nearly within reach of her, checked what had evidently been an impulsive movement. Sylvia did not move a single inch from the spot where she stood, when she saw her approaching with evident intention to chastise her for daring, even in an indirect way, to question her authority.

"I have a way to make her obey, signor," said Violante," when the rich lords and ladies from the countries away to the north wish to hear her play, and see her dance, for they are more earnest to be amused, and at the same time more liberal than those who can listen almost any day to the sweet music of our native land."

"As I am one who can have that privilege, I will not trouble you to enforce obedience, more especially as I hope you will permit me to take her home with me. Here is gold-an amount wbich would take years for her to earn you."

"That is nothing more than the truth, signor; but-" She stopped short, hesitating in her mind, whether or not she might not venture to demand

more.

"I see that you prefer to retain the child, rather than to accept what I offer. I cannot blame you,” and he turned as if to go.

"Stay, signor; give me the gold and take her. It will be best for her and me."

"And now," said D'Ascoli, when he had given her the money, "I have a few questions to ask you, and if you answer them truly, I will give you as much more."

D'Ascoli lost no time in seeking out the peasant and his wife, mentioned by Violante. Although

"First tell me whether this child is your own or an adopted one."

Violante gave a quick glance around, to see if any of the gipsies were within ear-shot. None were near except Pedro, whom Sylvia had mentioned to Allegri, and he under an appearance of assumed carelessness, was, she knew, listening for her answer.

"She is not my own," she replied. "But was stolen ?"

Violante hesitated to answer.

"I wish to know the truth," said D'Ascoli. "Tell it, and you shall have what I promised." "She was stolen, but not by me."

"You know by whom ?"

"Yes, signor; it was by my own sister." "Did she know who the child's parents were ?" "She did; but wouldn't tell me. But it was not out of any ill will to them. It was for the sake of injuring the girl who had the care of her, because she was trying to entice away her handsome lover." "Where is your sister?"

"Dead, signor. She died three months ago." "And without disclosing the secret?"

"I am not certain of that. I have reason to believe that she told an old peasant and his wife, who lived near where the child was found by my sister. They live there still, and that is all I know about it."

As she ínished speaking, she held out her hand for the promised douceur. The moment she had possession of it, Sylvia, who had stood by, listening and watching, the alternations of hope and fear manifesting themselves in the rapid changes of

that was satisfactory, their taciturnity gave way when he told them his name.

"D'Ascoli- D'Ascoli," repeated the peasant, quickly, and with animation; "it appears to me, Ursula, it is the very name Lucette called the gentleman by she told us about."

"Yes," replied his wife, "I remember it very well now."

"Strange that both of us should forget it." "And what did Lucette say about him?" inquired D'Ascoli.

"That he was a gentleman of wealth and distinction, and that the child she brought here and afterwards gave to her sister Violante, was his daughter. But, signor, she didn't tell us till a few months ago. She had always pretended that the child belonged to a poor man, who had lost his wife, and that he gave it to her. At first, we didn't believe it, but, as she told a straight story, and always told it the same way, after awhile we thought it might be true. But when she found she hadn't long to live, what she had done began to weigh upon her mind. So one day, she sent for my wife and me, and confessed that she stole the child, for the sake of revenging herself on the girl who had charge of it, who had slandered her to get her handsome lover away from her. She then made me promise that I would find where Signor D'Ascoli lived, and tell him that his child, (whose real name was Beatrice) was still alive, and had been adopted by a gipsy queen, called Violante. But you see, signor, after Lucette died, we couldn't remember the name of the gentleman. For a good while, we thought it might come to us, as things will sometimes, which we think we've forgotten;

but it was of no use, and we had just come to the conclusion to ask Father Francisco's advice. I think, signor, that this will be unnecessary now."

Yes, the child is she we lost. There can be no doubt of it."

Other incidents which they had gathered from Lucette, were related by the peasant and his wife, all of which went to confirm what had already been told.

After D'Ascoli's departure, they found lying behind a vase of flowers, the only ornament of their humble apartment, what would place them above want in the evening of their life.

