steps in that passage. Fly and leave me! They dare not harm me."

But Walter answered not, neither moved from her side. The room door was seen to open slowly, and a head popped in, then was as quickly withdrawn, and the door slammed to with a violence that echoed through the desolate building. The sound of voices and advancing footsteps was now distinctly heard along the passage.

"Follow me," said her lover, in a low voice. "They have not seen you as yet. I will take you safely home, and determine how to dispose of myself afterwards."

So saying, he advanced towards a closet in a corner of the room, and, opening the door, discovered a secret passage, into which he entered, followed by Alice, and as the door closed upon them, that of the room which they had just quitted was burst open, and their pursuers entered.

"Ha!" exclaimed the sergeant, "the bird has flown. Scoundrel! turning towards Sam, "have you deceived us? Remember your life pays the forfeit if you have."

Sam was evidently as much surprised as the others at the empty

room.

"My curse on him!" said the traitor. minutes ago. Examine that closet."

"He was here not five

Instantly the door of the closet was opened and the secret passage discovered, into which the whole party plunged in pursuit of the fugitive. The passage, after a few windings, led to the open air, and they found themselves in a deep ravine, the entrance to which at this end was effectually concealed by the house being built close against it, and being sufficient in size to shut it up. The rocks on each side rose perpendicularly to a great height, and were as smooth as the walls of a castle. The dark forest surrounded it on the three remaining sides, the high limbs of the trees meeting and intertwining across the mouth, through which the gloomy face of the midnight sky was scarcely visible, whilst the wind rumbled up this singular passage like peals of distant

thunder.

"Go on!" cried the sergeant; "the passage is narrow; no one can pass us. Three hundred pounds for the traitor!" "Which you will never get," said a voice close to him. "Who the devil's that?" cried Sergeant Johnson.

Every man looked about him, but so intense was the darkness that they could scarcely discern each other's forms. "I see something white before us,” cried one man. "Where?" said each of his comrades.

He pointed into the gloom, but nothing was to be seen.

"Curse your cowardly tongue!" roared their commander. "I'll cut it out of your head if you don't keep your ghosts to yourself." The fellow grumbled at this, and the party moved on in silence. At length they were brought to a stand by the termination of the valley. A rock as steep as those on each side now presented itself in front, and all search for any cave or outlet was unavailing. A council was held as to what was best to be done in such an emergency, when the sound of footsteps attracted the attention of all. It was evidently some one retreating rapidly down the

ravine.

"He has escaped us!" shouted the sergeant. "Fire! men, fire!"

The order was instantly obeyed, the gloomy darkness was dispelled for a second, and the balls rattled against the rocky sides of the valley. All was again silent. The party now began to retrace their steps as rapidly as the darkness and rough nature of the road would admit. As they approached the old house the sky had become clearer, and objects could be more distinctly seen in advance. Several of the party imagined that they could at times discern a white object before them, but before it could be pointed out it had disappeared.

At length they reached the house, but found the door through which they had entered the ravine firmly closed against them. They searched around for another outlet, but none was to be found.

"Beat in the door," cried the sergeant.

At the same time, seizing a fragment of rock, he hurled it with all his might against it. The privates followed his example, and a furious thundering was kept up for several minutes against the obnoxiour door. At length a voice from within called out, "Forbear." Silence immediately ensued.

"Who is it?" continued the stranger (for it was he who spoke) "who is it that thus offers violence to a wretched stranger?" "Open your door," cried the sergeant, "and then I shall speedily let you know that we have sufficient authority for what

we do."

"That I shall not do," replied the stranger. "My life is of but little value, but wretches and ruffians that ye are, another life" life

Here his voice was evidently choked with emotion.

"Will you admit us or not?" cried the impatient sergeant. "I come here by the authority of his most sacred majesty James II., our blessed monarch, against whom you have had the temerity to appear in arms with that traitor the Duke of Monmouth. I come

to arrest you. Surrender yourself peaceably, or your blood be upon your own head!"

"Never alive will I surrender to that bloody and bigoted tyrant, nor any of his hirelings, and were he here, I should tell him to his face that he will yet, ere he dies, be as houseless, homeless, and more wretched than I am at this moment. And you fellows beware, if you are not willing to depart from this place in peace, I will shoot the first that attempts to do so by other means.'

Then his voice was lost by the commencement of a second attack upon the door, which yielded in the course of a few minutes, and the passage was open. Stokoe dashed forward first; the flash and report of a pistol were heard close at the entrance, and the traitor fell shot through the head.

"Forward!" shouted the sergeant; and he rushed forward, but stumbling over the dead body of Stokoe he came to the ground, and as he fell a second bullet whistled over him and stretched the first follower lifeless; and ere their leader regained his feet, two more of his men had shared the same fate. He rushed into the cavern, firing both of his pistols at random, and calling upon his men to fire also; but there were none to obey, for the last of his followers had received his death-shot, and when the sergeant reached the room he found he was alone.

