SUPPLEMENT TO THE AUCKLAND EVENING STAR.

THE LOST DEED.

" Welt, you know my conditions ; now what is your decision ? Shall your daughter be mine, or will you cling to your idiotic delu sion, and become a pauper?" '•' But the debt has been discharged ; you surely will not be so unjust as to claim pay ment a second time from a penniless old man." " If. ai you s-iy. the debt has been cancelled, where is the acknowledgment ? Only show that and I will trouble you no longer." "I have told you—l cannot find it." " And never will. Come old man, what's the use of hanging off ? Either give me the promise of your daughter's hand in marriage or out you go!" " Have pity; give me but a week longer to search for the missing paper; I am sure it will be found." I i " Not another day; I have been fooling around long enough, and now I mean business. I shall call again to-morrow morning, and if your proud daughter is not ready to receive me with open arms as her future husband, out you go into the street, to the poor-house, anywhere, as long as you are out of my way." Without, waiting for a reply tho speaker ar.9e, and resuming his hat, quitted the house, leaving the old man in a state of des pair bordering on frenzy. Five years previous to the opening of our tale, John Joyce had been the captain of as fine a vessel as ever sailed from New Bedford, and as happy a man as could be found in a day's jnimey. He had followed the sea from his boyhood, and as the result of his toils, was the pos sessor of the neat little sum of five thousand dollars. With this he determined to purchase a house for his wife and only daughter, a lovely girl of fifteen years, and thus secure for himself a place where he could pass the autumn of hi 3 life, after his sailing days were over, in peace and tranquility, in the Bociety of those dearest to him on earth. He accordingly looked about him for a house, and finally settled on a snug little cottage situated on the outskirts of the town of New Bedford, overlooking the ocean, and surrounded by nearly an acre of very good land. For this co3y nest he paid the sum of four thousand in the savings bank of the town.

In his newly acquired homestead he left his wife and daughter, and again 6et out to brave the perils of the deep.

Alas! it was destined to be his last voyage.

While in chase of a whale, the boat in

which he left the ship was capsized by the tail of the monster, and the unfortunate skip per received a blow on the head which ren dered him senseless.

He was rescued from drowning by the crew of the remaining boat and conveyed back to the ship, where he remained for many days

in a state of the utmost danger. But finally he recovered sufficiently to be transferred to a homeward bound vessel, though his eyesight was lost to him for ever, and arrived, without further mishap, at New Bedford, only to meet with new misfortune.

Daring his absence his beloved wife had fallen a prey to a prevailing sickness, and there was no one to welcome home tbe Btricken old man but his daughter Julia.

Grief at the sudden loss of his wife brought on a relapse of his only partially cured sick ness, and again his footsteps verged on the grave. But tender, womanly care from his daughter, united with an iron constitution and the skill of the best physician in the town, brought him back to life again, after a long and desperate struggle viith the angel of death.

The «ff iirs of " Honest old John," as he was called by his shipmates and fellow towns men, were now in rather a dubious condition.

The expense of his long sickness and that of his wife had made large inroads into his little store, and barely enough was left of the thousand remaining, after buying his house to support himself and daughter a month; added to this was his own blindness, which rendered him incapable of supplying his own wants and those of Julia. Bab the latter came to the rescue, and managed to earn enough, by working in a dressmaking shop, to keep her father and herself in comfort if not in luxury. Julia was now twenty years of age and "one of the fairest flowers that ever bloomed on Ma-sachu.ett's soil." She was rather above the medium height, of a slender, grace ful figure, with hair and eyes of midnight darkness, full, rosy cheeks, a purely Grecian nose, and teeth that rivalled in snowy white ness the pearls of Ceylon: Her mind also was in keeping with her person, and she displayed a depth of thought, a clearness of understanding and a wealth of sensibility seldom found in the daughters of the " toilers of the sea." Of course, with such manifold attractions, both material and intellectual, the fair Julia had many admirers of the opposite sex. Of these we will only consider two, as they aro the only one 3 who will have place in this narrative. On » of them was Geoff, ey Gratten, a young man o '' ability and energy, the assistant o' Dr H .Howell the principal physician of the town. He was twenty-)wo years old, fine lookin;:, honest and temperate, but with no other re<ources than the moderate salary he recei el from Dr. Hallowell, and the hope of to the practics of hi» employer*

