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hands in the pockets of his sailor’s jacket, while his assistant, a snn-bnrnt, good-natured looking lad of sixteen, fanned himself with his palmetto hat. “ She’s all right now, I think, Jep,” he said, turning to the boy; “tight and ready for work j again. We’ll take her out to-morrow, if the day's ! fair.” “ Why not to-day, Captain Head ?” said Mari an, coming up. “It is fair enough to-day, and I should like a sail of all things. Can’t you take me to that little island yonder—the farther one?” “ ‘Dead-Man’s Island,'you mean. Well, that’s something of a good piece off, and there’s prom ise of foul weather.” “Wnat!—with such a bright, warm sun as \ this ?” “Such days are storm-breeders, and we are likely to have something to cool the air this eve ning. Look yonder.” He pointed out to sea, where a dusky vapor w‘as seen slowly boiling up and staining the ho- j rizon like the smoke of a distant chimney.” “What do you think it will be — wind or i rain ?” “ A little blow, mebbe, but more thunder and ! raiD than anything. The air’s thick and sul try.” “Well, I’m not afraid of thunder, and a little j rain won’t dissolve me—nor will it be anything i to such an old tar as you are, who have so often cut through water to the tune of a wet sheet. Shall we go?” “Yes, we can, if you want to go particularly. It’s not so far but we can make it and back be- 1 fore yon cloud comes up; and Jep’ll lend a help ing hand.” “ I do want to go particularly, and I will thank you very much to take me this evening. If Jep will ‘lend a helping hand,’ he shall have a new fiddle.” The boy blushed with bashful pleasure, and obeying his senior’s direction to “ Come ahead, then,’’jumped into the boat with alacrity. Marian took her seat; and, spreading the sail to catch the faint breeze that was beginning to stir, Captain Head seized the oar with his brawny hand, and the “Go-Lightly” bounded over the water. The bay was smooth as glass, save now and then a tremulous shudder con vulsed its mirror-like face, and then gradually passed away, leaving it fair and calm again - “When were you last at the island?” asked Marian. “I haven't set foot upon it for six years—not since I took a party over there in my boat to nab a fellow who had run away from justice, sod hid himself on the island for a> matter of j six months afore they tracked him out. He was ! sitting down in his log cabin, whistling a tune, and waiting for his fish to fry, when in walked the detectives, and took him perfectly on sur prise. He turned as white as ashes, and not a word could he speak. I was sorry, from my heart, for the poor wretch.” “ What became of him ?” “I saw him slip the rusty fluke of an old an chor into the pocket of his great-coat, when he put it on to go with the officers; but I never | mistrusted what 1 was for until we got into deep water, when plunge ! he went over the I side of the boat, and down he sank like a bul- I let. He never rose to the surface; the fluke kep him down. I’ve never liked the island since.” “ And is that the reason why you do not go there ?” “ I’ve never had anything to take me there. There’s no good fishing round the island, or 1 never had auy luck there with net or hook. And it’s an oadeniable fact that some bad luck j happens to almost everybody that goes there. Last year, a couple of chaps from Newport went there so.shoot curlews, and one of them killed the other by accident The island be longed to the old man De Forest, and that cabin on it was built in his time, but nobody’s ever lived in it except the forger and the queer old on that stnj s there now. ” ‘>-You mean the dumb fisherman ?" ‘Do you know him ?’ ‘J have seen him. Who is he? Where did he come from ?” ‘Nobody about here seems to know. It’s now about four years since he came. ’Peared all of a sudden, as if dropped down from the moon. I was out betimes one morning, making the best of the mullet season, when I see smoke rising out of the old chimney, where there hadn’t been a fire since the poor forger fried his last fish. When I got closer, I see a boat push j out w ith this queer customer sittin’ at the bow, pulling away at the oars rather awkwardly, like a green hand at the business. But he’s got the hang of it now, and can manage a boat as well as I. ” “Have 5,ou never had any dealings with him ?” “Never. I’ve come alongside him once or twice, and given him a friendly good-day, and ‘ what luck, mess-mate ?' and the only answer I’ve ever got was a surly look and a shake of the head.” “You