A few words from Ellen, and he was as anxious as she, for in his heart he dearly loved his bright boy. He promised to go for the doctor, and to overtake Ellen on her way home. It was not until the mother and daughter had half reached the cottage, that Edward joined them.

The three proceeded in sorrow and silence until they neared their cottage. There stood two of their old cows, who gave them a look of recognition as they passed. But the third-all | because Edward had been too lazy to mend the fences the third was freezing in the pond. But no! as they came up to the cottage, there, in the shed, looking crestfallen and demure, to be sure, but alive, and seemingly like to live, stood their "spotted cow!" And-was it magic?—from the cottage window gleamed the brightest, cheeriest of roaring fires. The log, too, was away, and the door closed. What could it mean? With a trembling hand and beating heart Ellen opened the door. There in the warm firelight sat, with her baby in his arms, a form that seemed to her bewildered gaze more divine than human. His clear open eye and brow, his light flowing hair, and radiant

but one image to her mind, and instinctively she felt for him a mysterious awe, in which, strange to say, Lily did not seem to participate. Ellen bent over her baby as he lay in the stranger's arms, and seeing him still, and with closed eyes, she almost breathlessly whispered"Is he dead?"

"He is not dead, he only sleeps."

"His very words-almost his words!" continued Ellen in a low voice, checking herself for her impiety in thus involuntarily mingling the presence of the young man before her with that of the Divine Christ.

And what did the stranger not do for this family? Upon each member of the cottage his presence ever acted like a spell for good. He went to the bottom of Ford's tangled affairs, untwisting all clearly. With order came hope and honest effort. In time the mortgage was paid off, the farm restocked; Burns and Shakespeare were again taken from the shelf; when the fiddle gave forth its voice it was not at the tavern; and when, after a short period, and in the age of her now budding womanhood, the stranger asked in wedlock the hand of Lily Ford, he was not refused.

CHAPTER I.

"Beware of jealousy;

It is the green-eyed monster, which doth make The meat it feeds on."-SHAKESPEARE.

SOMETIMES in the studios of artists may be seen copies of an old painting, of such singular power, that once looked upon, the impression becomes fixed for ever upon the mind. Violating, as it does, the legitimate province of art, which is to beautify or ennoble, the natural effect is that of painful distortion-an impression of maddening force, which rivets the eye, while the very soul writhes with pain if not | with disgust. Indeed, all works unaccordant with the harmonies of our nature are productive of pain, and serve, just in proportion as they prevail in the public taste, still farther to remove the human mind from that harmonious sphere which alone can insure its repose. The more finely constituted is the organization of the observer, the more profound is its recoil from all departures from the elements of the beautiful; hence it is, that works, in whatever line of art they may be conceived, which are crude or distorted-intense rather than passionate-morbid more than sentimental-excitable instead of enthusiastic—that is, partial and accidental rather than universal-are at length instinctively rejected by the human mind and fall into oblivion, while the simplest exhibition of an harmonious truth will live for ever in the affections of man,

"A thing of beauty is a joy for ever."

hilarious ecstasy about the eyeless sockets, which rivet the attention, and make us wonder how the framework of a face can be made so expressive; more than this, we feel that it is a portrait, that the particular bones of a particular body only could have been so delineated. And now to the story connected with this singular production of art.

Agatha was a poor ballad-singer of Rome, who appeared every day at certain angles of the Corso, and warbled songs of a wild and impassioned beauty, in which were blent the gorgeousness of oriental imagery with a sweet Italian tenderness, and touches of mournful depth spell-binding the listener. Indeed the whole aspect of the girl was such as to arrest the observer, for she sang as if her very soul hung in her accents, and looked from the wells of her strange eyes. Then, too, she was so appealing in her looks, yet so courageous in her maidenly bearing, that, child as she was, an instinctive respect pervaded the looker-on, and he went his way with a fervent and unconscious benedicité.

From the rich olive hue of her cheek, and a certain litheness of motion, like that of a fawn, uncertain, startled, yet wildly graceful, and from the dainty accent of her sweet Italian dialect, it was rumoured that Agatha was of Moorish blood; but this was the idle conjecture of people who cared not to inquire into the fortunes of a street-singer.

