alarm, we will listen to a conversation going on between his partner, young Dr. Snelling, and Albert Travers.

"You see," said the latter, "that everything works admirably, there is every chance for you to work, and if you are only tolerably careful, no possibility of detection. I care not how long the business is in doing, if it is only safe and sure; and now that I have explained to you the whole affair, I see no reason why you cannot work it out. You know your reward, and I have never deceived you."

"And do you suppose that proud Miss Hamil ton will marry you? Why, she looks for a coronet, no less!"

"Never mind, he shall not stand in my way. Hamilton Park is worth some trouble to win."

"So it is, but I am afraid you wont win it. However, I wont discourage you; go ahead and I'll go with you. I have a small score of my own to settle with that young chap, which makes the job all the easier to do."

After renewed cautions to his confederate to be circumspect, young Travers left, and Snelling proceeded to fulfil his promise. At the expiration of a week Walter was decidedly worse, but nothing would prevent his attending the birthday ball given by Sir Richard in honor of his daughter's completing her seventeenth year. He was astonished at the improvement two years had made in Adela, who appeared before him a very vision of loveliness. Her face and figure were perfect, and the delicate lace dress with apple blossoms, were exactly suited to his taste. Many were more gorgeously attired, but none looked more beautiful.

Walter danced but once; there was a strange, weary feeling upon him all the time, and even Sir Richard had to own that he looked ill, and advised him to leave the excitement of the ballroom for an hour's repose on the library sofa, whither his aunt accompanied him.

God help me, can it be madness? I dare not let them know how strangely I feel, my mother, Adela. O, my bright anticipations of this meeting, and how realized!"

"Papa wishes to know if you are better, Mr. Travers!" And looking up he saw Adela beside him, her beautiful countenance expressing the deepest anxiety.

"O, yes, I feel much better; but before we go down, I want to be quite sure that you wish me to call you Miss Hamilton. Or shall it be Adela and Walter, as in the old times?" And he held a little trembling hand and looked earnestly into a sweet, blushing face. Walter had spoken so suddenly, that she had no time to recollect all the dignified speeches she had intended to make, and in fact the power of speech at all was gone. "You are not angry with me, Adela, dear Adela? It is happiness to meet again, is it

not ?" "Yes." The whisper was so low he had to bend down to hear it. For one instant he held her to his heart, then in pity let her go, she trembled so violently. Still holding her hand he drew it under his arm, and led her down to the crowded rooms below, where they joined the party in the supper room. Highly-wrought feeling for a time banished the deathlike languor he dreaded, and Sir Richard congratulated him on his improved looks. Walter asked his permission to address his daughter, which was readily granted.

You are worthy of her, and that is more than I would like to say to any one else. I will own that if you can win her, it will make us happy. We can trust our treasure to your care."

The party went off joyously, but before morning, gaiety was turned into anxiety, and messengers had been sent for Walter's physician; repeated and deathlike faintings having greatly alarmed the whole family. Dr. C. could not come, but Snelling answered the call, and as a

Old

ing could exceed the physician's attention, but his patient daily grew weaker and worse. Dr. Brown was summoned at last, and then Snelling had to work most cautiously, for a keen pair of eyes were upon him. There was no chance to retreat, for Albert was ever near, and there were a thousand dangers in advancing. An unknown danger, too, beset them, for Albert's every action was watched by one whose vengeance was sleepless, one who more than suspected the vile plan he was working out, and whose determination to thwart him was as immovable as her hatred was undying.

Dr. Brown advised Walter's going abroad as

soon as he could bear the journey, but there were 'many reasons for his wishing to remain at home. Since his engagement to Adela, life had become doubly precious, and he preferred Snelling to all others, from the continual encouragement that arch schemer gave him that he would soon be well.

"Now when the spring has come and England is so pleasant to live in, I cannot make up my mind to go abroad. If I must die, let me at least die where I can see all I love around me."

He looked fondly at his young betrothed who was never far distant. She came and placed a vase of early blossoms on the table at his side, drew back the heavy curtains that the sun and air might enter freely, and stood watching from the open window.

"You look pale this morning, Adela; you feel too anxious about me, dear. I shall have to return home."

"No, we cannot let you go home until you get well; but I have had a letter this morning that fills me with alarm, because I am forbidden to tell any one about it. There is something dreadfully mysterious in it, and I am not sure but it is a deception, as the writer asks for an interview alone, and pretends to be able to tell what is causing your illness."

"Is your correspondent male or female-and how are you to appoint an interview?"

"O, it is evidently a lady's hand, though disguised; and I am to leave an answer under the right hand pillar of the park gate. What do you think of it, Walter?"

