"I doubt not he has many aliases," replied Mr. Whitfield; "but the name I knew him by a year ago, when Mr. Farnford engaged him as his valet de chambre, was that of William Johnson; he accompanied his master to Portugal, and, immediately after his melancholy death, abstracted his snuff-box, diamond rings, and a large sum of ready money, and made his way to England. I am empowered by Miss Beverley to allow him to pass unpunished for the robbery, if he will immediately restore the jewels, and make a full confession of his guilt."

William Johnson dropped on his knees, not quite so gracefully as he had done to Anastasia, when he made proposals to her. He owned that a short time before Mr. Farnford's death, he had heard him declare to a visitor, that he had left all his property to his first cousin, Mildred Beverley; that her mother was the only person who had ever been kind to him; and that he valued so much a common miniature she had given him, that he had employed an eminent artist to copy it for his snuff-box. After Mr. Farnford's death, it struck him that he would possess himself of his jewellery, go over to England, seek out Mildred Beverley, assume the character of Mr. Farnford-inventing a story to account for his restoration to life—and endeavour to induce Mildred to marry him; by which means he would obtain a legal right over her property. Frustrated in this plan by Mildred's refusal, and encouraged by Anastasia's advances, he thought that he should certainly do well for himself by marrying the daughter of a rich merchant, and as he had only a very small portion remaining of the money he had taken from Mr. Farnford's secretaire, the contract into which he had entered, that he would endow his bride with the half of his worldly possessions, would not have invested her with any very magnificent jointure. Mr. Whitfield led him away at the close of his confession, feeling that it must be a trial to Mrs. Harrington and Anastasia to remain in his presence; the bride-elect fell into a swoon, and the room was forthwith filled with servants, bearing hartshorn, sal-volatile, and other restoratives; the only novelty attending their assiduities being that the under-housemaid, having heard burnt feathers mentioned as a sovereign remedy for fainting, caught a magnificent bird of Paradise plume from the box on the table, singed it in the fire with as little remorse as if it had been a bundle of old pens, and proceeded to apply it to the nose of her ill-fated young mistress! Anastasia was just recovering when her father entered,

and Mrs. Harrington briefly informed him of the distressing events of the morning.

"You tell me the man has confessed his imposition," said Mr. Harrington, "and therefore I cannot doubt the truth of Mr. Whitfield's statement; but still, there is a circumstance which I find it difficult to account for: how could a runaway valet have been master of five thousand pounds-the sum which he has placed to my credit at my banker's?"

While Mr. Harrington was speaking, he had two more auditors than he imagined, for Mildred and Charles-who had accompanied Mr. Whitfield to the house, and remained in the breakfastroom-now joined the party.

"I can clear up that mystery, my dear Sir," said Mildred. "When Mr. Whitfield informed me, three days ago, that I was every inch an heiress, and offered to advance to me any sum that I required, I joyfully took him at his word, and requested that he would instantly favour me by placing five thousand pounds to your account at your banker's. Do not make any objection to it, if you please; I have promised to become your daughter-in-law, and near relatives should never scruple to receive a little pecuniary accommodation from each other."

The Harringtons, cold and selfish as they were, could not help feeling somewhat touched at Mildred's delicacy and disinterestedness. She was praised, caressed, and admired by all the family; but she knew that their devotion was paid to the heiress, and not to the woman, and her vanity was not greatly exalted by it. In the faithful love of the disinterested Charles Harrington, however, she found all the happiness that she could anticipate upon earth; preparations were quickly made for their marriage, and Anastasia was a particularly brilliant bridesmaid, since she took her lately purchased wedding finery into every-day wear. Mr. Harrington was in remarkably good spirits: he had received accounts of the success of his speculation, and requested Mildred to take her five thousand pounds back again; but Mildred begged to be allowed to bestow it as a wedding portion upon Anastasia, and that young lady accepted it with abundant gratitude, recommenced her search for a husband with great animation, and evinced no tokens of having suffered in her peace of mind from her brief love-passage with William Johnson, except that she ever after recoiled from the name of a valet, and shuddered at the sight of a snuff-box! Mildred and her husband led a life of uninterrupted peace, they bless the caprices of fortune which tended so fully to convince them of the affection of each other, and Mildred declares that our greatest calamities often turn to our greatest blessings, and that the Giver of all good was conducting her by a rough path to a home of joy and contentment, when she entered the family of the Harringtons, silent, subdued, and sorrowful, as an Humble Companion.