forget he is dumb.” “ Yes, but there be plenty of ways to show a friendly disposition besides by the tongue. I let him have his island and his grum looks to himself, and so has everybody else, unless it be Mr. De Forest,” he added, looking questioningly a Marian. “Does he support himself by fishing? ” “I never saw him sell a fish in my life; but he buys provisions in Newport, and pays for ’em in gold. Mebbe he has found the treasure that they say Karl, the forger, left buried on the island. “Had he no family? ’ inquired Marian, re membering the female garments he had furn ished to Adrienne and herself. “None when he came to this place. He has lived a perfect solitary life.” “He is a mysterious person, said Marian. “I am going to the island for the purpose of pay ing him a visit. I—I want to see him—partic ularly.” The old sailor looked at her inquisitively, but forebore to ask any questions. Working steadily at the oars, they rounded the island, and made the landing to the left of the cabin, where Marian had stopped before. “I think he has gone,” said Captain Head, looking around him. “Why, here is his boat, is it not?” asked Marian, pointing to the small, light skiff that was fastened to a stake driven in the sand. It was painted a sea-green, and looked like a toy on the water. “Not that cockle-shell. That used to belong to your brother-in-law yonder, and it’s a clip ping little shallop for a pleasure row; but Dum- by's got a serviceable boat like this, and he s likely out in her somewhere,” throwing a keen ; eye over the bay. “Let us go up the cabin and see,” said Ma- ! rian. Leaving Jep in the boat, they went by the winding path through the thicket of myrtle and dwarf palmetto to the cabin of the fisherman. There was no smoke nor any sign of life, as they crossed the little yard with its dilapidated fence, and the matted melon and tomato vines grow ing rankly around. The front door was slightly ajar. They pushed it open and went in. It was untenanted by any human presence; only a gaunt black cat lay coiled up in front of the fire place. The creature got up and snarled at the intruders as a dog might do. Then it walked out of the house with a dignified, offended step. The door leading to the inner room was locked. They knocked at it and called, but received no | k answer. Marian begged Captain Head to go out i land look about a little ; the fisherman might b« j walking around his narrow premises. As soon as he was gone, she got down on her knees by the door, and putting her lips to the key-hole, j besought any one who might be within to open the door. “ It is a friend,—it is Marian," she said; then j waited breathless and pale for a response. But ! none came; and, after standing a moment in ! thought, she went around to the low back win dow of the little room, and climbed up by the knotted vine, until she could open the closed wooden shutters and look within. The room was arranged as it had been when she and | Adrienne saw and wondered at it; but there was no one there,—no one on the bed or in the deep easy chair, or anywhere, and no sound was re turned when again she knocked upon the shut ter and called. She closed the blind and turned off with a sigh. What, wild hope had Marian suffered to enter her mind ? She had scarcely acknowledged one to herself; but the fading of the eager look from her face, and the sad, dejected one that replaced it, showed that some kind of hope had been built upon the words she had heard spo ken by Mr. De Forest. These words, very likely, meant nothing. They might have been uttered in the confused, B3mi-conscious moment between sleeping and waking; they might have referred to something which did not concern her. She smiled bitterly at the absurdity of the hope she had caught at; but the eager light flashed into her face again the next moment, when, going to the other end of the cabin, she saw Captain Head looking intently towards a clump of cab bage palmettos, a little distance off. “ What have you seen? ” she asked. “I am not sure it was anything. I just saw a movement yonder—a glimpse of something black. I didn’t think there was a live creature on the island, since Dumby and his dog are off on the bay.” “Let us see what it was?" cried Marian, mov ing rapidly in the direction of the palmettos. The captain followed more slowly, wondering at the interest she manifested in the dumb fisher man. Marian reached the spot he had pointed out, put aside the broad, fan-like leaves, and looked eagerly around. Nothing was to be seen. A j clear space was just in front of her, with other tall shrubs and palmettos a little further off. She heard no sound of step or movement; but at this moment a low, rumbling peal of thunder fell upon her ear. “The cloud is rising,” said Captain Head. “We must be getting under way, or we shall have the thunder-storm upon us like a broadside from a man-o'-war. There ! you see what it was I saw—that black cat scowling at us out of her red eyes. I have a sailor’s misliking for black cats, and I like the looks of this one as little as I do of her grum master.” “You are sure it was the cat ?’’ asked Marian, looking down at the ground, although the short grass was not likely to retain a foot-print. “Nothing else; nothing but the old witch herself, jumping over the weeds and shaking the palmeeter fans. We’ll walk fast, if you please, Miss Marian. ” Beaching the boat, they pushed off in haste. But wind and tide were against them. The cloud rose rapidly. The boatmen pulled at their oars in silence, and Marian sat behind them, buried in gloomy thoughts. She tried to watch the grandeur of the approaching storm. Two clouds were about to meet in the zenith; one a dark, formless mass, the other shaped like some gigan tic grotesquely magnified shadow—now of a man, now of a beast. Marian watched it, re peating: ‘‘There rose in the east A cloud, with the forehead and horns of a beast, That quick to the zenith mounts higher and higher, With feet that are thunder and eyes that are fire.” The clouds met over-head. The sky and air were darkened almost to the duskiness of twi light. A vivid flash rent the darkness, and crashing thunder followed. Peal after peal suc ceeded, increasing in violence and in the blind ing blaze of lightning. A boat containing a single man was seen rapidly approaching. As it came nearer, Marian recognized the proud carriage and the white, floating hair of the dumb fisherman. Wind and tide were in his favor, and his strong oar-strokes sent tLe boat flying through the waves. The two boats were hardly fifty yards apart, when there came a terrific flash of lightning, darting down like a sword of fire, and simultaneously a peal of deafening thun- tbunder seemed to rend the very heavens apart. Stunned and blinded, Marian? fell upon her knees at the bottom of the boat; the oars fell trom the hands of Captain Head and his assist ant; the boat shook and rocked with violence upon the agitated waves. All felt the shock of the electric messenger. Captain Head first re covered his senses, and caught the oar that had dropped from his hand. He turned round to the assistance of Marian. “Are you hurt?” he asked, stretching out his arm to help her. ‘’No,—only stunned. Thank God that you are both safe! ” she cried, feeling that, had it been otherwise she would have been the cause of the misfortune. “But look!” she exclaimed, springing to her feet. “ The other boat is empty; the man has fallen overboard.” “No,—there he lies in the bottom of the boat. He’s been struck by the lightning,—he’s been struck, beyond a doubt. Mebbe, though, he’s only stunned. Pull for him, Jep,—pull with a 1 will, my hearty. We may bring him round.” They struck out vigorously for the boat, while the thunder yet pealed, and large drops of rain began to fall. In a few seconds they were along side the skiff. The fisherman lay in it, face up wards, his features rigid, his white hair elec trified by the shock, standing out in wild dis- hevelment about Lis face. Jep caught the chain that was fastened to the bow of the boat, while Captain Head jumped into it, and seizing a tin bailing bucket, dipped up a quantity of sea water and dashed it over the insensible man. Another bucket full, and another, but still the fisherman gave no sign of life. “Let me see if his heart beats,” said the cap tain, speaking to Marian, who had sprung after him into the boat. Stooping down, he hastily unfastened the blouse of the man, and was about to place his hands over his heart, when suddenly, with a cry of astonishment, he staggered back. Marian had also bent over the body. She saw the cause of her companion’s amazement. She saw that the breast he had exposed was that of a woman. The strange and startling discovery struck I them both speechless with astonishment. They stared blankly at each other, without uttering a word. Marian was first to collect herself. She stooped down quickly and covered the exposed breast ot the woman, drawing the folds of the coarse blouse together. She inserted her own hand beneath them to feel for the beating of the heart. But