The Bridal Wreath.

In our last issue we left Edoardo, standing face to face with our heroine. A few moments before, the faithful old family servitor, Roderigo, had received the beautiful strangeras she stepped from the gondola and came tripping with joyous expectancy up the flight of polished marble steps leading to the ancient mansion of the wealthy Aralperghi family. Could she have seen the look of doubtful hesitancy that cast a sudden shade over the usually bland features of the old man, as he turned his head towards the halls of his old masters, from whence at this moment issued a peal of unrestrained mirthfulness, sh<s might have caught a premonition of that terrible crash that was so near, and that was so soon to overwhelm her, soul and body Roderigo had heard how his young master, Edoardo had, when pursuing his studies at Padua, formed the acquaintance of ayounglady of good family, but poor, and of whose charms and graces rumor had also not been idle. And now, in spite of the festivities at this moment being celebrated within the mansion, the old servitor was struggling to disabuse his mind of a fear that this fair young visitor boded some impending evil. Having introduced her into a magnificently furnished reception room, and bidding her occupy one of the luxuriant bunges, he gravely bowed himself out, and proceeded to acquaint the young Valperghi that a strange but most charming young lady had iustarrived, as thou-h fromadistance, and desired to see the Signor Edoardo. ' A charming young lady—from a distance ?' slid the gaily attired Edoardo. But there was no elasticity in his tones or movements, as he repeated this interoga tory, and advanced to the room indicated as her waiting apartment. The cloud that flitted across old Roderigo s face, seemed to linger upon the brow, and dull the eye of the young man. ' Who could possible come to see him, from a distance? ho asked himself. Surely it cou d not be g * a nd at this moment ho crossed the threshold of the room where Sophia was waiting his coming. He entered the apartment, and was instantly recognised, and with a bound, seeing the pallor that overspread his face, she rushed towards him, and cried again and again : 'Oh Edoardo, my Edoardo, are you quite recovered!' . He had written to her to excuse his seeming neglect of her, telling her he had been ill, and she now imagined his sickly look was the effect of his recent illness. He replied to her : 'It was but a slight indisposition, as I have written to you,' replied he ; ' nor was there any reason for your hasty presence in Venice.' There was no flush of tender recollection as he gazed upon the eager form that clasped him round the knees, for the over wrought heart of the maiden had caused her to sink upon the rich soft carpet at sight of the object of her first and only love. So pale, so haggard she thought. No I his eyes was as cold as his heart, and he had no tender word for her, who now clung to him, as he had no tender memories of hours spent in her society only a very few years ago. * She was raising herself to her feet, unassisted, for some sound had fallen upon her ear, of whose import she was as yet but dimly conscious, when the same cold freezing tones were repeated : 1 There certainly was no reason for your hasty presence in Venice.' She heard now. She saw his unimpas sioned look, and at a glance she gleaned that her idol was turned to dross. He for whom she had left her home and friends, to travel alone such a distance, that she mi^ht see him and adore him, and if needs be comfort him with her overflowing, loving tenderness—he was changed. Ah; what did his gay attire mean ? What could, be the reason of the mirthfulness she had heard ? Her spirit brust its momentary restrant.and she cried : * Edoardo, Edoardo !—there was no reason! —I have written to you! Edoardo why do you speak so to me? Why are you disturbed ? Are you no longer my own Edoardo? Tell me, tell mo what is the matter with you ?' * Nothing. But what do you think will be said of you ? A young girl alone in the house of a family she does not know !' «Oh, Edoardo, you kill me! Explain yourself more clearly. This a house Ido not know ?' Am I not to be mistress in this house ? Am I not to be your wife ?'

• But without any previous announce ment of your coming, it would not be well if my father were to find you hero so unexpectedly. I think it would be better if you were to lodge, at least for a very short while, in an inn.'

' Your father ! What new objection am I to learn ? When you were at Padua, Edoardo, you told me your father objected only to your making me your wife, because the Cadori's were not so wealthy as the Valperghi. But am I not rich enough now for your father ? Have I not inherited all the wealth of the Countess Galeazzi, and has not my father, Alberto Cadori, gained a name for his great riches, all of wtaich he has settled upon me, his only child ? But whether 1 am rich enough or not for a Valperghi to marry is not the momentous question now. There is a fearful mystery involved in your words and looks, Edoardo. Oh, explain it, if you do not wish me to die,' and she sank down again upon the carpetted floor. This conversation was interrupted by the entrance of a servant saying, ' Signor pdoardo, your bride requests you to pass

into her apartment for a moment, 't.was the old family servitor who had ved Sophia on her arrival at the mans. , and who now, catching the last part c. the sentence —uttered as it was with such deeply impassioned pathos —if you do not wish to see me die,' knew that his first surmise, of comming evil, as he saw the lovely Sophia step from the gondola, was nearer fullfilnient than he cared to admit, though as yet he could not dream of the catastrophe that awaited the whole house hold. Having drlivered his message, the faithful old man retired. Sophia had strength to.command herself until the man was gone away. She then threw, or rather let herself fall into a chair, covoring her face with her hands, crying, 'His bride ! his bride !It is true?—is it not a dream ? For mercy's sake, if you have the heart of a man, tell me that it is false, that I have not heard rightly. For pity's sake answer me —answer me or kill me.'