now an old mun of over three score years and two. The other was Clayton Crorapton, a profli gate young fellow, the son and heir of the man from whom old John Joyce bought his house, and the man who pronounced the cruel words which appear at the opening of this tale. Clayton had declared his passion to Julia >md been rejected. Ho then appealed to her father, urging him to use his influenca and authority with her. Upon the old man's refusing to direct his daughter's choice of a partner for life, Clayton had threatened him, and followed up his threat by demanding to see the bill of sale of the house iv which he lived. The old sailor was unable to produce the important paper, which had very mysteriously disappeared from its usual place of deposit; and which, owing to the Captain's ignorace ol legal forms, had never been registered, Where it had gone no one could tell, and the house was searched again and again for it, in vain. No deed of the house being forthcoming. Clayton Crompton claimed that his father had never sold the-house, and that conse qnently it belonged to him as his father's sob heir. Under these circumstances but two courses remained for poor John Joyce ; either to give his daughter in marriage to that profligate. Clayton Crompton, or to be cast upon tin charity of the world ; for, with nothing t rely upon but his daughter's feeble efforts, they would soon come to the poor-house. Which of these courses should he pursue ? They seemed to be equally forbidding ; he could not bear to doom his darling child to » life of wretchedness, and yet if Clayton

Crompton carried out his threat they would be condemned to misery and want.

At length he determined to leave it to Juli;> to decide. : He had scarcely come to this eonelusioi when he heard the door open, and the next moment he felt the warm lips of his daughtei on his brow. " How have you got along during m\ absence, good father ?" she asked as sh removed her hat and shawl. "I hope yoi have not wanted for anything ?" " No, no, my dear chik', I have needei nothing that you did not leave within reach But how comes it that you are home so early .' I didn't expect you for two hours at leas 13 anything wrong ?" " Oh, no, papa, nothing is wrong, but yoi know there is a circus in town to-day, an. business being veiy dull, Madame La Fonu let us all off in time to attend. But I pre ferred to come homo and have a chat wit! you, for I thought you must be lonesome her-, in the house all day, with no one to talk to.' " You were right, my darling, I was lone some, but I am so no longyr." " 1 had company home," continued Julia, seating herself on a cricket at her father's feet and leaning against his knee, while she strokec one of his thin white hands with her soft dimpled fingers. " Ah, indeed ; who waß it, may I ask ?" he said kindly. Geoffrey Gratten," she replied with a blush which was, of conrse, unperceived by her father. "And," she continued, blushing stiL deeper, he told me something." " Ah, what was it ?" e£ Guess." " Perhaps there has a ' little stranger > made his advent into town." " No ; guess again." " I give it up; I never was good at guess ing." "Well then, prepare to be surprised; hi told me that he loved your daughter, a_.d wished to make her his wife." The old man turned pale, and trembled violently. In the pleasure he had experienced at his daughter's unexpected early return home, he had entirely forgotten his mdc visitor of an hour previous, and his disagree able errand: but now both were brought forcibly to his mind by these words of Julia.

"What is the matter, father?" she ex claimed, in terrified accents. "Nothing, nothing, my child; 'twas but a sudden faintness. lam better now" "But what makes you tremble so ? your hand shakes like a leaf." " It; will be over in a miaute ; answer me one question ; do you love Geoffrey Grat t.n ?" " With all my heart ?" replied Julia, with a promptness that left no doubt as to her sincerity. "Then all is lost I cried the old man, sinking back with a groan. " What do you mean, father ? Are you speaking seriously ?" " Never more so in my life—if you do not forget Geoffrey Gratten, and promise to marry Clayton Crompton to-morrow, we shall be beggars. For should you not consent to be come his wife, he will turn us out of house and home, and God only knows where we should find shelter, for G, ofirey Gratten could barely support himself and wife, much les3 a, helpless, b imi old man." " Don't give up to despair, father. I will 40 and seek' Geoffrey, who has gone to visit j the Widow Grey; if I find him I will bring him here, and we shall see what can be done. Good-by, father, be of good cheer. I will be back in half an hour with Geoffrey, and everything will be all right, so don't worry !" i and imprinting a kiss on her father's fore

