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HIS SACRIFICE : There are few people Who can speak light- ly and carelessly of their past lives. if the tnought of what has been and what has gone forever does not bring with it actual pain, it cannot fail to bring at least; a. feeling of sad- ness and vague regret. No matter how happy and free from sorrow a. person’s life may be, grief and pain, more or less intense, have at some time found their way into it ; no matter how many de‘ir friends one may have, there were others once just as dear â€"â€" perhaps dearerâ€"over whose dead hearts the grass is growing. One speaks half sadly even of thejoys that have beenâ€"if a person has known a sorrow or grief which at the time of its occurrence seemed too (great, too terrible to be borne, then it is ut.erly impossible for that person to speak or think of his or her past without a return to the old feel- ings of passionate agony and bitter despair. {Russel Anthon’s face showed that it‘was to him no light matter this that he had un- dertaken, of speaking even to his wife of his p.151; litje. . ‘ ‘ n , n , 1,,A_____ 1 .......... Murch had never before seen the dmwn look about his mouth, the sorrow in his eyes, that there was as he began his story ; and she felt instinctively that a. ha‘fâ€"buried pain in his heart was rising out of its grave, and réasserting all its former power. . 1- “I have told you before, Muriel, that I was born in Maryland. My father was de- scended from one of the early English gover- nors ; he was a very proud man, perhaps justly so, for throughout the State there was not aname more honored and respected than his, nor a family whose reputation Wss purer. My mother was of Grecian extraction, and at one time was considered the most beauti: ful woman in Baltimore; my father worship- ed her, she had not a wish that he did not gratify. He was very wealthy, one of those men in whose hands everything seemed to turn to gold. Year after year he increased the fortune which had been left him by his father; he lived in an almost princely fa- shion, denying himself no luxury that money could procure; he bought an island in Ches- apeake Bay, made of it a perfect garden, built a. beautiful house on it, and there the greater part of my childhood was spent. “ I had several brothers and sistérs, some older, some younger than I was: but one after another they died of various childish di:eases, until only we were leftâ€"my twin brother Arundel and I.” He paused a moment an i passed one hand across hls eyes as if to hide the look of sud- den pain that had leaped into them at the mention of the namehthen continued : “ In appearance we resembled each other so closely that when we were children we could scarcely be told apart, even in after years when we had both grown to manhood, the likeness between us was so strong that many times I have been taken for him and he for me. “But thCng’l in face and figure we were so much alike, in disposition, temperament and tastes, we were totally different. I was always grave, quiet, reserved, seeming older than I was, caring but little for society, pre- ferring a. fewtrusted friends to a. large circle of acquaintances ; he was just the opposite, gay, merry. making friends wherever he went, unanimously voted a leader insociety. Even when he was a child there was that about him which fascinated young and old, and as he grew older that wonderful power of pleasing grew stronger. I have met many men in my life, never one who possessed to such a. marvellous extent the charm of per- sonal fascination. How proud my father and mother were of him, what hopes they built upon him ; he was so bright and tal- ented, learning Without any apparent efiort, quick to grasp at the meaning of things. I never blamed them because in his boyhood and early manhood he was a little nearer their hearts thanI was; I never thought of envying him, for I too was so proud of him, and he was so dear to me, I loved him soâ€" oh, Arundel, Arundel ‘." The old agony was fast rising within him, it found a. voice in the words uttered with such passionate longing, “0h, Arunde], Ar- undcl !” “Muriel, I know that few men love their brothers as I loved him ; there was between usâ€"stronger on my side because of my na- tureâ€"that bond which generally exists be- tween twins ; yet, though I loved him so dearly, I could not close my eyes to his faults. Passionate, hot-tempered, self-in- dulgent, he was also weak,reckless, and self- ish, so far as his own pleasures was concern- ed ; these were the faults which grow in strength, until at last thcyover-balanced all his many fine and noble qualities, and ruin- ed him. " After we had finished with our tutor, I, having no taste nor inclination for a. collegi~ ate course, begged my father to find me a place in a. bank in Baltimore, of which hewas the president ; and at his own request Ar- undel was sent to one of the oldest and best- known northern colleges. That was the be- ginning of the end. His college life was one long, bitter disappointment and pain to us all; he made friends of men who had no higher thought than the gratification of their own desires ; he spent money like water, letting his natural talents and genius lie un- cared for and unimproved. It was just at the close of the second college year that word came to us that he had fled the coun- try. was supposed to have gone to some part of Europe. Why ‘3” and a deep flush settled on Russel Anthon’s face as he met his wife’s questioning gaze, “because, Muriel, he had used the power God had given him, the power of winning love and confidencee, to accomplisha base and ignobfe purpose; he had brought shame and sorrow upon an in- nocent, trusting girl, whose only fault had been that she had loved him too dearly. “ My father could forgive him for keep- ing bad company, and spending money, could and did excuse him, saying, ‘the boy is young, the hot blood will cool as he grows older ;’ but he could neither forgive nor ex- cuse Arundel’s sin. That a. son of his should so dishonor himself as to bring shame and misery upon the head of a frail, help- less girl, and then instead of standing by her, should have fled in cowardly fear of the consequences of his own act, leavmg her, the weaker one, to bear all alone the sorrow and disgrace, seemed to him, with his high code of honor and his chivalrous regard for all For Love of Her. CHAPTER V. pardqq. “After awhile We heard from Arundel. He was in Russia ; and father wrote him a. few lines, saying he would allow him so much a. year to live on, so that he would not; be forced to stealâ€"that is the name bywhich he designated gamblingâ€"and so bring more dishonor upon the name he had already blackened. women, something too monstrous to ever “Three years went by; then early one fall Arundel came back, sick, miserable, a. shadow only of his former self. He was very repentanl', promised to redeem his char- acter, and for mother’s sakeâ€"she had mourn- ed deeply for her boyâ€"father gave hlm back the old place in his home, but never again the old place in his heart. Still he was kind to him, mother wept glad tears over him, and Iâ€"â€"how could I help it, when I loved him so dearly ? I almost forgave ‘him. “ For about six months all went very Well. We were beginning to take hope again that Arundel would make a noble. talented man, when to my great dismay I found he was, in a small way, beginning to slip back into his old ways. He seemed to have forgotten the past. with its sorrow an‘d shame, and was almoet as gay and merry as he had ever been. Sccicty ChOSe to forget the story of his misdeedsâ€"it generally Goes when the wrongdoer is young and hand- some, rich and accomplishedâ€"and wel- comed him as warmly as it had ever done. He joined a club in Baltimn‘e composed of young men who, though they belonged to the wealthiest and most aristocratlc families in’Maryland, were none the less reckless and immoral. “Vaian I pleaded with him. He only laughed, and said, half seriously, half in jest, ‘I am no boy now, Russel ; I can tell right from wrong. Don’t you worry about \Vith a groan Russel Anthon rose to his feet and paced up and down the room, his face working strangely, his hands clasped tightly together; once, twice, three times he walked the length of the room. then stopped, leaned one arm upon the marble mantel-piece, and with his face half turned from his wife, went on speaking in a. low, hollow, monotonous voice, out of which hope andjoy, and almost life itself, seemed to have died. “ It was very little over a year after he had ccme home that it happened. Only God really knows how it came about. No one would have ever known any of the cir- cumstances connected with it hadit not been that Arundel wrote me, telling me, in as few words as possible, how it transpired ; and I th‘nk, I have always belxeved, that the boy told me the truth. “He was spending the ev ning with an intimate friends of hisâ€"a. young married man, whose father and mine were distantly related, and had been warm and dear friends since their