ed, and uneducated offspring of some unfortunate unknown, long sinee mouldered into dust, perhaps, or if yet living, which was doubtful, ashamed of owning him; what then were his prospects, or his expectations, that he should not labour in a hardy profession, for which, indeed, his disposition seemed naturally to have formed him? Ah! but not for such a life, reflected Agatha; methinks he has a mind which soars above it, and that he is designed for a higher station; that noble eye, like the young eaglet of a valiant nest, seems to fix his thoughts far beyond the low dunghill where his fate once threw him, in the Black Forest; and I know not why I think it, yet my heart tells me that Wolf is descended from a warlike line.-Ah! would to Heaven that the gifts of fortune were alone mine, for thy sake, dear, friendless boy! how proudly would I lay it down to ransom thee from thy ignoble bond age, the servitude of fishery on the rough seas!"

Agatha was sitting at the window of her chamber, when she pronounced these words, and it was wide open, though long after the hour that she usually retired to rest; even Claribelle, who had been desired by her young mistress to go to bed, had sunk into a profound slumber, so that it was scarcely possible for any one human being to have overheard the sentences which had just escaped from her lips, for no living soul was stirring in the house of the fisher; yet overheard Agatha certainly was by some person, who apparently had been stationed under the window, for in a voice, the sound of which was familiar to her ear, yet it was neither that of Craftly nor the fisher; it whispered the following words :

"Can Wolf be friendless, when the voice of beauty and compassion so sweetly sues in his behalf? Can Wolf be deserted when a pitying angel is anxious o'er his fate? Oh, never! thrice envied, happy boy who would not wish to resemble a destiny so blest?"

A slight gust of wind agitated the foliage of the dark pine trees, from wheuce this voice seemed to have issued, but no vestige of a hunian being escaped from them; and Agatha, almost motionless with surprise, and even terror, instantly closed the casement, drew the curtains round it, and extinguished the lamp, which was yet brightly burning in her chamber; after which all was silent as before: whoever had uttered these words had suddenly departed,

and Agatha, though she endured the most alarming apprehensions, felt that it would be folly and madness to disturb the fisher's family on so trifling an incident; nor could she do this without being charged with some impropriety, in sitting with her window open at so late an hour after all the family were gone to bed, and that she would be obliged then to repeat the words which had occasioned the intrusion of so extraordinary a visiter.

The only remedy, therefore, that she could apply to her fears, under existing circumstances, was silence and patience; besides, there was no hostility offered against her in the words she had listened to it could not be an enemy that had spoken thus. And she consoled herself with the reflection that always accompanies innocence, that she had injured nor offended no one; except that Craftly might suspect her having obtained some influence over the mind of Jessy Blust, to induce her to discourage his clandestine addresses toward her; for Craftly had of late avoided all conversation with her, and scarcely noticed her, as even being an inhabitant in the house of his kinsman.

But this was not the voice of Craftly she was pretty certain, for there were tones in it of the softest yet most manly delicacy, and a sort of affecting pathos, which seemed to awaken emotions of a tender and sacred nature; it was something like her father's, had her father been a younger man; and Agatha thought that she had somewhere caught a strain of such a voice, again repelling a thought so vague and uncertain, she attributed it to mere fancy, like the illusion of some pleasing dream, which has no existence but in the phantoms of the bewildered imagination.

She might have dreamed of such a voice, but that she had now listened to one in reality, the evidence of her waking senses could no longer doubt; at length sleep gently closed her eyes in forgetfulness, and the guardians who ever faithfully watch over innocence, were the harbingers of peace in an orphan's bosom, whose hitherto pure and blameless life was as the fragrant and the spotless rose, in which no canker worm had yet crept to despoil it of its native bloom.

tion, when looking beneath the casement she peceived a beautiful double-blossomed myrtle tree, in full bloom, which was not in the collection of Agatha's favourite plants, and an involuntary exclamation escaped her lips, of

"Miss Agatha, you never told me you had this beautiful myrtle! where have you hid it all this while from my observation? and how long may you have had it in your collection."

"Myrtle!" repeated Agatha, "you are dreaming, Claribelle! I know of no myrtle except the one we left behind us at the cliff, and have certainly had no myrtle given me since I have been here."

"There is one, however," cried Claribelle; "look, Miss Agatha, and convince yourself that I have got my eyes; here is the most beautiful myrtle tree I ever saw in my born days, placed exactly under the window, with your geraniums! Look, and I protest there is a slip of paper tied round the middle! that is as much as to let us know who it comes from, I suppose."

The first thought that suggested itself to the mind of Agatha when she beheld this mysterious gift, was, that it was some artful stratagem of the insidious Craftly, who, to answer some wily purpose, had contrived to place the myrtle there for her acceptance, either to worm himself into her good graces, knowing her passion for flowers, or to excite a jealousy in the hearts of the rival sisters; and if so, she determined to avail herself of an opportunity of returning it, and proudly to reject the so offered present.

With this thought uppermost in her mind, and with this intention, she desired Claribelle to reach out her hand, and unfasten the slip of paper, which was affixed to the middle of the blooming tree.

"I know the hand-writing of Craftly," thought Agatha, "but he is mistaken, if he imagines that I will be the dupe of his artful contrivances, or consent to aid in destroying the peace of two individuals so dear to the heart of my protector."

Meanwhile Claribelle, delighted with her mission, and betraying no small symptoms of curiosity to be informed who had presented her young mistress with so beautiful a gift, very soon reached her prize, and placing the slip of paper in the hands of Aga

tha, very eagerly and anxiously watched her countenance as she impatiently run over the contents, which, to the utter astonishment of Agatha, was written in characters entirely unknown to her, and contained the following lines:

Trust not the rose or lily's hue,

Altho' they sweets impart,
For they are changlings unto you,
And hide a changing heart,

But take the form this myrtle wears,

In silence, lovely maid;

'Twill stand the test of lengthen'd years,

When beauty is decay'd.

Yes, when the with'ring blast shall blow
The young rose from thy cheek,
And all the world shall let thee know
That flatt'ry will not speak.

Then take the leaf that's ever green,
Whose blossom is thine own;
For he who gave the gift unseen
Must live for thee alone.*

Agatha had certainly read these lines aloud, much to the delight and satisfaction of the listening and curious Claribelle, and various conjectures filled the minds of both as to the writer of them. They were evidently not Craftly's, and suspicion immediately rested on the invisible speaker, who had been stationed beneath the window on the preceding night, but this was a circumstance wholly unknown to the attendant, and she exclaimed, on Agatha's folding up the paper and depositing it carefully in her pocket-book.

"Well, I protest, I never heard sweeter verses in my life, Miss Agatha, and let the writer be whoever he will, it is plain enough that he is over head and ears in love with you; that's no great wonder to be sure, for you are worthy of being beloved by the finest man that ever wore a head; so there's nothing to be won

• Original poetry.