hollow ball, having one small opening in the side, as is shown in the engraving; this opening answers for both door and window, and is so well protected that neither cold nor rain can penetrate to the interior. A screen, delicately contrived of downy feath

to the trunk of a tree, and then skillfully covers it with the leaves and twigs of the various parasitical plants that may cluster about the stem to which it is fastened; and this is done with so much art that the whole structure has the appearance of

and the perfect adaptation to the use intended is always the same, from the simple indentation in the barren sand to the swinging castle in the air, so skillfully fashioned out of down and feathers.

But if birds attract us when in a wild state by their beauty and song, how much more do they win admiration and affection when they are our daily companions, looking at us with fearless eyes, and playing, with a pretty semblance of temper, with our outstretched fingers! The canary

stands first, we believe, as a household pet and universal favorite, being prized for its beauty, intelligence, and charming song. No prettier sight can be seen to add to the attractiveness of a room than one or more of these little warblers hopping about in a cage, contentedly picking at the various dainties, or amusing itself and all around it by those wonderful trills and gushes of melody which seem to convey one to the summer woods with all their charming minstrelsy.

Many articles have been written on the remarkable docility and teachableness shown by the canary, and it is not our purpose to write at length on a subject so well and generally understood. But it is a fact within our own experience that the pleasure to be derived from the presence of these graceful, grateful and beautiful little creatures in the house is far greater than that resulting from many other luxuries. Do you wake to find the blue sky no longer blue, but gray, and the wind sighing its mournful intimation of a coming storm? No matter; when you descend the stairs and pass into the breakfast-room, you are greeted by a perfect shower of gay music from yellow-breasted canary, who peeps down at you with his bright little black eyes, and sings the louder if you give him a pleasant word of praise. Already the morning seems brighter, and the smile you could not refuse to the pretty musician lingers on your lips long afterward. Are you sad or out of sorts in any way, so that the world seems unusually gloomy? Canary does not see the use of long faces, and so he sings his song, eats his seeds, and turns his head over to look at you in a knowing way, making of himself so pretty and cheery a sight that you cannot but choose to unbend a little, and address a few caressing words to him, which he seems to appreciate, and which do you a

world of good by way of turning your thoughts into another channel. And the better you treat your bird the better he treats you; or, in other words, the handsomer he grows, the sweeter he sings, and the more tame and affectionate he becomes. He will evince a pleasure at your coming which shows that he is lonely in your absence, and will testify in a hundred little ways his preference for you, while at the same time he will be likely to be very shy of the advances of a stranger.

Some people subject their birds to privations, let them endure cold and heat, hunger, thirst and uncleanliness, and then complain that they do not sing, and are not healthy and lively. It is easy to see that they are themselves the only ones at fault, and should be sorry for their own cruelty, instead of attributing the blame to the much-abused little prisoner, which would reward its owner in many ways for a kindly attention to its comfort and convenience.

Although we have particularly mentioned the canary, there is scarcely any variety of the smaller birds that would not furnish agreeable pets for the household. Not a few of our readers, doubtless, have read Grace Greenwood's beautiful little story of

Robin Redbreast," in her " History of my Pets," and though not every robin equals that sweet bird, probably many a Robin Redbreast would do as well under an efficient teacher. And here we are reminded of Mrs. Browning's pet "Doves," of which she sings so tenderly:

"My little doves have left a nest

Upon an Indian tree,

Whose leaves fantastic take their rest
Or motion from the sea;
For, ever there, the sea-winds go
With sunlit faces to and fro.

"The tropic flowers looked up to it,
The tropic stars looked down,
And there my little doves did sit,

With feathers softly brown,
And glittering eyes that showed their right
To general nature's deep delignt.

"And God them taught, at every close
Of murmuring waves beyond,
And green leaves round, to interpose
Their choral voices fond;
Interpreting that love must be
The meaning of the earth and sea.

"My little doves were ta'en away
From that glad nest of theirs,
Across an ocean rolling gray,
And tempest-clouded airs.

My little doves!-who lately knew
The sky and wave by warmth and blue!

"And now, within the city prison,

In mist and chillness pent,
With sudden upward look they listen
For sounds of past content-
For lapse of water, swell of breeze,
Or nut-fruit falling from the trees.
"The stir without, the glow of passion,
The triumph of the mart,

The gold and silver as they clash on

Man's cold metallic heart,

The roar of wheels, the cry for bread-
These only sounds are heard instead.
"Yet still, as on my human hand
Their fearless heads they lean,
And almost seem to understand
What human musings mean,
(Their eyes with such a plaintive shine,
Are fastened upwardly to mine!)

"Soft falls their chant as on the nest,

Beneath the sunny zone;

For love that stirred it in their breast
Has not aweary grown,
And neath the city's shade can keep
The well of music clear and deep.
"And love that keeps the music, fills
With pastoral memories;
All echoings from out the hills,

All droppings from the skies,
All flowings from the wave and wind,
Remembered in their chant I find.

