couple as if they had her experience of forty years, and were encased in her own hard crust of worldly wisdom. The dilemma would have been a trying one, even for a sensible and judicious mother; and the management of it required candour and delicacy altogether beyond her shallow understanding and artificial views. She wakened them from their dream with a storm of indignation. Her exaggerated statements were in no degree adapted to the real measure of wrong-doing, and therefore, instead of producing humility and sorrow, they roused resentment against what was felt to be unjust accusation. The poor heedless neglected child of poverty was treated as if she were already hardened in depravity. No names were too base to be bestowed upon her. As the angry mistress drove her to her garret, the concluding words were, "You ungrateful, good-for-nothing hussy, that I took out of the almshouse from charity! You vile creature, you, thus to reward all my kindness by trying to ruin and seduce my only son!"

This was reversing matters strangely. Susan was sorely tempted to ask for what kindness she was expected to be grateful; but she did not. She was ashamed of having practised concealment, as every generous nature is; but this feeling of self-reproach was overpowered by a consciousness that she did not deserve the epithets bestowed upon her, and she timidly said so. "Hold your tongue," replied Mrs. Andrews. "Leave my house to-morrow morning, and never let me see you again. I always expected you'd come to some bad end, since that fool of a painter came here and asked to take your likeness, sweeping the sidewalk. This comes of setting people up above their condition."

After talking the matter over with her husband, Mrs. Andrews concluded to remain silent about Robert's adventure, to send him forthwith into the country, to his uncle the minister, and recommend Susan to one of her friends, who needed a servant, and had no sons to be endangered. At parting, she said, "I shall take away the cloak I gave you last winter. The time for which you were bound to me isn't up by two years; and the allowance Mr. Jenkins makes to me isn't enough to pay for my disappointment in losing your services just when you are beginning to be useful, after all the trouble and expense I have had with you. He has agreed to pay you, every month, enough to get decent clothing; and that's more than you deserve. You ought to be thankful to me for all the care I have taken of you, and for concealing your bad character; but I've done expecting any such thing as gratitude in this world." The poor girl wept, but she said nothing. She did not know what to say.

No fault was found with the orphan in the family of Mr. Jenkins, the alderman. His wife said she was capable and industrious; and he himself took a decided fancy to her. He praised her cooking, he praised the neatness with which she arranged the table, and after a few days, he began to praise her glossy hair and glowing cheeks. All this was very pleasant to the human nature of the young girl. She thought it was very kind and fatherly, and took it all in good part. She made her best courtesy when he presented her with a handsome calico gown; and she began to think she had fallen into the hands of real friends. But when he

chucked her under the chin, and said such a pretty girl ought to dress well, she blushed and was confused by the expression of his countenance, though she was too ignorant of the world to understand his meaning. But his demonstrations soon became too open to admit of mistake, and ended with offers of money. She heard him with surprise and distress. To sell herself without her affections, had never been suggested to her by nature, and as yet she was too little acquainted with the refinements of high civilization, to acquire familiarity with such an idea.

Deeming it best to fly from persecutions which she could not avoid, she told Mrs. Jenkins that she found the work very hard, and would like to go to another place as soon as possible. "If you go before your month is up I shall pay you no wages," replied the lady; "but you may go if you choose." In vain the poor girl represented her extreme need of a pair of shoes. The lady was vexed at heart, for she secretly suspected the cause of her departure; and though she could not in justice blame the girl, and was willing enough that she should go, she had a mind to punish her. But when Susan, to defend herself, hinted that she had good reasons for wishing to leave, she brought a storm on her head at once. "You vain, impertinent creature!" exclaimed Mrs. Jenkins, "because my husband gave you a new gown, for shame of the old duds you brought from Mrs. Andrews, do you presume to insinuate that his motives were not honourable?

And he a gentleman of high respectability, an alderman of the city! Leave my house; the sooner the better; but don't expect a cent of wages."

