of the horrid old Frenchman, who was glad enough to get rid of me. Under her protection I set forth on my travels.

'My duty was to go round with a shell, after Mona Lisa (such was my new mamma's name) had sung, and collect money. You will naturally suppose, Sir, that this, morally speaking, was as bad a life as the one I had just quitted. On the contrary, Mona Lisa made me behave myself, fed and clothed me well, taught me all she could, and treated me very kindly. Mon Dieu, gentlemen, it is a great mistake to suppose that all travelling players, such as we were, are lost to decency and goodness!

'Mona Lisa would never perform in any but the first-class hotels or cafes; there she was less exposed to insult, and was well paid, as her great talent deserved. Occasionally the directors of small theatres or concerts would engage her, but she always escaped as soon as possible, even when well paid. Constraint in any form was terribly irksome to her, and she only seemed happy when roaming about the world, forgetting every thing and herself.

We wandered twice all over Russia and Poland, once as far as Constantinople, and several times through Italy, Germany, Hungary, France and England. What nonsense! I can truly say that there is no country in Europe with which we were not familiar, and very few languages which I did not learn. Is it not true, Batiuschka?' she suddenly exclaimed, turning to the Pole.

'True enough, moya Dutja,' he replied; and turning to me, added, 'I speak fourteen tongues, but Rosa is my superior in such matters.'

'When Mona Lisa had laid by a large sum of money, as she frequently did, we would stop for months together in the large cities, living quietly and respectably. Her greatest delight was to lead me through picturegalleries or churches, and explain to me all that was wonderful or curious in the places we visited. I soon found out that she was highly educated, and had at one time lived in good society. She was often melancholy, and always reserved; avoided all acquaintance; but oh! what a good, gentle heart she had!

'When Mona Lisa was insulted, as poor strolling singers often are, she was terrible. By her tact and forbearance she generally escaped rough treatment or violence; but I have more than once seen her give the stab to a scélérat.

'During our long stay in Munich, Dresden, and several other cities, she had me taught drawing and lace-work. Remember, Rosa,' she said one day, 'I am a wandering singer; were I a duchess or queen I should in a month leave crown and all for the guitar and our gipsy-life: but thou art born for better things, and I trust that thou wilt some day earn thy bread more respectably. Indeed, Monsieur Charles, I believe that there are few girls in Europe who understand lace-work better than myself. Mona Lisa made me read many books of history and poetry. Sometimes we conversed with great men; sometimes were thrown among the vilest, or were sent away by the police, as vagrants; sometimes during our long sojourns we found our way into great society, and sometimes slept by the road-side.

'At seventeen years of age I was as accomplished a Bohémienne as

ever lived-accomplished, I mean, in all things save vice. But a great and terrible misfortune awaited me. One day in Cracow, poor Mona Lisa fell sick. I watched by her, and wept over her, but in vain.

'I am dying, Rosa,' she said, as I knelt by her bed-side; 'thou wilt never see thy poor mamma again: but oh, Rosa, be a good girl as thou always hast been; and if thou lovest poor Mona Lisa, leave this life.'

'With these words she died. All that evening I lay in a stupor beside her corpse; but the family found me, aroused me, and hurried it to a careless burial. I was the only one to follow poor Mona Lisa to her grave.

'The first shock of grief past, I began to reflect how I should earn my living. I was left with two guitars and three hundred florins; enough to subsist on for a long time, but not for ever. Return to my former life was impossible; for the present I contented myself with seeking for employment in lace-work and drawing, which in Cracow was difficult to obtain, and very poorly paid.

'One evening my landlord, who was a good-natured, but not, morally speaking, very strict soul, came to me and said, 'Miss Annusha, I will do you a good turn. A wealthy English family has just rented my first floor, and begged me to find them a nice young lady to teach their children French and music. Now no one need tell them that you came here on foot singing, and as you evidently know the ways of the great world, behold there is a place ready cut out for you.'

'I at once accepted the situation, resolving at some time to make my new employers aware of the life I had previously led; but I had very little occasion to trouble myself about that. Mon Dieu! Monsieur Charles, never in all your life did you meet with such queer, droll, careless, good-natured souls. There was papa and mamma, uncle John, the eldest Rudolph, and three daughters. They were wealthy, refined, and well-educated people of the middle class, and in a social, practical way, a set of thorough democrats. Parents and children were all intimate friends, all on a par. They tried at first to treat me as a governess, but it was not in their nature: I was soon called only by my first name; had the same clothes and money as the young ladies, and was only required to teach a little and make myself agreeable. Such lovers of fun as they were! They began the day with jokes, and ended with amusements. They never went to England, but spent their life, as many English families do, all over the continent.

'My knowledge of language, music, and the perpetual flow of anecdote with which my wanderings had supplied me, made me a general favorite. In a very short time I perfected myself in the English language.

One fine morning in Zurich, Mr. Rudolph made love to me, popped the question, and ran off to get pa's permission and order luncheon. Mamma and the sisters looked a little grave; such a mésalliance startled even them; but when uncle John, for whom I was corresponding secretary and dragoman-general, (the good old man could never learn any tongue but English,) adroitly suggested that this was the only way to retain me always among them, and that he would like to know for his

part-he would-whether such an absurdity was to be tolerated as the idea of losing me,' they all yielded, and I became the fiancée of the bravest, best-hearted, handsomest young man in the world.

