drawn up in front of the entrance, but among the crowd of guests and servants the eager eye of Don Manuel could see no traces either of his wife or of her companion.

66 Tell me, fellow," exclaimed the Count to a servant who stood near, "have you seen two dominos,—a scarlet and one of blue,— leave this place a moment ago?"

"Not I, senor," answered the man, insolently."

66

'I am the Count of Alcanza, and, by St. Andrew, if you do not tell me which way they have gone, scoundrel," thundered the furious Don," you shall not live to—”

"I saw them, Eccelanza, " exclaimed another servant, pressing forward; "they entered a carriage with a red shield on the panels, which immediately drove off at full speed towards the Monastery of St. Theresa. "

"Holy Virgin!" groaned the Count, on receiving this startling intelligence, and then added, impatiently, "My horse, my horse, bring me my horse!"

A servant of the Count was quickly summoned from the crowd, leading two horses. In an instant Don Manuel had sprung into the saddle, and calling to his servant to follow, set off at full speed in the direction indicated by the attendant. On through the silent streets, and out on to the white country road went the Count of Alcanza; the lights of Cadiz were left behind, and trees and pasture lands skirted the road. The moon shone brilliantly, and the trees and surrounding objects were clearly reflected in the clear white light, in which the shadows of Don Manuel and his steed looked like some mighty giants flying on the wings of the wind. The Count's servant was soon left far behind, for his horse was unable to keep pace with the fiery, black Andalusian which bore his master forward with headlong speed. Two or three miles were past, and then the Count beheld a carriage before him, toiling slowly up a steep hill. "Now, by St. Nicholas, I have them!" exclaimed the Count, as he urged on his black steed with voice and spur.

The carriage had now almost reached the Monastery of St. Theresa; the pale moonlight flooded the ancient walls of the Monastery, and played with uncertain light over the dark ivy which mantled the building, while a deep-toned bell sounded mournfully in the still night air, calling the monks to some nocturnal orison. It was a scene of calm and holy serenity, but it passed unnoticed by the Count of Alcanza, who, rendered even more furious by his rapid

ride, now approached the carriage with many a deep and savage execration. The carriage stopped, and a little white hand was put forth and opened the door; and the next moment the Countess descended, followed by her companion, still wrapped in his scarlet domino.

Another moment passed, and Alcanza had reached the spot;` flinging himself from his panting horse, the Count strode forward, his right hand buried beneath his mantle.

"Now, Don Manuel," exclaimed the Countess, in an agitated voice, "your doubts shall be satisfied.”

They shall, false woman!" was the fierce answer, and without a moment's hesitation he drew a dagger from its concealment, and buried it in the breast of the Countess's companion.

"Holy Virgin! what have you done!" screamed the unfortunate lady.

แ Done !" echoed her husband, "why I have slain—”

"MY BROTHER!" cried the Countess, who sank weeping by the side of the fallen Juan.

Don Manuel of Alcanza stood stupified with astonishment, and then, as if doubting the truth of his wife's assertion, he knelt down and drew the mask from his victim's face. It was too true; the light brown hair and handsome face, now pale in death, were those of his wife's only brother, and now that it was too late, he understood the scheme planned to relieve his doubts, and prove his suspicions groundless. Don Juan lay dead before him, and his wife had fainted with her head on the blood-stained domino of her brother; still the Count stirred not, nor thought of escape. In a few moments it was too late; the postillions of the carriage returned, and understanding the state of affairs, at once seized the unresisting Count, and secured him in the carriage. Assistance was after some time obtained; the murdered man was conveyed to the Monastery, and the Countess, partially recovered from her swoon, was removed to a neighbouring cottage.

Don Manuel of Alcanza was imprisoned, but never appeared for trial; he was found dead in his solitary prison cell, but whether from poison, or the agony of his own troubled mind, none ever knew. Many years afterwards a Convent stood near the old Monastery of St. Theresa: but few of her former friends could recognise in the gentle melancholy Abbess, the once lovely Countess whom men had called the "White Rose of Cadiz."

Early Roses.

'Tis sweet when Winter's gloom is past
To hail the smiling Spring;
When Nature flings her robe of light
On every living thing.

I leant against the window sill,
One rosy morn in May,

When dewdrops hung in fetters bright
Around each leafy spray.

I listened to the merry birds,

That lightly soared on high,
Making sweet music as they spread
Their bright wings to the sky.