Unfortunately, a purse lay on the work-table, near which Susan was standing. She had no idea of stealing; but she thought to herself, "Surely I have a right to a pair of shoes for my three weeks of hard labour." She carried off the purse, and went into the service of a neighbour, who had expressed a wish to hire. That very evening she was arrested, and soon after tried and sentenced to Blackwell's Island. A very bold and bad woman was sentenced at the same time, and they went in company. From her polluting conversation and manners, poor Susan received a new series of lessons in that strange course of education, which a Christian community had from the beginning bestowed upon her. Her residence on the island rapidly increased her stock of evil knowledge. But she had no natural tendencies to vice; and though her ideas of right and wrong were inevitably confused by the social whirlpool into which she was borne, she still wished to lead a decent and industrious life. When released from confinement, she tried to procure a situation at service; but she had no references to give, except Mrs. Andrews and Mrs. Jenkins. When she called a second time, she uniformly met the cold reply, "I hear you have been on Blackwell's Island. I never employ people who have lost their character."

From the last of these attempts, she was walking away hungry and disconsolate, doubtful where to obtain shelter for the night, when she met the magistrate who had sentenced her and the other woman. He spoke to her kindly, gave her a quarter of a dollar, and asked her to call upon him that evening. At parting, he promised to be a friend to her, if she behaved herself, and then

murmured something in a lower tone of voice. What were his ideas of behaving herself were doubtless implied by the whisper; for the girl listened with such a smile as was never seen on her innocent face, before he sent her to improve her education on the island. It is true she knew very little, and thought still less, about the machinery of laws, and regulations for social protection; but it puzzled her poor head, as it does many a wiser one, why men should be magistrates, when they practise the same things for which they send women to Blackwell's Island. She had never read or heard anything about" Woman's Rights;" otherwise it might have occurred to her that it was because men made all the laws, and elected all the magistrates.

The possible effect of magisterial advice and protection is unknown; for she did not accept the invitation to call that evening. As she walked away from the tempter, thinking sadly of Robert Andrews, and her dear brother Jerry, she happened to meet the young man who had gained her first youthful love, unmixed with thoughts of evil. With many tears, she told him her adventures since they parted. The account kindled his indignation and excited his sympathy to a painful degree. Had he lived in a true and rational state of society, the impulse then given to his better feelings might have eventually raised his nature to noble unselfishness and manly frankness. But as it was, he fell back upon deception and false pride. He hired apartments for Susan, and, by some pretence, wheedled his mother out of the means of paying for them. Those who deem the poor girl unpardonable for consenting to this arrangement, would learn mercy if they were placed under similar circumstances of poverty, scorn, and utter loneliness.

Ten years passed since Jerry last parted with his blooming sister, then fourteen years old. He had been shipwrecked twice, and returned from sea in total blindness, caused by mismanagement of the small-pox. He gained a few coppers by playing a clarionet in the street, led by a little ragged boy. Everywhere he inquired for his sister, but no one could give him any tidings of her. One day, two women stopped to listen, and one of them put a shilling into the boy's hand. "Why, Susy, what possesses you to give so much to hear that old cracked pipe?" said one.

"He looks a little like somebody I knew when I was a child," replied the other; and they passed on. The voices were without inflections, rough and animal in tone, indicating that the speakers led a merely sensual existence. The piper did not recognise either of them; but the name of Susy went through his heart, like a sunbeam through November clouds. Then she said he looked like somebody she had known! He inquired of the boy whether the woman called Susy was handsome. He replied, "No. She is lean and pale; her cheek-bones stand out, and her great staring dark eyes look crazy."

The blind man hesitated a moment, and then said: "Let us walk quick and follow them." They did go, but lost sight of the women at the turning of a dirty alley. For six weeks, the blind piper kept watch in the neighbourhood, obviously a very In many houses he inquired if any one

bad one.

knew a woman by the name of Susan Gray; but he always received an answer in the negative. At last an old woman said that a girl named Susan Andrews boarded with her for a while; that she was very feeble, and lived in a street near by. He followed the directions she gave, and stopped before the house to play. People came to the door and windows, and in a few minutes the boy pressed his hand and said, "There is the woman you want to find."

He stopped abruptly, and exclaimed, "Susy!" There was an anxious tenderness in his tones, which the bystanders heard with loud laughter. They shouted, "Susy, you are called for! Here's a beau for you!" and many a ribald jest went round.

But she, in a sadder voice than usual, said, "My poor fellow, what do you want of me ?"

