her hand, and grasping that of the artist very warmly, | to be driven back, and the large tears dropped through "it must be on a condition."

Any that you please."

"Only, that you dine with us on Christmas-day, to meet dear papa," and Frances smiled as only the Ida could.

"You are most kind; I shall be proud and happy. But, ah me!" continued the artist, "I had nearly forgotten you must have the stones that belong to the brooch, in case you prefer the setting; I do not: perhaps you will like them, though, for a ring or a clasp, and they are utterly useless to me;" and while he was thus speaking, the artist pulled out the drawer of a cabinet, in which, among ends of string and sealingwax, old coins, steel-pens, worn pencils, bits of Indiarubber, and heaps of other heterogeneous refuse, there rolled about some twenty or thirty large diamonds of the finest water.

his fingers. Even Edward Crawford's manly spirit was moved, but he felt himself powerless to act in the drama which was going forward. Frances, too, was weeping freely now, but not tears of sorrow. She approached her uncle, and, moving his hands from his face, as she stooped over him, printed a gentle, loving kiss upon one of them. Her action broke the spell of coldness and restraint. Pembroke Ireton wound his arms around his young relative, drew her tight to his heart, and kissed her cheek with parental fondness. All he said was: "And you must be my child henceforth—always."

out his hand to her husband, saying, with a sort of cheerful happiness: "A trick; but I forgive you, for it has made me a new man. Only remember, she is mine as well as yours; you must let her be my daughter.

It was enough. Frances laughed amid her own April tears, and wiped away those of her uncle herself, parting the thin locks which had fallen over his forehead, as she might have done the rich tresses of a pet child. Oh, how these gestures of tenderness went to the heart Frances Crawford was used to costly ornaments and of the lonely man, who had once thought the intellect elegant attire, and had diamonds of great price in able to satisfy the mighty yearnings of humanity! Still her jewel-box at home; therefore, it was not the acqui-holding Frances by his side, Pembroke Ireton stretched sition of the gems now offered to her that touched her heart or affected her to tears. But she instinctively felt that, despite his early errors, this estranged uncle had a fine nature, for no nook or cranny of it enshrined a meanness. And it is surely one test of nobility, when a man approaches fifty, and having had the discretion to win for himself independence, has yet never sacrificed his soul to the vice of the old and the successfulavarice! Such thoughts as these rushed through Frances Crawford's heart, and seemed well-nigh to deprive her of speech; all she could utter was, in a trembling voice, this strange rejoinder, "You will dine with us on Christmas-day, to meet papa?"

"O yes, of course, with pleasure," replied the artist: but the changes which passed across the beautiful face he had studied that day for hours could not be unobserved by him, and though without a suspicion of the truth, his curiosity was aroused, and he said smiling: "May I ask who your father is? Perhaps an old acquaintance, or some patron of Art, whom I ought to know? I need hardly say, I asked no question of your groom save your name and address."

There was again a pause, the pair ter wondering what could have occurred to cause the gitation he perceived; yet, amid all, congratulating himself at having caught a new expression for his Ida. "Pardon me," he continued, "if I have given pain: if this is to be an acted charade, I can await the solution."

"We meant it so," said Frances; "but I find I cannot act out my part. Ah, you have promised, and you will

not recant?"

"The name!" asked Ireton, still smiling, for the fancy possessed him that it was some rival painter whom he was to meet, and towards whom rumor had fabricated some story of jealousy or envy.

"But, Uncle Pembroke,” replied Frances, and the words ran together as if they been often coupled"Uncle Pembroke, you will have to love Bessy and Lotty, and my tall brother Herbert, and Willy and little Charles."

"Ah, but they can never be Idas!"

"Shall you wait till Christmas-day ?" asked Frances in a whisper.

"No: the sooner we all meet the better."

แ

Why not to-night?" asked Edward Crawford. "Why not, indeed? I am feverish―restless, until it is over.”