"I will tell you what to do, love. Don't allow it to agitate you in the least, it is probably of no consequence at all; but you can answer it, and tell your unknown correspondent to come to the window here at this time to-morrow, where she can see us alone, and can enter and depart unknown to the rest of the household. If she knows anything to benefit me, she can have no possible objection to letting me know it."

Miss Hamilton acted on this advice, and with the utmost impatience awaited the issue of this strange adventure. Precisely at the appointed hour next morning, a woman well disguised in a long cloak, with a large bonnet and thick veil, came through the shrubbery, and as Adela unclosed the long window which opened to the ground, she quietly stepped in and seated herself near Walter's sofa.

It was Sir Richard's hour for taking his morning ride, and his lady's daily visit to her charity school, so that there was little danger of interruption; yet Miss Hamilton urged her to tell the object of her visit.

"I am hungry," she replied, in a strange, hollow tone. "I am too hungry to talk."

A tray of delicate refreshments stood on a table near, and Adela hastened to pour out some wine, and offer her a bountiful supply of toast and cake and sandwiches. She drank the wine, and ate the bread and meat greedily, but she never raised her veil, and motioned the young girl back when she would have offered more.

"Walter Travers, I have come to warn you of the plot now working against your life," she said, in the same mournful voice. "God knows I have done few good actions in my life, and if I may be the means of making you two happy, it will be one pleasant thought at least. And now I bid you beware of your cousin Albert Travers, and of his accomplice Snelling, who are taking your life. Every particle of medicine you take, and even some of your food and drink, contain more or less poison. I know this to be true, and as you value your life beware of them. It may be that when they find their plans discovered, some more violent means will be resorted to, but I have warned you. Snelling is capable of anything when the other threatens him-so again I say beware!"

She got up, drew her cloak closer about her, and her veil more tightly over her face, and would have left the room, but that Adela caught her

hand.

"Can we do anything for you in return for what you have done this morning?" she asked. "If you go away from here you will be hungry again. Stay with us and you shall never want.'

There was a world of sympathy in that sweet, pale face, so full of agitation, the tears falling from the most beautiful eyes in the world; even the clasp of the soft, warm hand seemed to thrill through the strange woman for an instant-no longer; then she flung off those trembling fingers, and laughed scornfully.

"You don't know me, girl, or you would shrink from the contamination of my touch. Let me pass."

"I know you," said Walter, as he rose up and laid his hand upon her arm. "I know you, and I cannot let you pass until you promise that I shall see you again."

She shivered under his touch, and cowered down as if from a blow.

"Do not fear," he said, "your secret is safe with me. Take this to keep you from danger and want. You have saved my life, and you shall never be friendless again."

She took the purse he placed in her hand, held his poor, wasted fingers for one moment in her own, then slowly left the room.

"Walter, can this be true? Can Albert be a murderer at heart? Or is this some poor, crazy creature who fancies this horrible story is true?" "It is true, Adela. I can think of a thousand things now that convince me of her sincerity; but for the sake of the family we must keep this secret. Once warned, I fear nothing that Albert can do; and health and strength once more returned, what a blissful future opens before us! The bitterness of death was in the thought of leaving you, my own love."

Such was the warning that Albert sent his accomplice Snelling, and it need scarcely be added that the latter was not slow to act upon his advice. His sudden flight precluded all necessity for Walter to explain the horrible circumstances to his family, whom he wished to spare such a shock.

It was many long months ere he recovered from the effects of the attack on his life, but gradually his strength returned, and he was able by degrees to renew his life-long love for out-ofdoor exercises, and enjoy the sports and dangers of flood and field. And now commenced the delightful preparations for the most important of all events, and Mrs. Travers and Lady Hamilton held earnest conversations together, and had the carriages out at most unseasonable hours, and mysterious orders were sent up to town, and enormously long bills accompanied the packages that came down from town. Adela and Walter troubled themselves little about any such matters, so that they were allowed to enjoy each other's society unmolested.

At last Mr. Travers and Sir Richard are seen to talk very earnestly together, and then ride off in a very sudden and mysterious manner, and Adela grows pale and hopes "nothing is the matter." She has been very nervous ever since that dreadful day, and Walter asks what she fears while he is there to protect her, and thinks it a delightful task to re-assure his lovely little bride, and the circumstance is forgotten until they all meet at dinner, when the gentlemen positively refuse to gratify anybody's curiosity, and to turn the conversation, tell them that Beech Hill is sold.

