entrance to the secret communication through which he The Brass Mount has already been described as the largest bastion of the Tower, standing at the north-east angle of the fortress, and its walls were, and still are, of such immense thickness, and it was so well fortified, that it was regarded as impregnable. Notwithstanding this impression, it formed the main object of the present attack. Amid a slaughterous fire from the besieged, Dudley embarked with Cholmondeley, who carried his standard, in a small skiff, and waving his sword above his head, pointed to the Brass Mount, and urged his men to the assault. They wanted no encouragement; but in some degree protected by the showers of arrows discharged by the archers stationed on the sides of the moat, and the constant fire of the arquebussiers, succeeded in placing two ladders against that part of the eastern ramparts immediately adjoining the bastion. These were instantly covered with men, who mounted sword in hand, but were attacked and hurled backwards by the besieged. Another ladder was soon planted against the Brass Mount, while two more were reared against the northern ramparts opposite the postern gate, which had been stormed and taken by Wyat's party, several of whom were descending the banks of the moat, and firing upon the fortress, assisted by three culverins placed in a temporary battery composed of large baskets filled with sand. All this had not been executed without severe loss on the part of the insurgents. Several of the rafts were swamped, and their occupants, embarrassed by the weight of their arms, drowned. One of the ladders planted against the northern battlements was hurled backwards with its living load; and such was the vigor and determination of the besieged, that none of the assailants could set a foot on the ramparts. Considerable execution, however, was done by the showers of arrows from archers, as well as by the discharges of the arquebussiers. But success did not, as yet, declare itself for either side. Constantly repulsed, the insurgents still resolutely returned to the charge; and though numbers fell from the ladders, others were instantly found to take their place. Seeing how matters stood, and aware that some desperate effort must be made, Dudley, who had hitherto watched the progress of the fight from the moat, exposing himself to the full fire of the batteries, resolved to ascend the ladder placed against the Brass Mount. Cholmondeley agreed to follow him; and amid the cheers of the assailants and the unrelaxing fire of the besieged, the boat was run in to the side of the bastion, At this juncture, a loud explosion, succeeded by a tremendous shout, was heard at the south side of the fortress. For a brief space, both royalists and insurgents ceased fighting; and taking advantage of the pause, Dudley swiftly mounted the ladder, and reaching the summit, shouted "God save Queen Jane!" "God save Queen Jane!" echoed Cholmondeley, who was close behind him. It was rumored among Dudley's men, and the report stimulated their ardor, that the Duke of Suffolk had taken Saint Thomas's Tower. This, however, was not the case. After the embarkation of the troops as before related, the squadron under the command of Admiral Winter, accompanied by a number of galleys, and wherries, made its way slowly to the Tower. Owing to the necessary delay, the tide had turned, and the larger vessels had to be towed up the river by the smaller craft. On their arrival they were immediately perceived by the sentinels, who opened a fire upon them, which was instantly returned. This was the commencement of the siege, and served as the signal to Dudley, and likewise to Wyat, of whose movements it will be necessary to speak hereafter. Before the squadron came up, the Duke of Suffolk embarked in a small galley, and accompanied by several wherries filled with soldiers, contrived, by keeping close under the wall of the wharf, to effect a landing, unperceived, at the stairs. Taken by surprise, the guard fell an easy prey turned them against the fortress. to their assailants, who, seizing the cannon placed there, While this was passing, several boats landed their crews at the eastern end of the wharf, and many others speeded towards it from all quarters. In a short time, it was crowded by the insurgents; and notwithstanding the tremendous fire kept up against them from the whole line of battlementsfrom Traitor's Tower-and from all the fortifications within shot, they resolutely maintained their ground. Directing the attack in person, and exposing himself to every danger, the Duke of Suffolk displayed the utmost sides. Several floats, and one of the larger vessels, were coolness and courage. The fight raged furiously on both sunk by the guns of the batteries, and the ranks of the insurgents were greatly thinned. Still there was no symptom in their efforts. of irresolution exhibited; nor