boyhood. The two were playing cards alone in the library. and one of them proposed that they should put upa. small amount of money just to make the game more interesting. It grew late and later; every one else in the house retired; it was after midnight ; and still those two men sat playing. smoking, and drinking brandy and water, growing more excited, doubling the stakes at every game. Arundel was the successful oneâ€"he was always lucky at cards Hand he won game after game until, heated with liquor, excited, angry, scarcely know- ing what he was saying, his friend accused him of winning by unfair means. “Muriel, the' boy wrote me that he had played fairly and squarely, and I believed himâ€"that is, if there can be any fairness and squareuess in a game where men play for each other’s money. HoWever it was, Ar- undel fiercely resented the accusation ; hot words passed between the two, until, beside himself with passion, his blood boiling, his brain on fire, my brother struck himâ€"struck the man who had been his friend for years, the man who was the son of his father’s best friend. My God, think of it i “Totally unprepared for the sudden and severe blow, he fell heavily forward ; his head struck the fender in front of the fire place, and a sharp-pointed steel spikeâ€"part of the ornamental workwwas driven with terrible force into his left temple. Even be- fore Aruudel could raise him in his arms he was dead.” With a. low, frightened cry Muriel start- ed to her feet, her face perfectly colorless, her eyes yvifiqwith horroy. “fiead 1” she repeated, with pale, trem- b‘ieg lips ; “do you mean, Russel, that your brother was a murderer? ’ On Russel Anthon’s forehead great drops of ic_y_ swgat _was standing. “Yes,” the answer Eame through his clenched teeth, “my brother Arundel An- thon wasa murderer.” His great agony Went to her heart. Go- ing quickly to his side, she threw her arms, thh a. sudden impulse, about him, looking pityingly up into his haggard face. ‘ “ Hush 2” she whispered, caressmgly, al‘ most as she would have spoken to a child, “it was not your fault, you know ; neither God nor man hold you responsible for your brother’s sin.” At any other time the wife’s caress would have thrilled him with happiness ;as it was he scarcely heeded it, Every nerve and fibre in his whole body was quivering with anguish. There was no room in l is heart; for any feelings save those of misery. “ Rhssel,” Vsaid Muriel, su !(1enfy lifting her head from his breast, “what was hls name, the poor young gentleman who was â€"-who died ?” He hesitated for a moment, seeming uu- certain what answer he should make her. “ I do not know whether it is best that you should know, Muriel,” he said, at last. slowly and wearily, “yet, who can tell? It might at some time make a difference. I hardly know what to do. I never thought thatI should tell you, still new I feel'ixm pelled to do so, and perhaps, after all, you should know, for we cannot tell What the future holds for usâ€"what the coming year may bling. Yes, I will tell you. Muriel, it was Evringhamâ€"Percy Evringham.” So Muri’el heard the 11am} for the first time whlch she was to‘hear again under such vastly different circumstances. ‘ ‘ Percy Evringham. ” M [Irieliflnur1n111‘e(i. “Itis a pretty name,” she continued, un- consciously speaking her thoughts aloud; “and it died with himâ€"poor Percy Evring- “ Oh, Muriel, how can I tell you I” ham CHAPTER VI. But low as the words were whispered they did not escape her husband’s cars, and he shivered as he s.id, “No, no, Muriel, it did not die with him, for six months after he was buried, his child was born, a little boy, whom they named for his dead father ; so there 13 another Percy Evringham. ” “ She died shortly after the child was born,” Russel answered, still speaking slow- ly and wearin as thought evary word cost; him bitter pain, as God knows it did. “How it all comes back to meâ€"as plainly as though it had happened weeks instead of years ago. Five years ago, Muriel; and Percy Evring- ham’s childâ€"the boy of whom he would hale been sq proudâ€"is five years old.” “And the mother?” said Muriel, in'a low voice, He paused abruptly, looking straight be- fore him with eyes that were dark with pas- sionate regret. He had forgotten his wife’s presence, forgotten that he had left unfinish- ed the story of his erring brother’s life; back over five years his thought were wan- der 11g, he was living over again all the sor‘ rovy and painAthose yearn} held.