matter of curiosity, the grand attraction of
the day. All went: but one individual, who
had been overlooked in the invitation, out
of resentment planned a savage joke. He
bribed the confectioner to mix in the biscuits
some nauseating drug. In the midst of the
entertainment, the whole company were seized
simultaneously with inward pains and sickness,
gave themselves up for lost, started up
in horror, and rushed headlong from the
house. Glatz was thunderstruck with the
news, which went through it like an electric
flash, that the Ursinus had poisoned all her
guests.

Regardless of these little accidents, the
Ursinus lived a life of piety and benevolence;
so said the gaoler of the fortress, and her
female companion. She sought to renew her
intercourse with her sister, Madame von
Hocke, saying: "We are again the little
Yetté and little Lotté; our happy childhood
stands before me." But the sister kept aloof,
and the wounded, but patient and forgiving
Ursinus, exclaimed: "Ah! that life and its
experiences can thus operate on some people,
by no means making them happier. God
reward us all for the good that we have been
found worthy to do, and pardon us our many
errors!"

She died in her seventy-seventh year; and
her companion declared that she could not
enough admire the resignation with which
she endured her sufferings through the aid
of religion. She left her considerable property
partly to her nephews and nieces, and
partly to benevolent institutions. A year
before her death she ordered her own coffin,
and left instructions that she should lie in
state with white gloves on her hands, a ring
on her finger containing the hair of her late
husband, and his portrait on her bosom. Five
carriages, filled with friends and acquaintances,
followed her to the grave, which was
found adorned with green moss, auriculas,
tulips, and immortelles: an actual bower of
blooms. When the clergyman had ended his
discourse, six boys and six poor girls, whom
the Ursinus had cared for in her lifetime,
stepped forward and sang a hymn in her
honour. The gravedigger had little to do;
female friends, and many poor people to
whom she had been a benefactress, filled the
grave with their own hands, and arched the
mound over it. It was a bitter cold morning,
yet the churchyard could scarcely contain
the crowd. And thus the poisoner passed
away like a saint.

WISHES.

All the fluttering wishes
Caged within thy heart
Beat their wings against it,
Longing to depart,
Till they shake their prison,
With their wounded cry;
Open then thy heart to-day,
And let the captives fly.

Let them first fly upward
Through the starry air,
Till you almost lose them,
For their home is there;
Then with outspread pinions,
Circling round and round,
Wing their way wherever
Want and woe are found.

Where the weary stitcher
Toils for daily bread;
Where the lonely watcher
Watches by her dead;
Where with thin weak fingers,
Toiling at the loom,
Stand the little children,
Blighted ere they bloom.

Where by darkness blinded,
Groping for the light,
With distorted conscience
Men do wrong for right;
Where in the cold shadow,
By smooth pleasure thrown,
Human hearts by hundreds
Harden into stone.

Where on dusty highways,
With faint heart and slow,
Crossing the glad sunlight,
Hungry outcasts go:
Where all mirth is silenced,
And the hearth is chill,
For one place is empty,
And one voice is still.

Some hearts will be lighter
While your captives roam
For their tender singing,
Then recal them home;
When the sunny hours
Into night depart,
Softly they will nestle
In a quiet heart.

A WIFE'S STORY.
IN SEVEN CHAPTERS. CHAPTER VI.

WHEN I was mad, of course they kept my
children from me. Dr. Ryton took them to
his own house. But their absence retarded
my recovery. When once my ceaseless cry
to have them back had been heeded, I recovered
my reason; slowly, but surely, I grew
quieter.

My Aunt Aston had come to nurse me.
I owed it to her that I had not been consigned
to the tender mercies of an attendant
at a madhouse—mercies tender enough for
me, in truth! She watched with me, bearing
my violence, and concealing the extent of it
as much as she could; and she pleaded for
me to be allowed to see my children. Dr.
Ryton had loved my husband as a friend; so
he had hardly patience to pity me; he left me
much to the care of a stranger.

When I could be moved, my aunt took me
and my children to a new place. I did not
ask or care where. It was by the sea—a
wild, lonely, lovely place. I was perfectly
sane then, but as weak and helpless as a
child. I did not suffer much, even mentally;