As they proceeded towards the north, the country became more rugged and mountainous, and changes in the costume of the peasantry showed that they had passed into another province: the black velvet cap of the Castilian, ever worn so as to display to advantage his noble, lofty forehead, was replaced by one of woollen material, of a brilliant red, long, and hanging down behind. The scenery every moment became more grand and sublime, and the young girls, who had spent their lives chiefly in Madrid, were full of delight and admiration. "How can people live in the city," they exclaimed, "when such a free and happy life is before them? How can they prefer brick and stone to the everlasting hills, the soft green turf, and the majestic forests? Here, you can really behold the sky, with its beautiful fleecy clouds, ever changing in shape and hue, and you can see the starry universe spread out before you; there, you can perhaps catch a glimpse of a few stars, and a small piece of a cloud, but the rest is hidden by dead walls. In the city, our time is taken up, and our hearts are frozen, by ceremonious visits, stately dinners, and the rules of etiquette; here, in the country, a real, true life could be spent, free from insincerity and busy idleness. Dear father, will you not give up your offices at court, and live henceforth at Alcantra?" Their father smiled at their enthusiasm, and felt himself almost rejuvenated, as he listened to their raptures, flowing fresh from young and ardent hearts; but told them that they had not yet seen their ancestral castle, and that perhaps their expectations might be grievously disappointed; he would wait until they had spent some time there, before he gave them his answer.

As they approached the termination of their journey, the country became yet wilder, and the villages were more thinly scattered; while here and there a wooden cross appeared upon the roadside, with some simple inscription, calculated to inspire terror in proportion to its very simplicity. "Here they killed Iago," or "Here the robbers killed Senor Jose Blanco." They noticed, on their last day of travel, when they had entered into the territory of the Conde, that the roadside crosses became more frequent, and the cottages of the peasantry assumed a look of poverty they certainly did not bear in former times, when the lords of the manor resided upon their estate, and were able to see to the welfare of the people. When they entered the little inn of the village of Alcantra, about four miles from the castle, the garrulous old landlord greeted the Conde most warmly.

"And a good thing it is for the country that your Excellencia has returned once more to his estates. Now we may hope to have a little peace; now the peasants will not be ground down to the dust, as they have been; now some villanous upstarts I know of, will not dare to ride over them rough-shod, and to treat them as if they were beasts of the field. Viva! viva! The illustrious Conde has returned!"

The Count was much affected by the representations of this man, whom he knew to be an honest and worthy fellow, and was full of regret for what he now felt to be criminal negligence on his own part; and promised him that full investigations should take place, and that perfect justice should be done. The innkeeper asked him if his servants were well armed; "For," said he, "the nearness of the castle is no protection to you from robbery. Many travellers have left this inn, in high health and spirits, and with trunks laden with merchandise, but have never arrived at their destinations. The road is, as you well know, rough and precipitous, over-hung by huge rocks and dark forests, and the banditti have taken up their quarters somewhere in this neighborhood, though where it is none can discover. Many murders have been committed here, and many a poor fellow lies buried in unconsecrated ground, Heaven have mercy on their souls! but the murderers have never yet been caught. It is not thought that the band can be a large one, but they are very daring; it is now more safe than usual, for an atrocious murder occurred a few miles from this place within the last week, and a company of soldiers is expected here every moment; they will stay a week, and will try to capture them, but unless the Saints defend us, and all the Martyrs, Heaven only knows what will become of us all."

Don Alonzo assured him that he feared nothing, as including the coachmen they were six well-armed men, upon every one of whom he could entirely depend. "And," said he, smiling, "if matters come to a bad pass, I could count upon my daughter here, my brave Clara, as my seventh soldier; I have taught her to fire a pistol without shrieking, and to hit the mark, too, and with her protection Magdalena and I need fear nothing."

After this conversation, it is not wonderful that all were on the qui vive as they ascended the mountain road leading to the castle of Alcantra. Magdalena started at every sound, and even Clara, fearless as she was, felt relieved when she saw the lofty turrets and extensive battlements she had dimly remembered, spreading out before her, their dark outline relieved against the blue sky. If the approach was romantic and alarming, it was a good preparation to their minds for the castle itself; it was built in the times of feudal power and intestine wars, and its massive walls had well performed their part in the defence of its inmates during many sieges. And yet, strong as it was, and built, as it appeared, for eternity, a portion of this noble structure was going to decay; one wing had been very much battered in the last siege it had sustained, and the cannon-balls had done the work of centuries; but the main building looked very imposing, as if able to resist the lapse of ages, and appeared, from its elevation, to frown down upon intruders, and to scorn the very idea of danger. It was exactly such a place as was calculated to fire the imaginations and to win the hearts of young girls, brought up in a gay metropolis, from the very contrast to all they had ever seen before; there was a romance about its very gloom that was attractive to them. Associated as it was with much historic interest, and with many family traditions, they had ardently longed to behold it, and now that they saw it rise, in its dark grandeur, before them, they acknowledged that their expectations were more than realized.

There were no signs of life to be seen about the castle, and it was long before the loud, imperious knocking at the gate-way brought any one to open it; and then a man appeared, whose hesitating manner and vacant countenance plainly showed that he had never been gifted with a large share of mother-wit. With some difficulty he was made to understand that the party had a right to admittance, and the carriages entered within the courtyard. The rest of the household was by this time aware of an unusual arrival, and came forward to receive them; but it was very evident that their visit was not only unexpected, but undesired, although the castellan and his wife strove very hard to throw into their hard, dark countenances, an expression of welcome. Senor Don Juan Baptista—so was the castellan called—was a man of most repellant countenance; his eye had a sinister, cunning look, and there was something in his large, shaggy, overhanging brow, that was really appalling; it was to be supposed that he had now put on his most amiable expression, but unless his face greatly belied him, fierce, ungoverned passions were accustomed to rule his being. His wife, Francisca, had one of those countenances that appear to dare you to find them out: hard, silent, and sullen, she looked as if the rack itself could not force her to speak unless she willed it; and her face reminded you constantly of a wooden mask, which not even the strongest emotions could make transparent, and allow you to catch a glimpse of the soul behind. Both were loud in their expressions of regret that their dear lord and the sweet, beautiful senoritas had not let them know, beforehand, of their visit, that they might have had things more fit for their reception; the castle was rather disarranged, and not anticipating this honor, they had allowed most of the servants to depart, to enjoy a holiday for a few weeks—their household was at present very small. Don Alonzo cut short their apologies by telling them that he had attendants with him sufficient to supply the wants of himself and his daughters, although it was certainly unfortunate that it should have occurred just at this juncture; and entering the castle, he tenderly embraced Clara and Magdalena, welcoming them to their ancestral home. The girls almost shuddered, as they gazed upon the the huge hall, with its lofty carved ceiling, and its dark oak panelling. In ancient times, when it was crowded by armed retainers, or echoed to the joyful chorus of the feast and the minstrel's song, it must have been admirably suited to its purpose; but now it looked solitary and desolate, like a fit abode for the owl and the raven. At one end, a wide, substantial stone staircase led to the upper regions of the castle, branching off above in many directions; a long oak-table, capable of accommodating more than a hundred guests, extended for some distance along the hall, but it was scarcely noticed in the vast apartment. A large chimney, surrounded by stone settles, and richly ornamented with curious antique carving, formed a prominent feature in it; the tapestry on the wall, from which hunters and grim warriors appeared to look down upon our little party with surprise and displeasure, hung loosely, in many places was completely tattered, and waved in the wind as the keen air of the mountains whistled through, making Clara and Magdalena shiver with cold. Don Alonzo looked round with concern; "It is indeed many years since I have been here," said he, "and things look considerably altered; but now, my daughters, let me advise you, with the aid of your waiting-woman, to make yourselves as comfortable as possible in your own rooms, and meanwhile Senor Baptista will be kind enough to have a large fire built in the hall, for it will really prove very acceptable."

Francisca showed them to their rooms: large, magnificent chambers, fitted up with massive furniture of the richest description; but the tapestry was faded and worn, and every thing showed neglect and desertion. Francisca, after escorting them to these apartments, told them that she would send Maria, the housemaid, to make up fires, bring water, and provide every thing else that they wished, but the girl was always out of the way when she was wanted, and was really not worth the salt she ate. Maria speedily appeared, however: a pale young girl of dejected aspect, with black hair drawn off from a forehead of marble whiteness, and large, sad eyes cast upon the ground. Her appearance greatly interested the kind feelings of Clara and Magdalena; she looked sorrowful and reserved, as if her heart had been chilled, and her spirit broken by harsh treatment; and the girls, who were very much of her own age, felt an instinctive pity, and resolved to win her confidence. They learned by their questions that she was an orphan, and had been brought up in the castle. She had never known any other home, and had no relations in the world, so it was not wonderful that she appeared unhappy.

