the Isles of Greece; there is enough of it in Cumberland and the nineteenth century, if we will but open our eyes and see.

What Scott did for Scotland, and what Wordsworth did for rural England, Dickens has done for London. The Londoners were not behind the rest of the world in admiring the Heart of Mid-Lothian' and 'Ivanhoe.' They did not suspect that their own great city, which seemed to them so prosaic a place, in truth contained as much romance as any spot on the earth; or, if they did suppose that there was any romance in London, they thought it was all confined to Newgate and Mayfair. To prove its existence in Cheapside, was reserved for the author of 'Pickwick.' He cares not for the middle ages in modern London is his dwelling, and there his heart is also. He seldom ventures to quit its streets, and is apt to lose his way when he does. His rustics are merely citizens in disguise, and his very goblins 'revisit the glimpses of the moon,' to enforce the practice of some Cockney virtue. But what treasures has he discovered for us in the meanest alleys and humblest dwellings: humorists as quaint and amusing as Edie Ochiltree, heroines as devoted and brave as Jeanie Deans or Rebecca the Jewess. It was in vain that some sneered at ' Pickwick' or 'Oliver Twist' as low; the instinct of the people told them that here, too, a new world was discovered, and that another great name had been added to the list of English novelists. To compare Dickens to Shakspere, as some do, is like comparing Lesage to Cervantes; but there is surely room in the world for both. Genius is not so abundant, that we can afford to be over-fastidious in our acceptance of it.

The difference between genius and talent was never better proved than in the case of Sir Edward Bulwer Lytton. Whatever this most accomplished writer has attempted, he has done well. Historical romances, fashionable novels, unfashionable novels, history, poetry, the drama-never was there greater versatility or more uniform success. The Werterism of Byron, the wisdom of Goethe, the incomparable humour of Sterne, he has entered into the spirit of them all, and his imitations are not much inferior to their originals. But they are imitations, and that is the reason why their author, with all his talents and accomplishments, must be ranked below Scott. His characters, it must be confessed, are not the real flesh and blood men and women we meet with in his works, nor yet the idealised men and women of Shakspcre. But the lofty purpose displayed in all he does, and the extraordinary talent and unwearied industry with which he carries it out, certainly entitle him to a prominent place among living writers.

The age of Elizabeth was the age of the drama; the age of Ann was the age of the essay; the age of Victoria is the age of the novel. The glories of the English stage have disappeared, perhaps for ever; the essay is as much out of date as the periwig of Sir Richard Steele. A flock of great poets came in with the regency; but they are almost all dead-the survivors are mute, and no successors have taken their place. The novel alone, or prose fiction, as we call it, retains its former honours, and has even usurped the province of history and philosophy. Does a man wish to prove that the middle ages were far bappier and better than the present age, or that the greatest hap. piness of the greatest number is the true foundation of moral philosophy, he forthwith writes a novel, in which, from the first page to the last, he inculcates or insinuates the necessary truth. And so we have historical romances, and romances of every-day life; novels of the silver-fork school, and novels of the Newgate school; military novels, and naval novels; Puseyite novels, and Evangelical novels. The morality of novels is a subject on which as much nonsense, perhaps, has been talked as any other that could be named. Till quite lately, it was the fashion to require that a moral should be conspicuously written on the face of a novel, like the inscription on a sun-dial; and this moral was generally on a par, in profundity and wisdom, with the maxims contained in those sentences from which little boys and girls learn writing and virtue to

gether. For our part, we think the 'whole duty' of the novelist consists in telling the whole truth. It is true that but few have done so, for there has been but one Shakspere. The Duke of Marlborough might well learn English history from our great dramatist's historical plays; but the Duke of Wellington could not safely take our great novelist's historical romances as a substitute for Hume or Hallam. The historical romance went out of fashion when the Great Master died, and we certainly are not sorry for it; but one good result of the Waverley novels was, that, as romance had usurped the province of history, history was obliged in some measure to borrow the picturesque garb of romance. The readers of Kenilworth' were not likely to endure a history of the reign of Queen Elizabeth written as such a history would have been when George the Third was king.' Accordingly, in the works of Macaulay or Carlyle, Clio regains her proper place among the muses. But here we must stop for the present.

