sense the same thing, and if an exemption from external influences may be called peace, I enjoyed it for six years after my interview with Bromley and his daughter. What I had promised to do for them was done, and done promptly. I settled an annuity upon them, which was continued to Mrs. Steiner after the death of her father, and I sent the boy to a boardingschool in the vicinity of London, intending to realise for him the prospects which had been designed for me by my early protector, Mr. Ward. The world finds it very difficult in many cases to draw the line, and in some even to distinguish, between crime and misfortune. I am about to enter upon a circumstance in my life which chiefly partakes of the latter. I cannot bring myself to think otherwise. But it will be necessary to state in a few words how matters stood when this cir. cumstance occurred. I had been living for the space of six years a secluded and an inoffensive life. I occupied a small detached house at Chelsea, and resided alone; the woman who attended upon me coming every morning, and returning to her own home at night. The boy spent the chief portion of his holidays with me; but at other times, with the exception of an occasional visit to and from Mrs. Steiner, I neither went to see nor received into my house any human being. I had no friends. My early attachment for the boy had been renewed, and he returned my affection. He was now thirteen years of age; and, at the time of which I am about to speak, at school. CHAPTER V. I had been expecting a letter from Mrs. Steiner, which she had promised to send me in the evening. It was a letter for her son, to which I wished to add a few lines. It was growing late; my servant had left me, and I was about to retire to bed, when a knock summoned me to the door. Late as it was I concluded that some person had brought the letter. On opening the door a tall, muscular man, with a fur cap on his head, and enveloped in a rough great coat, stood before me. "Is Mr. Gibson within ?" he inquired. "He is my name is Gibson." "You don't remember me, I perceive," said the man. "I do not." "Ay!" he continued; "times are changed since we last met: with you for the better; for the worse with me. My name is Steiner." I stept back in astonishment. "You won't know me now, I suppose?" resumed Steiner, "and I believe you have no reason to care much about me; but I have suffer. ed misfortunes since then." This was spoken in a tone of humility, which almost affected me. "Nay, Steiner," said I, "I have long ago forgotten and forgiven the past," "Have you?" he replied quickly. "Mr. Gibson, you have a good heart, and I always thought so; though I did'nt always act as if I thought But, won't you let me step in? I have a favor to beg of you; and I won't detain you long." So. I led the way into the parlor, and he sat down. As he took off his cap, and threw back his great-coat, I at once recognised my old enemy. Time had contributed his usual share to the alteration I detected in him; but sordid wants, and recourse to miserable shifts and expedients, will breed care, even in the most callous bosom; and its effects were observable upon his face. He looked ill, also, and exhausted. Will you not take some refreshment?" I said: "you appear faint." "I am so," he replied. "You are very kind. I will take something. I have not touched a morsel to-day." I went down stairs, and procured what the pantry contained; which I laid before him. "You had better take some wine," I said, placing it upon the table. I watched him in silence as he despatched his meal, wondering inwardly how he had obtained a clue to my place of abode, and what request he was about to make to me. He thrust the tray from him, and helped himself to a glass of wine, which was presently followed by another. "You seem to have a pleasant place here, Gibson," said he. "Well, this is a strange world! Who could have supposed fifteen years ago that you and I would have been situated as we are now;— but you don't drink.” I took a glass of wine. vors upon me," said I; "Ah! well; I'm glad of it!" he cried, interrupting me, of it; you deserve it. Here's your health, old boy!" "It has pleased fortune to bestow her fa but, after all, fortune "I'm glad I was somewhat startled at this sudden familiarity. I had never admired Steiner in his gayer mood, especially when it had been induced by drink. I knew it of old as the prelude to an ebullition of a totally opposite nature. 66 Will you let me know how I can be of service to you, Mr. Steiner," I said abruptly; "it is growing late." "So late? not so very late!" returned Steiner. Why, the truth is, I am poor, very poor, and I want money!" "You are in want, you say? Well, I can, perhaps, "Perhaps!" said he. "Certainly, I should think. Come, more wine: I see you have some on the sideboard." "Another glass," I answered, producing with reluctance a second bottle, "and we part. Do you mean to say, sir, you are in positive distress?" "I do," he returned; "I have nothing left in the world,-nothing? Yes, this. Do you remember it?" and he produced from his pocket a dagger, the sheath of which was curiously chased, and which had ornamented Bromley's shop from my earliest remembrance. "I have kept it by me for years," he continued, "in case it might be wanted." He threw it upon the table, and seized the decanter. I could see in his eye at that moment the man I had lost sight of for years; the man who had threatened me when I last saw him. But I had no wish to quarrel with him. 'Have you seen Mrs. Steiner since your return to England?" I inquired. "No. I have not seen Mrs. Steiner since my return to England," said he. "I called at my former lodgings, and they informed me of everything. They told me where I might find you, and I preferred calling upon you first." 66 Well, Steiner," said I, rising, "I am sorry to hasten you, but it grows very late." "Ha! ha!" cried he, not heeding me; "I hear you have done something for the boy, and provided for Louisa. Well, it's generous of you; I will say that. She's altered, eh! not quite so handsome? But you always liked her, you dog! I knew that." I sat down, in utter and mute surprise at the man's baseness. "And old Bromley 's gone too," he resumed. "Well, we must all go! The law of nature they call it." "I must beg you to defer your business till to-morrow morning," said I in disgust. "I will not be kept up any longer!" "No, no," returned he decisively; "I can't do that. If Bromley could have deferred his death till to-morrow he would have done so, I dare say; but he couldn't. I can't defer my business!" "What do you want?" said I peremptorily. Money!" answered Steiner. "Come, Gibson; I know you're a good-natured fellow. I want a hundred pounds." "A hundred pounds!" and I drew back in surprise. "No nonsense, my gentleman!" cried Steiner, tapping the table with the hilt of the dagger. "You know, and I know that you set fire to that house in Wardour-street. You ruined us. You reduced us to beggary. I must have this money !