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2 But with your marriage, daughter Eliza, } hail bee in the golden age. I will give ■fetes, and the world shall wonder before my splendor as it has before my renoun. This old Frankish building shall put on a festival dress, and gleam w ith gay pictuics as for a carnival. Cremato comes again, and his brush shall prove worthy of my generosity.” •ii Cremato I” repeated the Queen, woti derimdy ; “ Cremato,” cried the Princesses to aether, as tlley recalled the wonderful, sprightly Italian, who had many times appeared at the court like a dying sha dow, and as quickly disappeared; and who did not fear to express the strongest criti cisms on the drawings of toe royal chil dren, but from whom the little students learned more in a quarter of an hour—- when he sometimes condescended to in struct—than from their well-paid court teacher in months. The Queen thought proper to send the curious Princesses to their apartments, a command that \>as quietly obeyed. “ What will Cremato here ?” she asked her husband, who, sunken in plans for the brilliant future, walked silently back and forward. “11 is name wakes only sorrow ful recollections. Is there anew con spiracy to denounce ? Shall blood flow again ? Shall the innocent again wander in misery? Speak, my husband! "Why shall the terrible accuser, who has the misery of thousands on his soul, return . “ Woman condemns as quickly and as thoughtlessly as she excuses,” replied the King, earnestly. “ Cremato, having by accident become acquainted with the first threads of the conspiracy, fulfilled the duty of a brave citizen in disclosing them. Cremato owed this service to the land and the prince who then gave him protec tion and security. The most indifferent stranger would have been to that extent under moral obligations. Cremato res cued thy throne through his denuncia tion. Neither for this favor nor the dis interestedness which refused every re ward does he deserve the unthankfulncss which thy mouth has spoken against him. It is true that many persons fell, but the pressure of necessity absolutely demanded them. Therefore, no word more about it! For all 1 have done—except one—l will answer before Him who judges the most powerful.” “ And must this one example of ven geance work on forever ? Thy suspicious jealousy drove poor x\lbo to a certain death ; and still, after my innocence was manilest, must make his family the offer ing of an ever insatiate revenge. (To mato’s accusation—” “ Not so,” replied the king, with vexa tion. “ The guilt of the women came to my ear from another source. A report was spread that Albo was sacrificed ... enough; the mother breathed vengeance, and for this the law demanded her life. I was gracious still!” “ Fearful grace,” cried the queen, ‘•'which drove the unfortunate from their home and the graves of their dead, to wander in poverty and misery in a strange land. That was not what 1 asked when I prayed for mercy for the innocent; that was not what they expected when when they sent petitions to thy throne to recall the sentence, and to allow them to return to their native land, even if it must be in poverty and want.” “ A ruler does not play with law and verdict like the conjuror with a snake,’’ spoke the King, sharply. “ The women who were thirsting for revenge could not be allowed to come back at that time; they cannot now ; nevermore. And you, madanic, might better let the dead rest. Your 'codings lead you to | false conclu sion. The gift of a few flowers caused die death of the thoughtless Albo. Your tears for that are shed in vain. The youth’s destiny and my passion bear all the blame. You arc free from all re sponsibly. Do not disturb yourself longer with frightful fancies. Leave the burden to my conscience. Admonishing to repentence is of no use, and only em bitters. Such attempts it was, madamc, that drove from my side the painter Cre mato, to whom I had given my confi dence. He did not accuse Albo’s family, as you falsely believe ; he defended them only too boldly. He took the liberty to speak to my conscience—to play the Massillon to me. lam tolerant only to a certain extent, and for nine years he lias avoided the court, at which he so often appeared and went like a bird of passage .” *■ I did not know the man as you have painted him to me, sire,” said the Queen, only half convinced. “My heart shud ders bet re extreme punishment and se \ ere reti ibution; therefore I