them to extricate themselves after the most approved manner of ro

mance.

Mary was no heroine to sing her sorrows to the midnight air-tear her dishevelled tresses-and, kneeling, "worry the heavens" with fruitless supplications. As she sat in the dim chamber allotted to her use, she seemed bowed down, but not overwhelmed, by sorrow. Her hair was banded from her forehead, and knotted at the back; her face looked thin and pale, and her eyes had acquired a vigilant and restless expression,-the effect of constant watching. She had not even a book to beguile her weariness and anxiety,-nor pen-nor ink-paper,-nor work of any kind. She was totally alone. The only change this monotonous existence afforded was the change of position during the lonely day. Sometimes she walked, then stood, looking amid the boughs of the dark cedar,—and, perhaps, pleased if she discovered even one solitary insect

crawling over its knotted and gnarled bark. She would draw omens from the birds that flew athwart the skyand take count of the several branches and fragments of the decaying world that floated down the river. At night she would number the stars, and press her poor brain with her small and fevered hands, when she thought of those near and dear, and what they must suffer on her account. Constantly did she pray that she might be strengthened in the resolution she had formed-not to yield one jot to the mercenary demands of her gaoler; and yet her desire to hear again from those she loved almost overpowered her resolve. Had she not been imprisoned she would have cherished the profound solitude of the place as the greatest solace the world could give: the more solitary-the more lonely it was-the more secure she felt of being concealed from the world, from whose observations, with the natural delicacy of a sensitive mind, she shrank with loathing and abhorrence. She could not support the contemplation of the past,---the full tide of remembrance that would at times rush upon her threatened to overwhelm her reason,---and nothing relieved the torture of her burning brain but a flood of those plentiful tears which are mercies to the unfortunate. Under the influence of such contending feelings Mary felt as if centuries were added to her years. She looked back to the occurrences of the past months with a sickened and saddened spirit. Her nerves were torn to pieces by a thousand retrospections; and every step upon the stairs, every movement in the house, sent the blood rushing through her frame. The food and wine upon her table remained from morning until night untasted. At one moment she would resolve to maintain a sullen and haughty silence---and the next determine to try the effect of the most powerful appeal she could frame on D'Oraine's feelings,--then she would despise herself for meditating such humiliation, and endeavour to think no more, but humbly petition to Heaven to direct her in the right way. If she slept, her dreams were of Harry---her mother-her uncle. Visions of past triumphs and gorgeous vanity would crowd her sleeping thoughts, and they were evermore succeeded by scenes, lonely, desolate, and miserable. So heavy and sorrowful, so full of the past, and the probable future of her life, were those visions,--that her petition, when she felt a sense of weariness overpowering her senses, invariably was--"Save me from sleep, O, God!"