Now Beech Hill lies directly between Hamilton

Park and Homewood, and is a most superb residence, and Walter thinks how much pleasanter it would have been to take Adela to a home of his own like that, than even to share the splendor of Homewood, but he carefully guards all such regrets lest his father should feel wounded. And now the wedding day rapidly approaches, and Colonel Travers and his lady arrive with many regrets that Albert cannot be home in time to be his cousin's groomsman, and Walter listens to the polite message with apparent calmness, but an inward thrill of horror.

No bride could have desired or asked for a brighter sun than shone on the wedding day, and never was a happier bride "veiled and crowned" than Adela.

"Let me see her just for one moment before they all come," pleaded Walter. And his aunt could not refuse, although she insisted that it was 'highly improper, and no one ever heard of such a thing."

You are happy, love, are you sure you are quite content?"

"Quite content-and you?"

Yes, too happy-far too happy for words." When the ceremony was over, Mr. Travers himself assisted his new daughter into the carriage which was to convey the young couple to Homewood, placing in her hand a package they could scarcely understand the meaning of until the carriage drove under the magnificent avenue leading to Beech Hill. Overcome by the princely generosity of such a gift, they could not find words to admire the interior of their new home, which lavish expenditure and good taste had made as near perfection as possible.

I never

"Yes-and truly a well kept secret. dreamed of such a plan to surprise us." "I do not know which to admire most, your father's kindness, or his taste in fitting up rooms. Could anything be pleasanter than this?" And with almost childish delight she gazed on the various adornments of a small apartment fitted up expressly for her, a very gem of a room, with books and birds and flowers, and best of all, one large bay window, commanding the most charming prospect.

"Almost as beautiful as the scene from Cliff Cottage," Walter said, and he could give it no higher praise.

GOODNESS.

So spake the cherub, and his grave rebuke, Severe in youthful beauty, added grace Invisible; abashed the devil stood,

And felt how awful goodness is.-MILTON.

[ORIGINAL.]

I KNEW WHEN FIRST WE MET.

BY WILLIE WARE.

I knew when first we met
I'd love thee very dearly-
Love thee, gentle friend:

Love thee, dear, sincerely!
When first I gazed into

Those liquid eyes of thine,
I felt a strange, strange thrill
Within this heart of mine.

And when I heard thy voice,
It woke within my heart

A chord that ne'er will cease
To thrill-thou art
The beautiful ideal

I'd pictured in my mind,
Ne'er hoping on this earth

Its counterpart to find.

And now my heart to thee-
To thee, fair one, I give;
To thee I dedicate my life,
For thee alone I live.
And let us cheer each other,
Sailing down life's stream,
Until we wake in pleasure

From this our earthly dream.

[ORIGINAL.]] 1 The Days of the English Riots.

BY WILLIAM S. MACDONALD.

MARY CHAWORTH! How the name lingers on the memory of all who have read Byron's real or affected lamentations over his ill fated boyish attachment to a girl older and probably wiser than himself, and which, he says, "threw him out alone on a wide, wide sea." The lady, as is well known, married a man of less poetical name as well as of fame, than the poet, and rejoiced in the name of Musters. They resided at Colwick Hall, near Nottingham, England, where the lady's health declined, exhibiting unmistakable marks of consumption.

One night, towards the close of her fatal disorder, she was driven from her house on a cold autumn evening, by the alarm of fire. Some time elapsed before the poor lady could be carried to a shelter, and in the meantime she had the misery of beholding, from her uncomfortable position in the wet shrubbery of the garden, the destruction of her home. The exposure was too much for her feeble frame. She died soon afterward, the event, doubtless, hastened by the horrors of that midnight hour in the garden.

This was in the eventful autumn of 1831, when the riots consequent on the rejection of the Re

form Bill, by the House of Lords, took place. The family of Robert Stanley, the elder, had assembled at the evening meal in the autumn of that year. Stanley was himself a manufacturer, on no very extended scale, it is true, but with sufficient success to support those he loved in comfortable circumstances. His house was reputed to be the neatest in all Nottingham. His wife, still quite youthful, if one might judge by the soft and beautiful brown hair, was a pale, gentle-looking woman, on whom the cares of a large family had not sat uneasily, yet had been sufficient to take away the fine English bloom.

