Remorse had seized upon the wily Michael; already could he hear the footsteps of the assassins, and, calling aloud for help, he brought Arden and Franklin back. He had had a dream that thieves were in the house. Arden remarked that it was a strange thing for a waking man to dream; and, if the doors were all fast, there need be no alarm about thieves. He went to see if the doors were fast, and found them open; whereupon he admonished his servant for negligence, and again returned to his couch.

At the inn the four conspirators were planning new schemes; and Mosby, knowing that Alicia regretted the part she had thus far taken in the matter, and that she had resolved to be united again to her husband, was more enraged and determined than ever. This was now his plan. The night was too far worn to proceed to his house; they will wait until Arden stirred abroad, the two soldiers should then jostle against him, pick a quarrel, and assault him; whilst he, Mosby, would come to his rescue, by which means he would gain Arden's good-will.

As for Alicia, she had spent her late hours in wild lamentation, and in seeking and making herself worthy of Arden's love. He, knowing his weak nature, would not see the penitent, lest Le should play the part of a lover rather than that of the man of honour. But a meeting did take place between them; and the tears, the sighs, and the prayers of the truly miserable Alicia, were not unavailing. Arden listened to her vows of fidelity, to her sobs for past transgressions; he took her to his arms, and bade her be happy, as he was now, and as he ever should be, so long as she remained true to his trust. Their reconciliation should be celebrated by a supper, for it was St. Valentine's day; he would go at once and call up the guests.

As Arden was passing along the road, with the intention of inviting his friends, he was jostled by the two soldiers, and insulted by them. In a moment swords were drawn. Arden was already getting the worst of the encounter. when Mosby, as pre-arranged, rushed to his rescue, and put the cowards to flight. He did not do so, however, without seeming to suffer for his bravery,-he was wounded.

This act of generosity, from one whom Arden had least to expect it, gave rise to many thanks, and the soliciting of Mosby's company at supper. The invitation was, of course, promptly accepted. His plan having succeeded, the villain hied him to his associates; he told them to go to Arden's house, and hide themselves in the cupboards; he would entice the husband from the festival, to a game of draughts. Upon uttering the words, "I take you now," the desperadoes were to spring from their hidingplaces, strangle their victim, and throw the corpse over the Abbey wall.

When the evening came, Mosby, as arranged, got his hirelings into their nooks, and at length persuaded Arden to leave the festival to play draughts.

The unsuspecting husband fell into the desperadoe's snare; the words, "I take you" were at length pronounced; the murderers, as one man, leapt from the cupboards, and, with the assistance of the fierce Mosby, speedily despatched their victim.

The supper guests at length grew anxious about Arden's absence; and scarcely had the corpse been thrown over the Abbey wall, when the Mayor of Feversham and a number of armed men made their entrance into the banquetting-room.

They were in pursuit of the two scoundrels, who, they were told, had taken refuge in Arden's house. But the surprise, amazement, and confusion attending this visit was increased a thousandfold when Franklin called upon the Mayor to arrest each and all beneath the roof, as Arden-honest Arden-had been murdered, and his mutilated corpse just found.

Upon Mosby was found his victim's ring, and upon Alicia, the notes she had received from the deceiver. All within that dreadful abode were seized, several of them were guilty to some degree, and each of them were led off to justice. Thus the lust of Mosby led him on to a fearful end; and though Alicia before her arrest had repented of her crimes, the evidence was, indeed, strong enough to inculpate her. So it is proved that:

"Virtue is arbitrary, nor admits debate,
To doubt is treason in her rigid court;
And if ye parley with the foe you're lost."

AN UNFAIR EXCHANGE.

You told me once that you loved me-
I believed, and I loved you too;

So you took my heart, and you gave me yours,
Which you vowed was sound and true.

I placed your heart in my bosom,

And wore it-not many days

When I found how worthless the gift was
I had heard you so loudly praise.

For the heart you swore was a sound one,
Was so battered there would not stay
One drop of your love within it,
But trickled and fell away.

And my poor heart, you retained it,
With the love it still holds for you;
And as time took some of its sweetness,
That love all the stronger grew.

It grew and still grows the stronger,

As day follows after day;

But that heart and that love, alas! you have

No power to cast away.

And though I would fain reclaim them,

That can never, never be;

For my gift was a gift for ever,

And returns no more to me.

