appeared to deliberate, when the big fellow advanced a few steps, and commanded us imperiously to surrender. "Shall I fire?" I inquired of the Canadian.

ling of the ball,-the water around me was stained red. The Indian, mortally wounded, rolled his eyes, and while he was struggling in agony, I snatched my knife from his

"Good," was my reply-" I will wait."

A second summons met with no better success than the first; they continued to advance, and my comrade fired; an Appache fell, followed a moment afterwards by another, whom I brought down while aiming at the leader. The Indians then threw themselves flat on the ground, a cloud of dust rose in the air, and hid everything from us; a few arrows whizzed by our ears, or fell at our feet. We fired a second time, and successfully, as could be judged by the yells that followed our discharge. The cloud of dust continually renewed concealed the savages, and when it subsided, ten or a dozen of the furious wretches were climbing up the hill on which we were posted. Their painted faces were almost close to our own, and we felt their hot breath as they came nearer. The Canadian shot down one at the end of his barrel, and smashed another's skull with the butt-end; all at once I saw him rolling down the slope, locked in the arms of three Indians, and heard him cry out with a half stifled voice-"Fire! fire! even if you kill me with them."

I had already trouble enough to keep the other five at a respectful distance with my rifle, and a horrible sensation of agony came across me at the sight of the reptiles clinging round my companion, who, alone against three, tried in vain to get at his knife; sometimes he lifted them all with the strength of a Hercules, but overcome by the weight fell heavily down again. A minute later the head of one of the Indians came with such violence against a stone as to relieve him from all further trouble, another let go his hold, I rushed with my knife upon the third, when a heavy blow on my head from a macana (mace) made me cry out with pain and drop my weapon. I turned round; the big fellow, to whom I had taken such a dislike, was before me; raising my rifle as a club I kept him at bay, and having picked up my knife, retreated fighting to the top of the hill, to gain room and a chance to fire. Recovering from his surprise, my antagonist rushed towards me with such impetuosity, that before I was able to avoid it, his macana once more descended on my head. Stunned and blinded, I lost my footing and fell senseless. An extraordinary sensation of coolness roused me from my torpor; I had rolled into the river that flowed at our feet.

That which might have done for me, saved me; the cold water restored my fast departing senses. When I rose to the surface, the Appache was bending over the river, watching my struggle with cruel joy; in one hand he brandished his macana, and in the other my knife, which I had dropped in falling. But, as he saw me exert myself to swim to the shore and rejoin Dupont, he howled with rage and plunged after me. I redoubled my efforts to get away, but loss of blood had weakened me, and the Indian swam faster than I. Now and then I looked to calculate the progress he was making, and every time the hideous painted face was nearer to me-my knife between his teeth. I then looked towards the shore: my unfortunate companion, although released for an instant from his antagonists, was in a most critical situation. His rifle, which had rendered him such fatal service, was at his shoulder, and kept at bay the Appaches, whom I heard howling round him. as dogs round a bull. I was unable to repress a cry of distress. "Oh!" I exclaimed, "will you let me be murdered before your eyes?"

The Canadian turned his head hastily without lowering his weapon; at the sight of the Indian, whose arm was stretched out to seize me, compassion overcame the care of his own safety, and with a rapid turn he took a new aim. The report of the rifle echoed,—I heard the whist

thought was to look for my brave comrade: he had disappeared. But here the hunter added, he will tell you what happened to him better than I can.

"It is simple enough," continued the Canadian : "after helping my friend by the discharge of my rifle, I knew he would do what he could to rejoin me. The Indians were in consternation at the loss of their leader, and as there was not time to reload, I turned round and round like a mill, and made a rush at the five villains who were waiting for me. Before they had recovered from their surprise, I was out of reach of their arrows, and retreated towards the river. You know, Senor, it is not impossible to parry an arrow with the hand: the point goes straight to the object, but the feather end spins round as it flies in a bright circle, so that you can stoop to avoid it or beat it down: in this way I gained the place where my comrade had landed; the trees helped my retreat, so that I had but three or four slight wounds. Benito will now tell you the rest," concluded the brave Canadian, seemingly ashamed of having said so much.

