now marked the expression of the hated
ruffian face, as he rushed upon her. Shrieking,
she crouched, still grasping the ring.

'Give it up, or I crush you!"

"Never!"

One blow of his clenched fist on her temple,
and she fell, white and nerveless, at his feet,
while the ring dropped from her limp hand.
The robber took it up; in an instant his
aspect underwent a change; he gazed upon
the prostrate form with despairing horror;
he seized her in his arms, carried her to the
light, bent over her with passionate exclamations
of tenderness arid self-reproach. She
did not shrink from him now—she did not
turn her face from his—she lay unresisting
in his arms—dead.

AT BRUGES AND OSTEND.

"Tir-ely! "—" G; E, C! "—three notes of
the common chord,—a crotchet, a semiquaver,
and a dotted quaver in duration, are sounded
on the conductor's brazen buglehorn, and the
train bears us away from Ghent in the direction
of Bruges, past market-gardens, the
taste of whose ambrosial asparagus still
lingers in our pensive mouths; over pastures,
delightful not merely to the eye alone, but
delicious in their ultimate form of pats of
butter. We glide smoothly, partly because
we dart straight forward, through a country
under garden-like culture, the very foot of
the hedge which bounds the railway being
planted with a line of well-grown sorrel.
Neat brick cottages look at us cheerfully,
and wish us a pleasant journey; though, for
their part, they are perfectly content to
remain where they are, in the midst of their
tiny parterres of flowers, their little fields of
flax, peas, or corn, with grass walks round
them, their bowers of walnut and cherry-
trees, their thickets of alder and willow copse.
Flat and rich the land opens before us, as
we penetrate successively to odd-named
stations—to Landeghem, Hansbeke, Aeltre,
Bloemennael, Oostcamp—and that is all.
We have just time to wonder how much
cheese must be made, how many beeves
fatted, what rivers and mountains of beer
and bacon must annually be yielded by the
soil we are traversing: when we reach the
Bruges station, an open inclosure, exposed to
drowning when it rains hard, to blinding and
choking with dust when it blows hard, and to
frying when the sun smiles down graciously
on Belgium. After a cramping on the railway
seat, it is better to walk to our hotel—
of course the excellent Fleur de Blé— if only
for the magnificent landlady's sake, and the
enticements of her able chef de cuisine.

The porter by whose side we are walking
into Bruges as he leisurely trundles our
bandboxes on his wheelbarrow, allows us
time to inspect the physiognomy of the place,
and to come to a conclusion in our own
private mental council-chamber, whether we
think we shall like our new acquaintance,
or not. For with towns as with persons, we
often make up our mind about them at the
first glance.

Bruges, I think, by the look of it, will do.
Yes; it will do. I like the fat-faced Flemish
children in their Sunday clothes, because it is
fair-time; and the watchmaker's with his
windows full of unexceptionable horological
conundrums. I like the print-shops, full of
local topography; and the tarts, and the
bonbons, and the gingerbread. I like the buxom
provincial dames, who exaggerate Parisian
fashions, with their enormous crinolines
setting out rich silk dresses to the capacity
of Monster-Green balloons, capable of taking
eight or ten persons in or up. I like the
family groups, composed of young and old,
sitting round the windows, from which every
bit of blind and curtain is removed, to gaze
at the gaily-dressed folk who wander up and
down. They gaze at me too; and I somehow
think their foreman—a grandmamma in
an elaborate and blazing cap—pronounces a
favourable verdict as I pass, returning curious
peep for inquisitive glance, and amused
simper for approving smile. I greatly like
the novelties of costume. Can anything be
handsomer than the ear-rings and brooches
of the farmers' wives? bought, doubtless, at
the corner-shop, kept by G. De Vos, who
inscribes himself not only Goud-smid and
Zilver-smid, but Diamant-zetter, to crown the
whole. How modest and becoming are the
rich dark cloaks with the hood overshadowing,
yet not concealing, the face!—a decorous
garment for elderly women, a coquettish one
for the young and pretty. Certainly, whenever
the Parisian milliners are suffering from
an exhaustion of their inventive genius—a
break-down which ought to surprise nobody,
were it to occur—I recommend them to go to
Bruges in search of ideas. There is a clear,
stiff-starched cap, folded together in front
into a peak, and protruding beyond the edge
of the hat, which would cause a sensation at
Longchamps. Another cap, radiating from
the face around the inner circumference of
the hat, is absolutely charming. Finally, I
like the beggars; because it is certainly not
a matter of duty to give alms to such mendicants
as these, unless you choose to do so,
for the whim of the thing. An amateur-
beggar, in a black velvet hood, is succeeded
by a fleshy-visaged boy, who tells you that
his mother is dead, and his father in some
other blissful state, with a grin that betrays
his enjoyment of the hoax as much as your
own. When tired out with his following
you, you take him by the shoulders and turn
him right-about-face backwards, on the pivot
of his heels; he laughs outright. Why, an
hour afterwards I encountered the very same
bereaved orphan-boy driving a spruce donkey-
milk-cart laden with cans: whether his
inheritance or his trust I had no means of learning!

The hands joined in supplication, the