head, Julia donned her hat and shawl again,

and set out in search of her lover, leaving ohe old captain in a state of half hope, half fear. -::- -s . * * * Half an hour elapsed, and still another wa? added to it, bsfore Julia returned, and when she did, her step was listless, and her brow was sad. Mechanically she removed her outar habiliments and then threw herself in a chair and covered her face with her hands. She was weeping. Her father, hearing her sobs, arose from his chair and groped his way to the part of the room whence the sobs proceeded. He reached her and placed his hand ten derly on ligr bowed head. "My darling," said he, "what is the matter ?" A sob was her only reply. "Did you see Geoffrey!" he contined to gasp out. "And he can do nothing ?" " Nothing." " Then I will go to the poor-house," said he, in a mournful but resigned tone. "Never, never !" cried his daughter vehemently, rising to her feet, and throw ing her arms about her father's neck. "I would rather marry Clayton Compton, were he ten times as bad as he is. Perhaps he will reform when he is married; God grant that he may !" " Amen," the old man tried to articulate, but his heart was too full for words, and he strained the devoted girl to his breast, while the big salt tears chased each other down his furrowed cheeks. The heroic devotion of Julia had overcome him, and bowed down as he was with the weight of years and misfortune, he had neither the strength nor the courage to offer any opposition to her self-sacrifice. But little more was said by either father or daughter, and they early separated for the night. The next day at the appoint xl time, Clay ton Crompton made his appearance, and sfter casting a look of mingled lust and ad-

uiration on the fair Julia, he seated himself it the table, and addressed his words to

fohn Joyce,

"Well, old man, you see lam right on ime, and without any dawdling let us pro ved at onea to business. Perhaps you ouldn't like your daughter to be in the >om ?" "Yes, yes," was the reply, "she is .miliar with all the faot3 of the case, and he person most interested." " Well, then, I suppose iv the first place, .hat you haven't found any deed of the .ouse," said the visitor in an insulting tone. "xS"o," replied the captain, with a deep sigh, "though I am certain that I received * signed deed—" "That is neither here nor there," in terrupted Claytou. "You have no deed, and there is no record of any, therefore you cm show no claim to the house, and I can, 10 that matter is settled. "And now for the second question; 1 suppose your proud daughter has consented .0 become my loving and dutiful wife _"

"Is there no other alt-rnative ? Will aothing else satisfy you ?" pleaded the un happy father.

"Nothing in heaven or hell !" replied the bully, bringing his fist down on the table in a, savage manner.

" Let me entreat you——»" cried Julia, ■unking on her knees in front of the in exorable wretch.

"No, no, my beauty ; your agitation only makes you appear the more fascinating to ne," was the taunting reply : " come, dry •ip your tears and be joyous, as becomes the oride of the richest man in New Bedford. There, give me a kiss, and we will be as oving as two turtle doves."

The cowardly fellow tried to press his sensuous lips to the fair cheeks of Julia, but she was to agile for him, and springing to her feet, and grasping the poker from the tire-place, she confronted him with flashing eyes and dilated nostrils, while she cried out iv defiance :

"Touch me not, vile wretch; lam not yet your wife, and until I am, beware how you attempt any liberties with me I"

Alarmed at this resolute defence, Clayton Crompton, who was a craven at heart, turned pale and pushed his chair away from the insulted woman. " You shall rue this," he muttered be tween his teeth ; but he controlled himself and said to Julia : "I was only joking ; there's no need of getting huffy about it. But to resume busi ness : as I said before, no hing but your daughter's hand will satisfy me, so when shall the happy event come off?" " How will next May do ?" suggested the father. "Next May I well, I guess not!" ex claimed Clayton ; "if she is not all ready for the oeremony to-morrow at noon, out you go, bag and baggage, so govern yourselves accordingly. I shall be here at twelve sharp, and bring a parson and a friend with me." With these words the unpleasant visitor took his leave. Julia threw herself into her father's arms, and together they shed the tears of hopeless Borrow. They were utterly ignorant of all legal forms and ceremonies, and were completely intimidated by the bullying Crompton ; so the next d y at noon, wheu the latter ap peared, accompanied by a minister and a couple of friends, a living sacrifice, to the villainous bridegroom.

The preliminaries were arranged, Cromp ton agreeing to settle five thousand dollar!

on John Joyce, the same to revert to Julia at his death, and also an annuity of five hundred dollars for his life time.

The minister then requested the bride and bridegroom to join hands for the marriage.