trembled be fore the informer who called forth both at that t uio. You say he comes a min ? Where has he lived, and how, until now ?” “I must explain,” replied the Kins, “ that 1 have no correct account of this man’s residence for some time. He was a person worthy to be the friend of a King. I am not a chief of police. I need to know of nothing more. Ilad lie any settled dwelling-place? I do not know. In my dominions he has only wandered back and forth since that time. But, so much as I desired to see him again, I do not know whether I should not rather dread the meeting, as for many years I preserve his remembrance in fear.” “ Fear!” asked the Queen, with won dering eves: “ does the hero, my hus band, know the possibility of fear ?” “The heart of iron trembles before the Eternal Judge, even when he speaks through the fearless tongue of a human being,” answered the King, with anxiety depicted on his countenance. “ Cremato’s last words might convince thee, my guile less wife! He pleaded with impetuous eloquence for Albo’s sentenced family ; painted their suffering, that they must die far from the land that bore them, and asked their recall in the name of humani ty. I refused. */ * “ ‘ Well!” spoke then the peculiar man, coldly and threateningly to me; ‘I desist from further attempts to move the cold heart of the conqueror. Fortune’s son no longer recognizes the unfortunate. But, from now on, another shall speak to him in my stead. Albo’s fall, and the accompanying circumstances, are no se cret, and my brush shall immortalize the unfortunate. His picture, in the pale mask of death —his picture—the herald of bloody tyranny, be my rest work, and the recollection that I leave to you, sire. Take it as my legacy ; and as often as injustice or cruelty comes into your soul, or on your lips, so often may this pale face, swaying on black ground, stand before your eyes. May it serve to moderate your vengenco ; may it be to presumption a reminder of annihilation; may it sharpen the penitence ot your conscience.’ He went, but the sting ot his words remained with me from that hour. My self-consciousness turned, thou sands and thousands of times, back to the terrible picture which be had leiL to tor ture me. Many times, as my dreaming thoughts wandered over my battle-fields, arose, from all (he bodies only this one giant countenance, ghost-like, before me. Often, when overcome by the weariness of business, I rested upon a chair, 1 have seen on the wall the promised picture— like to the old countenances ot Christ, which swung on a black ground, without neck or robe —frightfully and threaten ingly coining nearer, as a phantasmagoric imaged’ “ Stop!” cried the Queen, in terror, for, in addition to the shock which the refer ence to Albo had given her, the counte nance of her hand had, while lie had been speaking, become like that of a ghost, and his voice had sunk to a hoarse whisper. “ The dreadful Cremato,” con tinued she, “has he kept his word ? How long has the unholy gift been in your hands? and have you destroyed it ?” The King shook his head. “1 have never seen the painting,” lie answered. “ Cremato has not kept his word ; but I feel —I know certainly—that the picture is ended; that it exists; and that, it it came into my hands, the strength to de stroy it would fail me; but look upon it I could not, for my fancy has already crea ted it to break my heart. Countless sen tences has it, mitigated, countless misfor tunes arrested; for, whenever I have taken the pen or opened the mouth to decide over the life, happiness, or honor of any subject, 1 saw him—l saw Cre in a to’s dreadful work opposite me.” The King stopped suddenly, took a tew thoughtful steps through the room, and went out; but the overpowering feeling which the disclosure of the long-kept secret had aroused in him, prevented the monarch’s enjoying his rest. He left his couch, opened the window, and looked out into the still, cool summer night. The trees of the grove whispered, while here and there a drop, condensed from the moist air, fell, sounding from leaf to leaf, and from the distance came an indistinct harmony, disturbing the song of the nightingale. As the listener’s ear became accustomed to the rustling of the forest, the distant sounds became more distinct and figured themselves into a song that the King recognized, while it recalled a sweet tide of youthful recollec tions. The past, lying far back behind the confusion of endless wars, behind the tumultuous years of ambition and seek ing for glory, worked its nameless magic on his soul. He saw himself again a boy on the rocks of the Mediterranean sea ; he heard again as then —with never-ending satisfaction, the melodious song ot the fishermen, as they rowed out in the golden gleaming of the morning red, or in the rosy shimmer of evening, when returning into secure harbors and the peace ot their homes. O sauctissima, O piissima Dulcis Virgo Maria! Mater amata, Intemerata. Ora pro nobis! [to BE CONTINUED. 