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I nH 1 ’For The Sunny South.1 IN TIIE MORNING. 1 BROWNIE. •‘I am ready, yet I long to stay among you all, for in my ■leep I seem to drift so far away I never quite come back. Good-night-good-night; I shall see you in the morning.” With a smile, a kiss for all, they saw her fold her arms about her husband's neck, and lay down her head as if she never cared to lift it up again. The little journey was both a pleasure and a pain to them, for each night the way seemed longer to Sylvia, and though the burden lightened, the bearer grew more heavy-hearted. It was a silent passage now, for neither spoke, except when one asked tenderly, “ Are you easy, love ?” and the other an swered, with a breath that chilled his cheek, “ Quite happy— quite content.” So, cradled on the heart that had loved her best, Sylvia was gently carried to the end of her short pilgrimage; and when her husband laid her down, the morning had already dawned.—Louisa M. Al- cott. I awoke when the sky was burning— When the sun and the pale moon-rise Were lost in the soft, gray shadows That greeted my aching eyes; And I threw my strong arms round you— Holding your white hands tight— And waited in gloom and silence, Beloved, for the long good-night. lion from the old woman, he remounted his horse He picked up the farmer’s holly stick and broke and again searched the woods, calling Pierre with it on his knee, to show him the strength of his all his might—whistling, popping his whip, break- ! wrist, then threw the pieces far off, in contempt. ing the limbs, then listening if any voice answered him. But he heard only the bells of the cattle, scat- ■ CHAPTER VIII. tered in the thicket and undergrowth, and the wild ! meke Maurice screech of the hogs fighting over the falling acorns. Jn ab(mt a quarler of an hour they ha d^ S sed more, and hardly ever speak. Did anybody of! me in the eyes, it is written there, and all girls our house, or ourselves, without, knowing it and can read that writing.” without intention, wound your feelings, in any Marie looked in Germain’s eyes with blushing, way ?” playful appearance. Then, all at once, she turned “ No, mother,” answered Germain, ‘‘you have her head away and trembled, always been as good to me as the one that bore ‘‘Ah' mon DieuI have startled you,” said me, and l would bean ungrateful man, should I Germain “ You look at me as if I were the At last Germain heard'the sound of a horse ^"^8 and emerged inYthe mrita “ro^The 1 com P* ai “ ° f jou or your good husband, or any forerunner of les Ormeaux. Do not fear me I be coming at full speed behind him bearing on his mare at J fon]iliar obje ct she saw. one of the household. seech you. it hurts me too much I will not say back a man who called to him to stop This man Liule Pie * re wag , e lling his father what he had ” 1° that case, my boy it is the death of your anything wrong to you I will not kiss you might have been between thirty and forty, ot a undergtood of what had transpired wlfe that affects J’ ou still. Instead of being for- against your will, and when you want me to go. dark complexion, robust, and dressed in well-to- „ .... arrived ” said he “ that man came to 8 otten with time, your pain grows worse and you all you have to do is to show me the door. Must do citizen s clothes. Germain had never seen the taJk tQ Marfe in the s ’ hee p fo id, where we had en- m,I f . do what 7 0Ur father-in-law very wisely sug- I leave for you to cease trembling ?” farmer of les Ormeaux, but an instinct ol rage tolu ... _ r .... - . - i orA<?tPii—mn mno* mQwwn n<va; n *» \ia**w» hoU nn» Koi> hon.f tn tho lominr vi talk to Marie in the sheepfold, .... ... .. . , - . . . , .. . . „ 4 . . , . , . tered right oflF to see the beautiful sheep. I had ed-you must marry again.” Mane held out her hand to the farmer without him it was he He turned round and eyed him jumped j nt0 the manger t0 p i ay and ,he man did . ? es > “.other, that is also my idea, but none saying a word or turning her head, from head to foot, and waited to hear what he had J r * r - to say. “ Have you not seen about here a girl of fifteen 1 or sixteen, with a little boy ?” Eaid the farmer, affecting to be unconcerned, j “ And what do you want with her ?” said Ger- I main, without trying to conceal his anger. not see me. Then he said to Marie, ‘ How do you do; my dear ?’ and kissed her.” “ You let him kiss you, Marie?” said Germain, trembling with anger. “ I thought it was a politeness, a custom, like at your place the grandmother kisses the young girls " 1 wou f ld tel / H that T it , was none °f/° U " 1 Si adopts them and will be a mother to them.” ness, my fnend but as I have no reason to hide ,^ nd , ben „ continued Pierre , who W as proud my motives I will tell you that it is a shepherdess , f ’ . , . ,' , A . .. „ T f , , . , « . J -.1*1 • i of telling an adventure of which he had been a I had hired for the year without knowing her. .. * ., .. , , AVhen she came I thought her too young and feeble e ‘\ j 1(1 man sun >on,e g , g for the work of the farm. I discharged her, and I y° u told me t0 for ? et and never to re P eat ' And Far down on the bleak, steep hill-side, Where the clustering fir-trees grow, 1 gathered the silvery snow drops From under the melting snow; And I wove them in shining garlands As I whispered a fancy rare, And breathed in your rippling tresses, Beloved one, a short, sweet prayer. There’s a dreary chill on my spi/it When the winds through the corn-lands blow; There's a voice in the hollow echoes, That wakens a dream of woe; Clouds have risen to mar my future, Hiding its mellowed light, And I'm waiting in desolate darkness, Beloved, through the starless night. wished to pay the expense of her little journey; but she got mad and left while I was engaged in some business. She was in such a hurry that she even forgot some of her things, and her purse, which does not seem to have much ia it—a few cents, at best—but as I had to pass this way, I thought to overtake her and give her her bundle, purse and what I owe her.” Germain was too honest and high-toned not to hesitate after having heard this story. If not true, at least it sounded very plausible. He fixed a pierciDg look on tlie farmer, who withstood it either with a great deal of impudence or open ness. so I forgot it quickly—but if father wants me to tell him what it is, I ” “No, no, Pierre, I don’t want to hear it, and I want you never to think of it.” He told her he would give anything she asked—even a hun dred francs—then Marie got mad too. Then he came near her, like if he would catch hold of her. I was scared, and threw myself against my Marie, crying, and then that man said like this : “What’s that? AVhere does that child come from? Put him out immediately,” and he raised and, restraining his indignation, he an- The Angel of Sorrow broods over The life that has loved you best Through the gladly-dawning spriug-time— Through the days of the summer's rest; And the tide goes out with a heart-wail— The dark waves moan aud tfeep, For we meet no more together, Dear love, in the halls of sleep. t . . v i >> his stick to whip me. But my Marie did not let I want to have a clean breast of it, thought ^ d j d J “ ‘ AVe will talk after awhile, sir; I must take this child to Fourche, then I will go back.’ “ And as soon as he went out of the sheepfold, Marie told me; “ ‘ Let us run away, Pierre, we must leave here right off, for that is a bad man and could only harm Germain swered: “ It is a girl from our place. I know her must be around here. Let us look together, will find her, very liTely.” “You are right,” said the farmer, “let us look together; and yet, if we don’t find them at the she We end of the lane I must give it up, for I must take j ,, . , , ,.. , - e *” I “ Then we passed back of the granges, crossed a little field, and went to Fourche to find you. But you were not there, and they would not let us wait for you. And then that man, who was on his black horse, came back of us, and we ran further, and then we went and hid in the woods. Then he came, Yet fantasies round me floating, Bring dreams of a far, dim land, Where faces of loved aud lost ones Meet ours on the shining strand. Long years seem to rustle past me, And December shall turn to May When we meet again “ in the morning,” At the dawn of a fairer day. Forest Home, August 7, 1870. the road to Ardentei “Oh!” thought Germain, “I shall not leave you, if I have to follow you around the Devil’s Swamp for twenty-four hours.” “Hold!” said Germain, watching intensely a small bush of genista which he saw moving , , , , . , - , , it r tv • :. „„„ too, and when we saw him we hid deeper in the s . raa ?f. •'» °* P e 1 ierre ’ is i y i y t jji c k e t. then when he had passed we would run [For The Sunny South. La Hare an Liable; OB, The Haunted Swamp. BY GEORGE SAND. (Translated from the French.) ( BY CHAS. M. GAILMABD. Chapter vh.—continued. Germain then ran to Fourche. The widow and her lover had not returned yet, neither pere Leon ard. The servant told him that a young girl and child had come and asked for him, but not know ing them, she did not wish to let them in, end had advised them to go to Mers. “ And why did you refuse to receive them ?” said Germain, a little hotly. “You must be mighty distrustful in this country, that you close your doors to your neighbors.” “Ah, well! you see, in a rich house like this one is right to be watchful. I am responsible for everything when the overseers are all out, and I cannot admit the first passer-by.” “That is a mean custom,” said Germain, “I would rather be poor than to be constantly suspi cious. Good-bye. girl, good-bye to your ugly coun try.” He inquired in the houses near by. The shep herdess and the child had been seen ; but, as they had