' It is too true, Sophia; it was my father's will. In a little time I am to give my hand to another woman.' The man who uttered these words, was heedless of the wound he was inflicting upon the too tender and too loving heart of the trembling creature before him. He could look upon her without moving a muscle. He could even taunt her with exposing herself to the contempt of ill judging persons who might see her alone in his father's house, not heeding the reflection that but for himself, and the solemn vows he had pledged to her, she would not have dared to place herself in such a position. ' Oh, merciful Heaven .' I have heard these words, and live. Oh, my poor life ! But it cannot be : it is not true : you are not yet married : there is still time. Go —fly to the feet of your father, tell him you do not love that woman, that you love me, me only ; that you have loved me for six years !'

' Impossible, Sophia ; things have already gone too far. She is a princess—one of the first families of Florence. It breaks my heart, but it is impossible.'

' What matters her rank, her relatives, if you do not love her ?'

' And if I did love her ?' said Edoardo, wavering, rather to see whether it would be a means of ridding him of Sophia than expressing tho sincere feeling of his heart.

'If you did love her? Oh, then, you would bo Ihe most infamous of men — you would be a monster. But no ; you cannot have forgotten your vows ; you cannot have forgotten all your words, our life of six years.' Then rising, and throwing herself on her knees, ' Oh ! for give me, Edoardo; forgive my words. I rave; I know not what I say ! Tell me that you have only wished to put my affection to the proof—that you love no other woman —none but me alone ! Oh, do not drive me from this house, Edoardo ; do not givo yourself to another woman !' ' Sophia, if I could help it, do you think I would make you weep thus ?'

'If you could help it? What prevents you ? Nothing—nothing.' ' Honour, Sophia.'

' Honour ! Where was your honour if you have forgotten all your sacred promises—if you have perjured 3 rourself ?' ' Sophia, Sophia, pity' me. Do not make mc the talk of all Venice. I. am the most infamous of men ; but I can do nothing for you. Now I will confess to you the whole truth—a truth L had not the heart to tell you before. That woman is already my wife ; I have married her by civil contract; and the ceremony that is about to be performed presently is a mere formality. Sophia, forgive me if you can —forgive me, and depart.'

* Oh, no, no, I cannot go from this house. I will die here before your eyes.' A sound of footsteps was heard. It was easy to guess that those light steps were a woman's. Edoardo turned towards a table, as if to look for some papers, saying to himself, 'I am lost,' And Sophia knelt down by the trunk that contained her clothes, pretending to rummage for some thing in it, while she wiped away her tears, and suppressed her si^hs.

Edoardo's bride entered. She stood for a moment perplexed, seeing a woman with him ; then said, ' Edoardo, I sent for you that you might yourself choose one of these wreaths. Which of them do you think will become me best ?' showing him at the same time two bridal wreaths which sheheld in her hand. As the bride entered, attired in a rich white satin dress, trimmed to the highest point of taste by the hand of the first miliner of Venice, she was a picture to arrest tho attention of the most indifferent observer. But it was Sophia—whose whole life for six years had been devoted to the realization of the day that should sco her in the halls of the Valperghi, fondly welcomed by the young Signor, and hailed as his wife—it was Sophia Cadori whose presence had arrested the step of the bride. It was an evidence perhaps, of the perfect confidence the Florentine princess had in the fidelity of her husband, that she only hesitated for a single moment, and then advanced to .bdoardo with the wreaths, repeating her request, and again asking ' which of them would suit her best,' •Neither,' said Sophia, raising and presenting a third wreath to the bride. Ihe Signor Edoardo ordered me to make this some time ago for his bride, and I trust I have not laboured in vain.' Edorado turned aside under a pretext of looking for something on one of the elegant sideboards, but in reality to hide his confusion ; for as Sophia presented her wreath, saying, 'Edoardo ordered me

