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Castle and Cabin; —OR,— Lord Edwin’s Vow. A TALE OF ENGLAND AND THE GREAT WEST girl at his pillow. 'Go away, I don’t want yon here. Yon have bound me to my bed, and I will get up, for I have got to ride over the prai ries to day to buy a herd of cattle at Esquilo’s ranclie. Let me go !’ After the united strength of the Englishmen BX C. H. WEBSTEB. CHAPTER XIV. A death-bed confession. Slowly the hours passed by to the watchers around the bed of the Spaniard; and still he lay in that death-like stupor, with a face ghast ly pale, as though the stern signet of the Con queror was already set upon it. It was a solemn watch they kept in the lonely wayside ranche, with the rain tapping at the window pane, the voice of the wind sobbing all around, and the giant old cottonwood near by groaning and creaking against the roof. The faithful old watch-dog had crept into the cham ber, begging with a piteous whine to share their vigil; Maraquita sat near the bed, now and then bending forward to moisten her master’s pale lips with a wet cloth; the two Englishmen sat in the corners of the room, half dczing in their fatginge, yet near enough to waken in a moment if occasion called; and the solitary lamp oast a faint, weird light over all. Suddenly, as the midnight deepened, the man upon the pillows started up from his lethargy, tossed his arms aloft, and began to babble wildly. Maraquita sprang to her feet, and our travelers were roused in an instant, and approached the bed. A wild glare was in the Spaniard s eye, and he waved his hand outward with violence, as though warding off the approach of some unwelcome, or dreaded visitant. ‘Jtsu he comes ! I will not have him here. The dead has risen to haunt me. He has come to drag my soul down to perdition ! But he shall not have it. I will not go with him—go back- go back !’ he screamed hoarsly, beating the air with frantic terror. ‘Go back to your spirit world again —you have no business here’! What if I did murder you, and take your gold? Another man bore the blame, and I mean to live to spend my gains. Nobody saw, nobody knows —and dead men ought to tell no tales. Go back! I mean to cheat the devil; so he needn’t send you here fur me Ha, ha, you’ll have a bootless errand, for I’m not going to bear you company !’ and laughing loud and long, he fell back ex hausted on his pillow. ‘Holy Mary ! how the master raves. The saints preserve his soul! exclaimed the trembling Mexic girl, crossing herself in affright, and looking appealingly toward her companions. ‘What is this he talks about? Some crime he has committed, or but the babbling of a confused brain?' asked Sir Hugh, looking upon the ghastly face before him. ‘Ah, I know not ? replied Maraquita. ‘The master was a bad man enough, the \ irgin knows; and he loved gold, but I didn’t think he had stained his hands in blood. ’Tis but the ravings of bis delirious brain, senors,’ lor the good girl would have put as charitable a construction as possible on the words he uttered, little cause as she had to cherish kindly feeling towards him. ‘Most probably. We often read of cases where the mind, disturbed by delirum, conjures up visions that had no actual counterpart in past experiences.’ I ——uUt tne youldr^ji^A tq, IjjnfbJldwin at *’ v YUflr^ is’the most charitable view, cousin; but we know, too, that sometimes, in the dying hour, the secrets of the past life are yielded up, and the heart is bared to our gaze,’ and he cast a meaning look upon Sir Hugh, who understood at once the sad allusion to the dying hours of Lord Edwin’s own father. ‘True, my dear cousin; but let us hope, for sweet charity's sake, that this man hath commit ted no such deed whereof he raves; though, in truth he has a cruel lip and eye, which do not impress me any too favorably with his goodness. Hark ! he is about to speak again;' for the Span iard had started up anew, and sat pointing his long, white finger into the air while a demoniac smile curled the ghastly lips under the jetty, curling moustache. ‘Ha, ha ! you are coming back to your own place again, and you may tell the fiend who sent you that I am not ready to come to him—for young Tarbell bears the suspicion of the crime, and I am to live these many years yet, to spend the gold I took from the murdered man’s belt. ‘Murder !' did I say that ? It is an ugly word; and I mnst