LITTLE MOLLY WHITE. (FROM ALDERBROOK.)

We have our excitements at Alderbrook, as well as in your great Babel of brotherly love' (love like that of the first brothers, I have heard it insinuated), but the doctrine of cause and effect has a slight twist-about between the two places, which might puzzle a philosopher. In your great city, a great cause produces a small effect; in our small village, a small cause produces a great effect. Does a barn or a blacksmith's shop take fire at Alderbrook, the whole village-men, women, and children-are up and out; and it furnishes matter for conversation at every tea-party during a year, at least. With you, a whole strect may burn down, while you lie quietly snoozing in your beds, or mentally denounce that noisy engine' between naps; and in less than a week the whole affair passes from the minds of all but the sufferers. You may see a dozen hearses move by in one day, and never be sobered by it; is there a death in our village, the shadow falls on every hearthstone, and a long, solemn train of weeping mourners (the mourning town) leave their various avocations and amusements, and go to lay the sleeper in the dust. Oh! let me die in the country, where I shall not fall, like the single leaf in the forest, unheeded; where those who love me need not mask their hearts to meet the careless multitude, and strive as a duty to forget. Bury me in the country, amid the prayers of the good and the tears of the loving; not in the dark, damp vault, away from the sweet-scented air and the cheerful sunshine; but in the open field, among the flowers I loved and cherished while living. Then,

If around my place of sleep

The friends I love should come to weep,
They might not haste to go;
Soft airs, and song, and light, and bloom,
Should keep them lingering by my tomb.'

But to return to our contrasts. A drunken Indian murdered a white man, at Alderbrook, some twenty years ago, and paid the penalty of his crime, near the foot of the slope, at the west end of the village, while thousands on thousands stood gaping at the terrible spectacle. This tale, whispered to me in the dark, furnished one of the gloomy visions which used to haunt my childhood; and I would as soon have taken the trip that Orpheus did, as go within a quarter of a mile of the spot where old Antoine was hung. With you, picked pockets are such every-day and every-hour things, as to excite no attention at all, except perhaps a laugh now and then, when the feat has been performed with unusual adroitness; but if an axe disappear from a door at Alderbrook, or a couple of yards of linen are taken from the grass in the night-time, the whole village is in commotion, and wonders, and guesses, and sagacious nods and mysterious inuendoes, constitute, for a month at least, the staple of social intercourse. You will not think it strange, then, when I tell you of the wonderful excitement that has fairly swept every other topic under with us for more than six months past.

It

has been suspected for a long time that a band of thieves existed somewhere in our quiet county; but such crimes are so unusual here, that no one likes to be the first to give them a name; so, though every washerwoman put her wet linen under lock and key at dewfall, and stables were double-locked and shops double-guarded, the careful ones only shook their heads mysteriously, as though something lay at the bottom of their knowledge, which they might tell, but that they were too generous, while others scouted at the idea of county's harbouring such rogues. At last, however, some who had lost to an unconfortable degree, began to speak more plainly, and incredulity wavered. Finally, one night toward the latter end of last May, a farmhouse in the neighbourhood was fired, obviously (that is, it was obvious when too late) for the purpose of drawing away the villagers, while the principal shop in Alderbrook was despoiled of its most valuable goods. Such a daring deed!' said everybody. It was now supposed that the villany must have been carried on for years, and many persons who like a large story declared that the band must consist of at least fifty men. There had not been such an excitement here since the execution of poor old Antoine. One man was arrested on suspicion, and flattered and threatened by turns, in the hope of bringing him to confess. At last, he promised to do this, and betray his associates, provided he could be assured of his own safety. This was the latest news which reached us one evening toward midnight, and so we concluded to pillow our curiosity until morning.

