Mr. Brim, the keeper of the tavern, silently conducted the new comers out by a back passage, and soon they were seen in the same path which Sir Charles had followed.

One of the men quietly opened the front door of the deacon’s home, and, entering, knocked upon the door of the dining-room.  A voice said, “Come in;” and he proceeded to do so.

In an instant, as if struck by an electric shock, the distinguished guest sprang from the table, and leaped through the open window, leaving his hat and cloak behind.  But the leap did not injure him, for he fell into the arms of a man who stood ready to embrace him; and, mystery on mystery, they placed hand-cuffs on his wrists!

Judge, if you can, of the astonishment and mortification of the deacon’s girls, when they were told that he who had been their guest was a bold highwayman, who had escaped from the penitentiary.

There was great ado in Greendale that afternoon and evening.  Those who had been unable to gain his attention said they knew all the time he was a rogue.  The young men’s society voted to sell the frame and destroy the printed speech; and the next Sabbath the good pastor preached about a roaring lion that went about seeking whom he might devour.

THE WAYSIDE DEATH.

Not many years since, an old man, who had for a longtime sat by the wayside depending upon the charity of those who passed by for his daily bread, died a few moments after receiving an ill-mannered reply to his request for alms.  Subsequent inquiries proved that he had been a soldier in the American Revolution.

    When Freedom’s call rang o’er the land,
        To bring its bold defenders nigh,
    Young Alfred took a foremost stand,
        Resolved to gain the day or die. 
    And well he fought, and won the trust;
        When the day’s conflicts had been braved,
    The foe’s proud ensigns lay in dust,
        While Freedom’s banner victor waved. 
    But now he is a poor old man,
        And they who with him, side by side,
    Fought bravely in that little van,
        Have left him, one by one,—­have died. 
    And now to no one can he tell,
        Though touched with patriot fire his tongue,
    The story of those days which well
        Deserve to be by freemen sung,
    And cherished long as life shall last;
        To childhood told, that it may know
    Who braved the storm when came the blast,
        And vanquished Freedom’s direst foe. 
    He sits there on the curb-stone now,
        That brave old man of years gone by;
    His head ’neath age and care would bow,
        But yet he raiseth it on high,
    And, stretching out his feeble hands,
        He asks a penny from man’s purse,
    Food for himself from off that land
        He fought to save.  Yet, but a curse
    Falls from their lips to greet