THE RETURN.

BY GEORGINA C. MUNRO.

The light bark skimm'd the stormy seas,
And cleft the waves in twain,
And left behind the waving trees

And sunny skies of Spain;

On, onward through the showering spray,
On, on, 'mid circling foam,
She bounded swiftly on her way

To bear the wanderer home.

On, on, she went! the English strand
Is brightening on his view;
"Oh, welcome now, my native land,
Where hearts are ever true !"
There came no low voice whispering
Reproaches in his ear;

He heard but waters murmuring

O'er the white sands gleaming near.

On, on the steeds are flying,
Like hopes across his mind,
And the ocean-roar is dying

On the wind he leaves behind:
There is music in the fleetness

Of the horses' hurrying feet, And memory gives a sweetness

To each sound his senses greet.

On, on! against the evening sky, 'Mid starbeams trembling light, Grey turrets rise before his eye

Like spirits of the night

"Ye have not changed, though sun and blast
Have beat upon your brows,
Since in your shade I wander'd last
Beneath the chesnut boughs!"

Yet no upbraiding memory

To his heart would entrance win;
He heard alone the melody

Of joy's own voice within ;
The flower he left within those walls,
When duty bade him roam,
Still lingers in her father's halls,
To smile his welcome home.

Home from the field of victory,

With laurels brightly won!

Her fears shall from his presence flee,

Like shadows from the sun.

But why is torchlight streaming
From yon chapel 'mid the trees?
And say, can he be dreaming
Of music on the breeze?

There are strains of gladness swelling
On the enraptured air;

Of what can they be telling?
They do not speak of prayer.
Now, now, from every casement
Lamps gleam upon his sight;
From watch-tower unto basement
Is yon castle wrapp'd in light.

On, on! there needs no gates set wide,
They have not closed to-day :
On, on! but soon the living tide

Obstructs his farther way.

He hears a well-remembered name;
It should not give him pain,
Or wherefore was it that he came
To meet the bridal train?

One look upon that snowy brow

By orange-wreath entwined,
One wild word of reproach, and now
Those towers are left behind;
On, on! as the avenger

Of wrong were following fast,
As by his side rode danger,
And death upon the blast!

"Oh, Woman's faith and truth and love,
How often have I dreamed
That ye were sunrays from above
Which on our planet beam'd!
Oh, Woman's faith and love and truth,
I read ye now aright,

Ye are bright phantasies of youth,
Which fade from manhood's sight!"

Now, hark! was it the sighing
Of winds around his path?
Or a stern voice replying
To his impotent wrath?
'Twas the reproach of conscience
Which tardily awoke,

When the past's fitting recompense
Upon its slumbers broke.

Then rose upon his startled thought
Memory of hours gone by,

Of sorrow by deception wrought
Beneath another sky;

A heart won but to cast away,

Vows breathed as 'twere in jest;
Oh, woman's falsehood could repay
A lover's falsehood best!

The blow came home unto his heart,
Which one before had borne;
The links of truth he tore apart,

By other hands are torn. "Oh, Woman's love and truth and faith, I taunt ye now no more;

Each guileful act perchance repay'th
Some evil wrought before !"

MIDNIGHT MUSINGS.

BY W. G. J. BARKER, ESQ.

My thoughts are of the dead. The queenly moon
Is up, and on her silent course through heaven:
Along the valley comes a soothing tune

Of gentle music, by deep waters given,
That falls upon my senses like some strain
Of other years, I never thought to hear again.
There breathes no voice from any living thing
Except the night-bird's melancholy cry;
The folded flowers delicious odours fling;

A few pale stars are gleaming in the sky;
And all is hush'd, for 'tis the peaceful hour
When wearied mortals bend to slumber's welcome

power.

