cognition of Robin Hood in the person of the youth prostrate at her feet, and at finding him to be the cousin John of whom she had always preserved so affectionate a remembrance. As I have already told you, the womanly instinct which so seldom errs, revealed to her that John was in love with her; and when she came to reflect upon this discovery, she found that it afforded her a great deal of pleasure and satisfaction; though she did not as yet suspect how nearly the condition of her own heart resembled that of her cousin's. It was not a great while, however, before she detected herself thinking that, if Joab were only like John, how much less strong would be her aversion to the proposed marriage. She was alone in her room, before the glass, striving to coax the rebellious curls into something like order, and at first she hardly dared to meet the glance of her own eyes in the mirror. She felt that she was blushing; and so she leaned her head on the little white dimity toilet table, and did not look up again for a long while. She asked her heart the question, whether it was not that it loved John which caused her to wish that Joab resembled him; and in reply her deceitful little heart told her a falsehood, and persuaded her that the sentiment in question was nothing more than merely a warm cousinly regard and affection.

"You are to marry Joab, you know," whispered the heart, "and of course it is not wonderful you should wish him to be more like John; for Joab-between ourselves-is anything but lovable; while John," continued the heart, throbbing violently, "is a handsome, agreeable, noble, manly young fellow, who, if he had had the one-half of Joab's advantages, would have made just the lover and husband we have dreamed about sometimes."

"Mere cousinly regard!" repeated Lucy; "and are you sure that this is all!"

"Perfectly sure," faltered the heart. "And ought I not to be somewhat careful of you, for fear lest I shall lose you?" says Lucy; "and should I not conduct myself towards John with a little more reserve?"

"Pooh!" replies the heart, "thank you for nothing; let me take care of myself; and do you treat John as he deserves; for he is a kinsman, worthy of your best cousinly love. But," con

tinued the heart, with a flutter, "do as you please; I am not at all interested in the matter."

"But on John's account;" persisted Lucy. "Will not he get to loving me too much, and so be miserable when I am finally married to Joab ?"

"You are a vain, conceited creature," replies the heart; concealing a pang of sudden pain, by retorting in this way; "how do you know that John loves you any more than he ought to love a cousin and an old playmate? And even if he does love you a little more warmly than this, he will forget you easily" (and here there was another keen pang,) "and marry somebody else;" and here there came a third pang, so violent that Lucy burst into tears, and cried with her head still on the table, until at last she put out her light in a hurry, and got into bed, where, after a while, she sobbed herself to sleep.

Now, though the heart caused itself a deal of distress by suggesting this notion of John's marrying some other girl, it could not have done a thing which would have aided, to a greater degree, the deception of which it had been guilty. For Lucy was thereby persuaded to fancy herself thinking of John, as if he were already the lover and suitor of this imaginary mistress; and her heart kept on assuring her that of course there could be no danger of loving him too well. Besides, this idea prevented her from feeling for John that tenderness which would have alarmed her, and put her upon her guard. Indeed, there were sometimes. when this fancy was uppermost in her mind, that she carried herself towards him with a coolness and reserve which caused him no little pain. However, these occasions were unfrequent; for, as I have told you, in obedience to the impulses of her heart, she usually treated him with the kindness and distinction due to so near and worthy a kinsman. But when, on the night that John declared his love, Lucy was forewarned by his manner of his intention to do so, her treacherous little heart began to beat with such a tumultuous delight and sweet alarm, that it was no longer able to deceive its mistress; and, as I have already related, the emotion which filled her soul at the spectacle of John's anguish, caused by her supposed indifference, testified so plainly, with respect to the condition of her own feelings,

make it, and her eyes as sparkling and wide awake as they had ever appeared of a morning, after a long, sound night's slumber. When she got up into her chamber, she put her light down upon the table, and went to the open window, to look out upon the bench under the big elm tree; a spot evermore to be endeared to her by having been the place where she and her lover had plighted faith to each other.

The moon was still shining brightly, and she was not a little startled at beholding John Dashleigh, standing with Boatswain in the shadow of the tree. He was not so far off but that she could hear him speak, in a low, quick tone, as she came to the window. "Don't be afraid," said he, advancing towards the house as he spoke, until he came and stood among the thick lilac-bushes that grew before the parlor windows. "It's me," said John, again looking up.