left Belair unexpectedly, the child was in his sheep-skin bodice with his blouse somewhat torn, and :.s Marie was also humbly clad, they had been mistaken for beggars, and had been offered bread. The young girl had accepted some for the child, who was hungry ; then she had gone very quickly with him towards the woods. Germain stood thcugbtful for an instant, and then asked if the farmer of les Ormeaux had not come to Fourche. “ Yes,” they answered, “ he passed on horse back a little after the children.” “ Did he go after her ?” •‘Oh ! you know him. I see,” said the tavern- keeper of the place, laughingly, “yes, he is a devil of a fellow after girls. But I don’t think be caught this one ; though, after all, if he had seen her-‘— “ That’s enough. Thank you,” said Germain, and he flew rather than ran to the pere Leonard’s stable. He threw the saddle on the mare, jumped on, and started at full speed in the direction of Chan- teloube. His heart was swelling with fear and anger. The perspiration ran down in beads from his fore head. He drove the spurs in the mare till the blood came, although la Grise did not want any child?” The child, recognizing his father, came out of the bush, jumping like a young fawn : but seeing him in company with the farmer, stopped and looked frightened and hesitating. ‘‘Come, my Pierre, come; it is I,” cried the father, running after him and jumping off his horse to take him in his arms. ‘‘ Where is Marie?” “She is there, hiding herself, ’cause she is afraid of that ugly, dark man, and I too !” “ Well, be reassured, I am here. Marie, it is I.” Marie came out cautiously and slowly, aud when she saw Germain, who was closely followed by the farmer, she threw herself in Germain’s arms and clung to him as a girl might cling to her father. “0 brave Germain,” she said, “you will pro tect me. I do not fear with you.” Germain felt a chill run through him. He looked at Marie ; she was pale, her garments were torn by the briers and thorns she had passed through trying to get to the thicket, like a doe trailed by the hunters. But in her features iseither shame nor despair could be seen. j “ Your master wants to speak to you,” said he, still carefully studying her features. “ My master!” said she, proudly. “That man is not my master, and will never be. It is you that are my master; I want you to take me back with you ; I will serve you for nothing.” The farmer had neared them, feigning impa- j tience. “ Here ! little girl,” said he, “you have forgot- i ten something at our house that I have brought i you.” j “No, sir,” said Marie, “I forgot nothing and I have nothing to ask of you.” “ Listen to me awhile,” answered the farmer. “I have something to tell to you. Come; don't be scared, I have only two words to say to you.” “ You can say them out aloud ; I have no secrets j in common with you.” “ At least come and get your money.” “ My money ! You owe me nothin God!” “ I expected it,” said Germain, in a whisper ; “ but that’s all right, Marie ; listen to what he has to say to you, for I am anxious to know it. You will tell me after. I have my reasons for it. Go near his horse—I will not lose sight of you.” Marie advanced a few steps nearer the farmer, who said, bending over the pommel of his saddle and lowering his voice : “ Little girl, here is a nice gold piece for you ; you will not say anything, you hear me? I will say that I found you too weak for the farm's work, and let us hear no more of it. I will pass by your house one of these days, and if you have not said anything, I will again give you something. What present would you have me bring you?” Here, sir, is the present I give you,” answered again to get home. At last you found us, and that’s the way it all happened. Isn’t it, Marie? I have not forgotten anything, have I ?” “ No, Pierre, it is all true ; and now, Germain, you will be a witness for me; you will tell the folks at home that if I did not stay it was not because I would not work, nor from any unwillingness to do the same.” And you, Marie,” said Germain, “ I pray you to love a young girl is folly.” “ Well, yes, I have committed this folly of lov ing a young girl, and I blame myself for it. I do my best not to think of it, but whether I am at work, at rest, or at church, with my children or with you, I am always thinking of it. I cannot think of anything else.” “Then it is your fate, and there is but one re medy for it; this girl must change her mind and listen to you. Therefore it will be necessary for me to see her if it is possible. You will tell me where she is and what is her name.” “ Alas ! mother, I dare not; I fear you will ridi cule me for my folly.” “ I will not ridicule you, for you are in trouble, and I do not wish to cause you more pain. Is it Fanchette ?” “ No, mother.” “ Or Rosette ?” “ Neither.” “Well, then tell me, for I would never get through if I must name all the girls of the county.” Germain