"Did you give me a shilling a few weeks ago?" he asked.

99

"Yes, I did; but surely that was no great thing."

"Had you ever a brother named Jerry?" he inquired.

"Oh, Heavens! tell me if you know anything of him!" she exclaimed.

He fell into her arms, sobbing, "My sister! My poor sister!"

The laughter hushed instantly, and many eyes were filled with tears. There were human hearts there also; and they felt at once the poor piper was Susy's long-lost brother, and that he had come home to her blind.

For an instant, she clasped him convulsively to her heart. Then thrusting him away with a sudden movement, she said, "Don't touch me, Jerry! Don't touch me !"

"Why not, dear sister?" he asked. But she only replied, in a deep, hollow tone of self-loathing, "Don't touch me!"

Not one of the vicious idlers smiled. Some went away weeping; others, with affectionate solicitude, offered refreshments to the poor blind wanderer. Alas, he would almost have wished for blindness, could he have seen the haggard spectre that stood before him, and faintly recognised, in her wild melancholy eyes, his own beloved Rosenglory.

From that hour, he devoted himself to her with the most assiduous attention. He felt that her steps trembled when she leaned on his arm, he observed that her breath came with difficulty, and he knew that she spoke truly when she said she had not long to live. A woman, who visited the house, told him of a charitable institution in Tenth Avenue, called the Home, where women who have been prisoners, and sincerely wish to reform, can find shelter and employment. He went and besought that his sister might be allowed to come there and die.

There, in a well ventilated room, on a elean and comfortable bed, the weary pilgrim at last reposed in the midst of true friends. "Oh, if I had only met with such when my poor mother first died, how different it might all have been," she was wont to say. The blind brother kissed her forehead, and said, "Don't grieve for that now, dear. It was not your fault that you had no friends.”

One day, a kind sympathising lady gave him a bunch of flowers for his sister. Hitherto an undefined feeling of delicacy had restrained him, when

he thought of using the pet-word of their childhood. But thinking it might perhaps please her, he stepped into the room, and said, cheerfully, "Here, Rosenglory! See what I have brought you!" It was too much for the poor nervous sufferer. 66 'Oh, don't call me that!" she said; and she threw herself on his neck, sobbing violently.

He tried to soothe her; and after a while she said, in a subdued voice, "I am bewildered when I think about myself. They tell me that I am a great sinner and so I am. But I never injured any human being; I never hated any one. Only once, when Robert married that rich woman, and told me to keep out of his way, and get my living as others in my situation did-then for a little while, I hated him; but it was not long. Dear Jerry, Í did not mean to be wicked; I never wanted to be wicked. But there seemed to be no place in the world for me. They all wronged me; and my heart dried up. I was like a withered leaf, and the winds blew me about just as it happened."

He pressed her hand to his lips, and hot tears fell upon it. "Oh, bless you, for your love!" she said. "Poor outcast as I am, you do not think I have sinned beyond forgiveness. Do you?"

Fervently he embraced her, and answered, "I too have sinned; but God only knows the secret history of our neglected youth, our wrongs, sufferings, and temptations; and say what they will, I am sure He will not judge us so harshly as men have done."

WEE-CHUSH-TA-DOO-TA was a powerful Sioux chief. He numbered many distinguished warriors among his ancestors, and was as proud of his descent as was ever feudal noble. His name simply signified The Red Man; but he was "a great brave," and the poet of his tribe, whose war-songs were sung on all great occasions. In one of the numerous battles of the Sioux with their enemies the Chippewas, he took prisoner a very handsome little girl. A widowed woman begged to adopt her, to supply the place of a daughter, who had gone to the spirit-land; and thus the pretty young creature was saved from the general massacre of prisoners. As she approached womanhood, the heart of the poet-chieftain inclined towards her, and he made her his wife.

Their first-born was a daughter. When she was two years old, the mother, struck by a peculiarity in the expression of her eyes named her Zah-gahsee-ga-quay, which, in her own language, signified Sun-beams breaking through a Cloud. As she grew older, this poetic name became more and more appropriate; for when she raised her large deeply-shaded eyes, their bright lucid expression was still more obviously veiled with timidity and sadness. Her voice, as usual with young Indian women, was low and musical, and her laugh was

A LEGEND OF THE FALLS OF ST. ANTHONY.