The Mexican hunter resumed the narrative:-Seeing us reunited, the Indians, discouraged by their loss, put off their revenge to a more favourable opportunity-for when chances are not in their favour, they do not consider it dishonourable to retreat, even from an enemy inferior in numbers. I was for pursuing them to their camp, and attacking the dozen warriors who had doubtless stayed behind to guard their plunder, but Dupont would not give in to my advice. He argued that the villains were too eager for our lives, not to come back and attack us in greater numbers; that our position was a good one; a canoe at our disposal, in which we could always go to them, if they did not come to us. More than half stunned with the blow I had received, and sceing that my blood still flowed, I gave up the point. The Indians reembarked without any interruption from us, while we thought only of repose, and dressing our wounds. Examining our resources, we found a few scraps of dried meat; my powder, it is true, was spoiled by the water, but Dupont's flask was full enough; so that we had but little reason to fear the anticipated blockade.

We kept a good watch all the rest of the day, but saw nothing that led us to suspect a renewal of the attack: the night came on peaceful and silent. The enemy, however, were not far off. It is an anxious time when the schemes of these jackals are concealed by darkness. No fire was kindled; the broad island seemed as deserted as in the first day of its creation; the tranquil course of the river was disturbed only by an uprooted tree that from time to time floated past. This stillness portended nothing favourable; the Indians, doubtless, calculated on finishing us by some artful scheme. We resolved on ascertaining their intentions, and, with a world of precaution, lifted the canoe into the water and moved slowly down to the island. Here all partook of the same quietness and repose: we were the only two beings in existence upon the expanse of water.

"What does this mean?" I inquired of the Canadian.

"That the savages are waiting for the moon to go down before they make their attack, and put some infernal plan into execution, which as yet I cannot guess at."

We listened again, trying to detect the least sound. By attention and patience, we at last fancied that a distant rippling which we heard was less regular and more noisy than that of the river on its banks; it seemed also to be advancing towards us from the shores of the island. "Let us return to our post," whispered Dupont. We rowed back as quietly as we had stolen out; the

"I never married, you would say, Kate, and thus it follows that I never loved. Well, perhaps not; I may be, as you think, an exception; at least I am not going to trouble you with antiquated love passages, that, like old faded pictures, require a good deal of varnishing to be at all attractive. But, I confess, I like not to hear so young a girl ridiculing what is, despite the sickly sentiment that so often obscures it, the purest and noblest evidence of our higher nature."

“Oh, you don't understand me, Aunt Mabel! If I could only hear one true love story-something that I knew had really occurred-then it would serve as a kind of text for all the rest. Oh! how I long to hear a real heart-story of actual life!"

Kate grew enthusiastic, and Aunt Mabel, after pausing a few minutes, while a troubled smile crossed her face, said, "Well, Kate, I will tell you a love story of real life, the truth of which I can vouch for, since I knew the parties well. You will believe me, I know, Kate, without requiring actual name and date for every occurrence. There are no extravagant incidents in this owre true tale,' but it is a story of the heart, and such a one, I believe, you want to hear."

I wish you could have seen Aunt Mabel, as she sat in the soft twilight of that summer evening, smiling fondly on the young, bright girl at her side. You would have loved her, as did every one who came within the sphere of her gentle influence. Aunt Mabel could never have been beautiful; and yet, as she sat in her quiet, silvergrey silk gown, and kerchief of the sheerest muslin pinned neatly over the bosom, there was an air of graceful, ladylike ease about her, far removed from the primness of old-maidism. Her features were high, and finely cut, you would have called her proud and stern, with a tinge of sarcasm lurking upon the lip, but for her full, darkgrey eyes, so lustrous, so ineffably sweet in their deep, soul-beaming tenderness, that they seemed scarcely to belong to a face so worn and faded; indeed they did not seem in keeping with the silver-threaded hair so smoothly parted from the low, broad brow, and put away so carefully beneath a small cap, whose delicate lace, and rich white satin, were the only articles of dress in which Aunt Mabel was a little fastidious. She kept her sewing in her hand as she commenced her story, and stitched away most industriously at first, but gradually, as she proceeded, the work fell upon her lap, and she seemed to be lost in abstracted recollections, speaking as though impelled by some uncontrollable impulse to recall the events long since passed away.

