every day; and when it became the depository of one score pounds. as the kernel of, perhaps, a future plum, he carried it to his lodgings. Meantime, no useless expense was allowed to diminish his savings, Tipplings at his club, and the club itself, were fairly given up as inconsistent with the growth of the incipient plum. He would pass by a theatre, even at the alluring hour of half-price, with the most stoical indifference. All pleasures were put under the most rigorous ban. Pringle began to grow a perfect ascetic. The black leather trunk became in consequence more and more plethoric. When out of spirits, he would sit in a strangled beam of sunshine that would find its way into his solitary room, and, with half-shut eyes, ogle his trea

sure.

The inventive genius of woman frequently found opportunities of breaking in upon his musings. Miss Blossom was always a privileged intruder. She thought it was not good for man to be alone; and the bewitching hour of tea, with an infusion of small-talk, affairs of the house and affairs of the heart, occupied the evening. Not that Pringle, during these visits, ever allowed his thoughts to wander from his purpose, or lean to the "soft side of the heart." When, however, for Pringle was but a man-he felt a premonitory tug at his heart-strings, he would look sternly at the old leather trunk, and all his stoicism would revive. The soft intruder was bid good night, and the obdurate Pringle would sneak to his bed to dream till morning of the old leather trunk and its contents.

Precisely twenty-one months after the date of his intention to become a small capitalist on his own account, the vision of a real hundred pound note rose upon his sight. There was no mistaking the crisp sterling feel of the paper. He looked intently at the words "One Hundred Pounds," in large capitals. A quiet self-approving smile stole over his haggard features. The corrugated brow, the crows' feet, the limp and languid hair-what were they to him? He had within his clutch the golden vision that so often formed the subject of his day dreams, and distracted his slumbers at night.

But did Pringle limit his ambition to a "cool hundred?" For the honour of human nature, we are bound to admit that he did. And now that he had it, he didn't know what to do with it. He was miserable without it, he was unhappy with it. But still the consciousness that he could call that sum his own-own, gave an animation to his features, a buoyancy and an elasticity to his form, that was quite wonderful.

Yet daily the question presented itself to him,-what could he do with the hundred pound note, now that he had acquired it? And through sheer dint of not knowing what to do with it, he became unusually pensive.

"I made it single-handed," said the bewildered clerk, in a fit of monetary abstraction, while he wistfully eyed the water-mark on the note, and in desperation thrust both his hands to the uttermost depths of his breeches' pockets. What the sequel to these uneasy thoughts was, and what Pringle did when he didn't know what to do with his hundred pound note, may be inferred from the announcement shortly after made by the parish clerk of, marvellously resembling the banns of marriage between Thomas Pringle, bachelor, and Priscilla Blossom, spinster.

S. Y.

THE HEIRESS OF BUDOW A.

A TALE OF THE THIRTY YEARS' WAR.

Those well read in German history will readily recognise the story of Otto of Wartenberg and Slabata. The catastrophe is historically interesting, as it seriously influenced the fate of Frederic King of Bohemia and his English wife Elizabeth.

THERE was high festival in the baron's halls, and the voice of music and revelry rose above the howl of the winter's blast, and the rushing torrents without. It was at Christmas time that the proudest and loveliest of Bohemia met within the castle of Budowa, to celebrate the birthday festival of the baron's heiress, his beautiful daughter, Theresa. She was not his only child; a younger daughter, bearing the name of Maria, shared in her father's love, and in her sister's beauty, but it was well known that the vast possessions belonging to the ancient house of Budowa were not to be divided, that they were to confer power and dignity on the fortunate husband of Theresa. Nevertheless, the younger sister was so rich in personal beauty, and a thousand soft and winning graces, that she could almost compete with the elder in the number and devotion of her admirers. He who now sat beside her, breathing into her willing ear enraptured praises of her radiant beauty, had been long a suitor for her smiles, without seeking to obtain possession of her hand; and there were some who whispered that he only paid his court to the younger sister as a means of obtaining easy access to the presence of the heiress.

The dark, earnest eye of the Count Slabata, and the soft accents of his practised tongue had seldom pleaded in vain. His was "a face that limners love to paint, and ladies to look upon," and his proud, yet courteous bearing, was distinguished alike by dignity and grace. By birth he held a high rank amongst the nobles of Bohemia; and, though rumours were abroad that his large family possessions were seriously encroached upon by youthful extravagance, these had never reached the ear of Maria; she believed him to have both the will and the power to place her in the same high position that birth had conferred on her more fortunate sister. Still there were times when even the vain and unobservant Maria had doubted the completeness of her conquest. Not now, however,-not now; on this happy evening she deemed there was no longer cause for fear, and she listened with beating heart and glowing cheek for the expected words that would interpret into final certainty the language of Slabata's eloquent look. Yet Maria was even now deceived, for it was not upon her the most earnest gaze of those dark eyes was anxiously and enquiringly fixed.

