to-day, determined to speak to you. I have news for you. I, too, had a letter from him, saying he should be home to-day; but I got it last night, and this morning brings me a note from Lina, who is staying with my aunt, and constantly meets the Heytesburys and George. There is her letter; read it for yourself."

Laura pushed the offered letter from her.

Oh, are you a woman," she said, "that you can thus torture me? I never did you any harm."

"You did; you did; he is fickle, vain. I know all his faults, but I love him only all the more for them. He might-he would have come back to me but for you. So you will not take the letter? It is all the same; you cannot escape hearing what is in it. Lina tells me that George gives the last dinner of the season at Richmond to-day; it is quite an impromptu affair, given at Adelaide's request. And what does it matter to him that you should be disappointed, so long as his new fancy is pleased ?"

"If you will not be silent, I shall stop the carriage and leave it; it can take you home, and come back for me. I shall wait in one of those cottages."

"Do, and see how pleased George will be at such an exhibition. Do you think the world has been taken in by your downcast eyes and nunlike placidity? Not a bit of it. Your platonic friendship with Lord Serle has been well ventilated. Do you think that no one is aware of Lord Serle's having been down here within the last few weeks? The whole country knows it."

"Your words and gestures are those of an insane woman," said Laura. "You may say what you please, I shall not answer a word.” "You cannot-you know you are in my power."

Laura bent back, white and still, her breath coming in gasps, her eyes closed; and Magdalen, who was still more enraged by the passive endurance of her companion, lost the last remnant of womanly reticence which clung to her, and, with a wild light in her flushed face, she seized Laura's wrist, crushing it painfully in her strong grasp, and bent over her. It was only a few words she said, but when that hissing whisper reached Laura's ear, she sprang up, and, with the cry of a creature tortured beyond endurance, pulled the check-string as if she would have broken it. The coachman pulled in his high-mettled horses so suddenly that the carriage went backwards several yards.

"Stop! stop!" cried Laura; "let me out. I shall walk back to those cottages we passed some minutes since. When you have left Miss Heathcote at her house you can come back for me.' Magdalen caught at her dress, but with a movement of utter loathing Laura, now quite transported out of herself, shook her garments free from the other's grasp. The men looked in doubt and astonishment from the ladies to each other, but Laura went on: "Let me out. Do you not hear me? Oh, let me out at once!"

In another moment the footman had the carriage door open, and his mistress, placing her shaking hand on his shoulder, put her foot on the first step, when the impatient horses started and swerved. Laura, dizzy with excitement, swayed for a second, and the next she was lying on her face on the hard road, where she had been thrown with frightful violence. Miss Heathcote leaped down as lightly as a bird, and assisted to raise the

prostrate girl. The coachman could not leave his horses, and the footman was so terrified that he was almost useless.

"Don't stand staring and shivering there, man!" exclaimed Magdalen. "Do you think I can raise her without help? What are you shaking for? She will do well enough, there is no fear."

"Ma'am, I am afraid she is dead. Oh, what shall we do ?" "Do! hold her in your arms while I settle those cushions and shawls. There now, lay her gently down-so. Get home as slowly as you can make the horses go, so as not to shake her more than can be avoided. I will go back to those cottages, and send some one for a surgeon." "But, ma'am, my mistress is dead."

"She is not dead, idiot! Are you so frightened for a little blood ?" "She lies so still."

"Get home, I order you. Stay, sit in the carriage, and hold her so as to prevent her being shaken out of that position."

"I dare not while she lies like that," answered the man, doggedly. "I will run to the cottages for water."

And away he went. Miss Heathcote found a smelling-bottle in the pocket of the carriage, and opening Laura's bonnet-strings so as to give more air, applied the strong essence to the poor young creature's nostrils, and finding that of no avail, poured some on her own fingers, and rubbed the temples and hands of her hated rival, but nothing had any power to restore animation to the rigid and motionless form. The footman came back, attended by a gaping crowd of women and girls, all alive with excitement. The water they brought was dashed on Laura's face and hands, but still she lay with no sign of life save the slow welling of the blood from her mouth.

"Home at once! We are only losing time," rang out Magdalen's voice.

"Please, ma'am, would it not be better if you went in the carriage with my mistress, and I will see about the surgeon ?"

"No, I shall not go; do as you are bid." And the footman entered the carriage, while Magdalen turned to send some of the people to the village, where they could easily get a conveyance which would soon take them to the town where the surgeon lived, and which was about two miles off. "I have no money with me. You can call at Heathcote Park, and you shall be well paid," she said, as she gathered her habit over her arm, and went off down a by-lane which would cut off at least a mile from the distance between her and home.

The horses were tolerably quieted now, and as they went along, the footman said:

"This here's a bad day's work for us, Mason. There's been some awful row, and that one" (pointing backwards with his thumb) "is mad, if ever I see a mad one."

"What d'ye mean, Griffin ?"

"I mean this, that she" (again pointing back) "talked and talked to my mistress, and she" (indicating Laura) "seemed not to want to hear, and at last she cried out to be let away. Mark me, there's something

bad at the bottom of it."

Still without sense or visible life, Laura was brought home and carried to her own chamber, and the house was filled with a terror behind which gloomed the shadow of death.

THE MERCHANT OF ODENSE.

BY WILLIAM JONES.

I.

OLAF BAGER had plenty of cash,
Was leader on 'Change-not over-rash—
So traded and prosper'd as merchant prince
Never has done before or since.

