"But how if he wakes?" said the other. His companion thrust aside his waistcoat, pointed to the handle of a dirk, and nodded. "So be it!" muttered the second villain. They approached the unconscious David, and, while one pointed the dagger toward his heart, the other began to search the bundle beneath his head. Their two faces, grim, wrinkled, and ghastly with guilt and fear, bent over their victim, looking horrible enough to be mistaken for fiends should he suddenly awake. Nay, had the villains glanced aside into the spring, even they would hardly have known themselves as reflected there. But David Swan had never worn a more tranquil aspect, even when asleep on his mother's breast.

"I must take awaythe bundle," whispered one. "If he stirs I'll strike," muttered the other. But at this moment a dog, scenting along the ground, came in beneath the maple trees, and gazed alternately at each of these wicked men and then at the quiet sleeper. He then lapped out of the fountain.

"Pshaw!" said one villain. "We can do nothing now. The dog's master must be close behind."

"Let's take a drink and be off," said the other.

The man with the dagger thrust back the weapon into his bosom and drew forth a pocket pistol, but not of that kind which kills by a single discharge. It was a flask of liquor, with a block tin tumbler screwed upon the mouth. Each drank a comfortable dram and left the spot, with so many jests and such laughter at their unaccomplished wickedness that they might be said to have gone on their way rejoicing. In a few hours they had forgotten the whole affair, nor once imagined that the recording angel had written down the crime of murder against their souls in letters as durable as eternity. As for David Swan, he still slept quietly, neither conscious of the shadow of death when it hung over him nor of the glow of renewed life when that shadow was withdrawn.

He slept, but no longer so quietly as at first. An hour's repose had snatched from his elastic frame the weariness with which many hours of toil had burdened it. Now he stirred-now moved his lips, without a sound-now talked, in an inward tone, to the noonday spectres of his dream. But a noise of wheels came rattling louder and louder along the road, until it dashed through the dispersing mist of David's slumber and there was the stage-coach. He started up, with all his ideas about him.

"Halloo, driver!- Take a passenger?" shouted he.

"Room on top!" answered the driver.

Up mounted David, and bowled away merrily toward Boston, without so much as a pariing glance at that fountain of dreamlike vicia situde. He knew not that a phantom of Wealth had thrown a golden hue upon its waters-nor that one of Love had sighed softly through their murmur--nor that one of Death had threatened to crimson them with his blood

all in the brief hour since he lay down to sleep. Sleeping or waking, we hear not the airy footsteps of the strange things that almost happen. Does it not argue a superintending Providence that, while viewless and unerpected events thrust themselves continually athwart our path, there should still be regularity enough in mortal life to render fore sight even partially available.—Thrice-Told Tales.

THE WELL OF LOCH MAREE1
BY J. G. WHITTIER.

Calm on the breast of Loch Maree
A little isle reposes;

A shadow woven of the oak

And willow o'er it closes.

Within, a Druid's mound is seen,

Set round with stony warders; A fountain, gushing through the turf, Flows o'er its grassy borders.

And whoso bathes therein his brow,

With care or madness burning, Feels once again his healthful thought And sense of peace returning.

O restless heart and fevered brain,
Unquiet and unstable,

That holy well of Loch Maree
Is more than idle fable!

Life's changes vex, its discords stun, Its glaring sunshine blindeth, And blest is he who on his way

That fount of healing findeth!

The shadows of a humbled will

And contrite heart are o'er it; Go read its legend-"TRUST IN GOD"On Faith's white stones before it.

1 Pennant, in his Voyage to the Hebrides, describes the holy well of Loch Maree, the waters of which were supposed to effect a miraculous cure of melancholy, trouble, and insanity.

REPLY TO A LETTER INCLOSING A LOCK OF HAIR.

