rare, after all, to find any two human beings cast in moulds that are at all similar. . . . But, at length, my Magda, I found thee; and in thee, to my great joy, a living image of our lost Louise. . . . Shall I tell thee the truth? I had little thought of love or marriage, at first. Thy father was poor; I was willing to sacrifice two-thirds of my fortune to the accomplishment of my scheme; with that intention I sought thee. . . . But when I came to know thee, my treasure—ah! then it was different. When I came to see thee in thy quiet home, to note thy tender modest graces, Love found me out and conquered me. I thought, if thou wouldst consent to be my wife, here was the true solution of the difficulty. . . . and whether that scheme succeeded or failed, in thee I should, at all events, find a joy and peace that had long been absent from my soul. It has been so—it is so, my darling! The good God has seen fit to take my mother—has not seen fit to bless my original scheme. But he will bless what has grown out of it, that I know.
"I thought it best to conceal the truth from thee. When I brought thee and left thee here alone, it could but have added to thy alarms at first to know of an insane woman's presence in this dreary place, and of the part thou wert called upon to play. Thou wouldst learn it all, naturally, in the course of a day or two; but by that time some change might have been wrought in her condition. Of course I felt dreadfully anxious, yet I knew there was no danger to be apprehended. . . . Hanne has told me everything. From her window, my poor mother saw thee alight, and her eye kindled as she watched thee. All the evening she was strangely agitated, as they had not known her to be for years. By-and-by, on the bridge, she again watched thee stealthily; but could not repress a scream when the mantle fell over the parapet—it looked (Hanne says) from the window like a body falling into the water! Her excitement increased as night advanced; yet it seemed as though she doubted, and would test thy identity before approaching thee openly. Instead of going to Louise's room, as usual, every evening, she waited till night was fully come, when she stole up (followed by Hanne), and stood behind the arras, watching thee until thou wert asleep. Then she came forth, and touched thy clothes—the clothes that had been Louise's—and approached the bed softly, and stood looking tenderly upon thee. It was strange, Hanne says, to see the working of her face, and hear her muttered words, until, bending lower and lower, she touched thee with her lips, and whispered 'Louise!'
"This was the crisis. . . . How it might have ended, God knows! but for thy natural terror, my poor child, which made thee spring from the bed and rush screaming towards the window.
"No doubt, in the 'horror of the moment, it seemed to her, poor soul! that the old tragedy was being re-enacted—the scene whereon her mind had dwelt for twenty years rose up before her, and the mainspring of life, long worn, suddenly snapped. With a great cry, she fell back upon the bed, and died, almost instantaneously, I believe. . . .
"Peace be with her! God's decrees are wise, and in denying our prayers, He sometimes grants to us a yet better thing for our consolation," said the young graf in conclusion, as he pressed his wife to his heart.
As the Crow Flies.
Due West.Taunton to Exeter.
The crow looking towards Exeter, turns a quick eye for a moment ere he rises from his last perch on St. Mary's tower, towards Norton Fitz-Warren on the Wolverton-road. On the hill side above the church there is an old earthwork with a ditch and two ramparts enclosing an area of thirteen acres. The local legend is that an enormous serpent, "the loathly worm" of the old ballads, once dwelt here and devastated the surrounding country. Its ravages are supposed to be portrayed in the carving of the wood screen in the adjoining church. Some say this place was once an old British town; there is a local distich:
When Taunton was a furzy down,
Norton was a market town.
It is in fact to Taunton what Old Sarum is to Salisbury—that is, grandfather. Perhaps some outlawed British chieftain of early days fortressed himself here, and tormented the neighbourhood by taking, unasked for, tithe and toll.
The crow glances also at North Curry, not far off, because North Curry is remarkable for being the only place that venerates the memory of that bad son, and infamous monarch, King John. Yet so strong is custom, and so indelible is the respect for the usurper at North Curry, that every Christmas John's "immortal memory" is drunk with all the honours. Let us hope that it was originally Saint John they toasted, and that the dinner only originated in a "church ale." The feast takes place at the Reeve's house, and the chief dish among the pastry is a huge mince pie, orna-