As their maid appeared to be quite unwell from the journey, they dispensed with any further services from her for the day, and descended to the hall. Its aspect was considerably changed by a large, sparkling fire which blazed upon the hearth; and, after supper, Don Alonzo and his daughters drew around it, with a feeling of comfort they had not experienced since they had entered the castle. As the Conde wished to discover the character of the castellan as much as possible from personal observation, he ordered him to be sent for, and invited him to a seat with them by the fire; and they were soon engaged in interesting conversation. Senor Baptista was undoubtedly a person of quick intelligence, and endowed with the gift of imparting a vivid, dramatic interest to any narrative: he told several ancient legends connected with the castle, in such a manner as to enchain the attention of his hearers. One story excited the deepest interest in Magdalena: we will call it

DONA INEZ; OR THE CASTELLAN'S TALE.

Several centuries ago, as my lord the Conde and the noble Senoritas very well know, this castle was in the possession of an older branch of the Alcantra family, long since extinct; and at that time the lord of the manor was a certain Don Pedro, a dark, stern man, whose portrait, clad in armor, the senoritas may see on the morrow in the old picture-gallery. Don Pedro was a man of unflinching bravery, and indomitable will; his word was law. His vassals obeyed his very looks, and flew to execute his behests. Accustomed from infancy to command, he became absolute and tyrannical; his gentle wife was all submission, and his fair daughter Inez was educated in the practice of the strictest obedience, so as scarcely to know that she had a mind of her own, when her father was nigh. Is it wonderful that when the unnatural constraint was removed by his absence, her innate gayety of disposition broke out with all the impulsiveness of youth, and her young affections clung to the nearest object? Such an object was found in Bernardo, a handsome and noble young man, an orphan, and distant relative, who had been reared in the castle: he had been the playmate of Inez in childhood; her comforter, companion, and teacher in girlhood; and now, as she advanced to woman's estate, they made the discovery that their hearts were knit together by a love which had grown with their growth and strengthened with their strength, till it had become a part of their very souls. But how dare to reveal their affection? Bernardo, although of noble lineage, and in himself every thing that the fondest father could desire for his daughter, had his fortune yet to win by his good sword; and Inez was heiress to broad lands, and might well aspire to a princely alliance. But love scorns all such distinctions: humble thoughts of herself, and proud thoughts of her Bernardo, filled the heart of Inez, and as she plighted her troth to him, she vowed she would wed none but him, and would patiently wait until the time should come when her betrothed could claim her as his own. Bernardo went to the wars, and greatly distinguished himself against the Moors: Ferdinand conferred upon him various marks of favor, and the noble and lovely Queen Isabel girded on the sword presented by the king with her own jewelled fingers.

And now, with a heart beating high with hope, and with the prospect of great advancement before him, the young man returned to visit the home of his childhood: it was his purpose, with the sweetness of a few weeks' holiday, to repay himself for all the toils, dangers, and privations of a year. But when he arrived, how changed was the whole aspect of the castle! Inez was in disgrace, and was ordered by her tyrannical father to be shut up in her room, and to be fed with the bread of affliction and the water of humiliation. Bernardo was deeply distressed: he at length succeeded, through the pity of the servants, in obtaining an interview, and the poor girl, weeping upon his breast, where she had so often been comforted before, told him the sad tale of her trials.

Soon after he had left, a noble Marquis, of great wealth, had made overtures for her hand, which Don Pedro, without consulting her, had at once accepted, and promised that within a year the bridal feast should be celebrated. When he informed his daughter of her fate, she besought him with tears not to send her from her home; but his only reply was that the matter was determined, and that all she had to do was to submit and to prepare for the wedding. Dreading as she did her father's wrath, she dreaded yet more this hateful, compulsory marriage, and kneeling down at his feet, with streaming eyes, she prayed him in the humblest manner to spare his only child; she could never survive the union—it would break her heart—she was young, and wished still to remain for some years under the paternal roof. But tears and entreaties were unavailing. Don Pedro commanded her, in the most peremptory manner, to obey. Rising, with a dignity and composure of manner he had never seen in her before, for she had ever appeared in his presence only a timid and frightened child, she professed her readiness to make his will her law in every other point; she would serve him like a slave, die for him; she would never marry against his wishes, but would ever strive to approve herself a dutiful daughter. But in this point she must imitate his own firmness, and prove herself his child; a vow was upon her soul that she must not break, and she could not, she would not, marry the Marquis de Oviedo. As she stood there, so young and so determined, with all the pride of her race and all the dignity of womanhood rising up to aid the true love which beat in her heart, even her father was struck with admiration, and for a moment hesitated. But vindictive passion triumphed over better feelings, and he ordered her to be placed in her chamber, under strict confinement. Once a month, since then, had he visited her apartment, to ask her if she were now ready to yield her submission; and, upon her reply that she would rather die than wed the Marquis de Oviedo, with an angry scowl he would leave her room. Poor Inez looked thin and care-worn, but was greatly comforted by seeing her betrothed; and they agreed that it was better, whatever the consequences might be, to inform her father of their engagement, and to endeavor to mollify his heart. As Bernardo had returned from the wars with such distinction, he had some slight hope that the crime of loving Don Pedro's daughter might possibly be forgiven.

They were still engaged in these discussions, when the door opened, and Don Pedro appeared; his face was wild with passion, black with rage. He roughly snatched Dona Inez from the arms of her lover, to whom she clung with all the energy of despair, as the shipwrecked mariner holds fast to the mast or beam which is his only hope of safety, or even to the anchor which will surely sink him to the lowest depths. Turning to his followers, who were trained to obey his every command without a question, he ordered them to convey Don Bernardo to the deepest dungeon of the castle, and to chain him to the wall; and then to bring the key to him. Dona Inez, in a phrensy of terror, knelt at his feet, and begged that all his anger might be visited upon her; but spurning her from him, he told her that she should feel enough of it yet, and need pray for no more—he had a punishment still in store for her, and in due time she should realize what it was to defy his power. He left her in a swoon, and did not see her again until after ten days, when he entered her apartment, and grimly smiling, commanded her to accompany him, as he wished to conduct her to her lover; adding, with a peculiar look, that if it were her wish, as he was all devotion to her slightest whim, he would never henceforth separate them. Scarcely knowing what to think, but dreading the worst from the ironical tone of mock gallantry with which he spoke, she followed him with faltering steps, a vague terror dimming her eyes and chilling her heart. He led her through many winding passages, opening heavy iron gates, until they at length reached the deep dungeons which are found beneath this castle. There, in a damp cell, heavily chained to the wall, she beheld, by the light of the torch Don Pedro carried, her own Bernardo! But, oh, how changed! how emaciated! He seemed to be asleep. Her father told her to awake him; she took his hand, but started back—that icy touch had told her all—he was dead, starved to death by her own father!

That moment reason forsook the agonized mind of Dona Inez; the vaults were filled with her shrieks, and so awful was the spectacle of her despair, that even her father was terrified. He tried to soothe her, but it was too late; he carried her back again to her room, a raving maniac. A brain fever ensued, of the most violent description; and happily for the distracted girl, in a few days she was released by death from all her sufferings. And now it was that, in the consequences of his own actions, Don Pedro found his punishment; as he witnessed the agony of his afflicted daughter, as he heard her ravings, as he saw her toss her white arms and pitifully cry out for Bernardo, or tear her long, black, dishevelled tresses, horror and despair filled his heart. His conscience, so long torpid, at length awoke, and remorse preyed upon his soul like a vulture. And when he beheld that form, lately so lovely and blooming, stretched out, pale and motionless, upon the bed of death, anguish seized upon him to such a degree that, rushing into his own chamber, he put a period to his miserable existence.

Queen Isabella, when she heard the particulars of these tragical events, ordered the lovers to be interred within one tomb; the senoritas may see it in the old chapel, in the north-east corner—their effigies are on the top, carved in marble, with clasped hands, with this inscription: Amor morte, or Love in death. The old branch being now extinct, having, as it were, burnt itself out with its fiery passions, the estates passed into the hands of your honorable ancestry; may it remain in the family for a thousand years!

