powder was gold-dust. See, she is pale now-and sick, too, I dare say; for shame, Matilda. Uncle Medway, must, indeed, be deaf, dumb, and blind, not to discover in a short time all your false pretences." Sophy spoke rapidly, despite of both mother and sister's attempts to stop her, and Grace's appealing looks. Secure in their guest's entire deafness, she railed severely at the deceit she despised. Uncle Medway cast a searching look toward Matilda, and then turning to Grace, who sat next him, invited her to partake of his favorite dish. Grace thanked him, but declined. "What," said he, with a smile, "can't you bear curry either? Perhaps you have never tasted it." "I am not fond of it, I confess," answered Grace. "I have often seen it on my grandfather's table, and he tried in vain to induce me to like it." "Again those shrewd eyes of Uncle Medway rested on Grace's countenance, and no further discussion arising, the dinner passed pleasantly off. After dinner Grace was left alone with the old gentleman, while the sisters took their usual promenade, when suddenly turning toward her, he said, in his peculiarly abrupt manner, "Who was your grandfather?" Grace looked up in surprise, but immediately answered, "My grandfather's name was Maurice Addison." "And your father's?" "Jacob Addison; he was born in India-" and then, with a sudden impulse, she exclaimed, "Oh, Mr. Medway, did you know my grandfather? Are you not the old friend I have so often heard him mention, who went out to India with him, and who was so true and kind to him in illness and trouble? You are, I am sure, and my father was named after you, Jacob Addison." It was unusual for the quiet Grace to be roused to such enthusiasm, but she rose from her seat, and laying her hand on the old gentleman's chair, looked into his face with such an affectionate and expectant gaze, that his heart must have been adamant, indeed, to resist it. And as his was, in reality, a loving and unselfish heart, he drew Grace gently toward him, and a pleasant smile lighted up his face, as he said, "And are you Maurice Addison's own little merry pet, Grace, he so often mentioned in his letters to me? You are, I am sure; and you are the daughter of my little god-son, Jacob, who was only knee-high when I saw him last. And now, my dear child, for surely I have a right to call you so, why are you living here? Where are your parents?" Tears started in Grace's eyes as she related the circumstances of her parents' death, and her admission into Mrs. Medway's family, adding, that though they were all very kind to her, she would remain no longer than until she could procure an independent situation, as she feared, in Mrs. Medway's circumstances, she was a burden. Humph!" was the only reply; and then the old gentleman added, "Say nothing about this conversation, if you please, until I give you permission." Grace willingly acceded; she knew that Mrs. Medway would not like to believe she possessed any claim, however slight, on Uncle Medway's regard; and although feeling an attachment to him for her grandfather's sake, had not the slightest idea of endeavoring to rival her cousins. One morning Uncle Medway expressed a desire to drive through the city, and wished one of the ladies to accompany him as a ciceroné. Matilda's services were instantly offered, and politely accepted. On their return, Matilda threw herself on a sofa, exclaiming to her mother, "Well, I never was so wearied in all my life; and I consider this splendid dress, which uncle purchased for me at Stewart's, as very hardly earned. Never will I consent to be driven about, shut up in a carriage with such a perverse, questioning old codger again for a dozen dresses. Why the old man seemed to think I must know the whole history of the city, from its first settlement-we will have to lend him Deidrich Knickerbocker's book. And then such stopping to admire the churches and other buildings, while groups of fashionables passed and stared; it is an ordeal I never will pass through again." "The honey-water is exhausted, is it?" asked Sophy. "You gave it in too great quantities at first; well, for my part, I might be induced to take one drive with such a reward in view." "What is that," asked the uncle, turning sharply around, " do n't Matilda like her dress?" "Shall I answer for you?" said Sophy. "Oh, yes," interrupted Mrs. Medway, "she was expressing her admiration and gratitude; but she says she will fear to go with you again, lest you should think her motives interested." "Humph! the motives are apparent enough!" muttered the old gentleman; then turning to Grace, he said, "Will you accompany me to-morrow, Grace. I promise faithfully that you shall have no reward, save the consciousness of obliging a troublesome old man?" Grace gladly assented, and Mrs. Medway's consent being given, Grace became the almost daily companion of the old gentleman, who seemed, however, to bestow but little notice on her, lavishing all his preference on Matilda, who was elated with her success. A few days after, Uncle Medway brought down a closely-written letter of several pages, which he asked Matilda to copy for him, as she had so often expressed the pleasure it gave her to do any thing for her dear uncle. Matilda received the document with a gracious smile, and promised it should be done by the following morning. That evening the sisters went out with their mother, and Mr. Medway retired early to his own room, but having occasion to come down again for his glasses, he saw Grace bending over a table, on which were spread writing materials. She leaned her head on her clasped hands, and sighed heavily. As he entered the room she looked up, and hastily drew a blank sheet over the page she had written. THE NABOB UNCLE. 