Leaving the house somewhat abruptly, the latter threw himself into a cab, and bidding the driver urge his apology for an animal, hurried toward another section of the city. Alighting near a narrow court which terminated a by-street, Barton was admitted to a high brick building, the staircase of which he ascended like one familiar with the premises, and tapped gently upon the door of a chamber, which in common with many others faced a corridor.

A young female, whose cap and disordered dress intimated preparation for slumber, obeyed the well-known signal, and ushered her late visiter into the apartment.

"To what am I indebted," asked she in a soft but melancholy tone, "for this unseasonable call, or rather, I may inquire, for any visit, however brief or dilatory, since your object recently has been to avoid me altogether?"

"Don't irritate me, Caroline! I'm not in the humour to tolerate either reproaches or blandishments," was the stern rejoinder. "What have you done with that carnation and jessamine, which I saw just about blooming in the balcony under your window ?"

"Do you want them for some other favourite?"

"Caroline Southmead!" resumed Barton, "I have to-night detected you basely interfering in a matter where you can only secure odium and persecution for your officiousness. You lose a friend and make an influential family enemies. Did you not append this card to a bunch of flowers and send them to a lady?"

"Yes, Henry Barton, and I but performed a duty, in cautioning an unsuspecting girl against a man who has proved himself an adept in treachery!"

"And do you think, Caroline," said he, "that for these acts of hostility I shall be better encouraged to purvey for your happiness by finding you an eligible companion, and using my means and ability to elevate your social

existence ?"

"Had you not allured me from my native village, where I was pursuing an honest vocation, and possessed the love and esteem of all who knew me, my position would require no amendment. Your proposition to wed me to another is even more cruel than your falsehood. Would it not be less dishonourable to redeem your promise to me, than to add a second dupe to the catalogue of crime?"

Barton was the greater villain for the circumspection with which he carried out his

into rage, as he intended, it would not have been difficult to convert her ravings into tears, and then she would have been pliable. But he was baffled by cool, unwavering firmness, and he saw in her usually mild blue eye resolution which was impregnable, at least to violence.

"Dearest Caroline," he exclaimed, taking a seat upon a sofa, and drawing her unresistingly to his side, "you well know why I cannot conform to your wishes-”

"Yes," responded the girl interrupting him, "I know too painfully the apology with which you would varnish your perfidy; but your haughty relatives and family rank are not the only obstacles to our marriage. You are weary of your victim, and love another woman. Heretofore I have submitted to your commands. I have worked day by day in a milliner's shop, to furnish some excuse for residing in town, and to evade suspicions of our intimacy. Fearing lest you should encounter me there with Miss Selden, I was removed to this place. Thus far I have been obedient to your behests; henceforward I am my own mistress. Having found other protectors, you shall be relieved of my presence, while in humble obscurity I shall escape contempt if not pity."

"Leave me then to digest my plans-"

"No more!-not a syllable further! Will you not respect the sanctity of a helpless woman's bedchamber and retire, or shall I arouse the house, demand of the watch protection, and, goaded to desperation, publish my wrongs and your infamy to the gaping crowd at the policeoffice?"

"As you please, Caroline," said Barton, releasing her from his arms, with feigned equanimity, "to-morrow you will regret this silly excitement, and be more accessible to reason. I'll see you in the morning,—good night!"

"Yes, we shall meet again, but under different circumstances," ejaculated Caroline as he descended the stairway. "Merciless and conscienceless creature! shame and disappointment shall teach you that none are too feeble for the work of retribution !"

CHAPTER IV.

"Oh most pernicious woman! Oh villain, villain, smiling damned villain!"

HAMLET.

IRRITATED and perplexed, Barton hurried to his lodgings, which to his great annoyance he found occupied by several of his boon companions, who either by courtesy or usurpation had the freedom of his ample apartments.

cedent to her wedding, that his suspicions of a development were unaroused, or if partially excited, were readily discarded.

At length Barton took the alarm. Within forty-eight hours the nuptials were to have been celebrated, but there were no ostensible preparations for the important event; neither had he been consulted upon any particular, in reference to the ceremony or the invitations. Laura's sedateness increased to positive coldness; and it was apparent that he must exert his utmost energy and ingenuity to prevent the postponement of an alliance for which so much had been sacrificed, and which was now a common topic of conversation among the fashiona

ble multitude.

