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“ And who taught you Latin, little one 3'” he asked, as he threw himself at her feet upon the wild flowers and the tangled woods, and _orgot the sallowness of her complexion, look- Ing into the deep-fringed eyes and noting how like a row of pearls in a setting of coral were the little teeth he saw between parted lips. He was no longer in haste to go. Here, in the shade of the fountain, he might spend idly and deliciously an hour of his life, its restlessness subdued for a while. “A‘ Vex et prwlm'ecc nihil.’ Yes, surely it is a god i” she said. “But the god speaks Italian with a barbarous English accent. Sir Englishman, come forth.’ ’ ..- pm. «w .. “ PerBaccho I” said the girl, in the musi- cal Italian tongue. “Behold a marvel ! Surely one of the old gods hasdescended, and has eaten my grapes and paid me for them in gold! \Vhich would it be, I wonder? \Vhen the earth was young, and his exche- qner was full, perhaps‘for the English had not stolen all 'his wealthâ€"~Jupiter visited Danae in a shower of such pieces as this. Poor old Jupiter, no longer king of gods and man! Perhaps he has sold his chariot, and is reduced to ramble afoot, feeling hunger and thirst, and paying for his entertainments. For abunch of grapes, a piece of gold! Veri- flllgllfillfllflll, UUIIIC lUl UH. “To confess myself a thief?” said the stranger rising. “ A father learned and holy, of the monasâ€" tery yonder,” she replied. “He taught me to read the grand old poets who'wrote when the earth was young. Of them all, I love Lucretius best.” “ Child, you are quite a blue stocking.” Putting his bantering thought into the strange tongue in which they were speaking, he translated literally. Her dark eyes flash~ ed angrily, and were lowered for one instant to make sure that the little bare foot was securely hiddenx A shattered stone column, a headless mar- ble Apollo, a. fountain which once was fed from a pool high up on yonder hillside, but which ceased to play five hundred years ago. In the shadow of the idle fountain a girl sleeping. and he fell: ,not without noise, ever the shal- tered column, and lay, as he fell, silent and hidden; for the sleeper, aroused, was rubb- ing her eyes and lifting her little head from the wild flowers and the weeds. “ fizzy ; bu? to acknowledge, like acourte- 011s guest, the hospitality you have received from _a. dagght‘er of plug. 12mg ."j i The Englishman coolly seated himself he- side the sleeper and demolished them one by one until nothing was left but the stalk. Then he took a. piece of gold from his pocket, flung it carelessly into the girl’s lap, and turned lzqgo ; but a_. stone _tripped him up, V “ (3r iike one out" the English who stole his wealth.” The girl started at the sound, and, with a quick movement, hid that dainty blue-veined ioot beneath the §1§ir_t of her shgxbbyflressu And again through the irl’s musical tones was heard the shaking of aughter suppress- ed. Her great lustrous eyes, deep-fringed, were bright with welcome, and with a glad pride in the height and strength, the graci- ous majesty of presence, and the fair Saxon comeliness of this freeohoting visitor; for she, self-styled a daughter of the land, was Eng- lish also, though her beauty was that of her Italian mother, and had developed thus far under sunny Southern skies. o It was very hot up there, although there ‘was a gentle breeze from the cool waters of the bay. It was not an English sky, or an English seascape. Both were intensely, beautifully blue. But he who climbed the narrow winding path and halted by the broken colum to wipe his heated brow was an Englishman, every inch of him ; English in his breadth of chest and spareness of flank, and lean, but muscular, length of limb ; Anglo-Saxon in the sunny gold of his hair and the colour of his eyes, which were blue as the sky or the shifting waters of the bay ; Briton in the mingled energy, audacity, and folly of this climbing excursion, undertaken at an hour when the olive-lined sons and daughters of the soil were taking their siesta. Eughwhow hot it was ! He looked toward the idle fountain, long- ing for the music of merry waters leaping and plashing in the basin ; but he saw only the skirt of a robe and a bare procuding foot, whiter, daintier, of more exquisite symmetry than that of the headless Apollo. A dozen paces, and he ot a clear View