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whole manner; and from his anxiety to tell Margaret was surprised to find how little the story, and his way of trying to throw sus-hurry or violence needed to be used in Crawpicion on the chimney-sweeper, neither whose ford's arrest. She had expected to hear name nor dwelling can he give; at least he sounds of commotion in the house, if indeed says not. Your wife says he has already been Crawford himself had not taken the alarm out of the house this morning, even before he and escaped. But, when she had suggested went to summon a policeman; so there is the latter apprehension to the inspector, he little doubt that he has found means for con- smiled, and told her that when he had first cealing or disposing of the notes; and you heard of the charge from the policeman on say you do not know the numbers. However, the beat, he had stationed a detective officer that can probably be ascertained." within sight of the house to watch all ingress or egress; so that Crawford's whereabouts would soon be discovered if he had attempted to escape.

At this moment Christie knocked at the door, and, in a state of great agitation, demanded to speak to Margaret. She brought up an additional store of suspicious circumstances, none of them much in themselves, but all tending to criminate her fellow-servant. She had expected to find herself blamed for starting the idea of Crawford's guilt, and was rather surprised to find herself listened to with attention by the inspector. This led her to tell many other little things all bearing against Crawford, which, a dread of being thought jealous and quarrelsome, had led her to conceal before from her master and mistress. At the end of her story the inspector said :

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Margaret's attention was now directed to her husband. He was making hurried preparations for setting off on his round of visits, and evidently did not wish to have any conversation with her on the subject of the morning's event. He promised to be back by eleven o'clock; before which time the inspector had assured them their presence would not be needed. Once or twice Doctor Brown said, as if to himself, "It is a miserable business." Indeed, Margaret felt it to be so; and now that the necessity for immediate speech and action was over, she began to fancy that she must be very hard-hearted-very deficient in common feeling; inasmuch as she had not suffered like her husband at the discovery that the servant-whom they had been learning to consider as a friend, and to look upon him as having their interests so warmly at heart-was, in all probability, a treacherous thief. She remembered all his pretty marks of attention to her from the day when he had welcomed her arrival at her new home by his humble present of flowers, until only the day before, when, seeing her fatigued, he had, unasked, made her a cup of coffee,—coffee such as none but he could make. How often had "Yes, inspector," he said, "I give him in he thought of warm, dry clothes for her huscharge. Do what you will. Do what is right. band; how wakeful had he been at nights; Of course I take the consequences. We take how diligent in the mornings! It was no the consequences. Don't we, Margaret? "wonder that her husband felt this discovery He spoke in a kind of wild, low voice; of which Margaret thought it best to take no notice.

"There can be no doubt of the course to be taken. You, sir, must give your manservant in charge. He will be taken before the sitting magistrate directly; and there is already evidence enough to make him be remanded for a week; during which time we may trace the notes, and complete the chain." "Must I prosecute ?" said Doctor Brown, almost lividly pale. "It is, I own, a serious loss of money to me; but there will be the fürther expenses of the prosecution-the loss of time-the-"

He stopped. He saw his wife's indignant eyes fixed upon him; and shrank from their look of unconscious reproach.

Tell us exactly what to do," she said, very coldly and quietly, addressing herself to the policeman.

He gave her the necessary directions as to their attending at the police-office, and bringing Christie as a witness, and then went away to take measures for securing Crawford.

of domestic treason acutely. It was she who was hard and selfish, and thinking more of the recovery of the money than of the terrible disappointment in character if the charge against Crawford were true.

At eleven o'clock her husband returned with a cab. Christie had thought the occasion of appearing at a police-office worthy of her Sunday clothes, and was as smart as her possessions could make her. But Margaret

and her husband looked as pale and sorrowstricken, as if they had been the accused, and not the accusers.