Again the family group are seated round the blind merchant's fireside, only now the tall brother who is succeeding him in his business is of the party. Again the knock at the evening hour, so unusual a time for chance visitors; again the quick ears of the blind man recognize well-kown voices, and he exclaims: "Frances and Edward—but they are not alone. If-if-it should be "

And then the door opens, and in a few brief moments the brothers, separated for five-and-twenty years, are face to face.

"William Ireton !" said Frances very softly, yet look- to the younger children to follow, led them out of the ing, though timidly, at her uncle as she spoke.

His eyes drooped beneath her gaze, and he sank into a chair and buried his face in his hands. The sobs that once before that evening had been stifled, refused again

room before they had time to question her will.

"Now, stay up stairs till you are wanted," she exclaimed with her beautiful smile; "and don't detain me with questions, for they cannot do without me a

the blind man with much feeling.
"But it is true," sighed the artist.
but to obey."

"Princess! I hear

moment longer. Ah, Edward," she continued, seeing | "It is hardly kind to say that he is right," exclaimed ber husband and her mother close by, "that is right: take dear mamma into the little drawing-room. I know," and this Frances whispered to her husband-"I know mamma is thinking of my namesake, and I give you the charge to melt her to forgiveness." Then retracing her steps, she gently opened the door of the dining-room.

"It is Frances," said her father.

"Come in."

"My Ida!" exclaimed the artist almost simultaneously with the other. "Yes, come to us."

"Of course.

But if I consent to be 'your child,' and

papa and Edward give me away to you, it is to be quite understood that the whole family shares in your artistglory. Henceforth, we are all to walk inches taller, in fact, as if we wore high-heeled shoes-which our pride in you will constitute."

"I have felt pride in Pembroke's genius all my life," The blind father was leaning one elbow on the chim-exclaimed Mr. Ireton, "and I am thus the richer of the ney-piece-a favorite and familiar attitude with him-two." while the other hand rested on his brother's shoulder; "But not the pride, open, joyous, and triumphantly for Pembroke had sunk into a chair that stood near. we shall feel now. Half our acquaintances do not The light of the shaded lamp fell softly on the two know of the relationship; and by the way, I must now countenances, showing them in full relief; and Frances revise my visiting-list," and Frances tossed back her was almost startled at the different expression which head, as if she were rehearsing the part of a newlyshone through features singularly alike in their outline. made duchess. That placid expression so often remarked in the blind, seemed ruffled, it is true; but rather as a clear stream is stirred by the summer breeze in the summer sunlight, and so shines the brighter, than by any harsher cause. He looked ten years the younger of the two.

There were lines of positive anguish on Pembroke Ireton's countenance, for if this meeting brought joy, it also awakened long-buried memories, that seemed to stalk abroad like disturbing ghosts. The happiness of the reconciliation itself, taught him to measure the loss he had experienced during the estrangement of half his lifetime. He rose as Mrs. Crawford entered the room, and presently she stood between him and her father.

"Uncle Pembroke " threw his arm lightly round her waist, and the blind father, feeling her close presence, did the same; thus again their hands met, and most fitly as it seemed. Frances laughed merrily, but releasing herself from this somewhat awkward embrace, kept firm hold of a hand of each.

"I see clearly," she exclaimed with mock gravity, "that there is no such thing as contentment in the world; and this, I suppose, because the prizes in life are more fairly divided than we would have them. Here is Uncle Pembroke, with a fame not second to that of any living painter; that is his prize. You, dear papa, have drawn from fortune's wheel a wife that dotes upon you, and a quantity of unruly children, that always have their own way, and only pay you back for their indulgences by a vast amount of love. Uncle Pembroke thinks your prize the more precious of the two, and, ridiculous as the idea is, we must humor it, I suppose."

Beneath her playful manner she had spoken truths, which brought a host of healing influences with them— truths, too, which bridged over all the rough places in the reconciliation.