did they relax for a moment Tower, and crowded with climbers, while a gun-boat erScaling ladders were placed against the walls of Traitor's tered the dark arch beneath it, and its crew commenced battering with axes, halberds and poles, against the portcullis and water-gate. Another party had taken possession of the buildings opposite the By-ward Tower, and were trying to reach the drawbridge, which, it is almost needless to say, was raised. Added to these, a strong body of Essex men, having congregated at Limehouse, approached the fortress by Saint Catherine's, and the lane leading to the Flemish church, and were striving to force the Iron Gate and the eastern outlet of the wharf. At this juncture, an occurrence took place, which, while it disheartened the besieged, tended greatly to animate the assailing party. At the south-west corner of the wharf stood a row of small habitations separating it from Petty Wales. One of these was presently observed to be on fire, and the flames rapidly spread to the others. Shortly afterwards, a tremendous explosion took place. A building was blown up, and the fiery fragments tossed into the river and moat; while across the blazing ruins, with loud shouts, rushed a party of men from the troops under Sir Thomas Wyat. This was the explosion that reached the ears of Dudley and his band. Rushing to the assistance of their friends, the new comers seemed determined to carry all before them, and such was the effect of their sudden appearance, that the besieged for a moment gave way, and a small body of the insurgents gained a footing on the roof of Traitor's Tower. But the next moment, the royalists rallied, drove off their assailants, and the fight continued as obstinately as before. It was a sublime but terrific spectacle, and one not easily effaced from the remembrance of those who beheld it. The ruddy light cast upon the water by the burning houses, and serving to reveal the tall vessels-the armed boats-the sinking craft and struggling figures with which it was cov forth fire and smoke-the massive pile of the ancient citaered the towers and battlements of the fortress pouring del, which added its thunder to the general din,-the wharf, or against Traitor's Tower-constituted a scene of throng of warlike figures engaged in active strife on the intense, though fearful interest-nor did the roar of the cannon, the clash of arms, the shouts and cheers of the combatants and the groans of the wounded, detract from its effect. except by those actually concerned in it, equalled, if not There was yet another scene, which though unwitnessed, Saint Thomas's Tower. It has been already mentioned surpassed it, in gloomy power. This was a conflict under the arch leading to Traitor's Tower, where they endeav that a party, manning a gun-boat, had penetrated beneath ored, with such weapons as they possessed, to effect an en trance. While they were thus employed, the portcullis was suddenly raised, and the watergate opened; and the men supposing their own party had gained possession of the fortification above them, dashed forward. They were speedily undeceived. Before they reached the steps, a number of armed figures, some of whom bore torches, appeared, while a thundering splash behind told that the portcullis had been let down, so as to cut off their retreat. Nothing remained but to sell their lives as dearly as they could. Quarter was neither asked nor granted. Some leaped overboard, and tried, sword in hand, to force a way up the steps; others prepared to follow them; and the gunner discharged a falconet planted at the prow of the boat, occasioning fearful havoc among their opponents. But this availed nothing. They were driven back, and their assailants pursuing them into the recesses of the arch, put them to death. The light of the few torches that illumined the scene, fell upon figures fearfuliy struggling, while the arches rang with the reports of musquetry, groans, and curses. In a short time, all was still and dark as heretofore. But when the watergate was afterwards opened, fourteen mangled corpses floated out to the Thames. While the siege was thus vigorously carried on, on the north and south, the western side of the fortress was not neglected. Remaining at Cornhill for some hours, Wyat divided his forces into two detachments, and committed one to Captain Bret, whom he directed to proceed to the upper part of Tower Hill, along Lombard-street, Fenchurch-street, and Tower-street, and to place his men within the churchyard of All-Hallows Barking, and at the rear of the scaffold on Tower Hill; while with the other he himself marched down Gracechurch-street, along Thames-street, taking up a position before the Bulwark Gate. As soon as he had reached this point, and arranged his men, he rode off to Bret, and ordered a party, commanded by Captain Cobham, to attack the postern-gate, as before related. Bret was