FOUNDED ON INDIAN TRADITION.

"From all its kind

This wasted heart,

This moody mind

Now drifts apart;

It longs to find

The tideless shore,
Where rests the wreck
Of Heretofore-

The great heart-break
Of loves no more.

"I drift alone,

For all are gone,

There was a mixed expression in her character, as in her eyes. She was active, buoyant, and energetic in her avocations and amusements; yet from childhood she was prone to serious moods, and loved to be alone in sequestered places, watching the golden gleam of sunset on the green velvet of the hills, till it passed away, and threw their long twilight shadows across the solitude of the prairies.

Her father, proud of her uncommon intelligence and beauty, resolved to mate her with the most renowned of warriors, and the most expert of hunters. In the spring of 1765, when she had just passed her fourteenth birth-day she attracted the attention of one worthy to claim the prize. Neehee-o-ee-woo, The Wolf of the Hill, was a noblelooking young chief, belonging to the neighbouring tribe of Shiennes. He was noted for bold exploits, superb horsemanship, and the richness of his savage attire. The first time he saw the beautiful Sioux, he looked at her with earnest eyes; and he soon after returned, bringing Wee-chush-ta-doo-ta a valuable present of furs. The maiden understood very well why his courting-flute was heard about the wigwam till late into the night, but the sounds excited no lively emotions in her heart. The dashing young warrior came too late. The week previous, a Frenchman, drawn thither by thirst for new adventures, had arrived with a company of fur traders from Quebec. He was a handsome man ; but Zah-gah-see-ga-quay was less attracted by his expressive face and symmetrical figure, than by his graceful gallantry towards women, to which she had been hitherto unaccustomed. His power

of fascinating was increased by the marked preference bestowed upon herself. She received his attentions with childish delight and pretty bash

fulness, like a coy little bird. The lustrous black hair, which he praised, was braided more neatly than ever; her dress of soft beaver-skins was more coquettishly garnished with porcupine quill-work, and her moccasons were embroidered in gayer patterns.

The beauty of this forest nymph pleased the Frenchman's fancy, and his vanity was flattered by the obvious impression he had made on her youthful imagination. He was incapable of love. A volatile temperament, an early dissipation, had taken from him that best happiness of human life. But Indian lands were becoming more and more desirable to his ambitious nation, and Wee-chushta-doo-ta had the disposal of broad and valuable tracts. He had an aversion to marriage; but this he knew would be but the shadow of a fetter; for he could dissolve the bond at any moment, with as little loss of reputation as if it were a liaison in Paris. Thus reasoned civilized man, while the innocent child of the woods was as unconscious of the possibility of such selfish calculations, as is a robin in the mating season.

Her father had encountered white men, and was consequently more on his guard. When Jerome de Rancé offered rich presents, and asked his daughter in marriage, he replied, "Zah-gah-seega-quay must mate with a chieftain of her own people. If a pale-face marries an Indian woman, he calls her his wife while he likes to look upon her, but when he desires another, he walks away and says she is not his wife. Such are not the customs of the red men."

Though Jerome de Rancé had secretly rejoiced over the illegality of an Indian marriage, being highly civilized, he of course made the most solemn protestations of undying love and everlasting good faith. But the proud chieftain had set his heart upon an alliance with the magnificent Wolf of the Hill, and he listened coldly. Obstacles increased the value of the prize, and the adventurous Frenchman was determined to win his savage bride at any price. With the facility of his pliant nation, he accommodated himself to all the customs of the tribe; he swore to adopt all their friendships and all their enmities: he exercised himself in all performances requiring strength and skill, and on all possible occasions he exhibited the most reckless courage. These things made him very popular, and gained the admiration of the chief, more than was shown by his grave countenance and indifferent manner. Still he could not easily overcome a reluctance to mix his proud race with foreign blood.

