that the news had completely overcome her. They solicited permission to enter the chamber, and as they walked in, the white face and burning eyes of Algernon Darwin were lifted eagerly toward them.

"He is my brother," said Margaret. "You will not be able to bear the tidings which we bring you?" asked one of the visitors; and his face was full of curious solicitude, as he looked on the young invalid.

"Don't mind me, sir," gasped the young man. "It is probable there is some mistake." "We shall be able to prove whether there be in a moment ;" and then turning to their young hostess, the gentlemen inquired whether she had ever heard her father speak of an elder brother of his-Squire Robert Darwin, of Hampton?

"Oh, very often, sir. Hampton was my father's native place, and he was the younger son of Colonel Josiah Darwin, of Hampton; but-but there was some serious difficulty betwixt my father and his brother, and papa and mamma left their native place more than thirty years ago."

The elder of the gentlemen brought down his hand on the table. "We have found you at last," he said. "My brother was Squire Darwin's lawyer, and appointed executor of his will. We have advertised for the heirs for the last two months, and came upon you by the merest accident. I called at the seminary this afternoon on some business, with my friend who accompanies me, and during an interview with the principal, she spoke of her music-teacher, Miss Darwin. The name struck me at once; I made a few inquiries, and obtained your address, and I am here now to congratulate you, for there is no doubt, my young friends, that you can establish your claims; and the will of Squire Darwin places you in immediate possession of the Darwin Homestead and lands. The gentlemen did not remain long afterward. There was something in the manner of the brother and sister which made them feel that it was best they should be alone; but they took leave of them with many expressions of interest and kindness, and promised to call the next morning.

The good tidings had come too suddenly. Human capacity for joy or sorrow is limited. As soon as Margaret had closed the door on her guests, she returned to Algernon. The brother and sister looked in each other's faces a moment with eyes full of bewilderment. Margaret crept up to Algernon, and put down her white cheek to his. "I knew we were dreaming all the time, Algernon," she whispered. "Oh, it was too good to be true. We shall wake up in a little while."

"Yes, we shall wake up in a little while. It is too good to be true-and yet, if it might be!" answered the boy in a dreamy way, for his long illness, and this sudden excitement, had proved too much for him, and in a few moments he fell into a deep sleep, and Margaret listened for a

while to his soft breathing, and then, rising up, she folded a thin coverlet about him, for the summer night was sultry, and went to her own small chamber, and flung herself down on the bed, intending to think over the events of the afternoon; but her thoughts wandering to and fro, among old, mournful memories, and the present, which she tried to grasp, faded away from the girl, and at last she, too, fell into deep slumber.

The sun was shining brightly when she awoke. A night of sweet sleep had restored her mind to its usual healthful poise, and when the previous day swept back on her memory, Margaret did not say that it was all a dream.

A few hours later, Mr. Grainger, the brother of her uncle's lawyer, called to see her. It was arranged that the brother and sister should leave the following day for Hampton, as their presence would be necessary to make good their right to the property.

Mr. Grainger kindly promised to assist them all in his power, and it was concluded that Algernon would be able to endure the journey by easy stages.

66

Margaret, come here to me," said Algernon, as he heard the footsteps of their guests on the stairs; and he sat up on the couch, and in the hollow of each white cheek burned the red blood once more. "It is not all a dream, is it, sweet sister? Shall I go into the country once more, and hear the birds sing, and see the green trees, and drink in the fresh air that I thirst for once more ?" and his greedy eyes fastened themselves on her face imploringly.

"Yes, darling, you shall have all these things. It is not a dream, as I thought, but a great, blessed truth that God has sent us !"

And then the brother and sister wept together tears of joy over the gift which the dead had left to them.

Three months had passed. The last days of November were hanging like a pale, golden fringe on the skirt of winter, and the great trees, around the old Darwin Homestead, stood tall and bare, shaking a few sodden leaves to the ground, whenever the wind shook their branches. In the old sitting-room Margaret and Algernon Darwin stood near the wood fire, whose flames gave a picturesque glow to the old-fashioned furniture, and formed a vivid contrast with the day outside.

Mrs. Pierson sat in her old place by the window, hemming some curtains, for the gardener's wife still found her services indispensable in the old grey stone house.

"How well you are looking, Algernon. I hardly know this changed face of yours!" said Margaret Darwin, looking up to it tenderly.

