all her conduct to the three a display of anxiety, his visitor returned together. The young genfor their welfare, and of uneasiness at their present position. She grew up not only with her grandfather's strong passions, but with his strange power of concealing them, and suffered the mutabilities of spirits and of temper to which impulsive people are peculiarly prone, with an outward composure that rendered the inward struggle akin to the spirit of martyrdom. At eighteen Ada Perceval was at once the most attractive and the strangest of women; none who had seen them could forget the singular harmony of her pale features, the beauty of her tender smile, and the noble dignity of her bearing. With an enthusiasm for her religion, amounting almost to fanaticism, she united the strength of endurance, commonly its companion. There was nothing too hard, too high, or in her seasons of humiliation too abject and low for her. By her grandfather and the Sedgemoor servants she was regarded as a miracle of goodness and virtue; while her cousins at once loved and pitied her. tleman greeted Ada with the most perfect good breeding and reverence; meantime Perceval ordered the housekeeper to prepare a bed for the guest, and to tell a man to put the horses into the stable, and give the gentleman's servant some refreshment. 66 Ada," said Perceval, "this young gentleman is, by the death of his great uncle, the representative of the other branch of our family; he is anxious to be on friendly terms with us, and regrets sincerely the ill offices done to us by his relative. And in token of my readiness to forget the past, I have invited him to spend a few days here. He has influence at court, and will probably be of use to your cousins." This was said in his most lordly manner; it expressed a great deal more than appears on the outside. It said to Ada's mind, "Here is a heretic, your cousins hold the same faith; when I am gone, the glory of Perceval of Sedgemoor has set for ever. Nevertheless, I must not stand in the way of my descendants, and therefore I accede to this gentleman's offer of reconciliation." It was night: from Sedgemoor House a few flickering lights, in windows far apart, shed huge Arthur Perceval was a fine specimen of the shadows of the casements on the walks surround- English gentleman of his day; his native gaiety ing the house. The tutor was at his books, the was little repressed by the formal manners of boys just asleep; Perceval and his grand- the time; his information was varied and cordaughter were together, he reading a news-rect; his language graceful and easy. Meanletter just brought in by one of the servants who had been down to the village, she at her neverending task of embroidery for the little chapel attached to the mansion. time there was about him just enough of the ceremony of the courtier to relieve and set off his other characteristics. Ada was in a new world; her cousins' tutor, a grave clergyman, who held a little aloof from her, was the only gentleman with whom she had been on even speaking terms, excepting only her grandfather and the priest. She had never before been treated with that tender courtesy and affectionate respect which generally characterises the high-bred gentleman in his conduct to women he admires and values. Perceval and her chaplain of course treated her as a child; The unusual sound of horses' feet in the avenue caused Perceval to rise from his chair; and with his trembling hand shading his high reverend brow, he leaned eagerly forward, trying to discern who their visitor could be. Ada, pale and red in one instant, started to his side, and laying one beautiful hand on his shoulder, shuddered as she thought it was thus the troops astonished Perceval of Sedgemoor while his young wife, with a baby of a day old, lay up-they gave her advice, but never asked it in restairs in the great room. The clatter drew nearer and nearer; there were apparently two, if not three horses approaching the house. Perceval and Ada went together into the great dim oaken hall, and waited there while the servants unbarred the door, in answer to a somewhat noisy sum mons. A serving-man assisted the other traveller to alight, and then taking both the horses by their bridles, prepared to await his master's pleasure. A gentleman of graceful carriage and perfect good manners, richly dressed, and about twentythree years of age, entered the hall. Perceval advanced to meet him, while Ada returned to her embroidery, wondering who the stranger was, and on what errand he came. It was an event in her life: totally unused to society, this was the first time she had the prospect of being interested about any one but her own little circle. A lamp was sent into another room; but after the lapse of about an hour, Perceval and turn. Now, on the contrary, Arthur held out against her opinions only just long enough to make his submission her victory; he asked her advice, admired her gardens, her embroidery, her chapel, the picture of her mother on her bracelet; and, in short, without flattery, excepting the highest of all flattery to a sensible woman-deference to her opinions, and modest silence with regard to her personal attractionsArthur Perceval contrived in one short week to make his fair relative understand that he considered her the most beautiful, the most sensible, the most religious of women. He would not dare to aver that even in the only point on