De Rancé, considering himself the one who stooped in the proposed alliance, was piqued by what seemed to him a ridiculous assumption of superiority. Had it not been for the tempting Indian lands, of which he hoped to come in possession, he would have gained the loving maiden on his own terms, and left her when he chose, without seeking to conciliate her father. But the fulfilment of his ambitious schemes required a longer probation. With affected indifference, he made arrangements for departure. He intended to re-appear among them suddenly, in a few weeks, to test his power over the Clouded Sunbeam; but he said he was going to traffic with a neighbouring tribe, and it was doubtful whether he should see them again, or return to Canada by a different

route. That she would pine for him, he had no doubt; and he had observed that Wee-chush-tadoo-ta, though bitter and implacable to his enemies, was tender-hearted as a child towards his own family.

He was not mistaken in his calculations. Zahgah-see-ga-quay did not venture to dispute the will of her father; but her sweet voice was no more heard in songs; the sunbeam in her eyes went more and more behind the cloud, and the bright healthy colour of her cheek grew pale. Her listless movements and languid glance pained her mother's heart, and the stern father could not endure the mournfulness of their beseeching looks. He spoke no words, but called together a few of his companions, and went forth apparently to hunt in the forest. Before the moon had traversed half her monthly orbit, he and Jerome entered the wigwam together. Zah-gah-see-ga-quay was seated in a dark corner. Her head leaned despondingly on her hand, and her basket-work lay tangled beside her. As she looked up, a quick blush mantled her face, and her eyes shone like stars. Wee-chush-ta-doo-ta noticed the sudden change, and, in tones of deep tenderness, said, "My child, go to the wigwam of the stranger, that your father may again see you love to look on the rising sun and the opening flowers." There was mingled joy and modesty in the upward glance of the Clouded Sunbeam, and when she turned away bashfully from his triumphant gaze, the Frenchman smiled with a consciousness of unlimited power over her simple heart.

That evening, they rambled alone under the friendly light of the moon. When they returned, a portion of the scarlet paint from her brown cheek was transferred to the face of her lover. Among his Parisian acquaintance, this would have given rise to many a witty jest; but the Indians, with more natural politeness, observed it silently. A few days after, the gentle daughter of the Sioux passed into the tent of the stranger, and became his wife.

Years passed on, and she remained the same devoted, submissive friend. In all domestic avocations of the Indians, she was most skilful. No one made more beautiful matting, or wove into it such pretty patterns. The beaver skins she dressed were as soft and pliable as leather could be. She rowed her canoe with light and vigorous stroke, and the flight of her arrow was unerring. Her husband loved her as well as was possible for one of his butterfly temperament and selfish disposition; but the deferential courtesy of the European lover gradually subsided into something like the lordly indifference of the men around him. He was never harsh; but his affectionate bride felt the change in his manner, and sometimes wept in secret. When she nestled at his feet, and gazed into his countenance with her peculiarly pleading plaintive look, she sometimes obtained a glance such as he had given her in former days. Then her heart would leap like a frolicsome lamb, and she would live cheerfully on the remembrance of that smile through wearisome days of silence and neglect. Her love amounted to passionate idolatry. If he wished to cross the river, she would ply the oar, lest he should suffer fatigue. She carried his quiver and his gun through the forest, and when they returned at twilight, he lounged indolently

on the bottom of the boat, while she dipped her oars in unison with her low sweet voice, soothing him with some simple song, where the same plaintive tones perpetually came, and went away in lullaby-cadence.