'They have diskivered the robbers, at last,' said old Uncle Felix Graw, hurrying, all out of breath, into our breakfast parlour, and throwing his ungainly figure into one chair, while he stretched his long legs to another. 'They have diskivered the robbers, neighbour Forester, every one of 'em!'

Down went forks and up went eyebrows in a twinkling, and old Uncle Felix was the focus of all regards, much to the detriment of the smoking muffins which Naucy had just placed on the table.

'What! now! who are they, Uncle Felix? Nobody belonging to Alderbrook, I hope?'

Not exactly, though the village has just escaped by the skin of the teeth; Jem White is in for it.'

What! that scapegrace of a son of honest Jacky? Poor old fellow! this will be worse for him than digging in the mud, with the rheumatis' in his shoulder.'

The old man never has had very comfortable times with Jem,' said Uncle Felix. 'He is the laziest fellow I know, but I never thought he would be caught in such a sorry piece of business as this. They say it will go hard with the rascals-burglary and arson both.'

'The old story of idleness and crime. Poor Jacky! I pity him!'

Everybody pities him; and for one, if I could catch Jem White, I'd give him a thrashing that he wouldn't forget when he was grey, and let him go, the scoundrel! for his father's sake.'

'Then he has not been taken?'

No, but there is no doubt he will be. Dick Holman (the cringing sarpent! I could pound him like pumice-stone, for I have no idea but he druv on the whole lot), Dick Holman has blabbed, turned state's evidence, to save himself, and exposed the whole of 'em. Great good will the state get from such a rascally knave as he is; and a great honour is it to the laws to pay a premium for such abominable sneaking meanness! I wouldn't mind to see the rest in iron wristbands (barring Jemmy White, for his father's sake); but Dick Holman, the mean, cowardly villain! hanging is too good for him.'

How many have they taken ?" 'Three, last night. Dick Holman helped them to hide, and so betrayed them. One has been traced as far as Albany, and another to Rochester. They will get clear, I daresay; but Jem White has skulked away by himself, and nobody knows where he is. There were only seven

on 'em.'

'Do you know where White was last seen?'

'He was sneaking about, Saturday evening; he even had the barefacedness to go into Willard's grocery and get a glass of grog. Some pretend to be sure that they saw him yesterday, but folks make a thousand mistakes in such cases. At any rate, it is pretty certain he must be somewhere in the neighbourhood yet; and I wouldn't give an oat-straw for his hiding-place, with Dick Holman to scent him out. He was prowling about after him before sunrise this morning, and trust him for a bloodhound, any day. Ugh! if they should let such a chap as that go scot-free, I, for one, should rather fancy speaking to Judge Lynch about it."

No wonder that honest Sam Graw should be exasperated against the traitorous knave, who, after leading all the idle young fellows that would listen to him into iniquity, turned deliberately about, and, to save himself, delivered his victims into the hands of justice. Dick Holman had been for years the pest of the neighbourhood-one of those dirty, cringing, plausible villains, whom everybody despises, but upon whom it is difficult to fix any crime. When, however, it was discovered that a regular system of robbery had been carried on throughout the county, probably for several years, suspicion busied herself at once with the name of Dick Holman; and before he had time to concoct any plan for escape, before he even knew himself suspected, he was seized and brought, by means of threats and promises, to divulge all he knew. And a more rotten-hearted traitor never existed; for now that his own precious person was in danger, there was no indiguity to which he would not submit, and no act in which he would not gladly engage (even to hunting for his most reluctant pupil, poor Jem White), in order to buy himself consideration. As for young White, he received but little sympathy except on his father's account; but old honest Jacky was, in his way, a great favourite at Alderbrook. There was scarcely a young man in the village for whom he had not conjured whistles out of a slip of bass-wood, in days gone by; and scarce an old one but owed him, povertystricken as he was, some generous neighbourly turn. Then it was from honest Jacky that we always learned where the blackberries grew thickest; and he brought wild-wood plants for our gardens, and supplied the old ladies with wintergreens and sweet flag roots to munch of a Sunday. But it was scarce these little acts which made old Jacky White so universally respected. He was the kindest and simplest of old men, kind to man and beast; and, if but a worm lay in his path, he would tread aside and let the reptile live.' Toil, toil, toil, from morning till night, and from year to year-toil, toil, toil was the lot of honest Jacky; but not a word of complaint ever escaped from his lips; he was contented and cheerful, and scrupulously honest. Fortune had treated him most scurvily; for, notwithstanding his patient, unremitting industry, he had never known at one breakfast what should serve him for the next. After all, however, I do not know that it is quite becoming for me to rail at fortune, since he never did; and, moreover, it is possible that the artless old man was as much in the fault about the matter as the partial and fickle goddess.

