Courage rejects, Greater frankness

gem, by which they attempt to make amends for their want of firmness. Finesse is always the resource of weakness. and strength despises it. on his part, might have given to this narrative a different complexion; for the fortunes of life often turn on very slight accidents.

But on his simple history Cavendish mused for some moments. The silence had its

effect on the weary faculties of the young scholar. His eyes involuntarily closed, and the strains of soft music, which stole from a distant room, helped to strengthen the charm of sleep. He sank into a profound slumber. When next he woke, he had a confused remembrance of having been surrounded by several persons; but could recall nothing distinctly beyond the look fixed on him by the stranger when his story had ended.

CHAPTER V.

"Le Pauure a tousiours pour l'object de son cœur, et pour deuise ces paroles en la bouche: Seigneur, ie n'ay esperance qu'en vous: Mon Dieu, ayez souvenance de moy. Et partant, dit Lucifer, en redoublant ses maudits hurlemens, ie veux dés à present que l'on publie par toute l'etendue de nos estats, les calamitez, les trauaux, et la persecution, pour ennemis mortels de l'Enfer; attendu qu'on a les reconnus pour estre du parti contraire, et enroollez en la milice de Dieu, en outre, que ce sont des effects de sa Sapience infinie, et des dons de sa main souueraine."-Les Visions de Quevedo (Paris, 1633).

THOSE who traverse the highways of crowded cities, may know nothing of their byways. It is in the finer veins of the body

that the transformation of the blood takes place. A process like that is ever going on in great societies. Life flows freely through their main arteries; but in the more minute channels there is a constant process of trial and conflict. Ay, and it is there that the life-blood of nations is purified by all the virtues of courage and endurance.

Apart from the main thoroughfares of the city, are narrow streets and courts of tall

dark houses, where toiling poverty finds a home. Nothing can be more dreary than the appearance of these dingy abodes. Their foundations have so shrunk that they stand awry, and their worm-eaten sashes seem ready to drop from their frames. It is to one of these tall dismal houses that I have to conduct the reader. The door-post is thickly studded with bell-handles, and little brass plates. If you do not know the usages of the house, you will certainly commit some gross blunder in ringing one bell instead of another, or in giving a rat-tat-tat when you ought to have confined yourself to one loud single knock.

It is evening, and a heedless hand has pulled the first bell-handle it chanced to encounter. The door is opened by some invisible agency, and quickly shut. Before the visiter recovers from his surprise he is clasped round the neck, and receives—well, no matter. Then he hears, "Dear Henry, how late you are; I had almost given you up." He stammers forth an exclamation of astonishment, and says he had called to see Miss Ashley. The answer is a faint scream, and then a sentence of reproachful remonstrance, "Oh, why didn't you ring the attic bell?”

The sylph vanishes up stairs, and only a glance of a round chubby face and glossy ringlets is caught as she passes by the staircase window, illuminated by a gas-lamp outside. But as the visiter is a tall handsome youth, be sure she is not so very much displeased after all. It will serve for many a jest with Harry when he comes the next evening.

One, two, three, four pair up to the attic. The ceilings get lower, the stairs more winding, the planks more rotten, the banisters more decayed, as you ascend. And, when that landing-place is reached, what a place does it seem for a human home! Above is a trapdoor, hinting pretty plainly the danger to which the inhabitants are exposed from fire. In a corner is a cupboard serving for pantry, larder, cellar, and I know not how many other uses. The roof here is slanting, and in place of the two rooms of the lower stories there is but one. How wretched must the inmates of that dwelling be! So, indeed, one would think who had not considered the elasticity of being, and the fine capacity which nature has of adapting itself to all circumstances and conditions of life.

From that poor attic came only sounds of

light-hearted merriment. Two female voices could be distinguished, one bantering the other. The quick challenge and reply of lively conversation was mingled with outbreaks of laughter, and snatches of song, and playful caresses. Then there was the affectation of reproach, then silence for a few moments, broken by one of the voices singing softly and lovingly :

"Her eyes the glowworm lend thee;

The shooting stars attend thee;

And the elves also,

Whose little eyes glow

Like sparks of fire, befriend thee.

"Let not the dark thee cumber;

What, though the moon does slumber?

The stars of the night

Will lend their light,

Like tapers clear without number."

It was a snatch of some old song, remembered in the fancy of the moment to express the affection of one sister for another.

When the door opened, this poor room looked better than one could have supposed from its outside. It had all those signs of habitation and of homeliness which give to the meanest dwelling an aspect of comfort, and it had besides some peculiar fittings which render it worth description.

Its one small window was imbedded in a