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"Yes, if Anthony had not managed the horses admirably, you might have gone indeed," said Charles, with a modest wish to get rid of their praise. But this was an unlucky speech for Charles; he had, unconsciously presented the image of a rival, at the moment that he hoped he filled all the thoughts of Julia.

"Ah, Antonio!" she cried, "poor Antonio!and where is he? Why do you not send for him, dear aunt?"

"What, my love, into my bed-chamber!" said Miss Emmerson, in surprise; fear has made the girl crazy! But Charles, where is Anthony ?" "In the stable, with the horses, I believe," said the youth-"no, here he is, under the window, leading them to the pump."

"Give him this money," said Miss Emmerson, "and tell him it is for his admirable skill in saving my life."

Julia saw the danger of an exposure if she interfered, yet she had the curiosity to go to the window, and see how Antonio would conduct in this mortifying dilemma.

"Here, Antony," said Charles, "Miss Emmerson has sent you ten dollars, for driving so well, and saving the carriage."

men behave with presence of mind in novel situations. Those accustomed to particular dangers easily discharge their duties, because they know, as it were instinctively, what is to be done. Thus Tony-he did well, but, I doubt not, he was horribly frightened-and for the world he could not have done what Charles did."

"Not Antonio!" echoed Julia, thrown a little off her guard—“I would pledge my life, aunt, that Antonio would have done as much, if not more than Charles!"

"Why did he not, then? It was his place to stop the carriage-why did he not?"

"It was his place," said Julia, "to manage the horses, and you acknowledge that he did it well. Duties incurred, no matter how unworthy of us, must be discharged; and although we may be conscious that our merit or our birth entitles us to a different station from the one we fill, yet a noble mind will not cease to perform its duty, even in poverty and disgrace."

Miss Emmerson listened in surprise; but as her neice often talked in a manner she did not comprehend, she attributed it to the improvements in education, and was satisfied. But Ju

"Ah! sir, it's no matter-I can ask nothing lia had furnished herself with a clue to what for that, I'm sure."

But Charles, accustomed to the backwardness of the common Americans to receive more than the price stipulated, still extended his hand towards the man. Julia saw his embarrassment, and knowing of no other expedient by which to relieve him, said, in a voice of persuasion

"Take it for my sake, Antonio, if it be unworthy of you, still, take it, to oblige me."

The man no longer hesitated, but took the money, and gave Julia a look and a bow that sunk deep into the tablet of her memory-while Charles thought him extremely well paid for what he had done, but made due allowances for the excited state of his cousin's feelings.

"You perceive," said Miss Emmerson, with a smile, as Julia withdrew from the window, "if Charles be a little afraid of lightning, he has no dread of water "

"Ah! I retract my error," cried Julia; "Charles must be brave, or he never could have acted so coolly, and so well."

"Very true, my love," said Miss Emmerson, excessively gratified to hear her niece praise the youth; 'it is the surest test of courage when

had occasioned her some uneasiness. At one time she thought Antonio had ought to have left the carriage, horses, every thing, and flown to her rescue, as Charles had done; but now she saw that the probity of his soul forbade it. He had doubtless, by secret means, induced the owner of the horses to intrust them to his keeping-and could he, a soldier, one used to trust and responsibility, forget his duty in the moment of need? Sooner would the sentinel quit his post unrelieved-sooner the gallant soldier turn his back on the enemy-or sooner would Antonio forget his Julia!

With this view of the propriety of his conduct, Julia was filled with the desire to let him know that she approved of what he had done. Surely, if any thing can be mortifying to a lover, thought our heroine, it must be to see a rival save his mistress, while imperious duty chains him to another task.

Young as Julia was, she had already learnt that it is not enough for our happiness that we have the consciousness of doing right, but it is necessary that others should think we have done so too. Accordingly, early the following

morning she arose, and wandered around the house, in hopes that chance would throw her lover in her way, and give her an opportunity of relieving his mind from the load of mortification under which she knew he must be laboring. It was seldom that our heroine had been in the public bar-room of a tavern-but, in gliding by the door, she caught a glimpse of Antonio in the bar; and, impelled by her feelings, she was near him before she had time to collect her scattered senses. To be with Antonio, and alone, Julia felt was dangerous; for his passion might bring on a declaration, and betray them both to the public and vulgar notice.Anxious, therefore, to effect her object at once, she gently laid her hand on his arm-Antonio started and turned, while the glass in his hands fell, with its contents untasted, on the floor.

"Rest easy, Antonio," said Julia, in the gentlest possible tones; "to me your conduct is, satisfactory, and your secret will never be exposed." So saying, she turned quickly, and glided from the room.