Days went by, and nothing was known of Jemmy White. So confident was everybody of the impossibility of his having made his escape, that parties were still out in search of him, and the zeal of Dick Holman was indefatigable. The village was still in a state of feverish excitement, and the 'stores' were thronged with people from the remote parts of the town, who flocked in to trade and hear the news.

I was out in my little back garden one bright morning, spoiling the doings of the wanton summer wind, which had had quite a frolic among my treasures the night before, when old Bridget came to the door on tiptoe, with her finger on her lip, and her gown, scarce full enough or rich enough to make much of a rustle, gathered up in her hand. Fauny, Fanny! 'st!" Bridget spoke in a suppressed whisper, showing all her teeth in the operation, as though, by drawing her lips far back, she might have given the words egress with less noise.

'What now, Bridget?'

'Hush, Fanny, dear! 'st!' and, putting the forefinger of one hand to her lip, she beckoned with the other, making a motion with the elbow-joint very much like that of a jack-knife with a spring at the back.

Bridget is always having secrets, and shaking her head, and looking solemnly wise, and finding strange mysteries, which to everybody else are as clear as the sunlight; so I may be pardoned if I did wait to tie up a sweet pea, and give three pretty rosebuds a more desirable position among the wet leaves.

'Fanny, darling!' was again breathed from the opened doorway.

'Yes, Bridget!'

'Hush, dear! 'st!' and Bridget beckoned more carnestly than ever. There was no resisting such importunity, so forward Fanny went, fully expecting to find a chicken with two hearts, or a biscuit that had hopped out of the oven mysteriously, or (an every-day occurrence) a churn full of cream that needed a horse-shoe in it.

The

'Look, Fanny, look! isn't she pretty?' Pretty! Old Bridget has some taste at least. Beautiful as a vision of Paradise! I held in my breath while gazing, as my good old nurse had done, and very probably kept my lips out of its way precisely in her fashion. There is always a shade of grey in the passage leading to the kitchen; and here, in the sober light, sat a little child sleeping. One arm was straightened, showing the pretty dimple at the elbow, the fat little hand supporting her weight upon the floor, while the other grasped, as though by way of a balance, a basket of green lettuce, which had wilted during her long walk in the morning sun. shoulder of the supporting arm had slipped up from the torn calico frock, and its polished whiteness contrasted beautifully with the sun-embrowned cheek. The light golden hair lay in waves, pushed far back from her round forehead, and was gathered up into a knot, half curls, half tangles, behind, probably to keep it out of her way; but, carelessly as it was disposed of, it could scarce have been as beautiful in any other fashion. Dim as the light was, a beam had contrived to find its way to the curve of her head, and left a dash of brightness on it, no ill omen to the wearied little stranger. Long lashes lay against the bright cheek, all sparkling in crystal; for the tear that could not climb over it had turned the little valley about the eye into a well-a very pretty one for truth to lie in. The child had probably wept herself to sleep; but her little spirit had gone to a land of brighter things now, for the smile that curved her beautiful lips had none of the premature sadness bathing the shut eyelids. There were broad gaps in the clumsy shoes that lay beside her, for she had relieved herself of the incumbrance, and her chubby little feet, stained with the purple flowers which she had crushed in her morning's ramble, were cooling themselves against the bare floor.

