"The loveliest woman in England!" exclaimed Hunt.

"Ah! then you knew her, sir?"

"I knew her when she was a merry girl of Amy's age, when there was not a shadow on her brow;" and, in a voice of strong emotion, "I saw her again in after years, when she longed for the grave as a refuge from sorrow;" but, seeing his auditor's look of surprise and inquiry, he changed the subject, and said, "Why did Sir Robert remove to this country? Do not think me too inquisitive, but I have particular reasons for wishing to know."

what I possessed in that terrible fire, but I have a shelter here, though an humble one. So long as your lips are sealed, it shall be your home. And now I must deliver a message I have received from your General, who is anxious to see you as soon as you are sufficiently recovered. Here is also a note."

Douglas opened it, and saw it was from Putnam.

"So, boy," he wrote, "you could not do your duty without getting into a scrape. But you were young and reckless, and, as there's no great harm done, as it was too late for that, I hope you will learn to be wiser in future. Don't be deceived by names, but become acquainted with persons before you trust them. Palmer's family are in Medford, and will be happy to see you when you get out again. I was pleased with your penitential letter, and Colonel Stark acquits you of half the blame, and says it was his own fault. You will return to your duty as soon as possible, and for the present are to be placed under General Lee, until I require your services in New-York, where I am

"Have you any objection to telling me, sir, and how you became acquainted with him and his affairs?"

"The tale would be far from pleasing you, young man. You have done me an inestimable service, which I can never forget, nor ever sufficiently repay. Thrown upon my care, through injuries you have suffered from that circumstance, I have given you the care and attention of a father for a child. I have now one more favor to beg: that is, that you will never repeat this conversation to your father, nor make any inquiries concerning me or my past history."

"I am likely to be an alien from my father's house for years, perhaps for ever," replied Douglas in a sad tone, "and shall, therefore, have no opportunity for doing the first; and with regard to the last, you may rely upon my honor."

The aged man pressed his hand with warmth. "I have," said he, "lost half of

eral Washington, which you seem so anxious about. Come, get well as fast as you can, for I want you. I have seen that you can stand one kind of fire, if not another, and have spoken well of you in the dispatches. So keep out of all scrapes, and be prepared to salute the enemy when called upon.

"ISRAEL PUTNAM.”

Douglas read this letter with pride and delight, and began to feel himself inspired with new strength, animated by the praises of a man whose bravery was the theme of every tongue. He was now eager to return to the army, although he would have preferred remaining with Putnam to being placed under a new commander. His letters to his sister being finished and dispatched, he now returned thanks to his host for his kindness, and declared his intentionof departing early in the morning,

Mr. Hunt said they should be sorry to part with him, but did not urge his stay,

memory of past years, recalling blighted hopes and crushed affections. One would suppose that the sufferings of more than threescore years would have tamed the restless heart, and lulled excited passions into rest; but it is not so. Leave me, Allan Douglas. I would be alone."

Allan returned to the room where he had left Amy. His mind was a prey to strange conjectures. There must have been something in the conversation which had just passed between him and his grandchild, which had affected the old man so deeply; but, true to the promise he had given to make no inquiries that might lead to a knowledge of the early history of his host, Allan restrained the curiosity which he was so anxious to gratify.

"Is he better?" asked Amy, in her eagerness clasping the hand of Douglas, and looking earnestly at him.

Douglas, retaining that little hand in his, led her to the seat they had occupied before this interruption. "He is better, dear Miss Amy, and only requests that he may not be disturbed. I am sorry he will not allow me to return his kindness, and nurse him as he has me for so many days."

"He never will allow any one to be near him at these times except old Ruth, who has lived in the family since he was a boy."

"Then this is not the first attack?"

"Oh no," replied Amy sadly; "he is often thus, and has sometimes kept his room for days together. It has been a source of great uneasiness to Charles and myself, who would have been so happy to comfort and console him."

"Does there appear to be any apparent cause for this affliction, or is it constitu

tional?"