"As I hope to be saved," said Antonio, "I meant nothing wrong-but should have paid the landlord the moment he came in"-but Julia heard him not. Her errand was happily exeouted, and she was already by the side of her aunt. On entering the carriage, Julia noticed the eye of Antonio fixed on her with peculiar meaning, and she felt that her conduct had been appreciated.

From this time until the day of their arrival at the house of Mr Miller, nothing material occurred. Antonie rose every hour in the estimation of Julia, and the young lady noticed a marked difference in her lover's conduct towards her.

ship. Miss Emmerson was a good deal hurt at this decision of her niece, who, she thought, knowing her sentiments, would be induced to have been satisfied with the visit to Anna, and taken Katherine for the winter. It was with reluctance that the aunt abandoned this wish, and, after a pause, she continued—

"Remember, Julia, that you have not my permission to ask your friend, until the twentieth -we can stay but one night at Mr. Miller's; but if Anna is to spend the winter in Park Place, we will return this way from the Falls, and take her with us to the city."

"Thank you, dear aunt," cried Julia, kissing her with an affection that almost reconciled Miss Emmerson to the choice-while Charles Weston whistled "Hail, Columbia! happy land!"

Julia saw that Antonio pitied her impatience for the moment he arrived in sight of Mr. Miller's house, he put his horses to their speed, and dashed into the court yard in the space of a few minutes. For a little while all was confusion and joy. Anna seemed delighted to see her friend, and Julia was in raptures they flew into each other's arms-and if their parting embrace was embalmed in tears, their meeting was enlivened with smiles. With arms interlocked, they went about the house, the very pictures of joy. Even Antonio, at the moment, was forgotten, and all devoted to friendship. Nay, as if sensible of the impropriety of his appearance at that critical instant, he withdrew himself from observation-and his delicacy was not lost on Julia. Happy are they who can act in consonance with their own delicate sentiments, and rest satisfied that their motives are understood by those whom it is their greatest desire

A few miles before they reached the dwelling, to please! Such, too fortunate Antonio, was Miss Emmerson observed

"To-morrow will be the twentieth of September; when I am to know who will be my companion for the winter, Miss Miller or Katherine."

"Ah! aunt, you may know that now, if I am to decide," said Julia, "It will be Anna, my Anna, surely."

Her manner was enthusiastic, and her voice a little louder than usual. Antonio turned his head, and their eyes met. Julia read in that glance the approbation of her generous friend

thy lot for no emotion of thy sensitive mind, no act of thy scrupulously honorable life, passed unheeded by thy Julia!—so thought the maiden.

It has already been mentioned that the family of Mr. Miller was large; and amid the tumult and confusion of their guests, no opportunity was afforded the friends for conversation in private. The evening passed swiftly, and the hour for bed arrived without any other communication between Julia and Anna than whisperings and pressures of the hands, together with a thousand glances of peculiar meaning with the

eyes. But Julia did not regret this so much as if Antonio had been unknown-she had been in his company for four days, and knew, or thought she knew, already, as much of his history as Anna herself. But one thought distressed her, and that was, that his residence might be far from the house of her aunt. The reflection gave the tender-hearted girl real pain, and her principal wish to converse with Anna in private was, to ascertain her future lot on this distressing point. No opportunity, however, offered that night, and Julia saw that in the morning her time would be limited, for Miss Emmerson desired Mr. Miller to order her carriage to be in readiness to start as soon as they had breakfasted.

"When, dear aunt, am I to give Anna the invitation," said Julia, when they were left alone, "if you start so early in the morning?"

"The proper time will be, my child, immediately before we get into the carriage," said Miss Emmerson, with a sigh of regret at the determination of her niece; "it will then be more pointed, and call for an immediate answer,"

This satisfied Julia, who knew that it would be accepted by her friend, and she soon fell asleep, to dream a little of Anna, and a great deal of Antonio.

The following morning Julia arose with the sun, and her first employment was to seek her friend. Anna had also risen, and was waiting impatiently for the other's appearance, in the vacant parlor.

"Ah! dear Julia," said she, catching her arm, and dragging her to a window, "I thought you would never come. Well, are we to spend the winter together? Have you spoken to your dear, dear aunt about it ?"

"You shall know in good time, my Anna," said Julia, mindful of the wishes of her aunt, and speaking with a smile that gave Anna an assurance of success.

and uttered, in a low voice, “but AntonioStanley?"

"A man of straw," cried Anna, with unfeeling levity; "no such creature in the world, I assure you!" Julia made a mighty effort to conquer her emotions, and wildly seizing Anna by the arm, she pointed to her aunt's coachman, who was at work on his carriage at no great distance, and uttered "For God's sake, who is he?', "He" cried Anna, in surprise, “why, your driver-and an ugly wretch he is !-don't you know your own driver, yet?"