He had plenty of houses, plenty of land,
Everything wealth could wish or command,
And Denmark was proud, as well she might be,
Of the worthy merchant of Odense.

The good man had no notion of self,
But look'd upon money as so much pelf,
Except to sow it broadcast around,

When weeds of sorrow had cursed the ground.
The poor man worn, his altar shatter'd,"

Blest the gold manna thus timely scatter'd,
And Olaf the Pitiful felt elate

As he open'd his heart, his purse, and his gate.

Olaf Bager was loyal-his coffers wide
Good grist to the royal mills supplied;
'Twas the readiest way to raise the wind,
For the sails moved slow, with arrears behind.
But Olaf was always a friend in deed,
To grease the wheels of the State at need;
"Twas a rickety coach must be confess'd,
And royal roads are not always the best.
The King was a spendthrift, as most kings are,
And ventured on loans too oft by far,
While I O U's, at renewable dates-
Meant to be paid from taxes and rates—

Were always a long time overdue,

Till scarcely a Christian, much less a Jew,
Would trust the monarch throughout the land,
And Olaf alone gave a helping hand.

The King was grateful in some degree,
For whenever he came to Odense,
He supp'd with Olaf, and courtly words
Can charm a creditor's deepest chords.
A banquet worthy a millionaire,
A cordial greeting, and sumptuous fare,
Were always ready whenever he came,
And added lustre to Olaf's fame.

At one of these feasts King Frederick sate,
In the merchant's hall, on a chair of state,
Before him the tables in long array
Were garnish'd with dainties, a rich display:
Spices and meats, rare flow'rs and fruits,
Unseen before by the Danes or Jutes,
Were heap'd in profusion, many unknown,
Brought at great cost from a distant zone.

Heavens, what a dish!" the King exclaim'd;
"Why Eden the Blest, for marvels famed,
Sure never had peaches so luscious, so fine,
And the perfume is something, I vow, divine!"
"My liege, say you so ?" the host replied,
As he rose with a look of gratified pride;
"I have something to show more fragrant yet,
That your majesty will not so soon forget!"

A golden censer to Olaf was brought,
Of wondrous beauty and gem inwrought;
With scented woods from the East 'twas crown'd,
Exhaling a thousand sweets around.

Then Olaf approach'd with a smiling face,
To the king he said, with a reverent grace,
"Will your majesty deign this pile to light,
And cancel the royal bonds to-night ?"

Years roll'd apace, still the merchant throve;
A well-fill'd quiver had bless'd his love;
Each daughter received a splendid dow'r,
His sons, ennobled, arose to pow'r,
When-such is the changeful lot of man-
A turn in the prosperous tide began;
His riches and fame were failing fast,
The grand old tree was shatter'd at last.

Sudden and unforeseen was the fall,

Friends had betray'd him, not few, but all;
Those, too, cnrich'd by his generous aid
Were foremost now to defame and upbraid;

"His means," they said, "had been lavishly spent On schemes of pride and ambition bent,

Else why had he aided a thriftless king,
Except for the honours such court would bring ?"

Ingratitude cuts like a keen-edged sword,
And Olaf shudder'd at every word;
But worse than this was the bitter smart
That chill'd the blood in his deepest heart.
His children, for whom he had toil'd long years,
Derided the old man, mock'd his tears,

Refused him a pittance, though few his wants,
And drove him away with jeers and taunts.

Sorrowing, like Lear, o'er his graceless brood,
Poor Olaf pined in his solitude;
But after a while he veils his grief,
And seeks his children, but not for relief:

"Fortune," he says, with a tranquil smile,
"Like the cast of the dice our minds beguile-
One throw and we rise, at another we fall,
But still there is hope in the world for all.

"Beyond the sea I have debtors still,
Who are ready to pay with right good will,
If I prove to them that my claims are just;
In such good faith I may surely trust."
So Olaf departed, and soon return'd
To those who his love had rudely spurn'd;
A chest, large and massive, the old man brought,
With bolts by a skilful locksmith wrought.

"You see, my children," the merchant said,
"That fate befriends me-the debts are paid;
A few brief years I may linger yet,
But the sun of my life is well-nigh set.
I need no wealth, 'tis a home I seek,

For my heart is weary, my limbs are weak;
The child that my closing life sustains

Shall have for reward what this chest contains."

What transports fell on the father's ears!
What bursts of affection and gushing tears!
By sons and daughters alike caress'd,
Each struggle to have the honour'd guest.
Olaf seem'd moved by their fervent zeal

(Though his secret scorn he could scarce conceal). "No choice is left where such ardours burn,

I will visit each one,” he said, “in turn."

III.

The merchant his "short lease" long survived,
Of no comfort or want in his age deprived;
His children vied in the tenderest care,
Officious, and eager his wealth to share.
At length came the Summoner: Olaf said
To his children around him, "My will is made,
Where all are alike, no choice I make,
The coffer is fill'd, so let all partake."

"Dear, good old man, how kind to the last!"
Were the words that between the heirs now pass'd.
In state he is borne to his resting-place,
The cortége follows with measured pace:
A hurried return from the home of death,
The chest is open'd, with eager breath
They gaze, and with looks of blank surprise,
For a heap of rubbish before them lies!

A parchment scroll to the lid is bound,
And, 'midst the silence of all around,
These lines inscribed by Olaf are read-
A just reproach from the voiceless dead:
These for my thankless offspring-stone for stone-
Gold should be worthy sterling hearts alone;
For love which feeds on wealth no warmth sustains-
Stone may be varnish'd, but the chill remains!"