The room was dimly lighted by a lamp, and Johnson perceived that the floor was covered with blood. On turning his eyes in another direction he was startled at the sight of a young lady lying upon a rude couch, apparently dead. He snatched the lamp from the table, and went across the room to where she was lying. Yes, it was her 'twas all that was mortal of Alice Widdrington. A ball had evidently pierced her bosom, and death must have been instantaneous. Her long hair hung nearly to the floor, and her face was pale as marble; yet but for the blood that dyed her dress, she looked as though she slept. Alas! it was a sleep from which she would never awaken-her love and its anxieties were at an end. She and her lover had hidden in a recess of the rocks until the party passed them, and were retreating back when they were unfortunately overheard, and the firing took place one of the balls passed through her, and she never spoke afterwards.

"Ay, gaze at her," said a hoarse voice from behind Johnson; "is she not lovely, even in death?" He leaned over the couch and kissed her cold cheek. "My poor Alice! Oh, that my life had been sacrificed, instead of thine." And he groaned aloud in the agony of his feelings. "Look at her," he again cried, turning fiercely towards Johnson-"look at her, whom your murderous weapons have deprived of life. Go tell thy bloody master of the gallant deed."

He seized the lamp, and dashed it with violence at the sergeant, who nimbly avoided it, then drew his sword to defend himself from the fury of the maniac, for such he now appeared to be. But the sword was shivered to pieces in his hand by that of his antagonist, who, throwing his own aside, sprung upon him like a tiger, and grasped him by the throat, so tight that he felt suffocating, and struggled fearfully to free himself; but in vain. The fingers of his deadly foe felt sinking into his flesh. They were locked together in a tight embrace. The sergeant made one mighty effort; they fell together with great violence against a door, which was burst open by their united weight, and proving to be the entrance to a cellar or dungeon below, they were precipitated down a descent of more than fifty steps to the bottom. There was a gurgling cry and a deep groan, and they lay locked together in death!

As you pass the churchyard of, in Northumberland, you will see a grave, on which grows a bed of roses. It is that of Alice Widdrington; but no grave or monument marks the place where her unfortunate lover sleeps, save the mouldering ruins of the old house in Chesterholme. What connexion the spirit had with him is a secret that died with the "Haunted Man."

PANTOMIME NIGHT.

"If fairy tales were true." Why that sceptical inquiry? This is no matter for the discussion of your savans-no question for hypothesis. Fairy tales are true. If it hadn't been for my belief in fairies, instead of now sitting in a drawing-room, surrounded by every luxurious circumstance that wealth can procure me, I would probably be I am afraid even to speculate upon what I might have been. But the fairies adopted me. You shall hear about it. Ten years ago that is to say, when I was a little girl of eleven -I lived in Tavistock-street, Covent Garden. An old woman, ugly and ill-tempered, took care of me. We had three rooms in a great tumble-down house, and although I was never hungry, and although money was expended on my education, still I knew that we were poor. It seemed to me sometimes that my earliest reminiscences were sad, and my oldest memory tinged with melancholy; but at other times when I tried to look back and back into

the past-when my recollection shot beyond the edge of the Tavistock-street existence with its eight dull years-I fancied I had a glimpse of lofty rooms with fine furniture, beautiful paintings, rich, warm hangings, and servants moving respectfully and noiselessly about. By little and little I got the story of myself from the old woman with whom I lived. My father had been a publisher and bookseller, and we lived in Portman-square. I was his only child; my mother had died shortly after my birth. When I was three years old my father's bankruptcy and death occurred. The sale of his property more than satisfied the creditors, and the balance was devoted to my maintenance and education, Mrs. Turner, my father's housekeeper, being appointed by the trustees -not one of whom have I ever seen or received a kindness from— to take charge of me. Such are the commonplace materials of my early history.

Mine was a very cheerless life. I had no young companions, and never ventured out of the house save in the custody of my keeper, when she made excursions to the neighbouring market, or to her favourite public-house in Maiden-lane. Mr. Condy, my tutor, was a very mild and uninteresting character. Like myself, he had seen better days. He felt very much out of his element, and seemned ready at all times to apologise to the rest of humanity for his existence, as a circumstance over which he had no control. Mrs. Turner took every opportunity of making him feel his position (shall I ever forget the pompous air with which she counted out to him his weekly pittance?), and sometimes when his grey and straggling locks touched my bright golden clusters, as we bent over the same book, she would interpose some question about his "last situation," which caused the poor creature to blush and stammer, and sometimes prevented him from proceeding with the lesson at all.

I firmly believe that I should have perished miserably from ennui, or from want of sympathy, had it not been for the fairies. Among one or two things saved from the wreck of the Portmansquare establishment was a splendid collection of old ballads. They were broadsheets, pasted carefully on to thick paper and bound together, making an immense folio volume, with rich binding and heavy clasps. The ballads were all in black-letter, and each was embellished with a quaint woodcut. The difficulties of the printing I soon got over with the help of Mr. Condy, and the woodcuts I venerated above the most costly engravings from the most esteemed masters. Among these ballads (there were about five hundred in all) some half-dozen related to the fairies. I read and believed. I have devoured a good deal of poetry since I made those initial excursions into literature, but never any with half the