Miss

Julia burst from her treacherous friendrushed into the room of her aunt, and throwing herself into the arms of Miss Emmerson, wept for an hour as if her heart would break. Emmerson saw that something hurt, her feelings excessively, and that it was something she would not reveal. Believing that it was a quarrel with her friend, and hoping at all events that it would interrupt their intercourse, Miss Emmerson, instead of trying to discover her niece's secret, employed herself in persuading her to appear before the family with composure, and to take leave of them with decency and respect. In this she succeeded, and the happy moment arrived. Anna in vain pressed near her friend to receive the invitation-and her mother more than once hinted at the thousand pities it was to separate two that loved one another so fondly. No invitation was given-and although Anna spent half a day in searching for a letter, that she insisted must be left in some romantic place, none was ever found, nor did any ever arrive.

While resting with her foot on the step of the carriage, about to enter it, Julia, whose looks were depressed from shame, saw a fluid that was discolored with tobacco, fall on her shoe and soil her stocking. Raising her eyes with disgust, she perceived that the wind had wafted it from the mouth of Antonio, as he held

"O! what a delightful winter we will have!" open the door-and the same blast throwing cried Anna, in rapture.

"I am tongue-tied, at present," said Julia, laughing; "but not on every subject," she continued, blushing to the eyes; "do tell me of St. Albans of Regulus-who is he?"

"Who is he?" echoed Anna-"why, nobody! one must have something to write about, you know, to a friend." Julia felt sick and faint her color left her cheeks as she forced a smile,

aside his screen of silk, discovered a face that was deformed with disease, and wanting of an eye!

Our travellers returned to the city by the way of Montreal and Lake Champlain; nor was it until Julia had been the happy wife of Charles Weston for more than a year, that she could summon resolution to own that she had once been in love, like thousands of her sex, with a "man of straw."

THE MOTHER'S GRAVE.

[Contributed to the Boston Notion.]

BY ISAAC F. SHEPARD, AUTHOR OF "PEBBLES FROM CASTALIA.”

'Twas Autumn. Beauty dwelt upon the earth,
With such a garb as she doth love to wear
When summer days have waned, and the loved hearth
Lendeth its warmth to fond groups gathered there
At evening and at morn, and the cold breath
Of the hoar-frost among the forest boughs
Will move, leaving its stealthy kiss of death,
Like time upon an old man's hoary brows.

The lofty maple wore a diadem

Of gold; its foliage seemed a drapery
Of emerald hue, inwronght with many a gem,`
As it did wave its giant arms and free,
Against the sapphire sky: a golden sheen

Upon the tall elms dwelt, and the ripe grain
O'er many a field, and garnered fruits were seen,
And harvest songs were echoing from each plain.

There is a spirit breathing in the gale

That lifts the frost-seared leaf, in unison With voices of the soul; and the low wail

Of struggling winds, when Autumn's swift sands run,
Will wake vibrations there, whose solemn swell
Shall linger on the inward ear for aye,

And bid man note earth's change, and mark it well;
For like the leaf, he too shall pass away.

I love these solemn teachings, and I rove
Oft-times alone, in the dark forest wild,
To lay me down beneath some hidden grove,
And list to Nature's language, as her child:
I love her lessons! Garnered are they all
In Memory's store, nor can 1 e'er forget
The spell that bound me with its holy thrall,
Ere youth with manhood's sterner cares had met.

And I do well remember when my way,
Was by a babbling brook, whose dashing wave
Did drink the beauties of the dying day.

I sat me down to rest; a fresh-made grave
Was on the wavelet's bank, and o'er it bowed
Two gentle beings, and sad tears they wept,
But yet their grief was chastened and unloud,―

The only one who loved them, dreamless slept.

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The elder was a boy-a noble one,

Whose very form a princely soul revealed, And well his mother prized her duteous son:

The younger was a girl;-a bud unsealed;
And beauty crowned her as a bride is crowned:
And when they two did range the summer woods
The half-charmed warblers ceased their music's sound,
As they were guardians of the solitudes.

They lingered by till twilight bade them go;
Then kneeling down, he said a parting prayer;
Nor dropped one word that told repining woe:
They kissed the grave, then left the slumberer there:
He with a steady pace and heavenward eye,
But she did bow her head upon his breast
O'ercome by grief; as when the wave beats high,
The folded lily hides beneath its crest.

My heart was moved by this sad, tearful scene,
And when their footsteps died away, I went
And stood beside the grave; the grass was green
Upon the broken sods; a monument

Had just been reared, a simple, lettered stone,
But not of Eulogy or filial praise;
Two simple words were chiselled there alone,
Two holy words,-MY MOTHER,-met my gaze!