But my tale is not yet done—would that it were! There would be more peace in this castle if this were the case! For people do say that Don Pedro cannot rest, even in purgatory. I am not one at all given to credulity, and it takes something to startle me; but I must own that I would never willingly be found in the old parts of the castle after nightfall. I myself have seen strange lights and startling forms, and have heard noises for which I could not account, groans, and shrieks, and the clanking of chains. None of the peasants in the neighborhood will venture here after night; and the servants can scarcely be induced to stay in, what they call, the haunted castle. The story runs, that about midnight Don Pedro begins his peregrinations, clad in armor, as he is represented in his portrait; in one hand he bears a flaming torch; in the other a large bunch of keys, and a chain which trails upon the ground. He has been seen bearing in his arms a female form, clad in white, with long black hair streaming to the wind, tossing her arms in wild despair, and uttering piteous cries. It is thought that his punishment consists in nightly visits to the cell in which Bernardo died, and nightly endurance of the sight of his daughter's anguish; some also say that the skeleton of his victim is presented to his eyes, beaming with light, and that every ray eats into his soul like a canker. I do not answer for all these tales, but this is the universal belief. I merely relate to your favors the common talk of the peasantry, ever given to superstition.

"I dimly remember hearing some such story in my childhood, from the old castellan, from whom, I suppose, you have received the legend," said the Conde; "but old Don Pedro never walked in my day, and if he does now, his conscience must have become more tender with the lapse of years. Cheer up, Magdalena, light of my eyes! You look quite pale from this horrible tale. I'll answer for it that Don Pedro will not appear to you; if he does, I'll settle his uneasy spirit for him. Surely, you do not believe in ghosts? You are not so weak?"

"No, dear father; I know that it cannot be; and yet I own to feeling some nervousness on the subject. Much as I long to live here, if I thought there were any truth in such a spectral appearance, I would beg you to leave to-morrow."

"That would be a sad loss to this castle, senorita," said Baptista, furtively glancing at her pallid face from under his shaggy eyebrows. "We must hope that Don Pedro may not walk to-night."

"Another romantic tale is told about a daughter of our house," said Don Alonzo, wishing to draw off Magdalena'a thoughts from the subject which filled them. "If you feel inclined to hear it, I will relate it."

"Nothing would be more pleasant," said the girls, who delighted in these traditions.

DONA ISABEL, OR THE SECRET PASSAGE.

About a hundred and fifty years ago, when our branch had been long-established at Alcantra, there flourished here a certain Don Alphonso, who also had a beautiful daughter, Isabel by name. Her portrait hangs in the gallery, and is remarkable for a sweet bravery of look, and for a merry, piquant glance of her black eye, which I greatly admired when a young man, and of which I have been often reminded when I looked at my Clara. I think, my daughters, that you will agree with me in seeing a strong resemblance in person, as I also do in character; you can judge of that as my story proceeds. And by the way, Clara mia, tradition gives the room you occupy to the Lady Isabel; it has ever since been called Dona Isabel's chamber; so, when lying upon her bed to-night, you can dream of your fair predecessor. Her father, also, was rather fond of having his own way, and in this the daughter fully sympathized with him; it is said to be a characteristic of our race, so we had better call this obstinacy a noble firmness, and thereby save our self-love. Don Alphonso, however, was not quite such a bloody-minded tyrant as Don Pedro: how could he be, as he was one of our ancestors? The matter is clearly impossible. And I wish you to notice, my daughters, how, with the lapse of years, the race of fathers improves: beginning with a murderous Don Pedro, a self-willed Don Alphonso then walks upon the stage; and lastly, as a perfect specimen of a dutiful, obsequious papa, behold me, ladies—at your feet!

I have told you that Isabel had a mind of her own; she showed it very plainly by falling in love in a most unorthodox, unfilial, enthusiastic sort of way—with whom? You will be so shocked, my daughters, that I almost dread to tell you. If she had waited, like a dutiful child, till her father had told her she might love, it would have been another thing! But this headstrong girl seemed to think she had as good a right to be happy in her own way as a peasant! True, the man of her choice was not a reprobate: he was not even a low-born, unmannerly churl: Don Fernando de Velasquez stood foremost among the young cavaliers of Spain, in gallantry and in that nobility of mind which, should ever accompany gentle birth. But yet it was in that very gentle birth that all the offence lay, for Fernando's ancestors had long been at enmity with the house of Alcantra, and this ancient feud had been embittered by years. But, sometimes, there appears to be a fate in the affairs of men, especially when a woman, and a pretty woman, is in question: so it happened that Don Fernando was, one day, riding at some distance from his home, when his good fortune enabled him to rescue a lady, whose horse, frightened by some object in the road, reared and plunged in a most alarming manner. It was Dona Isabel, who had out-ridden her attendants, and who now felt that she owed her life to this very handsome, polite, and noble-looking cavalier. Could he do less than soothe her fluttered nerves, guide her horse, and make himself as agreeable as possible? Could she do less than feel ardently grateful, and manifest it in every look and accent? Very improper it was, certainly, as I said before, for a daughter to think of a young man until her parents' permission is given; but I have heard of one or two other instances in which this occurred; and before either made the discovery who the agreeable companion was, when, of course, if they were dutiful, antagonism and animosity would have filled their bosoms, they were both unmistakably, undeniably, desperately in love!

Is it wonderful that Don Fernando escorted her to the gate of the castle? Or that proud Don Alphonso did not invite him in, notwithstanding his daughter's imploring looks, even after he had heard from her lips of her deliverance? Are my daughters very much astonished that little perfumed notes, exquisitely written, doubtless with little kissing doves stamped in the corners, and signed 'Yours till death,' passed between the two castles? There was a prodigious waste of sentiment on the occasion, quite enough to set up twenty pairs of well-behaved, proper, respectable lovers. It came to such a pass that Fernando declared, and I believe the fellow was in earnest, that existence would be intolerable to him unless he could meet his Isabel; and the lady, although feeling some qualms of conscience about the matter, agreed to see him daily, when the evening star rose in the sky. So, while her poor old father—good easy man! thought that his daughter was in her chamber, or piously engaged in the oratory saying her Ave Marias and Pater Nosters, and singing a vesper hymn to the Virgin, the naughty girl had gone by a secret passage underground to a wood at some distance, where she met her betrothed.

This passage is said to begin in one of the chambers of the castle, and winding along in the wall, to proceed downward towards the dungeons underground, and then to pass away to the wood already mentioned. It was originally intended, no doubt, as a means of escape, or of communication with the outer world, in case of a siege; but, at that time, it had almost passed into oblivion. After the events I am relating, the outlet into the wood was stopped up, and where the passage is to be found no one knows: so that if Clara wishes to imitate the conduct of her beautiful kinswoman, and to arrange clandestine meetings, she will have to spoil the romance of the proceeding by quietly walking through the open gate.

But at length, some prying eyes found out these nocturnal interviews, and great was the rage of Don Alphonso. The lovers were seized, brought back in tribulation to the castle, and imprisoned, one in her chamber, the other in a dungeon. But love finds many devices: whether it was a golden key that opened her door, or whether it was her eloquent tongue and pleading looks, I know not, but certain it is that in the dead of night, when all but two in the castle were sunk in profound slumber, a fair lady softly stepped into her father's apartment, drew a large bunch of keys from under his pillow, and proceeding down to the dungeons by the secret passage, set Don Fernando at liberty! Soon did they breathe the sweet, fresh air of freedom: soon did they find their way to the territory of the Count de Velasquez, and to the chapel where an obedient priest spoke over their kneeling forms those words which can never be unsaid, by which Holy Mother Church sanctions the union of loving hearts.

And the father? He stormed considerably—we fathers generally do in such cases. But, upon mature consideration, he concluded that amiability was, under the circumstances, the best policy: and being in reality a kind-hearted man, he forgave the young couple, and invited them to dinner! And thus ended the ancient feud between the houses of Alcantra and Velasquez!

After the termination of the tale, Senor Baptista retired, and the Conde and his daughters remained chatting by the fire for some time; at length the wasting embers, and the increasing chilliness of the air, warned them that it was time to seek repose. With a reverence unhappily too much wanting in our land of youthful independence, Clara and Magdalena knelt before their father, and as he imprinted the warm kiss upon their brows, and uttered the heart-felt "God bless you, my daughters!" their feelings, both of piety and of filial love, feelings, how closely united! were certainly freshened.