"But why have you not gone home?" whispered Lucy, secretly pleased, withal, that her lover had not found it in his heart to go to bed like a sensible man, but had prefered to stay out in the moonlight, haunting the neighborhood of the big elm, during the short hours.

"I saw that you did not go up to your room," replied John, " and so I have been waiting and watching. have been talking with Aunt Betsy ?"

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You

"Yes;" said Lucy with great vivacity, "and it's all right! I have told her everything, and, just as we thought, she is on our side! Hurrah!"

"And what does she say?" asked John, eagerly.

"I mustn't, on any account, tell papa, at present. She will manage all that-"

whose doggish nature and sensibilities the moonlight had been exercising its wonted influence, and who, besides, though evidently unwilling to entertain ill-natured suspicions, concerning John's motives in lurking about the house at midnight, had, nevertheless, in secret, been greatly disturbed in his mind thereby, Boatswain, I say, suddenly threw back his head, stuck his nose into the air, and through the wide calibre of his capacious throat gave vent to an obstreperous howl, which was intended partly as a serenade to the man in the moon, and partly by way of respectful, but earnest remonstrance against the further continuance of John's singular and ill-timed proceedings.

• Hush-sh, hush up! get out, you brute!" cried John, stamping on the ground.

"Ow-ow-00-0-0-0-woo," howled the dog, still with his muzzle pointing towards the zenith, but looking sideways at John with an intelligent leer, as if he would say, "I'm right, and you know it. You ought to be a-bed at this time o' night, and not be here under Lucy's window. You're a young man, and a friend of mine, and probably don't mean any harm; but your conduct isn't proper, can't help saying so-ow ow-00O-WOO."

John's conscience was smitten by this reproof, which was as intelligible as if it had been uttered in the plainest English. So he threw up a kiss to Lucy, and she dropped one down to him, and they bade each other goodnight. Then Lucy pretended to draw the curtains close, but left a peep-hole through which she watched John as he went along down the gravel walk, accompanied by Boatswain, who appeared to be exceedingly gratified at his retreat; though, to be sure, when John. turned to latch the wicket after him, the dog came up and licked his hand, snuffing and wagging his tail with an apologetic manner; as if to express a hope that no offense whatever would be taken at his well-meant outcry, but that the cordial friendship, which ever since the affair of the pear-tree had subsisted between them, might, notwithstanding, continue unbroken.

John stood upon the doorstep of his mother's cottage until he saw the light extinguished in Lucy's room. Then, softly pressing the latch, and gently pushing the door ajar, he went in, and was walking on tiptoe across the narrow kitchen floor, towards the stairs that led to his attic, when he heard his mother's voice calling to him in a subdued but distinct tone.

He turned and went to the door of her little bedroom. She was in bed, leaning on her elbow; while little Ellen slept soundly by her side, with the moonlight shining in upon her pretty

face.

"I have disturbed you, I'm afraid, mother," said John.

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No, my son, I have not yet been asleep, to-night," said Mrs. Dashleigh, and then, in a moment after, she asked, "What does Lucy say?"

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Mother!" cried John, in surprise. "Did you think, my darling, I had not guessed your secret?" said the widow. Then there was a pause, while the kitchen clock ticked loudly. "She is mine, mother," said John, at last. "Thank God!"

"Thank God," repeated the widow, suddenly lying down with her face upon the pillow. Poor woman; the instinct of a mother's heart had revealed to her that John was loving his fair cousin so well that his life's happiness was staked upon the issue. She had divined his resolution to leave his home and seek in absence to conquer his passion if he should fail to win Lucy's love.

"Then you know all, mother?" asked John.

speak to Lucy which she thought you wished for."

"God bless her!" said John, with fervency.

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"I have been watching you through the window all the livelong night," continued Mrs. Dashleigh. "I haven't had my eyes off from you since you first went out till you came to the door again. I saw you sitting on the bench with Lucy, in the shadow, and though I couldn't see you then so plain, I guessed you'd been successful. So I went to bed, but still kept peeping through the window; but when, after she went in, you stayed in the yard, walking about so like a distracted person, I feared all had gone wrong."