351 "You look pale, child," said the old gentleman, | Brown, the laundress, it would, indeed, be a charity as he put on his spectacles. "What are you doing to assist her-" there?" "And begin by paying her bills," interrupted "Only writing a little-but I have a severe head- Sophy. ache." answered Grace. "Go to bed, then-what are you poking your eyes out there for? I dare say some long letter to a sentimental friend, eh?" He approached the table as he spoke. "You shall not see it, if it is," said Grace, playfully putting her hand on the paper, "and I must finish it to-night, because I have promised-" she paused. 'Well, well," said the old man, kindly, "promises must be kept, of course. I hope Matilda has kept her promise of copying my letter-do you think it will be finished by to-morrow morning, Grace?" And without waiting a reply, he left the room. The following morning, the letter and copy were laid by Uncle Medway's plate, and the old gentleman, examining it with an approving glance, took a fifty dollar note from his pocket-book, and said, "I do not wish to offend, by offering a remuneration for this correct and beautiful copy; but I know you ladies have always some charitable object of interest, and the fair writer of this must have devoted many hours to its accomplishment. It will gratify her to have the power of doing good in every way-a power which will, perhaps, ere long be unlimited. Will you accept it, Matilda, as to you it justly belongs, and be my almoner?" Matilda's eyes sparkled; this speech inferred much, and as she gracefully took the note, she thanked her uncle, and promised to dispose of it in charitable donations. After breakfast, Uncle Medway was deeply engrossed in a paper, which he was endeavoring to decipher, and the sisters were sitting together, when Sophy said, "Well, Matilda, what charitable institution do you intend to benefit by uncle's donation; as you earned the money so honorably, you will, of course, disburse it with equal honesty and justice." Matilda colored slightly, but laughed, saying, "I shall do myself the charity to purchase that superb head-dress, and several costly et cæteras that I want for Mrs. Dayton's ball; and if you are a good girl, and hold your tongue, you shall be an object of charity, too." "Now, Matilda, that is too mean, even for you," exclaimed the other, indignantly. "Shame on you, as Grace really copied the letter, she should at least have the privilege of distributing the money; here she comes now. Grace, in what way ought uncle's donation to be applied-you are the proper person to decide, and prevent Matilda from the selfishness she contemplates, in bestowing it all upon herself and me." Her sister crimsoned with anger, but Grace spoke. "I am sure you do Matilda injustice, Sophy; she would never act so deliberate a falsehood; as she told her uncle it should be applied to charity, she will certainly keep her word. And there is poor Mrs. But her sister, rising angrily, exclaimed, "I will not be be dictated to by either of you," and hastily left the apartment. Uncle Medway had now been domesticated in the family for several weeks, and must, indeed, have been deaf, dumb and blind, to remain ignorant of the by-play going on around him. Secure in his entire deafness, Matilda frequently made use of her safetyvalve aside; and once, when requested by her uncle to play, and she said to her sister, "I hope to have the pleasure of playing the Dead March for him ere long," she caught his eye fixed upon her with such a severe glance, that a momentary doubt of his inability to hear made her tremble; but again assured by his bland manner toward her, she plied her fulsome flatteries more assiduously than ever. Grace often wondered how one so clear-headed in all other things, should be so easily imposed upon, while Sophy regarded her sister with undisguised contempt; and by way of offset, became more rude and impertinent than ever. The rich uncle had been a great assistance to the household; his generous heart was continually prompting him to make those presents which he saw were required-and this was done in the most delicate manner. It was with mingled feelings, therefore, that Mrs. Medway met the information he one day gave, that he had purchased a house in one of the most fashionable squares, and desired the taste of the ladies to assist him in furnishing it. He intended to celebrate his installation in his own home, by a splendid ball and supper, to which, as he had few acquaintances, he begged the ladies to invite those friends whose society was desirable. He also told Mrs. Medway, in confidence, that if she would part with one of her fair charges, he wished on the appointed evening, publicly to announce his choice of one of them as his heiress and adopted daughter, on condition that she resided with him to cheer his lonely old age. Mrs. Medway