to make it,' she turned her head towards her faithless betrayer, not in anger or scorn, but with such a look of suppressed agony as smote his callous heart as it had never yet been smitten. But severe and searching as her look was, the sight of that wreath produced a feeling, as though the earth was sinking beneath him. What could Sophia mean by presenting that wreath to the fair bride whom he had chosen, and who stood face to face with his victim under such peculiar circum stances '! He remembered how she had told him of her strange forebodings, that that wreath would not be a bridal-wreath, but that it would be somebody's funeral wreath —this she said years ago, while they sat together, she putting the finish ing touches of coloring to the delicate leaves, and he , the recollection seemed too much for him, and to hide his confusion he helped himself to a glass of wine, still having his back towards the ladies so strangly brought together. Feeling his confidence somewhat restored, and desiring to end the scene as quickly as possible, he turned towards the ladies and was about to introduce some common place observation, when his bride turned her beaming face upon him and said, partly to him, aQd partly to Sophia : 'In truth it is much handsomer than either of these others,' ' but you told me nothing of this, Edoardo ?' 'It was a surprise,' added Sophia. 'My own Edoardo,' said tho bride again; 'another kindness; anew expression of your love. Oh, how dear this wreath will be to me !' and she retired, taking it with her. Sophia looked at the door through which tho lady had disappeared, and bursting into tears, exclaimed, ' Oh my poor wreath!' Edoardo the faithless, stood and gazed in mute wonder at the attitude of the victim of his cruel deception. Tho gift of the wreath was not her first sacrifice for him. Years ago, when he was driven to the verge of despair by his recklessness and extravagant practices, it was remem bered whose band had saved him from his impending fate. He never knew, however, how much her sacrifices had cost herself, but at this moment he was a little moved, as he exclaimed :

' Sophia, Sophia., you are an angel, Once more I owe you my life.'

' Since she is yours,' replied Sophia mournfully, and sitting down faint and exhausted on her trunk —* since she is yours, ought I to bring death to her mind, the death that I feel already in my poor heart? No one knows, no one can know what is suffering but those who suffer; oh,' no woman ever endured what I endure at this moment! Go—go, Edoardo ; prepare yourself for the ceremony: they are waiting for you. I have no more reproaches to make you —no more right to make them. All was in that wreath, and in renouncing that, I have renounced this. Go—l have need of not seeing you. I promise you that when you return I will be no longer here to trouble you with my presence.'

Edoardo, pale, confused, penitent, bent a long last gaze on Sophia; then left the room, saying, ' lam a villain—l am a villain.'

Two hours after, the marriage ceremony was ocrformeu. The condolas that bore the bridal cortege, on their return from the church of St Moisc, were met by some fishing-boats that had drawn up a drowned female. The gondolas had to stop, in order to let them pass. ' A sad omen for tho bride and bridegroom,' said an old woman of tho company.

Edoardo, who had recognised that pale corpse: had thrown himself at the bottom of his gondola, in order to conceal his emotion, and with a convulsive motion pressed the hand of his bride, which he held between his own. Tho simple girl, interpreting that squeeze as an expression of love, said. ' Oh, my Edoardo, you will ever love me ?'

' Ever, ever,' replied Edoardo, wiping away a tear. He then muttered to him self, 'Poor, poor Sophia!—she was an angel, and I am a villian.'

"Those soft Hazel Eyes"

The ' Times' of 4th April gives the follow ing report of an extraordinary case of libel and slander, Miller v. Swales, tried at Leeds on 3rd April, before Baron Bram well and a special jury : — The plaintiff was the Eev. Thomas Miller, vicar of Heaton, near Bradford iv this county; the defendant was Miss Swales, formerly the mistress of the plaintiff's parish school. The libels were in the form of written statements. These statements were taken down from the defendant's lips by Mr. Wood, the chief supporter of the school in question. The trial turned entirely upon the question of whether the statements were true or false. The first of these statements were signed by the defendant, and was as follows •—

\ I hereby certify that the Eev. Thomas Miller, vicar of St, Barnabas Church, Heaton, did on Sunday morning, 25th September, induce me to go with him to St. John's Mission Eoom, Frizinghall, when unnecessary for me to do so, under pretence of reading to me a letter which lie could equally well have read to me at my osvn lodging, and did then and there take indecent liberties with me, with the most manifest intent to commit a crime which I cannot bring myself to name, and one which, had not a man most provi dentially come in, I might not have had the strength or power to prevent.' The second alleged libel, also in the

form of a statement, was similar in effect to the first.

The plaintiff was called,*and said that he had been in Holy Orders 14 years, and had been for the last eight years vicar of Heaton. He was married, and had two sons, one about 20, and the other a child called Harry, about seven years of age. Mr. Wood, he said, built a mission-school chapel at Frizinghall, which was in his parish, and the defendant came from Portsea in August, 1875, to be mistress of the school there. She had not a certifi cate, and the number of children became too great for her to manage, and so on the 7th of September last he gave her three months' notice to leave.