‘ And Muriel too was silent ; she had drift- ed into a. mouruful reverie ; her mind was filled with thoughts of the poor young wife who had been so cruelly bereft of her hus- band, and of the little baby boy who was fatherless and motherless. Then suddenly a. new thought came to her, and she said quickly. ‘ “Rfissel, what of A1undel~what became of him 17" With a. start he came back to the pres- ent. “Yes, I had almost forgotten,” he said: “ yet, that part of his life of which I have not yet spoken, was uppermost; in my thoughts to-night when I began to tell you about hlrri. But, Muriel, my darling"â€"a. look of tenderness‘ lighting up his sad face as he s okeâ€"“Why are you standing here? you wi 1 be tired dear, come, sit down,” and leading her to a. chair he seated himself in one near her, and then took up the broken thread of the story. “ Holding Percy Ev- ringham’s dead body in his arms, realizing that life had gone forever out of the still form, the horrible truth swept over Arundel that'he had killed his friend, killed him un~ intentionallyâ€"God and the angels know there had been no thought of murder in his heart when he had struck that fatal blowâ€"- yet, nevertheless, in the eyes of men and the law he would be a. murderer. “ And what did the law do with murder- derers? It arrested, threw into prison, tried, sentenced, hanged them. That last determined him. He had already brought dishonor upon the proud old Anthon name, but it should never be said, because of him, that an Anthon of Maryland was hanged ;for the sake of the family name and the family honor he resolved to elude the iron grasp of justice. ' Silently, unobserved, he went out of the houseâ€"by morning he was miles away from Baltimore. "‘ Within twelve hours after that terrible deed was done that letter came to me which told me all. It waspost-marked Baltimore; he had written it on the out-going train, and meeting at some small station, a. gentleman â€"a strangerâ€"who was going into the city, had given it to him_ to mail on his arrival there. He had no Wish to deny the crime, or to let it fall possibly on some one else ; so far as he was perso 1y concerned, I know he would have be willing to have suffered the consequences of his sin, im- prisonment for life, or death, whichever it might have been ; it was for our sakes that he desired to escape the punishment of the law. “ How he did it I do not know, but es- cape he did. It was as though the earth had opened and taken him in, leaving not the slightest trace of him behznd ; after a time all search for him was; given up ;of what use was it to search for a, man who seemed to have disappeared from the face of the earth?no use, and beiore a year had gone by, even those who had known’ him best, spoke of Arundel Anthon as people speak of the dead. “Muriel,the blow did not fall more crush- ingly upon the Evringhams than it did upon us. I thought my father would lose his reason ; for days he shut himself up in his library, refusing to see any one, neither eat- ing nor sleeping. From that time he was a. changed man. My mother never recovered from the shock ;she fell senseless to the floor when the news first came to her, and for hours she remained unconscious. Shenever complained, she did not moan nor cry, but day after day she grew paler, thinner, weak- er. We knew she Was going, yet we could do nothing. Just a. few weeks before Percy Evringham’s boy was born she died : almost her last words to me were : ‘If the time should ever come that you could ever do anything for Arundelwhelp him in any way â€"â€"I want you to do it, Russel, for my sake ; for, though he has sinned so terribly, I have always loved hiinmmy poor, erring boyâ€" how dearly no one will ever know.’ And I promised, Murielâ€"I promised my dying mother that if ever I could do aught for Ar- undel. for her sake I would do it. “ The night after she died, my fathercame tome, and together we went into the room where she was lyingâ€"all that was mortal of her. For a. few moments hestood in silence, looking down at the face so beautiful even in death ;then he turned to me, and his voice was clear and cold as ice. ‘Russel,’ he said, ‘but for your brother she would not be lying here to-uight, cold and dead; he killed her just as much as if he had taken a revolver and shot her through the heart. From this time forward I have no son but you. Stand- mg here beside the dead form of the only woman I ever loved, I disown himâ€"that other oneâ€"â€"forever. He is no longer a. son of mine ; I never want to look upon his face again. neither in this world nor the next.’ "Without another word he left the room; he never spoke to me again of Arundel but once, that was the day little Percy Evring- ham was born. As soon as he heard of the child’s birth, he made over a. hundred thou- sand dollars to it. W'hen he told me what he had done, he said, quietly, ‘That money was to have been your brother’s ; it is only just and proper that it should go to the child whom he robbed of its father.’ " It may seem strange, but the friendship which had always existed between our family ani the Evringhams remained the sameâ€"it was as though Arundel had been a stranger to us both. Howard Evringham, Percy’s father, was still my father’s best and truest friend. The two men tried to comfort each other intheir great mutual sorrowâ€"b 3th had i “ It was not very long after mother’s deaih that he sold our beautiful home, as well as all the real estate he owned in Baltimore, and having settled up his business affairs we went abroad. A strange restlessness came upon him. he wanted to be constantly travel- ing, he could not remain long in any place ; he seemed most content when we were flying along as fast as steam could carry us. I re- member one timeâ€"we were in England, g0~ ing somewhere, I forget exactly where, and the express train was speeding along over the iron rails, he had not spoken a word for some time ;when suddenly he turned to me, and said, “Russel, I would like to go thisway to the end.’ " ‘I never want to go back to America. alive,’ he said, simply, when I spoke once of returning; ‘take me back when I am dead, and lay me beside your mother.’ - 1. lost a son, had seen their brightest. hopes go down in darkness. My father’s misery was by far the deeper and more lusting of the two ; rather a thousand times would he have laid Arundel in an honored grave than to have known he was living a. dishonored life. “He died in Florence about a. year before I first met you, Muriel; though in losing him I seemed to lose all I had, though life without him was very lonel'y, yet I could not Wish him back, for 1 know death quieted the feverish unrest, hushed the crying of the heart which had known so much of sorrow ondcruel pain. L brought his dead body homeâ€"his grave is close to my mother’s, so in death they are not separatedâ€"in heaven I know they are together. “ I was preparing to go back to London to attend to some business there which father had not settled, When the news came to me that Arundel too was deadâ€" had. died in Australia. I had no reason to doubt it; I had proofs that it; was so, and the convic- tion grew upon me that my brother Ar- rundel was sleeping in a lonely, far-off grave. .. .. ..- n. 1 “Muriel, ashort time after you became acquainted with me, you said one day. in your childish wayâ€"you were only a. child thenâ€"‘Why do y_ou always look so sad. Mr. Anthon ‘2’ darling ?_ “Thinking that my brother was dead, I looked upon myself as the last one of the family that had once been such a happy one. Did you ever think what it was, Muriel, to be the last oneâ€"all the others gone; noth- ing left but bitterly-sweet memories and grass-covered graves? There is nothing in all the world more sad, So I have thought I was the last one, untilâ€"today.” He drew from his pocket the soiled, crum- pled letter he had that afternoon receivedâ€"â€" the letter with the Mexican post-mark, and land it in Muriel’s hand. “I; fhgfiéfter is fromVArundel,” he Said. slo_w_ly. .. . ... 7‘» . r “ From Arundel 1” Her eyes went from his face to the letter in her hand, then back again, meeting his with a. bewildered look. “Then, after all, he did not die ; it was a mistake?” “Yes, all a. mistake. He was in Austra- 1ia.,but he did not die. 0h, Muriel, what a. miserable, wretched life he has led. God knows he has suffered for his sins; sick, weary, friendless, alone,‘ he has wandered from place to place like a. hunted animal. He is in Mexico now ; he has been ill for a. long time ; they tell him he has not long to live, and he wants me to come to him ; he longs to see my face again before he dies. Healinows the rest are gone,tha.t only he and I are left. While he was in the city of Mex- ico he heard that I was in New York : he knows nothing further of my life, he has no idea that 1 am married ; he addressed my letter to the general post-office here in the city, with only a vague hope that it would reach me. “Ah, Muriel, it is such {L pitiful letter, even if I had not always loved him, it would have touched my heart. ‘For the sake of the love you Once bore me, come to