which they differed she was wrong; he could only say that he should hate himself, and what would be almost as bad to a sensible man, she would hate him, if for politeness' sake he yielded the conviction of his conscience for a lady's favour and approval. All he could do was to hope that, whichever of them was mistaken, might be taught so in time to own and lament it. This high conscientiousness was sure to take by force the heart of Ada Perceval; had he for one moment yielded this point for politeness' sake, she would have been eagle-eyed to discover it. Mingled with her dawning love for him, was a strange feeling of interest, such as a tender pastor feels in a promising catechumen. Arthur returned to London without any open avowal; all was vague, uncertain, delicious; the young lady's whole being was changed: in the chapel, Eloisa agonised for the salvation of her noble Abelard; at the embroidery frame the maiden's mind was filled, as her white fingers twined the gold and silken threads on the scarlet altar-cloth, with sweet, tender, shrinking hopes of the blessed day when, one in faith (for she never doubted the final success of her prayers and efforts), Arthur and she, kneeling before the altar, should be pronounced by the holy priest one, for ever and ever. Perceval, we may be sure, little suspected the tumult that was going on in the seemingly calm bosom of his grandchild; he had his own motive for wishing to be on good terms with young Arthur Perceval, and he did not trouble himself much about Ada's or any other person's ideas on the subject, We have said that Perceval cared very little for his grandsons, and ever since Arthur's visit he had been meditating a project he had indeed often before imagined, but scarcely as a possible thing until now. His property was at his own disposal; Ada the only creature in the world he really loved; why should not the bulk of his riches, which, owing to his very quiet way of living had vastly accumulated, go to the beautiful girl who so carefully tended his failing years? With Arthur's interest at court, the boys, with a handsome legacy, might get on well, and become the founders of new families, while Ada would keep up in the house and the chapel the Catholic usages of her forefathers. She might contract a marriage worthy her birth and riches with some one of her own faith, who would be willing to take the name and arms of Perceval. His family would endure for centuries in its stainless honour and pride; his lovely Ada would be the mother of brave Percevals, who would revive and restore the olden glories of the house. Above all, daily service would be celebrated for him in his own household chapel, where he should be laid by the side of his long-lost wife. gave Ada and her admirer the highest satisfaction. What conversations, what hopes, what fears were breathed out under the cedar boughs in that sunny summer weather! how earnestly, with all her girlish eloquence, did Ada beseech her lover to decide at once, to own himself a Catholic, and thus to secure his safety! Nothing was further from Arthur's thoughts than such a proceeding; but when he saw how the topic, even in her uncertainty, excited her, he dared not dash her hopes by telling her that his mind was finally made up, and that she might lay aside her exertions on his behalf. Ada was not slow to perceive that he evaded the topic; by tacit consent she too, for a time, avoided it; the time of her trial was not yet come, she must love him better, and then, her anxiety redoubled, she would renew her efforts. It was during this summer stay, and shortly after Ada's nineteenth birthday, that Perceval was attacked with a dangerous illness. For some days he bore up against his weakness, but at last took to his bed, in the solitary great room where Lady Perceval and her babe lay when the rude troopers hustled each other up the stairs, and roughly burst in to search the place. He died unexpectedly; the old housekeeper left him asleep while she came downstairs to fetch something, and when she returned he was dead. Dead! without the priest, or his granddaughter, or any creature to hear his last sigh. The servants whispered together in corners, that now the Protestant tutor would have his own way pretty much till young master came of age; and pretty Miss Ada, would she live here, or go into a convent, or persuade Mr. Arthur to turn Catholic, and marry him, and London? go to A few days after the death, the mason and bricklayer came early in the morning from Sedgemoor to open the vault in the chapel. Before night, the head of Perceval of Sedgemoor was low with his kindred dust; and his beloved granddaughter felt desolate indeed, for the blow had recalled her to her old self; she accused herself of having done wrong in yielding so much to her interest in Arthur, while her great work was as yet unaccomplished. He had confessed his love for her; she answered, eva sively, that she must wait, she hoped, she feared, &c. &c. He knew well how to construe this, but he anticipated, by contant kindness and consideration for her prejudices, to have it all his own way in time. These prospects were perplexing and delighting the brain of Perceval quite as much as love was disturbing the regularity and equanimity of Ada; neither dreamed for a moment of the concealment each was making; and Perceval, in presence of the family lawyer, of his chaplain, The will was read. What a