"Scoundrel! you shall not boast of my credulity, for I suspected you from the first. But now inform us all about the passport in Sevastos's name, about the four thousand francs you robbed my aunt of and spent in six weeks at Marseilles in his name also; how, in short, you have contrived to dupe our correspondent into believing you were my cousin Sevastos." "I accidentally met your cousin on his travels; he very kindly permitted me to borrow sundry sums from him, and I took the liberty of a friend in running away with sundry other money, as well as his passport, which carried me safely on my road to Marseilles, where it again proved very useful, as my stock in trade was quite exhausted; on arriving here, however, it has done me more harm than good, and in an hour's time I should have quitted Alexandria if you had not by some means or other discovered my attempt to raise money from Captain Nicophorus. Have you any more questions to ask?" "You are an impudent swindler, but having given my word not to hand you over to justice, I will keep it on condition that you quit Alexandria within an hour. You cannot long escape the galleys go where you will, and the sooner that happens the better for society." "Ay, so say I," chimed in Captain Nicophorus, "but as I have made no promise of forgiveness for your attempted robbery of my money, the only promise I shall now make you is, that I will as speedily as possible help you to a seat in the galleys." So saying, he whistled; two sailors appeared, into whose robust keeping the ci-devant, Sevastos, was consigned, and with the whole party rowed on shore. (To be concluded in our next.) LINES TO A YOUNG LADY. Fanny in vain I search my brain, All other rhyme but snows. When mouse and foot in rhyme shall suit, Shall ring through all the land! I cannot say the half to-day, MARY HEPBURN; OR, THE VICTIM OF SLANDER. [Continued from p. 257.] CHAPTER XXIII. To the crowd of country people, who were gathered in the miller's house to see the dead body, William Hepburn discovered who it was, and his name. This was expected of William; a letter having been found in the deceased's pocket addressed "Mary Hepburn, Gowanfield Cottage.” Tam Burnwin, who was present, and had taken charge of the document, delivered it to his friend, who resolved to conceal it from his family till a fit opportunity should occur to show it, if necessary. "Did you see Alan Alton of late, Mary?" asked her father. "Yes!" answered Mary with much anxiety, "he was here yesterday afternoon. He had been taking his pleasure by the streams; and, on his way home, called here just as Mr. Godon and I were looking over my volume of botanical plates. He seemed to be greatly offended at seeing the gentleman in our cottage; and to whom, I am truly sorry to say, Alton was somewhat uncivil, the cause of which I could not comprehend. His stay was but for a few minutes; and he bade me farewell with a wildness of expression and aspect that made me tremble! That farewell seemed to darken every thing that was fair and beautiful before. Has any thing occurred, father, that concerns, or may concern me in future? Fear not to speak the truth; for last night, in my sleep, I was fearfully warned of, prepared to hear, some mournful tidings." To this her father made the following reply, the sternness of which is quite in moral keeping with his general character: "Alan Alton loved you, Mary! but it seems he loved foolishly, madly. I now see the truth: and, my dear daughter, I must inform you, that the rash youth, in a fit of jealousy, has-" "Yes! I see the fatal truth! It was his last farewell! Alan Alton is no more!" exclaimed Mary, with a calmness which well became her own innocence and the daughter of William Hepburn. ""Tis true, my daughter; the poor but passionate youth has committedsuicide. This morning his body was found in the dam-dyke by the miller, in whose house it now lies." Mary Hepburn was by no means hysterical. susceptible as the leaf of the aspen tree, she Although her innocent soul was heard of the death of her lover without fainting. She sat her down in a chair by the window that looked to MARY HEPBURN; OR, THE VICTIM OF SLANDER. 289 the bower in which she had lately been with Alton, and hid her pale cheeks with her white apron. Mary could readier shed the tear of joy than of sorrow, when the sorrow was her own. It was not known even to her father whether she shed a tear for the loss of Alton. Perhaps the severity of her father's sentiments against suicide checked, but not chilled, the effusion of her sympathy, and her tears may have rushed back again upon her stricken heart. "For your sake, Mary, and for his," said William Hepburn, "and for the sacred feelings of true love, I wish it had been otherwise with Alton. But I have ever held suicide in abhorrence, and cannot, therefore, with the shadow of consistency, lament over his fate. Such a revolting, God-defying deed must be locked on with that degree of moral sternness, which, as responsible and social beings, and creatures of hope, we owe to ourselves, to our species, and Almighty God. "In my opinion, my child, it is well for you that he is gone; for I am fully persuaded that, in such a torrid, self-willed, and madly-jealous lover, you would have had a capricious, and a difficult-to-please husband. "Have you any wish, Mary, to see the corpse of Alton ?" "No! my loved father," replied Mary, "I could never look upon a dead person." "Well," said William, "I shall take no further concern in this unpleasant affair than the writing to his parents; to omit which would, perhaps, be a breach of common civility. To me it will be a very disagreeable task; but I shall adhere strictly to truth, without the smallest extenuation of their son's rash conduct. The youth, it would appear to me, was " Here the philosopher was interrupted by Fanny Fairbearn, who now rushed into the cottage, crying bitterly, and almost frantic with grief. "O! my heart will surely break this woefu' day! Poor young man! to come to sic an end! To die at the mirk