It is nobody but little Molly White, miss,' said Nancy, coming forward, with the pot-lid in her hand. Nancy's voice is none of the softest, and again Bridget's teeth and tongue were put in requisition, and her lips parted to emit the expostulatory ''st, 'st!'

'And who is little Molly White ?'

'Dont you remember Molly White, who used to go tripping by every day last summer, as merry as a bird, to sell blackberries to the villagers, never seeming tired, though she had to walk three miles across the woods, and pick her berries besides-poor thing. But I remember now it was when you were in the city, at your Uncle Forester's, you know; for you didn't come home till the plums were all gone, and the leaves were pretty much off the trees.'

'Does she belong in any way to old Jacky White, who lives in the woods beyond the hill ? '

The very same, miss. Old Jacky's last wife was a young woman, and sort of delicate like, and she died, poor thing, when Molly was but little more than a baby. She always said, though, that she didn't suffer nor want for anything, for the children were all amazing good to her;

and Jem, bad as he is now, nursed her almost as carefully as a woman. Poor thing! she would feel sorrowful enough if she knew what a dreadful end he had come to, for she loved him as she did her own blessed child.'

'I have seen pretty Molly many a time when she was a baby. She seems heavy-hearted enough now, poor child! We must try to cheer her up.'

'It's of no use, miss; she takes Jem's misfortune to heart terribly.'

'Misfortune! But you are right, Nancy. The vicious, though justice in the shape of legal officers do not hunt them down, are the unfortunate of this world.'

Our conversation seemed to disturb the sleeper, for suddenly her cheeks flushed, her eyelids worked convulsively, her bright lips quivered like a little bird so frightened as scarce to struggle for liberty, and the pretty arın which supported her shook beneath the weight.

It seems cruel to wake her,' said old Bridget, compassionately. This is a sorry bad world for such as she is, poor innocent!'

The child seemed yet more agitated, and tossed her fat round arms above her head, while a broken sob came struggling forth, and, in a voice laden with heartache, she exclaimed, 'You shall not take him! it wasn't he that did it!'

Molly! Molly!' exclaimed Nancy.

'Mother said we must love one another when her lips were cold, and I will. I will love poor Jemmy. You shan't-oh, you shan't take him away!'

Molly! Molly!' repeated Nancy, more emphatically, and shaking the child's shoulder.

'No, I will not tell; never-never-never!' 'Molly White! Molly!' Nancy raised the child to her feet, who looked about her a few moments, in a kind of bewildered alarm, and then burst into a passion of tears, which nothing could soothe.

What strange contrasts does this world present! That day so bright, so beautiful, so replete with the everywhere outgushing spirit of joyousness, and that poor little heart aching with such misery as the guilty ever bring to those who love them! No wonder that old Bridget and even Nancy (blessings on their kind souls!) should be strangely blinded by the gathering tears as they led the child away. Throw me out, wretched and friendless, on the wide world, and I am not sure but I should creep to the kitchen rather than the parlour, though I know that generosity, and kindness, and sympathy, are the inheritance of no one condition in life.

