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quittance. After a year and a day, Martin had to leave his farm and land. All went to Thoring: the stables, the well-filled barns, the sleek oxen, the Mecklenburgh horses, the sheep and pigs, the corn-field and meadows; nothing remained for Martin but the calf farm, and what belonged to it,-just enough to keep him from being quite beggared. He fretted and fumed, stormed at Thoring, called him a vile rogue, but all in vain,—he was forced to go. Thoring now ridiculed his anger, and fixed himself in his new possessions.

Mary bore what was inevitable with patient fortitude. When her husband gave way to a burst of anger, she would say, "Either the bond is all right and fair, in which case you cannot complain; or else it is false, in which case the truth is sure to be brought to daylight. GOD works out our lot in a wonderful way."

She spoke in vain; Martin scarcely listened. But time and habit brought about that which her words had failed to accomplish. Men get accustomed to everything, even to misery, in time.

It was in the spring that Martin had to give up his farm; in the autumn, when the brown leaves fell from the branches, and the thrush sang his parting lay, Martin complained no more; for he was a reasonable man, after all. He reconciled himself by degrees to his change of circumstances; a cow, a calf, two pigs, some geese, hens, and ducks, and a couple of sheep, were all he could keep on the little bit of land which was left him. He was not in positive want, but he had to work a great deal barder than formerly. Mary was his faithful helpmate; she remained, as she had ever been, patient, industrious, kind and loving. If a woman be but secure of her husband's love, she cares for little besides; and she knew Martin loved her, and his love was her greatest treasure. Neighbour Thoring could not deprive her of that.

As we have said, Thoring settled himself in his new possession, and whenever he caught a glimpse of Martin at a distance, he laughed spitefully. However, he invariably went into the house if Martin seemed to be coming near him, and he kept carefully away from the calf-farm. The village people observed this, and it did not escape the keen observation of Mary.

"He is conscience-stricken," she said to herself; "he is a betrayer!"

To her husband she said nothing of this her conviction; she feared it would only revive the scarcely extinct feeling of anger

in his heart.

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One thing was clear, that Thoring never had peace of mind while Martin remained so near the village. He made various

attempts to drive him away, and sought-sometimes by open, sometimes by underhand means, to induce Martin to sell him the calf-farm; but Martin would not sell it, following here his wife's advice. As far as he was concerned, he would have been glad to leave the village, and fix himself elsewhere,-in truth, it was painful to him to live here in poverty, where he had been so well off and so envied for his prosperity. But his sensible wife knew how to reason with him; she had no wish to leave the village, and she knew why. She hoped that God would bring the truth to light, and she doubted not that the truth would be the means of restoring to them what they had lost. She felt sure that Thoring had deceived them; she could see rogue written on his face.

Thoring tried to invent some new pretext for getting rid of Martin. The sight of the man disturbed him, but he knew not how to attack him. It was impossible to find a second bond, and Martin would not sell. However, circumstances enabled him to entertain the hope of seeing his secret wish once more gratified. It fell out as follows:

Hitherto the village had been exempt from the horrors of war, as it lay some miles from the route of the armies; but one day, late in the autumn, a troop of Hungarian light horse had strayed towards the village, and instantly accounted all that it contained as lawful spoil. The cattle and the horses were taken from the stables, and any one who did not willingly yield his property, was rewarded with many blows, and forced to do so. Thoring was among those who were pillaged, but he bore it calmly, and escaped unhurt. The hussars were going off with their prey, but this did not quite satisfy Thoring. He wished to see Martin plundered, for his little cottage and farm-yard had as yet remained undiscovered. Thoring calculated that if Martin were robbed of his cattle and his earnings, he could no longer remain in the village; then he thought necessity must force Martin to sell his land, and it was not possible for him to stay in a place where he had nothing left him. It was a sad and shameful piece of treachery that Thoring resolved to accomplish; but then he had an end which could only be reached by this means.

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A sign from him called the attention of the leader of the horsemen. In a few minutes the whole party of hussars

was off to the Calf-farm, and from his windows Thoring watched, with a smile of satisfaction, the cloud of dust which was raised by the hoofs of the retreating horses.

"At last!" he muttered, and rubbed his hands with pleasure; yes, at last!"

Thoring did not dream what an at last his treachery had prepared for him.

Martin and Mary, busied with their household work, had not

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in the meanwhile the remotest idea that the village had been surprised by a party of marauders. It was only when the horses clattered into the little farm-yard, and when the wild troopers gave a great shout, that Martin put his head out of the barn, where he was threshing, to see what was the matter; and he opened his eyes when he saw the savage faces and the drawn sabres of the hussars.

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"Holloa, peasant, come out!" they called to him, "be quick with your money-box, and your cattle, for we have not much time to throw away!"

Martin soon saw how matters stood. His face turned very white, and then very red, and his hand, which still held the flail, trembled,-whether from fear or anger it is difficult to say; probably from anger, for with quick determination he grasped his flail tighter, and said in a firm tone, while he advanced a few paces, "Begone, men, begone! I am a poor man; I have no money, and you will not rob me of my cow, which is all my riches.

"Fool of a peasant!" said one of the hussars, "what is it to us whether you are rich or poor? We are in an enemy's country, so out with the crowns, and open your stable doorquick, if you don't wish to feel the weight of my sabre on your skull."

"Just try to strike me!" answered Martin, proudly. "I shall not let you in while I can help it; and before I feel your sabre, you shall try my flail !"

