But he was soon married, and with Helen Huntington, whose estates joined those of Bramble Park, he obtained a large fortune; but best of all, he took to his arms a sweet, intelligent and loving wife.  She with whom he had played in childhood amid these very scenes, she whom he had rescued upon the waters of the ocean, she who had loved and reformed him.

The end.

LA TARANTULA.

By Giddings H. Ballou.

It was scarce past the meridian of a warm ummer’s day, when from the inn of old Gaspar Varni, underneath the heights of Sorento, might have been heard the sound of viols, and the deep notes of the bassoon ringing clear from amidst the clash of merry voices.  Music and careless mirth, the never failing concomitants of an Italian holiday, were here in full ascendency; for the birthday of the portly host happening to fall on the anniversary of St. Geronimo, the yearly festival which served to celebrate the two in one, was a matter of no small interest to the villagers.  The dining room was filled almost to suffocation, and it were a matter admitting of doubt, whether the chagrined few who chanced by lateness of arrival, or other causes, to be excluded from seats at table, were not to be envied rather than pitied in the endurance of their deprivation.

Such a doubt, perhaps, was entertained by an individual dressed in a peasant’s frock and a slouched hat, who, pausing in the open doorway, regarded the mixed assembly with a half smile, not wanting a certain superciliousness which in other circumstances would have provoked instant observation.  Now, however, the full swing of common enjoyment rendered every one blind to what the looker-on took no trouble to conceal.  Nor did he at all lower his disdainful regard, when a veteran clad in a sort of military undress, arose from the opposite side of the tables, and waving a wine-cup in his hand, drew on himself the general attention.

“Comrades,” he said, “I give to you, Napoleon! my noble master, who, six years ago, delivered me with his own hand the shoulder-knot of a sergeant of the guard.  Napoleon!—­the soldier’s true friend, and the greatest man on earth.  Green be his memory forever!”

The words were scarce out of his mouth, when a youth, some twenty years of age, sprang up and hastily replied: 

“What right hast thou, Jean Maret, thus to celebrate in our midst, the praises of our tyrant?  Dost thou deem our spirits dead to all generous emotion?  A curse on the usurper who burned our country with fire, and poured out the blood of its children like water!  May just Heaven pour down indignation on his head!”

This speech produced an instant commotion.  Angry words were bandied back and forth, and bright steel already flashed in the light, when the sturdy voice of old Gaspar surmounted the din.

“What means this tumult?” he cried.  “Shall a few wine-warmed words thus set you all agog, my merry men?  Come, you forget yourselves in giving way to such causeless rage.  And thou, Gulielmo, leave thy saucy quips.  How darest thou thus spoil good cheer?”