Doctor Brown shrank from meeting Crawford's eye, as the one took his place in the witness box, the other in the dock. Yet Crawford was trying-Margaret was sure of this-to catch his master's attention. Failing that, he looked at Margaret with an expression she could not fathom. Indeed the whole character of his face was changed. Instead of the calm, smooth look of attentive obedience, he had assumed an insolent, threatening expression of defiance; smiling occasionally in a most unpleasant manner as Doctor Brown spoke of the bureau and its contents. He was remanded for a week, but, the evidence as yet being far from conclusive, bail for his appearance was taken. The bail was offered by his brother, a respectable tradesman, well known in his neighborhood, and to whom Crawford had sent on his arrest.

So Crawford was at large again, much to Christie's dismay; who took off her Sunday clothes on her return home with a heavy heart, hoping rather than trusting that they should not all be murdered in their beds before the week was out. It must be confessed Margaret herself was not entirely free from fears of Crawford's vengeance; his eyes had looked so maliciously and vindictively at her and at her husband as they gave their evidence.

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to the door as soon as he heard the knock, and concealing their directions from her. As the week passed away his nervous misery still increased.

One evening--the candles were not lighted he was sitting over the fire in a listless attitude, resting his head on his hand, and that supported on his knee, Margaret determined to try an experiment, to see if she could not probe, and find out the nature of the sore that he hid with such constant care. She took a stool and sat down at his feet, taking his hand in hers.

"Listen, dearest James, to an old story I once heard. It may interest you. There were once two orphans, boy and girl in their hearts, though they were a young man an young woman in years. They were no brother and sister, and by and by they fell in love; just in the same fond, silly way you and I did, you remember. Well, the girl was amongst her own people, but the boy was far away from his, if indeed he had any alive. But the girl loved him so dearly for himself that sometimes she thought she was glad that he had no one to care for him but just her alone Her friends did not like him as much as she did; for perhaps they were wise, grave, cold people, and she, I daresay, was very foolish. And they did not like her marrying the boy; which was just stupidity in them, for they had not a word to say against him. But, about a week before the marriage day was fixed, they thought they had found out something-my darling love, don't take away your hand— don't tremble so, only just listen! Her aunt came to her and said: Child, you must give

But his absence in the household gave Margaret enough to do to prevent her dwelling on foolish fears. His being away made a terrible blank in their daily comfort, which neither Margaret nor Christie-exert them-up your lover: his father was tempted, and selves as they would-could fill up; and it was the more necessary that all should go on smoothly, as Doctor Brown's nerves had received such a shock at the discovery of the guilt of his favorite, trusted servant that Margaret was led at times to apprehend a serious illness. He would pace about the room at night when he thought she was asleep, moaning to himself-would require the utmost persuasion to induce him to go out and see his patients. He was worse than ever after consulting the lawyer whom he had employed to conduct the prosecution. There, was, as Margaret was brought unwillingly to perceive, some mystery in the case; for he eagerly took his letters from the post, going

sinned, and if he is now alive he is a transported convict. The marriage cannot take place.' But the girl stood up and said: If he has known this great sorrow and shame he needs my love all the more. I will not leave him, nor forsake him, but love him all the better. And I charge you, aunt, as you hope to receive a blessing for doing as you would be done by, that you tell no one!' I really think that girl awed her aunt in some strange way into secrecy. But, when she was left alone she cried long and sadly, to think what a shadow rested on the heart she loved so dearly, and she meant to strive to lighten the life, and to conceal forever that she had heard of the burden; but now she thinks-O my

husband! how you must have suffered-" as | of certain sums.
he bent down his head on her shoulder and
cried terrible man's tears.

I loathed their praises. I

shrank from all recollection of my father. I remembered him dimly, but always as angry and violent with my mother. My poor, gentle mother! Margaret, she loved my father; and, for her sake I have tried, since her death, to feel kindly towards his memory. Soon after my mother's death, I began to

"God be thanked!" he said at length. "You know all, and you do not shrink from me. Oh, what a miserable, deceitful coward I have been! Suffered! Yes-suffered enough to drive me mad, and if I had but been brave, I might have been spared all this long twelve-know you, my jewel, my treasure!" months of agony. But it is right I should have been punished. And you knew it even before we were married, when you might have drawn back!"