It was a glorious day in the beginning of June. Beauty smiled up from the earth; beauty bent to us from the bright sky; beauty, a delicious, all-pervading kind of beauty, which often makes the spirit drunk with happiness, shone out upon us everywhere. It was not a day to be wasted in-doors, when the balmy airs, the warm wet skies, and the quivering life-full foliage, were all wooing without; and we have no hot pavements to flash back the light into our faces, or cramped-up streets, where the air is stifled into sickliness. So I went out, and sauntered dreamily adown the meadow, with half-shut eyes and a delicious sense of pleasure stealing over me, at each presstire of my foot upon the yielding carpet. Crossing the little log-bridge at the foot of the slope, I picked my way among the alders on the other side, close by the margin of the stream. Beyond, tier on tier, rose galleries of green, with but a step between the uppermost and heaven, all radiant in the luxurious garniture of June. How glorious, and grand, and full of life was everything; and how my nature expanded in the midst of it as it would embrace the whole universe. I know there are moments on this side the grave when the shackles of clay do really fall off, and our spirits grow large, as though they had looked into the boundlessness of eternity, and we lift a wing with the angels. But we come back again, dazzled and bewildered; for we are prisoners in a very little cell, and too large a draught of heaven now would not be good for us. I dallied long about the brook and on the verge of the forest, seeing and dreaming; and then I wandered on, now listening to

the joyous song-gushes of the crazy-hearted little Bob-olink; now laughing at the antic red squirrel, as his tiny brick-coloured banner whisked from fence to tree; and now gathering handfuls of the pale sweet-scented woodviolets, which follow the first frail children of the spring. Then I went on, next stooping to pull from the dark loose soil the long slim roots of the wild sarsaparilla; and close beside them I discovered the nest of a darling little groundbird, which flew away and came back again, fluttering about most pleadingly: and so I left the graceful innocent, without ever taking a peep at the four speckled eggs, which probably constituted its treasure.

The sun was quite low when I drew near the Sachem's wood, an immense wilderness to the south-east of Alderbrook, better known by sportsmen than any one else. Some pokerish story of the Indian days first gave rise to the name; and so there was a superstition connected with it which kept timid people (children, at least) aloof. Moreover, old Antoine committed his murder there; and it was more than half suspected that some of Jake Gawsley's gold might be hidden among the jagged rocks and deep gulleys of the Sachem's wood. However that might be, the mysterious proverb that the 'Sachem's wood could bring no good,' had been quite sufficient to prevent my young feet from tempting the spirits of evil on the other side of the stump fence which walled it in. But I felt some inclination now to take a peep into the banned forest, and so, scaling the fantastical barrier as I best might, I sprang to a bank as mossy and as bright with the sunshine as any we had on the other side. The air was fresh and pure, and there was a scent of wild-flowers on it which made me feel quite safe; for flowers always betray the presence of angels. So I wandered on indolently as before, now plucking a leaf, now watching dreamily the shadows which were fast chasing away the sunlight, until I began to suspect it quite time to return home. It was nearly twilight, and I had not seen the sun go down. A few steps further only, and then I would go; but there was a pretty silvery tinkle just ahead, which might lead to the lurking-place of a troop of fairies. The sound proceeded from the self-same little stream which trips it over the rocks to the east of Strawberry Hill, and comes dancing and sparkling down to the brook at the foot. It was gurgling along quite gaily, at the bottom of a chasm, so dark that, as I knelt on the crag above, and leaned over, was some minutes before I could catch a glimpse of the silver-voiced musician. The ravine was exceedingly narrow, looking as though the Sachem (who was probably a giant) might have split it apart with an immense hatchet; but the feat was evidently performed a long time ago, for it was all mossed over, long wreaths of green flaunted from little clefts on either side, and the pretty bluebell from the tip of its lithe stem nodded smilingly to its noisy neighbour among the pebbles. I was rising to go away, when a sound like the tread of some light animal made me pause. It came again, and then followed a scrambling Doise and a rustle like the bending of twigs laden with foliage; and I looked carefully about me, for I might not be quite pleased with the company I should meet in the Sachem's wood. This gorge must be very nearly in a line with the haunted saw-mill, which is reported to be tenanted by the wandering spirit of old Jake Gawsley, and who knows but the miser himself may now and then come out at dew-fall to look after his concealed treasures? My view was partially obstructed by a wild gooseberry-bush, and, when I raised my head above it, I saw, not the troubled spirit of a dead old man, but a beautiful child, standing on the point of a rock, and looking cautiously about her, as though fearful of being observed. It was little Molly White, and I was about calling to her; when, as though satisfied with her scrutiny, she swung herself from the rock, clinging by her little fingers to the jagged points, poised for a moment in the air, and then dropped on the platform below. Here she again looked about her, and I drew back my head; for I had had time for a second thought, and I knew that no trifling thing could bring the child to the banned forest alone. Besides she carried on