A volley of curses, and a yell of wild laughter, were the answer. The horsemen spurred against Martin-they brandished their swords over his head-but he stood firm; his flail was whirled in the air, and a horse which he had struck reared on high, and rushed away with his rider. The rest stormed with fury against Martin, and he was ridden down in a moment, and would have been killed, if his faithful wife, with a shrill cry of terror, had not suddenly thrown herself between him and the horseman, and so saved him from instant death. He got up, seized his wife by the arm, dragged her after him into the house, and slammed the door in the faces of the plunderers.

"Wretched peasant! scoundrel! you shall pay for this!" cried the soldiers.

In an instant half of them were out of the saddle, and with blows and kicks they burst open the rotten door, which could not resist them long; their savage faces glowing with fury, they rushed into the house. Martin opposed them in vain. He was knocked down, and trodden under foot; the sabres flashed over him; a blow on the head stunned him. Mary shrieked, threw herself at the feet of the fierce soldiers, and prayed them with clasped hands to spare him.

"Take all-all!" she cried, "but spare his life."

Her entreaties touched even the hearts of these reckless spoilers. They left Martin, and burst into the room. The closed presses were opened by their swords, and the wood, which was rotten with age, flew about in a thousand splinters. Not a chair, or a table, or a single article of furniture was spared; but they found very little to satisfy them. With many execrations they left the house, which looked like a heap of ruins, and returned to the farm-yard. Martin had disappeared, for Mary had concealed him behind a partition, fainting as he was, from the marauders in their fury. Now she ran about the farm-yard, weeping and lamenting, while her little boy, William, clung to her dress in his fear, and mingled his cries with hers. It was a scene of terror and confusion. The geese, pigs, and poultry tore and fluttered round the small enclosure, screaming and grunting, and trying to escape. The solitary cow and her calf were taken out of the stable by the soldiers, and driven away, loudly bellowing. The hussars, who were again mounted, heeded the poor animals' resistance but little, and drove them on with the points of their sabres. Mary begged them to have mercy in vain, she might as well have spoken to the winds; and equally unheeded was the angry barking of the faithful, shaggy mastiff, Phylax, who bit the heels of the horses.

"Forwards! forwards!" cried the hussars, and off they rode, driving away the cow and calf, and carrying off linen, and clothing, and hens and geese, and, in short, all they could collect in so short a time.

Mary gazed at the retreating robbers in despair. She was aroused by a groan from her husband, which sounded from the house where she had placed him. Back she hurried, and undid the closed door; Martin tottered towards her, looking pale and bewildered, it is true, but sound in head and limb, for all that. "GOD be praised!" said Mary; and she fell on her husband's neck. "You at least are safe."

"Are the scoundrels, the robbers, gone?" asked Martin, in hollow accents of wrath. "Ah! why could I not destroy them all! Have they not taken everything from us, poor wife?" "All, or nearly all!" answered Mary, sobbing. "And what they could not take away, they have broken to pieces and destroyed. Come and see for yourself."

They entered the sitting-room, and looked disconsolately at this scene of devastation. Not a piece of furniture remained entire; everything was in the direst confusion.

"Sad, sad!" murmured Martin, quite overcome. "Ill-fortune follows us-we are lost! Merciful Heaven! what have we done that Thy hand should lie so heavy upon us?"

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"Do not murmur, good man-do not murmur against GOD!" said Mary, weeping; mourn you may, but do not resist the will of the ALMIGHTY. It is hard to bear what has happened, but courage-GOD helps those who are humble, and He will help us in our trouble."

Martin shook his head, and looked gloomily at the ground, which was covered with fragments; but suddenly-what made his eyes sparkle?-why did such a cry escape his lips?-why did he pounce, like a tiger on his prey, upon an old scrap of paper with writing on it, which lay on the floor.

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Mary," he cried, "Mary, you are right! GOD helps those who are humble in heart. See here! only see! here is old Thoring's receipt for the money! How has it come to light?"

Mary looked, and stared, and wondered, and then a loud cry of delight burst from her heart, and tears of joy streamed down her cheeks.

"It is the Finger of GOD!" she said; "still some hidden drawer in the old cupboard, and the hussars must come and open it with their sabres! Dear, good man, see how wonderfully GoD works out our fortunes! What they often count as a misfortune, He turns to their good! Rejoice, rejoice, Martin! I always felt certain that the truth would come to light, and see, my faith has not deceived me!"

Great was their joy; and cow, calf, geese, and poultry, and all the other damages were soon forgotten. Martin and his wife blessed the pillage which had restored them to their former position; and in the course of a few weeks they were reinstated in their rightful possessions. But as for neighbour Thoring? Many a time did he secretly curse the chance which had led him to direct the hussars to pillage the Calf-farm, and, in so doing, had brought his own treachery and falsehood to light. Martin saw him no longer looking spitefully at him over the fence. Thoring prudently kept at a distance, and grumbled over the proverb,-Unjust gains never prosper.

Martin is the richest peasant in the village. He and his wife rejoice at their prosperity, and bless for it Him Who guideth the fortunes of every one of His creatures.

MY AUNT NELLY'S PORTFOLIO.

(Continued from page 33.)

SOME of my cotemporaries may possibly have been as much diverted as I was a score or two years ago, by a critique on the Duke de Sully's memoirs, dished up by those clever rogues, the

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