"Liberty and life!" groaned the miserable gamester. "Curse me, for I deserve it."

He was answered by his faithful wife in a manner he had no reason to expect. Kneeling at his feet, she prayed to Heaven to save him from despair, and vowed that she would toil for his support while she had hands to work with.

"I have done a deed

"It is too late!" he cried. that cannot be retrieved; a deed that seals your misery here and mine hereafter."

"A deed? What deed? Surely he raves, Charlotte. Yet his looks terrify me."

"I fear the worst," said Charlotte, with apprehensive countenance. "What is it, brother?" "A deed of horror.-Ha! villain, what brings you here?" His eyes were fixed fiercely on Stukely, who entered at that instant.

"I came to bring you safety. The arrest last night was well meant, but came too late. Here, madam, is his discharge." He handed Mrs. Beverly a paper. "Let him fly instantly."

"Fly!—from what?" cried Charlotte.

"I would have kept his hands from blood, but was too late."

"From blood! whose blood? Is this the deed he spoke of? Whose blood, villian ?"

"From Lewson's blood."

"Lewson!" cried Charlotte, rushing, white with terror, towards him. "We have not seen him to-day. What of him? Quick!"

"He is dead. Murdered, men say."

"Murdered!

Lewson! Oh, horrible! Who has killed him ?-Brother, he charges you" "Silence all," exclaimed Beverly. "Proceed, sir. What have you more to say?"

"Nothing," answered Stukely. "Here comes the evidence of my words." Bates had entered while he spoke.

"Take comfort, madam," said Bates to Charlotte. "There's one without asking for you. Go to him at once."

"Oh, miserable me! Lewson slain ! My brother!" faltered Charlotte, with a face of deathly pallor, as with trembling steps she complied with Bates's request.

"Follow her, Jarvis," exclaimed Mrs. Beverly. "Her grief may kill her."

"Jarvis must stay here," replied Bates. "He is needed, madam.”

"Rather let him fly," said Stukely. "His evidence may crush his master."

66

'Why, what means all this?" asked Beverly. "What new villany Oh, I am sick! Bring me a chair!"

As Mrs. Beverly hastened to help him to one, Dawson entered.

"What brings you here?" asked Stukely. "I bade him come," answered Bates. "You need all your witnesses. Here are two of us.

There is still another."

"Another?"

"Yes. Yonder he comes. Look at him."

As he spoke Lewson entered the room, Charlotte clinging to his arm.

"Lewson!" exclaimed Stukely, with wildlystaring eyes and quivering lips. "Oh, you cursed villains!"

"Lewson, and alive again," exclaimed that individual. "You hardly looked for me, friend Stukely, after having laid so neat a plan for my taking off. Sharpers and false dice were not enough, it seems, but you must dabble in murder, and so turn your tools into your foes. Take the miserable wretch away," he continued, to Bates and Dawson. "For your lives, see that you guard him closely! He has much to answer for, and I shall hold you responsible if you let him escape."

Stukely was led from the room, with trembling limbs and fallen jaw, by his late associates in crime, such an abject and miserable wreck that even his intended victims could scarcely look upon him otherwise than with pity.

They had a more frightful spectacle soon to behold. The poison which Beverly had rashly swallowed was now flowing like fire through his veins, while his face and limbs grew convulsed, and inch by inch he seemed dying before their faces, consumed by inward pains.

"Ah! that pang !" he cried, in agony. "Where is my wife? Can you forgive me, love?” "Alas! for what?"

"For meanly dying. Shame, despair, remorse

have been too much for me. I am a dying man; dying by poison."

"By poison! Oh, fatal deed! Save him! Oh, save him!" cried the distracted wife.

"Alas! that prayer is fruitless.

I have lived long enough to ruin you all, and now fly like a coward when there is nothing left for my fatal hand to lose. Charlotte, my sister, can you forgive me ?"

"Forgive you! Oh, my poor brother!"

"Lend me your hand, love-so-help me. Oh, for a few short moments, to tell you how my heart bleeds for you! Dying as I am, my deepest pang is for your miseries. Support me, Heaven! Ah! I go, I die. Oh, mercy! mercy!" With a few more inarticulate words his eyes and lips became fixed, his body fell limply down, death had come,—the career of the gamester was at an end.

DOUGLAS.

BY JOHN HOME.

[JOHN HOME, the leading dramatist of Scottish birth, was born at Leith in 1722. After graduating at the Edinburgh University, he took part in the campaign against the Pretender, and was taken prisoner. He became a minister of the Scottish church in 1747, and shortly afterwards wrote a tragedy named "Agis," which failed at that time to be produced. Subsequently, on a suggestion from the ancient ballad of "Gil Morice," he produced his tragedy of "Douglas," the work on which his fame rests. This play, which was first acted in 1756, gave such offence to the Presbytery that the author resigned his ministry, and went to England, where he became private secretary to the Earl of Bute. He wrote several other plays, all much inferior to "Douglas," and a "History of the Rebellion of 1745." He died in 1808.

Of Home's works, "Douglas" alone for any time held the stage. In this play, which is still classed among the acting drama, the licentiousness of the drama of the Restoration, and the frigid