burst of astonishand his old steward, who highly approved of his ment followed that proceeding may well be determination, executed a will, in which, after imagined. The two boys and their tutor sat a the enumeration of legacies to his grandsons little apart from the rest; they, dimly antici and his old servants, everything was unre- pating evil for themselves, joined the old ser servedly Ada's. No one suspected the proceed-vants, who clustered round Ada, wishing her ing, and all went on as usual. In the course of the summer Arthur came down; Perceval was exceedingly kind and courteous to him, encouraged every one who paid attention to the young man to a degree that health, joy, and prosperity in marriage. Arthur, stunned by surprise, kept aloof, looking at her, wondering at her; so calm and undisturbed, while the spirits of the rest were beyond controul. She thought not of herself for a mo Arthur was naturally anxious to bring her to a favourable decision; but when she questioned him pointedly, he assured her there was no apparent chance of his principles or his opinions undergoing any change. ment; she looked at the two boys, the elder of days, remote from a world of which she knew whom had been taught to consider Sedgemoor | little, and for which she cared less. Again she his own; she looked at those beautiful children, married him; she was happy: and all was joy and wondered at the injustice her grandfather unutterable. had contemplated. Those children, cast on the world with a legacy, to push their way at a court where their fathers, for two generations, had been distrusted and unpopular; her sense of right recoiled from it. She called little Raymond to her side, kissed him, and told him that at once and for ever, in the presence of many witnesses, she resigned her claim to the Sedgemoor estates in his favour, and that of his brother; that for herself, she would trust to him when he grew up, and would for the present stay at Sedgemoor, taking the same allowance her grandfather had made her. Arthur, with tearful eyes, drew near, and shook her hand: "I cannot praise you," he said, "you are above it; I can only say it is worthy of you to act in a way generous beyond the belief or fancy of others." The lawyer was perhaps more surprised than any one; the servants shrank quietly away to discuss the strange scene they had witnessed; and Ada inquired where were the deeds, by right of which the late Perceval held Sedge moor. She was perfectly collected; fitter to transact business just then than either the lawyer or Arthur Perceval. It was not, she said, of material consequence to know where the deeds were, but in case of future accident it was well to be sure. The deeds were in safety: the lawyer departed, wondering at the heroic conduct he could not understand. Ada felt that it was not good for her cousins to grow up in their present strict seclusion; the times were quiet; they were of their neighbours' faith, and might therefore reasonably expect that no prejudice against old Sir Raymond's religion would interfere with their reception of the grandsons'. She had, indeed, inherited her grandfather's scorn for those who shunned him when he required the countenance of honourable men; but the sacrifice of her pride was for her cousins, and her peculiar disposition led her to take a strange satisfaction in self-mortification, inflicted for the sake of others. Accordingly, she and Arthur Perceval, after a proper interval, took the little boys, and called on some of the principal people of the county. The gentleman explained that his young relatives were being educated in the Protestant faith; and Ada expressed a hope that Perceval of Sedgemoor would grow up in harmony with his neighbours. The first sacrifice had been no sacrifice to Ada's generous spirit; the second-the sacrifice of her retirement and of her pride-was made wholly for the sake of her cousins; and she therefore readily exercised her self-denial; but the great struggle was to come. In her solitude, after Arthur's return to town, she had argued with herself, but was quite unable to come to a definite conclusion; at one time she fancied herself refusing him, retiring to a convent, and there peacefully passing her That was the decision, said Ada; her duty was clearly defined. She wished, ardently wished, Mr. Perceval every happiness the world could afford; as for her, her dream of happiness was gone for ever. Arthur was heart-broken; he remonstrated, and in vain; he returned to London and the court: he forgot, and loved again, as men do generally. He married; and when that event took place, Ada gave up the care of her cousins to him as their guardian, and retired abroad, where she entered a religious house, of which a descendant of her grandmother's family was superior. The young lord of Sedgemoor went abroad once a year to see her while she lived; and when she died, made a handsome present to her convent. He grew up a merry fellow, whom Sedgemoor by no means suited; and before he attained his twenty-fifth year, had sold the old mansion, and bought an estate elsewhere, on which his descendants are yet living. They tell to their Christmas guests strange tales of old Sir Raymond, his troubles, his perils, and of the beautiful pale Ada, his granddaughter, whose portrait is still in the gallery. [The most interesting as well as the best preserved of the Roman remains at Vienne, on the Rhône, is