The old Rector came to see the sorrow-stricken Duchess. He grieved, he said, that his daughter was now absent from home; but he looked for her return ere long. The afflicted mother would hear much from his gentle Mary that would comfort her; and then, seeing that his efforts at consolation were scarcely heard, he departed.

The Duchess of Agincourt looked out across the garden and upon the fields beyond. The old chimes in the ivied tower struck nine; Mary's tiny form intercepted the twilight for a minute. The little girl looked earnestly in the lady's eyes. They were swollen with weeping, and fresh tears burst forth at sight of the buoyant child before her. The graceful, wealthy Duchess and the little rustic had been acquainted barely a month, and now a strong tie linked the desolate mother with the child.

Side by side under the old yews with Mary sat the once ambitious Maude. Ah, what had ambition brought her? Wealth! she cared not for it, for she had never known the want of means. Rank! she would have exchanged her coronet for a loving heart-her fine estates for the humblest roof with the sweet influences of domestic peace and love.

As she mourned beside her dead child's grave, she heard in the silence of the summer night, the Rectory gate turn upon its hinges. On what trifles are old memories often hung! The sound brought back some of her earliest associations. How often she had listened for it at that very hour when Henry Nugent, after seeking her in her uncle's study, would come to meet her under the yews.

Footsteps approached her. " Papa," exclaimed Mary, "we are here." The Duchess rose-there was not light enough to see at once the features of the intruder on her solitude, but the voice was Henry Nugent's.

And thus once more they stood face to face in the solemn stillness of the old churchyard. Once more they met among the graves, but not as they had done of old.

Henry Nugent knew his first, his false proud love again now; his paths had lain far apart from hers, and till lately he had known little of her destiny. Indeed, from having been abroad at Madeira for his wife's health when Lord Haughtonville received the honour of a dukedom, he had not recognised under the title of Duchess of Agincourt the once beloved Maude Greville. He knew that the Duchess had been for a short time at the Limes, and had just lost her only child there, and hearing that she was with Mary in the churchyard had hastened to invite her to the Rectory.

His own feelings were under the control of a mind long used to reason against passion. Maude's voice faltered, Mr. Nugent offered her his arm, and led her to the gate; a lady with an infant in her arms stood within the garden. Henry's wife and child, Maude felt sure they were. The aged pastor invited her within; she declined his proffered hospitality so indistinctly that he drew her arm kindly through his, and would have led her to the house. She burst into a passion of tears. "Poor thing, poor thing !" said the old Rector, little dreaming that the Duchess was that same Maude Greville who had brought his son-in-law nearly fourteen years ago to a sickness almost unto death; "you are sorely afflicted-it is God's will-it would be awful not to be touched by God's hand sometimes! It has fallen heavily on you now. But He can help you."

He walked home with her, promising to bring his daughter, Mrs. Nugent, next day.

But Mary brought a note from her mother, asking permission to visit the Duchess, and then Maude knew that Henry Nugent had spoken of her to his wife.

They met, and then Mr. Nugent came with his father-in-law-all was calm, tearless decorous. Maude schooled her heart to meet her former lover with outward indifference; but she resolved on leaving the Limes, and then she took courage to ask if Mary might go with her.

The request was readily granted. There was certainly a tenderness in Henry Nugent's tone as he bid the Duchess adieu at the door of her travelling equipage. He pitied her from his soul.

As the carriage passed the green lane leading to the Rectory, the old pastor stopped it to give her his blessing. Henry Nugent came up ere farewell was said to all. He took his laughing baby from its mother's arms-it was so merry he felt it would increase the sadness of the bereaved Duchess.

The equipage moved on a turn in the road brought the travellers in sight of the Rectory lawn. Henry Nugent and his wife were standing side by side, the baby laughing in its father's arms.

The lime groves soon shut out the view from the travellers' gaze, the postilion whistled his merry tune, the children shouted with glee at the road side as they stopped at the turnpike, the old chimes rang out their peal, and the Duchess leaning her aching head against the silken lining of the carriage wept those tears of disappointment which only the worldly shed.

Henry Nugent and his wife are occasionally guests of the Duchess of Agincourt. But for them the magnificent Duchess of Agincourt would be alone in the world. She is considered very exclusive-elegantrecherchée-and people who see her in her opera box, or in her exquisite phaeton, with its Arabian ponies and stylish outriders, little think how joyless her heart is.