She had been seen for about three years at her usual stand upon the Corso, singing in her rich low tones, and always habited the same; a pink skirt with bodice of green, and a slight scarf of green also wound amid her black locks. Was she privileged to wear the colour of the Prophet? None knew. Those who began to watch the movements of the girl observed that she invariably retired, after singing her round of ballads, to the ruins of the column of Antonine, where she was joined by a youth, an artist scarcely older than herself. One evening, as she reached her wonted trysting place, Guido, for thus was the youth called, met her with an angry frown, and turned from her proffered lip with an expression of contempt.

The girl placed her slight hand upon his

At

No sooner did the youth see that she was really gone, than he gave way to the most violent expressions of rage. Perceiving a bouquet, which she had cast aside, he spurned it with his heel, and fairly ground the trifle into the earth; this done, he sat long waiting and The watching in the hope she would return. lucid stars and the crescent moon hung like gems in the pure warm atmosphere, and the night breeze crept softly around the old ruin, yet he was alone. He leaned back and listened

to the echoes of feet and the hum of voices as

they died away in the distance, thinking how all moved alert and hopeful, stirred by some glowing consciousness that impelled to action, while he, uncertain and miserable, had less of vitality than the poor dog that, faithful through a day of labour, received the scanty crust of the beggar and stretched itself to sleep. Slowly many a mendicant moved by to his covert in a wall, or niche of a temple, there to sleep unharmed in that delicious climate, and rise at morn to beg the trifle that sufficed for existence. Aimless in life, yet content they seemed, and he unconsciously asked himself why he could not be the same.

"No, no, I have aspiration, therefore I cannot be content-I love, therefore am I

miserable."

He had spoken aloud in the vehemence of his feeling, supposing himself to be alone; but a beggar of venerable aspect occupied an angle of the column, and he replied:

"Yes, my son, that is the secret of your grief, yet is your wretchedness better than my indifference;" and he began in a low tone to improvise.

"O Rome, ancient and beautiful!-midway amongst the nations of earth, ancient despoiler of the ancient, and thyself despoiled. Lo the mysteries of his fall, the mysteries of Jesus* Greece hath done thee tribute, and the farthest isles brought offerings of wealth and beauty. Now the dirges of decayed empires, the requiems of buried kings sound for ever amid the ruins of thy ancient glory.

"Rome, beautiful Rome!-What though thy temples perish, thy palaces be despoiled, still shall these in aftertimes speak of thy greatness, and send strange and beautiful truths into human hearts-thou shalt live in the aspira

*The Egyptian obelisk in front of St. Peter's.

Guido tossed him a trifle in reward for his easily-raised enthusiasm, and the beggar at once showered upon him the usual amount of blessings, hastily muttered a pater noster, and then gathering his tattered robe over his fine picturesque head, was soon buried in sleep.

CHAPTER II.

"He wooed a bright and burning star;
Thine was the void, the gloom,
The straining eye that followed far
His oft receding plume:

The heart-sick listening, while his steed
Sent echoes on the breeze;
The pang-but when did fame take heed
Of griefs obscure as these."

HEMANS.

WHEN Agatha left her lover in anger, as we have seen, she sought the dwelling of her mother with a sorrowful heart. She in part knew the cause of his displeasure, but with the natural pride of youth and innocence she would not explain. "Suppose I did accept a bouquet from the old Count Julian," she said to herself, "is he not old enough to be my great grandfather? and did he not reward me bountifully for my song, so that I could the

sooner hasten to Guido? and did he not smile upon me like an old priest? Surely there is no harm!"

But Agatha forgot to say that the old Count called her beautiful, and that he was one of the richest nobles of Rome. Guido could not forget this, and hence his jealous rage, and the hours of suffering which he passed by the column of Antonine.