Who can be sad when all is fair,
With vernal sweetness crowned;
Or who can sigh when strains of mirth
Are floating gaily round?

To fill our hearts with joy and love,
The blessèd Spring-time came,
I paused-I heard a step below,
And some one called my name.

I listened: 'twas my Father's voice,
I knew the loving tone;
For other tones than love to me
That voice has never known.

I hastened swiftly down the stair,
And there I saw him stand,
A loving smile upon his lips,
A white rose in his hand.

"It is the first, my love," he said,
"All bright with early dew,
I saw it blooming on the tree,
And gathered it for you."

And as he placed it in my hand

I felt my bosom swell;

While on its pure and fragrant leaves,

Another dewdrop fell.

O! fervent was the love that brought
That first white rose to me,

And as the days passed sweetly on,
The first from every tree;

The monthly rose, that stays in bloom
When summer days are o'er;

The deep red rose, the yellow rose,
And the sweet rose d'amour.

And dearly did I love those flowers,
And watched them day by day;
Until like all the flowers of Earth
They drooped and fell away!

Sadly I saw my roses fade,
And with a tender sigh
I gathered up the scented leaves,
And gently laid them by.

I would not lose one withered leaf
Of those once cherished flowers;
For to my heart in after years

They'll speak of bygone hours.

As time rolls on-and when I find
Another home on Earth;
They'll whisper of the early days
Of innocence and mirth.

Wherever in life's busy scenes
My weary feet may roam,

They'll whisper of a Father's love,

And the pure joys of home.

When the dear hand that gathered them

May gather flowers no more;

When freed from Earth, those feet have pressed
The Everlasting Shore;

They'll whisper of that sunny Home

Within the fadeless Land,

Where blossoms of immortal bloom
Adorn the Golden Strand!

Where streams of rich unfailing joy
Flow from their Source Divine,
And deeper love than Earth can know
Around our hearts shall twine!

But many Summer suns will set,
And many roses bloom,
Before the form I love so well
Is laid beneath the tomb.

Yes, many fair and blushing flowers
Will deck each fragrant tree,

But the first bright flowers of Summer
Will always be for me!

And should my soul be called away

Before the roses bloom,

The same dear hand would gather them,

To place upon my tomb!

SALOME.

GG

ABOUT GOING TO CHURCH.

"Be you a going to preach to-day, Sir ?"

"No, I am not, John."

"I be sorry for that, Sir."

I am not sure, but I do not think John was at Church that morning.

This is a question which parsons are continually asked; which laymen on a Sunday morning are ever asking themselves “ Who preaches this morning?" It is always "Who preaches ?" never "Who says Prayers" to-day? and yet the Church, doubtless, is a praying, not a preaching Church. This is quite as evident in a village as in a town population; I am not sure that it is not even more so; but it is in a great measure the fault of the Church herself; she has of late years taught her children to look more at the sermon than at the Prayers; and in doing so has defeated her own object. A discourse now is not listened to as a lesson of teaching from which benefit may be derived, but this man's words are pitted against that one's, that parson's voice against this one's; and the hearers pick to pieces each little sentence, and criticise each longer than ordinary word. And this, too, not because they have more learning than the preacher; nor because they know their Bible better than their parson, but from a consciousness of their power as a congregation to say what they like of their teacher; from ignorance, too, some obvious truth, perhaps a quotation from the Bible, is often turned into a ridicule. I was once preaching on the sinfulness of waste of time, and I quoted the passage-"In the morning, would God it were even, and at even, would God it were morning." A worthy in the congregation, one who ought to have known better, was heard to say that the parson must be tired enough of his own time to make such a sentence as that. The sermon really does not make much impression, however good, on many; they think it is the thing to go and hear it, so that when they are asked if they heard Mr. Yellow this morning, or Mr. Fudge last Sunday, they may be able to say yes, just as they would if they were asked something about the last new play, or some celebrated singer. It is men like these, who, possessing a good voice and earnest delivery, throw themselves wholly into it, make it the special object of their ministry, (it is not exhortation, it is not teaching,) and let Prayer take a minor place under it; these are the men who make preaching everything and Prayer nothing; who make " Church going" anything in the present day but what it should be.

And one may ask the question," What do you go to Church for ?" It is not hard to guess at the answer. You may suppose that it