of the sleeper who dozed in t e shade. An Italian girl, that was evident, with a. sweet face, child-like and innocent, regular features delicately chiselled, raven hair, and long eyelashes under beautifully arched browsâ€"a lovely face, in truth, were it not for the sallowness of the complexion, 1y herpa_y_§ like a $64 “ I dvo not unflerstand~1 do not wish to understand,” she cried, shaking her lap, so that he coin he had dropped there wasthrown Purple giapes; and he with tongue parched with thirst ! No matter what might be the penalty, he must: put forth his hand to take and eat. They belonged to a poorly clad Italian damsel and purple grapes were as plentiful as English blggkberries in autumn. Her voice trembled as she replied: but only with the laughter she was endeavouring to suppreES. By the Author of‘fMY LADY‘s SECRET,” “A A WAIF’s FORTUNES,” “THE LADY OF GORMON LEA,” &c. The young Englishman’s eyes rested upon her approvingly, from the crown of her small shapely head, pillowed upon wild flowers and tangled weeds, to the sole of her bare white foot, and he saw no blemish in this Southern maiden. But this wasa. land of handsome women ; her immature beauty interested him less than that which lay in her lap, a. branch offurp‘le grapes. All seed is in the sower‘s hands; And what at first was trained to spread Its shelter for some single headk Yea, even such fellowship of wands, May hide the sunset and the shade 0f its great'multitude be laid Upon the earth and eld‘qr sands. These little firs to-day are things To clasp into a giant’s cap, 01‘ fans to suit his lady's lap. From many winters, many springs Shall cherish them in strength and sap, Till they be marked upon the map, A wood for the Wind's wanderings. VIOLA’S REVENGE. A Young Fir-Wood. CHA PTER I [Dante Gabriel Rossitti. It was wondrously calr‘n up there, the silence intensified, rather than broken, by an occasional murmur from the village or the barking of a herdsman’s dog. She might have been taken for a statute herself, so still was she, with the quietude of perfecthappiness. It seemed a long fifteen minutes since she glided like a. ghost round the idle fountain to keep tryst in the moonlightâ€"a long fifteen minutes 1 And in all that time she had stiri ed but once. Then she had tnrown out her arms towards the path by which he would come, and had whispered something to the zephyr that was toying with the hair upon her brow. “ To-morrow night, when the moon shall have risen.” That was the last appointment made by Claude, Lord Armidale, and Viola. One of them was sitting at the foot of the headless Apollo keep_ing it. h Below, the moonlight shiihmered upon the waters of the bay, and a white-sailed felucca looked like a. painted ship upon a ainted sea. Above, golden lights, dimmed y the outer splendour, were twinkling in the win- dows of the monastery. The silent watcher, sitting at the foot of the Apollo, drinking in the beauty of her surroundings, wondered whether Heaven itself could be more fair. Perhaps there was in her heart a spice of female vanity, which made her regret that the shabby dress she wore was so thoroughly in keeping with the character, and of female pride, which forbade a confession which, by exciting surprise, would call attention to her toilet. Therefore she answered onlyâ€"â€" “Viola.” Nevertheless they sat there, talking in gentle murmurs, while at times there were long silent interludes that were more eloquent by far than speech. \Vhat they said to each other, and how they said itâ€"with what tender inflections of the voice, with what glances, burning or shyâ€" Who shall tell? But they talked, those two, until the cool night-breeze blew in from the sea, until Viola shivered in the shade, until Lord Armidale remembered that ‘ ‘ Nature abhors a vacuum,” and that he had not yet dined. Then they clasped hands and part- ed, with formal gravity, but with a mutual promise that on the morrow they would meet again. The place was Heaven to her. Her love was holyâ€"all the guilelessness of her young soul was in it, as well as all the strength. There was passion too ; but as yet the pas- sion had not been stirred, as yet hers was an early phase of the religion of loveâ€"a phase v “ Poverty and ignorance are on relative. ignorant, compored with men I know ; and very poor for my station.” “ What is your name ‘3” “ Claude Armidale,” answered the young