Taking their little night-lamps, they proceeded up the staircase, but soon parted, as their rooms were situated in different galleries. From the dim light, and the many branching corridors, Magdalena mistook her way, and was just convinced of her mistake, when a sudden puff of wind put out her lamp. Feeble glimmering as it gave, it yet would have enabled her to find her way, and she was just on the point of calling out for aid, when she perceived a light approach from an adjacent gallery. She thought it must be a servant, but upon stepping where she could command a better view of it, what was her horror to see a form advance like that described in the story of the castellan! It appeared to be a tall man, clad in complete armor, with visor down: in one hand he bore a torch, which seemed to emit a supernatural light and in the other, a bunch of keys, and a long chain, dragging upon the ground. She distinctly heard the clanking sound of the chain, and the ringing noise of his footstep upon the stone, ere she distinguished the figure, so exactly similar to that of the spectre of Alcantra, the vengeful Don Pedro which was so vividly impressed upon her imagination. She did not shriek, she did not faint; but quickly bounding along the corridor, she flew like lightning down the broad staircase, and found herself in the hall. She had hoped to find her father still there, but it was dark and deserted, and looked so vast and so gloomy, by the cold light of the moon, which streamed in at the furthest windows, that she felt a cold chill creep over her. At this moment the clock struck twelve: as she counted the strokes, which seemed to her excited fancy as if they would never cease tolling, she thought she heard the ringing footsteps approach: in an agony of terror, she rushed through the darkness, which was indeed to her a darkness which could be felt, a palpable thing, towards the chimney place, hoping to find enough of flame to light her lamp; but in vain. The air felt to her so thick and heavy, as if her lungs could scarcely breathe it: she listened for the sound of a step, but heard only the beating of her own heart. At length she summoned courage to retrace her steps, to find either her own room or her sister's, for the silence and solitude of that vast hall were too oppressive to be endured. Softly and slowly she crept up the staircase, when suddenly she felt her wrist clasped by a cold iron hand: she gave one piercing shriek, and fell senseless to the ground.

When she came to herself, she was lying upon her bed, in the same clothes she wore the preceding day, and the bright sun was streaming in at the windows. She arose, with a sense of pain and confusion, as if some dreadful thing had happened, which she could not recall to her mind; but suddenly the whole scene of the preceding night flashed upon her. She thought, it is impossible: certainly it was a painful dream, caused by the exciting conversation of last evening, and by my impressions of the castle. But all the minute circumstances crowded so vividly into her mind, that she thought it could not be that a mere vision of the night should produce so powerful an effect. But what convinced her of the reality of these occurrences, was the fact that she had not undressed for the night: casting her eyes down upon her person, as she thought this, they fell upon her hand; and there she distinctly saw the marks left upon her delicate skin by that iron grip to which she had been subjected! As she saw this, all the crawling horror and choking fear of the preceding evening came back thick upon her, and a feeling of faintness which she could scarcely resist: but just then her eye fell upon the crucifix, and with a sensation of self-reproach that she had so long forgotten the supports and comforts of religion, she knelt down, and fervently besought aid from on high. And never, under any circumstances, is such a prayer in vain: her mind, so fearfully tried, resumed its self-command, and calmness and peace stole back again into her heart. She opened her window: it was a lovely day, and the mountain air, so bracing and reviving, so deadly to sickly fears and nervous sentimentalities, had an inspiring effect upon her; she laved herself in the cold spring water, arranged her dress, and sought her sister's room.

When there, she felt her tremors return, as she related to her the events of the night; but Clara's brave and joyous spirit was not of the kind to yield, even for a moment, to supernatural terrors. With her arm around her sister, as if to shield her from all harm, she told her that the first thing to do was to remove all Magdalena's effects to her chamber, as she did not think she could trust her out of her sight for one moment, after such an adventure.

"But, surely, it must have been your excited imagination!"

"How then do you account for my finding myself on top of my bed, and dressed? And how do you make out these purple marks?"

"True; but it's very certain a ghost could not have carried you in his arms to your room—it makes me laugh, the very idea! You are not very heavy, but rather too substantial for a ghost, I should think! And he must have been a very smart hobgoblin to know so well which was your room—that seems to me as if he must be an acquaintance of our very earthly-looking castellan. And just as if a ghost could make such a mark upon your wrist! Bah! what a clumsy contrivance! I've read of these amiable spirits burning their marks into your flesh, but the blue spots! they are made by good strong muscles. Was your spook polite enough to bring your lamp, as well as yourself, into your room?"

"I never thought of that! I am sure not, for I always put it on the dressing-table; come and see!"

They looked, and no lamp was there; they examined the staircase, and there was a large grease spot, but no lamp.

"See, sister! here is a corroboration of my tale!"

"Oh, I don't doubt a word of it; and I don't doubt the ghost put the lamp into the pantry this morning, nicely trimmed. There is villany here, Magdalena; I believe that rascal of a Baptista—I must call him so, he has such a hang-dog look—wants to drive us away, for reasons of his own: I can never forgive him for frightening my poor darling so. We'll see if the ghost assail you, or pay you any polite attentions, while you are with me! I've never been so lucky as to see any of the creatures, and should like to try a few experiments upon them: I never even meet snakes in the woods, or any of those things that frighten others. So, Senor Hobgoblin, come and welcome!"

By this time Clara had completely chased away her sister's lowness of spirits, and they descended to the breakfast-room, pleasantly talking together. The castellan was in the hall, and Clara did not fail to notice that he fixed his eye searchingly upon Magdalena as they passed, and did not take it off while he asked, with an obsequious air, if the senoritas had passed a comfortable night in the cheerless old castle?

"An uncommonly refreshing one, owing to the hospitable cares of yourself and Francisca," said Clara, answering for both; "my sister had something like the nightmare, but otherwise we were very comfortable."

When they were alone, they told their father the events of the night, and it was his first impulse at once to charge the castellan with villany, and to dismiss him from his post; but Clara persuaded him to wait yet some days, until the whole matter was well cleared up, before he took any action.

"But, Magdalena! I cannot have my little girl's cheek blanched, and her mind filled with ghostly terrors!" "Don't be afraid for me, dear father," said his daughter, smiling; "Clara's bravery has quite reanimated mine, and she has laughed me out of the belief of its being a spirit at all; I now wonder I could ever have thought so." "All very well, my beloved; but there is a great difference between breakfast time, when the sun is shining brightly into the room, and midnight, with dark corridors and a feebly burning lamp—especially when it goes out." "True, father," said Clara, laughing; "but I intend to provide for quite an illumination to-night, and do not expect to let poor Magdalena stir from my sight all day."

That day passed off without any incidents, and was very agreeably spent in an examination of the ancient castle, with its many relics of by-gone times, its collection of portraits, its spacious rooms, winding galleries, and magazine of armory and weapons. From the battlements they enjoyed a view of the country beneath them, unsurpassed in extent and grandeur: it spread out before their eyes a beautiful panorama, comprising hill and dale, forest and cultivated land; the little whitewashed cottage, with its ascending smoke, and the flocks of sheep scattered about, gave a lively interest to the scene, and endeared it to their hearts: man ever loves to see tokens of the nearness of brother man. Magdalena clasped her father's hand: "O, may we not always live here?" "But what about that ghost?" "O, I forgot; but if Clara lays the uneasy spirit of Don Pedro, then will you not remove here?" "I think I will, my daughters, if you both desire it. I dreaded to come here, but find that time has so mellowed and softened my grief, that I can now feel pleasure in revisiting the spots made sacred to me by your dear mother's presence. And I also feel as if I had neglected my duty, through too great an abandonment to grief; here, in my ancestral possessions, it certainly lies. The peasants, I fear, have greatly suffered from my absence, and now they scarcely know me; and I am almost a stranger to the neighboring gentry. If we remove here, will you, my daughters, aid me in making this castle the scene of hospitality and kindness, and will you extend your care to the neglected poor and ignorant, who are scattered through these valleys?" The girls answered with joy in the affirmative, and already began laying plans for visiting the sick, reading to the old, and teaching the young.

That night Magdalena's fair head was encircled by Clara's arm, and their hands clasped together; the younger sister soon fell asleep, after some light confidential chat, such as sisters only can have, there being in that connection the sensation of perfect safety, of the fellow-feeling of youth, and of that entire understanding of every thought and allusion, resulting from intimate intercourse from birth. But Clara was wakeful; she thought over the strange events of the preceding night, and the more she reflected, the more convinced she was of some plan on the part of the castellan, for she connected together his looks, his tale, and the sequel of Magdalena's ghost, as the merry girl would call the spectral appearance. While engaged in these thoughts, the clock struck twelve: "the witching hour!" she thought; "I wonder if the illustrious Don Pedro is walking now!" Just then her sharp ear detected a little clinking noise on the opposite side of her large, dark chamber; she was all attention, but not a motion did she make to disturb her sleeping sister; her arm still encircled her lovingly, her hand clasped Magdalena's. Gazing into the darkness, there suddenly appeared in the room a luminous skeleton, frightful enough, truly, to weak nerves; but Clara was gifted with a calm and fearless spirit, mens sana in corpore sano; and her unspoken thought was—"Ah, phosphorus! pretty well done that, for the country! it is really worthy of one of our Madrid conjurers!" Watching intently to see if any other show was forthcoming, the skeleton as suddenly disappeared as it had come, and she heard various sepulchral groans and sighs, with a running commentary of the rattling of chains and jingling of keys. At last this pleasing interlude, as she termed it, ceased altogether, and in a few moments she again distinguished that clinking sound, and all was silence in her chamber. "Well!" thought Clara, "the show is certainly over for the night, I might as well go to sleep. Very kind, certainly, to provide for our entertainment! But I am glad Magdalena did not wake."

