series of those inactive Sultans, in whose dubious character we may trace one main cause of the decay of the Ottoman fortunes.”  Solyman’s hatred of his able son was a good thing for Christendom; for, if Mustapha had lived, and become Sultan, the War of Cyprus—­that contest in which occurred the Battle of Lepanto—­might have Lad a different termination, and the Osmanlis have been successful invaders of both Spain and Italy.  It was a most fortunate circumstance for Europe, that, while it was engaged in carrying on civil wars and wars of religion, the Turks should have had for their chiefs men incapable of carrying on that work of war and conquest through which alone it was possible for those Mussulmans to maintain their position in Europe; and that they were thus favored was owing to the causeless jealousy felt by Sultan Solyman for the son who most resembled himself:  and Solyman was the greatest of his line, which some say ended with him.

UNDER THE PEAR-TREE.

In two parts.

PART I.

CHAPTER I.

One Sunday morning, long ago, a girl stood in her bed-room, lingeringly occupied with the last touches of her toilet.

A string of beads, made of pure gold and as large as peas, lay before her.  They had been her mother’s,—­given to her when the distracted state of American currency made a wedding-present of the precious metal as welcome as it was valuable.  Three several times, under circumstances of great pecuniary urgency, had the beads sufficed, one by one, to restore the family to comfort,—­to pay the expenses of a journey, to buy seed-grain, and to make out the payment of a yoke of oxen.  Afterwards, when peace and plenty came to be housemates in the land, the gold beads were redeemed, and the necklace, dearer than ever, encircled the neck of the only daughter.

The only daughter took them up, and clasped them round her throat with a decisive snap.  But the crowning graces remained in the shape of two other ornaments that lay in a small China box.  It had a head on the cover, beautifully painted, of some queen,—­perhaps of the Empress Josephine, the girl thought.  The hat had great ostrich-feathers, that seemed proper to royalty, and it was a pretty face.

In the box lay a pin and ring.  On the back of the pin was braided hair, and letters curiously intertwined.  The young girl slipped the ring on her own finger once more, and smiled.  Then she took it off, with a sigh that had no pain in it, and looked at the name engraved inside,—­Dorcas fox.

Whoever saw this name in the town records would naturally image to himself the town tailoress or nurse, or somebody’s single sister who had been wise too long,—­somebody tall, a little bent, and bony,—­somebody weather-beaten and determined—­looking, with a sharp, shrewd glance of a gray eye that said you could not possibly get the better of her and so need not try,—­somebody who goes out unattended and fearless at night; for, as she very properly observes, “Who’d want to speak to me?”