keep my lips shut, or they will drag me to the gibbet,’ and he placed his long, shape ly fingers over his mouth, and looked around fearfully, as though some one had overheard him. Again Sir Hugh spoke in a low voice to his cousin, and this time with conviction in his ones. •Edwin, God guided us here to-night, to shape from the man’s raving, the knowledge of Vance Tarbell’s innocence of a stain npon his good name, which drove him, a few years ago, an exile from his former home. You look surprised; but when we were in the settlement on the’ Platte River, the noble fellow quite won my friendship; and one day, in a confidential mood he told the story of his former life. It seems that a traveling cattle drover was murdered and robbed in his neighborhood; and as Vance had been seen conversing with him late that even ing, and knew of his having a large sum of gold in his belt, he became the object of suspicion. But this man probably upon the trail of the unsuspicious drover, by his own confession now, is the true criminal; and God has brought justice to the innocent at last. And I shall feel it my duty to return to the settlement, and ac quaint Tarbell with the facts, which are suffi- cently strong in my mind, and should be in the eyes of the world, to establish his own inno cence. How strange that we should be the mediums of rendering our friend this service!’ ‘Yes; and strange that Tarbell should have spoken at all to you of what most men would have concealed—the fact that he was under sus picion.. This, to my mind, is strongest proof of his innocence,’ replied Lord Edwin. A half hour went by in silence, for the Span iard lay quiet, with closed eyes; and since the midnight had began to slope toward the morn ing, the storm seemed to abate. Then he grew restless again, and commenced tossing his arms and moving uneasy on his bed. Opening his eyes, he started wildly at the Mexic girl at his pillow, and cried out sharply: ‘I know you, Hortense ! You too, have come to mock me now, and ask me what I did with your baby ! Ha ! she was a sweet young thing —and she had your eyes; and she smiled in mv face when I took her from her cradle. Oh it was a glorious revenge! for I had sworn that Jerome De Tremain’s child should never sleep long on your breast; and Roderique De Avila never forgets a vow of vengence. Go find your child if you can ! The northern forests are deep—and the red man loved gold nhaina an ^ h%by trinkets too well to refuse to do my bid ding. Ha, ha! you will never see De Tremain’s child again my proud, cold lady 1’ *4oad heavens! what a wholesale villain this man hts been,’ whispered Sir HBgh, listening to this 4ew revelation. girl sobbed forth: ‘Ah, don’t you know me, my master ? I am Maraquita, your bond-slave, and I have always been faithful to you and poor mistress. But I have been so sad since my lady left; and you have been unkind, and yet I will do all I can for you now, my poor master, if you will not drive me away. Ah, my poor Don Roderique!’ and she stroked his silky black locks caressing ly with her labor-hardened hand. The action and her words seemed to recall De Avila's wandering brain for a moment, and his eye softened. ‘Yes, it is Maraquita—my good girl—my good girl!’ and he nodded feebly. ‘But you said your mistress was gone. I don’t remember,’ putting his hand to his head—‘where is she—Carina ?’ ‘Roderique, mio amigo, I am here ! The words came in a low, sweet, but sadly solemn voice from the doorway; and, turning around, the group at the bed saw upon the thres hold a pallid-faced woman, with long masses of wet, dishevelled black hair streaming from be neath a gray hood, and down over a cloak of the order of the Holy Sisters of Charity. ‘Roderique mio amigo, I am here!’ and the woman who had been wronged, insulted, and driven with oruel scorn from the man for whom she had resigned her hope of heaven, was there, to forgive and pray for him beside his death bed. And kneeling there, his hand in hers, and holding the crucifix to his lips—receiving his repentant vows in the same Hour in which he besought the forgiving mercy of Mary the moth er of God—that woman once maddened at the failure of mortal love, but with her heart now filled with the love of the Infinite and ‘the peace that passeth understanding,’ blessed the guid ing voice which had whispered, ’Thou art need ed at Roderiq le De Avila’s side!' and