'We were to be married in a year, but Rudolph, with all the impatience of youth, and I, with all the impatience of prudence, naturally desired to shorten the time. He was about to start for Paris on business, and began his preparations by betting large sums at dinner with papa and uncle John, and silk dresses with the girls, that he would run off with me and be married within a week. Which he brought to pass by going into the street, before dinner was fairly concluded, carrying my trunk down stairs. I ran out to bring him to coffee, and off we rode. "We were to have been married in Paris. But at Cologne a great, a terrible misfortune awaited me.'

Here she paused; but the Pole, for whom she appeared to entertain a mysteriously uncontrollable awe or reverence, which contrasted strangely with her reckless manner, smiled and bade her proceed.

'Batiuschka, there, in addition to his other mysterious movements, always has been, always is, and I suppose always will be, up to the eyes in all manner of politics, plots, and revolutionary intrigues. I have many a time aided him in messages, interviews, and the like. Ah! Monsieur, who was it carried letters to you when in prison at Trieste? This was when I strolled with the guitar. And when I met him in Basle, a few days before my elopement, he visited in our family, and privately begged me, in the name of the good cause, to carry a small package of revolutionary pamphlets, printed in Switzerland, to a member of the Harmonie Gesellschaft, in Heidelberg. All such publications were strictly contraband in Germany. This bundle I put in my coffre, and thought no more of, until we reached Heidelberg: there I could not find it, and it lay perdue until nosed out by a thief of a Prussian douanier, who had been set on my track by some villanous spy of the police. Diable! if we only had him here!"

The slight, but quintessentially ferocious gleam of Miss Annusha Rosa's eyes, and the quiver of her lip at this instant, clearly indicated that Mr. Rudolph had, beyond all doubt, selected for his bride a young lady of very decided energy, and powerful mind. But infinitely more terrible was the quiet smile of my Pole, at the mention of that word so intensely hateful to all aspiring liberals—'A SPY OF THE POLICE!'

'Yes, they entered our rooms when Rudolph was absent, they broke open every thing, and cast me into prison. There I lay for three weeks, and only regained my liberty to learn that Rudolph had left the city, after having been informed that I was arrested for theft and smuggling; that I had been for years an abandoned stroller, lost to all decency, and criminal to the last degree.

'I did not attempt to seek Rudolph, or vindicate myself. Even if I could have cleared up my previous life in his eyes, the fact of my smuggling the packet would appear to him a piece of cruelty, of keeping secrets even at the time of marriage. Though God knows, gentlemen, I had not thought twice about the matter, so trifling did such an affair appear to me. I did not in fact mention it to him, for fear it might be annoying.

'Rudolph had left five thousand francs for me at our banker's, which were paid. I was ordered to quit the city, which I did, but twice revisited it during the same season, effectually disguised as an English widow. It was in this character, Monsieur Charles, that I astonished you so much at Mayence.

'I travelled once again over France and Italy, with an old English lady, as compagnonne de voyage. She paid me well, and when I left her in London, made me a handsome present. Since that time my attempts to obtain another situation have been fruitless. I live here en grisette in the Rue Dauphine, and earn a decent living by lace-work and the guitar. And now, Batiuschka, what is the good news?'

Batiuschka, or Little Papa, here took a deep drain of champagne; sighed for very joy; made up three faces; drank again, and twisting up his mouth, his great black eyes sparkling like diamonds with glee, said in a loud whisper:

'Papa and mamma and uncle John are in Antwerp with only two of the girls, for Anna has married young Georges, and gone to live in England.'

I am glad to hear that they are happy,' sighed poor Annusha. 'But they are not happy,' cried 'Little Papa,' his eyes growing larger and larger, and sparkling like live coals. 'Not at all don't think it; real miserable wretches, every one of them.' 'Oh, mon Dieu!-I suppose the disgrace'Bah!--not a bit of it. It's all for a little polyglot guitar-girl. Uncle John has offered a thousand florins to any body who will bring her back unmarried. I laid the money out for her this afternoon, and meant to have got the police to-morrow to help and see if she were in Paris. Confound their souls, how I hate them!'

With these words the Pole, fairly weeping with joy, embraced Annusha, who nearly fainted.

'And Rudolph?' she gasped.

'I have explained every thing-vindicated you. He will arrive in Paris this evening-in time, I hope, to burn powder at the coming festival.' Rudolph, my friends, did arrive, was married, and now lives happily, he writes the Pole, in England. But as for the happy pair ever residing six months in one place-bah! c'est impossible!

A girl's young face, nor sorrowful nor bright,
Neither of sunshine nor of sorrow born,

Nor yet wrought by the world's deep wrong to scorn,
Rather a sunless Noon than radiant Night;
A face that in its stillness gravely sweet
Betrays no thought a spirit too discreet
In natural prudence for adventurous flight.

III.

So young art thou, and yet so passionless,
With the clear darkness of thy midnight eyes,
Caught from a dreamer 'neath Italian skies
That land of love and love's wild tenderness;
Yet are they calm and peacefully serene,
As a deep lake within some forest's screen,
Unstirred save by low winds of quietness.

IV.

Will those still depths e'er tremble at the breath
Of fervent passion or tumultuous pride?
Will their calm glory life's fierce storms abide,
Unchanging yet, till calmer grown-in Death?
We cannot tell; we may not ever know

What hides the Future, if of joy or woe-
What mystery her dim veil covereth.

y.

And yet it seems not hard to read aright

The fate of one whose passions ne'er increase;
To live and love-yet not too much for peace,
A life-time long and pleasant, but not bright,
Such be thy destiny. O! happier far
Than the brief splendor of the wandering star,
That glorious dawns, but sets in endless night.