But on me seldom the blest boon descends
That ever favours others; on my eyes

Not in this hour the holy sleep attends,
Dear visitant, that weeping mourner's prize:
A restless couch I press till dawning light,
Gaze on the lovely moon, and chide the tedious

night.

The fresh-cut hay with fragrance loads the gale
That slowly by my open'd casement sweeps,
And ling'ring as it passes down the vale,

Its viewless wings in dewy fragrance steeps:
Alas! to me it bears no healing balm,

Nor hath my soul a share in Nature's breathless calm.

My thoughts are of the dead-of those whose hearts, Whilst upon earth they dwelt, were wholly mine; And sweet remembrance of their love imparts

Some solace to my grief, as sunbeams shine Through falling showers, gilding with light serene The thunder-blasted oak, stripp'd of its early green.

But as that tree will never more display

Fresh leaves, when visited by genial Spring, So to my wither'd heart no cheerful ray

Of heaven-born hope can lasting comfort bring: Mine is the wounded spirit's secret gloom, That finds no real peace till summon'd to the tomb.

In vain for me the starry flowers expand,

Clothing with beauteous colours hill and lea; In vain for me Summer adorns the land

Groves to the wild bird, blossoms to the bee; And to the happy, prospects gay and warm;

But for the sick of life, all these things have no charm.

The linnet's melody, when morning light
Sportively dances on each mountain stream,
Sweet Philomela's dulcet song by night,

When in the firmament bright planets beam, Haply may please the untroubled mind of youth; They who have drain'd grief's cup such trifles cannot soothe.

My thoughts are of the dead. How calm they rest,
Escaped for ever from affliction's rod!
Cold and unconscious is each mouldering heart
Beneath the marble floor or burial sod:
Winter and summer are to them the same,
December's icy blast, or the fierce dog-star's flame.

Still is the fever'd pulse; through burning vein
No longer in hot stream life's current flows;
Oblivion wraps the once distracted brain,

And the heart hath forgotten all its woes;
Stiff are those hands that waked the golden lyre;
Love's dreams are at an end, and quench'd ambi-
tion's fire.

No more the thrilling trump and rolling drum Pour strains inspiring on the warrior's ears;

The voice of festive revelry is dumb;

There is no laughter, but there are no tears: Oh, happy beings who have gone to sleep,

Ay, even now, perchance at my right hand

The ghost of some great ancestor may be ; Perhaps angelic shapes around me stand,

Bright eyes are bent upon mine smilingly,
And seraph voices, which 'twere heaven to hear,
Are whisp'ring mystic speech in my unconscious ear.
But hence, wild dream! the flesh cumbers me still
With an oppressive load of heavy clay,

And, bow'd beneath the weight of mortal ill,
In vain my soul struggles to flee away :
Bound to the orb whence the first man had birth,
My thoughts may pierce the skies, but I remain on
earth.

'Tis said that old Christmas and Happiness wander'd In search of a home from calamities free;

And as on their lot and their prospects they ponder'd,
Both vow'd that where one was the other should be.
With this resolution, unyielding though vainly,
O'er many a mile did the travellers roam,
And sad to relate, they perceived but too plainly,
Though nations were plenty, right scarce was a
home.

Sometimes if old Christmas was cordially greeted,
As greeted he should be, with love and respect,
His companion, alas! was unworthily treated,

Dull sorrow would come their repose to infect. At length they reach'd England, bright pearl of the ocean!

When, after surveying the island around, Both the rovers exclaim'd with the warmest devotion, "Come, here let us rest, for a home we have

found."

Now since the pair hither have chosen their dwelling, Let's hail them and prize them, while prize them

we may,

and weep.

Should lift up his head, e'er to drive them away. Through each freak of fortune, 'mid all change of

weather,

May nothing occur these two friends to divide; In peace may they live, and uniting together, Bring joy to our homes and each blythe fire-side.