"So teach ye me the wisest part,
My little doves! to move
Along the city-ways with heart
Assured by holy love,

And vocal with such songs as own
A fountain to the world unknown."

Perhaps it is not generally known that birds of lofty flight, as the condor, eagles, vultures, and carrion-seeking prowlers of the feathered race, have telescopic vision, and are thus enabled to look down and discover their unsuspecting victims. As they approach noiselessly from above, the axis of vision changes-shortening, so that they see just as distinctly within one foot of the ground as when at an elevation of one mile in the air. This fact explains the balancing of a fish-hawk on its pinions half a mile above a still pond, watching for fish.

When one is selected, down the savage hunter plunges, the focal axis, varying as the square of the distance, giving the hawk a distinct view of its prey always. As they ascend, the axis is elongated by a curious muscular arrangement. so as to see far again. Snails have their keen eyes at the extremities of flexible horns, which they can protrude or draw in at pleasure. By winding the instrument round the edge of a leaf or a small stalk, they can see how matters stand on the opposite side. The hammer-headed shark has its wicked looking eyes nearly two feet apart. It can bend the thin edgings of the head on which the organs are located so as to examine the two sides of an object of the size of a fullygrown codfish. Flies have immovable eyes. They stand out from the head like half an apple, exceedingly prominent. Instead of being smooth hemispheres, they have an immense number of facets, resembling old-fashioned glass watch-seals, each one directing the light directly to the optic retina. This explains why they cannot be approached in any direction without seeing what is coming.

A gentleman who is a great admirer of birds wr.tes of swallows as follows:

"I passed a great part of my leisure one summer in watching a pair of swallows. After much consideration and reflection, they commenced building their nest under the projecting roof of a barn, then suddenly stopped, held a sort of consultation, and began a new nest under the same projection, but in another place. At first I could not understand why they did this; but upon examination I found that over the first nest there was a space between two boards through which dust sifted from the hay that rested on them. Of course this would inconvenience the young housekeepers, and so they chose a better place. House swallows usually leave but one small opening for ingress and egress, a necessary precaution against storms and wind; but this pair of swallows found these precautionary measures unnecessary, for they left the nest quite open. When the young swallows had grown large and strong, they often mounted to the border of the nest to await the coming of their parents. It was curious to see the anxious mother or father drive them from their dangerous position, and hasten to fill up the outer openings of their dwelling."

CHAPTER XI.

"MISS LERMOND," said the housekeeper, putting her head through the half-open door, "there's a woman below, whom Barbara has let in unawares, asking to see you."

The room was full of warm spring sunshine. It was on its soft carpet, and French furniture, and damask draperies. Outside a bluebird sang in a budding maple tree. Inside came a continual sound of voices and busy clatter from Miss Lermond's dressing-room. Miss Lermond herself, half buried in an easy-chair, sat leaning listlessly back, listening to that bluebird, with her hands crossed on her lap, and the dark lashes just touching her pale cheeks. On the white counterpane of the bed lay something whiter still, from which she kept her eyes turned steadily away-a dress of white satin and point lace, flung down there like a snow-wreath, a pair of dainty satin slippers, and a bridal veil. The toilet table was covered with bridal gifts, one-a small exquisite casket of carved wood, stood open, and coiled upon its velvet cushion lay, in the glittering sunlight, a magnificent set of Indian opalsSt. Maur's gift. To-morrow Nathalie would be a bride.

At the sound of Mrs. Roberts's voice in the doorway she started, but did not turn. "Who is it?" asked the listless voice. "She says her name is Alsie McKensie, and that she's come from Coltonsleigh. I told her to go away and not disturb you— that you were making ready for the wedding in the morning."

"And has she gone?" quickly.

"Not she," said Roberts; "she's got Scotch blood in her veins-stubborn as a mule-they all are. She's waiting still."

Coltonsleigh-McKensie; surely Nathalie had heard those names before. What could the woman want of her? Some latent curiosity, born of one of those mysterions instincts which come to us all some

time in our lives, prompted her to rise and follow Roberts down.

Alsie McKensie, as it happened, was holding at that moment a smart altercation at the foot of the stairs with the little French maid Marie, one jabbering in broad Scotch, the other in detestable English, and neither understanding a word beyond their own in the matter. The woman was tall and approaching middle age, with a strong heavy face, and a display of lawdry finery in her dress, that Marie was noticing with Parisian eyes. She made a deep courtesy as Nathalie appeared, then looked at her closely from head to foot.

"God's mercy!" she muttered; "she's as fair-favored as the ither! I am Alsie McKensie from Coltonsleigh, and I ha' e'en cam to speak wi' the leddy o' the Hallshe that's to be a bride to-morrow."