To please him, she named her son and daughter Felicie and Florimond, in memory of his favourite brother and sister. On these little ones she could lavish her abundant love without disappointment or fear. The children inherited their parents' beauty; but Felicie, the eldest, was endowed with a double portion. She had her mother's large lucid eye, less deeply shaded with the saddening cloud; but her other features resembled her handsome father. Her oval cheeks had just enough of the Indian tint to give them a rich warm colouring. At thirteen years old, her tall figure combined the graceful elasticity of youth, with the rounded fulness of womanhood. She inherited her father's volatile temperament, and was always full of fun and frolic. As a huntress, she was the surest eye, and the fleetest foot; and her pretty canoe skimmed the waters like a stormy petrel. It was charming to see this young creature, so full of life, winding about among the eddies of the river, or darting forward, her long black hair streaming on the wind, and her rich red lips parted with eagerness. She sported with her light canoe, and made it play all manner of gambols in the water. It dashed and splashed, and whirled round in pirouettes, like an opera-dancer; then, in the midst of swift circles, she would stop at once, and laugh, as she gracefully shook back the hair from her glowing face. Jerome de Rancé had never loved anything, as he did this beautiful child. But something of anxiety and sadness mingled with his pride, when he saw her caracoling on her swift little white horse of the prairies, or leaping into the chase, or making her canoe caper like a thing alive. Buoyant and free was her Indian childhood; but she was approaching the period when she would be claimed as a wife; and he could not endure the thought that the toilsome life of a squaw would be the portion of his beautiful daughter. He taught her to dance to his flute, and hired an old Catholic priest to instruct her in reading and writing. But these lessons were irksome to the Indian girl, and she was perpetually eluding her father's vigilance, to hunt squirrels in the woods, or sport her canoe among the eddies. He revolved many plans for her future advancement in life; and sometimes, when he turned his restless gaze from daughter to mother, the wife felt troubled, by an expression she did not understand. In order to advance his ambitious views, it was necessary to wean Felicie from her woodland home; and he felt that his Clouded Sunbeam, though still beautiful, would be hopelessly out of place in Parisian saloons. Wee-chush-ta-doo-ta and his wife were dead, and their relatives were too much occupied with war and hunting to take particular notice of the white man's movements. The acres of forest and prairie, which he had received, on most advantageous terms, from his Indian father-in-law, were sold, tract after tract, and the money deposited in Quebec. Thither he intended to convey first his daughter, and then his son, on pretence of a visit, for the purposes of education, but in reality with the intention of deserting his wife, to return no more.

According to Indian custom, the mother's right to her offspring amounts to unquestioned law. If her husband chooses to leave the tribe, the children must remain with her. It was therefore necessary to proceed artfully. De Rance became more than usually affectionate; and Zah-gah-seega-quay, grateful for such gleams of his old tenderness, granted his earnest prayer, that Felicie might go to Quebec, for a few moons only. The Canadian fur-traders made their annual visit at this juncture, and he resolved to accept their escort for himself and daughter. His wife begged hard to accompany them; humbly promising that she would not intrude among his white friends, but would remain with a few of her tribe, hidden in neighbouring woods, where she could now and then get a glimpse of their beloved faces. Such an arrangement was by no means pleasing to the selfish European. The second time she ventured to suggest it, he answered briefly and sternly, and the beautiful shaded eyes filled with unnoticed tears. Felicie was the darling of her heart; she so much resembled the handsome Frenchman, as she had first known him. When the parting hour came, she clung to her daughter with a passionate embrace, and then starting up with convulsive energy, like some gentle animal when her young is in danger, she exclaimed, "Felicie is my child, and I will not let her go." De Rancé looked at her, as he had never looked before, and raised his arm to push her away. Frightened at the angry expression of his eye, she thought he intended to strike her; and with a deep groan she fell on the earth, and hid her face in the long grass.

Felicie sobbed, and stretched out her arms imploringly towards her mother; but quick as a flash, her father lifted her on the horse, swung himself lightly into the same saddle, and went off at a swift gallop. When the poor distracted mother rose from the ground, they were already far off, a mere speck on the wide prairie. This rude parting would perhaps have killed her heart, had it not been for her handsome boy of seven summers. sad countenance, he gravely seated himself by her side. She spoke no word to him, but the tears rolled slowly down, as she gazed at him, and tried to trace a resemblance to his unkind father.

With a

The promised period of return arrived; but moon after moon passed away, and nothing was heard from the absent ones. A feeling that she had been intentionally deceived gradually grew strong within the heart of the Indian mother; and the question often arose, "Will he seek to take my boy away also?" As time passed on, and suspicion changed into certainty, she became stern and bitter. She loved young Florimond intensely; but even this love was tinged with fierceness, hitherto foreign to her nature. She scornfully abjured his French name, and called him Mah-to-chee-ga, The Little Bear. Her strongest wish seemed to be to make him as hard and proud as his grandfather had been, and to instil into his bosom the deadliest hatred of white men. The boy learned her lessons well. He was the most inveterate little savage that ever let fly an arrow. Already, he carried at his belt the scalp of a boy older and bigger than himself, the son of a chief with whom his tribe were at war. The Sioux were proud of his vigour and his boldness, and considered his reckless courage almost a