CYMBELINE.

Long, long ago, when Augustus Cæsar was emperor of Rome, and England was called Britain, there lived a king named Cymbeline.

This Cymbeline, when his good wife died, was left with three little children,-a beautiful daughter, Imogen, and two little baby boys. In some mysterious way, these little princes were stolen from their royal nursery. This was a terrible blow to the proud king. Every means possible was employed to recover the children; the kingdom was searched from limit to limit; couriers were sent in every direction; rewards were offered and threats were published; but no trace of the children was found.

As time went on, Cymbeline married a second time. This woman, who was a scheming, malicious person, proved a cruel step-mother to the fair Imogen. She had one son, Coten, to whom she was determined to

marry the young princess; for in that way she knew the royal power would still be in her own line even though Cymbeline should die.

"I hate Imogen," this selfish woman would say, "but I do not forget that it is she, not I, who would be queen if Cymbeline should die. As the wife of my son, she would still be under my control, and my position here at least would be secure."

Now it happened many years before the time of this story, that Cymbeline had had a very dear friend, a gertlemanly, scholarly man, who, when dying, had begged that Cymbeline would care for his little child and its young mother. Very soon the young mother died; then the little boy was taken to Cymbeline's court, and there brought up with Imogen in every way as if he was Cymbeline's own child. Imogen and the lad Posthumus played together, studied together under the same masters, and so grew up very fond of each other.

The Queen had never thought of such a thing as that Imogen and Posthumus would fall in love with each other, and so thwart her plans for Cloten. "Posthumus is a noble youth," she would often say, "but he has no wealth and no position. Imogen and Posthumus have been brought up together from babyhood. Cymbeline would never allow his daughter to look upon a nameless youth like Posthumus as a suitor."

But imagine the queen's anger, when one day, she

learned that Posthumus and Imogen, taking affairs into their own hands, had stolen away to a priest and been secretly married.

Hurrying to the king, she told him what had happened. The king was beside himself with rage. "My daughter, my daughter, married to this penniless, nameless youth! How dare she so disgrace the royal name ! See to it, now, remember, that she be closely confined in her own apartments, and that she be placed under close guard. As to Posthumus, I will see that he is banished at once from the kingdom. Go now to Imogen, and I will to Posthumus.”

The queen, delighted thus to have Imogen in her power, renewed at once her plans for the future. "I will appear," thought she, "to be Imogen's friend. I will even arrange a meeting between her and Posthu mus before the youth is banished. Thus shall I control this fair daughter, more easily, by and by. For when once the sharpness of her grief is over, I will persuade her that this secret marriage was no marriage at all; and that in no way can she reinstate herself in her father's confidence more easily than to look with encouragement upon this suit of Cloten's."

"Surely, my daughter," she said, "you will not find me an evil-eyed jailer. Listen to your father with patience; and I meantime will do my best to turn the fire of rage that's in him. Moreover, an interview with your husband I will bring about before he leaves the court."

But Imogen was not deceived. Too long had she suffered under this wicked woman's scheming not to know that this present kindness was but a cover for some hidden cruelty.

"Posthumus," said Imogen, "we may never meet again. And here's this diamond. It was my mother's. Take it, heart, and wear it forever for my sake."

"And you, dear Imogen, wear for me this bracelet. It is a manacle of love. See, I clasp it upon this fairest prisoner."

But hark! Cymbeline bursts open the door upon them. Hence, hence, thou basest, vilest thing! away-and if thou dost in this court again appear, I swear I'll have thee slain!" thundered Cymbeline.

Poor Posthumus! Poor Imogen! It was a bitter ending of their last meeting; but the queen at least was happy. Now would Cymbeline demand a closer watch kept on his daughter; and she it was who would establish herself the prison-keeper.

Posthumus, with heavy heart, joyless, and with hope all gone, sailed away to Rome. On reaching there, he fell in with some gay young men, wealthy, with plenty of time and money; and as was the fashion of such men, much given to wager-making. One evening they chanced to fall to praising each his wife or lady love.

"Ah, but not one there lives so beautiful, so wise, so true as mine," sighed Posthumus, when each in most extravagant language had set forth his lady's charms.