man, after an instant’s hesitation. “Will you tell me yours?” “ Viola.” The name was very musical in the liquid Italian accent, and the girl looked very beautiful in the sight embarraslment caused by indecision whether or not to reveal a sur- nume which might betray the secret of her nationality. It was excellent fun, she thought, to masquerade as a. peasant-girl. “ It is worthy of you,” said Lord Claude Armidaleâ€"for he too had a motive for con- ceahnent. The tone waslow and earnest ; the inpul- sive words were not an idle compliment. Looking into his blue eyes, she read there “confirmations strong as proofs of Holy \Vrit ;” and for the first time during the in- terview Viola blushed. It was long before she met his glance again, and in the place of the old fearless frankness had come a. new delicious trouble, a strange intense pleasure that was almost pain. 0 'n‘ “ \Vordséinlle words said the girl. “\Vould such pectry content you. even for one week?” until you leave me, or bid me go once more.” “ \Vould you obey “ Yes ; unless the command were issued in some spirit of misapprehension.” r,” “ Then you may remain until~unti1 you weary of the society of a, poor and ignorant girl like me.” “ In In); country,” said the young English- man persuasively, “ ‘blue-stocking isa name applied to a. woman distinguished by unusual learning. I ought to have remembered that an idiomatic expression ” He did not cdmplete the semi-apology. A sudden change of gesture told him that she had repented her displeasure. 3 “ I am not a blue-stocking,’ she said adopting, in her penitence, the term which had offended her. “I am only a poor little Italian girl, just able, thanks to the good fathers, to read the books they lend me from their great librav, to singthesongs 01d Spezzio has taught me, and to play upon the organ a few of the tunes he love best.” “ She who can read and write, and who has access to a great library, may become the wisest woman in the world.” “ But I am lazyAâ€"so lazy, you would not believe !”â€" and a whimsical uplifting of dark elbows gave expression to the words. “ Then you have my hearty sympathy,” returned the young man, stretching himself indolently upon the green carpet Whereon he lay. “Looking back 11 on the score of years I have spent in this-wic ed world, I seem to have been incessantly grimlng upon the in- tellectual treadmill; and I am weary of the toil. Yours is the wiser part. little one, to bask in the sun and slumber in the shade, to play with the children and listen to the old wives’ tales, to eat the purple grapes, to drink the red wine, to thrive, almost as the flowers thrive, upon pure air and sunshine, needing in addition only the handful of macaroni that would not, in England, keep life in a beggar’s dog. Yours is the poetry of existence, and mine the pose.” er the pure air and sunshine 511:0 alone res Jon- sible for my frame of mind. It will ast “ Frankly, I do not know. v Iam blissfully con’gent at this insfiant; _b1_1t I que_stion w eth- out, and rolled to his feet, where it lay un- heedgfl.‘ u‘iTalfe yourgqlfl and gq.”_ This child-woman of fifteen, whose child- hood was revealed in the tender innocence of her sweet face and whose woomauhood was disclosed in the precocious development of figure characteristic of the hot south, had suddenly assumed the tone and manner of an outraged queen. “ But,” he began, Half amusEd, half dis- mayed. “ Go,” she cried again, enforcing the com- mand with an imperious gesture. CHAPTER II. “Man and wife”â€"he almost groaned at the words. “I will follow you to the end of the worl<l”~â€"ay, like strolling players or itinerant musicians. e thought of the ab- surdity of the prefngintion, pictured his “wife,” forsooth, presiding at a- dinner-party or holding a reception in a London drawing- room. To the proud spirit of Claude- Lord Armidale, such a mesallz'auce appeared as possible as it would have done to a prince of the blood. And yet his better self felt all the pathos of that declara- tion â€"â€" “ I will follow you, if need be, to the end of the world, Claude my be- loved.” “Viola,” he said, “5011 know me simply as a poor English gentleman. The poverty remafibut I am, in truth, a great English lord. \. “9130 you love me well Vé’I‘lOugh, little one . ’ Thatshe could not be his wife she under- stood; and the terrible agony, the frozen, dumb despair of her wan features touched