66

Jane felt

"This, however, was far from the truth. that she was not popular in society, and it grieved her; yet she strove in vain to assimilate with those around her, to feel and act as they did, and to be, like them, admired and loved. But the narrow circle in which she moved was not at all calculated to appreciate or draw forth her talent or character. With a heart filled with all womanly tenderness and gentle sympathies, a mind full of restless longings for the beautiful and true, possessed of fine tastes that only wanted cultivation to ripen into talent, Jane found herself thrown among those who neither understood nor sympathized with her. Her mother idolized her, but Jane felt that had she been far different from what she was, her mother's love had been the same; and, though she returned her parent's affection with all the warmth of her nature, there was ever within her heart a restless yearning for something beyond. Immersed in a narrow routine of daily duties, compelled to practice the most rigid economy, and to lend her every thought and moment to the assistance of her mother, Jane had little time for the gratification of those tastes that formed her sole enjoyment. It is the perpetual recurrence of the little that crushes the romance of life,' says Bulwer; and the experience of every day justifies the truth of his remark. Jane felt herself, as year after year crept by, becoming grave aud silent. She knew that, in her circumstances, it was best that the commonplaces of every-day life should be sufficient for her, but she grieved as each day she felt the bright hues of early enthusiasm fading out and giving place to the cold, grey tint of reality.

"With her pure sense of the beautiful, Jane felt acutely the lack of those personal charms that seem to win a way to every heart. By those who loved her, (and the few who knew her well did love her dearly,) she was called at times beautiful; but those who admired only the rosy beauty of physical perfection pronounced her decidedly plain.

"Jane Lynn had entered her twenty-second summer when her mother's household was increased by the arrival of a new inmate. Everard Morris was a man of good fortune, gentlemanly, quiet, and a bachelor. Possessed of very tender feelings and ardent temperament, he had seen his thirty-seventh birth-day, and was still free. He had known Jane slightly before his introduction to her home, and he soon evinced a deep and tender interest in her welfare. Her character was a new study for him, and he delighted in calling forth all the latent enthusiasm of her nature. He it was who awakened the slumbering fires of sentiment, and insisted on her cultivating tastes too lovely to be possessed in vain; and when she frankly told him that the refinement of taste created restless yearnings for pursuits to her unattainable, he spoke of a happier future, when her life should be spent amid the employments she loved. Ere many months had elapsed, his feelings deepened into passionate tenderness, and he avowed himself her lover. Jane's emotions were mixed and tumultuous, as she listened to his fervent expressions; she reproached herself with ingratitude in not returning his love. She felt towards him a grateful affec tion, for to him she owed all the real happiness her secluded life had known; but he did not realize her ideal, he admired and was proud of her talents, but he did not sympathize with her tastes.

"Months sped away, and seemed to bring to him an increase of passionate tenderness. Every word and action spoke his deep devotion. Jane could not remain insensible to such affection; the love she had sighed for was hers at last-and it is the happiness of a loving nature to know that it makes the happiness of another. Jane's

became a faithful, trusting love. She felt no fear for the future, because she knew her affection had none of the romance that she had learned to mistrust, even while it enchanted her imagination. She saw failings and pecu

Mrs. Lynn saw what was passing, and was happy, for Mr. Morris had been to her a friend and benefactor. And Jane was happy in the consciousness of being beloved, yet had she much to bear. Her want of beauty was, as I have said, a source of regret to her, and she was made unhappy by finding that Everard Morris was dissatisfied with her appearance. She thought, in the true spirit of romance, that the beloved were always lovely; but Mr. Morris frequently expressed his dissatisfaction that nature had not made her as beautiful as she was good. I will not pause to discuss the delicacy of this and many other observations that caused poor Jane many secret tears, and sometimes roused even her gentle spirit to indignation; but affection always conquered her pride, as her lover still continued to give evidence of devotion.