hung his head and could not make up his mind to answer. “Well!” said mere Maurice, “I will let you alone for to-day, Germain, maybe to morrow you will be more confiding to me, or perhaps your sis- 1 ter-in-law will be a better questioner than I.” And she picked up her basket to go hang out the clothes on the bushes. Germain did as little children do when they see that you do not pay any more attention to them, to ask yourself if a man ot twenty-eight is too old j ! e followed his mother-in-law and at last tremb- to protect a woman. I would like to know if Bas- ! named la petite Marie of mere Guillette. tien, or any other handsome boy, better by ten ! ^ reat was^her surprise; Marie was the last girl she years less of age than I am, would not have been , " ou ‘d have dreamed of, but she had the delicacy crushed by that man, as petit Pierre says. What j no ^ sa y aD ything and to make her comments do you think of it ?” j mentally. Seeing that her silence troubled Ger- “ I think, Germain, that you have done me a i g h e handed him her basket of clothes and ■great service, and that 1 will not cease to thank ■ sft id tohim: you my life time.” : , “ "“1; is that any reason why you should not Is that all ?” “ Father,” said the child, “ I did apt think to say to Marie what I had pronjlsed you. I-did not have i.he't.'?.aftSl^' , i|Bme, and I will teL it *o g,: i That promise of hiayffiMjkde Gertawin thought ful. It was now necesatKP’To mak 1 '/explanation to his parents, and in telling them his objections to widow Guerin, not to tell them what other ideas had made him notice her faults and be so strict about them. When one Is happy and proud, the task of making others accept his happiness seems easy, but to be rebuked on one side, blamed on the other, makes a situation altogether unpleasant. Fortunately little Pierre slept when they go* home, and Germain laid him down on his bed without waking him; then he began to explain the best he knew how. Pere Maurice, seated on his three-legged, wooden stool, at the entrance of his house, listened gravely. Though he was sorry of the result of this trip when Germain, in telling the coquettish style of the widow, asked his fa- j ther-in-law if he had time to go the fifty-two thank ‘ Sundays of the year to see ana court this woman, ; and run the risk of being rejected at the end of the year, the father-in-law answered, with a slight shake of the head, in the negative, saying: “ You did right, Germain, it could not be.” And, then, when Germain told him how he had been obliged to bring Marie back right away, to shelter her from the insults of an unworthy task master, pere Mau.ice again nodded his head, saying: “ You did right, it was due her.”. When Germain had completed, and had given all his reasons, the father and mother-in-law simultaneously heaved a sigh of resigna ion, looking at each other. Then the head ot the family raised himself, saying: “ May the will of God be done. Love is not controllable.” Come on to snpper, Germain,” said the Marie, in a loud voice, at the same time throwing mother . in . law> .. it is u n f or ’ t unate that it could not in his face the twenty-franc gold piece. “ I thank you very much ; and when you pass our way I wish you would let me know T it. All the boys of our village will receive you in the proper way, for they are very fond of those who would ensnare and ruin a helpless girl. You will find it out if you ever come that way ; they will wait on you.” help me in my work? Take these clothes and come and talk with me. Have you thought it well over, Germain ? Are you fully decided ?” “Alas! mother, that is not the way to put it. I am fully decided if I could succeed, but as I would not be listened to, I am decided to isure myself if I can.” “ And if you cannot ?” “ There is an end to all things. When the horse is overloaded, he falls; when the ox has no thing to eat, he dies.” “That is to say that if you do not succeed you would die. God forbid! I do not like to hear a man like you speak that way, for when he says those things he means them. You are .a man of great courage, and weakness in a strong man is very dangerous. • Come, always hope for the best. 1 do aot understanjR^nit a girl in poverty, and whom you honoj^f^Sffuch in choosing, can refuse “ Nevertheleses it ia true; she refuses me.” “ And what reason coes she give you.” “ That, you have always done her good, and that her family owes yours a great deal, and she does not wish to displease you by keeping me from a rich marriage.” “If she says that, it proves good traits, and it is honest of her. But in telling you this she does not cure you, for no doubt she tells you that she loves you and would marry you if we consented.” “ That’s the worst of it; she says her heart does not feel for me.” . “If she says what she does not think to better drive you from her, she is a child worthy of our love, and we should