I know not why, but I did bow and weep
Where I had seen these lovely orphans bend;

I knew my own dear mother did not sleep
In death's drear vault; her prayer would blend
With morning zephyr and with evening's breeze,
For me an absent son; my father's voice
Would rise, with brothers, sisters, round; and these
Should banish tears and bid the heart rejoice.

But yet full, gushing fountains there did fall,

And the strong sigh my inmost soul did heave; And o'er the grave my lips on Heaven did call,

Ere the lone spot my lingering steps would leave: And many a time, at midnight, when I lie

Upon my sleepless couch, that grave I see, And those two lovely orphans lingering by, Tracing their mother's name all silently.

THE POACHER."

BY CAPTAIN MARRYATT.

CHAPTER V.

THE SINS OF THE FATHER ARE VISITED ON THE CHILD.

Jane had remained in a state of great anxiety during her husband's absence, watching and listening to every sound; every five minutes raising the latch of the door, and looking out hoping to see him return. As the time went on, her alarm increased; she laid her head down on the table and wept; she could find no consolation, no alleviation of her anxiety; she dropped down on her knees and prayed.

She was still appealing to the Most High, when a blow on the door announced her husband's return. There was a sullen gloom over his countenance as he entered; he threw his gun carelessly on one side, so that it fell, and rattled against the paved floor; and this one act

was to her ominous of evil. He sat down without speaking; falling back in the chair, and lifting his eyes up to the rafters above, he appeared to be in deep thought, and unconscious of her

presence.

'What has happened?' inquired his wife, trembling, as she laid her hand on his shoulder.

'Don't speak to me now,' was the reply. 'Joey,' said the frightened woman in a whisper, 'what has he done?'

Joey answered not, but raised his hand, red with the blood which was now dried upon it.

Jane uttered a faint cry, dropped on her knees, and covered her face, while Joey walked into the back kitchen, and busied himself in removing the traces of the dark deed.

A quarter of an hour had elapsed-Joey had returned, and taken his seat upon his low stool, and not a word had been exchanged.

There certainly is a foretaste of the future punishment which awaits crime; for how dreadful were the feelings of those who were now sitting down in the cottage. Rushbrook was evidently stupified from excess of feeling; first, the strong excitement which had urged him to the deed; and now from the re-action, the prostration of mental power which had succeeded it. Jane dreaded the present and the future-whichever way she turned her eyes the gibbet was before her-the clanking of chains in her ears; in her vision of the future, scorn, misery, and remorse-she felt only for her husband. Joey, poor boy, he felt for both. Even the dog showed, as he looked up into Joey's face, that he was aware that a foul deed had been done. The silence which it appeared none would venture to break, was at last disolved by the clock of the

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village church solemnly striking two. They all started up-it was a warning-it reminded them of the bell tolling for the dead-of time and of the moment other ideas; yes, it was time to act; eternity; but time present quickly effaced for in four hours more it would be daylight, and the blood of the murdered man would appeal to his fellow-men for vengeance. The sun would light them to the deed of darkness-the body would be brought home-the magistrates would assemble-and who would be the party suspected? 'Merciful Heaven!' exclaimed Jane, 'what can be done?'

"There is no proof,' muttered Rushbrook. 'Yes, there is,' observed Joey, 'I left my bag there, when I stooped down to'

'Silence!' cried Rushbrook. 'Yes,' continued he, bitterly to his wife, 'this is your doing, you must send the boy after me, and now there will be evidence against me; I shall owe my death to you.'

falling down on her knees and weeping bitterly, "O say not so! say not so!' replied Jane, yet time,' cried she, starting up, 'Joey can go as she buried her face in her lap; but there is and fetch the bag. You will, Joey won't dear; you are not afraid-you are innocent.' Better leave it where it is, mother,' replied Joey, calmly.

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Rushbrook looked up at his son with surprise, Jane caught him by the arm; she felt convinced bably some plan that would ward off suspicion the boy had some reason for what he said-pro-yet how could that be, it was evidence against them, and after looking earnestly at the boy's face, she dropped his arm. 'Why so, Joey?' said she, with apparent calmness.

'Because,' replied Joey, 'I have been thinking about it all this time; I am innocent, and therefore I do not mind if they suppose me guilty.— The bag is known to be mine-the gun I must throw down in a ditch, two fields off. You must I must go without it; but there is no time to be give me some money, if you have any; if not, lost; I must be off and away from here in ten minutes; to-morrow ask every one if they have seen or heard of me, because I have left the house some time during the night. I shall have a good start before that; besides, they may not find the pedlar for a day or two, perhaps; at all events, not till some time after I am gone; and you see, mother, the bag which is found by him, and the gun in the ditch, will make them think it is me who killed him; but they will not be able to make out whether I killed him by accident, and run away from fear, or whether I did it on purpose. So now, mother, that's my plan, for it will save father.'

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