In a distant, windowed niche of the lofty and spacious hall stood two figures, so remote from the glare of light, and the central tables where the feast was spread, that they were almost hidden in the gloom, and their conversation could easily be carried on, undisturbed by the faint and distant sounds of music and revelry. Count Slabata's eye alone, keen, quick, and piercing, had recognized the graceful form of the baron's niece, but the knight who stood beside her, who was he? There might be many in that crowded hall never even seen before by Slabata, whose youth had been passed in foreign and distant lands; but any one who might boast sufficient rank and power to entitle him

to such intimate commune with Theresa could surely not be unknown to him. It was not, it could not be a Bohemian noble to whom Theresa had granted this comparatively private interview;yet, what stranger could have found an opportunity of exciting the interest his keen eye saw she felt? For, though the haughty heiress, self-controlled as ever, held her stately form erect, and her roseate lip compressed, it was vainly that the white arms were folded firmly across her breast, in the attempt to still its tumultuous heavings. Her companion stood impassive. He it is who speaks, and the lady listens; but, though his words had such power to move her, they disturbed neither the rigidity of his features, nor the unbending repose of his attitude. If, indeed, he pleads, it may not be a suit of human passion.

The short interview over, Theresa moved thoughtfully towards the gay crowd, who now, for the first time, observing her absence, made way as she approached, and the knight-as he glides silently away, the truth flashes on Slabata! The knightly garb had been only assumed for the purposes of disguise, and the haughty Theresa was carrying on a clandestine intercourse either of love or of religion. And, vigilantly watched over by the pride and anxiety of her stern father, it was probable that she had found in the crowded festival the only opportunity for contriving further interviews. Successful, too, the opportunity had apparently proved, for no eye save that of Slabata had discovered the retreat of the heiress, in the distance and gloom of the remote windowniche. Her father was just then lavishing earnest courtesies upon the royally-descended mother of Count Wartenberg, and the count himself had not yet arrived. While the causes of his delay were being variously reported among the assembled guests, the large portals of the hall were thrown open, and, ushered in with all due honour and deference, Count Otto of Wartenberg entered the apartment.

SO

Otto was one of Bohemia's bravest knights, and none were favoured as he by the smiles of its fairest maidens. Gentle and courteous in peace, as he was daring and gallant in war, easy success awaited his lightest efforts, and resistless as his sword on the battle-field were the eager glances of his clear bright eye, the eloquent pleadings of his earnest voice. Slabata's star ever waned before this presence. There was a frank and ardent sincerity in the equally-polished bearing of Count Otto, that threw, as it were, into suspicious relief the laboured graces and insinuating flatteries of Slabata. They had long been rivals. -rivals in their pride of birth,-rivals in their pride of manly beauty, -rivals on the battle-field, where Slabata's experienced dexterity never won the same meed of popular applause as the frank and soldierlike bearing of the fearless Otto,-and rivals were they now on a field of bitterer conflict than the sword ever waged,―rivals for a woman's smile, and that woman the beautiful and richly-dowered Theresa. Otto's sight, quickened by passion, had penetrated through the treacherous semblance of Slabata's pretended love for Maria. He saw that Theresa was the real object, and that it was only because her haughty coldness forbade direct approaches that Maria's easily-deceived vanity was used as a means of constant access to her sister's presence. Whether Slabata had been in any degree successful, Otto knew notOtto dared not guess. Theresa was equally repellant to all those suspected of pretending to the honour of her hand, whether they had rashly pressed their suit too early, or whether, as in the case of the proud and sensitive Otto, avowals of love had been carefully shunned.

Often, as the discouraged count turned away from Theresa's chilling courtesy, his eyes would fall with apprehension and mistrust upon the noble form and striking features of Slabata. Their jealousy was, therefore, mutual, their suspicions eager, restless; but the frank, generous rivalry of Otto differed equally with his noble character from the concealed enmities-the deceitful and treacherous nature of Slabata.

