A moment's pause, and a quick glance round,
And before a heart could beat,
The deep blue ice was musical

With the sound of Willemzoon's feet. "Now hie thee fast, Dirk Willemzoon!

Race quick o'er the frozen flood!
For in anger sore from the prison door
Comes the messenger of blood!

"Now haste! O haste! tread deft and firm
For the sake of home and wife,
Plant nimble feet on the bending ice
For liberty and life!"

With lips set fast and kindling eye,

He flees, and a moment more

He has reached firm ground and has left behind

The treacherous ice-made floor!

With gathered force and a freer tread,
He follows the well-known track,
Home and life are the goal before,

And death in looking back.

He climbs the bank; but hark! that sound
That booms from the icy plain!
That ominous crack! that piercing cry!
Instinct with fear and pain!

Look back, Dirk Willemzoon, now look back To the frozen flood, and see

How Heaven and earth have leagued their might

To fight for thy liberty.

The enemy hath fallen!

Heaven's hand hath struck him down,
The ice has split, in the midst of it
See how thy foe doth drown.

"God be praised," quoth Dirk-"for as we

have heard

In the glorious days of old, His vengeance hath fallen like lightning As prophet and seer foretold. And He who brought forth His chosen, And set his people free,

And cast all Pharaoh's lordly host

Like lead in the mighty sea,

Hath borne His servant across the flood In safety like a sheep,

And hath overwhelmed his enemy

Once more in the giant deep.

Once more the world shall know God hears
The lowly one's complaints,

Once more the blood of their cruel foes
Shall wash the feet of His saints."

And a gentle cloud o'erspreads his face
With a shade of pity and pain.
He looks on his panting, drowning foe,
Ice-bound unto bitter death,
Looks from the way of freedom won,
To Alva's minion beneath!

And surging within his bosom
A rush of new thoughts arose,
As he thinks of One Who when dying
Prayed for His cruel foes.
Would He Who for our safety

Once laid His dear life down,
Stand idle in savage triumph
And let a foeman drown?

The blood-stained hand of the Shepherd
Who sought the wandering sheep,
Would surely reach forth to rescue
The dying from out the deep.

He thought of a loving hand stretched out
In Gethsemane to heal,

In the crown of thorns, in the bitter cross,
Dirk felt a mute appeal.

And He who rebuked His servants
Who longed for avenging fire,
Hath taught Dirk Willemzoon to see
That love's revenge is higher.

A moment more, and the savage flush
Of his hasty joy is gone.

The wish for life-the longing for home

Have passed, and the struggle is done: And Dirk Willemzoon turns, and steps again To the icy seaway back,

And treads once more with careful feet
The doubly perilous track.

He reached out his arms o'er the fatal gulf, With labouring movement slow;

He hung o'er the crumbling chasm,

And drew forth his drowning foe! The ice beneath them swayed and groaned, It starred to left and right, But it bore its burden bravely,

Helping Dirk's noble fight.

Now God be thanked, for the land is reached: "Now Dirk get you gone, be free, For to take you back to a flaming death Is too gruesome work for me! Nay, stay not now," quoth the sergeant, "You are safer far away,

And God give you more than I can,

For the deed you have done this day."

Dirk turned to fly-but who is this, Dark-browed and fierce and stern, Whose cruel eyes in their sockets deep, Like hell's own lanterns burn?

HREE gentlemen were sitting together in a room in London one afternoon in the early summer of the year 1744. The eldest of these was Lord Lackland, a nobleman now somewhat advanced in life, whose character his worst enemy could hardly hope to blacken, and whose manners the polite could but aspire to equal. Near him sat his son, Captain Eustace Lackland, who had recently, at the conclusion of the Treaty of Aixla-Chapelle, returned to England, and who was at this time nearly twenty-six years old, as happy-tempered, improvident and agreeable a young gentleman as any in his majesty's service. Their companion was Sir John Goldwin, a busy person, often described, both inaccurately and inadequately, as "a worthy merchant."

"Our affairs, Eustace," Lord Lackland was saying, "are, in short, in the most hopeless posture of embarrassment, and I look to you to retrieve the fortunes of the family."

"I can assure you, sir," answered Eustace, "of my entire willingness to oblige you. May I ask whether you have any scheme to recommend for the purpose?

"You must marry," said Lord Lackland.

The young gentleman, carelessly shifting his position so as to bring a second shoe buckle under observation, replied: ""Tis not so long, sir, since I had a mind to the step and you forbade it."

"Pshaw folly!" cried his lordship (though indeed these were not the strongest interjections that he employed), "why do you speak of that boyish madness? You ought to thank me for having saved you from it; as I warrant your cousin Rosa does by this time. You must marry a woman who will enable you to make some figure in

the world. You have a fine person, a captain's title, and some reputation as a soldier, your name is as old as any in England."