Suspense, ever painful, becomes more so, in proportion to exigencies, and men frequently hew their way to a denouement, although the act itself may prove fatal to their desires.

Barton resolved upon an eclaircissement, whatever might be the consequences. Accordingly he entered the drawing-room one evening, with that self-possession which emanates from preconcerted artifice, and, finding Laura alone, approached the sofa where she was sitting, with the air of one confident of a welcome. Upon her side, the greeting was rather formal; but seeming not to notice this, he urged conversation with all the address and fluency of which he was so capable. Dexterously approximating the cause of his solicitude, after much circumlocution, he ventured to express the hope that "her altered manner proceeded rather from the timidity and hesitation incident to a refined woman about to change her domestic position, than from any doubts of his integrity and esteem;" adding that, "as their union had been long deferred, he trusted that she would no further procrastinate their mutual happiness."

Laura beheld him with an eye black and flashing as a storm-cloud; and, rising from the sofa, her tall and symmetrical figure strained to its utmost height, and enlarged by emotion, her expressive features flushed with anger, and eliminating scorn and aversion, stood before him, to trans-sex a Latin appellation, like a "Juno Tonans."

"Never, sir," she exclaimed, "can I yield my hand to a man who persists in shrouding himself with mystery, and has not confidence sufficient in my affection to acknowledge an

error."

"For Heaven's sake, Laura," cried Barton, struggling to mask his perturbation, "what mystery?what error?"

"because," and he counterfeited ingenuous laughter, "because I lost it, and was ashamed to confess my carelessness!"

"Indeed, sir," rejoined Laura, piercing his mendacious spirit with a glance, “you are merry over an incident which dissolves our intimacy for ever! I have a trifle which must be returned to the donor," and she moved proudly into the next parlour.

Before Barton could rally his disordered ideas, he was confronted by Mr. Selden, who led forward Caroline Southmead. Her face was pale, her eyes downcast, and she leaned upon the old gentleman for protection and support. In her hand she carried a superb ring, the jewel of which seemed to quiver sympathizingly with the heart of its trembling bearer.

"Henry," said her portly ciceroni, "the girl returns this trinket which you left in her chamber."

Barton's face crimsoned with rage and mortification, and essaying neither apology nor reply, he started from his seat and rushed toward the hall. His egress was, however, intercepted by the appearance of Robert Southmead and his companion, who had just been admitted by a servant.

"Scoundrel!" vociferated his irritated superior, approaching Snelling with menacing gestures, "to you I am indebted for this exposure and defeat; you have instigated this plot against me, to gratify the malice and falsehood of that Henceforth whining, half-demented creature. your services will not be needed."

"But mine may be!" shouted the sailor, interposing between his friend and his accuser, "you tape-measuring milksop!-do you speak of my sister in that way? To the ports, you strangled monkey! you have been among honest fellows long enough;" and so saying he grasped the young merchant by his collar, dragged him towards an opened window, and, in spite of the expostulations of Mr. Selden, the interference of Snelling, and the shrieks of Caroline, hurled him out headlong upon the pavement beneath. Southmead sprang through the window after his prostrate foeman, and would have dealt him even graver punishment, but for some bystanders, who prevented further violence, lifted Barton into a hack, and conveyed him to his lodgings.

His death was characteristic of the man. While travelling in Italy he received a pistolball in his brains, fired by a husband, who mistook him for a robber, while ascending a ladder to the lattice of his dormitory.

Snelling and Southmead, with the aid of Bob's gold and the liberality of a capitalist, set up a " ship-chandlery," which, through the patronage and efforts of Mr. Selden and his

Caroline retired to the country, and after a few years married a middle-aged widower, who had several little scions about him requiring the culture and attention of a mother.

Laura felt her disappointment keenly for a season; but as health, youth, and riches, are generally more than equal to the aggressions of sorrow, readers will not be surprised to learn that she was at the last advices affianced to a man of worth and probity, one capable of appreciating her merits, and upon whose arm she can repose with confidence.

PERCHED on a rock, a river at its base,
Stands Castie Lahneck. 'Twas a robber's keep
In the old time. An outlawed baron lodged
His train of knights, and hostages grew gray,
And victims plead and died, where limp grass waves
Like signals from the windows, or grows rank
Around a horrible pit, digged deep beneath
The one tall tower.