Robert, the eldest son, who sat beside his mother at the table, was an assistant in his father's manufactory, had recently arrived at the age of twenty-one, and was, moreover, engaged to a very pretty damsel who, on this occasion, was visiting her prospective relations. Susan Hazeldean was a modest little creature, almost nestling in her extreme timidity under the arm of Mary Stanley, beside whom she sat. Occasionally she darted a quickly-withdrawn glance at her lover's father, of whom, with his large, piercing black eyes and dignified bearing, she seemed quite awed. She had not yet learned what a soft and tender heart the strong, stalwart man possessed, although she seemed perfectly sensible of the perfections of his handsome and manly son. As the other children took their seats around the ample table, from which the odorous steam of the hot tea was diffusing itself through the apartment, there was not a happier nor a finer-looking group in all England than in that apartment.

itself had once belonged to that portion of the It was a room, large and lofty, for the mansion aristocracy, the younger members of which had disdained to live in the midst of a manufacturing town, and had carried their pride and their reduced means to a more genial atmosphere. The heavy oaken wainscotting and lofty windows gave it an air of old-time grandeur, and Robert Stanley's good taste had supplied it with furniture adapted to its style, instead of deforming it with modern gewgaws.

The meal finished, they still lingered at the table, the mother with her loving and gentle eyes gazing upon the nine human blossoms that were hers by right, and mentally adding Susan Hazeldean as the tenth. A loud knock at the hall door, and a voice was heard inquiring for young Robert Stanley, who immediately rose and went out. He quickly returned and called his father, and both seemed, to the listening ears visitors, for there were evidently two or more. of the group, to be in loud conversation with the

"Some trouble with the workmen at the fac

Another cause was soon revealed to the terrorstricken family. Robert came back, and said, with a voice not quite so clear as usual, and a face flushed with some undefinable emotion:

"Mother, I must leave you for a time. These men," they had followed him and now stood in the door way, two stout, brawny English policemen, "insist on my presence for some disputed matter. I trust it will not take long to prove my —that is―" The young man hesitated, looked at Susan Hazeldean, who grew pale as death, and then flew to her side.

The father still stood without, trying to conquer his own feelings. He entered, after a while, and, going straight up to his wife and taking both her hands in his, he said, affectionately:

'My dear, it is of no use to hide anything; better tell all at once. Robert is arrested on a charge of setting the Colwick Hall on fire."

"Is that all?" asked Leonard Stanley, a bright boy of fourteen. "We all know where Robert was that night," glancing at his intended sisterin law.

A momentary gleam lighted up Susan's pale features, and then disappeared as suddenly. Her first thought was the same as Leonard's-that he had been at her father's house on the evening in question; her second told her she had not seen him at all on that evening.

The men stood looking into the room, apparently surprised to see so refined a family as this one evidently appeared; and they expressed no impatience to be gone, although it was now getting somewhat dusky. When, at length, the poor young man had wound himself up to the pitch he was trying to attain, of parting with his family, he attempted to speak his farewell in calm words. He broke down when he came to Susan, and rushed toward the door. The men, thinking he was about to elude them, took his

was elsewhere. On the second it was not so easy. His counsel entreated him to plead guilty, observing that the alibi proved yesterday would rarely avail the second time. His prosecutors even agreed to spare his life, if he would own his guilt, and relate all he knew.

"What!" said the brave youth, to his own counsel, as he laid this before him, "would you have me take upon me for life the burden of a crime which I never committed, and add to it the curse of falsehood also? No, rather bear an unjust penalty, than to perjure myself."

'The counsel was silent. He could not but sympathize with a sentiment so honorable to his client's heart.

Meantime the family of Robert Stanley were enduring tortures untold. Not a doubt of Robert's innocence troubled them, but these were troublous times, and the public justice demanded with loud cries a victim to atone for the outrages continually planned and executed. Here, then, was a man whose social position was far higher and his education immeasurably above that of the rioters in general. The condemnation of such a man would lead them to suppose, at least, that no mercy would be shown to others inferior in rank and knowledge; and it might serve as a bugbear to prevent future outrage, if a young man like Robert Stanley, the son of a master manufacturer, and already possessed of ability to conduct business on his own responsibility.

Robert's sole reply to those who pressed him to plead guilty was this: "I am innocent, and will take my trial."

No alibi could by any stretch of the imagination be proved. In vain the friends of the family, the family itself, or even the prisoner, tried to recall the evening's events before the castle was fired. Having nothing definite by which to remember, and although it was in the minds of them all as a general impression, that they had seen him every evening, still that fatal evening had left no particular mark upon any of them. Nothing, therefore, could be elicited in his favor

while the evidence against him was overwhelming. Many witnesses were brought forward who swore positively to having seen him with the lawless crew who committed the deed; and this evidence seemed given in full faith, and with the most perfect conviction of its truth.

The Stanleys, encouraged by the success of the first indictment being crushed, were quite sanguine in their hopes of the second. They attended the trial—at least the parents and older children did, and they brought along with them the object of Robert's love.