"I do not know," replied Amy. "At times he is afflicted by the mention of some name or some person; then some event occurs which, related to him, brings on his malady. Any allusion to his family, his father or grandfather, by people who are curious about him, never fails to excite him almost to madness. My parents died while

I was an infant, and Charles but two years old. Since that time we have lived with grandfather in great seclusion; few persons, except the clergyman of the place, ever visiting us. He has never remained long in one place, but old Ruth has frequently received orders at a moment's warning to prepare for our departure somewhere else. She never presumed to question the reason of this caprice, and we, of course, dared ask no questions. While we lived in Charlestown he seemed comparatively easy and happy, but since the fire, and we have been in this old farm-house without a neighbor near us, he has been more uneasy than ever, and especially since your stay with us. And yet he does not appear to have taken the same dislike to you he has to some others. There are some people he will not admit to his presence. I think perhaps your bravery in saving my life on that dreadful day has softened his feelings toward you."

"It was a dreadful, but, to me, also a blessed day," exclaimed Douglas, pressing the hand which lay unconsciously in his, "for it made me acquainted with sweet Amy Hunt."

Amy, blushing, endeavored to withdraw her hand, but in vain. "One moment, dear Amy. Listen to me one moment, and if my words displease you I will promise never more to offend. In the absence of your brother, and the illness of your grandfather, I ought not, perhaps, to dare thus to address you. But I am going far from you tomorrow, Amy, and it would be a solace to me to think that during my absence my memory was cherished. Amy, I love you. I loved you from the first moment I beheld you when you lay helpless upon my breast, and I looked forward to a terrible death, scarcely dreaded by me if shared with But we you. were both saved, Amy, and since that time my life has been bound up in yours. Our families are as yet strangers to each other. I am an outcast, and must rely upon myself to carve out my own fortunes. We may be doomed to meet with the same opposition that I have described to you. But

tell me, Amy, in case fortune favors us, tell me, sweet Amy, may I hope for a return?" "You saved my life," replied Amy; "can I ever give my heart to another? As for my hand, the sanction of my nearest relatives must be obtained before I promise that. But it will never be given to another."

"Bless you, Amy, for those words! I am contented with this assurance. Now I can go forth in my country's cause with the hope of returning one day to claim a prize dearer than all that fame can bestow. But you will write to me, Amy, you will let me hear often of your welfare, and of your aged relative, whom, next to my own father, I love and reverence."

"I will," replied Amy. "But you are going again to battle. Oh, remember you have friends who will be so anxious about you, and be careful!"

"One image, while it inspires me to exertion, will guard me from danger," said Douglas. "But I am not yet gone, dear Amy; we shall meet again in the morning."

The room in which our hero was to pass the night was a rough, old-fashioned apartment, the plastered walls broken in numerous places in such a peculiar manner as to form grotesque figures of various shapes many of them resembling human faces, some in profile, others joined to bulky figures, and many with skeleton heads, which to a diseased imagination would present horrible fancies. A piece of faded embroidery, in an old worm-eaten frame, hung in one corner. It represented a tomb, with simply the name "Julia" upon it, wrought with black silk; and Allan was struck with the singularity of this being the name of his sister, and also of his father's first wife. There was one mourner by the tomb, his head buried in his hands, and thus leaning against the marble tablet. But over the fire-place hung a picture which particularly fascinated his It was divided into four parts, as if the artist had at first intended to make four distinct pictures, but afterwards changed his mind, and combined them together. In the

gaze.