When he felt Julia's warm hand in his, Clayton Crompton, who from his manner of speaking, had evidently been indulging ; in deep potations of brandy, or some other intoxicating drink, suddenly threw his arms about her, exclaiming in a thick voice : "Now, by , I will have a kiss from those ruby lips, and will see if you can help yourself ?" Julia uttered a piercing scream, and her father, infuriated at this outrageous be haviour on the part of the bridegroom, threw himself in the direction of the voices, and the next instant was thrown heavily to the floor. .*** * * . | " Why, father, what is the matter; are you ill ? Why are you lying on the floor in that Bfanner?" "I say my daughter shall never marry such a brute as Clayton Crompton I" " Of course she shan't," said a voice which sounded very much like that of Geoffery Gratten, and a strong arm raised the old man from the floor and assisted him to his chair. "I forbid tho banns!" he cried, as soon as he was seated ; "I will go to the Poor house if necessary, but my darling daughter shall not bo wretched for life ?" '• No, father, there is no need to go to the Poor-house. The cottage is yours ; lam going to marry Geoffrey, with your permis mision, and Clayton Crompton is dead." "Dead?' echoed the Captain in astonish ment. " Yes," resumed Julia immediately ; " you know when I left you to go in search of Geoffrey, I said I should return in a short time. I met him on his way back to the office, and we had proceeded but a few steps together, when a boy came up to us in breathless haste, and said that there had been an accident in the circus tent, and that a doctor was wanted immediately. " Geoffrey and I hastened to the spot, and found that the tent had been blown down, and injured sevoral people severely ; among them was Clayton Crompton, who had re ceived a fatal blow on the head from one of the poles. " When told by Geoffrey that he had but a short time to live, he confessed that he had been plotting against us to obtain my hand, that he stole the deed of the cottage, and that we should find it in the inside pocket of his vest, and here it is 1"

" But I don't understand it," said the Captain in amazement; " how long ago was that ?"

" About half-an-hour ; wo hastened to tell you, and found you prostrate on the floor by your chair ; were you ill ? '

" No, no, I am all right—but what has become of the minister who was about to marry you to Clayton ComptoD ; I don't hear him in the room."

"You must have been dreaming, father, and fallen out of jour chair, for it is but little over half an-hour since I left you to go in search of Geoffrey."

"You are right, it must have been a frightful dream, but I wouldn't go through it again for a king's ransom."

" But how do you know I shall give my consent to your becoming the wife of Geof frey Gratten ?'

"Oh, but you must," said Julia, laying her hand in that of her father, "for you know 'twas through him that we recovered the Lost Deed."

THE ST. GEORGE.

It stood in the artist's studio ; all Florence came to look at it; all examined it with curiosity ; all admired it with eagernes ; al pronounced it the capo d' opera of Doktatel 10. The whole town were in raptures, and lovely ladies, as they bent from their car riages to answer the salutes of princes and dukes, instead of the common frivolities of fashion, said, " Have you seen the new statue by Do natello ?".

Is there an art like that of sculpture ? Painting is a brilliant illusion—a lovely

cheat. Sculpture, while it represents a reality, is itself a reality. The pencil pours its fervid hues upon perishable canvas, and they fade with the passing air; but the chisel works in eternal marble—strikes out a creation immortal as the globe, and beauti ful as the soul.

"1 told thee, Donatello," said Lorenzo, thou would'st excel all thy rivals !"

" Fling by thy chisel now," cried another, thou canst add nothing to that." "I shall cease, hereaft.r, my devotion to the antique," cried a third. " The power of PHtBiAS," exclaimad one. "The execution of Pbaxitiles J" said another. "You will draw votaries from Venus," whispered a soft Italian girl, as she turned her melting eyes on the old man. '." The Apollo will hereafter draw his bow '■.',.- Unheeded," cried an artist whom many thought the best of his day. Among the crowds who flocked to the studio of. Donatello, there was a youth who had given some promise of excellence. Many said that, with intense study, he might one day make his name heard beyond the Alps ; and some went so far as to hint that in time he might tread close on the heels of Donatello himself, but these were sanguine men, and great friends of the young man ; besides, they spoke at random. They called this st .dent Michael Akgelo.