The following day Clara told her adventure in such a mirthful manner to her father and sister, that it was impossible to avoid seeing it in a ludicrous light. However, arrangements were made to stop any further display of theatricals, if they should be attempted the ensuing night; and Clara spent some time in her own room, examining the wall opposite her bed. The result was, that upon raising the tapestry, and carefully striking every panel, she observed that one gave a hollow sound: she tried to slide it up, she tried to slide it down, she tried to slide it sideways, but it was unavailing. Determined not to give it up, she felt in every part, and at last, after spending several hours in the search, her perseverance was rewarded; it suddenly flew open! she had at last touched the hidden spring, and here, in her own room, as she had suspected, was Dona Isabel's secret passage! Greatly was she tempted to explore the dark and narrow way, and to descend the stairs she saw through the gloom; but prudence prevailed, and she comforted herself with the thought that she had made discoveries enough for one day.

Another awaited her, however: she had scarcely closed the panel and replaced the tapestry, when there was a knock at the door; it was Maria bringing in wood and water. Poor Maria appeared to be the general drudge of the house, and her slender, delicate frame was borne down with labor. Clara's bright and cheerful kindness had quite gained the young girl's heart, unused as she was to aught but harshness and reprimand. Her soul expanded, and her silent lips were opened under the genial influence—it was like the sun shining upon the little flower, shut up against the chilling dews of night, but spontaneously opening under his joyful beams. She told her her history: she was the only grandchild of the former castellan, the faithful servant of the house, so beloved by Don Alonzo: at his death she was a little child, and had ever spent her life in the service of his successor. When very young, she had met with kindness from the other servants; but they were soon dismissed, and for years there had been none in the castle but those she now saw—the castellan and his wife, the half-witted Sebastiano, and herself. But she said that occasionally Senor Baptista had company—and she shuddered as she said it—ferocious-looking men, armed to the teeth, and generally wearing masks. She always kept out of the way when they were about; but one thing she knew, that they did not enter nor depart by the gate of the castle, and that Senor Baptista must have some other way of admitting them. "Do you think they can be the banditti they talk of?" "I do not doubt it, and I have so longed to get away from this wicked place, that I often lie awake at night thinking about it. They would kill me if they thought I had betrayed them;—will you protect me?" "[**missing words**] my poor Maria: and so you are the old castellan's grandchild! I remember hearing my father say that he yearly transmitted to Baptista a handsome annuity for this poor orphan: of course you never got any portion of it?" "Not a single quarto: but now I must go, I should be missed; a Dios, senorita querida!"

Clara lost not a moment in seeking her father, and in communicating to him her important intelligence. Cool action was indispensably necessary: for the first and the last time in their lives, there was a secret between the sisters. After dinner, Don Alonzo expressed a wish to ride, to see if any changes had taken place in the neighborhood, and his daughters declining to accompany him, as had been agreed between them, he invited his secretary, with the castellan and his wife, to accompany him—an honor which they gladly accepted. Soon after their departure, Clara sent a note Don Alonzo had written, by the hands of their trusty Anselmo, to the village of Alcantra, requiring the immediate attendance of the band of soldiers stationed there; and before the return of the carriage, they were admitted by Maria, and conducted to a room adjoining Clara's, the weak-minded Sebastiano being easily kept out of the way.

At night, a change of apartments took place: Clara and Magdalena slept, or rather waked, in their father's room, and he quietly awaited in theirs the progress of events. At twelve o'clock, he heard the slight sound described by his daughter, as proceeding from the opening of the panel. He waited a few moments, to allow the intruders to enter, and then, beholding forms arrayed in flames and white winding-sheets before him, he raised the pistol he held in his hand, pulled the trigger, and the foremost fell groaning to the ground. Instantly the soldiers and servants stationed in the adjoining chamber rushed into the room with lights, and before the rest of the villains could recover from their surprise, they were all captured. Upon raising the wounded man, they beheld, gnashing his teeth with fury, Senor Baptista himself, the leader of the band! ten men were they in all, and as they subsequently discovered, this comprised the whole of the banditti. Entirely under the control of the artful Baptista, their object was not to injure, but to alarm the Conde's family, hoping thus to drive them away from a place filled with supernatural horror; whereas any harm done to them would have infallibly brought down upon their heads the vengeance of government.

Francisca, also, was secured, and the whole band was sent off to the nearest prison, to await their trial. The attempt was made to work upon the woman's fears of Francisca, to induce her to make confession, and to implicate her companions. Iron can be fashioned into any shape upon the anvil, but a will like hers no fire is hot enough to melt, no hammer hard enough to break or subdue. They promised her pardon, if she would open her lips; but her scornful smile showed that she would remain true to her own code of honor, be the consequences what they might. Abundant evidence proved the guilt of all concerned: the men suffered the penalty of offended justice, and Francisca was condemned to perpetual imprisonment, but managed to escape, and was never heard of more.

On the morning following the capture, the secret passage was thoroughly explored, and a discovery made, involving many important results. A number of the dungeons were found piled up with merchandise of various descriptions, and whole chests of gold and silver were there deposited: information was immediately transmitted to government, but the king himself wrote a letter to Don Alonzo, thanking him for his many faithful and unrequited services, and begging his acceptance of the treasure found within his walls, much of which was no doubt his own. The Conde gratefully accepted this evidence of his sovereign's favor, and took great pains to discover the relatives of those who had been murdered by the banditti, restoring to them fourfold. The treasure that remained was more than sufficient to disencumber his estates, and to restore them to the flourishing condition of olden times. He endowed hospitals, churches, and schools with the residue; and the peasants of all that region will long have cause to bless Dona Clara's bravery and Don Alonzo's munificence.

It is almost needless to add that Maria, in whom every day developed new graces under the quickening influence of kindness, was well provided for by the Conde; and upon her marriage with his secretary, Senor Roberto, he presented her with a handsome dowry. The old castle of Alcantra, delivered from its spectre, was soon converted by masons, carpenters, and upholsterers, into a most comfortable abode; and the hospitality of its noble master, and the charms of his fair daughters, attracted to it all that was worthy, intelligent, and lovely in the adjacent country.

"Is that all?" said Amy, who had been listening with glistening eyes.

"All? I hope so indeed; for do you know, my dears," said Mrs. Wyndham, "that it is past eleven o'clock? Hasten away now to your nests, and take care not to dream of the spectre of Alcantra."



CHAPTER V.

A SKATING ADVENTURE.—WHAT IS MY THOUGHT LIKE?—QUESTIONS.—THE ORPHAN'S TALE, OR THE VICISSITUDES OF FORTUNE.

Saturday morning was so bright and cold—such a frosty, finger-pinching winter day, that, at breakfast, George proposed the riddle, "What two fishes would you tie together on a day like this?" As none were able to guess it, he pronounced the assembled company intolerably stupid, and gave as the solution, skates and soles. He declared the weather was made on purpose for skating; and although his uncle expressed some doubts as to the thickness of the ice, George's eloquence and earnestness carried the point, especially as, from his own account, his experience was so great that you would have concluded he was at least sixty years old. So the boys set off for a large pond, at the distance of about a mile, accompanied by the girls, well wrapt up in cloaks, furs, and mufflers, of every description, all in the highest spirits, and quite ready for fun and frolic; and the quick walk through the frosty air, broken by many a hop, skip, and jump, certainly did not tend to repress the exuberance of their laughter and excitement. Is any one too grave and too wise to approve of such conduct? allow me to ask, reverend sir, or venerable madam, as the case may be, how many centuries are pressing their weight upon your silver locks? Methuselah himself might remember that he once was young, and sympathize with the innocent light-heartedness of youth: and surely you cannot have arrived at quite his length of years. 'Tis a great mistake to suppose that dullness and moping gravity have any thing in common with either goodness or wisdom: they are but the base imitations, the spurious counterfeits, which can pass only with the undiscerning. Welcome, joyous laugh, and youthful glee! the world has quite enough of care and sorrow, without repressing the merry heart of childhood. Wiser would it be for you, oh sad and weary spirit, sick of the buffetings of the cold and selfish crowd, for a little time to come out of your unhappy self, and by sympathy with others, again to become a little child. Your soul would be refreshed and strengthened by bathing in the morning dews of youth; here would you find a balm for the wounds inflicted by the careless world; many a mourner has been drawn away from that sorrow which feeds upon the very springs of life, by the innocent caresses and gay converse of a child. Cleave then to your liveliness, young people! and throw away from you all vapors, megrims, and melancholic feelings! Believe me, real sorrow will come soon enough, and your groundless depression of spirits may have more in common with ill-nature than with thoughtfulness or earnestness of mind: true wisdom is both cheerful and loving.