"No, mother," cried John, gaily; "all is right; at least," said he correcting himself, "all but getting Uncle Starr's consent; that yet remains to be done."

"Just leave that matter to your aunt Betsy," said his mother. She can

bring it about, she says; though I don't well see how. But now kiss me, and run to bed. You'll not feel like haying it to-morrow, poor boy."

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Humph!" said John, shaking himself; "why, mother, I could pitch a ton of hay over the big beam in five minutes, and not feel it! I'm as strong as an ox. Never fear that I shan't do a good day's work to-morrow. A light heart makes light labor."

And, in point of fact, when the sun went down after his next rising, John had performed such wonders in the hayfield, that to this day old Tite recounts them by way of illustrating his favorite theory of the degeneracy of the later generation; until at last the story has grown so marvellous as to be beyond sober belief.

THE

HE recent death of the Emperor Nicholas affords a fit occasion for placing on record some memorials of his life, with such reflections as may be suggested by an impartial survey of his

career.

Nicholas was born in the year 1796. His birth took place at Gatshina, an Imperial country-seat about thirty miles from St. Petersburg. He was the third son of the Emperor Paul I. His elder brothers, Alexander and Constantine, were educated under the eye of the Empress-grandmother, Catharine, according to the French system in vogue during the latter part of the eighteenth century. Nicholas and his younger brother, Michael, remained in charge of their mother, a princess of Würtemberg. She was a woman of great purity of mind, of just and elevated sentiments, and of warm domestic affections. Both of the brothers were children at the time of the terrible catastrophe, in which the life of their father was sacrificed. They could only remember him by the acts of paternal fondness which they were not too young to experience.

After the accession of Alexander I. to the throne, the Empress-mother continued to devote herself, with conscientious fidelity, to the education of her children. To her example and influence, the Emperor Nicholas was doubtless greatly indebted for his strong religious convictions, his masculine sense of honor, and the prevailing earnestness of his character. Among his early instructors, the most prominent was Storch, the celebrated writer on Political Economy, whom Nicholas was accustomed to refer to in after life with emphatic gratitude and commendation. The imperial pupil possessed a ready and tenacious memory, and uncommon quickness of perception; but the tendency of his intellect was more in the direction of the military sciences, engineering, and fortification, than of literature. After the overthrow of Bonaparte, the two brothers traveled over Europe, visiting England and the most celebrated capitals on the Continent. One of the Imperial party on this journey, was the well-known Prince Pashkiewitch, at that time a Lieutenant-General in the Russian service. In 1817,

Nicholas was married to a Princess of Prussia, sister of the present king. This union proved singularly happy. His wife was a woman of admirable consistency of character, remarkable for the modesty of her deportment, her mild and affectionate disposition, and her decided domestic tastes. From the period of his marriage, Nicholas led the life of a quiet private citizen, entering, with keen zest, into the pleasures of his fireside, and devoting himself to the happiness of his family, his mother, and a few intimate friends and favorites, to whom he was greatly attached. found employment for his time in the cultivation of his talent for drawing and painting, and in military exercises with his regiments of guards.

Не

In 1823, his brother Constantine, the heir-apparent to the crown, resigned his claims to the succession, and Nicholas took his seat at the cabinet councils, which were held, for the most part, under the direction of Count Araktsheff, whom Alexander, in the last years of his reign, had entrusted with almost unlimited power. The Count was of a haughty and domineering temper, violent in his prejudices, repulsive in his manners, and accustomed to treat almost every one with a certain degree of contempt, not even always excepting the young Imperial councilor. The presence of Nicholas at the meetings of the cabinet was, indeed, a mere formality. At that time, he had given no promise of his future greatness, nor was the vigor of his character suspected even by his most familiar friends. He was regarded by the court, and by the public in general, as a man of ordinary stamp, without any presage of the qualities which subsequently ripened in the energetic, impulsive, and persistent Czar. that he ever assumed the mask of the hypocrite to conceal his natural endowments. Whatever may have been his faults, no one could justly charge him with insincerity. Both in his public and private relations, and to the latest moment of his life, his open and ingenuous disposition was free from every stain of duplicity. The germs of the eminence which he attained as sovereign of a vast empire were latent in his organization. They were quickened

Not