"No! no!" I exclaimed, excitedly, with my eyes almost starting from their sockets, "it is not that-but-"

He bowed, and was about to pass on, when I regained my presence of mind, and stopped him.

"A moment, sir!" I cried; "I think I know you!

He paused, doubtfully, and tilted back his hat, thus disclosing his features. Then I knew that I had found the man.

"The signor is mistaken," he said. "Good-day. I have not the honour."

"Stay," I vociferated, leaping on him, and seizing him by the throat, "stay! You are Bernardo, the Italian forçat, who murdered Paul Monti on the night of November 25th, 1860, in his cabin !"

I never saw such an awful look in a man's face as I saw then in his. His eyes seemed to leap out at me, and his mouth twitched convulsively, his cheeks turned livid, his lips were drawn tight, disclosing his teeth, white and gleaming; his hands feebly struck the air as if striving to beat off something that lay athwart his chest.

I loosed him, and stood facing him. At last he spoke.

"Ah! Iddio!" he muttered, and then his haggard, bloodshot eyes turned on me. Slowly he seemed to regain his consciousness, and then suddenly, with a frightful yell, plunged into the mist that closed us in on every side.

I leaped forward, but it was too late. A shadowy form, some thirty yards off, flitted through the dull light like an affrighted deer, and then disappeared altogether. Meanwhile the snow had begun to fall in thick, soft flakes, that darkened still further the gloomy sky. It came driving down from between the hills, and somehow I lost my way.

A light gleaming faintly in the distance guided me to a farm-house, where rest and warmth awaited me. But amidst the hospitable bustle with which the farmer's good wife set about ministering to my necessities, a voice within me kept saying over and over again—" Out there in the darkness amid the drifting snow, he flies before that which no man can escape from-himself!"

Who does not remember the snow-storm of November, 1871?

how it came down with its treacherous, soft, ceaseless falling, under which houses were blocked and roads hidden? Is it not history?

Was that a cry, sounding weird and dreadful, out there in the dark? The farmer and I started to our feet, and it seemed but a moment more, when, with spade and lantern, we were plodding through the feathery snow, in search of a belated traveller.

Our search was vain; and we were returning downcast, when in passing by the foot of St. Ann's Cross, my companion uttered an exclamation.

Some dark object lay huddled there, half-covered, half-protruding from the pall of the snow. It was Paul Monti's murderer, stark and stiff His terror had urged him to flight-at length his strength had failed, he had uttered one piercing cry, and then, laid him down to die. I threw myself upon my knees beside him. I prayed aloud for God's mercy on his guilty soul.

Did repentance come to him, as to the dying Thief, in that last supreme moment, when he fell at the foot of the Cross? May it be that He who forgave his own murderers, even as He hung upon the cross where their hands had nailed Him, pardoned the sin-soiled soul, and swathed it in the spotless robe of His own righteousness?

There is a grave in W― churchyard, where the stranger takes his last long sleep; a rude cross stands at its head, bearing no name -only this

"November 25th, 1871.

Jesu, mercy!"

And I, the teller of this strange and marvellous reminiscence, have long been rector of the parish among the hills, hoping to remain such until the day that God shall see fit to call me away from my duty in His vineyard.

I have seen Paul Monti once, and only once, more; it was on the next anniversary of his death; he stood at the foot of my bed, and smiled; then his lips moved, and what they said was this

"PEACE."

A MADDENING MESSAGE.

BY ANNIE THOMAS.

OR the first time since my mother's death we all met together to keep Christmas at my father's place, Alderspool, last year, and I don't believe that a jollier, merrier party than we were sat down to breakfast on the great feast day in all the land.