hour, the dreary hour o' witchfu' midnight, an' no a human creature to speak to nor comfort him! Poor Alton! Why could he not be saved-the brave youth who rescued my child from the waters! I could have given my own to save his life." "Fanny Fairbearn," said William Hepburn, "he was a rash, impetuous fool, determined to perish, and not to punish himself but another, the innocent, which was itself a heinous crime. I do not say that this was from badness of heart, but from a paucity of right reason. His aberrations from virtue, and selfdestruction, originated in unfounded and boyish jealousy. Alton, it is true, saved your infant boy. You were, and ever will be, grateful; and your gratitude is favourable to his memory. But, Fanny, this outrageous lamentation, believe me, is worse than vain. Indeed, self murder is so contrary to the sacred laws of Nature, and of God, that the suicide's body is looked upon, by every friend of humanity, with horror and disgust." "Ah! Mary Hepburn ?" said Fanny, "what are you thinking?" "I am lost, Fanny, bewildered in a maze of astonishment; while my feelings, to say the truth, are shocked at such a horrent departure! He was, of all mankind, I thought, the most incapable of such a deed. Ah, Fanny! it would have been better for us had we never seen each other! "My father, you see, has proved him to be a fool. Still he was Alan Alton to me; and if the most tender attachment, if truest love could have made him, he might have been-happy. But it seems he was not content to be loved above all mankind, and alone; he was suspicious of this love without sufficient, without the shadow of a cause! His young heart was kind, was true, but it was fatally proud. This was his bane, and his death. He is no more. Still I have one great consolation; we never quarrelled. No! Fanny, an angry nor an unkind word never yet passed between us. Indeed, we were too happy when we met. It could not last long-it was not for this world." "Poor lad!" sobbed Fanny; "the gallant arm is now cold and stiff that saved my child from destruction! What could hae driven him, sie a comely, clever lad, to that awfu', unnatural end? What, after a', tempted him to take his own sweet life?" "The deevil responded a gruff, stout voice behind them. "The very deevil himsel'!" This was no other than Tam Burnwin, who had just got a dram of Lowrie Maclinkem's "small' still," and so spoke his mind freely. "I marvel," said Fanny, "to hear you speak sae, smith P "As a Christian man, an' a member of the gude kirk o' Scotland," replied Tam, "I maun speak the truth, Fanny Fairbearn. I say nae man can hae a just cause to tak' his ain life." "There may be mair than ae cause," said Fanny; "the loss o' world's gear, crossed in love, an' the like." "Crossed in luve !" exclaimed the smith; "Hae I not been crossed in luve, an' to some tune, my bonny chuck? Ay! that I was! Yet Tam Burnwin was not the fool to fling himsel' oure a linn; but is here standing to forgie, an' luve ye yet, Fanny Fairbearn. An' am I not worth a score o' desperate linn-loupin' fools, Fanny? Eh? What think you neibor Hepburn ?” "I cannot but approve highly of your morality, smith; it is sound and healthy, and discovers a truly Christian spirit. You will make an excellent husband to somebody, Thomas." "Just to ae body, neibor Hepburn, and that is Fanny Fairbearn, I'm thinkin'. There's my hand, Fanny, I luve you wi' a' my heart, wi' a' my soul, an' wi' a' my pith. Say lat's hae nae mair coortin' an' wooin' aboot it." . The smith expressed his love with such a hearty and, though rude, serious simplicity, that Fanny took his hand, and was forced to smile through her grief. "After 'a'," said the smith, "I had a great liking for puir Alton. He was a clever lad, had a merry turn of mind, at least I thought so, could tell a fine story, mak' a sweet sang, an', aboon a', was a first rate fisher an' busker o' flee-heuks; they waur deadly in a' kinds of weather. But he he shouldna' hae left us in sic a hurry an' in sic an ugly way, casting a cloud oure as fair a face as may be found in a' bonny Scotland again. The puir fool that he was! He has flung himsel' awa frae a treasure for whilk somebody wad gie thousans upon thousans. There was braw time, I'm thinkin', for ane sae young to slip awa frae this warl' aboot forty towmonds after this, in his ain house, too, wi' some friendly, weelkent hand to do every kind office to him at last; or, to speak mair like a humble Christian, an' a member o' the kirk o' Scotland, it is our gude time to leave this thorny, plaguy bit warl' just when it shall please God to ca' upo' us, an' to receive his blessin' o' a happy yeternity at, an' within the bright starnie yetts o' the saunts' paradise. This is the grand upshot o' a gude life, an' a fair-strae death, I'm thinking." "I am much pleased," said William Hepburn, "nay, delighted with the tenor of your sentiments, Thomas. They are indeed noble: they at once breathe the spirit of true religion, poetry, and Christian heroism." "The smith's words are very fine," observed Fanny, "and I believe he will stick to his text. But, after a', I maun gang to see an' touch the brave hand, alas, sae cold! that saved my sweet bairn from the brown flood." "Weel, Fanny Fairbearn, ye shanna' gae sic a dowie errand your lane, I'm thinkin', to blubber an' greet, makin' a fool o' yoursel', an' to blear thae twa bonny, ay! lovely blue een o' your ain; my happy stars, I will gang alang wi' you. Wi' Tam Burnwin at your side, Fanny, ye will never be far wrang either by night or by day, I'm thinkin'." Jessy Hepburn said she would accompany the smith and Fanny to the miller's house. Mary declined going: she said the deceased was dear to her heart; that, to her imagination, he now appeared in all his comeliness; and she would not mar the loveliness of the picture by looking on the livid and distorted features of death. CHAPTER XXIV. AFTER they were gone, William spoke to his daughter in these words:"Mary, the attachment that existed between you and the unfortunate Alton is, I |