the guardian of a young boy: who was himself
the next heir, and who killed the young boy by
harsh and cruel treatment. She knew nothing
of that. It has been said that there was a Cage
in her bed-room in which the guardian used
to put the boy. There was no such thing.
There was only a closet. She went to bed,
made no alarm whatever in the night, and in
the morning said composedly to her maid
when she came in, "Who is the pretty forlorn-
looking child who has been peeping out
of that closet all night? " The maid replied
by giving a loud scream, and instantly
decamping. She was surprised; but, she was
a woman of remarkable strength of mind, and
she dressed herself and went down stairs, and
closeted herself with her brother. " Now,
Walter," she said, " I have been disturbed all
night by a pretty, forlorn-looking boy, who
has been constantly peeping out of that closet
in my room, which I can't open. This is some
trick." " I am afraid not, Charlotte," said he,
"for it is the legend of the house. It is the
Orphan Boy. What did he do? " " He
opened the door softly," said she, " and peeped
out. Sometimes, he came a step or two into
the room. Then, I called to him, to encourage
him, and he shrunk, and shuddered, and crept
in again, and shut the door." " The closet
has no communication, Charlotte," said her
brother, " with any other part of the house,
and it's nailed up." This was undeniably
true, and it took two carpenters a whole fore-
noon to get it open, for examination. Then,
she was satisfied that she had seen the Orphan
Boy. But, the wild and terrible part of the
story is, that he was also seen by three of her
brother's sons, in succession, who all died
young. On the occasion of each child being
taken ill, he came home in a heat, twelve
hours before, and said, Oh, Mamma, he had
been playing under a particular oak-tree, in a
certain meadow, with a strange boy—a pretty,
forlorn-looking boy, who was very timid, and
made signs! From fatal experience, the
parents came to know that this was the
Orphan Boy, and that the course of that child
whom he chose for his little playmate was
surely run.

Legion is the name of the German castles,
where we sit up alone to wait for the Spectre
—where we are shown into a room, made
comparatively cheerful for our reception—where
we glance round at the shadows, thrown on
the blank walls by the crackling fire—where
we feel very lonely when the village innkeeper
and his pretty daughter have retired, after
laying down a fresh store of wood upon the
hearth, and setting forth on the small table
such supper-cheer as a cold roast capon,
bread, grapes, and a flask of old Rhine wine—
where the reverberating doors close on their
retreat, one after another, like so many peals
of sullen thunder—and where, about the small
hours of the night, we come into the knowledge
of divers supernatural mysteries. Legion
is the name of the haunted German students,
in whose society we draw yet nearer to the
fire, while the schoolboy in the corner opens
his eyes wide and round, and flies off the
foot-stool he has chosen for his seat, when the
door accidentally blows open. Vast is the
crop of such fruit, shining on our Christmas
Tree; in blossom, almost at the very top;
ripening all down the boughs!

Among the later toys and fancies hanging
there—as idle often and less pure—be the
images once associated with the sweet old
Waits, the softened music in the night, ever
unalterable! Encircled by the social thoughts of
Christmas time, still let the benignant figure
of my childhood stand unchanged! In every
cheerful image and suggestion that the season
brings, may the bright star that rested above
the poor roof, be the star of all the Christian
world! A moment's pause, O vanishing tree,
of which the lower boughs are dark to me as
yet, and let me look once more! I know
there are blank spaces on thy branches,
where eyes that I have loved, have shone and
smiled; from which they are departed. But,
far above, I see the raiser of the dead girl,
and the Widow's Son; and God is good! If
Age be hiding for me in the unseen portion
of thy downward growth, O may I, with a grey
head, turn a child's heart to that figure yet,
and a child's trustfulness and confidence!

Now, the tree is decorated with bright
merriment, and song, and dance, and
cheerfulness. And they are welcome. Innocent
and welcome be they ever held, beneath the
branches of the Christmas Tree, which cast
no gloomy shadow! But, as it sinks into the
ground, I hear a whisper going through the
leaves. " This, in commemoration of the law
of love and kindness, mercy and compassion.
This, in remembrance of Me!"

CHRISTMAS IN LODGINGS.

A bachelor's life is not without its attractions.
Freedom of will and action are, at
least, among a bachelor's joys; but experience
has taught me that, after a certain time, such
absence from restraint resolves itself into that
species of liberty which Macaulay touchingly
designates " the desolate freedom of the wild
ass."

I came to London about ten years ago to
study for the bar. I was entered at the Inner
Temple, and, as far as the dinner-eating went,
I can safely assert that I was an ornament to
the Hall. I adorned the margin of my copy
of " Burn's Justice " with caricatures of the
benchers; and my friends appended facetious
notes to my " Blackstone." I went to the
masquerade in my gown; and strolled down
to my law-tutor's chambers for the ostensible
purpose of reading, about two P.M., daily. In
short, I went through the usual routine of young
gentlemen of ardent temperaments and competent
means when they begin life: like most men,
also, the pace of my fast days moderated
in due time. About the time of my call to