He had stood a long time regarding it th fixed eyes and folded arms. Ho

waked from one position to another, measured it with his keen glances from head to foot, regarded it before, behind, and studied its profiles from various points The venerable Doxatello saw him, and awaited his long and absorbed examination with the flattered pride of an artist and the affectionate indulgence of a father. At length Michael Angelo stopped once more before it, inhaled a long breath, and broke the profound silence. "It wants only one thing," muttered the gifted boy. "Tell me," cried the successful artist, "w7iat it wants. This is the first censure which my St. George has elicited. Can I improve ? Can I alter ? Is it in the clay or the marble ? Tell me !" But the critic had disappeared. Don-atello knew the mighty genius, of Michael Angelo. He had beheld the flashes of the sacred fire, and watched the develop ment of the " God within him." " Diablo !" cried the old man, " Michael Axgelo gone to Rome, and not a word of advice about my statue ! The scape grace ! but I shall see him again, or, by the mass, I will follow him to the eternal city. His opinion is worth that of all the world ! But one thing !" He looked at *ifc a^ain—he listened to the murmurs of applause which it drew from all who beheld it—a placid smile settled on his face. " But one thing !— what can it be ?" Years rolled by. MicnAEL Angelo , remained at Rome, or made excursions to I other places, but had not yet returned to Florence. Wherever he had been, men regarded him aa a comet—something fiery, terrible, tremendous, sublime. His fame spread over the globe; what his chisel touched it hallowed. He spurned the dull clay, and struck his vast and intensely briliant conceptions at once from the marble. Michael Angelo was a name to worship— a spell in the arts —an honour to Italy—to the world. What he praised lived ; what he condemned perished. As Donatello grew old, his anxiety grew more powerful to know what the inspired eyes of the wonderful artist had detected in his great statue. At length the immortal Florentine turned his eyes to his native republic, and, as he reached tbe summit of the hill which rises on the side of Porta Bomana, he beheld the magnificent and glorious dome, and Campa nile, shining in the soft golden radiance of the setting sun, with the broad topped tower of the Palazzo VeccMo lifted in the yellow light, even a3 this day it stands.

Ah, death ! cai no worth ward thee ? must the inspired artist's eyeß be dark, his hand motionless, his heart still, and his inventive brain as dull as the clay he models ? Yes ! Donatello lies stretched on his last couch, and the light of life pass ing from his eyes ; yet even in that awful hour his thoughts ran on the wishes of his past years, and he sent for the Florentine artist. His friend came instantly, "lam going, Michael, my chisel is idle, my vision is dim, but I feel thy hand, my noble boy, and I hear thy kind breast sob. I glory in thy renown ; I predicted it, and I bless my Creator that I have lived to see it ; but before I sink into the tomb, I charge thee, on thy friendship, on thy religion, answer my question truly."

" As I am a man, I will." "Then tell me, without equivocation, what it is that my Ft. George wants." "The gift oe Speech 1" wa. the reply. A gleam of sunshine fell across the old man's face. The smile lingered on his lips long after he lay cold as the marble upon which he had so often stamped the concep - ions of his genius.

The Statue remains the admiration of posterity, and adorns the exterior of the Chiesa dor San Mickeies — Scottish Annual.

CHARITY BEGINS AT HOME.

Tell me, fair stranger in a sealskin jacket, A muff to match, and lovely hat and feather, Why, 'midst the dreadful whirl, and din, and racket Of this great street, you're out in Buch bad weather? Go yon with sympathy and love to brighten The last brief moments of a dying sinner? Lurks in that tiny muff something to lighten A poor man's woe : a sermon—or a dinner ? Your hand holds tightly clasped a velvet prayer-book, From which sweet words of promised peace you'll borrow; Your modest eyes are downcast: if I dare look, I'll find in each a tear for others' sorrow. Ah ! well I know that either love or pity Leads on your little feet with steps so springing; Somewhere, I'm.sure, in thia great noisy city, j A sad heart wants the comfort that you're bringing. # * .*,..'*■-, '■:*:* Bat now she stops before a building stately ; A bright red door swings open and she passes. She's at the Matinee ! That which I ,'ately Took for a prayer book was—her opera glass.

And she will sit and weep at feigned dis [ tresses I Which walk the stage in Bilks and costly laces, While hungry children clad in ragged dresses, Stand begging in the street, with tear stained faces. So, fare you well, uncharitable beauty, More fitted for the ball-room than the cloister!- , You may be weak; bnt I must do my duty And feed the hungry, so I'll take—an oyster. N, V, Evtninj Pott. <

A SCHOOL REMINISCENCE OF EASTER.