W. T. G.

LEAVES FROM LIFE.

BY LAUNCELOT CROSS.

A GARDEN AND ITS NEIGHBOURHOOD.

"What more felicitie can fall to creature

Than to enjoy delight with libertie,

And to be lord of all the works of Nature ?"

SPENSER.

Ir is our purpose in the following leaves to set forth as simply and clearly as possible the principal influences and minds that have tended to mould the character and tastes of one who has to give the greatest part of his active existence to business duties. His position is that of the largest portion of our race,-his daily bread depends upon his daily exertion; so that, whilst our narrative may be full of imperfections, it must, at any rate, have some interest for the majority of our fellows who deem it an obligation, or find it a pleasure, to employ and develop the mind. From the humblest we may get some hint that shall brighten our life, encourage us under trials, or indicate means for quickening and keeping pure the divine spark within us.

We live in a northern region. Our diurnal pursuits are in a densely populated town, the second port of the kingdom, proud of its shipping, coal, iron, and deep-throated wit. In a usual way we leave our office about five o'clock in the afternoon, and take the railway for a couple of miles out of town. From the station at which we descend we can behold our blue-slated home a quarter of a mile off, standing with its neighbour by the roadside. The house has a Quaker-like demureness and simplicity about it; yet often it strikes us but more especially when we walk from town on a fine evening, and, emerging from the suburb of Byker Hill, behold, down a straight, hedged lane, its quietude at half-a-mile distance—then, it strikes us as a new object, islanded in green fields; and the new thought is pregnant with ten years' gratefulness (if that word may be used to express the uplifting and subjection of the heart to the Great Creative Spirit), and we feel that it has been like the fleece of Gideon-the dew of the Lord has been on it, when all around has been dry; and we pray that our mind be not changed should the day come when it shall be dry, whilst all around is heavy with blessings.

Proceeding home by rail, our road from the station is for some three or four hundred yards due south, leads then round a farm

stead to the right, and thence to the south, again, for a couple of hundred yards, when we reach the yard-gate. Thirty yards more, by a straggling hawthorn-hedge, and we come to our garden-gate. Standing there-let us suppose it an April evening-we see rising broad and thin the smoke of the town we have left, and which is concealed by the elevated ground of Byker Hill. To the south, there is a long waving line of ebon wreaths climbing the sky. These define the course of our great commercial river. Its point nearest to us is about a mile and a half distant. It is hidden from us until in the east it forms the Long Reach, which over the open ground is beheld three miles off, shining like a shield of steel. The town sends up its vapours silently; but the noise of the manufactories and ship-yards comes at times in soft intermittent waves upon the ear. To east and west, and north and south, fields of pasture and under-cultivation lie round our home-cutting us off from the darkness of destruction, and the mysterious interchanging, creating, absorbing, evolving powers of commerce. Heaven spreads a carpet of green between the home of ours and the agencies of labour and centralisation, and the smoke of whose torment we behold going up for ever.

We enter the gate of the garden. Man, although cast out of Paradise for the sin which works like venom in all our natures, has not lost all the goodness he had when there; and the humblest garden hath much of Eden in it. Nay, the garden never did fall; and all Eden is in a garden, if we had but spiritual eyes to see. When, therefore, we enter within our garden-gate, we know of a truth that we possess as much of Eden as our souls can drink through our eyes. Thus is it with every month of every year.

Ours is one of the smallest of gardens. The gate opens halfway down the east side; the path goes direct to the centre, then proceeds, on the right, to the house porch, and, on the left, round a circular mount of stone, and moss, and periwinkle; thence, between two Siberian crab trees, the glory of spring time, it reaches a small summer-seat, overhung by a weeping ash, and backed by willows. At the gate is a small linden and an elder bush; along this side a laburnum, some variegated elders, lilacs, and more willows; whilst at our library window a horse-chestnut puts forth its leaves. On the west side we have a dense hedge of lilac bushes, and, midway in their line, an alder. Rosebushes are scattered about; some heaths, too, of which we are very proud, because of their rarity in gardens hereabouts. And, as though to chastise such imperious feelings, and to give a shade of solemnity to the garden, there are two Irish yews mournfully confronting each other over the mid-walk.

Such is the garden and its chief features. We do do not wish