but nevertheless obeys gruffly, turning with a loud call, "Hallo, you gall!"

Look at those eyes. The frightened fawn has imparted their intensity and timidity, but the lioness flashes through them now. The color kindles in the insulted cheek. The maiden turns and looks at the menial. He is cowed by the glance. The girl is poorly clad, and little better than a beggar, and he displays the buff and green, the white kids and heraldic buttons, yet Pwetah droops his head. One glance of a human eye, with sorrow and love and genius, with all the unfathomed soul gazing through it, is the only answer that dull and earthy natures ever should receive. The theory of the materialist perishes in their consuming fire like paper in a blaze.

Charity is standing at a little distance, hushing down, with musical, tender voice, the half-crazed Indian's drunken rage. The negro takes off his hat unconsciously, and recovers himself to say, with a polite bow, "Miss, Massa Prout would have the honor of addressing you. He is in the carriage."

There are heads painted by Titian, which one even now may see in ducal galleries, of those highly-colored Venetian women, who, beautiful in youth, exhibit, as age creeps on, a parchment-hue, seamed with scores of wrinkles, in each a strong passion leaving its memorial. Frame this face of Neeshema in quaint old carvings; let a sombre back ground replace this brilliant, almost Venetian sky, and one might imagine that he beheld an original of the master. Slowly have years, full of trouble, full of heart-wreck, and then of reason almost lost in wild anarchy, obliterated from the face the lineaments originally painted there by that Infinite Artist whose pictures are the earth and the heavens and the human soul. But still there is a something left which betrays through all this waste and ruin, that God's handiwork was here. The blood of a hundred generations of

wise and valiant Sachems, of chiefs foremost in battle, and around the council fire most sage, slowly stagnates to its last decay, yet still the old eye is keen to detect the workings of a high nature as it confronts a servile mind, and Neeshema mutters as the maiden turns toward the carriage of the Ambassador, "Ugh, she scare de nigger. Wonder what Big Pumpkin wants wid de wild rose. He be civil, or she scare him too."

Big Pumpkin is civil, and yet, having given way to his impulse, is at a loss what to say next. As the shy, graceful one approaches, and the cheeks flushed with rich color, and the long eye lashes that conceal those melancholy eyes, and the high brow carved as if from some classic statue, meet his gaze, the old man's heart is touched. Does he remember a little daughter of his own, who died years ago about that age? Does he remember how her eyes grew deep and beamy, her cheek bright with unearthly crimson, her voice as if it were mingled with chimes and echoes of another land; and then that last hour when she seemed less to die than to glide into rare silence, and so become more beautiful in the halls of memory than when her earthly charms were in their earliest, unwithered prime? Does he remember? Roused from languor as the interest grows more deep, the heart more active, his manner is also deferential. "Miss;" he goes thus far and then pauses as if for the word; but something in the accent, the gesture, vibrates upon the sensitive memory of the lonely girl; the mild eyes overbrim with tears.

These grave and dignified old gentlemen, who can smile, with a good-humored jest, to find themselves denounced in the newspapers, and who never dine the less heartily for being styled Aristocrats and Catalines and plunderers of the public by opposition orators, melt sometimes at a little tear. The Ambassador's pet grandchild pouts with her red lips, and dissolves a twinkling diamond in the corner of her

eye, and grandpapa buys that pacing poney before Fairy has time to form a new wish or forget the last one. But these tears are of a deeper spring, salt drops from a wild, breaking ocean of sorrow within the breast.

"Come, come," murmurs this patriarch of Prouts, "let me provide for you, my child. It is better to share in the kindness of those who will gladly help you than to wander with these savage folks. You are not theirs by birth. It is wiser to be at school than to pass the time in weaving baskets."

The sentiment of duty, of duty to others, is the granite rock on which all nobleness is built. Very sweet to Charity was this proffered kindness. An English home, whence she had been spirited by the gipsy outlaw, shone out once more, a clear picture. John, the coachman, bluff and genial in all his British manliness; Molly with her cheery look and beamy, blushing face; the grave and quiet Matron, Mrs. Portman; and, center and queen of this group, Marian herself, the beautiful protectress; the fire in the grate and tabby on the hearth rug; books with gaily colored landscapes where lovely ladies and stately gentlemen and happy children seemed to move like angels in some golden paradise; the sweet words, the gentle kisses and the tender, sacred prayers, they all came forth. At one wave of that starry wand, Memory, the enchantress, transported the dreamer to the one blessed place of rest in her young life's dreary journey. Then come the thought, Oh, joy! once again to find the wonder-land of books; the love-land of caressing words and precious smiles; and Oh! more aweinspiring than books, more comforting than the kisses that make the young heart glad, to be taught by holy men and women, learned in the high mysteries of the Book which contains revelations of the One Friend who never, never had failed to soothe, when sorrow was the wildest and grief the stormiest,-deep felt in the heart of hearts.

But the young girl was firm. No! Duty to others before happiness to herself! When adopted into this rude Indian family, had she not made a vow within her own breast, to repay kindness with kindness? Had not Neeshema already began to wean herself from the habit which was wrecking reason and rapidly destroying life? Was not the aged squaw almost abandoned by her half breed son, and unable, without the slender assistance that she might afford, to eke out a supply for her simple wants. Had not the old Indian, when she first went among them, overtasked and heart-heavy, tenderly cared for her with cunningly administered simples, waking to watch by night, and supporting her feeble steps by day? Leave Neeshema! And now the young soul was firm as if the spirit of a hero lived within the breast. No! The Indian mother should not be deserted in her old age.

Wearily, the Ambassador, when other amusements fail, yawns over the highly wrought romances that call to him "Come read me" from the library shelves. To him they are but "stuff," and "only fit for girls." But this touch of nature kindles a latent fire that has smoldered while years and honors have gathered about him.

Pwetah, at a respectful distance, holding the impatient horses, looks and wonders at the colloquy. Ancestor Pompey would have comprehended it at a glance, but the coachman sees in it a subject only for blind wonder and a bit of gossip in the kitchen on his return. The fire which the good genius has fanned in the bosom of this pampered son of fortune flashes up now into a bright blaze. He bethinks of a cottage on the estate, once occupied by a tenant, and bordering on a clump of ancient woodland, the very gem for picturesque beauty of his domains. This he will furnish and make comfortable. Here Neeshema shall have a home, their slender wants amply provided for. Early in the ensuing week this brave and noble girl, whom

his heart yearns toward, shall find herself well clad and with the three worlds which her spirit hungers after opening their charmed dominions; the world of literature, the world of kindness, and, greater than all, the world that dawns through the book that came from heaven, the world that shall survive when earth's huge empires are but a bubble that the wave has washed away. Simple as was this act of kindness, old man, yet, when the Prouts of Belfont are forgotten, it may stand in your favor written in the archives of that other country, where history never lies.