the bullet of the duellist-but to be blown up-annihilated at once to dance in "thin air," by so unsoldier-like and terrible a mode of warfare, was more than his courage could dare. Like Bob Acres, he felt it rapidly oozing out at his finger ends -yet honor forbade retreat. According to the duellist's code, he must abide by the decision of Putnam, who had his choice of weapons—and, good heavens, what had the daring, reckless Yankee chosen—a barrel of gunpowder!— for such was evidently the contents of the cask; and with feelings indescribable, he watched the slow ignition of the match, and the gradual down-creeping of that flame, which in a few moments would probably send him to eternity!

As the fire reached the opening, there was a fizzing, crackling sound—a slight explosion, accompanied by a strange odor. Brave as he was, the officer could endure no more.

"By- ! I'll not be murdered in this manner!" he exclaimed, precipitately rising to make good his retreat.

"Ho! ho! brave sir," shouted Putnam, coolly knocking the ashes from his pipe; "you are just the man I took you forthis is but a barrel of onions you mistake for powder, with a few grains scattered on top to try you by-but I see you don't like the smell!"

THE POWER OF LOVE.

BY L. MARIA CHILD.

It was one of Ireland's greenest lanes that wound its way down to a rippling brook in the rear of Friend Goodman's house. And there, by a mound of rocks that dipped their mossy feet in the rivulet, Friend Goodman walked slowly, watching for his little daughter, who had been spending the day with some children in the neighborhood. Presently, the small maiden came jumping along, with her bonnet thrown back, and the edges of her soft brown ringlets luminous in the rays of the setting sun. Those pretty curls were not Quakerly; but Nature, who pays no more attention to the regulations of Elders, than she does to the edicts of Bishops, would have it so. At the slightest breath of moisture, the silky hair rolled itself into spirals, and clustered round her pure white forehead, as if it loved the nestling-place. Jumping, likewise, was not a Quakerly proceeding. But little Alice, usually staid and demure, in imitation of those around her, had met with a new companion, whose temperament was more mercurial than her own, and she was yielding to its magnetic influence.

Camillo Campbell, a boy of six years, was the grandson of an

Italian lady, who had married an Irish absentee, resident in Florence. Her descendants had lately come to Ireland, and taken possession of estates in the immediate neighborhood of Friend Goodman, where little Camillo's foreign complexion, lively temperament, and graceful broken language, rendered him an object of great interest, especially among the children. He it was with whom little Alice was skipping through the green lane, bright and free as the wind and sunshine that played among her curls. As the sober father watched their innocent gambols, he felt his own pulses quicken, and his motions involuntarily became more rapid and elastic than usual. The little girl came nestling up to his side, and rubbed her head upon his arm, like a petted kitten Camillo peeped roguishly from behind the mossy rocks, kissed his hand to her, and ran off, hopping first on one foot and then on the other.

"Dost thou like that little boy?" inquired Friend Goodman, as he stooped to kiss his darling.

"Yes, Camillo's a pretty boy, I like him," she replied. Then with a skip and a bound, which showed that the electric fluid was still leaping in her veins, she added, "He's a funny boy, too: he swears you all the time."

The simple child being always accustomed to hear thee and thou, verily thought you was a profane word. Her father did what was very unusual with him: he laughed outright, as he replied, "What a strange boy is that!"

"He asked me to come down to the rock and play to-morrow May I go after school?" she asked.

"We will see what mother says," he replied. "But where didst thou meet Camillo ?"

"He came to play with us in the lane, and Deborah and John and I went into his garden to see the birds. Oh, he has got such pretty birds! There's a nice little meeting-house in the garden; and there's a woman standing there with a baby. Camillo calls her my donny. He says we mustn't play in there. Why not? Who is my donny?"

"The people in Italy, where Camillo used to live, call the mother of Christ Madonna," replied her father.

"And who is Christ?" she asked.

"He was a holy man, who lived a great many years ago. I read to thee one day about his taking little children in his arms and blessing them."

"I guess he loved little children almost as well as thou," said Alice. "But what do they put his mother in that little meeting-house for ?"

Not deeming it wise to puzzle her busy little brain with theological explanations, Friend Goodman called her attention to a small dog, whose curly white hair soon displaced the Madonna, and even Camillo, in her thoughts. But the new neighbor, and the conservatory peopled with birds, and the little chapel in the garden, made a strong impression on her mind. She was always talking of them, and in after years they remained by far the most vivid picture in the gallery of childish recollections. Nearly every day, she and Camillo met at the mossy rock, where they planted flowers, and buried flies in clover-leaves, and launched

little boats on the stream. When they strolled towards the conservatory, the old gardener was always glad to admit them. Flowering shrubs and gaudy parrots, so bright in the warm sunshine, formed such a cheerful contrast to her own unadorned home, that little Alice was never weary with gazing and wondering. But from all the brilliant things, she chose two Java sparrows for her especial favorites. The old gardener told her they were Quaker birds, because their feathers were all of such a soft, quiet color. Bright little Camillo caught up the idea, and said, "I know what for you so much do like them: Quaker ladybirds they be."

"And she's a Quaker lady-bird, too," said the old gardener, smiling, as he patted her on the head; "she's a nice little ladybird." Poll Parrot heard him, and repeated, "Lady-bird." Always after that, when Alice entered the conservatory, the parrot laughed and screamed, "Lady-bird!"

Near the door were two niches partially concealed by a network of vines; and in the niches were statues of two winged children. Alice inquired who they were; and Camillo replied, "My little sister and brother. Children of the Madonna now they is." His mother had told him this, and he did not understand what it meant; neither did Alice. She looked up at the winged ones with timid love, and said, "Why don't they come down and play with us?"

"From heaven they cannot come down," answered Camillo,

Alice was about to inquire the reason why, when the part interrupted her by calling out, "Lady-bird! Lady-1.