to hold himself in readiness to march down to the Bulwark Gate, or to attack the Leg Mount, a bastion at the north-west angle of the fortress, corresponding (though of somewhat smaller size,) with the Brass Mount, as he should receive instructions. Having issued these directions, Wyat rode back to his troops he was now mounted, as were several of his officers, on the steeds captured in the recent skirmish with the Earl of Pembroke-and commanded them to remain perfectly quiet till Admiral Winter's squadron should arrive off the Tower. His injunctions were strictly obeyed, and such perfect silence was observed, that though his men were drawn up within a few yards of the fortress, they were not discovered by the sentinels. On the arrival of the squadron, Wyat immediately commenced an attack upon the Bulwark Gate-one of the weakest outworks of the fortress,-and while directing his engines against it, some half-dozen wooden houses adjoining it on the side of the moat, were fired by his men; and the flames quickly extending to the buildings immediately contiguous to the Bulwark Gate, that defence was at once surrendered. The first point gained, Wyat despatched a messenger to Bret ordering him to join him instantly; and while a handful of his men, rushing round the simicircular wall, heretofore described as protecting the lesser moat, attacked the embattled gateway fronting the Lion's Tower, with the intention of joining Suffolk's party on the wharf, he directed his main force against the Lion's Gate. This fortification was stoutly defended, and the insurgents were twice replused before they could bring their engines to bear against it. Bret and his party having arrived, such an irresistible attack was made upon the gate, that in a short time it was carried. With loud shouts, the insurgents drove the royal ists before them along the narrow bridge facing the Lion's Tower, and leading to the Middle Tower, putting some to the sword, and throwing others over the walls into the probability he would have been master of the Tower. Nothing doubting this, he urged his men onwards. On his left rode Bret, and behind them, at a short distance, came Captain Knevet, and two other leaders, likewise on horseback As they arrived within a few paces of the By-ward Tower, three tremendous personages issued from it, and opposed their further progress. They were equipped in corselets of polished steel and morions: and two of them were armed with buckler and enormous maces, while the third wielded a partizan of equal size These, it is almost needless to state, were the three giants. The bearer of the partizan was Gog. Behind them came their diminutive attendant, who, it appeared, had been released from his thraldom, particulars of which, and of his adventures subsequent to his meeting with Cicely in the cell beneath the Salt Tower, will be related at a more convenient opportunity. Like his gigantic companions, Xit was fully armed, in a steel corslet, cuisses, and gauntlets. His head was sheltered by a helmet, shaded by an immense plume of feathers, which, being considerably too large for him, almost eclipsed his features. He was furthermore provided with a sword almost as large as himself, and a buckler. Taking care to keep under the shelter of the giants, Xit strutted about, and brandishing his sword in a valiant manner, shonted, or rather screamed "Upon them Og!-attack them Gog!-why do you stand still, Magog? Let me pass, and I will show you how you should demean yourselves in the fight! At the sight of the giants, the flying royalists rallied, and a fierce but ineffectual struggle took place. During it, Bret was dismounted and thrown into the moat. Urged by their leader, the insurgents pressed furiously forward. But the giants presented an impassable barrier. Og plied his mace with as much zeal as he did the clubs when he enacted the part of the Tower at Courtenay's masque, and with far more terrible effect. All avoided the sweep of his arm. Not content with dealing blows, he dashed among the retreating toe, and hurled some dozen of them into the moat. His prowess excited universal terror and astonishment. Nor was Gog much behind him. Wherever his partizan descended, a foe fell beneath its weight; and as he was incessantly whirling it over his head, and bringing it down, a space was speedily cleared before him. Seeing the havoc occasioned by the gigantic brethren, and finding that they completely checked his further advance, Wyat struck spurs into his charger, and dashing upon Magog, tried to hew him down. If the married giant had not caught the blow aimed at him upon his shield, Dame Placida had been made a widow for the second time. Again, plunging the spurs rowel-deep into his horse's flanks, Wyat would have ridden over his gigantic antagonist, if the latter, perceiving his intention, had not raised his mace, and with one tremendous blow smashed the