"That ride over to the creek this morning has put new life into me. Oh, Margaret, it seems good to be well once more."

The bright colour had returned to the young man's lips now, and the cheeks had rounded to soft, oval outlines. Algernon leaned his head

"Come, sis, let's have a song together," glancing toward the piano in one corner, which, with some mantel ornaments, were the only new articles that had been added to the room since Squire Darwin had left it.

"It's fitting that this day should go from us with sweet songs, because it has brought us so many fair and pleasant gifts."

Margaret did not answer. She stood looking into the dancing flames with a dreamy, absorbed expression. Algernon bent down, and gazed into her face.

"What are you thinking of, Margery, sweet Margery?" he asked, playfully pulling one of

her curls.

"Was, what could have made Uncle Robert leave us his property, when he was so bitter an enemy to papa for so many years."

"I have myself wondered over that a great many times of late. Mrs. Pierson," turning suddenly toward the window, "you were with our uncle a great deal during the last days of his life. Can you tell us what so softened his heart toward us?"

The little woman hesitated, and at last stammered, "I suppose he came to see things differently in his last hours. You know people have clearer eyes when they come to look over the long path of their life then."

This was too general an answer to satisfy the brother or the sister. The curiosity of both was aroused. Margaret went over to Mrs. Pierson, and said earnestly, " If you know anything of this matter, and we feel you do, don't fail to tell us; it is our right to know."

Thus appealed to, Mrs. Pierson complied; and, with a good deal of embarrassment, she related her last, long conversation with Squire Darwin. Her voice broke down many times during the narrative, and the brother and sister were weeping together before she concluded.

"And it is to you, after all, dear Mrs. Pierson, that we owe the deed of the Darwin Homestead!" said Algernon, at last, breaking a long silence. Oh, how shall we ever be able to repay you?"

Rudolph von du Wart, with other conspirators, having assassinated the Emperor Albrecht of Austria, in 1808, was broken on the wheel in the presence of Agnes, the Empress. His wife, Gertrude, spite of the cruel jeers of Agnes and her courtiers, climbed up beside him, and watched and tended him till he died, when his last words were-" Gertrude, this is love till death."

Listen, oh! listen, sweet! for I am dying,

And well must husband all my failing breath Before the moments, now so swiftly flying, Have rolled away and left me close to death.

All hope of mortal peace I know has perished:

Each limb is racked by this long awful pain : So the kind hope, which thou mine own hast cherished,

Is as, I well know, Gertrude, all in vain. Listen, while I can speak, for I shall never speak again!

So! a short respite! Ah! my mind is dreaming
Of that dear past when first I sought thy love,
Knowing its worth, but then how little deeming

The solace and the treasure it would prove!
How, tried by shame, by sorrow, and by anguish,
In spite of scoff and scorn 'twould pour a light
Upon my misery, and never languish,
Which cheers me even now within the shadow of the
There is not in the page of ancient story

Or loss a beam of its irradiance bright,

[night.

A woman whose good deeds more brightly shine; Redounding to her sex's praise and glory, For after ages, than, true wife, shall thine. Unswerving love, in days of rank and splendour, I had a right to hope and claim from thee; But in this dark hour thou art yet more tender, Unto the doomed assassin-I can be

[is free. Almost in happiness, since from all change thy heart Since the dread moment when the word was spoken,

And thou the sentence heardst with face that paled, Which destined me, the guilty, to be broken

Upon the wheel, thy courage has not failed. Thou, in thy noble birth and lofty beauty,

Almost too high for common hopes or fears, Hast sacrificed all to thy wifely duty,

And deaf to cruel Agnes' bitter jeers, Hast kissed my lips, and cooled my burning forehead with thy tears.

My strength is ebbing, but before confessing

My gratitude to thee I cannot die : Life of my life, my own most priceless blessing, Thou who hast chased away each frown or sigh; As I look back, that happy contemplation

Has power to lull my tortures and to claim, Even in this crushed breast an exultation,

Spite of the blows that all my life can maim, Through joy and sorrow, Gertrude, thou hast ever been the same.

Closer, come, closer still! I feel the dimming

Thickening around my wearied aching eyes. 'Tis not with tears of woe that they are swimming, But rather in a happy peaceful guise. Farewell! farewell! my darling: not repining, My pain is over, and my latest breath Falls upon thy loved brow--my head reclining

On thy dear bosom-this is love till death; Be that my farewell, Gertrude, this is love till Death! WILLIAN READE.