overlook her youth on account of her good sense.” “Yes,” said Germain, struck with an idea he had not thought of yet, “ it would be very wise and comme it faut of her, but if she is so reasonable I fear it is because she does not like me.” “ Germain,” said mere Maurice, “ you must promise me to keep quiet during the whole week, not to torment yourself, eat, sleep and be gay as before. I will talk to my old man, and if I make him consent, you will know the exact feelings of the young girl of your choice.” Germain promised, and the week passed without pere Maurice saying a single word relating to that matter, or even seeming to suspect anything. The round and look at me with the love in your eyes I have for you, and if you bent your face near mine, I would die of joy. And you think, if such a thing happened to you, you would die from shame and vexation.” Germain was speaking as in a dream, not even knowing what he said. Marie trembled yet, but as he trembled more, he did not notice it. All at once she turned round. She was in tears ; she looked at him with a reproachful air. The poor ploughman thought it was the last blow, and without waiting to hear his sentence, rose to go. But the young girl stopped him by throwing her arni3 around him, and hiding her head on his breast. •‘Oh ! Germain,” said she, sobbiug, “then you never guessed that I loved you !” Germain’s heart throbbed almost to bursting. As he pressed Marie to his breast in silence, tears rushed to his eyes. Still he did not speak, till little Pierre, who had been looking for his father, burst into the room, riding a stick horse, with his little sister behind him, whipping the imaginary racer with a willow switch. His presence recalled Germain to his senses ; he raised the child in his arms, and placing him in those of his future bride, “ Here!” said he, “ dear Marie, is another who will be made happy by your loving me.” THE END. [For The Sunny South. 1 ART. BY M. A. E. MORGAN. encouragement since she was on her way home. QUt of me We know aH about vour sort Germain soon arrived at tlie place where he had Mane had shrunk back Tery much scared ; but passed the night by the edge of the swamp.. e Q erma ; n jumped at the horse’s bridle and held it fire was yet smoking. An old woman was picking j. . up the remainder of the wood that Marie had piled up there. Germain stopped to question her; she was deaf, and misunderstood his interrogato ries. “ Yes, my boy,” said she, “this is the Devil’s Swamp—a bad place, 1 tell you—and one must not come near it without throwing three rocks in it be arranged, but it seems that you will have to look elsewhere.” “Yes, ’ said the old man, “my wife is right, we will look elsewhere.” There was no nuwe excitement at the house. Next day when Pierre rose with the lark, at the _ 1*1 i i . i n break of day, not being agitated any longer by j young farmer tried to be calm, but he was only •‘You lie : you are a foolish, long-tongued girl, i thg extraordinary events of the previous day, he j paler and more unhappy. At last, Sunday morn- said the farmer in a passion, raising his stick a ^j n Ped j nt0 tbe a p a thy of all the young country ! ning after mass, his mother-in-law asked him what menacing y; “you would have people believe , 0 f his age, forgetting all that had passed < encouragement he had obtained from his Marie, what » not true ; but you shall not get any money th ^ Qugh his ^ thinking only of frolicking since their talk in the orchard. with his brothers, and playing the big man with j “Noneat all,” answered he, ‘-I have not spoken the oxen and horses. I to her.” Germain tried to forget by working hard, but I “ How do you expect to persuade her if you he became so disheartened and sad that every- | never speak to her ?” body remarked it. He did not speak to Marie, ( “"I only spoke to her once, that was when we aid not even look at her, yet, had he been asked went together to Fourche. Since that time 1 have in what pasture she was. which road she passed, not said a single word to her. Her refusal hurt there was not a moment of the day that he could j me so mueh that I did not wish to have her tell me not have told. He bad no. dared to ask his parents again thatshe did not love me.” to take her for the winter and yet he knew that “ Well, my son, -you must speak to her now. she was pinched by povirty. But she did not | Your father-in-law consented toil. Go and decide “I understand it all now,” «aid he. “I see what you are driving at. Come down, my man, come down and let us talk awhile.” The farmer did not care to fight Germain. He spurred his horse to disengage him, and tried to strike Germain on the hands with his stick; but the latter dodged and grasped him by the leg : jerk ing him off his horse, and causing him to tumble self 1 with ^Gie right’hand. That will keep away the ! \“ S “ lm /J, 1 * aur ^ e ’ ana causln g nlm 10 turnoie guff and mere