me, Russel, before I die 2’ he Writes. ‘1 have lived five long terrible years alone, yet now at the end it seems as thoth I could not die alone. On, my, brother, if I could only seekyoui: fact? {gain 1’ ” Oi er Muriel’s face the tears were falling like rain. Clasping her little trembling hands about her husband’s arm she raised her eyes, golden now with great sympathy and Pity to his. “Oh Russel l" she pleaded, “be pitiful, go to him, your poor brother ; tell him you love him still, that you forgive him. He did sin, ah, terribly, but surely if suffering can atone for sin, he has atonei for his :for think what he must have suffered in these five miserable yearsâ€"they must have seem- ed like five centuries to him. And he is dying now in a strange land among strangers, witn no lovmghand to Wipe away the death- sweat from his forehead, no voice to pray for him. Remember the promise you made to your dying motherâ€"the mother who loved him soâ€"that if the time should ever come when you could do aught for him, you would do it; the time has come, Ru sel, the time is here.” Mr. Isaacs and Mr. Blumenthal kept rival clothing stores on the Bowery, within a. few doors of each other. Mr. Isaacs was always to be found with his head out of the door soliciting custom from the verdant passer-by. Mr. Blumenthal object-ed to this shoddy manner of doing business, having found that the watchful Isaacs had captured several of his customers, and one day he went up to Mr. Isaacs and said: “Look here, Mr. Isaacs, vy don’t you keep your ugly face inside? You might patter get a. jackass to stand py de door. He would pe albig improvement). ” “ Vy, ” said Isaacs, ‘Idid try dab vonce, und all de people as day pass py say to him: ‘Good day, Mr. Blumentha ; I see you’ve moved.’ ” The voice broken, and choked with sobs, ceased, and with a. fresh burst of tears Muriel laid her head on her husband’s knee. (TO BE CONTINUED.) __â€"‘-oo<-.->Mâ€"â€"â€"â€"- An Indian Rajah had a poor porter at his gate who resembled him in person. He one day put his royal robes and crown on him, seated him on the throne._an1 then put on his own head the porter’s cap and stood in in the gate and laughed to see his ministers deceived and bowing down before the porter. But the porter said : “ who is that fellow laughing at me in the gate? Off with his head !” They decapitated the rajah, andEthe porter reigned in his stead. Getting Even With Blumenthal. A Level Headed Porter. You do not wander now, do you, WWWâ€"w s - â€" w- A Romance From the Life of the Fiction- Writer, Miss Edgeworth, Related by Herself. Miss Edgeworth’s keen delights and vivid descriptions of all the new things, faces, voices, ideas, are all to be read, says a. wr1ter in the Corn/Lil! Magazine, in some long and most charming letters to Ireland, which also contain the account of a most eventful CI‘ISIS which this Paris journey brought about. The letter is dated March, 1803, and it concludes as follows : “Here, my dear aunt, I was in- terrupted in a manner that will surprise you as much as it surprised meâ€"by the com- ing of M. Edclcrantz, a Swedish gentleman whom we have mentioned to you, of superior understanding and mild manner. He came to offer me his hand and heart. My heart, you may suppose, can not return his attach- ment, for I have seen but very little of him, and have not had time to have formed any judgment, except that I think nothing could tempt me to leave my own dear friends and my own country to live in Sweden.” Maria Edgeworth was now about 30 years of age, at a time of life when people are apt to re‘ alize, perhaps almost more deeply than in early youth, the influence of feeling, its im- portance, and strange power over events. Hitherto there are no records inher memoirs of any sensational episodes, but it does not follow that a young lady has not had her own phase of experience because she does not write it out at length to her various aunts and correspondents. Miss Edgeworth was not a sentimental person. She was warmly devoted to her own family, and she seems to have had a strong idea of her own want of beauty ; perhaps her admiration for her love- ly young sisters may have caused this feel. ing to be exaggerated by her. But no ro- mantic, levely heroine could have inspired a ‘ deeper or more touching admiration than i this one which M. Edelcrantz felt for his English friend ;the mild and superior Swede seems to have been thoroughly in earnest. So indeed was Miss Edgeworth, but she was not carried away by the natural impulses of the moment. She