him keenly ; for he 'loved her, this Italian peasant-maid, as he never hoped to love a woman of his own caste. He forgot all about dinner-parties and drawing-rooms, and what society would say of its new acquisition if she became Lady Armidale. At that moment he would have been more than content to make her his wife had the obstacles been such considerations alone. But there were some things he could not for- getâ€"the mortgages on his broad acres, to wit ~â€"the load of debt which grew heavier every year â€" the imperative necessity that he should marry a woman rich enough to redeem the acres his fathers had loved. “I am an English lord,” he repeated, “and I have great estates ; but they are so burden- ed with debt that, when the yearly charges have been paid, the merest pittance is leftâ€" a bare thousand pounds a year, not more. When I marry, it must be some rich woman who can free them from all encum- brance. \Vhat did he mean 1’ the girl was wonder- ing. What did he mean with his talk of poverty and of a “pittance” of a. thousand a year ? Why, her father had but a hundred pounds per annum, which came to him in quarterly instalments from beyond the seas, and he was accounted rich by the villagers, and was respected for his wealth as well as for his rank ! Her thoughts were a horrible whirl and confusion of ideas ; but in the chaos two cruel truths began to take shape and consistency. He had been befooling her all this time by his profession of love; he was trying to befool her now by his profession of poverty. She did not answer the needless question in words, but she nestled closer, as though thaLWerc agnph: r_espons¢. “Presently,” she said, “you shall come with me to our cottage on the hill-side yon- der, and I will tell my father how we love one another, and will ask him to let you take me away. He will be astonished at first, and a little angry perhaps; butlalways get my own way in the end. Early in the morning the good fathers of the monastery will make us man and wife ; then I will fol- low you, if need be, to the end of the world, Claude, my beloved.” ’ “Yâ€"és,’ answered the girl simply. The revelatien was not a. startling sur- prise to her ; she had one to make shortly of equal force. He was noble and grand enough to be a. prince, she thought; but his confession suggested no disparity of station. Even when she had run bare-footed amongst the courteous Italian peasants, ragged and shabby as they, she had been to them as a king’s daughterâ€"a princess in disguise, the excellent, the illustrious onevloved the more dearl) for her condescension when she drank of their thin wine and ate their macaroni, but respected not one with the less. “Our manners and customs forbid that I should marry you,” he continued. “You would not be happy in discharging the duties which would devolve upon you. Nay, to do so would be impossible; for such a task requires a special education amongst surroundings other than these, dear child. Come with me as my companion, but not as my wife. He found courage to look at her as he spoke the words, and he knew that she was only bgginning‘t‘o co_n‘1pr‘el.1end_.~ A ‘ ‘But forall that, Violaâ€"Viola my darling,” he continued, “ I cannot give you up. What need of priestly blessing to rivet our marriage vows? Come with me to my own land, where the heavens are not so blue, nor the There was a wail of dismay, an almost painful tightening of clinging arms. “But you will return?” she cried. “Dearest, I do not know.” “Claude, take me with you She had not meant that such aprayer should come from her ; but in that supreme moment she had no thought of maidenly reserve. That belonged to the time of her security, to the moments when, waiting in the stillness of the moonlight, she wondered in what words this English gentleman, so young, but of so grand a presence, would ask her to become his wife. She had pictur- ed his delight when she should answer him in his own tongue with the revelation that she was no Italian peasant girl, but English and well-born, though poor. Such had been the musingswhich had kept her patient under the delay ; but she forgot them now. “Claude, take me' with you !” she cried; and he, knowing that he had intended to ex- ert all his influence, all his powers of persua- sion, to this end, was so astounded at the simplification of anticipated difficulty that he fenced with the demand. Hark ! A plunging stone kicked from its place in the winding upward pathâ€"a. quick, firm stepâ€"an emerging figure, tall, graceful, yet majestic withal. “ Oh, Claude, Claude, my love I” There was no prudish reticence about this Italian maid. The first shy sweet sense of shame no longer availed to withhold her from his embrace. Her arms were thrown about his neck, her head was pillewed upon his breast Every line of her pale eloquent features was aglow with love, but likewise with saintly stainless purity ; and, as he looked upon her and thought of the proposal he was about to force his lips to utter, he was ashamed. “ You are late, my Claude?” “ As befits the bearer of bad news, darling. I am summoned to England in hot haste. Toanorrow morning, at day-break, Imust go a, of blind, speechless adoration~â€"a silent rap- ture. . He passed round the mattress, until he could see the patient’s face ; and he started perceptibly as he noted how ashen was its hue, how pinched and drawn were the fea- tures. The sick man’s eyes opened ; angry recognition lighted up the sunken orbs. “ It is my belief,” continued the sick man, with malicious satisfaction in his own diso- bedience, “that you are trying to poison me by inches, that you may oome into the hun- dred or twc you think I may have left you for acting as my executor. Glorioust sold you will be ! But, I tell you what, Preece ; I will write you a cheque for five hundred pounds within half an hour if you will help me to dress, and let me walk down-stairs to do it.” again l” she burst forth, with vehemence which told of fierceness repressed. “Go yourway, Lord Armidale, without another word, and ask of Heaven the forgiveness that I will never grant. The last week has taught you, I think, how an Italian girl can love; you have yet to learn how she can hate. Her love you know ; some dayâ€"may be in the long, long futureâ€" you shall experience her revenge ; meanwhile I would spare you an exhibition of her scorn. Again 1 13?}. 301% g0 2” , With lavggargi steps, urged still by that pointing finger, he retreated from her, past the choked-up fountain which had been idle for five hundred years, past the stone column overthrown and shattered centuries before. \Vhere the path began he paused and looked wistfully, but vainly, for some sign of relenting. The next instant she was alone. No Sybarite was he to complain of crump- led rose-leaves. The sheets of his bed, though white as driven snow, were of coarse texture, and the fire to be observed in the grate was a concession, not to the require- ments of illness, but to the prejudices of the nurse. It was the nurse whom Squire Burgot was calling now in a. voice husky and broken, and strangely unlike his old trumpet-tones. “ Mrs. Bland,” he murmuredâ€"“ Mrs. Fromaghair by the fire a silver-haired, red-visaged old gentEeman rose, and crossed the room with a step the noiselessness of which must have been acquired by continual prggtice. “ Oh, you are Mrs. Bland !” he said, with feeble sarcasm. “\Vhy on earth does not the nurse come when she is called?” “ Nothing ; there never yet was a doctor who did anything but bungle in trying to assist Dame Nature. I will tell you some- thing more for your edification, Preece. Mrs. Bland is here to wait upon me ; not to run errands for you.” “ She will be back presently.” “ Then why, in the name of wonder, do you not hand me some stuff to gargle my throat, or something? A petty doctor, not to see that his patient ca'n hardly speak !” “ Try another dose of your medicine.” “ I won’t! Faintly I won’t ! I’ll see you in the warmest region on earth before I swallow another drop of your filthy com- pound ? It is my belief ” “Then go !” said the girl, pointing to the path by which he had ascended. The atti- tude, the gesture, the intonation were, he thought, simply sublime. In spite of himself he fell back a pace or two ere he could collect his thoughts sufficiently even to com- mence a protest. “But, Violaâ€"” “ Never dare to call me by that name u - Alone, crouching at the foot of the Apollo, with two demons whispering in her ear~the one of love, the other of revenge. \Vas it possible that it was only a week since the stranger entered into her life ‘2 Alone ; and she had never known loneliness before ! Without the room, a fair Herefordshie landscape, a section of the Valley of the VVhe, and all it so far as eye could