It was said that Frances Crawford had never acquired a nick-name; but it is the case no longer, for her husband and her uncle at least commonly call her “Ida,' and in their merriest moods, address her as "Your Highness." This is not to be wondered at, seeing that Pembroke Ireton has already painted three pictures of the "Princess," contriving, by the way, to introduce the heads of Lotty and Bessy among his "violet-hooded doctors." This, however, is all that he has done for a long time, for the entreaties of affection have prevailed, and he spares his eyes as much as possible, and follows the instructions of his medical advisers, who give him more hope than he before entertained of preserving the blessing of sight. Once more the brothers are fondly united; and the past is not always a prohibited subject. Pembroke Ireton confesses his belief, that with the fulcrum of domestic happiness, he should have achieved even greater things in Art than he has done; that as the heart withers, the intellect contracts; and that no belief in a vocation is any real excuse for the omission of one near human duty: moreover, that the Human Life is the fountain of inspiration to poets and painters, and that to act poetry, is far nobler than to write or paint it. Long years of loneliness were the penalty of his former fatal mistake; but through his brother's family the artist at last experiences very many of the blessings of domestic life.

แ

"Young girls, of course."

"All of them. The eldest was of some age, industrious, talented, very much mistress of the house, of agreeable manners, graceful, discreet, and of such judgment"

In my college days in Merida, I was in the habit, | In the neighborhood of my house there lived a family along with my companions, of running a good deal where there were five sisters-young girls, of course." about the suburbs of that city. One of our favorite haunts was the portico of the parroquia (parish church) of Santa Anna; partly because this was a very romantic spot, but more particularly, I should imagine, because the little image of San Francisco de Paula that stood within the church was much frequented by the niñas of Merida. I know not why such especial devotion was lavished on this saint, but certain it is that he was a great favorite with the young girls-both those entering upon maidenhood, and those about to take their leave of it. This, however, is a matter foreign to our subject. Let us return to that.

In this portico of Santa Anna, we were in the habit of meeting, frequently, a retired army officer-an invalid—who had many traits of originality about him. He and I at length became acquainted, and by degrees our acquaintance assumed a character of confidence in each other, and from time to time we entered into conversation. The name of the militaire was Vasquez-Don Toribio Vasquez.

One evening I encountered Don Toribio in the portico when none of my companions were with me, and the following dialogue passed between us :

"Señor Don Toribio, it appears to me that you are always contented. You have been very happy in your time?"

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Happy!" answered he with a grand sigh, "Ah! my young friend, you know little of my past life, or you would not say so."

"How? Did anything unfortunate occur to you?" Caspita! Anything unfortunate! Why, sir, I married a beauty that had never had the small-pox-ah! | that I did!"

"Why, Don Toribio, I can see nothing that savors of bad fortune in that-nothing that should have rendered you unhappy."

"Hear me, friend, I have not finished yet. If you will have the patience to listen, I shall tell you the whole story; for I have taken a fancy to you, my little fellow, and it may serve you for a warning when you go to get married yourself."

“Of great judgment, eh ?”
"Extraordinary judgment !"

"Oh! then the thing was settled at once? You made love to her-she reciprocated, and then-you married her ?"

"Take your time, young sir. That lady had, in my eyes, one horrible defect."

'Why, Don Toribio-but never mind. About the third?"

"Oh! the third sister. She was even superior to the other two in all the qualities I have assigned to them, | but

"But what?"

"She wanted a finger from the left hand; and that, you see, destroyed the illusion. I could not help it, but was set upon perfection."

"And the fourth?"

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"The fourth was a sweet girl of sixteen years. She was beautiful, talented, educated in everything. She played the piano, sang like a nightingale, and—” Vaya! The fourth caught you to a certainty?" "Pardiez! it seemed destined there should be always something in the way to hinder me from getting a wife.” "How?"

"How? The villanous little chick wore false hair | precious things. My sisters-in-law, my most wise sis for the want of real !" ters-in-law, persuaded her to come back to me, telling "What a misfortune! So young, so beautiful, yet her how shame fully she had acted. The result was she bald. Valga me Dios! what a misfortune!"

"Stop, my friend! I have not said she was bald." What did you say then?"