skull of the noble animal. "Yield you, Sir Thomas Wyat," cried Magog, rushing up to the knight, who was borne to the ground with his slaughtered charger-"you are my prisoner." "Back, caitiff!" cried Wyat, disengaging himself and attacking the giant; "I will never yield with life." Wyat, however, would have been speedily captured by the giant, if Knevet, seeing his perilous situation, had not pressed forward with several others to his assistanee, and rescued him. This accident, however, enabled the retreating party to pass beneath the archway of the By-ward Tower, the portcullis of which was instantly lowered. Meanwhile, a body of the insurgents having taken possession of the Middle Tower, had planted themselves at the various loop-holes, and on the roof, and kept up a constant fire on the soldiers stationed on the summit of the By-Ward Tower. Among those who contrived to distinguish themselves in the action was Xit. Finding his position one of more danger than he had anticipated, he scrambled upon the wall on the right of the By-ward Tower, where, being out of the rush, he could defy at his ease those who were swimming in the moat. While he was in this situation, Bret, who, it has been mentioned was thrown into the moat, swam to the wall, and endeavored to ascend it. Xit iminediately attacked him, and adopting the language of Magog to Wyat. threat. ened to throw him back again if he did not yield. "I de yield," replied Bret. ; We shall not rest together, love, That journeying through the toilsome past, The weary ones divide; That the same breezes should not sigh With these, THE HUMAN---Human Love Will twine its thoughts and weave its doom, And still confound the life above With death beneath the tomb. The stars that pierced this darksome state Be memory, and no more. We will not think it---for in vain Were all our dreams of Heaven could show, Without the hope to love again What we have loved below. But still the heart will haunt the well The past's most holy token. "T is through the form the soul we love! The following new translation of the celebrate "Marseilles Hymn," is the best we have yet met with: THE MARSEILLES HYMN. I. ON, countrymen, on, for the day- The foe's fast approaching alarms? To arms, gallant Frenchmen! to arms! 'Tis the hour II. A man in London is so fat that no omnibus driver in the city will admit him into his vehicle at any price. One of them, the other day, knocked off his hat and would have sent the wearer after it, had he been able to move the ponderous mass, whose centre of gravity was immovably fixed on the omnibus steps. This same gentleman, wishing to go out of town, and knowing that the coachman would not book him, went early in the morning and deposited his carcass in the horseless coach standing in the stable yard, feeling assured that, onee in, he could not be got out. In this situation he fell asleep, and the coachman discovering who his customer was, was at his wits end. Luckily he ob tained another coach and set slily off on his journey, leav ing the gentleman to travel or snore, as he pleased. MASTER HUMPHREY'S CLOCK.* BY CHARLES DICKENS, ESQ. PART XXX. THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP. CHAPTER XLIV. The throng of people hurried by in two opposite streams, with no symptoms of cessation or exhaustion; intent upon their business speculations, by the roar of carts and wagons laden with clashing wares, the slipping of horses' feet upon the wet and greasy pavement, the rattling of the rain on windows and umbrella-tops, the jostling of the more impatient passengers, and all the noise and tumult of a crowded street in the high tide of its occupation: while the two poor strangers, stunned and bewildered by the hurry they beheld but had no part in, looked mournfully on; feeling amidst the crowd a solitude which has no parallel but in the thirst of the shipwrecked mariner, who, tost to and fro upon the billows of a mighty ocean, his red eyes blinded by looking on the water which hems him in on every side, has not one drop to cool his burning tongue, They withdrew into a low archway for shelter from the rain, and watched the faces of those who passed, to find in one among them the ray of encouragement or hope. Some frowned, some smiled, some muttered to themselves; some made slight gestures, as if anticipating the conversation in which they would shortly be engaged; some wore the cunning look of bargaining and plotting, some were anxious and eager, some slow and dull; in some countenances were written gain; in others loss. It was like being in the confidence of all these people to stand quietly there, looking into their faces as they flitted past. In busy places, where each man has an object of his own, and feels assured that every other man has his, his character and purpose are written broadly in his face. In the public walks and lounges of a town, people go to see and to be seen, and there the same expression, with but little variety, is repeated a hundred times. The working-day faces come nearer to the truth, and let it out more plainly. Falling into that kind of abstraction which such a solitude awakens, the child continued to gaze upon the passing crowd with a wondering interest, amounting almost to a temporary forgetfulness of her own condition. But cold, wet, hunger, want of rest, and lack of any place in which to lay her aching head, soon brought her thoughts back to the point whence they had strayed. No one passed who seemed to take notice of them, or to whom she durst peal. After some time, they left their place of refuge from the weather, and mingled with the concourse. 