there was no movement; nor could she feel any pulsation when she grasped the wrist. “Have you a stimulant about you? ” sheasked, \ turning round to her companion. He produced a flask of brandy, and the effort was made to pour a portion of it'down the throat of the inanimate woman. Bat it was to no pur pose. It became certain that she was dead. “It’s no use. She's gone to her long sleep, messmate,” the captain said, turning to the boy. “Fasten the skiff to the ‘ Go-lightly,’and let’s make for the shore. It rains like a second del uge.” They pulled for the shore, lowing the beat that contained the corpse, while the rain fell in tor- rents, and the thunder died away in more dis tant reverberations. “Back safe, thank God!” cried the captain, leaping to the shore and dragging up his boat by the chain. “Was I not right in saving that ‘Dead-Man’s Island' was an nnlucky place?” “What will you do with the body?” asked Marian, shuddering as she looked at the drench ed, stony face and dripping hair. “Take it up to my cabin, and let Mr. De For est know what has happened. The poor crea ture was his tenant. He may know something about him—her, I mean. He had the cabin fixed up for her use.” “He is ill now,” said Marian. “ It might not be fit to excite him by news of death— especially of such an awful and sudden death as this. Dr. Norris will be there this evening. I will send a note, asking him to inform Mr. De Forest what has taken place, if he thinks it would be right to dc so.” She did so directly she had changed her wet garments. She left Alice, who knew nothing of the strange adventure, or of the presence of a dead bodv in the house, and with her own hands she prepared the corpse for burial. She dressed it neatly in plain black clothes of her own, and smoothed the strangely white hair upon the temples. When her task was done, she stood over the dead and mused. Now that the wild eyes were closed, and the features composed by death, the face showed traces of having pos sessed more than ordinary beauty. Careworn and sun-burnt, and haunted still by a look of pain, the features were cast, notwithstanding, in a large and majestic mould. The white hair and furrowed brow seemed more the work of care and grief than of years. Who and what had this strange being been? What had once been her station in life? thought Marian, re membering the books, the writing-desk, and other articles of taste and elegance she had seen in the island hut. Why did she live in such mystery and seclusion? Why had she assumed the disguise she had worn so long? Was it for the purpose of concealment from the consequen ces of crime or of shame?—or had wrong and wretchedness driven her in disgust from the world? Who could tell? Could Mr. De Forest? Had her history been known to him ? Had this man of mystery been in any way associated with the mysterious woman before her? And then Marian's mind went back to its one theme of painful thought and torturing conjecture—her lost sister. Dr. Norris came in while she was standing gazing vacantly at the dead face, upon which her thoughts were no longer fixed. “You had my note,” he said, as he came to her side. “Did you tell Mr. De Forest?” “l’es; but when I did so I had no idea of the effect it would produce.” “What effect,” she asked, eagerly. “A very remarkable one. When I told him, he sprang up on his knees in bed, stretched out his arms, and exclaimed: ‘The judgment of God!—the judgment of God upon an accursed family! ’ Then he fell back upon his pillow, and lay there shuddering convulsively. Sud denly he leaped out of bed, and stood for a mo ment firmly on his feet. ‘ I will accept no warn ing,’ he cried. ‘ The devil and destiny are con spiring against me. I will not be overcome. I will go: I will not stay at this accursed place. I will master this miserable disease. I will not be warned,—I will not be terrified ! ’ He walked about the room until his feverish strength gave way, and he was forced to sink into a chair. He wrote a few lines in pencil, and asked me to give them to you.” Marian opened the envelope he handed her. A bank note enclosure fell to the floor. She read the few scarcely legible lines the paper held. “Do me the kindness to see that the body is decently interred. Let it be buried in the fam ily burying ground, but not inside the enclo sure where oPfc-^raoeois De Forest is interred. Her bones must not rest by those of a De For est.” ' T ' “ He must have known her previous history,” said Dr. Norris, when Marian read this note aloud. “There must have