Among other chefs d'œuvre of Antonio Allegri, more commonly, from the place of his birth, called Correggio, is still to be seen in one of the picture galleries of Europe, that of the Zaringa and the White Hare. As for the original of the picture, rendered doubly dear to her parents by her loss, she was cherished by them with a fondness, which made her life resemble what she sometimes dream ed of during her wanderings among the gipsies.

The Operator's Story.

You see, sir, it was in the summer of 1872, and a nice summer it was, too. Business was rather brisk, and I had my hands chuck full of work. As much in fact, as could possibly be transacted in the small, and seemingly insignificant, but really enterprising and lucrative town office of A

One night, the 30th of July, I was busily engaged in counting up the cash receipts for that month, previous to the remittance of the same to the company treasurer, Mr. H. It was quite a large sum-decidedly the largest that summer-and my first intention was to lock it in the safe; but, on second thought, I decided not to go to the bother of unlocking the combination of the safe, but to put it in a drawer of my secretary until the following morning, when I meant to make the remittance.

The usual figure did not cause me much apprehension as I deposited it in a private drawer of the aforesaid secretary, and, after arranging the office, was about to retire for the night, when I heard a "call" on the instrument, and, on answering it, found there had been an accident on the road, and I was to remain on duty that night, by order of the superintendent.

This was, as you may infer, not the pleasantest news to me; but the "boss" orders were inexorable, and I could do nothing but "grin and bear it." So after arranging a rude but not unserviceable couch under one of the counters, I turned down the light, and stretching myself out, prepared to jump in response to the first "call" I heard. But having worked rather hard that day, my overworked brain succumbed to the appeal of exhausted nature, and I fell into a deep slumber.

I was suddenly awakened by the sound of voices, and silently raising myself on my elbow, I beheld two masked men stooping over the secretary, trying to force open the drawer; but the stout spring lock had defied their efforts so far. They had no suspicion of my presence in the room, as they

spoke in rather loud tones; and one of them at last remarked:

"I say, Bill, weren't this 'ere a precious cove, to go away and leave this glim a-burnin'?" "Yes," replied his companion. "But how do you know that the money's in 'ere ?" "Oh, that's all right. I watched him count it and put it in here, and then I just went down to the hoke and got a drink, and when I came back he was gone."

Vainly did I wish I had obeyed my more sensible dictation and deposited it in the safe; there it would have been secure; but now the drawer would soon be broken open, and then-the thought roused me to my proper senses. Nothing but immediate action could save the money, and I looked hastily around for some kind of a weapon. My eye "lit" on the poker-a large and heavy one and in an instant it was in my hands. Leaping towards them, I swung the poker around my head, and before they could recover from their astonishment, I struck the largest of the two a terrible blow, which fractured his skull, and laid him senseless and bleeding at my feet.

But the next instant the other was upon me, and before I could raise my hand to repeat the blow, he had clutched me by the throat, end, drawing a large knife from his pocket, he made a desperate lunge at my breast; but before the steel could reach me, I caught the hand that held it, and grappled with him for life. The next moment we were locked in a deadly embrace, and a terrible struggle ensued.

My opponent was a naturally strong and powerfully built man, and I felt my chances were uncommonly slim, when by a dexterous movement of my foot, I tripped him, and we both fell heavily to the floor. I had, happily fallen uppermost, and I knew now was my only chance. Freeing my arm from the vise-like grip which held it, I dealt him a terrific blow on the temple which laid him prostrate beside his companion, and, springing to the door to give the alarm, and in a few moments sufficient aid was at my command.

The burglars were secured and confined in the village station-house, from whence they were transferred to the county-jail. At their trial, which occurred a few weeks afterwards, they confessed to their being two of the greatest forgers and murderers of the age, for whom a reward of ten thousand dollars was offered. They confessed not only their late burglary, but also a multitude of other crimes, which led to their conviction and imprisonment for life. I claimed and recovered, in due time, the reward, and was also considerably gratified by a promotion to a good office, with a large salary, by the superintendent.

Years have passed since then; but I never can forget that night, wherein occurred the substance of "The Operator's Story

"Never mind, Ret; come here and tell me what year I bought the white heifer in," said Mr. Marshall, who stood at a desk in the corner making out his quarter's accounts.

Mrs. Marshall picked up her towel, murmuring despairingly as the girl turned towards her father.

"Two years last May, father. It was the year I was fourteen," said Ret, looking over her father's work with her hand on his shoulder.