As Otto advanced through the hall the brightest eyes shining there sought to meet his in appealing memories, or in hope of future triumph; but, as his eager glance traversed the fair array of loveliness, it found no resting-place. At this moment Theresa reaches and mingles with the circle, and Otto's stately form bends lowly at her side. His arrival had been waited for to commence the graceful dance of Bohemia, which ordinarily preceded the festival; claiming his acknowledged right, as highest in rank, to the hand of Theresa, he led her forward. Slabata next advanced, with the gay and happy Maria; as the four mingled together in the movements of the dance, it escaped her unsuspicious notice that her partner's restless glances were as often fixed upon Theresa in piercing scrutiny as upon her in tenderness. Versed in all the windings of a woman's heart, the wily Slabata had long sought, and sought in vain, to penetrate Theresa's secret. One bitter truth he knew him she loved not; but, whether the noble frankness, martial fame, and chivalrous bearing of Otto of Wartenberg had won the favour denied to his own eminent personal advantages, even the piercing sight of jealousy had never enabled him to discover. Whatever were Theresa's secret feelings, they had hitherto eluded the anxious scrutiny of either her father or her lovers. Nor had this been only from woman's pride or woman's waywardness. This night for the first time they stood revealed to herself. A blush, a smile, a sigh, and hope sprung up in Otto's heart; as the words of passion burst from his now unchained lips, the blood rushed to Theresa's heart, and deathly paleness overspread her face; her eye was not raised, her lip was not stirred, but a tear was on her cheek, her soft hand was not withdrawn from his, and Otto knew the heart he wooed was won. There was another eye that guessed the truth; and for a moment Slabata's beautiful lip was writhed in sudden anguish, but a smile of vengeance succeeded; the prey was in his hands.

The personal attractions of the two sisters partook of a strangely different character. The striking features, the majestic form, the glow of colouring peculiar to the nobly-born of Sclavonic race, constituted the brilliant beauty of the younger sister, Maria. The jewels of rare value that sparkled through her dark tresses were rivalled by the lustrous gloss of the raven ringlets they adorned; her dark eyes, as they melted in tenderness, or kindled in gaiety, lit up her young face with a still more winning loveliness. Her smiles, not cold and rare, like Theresa's, but gleaming in glad and quick succession, parted lips, almost too full for beauty, were it not for their rich, deep colouring, and finely chiselled form. The brilliance of her complexion acquired a deeper interest from its ever-varying hues. The full tide of emotion never rested tranquil beneath the clear brown tint of her cheek, but rose and fell incessantly with every passing excitement of her eager and joyous spirit.

Satin and velvet of the richest and brightest dyes imparted an air of splendour to the picturesque national costume worn by Maria,-one eminently suited to display to the best advantage the brilliant and

striking charms of her face and form. But Theresa, the wealthy heiress, the heroine of the night, and the object of far deeper, more respectful homage, was habited with a simplicity at that time equally foreign to the taste and manners of Bohemia. It might be that she deemed the statuesque simplicity of her beauty would have been impaired, not heightened, by any decoration; for no jewels sparkled on her snowy brow, no varied colouring disturbed the dignified repose of her slight yet stately form. And never did classic sculptor, in his dream of beauty, mould a form or features of more faultless proportions or more imposing beauty. Nevertheless, the earthly charm of warm, speaking colouring was not there. She looked and moved a queen, but her sovereignty was exercised not only over others' hearts, but over her own emotions. Pride spoke in every quiet glance, in every graceful gesture pride mingled with her grace. The complexion of Theresa was as dazzlingly fair as her sister's was richly dark; fair, too, were the sunny folds of silken hair, braided over her cheek with a simplicity that well suited the features they were neither required to shade nor to adorn.

In these features-so delicately moulded, so soft, so feminine in their refinement-who could have read the secret sternness of the soul within? In one alone it speaks: the firmly compressed lip, exquisite in its chiselled beauty, bears the strong impress of unbending will, of unconquerable pride. The prophecy of her future fate is told in the stern compression of those faultless lips; and that future fate is advancing fast; even while she treads in the mirthful dance, it approaches nearer-nearer still. To-night she reigns supreme the centre of a host of worshippers, the heiress of a noble house, the idol of a father's heart ;-to-morrow-where is she then?

It was not alone the fair-haired beauty and the unbending character of the Saxon race that Theresa had inherited from her English mother. That mother had been born a Roman Catholic, and though for many years she had yielded a feigned assent to the stern commands of her lord, in an apparent relinquishment of her childhood's faith and the education of her daughters in his own Calvinistic opinions, this did not last to the end. Fading away in a painful decline, long aware of the inevitable approach of a lingering death, all the superstitious belief of her creed conspired with the native strength of her character to make her resolve that one beloved child at least should be placed within the pale of salvation. Theresa, older than Maria,-the intended heiress of her father-inheriting a strength of character and firmness of purpose equal to that of her unfortunate mother, while it was uninfluenced by the same warm affections-was the more fitting subject for the projected conversion. If she could keep the secret of her change of faith until the vast possessions of Budowa should become hers, the influence she would then be able to exercise for the advancement of the Romish religion would make ample amends for her mother's unholy concessions to a heretic husband. Nor was the dangerous resolution of changing Theresa's faith formed and executed alone. The Jesuits, then in the height of their power and influence, and ever on the watch to arrest the progress of the Reformation, had known from the first that the beautiful bride brought home by the baron from his tour through Holland, belonged to one of the most distinguished of the ancient Roman Catholic families in England.