I had arrived only the night before from Portsmouth, having just come from a three years' cruise in the Mediterranean, where I had been serving as Chaplain and Naval Instructor on board H.M.S. "Warspite." I found my two married sisters, their husbands and babies, already installed. They had married men who were strangers to me, during my absence, therefore I had a great deal to hear and learn about them; and there was no chance of time hanging heavily on my hands. Moreover, my eldest brother, Sydney, a major in the army. and one of the most splendid fellows the service could boast of, was at home also, and the girl he was going to marry in a month was staying with us.

Sydney was a fellow with a magnificent physique, and a glorious nature. He had seen any amount of sharp service in India and New Zealand, and no one grudged him his early promotion, or the great luck which had won him the hand and heart of the handsomest heiress out. As for her, if I had heard that Sydney was about to marry the Queen's favourite daughter, I should have thought the honour none too great for him. From the day when my handsome, golden-headed,

soldier brother had tipped me at school, he had been my dearest friend and favourite hero. And now that he was going to marry and settle down as a retired swell, I could almost have thanked Laura Jervoise for being so thoroughly worthy of him.

I have spoken of Laura as the handsomest heiress "out," but the epithet handsome describes her very inadequately. She was a sweeteyed girl, with chestnut hair, rather small, and very yielding. Her face was as sensitive, gentle, and pretty a one as I have ever seen, and even our sisters, who were inclined to be critical where Syd was concerned, were satisfied with the love she displayed, and the way she displayed it.

We had polished off the big game, and were going in for the small in the shape of honey and marmalade, when a servant brought in a telegram for Major Sydney Lisle; and I, who was sitting opposite to him, saw his face flush and quiver as he read it. I saw, too, that Laura sat round a little, and surveyed him with that fawn-like, startled look that seemed to betoken her such a shy, trusting creature. Somehow I felt relieved when my father broke the silence that had fallen over us like a mantle when the telegram was brought in. "Nothing from the Foreign Office to call you away, I hope, Syd?"

Syd had been a Queen's Messenger for about twelve months, and it was during one of his diplomatic flights abroad that he had met Laura Jervoise, travelling like a princess with her father.

I thought his voice sounded unlike Syd's usual rich, rolling tone, as he answered

"I am sorry to say it is, sir. Laura darling!"-he turned to her and laid his hand gently on her shoulder-"I must present myself in town to-night; I must start at once."

"For the Foreign Office?" she asked, quietly; and he only replied

"I must start at once," and rose up, asking me to go to his room with him.

I don't know what gave rise to the suspicion that had entered my

heart from the moment of my father asking the question, but I felt sure whoever that telegram was from, that it was not an official one.

As soon as we were inside the door of his room, my suspicion was confirmed. He walked away to the window, and stood staring out, and never looking at me, as he said—

"Jack, old boy, I want you to do something for me."

"Anything I can."

"Come up to town with me. This (he pulled the telegram out of his pocket, and, with an oath, flung it from him) isn't from the Foreign Office, but it pulls me up rather sharper than any Foreign Office orders could have done."

"A dun or a -?"

I didn't say "a woman,'

," but I felt sure that if I had done so, my

shot would have hit the bull's-eye.

"Don't ask, old boy," he said, impatiently; "I can't tell you what it is, but this I'll tell you, that if you don't stand by me, it will be all up between me and Laura, and I love her like my life."

It was not a pleasant way of passing Christmas Day, but I would have followed Syd through a worse fire than the volley of questions my sisters let fly at me. As for Laura, she was easy to deal with. I thought her very sweet and reasonable when she said to me

"Poor Syd! don't let him think that I trouble too much about his going away like this; you must help me to make him feel that I trust him entirely, that I haven't a doubt or a pang about his going. You'll do this, won't you, Jack?"

I promised, thinking what a dear, considerate, confiding girl she was, and how entirely worth consideration and confidence made her of being Syd's wife.

We had a cold, dull journey to town, the vision of the row of dejected, disappointed faces that had been turned towards us as we drove away from the house was before me for at least the first half of the journey. Then I began to wonder why I was going. What could Syd want of me?

It was eight o'clock when we reached town that night. The