The woman folded her arms, and making a low curtsey, said "Your bail, Mr. Trumps."

man on the stairs-" She is here-I know it—I'm sure of it!" cried a loud voice, and then Titus heard a scuffling, with the denials and entreaties of Mrs.

Titus, smitten with a sense of his ingratitude, laid his hand upon his heart, and bowed as to a god-Cagely, together with threats and masculine oaths. dess.

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CHAPTER VII.

Trumps left alone, eyed the supper; it was laid for two. Yes-he saw it-Miss Sloth would come -it was plain enough-the old lady was her friend. and had acted by her direction. Miss Sloth would come!" And then Titus approached the glass and looked at his still blackening eye. haps, however, she wouldn't see it."

"Can it be her father come hither in pursuit ?'' thought Titus, and as the thought struck him, the door was flung open, and three gentlemen apparently ripe from the tavern, reeled into the room, followed by Mrs. Cagely.

"I know she's here-I'll swear it"-roared one of the gentlemen, whilst the other two growled in their throats, and shook their fists.

"If you'll believe me, dear Mr. Sloth," cried Mrs.
Cagely to the furious speaker, "dear Mr. Sloth”-
"I see it"-thought Trumps, "her brother!"
“I tell you, Mother Cagely," cried young Sloth, "I
Perhaps,-per-know she's here-and-I'll have her life."

"As I am an honest woman, Mr. Sloth"-
"I tell you what, Mrs. Cagely-no such protesta-

Trumps surveyed the appointments of the room; they were very rich-every thing in the best taste;tions; if you must swear, respect our common sense. the pictures very beautiful. Perhaps they sinned a I know the girl's here," exclaimed young Sloth with little on the side of subject; what then?-they only rising violence-" she's here, and my honor's touched exhibited the extreme innocence of the mind of the I'll have her life." possessor.

"I am very sorry, indeed, Mr. Trumps, to have kept you waiting," said the old woman, entering the room, “but I was compelled to arrange my dress a little before supper."

66

And is the second cover for her?" thought Trumps, and he looked towards the table. "I believe, madam -that is, knowing that I owe my liberty to you, I believe I"

Not entirely to me, Mr. Trumps," said the old woman. "There is another lady,-but-you see, every body is not a housekeeper."

"May I know my preserver ?" asked Trumps. "Never fear, Mr. Trumps; handsome young fellows like dear heart! well, I'd forgot-how is your eye?"

Mrs. Cagely expressed herself again and again ready to swear upon any thing, that the lady sought for was not in her house-that she knew nothing of her, and farther, that she wished to know nothing The contest had continued some time when Trumps began to feel the insignificance of his situation; it was unmanly in him, he at length considered, to suffer the whole brunt of the fray to fall on the venerable Mrs. Cagely. At all events, he might champion her against the violence of the gentlemen, without compromising the name of his beloved Emily. So reasoning, he gathered himself up, and addressed his hostess, almost shaken into tears by the attack on her nerves. "Mrs. Cagely," said our hero, will you allow me to speak to the gentleman ?" "Hear! hear! hear!" cried young Sloth and his

""Twill go off by the morning," said Titus. "Will friends. the lady come here to-night?"

"There, now-you men are so impatient! I think," -not to-night. Well, well, she's a silly woman," said Mrs. Cagely, such being her name. "A silly woman! she who might marry so well. She who".

-

At this moment, the livery servant entered, and whispered to Mrs. Cagely. She suddenly put down her knife and fork. "Pray, sir," said the old lady, "continue your supper-sume of my lodgers"

"Lodgers!" cried Titus.

That is, two or three gentlemen, unusually merry this evening,-I”—

"I beg your pardon, madam"-for Titus was resolved to be convinced," but do you know the family of Sir Jeremy Sloth ?"

"Hush!" quickly cried the hostess, "at this moment-down stairs," and Mrs. Cagely tripped from the room with the vivacity of sixteen.

"She is here, then!" exclaimed Trumps-"I knew it-was sure of it."

Titus had scarcely uttered the words, when, to his astonishment, they were loudly repeated by a gentle

"I believe, sir," said Titus with severe civility, you are the son of Sir Jeremy Sloth, baronet?"

'Just as you please," answered the easy Sloth, "if you'd prefer the great Mogul for my father, he is quite at your service."

"May I then inquire, sir, why you take the liberty, at this late hour of night"- -Titus was stopt short. "Mother Cagely," said one of the gentlemen, who had thrown himself upon a couch, "you hav'n't an empty kilderkin that you could put your friend in?— he could then preach to us through the bung-hole.” Pray, sir, what wages may Mrs. Cagely give you?" asked young Sloth.

"Wages, sir!" cried Trumps.

"Or are you one of those benevolent and eccentric persons, who champion such people gratis?" "Don't you know who he is, Sloth," cried the speaker on the sofa. "Don't you know him? Why, it's Billy Skins, the breeches maker."