Happy days ! all too quickly flown; days when we were young and in blissful ignorance of the intricacies of the world j days when we had a sublime belief in the moral perfection of all our grown up friends and relations, and looked upon our teachers as beings of a high order who, if severe, were at any rate blameless in their own conduct. What faith is there, in after life, which approaches the trusting confidence of a boy in the rectitude of a guardian ? There may exist like or dislike, but there is no thought that dislike may possibly be the fault of our mentors; it is ascribed silently and im plicitly to our own shortcomings. But though this innate modesty in a boy occurs to me at the beginning of these jottings, it is not my purpose to dilate especially upon it. The connection it has with my recol lections of Eastertide at school is to be traced in the halo which it sheds round the ordinary circumstances of early life. While its charm is yet unbroken, we see everything in a rosy light, and child-like, and at the same time angel-like, view the world as the very garden of Eden before the tree of knowledge of good and evil was rifled of its baneful fruit. Last night I dreamt I was at school again. Everything was recalled in vivid distinctness, and there was not that inconsistency about the picture which is usually present in dreams. Except that now and then a form appeared upon the scene, associated with later events, everything was natural and undistorted. My recollections of the circumstances are still so fresh that I do not wonder seeing them so distinctly.

It was the morning of the day before Easter Sunday, and a large con course of bright - faced boys were assembled by the empty fire-place in the middle of the great school-room, talking eagerly. "Briggs is coming," said a lad with fair hair and bright blue intelligent eyes, and a slender delicate frame—Charley Pilch by name. "I had a letter from him yesterday, and he expects to be down by the three o'clock train from London Bridge."

" Oh, hurra! I'm so glad," said a de termined looking boy about fourteen, with a sallow complexion, large features, and plentiful trousers which had conferred upon him the title of * Bags'—his real name was Willis. " He's the best fellow for a yarn I know. Don't you recollect, Didlums, that story about the miser he told us in Doram's rooms last Easter. Stunning, was'nt it ?"

" I should think I did," answered the boy addressed, who was somewhat of a senior about his mates, and was leaning with his back to the iron rail in front of the fire-place, and pretending to read one of Bulwer Lytton's novels. He was an athletic young fellow about sixteen, and his clear eye and healthful cheek told of many a part taken in the cricket field, and many a day spent in rifling the hazel coppices. "Yes, and I hear he's going to stop the week." "Oh that will be jolly," chimed in several together. "Tad's coming too, I s'pose you know, you fellows," put in young JTomkins, a pert; junior in the lower fourth, known by the name of " Tarts" for his great liking for those indigestibles.

•That's the ticket," rejoined « Bags ;' "we'll have that famous cricket match at Stanley Park, over again. What a splendid thing that was ! You wer'nt here then, Were you Smith?" addressing a tall lack-a-daisical looking youth of fifteen, who had just joined the party.

" No, I had'nt the pleasure of beiDg in troduced to the mysteries of Pier Point College at that auspicious time," responded Smith, sentehtoriously. . Y\

" Well, you've got a treat to hear Tad go: over it. It was such a rich thing in itself, and then he tells it famously. You know it was against the ' Black Welshers,' and they were awfully strong at the time, but they held us too cheap, and thinking they'd only | got a pack of boys to deal with "—here ' Bags' tried to catch hold of a single hair which grew out of a mole on his left cheek, and did duty for whiskers—" they brought down a kind of Becond eleven, and we licked 'em in one innings. Were'nt they riled, that's all?" And so the talk went round. Several other names were mentioned of boys likely to "be down," and many a traditional anecdote connected with them was related. Then the bell rang, and they went to dinner* In explanation of the foregoing, I must mention that it was a time-honored practice at Pier Point College for the hospitay of the school to be throwD open during Easter to "old" boys who kept their names upon the I books by the payment of a small fee. The opportunity was annually seized by a large number of departed alumni, who were glad to be able in this way to keep up old associations aud visit the scenes of early or difficulties, and talk Over " old :times." | Easter was an unusually jolly season with us boys. Everything conduced to make it so. The school was conducted oh High Church principles, and Lent was rigidly observed. Not that we fasted right through ihe season, but we were not allowed to talk at dinner, and on Fridays the dinner meal consisted of bread and cheese and rice alone. The not being allowed to talk was the worst 1 privation, and if only for the removal of this

