engaged in the harvest-field, he said to his
mother, who was sitting with her knitting
in the open doorway:

"Mother, how long is it since Lina Fernie
came to see after me?  I haven't heard her
voice for days—weeks, I think."

"It is weeks, John.  Be advised by me,
and give up thinking about her," was the
pleading reply.

"It is all very easy to say give up thinking
about her; but it is none so easy to do,"
said John bitterly.  "I mean to hear my
fate from her own lips; and, if you'll reach
me down my plaid, I'll go and see her now—
she never goes to the harvest."

"Wait a bit longer, John, wait a bit longer
—you can't bear anything yet."

"And you think she'll have nothing more
to say to me?" asked the young man,
hoarsely.

"O, Johnny, lad!  don't look so wretched;
she's never worth it.  She's never worth thy
good heart!"

A miserable contortion passed over his
features as his mother uttered the last
words.  No one but himself knew what evil
intentions had been bred in that good heart,
which a merciful Providence had frustrated.
He rose with a stick and crutch and hobbled
to the door.  O, what a wreck he was!  But
not such a wreck as he might have been if
God had left him his strength unparalysed
on that terrible night when he went out
intent on shedding blood.  His mother
brought his plaid and wrapped it all round
him, and then kissed his sallow, sickly face
fervently.

"Remember, Johnny, thee has me always,
me that loved thee first, and will always love
thee best! "  she cried, as she let him go.

"Something tells me I'll have need to
remember it, mother," he replied; "but I
can't bear this torture of waiting any longer,
and I'll know the worst at once."

She watched him down the village street,
and saw him disappear within Fernie's
cottage; not five minutes elapsed before he
came out again.  It was sad,—O, it was more
than sad to see the painful haste with which
he toiled up the sunny, dusty street.  His
mother ran to meet him, and helped him in
doors, not thinking of questioning him, so
terrified was she at the expression of rage
and agony that convulsed his features.  He
dropped upon the settle, with a groan, and
hid his face.  After a moment, he burst into
a womanish passion of tears, which shook his
crippled form vehemently.  The mother
watched him, and knew what it meant.  The
whole hope, dream, joy of his life was gone
from him—for ever gone.

It was many weeks before John brought
himself to speak of his brief interview with
Lina; he then told his mother what had
passed.

"Lina," said he, "was sitting by the window,
and she gave a scream when she saw
me. ' Eh, John, but what a miserable
lamester you are! '  and laughed.  I suppose
there was something startling in my changed
looks.  I asked her if she meant to keep her
word by me; and her answer was, " Nay,
John, I never loved you much, and you must
be out of your head to think I shall marry
you now! '  And so I left her, laughing at
my hobbling walk.  That's Lina!"

V.

JOHN HARLAND is a grey-headed old man
now,—harsh, bitter, unlovely: tainted through
and through with the poison of his
disappointment. A kind word, a kind deed, are
not altogether strange to him, perhaps; but
he hides them, as something of which he is
ashamed.  He says all the world is selfish,
and crafty, and cruel.

As for Lina, beautiful, vain, unfeeling,
she has been in her grave these many, many
years: though where she lies, or how she
died, we cannot tell.  No one wept for her,
nor felt for her, but him whom she despised.
John knows what became of her.  His
charity found her in her despair, and gave
her a grave; but how, or when, or where, he
never said; and, none of those left in Brigham
who knew her, care to ask.  She was not
much beloved.

JEWS IN ROME.

THE public feeling which has been
awakened by the baptism of the infant son of
Mortara the Jew at Rome, and the subsequent
discussion to which it has given rise,
has created a desire to become acquainted
with the position of The Children of Israel
in that city; and Monsieur Edmond About,
has written an article, or rather a series of
articles, on the subject, which has been published
in the Moniteur.  From these papers
we derive the following statements:

I entered the Ghetto, Monsieur About
commences, by the Place of the
Synagogues. These are installed in two houses,
for the performance of the four rites which
divide the Israelite population among
them; namely, the Italian rite, the Portuguese
rite, the Catalan, and the Sicilian.  The
synagogues are modest and clean, their
parishes are dirty enough to make one
shudder.  It is true the condition of the public
ways in the capital of the Christian world
leaves much to be desired.  There is too
much impunity for dirtying them, and too
little trouble is taken to keep them clean;
and windows are only too frequently opened
to allow the passage of the most horrible
filth; but their condition is one of purity
compared with the Ghetto.  In the Christian
part of the town the rain washes the streets,
the sun dries the filth, the wind carries away
the dust; but neither rain, wind, nor sun
could cleanse the Ghetto; to accomplish that