1 ! Jerome Fenwick’s Cure. “Don’t go out to-night, Jerome—stay with me! Oh, Jerome! It is so lonely when you are away!” The little kitchen had been swept and scoured until every board glistened like polished ivory—the red moreen curtains were drawn over the tiny paned window, and the great chcsnut logs in the fire-place were singing, and simmering, and bursting into scarlet sheets of flame, with capricious alternations. A little Christmas cross of hemlock sprigs and black ivy yet hung between the two windows, while Rosa Fenwick’s monthly roses and scented geraniums tossed their delicate blossoms among the red peppers and bunches of pennyroyal and catnip on the smoke-hiowned mantle above the chimney. Rosa, our heroine, was nothing more dignified than a farmer’s wife. Jerome Fenwick, a tall, stalwart young fellow of some seven or eight and twenty, bit bis lip, as Rosa still kept urging. “Stay with me this evening—only this once !” “Nonsense, Rosa ; how ridiculous you are. A man can’t stay at home forever.” “But you were out last night and the night before.” “Well, what then ? Now, my love, don’t you see how very absurd it is to expect mo to be always dangling at your apron strings; I tell you I’m going down to the Columbian to look at the papers and talk over the news.” “To the Columbian!” echoed Aunt Tryphosa Fenwick, suddenly appearing out of the subterranean depths of a trap door, very much ala ghost upon the stags, only that she bore a pan of glossy red apples in one hand and brandished a formidable knife in the other. “Ah-h-h! you’re going to the Colum bian, be ye, Jerome Fenwick ? “Yes, I am—and what then?” return ed the young man, a spice of sullen de fiance beginning to mingle with the play ful tone lie had assumed towards his ] wife. “And I s’pose you’re coming back j stunicler nor a fool, as you came last night ! —or perhaps you’re cornin’ with Peter Stryker at your head and Sam Gerney at your heels, as you came last week ; pretty doiri’s these, for a feller that hain’t been marri(M a year yet !” “Dear Jerome,” pleaded Rosa, looking up through sparkling tears, “please do not go out to-night.” “What d’ye s’pose you’re coming to ?*’ went on Aunt Tryphose, digging away at the apples as spitefully as if every one had been a modern Marsyas, and i she a spectacled Apollo ; p’raps you have ; forgot how Pilkinham froze to death, a j year ago come February, down by the ! hemlock holler, with the snow two feet deep on the ground. He’d read the pa pers and talked over the news ! He’d been to the Columbian, too! And mebbe you don’t remember how Josiah Hopkins went off in the delirium tremens last June, all along o’ that same Columbian. He hadn’t no pretty young wife at home to cry her eyes out arter his good-fur nothin’ bones, though, Josiah Hopkins hadn’t. Oh!” ejaculated Aunt Tryphosa, emphatically, “I wish the Maine law was enforced. Better stay at home, Jerome Fenwick, afore bad comes to worse !” Jerome Fenwick’s brow Hushed and his j face became crimson. “I shall do precisely as 1 please, Aunt Tryphosa. Where’s my hat?” “Tain’t for myself I’m speak’mV went on the wrathful old lady, suspending her knife in mid-air, “tho’ you he my broth er’s son. It’s for Rosa ! Do you s’pose she ain’t got no feelins, when you come home night after night as intoxicated as a fool ? Good land o’ Goshen! if l was Rosa I’d go down to the Columbian too, and drink ’long with you. She’s got just as good a right to be a fool as von have ! flow’d you like that, Jerome Fenwick?’