The girls staid for some time admiring the evolutions of the skaters as they gracefully wound about in intricate figures, or cut their names upon the ice; but they declared at last that they must retreat before the attacks of Jack Frost, who pinched their noses, fingers, and toes in an unmerciful manner. The boys, ardent in the pursuit of sport, still persevered, and George especially, who was devoted to this amusement, distinguished himself by his skill. "Take care, George!" said his brother John, "you are going too far from the shore; it's hardly safe out there. Please to recollect, that neither you nor I can swim, and we'd be in a fine case if you fell in." "Who's afraid? I'm not for one!" cried George, fearlessly dashing off to the centre of the pond: but at the very moment when he was raising a triumphant shout, and calling upon the rest to follow him, a sharp crack was heard, the ice gave way under him, and he disappeared in the water! A cry of dismay broke from the group of his companions: instinctively John rushed forward to save him, but was held back by the others, who well knew that two would then be lost, instead of one. But in an instant, before George rose again to the surface, Tom Green, the oldest of the cousins, and a tall, manly fellow, had stripped off his coat, and gaining the spot, had plunged into the water. It was intensely cold, and he was obliged to break away the ice for some distance round before he was able to seize hold of poor George, who had risen up only to find a glassy wall, impenetrable to all his efforts, between himself and the outer air, and who had given himself up for lost.

Tom at length succeeded in forcing his way to ice thick enough to sustain his weight, and giving up his precious burden to the anxious group above, he reached the shore in safety. Both were chilled through, and almost numb, from the excessive cold of the water, and Tom's hands were cut by the ice, which he had been obliged to break: but they were not the lads tamely to give up, and moan over their condition, when they were able to act. "Now, boys, for a race!" cried Tom: "it's the only hope of putting a little life into us, and of keeping off the rheumatism—let us see who will be the first at The Grange!" They accordingly started, running as fast as the numbness of their feet would allow, and soon arrived at the house; but what remarkable objects were Tom and George, when they presented themselves before the eyes of their astonished aunt and cousins! Their dress, soaked with water, was now perfectly stiff, like a coat of armor, and the edges hung with icicles, as did their hair; Cornelia, concerned as she was for her brother and cousin, could not, when she thought of it, long afterwards, refrain from merry peals of laughter at the ludicrous appearance they made—they looked as if they had come from the North Pole, representatives from the regions of eternal ice and snow. Mrs. Wyndham very soon had beds prepared for them, where, wrapt up in blankets, and comforted by a warm drink, which the advocates of the Maine Liquor Law would not have altogether approved of, they speedily recovered their vital warmth, and the elasticity of their spirits. Uncle John assured the young party, who were full of fears for their health, that his anticipations of evil consequences had been scattered by seeing those piled-up plates at dinner-time return to him to be replenished: he thought that such fine appetites were very good symptoms. They spent the day in bed, but were so much recruited from their exhaustion by a sound sleep, that Aunt Lucy mercifully took off her restriction, and allowed them to join the family group at supper. Tom's hands were bound up, on account of "those honorable scars," as Cornelia called them, and the two, the rescued and the rescuer, were decidedly the heroes of the evening: the girls, ever full of admiration of gallant conduct, looked upon good-natured and pleasant Tom Green with a respect they had not felt before.

One of the games this evening was "What is my thought like?" Mary went round the circle asking the question, and when she announced that her thought was President Taylor, there was some amusement at the incongruity of the replies. She then asked each one for a reason of the resemblance, and an answer was to be given immediately, or a forfeit to be paid.

"Cornelia, why was President Taylor like a sunset?"

"Because his career was splendid like the sun, and his loss equally regretted."

"John, why was he like a brick?"

"So substantial."

"Amy, why was he like a cat?"

"Why—because he was so 'cute."

"Alice, why was he like a sigh?"

"He always excited so much sympathy in the hearts of the people."

"George, how did he resemble cream?"

"Because he was the very best and tip-top of all that was good."

"Tom, why was he like a cow?"

"Because he did not know how to run."

"Ellen, why was he like an umbrella?"

"Because he sheltered many."

"Gertrude, how did he resemble the Alps?"

"He towered aloft majestically above his fellow-men."

"Harry, how did you make him out like a laugh?"

"Oh, he was such a merry old soul."

"Then, how does Anna make him resemble a tear?"

"He was so sympathetic with the woes of others."

"Aunt Lucy, how was he like a fire?"

"He was warm-hearted, and the centre of attraction to so many."

"And, Louis, how do you make him like a flower?"

"His presidential career was bright, and short-lived, like a flower."

"Charlie, why was he like a vine?"

"That's plain enough—his motto was 'A little more grape.'"

Amy went round collecting resemblances for her thought, and then said that she had the watch-dog, Trusty, in her mind.

"Why is Trusty like paper?"

"Because he's white."

"Then, why is he like ink?"

"Because he's so useful."

"Why is he like a table?"

"Because he's a quadruped."

"Why is he like Aunt Lucy?"

"He is so good and faithful."

"Why is he like a bed?"

"His steadiness at his post enables us to enjoy undisturbed sleep."

"How does he resemble a carpet?"

"He generally lies on the floor, but is sometimes brushed off."

"How is he like a lion?"

"He is very fond of meat."

"How does he resemble Cousin Mary?"

"He has a collar round his neck."

"How is he like a tree?"

"He is so very full of bark."

Gertrude then proposed trying another game she had seen played, which was called "Questions." She said it was generally done by using playing-cards, but as she knew Uncle and Aunt had an objection to having them in the house, she had prepared a set of blank cards for the purpose. There were duplicates of every one, and she had numbered them, 1, 2, 3, etc., in large characters: one set was placed in the centre of the table, around which they drew up, and the duplicates were shuffled and dealt to each in turn. When they were all supplied, one would draw a card from the table, asking some personal question; and all looking at their cards, the one who had the duplicate must throw it upon the table, and say, "It is I." It was found that the sillier and more impertinent the question, the more laughter it caused.

"Who comes down last to breakfast?" said Tom, drawing from the pack one marked 8.

"I do," replied Aunt Lucy, throwing down her corresponding 8.

"Who is the prettiest person present?" said Aunt Lucy, drawing out a 3.

"I am," said George, with a grin—being quite reconciled to the fact that he was decidedly the ugliest one of the party; at the same time mating his 3 with its companion on the table.

"Who loves mince-pie the best?" said Amy

"I do," replied Ellen, with a laugh.

"Which of us is the old maid of the company?" said Cornelia.

"It is I," cried Tom, in a tone of triumph.

"Which of us has a hole in her stocking?" said Alice.

"Oh, it is I myself."

And so it went on until the pack was exhausted, when all agreed that it was time for the daily story, which they seemed to think as much a matter of course as the supper. Aunt Lucy said that she would gladly tell them a short one, which should be called

The Orphan's Tale, or the Vicissitudes of Fortune.

The early days of Margaret Roscoe were spent in the beautiful manse of Linlithgow, in the north of Scotland, where her venerable grandfather had for half a century been engaged in breaking the bread of life to a large congregation of humble parishioners. No wealth or grandeur was to be seen within the walls of the kirk where Alan Roscoe officiated: there were no waving plumes, no flashing jewels, no rustling silks; and when, as a young man, he accepted his appointment to this remote parish, his college friends grieved that his noble talents should be wasted, and his refinement of mind thrown away upon rough country folks, unable to appreciate him. But the young minister was convinced that his proper field of labor was now before him, and resolutely putting aside the temptings of ambition, he devoted himself in the most exemplary manner to his parochial duties. Although he and his family were debarred from the advantages of cultivated society, and from the mental excitement which only such intercourse can afford, they cheerfully made the sacrifice, for the sake of the cause to which they were wholly given up; and they thought themselves more than repaid by the improvement and the reverent love of the people. It is a great mistake to suppose that plain, unlettered men cannot rightly estimate superior abilities, erudition, and refinement; where there is any native shrewdness and strength of mind, these higher gifts are quickly discerned, and add greatly to the influence which sincerity and earnestness of character will ever command. In Scotland this is especially true, for the countrymen of Bruce and Wallace are distinguished for their sagacity; and their acquaintance with Scripture is so extensive that their natural intelligence is sharpened, and superficial knowledge and flowery discourses are not tolerated from the pulpit. Certain it is, that as years rolled on, and the white hairs became thicker on Mr. Roscoe's head, love and veneration were the universal feelings entertained toward him: and at the time when our story commences, when the infant Margaret and her young widowed mother removed beneath the shelter of his roof, he was the respected pastor, the beloved friend, and the revered father of all within the circle of his influence.