Here the young gentleman appeared to murmur, that like some other ancient things it had become no little tarnished; but Lord Lackland was discreetly deaf.

"The world must be changed indeed if these things cannot purchase a wealthy wife. And, let me tell you, 'tis vain to look to me for the payment of your debts."

66

Indeed, sir," returned Eustace with some simplicity, "I have no such expectation. As for marriage, though I have of late entertained no design of it, nor can think the state conducive in general to happiness, yet (the lady not objectable, and an addition of fortune attending) I have no unconquerable aversions to it."

Lord Lackland smiled. "Sir John," said he," has been opening to me a proposal."

Here Sir John, a gentleman at all times impatient of silence, took up the word. "The lady, Captain Lackland, is Miss Dorothy Marlowe. She is of most honourable family, not yet turned of twenty, and has always lived with her aunt in a retired part of Devonshire. She is, I am informed, very handsome, and perfectly well bred and polite."

Eustace heard this account with great attention and little belief. The lady, he said to himself, was no doubt an awkward rustic whom her friends were desirous of establish

ing in life. For was it credible to any reflecting mind that the guardians of a young creature of wealth and family, perfectly well bred and handsome, would offer her in marriage to a penniless and indebted young gentleman of no shining reputation?

"Is it to her aunt," he inquired, "that I owe this favouring proposal?"

Sir John laughed aloud, and Lord Lackland did not repress a smile.

"You are in error, my good Captain Lackland," said Sir John, " the aunt knows nothing of this. She is at present in London, whither she has come partly to consult a physician, her health being but crazy, and partly to take advice with me as to the disposing of her fortune, and the making of her will. She designs to leave everything to Miss Dorothy, who is also-mark me—a considerable heiress in her own right, though she has been kept in ignorance of the circumstance."

"Pray proceed," said Eustace gravely, and Sir John proceeded.

"Miss Marlowe had in her youth great expectations, and was promised in marriage to a gentleman of the neighbourhood, who, her expectations being disappointed, very abruptly and unhandsomely quitted her. Some years after, the unlooked for death of a relative made her mistress of a considerable fortune. Alarmed by her own experiences, she fears above all things that her niece may be sought in marriage with a view solely to her wealth. But in love, as in war, 'tis a maxim that artifice is ever allowable. The young lady is in Devonshire under the care of the vicar of the parish, whose daughter is I believe her bosom friend. "Tis your part to go thither, to win the affections of the young lady, and the confidence of her guardians, and so to prosecute the affair that you may make her your wife before the aunt is able to interpose."

Eustace appeared to reflect. In all this he could find no explanation of Sir John's eagerness.

"May I ask, Sir John," said he, "what. profit you propose to yourself in this affair? Since, if it be not such as I may hear, I must conclude 'tis to be at my expense and decline accordingly."

"You are more free, Captain Lackland, than courteous," Sir John returned, reddening. But, meeting the young gentleman's steady gaze, he judged it prudent to be frank, and explained that he had an opportunity of purchasing at a low figure the claims of several of Captain Lackland's creditors.

"Ay," said Eustace, carelessly, "I should suppose they are not a very marketable ware. But how, Sir John, if I should take no liking to the young lady? You will scarce, I believe, dispose of my debts at a profit."

"There may be less difficulty, sir," rejoined Sir John with some asperity, "in disposing of the person of the debtor."

His warmth convinced Eustace that his

interests were involved. He asked the name of Miss Dorothy Marlowe's residence, and was told that the village was called Rosedale, and the vicar, Dr. Barnard.

"She is, I believe," said Sir John, “ a good girl, accomplished, docile, and might make any man happy."

A picture rose up before the young man's imagination, of the simple country girl, not yet turned of twenty, growing up like a rose in a parsonage garden. He kept silence for a minute or so; then looking up, and becoming aware of his father's eyes upon him, shrugged his shoulders and said indifferently that he was ready to go into Devonshire if they wished, to find the lady agreeable if he could, and if so to do his endeavour to be pleasing to her in turn. And with this, after inquiring whether they had any further commands for him, he took his leave.

Captain Lackland went down into Devonshire in a temper as careless and cheerful as usual. The weather was agreeable, the adventure promised to be entertaining, and the part he was to play looked less black from his own point of view than when it was but a project of Sir John's. For he was, notwithstanding his carelessness, beginning to grow weary of his idle and indebted course of life, and found it easy to imagine himself entering upon new and better ways. as for Miss Dorothy Marlowe, it is perhaps hardly strange that he could think it no irreparable injury to her to be made hist wife, since he was sure he should never behave otherwise than kindly to any woman whom he could like well enough to marry.

