ceasing tremor of intense terror. I told her
my tale, as I have told it you, sparing none
of the details.

How Mistress Clarke had told me that the
resemblance had driven Lucy forth from her
father's house—how I had disbelieved, until,
with mine own eyes, I had seen another Lucy
standing behind my Lucy, the same in form and
feature, but with the demon-soul looking out
of the eyes. I told her all, I say, believing
that she—whose curse was working so upon
the life of her innocent grandchild—was the
only person who could find the remedy and
the redemption. When I had done, she sate
silent for many minutes.

"You love Mary's child?" she asked.

"I do, in spite of the fearful working of
the curse—I love her. Yet I shrink from
her ever since that day on the moor-side.
And men must shrink from one so
accompanied; friends and lovers must stand afar
off. Oh, Bridget Fitzgerald! loosen the
curse! Set her free!"

"Where is she?"

I eagerly caught at the idea that her
presence was needed, in order, by some strange
prayer or exorcism, the spell might be
reversed.

"I will go and bring her to you," I
exclaimed. But Bridget tightened her hold upon
my arm.

"Not so," said she, in a low, hoarse voice.
"It would kill me to see her again as I saw
her this morning. And I must live till I
have worked my work. Leave me!" said
she, suddenly, and again taking up the cross.
"I defy the demon I have called up. Leave
me to wrestle with it!"

She stood up, as if in an ecstasy of inspiration,
from which all fear was banished. I
lingered—why, I can hardly tell,—until once
more she bade me begone. As I went along
the forest way I looked back, and saw her
planting the cross in the empty threshold,
where the door had been.

The next morning Lucy and I went to
seek her, to bid her join her prayers with ours.
The cottage stood open and wide to our gaze.
No human being was there: the cross
remained on the threshold, but Bridget was
gone.

THE BETTER.

Weary head and aching eye
Sank to slumber heavily;
But the mind could not be still,
Wayward thought would have her will,
And within the heated brain
Swiftly sang a thrilling strain,—
"Let thy sleeping sense appear
Word embodied to the ear:
Let the Better be thy theme,
And depict in lively dream
Things that might be, were the wrong
Weaker, or the right more strong,
Thou shalt speak a truer spell
Than Dodona's oracle:
"If the Seeming were the Real,
Life the poet's pure Ideal,
If no hollow words were spoken,
If no honied vows were broken,
If the faithful eye's revealing
Spake the gentle spirit's feeling,
And on eyes that look not kindness
Fell the penal curse of blindness,
If the short-sight could be lengthened,
If the weak-sight could be strengthened,
If the squint-eyed straightly saw,
If the true and just were law,
If to straighten crooked things
Were the strength and joy of kings,
If desert were still rewarded,
Wealth and favour unregarded,
If the good were o'er the great,
Right o'er might, and love o'er state,—
Then were Time's rich fatness come,
Earth's desired Millennium;
Peace in power would have a brother,
Bliss and Virtue kiss each other;
Under the holy Wisdom's reign
Men would grow divine again."

A JOURNEY DUE NORTH.

RUSSIANS AT HOME.

THIS is the order of afternoon—June the
month, and two hours past meridian the time.
Do you never please yourself in striving to
imagine what people are doing thousands of
miles away at such and such an exact moment?
It must be merry this golden June season in
gay Sherwood. Bold Robin Hood has thrown
his crossbow by, and feels quite honest, though
somewhat a-dry, and is gone to drain a flagon
of the best, in the leafiest glade of the wood
with that Friar, who is always thirsty. Will
Scarlett is determined that his nose shall vie
in hue with his name, and is toasting jolly
June in the sunshine with AlIen-a-Dale, who
has got his rebec in fine tune, and carols to it
till the birds grow jealous, and think him a
very over-rated performer. Midge the Miller
is indubitably singing with the best of them.
for Midge, though the careful Percy has
somehow overlooked the inference, was
evidently a Cheshire man, and resided on the
banks of the River Dee, where who so jolly
as he ? As for Little John, at most times
rather a saturnine and vindictive outlaw,
inciting the dishonest but peaceable Robin to
cut off the heads of bishops and pitch them
into their graves, in addition to rifling them
of their mitres and pastoral rings—Little
John is laughing very heartily, in his own
misanthropical manner, to think that it is
June, and fine weather, and that it will soon
be the height of the season for pilgrimages
to the wealthy shrines; and Maid Marian—
what should or could she be doing in her
bower, but weaving many-coloured chaplets
and garlands, and singing songs about summer
and the roses in June?

So all is merry this June day in my
imaginary Sherwood, and in many other real
and tangible localities and living hearts
my fancy could paint at this moment, far,