realized the many diffi- culties and dangers of the unknown ; she looked to the future ; she looked to her own home, and with an affection all the more felt because of the trial to which it was now exposed. The many lessons of self-control and self-restraint which she had learned re- turned with instinctive force. Sometimes it happens that people miss what is the best for the sake of the next best, and we see con- venience and old habit and expediency, and a hundred small and insignificant circum- stances, gathering like some avalanche to divide hearts that might give and receive very much from each. But sentiment is not the only thing in life. Other duties, ties, and realities there are, and it is difficult to judge for others in such matters. Sincerlty of heart and truth to themselves are pretty sure in the end to lead people in the right direction for their own and for otherpeople’s happiness. Only, in theexperience of many women, there is the danger that fixed ideas and other people’s opinion, and the force of custom,may limit lives which might have been complete in greater things, though per- haps less perfect in the lesser. People in the abstract are sincere enough in wishing l fullness of experience and happiness to those dearest and nearest to them, but we are only human beings, and when the time comes and the horrible necessity for parting approaches, our courage goes, our hearts . fail, and we think we are preaching reason and good sense, while it is only a most rat- ural instinct which leads us to cling to that to which we are used and to those we love. Mr. Edgeworth did not attempt to influence Maria, Mrs. Edgeworth evidently had some misgivings, and certainly much sympathy for the Chevalier and for her friend and step-daughter. She says : “Maria was mistaken as ‘to her own feelings. She re- fused M. Edelcrantz, but she felt much more for him than esteem and admiration ; she was extremely in love with him. Mr. Edge: orth left her to decide for herself, but she saw too plainly What it would be to us to lose her and what she would feel at part- ing with us. She decided rightly for her own future happpiness and for that of her family, but she suffered much at the time and long afterward. \Vhile we were at Paris I remember that in a shop, where Charlotte and I were making purchases, Maria sat apart absorbed in thought, and so deep in reverie that when her father came, in and stood opposite to her she did not see him till he spoke to her, when she started and burst into tears. * * * I do not think she repented of her refusal, or regret- ed her decision. She was well aware that she could not have made M. Edel- crantz happy, that she would not have suit- ed his position at the court of Stockholm, and that her want of beauty might have diminished his attachment. It was perhaps better she should think so, for it calmed her mind ; but from what I saw of M. Edel- crantz, I think he was a man capabie of really valuing her. I believe he was much attached to her, and deeply mortified at her refusal. He continued to reside in Sweden after the abdic ition of his master, and was always distinguished for his high character and great abilities. He never married. He was, except for his very fine eyes, remark- ably plain.” So ends the romance of the romancer. There are, however, many hap- pinesses 1n hie, as there axe many trobles. H¢o<<O>I¢Dâ€"â€"_ istory of A W111. One has heard of wills written on bed- posts, concealed in hay-lofts and flower- pots, and other possible and impossible places, but probably no will has ever passed through more vicissitudes than one admitted to probate by Sir James Hannon. The test- ator was an engineer on board a channel steamer and made his will giving everything to his wife, and gave the will to her. Some time afterward they had a quarrel, during which she tore the will up and threw the pieces into the fire. The husband picked up the pieces and put them into an envelope labelled “ Poison, ” but said he would make a new one. However, several years after- Ward he died of smallpox on his steamer, and on his clothes being searched, before burning, the envelope with the pieces of the will inside it was luckily found and given to his wife. This brand plucked from ‘ the burning has now been pieced together and will be deposited at Somerset house; a lesson to all time to wives not to lose their tempers too far if they do not wish also to lose their husband’s property, or to save it cnlyi by a lawsuit,â€"Pall ilIaZl Gazette. A ROMANGER’S ROMANCE.