685 some quiet part of the country, and try to earn our bread in very humble work." "Why did you bring me here ?" returned the old man, We fiercely. "I cannot bear these close eternal streets. came from a quiet part. Why did you force me to leave it ?" "Because I must have that dream I told you of, no it will come again. Dear grandfather, you are old and "Ah! poor, houseless, wandering, motherless child!" cried the old man, clasping his hands, and gazing, as if for the first time, upon her travel-stained dress, and bruised and swollen feet; "has all my agony of care brought her to this at last! Was I a happy man once, and have I lost happiness and all I had, for this!" "If we were in the country now," said the child, with assumed cheerfulness, as they walked on looking about them for a shelter, "we should find some good old tree, stretching out his green arms as if he loved us, and nodding and rustling as if he would have us fall asleep, thinking of him while he watched. Please God, we shall be there soon-to-morrow or next day at the farthest-and in the meantime let us think, dear, that it was a good thing we came here; for we are lost in the crowd and hurry of this place, and if any cruel people should pursue us, they could surely never trace us farther. There's comfort in that. And here's a deep old doorway-very dark, but quite dry, and warm too, for the wind don't blow in here-What's that?" Uttering a half-shriek, she recoiled from a black figure which came suddenly out of the dark recess in which they were about to take refuge, and stood still looking at them. Speak again," it said; "do I know the voice?" 66 "No," replied the child, timidly; "we are strangers, and having no money for a night's lodging we were going to rest here." There was a feeble lamp at no great distance; the only one in the place, which was a kind of square yard, but To this, the sufficient to show how poor and mean it was. figure beckoned them; at the same time drawing within its rays, as if to show that it had no desire to conceal itself take them at an advantage. sunken The form was that of a man, miserably clad, and be grimed with smoke, which, perhaps by its contrast with the natural color of his skin, made him look paler than he That he was naturally of a very wan and palreally was. aplid aspect, however, his hollow cheeks, sharp features, and eyes, no less than a certain look of patient endurance, sufficiently testified. His voice was harsh by nature, but not brutal; and though his face-besides possessing the characteristics already mentioned-was overshadowed by a quantity of long dark hair, its expression was neither ferocious nor cruel. Evening came on. They were still wandering up and down, with fewer people about them, but with the same sense of solitude in their own breasts, and the same indifference from all around. The lights in the streets and shops made them feel yet more desolate, for with their help, night and darkness seemed to come on faster. Shivering with the cold and damp, ill in body, and sick to death at heart, the child needed her utmost firmness and resolution even to creep along. Why had they ever come to this noisy town, when there were peaceful country places, in which, at least, they might have hungered and thirsted, with less suffering than in its squalid strife. They were but an atom, here, in a mountain heap of misery, the very sight of which increased their hopelessness and suffering. The child had not only to endure the accumulated hardships of their destitute condition, but to bear the reproaches of her grandfather, who began to murmur at having been led away from their late abode, and demand that they should return to it. Being now penniless, and no relief or prospect of relief appearing, they retraced their steps through the deserted streets, and went back to the wharf, hoping to find the boat in which they had come, and to be allowed to sleep on board that night. But here again they were disappointed, for the gate was closed, and some fierce dogs, barking at their approach, obliged them to re treat. "We must sleep in the open air, to-night, dear," said the child, in a weak voice, as they turned away from this last repulse; "and to-morrow we will beg our way to • Continued from page 674. 