Agatha had been early thrown upon her own resources, her mother having been for many years in a state of quiet lunacy, produced by early but secret griefs, which left her incapable of forethought or profitable exertion. In the infancy and childhood of Agatha she had wandered from place to place, receiving alms for her scanty sustenance, or when this failed, sleeping away the long hours, till the pangs of hunger drove her forth. It was at these times that she sang legends of glowing but barbaric beauty, in a language foreign to those about her. As Agatha grew older, she inquired the meaning of the words, and learned to warble the air disconnected with the sentiment; this for awhile aroused the vagrant intellect of the mother, and she translated the songs into Italian, and listened with delighted interest to the voice of the child. Sing, my child, sing!" she would say, "it is thy father's tongue, and most beautiful;" and little Agatha poured her whole soul into the melody, in the joy she felt at seeing the interest of her mother awakened.

Then as she walked along people cast bright glances upon the girl, and gave to beauty and innocence what suffering had failed to extort. Alas for humanity! and a benison upon God's best gift, the sense of the beautiful-a prayer, too, that we grow not callous of heart and love the gift, that we do not open our ears to the tones of melody, and close them to the far holier cries of distress.

When the mother saw that the voice of Agatha brought all the relief they needed, she buried herself for weeks and months in her

poor room, nor went abroad, although her child brought the sweetest fruits and flowers, and urged her with all the dear pleadings of childhood. From this cause her health began to decline, so that she was really unable to move, but would sit for hours with folded hands, and that helpless smile belonging to the gentler states of lunacy upon her lips, silent to everything but the presence of Agatha. No sooner did she appear than she caught her in her arms, and held her to her breast, as if at each separation maternal love were born anew. These exciting moments, with the intervals of solitary despondence, made sad havoc upon the health of the victim, and now, when Agatha returned from her painful interview with Guido, she found her mother stretched upon the couch nearly insensible. The voice of her child roused her to consciousness, but this time there was no burst of emotion: she put her arms about her neck, kissed her softly, and patted her cheek, as if fondling an infant.

“I am ill, dear Agatha," she at length said, "and may leave thee at any time. thee what much concerns thee."

Let me tell

| in one heart is the circle of our existence, lavish our all of life and love there, nor care for the wreck that may ensue. It was thus I loved thy father. Sweet, thou art like him,I will tell the story. He was of noble bloodand I-child, child, never change thy robe,wear the green as most fit, as I will tell thee why some day when thou dost return."

Again she relapsed into silence, but missing the emerald, she started up once more, and resumed her narrative.

and learn our little destinies by the stars. "In our land, Agatha, we talk by flowers, Now, lose not a word. Thou art a creature of and thy emotions, even beyond this clime, ferpassion-thy every thought is a lover's impulse, vent as it is. It has been predicted of thee, that thou shalt cause the death,-not of thy lover, child, but thy husband. Now mark: in consequence thou wilt be in deadly peril-they will take thee to their vile prisons, and rack thy tender limbs; and chains, the scaffold, and death await thee. To that hour keep this, wear it about thy person secretly, and never part therefrom. Love, dear, 'tis but a drop. and death will be easy and certain."

She drew the girl to her bosom as she spoke, and kissed her lips and cheeks amid showers of tears, as if the hour of suffering were even then at hand. Agatha also clung to her neck in tears, for she saw the ebbing pulse of her poor parent, and knew that she was dying. All night she bathed her temples, and soothed her faint and incoherent visions, but when the day broke, the spirit had fled.

Agatha knew not that the body of the unconfessed woman was carried to unhallowed ground; she knew not that she was looked harshly upon by the priest, and that in her grief no one sympathized; for, except her mother and Guido, she had lived nearly alone, and knew nothing of the usages of those about her. Guido had taught her to kneel at certain indications, and to repeat prayers to the Virgin, in which she found comfort; but then she had learned so much from her lover, which had been most pleasant to learn, that poor Agatha, little of the sanctity implied therein, and supwhen she knelt, and when she prayed, knew posed the whole matter a means of pleasing

him. Had she not stood to Guido for a Madonna, and did he not kneel daily before it, and had she not refused to stand for any other

was not everything that pleased Guido most delightful to herself? Alas! poor Agatha's knowledge was slight indeed, but out of such a soul the combinations of even a few thoughts are infinite-the more when love only is the suggester.

CHAPTER III.

"A very foolish, fond old man."

SHAKESPEARE.