* He went out, giving the unconscious door a bang that made the cat start in her cozy corner of the real brick hearth, and brought a fresh torrent of tears to Rosa’s blue eyes. “Oh, Aunt Tryphosa,” she sobbed, hiding her flushed lace among the apples in the good spinster’s lap, “what shall we do ? He is being ruined —and I—l have no power to hold him back. “Sarve him right! an obstinate fool b muttered the irate old lady, '"t ot, even while the words were on her lips, the bony fingers caressed Rosa a hair witn a strangely loving touch. “For your sake, Rosa ! I’m vexed, tor your sake, my pretty one ! “If I had but known—yet he was so different in the days when we used to take those twilight walks, in the days before we were married. My husband a drunkard! O, Aunt Tryphosa! I would sooner we were both in our graves 1 “Don’t talk so, pet,” murmured Aunt Tryphosa, taking oft her dim spectacles. “The Lord knows what’s for us all, but—” \ “Hush!” ejaculated Rosa, springing to her feet. “I hear the gate click! Aunt Tryphosa he has thought better of it ! he has come back !” No; the slightly fair, almost girlish ooking young fellow, in the lieutenant’s uniform, was not Jerome Fenwick—and there was a touch of bitterness even in the welcoming tears that Rosa poured out on the breast of the soldier brother she had not seen for three long years.” “Hallo!” exclaimed Charley Warner. “Why, I thought you were so happy, Rosa. And where’s my new brother-m --aw ?” “ He—isn’t at home,” sobbed out Rosa, “0, Charlie. I am very, very mis erable.” “Well, this is a queer welcome,” quoth the lieutenant, sitting down in front of the blazing chesnut logs, and drawing Rosa upon his knee, “now, puss, tell me all about it—and somebody hold my hands tight, for I feci very much like giving my unknown brother-in-law a thrashing before I know anything of the merits of the case.” “Well, 1 reckon it’s about time for me to be moving.” Now, Jerome Fenwick was none the worse for the frequent libations in which he had indulged ; at least not in his own estimation. For he had firmly resolved, on entering the green baize doors of the Columbian Hotel, not to drink too much, and lie fancied lie had kept the resolution. Only—to be sure the sanded floor did sir ge to and fro a little-- and the great logs in the chimney seemed to change places with tho floor in a most unaccountable manner, and the voices around him now sounded close to his ear, now far away, as if the speakers were re ceding into dim distance, Yet, Jerome Fenwick, with very wide open eyes, and a turbid amiability upon his features, re iterated to himself “that he was all right —as right as a trivet.” “Because you see,” soliloquised Jerome, aloud. “I’m a married man —and—and —duties I owe to society. I can’t be druuk, because”— He caught at the arm of his chair as it seemed to give a sudden lurch ceiling ward. “I guess I'll go back to Rosa!” In the same moment a sudden electric thrill seemed to send the hot blood back to his heart. Rosa! yes, it washer voice, speaking in the bar-room beyond ! Iler voice, and in what words ! “A glass of gin-sling—and be quick about it. Pshaw! none of your dish water compounds! make it hot and strong, man!” “Mrs. Fenwick!” ejaculated mine host, in dismay. “Yes, Mrs. Fenwick—what are you staring at ? My husband is here, isn’t he ? and I’ve come to keep him company. I’m tired of staying at home by myself. If he’s going to make a regular practice of getting drunk here, why, he may as well do it in his wife’s company, and I’ll be drunk, too!’’ “Rosa !” “Yes, my dear. Good evening to you. gentlemen,” she said, nodding to the staring assemblage, and taking a long draught. “ Upon my word, this feels warming after the night air. You are right—it is better than crouching over the tire at home. You’re right, my dear —you’re always right, and hereafter I’m going to follow your example.” “Rosa, are you mad? Come home. 4/ child,” whispered Jerome, in an agony of mortification. “'Another glass, landlord,” ejaculated the Amazon, giving Jerome a push with her elbow. “I didn't know it was so good. Try a taste of it, Jerome ” “Rosa, [ command von to come away.” “What for ? Haven’t las much right here as any one ? You said you didn’t care whether I came or not—and here j am !’ Jerome wiped the drops of perspiration from his brow and upper lip. “Do not mortify me thus, Rosa,” he whispered. “Remember these specta tors.” “Well, you have mortified me enough times ; and it’s a poor rule that won't work both ways. Landlord—l think— I’ll—take—” ‘ She paused abruptly, the two glasses of fiery liquid apparently beginning to tell on her female brain. Her head fell on her breast, the blue eyes stared stonily into space, and the arms fell heavily at her side. “She’s gone!” exclaimed Joe Ilyde, who had watched the crisis with interest. “I will trouble you to mind your own business, sir. if you please,” returned Jo romc Fenwick, haughtily. Ah, his pride was touched to the quick now. “Clark Tiffany, will you help me carry my—my wife home ? She is quite unable to walk. Good heavens, that 1 should have lived to sec this day!” Clark Tiffany advanced, with a subdued grin upon his face, to assist his boon com panion. But it was no easy tasu that they had undertaken. Never was so total ly limp and helpless a burden before : from the tip of the pink worsted hood to the fur-edged moccasin there was no spark of elasticity or animation, as the two men dragged their slow way over the hard frozen ground. “Abomination! disgraceful!” muttered Fenwick, wiping his streaming forehead. “Just what you have done yourself a dozen times,” remarked Tiffany, changing the arm that supported the leaden shoul ders. “Jupiter! who would have supposed a woman could he so heavy!” “Myself! Os course I have—more shame to 111 c!” retorted Fenwick. “But a woman, and my wife!” “I don't know that it’s any worse for a woman than a man,” said Tiffany, “only it’s not customary.” “One thing is certain,” resumed Fen wick, after a moment’s silence, and In’s tone was full of deep, passionate earnest ness, “after this night’s work, I will cut off my right hand before I will re-enter that accursed bar-room ! I’ve drank my last liquor.” “That—that’s not fair,” sleepily mut tered the burden. “Just when I've begun to enjoy myself!—it —it,l say, it’s not fair.” A smothered groan escaped from Fen wick's lips. “Before heaven I register the vow :” he exclaimed. “From this hour I will never touch intoxicating draughts more, so help me, God!” As lie spoke, the red, flickering stream of light from the moreen-curtained window glanced athwart their path. “Home at last!” he exclaimed, with an accent of relief, as Aunt Tryphosa flung , open the door. The fire was blazing brightly, the cat was purring contentedly on the burnished bricks of the old-fashioned hearth, and, wonder of wonder ! Rosa sat by the table in tiie dark brown calico and coquettish silk apron, stitching at a narrow strip of linen. “Rosa!” gasped Jerome, in open mouthed astonishment. “You here ?” “Where else should I be, Jerome ?” demanded Mrs. Fenwick, with exemplary calmness. “Do we live in the age of witchcraft ? Am I dreaming, or am 1 wide awake, and in full possession of my ordinary senses?” exclaimed Fenwick, turning to the limp figure on the kitchen settee. No longer limp, however. It had sud denly risen up, straight and vigorous a< a young pine, and throwing back the gingham draperies and worsted hood, stood before them in the uniform of a lieutenant. “At vour service, Mr. Fenwick,” said •/ Charley Warner, with dancing eyes and defiant brow. “Ilosft,” said Jerome, still bewildered, “who is this ?” “It is my brother. Jerome—my brother Charley ” faltered Rosa; “don't be angry, please—indeed I couldn’t stop him—he would go, and Aunt Tryphosa encouraged him ” “Well, I’m heartily' glad it’s not my wife,” said Jerome, extending his hand. “Welcome home from the wars, brother in-law; but I question whether any vic tory in which 3*oll have been concerned during* the tlire years of your absence can equal the victory you have this night gained.” “Jerome!” exclaimed Rosa, “surely you have not—” “But he has though,” interposed Lieu tenant Charley, leisurely lighting a cigar among the smouldering chestnut. “I bear witness that lie lias this night sol emnly pledged himself to abstain forever more from the Columbian, and all that pertains thereto. Isn't it so, my friend, that so kindly held up my head ?” “Well, I thought you were rather heavy,” acknowledged Clark Tiffany'. “But no offence, sir; I really don’t see how your head stands those two glasses of gin.” “Ah, that’s because I’ve been in the army,” responded Lieutenant Warner, with charming frankness. “What, little Rosa, crying again “Don’t mind me, Charley, it’s only be cause I’m so happy.” “Happy, eh ? Well, it isn’t my way of expressing happiness,” observed War ner “And Aunt Tryphosa is crying, too. W ell, I’ve read a good manv ouz zles in my day, but a woman is the most unaccountable of ’em all." Lieutenant Warner did not know that upon that bright flood of tears all Rosa Fenwick’s doubts, fears, and inward dis tresses were swept away into the past. She was erving only because she was happy. Signor Verdi is in Paris to superintend the bringing out, at the Italian Opera, of his “ Giovanna d’Areo,” which has never 1 been performed there.