On being minutely examined as to several interviews which had taken place between himself and Miss Swales, he pointedly denied that he had either kissed or taken any other liberties with her. He was then cross-examined by Mr. Waddy, as follows: —

Mr. Waddy, Q.C. —Have you ever kissed any other woman in the parish ?

The Plaintiff.—l have

Mr. Waddy.—Let me see if I can find any of them. Do you know Mrs. Kille ? The Plaintiff,—Yes. Mr. Waddy.—ls she the wife of your schoolmaster ?

The Plantiff.—Yes. Mr. Waddy.—Have you kissed her ?' The Plaintiff.—Yes, I have. Mr. Waddy.—Give your explanation how it was you kissed her. The A twelvemonth ago about last September there was a concert. In the middle of it I spoke crossly to Mr. Kille. His wife came up and defended him, I spoke crossly to her, too. After it was all over I felt I had done injustice, and apologised to Mr. Kille, in the presence of those who had heard the rebuke. As they were going away, I asked Mrs. Kille for forgiveness, and offered her the kiss of peace, to show there was no malice. I kissed her ; and walked into the room with her husband, and asked them both to supper.

Mr. Waddy.—Did you give Euth Tuck the kiss of peace, or any kiss ? Plaintiff. —Yes, I did. about two-and-a -half years ago. She was then about 15, and a servant to Mrs. Kille. I and my little boy went to see Mr. Kille, but he was not at home. My little boy said, ' Harry, kiss Euth,' and then kissed her, and said, ' Pa, kiss Euth,' upon which he kissed her.

The plaintiff denied that he kissed or tried to kiss another young woman whose name was mentioned.

Mr. Waddy.—Did you talk to her (Miss Swales) about her hazel eyes ?

Tho Plaintiff.—No. I believe she has black eyes.

Mr. Waddy, Q. C. opened the defendant's case.

The following were the important wintnesses:—

The defendant, Miss Swales, said that she was 20 years old. She received notice to leave on the 7th of September The plaintiff said he was sorry to part with her but was going to have a man and his wife in her place. After she got the letter from Mr. Child, she went with Miss Mitchell to the vicarage to see Mr. Miller about it. He came from tho grounds to her and told her to come in doors. The maid lit the gas in the dining-room, and she(Miss Swales) and Mr Miller went into that room. Harry came in with two dogs and put one of them into her lap; the servant came in and said she had taken Miss Mitchell into the kitchen. Harry went away after a few minutes. She stopped talking to Mr. Miller a quarter of an' hour : she said, 'Good night,' and Mr. Miller followed her out. At the front door Mr Miller got hold of her hand and said, ' Good bye, Miss Swales, I am sorry to lose you, for I have loved you ever since I saw you.' He then kissed her. She said, 'Do you know what you are doing sir ?' He said, 'It is love ; it cannot be helped where there is love.' This was said on the threshold of the door. Anyone in the hall could have seen her. She pushed him away, and he followed her. He got his arm round her neck and walked down the terrace. There was no one at work then. He asked her why she had brought Miss Mitchell with her, and would she meet him that night or some other ? She said she should think not. She asked him to let her fetch Miss Mitchell, or else to fetch her himself. He then turned towards the kitchen, but turning back he said, would she give him one kiss before going? She said, 'Certainly not.' He said something about her eyes, ' Those soft appealing eyes,' ' Hazel eyes.' He then fetched Miss Mitchell, and she came with Harry. He shook hands with Miss Mitchell, but she .(Miss Swales) refused to shake hands. He told Harry to kiss her, and Harry did so. They then left. On the 25th September the plantiff, Mr. Miller, came about 11 a.m. {to Mrs. Hirst's, but he declined to come in. She (Miss Swales) went to the door, and he said he wanted to see her at the school imme diately. She put on her hat, and followed him. It was a Saturday, and a holiday for the school children. When she got to the school-room Mr. Miller was there. He said, ' Good morning, Miss Swales ; good morning, darling,' or * dear,' she could not be sure which. She asked what she was wanted for. Mr. Miller said, 'Darling you look so cross. What made you look I so pale when I saw you this morning ? | I have a letter from Mr. Child.' He I walked up the room, sat down on a form, | and said, ' Come here, and you shall read I it.' She went toward him; he pulled her on his lap, and said, •My dear, you are I