Malcom Roscoe, Margaret's father, was a young man of superior abilities, but of great original delicacy of constitution; he was retiring, studious, meditative, and in all respects a contrast to his older and only brother, Alan, who early developed those qualities which are necessary to the active man of business. A very warm attachment united these two young men, and a sad blow it was to Malcom, when his brother, with the energy and decision natural to his character, announced his intention of emigrating to America, where bright prospects had opened before him. An old friend had commenced a large commercial establishment in one of the Atlantic cities, and had offered him a clerkship, with the prospect of speedy admission into the firm: he regretted to leave his aged father, and his only brother, but such an excellent opportunity of advancing himself in life was not to be neglected, and he gratefully accepted the proposition. With many tears, he bade adieu to the beloved inmates of the manse, and set out for the New World: his industry and integrity had been greatly prospered, and in a few years he was an honored partner of the house into which he had entered as a penniless clerk.

What, meantime, had been Malcom's lot? He had applied himself with assiduity to the study of divinity, for which both his character and his abilities had admirably fitted him, but his health was unequal to the demands made upon it. He passed his examination with great honor, was immediately called to a parish, and went there to settle, accompanied by his young wife, a delicate and interesting orphan girl, to whom he had been long attached. His zealous spirit saw much to rectify, and many labors to perform, in his new sphere: he entered with ardor into the discharge of his duties, but soon he found that his frail body had been overtasked by its imperious master the soul, and was no longer able to do his bidding. He faded away from earth, as do so many of the best and noblest of the race, when just ready to apply to the loftiest purposes the faculties so carefully trained. To us, such occurrences appear to be very mysterious dispensations of Providence: but the individual himself has attained the true object of his being, the full development of all his powers, and is prepared for a more elevated existence. And we may believe, since not even a sparrow falls to the ground unheeded by our Father, and since no waste is allowed in nature, so that even the dead leaf ministers to new combinations of being, that the noble gifts of the mind will not be unused after death. In other spheres, amid other society, they will doubtless be employed for the benefit of immortal beings. Mutual beneficence must form a large part of the business and pleasure of heaven.

After Malcom's death, his widow and infant child came to live with old Mr. Roscoe at Linlithgow. Happily for the young mourner, the household cares of the manse now devolved upon her, in addition to the charge of Margaret; and these occupations, no doubt, aided greatly in restoring the serenity of her spirit. She had little time to brood over her sorrows—those small solicitudes and minute attentions to the feelings and comfort of others, which fill up so large a portion of a true woman's time, were with her a double blessing, cheering both the giver and receiver. She realized that it is woman's honor and happiness to be, in an especial manner, a ministering spirit; and thus she learned to resemble the bright hosts above, whom she hoped one day to join, and grow in the likeness of Him who declared, "The Son of man came not into the world to be ministered unto, but to minister." No wonder is it that the gentle young widow, whose face ever beamed with kindness, whose hand was ever outstretched to aid the unfortunate, was looked up to with a love and veneration only inferior to that with which Mr. Roscoe himself was regarded.

In such an atmosphere of affection, and under the best influences of unaffected piety and refinement, little Margaret expanded in beauty and goodness, like a sweet flower planted in a fertile soil, and refreshed by soft-falling dews and healthful breezes. She was something like her own Scottish heather—distinguished by no uncommon brilliancy of mind or person, but yet one upon whom your eye delighted to fall, and on whom your heart could dwell with pleasure. Her clear, rosy complexion showed that she had inherited none of her parent's delicacy of constitution; and large, deep, violet-colored eyes, shaded by long lashes, made her face a very interesting one. She was a most lovable little girl, gentle and thoughtful beyond her years; it seemed as if something of the shadow of her mother's grief had fallen upon her young spirit, repressing the volatility of childhood, and making her ever considerate of the feelings and studious of the comfort of others. She was her grandfather's constant companion; and it was very beautiful to see these two, so widely separated by years, and so closely united by affection, entwining their lives together—the old man imparting instruction and guidance, and the child warming his heart with the bright hopes and sweet ways of her innocent age.

And so the three lived on, in perfect contentment and uninterrupted peace, until Margaret was seven years old, when her grandfather was taken ill, and the manse, once so happy, was filled with sorrow. He lingered for some time, faithfully nursed by his daughter, who overtaxed her own strength by her daily toils and nightly watchings. He at last sank into the tomb, as a shock of corn, fully ripe, bends to the earth: he was full of years, and of the honor merited by a life spent in the arduous discharge of duty. His only regret was that he was unavoidably separated from his son; and he advised his daughter, as soon as she had settled his affairs, to accept Alan's pressing invitation to her to make her home with him, and to depart with her child for America, where she would be gladly welcomed.

After the funeral, as the new incumbent of the parish wished to take possession of the manse as soon as possible, Mrs. Roscoe made arrangements to leave the spot she loved so well: and disposing of the furniture, and settling the debts incurred by her father's illness, she found that no very large sum would be left after the passages across the Atlantic were paid for. In Alan Roscoe's last letter, he had entered into many details about his circumstances, in order to take from her mind the objections which delicacy might urge as to her dependent position. He told her that he had been eminently successful as a merchant in Charleston, and had amassed so considerable a fortune that he intended very soon to retire from business; and that he had some thoughts of settling in one of the northern cities, as his health, and that of his family, had suffered from the climate. He said that a dear and only sister, as she was, ought to have no reluctance in sharing the superfluity of his wealth: she would thereby give far more than she received. And his brother's orphan should be most heartily welcomed to his heart and home: she should be taught with his children, and should share in every respect the situation and prospects of his own little ones, for he must receive Malcom's child, not as a niece, but as a daughter. He advised her sailing direct for Charleston, as it would save all trouble and difficulty: he should be on the wharf to meet her, and if, as was frequently the case with business men, he was unavoidably absent, his very attentive partner would be there to greet her, in company with Mrs. Roscoe.

She accordingly wrote, accepting his kind proposition, and stating that they should sail in the first vessel bound for Charleston, as she was anxious to have little Maggie again settled in a home; and the more so, as her own health was very delicate, and she knew not how long her dear child might have a mother to watch over her. Then taking leave of the humble friends, who would gladly have kept them ever in Scotland, Mrs. Roscoe and her daughter set off for the nearest seaport, where the shrinking young widow, entirely friendless and unknown, was obliged herself to make inquiries among the shipping offices and wharves. She found that no vessel would start for some weeks for Charleston, and she felt that every day was of consequence to her: but she was at last relieved of her distress by a bluff, good-natured captain, who told her that although he didn't hail from Charleston, it was exactly the same thing; he sailed to Boston, and the two places were as close together as twin cherries on one stalk, or kernels in a nut, and that he would see to it she had no trouble in finding her friends. Being a Scotchman, and partaking of that ignorance of American geography which is so common both in Great Britain and on the continent, he naturally mistook Charleston, South Carolina, for which she was inquiring, for Charlestown, near Boston—an error which has frequently been made. Nor is it as gross a one as some others which have been perpetrated; as, for instance, that of the late Prince Schwartzenberg, minister of Austria, who directed some dispatches for our government to "The United States of New York."

And now behold little Margaret actually launched upon the stormy ocean of life! for her small bark was destined soon to be severed from its guide and conductor, and to be left, without a pilot, to the wildly tossing waves and bleak winds of a selfish world. Did I say without a pilot? not so! a hand, unseen, directed her fate, and although she was called to pass thus early through troubled waters, the end will doubtless show that all was well. But the present trial was a very bitter one. A few days only after the embarkation, Mrs. Roscoe's weak frame gave way, under the combined influence of sorrow, fatigue, and anxiety; she was only ill a week, then sank, and was consigned to a watery grave. Little Margaret could not be separated from her for one moment during her illness, but, clasping her mother's hand in hers, remained by her, smoothing her pillow, bringing her the cooling draught, and seeking, in a thousand loving ways, to cheer and relieve her.

Before her death, Mrs. Roscoe called the Captain, and committed little Maggie to his especial care. She told him of her expectation that her brother, Mr. Alan Roscoe, a prominent importing merchant in Charleston, would immediately come on board to claim his niece, when the vessel arrived; but to guard against any possibility of a mistake, she gave him the number of the street in which he resided. The bluff, but kind-hearted man drew his red, hard hand repeatedly across his eyes, as he listened to her anxious directions about the little girl she was so soon to leave. He told her he didn't know much himself about either Charleston or the people who lived in it, as he had been engaged until very lately in the South Sea trade; but, of course, his consignees at Boston would, and if there were any difficulty, he should put the matter into their hands. He begged her to be under no uneasiness—her daughter should be well attended to.