Nathalie, motioned the woman to follow her beyond the prying eyes of Marie. "And now," she said, quietly, "what business have you with me, Alsie ?"

Alsie twisted the fringe of her shawl nervously round her broad hand.

"I bided a spell at the cot wi' the ould mither, and then I walked on here. There's been something sair upon my mind these mony days. Is it true that ye go to kirk to-morrow wi' the master o' the Fields ?"

"I shall be married to-morrow," assented Nathalie, dimly wondering who this woman could be.

"Ye ha' heard, perhaps, how I was at the Hall in the first leddy's time?" Alsie went on. Nathalie nodded.

"Aweel, I kenned St. Maur then, and I ken him now, and I waun say to ye, were they my last words, that it is e'en better for ye to go to kirk in a shroud than wi' St. Maur for your bridegroom."

A flush of latent anger crimsoned Nathalie's cheek. She looked haughtily into the woman's strong and earnest face.

"Have you come from Coltonsleigh," she demanded, "to tell me this ?"

"I have, my leddy."

"And does St. Maur know of your coming?"

"God forbid !" answered Alsie, looking around with a start of alarm.

"Then," said Nathalie, "let me understand you. Why should I not wed him? If you have aught to say to me, say it quickly."

"Ah," answered Alsie, shaking her head, "I canna say more. Ye maur take warning by this-I canna break an oath!"

Is the woman dazed ?" thought

Nathalie.

But," Alsie went on, with strange vehemence," I can swear to ye that I speak truly. He is a braw callant, but a falsehearted one, and no fit mate for such as ye. 1 will e'en kneel and swear it, an' ye will hear."

"No!" cried Nathalie.

"Ah, ye dinna believe me!" cried Alsie, searching her face. "Lo'e is e'er blind. Aweel, will ye ken this and believe it, I wonder, in place o' an old woman's words ?"

She flashed out something suddenly from beneath the folds of her shawl, and dropped it into Nathalie's passive hand. It was a letter sealed and directed, with not crossed, no i dotted.

O, the fierce momentary struggle for calmness under Alsie's keen eyes! She took the letter, white to the very lips.

"Who gave you this?" she cried. Alsie's face was as expressionless as

stone.

"A gentleman that rowed ower from the lighthouse yestereen, fine and weil-favored. He asked for Alsie McKensie, and bade me gi' ye this if I cam to Hendee this day."

A thousand thoughts were coursing like lightning through Nathalie's brain. She turned the letter over in her hand, her face growing hard and bitter. All thoughts of St. Maur-of everything but pride and wrong, were banished. How dared hehow dared he, the perjured, the falsehearted-perhaps the husband of another -write to her?

"I am to take the answer back to Coltonsleigh, and he will come for it to-night," said Alsie.

There was a fire burning in a grate at the further end of the room. Nathalie rose from her seat, and walked slowly towards

it.

"His name ?" she said.

"I dinna ken," answered Alsie, grim as an ogress.

Nathalie paused on the hearth with stormy dark eyes.

"Here is your answer," she said, dropping the letter, with its seal unbroken, upon the glowing coals; "take it back with you to Coltonsleigh!"

"And is that all ?" asked Alsie. "All!"

"Then I maur be gone."

She drew her shawl around her with an unchanging face. Nathalie followed her to the door, leaving a handful of gray ashes among the sea-coal.

"I wauld wish ye joy o' the morrow," said Alsie, looking at her wistfully, "if I did na ken it wauld be turned to sorrow. It was woe enow for the first leddy o' the Hall, but it will be greater woe still for ye."

With the words of the woman ringing in her ear, Nathalie fled back to her own chamber. She was bewildered-sick.

Turn back? It was too late. She stood face to face with her doom now, helpless, and with some such vain despair at her heart as some hunted wild creature might feel circled closer and closer round by the toils of the hunter. Flinging herself prostrate upon the bed, beside the fleecy bridal draperies, Nathalie wept such tears as no heart ever weeps but once. All that makes life worth the having she had lost forever.

St. Maur called at twilight, but no Nathalie appeared. It was well that he could accommodate himself so readily to the whims of his betrothed, for their name was legion. A bunch of rare queenly camellias, from the conservatory of the fields, with a cross of blood-red Indian rubies dropped into their waxen hearts, he left behind him-the last of many princely gifts. Marie, going with it in search of her mistress, found her wandering about, like a ghost, in the gathering twilight of the gallery.

The sun had set low down behind the budding beech-wood. A few stars were out already in the sky, and the dull thunder of the sea boomed drearily up the shore. Marie lifted a lamp in the niche at the head of the staircase, and departed noiselessly.

And Nathalie? She had thrown herself into a seat at the window, and sat there looking out into those same beech-woods.