One fair May afternoon,
An English stranger, with her German guide,
Trod breathlessly the difficult path that winds
Up to the ruined walls. The two were friends,
And with light laughter and familiar jests
Made the way pleasant, till they paused at last
Under the castle's shadow, to look down
On the blue Lahn that widens to the Rhine;
The Rhine itself beyond; the broad, fair scene
Outstretched below. The English girl spoke first,
After long silence, with clasped hands, and head
Thrown back, retreating slow, and with her eye
Measuring the lone high tower: "Oh, Margaret!
Eagles by daylight, and gray owls that blink
Under the o'er-bright moon, on yon great height
Blindly possess the wealth that would enrich
A human soul for ever!"

Through a maze

Of matted shrubbery they forced a path
Close to the ruin. A projecting wall
Sheltered a low, arched door, that, cloaked by vines,
And half way blocked with slippery stones, framed in
Intensest darkness. With light, fearless tread,
Ida, the blue-eyed stranger, leading through,
Crossed the rude threshold. Lo! a massy stair,
Far as the eye could follow, up the wall
Wound to the summit.

They were young and gay,
And never thought of danger. Ida first,
They scaled the steep flight, singing, as they trod,
Snatches of song. Their sweet notes filled the tower,
Making faint tinkling echoes as they dropped
Through its dim well of silence. Safe at last
They stood upon the turret roof, and looked
Over the low, broad parapet.

While one,

With tears of joyous pride, and outstretched hand,
Hamlet and river, vale and distant mount,
Named rapidly, the other wept, oppressed
By the vague, restless sadness that to some
Comes linked with beauty.

Warning shadows grew
Long on the meadows, while they talked of home,
Minding each other of the tedious path;
And yet they lingered. Margaret had crept
Close to the edge, and Ida, on her shoulder
Resting a light hand, forward leant with looks
Piercing the distance downward.

A strange dread
Thrilled each alike. Both from the parapet
Shrank with one impulse. From the vaults beneath
Crept a light, silent shudder. Was it time
For the roused earth to jostle from her breast
This sepulchre of crime? The turret rocked
Under their feet, and a loud, thunderous roar
Rushed upward, like the swift flame shot to heaven
Out of a crater. When it died away

In a deep trembling, all the ruin seemed
Alive with swarming echoes. But these dropped
Into their nooks, and from below again
Welled the deep silence.

Then the German rose,
And tottering to the stairway, shrieked to see
Its last rude vestige, loosened by her tread,
Plunge through the void; and Ida, at the cry
Lifting her wan face, to the chasm's edge
Stole fearfully. A black, fixed gloom half-way
Filled the deep, well-like tower: gray threads of light
Drawn through the ragged crevices, or caught
On the vine-branches, seemed the gossamer skein
The spider wove from wall to wall, or spread
Over the ivy. They who from its depths
Withdrew their looks, each in the other's eyes
Searching for comfort, read the sharp dismay
Neither had spoken.

Hiding in her soul
One hope that, like a precious perfume, might
Exhale in the disclosing, Ida crept

Back to the turret's verge, and steadfastly,
Screening her eyes from the descending sun,
Looked o'er the parapet. The wooded hills,
Sprinkled with sunshine, and the vales between,
Lapped in dim, lovely shade, seemed overspread
With a faint ghastliness. Except the crow,
Flapping above the forest, or the wings
Of the fierce eagles, or the bird that flew
Dipping along the river, nothing stirred
Over the landscape, and her straining gaze
Dropped hopeless downward.

Nay! upon the path

Tracking the mountain, some one stirred beneath, Slowly approaching. Both together leant

Over the parapet, and called aloud.

Alas! the thin, light air refused to keep
The burden of their voices. He below

Never looked up. But, could their frantic cries
Have fathomed the deep distance, it had then
Availed them not. For it was only Kranz,
The deaf and dumb from Lahnstein, seeking flowers
To sell them at the inn.

