bolts were withdrawn, and friar Robert entered. "I know your errand," said the Lady Emmeline, rising up; "let the will of Heaven be done."

"'The will of Heaven hath been done, my daughter, and blessed be that will," said he, "for it bids you forth, not to death, but to life and freedom." Holy father, what mean you?" cried Lady Emmeline, gazing wildly at the speaker.

"That the archbishop of Tours hath come to release every prisoner in these dungeons."

"O! blessed be the king for his mercy!" cried Mahiette.

"Bless not King Louis, my daughter," said the archbishop, solemnly; "bless Him in whose hands are the lives of all men. Not King Louis, but the King of kings, hath given you life and freedom. Louis hath even now passed to his account. Bless God alone!"

THE FOUNTAIN'S DEPTHS.

BY MISS M. A. BROWNE.

The fountain's depths were dim and chill,
Though summer smiled upon the plain,
Though gaily sang the tinkling rill,

And softly chimed the distant main;
The blossoms, springing by its side,
Shed down their hues upon its wave,
Yet still its ever-gushing tide

Was calm and voiceless as the grave.

The autumn wind went whistling by,
Whirling the dead leaves far and wide,
Yet still no voice of sympathy

From those untroubled depths replied;
The upper waters might be stirred,

And the fringed grass and rushes thrill,
But from its heart no sound was heard,
Its source was all serene and still.

But when there came a quiet night,
And winds were sleeping in their caves,
The placid stars, with holy light,

Shone down upon its inmost waves;
Then fell there from the cloudless skies,

Unto its depths so coldly clear,

The light of those immortal eyes

That gladden Heaven's pure atmosphere.

And by a silent under-spring

The gentle waters ebb away
To where the leaping streamlets fling
A thousand sparkles to the day.
May not the fountain's depths impart
Some image of the hidden worth

Of an unworldly, peaceful heart,

Thus lit from heaven, thus gladdening earth!

THE PORTRAIT OF MIRANDA.

A DEAL EXTRAVAGANZA.

66
BY THE AUTHOR OF THE LION."

Leander. Blood is upon the floor! . . Hast thou no eyes? 'Tis her's... Come hither. Drop by drop it creeps Down these unconscious steps!

Gilbert. (aside.)

Slave, wouldst betray?

(aloud.) Thus poets conjure up the empty dreams That men are fooled by . . My revenge, Count Henry! We'll to piquet.

The Buccaneer.

"You must give us a day when you next come to Deal," were the last words of a cousin of mine, who, after forty years of a seafaring life, had resolved at last to cast anchor on shore; and, bringing his family over from Tours, where they had resided to lay by a fortune the sooner, had chosen the Kentish coast for his harbour during old age. "Be sure you give us a day at Deal!" And he vanished under the archway of the Swan with Two Necks; while I trudged westward, repeating to myself the advertisement which has always so much amused me, and which begins, "Anybody wanting a diving-bell"..." When I next go to Deal-good cousin Blackstone! I wonder how his daughters will like their residence."

M

But let no one be too sure that he may not want a diving-bell: or, at least, let no one who finds it his yearly pleasure to visit Paris scoff at the chance of his next visit to Deal.

It was a howling November afternoon, with a storm vicious enough to tear the earth to tatters (as some quaint old author has phrased it), and the sky made the theatre of a masque of clouds, one interlude of which was a blinding shower of hail, to be succeeded, in ten minutes, by a burst of chill, flaring sunlight; an afternoon threatening enough to keep Boulogne and Calais full of the birds of passage, who were waiting to fly across the Channel. But I love to know the worst: and I hold my poor, thin body to be no more precious than the Queen's mail-bags. Add to this (but I hope it will not be remembered to my discredit) that I had nearly come to my uttermost penny of travelling funds. So cross I would, my impatience and my necessity earning for me a reputation for courage beyond my deserts: and, with one fellow-passenger, a sandy-haired German, some four feet ten inches high, with corkscrew moustaches, a toupee, a fore-finger ring, and a green cutaway coat, such as no English tailor would father, committed myself to the Coquette, then the fleetest but most unsafe boat on the station, and the certain horrors of sea-sickness.

Do you know what the word means, dear

reader? the nausea and the depression of spirits, and the extraordinary, the very extraordinary desire you have to yawn: something quite unusual; and the hideous, hideous cabin, with its cold air, and its close smell, and its hard mahogany sofas, which, however, for ten minutes, are Elysian in their relief, until, until, until

And

All this time my small German, folded up in a cloak of wonderful amplitude, and his feet comfortably rammed into a furred footbag, was nestling in his corner, provokingly impenetrable to the elemental shocks, which were driving me, for the thousandth time, to vow that, as my bad stars had decreed me to be an islander, a home-keeping one I would henceforth be for evermore. there, propped up, as stiff as a gatepost, he sate -talking away about what Heaven knows!-but talking in that quick, cheerful, steady voice, without a piano in its inflections, and with a fluency that became so distracting to my ear, at last, that, good breeding all forgotten, and agony carrying the day, I gasped out, "If he would only stop a moment, I don't think I should be quite só . . .

"Kellner!" cried he, in the true table d'hôte tone," how much is vom hier to Dover ?"

"Dover, sir!" exclaimed the steward, putting in his pea-jacket and his oilcase hat at the door, with a contemptuous look at the poor creature on the floor, who was past speaking to him, "you