gave a delighted assent. She had no doubt on whom the choice would fall, and immediately congratulated Matilda, and caused it to be whispered among her confidential friends that her eldest daughter would be the heiress of the Indian nabob. Matilda declared the infliction of residing with such a horrid bore a severe penalty, but promised herself the satisfaction of spending his money at pleasure, while Sophy maliciously advised her to practice the "Groves of Blarney" preparatory to the "Dead March." The important evening arrived, and the three young ladies, elegantly attired in dresses of embroidered crape over India satin, presented by Uncle Medway, took their places in his splendid saloon to receive their guests. Matilda evidently took the precedence; and very handsome she looked in her stately beauty, doing the honors with all the grace which the future mistress of so superb an establishment should possess. While Grace, looking per fectly lovely in her pure and tasteful dress, shrunk | fered herself to be led forward by the old gentleman, abashed from the admiring gaze bestowed upon her, who continued, and was confused by the attention she excited. Uncle Medway went cheerfully among his guests, ear-cornet in hand, and spectacles on nose, quizzed by some, respected by many, and flattered by all. Just as supper was announced, and the musicians had left the ball for the supper-room, Uncle Medway, supporting Mrs. Medway on his arm, and followed by the young ladies, stepped into the midst of the brilliant circle, and said, My guests are aware, I suppose, of my intention to adopt one of these fair young ladies as my sole heiress, my sister-in-law having kindly consented to spare one from her bright circle. I am a lonely old man, with many peculiar notions, and I require, therefore, a cheerful, yet gentle and patient spirit, to support my whims. Such an one I have found in the person of Grace Addison, the grandchild of my oldest friend, and the daughter of my namesake and godson. I therefore declare her my adopted child and heiress." A murmur of surprise ran through the assembly, Mrs. Medway and Matilda seemed ready to sink with confusion, Sophy clapped her hands, and Grace, pale and trembling with surprise and emotion, suf "I have met with much kindness and attention beneath the roof of my sister-in-law, in token of which I shall bequeath to my niece, Matilda, the sum of thirty thousand dollars, when she has the pleasure of playing the Dead March for me. And to her sister, whose opinions were at least frankly avowed, I shall leave a similar amount. My ear-cornet and glasses have served me a trusty part, and I now lay them aside, I hope forever, trusting that the ladies have profited by the lesson they have themselves taught me, that appearances are often deceitful, and one need not be deaf, dumb and blind, though he is a Nabob Uncle." Whether Mrs. Medway and her daughters stayed to the splendid supper prepared, and swallowed their mortification and the delicacies together, this record sayeth not; but that the beautiful heiress, Grace Addison, became at once a star of the first magnitude in the fashionable world, is to be expected; but the bright star ever found her happiness in enlivening the home of the eccentric but kind old man, who found in his adopted daughter the delight and solace of his old age. RAFFAELLE D'URBINO. BY W. H. WELSH. 'T WAS night in Florence! Pale the eve had come, On the arching sky The Painter turned and saw its thousand fires. And then with straining sight looked on the sky, Was shrunk and withered, e'en as when a bird And as they came, That one so gentle sought their perfumed home. With sparkling stars, hung round her sylphid form, His soul was all afire, and his brain Swam round, as when the throbbing heart of man Is burst for happiness it cannot hold; And as he strove to break the mortal chain Whose guiding star has left its native sky, The painter drifted on with heedless sail! The morning breeze crept in the painter's hall! And near the window ledge, with pallid brow, He lay like one whose very pulse had gone. With tips of gold the princely spires and domes Of Florence gleamed, and on her throne she sat A queen in pride-queen of the Tuscan land! The morning grew apace, and fleecy clouds, The children of the dawn, trailed o'er the sky. Still Raffaelle slept. Near by his side A look that spoke of sorrow and of pain. TURN NOT AWAY. BY HENRY MORFORD. Ir a voice from the far and happy land If hope beat high when thy youth began- Burns with an old remembered ray, If sickness calls thee with feeble cry, Or suffering moans from its bed of pain; If a pleading comes from the sunken eye, Or madness shrieks from the fevered brain; Oh! watch, as the angels watch above, Oh! pray for them as the angels pray; Bring heart and hand to the labor of loveTurn not away. If poverty stands at thy cottage door- Or the poor, cheap rest that the weary seek; If thy brother fall in the slippery path, And his hands are stained with human sin, If life grows dark as thy years roll by, Oh! still look up with a trusting eye, For a beckoning smile from an angel form; So shall thy heart keep its holy laws, Fulfilling its mission day by day, And God, when thou pleadest thy final causeTurn not away. 353 COUSIN FANNY. BY M. S. G. NICHOLS, AUTHOR