II.

And

ON the lawn, as we should say they called it the bowling green-of Rosedale parsonage, several young people were at play. Their game was a sort of blind man's buff in which all the players who were not blindfolded joined hands in a ring, the blindfolded forming its centre. The endeavours of each to elude the pursuer without breaking the circle caused a lively fluctuation. The game was at its briskest when a well-dressed young gentleman approached through the wicket. gate that divided the garden from the churchyard, and finding himself unobserved stood looking on at the group of players as they advanced and retreated with swift motions and sudden laughter. His attention was at once attracted by a young lady whose airs of

languor distinguished her at least as much as her really remarkable good looks. There was something too in her dress, a little more studied than that of her companions. Eustace watched her, and wondered whether this was Miss Dorothy Marlowe. From her his eye wandered to the three or four young men who were of the party, and he caught himself regarding them with some jealous displeasure. He could not deny to himself

that two of them at least were neither awkward nor rustic. It appeared unpleasantly probable that he might be forestalled. As these thoughts were passing through his mind he perceived that he was observed. The circle was broken, and a young lady, who looked graver and older than most, came towards him. Eustace, on his side, was advancing bareheaded to meet her, when to his unbounded amazement he felt himself

encircled by a pair of arms. Starting, he turned, and found that the young lady who was blindfolded, being, of course, unable to see that a stranger had approached, had taken him prisoner. She held him firmly with one hand while the other was employed in exploring his height and testing the texture of his coat.

"William," said she, in a clear and decided voice, and let him go.

Some of her fellow players, recovering the power of speech, cried out in dismay, "No, no; oh, Dorothy!"

At the name " Dorothy" Eustace instantly looked back. She, finding herself mistaken, in the same moment laid hands on him again. Again a resolute grasp detained his arm, and a gentle and inquiring little hand travelled up to gain a complete assurance of his

stature.

"Then 'tis you, Dr. Marsh, but truly, sir, since you are fairly caught, you must abide your fortune."

"Indeed, madam, I ask no better," said Eustace.

His voice, the confused exclamations of her comrades, the touch of the sword hilt, upon which her hand chanced to fall, combined to proclaim to her her error.

"Who-who, then?" she cried.

She snatched off the bandage, and displayed to Eustace's curiosity, an alarmed countenance in which a pair of brown, clear, and dark eyes formed so remarkable a feature that the beholder was apt to lose sight of everything else. Eustace knew of nothing but her eyes and her expression. He did not remember to consider whether she was beautiful; he only received the impression of a genuine and beautiful nature.

"Oh, sir!" she stammered, “indeed I ask your pardon."

And as she spoke she blushed violently. Eustace replied, he hardly knew in what words, that it was rather he who had need of pardon; and went on to say a little insincerely, "I was seeking the good vicar, your worthy father."

For it had come into his mind that there might be two Dorothies among this company, and that possibly this was not Miss Marlowe after all. His doubt, however, was not at this time satisfied, for the eldest Miss Barnard, who had before begun to address him, now offered to conduct him to her father, and he was obliged to follow towards the house. But fortune, favouring his adventure, brought the doctor at this moment into sight. He advanced placidly, and with a benignant smile, and invited Eustace to return with him to his study. The latter, however, protested that his business was by no means private, that he would detain the doctor but a few minutes, and would not trouble him to go back to the house. The doctor bowed, and Eustace began to say that he designed to stay in Rosedale, and desired to lodge with some decent family, no matter how humble, rather than at an inn. He observed while he spoke, that several of the party were beginning to take leave. Four young ladies remained, of whom Dorothy was one, the languid beauty another, and she who had led him to her father a third. The fourth was a clear-eyed sensible-looking girl, whom he had heard addressed by the name of Charlotte. At her side lingered the young man called William, for whom Dorothy had at first mistaken him.

The doctor asked counsel of his eldest daughter, Miss Priscilla, who recommended the parish clerk, and Eustace, judging that this functionary would probably live near at hand, was eager in accepting the proposal. She offered to send for the clerk at once. and went indoors for that purpose, while Eustace, at the doctor's invitation, sat down with him under the arbour, and began to tell him his name and something of his circumstances. Dr. Barnard on hearing that his guest was Captain Lackland, made one or two complimentary speeches about what he chose to call his distinguished bravery. Eustace all this time was seeking for some way of satisfying himself that Dorothy was indeed Miss Marlowe. He therefore boldly congratulated the vicar upon the beauty and charms of the four young ladies, his daughters.

"Three of them only are mine," replied