the structure called The Tomb of Pontius Pilate, and which is situated at a short distance from the south gate of the town. This monument has a singular and picturesque appearance, and whatever its date, is undeniably Roman. An open square arcade stands on a solid basement of stone; above the arches are some half-defaced mouldings, but no inscription is seen; a slender pyramid succeeds, the stones of which are fastened by iron cramps, and the height of the whole is above sixty feet. Pontius Pilate, when suspended from his procuratorship of Judæa, was sent into exile at Vienne, where, according to Eusebius, he killed himself, about A. D. 38. The tradition attached to this monument, as being erected over the dust of this celebrated man, is at once so ancient and so interesting, that we think they would perform a very thankless task who should endeavour to shake the popular belief.] A classic spirit breathes along thy shore: Vienne, that stood when Cæsar's conquering sword To know that hoary structure Pilate's tomb! THE MONEY-CHANGER OF FRANKFORT. BY GEORGE J. O. ALLMANN. (Continued from page 164.) "Oh! it comes o'er my memory As doth the raven o'er the infected house." OTHELLO. CHAP. VIII. On descending to the drawing-room after the conversation we have related, Alexandre de Laval and Monsieur Glouglou found several of the latter's visitors arrived. With the impetuosity and nonchalance of her nation, Madame Glouglou ran up to her ami as quickly as her dimensions would admit, and embracing him heartily with both arms, gave him a vigorous kiss, to his no small discomfiture. But little heeded Madame Glouglou this, for without unclasping her arms from round his neck she adressedd him. "Vraiment !" Monsieur! you have had a charming nap; why it is past mid-day; but you keep such shocking hours, Monsieur, and you returned home so late last night that I would not have you disturbed this morning. You look pale and haggard too. What ails you, eh, mon ami ?" or rather, for things themselves always alter less than the manner in which we view them, the disagreeable impression thereby created diminished imperceptibly, till at length he recovered the natural bias of his character, and Monsieur Glouglou laughed and jested with his friends as if he had never previously shaken hands with Care; still less would any one have imagined that he had been so recently the victim of terror, which had driven him to accept the sacrifice, perhaps, of a nephew. In the mean time Alexandre, after saluting with courtesy and grace the assembled company, among whom his eye roamed as if in search of some one, turned away with an air of disappointed expectation, and pleading the excuse of a morning engagement, promised to return at the dinner hour, and accordingly quitted the room. But it was only that he might ponder over the sudden and peculiar circumstances of the morning, and hold communion with his own heart, that he had framed this excuse. He was engaged in an affair that might prove most momentous to him; nay, his opponent was famed as a notorious duellist-so his uncle said-and the probabilities were that himself would fall a Oh, a trifle," replied M. Paul, very glad to sacrifice. He dwelt with horror on the barbafind so ready an excuse for the change his ap-rous custom of duelling; he pictured to himself pearance had undergone in consequence of the agitation of the preceding night. a mere bagatelle, which I shall soon redeem. 66 N-nothing!" stammered her lord and master (?) "You have been losing at play again," returned Madame, "I am sure you have! Come, tell me how much have they won of you!" Satisfied with this explanation, Madame Glouglou, after complimenting her spouse in the customary strain on natal occasions, suffered him to recognize and welcome the friends who were present. This he did with an evident appearance of mauvaise honte, because they had been witnesses of so public a display of affection on the part of his wife-a display that, to say the least of it, appeared as sudden as it was extraordinary. Ill-timed he could not help thinking it was too; and all these considerations tended to render his replies to the congratulations which they offered him upon his anniversary less grateful and ardent than they otherwise would have been. But the recollection of that occurrence which M. Paul considered had been too much like a "scene" got up by his wife for the edification of the company, gradually wore off; the blighted hopes and broken hearts that had resulted from this blind obedience to the dictates of the world, which acknowledged no laws but the code of that Republic which it falsely denominated "Honour!" he thought of the hearths left desolate, of the happy wives made premature widows, of the children rendered orphans; he dwelt on the unprotected sufferings of the one, and the maddened recollections of the other-all victims to this barbarous usage, sanctioned by men but denounced by God. What might not be his own fate? He should be opposed to the skill of an experienced duellist-face to face with a man who had before hurried fellow men into an eternity where the expiation would be written in inexpiable tears of blood; he might fall, and his heart acknowledged that in that event the extent of his crime would be that of a suicide. Awful as these considerations were, and saddened as was his spirit as he mused on them, the heart of Alexandre never trembled for an |