want, and I'll wait down here till you come
back. I positively must see her to-night."

See her!

As Harty Brande stood looking up the street,
a woman came wildly running past her, weeping
bitterly, and followed by two or three half-naked
urchins; some way further on, under the deep
orange and purple of that solemn southern twilight,
a crowd of people were hurrying along,
vociferating loudly, with excited gestures, and
pale awe-struck faces. "Ah, povera signorina!
Ah Madonna mia! Che disgrazia!" cried the
women. Mrs. Brande saw that something
dreadful must have happened; but she did not
understand Italian, and waited impatiently for
her cousin to come out to her. Suddenly, from
the midst of the shuffling, irregular footsteps of
the rabble, the rhythmical tramp of men walking
in step together could be distinguished. She
pressed forward—in the centre of the crowd,
stretched on a litter borne by four men, lay a
slender woman's body; the face was covered
with a handkerchief, the body was swathed in
long masses of dripping fair hair. One of the
two men who passed nearest to her bearing this
sad burden, was a tall, brawny fisherman, who
had evidently just come out of the water, and
who was sobbing as if his heart would break.
Hurrying after him came a little scared mother,
holding a rosy boy pressed tight against her
breast, from whose short, coal-black hair, soaked
into points, large bright drops of water kept
falling.

When, after saving his child, Benedetto had
had time to think of Wanda, it was too late—
life was extinct.

One evening, when Edward Saville was a little
better, his cousin had his sofa wheeled out on
the terrace overlooking the sea. He was still
very weak, but all danger was over; he had
now only to get strength, and, as soon as he had
managed this, they had all settled to go on to
Malta and pay his sister a visit.

Mr. Brande was busy over his Galignani,
Harty had got her sketch-book, and Edward
was looking out upon that cloudless sky and
waveless sea, and thinking of the strange storm
that had passed over his life. The Hausmanns
had gone back to Germany, the sea that had
robbed him of his beloved was lying without a
ripple at his feet—it was all gone like a dream.
"Waking up from the dead blank of his bed of
sickness, he might almost have thought it one,
but for two or three withered rose-leaves which
hung in a tiny black case round his neck.

Harty saw where his thoughts were wandering,
and brought her sketch for him to look at:
he took it, and laid it down listlessly beside
him.

"You must positively be shaved to-morrow,
Edward," she said to him; "I think I have
acquitted myself wonderfully in the arrangement
of your hair" (she had washed his face
and combed his hair for him, herself, before he
had come out), "but shaving is more than I
feel competent to undertake. There," she
continued, unfastening a looking-glass from the lid
of her work-box, and giving it to him, "what
do you think you look like?"

He took the glass, and looked at himself in
it.

"Almost like a man with a story," he said,
with a sad smile, as he gave it back to her.
"Harty, did it ever occur to you that if I had
not chanced to misread a word of four letters
in one of your notes, none of this would have
happened?"

.From Malta they went on to Egypt, carrying
along with them young Mrs. Monckton, Edward
Saville's sister: she was a true-hearted,
affectionate little woman, and it was very good for
him to have her about him. By degrees his
wounds healed, and life closed over his great grief
as the waters had closed over the body of his
beloved, covering the ruin with an untroubled
surface. He is not perhaps so happy as Mrs.
Brande but few people are. On the whole, I
dare say he is as contented as most of us.

BACKWOODS LIFE IN CANADA.

How well I remember the morning my brother
Paul left Grassville for his lot of land in "the
Heavy Timbers." Everybody would call our
home Grassville, though we struggled long and
hard for Graceville. However, when the nick-name
got into the Gazetteer, we gave it up.
Paul was a fine, strong, English-built fellow,
five feet eight inches high, with a ruddy complexion,
and life in his eyes. His brown hair
curled, his lips were loving like a girl's, and he
was what is called "a mother's boy." There is
no better recommendation for a young man.
His dress was striped home-made cloth, indigo
blue and white, made in the form of a blouse,
with wide pantaloons, over which were drawn
long leather boots. The blouse had a square
collar, which was turned back, and revealed a
fine, white, and very neatly-made shirt. I made
it, though "I say it who should not say it." The
blouse was confined at the waist by a black
leather belt. A very full knapsack, with a
blanket strapped outside, a very bright rifle and
axe, completed the accoutrement of the traveller.
He walked as if his nerves were perfectly
tempered steel springs, and as though all
means of locomotion were contemptible save
those included in himself. He was going to
his farm in the woods, or rather to his "lot of
land," which was to become a farm when it was
cleared and brought under cultivation. When
he had walked twenty miles he came to Woodville.
His place lay beyond, in the nameless
region known as "the Heavy Timbers." The
hard wood and heavy growth frightened many,
but tempted my "live brother," as we used to
call him. As he passed on his way, he came to
a house in the outskirts of a hamlet, consisting
of a saw and grist mill, a clothing mill, and
five or six dwellings. Paul was hungry—he
was a genuine hero, but heroes get hungry like
ordinary mortals. At the edge of a slope, a