BY Y. S. N.

"Before honour is humility,

Chirp, chirp, chirp!" said a little Sparrow; "twitter, twitter, twitter !" and he went hopping about among the dead leaves at the foot of an old oak tree, now picking up an insect, now pouncing upon a fine nourishing caterpillar, chattering all the time in his bird language, in the most self-satisfied manner.

He was a very young bird, and had not had much experience in the world, so on he went, tossing his little beak about in a most conceited style, strutting along and scattering the crisp leaves with such a consequential air that many of the young shrubs and plants in the neighbourhood felt quite annoyed.

A sober little Primrose plant, whose leaves were beginning to expand in the shelter of the oak-tree's hollow trunk could not help breathing out a mild remonstrance. But the Sparrow shook his feathers over her and trampled on her, in an insulting manner, as he picked off a fat grub from one of her leaves, and still continued his "chirp! chirp!" And this was what he said:

"You poor little insignificant plant, of what use are you in the world I should like to know? excepting, indeed, to feed and fatten grubs for the great and mighty Sparrows! Do you not feel very uncomfortable, stuck in the rotten bark of that old tree, unable to move about and see the world as I can?"

"No, indeed," answered the Primrose, modestly, but with some spirit, for she did not like being trampled on, you see, "I would much sooner stay at home than travel about as you do, as it does not seem to make you more amiable and obliging. At the same time I dare say it is very nice to be a Sparrow, and I am glad you are so happy in the position assigned to you by Nature. You could not be anything else but a Sparrow, you know, however much you might try," she added, rather maliciously; for the conceited bird had so long indulged in this strain, with no one to check him, that the quiet little Primrose, once roused up, thought a word in season" might possibly do him

some service.

"Don't you think it a fine thing to be a peacock, for instance? Nobody finds anything to admire in a Sparrow's tail!”

Once more the Sparrow shook its feathers indignantly: "Chirp! chirp! the peacock cannot sing as I can; no, Sparrows are of much more consequence in the world than peacocks; only, Mrs. Primrose, of course youcannot be expected to know much, living in this quiet, out-of-the-way corner; I am truly sorry for you, I am indeed,

"What can you see I should like to know?" inquired the Sparrow.

"Well, a long piece of high-road for one thing, and all the carriages and people who pass by every day."

"Very amusing, to be sure; anything more?” retorted the Sparrow, contemptuously.

"Yes; just at this present moment I see Farmer Gregory's cat coming this way, very likely to look out for you."

'Chirp, chirp," said the Sparrow, all in a flutter, and was very glad to hide himself in the old tree, close to the little Primrose's sheltering leaves, which she was good natured enough to cover over him, till the enemy had disappeared.

The Primrose was very forgiving, but she was obliged to battle for herself sometimes.

"But tell me," continued the Sparrow, when he was once more able to hop about in safety, "tell me what you do with yourself all day? you must be very idle, the prinrose plants along the road-side are all in bloom; have you no buds and flowers to show ?"

"All in good time, Mr. Sparrow; I expect a very fine show of blossom this year, for I have been better cared for than usual, this winter's more free from frost-bites and other Primrose troubles; but I have not quite the same advantages as some of my neighbours."

"What do you mean?" asked the Sparrow, who liked a gossip, even with such an insignificant thing as a Primrose-plant.

Why, you see I am rather out of reach of the early spring sunshine here, but it will find its way to my residence before very long, and then you shall see the result of my underground labours: for you must know, Master Sparrow, that I am very busy indeed with my roots and leaves, although, as you say, such a stay-athome, and apparently so idle and useless."

"Well," rejoined the Sparrow, "I'll call again to-morrow, and hope to find a nice, plump caterpillar, or juicy slug ready for me, mind that; feed them upon one of those fresh young leaves of yours, and then I shall think that you Primroses are of some use in the world.”

"Take care that Farmer Gregory's cat does not pick you up, young gentleman, on your way home, and put you to an unexpected use, with your conceited airs. I'm sure you're nobody

particular, for the beautiful thrush and the sweet-voiced nightingale talk to me very differently."

