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(Cantinned from 3d page.) CHAPTER XIX—A Dkawn Battle. * Mr. MontmoIIin is very gracious, this after- noon,’ said the Brookline Belle, looking archly through her half-closed eyes at her gay compan ion, as they pursued their promenade at the Panacea Springs, * very graeions indeed, to for sake the company of a rich and beautiful hei ress, for that of a quiet, unpretentious lady, like me!' * Not so very gracious, Miss Helen,’ he re plied, ‘ for I carb nothing for wealth, and beauty is to me, the principal thing. As to you, if you were not far more attractive than that simpering girl yonder, 1 should devote myself this after noon to a book and a segar. ’ ‘But she has an immense fortune, you know, Mr. MontmoIIin, and riches hide all human defects/ replied Helen, in atone which evident ly was designed to provoke her companion to the expression of a contrary opinion. ‘No, Miss Helen,’he replied, ‘riohes magni fy faults, rather than exouse them. If any peo ple in the world ought to be justified in being surly, ill-natured and disagreeable, it should be the poor. The advantages denied them by na ture, without any fault of theirs, may well make them murmurers at the good fortnue of people who do not deserve their wealth. Ladies born to wealth are seldom capable of being reconciled to poverty, whilst the poor are often ornaments to society when fortune smiles upon them.’ ‘ Then you think that poverty is not an un mixed evil, if it renders one capable of useful ness and goodness ?’ ‘ Certainly not, an nnmixed evil, although lew of us would choose to be poor for the benefit of our dispositions,’ he replied; ‘for my part, in our country of rapid changes in property, I think it good policy to practice ourselves in the endeavor to realize the opposite of our condi tion in life. The rich to-day, may be poor to morrow—and the poorto-day may take his place a few years hence among the richest in the land. ’ ‘ You do not believe that wealth is in itself refining and noble ? Is there not a difference in the very natures of children reared among comfort and elegance, compared with those born amid scenes of squalid poverty and want.’ * Other things being equal, donbtless wealth is favorable to refinement of character, and pov erty is decidedly unfavorable to it, but the trou ble is, other things are nol equal!’ ‘ By which you mean— ?' ‘ I mean simply this, that one may be sur rounded by wealth, and yet have associates more grovelling, more corrupting, more debas ing than those that afflict the poor.’ ‘That may be true, Mr. MontmoIIin, but as a matter of fact, I do not think it is often the case. Life, it seems to me, must be very miserable, wnen one must toil for daily bread.' ‘And life iB just as miserable,’ he added ‘when position in society, and all the charms that wealth holds out, are held by a slender thread, when a morning's telegram may bring us the news which destroys our proper fortune, and leaves us only beggars !’ He watched her face narrowly as he uttered these words, for Bertrand desired to know to what extent the proud young girl was aware of the impending crisis m her fathers affairs. But he looked in vain for any intimation in her countenance. She was either unconscious of ns talk of childish days—we are wiser now than we used to be.’ •Surely we are wiser, if not better; but there are memories that will not fade nor be forgotten, although we may wish to obliterate them. Pride is a dread avenger, and never forgives an injury.' ‘I beg you, Mr. MontmoIIin, do not revive that child’s quarrel, now. I have told you once, twice; more than twice, tnat the giddy folly of a schoolgirl has been long since repented of — please do not reenrto the painful theme again.’ ‘I shall not revive it, Helen — no, I would tear the memory from my heart, if I believed yon were genuinely penitent’ •What ean I do to convince you, then ? My words are vain, it Beems. You will not ^believe me—and I cannot prove myself sincere.’ ‘Yes, you can.’ ‘If I knew how to do so, Bertrand, I would leave nothing undone to convince you.’ ‘What then, if I should tell you how the past may be atoned for ?’ ‘Point out the way, and if I have it in my power, it shall be done !' Her eyes were fast filling with tears, but she turned aside her head, and he did not see them. •The way may not seem easy to you, Helen, but to me, it seems little enough for yon, who have made me what I am — almost a wreck of manhood, even in my, prime. For yon, I would have sacrificed my. life, once. Can you sacrifice for me, a day, an hour of giddy pleasure?’ ‘O! Bertrand ! why can you doubt me? What if I was vain, foolish, giddy, cruel, heartless, if you will have it so ? Have I not shown since that time, every proof of penitence? Besides, you cannot know what influences surrounded me, then !’ •And now, yon are willing to renew your vows, when I, not you, must maintain the extrav agance and pageantry of your fashionable life?’ •it is true, Mr. MontmoIIin,’she said, rising from her chair, and her beautiful face glowed with a rare aD«I lustrous radiance, which dazzled the young man, for he had never seen that air or manner before, in her, at least. ‘It is true, sir, my conduct is susceptible to that construc tion, if you choose to think so. I know that adverse fortune has overtaken my father — that the wealth in which 1 have been reared, has sud denly melted away — but if you think that I have become an unprincipled fortune-hunter, and would now resume our engagement, because yon are rich, and I am poor—know, sir, that not all the riches of the Indies could buy my hand, or make me listen to one who believes me ca pable of such baseness!’ She turned her dark eves full upon him, and they flashed defiance, Tiuch as he had never dreamed her capable of. Her lips turned pale —the thin nostrils swelled with indignation, near akin to passionate resentment. As she stood before him, the eloquence of her sell-vin dication seemed conclusive, for Bertrand felt himself fast giving way before her. ‘Pardon me,’ he said, iB a tremulous voice, ‘I have wronged you, and it was a most ungal lant word.” ‘llDgallant, Mr. MontmoIIin! Talk you of this, as if we were sparring witticisms in the drawing-room among fops and flirts? Ungal lant, sir! No, it needs another name, which your good sense will supply—I need not utter it! If you suppose that the fickle caprice of a schoolgirl, prompted by idle tales, however deeply my conduct wounded yon, can warrant a toto about the whole affair—I mean about vour sex.’ •Indeed! Mr. Gordon; and what isyour opin ion ?’ asked Ellen, her innocent face beaming upon the young lawyer with all the girlish earn estness of a nature that knew no arts of dissim ulation. ‘ Why, I must not flatter you ladies, and pre fer rather to tell yon his opinion. He says that only beautiful women are worthy of our love, and that he could never endure the presence of a plain face. Physical beauty is his ideal, and none but the beautiful among women are to be tolerated at all.’ not? I do so much need some> one to tell me, when I am going wrong, and my aunts are so gentle and forbearing that they never find fault with me. But you—will you be my mentor, Mr. Gordon ?’ ‘I’m afraid that 1 shonld be a sorry guide, Miss Ellen,’ he replied, ‘I am not old enongh to give safe advice, and I fear I should be a most unworthy mentor!’ ‘But you will be frank with me, and tell me when jou see me doing anything wrong, or say ing anything improper? I have been so much secluded from the world, that I really know on ly what I have read in books about it. I am Oh! he does not wish to destroy the ugly j afraid I shall appear very verdant, and proba- ones—surely not! - ! b *y ver Y 8 f n P’d to your fine people in Oglethorpe. «Well, not that, exactly, but he has no patience i My teachers and instructors in music and pain- with them, and laughs at me because I tell him J tiDg, and all that, have heretofore been nearly that all women are beautiful!’ ' all the society I have seen. I am really unac- ‘ And that is your opinion ? that all are beau- quainted with the world, and I need advice.’ ‘As far, as I may, Miss Ellen,’ Herbert i The fair young girl stood pinning the orange flowers in her hair, and Herbert f;lt that there was at least one woman who could deserve to be loved, even on Bertrand’s principle. Yes, all women are beautiful. Miss Ellen, her danger, or seemed to be so, and she gaily j studied insult, uttered in the cool, deliberate answered: * But to men like you, who never embark on seas of speculation, wealth brings all of its pleasures, and no grim spectres to disturb your enjoyment. You ought to be a happy man, Mr. MontmoIIin. ’ ‘PerhapsI am,’ he answered, ‘butonly in ex pectation.’ ‘ Of a rich and beautiful wife—eh ? That is language of matured purpose, then we will do well to make this our parting interview!’ ‘Helen, dear Helen !’ he f.aid in a voice of en treaty, which Bertrand could scarcely realize in himself, ‘forgive me—I did not mean it as an . insult. I thought ,’ . _ • ‘Ah! you thought! Yes, you thought that i you would have your revenge of me—that now, reduced to poverty, I would become your slave, all you need to complete your cup of happi- , an d crawl abjectly and kiss your hand, whilst ness ?’ ‘It may be so, in part, at least Beautiful, she must be; rioh, well, that is not essential.’ 4 Indeed ? Then you are not so ambitions as I thought you. ’ ‘ My ambition may lie in another direction. To marry wealth, may bring me into a depend ence I do not covet.’ ‘And you would rather have the sense of ob ligation and dependence to be felt by the lady yon honor with jour hand.’ ‘I would not word the phrase precisely that way—but it is very near my meaning.’ * You have a little of the tyrant in your na ture, then,’she Baid gaily; ‘but that is the lot of women. We are tlie weaker sex, and must always be reminded of it.’ your proud spirit would revel in my misfor tunes, and whilst you taunted me, and lashed me with the scorpion-whip, I would cling to yon, and bless the hand that crushed me ! No, Mr. MontmoIIin! I vowed once to be your wife—in a childish whim I declined you — now, I rejoice in my liberty, and praise the God (hat delivered me from such slavery as your gentle nature would prepare for me! No, sir, the de lusion is past. You and I have nothing in com mon between us, henceforth !’ •Stop, Helen, I beg you,’ said Bertrand, for the proud girl had turned upon him, and was leaving the spot. ‘Stop one moment—let me speak — ’ but she had entered the doorway, and disap peared. He stood for some minutes gazing after her, * In some respects the weaker sex, undoubt- j fondly hoping that she would return. But .she edly, but in the main, strong enongh to conquer i came not. He saw her no more that day. The hours the bravest of men, too. It is truly pitable to ! passed slowly away until the evening came, see how abject a creature a man in love will some- : when he watched and waited for her at the times become.’ 1 supper table. All in vain. He sent a message ‘ Yes, but he rises grandly, when he secures ! to her, requesting a lew moments' interview, hia princess, and has her fate in his own hands, j The note was returned under seal, but not a ' line from the Brookline Belle. Marriage, they say, conquers love.’ ‘When self is stronger than principle—and fashion is the god of beauty—when home, friends, and all dnties are sacrificed to display and show—then love dies of inanition.’ * True love cannot die, Mr. MontmoIIin,’ she replied, ‘it is immortal.’ ‘ Bat does not, cannot dwell alone. The wife who prefers the admiration of sooiety to her husband’s welfare, will destroy the source of her own happiness, and throw love out of doors.’ ‘Uponmy word, Mr. MontmoIIin,’ said the Belle, ‘you talk like a philosopher—who would think of hearing such sober Bentiment from a gay young society man like yon ? Surely, Mr. Gordon must have exeroised a strange influence over you.’ * My better reason teaches me that the follies of my own life must cease somewhere, and when I meditate upon the grave issues of domestic life, I cannot help seeing that a man may amuse himself with butterflies in the parlor or the garden, but needs more substantial companion ship for the realities of life. Marriage is too serious a theme for jest or experiment. The Ritual of the Church speaks wisely, when it says that matrimony is not to ‘be enterprized, or taken in hand unadvisedly, but reverently, discreetly, and in the fear of God.” ‘ Bravo ! we shall have a sermon from you yet,' exclaimed the Belle. MontmoIIin was really in great distress of mind. He had once fondly loved this proud youDg girl, but he honestly believed himself thoroughly cured of his infatuation. The eventB of this day revealed to him a lesson he did not dream.of— he was still in love with her —more passionately now than ever. Her fiery spirit charmed him—her fierce disavowal of unworthy motives enhanced his esteem for her She was necessary to his happiness now more than ever before. He resolved to humble him self, to confess bis error in the most humiliating terms—to Bay, to do, to promise anything to obtain her forgiveness. The night passed away and the slow morning hours crept on and found him planning some scheme to pacify her, Borne method of satisfaction which might soothe her wounded spirit. The breakfast hour was scarcely over when he sent a message to her room. The servant re turned in a few moments with the intelligence that Miss Helen had left