her arm a basket evidently well-laden, which impeded her progress very much, and a suspicion far from agreeable crept over me as I again leaned my head over the ledge. The child descended with the agility of a kitten; and, when at last she reached the bottom, she looked earnestly up and down the ravine, starting now and then, stretching forward her little head, as though fearful that the moving shadows might deceive her. As soon as she became satisfied that she was not observed, she sent out a low clear sound like a bird-note, which was immediately answered by a suppressed whistle. She sprang forward, and was met half-way by a man, who emerged from the shadow of the rock just beneath me.

'Where on earth have you been staying, Moll?' he exclaimed, half angrily. I have fed on nothing but ground-nuts and beech-leaves these two days, and-ha! I hope you have something palatable in your basket. Does your arm ache, chicky? This is a heavy load for such little hands to carry. But where have you been? I didn't know but they had nabbed you for your good deeds, and meant to starve me out. Bless me, Moll, how you tremble!'

'Oh, I have been so frightened, Jemmy. Dick Holman suspects all about it. Some of the other men have told how I ran to you the night that the officers took them, and he thinks I know where you are now. He said they would hang me, Jemmy, if I wouldn't tell; will they hang me?"

The beautiful face was upturned, with such sweet anxious meekness, that the well-nigh hardened brother seemed touched, and for a moment he did not reply. 'Will they hang me, Jemmy?'

No, Molly, no! they will never harm a hair of your head. But let me tell you, chick, you mustn't listen to one word from that devil incarnate-he will be hiring you to betray me yet.'

'Dick Holman? Oh no! he can't hire me. He took out a whole handful of dollars, but I wouldn't look at them, and he said he would give me a new frock and a pretty bonnet like the village girls, but I didn't answer him a word. It was then he said—and he spoke dreadful, dreadful words, Jemmy-that he would have me hanged. Do you think he can? I am sure he will, if he can. I was always afraid of him, he looks at me so out of the corner of his eye, and goes creeping about as lightly as a cat, so that one never knows when he is coming.'

'Never fear, Moll, he can't hurt you,' replied the brother, still swallowing down the huge slices of meat like a starved hound. I only wish I had him again in the place he was when I fished him up from the bottom of the horse-pond—he would beg a while for daylight before he should see it.'

'Oh, Jemmy

'Hang me if he wouldn't! That's what a man gets by being good-natured. Dick Holman always pocketed twothirds of the money, and never ran any danger.'

'Jemmy! Jemmy!' exclaimed the child, in a tone of sorrowful reproach, you told me you didn't do it! You told me you never took any money, and now'And now I haven't told you anything different, little Miss Sanctimony; so don't run away from me, and leave me to starve.'

'But you ought to tell the truth, Jemmy; you know it wouldn't make me care the less for you-though-Oh! it is a dreadful thing to be a thief!'

'Well, you are not a thief, nor-nor I either; so save your sermons, and-you might have brought me a little brandy, Moll.'

The child sat down on the mossed trunk of a fallen tree, and made no answer.

'Why didn't you come yesterday?' 'Dick Holman watched ine.'

Truth does not require the oaths and imprecations of bad men to be written down, and if it did I could hardly give the words of poor Jem White; for there, in the solemn woods, amid the falling shadows, I will own that the hoarse voice of the miserable man inspired me with so much