heavier than I thought.' She got angry with him, and struggled till she got awa? Ohe- again asked him to let her read Si letter. He walked into the class-roo? which is beyond the school-room, sayS that she should read the letter the? She ft, lowed him into the class-room 3 got hold of her and kissed her. He s 5 Sit down, and she sat down beside &3| He then began to read the letter and , he was reading pulled her on to J lap. He put his arm round £ waist, and tried to put his left all under her dress. She struggled 2 told him that she would can H neighbors Just then they heard1 sound of a man's footsteps in large schoolroom Mr. Miller then left at once and walked out. She saw 2 8 back of a man going away. No ch ] ld { were about then, so far as she saw. S ; went outside on to the bridge in ti hopes of seeing Mr. Miller, and ZM out about the letter, thinking she 3fe be safe in the street. He came 2 directly, and thence waike up t l?S with him. and he gave her the'lSteJ, . read. She did so, and g ave it She walked some way with him, and 2 " hat she would not go a step further 2 ' him He said, 'Then I'll write' 7? the 3rd October he came to the Sxil school and said he had a letter fort He pointed to the class-room, and 5 followed him into it. There was no J else there. He pulled a bundle of letjf out, saying they were answers to ad! = ■ tisements for a new mistress: thenV kissed her, and she said ' If that is 1! you want me for,' ard went away.t October 10 she went to the even! service After service he said he hall , letter for her; he took the letter on his pocket There were several pel behind. She put out ,iher hand « letter ; he caught hold of her thumb 2 k letj er ' l and T 6l1* into the class-rS beyond the school-room. Mr Mi§, shut the class-room door, put his an round her, and kissed her. She said'di should tell Mrs Miller. He then opeiS the door and went out. Mrs. S, was in the school-room talking at tie time. As she (Miss Swales) was gome away with Mrs. Hirst, he said in a low tone of voice, ' Good night dear.' On the 2nd November, Turnham, tie schoolmaster, said to her, «Have m heard reports about Mr. Miller?' Before that she had told no one connected wift the school, and had never heard un reports, but thought that TarnliD meant reports about herself. He looked at her; she felt confused and said 'Do you mean me?' He said, ' What! has h kissed you ?' She said, « Yes.' Nextdij he asked again; then Mr. Wood sentfor her, and she told him the facts, thoogl not all the details, and he wrote out till statement set out above. The matte was gone into before Bishop Eyan (yicc of Bradford.) After further evidence': 1 had been taken, Baron Bramwell surad k up. and the jury retired at a quarter to T eight p. m. After a long consultatioa, - they were discharged without a verdict being unable to agree.

A Holy Land Romance.

About twenty-fire years ago, a compaDj | of young men started out from Damasi* and headed for Jerusalem. They hi not gone far before a band of armed horoj men surrounded them, and ordered i halt. The leader said the caravan ma move on, unhurt and unharmed,, if tbi| would deliver up one of their number, ■ young man_ named Eandall, who shwf not suffer if he would come along §1 them peaceably. The terms, thoughki were acceded to, and the last loot hi f companions had of him was to see hii mounted on a fine horse, attended by ft gay horsemen of the Bedouin Sheikbf tit Le Avish tribe.

The young man was taken to siaV! tent, and 10 his surprise found amajni cent entertainment awaiting him.^Wbi does it all mean ? Arzalia, the sWeahl daughter, has seen the young manrf; fallen passionately in love with him,,'and| this is the wedding feast. The yoang/mu/; and Arzalia are married. There wasß escape for him. His tent was guarded^ night, and his person watched by'dijj lest he should escape, and this puard'tej* over him for years. He and his AfMi. liovrever, seemed happy. Children wert bom to them, and their domestic life m marked by kindness, courtesy, and tnt affection. Eandall rapidly acquired | Arabic language, his wife as rapidly ma> teredthe English. Their children ffei taught in both.

JN ow, who was this Eandall ? In Oneil county, New York, lires his father, wfc has never seen the face of his son. Tt father is now a man of some seven!., years, who was brought up among tl Indians, and has travelled again and agii; with the hunters of his tribe in search f.. of fish and game. At the age of twt] one the chief of his tribe said to mm ' You had better return to the wK';| people, for among them you can be 0 I of a man than among the Indians.' \ I returned, secured a Welsh lady for i; I wife, and while she was on a visit to | I relations in Wales this son was bofl I The mother dying soon after his birth,* I remained until manhood with his kuiifj 1 in Wales, and was taking a trip throif I Syria, previous to his return to Amei* I when he was captured by the sheik m compelled to marry his daughter, fel mother was a Baptist, and he, before'/ lift Wales for the Orient was bapt«J When he was admitted to the 9m

Evening" Star Supplement, September 16 9 18*76.