the coachman seemed to me dark and sad. I entered into conversation with him. In his voice, too, I noticed a profound sadness.

What is the matter with you, friend?" I asked. "Why are you so dejected? Is a sorrow oppressing you?"

The young fellow did not reply at once.

"Yes, sir, yes," he said, at length. "And a sorrow, indeed, which could not be greater. My wife died."

"And you loved her very much-your wife?"

The young fellow did not turn; he merely inclined his head a little.

"Yes, sir, I loved her. Eight months have passed, but I cannot forget her. It It gnaws at my heart continually. And why did she have to die? She was so young, so healthy! And there in a single day the cholera snatched her away."

"And was she good, too?"

"how

"Oh, sir!" returned the poor fellow, with a heavy sigh, happily we lived together! And she has died without me! When I learned that she was already buried, I hurried immediately home, to my native village. When I arrived, it was already past midnight. I entered the hut, remained standing in the middle of the room, and said softly:

"Mascha, oh, Mascha!' Only the cricket chirps. Then I began to weep, sat upon the floor, and struck the ground with my hands. O thou insatiable lap of Earth! thou hast swallowed her-swallow me also! Oh, Mascha!'

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'Mascha!" he then added in a suppressed voice. And without dropping the reins he wiped away the tears from his eyes, shrugged his shoulders, and said not another word.

When I descended from the sledge I gave him a small fee. He made me a low bow, took off his cap with both hands, and then drove slowly on over the even surface of snow of the lonely street, over which hung the gray mist of the January frost.

THE CID AND THE LEPER.

FROM THE SPANISH, BY J. G. LOCKHART.

E has ta'en some twenty gentlemen, along with him to go,
For he will pay that ancient vow he to Saint James doth

owe;

To Compostella, where the shrine doth by the altar stand,
The good Rodrigo de Bivar is riding through the land.

Where'er he goes, much alms he throws, to feeble folk and poor;
Beside the way for him they pray, him blessings to procure;
For, God and Mary Mother, their heavenly grace to win,
His hand was ever bountiful: great was his joy therein.

And there, in middle of the path, a leper did appear;

In a deep slough the leper lay, none would to help come near. With a loud voice he thence did cry, "For God our Saviour's sake, From out this fearful jeopardy a Christian brother take."

When Roderick heard that piteous word, he from his horse came down;

For all they said, no stay he made, that noble champion;

He reached his hand to pluck him forth, of fear was no account, Then mounted on his steed of worth, and made the leper mount.

Behind him rode the leprous man; when to their hostelrie
They came, he made him eat with him at table cheerfully;
While all the rest from that poor guest with loathing shrank away,
To his own bed the wretch he led, beside him there he lay.

All at the mid-hour of the night, while good Rodrigo slept,

A breath came from the leprous man, it through his shoulders

crept;

Right through the body, at the breast, passed forth that breathing

cold;

I wot he leaped up with a start, in terrors manifold.

He groped for him in the bed, but him he could not find,
Through the dark chamber groped he, with very anxious mind;
Loudly he lifted up his voice, with speed a lamp was brought,
Yet nowhere was the leper seen, though far and near they sought.

He turned him to his chamber, God wot, perplexed sore
With that which had befallen-when lo! his face before,
There stood a man, all clothed in vesture shining white:
Thus said the vision, "Sleepest thou, or wakest thou, Sir Knight?"

"I sleep not," quoth Rodrigo; "but tell me who art thou,
For, in the midst of darkness, much light is on thy brow?"
"I am the holy Lazarus, I come to speak with thee;
I am the same poor leper thou savedst for charity.

"Not vain the trial, nor in vain thy victory hath been;
God favors thee, for that my pain thou didst relieve yestreen.
There shall be honor with thee, in battle and in peace,

Success in all thy doings, and plentiful increase.

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Strong enemies shall not prevail, thy greatness to undo;

Thy name shall make men's cheeks full pale-Christians and Mos

lem too:

A death of honor shalt thou die, such grace to thee is given,
Thy soul shall part victoriously, and be received in heaven."