On the last day of her illness, the little girl sat by her in the berth, and for the first time appeared to realize that her mother, her only earthly friend, was about to die. Her little cheek was now almost as white as the dying woman's, and she moistened the bed with tears: she could not restrain her sobs. Her mother passed her arm around her, and strove to comfort her: she told her that, although she must now leave her, and go where her dear father and grandfather awaited her, her little girl had one friend who would never cast her off, and who could never die, who had promised to be the father of the fatherless. Whatever should befall her, she must put all her trust in Him who had said, "When thy father and thy mother forsake thee, then the Lord shall take thee up." With all the energy which the love of a dying woman could give, she besought her child to cleave with perfect love to Him who was so kind and pitiful. She then placed around her neck a medallion, inclosing a portrait of herself and her husband, with their initials, the date of their marriage, and locks of their hair, and told her never to part with it, but to wear it next her heart. She directed her to be in all respects obedient to her uncle, and ever to act toward him as if he were her own father. At last, exhausted by the the long conversation she had held, she sank back and fell asleep: it was so sweet and natural a rest, that Margaret long waited by her side, afraid to stir lest she should awake her mother. A happy smile seemed diffused over that face, lately so earnest and so anxious; it appeared to say, my troubles are now over, my work is done, I have entered into my reward. And so it was! the sorrow-stricken woman had gently passed away from earth, and little Margaret was watching beside the dead.

Shall I attempt to describe the grief of the child, deprived of all she loved? The rough, but kindly sailors were much moved by it, and strove, in their uncouth way, to comfort her. After the first few days of passionate lamentation, the motherless girl became more quiet in her sorrow, and then the demonstrations of sympathy ceased: but any one who gazed upon her wasted form, her white cheek, and languid steps, might have guessed the tears she shed upon her pillow at night. At last the vessel arrived in Boston, and Margaret's heart beat quick each time she saw a good-looking gentleman step on board, for every instant she thought her unknown uncle would arrive. She tried to fancy how he looked, and although she had heard that he and her father were very unlike, still her imagination brought up before her a face like that within her highly-prized medallion. So passed the day, in anxious waiting and nervous tremors, but her uncle came not; and as the night drew near, a sense of perfect loneliness and desertion came over her, and she leaned her head upon her hands, and tears, wrung from the heart, trickled through them. All around her was bustle; every one had an object, all had a home, and a place in the world, and some to love them—all but she; she felt completely the orphan. Some think that children do not suffer mentally as their elders do—what a mistake! Their emotions are more transitory, but frequently more violent while they last. Many an angry child, if he had the physical strength, would commit deeds from which reason and conscience deter the man—and keen and bitter, although fleeting, are the sorrows they experience. As the little creature, so tenderly reared and now so utterly desolate, sat upon the deck, with no earthly being to look up to for love and sympathy, surely a pitying angel must have wafted into her heart her mother's dying words, "When thy father and thy mother forsake thee, then the Lord shall take thee up." It stole into her soul like oil upon the troubled waters: it seemed as if a voice had said to the tempest within her, "Peace, be still." She felt that there still was one who cared for her—one who could neither die nor change; and the prayer of faith ascended from those young lips to "Our father who art in heaven." Soothing, blessed influence of religion! felt by young as well as old—how, in trouble, could we dispense with it? would not our hearts sink under their load? would not our spirits be crushed within us?

The next day the Captain set himself in earnest to fulfill his promise to the dying woman. The head of the firm to which his goods were consigned was absent from home, but a very kind-hearted young fellow, a junior partner, attended to the business during his absence, and accordingly he directed his inquiries to him. "Mr. Alan Roscoe, a merchant of Charlestown!" said young Howard, "why, I never heard the name—there is surely some mistake. I know all the business men of the place, and there is no such person. Have you the direction?" "Yes, sir, No. 200 Meeting-street." "Why, Captain, here is a complete blunder! there is no street of that name in Charlestown. I should not wonder, now I come to think of it, if Charleston, South Carolina, were meant; Meeting-street is, I know, one of the most fashionable promenades. And I remember hearing of a Mr. Roscoe, a great southern merchant—either in Charleston, or Mobile, or New Orleans, I don't rightly know where—but somewhere in the South. I'll tell you what, Captain, you're full of business, and can't attend to her; I'll take her home with me, for she's a dear little thing, and then I can inquire about her uncle, and send her on by the first opportunity. Great pity such a blunder was made!"

Accordingly, Mr. Howard engaged a hack, which was piled up with little Maggie's trunks, and he was about jumping in, when he was nearly run over by his friend Russell. "Hallo, Howard!" "Is that you, Russell?" "No one else; but what on earth are you doing with such a heap of trunks? has a friend arrived?" "Only a little orphan, who came in one of our ships; her mother died on board, and to crown the misfortune, they got into the wrong vessel. They wanted to go to Charleston, S.C., where this child has an uncle, Mr. Alan Roscoe, a rich merchant; so they came to Charlestown by mistake. I'm taking the little creature home with me, until I find out about him." "The luckiest thing in the world! Why, I know Mr. Roscoe myself; he lives in Meeting-street; I became acquainted with him in Charleston last Winter. But he has either given up business, or intends to do so; he is in New York at this moment; I saw him the other day at the Astor House, and he told me he had some thought of removing to New York or Philadelphia." "In New York, is he? what a piece of good fortune! How I wish I knew some one going on there. If I were not so uncommonly busy, now that Mr. Field is away, I would take her myself." "If you'd like it, my dear fellow, I'll take charge of the child—you know I always have acquaintances going on to New York—I know every one in the two cities, pretty much. I'll give her over to some safe person, and then she'll be with her uncle to-night." "Thank you, you're a real good soul; you can attend to it as well as I, of course. And I am anxious to get the poor little thing to her relations as soon as possible, so I'll be much obliged to you." "Good-by, then;—driver, go as fast as your horses can carry you to the New York depot, for we're rather late."

When they arrived, they were only a few minutes before the time. Mr. Russell walked through the cars, looking on either side, but, to his chagrin, he saw no one he knew. Any one who has ever sought for an acquaintance, while the steam was puffing, and panting, and screeching, as if in mortal pain until it was allowed to have its own way, and send the train along at the rate of forty miles an hour, can understand the flustered, bewildered feelings of young Russell, as, with the child in one hand, he perambulated the cars. "Is any gentleman here willing to take charge of this little girl?" said he. "What's to be done with her when we get to New York?" answered a man near him. "Her uncle, Mr. Alan Roscoe, is staying at the Astor House; all you have to do is to take the child and her baggage to him, and as he is a southern gentleman, and very rich, he'll see that you are well paid for your trouble." "I'll take charge of her; have you got her ticket?" "No; and I declare I have no more than half a dollar with me—can you advance the money? you will be paid tenfold when you get to New York." "I'll do it as a speculation: here, my pretty young lady, sit in my seat while I see to your baggage." "Just got it in the baggage-car in time,—good-by, sir!" "Good-by—good-by, Miss Roscoe!" "Good-by, sir—I wish it were you going on to New York!"

Little Maggie did not like her travelling companion at all. Children are great physiognomists, and their simple instincts are frequently surer guides than the experience and wisdom of older persons, in detecting character. She could not bear to talk to him—his conversation, garnished with low cant phrases, was so different from any thing to which she had ever been accustomed. But when she looked up into his face, the repugnance she had at first felt became changed into aversion—the low, narrow forehead, the furtive, but insolent glance of his eye, and the expression of vulgar cunning about the mouth, formed a countenance which might well justify her in shrinking back into her seat, as far from him as possible.

When they arrived in New York, Smith, for that was the man's name, engaged a carriage, and drove with little Margaret to the Astor House; but, in answer to his inquiries, he was told that no one of the name of Roscoe was lodging, or had been boarding there for the past month. He muttered a curse, and jumped again into the hack. "What do you make of this? that uncle of yours is not there." "Oh dear, what shall I do? but, indeed, the gentleman said he saw him in the Astor House." "What is the gentleman's name, can you tell me?" "I don't know his name." "Don't know his name, don't you? I'm prettily bit! But perhaps he may be in some other hotel, we'll go and see." They accordingly drove round to the chief hotels, but no Mr. Roscoe was to be found at any of them.

Smith flew into a terrible passion. "Cheated for once in my life! sold, if ever a fellow was! it's a regular trick that was played! They wanted to get rid of their beggar's brat, and palmed her off upon me, with that humbug story of the nabob of an uncle. I'll nabob her! And there's her ticket, which I was fool enough to pay for, and the carriage hire, and my trouble with this saucy thing, who holds her head up so high; if ever I am swindled again, my name's not Sam Smith!"