[Frederick Locker, born at Greenwich Hospital, 1821. Poet. He belongs to an old Kentish family; his father was a civil commissioner of Greenwich Hospital, and his grandfather was Captain W. Locker, R.N., under whom Lord Nelson and Lord Collingwood served. His works are: Lyra Elegantiarum and London Lyrics (Strahan & Co.) The latter volume, which has gone through many editions, has won for the author the laureateship amongst writers of vers de société. "Mr. Locker seems most deservedly characterized by two epithets which no one dreams of applying to Prior, and we think must be denied to Praed-earnest and tender. He is so well furnished at all points that only by comparison is any deficiency perceptible, and when perceived it will be disregarded, in view of his higher excellences." -Contemporary Review.]

"My darling wants to see you soon,'—

I bless the little maid, and thank her;
To do her bidding, night and noon
I draw on Hope-Love's kindest banker!"
Old MSS.

Yes, you were false, and though I'm free,
I still would be the slave of yore;
Then join'd our years were thirty-three,
And now-yes now I'm thirty-four.
And though you were not learned-well,
I was not anxious you should grow so;-
I trembled once beneath her spell
Whose spelling was extremely so-so!

Bright season! why will memory

Still haunt the path our rambles took,-
The sparrow's nest that made you cry,
The lilies captured in the brook?

I'd lifted you from side to side,

(You seem'd as light as that poor sparrow;)

I know who wish'd it twice as wide,

I think you thought it rather narrow.

Time was, indeed a little while,

My pony could your heart compel; And once, beside the meadow-stile,

I thought you loved me just as well; I'd kiss'd your cheek; in sweet surprise Your troubled gaze said plainly, "Should he?"

But doubt soon fled those daisy eyes,-"He could not wish to vex me, could he?"

The brightest eyes are soonest sad,

But your fair cheek, so lightly sway'd, Could ripple into dimples glad,

For O, my stars, what mirth we made! The brightest tears are soonest dried,

But your young love and dole were stable; You wept when dear old Rover died,

You wept and dress'd your dolls in sable.

As year succeeds to year, the more Imperfect life's fruition seems; Our dreams, as baseless as of yore,

Are not the same enchanting dreams. The girls I love now vote me slowHow dull the boys who once seem'd witty! Perhaps I'm getting old-I know I'm still romantic-more's the pity!

A vain regret! To few, perchance, Unknown, and profitless to all: The wisely-gay, as years advance,

Are gaily-wise. Whate'er befall, We'll laugh at folly, whether seen

Beneath a chimney or a steeple; At yours, at mine-our own, I mean, As well as that of other people.

I'm fond of fun, the mental dew

Where wit, and truth, and ruth are blent, And yet I've known a prig or two,

Who, wanting all, were all content. To say I hate such dismal men

Might be esteem'd a strong assertion; If I've blue devils now and then,

I make them dance for my diversion.

And here's your letter debonair.

"My friend, my dear old friend of yore," And is this curl your daughter's hair? I've seen the Titian tint before. Are we the pair that used to pass

Long days beneath the chestnut shady! You then were such a pretty lass!

I'm told you're now as fair a lady.

I've laugh'd to hide the tear I shed,
As when the Jester's bosom swells,
And mournfully he shakes his head,
We hear the jingle of his bells.

A jesting vein your poet vex'd,

And this poor rhyme, the Fates determine, Without a parson or a text,

Has proved a rather prosy sermon.

A BUTTERFLY ON A CHILD'S GRAVE.

A butterfly bask'd on a baby's grave,

Where a lily had chanced to grow: "Why art thou here, with thy gaudy dye, When she of the blue and sparkling eye Must sleep in the churchyard low?"

Then it lightly soar'd through the sunny air,
And spoke from its shining track:
"I was a worm till I won my wings,
And she whom thou mourn'st like a seraph sings:
Wouldst thou call the blest one back?"

MRS. LYDIA HUNTLEY SIGOURNEY.