been some tie of friendship, of pity, or of old acquaintance, be tween them. It is a mysterious affair. “That face,” looking at the set features of the corpse, is not a common one. There is power of some kind there, though the shape of the head does not show a well-balanced brain. There is a look about the face that reminds me of some other face I have seen.” “I have also been puzzled by its shadowy resemblance to some one I cannot name. The eyes, especially, alter I had seen them first, haunted me for a long time with their half-fa- miliar look. Here is a miniature I found hang ing around the neck of the corpse. It i3 a child’s picture, but it bears the same indefinite likeness to a face I have seen or dreamed of.” She handed him a small, old-fashioned locket, fasted to a black cork. In the single gold case was set the picture of a child. The face was radiantly lovely. The black, bright eyes, the small, crimson mouth, the little queenly neck and head, might have belonged to a Spanish In fanta. Dr. Norris studied the face a moment, and looked from the picture to the corpse. “I see what is . now!” he exclaimed. “It is Madame Floris. Both these faces are like hers. This dead face resembles her now. She must have looked like this picture when a child.” “But the expression is quite different.” “Yes; but do you not remember how Madam Floris looked on the night when she forget her self, and sang so gloriously ? Do you not see her likeness to this picture?” l’es, Marian saw it now, and the resemblance to the dead woman, too. And, in an instant, there flashed across her mind the remembrance of the conversation between Madalon and an other, which she had overheard that summer night, This, then, had been the other speaker in that strange dialogue. It was her fierce, stern voice which Marian had thought masculine in its tones. Dumbness had been only a part of her disguise, or else it was the caprice of a bit ter spirit that wished no intercourse with its kind. “She must be her mother,” mused Marian, “and this picture must be Madalon’s. Why have these two women shrouded themselves in such mystery? What claim have they upon Mr. De Forest ? Is crime or misfortune the secret of this mystery? ” It was a dreary funeral which Marian attended next day. She went alone in the family car riage. Mrs. Head remained with Alice. Marian and Captain Head were the only persons of her own race and color who followed the nameless woman to the grave. It was a gloomy day. The Summer was dead. The thunder-storm of the previous day had been its knell. Tuere was a chill in the air; the earth was drenched — the flower stalks broken and beat in the ground; the wind blew with the dreary, melancholy sound peculiar to autumn. The grave was dug under a moss-shrouded live oak. Marian read the burial service, while the negroes of the plan tation stood around with awe impressed upon their dusky faces. All knelt, while the gray haired black preacher said a prayer for the re pose of the dead. Then, one by one, they came up close to grave and threw a handful of dirt into it, saying solemnly: “May God Almighty have mercy upon the soul of the dead ’ ” Marian stood by until the grave was filled, and the mossy sods, which she had had smoothly spaded away, were carefully replaced. Then she re-entered the carriage, and was driven slowly back under the clouded and dismal sky. The negro driver, who had fidgeted on his seat for some time unnoticed by Marian, at last turned round in his seat, and, touching his hat respect fully, said: ' I “Be it true, miss, that the deaf and dumb fisherman turned out to be a woman ? ” Marian replied that it was true. “I wonder what made’im pnton man's ’parel ? Must a been hidin' from jestice, like the forger what drowned hisself in the old man Francois' time. Hope to goodness she'll rest quiet in her grave, now she’s had Christian bnryin’. Last night her sperit was rovin’ about mighty miser able and onrestless like." “That was only imagination," said Marian. “ No, miss, it's true as there’s a God in Heaven. I saw it with my own livin’ eyes, and uncle Pete, that prayed just now, he saw it, too. We went to the house last night after some medicine for uncle Pete's ole woman. I was ridin’ behind hinu, and jest as we come to this very place, we see a tall woman, dressed in a long. wlHfc& shj-oudi cornin' up that path there that^oes to the riFer.'t And that mule, he stopped.short off, and begun to snort, and wouldn’t go on no how ! .And uncle Pete he commenced to pray, and the ghost come right along