The Sparrow flew away with a "chirp, chirp," leaving the Primrose more thoughtful than usual. She could not help meditating on the subject of usefulness, or wondering whether she had other duties to perform than those she had hitherto discharged so regularly. What could a Primrose do besides rearing a family of delicate flowers and sending out a perfumed greeting to all who passed near her.

Perhaps she might be more generally admired if she lived in a more conspicuous place, but where she was she gave a great deal of pleasure to a young girl who visited the old oak-tree nearly every day, and whose private property she considered herself; was she right in being perfectly satisfied with her obscure position? At any rate she had no wish to be a Sparrow, not the slightest in the world, for she knew that they were often a very quarrelsome and noisy set of creatures; many and many a time had she been disturbed and startled by the commotion a whole family would make over head, and, although she never clearly understood what it was about it seemed to her much better to bring up her family of buds in peace and quietness, with a loving dependence on each other and the parent roots.

Yet the Sparrow, who had been showing off his consequential airs, was perhaps rather to be pitied than blamed, if the Primrose could only have known a little more of his home life. She was altogether ignorant of the circumstances which had conduced to make him what he was, otherwise she would have been less annoyed at his conceit and impertinence.

The sparrow was an only child, and had been made a great deal of by the parent birds; the circumstances which had deprived them of their other little ones were so singular that I must tell you something about them.

One day, the sparrow's nest, containing seven pretty little blue eggs, had been left unguarded, for a short time, by the mother-bird, who had accompanied her mate for a very brief holiday to a neighbouring field, containing an abundance of food, such as sparrows delight in: during her absence it happened that a stranger called.

A large ugly bird it was, and as there was no one at home, it was a very rude thing, to say the least of it, for the stranger to enter the nest and settle down comfortably upon the sparrow's eggs. Very rude unquestionably, for the stranger was not even on friendly terms with the owners of the nest, but still ruder and more unnatural was it to impose upon the hospitality of people unknown to her, by depositing one of her own eggs in the nest, and leaving it entirely to their care without the slightest apology or explanation.

Dame Sparrow returned to her duties without noticing the intruder, and when in due course of time the little birds began to emerge from their shells, the parent birds had to bestir themselves to find for them. And very difficult it

was at times to satisfy the cravings of one of the party. Dame Sparrow could not make out why this particular member of her family should be so remarkably hungry, not to say greedy, always wanting more than any of the others.

Moreover she was much puzzled and distressed by the sudden diminution of her family circle. On her return to the nest with food one day, she discovered that two of the most delicate of her fledglings had disappeared. She flew about in despair, and at length found their mangled remains beneath the hedge in which her nest was situated.

She pondered sadly as to the cause of her misfortune, wondering how it could have happened, and what enemy had murdered her little ones. It could not be Farmer Gregory's cat, she knew, because he would have eaten them if once in his power.

All her speculations were useless however, so she busied herself more than ever with those remaining to her-only one still continued so different to the rest, larger, and as she thought more ugly, that she could not understand it. It was, if possible, more greedy than ever, and took up so much room in the nest, that it was perhaps as well that there were fewer occupants. And every day it became more and more troublesome and discontented, trampling upon the other fledglings, and seeming to want the whole place to itself.

Poor Mr. and Mrs. Sparrow were in sad perplexity as to what it would be best to do with this restless and dissatisfied bird, but they were at the same time so overwhelmed with grief at the melancholy fate which befel other members of the family, who had been successively made away with, in the mysterious manner already alluded to, that they took no decided measures to correct him.

At length his conduct had become so unbearable, that after a brief consultation in the neighbouring wood the parent birds returned home one morning resolved to administer some wholesome advice to their eldest surviving child, when, lo! to their great surprise and anguish, the nest was perfectly empty, the ugly bird had gone, and the last of his companions had disappeared also. Oh! how Dame Sparrow and her mate fluttered about, chirping out their trouble. The large bird of whom they were not so particularly fond might be strong enough to take care of himself and fly away altogether, but they knew that their delicate, weakly one was not.

"Cuckoo! cuckoo!" what a strange sound. The Sparrows looked up, and there overhead was the ugly bird flying past, on, on to Farmer Gregory's fields, singing that strange song of "Cuckoo !" which no little ones of theirs had ever learned; then, for the first time, Dame Sparrow knew how she had been imposed upon, and was very angry.