knelt all the long night through, his hand in hers, and holding the crucifix to his lips. And when the fair spring morning dawned, and the sky shone clear as the eye of Faith, and the storm had passed, Carma Valladillo, ‘Sister Agnes' he rceforth, still knelt beside her dead. CHAPTER. A STRANGE DISCOVERY. A month after tin occurrence at the wayside Texan ranche, the two English travellers again stood in the settlement upon the banks of the Platte River; and with a joyful heart, Sir Hugh Raleigh unfolded to Yance Tarbell the proof of his clearance from the terrible crime, which, three years before, had been laid to his charge ‘And now, you may rest secure in the estab lishment of your innocence, my friend; for af ter the Spaniard died, I had an interview with the woman who had loved him so faithfully, and shared his rude, lawless life, ere he drove her to seek peace within the convent walls—and she confessed that she had more than suspected his connection with the crime at the time of its occurrence. But her attachment led her to re fuse betraying him; although she told me that if he had not confessed it in his last moments, she should never have rested until she had sought you out and restored your good name to you. Thus, you see Tarbell, that Providence does not allow the guilty to triumph, and the innocent to always suffer.’ ‘God bless you, Sir Hugh ! you have been the instrument of relieving my mind from the cence, I could not establish it in the eyes of the world, and no man can ever conceive what I endured. But God is good at last; and he has suffered all to come about in this way, because he foresaw that it would be a pleasure for me to hear this story from friendly lips. Now, will you do one more favor for me, my kind friend— will you go and tell Lucy and her family ? for I am weak now, when I should be strong, and I cannot!’ and the tears rained down Yance Tar- bell’s bronzed cheek, and his voice trembled with emotion as he spoke. ‘With all my heart, Yance ! replied Sir Hugh. ‘Edwin and I are going to call in at Mr. Braodt’s house this evening, and I will then relate the stcry. And you will allow me now to forestall events, and cffer you my congratulations on tho happy future I see before you.’ ‘Thanks, Sir Hugh,’ said Tarbell, frankly. ‘Lucy’s uncle said once, that, when I could prove my innocence, he would give her to me; and yon may be sure that I shall not be back ward in claiming the fulfilment of his prom ise. ’ ‘Neither should I be, were I in your stead,’ said the nobleman, smiling; ‘and pray, let the wedding be celebrated while we are here, that I may have the privilege of standing grooms man,’ and he shook the young man’s hand hear tily When the evening stars had mounted into the steel blue sky, and the sweet scent of the soft early winds of May were on the moist air, the two noblemen made their appearance at Jacob Brandt’s cabin, and were warmly welcomed by Lucy and her aunt, although the old settler was less cordial in his greeting. The truth was, that everything had been working against Jacob Brandt’s plans; his son David and Johanna Tar bell had openly confessed their attachment, and his good wife had dared to favor it; while Yance and Lucy had not thought it their duty to deny themselves each other's society. So the old man had grown cross and petulant, and met the vis itors with a morose air and a few gruff’ words of greeting. Sir Hugh, at once saw how matters stood; and he resolved to open the subject without delay. Therefore,after the customary salutations and in quiries had been spoken, he turned to the old settler, and commenced : ‘I have come hither again, partly to strengthen old acquaintance, but more to be a service for my friend Tarbell—a young man you ought to be proud to call neighbor, let alone the prospect of a nearer connection, Mr. Brandt,’ and there was considerable suavity in the speaker’s tone and manner. But the old settler was on the alert, and his quick temper took fire at the first shot. ‘I understand your game, sir,’ he blurted out- his keen eye measuring Sir Hugh. ‘You’re hand- in-glove with the man who sent you here, I know but Yance Tarbell may go to the devil before he should have my niece, Lucy, and you may bear him company, ef you’re mindter, for I hate furriners like pizen : and I hate English men most of all, ever since Lucy’s father come deceivin’ my poor, dead sister Annie.’ •Oh uncle Jacob!’ ‘Why, Mr. Brandt!’ These exclamations were from the lips of the girl who was shocked by her uncle’s want of common courtesy—for all the old man’s good feelings were blotted out in his heat of passion— and from Mrs. Brandt, whose kind motherly face crjmsoned with embarrassment. But Sir Hugh was too thoroughly a master of the knowledge of human nature to take offence at the rudeness of his host; therefore he contin ued, pleasantly: ‘Well, no matter how much you dislike me, Mr. Brandt, I only ask that you will not contin ue to cherish an unfounded prejudice against the. man I am proud to declare my friend. you this news, which I c-mot but believe you will rejoice to hear.’ There was a little silence in that cabin, broken only by Lucy’s low, but heartfelt ejaculation joy, and then the girl sat quiet, half faint with happiness; while her aunt looked glad, and had held De Avila down upon his bed, the poor turned her beaming face from one to another and even Jacob Brandt’s faoe wore a surprised, xpression. At length, he spoke, half sullenly; half apologetically: . . ‘Ef you’re sure this story is true, sir, and am t trumped up to help him get Lucy—but you said you could prove it ?’ . ‘And so I can, Mr. Brandt. A Spaniard, on his death-bed, confessed the orime, and to fas tening the suspicion on Vance.’ Ajid then Sir Hugh rapidly detailed the entire narration. ‘Thank God! I always felt that the poor boy was innocent And to think what he must have suffered, with everybody down there in the old home, believing him guilty!’ said Mrs. Brandt, with kind motherly tears in her eyes. Even the old settler was affected, and the rigid muscles about his mouth quivered, as he said, huskily: •Wall, the Lord forgive me! I know I ve been a stubborn old critter, and was bound to have my own way, ef *twas a possible thing; but I can’t be so hard hearted as not to be glad that this thing's cleared up. But ef I am as set as a mule, I ain’t the man that’ll back out of his given word; and I did tell Luov that, when Yance Tarbell was proved an innocent man, she might have him, and my agreement to it inter the bar gain. So, niece Lucy, you needn’t be down hearted any more; and David, too, ef ye want to marry Johanna, I’ll not say another word agin The tall, stalwart young man, who comprised one of the group in the cabin keeping-room, was rejoiced as much as his cousin Lucy at the turn affairs had taken; and Lord Hugh had the satisfaction of knowing that he had made more than two hearts happy with his tidings. I dunuo but I ought to ask yer pardon, Mister Raleigh,’ said the old man, who, with his blunt republican tongue, had never given Sir Hugh his title: ‘for I was purty sassy, I know,in what I said about furriners. But ye See I’ve been kept kinder riled up lately; and been, twenty years ago an’ upward, jest afore my niece Lucy was born, I swore a solemn vow that I should allers hate an Englishman, for one o’them broke the heart of my poor dead- and-gone sister. She was younger than I by twelve years or more, and only my half-sister, bein’ as we had two fathers and but one mother -for the old lady had married agin; but I loved little Annie Reese as ef she’d—’ ‘Annie Reese! Good God ! what strange dis covery is this?' and Lord Edwin started from his seat, pale as death with his emotions; and then, approaching the old settler, asked exci tedly, ‘Is your niece Lucy, Annie Reese’s and Arthur Randolph's child? Did her father leave this country for England a short time before her birth, and then, about a year later, did An nie die of cholera in Louisiana and her child also ? Tell me quick, for the love ofheaven, Mr. Brandt!’ ‘It’s jest as you’ve said, young man,’ replied the old settler, in wonder. ‘The plague took poor Annie off, but the baby lived—though we thought she’d go too. But who are you— any relation to him ? for I thought many a time you was the picter of him; and what have you come to tell Lucy about her father, after these twenty years ?’ and his manner was as full of excitement as the yopng man at his elbow. •I have come to d«l Lucy that her father did not forget her or her sweet mother, though he did a grievous wroDg in wedding, two years after his return to England, to please his father. (lCtHU a Dt9U —gbutlb iliuuuol. * Aua would that my pool father could have lived to know what now appears—that he was not really guilty of the sin he believed himself to be—for, poor Annie Reese, his first lawful wife, must have passed away before he married the Lady Amy Herbert. It was that belief which embit- ered his life, and which drove him to confess ion upon his death-bed, and led me on this fong western journey, to fulfil the sacred vow I made him then—to find Annie and the child he believed she bore him, if this western country held them anywhere in its embraces. And now when I had long given up the search, believing they both perished nearly twenty years ago of the pestilence, I find my sister thus ! For, dear Lucy, you are Lady of Stanhope Castle now; and I am your brother—and free from the dis grace which I had believed would be my only heritage if ever you were found,’ and Lord Ed win’s arms were clasped about the girl who fell fainting upon his bosom. [to be continued.] turn, the line of travel changed and the high-Btep- ping grays, wearied with the road, plunged down the green aisle with a grateful sense of duty ac complished ana in an instant more they were at Aunt Jane’s. And there her father left her. Taking Aunt Jane aside and telling her to be careful of his darling, and kissing Annie he told her to forget that scamp; and went back to Wash ington with a mind at rest. And there we find her sitting in the poroh with her thoughts far away. Aunt Jane had been unusually annoying and very talkative, constantly alluding to ‘that scamp Paul.’ ‘I can’t see why you can’t go out when you like,’ said Aunt Jane, wiping her spectacles vig orously. a few days after the arrival of her pretty niece, 'You must be lonesome, so I will send for Grace, she is real sensible, none of your flirts and she is good company and will keep your thoughts from that Paul.’ So Grace came, a pretty lovable girl, step-daughter of Aunt Jane and a school teacher in the neighboring vil lage. Grace Armor and Annie were friends upon first acquaintance, and very soon deep in each other’s confidence. The morning my story opens they had been out upon a long ramble about the farm, and Annie had returned, heart sick and homesick, and sat looking citywards, wishing she could see her own beautiful home and her city friends. It was beautiful here. The quaint old-fashioned farm house, crouching under the drooping magnolia leaves with a bird-like trust. Against the porch the pink cheeks of the roses nestled, and every passing breeze tossed the white lilies, bearing their rich perfume to her, and whenever the eye turned from thence it drank in the same swelling, gleaming landscape of woodland, hill and orch ard which was brightened by the steel-like flash of the river, singing seaward; while circling and limiting the horizon was the distant range of mountains purpling the horizon dark and moveless, like the eternal shadows of fate, over all lay a warm, amber light, in which ‘insects whirled in play.’ Annie roused herself from her day dream just as her aunt entered the house and called her cousin Grace. That young lady was nowhere visible, so she seated herself and began arrang ing the ferns and arbutus into dainty wreaths. ‘Arrah, good mornin’ to yees, Miss. Is it a bite of bread or worruk you’ll give me?’ And the voice startled Annie, and she sprang to her feet with a cry. ‘Never moind, Miss; I’ll not be hurtin’ yees, but will just stand outside the door-step and take the bite. My feet are sore and my lips are dhry, and not a friend to say God save ye.’ She saw a man apparently thirty-five years of age, with bent form and tattered c'othes, with yellow hair, and a green shade over his eyes, with unshaved chin; and to wind up his tout ensemble he carried a stout walking stick and suspicious looking bundle. •Come into the kitchen, and I will give you something,’ said Annie, hesitatingly; for she knew Aunt Jane was afraid of tramps generally, and hated Irishmen. But the kitchen was empty. Grace was sing ing like a bird in the upper room, and the tramp did a very strange thing. After peeping through the vine-mantled window, and ascertaining that the dreaded aunt was talking at the dairy door with Phillis, he turned quickly. ‘Annie ?’ How the tone thrilled her ! and she sprang toward him with eager grace, her color changing swift ly with joy, and almost rushed into his arms. Paulj is it you ? How dare you ? Oh, Paul, darling, I am so happy !’ And he caught her in his arms, crushing her in one long embrace, raining kisses upon cheek — A j.. to find you; so you may thank her, darling. And she advised me to come disguised. Is it complete? I think so. Give me a kiss, dear.’ And suddenly changing his tone he seated him self and continued, just as Aunt Jane entered: ‘Yes, Miss, I’m worn to a nothing wid hunger and hardship, wid strolling about for a crater like me, mum, in want of a mouthful of praties; me that had plenty of work wonst, and a face as rid on me as turf fire.’ And he pulled out We will uot attempt to describe the effect of this letter. The same day Col. Hamilton ar rived and on learning the state of affairs, was deeply incensed and much angered with his sister, and after speaking hiB mind to her he hurried back to the city, to find his daughter married and happy. He finally pardoned them and brought them home. And now any pleas ant afternoon the Hamilton coach, with its slen der grays, and it. coachman .in livery, rolls down the Avenue, containing containing two lovely, women, Annie and her faithful friend, Grace, now Mrs. Dr. Gardener. Aunt Jane has not forgiven or blessed them; but still sulks, more because she*allowed her self to be deceived by an ‘Irishman,’ she was sure he was Irish or he never could have per sonated one so well and she has not forgiven Grace for the parts he took in the fraud. The Baby in the Bas ket. I was Mrs. Budget, a poor, lone widow who kept a boarding-house to make a living. Poor Isaac, my husband, died soon after we were married, and I had to pull and work for myself. It is no easy job either, for boarders are aw fully troublesome; there is no pleasing them. But I am not going to tell you about my board ers; I want you to know about the baby. One day, I was reading in a paper about a lady finding a little baby on the door steps. She took the little one in and when she looked into the basket, in which it was brought, she found fif ty dollas and a piece of paper, on which was written: ‘Keep baby, and the same amount will be paid every three months.’ I studied and wondered over this and some times wished I could find a baby on my door steps. It would be so nice to have the fifty dol lars, or even less, every three months; and of course when it got to be older much more would be paid. Then I heard of children being found in the street, and thinks I to myself: ‘If ever I find a baby in the street, I am going to carry it home with me.’ A few days after this, I went to spend the day with a friend of mine and, as I staid longer than I intended, I had to hurry home, for it was get ting dark. When I got about half way home, I came to the house where the Van Buren family lived. The large house was richly furnished, for they were wealthy people; and I looked inside at the family sitting in the bright drawing room. It was dark and all the lamps were lighted, which made every thing look very bright and pleasant. I was thinking how happy they were; they had everything they wanted without keeping a boarding-house to get it, and then have nothing, when I stumbled across something. I looked down and could have screamed with delight,for right before me on the sidewalk, lay a basket with a baby in it. My! I did not wait a minute, but first picked up the basket and walked away. When I got out of sight, I looked at the baby. It lay there with its eyes closed, sleeping peacefully and a smile was on its face. Then I looked at its dress which was made beautifully; ail tucked, rutiled and embroidered, while its little head was cov ered with a lace cap. O! how proud I felt I hoped there would be some money in the basket; but the little one was so beautiful that I determined to keep it even if I did not find money with it. Then I thought about a name for it. ‘I think I will name it Angelina,’ says I, ‘and "•hon-she crrnwts Ji n , r><?rh«.t>s we will find out who sfie is; ancf if she is rich she will share her wealth with me. And then I will take a good rest, and I will buy a nice black cashmere dress and a nice little home, and will give nice pres ents to all poor widows and struggling boarding house keepers.’ 8 At last I reached home, ran up the steps into my- room, so I could take a good look at the baby. I took the little one out and held it up to the light. My heart sunk, all my bright hopes Paul Addison’s Masquerade. BY ROSE GIFFORD. 