Sure enough, it was a looking-glass, broken in its fall from an open window above.  But, lying by it in the deep snow, in his white nightshirt, was Hubert Monk.

When the chimes began to play, Hubert was not asleep.  Sitting up in bed, he disposed himself to listen.  After a bit they began to grow fainter; Hubert impatiently dashed to the window and threw it up to its full height as he jumped on the dressing-table, when in some unfortunate way he overbalanced himself, and pitched out on the terrace beneath, carrying the looking-glass with him.  The fall was not much, for his room was in one of the wings, the windows of which were low; but the boy had struck his head in falling, and there he had lain, insensible, on the terrace, one hand still clasping the looking-glass.

All the rosy wine-tint fading away to a sickly paleness on the Captain’s face, he looked down on his well-beloved son.  The boy was carried indoors to his room, reviving with the movement.

“Young bones are elastic,” pronounced Mr. Speck, when he had examined him; “and none of these are broken.  He will probably have a cold from the exposure; that’s about the worst.”

He seemed to have it already:  he was shivering from head to foot now, as he related the above particulars.  All the family had assembled round him, except Katherine.

“Where is Katherine?” suddenly inquired her father, noticing her absence.

“I cannot think where she is,” said Mrs. Carradyne.  “I have not seen her for an hour or two.  Eliza says she is not in her room; I sent her to see.  She is somewhere about, of course.”

“Go and look for your sister, Eliza.  Tell her to come here,” said Captain Monk.  But though Eliza went at once, her quest was useless.

Miss Katherine was not in the house:  Miss Katherine had made a moonlight flitting from it that evening with the Reverend Thomas Dancox.

You will hear more in the next paper.

JOHNNY LUDLOW.

A SONG.

    Blue eyes that laugh at early morn
      May weep ere close of day;
    And weeping is a thing of scorn
      To those whose hearts are gay. 
    Ah, simple souls, beware, beware! 
    Time’s finger changeth smile to care!

    Gold locks that glitter as the sun
      May sudden fade to grey;
    And who shall favour anyone
      Despoiled of bright array? 
    Ah, simple souls, beware of loss,
    Time’s finger changeth gold to dross!

    Good lack! we talk, yet all the same
      We throw our words away! 
    The smiles, the gold, the tears, the shame,
      Each tries them in his day. 
    And Time, with vengeful finger, makes
    Of fondest goods our chief mistakes!

G.B.  STUART.

MISS KATE MARSDEN.

In this practical age we are inclined to estimate people by the worth of what they do, and thus it happens that Miss Kate Marsden and her mission are creating an interest and genuine admiration in the hearts of the people such as few individuals or circumstances have power to call forth.