He turned his head and kissed her. "Nice child," he said, approvingly.

"Nice child!" exclaimed Mrs. Marshall, exasperated. "As if her remembering about the cattle was of half as much consequence as her tearing her dress all to pieces-the dress I sat up till eleven o'clock last night to finish! And here she is sixteen years old! Thomas Marshall, what do you suppose will ever become of that girl of yours?"

Mrs. Marshall always shifted the responsibility of the children upon her husband when they showed any signs of moral depravity. So Thomas Marshall looked up at "that girl of his." She was a pretty sight with her hat tipped sideways on her curly head, her half-pouting, half-smiling, rosy little mouth, and her soft, sloe-black eyes turned appealingly upon her father's face. He smiled upon his girl. He couldn't help it.

"What were you doing down at the spring, Ret?" he said, gently.

one with him, and while she was trying hard to make out who he was, "some one" was as earnestly observing her. He saw in the porch of an old, brown, vine-shaded house on a hill, a little figure in a pink lawn dress, very badly torn, and with a straw hat shading a face that was evidently fair, while a mass of bronze curls, swept to one side, fell over a bare shoulder.

"What little fairy is that, Rath?" he said.

66

My sister," replied Rathburn Marshall, proudly. "You shall have her, Max," he added, confidentially.

They had been collegians together, Rath Marshall and Max Kingsley. Max was just from Europe. The friends had met for the first time for four years.

"Is that the little Ret you used to tell about?" asked Max, for they had been great confidants in old times.

"Yes. She was twelve then; she is sixteen now. She's a darling, Max!"

"I think it likely. And I may have her?"
"If you can get her."
"Thank you, old boy."

The next momeut they passed in at the door from which Ret had disappeared, and to his pa

rents Rath announced:

"My old college friend, Max Kingsley; come to rusticate among us for a week or two."

It was a frank, good face which the old people looked at-a face they were willing to admit to

"Why, he said that ever and ever so many years ago, a girl came down the path through the woods, with a pitcher on her head, to get some water at the spring. When she dipped the pitcher in the spring, she saw her face in the water, and she said to herself:

"Whoever my true love is to be,

Let him look into this spring with me.' And when she was doing that there was a young lord from England riding by on horseback. He saw the girl looking in the water, and was curious to know what she was looking at. So he got off his horse and came softly and looked in the spring beside her. There he saw only her face, but it was so pretty that he fell in love with her and afterwards married her. And Rath says that ever since, if two young people look in that spring together, they will surely marry each other."

"Stuff and nonsense!" exclaimed Mrs. Marshall. I should like to know, Ret, if hearing such silly stories as that is worth tearing your dress for ?"

But Thomas Marshall laughed.

"I'll risk the girl, Sarah," he said, while Ret went out at the door, "I'll risk her while she'll tell her father the love stories that she hears. She had better tear her dress than break our hearts with secret ways. Brother John's girl you know-" The mother bent her head in silence and said no more.

Ret stood in the porch watching her brother Rathburn come down the hill. There was some

ment, the legend of the meadow spring.

The next morning a June sunrise flushed the sky at four o'clock. Max Kingsley awoke, and aroused by the novelty of arising at that time in the morning, got up, dressed, and went out of doors. Early as it was, a boy was driving a drove of cattle to market down the long brown road, while the birds were chorusing in the woods, and the flowers of the fields were all wide awake. He crossed the road and went slowly over the meadows. "The grass was drenched in dew, The fragrant air blew through The honeysuckle branches

That waved about the porch."

Half knee-high in the wet clover, he looked back at the house half hid in honeysuckles and mornng-glories, to see if there were any signs of Rath or Ret. Was Rath's sister an early riser? He wished she was, and would share his walk with him.

He came to a brook slipping softly through the meadows, and turniug, commenced following it to ts source, walking through the marsh mallows and fragrant white clover, around a knoll, where he found some rare golden violets, and on to a birch wood.

Suddenly he heard the shouting and laughter of ringing young voices. Going on quietly, he came suddenly to an opening, and this scene met his eye as he stood concealed by the bushes:

Ret and her little brothers were swinging on the birches. (And Ret was sixteen years old!) As his glance fell upon them, Ret was climbing from