THE night after the scene which we have described, Guido went as usual to the Corso with a single blossom, as had been his wont, for the bodice of Agatha. The lovers were poor indeed, but these simple tokens of love were to them of priceless value; and Guido well knew that poor Agatha, despite her pride, would be heavy and faint of heart did she suppose him really estranged from her. He hurried from place to place where she was most likely to be seen, but no Agatha was there. It was now his turn to suffer all he had imagined for her, and he hurried to her dwelling, filled with remorse and a love, the depths of which were unknown to himself till now.

Nothing could be more touching than the scene presented. Agatha had strown flowers over her dead mother, and was kneeling by her side, weeping and singing low chants, and by turns exhausting her little stock of prayers learned from her lover, and then breaking forth into the most passionate expressions of grief. It was a blending of Christian and oriental usages, harmonious only because the natural utterance of a young and fervent heart.

At the sight of her lover, poor Agatha cast 'herself upon his bosom, forgetful of all but the present, and, in the excess of conflicting emotions, she fainted. Half delirious as was the meeting of the lately estranged lovers, perhaps these moments of perfect union were the nearest approach to happiness allotted to mortals. It

was certainly the last awarded to these, and poor Agatha sat hour after hour clasped in the arms of Guido, forgetful of the past, thoughtless of the future, with nothing but a dreamy consciousness of being blest in the present. Alas! that the waking of love should be always to sorrow, often to despair.

That night, when Agatha removed her dress for the night, the emerald snake upon her bosom recalled her to all the horrors of the future. Simple-hearted as she was, ignorant of all counteracting sources of thought, she never once doubted the truth of the prediction, but yielded to it as to an unconquerable fate. She to cause the death of Guido!-the thought was madness. She dwelt upon it, till to her affrighted vision the most terrible contingencies seemed realities, and every impulse of her own sweet loving heart grew deadly and distorted. Guido, the true Guido, receded from her into a sublime majesty, an angelic nobleness and forbearance; while she, unhappy girl, grew fiendish and malignant in her own eyes.

She passed the night with these images floating before her, and when her lover return

ed in the morning, she was tossing in the delirium of fever. With manly tenderness Guido conveyed her to a convent, where she would have all the care and protection which a helpless and friendless maiden required. The good sisters did all that gentle care could do to relieve her sufferings, and shortly she was able to realize her situation, and prepare for the future. Her course in this was made easier by the vigilance of the sisterhood, who, finding how deplorably ignorant was the poor girl in all spiritual matters, set themselves at once to the task of conversion.

Agatha, tractable and affectionate, found no difficulty in adopting all Christian usages, and she submitted to baptism as well as to other rites, with a readiness that quite charmed her lover and delighted the nuns. Still Guido was far from being happy. From the time of her recovery he had observed an abstraction and coldness on the part of Agatha, which surprised as much as it grieved him; for her look and tone were so sadly tender that he felt assured her heart was unchanged. To all his inquiries she answered only with a flood of tears and the simple words:

"Do not ask me, Guido; I love you, but I am most miserable."

At length Guido besought the Abbess to ascertain, if possible, the cause of the young girl's grief, and Agatha, glad to disburden her mind, withheld nothing but the secret of the emerald; this being necessary to her own preservation from horrible tortures at a period she unhesitatingly believed must come, she instinctively reserved in her communication. The advice of the abbess was death to the hopes of Guido. She impressed in the most earnest manner upon the mind of Agatha the necessity of her taking vows, as the only means of escaping crime; for it has never been the policy of Rome to suppress superstition, of whatever kind, but rather to direct it into channels subservient to the church. The girl now found herself no match for the many influences brought to bear upon her. The steady exercises of power by the Abbess, the prayers and exhortations of priests, bewildered and deadened her faculties, and she had nothing to oppose to them but her own instinctive love of freedom, and that wearying repugnance to pursuits and ceremonies which she neither loved nor understood. Added to this, the melancholy Guido haunted the passages of the convent with his pale sad looks, till the girl was half mad with grief and terror.

In the meanwhile the old Count Julian missed the song of the pretty ballad-girl, and scouted far and wide to ascertain her fate. At length he traced her residence to the convent, and hastened to hold an interview with the Abbess.