A man may sometimes parry the thrust of a wild bull better than a sarcasm. Titus Trumps felt himself that man. At first, too, he thought the gentleman might be mistaken-that, possibly, there might be a

strong resemblance between himself and the breeches and very dangerous indeed to himself in the recoil. maker.

You don't mean it," asked young Sloth, with an loud in their condemnation of less amiable men. For affected look of wonder.

"Been out nine-and-fifty-times, that's all, my ed: he did not think it had been in him. To continue breeches-maker," answered young Sloth.

"No, sir; yet sir, allow me to add, if I were a larly valuable to her in the present, that the lady he breeches-maker"

Really, Mims," said young Sloth, as he crossed bands-yes, I must have left it somewhere," conto him, "a very decent lad-very." cluded Titus "it's sure to turn up,"-and the clock

Very, but I think Arcadian," answered Mims-struck two. "hasn't long left his oaten pipe and fleeces."

FAREWELL.

BY MISS CATHARINE H. WATERMAN.

FAREWELL, Oh! farewell, thou hast broken the chain, | How fonder the eye that with our's can look back, And the links that have bound us are parted in twain, To the gleams of glad sunshine that lighted youth's But long shall my heart in its sad sorrow tell

How I griev'd o'er thee, dear one, farewell, oh! fare- On whose bright beaming glances our own loved to well.

PIERRE MARCEL was the cultivator of a small but profitable vineyard, on the banks of the Garonne, a few leagues from Toulouse, where the principal part of his life had been passed in the almost daily occu pation of tending his vines, and rendering his little plot of ground the fairest for many a mile around. In early life his wife, whom he had passionately adored, had fallen the victim of a lingering illness, leaving him an only child, a daughter, whom he cherished both for its own and mother's sake, with unusual ten derness. The little Louise was the solace of his days, and the prattle of her infant tongue sounded to him the sweetest music nature could invent; but when her growing years gave token of equalling her mother's beauty and symmetry of form, his satisfaction was unbounded to think that he alone, without a mother's fostering hand, had reared a flower so lovely. Oft, when working in his vineyard, would he pause as his daughter tript by with fawn-like step, and gaze with true affection on his heart's dearest object, whilst in his mind he conjured up bright dreams of the future, and tried to trace her coming years.

often takes the heart by storm, ere reason has time to bring its tardy succors, and show that the advantages of a handsome person and fascinating manners are totally eclipsed by the blackness of a heart formed in total contrast to the rest. He had been but a few days at the chateau before Louise was marked as the victim of his seductive arts. He foresaw that her simple and confiding disposition would render the acquirement of her affections an easy task; but with all her simplicity, she entertained such high notions of honor, as to make his success rather doubtful; but still he thought that one who had seen but the fairest side of life, could but ill combat against the wiles of one versed in all its deadliest ways.

He sought every opportunity of being in her company, and by a thousand assiduous attentions won his way, imperceptibly, in her affections. He pretended his passion was of that fervent kind which drove every object but respect from his imagination; and vowed, could he but gain her reluctant consent, to make her the future Marchioness de St. Brie. There was but one thing he stipulated; and that was, for the marriage to be performed in private, since he feared

A short distance from Marcel's house was the cha-his father's anger, unless he could, by degrees, break tean of the Marquis de St. Brie, who was usually resi- the circumstance to him. There was so much plausident there with his daughter. The family of the bility in this, that she could not believe he spoke Marquis consisted only of his daughter and a son, another than the language of truth. The cloven foot officer in a light cavalry regiment. A friendship had in no one instance as yet shown itself, and she more strong than those usually subsisting between felt convinced his affections were as pure, and as ferpersons of different stations in life, had grown up be- vent, as her own. She yielded her consent to a pritwixt Louise and Emile de St. Brie, and it had been vate marriage. one of the chief amusements of the latter to instruct Louise in those accomplishments she herself so much excelled in, often remarking, that her pupil was so apt that she should soon have little left to teach her.

The notice taken of his daughter by Mam'selle St. Brie, was most gratifying to the feelings of Marcel, who daily saw her gaining those accomplishments he so much coveted for her, but which he had feared he should be unable to obtain. But few pleasures are unalloyed, and however great might have been the satisfaction he felt at the notice taken of Emily, yet there was but little in the reported attentions of Henri St. Brie, who was staying at the chateau.

Henri was by nature formed for woman's admiration. He was of that manly dashing cast which so

Henri protested she had made him the happiest of men, by her consent, but still there was one thing more, the marriage could not be performed with that secrecy which was so necessary, elsewhere than in Paris. Would she go there? To this she demurred that the absence from her father, without any reasonable excuse, would be the cause of so much anguish to him, that she would not for the world he should feel; but even this scruple was overcome by the promise of Henri, that on their return her father should be informed of all that had taken place, when the few hours of uneasiness would be more than compensated by the pleasure he would receive on hearing of her happy marriage.

Paris, with all its charms, had less attraction for

black.