reach, from the trim gardens below to the distant hills, the property of one man. Within the room, a. faint and earthly smellâ€"4L bed where- on the owner lay (lying. a contrast, in neatness, cleanliness, and general discomfort, between his own sleeping conveniences and those of this wealthy English gentleman. To sleep upon a hard mattress stretched upon a narrow iron bed- stead, to emerge from the morning plunge into ice-cold water and shake himself like a (log upon the bare boards of a dressing-room in which, even in the depth of water, no fire was kindled, were in thorough keeping with the stern character and iron resolution of Squire Burgot of Burgot Grange. m. Bland “ I sent her out the room. What can I do fox: [y‘ovuz .Burgotf ‘ “ Don’t exert Siourself quite so much in takirzgvfiurgw-fi ‘T Have you finished f’”, said Viola in Iish. “ Ye-es,” replied the young nobleman, too astounded at hearing from her lips the accents of his native tongue to remember that there were arguments he had not yet advanced. It was a. chainbér 13 goodly proportions, but uncarpeted and unadorned. N o soldier in barracks, or monk in cell, ‘coulgi point to “Our life shall be a. dream of delight, Viola ; every moment that I can spare from my duties shall be devoted to you. All that belongs to me shall be yours, to the half of my kingdom. You shall have masters for all you care to learn ; I will teach you my- self as much as I can. But, above all, dear, that magnificent voice of yours shall be trained and developed. So far as I can judge, organs far inferior and beauty much less striking have commanded a fortune in a week upon the English stage. Your future shall be my care; but ” Her eyes had been upon him all. the timeâ€"those wonderful lustrous eyes, deep- fringed, burning as thongh aflamg. HE had feltv that rhtijsw grew weaker and weaker, and at that “but” he stqued. A He coul:l not quite read the expression of that gray stony face which looked towards him with such steadfastness under the white moon. He was troubled by a presentiment that it augured ill for the success of his solicitations; but, having put his hand to the plough, he could not turn back. earth so fair as in your sunny Italy, but where men love truly and cleave faithfully to those Whom they adore. Say that you will not send methither companionless, Viola my beloved!” . She understood now. Light, daziling and pitiless, 115151 bquen_i11 upop l_1e1‘. CHAPTER III. Eng- The area of Lincoln’s Inn fields in London was two centuries ago surrounded by the mansions ofmostsuperlativegrandees. There lived the Duke of Ancaster, the great Lord Somers, Montague, Earl of Sandwich, Lord Chancellor Northingt'on, and the Countess of Middlesex; while, during the present cen- tury, the “Fields” have been the residence of Lord Chancellor Kenyon, the unfortunate Prime Minister Mr. Spencer Percivall, and Sir John Soane, the wealthy and hard-heart- ed architect, who left his house and museum to the nation. and cut his son off with a shil- ling, because Mr. Geor e Soane had presum- ed to review unfavouraile a work from the paternal pen. In process of time the great houses of Lincoln’s Inn fields were converted into offices for lawyers and charitable insti- tutions, or into chambers for bachelors; but the rents did not diminish in consequence of the “Fields” having on three of their sides a fringe of slums. been desdatched as one of the imperial ex- ile‘s escort, was attached to the garrison of Porto Ferrajo. On the lst of March, 1815, he landed at Frejus with the Emperor, and received his Majesty’s orders to summon Antibes to surrender. While fulfilling this mission he was captured by the Royalist for~ ces, and it would probably have gone hardly with him had not the rapid triumph of the Napoleonic cause led to his speedy liberation. As soon as he had been set free he joined his old regiment. and fought with it at Ligny and \Vaterloo. After the conclusion of peace he was compelled by the Bourbon Govern- ment to retire on half pay. Under the re- gime that came to power during the “July days” of 1830, he was restored to full pay, promoted to the rank of Captain, and ap- pointed inspector of the Hotel des Invalides, which post he retained to the day of his death. Of the famous Grenadier battalion that accompanied Napoleon I. to Elba. after his first abdication at Fontainbleau, the last sur- vivor expired in