straight and S3j?w, without turnin’ its head, and come up eld^e .to ,us. It was a dead woman’s face—’fore Godi*K^aS. miss; and she passed us and went on to that^ thicket be hind the orchard", and there she vamosed. And that's the truth, as I hope to set to heaven; and uncle Pete’ll tell you so, He’s a ’sciety man, and he can read his Bible without spellin’. You’re bound to b’lieve him. if you don’t me.” “What did the face look like?” “I tell you it was a dead person's face, miss. It was white as a sheet. It was orful.” “And you did not see where it went?" “It went up to that thicket behind the or chard, and there it vamosed in a flash of blue lightning.” “ There is no truth in such an absurd story,” thought Marian, failing back against the carriage and resuming her own melancholy thoughts. But it was not the last she was to hear of the ghost of the bay. (TO BE CONTINUED.) apologized on account of the ‘death of a dear old friend-’ ” In letters to his eldest son, Scott seldom fails to tell him how things are going on with the domes ticated animals. For example : “ Hamlet had an inflammatory attack, and I be gan to think he was going mad, after the example of his great namesake; but Willie Laidlaw bled him and he recovered. Pussy is very well.” Next letter: •• Dogs all well—cit sick—supposed with eating birds in their feathers.” Shortly afterward: “ All here send love. Dogs an i cats are well. I dare say you have heard from some other correspondent that poor Lady Wallace” (a favorite pony) “died of inflammation after two day s iilness. Trout ” (a favorite pointer) “ has returned here several times, poor fellow, and seems to look for you; but Henry Scott is very kind to him.” In a succeeding letter we have the account of an accident to Maida: “On Sunday Maida walk ed with us, and in jumping the paliugat the Green- tongue park contrived to hang himself up by the hind-leg. i’e howled at first, but seeing us mak- iug toward him, he stopped crying, and waved Ins t: iT, by way of signal, it was supposed, for as sistance. He sustained no material injury, though his leg was strangely twisted into the bars, and he was nearly hanging by it. He showed great gratitude, in his way, to his deliverers.” Maida died in October, 1824, and is commemora ted in a sculptured figure at the doorway of Ab botsford. His attached master wrote an epitaph on him in Latin, which he thus Englished: “ Beneath the sculptured form whictflate you wore. Sleep soundly. Maida, at your master's door.” (For The Sunny South.) j Cupid and the Old Bachelor. BY r. m. o. OUR DUMB FRIENDS. Sir waiter Scott and His Dog 1 . BY W C. One of my pleasant recollections is that of see ing Sir Walter Scott out on a stroll with his dogs ; the scene being in the neighborhood of Abbotsford, in the summer of 1824, while as yet the gloom of misfortune had not clouded the mind of the great man. There he was limping gayly along with his pet companions amid the rur.il scenes which he had toiled to secure and loved so dearly. Scott’s fondness for animals has perhaps never been sufficiently acknowledged. It was with him a kind of second nature, and appears to have been implanted when as a child he was sent on a visit ] to*the house of his grandfather, Robert Scott, at I 8a dyknowe, in the neighborh >od of Dryburgh. Here, amid flocks of sheep and lambs, talked to and fomiled by shepherds and ewe-milkers and reveling with collies, he was impressed with a de gree of affectionate feeling for animals which lasted I through life. At a subsequent visit to Sandyknowe J when his grandfather had passed away, and the farm operations were administered by “ Uncle Thomas,” he was provided with a Shetland pony to ride upon. The pony was little larger than many a Newfoundland dog. It walked freely in the house, and was regularly fed from the boy’s hand. He soon learned to ride the little pony well, anl often alarmed “Aunt Jenny” by can tering ovsr the rough pa 3S in the neighborlico Such were the beginnings of Scott’s intercourse with animals. Growing up, there was something extraordinary in his at achments to his dogs, his j horses, his ponies, and his cats ; all of which were treated by him, each in its own sphere, as agreea ble companions, and which were attached to him in return. There may have been something feudal and poetic in this kindly association with humble adherents, but there was also much of simple good- heartedness. Scrott added not a little to the hap piness of his existence by this genial intercourse with his domestic pets. From Lockhart’s “ Me- mo'rs of Sir Walter ” and other works we have oc casionally bright glimpses of the great man’s fa miliarity with his fourfooted favorites. We can see that Scott did not, as is often the case, treat them capriciously, as creatures to be made of at one time, and s. oken to harshly when not in the vein for amusement. On the contrary, they were elevated to the position of friends. They possess- j ed rights to be respected, feelings w'hieh it would | be scandalous to outrage. At all times he had a soothing word and a kind pat for every one of them. And that, surely, is the proper way to be have toward the beings who are dependent oa us. Among Sir Walter’s favorte dogs we first hear of Camp, a large bull-terrier, that was taken with him when visiting the Ellise3 for a week at Sun- ninghill in 1803. Mr. and Mrs. Ellis having cor dially sympathized in his fondness for this animal, Scott, at parting, promised to send one of Camp’s progeny in the course of the season to Sunning- hill. As an officer in a troop of yeomanry cavalry Scott proved a good horseman, and we are led to know that he was much attached to the animal ! which he rode. In a letter to a friend written at this period (1803), hesays: “ I have, too, an hereditary attachment to the ani mal—not, I flatter myself, of the common jocky cast, but because I regard him as the kindest and most generous of the subordinate animals. I hard ly even except the dogs; at least, they are usually so much better treated that compassion for the steed should be thrown into the scale when we weigh their comparative merits.” For several years Camp was the constant parlor, dog. He was handsome, intelligent, and fierce, but gentle as a lamb among the children. As the same time there were two greyhounds, Douglas and Percy, which were kept in the country for cours ing. Scott kept one window of his study open, whatever might be the state of the weather, that Douglas, and Percy might leap out and in as the fancy moved them. He always talked to Camp as if he understood what was said—and the animal certainly did understand not a little of it; in par ticular, it seemed as if he perfectly comprehended on all occasions that his master considered him a sensible and steady friend; the greyhounds as vol atile young creatures whosi freaks must be borne with. William Laidlaw, the friend and amanuensis of Scott, mentions in the “ Abbotsford Notanda” a remarkable instance of Camp’s fidelity and atten tion, It was on the occasion of a party visiting a j will cataract in Dumfriesshire, known as the Gray Mare's Tail. There was a rocky chasm to be as cended, up which Scott male his way with difficul ty on account of his lameness. “ Camp at ended anx iously on his master; and when the latter came to a difficult part of the rock, Camp would jump down, - look up to his masters’s face, then spring up. lick his master’s hand and cheek, jump down again, and look upward, as if to show him the way and encourage him. We were greatly interested with the scene.” Failing from old age, Camp was taken by the family to Edinburgh, and there he lied about Jan- 1 uary, 1809. He was buried on a fine moonlight night in the little garden behind the house, No, 39 j Castle Street, immediately opposite the window where Scott usually sat writing. His daughter, , Mrs. Lockhart, remembered “ the whole family standing round the grave as her father himself smoothed down the turf above Camp with the sad dest expression of face she had ever seen in him. ! He had been engaged to dine abroad that day, but j Cupid, when be slings his quiver over his shoulder, filled with his magic arrows, which once when they touch the heart produce love or a desire to be loved, and starts out on his journey, he seldom returns without having ac complished his object. On one occasion he saw a widower with some half dozen children around him, and as the father looked upon them he drew a deep sigh of sorrow and anxiety. The God of Love has the happy faculty of reading the thoughts as well as the power of exciting the heart. The thoughts of the widower were: “ How am I to raise these children without a woman’s help ? Who can I trust to teach and impress my daughters, just beginning to bud into young womanhood ? A wife I want, and a wife I must have. Some one must be a mother to my mother less children.” Cupid came to his relief, and touching him with one of his arrows, and doing the same pleasant thing for a widow of his acquaintance, ere many moons had waxed and waned, the two were made one flesh. Cupid