When he these gracious words had said, the spirit vanished quite, Rodrigo rose and knelt him down-he knelt till morning light; Unto the heavenly Father, and Mary Mother dear,

He made his prayer right humbly, till dawned the morning clear.

A DOG OF FLANDERS.

LOUISA DE LA RAMÉ.

[In a hut, near a small village a mile from Antwerp, lived an old man, who was eighty when his daughter died, and left her little two-year-old son. A few years of great poverty passed. One day, "Nello," pet diminutive for Nicolas, and his devoted old grandfather found by the road a dying dog, cast off by a cruel master,- a dog of Flanders, yellow hide, large head and limb, with wolf-like ears that stood erect, legs bowed, feet widened. Patrasche came of a race which had toiled hard in Flanders many a century-dogs of the people, beasts of the shafts, creatures that lived straining their sinews, and died breaking their hearts on the flint of the streets. With tender nursing he recovered, and found a humble home, full of kindness. The work, which he performed, was drawing a cart containing the neighbors' cans of milk.

Baas Cogez, the miller, a great man of the village, had a little daughter, loved by the boy. But her father forbade their friendship, and Nello threw himself with redoubled ardor into his work upon a picture, which was to compete for a prize offered to the lads of the neighborhood. He had the soul of an artist, and worshipped the memory of Rubens, whose masterpiece hung in the great Cathedral in Antwerp, concealed from his longing eyes by curtains, only drawn for those who paid to see these art-treasures. The old man died. Some of the neighbors gave their work to others, and the owner of the hut, a friend of Baas Cogez, ordered the desolate lad of sixteen to leave the poor home of his childhood, and all it contained, to pay the month's rent.]

N'

ELLO and Patrasche were left all alone in the world. They were friends in a friendship closer than brotherhood. Nello was a little Ardennois, Patrasche was a big Fleming. They were both of the same age by length of years, yet one was still young, and the other was already old. They had dwelt together almost all their days; both were orphaned and destitute, and owed their lives to the same hand. It had been the beginning of the tie between them, their first bond of sympathy; and it had strengthened day` by day, and had grown with their growth, firm and indissoluble, until they loved one another very dearly.

All night long the boy and the dog sat by the fireless hearth in the darkness, drawn close together for warmth and sorrow. Their bodies were insensible to the cold, but their hearts seemed frozen in them.

When the morning broke over the white, chill earth it was the

morning of Christmas Eve. With a shudder, Nello clasped close. to him his only friend, while his tears fell hot and fast on the dog's frank forehead.

"Let us go, Patrasche, dear, dear Patrasche," he murmured. "We will not wait to be kicked out; let us go."

Patrasche had no will but his, and they went sadly side by side out from the little place which was so dear to them both, and in which every humble, homely thing was to them precious and beloved. Patrasche drooped his head wearily as he passed by his own green cart; it was no longer his-it had to go with the rest to pay the rent, and his brass harness lay idle and glittering on the snow. The dog could have lain down beside it and died for very heart-sickness as he went, but whilst the lad lived and needed him Patrasche would not yield and give way.

They took the old accustomed road into Antwerp. The day had yet scarce more than dawned; most of the shutters were still closed, but some of the villagers were about. They took no notice whilst the dog and the boy passed by them. At one door Nello paused and looked wistfully within. His grandfather had done many a kindly turn in neighbor's service to the people who dwelt there.

"Would you give Patrasche a crust?" he said timidly. He is old, and he has had nothing since last forenoon."

The woman shut the door hastily, murmuring some vague saying about wheat and rye being very dear that season. The boy and the dog went on again wearily; they asked no more. By slow and painful ways they reached Antwerp as the chimes tolled ten.

"If I had anything about me I could sell to get him bread!" thought Nello; but he had nothing except the wisp of linen and serge that covered him, and his pair of wooden shoes. Patrasche understood, and nestled his nose into the lad's hand, as though to pray him not to be disquieted for any woe or want of his.

The winner of the drawing-prize was to be proclaimed at noon, and to the public building where he had left his treasure Nello made his way. On the steps and in the entrance hall was a crowd of youths, some of his age, some older, all with parents or relatives