"That which you have heard. I did not say she was bald, but her hair scarcely reached down to her waist, and I had a fancy for hair much longer."

"Carrambo! Don Toribio; you must have been a most difficult man to please. I can see it now. With such caprice nothing else would have satisfied you less perfect than the Venus de Medicis. I have no doubt that you remained a bachelor all your life."

"No, by my sins!"

"And who, the fifth sister?"

"Ah! she was the most beautiful of all-an angel! I was a year and six months in looking for a physical defect in her, and, to my delight, I could not detect the slightest."

Well, what then?"

“Ah, what then, say you!"

"Yes; what was there against her?"

"Why, sir, she was foolish, ill-bred, conceited, vain, arrogant, ill-natured, irrascible, a mad-cap, a flirt, a coquette, false, ignorant

came back to the conjugal yoke, after, on my part, many offers of forgiveness for the past, and concessions for the future. She made an honorable capitulation; but for me, I may say, that I surrendered almost at discretion.

"From that time forward all was disorder. Fashions, gallants, waste, and all the plagues of Egypt rained upon me. The domestic government centred in her hands. She increased the number of our servants, and made me cut the most ridiculous figure in society. At the end of two years my considerable estate was nearly dissipated; and I began to feel the approach of poverty and misery. To all this I resigned myself; for, my friend, notwithstanding all, that creature was very beautiful, and I could not help loving her. It has always been my fate to love the beauty of the person more than the amiable qualities of the mind."

"But, Don Toribio, you surely see now how evanescent is beauty? You ought to consider."

"Consider! What call you to consider, my friend, when I?-but listen, and I shall detail to you the most terrible catastrophe that ever befell an honorable man. You have heard people talk, I suppose, of the year 1813? You have heard of the terrible epidemic, the small-pox, that then came into the country?" "I have heard of it?"

"Ay de mi! amigo; I did not go anywhere. I wish her appearance in detail; but it will be enough to say that with all my heart I had done so."

"What! you remained single then?"

"By my ill fortune, no! I married Donna Geronima."

"The fifth sister?"

“Yes, the fifth sister-that was her name."

she, who before was so beautiful, was now the quintessence of the most finished ugliness.

"When she looked into her mirror, and saw the ravage the disease had made, her fury broke out beyond all limits, and she raged in a most fearful manner. Eh, señorita!' I said to her, as soon as she was

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"Vamos, Don Toribio! I do not wonder you have fairly recovered; the only chain that bound us together been unhappy."

gances, your flirtations, and the scandal you have caused me. I have endured all these, because you were then a beautiful woman, and in my impassioned soul, I loved you; but I am resolved to endure your nonsense no longer. You have lost all your beauty, and you are now a hideous thing for me to look upon.'

is now broken. I have suffered at your hands long "Friend. Do me the favor to have a little patience, enough. Long enough have I put up with your irreguand you shall hear the full extent of my misfortunes. Ilarities, your ill-humors, your caprices, your extravamarried her because my evil star so designed it, for I was in love to the finger-ends with that beautiful creature. 'Come, Toribio!' I said to comfort myself, 'this girl is only a child yet (fourteen years she was), you'll be able to mould her to your own will, and the happiest results will be sure to follow.' Well, I took her to the church, and the priest (good man he's not dead yet), married us. On the following day I desired to lay down the law in my own house, so that we might begin as I intended we should go on. The result was, that in less than three hours, my lady had fled to her

"As I said this she sprang to the table; and, seizing a knife, ran at me like a fury, determined to stab me." "Well?"

"Well. I caught hold of her arm: and soon wrested away the weapon. After that I very coolly took a mother's house, causing the greatest scandal, and carry-whip, and gave her a sound chastising which I repeated

ing with her such reports as were never before uttered against a man of integrity. She declared that I was avaricious, stupid, tyrannical, and a thousand other

every day afterwards, until—————”

"Until you killed her, I suppose?"

"Not a bit of it. The lady is not dead yet, but,