was delighted that he had made two mortals happy, and had given to children a mother on one side and a father on the other. It so happened that near the widower there lived an old bachelor, and Cupid seeing no woman or child about his house, was somewhat surprised that one whose hair was turning slightly gray, and who looked as if he was up into his forties, could boast himself neither a husband or a father. How came it that he had not touched him when a young man ? Or if he did, had some coquotish maid soured his heart, temper and mind towards womankind ? Could not his heart be reached as easily as that of an old maid’s? And so thinking, Cupid let dy one of his best and sharpest arrows. The arrow hit the heart, but it did not glance as the one did from the heart of the old maid. It seemed to hang in a kind of network which grew around the bachelor’s heart. It hung en tangled. doing no good, and rather a thing of contempt to look at. “By the great Jupiter! what sort of a heart has the man ?” thought Cupid. “Can it be a tangled mass of ravelings, a filmy heart, with the shreds of indifference, coldness, selfishness, impatience, and dislike of woman, knotted to gether? I will go and see my mother Venus, tor she knows as much about a man’s heart as any woman, mortal or immortal.” cupid’s talk. “Mother, I have told you in the past of my adventures with widows’ and old maids’ hearts. I never have much trouble with maidens and young men; nor do I find any with widowers. But I hit a strange heart to-day, and it belonged to a man, and one who, from his looks, was in his frosty forties or fussy fifties. ” “Cupid, you shot at the heart of an old bach- elor.one more peculiar than that of an old maid’s. Bachelors, like old maids, have their histories. Some can tell of an over-weaning vanity on their part, and of hearts they have won bat never claimed, and because the victory was easy, did not appreciate a woman’s pure and unselfish love. Others can tell of strong and ardent woo ing, and wounded pride made them sour toward womankind. Others can tell of a deep and de voted love crushed and insulted by coquettish treatment. Others can tell of familiarities and liberties taken which gave them a low opinion of woman’s love or her modesty; for men flee that which pursues them, and pursue that which flees them. Others, again, can tell of their own vile and depraved hearts, which rendered them unflit for any virtuous woman’s love; for every man is a worse man in proportion as he is unfit for the marriage state.” “But, mother, bachelors have hearts, and can they not be reached ? Ail are not like the one I shot to-day. Can you not give me an arrow that will arouse their love?” “Well, Cupid, perhaps I can, but it is no easy task after a bachelor gets of a certain age. Un like widows or old maids, they are not tied down to one spot or circumscribed in their habits. They do not feel the want of company, nor does old age create a desire for companionship. Old bachelors have their habits—habits that will give them any kind of companionship they may desire. With them, home is simply a place to sleep or to eat, nothing more; and the less I particularize about the general habits of the majority, the better. It is enough to say they do not seek the votaries of Diana much, but of that bewitching and fascinating goddess, Las- civia, not to mention others I know. With no home influences, they have no home ties. A few may have, but the majority have not.” “But, mother, what about my arrows? I do not care about their habits, and if they are not very good, I do not know who can better reform them than a good wife.” “That is so, Cupid, and I will give you some arrows that may have the desired effect. They will excite in the heart a love for domestic vir tues—a desire for purity of heart, for woman’s companionship and woman’s deep love. But after all, Cupid, see to it that you put in his way a widow suited to his years—young enough to charm by her person, fascinate with her eye, win with her tongue, and throw such a spell over him that, like the charmed bird, to fly away is impossible. A widow’s tactics cannot be approached by maiden or old maid. “Then, with your arrows and the peculiar charms of a bright widow, many an old bachelor can be rescued, redeemed, regenerated and dis enthralled, and made a good husband, father, and citizen. If, however, you find them slaves to fixed habits or evil ways, you mav weU save your arrows, for they will hang in the net-work, or filmy covering of the heart.” < DBTINCT PRINT