"I could not: you would not have broken off your engagement with me, would you, under the like circumstances, if our cases had been reversed?"

After awhile, he began again. "But O Margaret! even now you do not know the worst. After my mother's death, I found a bundle of law papers of newspaper reports about my father's trial, poor soul. Why she had kept them, I cannot say. They were covered over with notes in her handwriting; and for that reason, I kept them. It was so touching to read her record of the days spent by her in her solitary innocence, while he was embroiling himself deeper and deeper in crime. I kept this bundle (as I thought so safely!) in a secret drawer of my bureau; but that wretch Crawford has got hold of it. I missed the papers that very morning. The loss of them was infinitely worse than the loss of the money; and now Crawford threatens to bring out the one terrible fact, in open court, if he can; and his lawyer may do it, I believe. At any rate, to have it blazoned out to the world,—I who have spent my life in fearing this hour! But most of all for you, Margaret! Still-if only it could be avoided-who will employ the son of Brown the noted forger? I shall lose all my practice. Men will look askance at me as I enter their doors. They will drive me into crime. I sometimes fear that crime is hereditary! O Margaret, what am I to do." "What can you do?" she asked. "I can refuse to prosecute."

"I do not know. Perhaps I might, for I am not so brave, so good, so strong as you, my Margaret. How could I be? Let me tell you more: We wandered about, my mother and I, thankful that our name was such a common one, but shrinking from every allusion-in a way which no one can understand, who has not been conscious of an inward sore. Living in an assize town was torture: a commercial one was nearly as bad. My father was the son of a dignified clergyman, well known to his brethren: a cathedral town was to be avoided, because there the circumstance of the Dean of Saint Botolph's son having been transported was sure to be known. I had to be educated; therefore we had to live in a town; for my mother could not bear to part from me, and I was sent to a day-school. We were very poor for our station-no! we had no station; we were the wife and child of a convict,-for my poor mother's early habits, I should have said. But when I was about fourteen my father died in his exile, leaving, as convicts in those days sometimes did, a large fortune. It all came to us. My mother shut herself up, and cried and prayed for a whole day. Then she called me in, and took me into her counsel. We solemnly pledged ourselves to give the money to some charity, as soon as I was legally of age. Till then the interest was laid by, every penny of it: though some- "Listen to me. I don't care for poverty; times we were in sore distress for money, my and, as for shame, I should feel it twenty education cost so much. But how could we times more grievously if you and I had contell how the money had been accumulated ? "sented to screen the guilty from any fear or Here he dropped his voice. "Soon after I for any selfish motives of our own. I don't was one-and-twenty, the papers rang with pretend that I shall not feel it when first the admiration of the unknown munificent donor truth is known. But my shame will turn

"Let Crawford go free, you knowing him to be guilty?"

"I know him to be guilty."

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Then, simply, you cannot do this thing. You let loose a criminal upon the public."

"But, if I do not, we shall come to shame and poverty. It is for you I mind it, not for myself. I ought never to have married."

into pride as I watch you live it down. You tence; and Doctor Brown and his wife had have been rendered morbid, dear husband, to leave the house and go to a smaller one; by having something all your life to conceal. Let the world know the truth, and say the worst. You will go forth, a free, honest, honorable man, able to do your future work without fear."

"That scoundrel Crawford has sent for an answer to his impudent note," said Christie, putting in her head at the door.

they had to pinch and to screw; aided in all most zealously by the faithful Christie. But Doctor Brown was lighter-hearted than he had ever been before in his conscious lifetime. His foot was now firmly planted on the ground, and every step he rose was a sure gain. People did say that Margaret had been seen in those worst times on her

"Stay! May I write it?" said Margaret. hands and knees cleaning her own door-step She wrote:

"Whatever you may do or say, there is but one course open to us. No threats can deter your master from doing his duty.

"MARGARET BROWN."

"There!" she said, passing it to her husband; "he will see that I know all, and I suspect he has reckoned something on your tenderness for me."