But poor Elizabeth found herself sadly at a loss when she encountered a bewildering numher of new faces, whose ready smiles and pliancy of expression concealed all that was passing in the heart. She felt it as impossible to catch the light tone of those around her, to talk of nothing, to express rapture and enthusiasm where she felt only indifference, as it would have been for one of the gay circle to have shone forth as an improvisatrice. Being perfectly unaffected and simple, she took refuge in silence; but her speaking countenance often betrayed the listlessness she felt. and as the silence of persons who are known or supposed to be able to talk well, is looked upon with an invidious eye, she felt a degree of restraint, whether she spoke or not, which prevented her ever taking much pleasure in the amusements of the world. But there were some whom she did please, and that in no moderate degree. The cultivated and intelligent found a charm in her manner that they recollected with pleasure long after she had retired from society. Elizabeth lost her friend Marianne, who married an English gentleman and accompanied him to England. Mr. Elliot was persuaded to join them, and Mr. Latimer found his household reduced to a small number. But his mind seemed too much occupied to miss his companions, and, to Elizabeth's grief, she discovered that her father was bent upon making a fortune for his son Louis. In vain she urged that Louis would never want, and the possession of wealth might only check exertion by depriving him of a stimulus to industry. She represented to him the risk he ran by engaging so deeply in speculations, none of which had hitherto been successful; but Mr. Latimer had the gambling fit so strong upon him, that he looked forward to seeing his ships riding the ocean laden with the treasures of the Asiatic islands, and realizing the wildest dreams of his avarice. Elizabeth deplored this for his own and for Louis' sake. She saw how the fluctuations of hope and despair, the pangs of suspense and repeated disappointments, preyed upon her father's health and spirits, and she anticipated for Louis and herself the loss of all they had considered their own.

But these fears were transient. We seldom reflect long, amid the enjoyments of affluence, upon their precarious nature. She retired from the world and devoted herself to her father and to the education of Louis, whom she loved with all a mother's tenderness. He was indeed a sweet and gentle child, fond only of books and 2D SERIES, VOL. I.

passed away as happily as time passed in the exercise of duty usually does. She was often uneasy, often tormented by vague fears of future poverty and distress, but these were only clouds that overshadowed her at times. Her horizon generally was bright; but the blow anticipated fell upon her at last. Mr. Latimer had ventured the remains of his fortune in a speculation which was to enrich Louis and his posterity for ever.

After many months' suspense the news reached Mr. Latimer that he was ruined. He did not long survive it, and his son and daughter found themselves friendless and poor. A few hundred dollars was all that could be collected for them, nor had they any claims upon others. They had but few family friends, and Elizabeth's was not a spirit to brook dependence. Poverty at first sight is not so frightful as when it comes near enough to lay its cold, griping fingers on us; and in the present excited state of her feelings the prospect of maintaining herself did not appear as difficult as she afterwards proved it. Her idea of submission to the will of Heaven was not confined to subduing a murmur, when death has removed by a stroke the desire of our eyes. She had been accustomed to exercise it in all the disappointments and sorrows of her life; for who, at twenty-four, has not tasted of the bitterness of the waters of life? A few passages of her letter to Marianne will show how schooled her mind had been, by being early taught of Heaven.

You know, dearest Marianne, your excellent father often cautioned us against trusting to our perceptions of Heaven's justice. With him we were accustomed to trace in the records of history the hand of Infinite Wisdom guiding all things onward to some great end, that should vindicate his ways to future ages. Ah! how easy it is for the thoughtful mind to pursue this truth through events that have passed away! how much easier than to acknowledge it when our idols have been overthrown! We are personal only in those things which can do us no good. Let me now lay those lessons to heart, and follow the obvious track which Providence has marked out for me. It seems very plain-I must support myself and the darling object of my lost parent's love. The manner of doing this is very embarrassing. My mind is full of energy, but where to bestow it costs me days and nights of anxious thought."

Mr. Latimer had insisted, some months before his death, that Louis should be placed at a large public school. Elizabeth had con

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