GuiHett<*could never understand yourself. I tell you so, and you must; I wish it. ehosts: otherwise, bad luck would come to those Y ’ Y 0T ® r P° wered 1 how her small supply of wood never decreased, You cannot rest in that doubt.” ghosts . otnerwise, iucr wouta come him, though the farmer get up and fought desper- | hQw her gheJ in orning wa8 filled , when she Germain agreed. He arrived at mere Guillette’s, who would go around that swamp !” “ 1 am not speaking to you of that,” said Ger main, coming near her and hallooing with all his might, “ have you not seen a girl and a child?” “A child? Yes, yes,” said the old dame, “ a little child was drowned in there.” Germain shook from head to foot; but happily the old woman added : “ That was a long time ago. In memory of that accident a fine cross had been placed there ; but, in a stormy night, the evil spirits have thrown it in the water. You can yet see one end of it. 4f any one had the misfortune of stopping here at night, he could not get away before morning. He might walk ana walk in any direction ; he might go fifty miles in the woods, he would invariably find him self in the same place he started from.” The imagination of the farmer was struck, against his will, by what he heard ; and the thought of the misfortunes that were to follow to fulfill the assertions of the olu woman, took such effect on him that he fell into a cold sweat which ran al over him. Seeinghe could not get any informa nt ely When he held him under, Germain said: “Heartless wretch! I could beat you into a jelly, if I chose to, but I do not like to hurt any body, and no correction whatever can amend your conscience. However, you shall not leave this place till you've begged pardon, on your knees, of this young lady.” The farmer, who had been in similar circum stances before, tried to take it jokingly, pretend ing that his sin was not so terrible, since it con sisted only in words. He would beg pardon, on had nearly emptied it at night. It was the same with wheat and potatots. Some one passed his head drooping, with a dejected air. Marie was alone by the fire. She was so deeply absorbed ALBERT DURER. Albert Durer was born at Nuremberg, on the 20th of May, 1471. His father was a goldsmith; his mother, Barbara Hellerin, was a German girl, gifted and beautiful. He began his studies under Wohlgemotb, when only fifteen years of age. He married Agnes Frey, who was wondrously beautiful, if we may judge by the portrait of her, painted by her husband. She was irritable, however, and allowed her husband no repose. Urged by am bition and avarice, ehe compelled him to work early and late, and went so far as to lock him in his studio, to compel his tardy pencil to produce pictures. He managed once to get away from home, and visit the city of lagoons, the home of Italian art, beautiful Venice. His renown had preceded him, and he was received by brother artists with enthusiasm. Nobles, ftmsieians, and learned men sought him, and he was sometimes, while in Venice, obliged to conceal himself to obtain needed repose. The painters soon became envious of him, and with the exception of Giovanni Bellini, he had no real friends among them. One reason assigned for this hatred by writers of that period, was that he would not join their societies. He did not wish to pay for their grand dinners, and though he had not become a member of their clubs, they went so far as to bring him before the magistrate to compel him to pay the dues to landlords. His friends then advised him never to accept an invitation to eat or drink with them, and he thus deprived them of all excuse for their conduct. His wife, a very Xantippe, would not allow him^to attend suppers, because he would be obliged to give them in return. His most wonderful genius, full of mysticism, German to the very core, led to the blending in his works of the simplest realities, with the most ideal poetical conceptions, and introduces us to a strange and mysterious world. The mere mention of the name of Albert Durer calls upthe dreams of Germany, a new world opens to? <Ar view, and anomalous shapes occupy our vision. In one picture we see an unknown cavalier making his way among leafless trees and ragged rocks, followed by a demon with outstretched claws, and accompanied by the figure of Death mounted on a white horse. In another, a knight has wings attached to his heels- and a helmet in the shape of a gigantic butterfly. He has checked his horse near a ruined arch, and knocks at the portal of a de serted mansion as though he expected the dead to rise and come forth. In another, an immense bat spreading its hideous wings in clouds, hovers over a woman seated on the sea shore in an attitude of dejec tion. Her name is Melancholy. In others, fabulons heroes and nameless beings are strangely mixed up with characters in sacred history. Domestic scenes are inter mingled with spectres of the Black