[Footnote 3:  Page 188, English ed.]

[Footnote 4:  In American Journal of Science, July, 1860, pp. 148, 149.]

[Footnote 5:  In Contributions to the Nat.  Hist. of U. S., Vol. i. pp. 128, 129.]

[Footnote 6:  Contr.  Nat.  Hist.  U.S., Vol. i. p. 130; and Amer.  Journal of Science, July, 1860, p. 143.]

[Footnote 7:  North American Review, for April, 1860, p. 506.]

[Footnote 8:  Vide mottoes to the second edition of Darwin’s work.]

[Footnote 9:  North American Review, l.c. p. 504.]

[Footnote 10:  North American Review, l.c. p. 487, et passim.]

[Footnote 11:  In American Journal of Science, July, 1860, p. 143.]

[Footnote 12:  Vide article by Mr. C. Wright, in the Mathematical Monthly for May last.]

[Footnote 13:  Vide Edinburgh Review for January, 1860, article on “Acclimatization,” etc.]

[Footnote 14:  Contributions; Essay on Classification, etc., Vol. i. pp. 60-66.]

[Footnote 15:  North Amer.  Review, April, 1860, p. 475.]

[Footnote 16:  Amer.  Journal of Science, July, 1860, p. 146.]

* * * * *

A MODERN CINDERELLA: 

OR, THE LITTLE OLD SHOE.

HOW IT WAS LOST.

Among green New England hills stood an ancient house, many-gabled, mossy-roofed, and quaintly built, but picturesque and pleasant to the eye; for a brook ran babbling through the orchard that encompassed it about, a garden-plot stretched upward to the whispering birches on the slope, and patriarchal elms stood sentinel upon the lawn, as they had stood almost a century ago, when the Revolution rolled that way and found them young.

One summer morning, when the air was full of country sounds, of mowers in the meadow, blackbirds by the brook, and the low of kine upon the hill-side, the old house wore its cheeriest aspect, and a certain humble history began.

“Nan!”

“Yes, Di.”

And a head, brown-locked, blue-eyed, soft-featured, looked in at the open door in answer to the call.

“Just bring me the third volume of ’Wilhelm Meister,’—­there’s a dear.  It’s hardly worth while to rouse such a restless ghost as I, when I’m once fairly laid.”

As she spoke, Di pushed up her black braids, thumped the pillow of the couch where she was lying, and with eager eyes went down the last page of her book.

“Nan!”

“Yes, Laura,” replied the girl, coming back with the third volume for the literary cormorant, who took it with a nod, still too intent upon the “Confessions of a Fair Saint” to remember the failings of a certain plain sinner.

“Don’t forget the Italian cream for dinner.  I depend upon it; for it’s the only thing fit for me this hot weather.”