"I will tell you, and that briefly," he said, speaking with the bitterness of despair. "I had bound myself, as you know, to your father, for a thousand pounds. Yesterday I went up to arrange matters, as you also know; I did well, and received the money. The evening was to be spent. with your cousin Arlington, at whose table I met a young stranger from your land, whose face, in the dim light they allowed us, seemed pleasant enough, and whose voice and manner were those of a stripling bred at court. I took to him, though why I know not, and by and by he proposed play. For a time I was averse, though, with shame let me say it, I dared not refuse on principle, but he at length

won me to bet with him on certain of the players at the other end of the room. We did not see their hands, nor did he in fact go near them. We talked, and betted, and talked again, and still I lost ever. I pledged of your father's money, and that too went; till, owing to desperation, and utterly forgetful of my duty, my word, my honor, and my virtue, I staked all I had received, and lost it all. Just then-would to God it had been an hour sooner! - my father sent for me, and I left your brother's penniless. The whole of the past day I have been engaged in business, but with the evening came the remembrance of my disgrace, and I dared not, Emilie, I dared not meet you. My broken faith will be known, my loose virtue will be scoffed at, and the spotless scutcheon of Ormond will be stained black by me!” Thus saying, the victim of one vice, and that no vice to the world, the miserable gambler, the broken-spirited noble, the self-convicted, self-condemned man of honor, flung himself upon the turf as though he had hoped a grave would open beneath him.

For a few moments his Countess stood by him in silence, and as she saw how strongly he was moved, the tears gathered in her lids, and she knelt by his side again, and said, Ossory, my Lord Ossory, be yourself; this anguish, great

as it is, is medicinal; you will henceforth know how mighty the sum of pain which follows broken vows and violated principles. Rise, my Lord, and let us home. Your promise to my father shall not be broken; your money waits you.”

Slowly Lord Ossory rose from the ground, and would have asked her meaning, but she turned into the homeward path; the lion-hearted hound sprang on in advance, but with fallen crest, as though he too had felt his master's shame; and behind followed the noble, with bended head. They reached the portal, the wondering warder admitted them; they reached the chamber, and the page opened it before them. The Earl, with folded arms, stood by the window, as a criminal before his judge; the Countess took from her cabinet some papers, and carried them to him. ens!” he cried, " do I dream? They are the very bills I

lost to the young noble.”

“They are.”

"And where is he?"

“Heav

"He stands here before you. By connivance, my Lord, I won your money, lest another should play upon your weakness; I won it for your good, and now restore it for your honor."

The iron band about his forehead was loosed; his word was not forfeit, his scutcheon was not stained beyond the reach of repentance; and bowing his head upon her shoulder, the Lord Ossory wept. From that. day forth he stood unimpeached of the vice of gambling, before God and man.

DORA MCCRAE:

AN INCIDENT OF ST. CLAIR'S DEFEAT.

THE gathering of St. Clair's army occupied nearly the whole spring and summer of 1791. Among those who centred, somewhat unwillingly, around his standard, were the militia of Kentucky; and among the active men who composed that corps, no one was more unwilling than John McCrae.

John's father was an old settler, and had been out with Clark more than once. He had " a thirst for hair," as they say on the road to California. He would have John go to the wars, especially since his friend, Colonel Hardin, had been worsted in his Indian fights under Harmar. But John had no love of Indians and no love of war, and when the old man, with his kindling Irish eye, put into his son's hand the hunting-knife with which many a deer, bear, panther, and more than one 66 human,” had been bled to death, the son's own blood ran cold.

"Give it to the varmints," said the white-haired hunter, "and come back here without a scalp on your head, or with many under your belt, or you 'll taste a kiss of my old rifle, my boy."

The Kentuckians all went to the contest unwillingly, because regulars were to be with them, and regular officers

were to command them; but John McCrae was backward, because in his soul he was an arrant coward. But his father was more terrible than Mechecunnaqua,* and John went to the wars. The old man had as much of a suspicion that his son was a coward, as such a man could have. But the truth was known to only one being, Dora McCrae, John's twin-sister. Each was the fac-simile of the other. In size, complexion, features, movement, even voice, few could distinguish the two urchins that played in the sugar-troughs, and pounded the hominy together. John was tinged, to his tones even, with effeminacy; Dora, though free from all coarseness, was tall, active, daring, and possessed a voice which, ringing through the clear woods of Fayette, might have puzzled an old pagan to tell whether it was Diana or Apollo he listened to. But, alike as they were externally, within John and Dora differed widely. She had no knowledge of fear till the woman's dread of insult and wrong slowly quickened in her soul. The beasts of prey wolves, cougars, bears had no terror for her childhood; and many a time had she gone fearless into the forest to learn the meaning of some strange cry, while John cowered in the cornfield.

When John was to leave for Fort Washington, Dora, perfectly understanding his dread of the work before him, made up her mind to go with him. She had cousins in the little village of Cincinnati, and obtained her parents' leave to go and visit them while John was preparing for his northward march under St. Clair. She knew that her strong affection for her brother was fully returned by him, and trusted her presence and influence would keep him true to his duty.

They reached the little, marshy town; John reported himself to the proper officer, and, until the movement of September 17th, when the army was got under way for the Miami station, now Hamilton, all went well, and Dora's

*Little Turtle.

throbbing heart grew every day more calm. On the morning of that day she rose early, and went to her brother's room, to bid him farewell, it might be for ever. She knocked, no answer; louder, there was no reply.; she spoke, no sound followed but the snore of the sleepers below. She went into the room; the bed was empty, the window open, the clothes of the late occupant scattered here and there. The dress he had worn on duty lay on the floor. The truth instantly flashed across the mind of the agitated girl, "He has deserted!"

For a while, contempt for him, love for him, dread of her father's anger, sorrow for the deadly grief of the old veteran, were mingled in her mind. She saw the gray Indian fighter as he sat at his cabin-door in the early autumn sun, and counted the victims of his son's rifle and knife; again she saw him, as some neighbour, cruel with news, came in and told him of that son's desertion. She shuddered at the look of incredulous horror as it crept over and froze that beaming, scarred countenance; she heard his cry of agony, of vengeance, as he realized the terrible truth, that the son of a McCrae was a coward.

With that swelling from the heart which chokes the throat, and runs over in the wet, but unweeping eyes, she gathered her soul's energies, and saw her way suddenly, but dimly, as the pilot sees the circling Ohio when the morning mist lifts like a curtain.

Often in early youth the twins were at the time we write of but eighteen — she had changed dresses with her brother to make sport among the neighbouring cabins, a few miles south, on the Elkhorn. At this moment, filled with mingled emotions, in which love for the fugitive, the pride of the race of McCrae, and womanly diffidence prevailed, she determined to clothe herself with his hunting-shirt and leggings, to take his place in the ranks, to save his reputation from the slanderer, and, if she lived, to hide the truth from all but the brother she had saved.