Margaret's note only enraged, it did not daunt, Crawford. Before a week was out, every one who cared knew that Doctor Brown, the rising young physician, was son of the notorious Brown, the forger. All the consequences took place which he had anticipated. Crawford had to suffer a severe sen

But I don't believe it, for Christie would never have let her do that. And, as far as my own evidence goes, I can only say that the last time I was in London I saw a door plate with Doctor James Brown upon it, on the door of a handsome house in a handsome square. As I looked, I saw a brougham drive up to the door, and a lady get out, and go into that house, who was certainly the Margaret Frazer of old days-graver, more portly, more stern I had almost said. But, as I watched and thought, I saw her come to the dining-room window with a baby in her arms, and her whole face melted into a smile of infinite sweetness.

ance?

TRADING IN FETTERS.-There are records selves with chains, originally put on to serve the of dancers who attained considerable celebrity, purpose of a coat of mail, hug them still, in the although they did not display more grace, agility, belief that their fetters bring profit as well as nor inventive power than their competitors. adornment. Instead of dancing on a free, clear Whence, then, arose the merit of their perform-stage, our friends have overspread and carpeted One young lady had her eyes bandaged, and threaded a blindfold fandango, through the midst of a dozen eggs placed on the floor, without endangering the prospects of a single chicken. Another hero did Vestris' gavotte, wearing, instead of the usual pumps, a pair of the heaviest French wooden shoes. Gentlemen have also executed sailor's hornpipes with their legs encumbered by iron fetters. No doubt, they would have danced better without those impediments. But, dance they did: hence their glory.

their boards with a complicated piece of network which greatly detracts from the ease, grace, and vigor of their movements While England can step out boldly and show her paces, France must pause, consider, and hesitate, at every new mercantile attitude she desires to assume. Household Words.

A NOVEL REMEDY FOR SEA-SICKNESS appears in a book just published by M. Jobard. The author states that sea-sickness is not occasioned by any chemical agent, such as a peculiar effluvium emitted by sea water, the condition of the atmosphere, or such like; and that, conse quently, no medicine can relieve it; but that it is caused by the mechanical action of the bowels which are made to vibrate by the heaving and pitching of the vessel, and to strike against the diaphgram. The liver and gall-bladder, thus exposed to repeated percussion, emit a large quantity of bile than usual, and retching is tie necessary consequence. M. Jobard, therefore simply proposes to tie down the intestines so as to prevent their jolting, which may be effectually done by two belts, one passing under the But our neighbors, having decorated them-thorax, and the other between the legs.

There is a nation, not far distant, which is now performing the same feat, commercially. She is trading in fetters; and the wonder is that she trades so well as she does, or that she trades at all. By trade is not meant mere buying and selling amongst themselves; which a people must do to keep life going, and which is nothing but a mercantile pas-seul or solo step. A country really trades when it takes part in the grand ballet of nations; performing its share in the complicated figures and evolutions which are danced to the tunes of supply and demand, scarcity and plenty.

THE PROPHECY OF SAMUEL SEWALL.-
A. D. 1697.

Up and down the village streets
Strange are the forms my fancy meets,

For the thoughts and things of to-day are hid,
And, through the veil of a closed lid,
The ancient worthies I see again.
I hear the tap of the elder's cane,
And his awful periwig I see,

And the silver buckles of shoe and knee.
Stately and slow, with thoughtful air,
His black cap hiding his whitened hair,
Walks the Judge of the Great Assize,
Samuel Sewall the good and wise.
His face with lines of firmness wrought,
He wears the look of a man unbought,
Who swears to his hurt and changes not;
Yet, touched and softened nevertheless
With the grace of Christian gentleness-
The face that a child would climb to kiss!
True and tender and brave and just,
That man might honor and woman trust !--
Touching and sad, a tale is told,
Like a penitent hymn of the Psalmist old,
Of the fast which the good man lifelong kept
With a haunting sorrow that never slept,
As the circling year brought round the time,
Of an error that left the sting of crime,
When he sat on the bench of the Witchcraft
courts,