66 "Or How came you to think of resting there?" how," he added, looking more attentively at the child, "do you come to want a place of rest at this time of night?" "Our misfortunes," the grandfather answered, cause, "are the "Do you know," said the man, looking still more earnestly at Nell, "how wet she is, and that the damp streets are not a place for her?" "What "I know it well, God help me," he replied. can I do?" The man looked at Nell again, and gently touched her "I can give you warmth," he said, after a pause garments, from which the rain was running off in little streams. "nothing else. Such lodging as I have is in that house,' pointing to the doorway from which he had emerged, "but she is safer and better there than here. The fire is in a You see that red light yonrough place, but you can pass the night beside it safely, if der?" you'll trust yourselves to me. They raised their eyes, and saw a lurid glare in the dark sky; the dull reflection of some distant fire. Shall I take you there? "It's not far," said the man. You were going to sleep upon cold bricks; I can give you a bed of warm ashes-nothing better," Without waiting for any further reply than he saw in their looks, he took Nell in his arms, and bade the old man follow. Carrying her as tenderly, and easily, too, as if she had been an infant, and showing himself both swift and sure of foot, he led the way through what appeared to be the poorest and most wretched quarter of the town; and turning aside to avoid the overflowing kennels or running waterspouts, but holding his course regardless of such obstructions, and making his way straight through them. They had proceeded thus in silence for some quarter of an hour, and had lost sight of the glare to which he had pointed, in in the dark and narrow ways by which they had come, when it suddenly burst vpon them again, streaming up from the high chimney of a building close before them. "This is the place," he said, pausing at a door to put Nell down and take her hand. "Don't be afraid, There's nobody here will harm you." It needed a strong confidence in this assurance to induce them to enter, and what they saw inside did not diminish their apprehension and alarm. In a large and lofty building, supported by pillars of iron, with great black apertures in the upper walls, open to the external air; echoing to the roof with the beating of hammers and roar of furnaces, mingled with the hissing of red-hot metal plunged into water, and a hundred strange unearthly noises never heard elsewhere; in this gloomy place, moving like demons among the flame and smoke, dimly and fitfully seen, flushed and tormented by the burning fires, and wielding great weapons, a faulty blow from any one of which must have crushed some workman's skull, a number of men labored like giants. Others, reposing upon heaps of coals or ashes, with their faces turned to the black vault above, slept or rested from their toil. Others, again, opening the white-hot furnace doors, cast fuel on the flames, which come rushing and roaring forth to meet it, and licked it up like oil Others drew forth, with clashing noise upon the ground, great sheets of glowing steel, emitting an insupportable heat, and a dull deep light like that which reddens in the eyes of savage beasts. Through the bewildering sights and deafening sounds, their conductor led them to where, in a dark portion of the building, one furnace burnt by night and day-so, at least, they gathered from the motion of his lips, for as yet, they could only see him speak: not hear him. The man who had been watching this fire, and whose task was ended for the present, gladly withdrew, and left them with their friend; who, spreading Nell's little cloak upon a heap of ashes, and showing her where she could hang her outer clothes to dry, signed to her and the old man to lie down and sleep. For himself, he took his station on a rugged mat before the furnace-door, and resting his chin upon his hands, watched the flame as it shone through the iron chinks, and the white ashes as they fell into their bright hot grave below. The warmth of her bed, hard and humble as it was, combined with the great fatigue she had undergone, soon caused the tumult of the place to fall with a gentle sound upon the child's tired ears, and was not long in lulling her to sleep. The old man was stretched beside her, and with her hand upon his neck she lay and dreamed. It way yet night when she awoke, nor did she know how long, or for how short a time, she had slept. But she found herself protected, both from any cold air that might find its way into the building, and from the scorching heat, by some of the workmen's clothes; and glancing at their friend, saw that he sat in exactly the same attitude, looking with fixed earnestness of attention towards the fire, and keeping