Forest. And so on, fftte phantoms of German superstition are blended with every day scenes. The Emperor Maximilian was his friend. One day, while painting some large object, which he could not fully reach on account of the short ness of his ladder, Maximilian ordered a noble to support the ladder to enable him to complete the work. The nobleman refused, thinking it beneath his dignity. Maximilian supported the ladder, and gave Durer a patent of nobility, thereby making him the equal, in worldly posi tion, of the nobles of the Empire. of the girls you want me to marry please me. “ I understand,” said Germain, “you feel for When I see them, instead of forgetting my Oath- me. You are good and you are very sorry to erine I think more of her.” make me unhappy; but you cannot love me.” “ The reason of this must be that we could not “ W T hy do you tell me such things, Germain ?” guess your taste. Therefore you must help us by at last answered Marie, “you want to make me telling us the trouble. There must be somewhere cry T” , , , , - . , , • , , i . ,. , ... . , „ .-, His armorial bearings were three shields on a through the dormer-window and emptied a sack in thoughts, she did not hear Germain s footsteps. of aznre _ Thigj henceforth, became the on the floor without waking any one, and left no | When she saw him before her she started in sar- ‘bearings of all painters. tracks. The old lady was * the same time glad prise, and the tell-tale blushes suffused her cheeks. 1 B 1 ,.. and uneasy. She enjoined her daughter to say | “Little .uarie,” said-he, drawing a chair near Medical Students, nothing of it, saying that if people came to know her, “I came to annoy and displease you again, I the miracle going ou in her htuse, they would take know it. The old folks want me to talk with you The physician should be always a first class f her for a witch. She thought the Devil had some- and ask you to be my wife. You do not want to, man—first class in his moralities, his character, I thing to do with it, but she wts in no hurry to fall j I know.” his acquirements, his skill. No course of education out with him by calling the exorcisms of the 1 “Germain,” said Marie, “it is decided, then, can be too thorough for him, no preparation for cure on her house. She thourht it would be time that you love me ?” the stupendous work of his life too exacting. Med condition that he might kiss the girl, and they enougb w h en he came to tlaim her soul for the “You are sorry of it, I know, but it is not my j ical students are not apt to think of this. By be would go to the nearest inn and drink a bottle of gQod he had Jone fault. If you could change your mind I would be coming familiar with disease and death, they ar wine, and part triends. Marie understood better the truth of it, but she j toe happy, and I suppose I do not deserve so much to be called upon to protect. They certainly wi! * It is the way that turns from the main road leading to the town and goes around. It is supposed that th >se that are afraid to get a deserved punishment go that way. nd sajd 1 •• My poor boy, I tlnnk you are not well: you do not eat as you used to, you do not laugh any “ Do not make fun of me ; look with some in- ‘ ization, of which no faculty can afforji to be guilt dulgence on me. I have not yet lost a single Let us manufacture no more doctors: letus^ducf tooth ; my eyes tell you that I love you ; look at them. j / INSTINCT PRINT A /x / Y / \ J that enter her service, to show them that she i a wom ? n “ ade to r'Y y° u - the Almighty never _ ‘‘Poor child, you have a kind heart. I know- created a being without reserving him his happi- it, but you cannot love me. and you hide your face ness in another being; therefore, if yon know from me that 1 may not see your displeasure and where to find that being who can give you happi- dislike, and I do not dare to press your hand. In ness, take her, and let her be beautiful or ugly, the woods, when my child and you were sleeping, rich or poor, young or old, we are determined, I ■ I came near kissing you softly, but I would have and my old man. to give you full consent, for we j died of shame rather than have asked you, and are tired of seeing you unhappy, and we cannot j I suffered as much in that one night as a man live quietly, if you are ill at ease.” burning at a slow fire. Since that time I have “ Mother, you are a£ good and generous as an dreamed of you every night. Oh ! how I kissed ‘ If so, I am going to forget it again,” answered and fa,her ’ also -” said Germain, » but your you, Marie, in my vision ; but you, during that the child; “and then that man seemed to get mad kindness cannot remedy my sorrows; the girl I time, slep without dreaming; and now, do you because Marie told him she would leave. He told ! w °: lld ™ u [ d n0 ‘ bava “ e - know what 1 thmk ? 1 thlnk lf y° u were t0 4 It must be then that she is too young; for you