OF "UNCLE JOHN," "THE WORLD AS IT IS," ETC. CHAPTER I. A PALE, Wan woman, with a young girl by her side, walked quickly along Chatham street, just as the twilight was deepening into darkness. She was very thinly clad, her light shawl was only a covering -it was no protection from the keen autumn air. It had once been an elegant and fashionable silk, but its fashion had long since passed away. It had been colored and colored again, until its substance had well-nigh disappeared. Her straw bonnet had been renovated many times, but not for a long time, and its faded ribbon was passed plainly over the crown, for it would have been mockery to make such ribbon into bows. Every thing that covered this young creature was passing away, and as she entered a pawn-broker's shop, you might have seen by the light of the lamp that fell on her face, that she, too, was passing from a world that had given her small welcome, at least for many years. It would have been a comfort to any benevolent person, who had looked into that pale face, to have seen the red spot on one of her cheeks, and to have heard her cough. What had she to do in a world so cold, with that miserable shawl to wrap around her ulcerated lungs, that smarted like fire with every breath of cold air they inhaled. She might as well have wrapped herself in cobwebs, as in clothes such as hers. She went into the shop, her poor, little, shadowy child clung close to her mother. She had little knowledge of the place or the people, though she had many times been there, but she knew that after many tears, her mother went there, and then that for a brief space they had food. The poor lady took from her pocket two miniature pictures-the golden setting had been removed sometime before. They were by a master's hand, worth at least one hundred dollars each, and infinitely precious to her, being the likenesses of her father and mother. "What will you give me for these?" said she, trembling in every nerve as she spoke. The hard money-getting son of Israel, whose trade was pawn-broking, and whose business, made him look on misery three hundred and thirteen days in the year, answered, "They are worth nothing to me, madam." The lady shrunk into herself as if she had been shriveled. Her face and lips became deadly pale. She supported herself against the side of the box in which she stood, to conceal herself from view; and her little girl held her hand and clung to her garments in great fear. Very soon she began to cough, and in a moment her thin, tattered, white handkerchief was saturated with the blood she raised. The Jew looked at her with a mingling of kindness and fear. She must not bleed to death there. The pictures he knew were of much value, though there was a good deal of risk in taking them. He pitied the bleeding woman. Yes, pawn-broker and Jewas he was, he pitied her. "I will give you four dollars on them, said he, and he hastily ticketed them, and handed her the money, to her infinite relief. She felt that she and her child had now a reprieve from death. The Jew selected some bills that bore a discount of ten per cent., and yet he pitied the woman, and she was so grateful to him that she could have pressed his hand, and wept hot tears upon it. She hurried away to her attic in Frankfort street. It was dark, and she feared insult. New York was worse lighted and worse cared for then than now. We had no gas and no star police then, but we had plenty of Jews and pawn-broker's shops. As she passed along she raised the blood that pressed into her throat as fast as possible, but still it almost strangled her. Well-dressed people, men of business, returning home, and men and women hurrying to the theatre, the concert-room, or the prayermeeting, or to the varied business or amusement of life, passed her without notice. She was their sister, but how were they to know that she was dyingthat her scanty life-current was staining the pavement on which they stepped. She reached the last landing-place, and thought that she could go no further, but it was not seemly to die there, and she made a last effort and entered her room. She was startled by a bright light in the room-light at night she had not had since she made the last dozen of shirts at ten cents a piece. Stranger still, there was a good, bright fire in the grate. Her husband stood before it, with his face toward the door, and his hands behind him, showily dressed as usual. She had not seen him for many days. "O, Edward!" said she "I am so glad you are come-and she fainted, and would have fallen to the floor if he had not caught her in his arms. He laid her upon the meagre bed that had long since been robbed of every valuable article for the pawn-brokers. Fanny," said he, with a choking voice, "my poor Fanny!" He sprinkled water on her face, and she opened her eyes. "I am going, Edward," said she. "No, no!-you will not die now. O, don't die till you have forgiven me for being your mur—” "Don't say that I forgive as I would be forgiven. Our child-" A hard fit of coughing and copious bleeding hindered her from speaking for some time. "Our poor Marie-give her to your Cousin Charles; he has wealth and none to care for. Promise me that you will do this." The husband, trembling with fear, gave her the required promise, when she strangled from an exces |