"Alas!" she would say, as her thoughts would go wandering back, "I have grasped the shadow for the substance. Ah! what are rank and influence and wealth without love or friendship! Ah, these gnawing jealousies, these hollow words, these unmeaning smiles! the associations they bring are as a bad dream. I strive to shake off the evil influence, and there is no help, no sympathy at hand!"

And lo! she would gain relief by turning her thoughts to that little nook of old England where all her hopes lay buried.

In after years Henry Nugent became her friend. They met again under the old yews. The Duchess sat between the husband and the wife. She held a hand of each.

The eyes no longer flashed with haughty pride, the brow was unruffled by a frown, and a sweet smile parted the once curled lips as she said—" It is good for me that I have been afflicted."

PIKE FISHING.

If so be the angler catch no fish, yet hath he a wholesome walk to the brookside, and pleasant shade by the sweet silver streams.- ROBERT BURTON.

THE Pike is a common fish in all the temperate, and some of the northern regions of the world; but in no country does he arrive at greater perfection than in the United States. For some unaccountable reason he is generally known in this country as the pickerel; and we would, therefore, intimate to our readers that our present discourse is to be of the legitimate pike. In England, he is known under the several names of pike, jack, pickerel and luce. His body is elongated and nearly of a uniform depth from the head to the tail; the head is also elongated, and resembles that of the duck; his mouth is very large and abundantly supplied with sharp teeth, and his scales are small and particularly adhesive; the colour of his back is a dark brown, sides a mottled green or yellow, and belly a silvery white. The reputation of this fish for amiability is far from being enviable, for he is called not only the shark of the fresh waters, but also the tyrant of the liquid plain. He is a cunning and savage creature, and for these reasons even the most humane of fishermen are seldom troubled with conscientious scruples when they succeed in making him a captive. Pliny and Sir Francis Bacon both considered the pike to be the longest lived of any fresh water fish, and Gesner mentions a pike which he thought to be two hundred years old. Of these ancient fellows, Walton remarks, that they have more in them of state than goodness, the middle-sized individuals being considered the best eating. The prominent peculiarity of this fish is his voraciousness. Edward Jesse relates that five large pike once devoured about eight hundred gudgeons in the course of three weeks. He swallows every animal he can subdue, and is so much of a cannibal that he will devour his own kind full as soon as a common minnow. Young ducks and even kittens have been found in his stomach, and it is said that he often contends with the otter for his prey. Gesner relates the story that a pike once attacked a mule while it was drinking on the margin of a pond, and his teeth having become fastened in the snout of the astonished beast, he was safely landed on the shore. James Wilson once killed a pike weighing seven pounds, in whose stomach was found another pike weighing over a pound, and in the mouth of the youthful fish was yet discovered a respectable perch. Even men, while wading in a pond, have been attacked by this fresh water wolf. He is so much of an exterminator, that when placed in a small lake with other fish, it is not long before he becomes "master of all he surveys," having depopulated his watery world of every species but his own. The following story, illustrating the savage propensity of this fish, is related by J. V. C. Smith. A gentleman was angling for pike, and having captured one, subsequently met a shepherd and his dog, and presented the former with his prize. While engaged in clearing his tackle, the dog seated himself unsuspectingly in the immediate vicinity of the pike, and as fate would have it, his tail was ferociously snapped at by the gasping fish. The dog was, of course,

much terrified, ran in every direction to free himself, and at last plunged into the stream. The hair had become so entangled in the fish's teeth, however, that it could not release its hold. The dog again sought the land, and made for his master's cottage, where he was finally freed from his unwilling persecutor; but notwithstanding the unnatural adventure of the fish, he actually sunk his teeth into the stick which was used to force open his jaws.

The pike of this country does not differ essentially from the pike of Europe. His food usually consists of fish and frogs, though he is far from being particular in this matter. He loves a still, shady water, in river or pond, and usually lies in the vicinity of flags, bulrushes and water-lilies, though he often shoots out into the clear stream, and on such occasions frequently affords the rifleman a deal of sport. In summer he is taken at the top and in the middle, but in winter at the bottom. His time for spawning is March, and he is in season about eight months in the year. In speaking of the size of this fish, the anglers of Europe have recorded some marvellous stories, of which we know nothing, and care less. In this country they vary from two to four feet in length, and in weight from two to forty pounds; when weighing less than two pounds, he is called a jack. As an article of food he seems to be in good repute; but since we once found a large water-snake in the stomach of a monster fish, we have never touched him when upon the table. He suits not our palate, but as an object of sport we esteem him highly, and can never mention his name without a thrill of pleasure.