so very still that he did not even seem to breathe. She lay in the state between sleeping and waking, looking so long at his motionless figure that, at length, she almost feared he had died as he sat there; and, softly rising and drawing close to him, ventured to whisper in his ear. He moved, and glancing from her to the place she had lately occupied, as if to assure himself that it was really the child so near him, looked inquiringly into her face. "I feared you were ill," she said. "The other men are all in motion, and you are so very quiet." "They leave me to myself," he replied. "They know my humor. They laugh at me, but don't harm me in it. See yonder, there-that's my friend. " "The fire ?" said the child. had turned his eyes in their former direction, and was musing as before. It's "It's like a book to me," he said, "the only book I ever learned to read; and many an old story it tells me. music, for I should know its voice among a thousand, and there are other voices in its roar. It has its pictures, too. You don't know how many strange faces and different scenes I trace in the red-hot coals. It's my memory, that fire, and shows me all my life." The child, bending down to listen to his words, could not help remarking with what brightened eyes he continued to speak and muse. "Yes," he said, with a faint smile, "it was the same when I was quite a baby, and crawled about it till I fell asleep. My father watched it then. " "Had you no mother?" asked the child. "No; she was dead. Women work hard in these parts. She worked herself to death, they told me; and, as they said so then, the fire has gone on saying the same thing ever since. I suppose it was true. I have always believed it." "Were you brought up here, then?" said the child. "Summer and winter, "he replied. "Secretly at first, So but when they found it out, they let him keep me here. that fire nursed me-the same fire. It has never gone out." "You are fond of it?" said the child. "Of course I am. He died before it. I saw him fall down-just there, where those ashes are burning now—and wondered, I remember, why it didn't help him.” "Have you been here ever since ?" asked the child. "Ever since I came to watch it; but there was a while It burnt all between, and a very cold dreary while it was. the time, though, and roared and leaped when I came back, as it used to do in our play days. You may guess from looking at me what kind of a child I was, but for all the difference between us I was a child, and when I saw you in the street to-night, you put me in mind of myself as I was after he died, and made me wish to bring you to the old fire. I thought of those old times again, when I saw you sleeping by it. You should be sleeping now. Lie down again, poor child, lie down again." With that he led her to her rude couch, and covering her with the clothes with which she had found herself enveloped when she awoke, returned to his seat, whence he removed no more, unless to feed the furnace, but remained motionless as a statue. The child continued to watch him for a little time, but soon yielded to the drowsiness that came upon her, and in the dark strange place, and on the heap of ashes, slept as peacefully, as if the room had been a palace chamber, and the bed, a bed of down. the lofty openings in the walls, and, stealing in slanting rays When she awoke again, broad day was shining through but midway down seemed to make the building darker than it had been at night. The clang and tumult were still going for few changes of night and day brought rest or quiet on, and the remorseless fires were burning fiercely as before; there. Her friend parted his breakfast-a scanty mess of coffee and some coarse bread-with the child and her grandfather, and inquired whither they were going. She told him that they sought some distant country place, remote from towns, or even other villages, and with a faltering tongue inquired what road they would do best to take. "I know little of the country," he said, shaking his head: "for such as I, pass all our lives before our furnace doors, and seldom go forth to breathe. But there are such places yonder. " "And far from here?" said Nell. Ay, surely. How could they be near us, and be green and fresh? The road lies, too, through miles and miles all lighted by fires like ours-a strange black road, and one that would frighten you by night. "We are here, and must go on," said the child, boldly, for she saw that the old man listened with anxious ears to this account. "Rough people-paths never made for little feet like yours-a dismal, blighted way-is there no turning back, my child?" "There is none," cried Nell, pressing forward. "If you can direct us, do. If not, pray do not seek to turn us from our purpose. Indeed you do not know the danger that we shun, and how right and true we are in flying from it, or you would not try to stop us, I am sure you would not. |