They watched the twilight
As 'twere a deluge, while its flowing tides
Flooded the valleys and crept up the front
Of the tall turret. Barge on barge had gone
Down the calm river; from the mill above
Forth came the miller, and walked loitering home
Under the mountain's shadow; peasants drove
Their cattle from the pasture; children played
In the near fields; and once, a fisherman
Rowed through the castle's bright reflection, cast
Over the Lahn. And no one paused for them!
The steersman had been busy at his helm;
The miller thought of home.

They had strayed far That sunny day; none in the distant town They left behind knew whither, or would think To seek them here.

The stars shone thick above;

The gloom below was studded here and there
By clustered village lights; the firefly lit
His lamp among the osiers. Ida still
Crouched by the parapet, her folded arms
Pillowing her head. She had awhile exchanged
Her sorrow for another's; and, in thought,
Mourned for her own lost self, and wearied time
With questions of her fate. Once Margaret spoke
Words of faint comfort; but she, looking up,
Answered with dreary smiling, "Hope thou not,
Unless we make, like rosy Ganymede,

Steeds of the eagles." Now bright floods of light
Poured from the windows of the Lahnstein inn
Over the waters. There the merry guests
Sat quaffing Rhine wine.

Midnight from the skies
Swept like a solemn vision. Ere the dawn,
A low white mist had settled on the vales;
And all that day no traveller came to look
At the lone ruin. They were wild with thirst,
Faint for the lack of food, when still as dew
Another eve dropt round them. Since the noon
Margaret had stirred not, but with blank cold eyes
Turned to the misty river, and hands locked
Over her knee, sat patient; though aloud
Ida wailed out; or, leaning from the tower,
Stretched forth her arms towards the distant home
Whence they had strayed; or, frozen by despair,
Prostrate lay silent, till dismay again
Struck at her cowering soul. But now she rose,
And close upon its brink, looked steadily
Down the black chasm. From the vaults stole up
An odour of damp earth; against the walls
Beat the blind bats, and startled by her tread,
An owl rushed upward with its boding scream,
And wheeling round the tower fled fast and far
Towards the Black Forest. Whether she had leant
Over the gulf too hardily, and scared

By the near flight of that unholy bird

Swerved and stepped falsely; whether desperate fear Then fixed the wavering purpose in her soul,

God saw; but Ida, starting at a shriek

That drowned the owl's hoot, only looked to know She was alone.

What desolate hours were hers

Who knelt down in the starlight, stretching forth Her shuddering arms to Heaven, and from that time Patiently suffered!

Was she saved at last?What say the bargemen floating down the Lahn, The boatmen at the ferry, to and fro, Hourly plying; or the rustic groups That loiter as they pass? To their belief, Since from its heights the robber baron swept His hawk's eye o'er the valleys, never foot Has trod the ruined summit. Only once, Albert, the fisher, resting on his oar, After the day's toil, marvelled to discern A wild she eagle, wheeling from the clouds, Sit screaming to her mate with outspread wings, Where the red sunset crowns the Tower of Lahneck.

OFT in my day-dreams, Brother, do I see
Thy face so loved; it gently smiles on me,
In the glad sunbeam of the glowing day,
And in the pensive moonbeam's milder ray.
Thy voice, it greets me in each mirthful tone
That nature's wild harp breathes,-and, in the moan

Of Autumn's requiem o'er her dying flowers,

I hear thy sigh, o'er bygone, happy hours;

I see thee, and I feel that thou art near,
When music's sweetness falls upon mine ear;
And in the rippling of the summer rill,

Thy glad laugh weaves its gladness round me still.

Would that my visions of the night were blest,
And thy dear spirit hovered o'er my rest!
Would that in dreams, when darkness has unfurled
Her starlit banner o'er a slumbering world,

Thou, with the shadowy train of loved ones dear,
Would hold communion with my spirit here!
May I not call ye from your far-off home,
And will ye not, beloved ones, hither come?
Oh! hover round me, on my couch of rest,
Blend with my dreams the thought that ye are blest;
Tell me of those pure joys that hidden lie,
'Neath the dark curtain of futurity.

Speak of our blest reunion in that land

Where Love shall bind us once more hand in hand.

Oh! hover o'er me! Spread your angel wings,-
Bear me, in dreams at least, from earth's frail things;
Whisper of Heaven-enraptured sing its bliss,
And on my brow impress the angel's kiss.
Oh! if the grave must shut ye from my sight,
Return-return, in visions of the night!