With the laws of Moses and Hale's Reports,
And spake, in the name of both, the word
That gave the witch's neck to the cord,
And piled the oaken planks that pressed
The feeble life from the warlock's breast!
All the day long from dawn to dawn
His door was bolted, his curtain drawn,"
No foot on his silent threshold trod,
No eye looked on him save that of God,
As he baffled the ghosts of the dead with charms
Of penitent tears and prayers and psalms,
And, with precious proofs from the sacred Word
Of the boundless pity and love of the Lord,
His faith confirmed and his trust renewed
That the sin of his ignorance, sorely rued,
Might be washed away in the mingled flood
Of his human sorrow and Christ's dear blood!

Green forever the memory be

Of the Judge of the old Theocracy,
Whom even his errors glorified,
Like a far-seen, sunlit mountain side,

By the cloudy shadows which o'er it glide!
Honor and praise to the Puritan
Who the halting step of his age outran,
And, seeing the infinite worth of man
In the priceless gift the Father gave,
In the infinite love that stooped to save,
Dared not brand his brother a slave,
"Who doth such wrong," he was wont to say
In his own quaint, picture-loving way,
"Flings up to Heaven a hand-grenade
Which God shall cast down upon his head!"

Widely as heaven and hell contrast
That brave old jurist of the past

And the cunning trickster and knave of courts
Who the holy features of Truth distorts,
Ruling as right the will of the strong,
Poverty crime, and weakness wrong;

Wide-eared to power, to the wronged and weak
Deaf as Egypt's gods of leek;
Scoffing aside, at party's nod,
Order of Nature and law of God;

For whose dabbled ermine respect were waste,
Reverence folly, and awe misplaced;
Justice of whom 'twere vain to seek

As from Koordish robber or Syrian Sheik !
Oh! leave the wretch for his bribes and sins,
Let him rot in the web of lies he spins!-
To the saintly soul of the early day,
To the Christian judge, let us turn and say:
"Praise and thanks for an honest man!-
Glory to God for the Puritan !"

I see far southward, this quiet day,
The hills of Newbury rolling away—
With the many tints of the season gay,
Dreamily blending in autumn mist,
Umber and gold and amethyst.
Long and low with dwarf trees crowned,
Plum Island lies like a whale aground,
A stone's toss over the narrow sound.
Inland, as far as the eye can go,
The hills curve round like a bended bow;
A silver arrow from out them sprung
I see the shine of the Quasycung;
And, round and round, over valley and hill,
Old roads winding, as old roads will,
Here to a ferry and there to a mill.
And, glimpses of chimneys and gabled eaves
Through green elm arches and maple leaves-
Old homesteads, sacred to all that can
Gladden or sadden the heart of man,
Over whose thresholds of oak and stone
Life and Death have come and gone!
There pictured tiles in the fireplace show,
Great beams sag from the ceiling low,
The dresser glitters with polished wares,
The long clock ticks on the foot-worn stairs;
And the low, broad chimney shows the crack
By the earthquake made a century back.
Up from their midst springs the village spire,
With the crest of its cock in the sun afire;
Beyond are orchards and planting lands,
And great salt marshes and glimmering sands,
And, where North and South the coast-lines rur.,
The blink of the sea, in breeze and sun!

I see it all like a chart unrolled, But my thoughts are full of the past and old; I hear the tales of my boyhood told; And the shadows and shapes of early days Flit dimly by in the veiling haze; With measured moyement and rythmic chime, Weaving, like shuttles, my web of rhyme. I think of the old man, wise and good, Who once on yon misty hillsides stood, (A poet who never measured rhyme, A seer unknown to his dull-eared time.) And, propped on his staff of age, looked down, With his boyhood's love, on his native down, Where, written as if on its hills and plains, His burden of prophecy yet remains, For the voice of wood and wave and wind, To read in the ear of the musing mind!

"As long as Plum Island, to guard the coast, As God appointed, shall keep its post; As long as a salmon shall haunt the deep Of Merrimac river, or sturgeon leap;

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