"And thus time passed on, the happy future promised to Jane seemed ever to recede, and slowly the conviction forced itself on her mind,-that he whom she had trusted so implicitly was selfish and vacillating, generous from impulse, selfish from calculation; but he still seemed to love her, and she clung to him, because having been so long accustomed to his devotedness, she shrunk from being again alone. In the mean time Mrs. Lynn's health became impaired, and Jane's duties were more arduous than ever. Morris saw her cheek grow pale, and her step languid, under the pressure of mental and bodily fatigue; he knew she suffered, and yet, while he assisted them in many ways, he forbore to make the only proposition that could have secured happiness to her he pretended to love. His conduct preyed upon the mind of Jane, for she saw that the novelty of his attachment was over. He had seen her daily for four years, and while she was really essential to his happiness, he imagined, because the uncertainty of early passion was past, that his love was waning, and thought it would be unjust to offer her his hand without his whole heart, forgetting the protestations of former days, and regardless of her wasted feelings. This is unnatural and inconsistent, you will say, but it is true.

"Four years had passed since Everard Morris first became an inmate of Mrs. Lynn's, and Jane had learned to doubt his love. Hope deferred maketh the heart sick; and she felt that the only way to acquire peace was to crush the affection she had so carefully nourished when she was taught to believe it essential to his happiness. She could not turn to another; her affections still longed for him who first awoke them, and to whom they had clung so long. But she never reproached him; her manner was gentle, but reserved; she neither sought nor avoided him; and he flattered himself that her affection, like his own passionate love, had nearly burnt itself out, yet he had by no means given her entirely up; he would look about awhile, and at some future day, perhaps, might make her his wife.

"While affairs were in this state, business called Mr. Morris into a distant city; he corresponded with Jane occasionally, but his letters breathed none of the tenderness of former days; and Jane was glad they did not, for she felt that he had wronged her, and she shrunk from avowals that she could no longer trust.

threw herself on her mother's bosom, and besought her never again to mention the past. And it never was alluded to again between them; but both Jane and her mother had to parry the inquiries of their acquaintance, al! of whom believed Mr. Morris and Jane were engaged. This was the severest trial of all, but they bore up bravely, and none who looked on the quiet Jane ever dreamed, of the bitter ashes of wasted affection that laid heavy on her heart.

"Mr. and Mrs. Morris settled near the Lynns, and visited very frequently; the young wife professed an ardent attachment to Jane, and sought her society constantly, while Jane instinctively shrunk more and more within herself. She saw with painful regret that Morris seemed to find his happiness at their fireside rather than his own. He had been captivated by the freshness and beauty of his young wife, who, schooled by a designing mother, had flattered him by her evident preference; he had, to use an old and coarse adage, "married in haste to repent at leisure;" and now that the first novelty of his position had worn off, his feelings returned with renewed warmth to the earlier object of his attachment. Delicacy towards her daughter prevented Mrs. Lynn from treating him with the indignation she felt; and Jane, calm and self-possessed, seemed to have overcome every feeling of the past. The consciousness of right upheld her; she had not given her affection unsought; he had pleaded for it passionately, earnestly, else had she never lavished the hoarded tenderness of years on one so different from her own ideal; but that tenderness, once poured forth, could never more return to her; the fountain of the heart was dried, henceforth she lived, but in the past.

"Mr. and Mrs. Morris were an ill-assorted couple; she, gay, volatile, possessing little affection for her husband, and, what was in his eyes even worse, no respect for his opinions, which he always considered as infallible. As their family increased, their differences augmented. The badly regulated household of a careless wife and mother was intolerable to the methodical habits of the bachelor husband; and while the wife sought for Jane to condole with her-though she neglected her advice-the husband found his greatest enjoyment at his old bachelor home, and once so far forgot himself as to express to Jane his regret at the step he had taken, and declared he deserved his punishment. Jane made no reply, but ever after avoided all opportunity for such expresions.

"In the meantime Mrs. Lynn's health declined, and they retired to a smaller dwelling, where Jane devoted herself to her mother, and increased their small income by the arduous duties of daily governess. Her check paled, and her eye grew dim beneath the complicated trials of her situation; and there were moments when visions of the bright future once promised rose up as if in mockery of the dreary present; hope is the parent of disappointment, and the vista of happiness once opened to her view made the succeeding gloom still deeper. But she did not repine; upheld by her devotedness to her mother, she guarded her tenderly until her death, which occurred five years after the marriage of Mr. Morris.