—I must-must!" The old feeling entered into me which I had years ago encouraged, and by whose power I had successfully wrought out my vengeance. "Must ?" said I; "must, Mr. Steiner? that is a word I never obeyed in my life!" "Time you began!" said Steiner with a sneer. "Come, Gibson, you are no match for me; you know it. You tried me once, and you were wanting. You are alone in the house. I have you in my power!" "What do you mean?" said I, but I was not alarmed. you purpose?" "This!" cried he, and he unsheathed the dagger. "What do "Your life," said I promptly, "your life, Steiner, will answer it!" "What is it to me?" he returned. "What is yours to you is the question! Will you let me have the money?" "No!" "You will not?" "No!" I thundered. "Steiner, I shall sell my life dearly! Never shall a beast like yourself extort money from me by force-by intimidation !" I said more, but I know not what; and grappled with him. He was a powerful man, but had become enervated by excess. I learnt that afterwards. And the wine he had taken, although it had stimulated his brutal nature, had deprived him of that advantage which is derived from quickness of eye and directness of aim. I, too, had grown stronger since we were last opposed to each other. He had wounded me in the arm before I closed with him, and wrested the dagger from his hand. The struggle was then short, compressed, and deadly. We fell to the earth together. Steiner's hold upon me seemed to relax,-a faintness overcame me, the room appeared to go round rapidly, and I sank into insensibility. When I recovered my senses, and arose,-which I did with difficulty, I found the candles burnt out, and the daylight streaming through the shutters. Why was I here? What had happened? It was a hideous dream! I made an effort to approach the window, but I stumbled over something on the floor. It was Steiner,-the lifeless body,-the corpse of Steiner! I had killed him! His neckcloth told me that I had strangled him! THE DYING CHILD. "SHALL I meet thee again, my child--my child? Roaming along by the hill side free; In the evening sunbeam mild? Oh! down by the flood, in the tufted wood, "Mother, no; the mountain path No longer is mine to see; And the glow of the summer sunbeam hath Oh! never again by cliff or glen "And shall I not meet thee again, my child, Where the holly berries all red and bright, Where the nested bird in its joy is heard, "Mother, no; the young bird's song No longer is mine to hear; And the music stream as it rolls along And the crimson bough of the holly now Must blossom over my bier!" "Thou goest to Heaven, my child, my child! And thine eye is glazed while the spring soft Thy cherub lips have smiled; And already they weep o'er thy dreamless sleep, But, oh! when the bosoms of all forget, And the hearth rings again with glee, Then, then, will mine aching lids be wet, My gallant child, for thee! When summer with flowers and fruits shall come, And all are in mirth and joy; Oh! then, in the midst of the fair earth's bloom, M. F. D. THE CUISINE MAIGRE. THERE are in the beautiful cabinet of Monsieur Schamps at Ghent two pictures by Jean Stein, one of those masters whose works show not only that he was a humorist, but a close observer of mankind. His favorite studies were the lowest beings in the scale of existence, and his subjects generally taken from the guingelte or the cabaret. His boors have a character of their own, and show in every feature the consequences of habitual debauchery and obscenity. He is no great colorist, like most of the Dutch or Flemish school, and seems to have cared little about the finish or minutia of his art. His principal aim and accomplishment being effect, and truth to nature; plain, unadulterated, disgusting, degraded nature, without caricature or exaggeration; struck off at once, and left as struck off. As a moralist he sometimes reminds us of our Hogarth; and to me one of his interiors, with their hard-outlined figures, sketches as they are, is worth more than the mellowest Ostade, or a Teniers with all its silveriness. But to return to the pictures of which I am speaking. They are called in the catalogue, "The Cuisine gros," and "The Cuisine maigre." It is to the latter only I mean to confine my remarks. Such was the impression it made on me, that I seem not only to have it before my eyes, but to have been present at the spot whence it was taken. In a dilapidated grenier, with a raftered roof, is a scene such as we have only to go to Manchester, or one of our manufacturing towns to parallel. All the furniture the room contains is some wooden benches and a table. Over this table leans, at the further extremity, an emaciated tall woman, whose age it would be difficult to determine,-for misery has no age, the wretched mother of a numerous wretched offspring. She has just been attempting to suckle an infant; but, from the appearance of her breasts, which hang down like the dugs of some wild forest beast, and the face of the child, who is evidently crying for food, attempting it in vain. The husband, seated on the bench, a man of forty, in squalidness and rags, matches well with his helpmate. His countenance expresses none of the deformity of vice, or emaciation of drunkenness, usually seen in Jean Stein's pictures; but is marked by the griping hand of penury and destitution. We may trace in his fine, manly form and features that he has seen better days; that he has been reduced to what he is, by the pressure of circumstances, by the force of some overwhelming destiny, rather than by extravagance or dissipation. It is no temporary misfortune that has fallen upon him; but for years and years he has been familiar with every extreme of human ill,-with cold, nakedness, hunger, and degradation. The woman has just handed to him, in an earthen vessel, a dish of muscles; which he is sharing among the half-famished group that en circle him. These faces bear a strong resemblance to his, and are, as it were, |