the place. Gone! whither, no one could tell. But she was cer tainly gone. That day he, also, left the springs. He re turned to Oglethorpe, hoping to find her there. But she had not returned to her friends in that city. There could be but one conclusion after this—she had gone to Brookline—gone t > her home, to face the new surroundings, where her father’s loss of fortune was destined to try the friendships which prosperity creates, but only ‘The truth does not change, even in the lips i “lenasnips - .A’—adverse fortune can demonstrate. MontmoIIin of folly,’ he said gravely, as he conducted her to a chair some distance from the gay company on the verandah. The Belle sighed gently, and sat for a few moments picking to pieces a rose, whose velvet leaves she scattered on the floor. ‘You are right,’ she said, ‘but how few among us are wise enough to make tnat choice upon which all onr future depends !’ ‘And uiHuy live to regret their lack of wisdom, wb*-n it is too late to retrieve an error.’ •Positivelj yon make me melancholy, Mr. Mon'.moilm ! To hear you, one might suppose that you w*-re a desolate young man, whose matrimonial prospects were ruined— instead of that, you have the power to win any hand or heart you may choose.' ‘Even year own, eh?’ he queried, looking down into the deep, expressive eyes, ns if he would iathorn them to the bottom. T did not speak of myself, sir,' she answered, M the rich bloom of youth took deeper color on cheek and brow. ‘I uttered only a general truth; I did not expect a practical application of it.’ ‘Bnt it was not always a truth, Helen,’ he re plied, in a grave and subdued tone, ‘it was not mlways true that 1 could win any hand or heart —you know that 1’ , •Gome, come, Mr. MontmoIIin,’ she answered, I with an attempt to reoover her gaiety, ‘don’t let determined to follow at once, and a few days afterward he was on his way to seek the wound ed spirit which he felt hourly becoming more and more necessary to his peace and happi- CHAPTER X.—Basking in thb Scnshixh. * A most romantic story, truly!’ said Ellen, as she plucked one of the orange blossoms from a tree and placed it in her dark ringlets. * I won der if he will find her?’ ‘ I hope he will,’ answered Herbert, ‘ fori be lieve he really loves her, although he pretends that he only feels it as a reflection upon his honor. Bertrand is Dot the man to undergo so much inconvenience and labor simply to apolo gize to a witty coquettel’ ‘It was very, very rude in him—your friend ought to be ashamed of himself for acting so ungallan'ly.’ ‘ He affected to believe her only a flirt and because her father’s fortude was lost he sup posed she was seeking a rich husband—and he has been soundly punished for his impudence. Really, f think it serves him right. He would u.it listen to me, when Isongbt to dissuade him just as all flowers are beautiful. See, this pale white rose; it is not so gay and brilliant as that rich carnation, or this fuchsia—it is not so slen der and gra;ftii&! as this lily—it is not so fra grant as many lothers of its sisterhood; but beautiful it is-i-fulfilliDg its allotted sphere, contributing to our pleasure. Its very deficien cies help to set off the brighter hues of others. I think it no less pure, and sweet, and beauti ful because it does not monopolize all the beau ty, but is content only with its share.’ * * And women are like the flowers, are they ? Certainly you are generous, Mr. Gordon, and whether your views are correct or not, I think we ought to be grateful lor your appreciation.’ «This would be a sad world without the bright eyes, the pure, innocent faces, the ten der hearts, the gentle hands of the ladies, Miss Ellen.’ • And without strong, noble natures—vigilant and faithful guardians—strong minds and hands and hearts, I think the world would be a dreary place, indeed!’ Ellen laughed gaily, and Herbert joined in her merriment. ’Twas a dull old trnism, sure ly: man without woman—woman without man —well, it wonldnot be a world at all! So these two vonng hearts thought, and felt, as others have, since the first wedded pair walk ed down the flowery paths in paradise. ‘And your friend is gone to seek ont the wounded* dove ! Where will he find her?’ ask-' ed Ellen. • 1 cannot tell. He thinks she has gone home, but now that bankruptcy has deprived the fam- ] ily of all their comforts, I would not be sur prised if she has left the city where she was only a few weeks ago a rejoicing belle. It is so easy in a large town to lose oneself in the crowd I doubt if he will find her—and if he does, her proud spirit will hardly forgive him for the wanton injury. I am sure I shonld not, if I were in her place. At all events he should give me the strongest evidence of his repentance.’ ‘But it seems, from what you tell me, that she had once treated him very badly—it was only diamond against diamond.’ ‘ Yes, they were engaged to be married, and the day was appointed. He had been very at tentive to her, and on the morning of the day appointed for the wedding, she wrote him a note refusing to marry him.’ ‘That was certainly very wrong of her,’ said Ellen, ‘ a lady ought to know her own mind bet ter than that. Perhaps, after all, he did well to lose her.’ , • But.t.b.eA/.fcAcaoU.ether, Miss Ellen. Iam sure they do/^sne had some reason for reject ing him; she explained the cause not long ago, but he would have it that she desired to capture him on account of his fortune. He was not rich at that time—at least he had not the fortune which he now possesses. A wealthy nncle, 1 be lieve, left him all his property, for his father, though living in great style, was not supposed to be very rich. Bertrand is very suspicious in bis temperament, and thinks people are all lia ble to be influenced more by money than any other consideration in the world.’ ‘And is that true, Mr. Gordon ? Are people so base as to lose each other for the sake of their money ?’ asked Ellen, her own experience hav ing never suggested such an idea of human de pravity. ‘Weil, to tell you the truth, Miss Ellen,’an swered Gordon, ‘there is no doubt that many people pretend to love the rich when it is only their wealth that is loved. Such friendship will not stand the test of poverty. For my part I should think, it very hazardous for any one in this country to place any dependence upon wealth. Marriage is too solemn a theme to con nect with dollars and cents.’ ‘People ought only to marry for love!’ ex- olaimed the young girl, and she looked as wise and profound as if she had discovered a para mount law of the moral universe. ‘ That is true,’ replied Gordon, ‘ and only stfch marriages are happy. Bnt even this principle requires some qualification.’ ‘ How so, Mr. Gordon ?’ ‘ Why, a man may, like my friend MontmoI Iin, love a woman for herself, because she has physical beauty. When she is faded, and has lost her charms, there is danger that love will depart. Then the poor, deserted wife finds out, too late, that she has lost the or ly bond that can bind her husband to her. But there is a higher beauty than that of form or feature—the beauty of the mind and sonl.’ ‘Now then, Mr. Gordon,’ said Ellen, aa she gathered some flowers into a little boquet, ‘ you must explain that to me. I wish to know what yon mean by beanty of the mind and soul.’ Herbert looked at the fair sweet face before him, in all ita artless simplicity of youth and grace, and he thought she had only to study her self to see his ideal of all beauty. ‘Still, Miss Ellen,’ he replied, ‘there are some qualities which are known and appreciat ed enough, and yet are difficult to define. If you wish to know what I think of the beanty of the 8oul,T can only define it imperfectly. In woman, first ot all, it is gentleness—modest un- presuming tenderness of disposition. Purity of purpose—kindness to all people, high and swered, Twill serve you with great pleasure, but I am not a very competent guardian for any body,—and, well, we shall not have many ene mies to overcome, anyhow, You are among a staff, and we’ll try with staves who is the best man.’ Robin Hood knew, of course, that the stranger was a stronger, heavier man than himself, but thought mayhap his tough activity would make him a match for the other. Anywise he deter mined to try a fair ’bout and see what would come of it Therefore he stepped back on the bank, went to a clump of trees at hand, and out him a good stout stick. ‘Now/ said Robin Hood, pleasantly, ‘we'll fight on the bridge, and whichever gets knocked into the water will be beaten, and the one who keeps his footing wins the day.’ ‘I agree with all my heart/ answered the stranger, heartily.’ So at it they went. Robin Hood gave the first lick. Such a bang! It made the big man’s bones ring. He said: ‘I’ll pay you for that,’ and cameMown with a real whack! Robin gave baok as good a one, and the blows fell so fast and heavy, it sounded as if they were threshing wheat. At last the stranger hit Robin Hood such a lick on the head, the blood friends, and there is no society more charming ran down his face; then Robin Hood became than that of Oglethorpe. Give yourself no un- angry, and belaid on blows so thick and heavy, easiness on RHy score. Obey the instincts of a the tall man’s clothes fairly smoked. He too got true womanly nature, and you have nothing to mad, and came down with such a heavy broad- fear. Be a true woman !’ * j side lick, that he tumbled Robin Hood into the brook. Herbert did not know, then, how the solar light of his frank, intelligent lace was photo graphing on her heart an image which not all the experience ot mortal life could erase. He did not know, nor did she, at that time, how firmly fixed in her soul, were the impressions of those balmy summer mornings and evenings, when they stood side by side under the orange trees—when she wreathed the flowers her hands had plnoked from the dewy stem, she did not know she was weaving the web of her own life’s future, nor he, that the girlish confidences and artlessness were growing into his soul, like the tendrils of humble plants, searching out the crevices of rocks, and fixing themselves for the blooming and the fruitage of all time. The days came and went, and each endeared the young friends to each other more and more. Absent, their thoughts spanned the intervening space, and they found employment and delight, in remembering every word, and gesture, and tone of their last meeting. Present, there was never a word that could be called idle, or a look that was meaningless—and yet neither imagined that this was genuine, imperishable love! No such word esoaped them—for their friendship needed no name. It was never called by any name—but all their hours were devoted to stud ies in the garden—to questions among books, to enquiries among poets, philosophers and teach ers of anoient and modern days. Opinions and sentiments, and speculations, among the flowers or the stars—hopes, plans, prospects, but never 6uch as revealed to them that every hope tended to a common meeting place—every plan had a future belonging to each alike—every prospect j ‘ Ah ! ha!’ said the stranger. ‘ Where are you now ?’ 4 In the water getting cool,’ replied Robin Hood, with perfect good humor. ‘ You are a brave fellow, and can hit a good heavy blow, I’ll prove. You have won this bout, 1 trow !’ Robin Hood by this time had waded out to the bank; he then blew a blast on his horn, and in a few moments his band of bowmen were around him. ‘Why, master!’ said Will Stutely, who was next best man in the company to Robin Hood. Why, master! You are wet to the skin.’ ‘There’s the man,’ answered Robin Hood, ‘who tumbled me in.’ ‘ We will duck him,’ cried out three or four of the outlaws, starting forward, ‘ and let him see how he likes such fun.’ ‘ Stop !’ cried out Robiu Hood. ‘ Stop ! He’B a good stout fellow, and honest withal, if one may judge by his blows. No one shall wrong thee, friend, be not afraid; these bowmen on ine do wait. There’s three-score and nine; if you’ll be mine, you shall have my livery strait. I’ll teach you the use of the bow, and how to shoot the fallow deer.’ ‘Here is my hand,’ the stranger replied. ‘I'll serve you with my whole heart; my name is John Little, a man of good mettle. Ne’er doubt me, for I’ll play my part.’ ‘His name shall be altered/ quoth Will State ly, ‘ and I will be his God-father. Prepare then a feast, and none of the least, for we will be merry,’ quoth he. They presently fetched a brace of fat does, presented itself in close suggestion with the oth- I gome good strong foaming ale, and merrily got er’s name. That they were happy in each oth- t all ready to feast on the good things. The stran- er’s society, the most superficial observer could i ger was seven feet high, and may be an ell in not fail to see—that either had ever enquired j the waist, but they declared with much fun he why it was so, or if there really existed in the ! was a sweet, jolly babe. Robin Hood and all soul of either an attraction for the other—of these things neither Herbert nor Ellen ever for a moment entertained a thought. O ! Children of earth ! when in the gray dawn of some eventfni day, ye shall suddenly stum ble over the truth, and waking from the sweet evening dream of peace, shall find that nature has created you, and circumstances united you in the bonds of the holiest affection that exists below the stars, beware lest some wandering de mon of this sin-smitten world, do not strive to work your life’s undoing. (TO BK CONTINUED.) From the Boys and Girls of the South. TALES OF ROBIN HOOD. ROBIN HOOD AND LITTLE JOHN. CHAPTER II. low—sweetness of temper—charity to the needy, The sick, and afflicted. Patience with the erring —fidelity to trnth—constancy in heart, lovliness of deportment—in a word, true woman-hood It is a poor definition—only a part of it—but this is at least a part of soul-beauty.’ ‘And I think with you Mr. Gordon/ every woman ought to be gentle, modest, kind, and faithful—but have you iound any that have all these beautiful qualities ?’ ‘ That is asking a direct interrogatory/ replied Gordon smiling. She looked at him for a moment, with an in quiring glance, and then, as if realizing sudden ly, somethimg she could hardly tell what, she turned away, and the rich flowers in her hands were noi so radiant and roseate of hue, as was her fair young face. ‘Excuse me,’ she said, ‘I really did not know what I was doing.’ ‘No apology, Miss Ellen/ answered Gordon, unless it be from me. I shonld have said frank ly—I have seen all these qualities in more than one a oman/ 'Well, then/ said she, ‘promise me, that when you And them all in one, you will introduce me to her—I do so love good people, and desire to be good myself—but oh, it is so hard always to do right. I find fault with myself every day, because I know I have not lived as useful a life from his revenge, as he called it. You must know, Miss Ellen, that be and I disagreed in | as I ought to do. You will help me, will you Robin Hood was a declared outlaw, and a price was set on his head; so, as there was no chance to plead bis cause with the King, he made the best of a bad matter, and lived in the forest of Barnesdale and Sherwood, shooting the deer, hare or quails whenever he chose, and hiding himself adroitly from the foresters. There were other men who like himselfhad gotten into trouble through the oppressions of the monks and nobles, and these men came to him, and proposed, as they were all compelled to hide from such oppression, they would form a band, of which they wished Robin Hood to be the captain. To this he readily agreed, but exacted of them, (each individual,) that they would promise him .three things. First, they must never rob the poor. Second, they must never harm a woman; and third, everything they got, they were to share equally with all the other members of the band. As to the proud, rich monks, and haughty, wealthy nobles, they looked on them as their fair prey; and were always on the watch to catch them on the high way, and take from them their money, mules, fine clothes, etc. These men who formed Robin Hood’s band, were almost all joung men, and could climb trees like squirrels, run, jump, wrestle and box. Practice made them very perfect in the use of the long bow, and they passed their leisure hours in making fine bows of yew, arrows pointed finely, and twisting strong bow strings out of the dried sinews of the deer that they killed whenever they chose. Robin Hood, however, was considered the boldest man, the finest shot, swiftest racer, and best jumper of them all. He was not so strong as he was active, but above all, he was always cool, and fearless. The Abbot of St. Mary’s and the Sheriff of Nottingham constantly sent out parties to try and capture Robin Hood and bis men, but the outlaws would slip from Barnesdale-wood to Sherwood-forest, and always managed to escape. They slept under the trees, hunted deer, and lived merrily on the wines and money they took from the fat monks. One day Robin Hood said to his men: ‘It is fourteen days since we’ve had any fun; I am going to the highways to see if I cannot meet an adventure, do you tarry here, and if I should be about to be beat, I’ll not retreat, but sound a note on my bugle, for you to come to my rescue.’ It was but a few roods to a brook tbat ran through the forest Its bridge was only a plank, too narrow for two men to pass one another on. As Robin Hood stepped on one end of the bridge, a tall stranger got on the other end. Both stopped, but neither man offered to step aside until the other should pass over. The stranger was about seven feet high; broad- shouldered and brawny, he scowled at Robin Hood, and the outlaw looked him fiercely in the faoe. Said the latter, presently: ‘I’ll show you right Nottingham play !’ and he took an arrow from his quiver, as if he would fit it to his bow-string. ‘ Shoot!' said the stranger, boldly, ' if you dare ! and I’ll liquor your hide.’ ‘ You talk like a simpleton,’ replied Robin Hood. ‘ If I bend my bow I can send an arrow through your heart before you can get to me to touch me.’ ‘You talk like a coward,’retorted the stran ger: ‘ to threaten to shoot a man who has only a staff in his hand.’ ‘I scorn to be called a coward/ replied Robin Hood. * I’ll pat my bow down, and I’ll out me his bowmen made a ring, and Stutely said as gravely as he could: ‘ This infant was called John Little, which name shall be changed anon; the words we'll transpose, so wherever he goes, his name shall be called ‘Little John.” They all set up a merry shout as he ended, and seven men brought out a suit of Lincoln- green and dressed him in it, and Robin Hood gave him a fine long bow, saying: ‘ Thou shalt be an archer, as well as the best, | and range in the green wood with us; where we’ll not want gold or silver, behold while ; bishops have ought in their purse, we live here I like ’Squires, or lords of renown, without ere a | foot of free land; we feast on good cheer, with | wine, ale and beer, and everything at our com- l mand.’ Then they danced and sang and played games \ until the sun, sinking in the west, warned them | to go to their caves for the night. CHAPTER III. HOW IT CHANCED THAT THE ABBOT OF ST. MAEl’s FELL INTO THE HANDS OF THE OUTLAWS. It was not long after Little-John became a member of the band of outlaws, that one day Robin Hood was strolling alone in the forest with his bows and arrows, ready to shoot some game. He was whistling merrily, when his quick ear caught the sound of horses’ feet. Peering through the trees, he saw coming up the hill, by a narrow path, his old enemy, the rich Abbot of St. Mary’s, with about forty horse men following him. ‘Marry !’ said Robin Hood to himself. ‘This will never do; the first thing I know the Abbott will catch me, and there is not a tree in Barues- dale that he will think high enough to hang me on. If I get into his hands he will swing me as high as Haman, so I’ll try and keep out of them.’ Ashe said this to himself, the outlaw ran through the woods to the house of an old woman near by, and entered without any ceremony. ‘Who art thou?’ said the old woman, hastily. * I am Robin Hood, and I see the Abbot of St. Mary’s in the woods. If he finds me he will hang me by the neck until I’m dead; therefore you must help me get away.’ ‘ Indeed I will do all an old woman can to help you/ replied the crone, earnestly; ‘for'I have the shoes and hose still that you kindly sent at All-halloween, and the red cloak you sect me at Christmas keeps my old shoulders warm right now.’ ‘Quick, then!' said the outlaw. ‘Lend me your red cloak and bonnet. Here! Do you put on my green mantle and hood, pull it down so as well to shade your face. Now swap your spindle and twine for my bow and quiver; and I think I make a pretty good old wife, and you will pass for a bold outlaw.’ He laughed merrily and hobbled out, like an old person would in a hurry. He passed right along by the Abbot and his troop. The Abbott asked: ‘Goody, caastthon tell me where I will find a varlet called Robin Hood ?’ ‘ He was in tbat cottage on the hill but a little while since/ said the disguised outlaw, readily. ‘Here’s a penny for thy good news,’ replied the Abbot * Spur on, my men, and let ns make sure of this robber chief!' Robin went on briskly to where his men were practising at a target in long-bow shooting. Will Stutely Baw him, and not suspecting who it was, said, with a laugh: 'Comrades, see yon old woman! She looks so like a witch; suppose I let fly an arrow at her and see if she will turn the point.’ ‘Not so fast, Stutely! 1 had rather not be the aim of such a markmau as thou art,’ responded the disguised chief, us Stutely mischievously pointed his arrow toward him. The outlaws shouted with laughter when their master threw aside the bonnet and cloak of the old woman, thinking the mi-squrrade but a merry jest of the moment. However. Robin Hood soon explain ed their old enemy was near at hand; and the outlaw detailed his plan to capture the Abbot with his train. Rohm Hood quickly donned another mantle ot liucoln-green, hackled a good blade to his side and hastening with his men to the *>ad by which he knew the Abbot would travel, waited screened by the bashes from being immediately discerned by the pre late and his train. For the iincoln-green man tles worn by the outlaws were so nearly the shade ot the leaves it helped hide them among the forest boughs. In the meantime the Abbot had ridden up to the hut of the old woman, who sat as Robin * Hood left her, enveloped in the long green man- j wmmmm