ANSWER TO ENIGMA IN OUR LAST. At length the reason I plainly see, 'Tis that you must always come after tea. (T. U.) X, Y, Z.

'Why, Willie, what is the matter?" inquired Edward Langley, entering his father's office one evening after business hours, and finding its sole tenant a boy of fourteen or fifteen, leaning both arms on one of the high desks, and hiding his face within them, whilst his slight figure shook with uncontrollable sobs. And how came that drawer open?" he continued more sternly, perceiving a bureau drawer half open, so as to display its glittering contents, which looked disturbed. "I hope you have not been doing anything wrong, Willie."

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Oh, sir, indeed—indeed I have not! Count the money, Mr. Edward; pray count it; see that it is all right, or I can never hold up my head again. The temptation was misery enough," returned the boy, as well as his sobs would permit, and displaying such a countenance of suffering as to enlist all Edward's sympathy at

once.

But, my good boy, what could have tempted you? You seem so to feel the enormity of the sin, that I cannot imagine what thought came into your head."

"I only thought of my poor father, sir. Oh, Mr. Edward, he is in prison, and my mother is too ill to work; and she and my poor little sisters are starving," he replied, bursting again into tears. "I did not know what to do to help them; I give them all I earn, but that is so very little it only gives them a meal now and then; and then, when I saw that drawer accidentally left open, and remembered twelve pounds, only twelve pounds would get my father out of prison, and he could work for us again, the horrid thought came into my head to take them; they would never be missed out of so many; and I had them in my hand. But then I thought what could I tell them at home? It would break my poor mother's heart to think her Willie was dishonest; she could better bear hunger and grief than that, sir; and I knew I could not hide it from her; and so I dashed them back! They seemed to scorch me! Oh, Mr. Edward, indeed, indeed I speak the truth!"

Edward did believe him, and he told him so. There was little need to speak harshly; the boy's own conscience had been his judge. To satisfy him, however, he counted the money, found it correct, and after talking to him a little while, kindly yet impressively, promised to do what he could for his father, and left him, indelibly impressing that evening upon Willie's mind by never reverting to it again.

The tale, which his inquiries elicited, was a very common one. Willie's father had been an artificer in one of the manufacturing towns; but too eager for advancement, he imprudently threw up his situation and tried independent business. Matters grew worse and worse; his family increased and his means diminished. Hearing of an excellent opening at New York for an artificer like himself, he worked day and night to obtain sufficient means to transport himself and family across the Atlantic, and support them till a business could be established. His wife ably aided him, when unhappily he was tempted to embark all his little savings in one of the bubbles of the day, which he was confidently assured would be so successful as to permit his embarking for America at once, and so seize the opening offered. Few speculators had perhaps a better excuse; but fortune did not favour him more than others; it failed, and he was ruined. Three months afterwards he was thrown into prison for the only debt he had ever incurred, and though he had friends to persuade him to his ruin, he had none to liquidate his debt. wife's health, already over-worked, sunk under privation and sorrow; and though she toiled even from her fevered pallet, her feeble earnings were not sufficient to give her children bread.

His

Edward Langley was a creature of impulse; but in him impulse was the offering of high principle, and therefore, though the following it often caused him unlooked-for annoyance, it never led him wrong; and Willie's tale called forth sympathies impossible to be withstood.

"Edward!" said one of his numerous sisters one evening, about three weeks afterwards, as they were sitting at tea-a meal which, bringing them all together, was universally enjoyed. "What have you done with grandpapa's birthday present? You were to do so many things with that money; and I have not heard you speak of it since my return."

"Because wonderful things have occurred since you left, Fanny," said another slily. “He is going to accompany Mr. Morison's family to Italy and Paris; and bring us such splendid presents. His fair Julia cannot go without him, and he has promised to join them."

"Wrong, Miss Ellen, I am not going," was the reply, with rather more brusquerie than usual. Why, have you quarrelled?" "Not exactly."

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"But she will be offended, Ned; I am sure I should be."