'Hun, fcttrting up, and grasping the wriat of the •Hal ST reTe ““®“‘ Vance Tarbell has been cleared of the suspicion vare you ? again shrieked the dying -that has tarnished his good name for the past three years; and I came here, to-night, to tell ‘It is really wonderful,’ thought Annt Jane Ellwood, as she carefully shook the clothes that were ready for bleaching out upon the shining grass—smothering without a pang the ruby clover blossoms that were nodding in the breeze; ‘wonderful why girl3 will love and marry an’ empty-headed fop and pass by such really good boys as John Drew. But Annie is awful set and needs watching; but she is as pretty as a picture,’ and she looked admiringly at a young girl seated upon the porch seemingly in a deep reverie. Hers was a lovely faoe just about to slip into its twenties, with its fine bloom of youth, its hint of some perfected charm of refinement, and pretty tintings of pink and white; eyes of heaven's own azure and some of its starlight; golden hair that hung in heavy braids and curled’ tenderly about the blue-veined brow. She was evidently a lover of nature, for at her feet was a basket overflowing with wood blos soms; clusters of fragrant, pink-tinted arbutus, and soft, green, trailing mosses; while the jaunty hat was wreathed with ferns and sprays of ar butus trailed to her dainty feet. Annie Hamilton’s father was Col. Hamilton, who had lived for years in Washington City. He was a very proud man, rejoicing in a family, he said, that could be traced back to the Nor man Conquest, and even hinted, in a pompous way, that there was a stray coronet somewhere that might at some future time grace Annie’s fair brow. But, like all the rest of the sex, Annie went directly opposite her father’s will and fell in love with a treasury clerk, ‘Handsome Paul Ad dison ;’ he was called the ‘Handsome Paul. ’ He was neither tall nor short, with supple, compact limbs and rapid, graceful movements; his fea tures were bold and thin, suiting his figure; oomplexion colorless, yet clear, healthful, olive; with hair of brown with lights of gold, and deep brown eyes. He was sensitive and suscep tible, impulsively generous—in short he was a splendid fellow—a favorite with all classes of men and women, a capital amateur actor and mimic. What wonder then that Annie loved and resolved to brave all and marry him. But some disinterested friends informed the Col. and he straightway resolved to end it all, Remembering his sister Jane, who owned a beautiful farm in Virginia, far from railroad or steamer he wrote her telling her the oircumstances. He soon re ceived an answer, and was soon on his way with Annie weeping by his side. All through the long June day they travelled along in silence. It was dreadful for Annie, for she was ‘tired to death,’ when with a sudden his handkerchief and wept ‘aisy loike’ till he vani8 ] lei J' £p r » *t was not a real baby, but a large quite touched Aunt Jane’s heart, and after a wax d® 11 ’ the size ol a baby, hearty meal, she told him to go to the field. rr *t uj , ow w b a ‘ to think or what to say. Then Grace sailed in and demanded to know • iiere * “.ad brought home a doll, thinking it what was the matter, for Annie in vain tried to ? baby left out in the street. To whom did stifle a laugh and had turned to leave the room. ' 1 |? on ?’ and what was it doing out on theside- After explanations from her mother, Grace set- wa !“ 7 i , * ou , 1‘. It belonged to some tied the question by hiring him then and there; X1 °h^child I knew, becar ‘for you know, mother, the hay must be in be fore rain, and we are short of hands, , • because the clothes were of the finest kind. . . .. 1 Wft3 in P'?“y why I could hardly believe S‘But he is one of them miserable Irish said her 1 11 was m ®» A" 3, Budget, who had always borne mother. ‘Whist!'said the tramp; let the young lady make the ’greement. ‘Aisy, my lady,’he added, taking out an outlandish pipe and filling it. ‘Don't be afther breaking me heart entirely; for I’ve seen as foin Irishmen as ever peeled a peraty, God save ye.’ So it was settled. Pat Dasey became an in mate of the house. Indeed, he made himself indispensible to all and to Aunt Jane especially, who finally promoted him to coachman, and he was trusted to take the girls to church, and on pleasure excursions. There was a marked change in Annie. She was no longer unhappy. Her laugh was the merriest of all. ‘Girls, you must not be too friendly with Pat,’ a good character and tried to live h6nest if I | was poor. Why; I had been stealing; you could not call it anything else; but now it was done I 1 must make the best of it, ’ I put the doll and her basket away until the next morning,- then I started for the Van Buren mansion, for I knew the doll belonged in there I rang the door-bell and a servant came to the door. Just then a little girl caught sight of what I carried, and came running to the door crying: *Oh ! here is my dolly ! my beautiful dolly: ‘Where did, you find her missus?’ said the servant. uo I told the girl that I was passing by, and the dol] was on the sidewalk; and. as it was late, I wuio, JWU Uiuot uut uo two mouuiv wiiu idl. a__i_ y».. / . . . — 1 she admonished one day, as they were teaching [ mL 0 - . thinking it was a baby. Pat croquet. ‘He is a great ignorant Irish man.’ And she sailed grandly into the house, heedless of the burst of merriment that floated after her. And often, if poor auntie could have seen into a quaint little retreat beyond the or chard, where a mossy cushion mitigates the asperity of the rock, beneath the stately forest trees, she would have seen Dr. Willis Gardener, her particular aversion, with his arm around the waist of her daughter Grace, and Tat Dasey, minus his wig and patches, teaching Annie to fish from the quiet little brook at their feet. But Aunt Jane was napping peacefully in her room, happy in the thought that she had cured Annie of her love for Paul Addison. One afternoon Annie came in with a radiant face, for Paul had told her that to-night must be the last of his masquerade, for fear of detec tion; for, like all guilty people, he was ill at ease, and so she had consented to go that night. ‘Your father writes me that your old lover has left Washington, and he is coming for you next week. Here, you may read the letter. ’ And Annie read the letter and knew there was no time to be lost. Next morning Aunt Jane was informed that Pat Dasey was missing. This alarmed her, and he hastily looked to see if her silver was safe. Then she rushed to the girls’ room. Grace lay sleeping as sweetly as a child. Where was An nie? She aroused her daughter, telling her that‘Pat Dasey has run off; where is Annie?’ Upon the bureau lay a letter, addressed to her self. The girl thanked me and said: ‘Flora was playing with her doll on the sidewalk, when her uncle, whom she had not seen for sometime ar rived. She was so delighted to meet him that she left her doll outside when she went in ! ’ I went home, and how glad I felt, I could not easily 00 ’ t0 tMnk that 1 had got out of it so I never built any more air castles about find ing babies in baskets with a roll of bank notes for a pillow. But alter all mv My Dear Aunt:— You will doubtless be surprised to learn that your niece has fled. I entered your house dis guised as ‘Pat Dasey,’ a person you very well know. The plan was ooncieved by your daughter and immediately oarriedout by your humble ser vant. By means unnecessary to mention I so disguised myself, that I suooeeded in deceiving you and Annie.(my wife at present.) We shall remain in this city to receive your blessing and forgiveness, which 'yon will doubtless grant us. ° Your affectionate Nephew, Paul. daughter’s birthday and the party was for*her and she had insisted on inviting me because I had found her pretty Flora and brought ner back. It was a nice little party. I went earlv enough to dress the table with flowers I had carried over a fine stalk of white lillies; thinking to give them to the little girl. I have alwavf been fond of children and I love them more since I buried my own one little daughter— lovely golden-haired darling that she wai. 1 fo ° nd ^ough very good people—Folks called Mrs. Van Buren proud and stuck up- but she was very kind and good to me. And at the party I met the uncle little Mattie had spoken ot-buch a nice, pleasant spoken gentleman about my age We had quite a talk in the nursery where Mattie took us to see Flora isleeo in her cnb-and-well I am not the widow Budget any more, nor do I keep a chean Wrd ing house and get snubbed and run over byYm- of niy'dreamland 1 1*Tf * the li.ttto Stage own? 7 “ and 1 have a sweet baby of my ^ irginia Rosalie. big holt WhTl’ir. bless you, that was her —' Here fh« in/® 611 tkat “ r « irl eat a whole understood the qu^tSa."*®* ““ Witne88 “ he