For a long time the poor bereaved parent birds kept hopping about in search of their own fledgling, the last left to them out of seven, who had probably shared the fate of the rest and

A very feeble" chirp, chirp!" at length rewarded the searchers; and entangled in the bushes they discovered the unfortunate fledgling in a most piteous condition, nearly strangled, and too weakened by want of food and the shock of his fall to extricate himself. Well, of course, finding him at all was a great joy to the parent birds, but at the same time there was great perplexity, for they did not know how to get the poor little creature back to its nest, unable as it was to fly so far; moreover it was within easy reach of cats and other enemies, and although the mother could feed it during the day, it was much too cold for such a babysparrow to spend all the night away from their

nest.

Fortunately a kind-hearted little girl who took a great interest in birds and flowers, and loved everything that God had made, passed close to the hedge whilst the old birds were wondering what they could do to help their little one; and as the child stopped to watch them eat up some crumbs of bread she had sprinkled for them, she discovered the tiny sparrow in its uncomfortable position, and began to understand the cause of the unusual commotion and chattering. So she took the little sparrow very carefully in her hand, and after a search for the nest, succeeded in finding it, and depositing the fledgling within it.

And now, having told you so much about the Sparrow's early life, we will leave him and return to the modest Primrose, who is really the more important person in my story.

But first you must know that the young girl who had been so kind to the Sparrow, was the Primrose's greatest friend and admirer. I have not time to tell you quite as much about her history as I have done about the Sparrow, but something in connection with the Primrose her self I must relate.

Bessie Grey and her brother, who was now far away in a distant country, had planted the Primrose root in its present position very soon after they came to live near Farmer Gregory's. Often and often in the spring time had they visited it to gather a bunch of its pretty flowers for the kind old grandmother who had given them and Willie a home when they had no one else to befriend them. And now for brother George's sake, as much as for its own, little Bessie pas a daily visit to the old tree to watch the Pri rose shooting up, and sometimes to water it and look after its general welfare. She sent a few of the blossoms in a letter to George last year, to remind him of the old wood and the pretty road through it, along which they had so often rambled together. And now brother Will was going out to that distant land also, and poor little Bessie would be without any brother at home-perhaps might not see either of them for many a long year.

But the vicar, the doctor, and Will's good

all said it was the best thing he could do that he was a handy lad, and a steady one, and would never come to want; and George was the best example and companion that he could possibly have."

So, for her grandmother's sake, Bessie tried to be very brave and help in getting his things ready, hemming his pocket-handkerchiefs and other matters that were soon to be packed and sent away. She was an industrious little girl, very regular in going to school, and anxious to make the most of the advantages she now enjoyed. But she was often very sorrowful when she thought of her poor mother, and the sad life before her death, and the troubles they had all known when she was quite a little thing, had never seen a flower, or heard a bird sing, and had lived in a miserable garret, up a crowded alley, to which fresh air and sweet water had never found their way. She was saddened at times when she thought of these things, but they only made her more grateful for the happy present and the kindness of the many friends now around her.

Weeks went by, and the little Primrose was now quite a large plant, with some blossoms fading, some in full bloom, and a very great number of young buds yet to come on.

The sparrow used to visit her occasionally, when grub-hunting, and laugh at her for being happy when she could not move about, and could be so little seen; but she did not mind him in the least, for Bessie and her brother Will came regularly every day to sit and chat together on the stile close by the old oak, and they never left without a word of thanks, for her beauty and her sweetness.

But one day, when the sparrow hopped down upon the hollow trunk, there was no signs of the Primrose: there was a great hole that was allnot a leaf, not a bud.

The Sparrow was utterly bewildered, and, clever as he was, actually could not understand it in the least. And, though he went more than once to the old tree, he never saw the Primrose again, never learned the cause of her mysterious disappearance. He would have been greatly surprised had any one informed him of the wonderful fortune which had befallen her. How could he have believed that she had become a great traveller, that verses had been made in her honour, and that she had been welcomed with tears of delight in a far-off land. Yet, so it really was; and this is how it came to pass.

When Willie Grey started to join his brother, little Bessie, amongst other tokens of affection, resolved upon sending George that particular Primrose-root, in which they had both taken so great an interest. So it was carefully removed from the old tree, put into a flower-pot, and consigned to Willie's keeping.

Willie watched over it all the time it was in the ship, and all the passengers visited it every day never was Primrose made so much of! But, poor little thing, she often pined for her old home, although she had the consolation of