In this place we desire to record our opinion against the idea that the pike and maskalunge are one and the same fish. For many years we entertained the opinion that there was no difference between them, only that the latter was merely an overgrown pike. We have more recently had many opportunities of comparing the two species together, and we know that to the careful and scientific observer, there is a marked difference. The head of a maskalunge is the smallest; he is the stoutest fish, is more silvery in colour, grows to a much larger size, and is with difficulty tempted to heed the lures of the angler. They are so precisely similar in their general habits, however, that they must be considered as belonging to the pike family. They are possibly the independent, eccentric and selfsatisfied nabobs of the race to which they belong; always managing to keep the world ignorant of their true character, until after their days are numbered.

We will now mention one or two additional traits, which we had nearly forgotten. The first is, that the pike is as distinguished for his abstinence as for his voracity. During the summer months, his digestive organs seem to be somewhat torpid, and this is the time that he is out of season. During this period he is particularly listless in his movements, spending nearly all the sunny hours basking near the surface of the water; and as this is the period when the smaller fry are usually commencing their active existence, we cannot but distinguish in this arrangement of nature the wisdom of Providence. Another habit peculiar to this fish, is as follows:-During the autumn, he spends the day-time in deep-water, and the nights in the shallowest water he can find along the shores of river or lake. We have frequently seen them so very near the dry land as to display their fins. What their object can be in thus spending the dark

hours, it is hard to determine: is it to enjoy the warmer temperature of the shallow water, or for the purpose of watching and capturing any small land animals that may come to the water to satisfy their thirst? We have heard it alleged that they seek the shore for the purpose of spawning, but it is an established fact that they cast their spawn in the spring; and, besides, the months during which they seek the shore as above stated, are the very ones in which they are in the best condition, and afford the angler the finest sport. Autumn is the time, too, when they are more frequently and more easily taken with the spear, than during any other season. And as to this spearing business, generally speaking, we consider it an abominable practice, but in the case of the savage and obstinate pike, it ought to be countenanced even by the legitimate angler.

We have angled for pike in nearly all the waters of this country where they abound. The immense quantity of book lore that we have read respecting the character of pike tackle, has always seemed to us a kind of literature originally invented by tackle manufacturers. Our own equipment for pike fishing we consider first-rate, and yet it consists only of a heavy rod and reel, a stout linen line, a brass snell, a sharp Kirby hook, and a landing net. For bait we prefer a live minnow, though a small shiner, or the belly of a yellow perch, is nearly as sure to attract notice. We have taken a pike with a gaudy fly, and also with an artificial minnow, but you cannot depend upon these allurements. Sinkers we seldom use, and the fashionable thing called a float we utterly abominate. We have fished for pike in almost every manner, but our favourite method has ever been from an anchored boat, when our only companion was a personal friend, and a lover of the written and unwritten poetry of nature.

This is the most quiet and contemplative method, and unquestionably one of the most successful ones; for though the pike is not easily frightened, it takes but a single splash of an oar when trolling, to set him a-thinking, which is quite as unfortunate for the angler's success as if he were actually alarmed. Another advantage is, that while swinging to an anchor you may fish at the bottom, if you please, or try the stationary trolling fashion. To make our meaning understood, we would add, that an expert angler can throw his hook in any direction from his boat, to the distance of at least a hundred feet, and in pulling it in, he secures all the advantages that result from the common mode of trolling. The pike is a fish which calls forth a deal of patience, and must be humoured; for he will sometimes scorn the handsomest bait, apparently out of mere spite; but the surest time to take him is when there is a cloudy sky and a southerly breeze. Live fish are the best bait, as we have before remarked, though the leg of a frog is good, and in winter a piece of pork, but nothing can be better than a shiner or a little perch; and it might here be remarked, that as the pike is an epicure in the manner of his eating, it is invariably a good plan to let him have his own time, after he has seized the bait. As to torchlight fishing for pike, though unquestionably out of the pale of the regular angler's sporting, it is attended with much that we must deem poetical and interesting. Who can doubt this proposition, when we consider the picturesque effect of a boat and lighted torch, gliding along the wild shores of a lake, on a still, dark night, with one figure noiselessly