restriction, Easter would have been looked forward to ; but Ihere were pletty of ether reasons for our loving the Feast of the Resurrection, and the chief was that we should see old faces and be able to inter change confidences over the events which had taken place within each other's sphere since our last meeting. Then I thought the evening had come, and the beautiful service in the Chapel was over. What a stir there was in the corridor imme diately afterwards. Such exclamations and congratulations and enquiries. Several ex pected arrivals had taken place. "Ah, thoughtyou'd come, Tad; have'nt forgotten us yet, then ?" "Tad," whose letters at his office in Mark Lane were now addressed William Brown, Esq., was a scholar who had left about two years. He was apparently about nineteen, and was evidently a great favorite. "No, I hope not quite yet. But I say, what makes all the boys look so small? Why, they look on an average two inches shorter all round every time I come down." " You forget, Brown, your more exalted point of view," rejoined one of the masters who was passing at the .time. " Ah, how do you do, sir ? Yes, I suppose that has something to do with it. There's the Doctor coming. I've not spoken to him yet." An^dthen Dr ——, the head master, came by, and shook hands .cordially with all the old boys, and said a kind word to each, generally in the form of an enquiry as to how they were getting on.

To some was added an invitation to a glass of wine in the Study—that awful sanctum, well remmbered—after supper, and then he passed on, grave yet gracious. Later on in the evening, a rather noisy party was gath ered in Mr Doram's room, in the East Wing. Mr Doram was the second master, and was a general favorite. Above the middle age, he yet entered into all the boys' sports, with enthusiasm, and was as good as the best of them at cricket, and even football. He. had got hauled up by one of the Squire's keepers once for trespassing after nuts, and the boys reverenced him ever since.

Nearly all those whom I have mentioned were present. There were Smith, Didlums, " Bags,",Tomkins, Pilch, and two or throe others yet in the school, and " Tad f[ Briggs, and two other " old boys." What a glori ous evening we spent. First, Briggs and Tad told us all they had seen and experi enced in London since they had left. Then we told them all the altered rules and regula tions and arrangements of the school dur ing the same interval. What boys had been in scrapes. How Smith got out of one; and good old genial Doram chuckled at this more than anything. Then came the yarns —" Don't you recollect that football match against Laneehurst, Tad,"_cries "Bags."

" I should think so, and wasn't it a fine game. By Jove, it was the hardest fight I ever had. Do ypu know, I believe we'd have got whopped if it had been against anybody else, but then we were bound to do or die against them. That drop-kick of yours, Smith, old boy, was the best thing of the whole day " "Wasn't it just a little bit lucky though? Eh? come, just.a little bit?" put in cheeky Thomson.

" Well, I suppose you are entitled to- call it so if you like. I didn't know much about it at the time, I confess. The ball came straight at me out of the scrimmage, and Bully Badger was bearing down, on me like an express. There was no time for any finnikin, and I was just within range, so I let fly at once, and it Went over the"bar somehow; and preciously I was mangled about by those fellcws carrying me. I wish they would not do that kind of thing. , r lt upsets a fellow literally and metaphorically."

And then there were Briggs' yarns, which were duly appreciated, and then the mulled port was passed round again, and old Doram made a little speech—cheerful and well turned, giving us good advice in such a happy manner we all loved him for it, and at the time mentally vowed never to forget it. What a joyous time it was : Innocent and free from care we poured out onr whole souls to one another. The striking of twelve was the sign for a general round of Easter congratulations, the exuberant character of which disturbed my rest, and I awoke and found I had slept far into the morning, and that the bells of St. Mary's, Parnell, were ringing for Easter aervioe. YEheu! fagaces labuntur anni. A. K. -

A Nice Little Stoby.—A rich land holder of La Beauce arrived with.his wife and two daughters at the Grand Hotel in Paris the other day. Uoom No, 117 was assigned to the father and mother, and No 119 to the young ladies, who retired about 11 o'clock on the evening of their arrival. After they had gone to bed the elder of the two girls left her room,' wishing to get ; more air. The hall was lit, but she. had jno candle; She returned after a few i minutes rather sleepy, and jumped quickly* into bed. "I am frozen," she said to her sister, "warm me up." " With pleasure," iresponded a bass voice. The young girl gave a shriek, and bounded from the room: She had entered N 0.121, having mistaken. it for her own room, No. 119. For the next eight days she did not dare to leave her apartment. Finally, venturing to go down to the table d'hote she found herself placed by the side of a military gentleman of distinguished appearance. Thejoint was brought, and our heroine asked her neighbor, the officer, to pass the salt., " With pleasure," answered the voice she; had heard in her night adventure, and she' fainted away. Her marriage with* miP officer will soon take place.