Louise than her simple home on the Garonne's banks. | Could he
She lived in the most studied seclusion; passing her so fair?
melancholy hours in thinking of her father, and what
must be his feelings concerning her long-continued
absence. She felt she had made but a poor return for
all the care and solicitude bestowed upon her. Henri,
it was true, had been unremitting in his attentions,
and his love appeared still as fervent as ever; but he
always evaded the conversation when she pressed
him concerning their marriage, and she found herself
in a fair way to be a mother, ere she was a wife.

"Henri," said she, one day, "will you fix the day for our marriage? When you consider my situation, your delay is cruel in the extreme."

"Yes, yes, dearest, next week. By-the-bye, has Madame Girau sent home the beautiful shawl I ordered for you?"

have the heart to dishonor one so beautiful, No, no; it was not in human nature to be so But months rolled on, and his dear Louise came not; every search and every endeavor to obtain tidings of her had proved fruitless; but amidst all his complaints he never uttered one word of reproach against her. He became altogether an altered man; neglectful of every thing, avoiding the society of his former friends and associates, and scarcely ever going beyond the limits of his own dwelling. It was a cold and bitter morning, in the middle of an unusually severe winter, that he went, more by the force of habit than otherwise, to look after the inmates of his stable. He had his hand upon the stable door, and was entering, when he thought he heard a low moan; he turned round to look from whence it proceeded, and a few steps before him saw a woman lying on

Some time ago; but I have not looked at it; I the ground, partly covered by the falling snow. have been thinking of something else."

6. Of what, dearest ?"

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"Poor creature," said he, "hast thou lain here during this bitter night; had'st thou been my worst

Of the time when you mean to fulfil your pro- enemy I could not have refused you shelter. Here, mise."

"Just look out of the window, dearest, and tell me what you think of the horse I purchased yesterday?" "Oh, Henri! if you love me. I beseech you name the day; I have been unhappy, very unhappy."

Now you are beginning to tease me again."

Nay, do not say I teaze you; I ask you but to keep your faith with me."

let me lift you in my arms, and carry you into the house. Eh! what do I see! Merciful heavens! it is my poor Louise. She is dying fast, and there is no help at hand. Oh! speak to me, Louise! for heaven's sake, speak! Not a look! not a word!"

The distracted father carried her into the house, and by the aid of some warm cordials brought her to herself; it was but to hear the recital of her sufferings

“Really you are more pertinacions than ever, but and her prayers for forgiveness. She had arrived at

I cannot stop now, I have an appointment with

Henri, answer me! Am I to be your wife or not?" "My wife! why are you not my wife as firmly as you can be such? What are the cold formalities of the world that would give you the right of being called my wife? Would they bring affection? No; they would rather bring abhorrence and disgust. As Louise Marcel, you will ever be to me the dearest object of my heart; but as my wife I could not love you, and will not do that which would make me hate you for ever."

Louise was almost motionless with surprise; it was so different from all he had ever said. These then were his true feelings.

"I thank you, sir," she at length replied, "at least for your frankness. I will be equally so; and since I am not to be the wife, I will not submit to the dishonor of remaining another day as the mistress of Monsieur de St. Brie. We part, sir, this instant for ever."

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"Stay, Louise, where are you going!" but ere he had time to stop her, she descended the stairs, and reaching the street, contrived to evade his pursuit.

"Paha!" he exclaimed, “what a fool the girl is; but she'll soon come to her senses, so I'll leave her to herself."

Marcel would not at first give any credence to the report that his daughter had gone with Henri St. Brie. No, no; he was convinced some accident had happened which prevented her return. She was too amiable-too good to listen to such a villain. Bad, even, as St. Brie was, he would not rob him of such a daughter, the only hope of his declining years.

her father's house on the preceding evening, but had not dared to enter, and overcome by fatigue and cold, she had fallen where he found her. Her delicate frame was unable to withstand the shock she had sustained, and after lingering a few days, closed her eyes for ever on the world, happy in the assurance of her father's true forgiveness.

Marcel had attended his daughter day and night, indulging to the last in the vain hope of her recovery; and even when life was no more, watched her cold corpse with the utmost anxiety to see if it were not death's semblance. But when the last wordly offices were performed, and he found that he was then alone in the world, for weeks he shut himself up in the chamber where she died, refusing to see or speak with any one.

It was some months after the death of Louise that I was sitting in the Tuileries Gardens, watching the crowd of loungers passing to and fro along the principal avenue; amongst those who seemed to attract most attention was Henri St. Brie, upon whose arm was leaning a lady of most exquisite beauty, whom I could not fail to recognise as his wife, to whom he had been married only a few days. He appeared to be relating something which seemed the source of much amusement to both, when suddenly the smile forsook his face, his countenance assumed an air of confusion, and he seemed striving to avoid the sight of something which flashed across him. I turned in the direction in which he had been looking, and perceiving nothing but a poor haggard and emaciated. looking man, whose dress bespoke him a native of one of the distant provinces, leaning against one of