of profissional ass-ass-ination had but begun;
nixt they stabbed him with cupping needles,
and so stole more of his life-blood. And they
were goen from their stabs to their bites, goen
to leech his temporal arteries, and so hand him
to the sixton."

"But you came in and saved him," cried Alfred.

"I saved his life," said Sampson, sorrowfully:
"but life is not th' only good thing a man may be
robbed of by those who steal his life-blood, and
so impoverish, and water, the contints of the
vessels of the brain."

"Doctor Sampson," said Alfred, "what do
you mean by these mysterious words? you alarm
me."

"What, don't you know? Haven't they told
you?"

"No, I have not had the courage to enter the
house since the Bank —— " he stopped in
confusion.

"Ay, I understand," said Sampson:
"however, it can't be hidden now—

"HE IS A MANIAC."

Sampson made this awful announcement
soberly and sorrowfully.

Alfred groaned aloud, and even his father
experienced a momentary remorse; but so steady
had been the progress of corruption, that he felt
almost unmixed joy the next instant: and his
keenwitted son surprised the latter sentiment
in his face, and shuddered with disgust.

Sampson went on to say that he believed the
poor man had gone nourishing a razor; and Mrs.
Dodd had said " Yes, kill me, David: kill the
mother of your children," and never moved:
which feminine, or in other words irrational,
behaviour, had somehow disarmed him. But it
would not happen again: his sister had come; a
sensible, resolute woman. She had signed the
order, and Osmond and he the certificates, and
he was gone to a private asylum. " Talking of
that," said Sampson, rising suddenly, " I must go
and give them a word of comfort; for they are
just breaking their hearts at parting with him,
poor things: I'll be back in an hour."

On his departure, Jane returned and made the
tea in the dining-room: they lived like that now.

Mr. Hardie took it from his favourite's little
white hand, and smiled on her: he should not
have to go to a foreign land after all: who would
believe a madman if he should rave about his
thousands? He sipped his tea luxuriously, and
presently delivered himself thus, with bland self-
satisfaction:

"My dear Alfred, some time ago you wished
to marry a young lady without fortune; you
thought that I had a large one: and you
expected me to supply all deficiencies. You did
not overrate my parental feeling; but you did
my means: I would have done this for you, and
with pleasure, but for my own coming misfortunes.
As it was, I said ' No.' And, when you
demanded, somewhat peremptorily, my reasons,
I said, 'trust me.' Well, you see I was right:
such a marriage would have been your utter ruin.
However, I conclude after what Dr. Sampson
has told us, you have resigned it on other grounds.
Jane, my dear, Captain Dodd, I am sorry to say,
is afflicted. He has gone mad."

"Gone mad?! oh, how shocking! What will
become of his poor children?" She thought of
Edward first.

"We have just heard it from Sampson. And
I presume, Alfred, you are not so far gone as to
insist on propagating insanity, by a marriage with
his daughter."

At this conclusion, which struck her obliquely,
though aimed at Alfred, Jane sighed gently; and
her dream of earthly happiness seemed to melt
away.

But Alfred ground his teeth, and replied with
great bitterness and emotion: " I think, sir,
you are the last man who ought to congratulate
yourself on the affliction that has fallen on
that unhappy family I aspire to enter, all the
more that now they have calamities for me to
share—— "

"More fool you," put in Mr. Hardie, calmly.

—" For I much fear you are one of the causes
of that calamity."

Mr. Hardie assumed a puzzled air: " I don't
see how that can be: do you, Jenny? Sampson
told us the causes: a wound on the head, a
wound in the arm, bleeding, cupping, &c."

"There may be other causes Dr. Sampson lias
not been told of—yet."

"Possibly. I really don't know what you
allude to."

The son fixed his eyes on the father, and
leaned across the table to him, till their faces
nearly met.

"THE FOURTEEN THOUSAND POUNDS, SIR."

BEWICK'S BIRDS.

As, according to Charles Lamb, there are
Biblia Abiblia— Books that are no Books— so
also indubitably there are Books which are
more especially Books. Of these, Bewick's
Birds is one of the most precious to a genuine
book-lover, always supposing that the genuine
book-lover is also a lover of nature. There is no
man who has set forth natural history so cap-
tivatingly as Bewick; and that, not because of
the dry bones of a text, but through the art
which Horace says brings objects before the
faithful eyes—the pictorial art. And in a double
way. His birds themselves are admirable,
perfect in shape and attitude, glossy of feather,
and placed characteristically on bough, rock, or
marsh-encircled island; but, besides, they are
served up with a garnish of vignettes, or tail-
pieces, which sometimes admirably illustrate
bird-life and bird-habits; at others, relieve the
monotony of the subject by a dash into human
life, a dash at human follies, a dash into the
highest realms of humour. It is more
particularly in this last aspect of a genial artist that
we would now chiefly regard Thomas Bewick.