Paris a. few days ago at the advanced age of 96. Jacques Ray111011d,six- ty-seven years ago, was a sergeant in the Im- perial Guard, and during his eleven months’ sojourn inthe island of Elba, whither he had In the life of Bishop Wilberforce, by his son, the Bishop writes that an Archbishop, who was entirely unmoved by the denuncia- tion of an antagonist in a discussion on eccle- siastical affairs, turned “ashy pale” when he threatened to pray for him. “No,” he cried, “don’t do that, I pray you; that is unfairâ€" anything but that.” Of another and differ- ent Archbishop, \Vhateley of Dublin, he writes: “Strylechi also told us of “'hateley. He (S) was present when old Lord Bessbor- ongh was Lord Lieutenant (Ireland, 1846,) and very well got up. \Vhately at a council shuffled about his legs (a habit of his) till he got one foot into Lord Bessborough’s pocket. Lord B., feeling for something, was astonish- ed and gave a start. The Archbishop strug- gled to remove his foot, and the conjoint ef- fect of struggle and start was to tear in two the coat from the collar to the skirt.” The widow of an Ambassador at Berlin took an immense fancy to the good looks and attractive manners of a, young medical man, and, there being nothing the matter with her, demanded his constant attendance, be- sides introducing him to many of her friends. On visiting her lately, however, he was stopâ€" ped in the hall, and presently her ladyship’s own maid came to say that, unfortunately my lady could not see him. “Gofngxmt?” “N0, doctor; she’s really unwell, and has had to send for a physician.” - Mr. E. A. Freeman, the eminent English historian, who has been travelling in Italy for several months, will shortly start on a tour through the United States. His health has much_improved, but it is not yet suffi- ciently restored for him to resume his work. THE strawberry glows in the cocktail with just as much heavenly abandon as it does in the Sunday-school plate made to hold about five. A \Vashington girl has highly interesting hair. Its color used to be a. light blonde. Dr. D. W. Prentiss reports to the Smithso- nian Institution that he gave her jabol‘andi, , TL, , 3L “v awvv um; Juuunauul, a, Brazilién plzfiit, as a cure for blood poison- ing. Her hair soon began to darken, and in four months was almost black. The Lacy boys of Madison, \Vis., went to amenagerie and became filled with the idea, of starting a beast show of their own, using such material as was within reach. They painted stripes on a. white pony for a zebra, sheared the hind half of a. big Newfoundland dog for a lion, out off the fore legs of a calf for a. kangaroo, and were about to make a. tailless cat by chopping when their father discovered them. A petrified forest has been found in the hills near Calavems Valley, Alameda Coun- ty. One silicified trunk which lies exposed is about twenty feet long and seven feet in circumference at the base. Â¥ vâ€"<» 4->«>â€"â€"â€"â€" . SUNBEAMS. A recent issue of the London Times had seventy-one columns of advertisements. There are rarely less than sixty from Febru- ary to August. __._.Vy w. “u, vunnvl DLGIUC the sick man spoke again ; but this time tl‘ anger left his voice, and his utterance wa hardly louder than a whisper. ‘ “ Preece,” he said. “ What is it, old friend I?” “ Forty years” said the dying man “we have argued and wrangled and quarrelled ; and I liked you all the better because you were the one man in the neighborhood who was not afraid of my rough tongue, and who did not shun the crossing of swords with me inadispute. Why you liked me Heaven alone knows.” “ I saw the gold beneath the iron,” was the reply. “ That cannot beit ; yet the fact that you liked me remains, I hope and believe. But, Preece, I never said the like to you that l have said to-day without a, row ; and I think it would have been a subject for a. real duel, not averbal one, had I called you ‘quick’ before. Am I so ill as that implies, old (’vu’.~..‘l I)?! friend A sad smile was the Doctor’s only sponse. ‘ “You will not? A nice confessionâ€" prctty pass you have brought me to, afte five weeks of bolusing. I will tell you plain-I 1y my opinion, Doctor Preece. ]t is that you are better than a qt'lack, sir~a quack.“ TY“..‘:_L»IA_1,1 , ' Unmistakable was discourteous speech ; tort. After one keen_ glange at, the other’s face: (TO BE CONTINUED. ‘the a'crimony but it ovoked no re-