centre of the picture was a platform, covered with black cloth, in front of the banquetinghouse of Guildhall, London, and the scene represented the fatal moment when the head of the unfortunate King Charles the First had just been severed, and the executioner was holding it up to the view of an mmense multitude below, some of the faces turned towards it with horror, others with exultation; and the most conspicuous of the group was a female figure lying apparently lifeless in the arms of several attendants. In a scroll frame, at the lower left-hand corner, was a representation of Charles, proceeding on foot to execution, having Bishop Juxon on his left hand and Mr. Herbert on his right, behind whom were the forms of Colonels Hacker and Tomlinson, followed by a group of soldiers. In the opposite scroll, on the right side of the picture, was shown a part of the banqueting-house, with the platform and coffin, on either side of which were stationed troops of halberdiers, and in the front, pictures of several persons dipping their handkerchiefs in the blood of the departed prince, the pavement being saturated with gore. But the most singular feature in the whole was the portrait of the executioner, in another scroll frame immediately above this, holding in one hand the bloody hatchet, and in the other the severed head of the monarch. Opposite to this, on the left, was another portrait in a Dutch costume, and underneath it was written "This picture was drawn by W. Wessop, a Dutchman, who was a spectator of this execution, and who quitted England in 1649, as he could not live in a country where they beheaded their king, and were not ashamed of the action." Above this picture were written the names of fiftynine persons; at the side of each the coat of arms of his family. These were the signers of the Death Warrant. There was name which made a strong impression upon the mind of Douglas, and the SEAL he had seen before. But while he lay wrapped in thought, contemplating these things, slumber stole over his senses, and soon he was in

one

the land of dreams-and strange indeed were the dreams that haunted him.

He seemed to be sitting with Amy on the banks of a beautiful stream, and talking with her of love and happiness, while her beautiful dark eyes were raised to his with an expression of devoted affection. But soon the scene changed. Dark clouds overspread the heavens, and several other forms appeared upon the scene. His father seemed to stand before him gazing upon the pair with an angry eye. He was holding in his hand the gory head of Charles, and opposite to him stood the form of Mr. Hunt, his face pale and haggard, gazing with horror upon the dead features. Then suddenly his father began to make a football of the head, and to throw it at Hunt, but his strength failing it rolled at the feet of Amy, who uttered a dreadful shriek, and sunk senseless in his arms. Sir Robert commanded him to leave her thus, and return home, or he would curse him again; and then it seemed as if the form of Hunt became gifted with new vigor, and he advanced with a menacing gesture toward Sir Robert, who was preparing to attack him, when a commanding figure on a white horse appeared, and ordered the two to desist. Douglas had never seen General Washington save in the various pictures of him every where scattered about the country; but he seemed to feel by intuition that it was he, and was about to speak and implore his intercession, when a cold hand was laid upon his face, obscuring his vision, and in his

efforts to remove it he awoke.

"You do not appear to sleep casily," said a voice which he instantly recognized as that of Mr. Hunt. "I was disturbed by your repeated cries for help; and when I came in, your whole frame appeared agitated by some convulsion. I was afraid something serious had disturbed you."

"Nothing, nothing, sir," replied Allan. "It was perhaps occasioned by inspection of that strange picture. It haunted me in my sleep, and the figures seemed in motion, and

to assume familiar shapes. But I am sorry I have disturbed you with my fantasies, my dear sir, especially in your state of health. Pray return to your rest, and I will endeavor to be more quiet."

"I have rested well since I left you," replied Mr. Hunt, "and as you now seem thoroughly awake, have you patience to lis ten to me a few moments?"

"I am wide awake, and anxious to hear all you have to say," said Allan, starting up in bed and leaning on one elbow, while the light of the candle which his host had brought into the room shone full upon his face.

"That picture, young man-what impres sion did it make upon your mind?"

"I can hardly tell," replied Douglas, shuddering. "I believe it was profound pity for the fate of the unfortunate victim, and detestation of his murderers."

"His murderers! Do you then consider all whose names are written there as murderers ?"

"In what other light can I consider them, sir? One stroke of their pens consigned a fellow-being (setting aside the fact that be was their king) to an ignominious death.

"He was a cold-hearted, licentious, proffigate monarch, a scourge to the land be ruled!" exclaimed Hunt.

the

"He was a man," replied Douglas, "and, as a king, in a measure dependent upon mercy of the thousands over whom he held such an uncertain sway. Was it not enough that he was driven from place to place like a wild beast, seeking shelter for his defenseless head? Why could they not let him die in peace in some obscure retreat, without thirsting for his very life-blood? Oh, bitter must have been the repentance of all those who were accessory to his death!"

"Bitter indeed!" exclaimed Hunt, covering his face with his hands. "I have kept that picture to gaze upon when I felt evil passions rising in my breast, and they were banished in a moment. Yet I would fain believe that the disciples of Cromwell were