is night?" she said to him with
her eyes swimming in tears.

But what was the matter with Mabyn? She was just putting her foot on the
iron step when a rapidly approaching figure caused her to utter a cry of
alarm, and she stumbled back into the road again. The very accident that
Trelyon had been anticipating had occurred: here was Mr. Roscorla,
bewildered at first, and then blind with rage when he saw what was
happening before his eyes. In his desperation and anger he was about to
lay hold of Mabyn by the arm when he was sent staggering backward half a
dozen yards.

"Don't interfere with me now, or by God I will kill you!" Trelyon said
between his teeth, and then he hurried Mabyn into the carriage.

What was the sound then that the still woods heard under the throbbing
stars through the darkness that lay over the land? Only the sound of
horses' feet, monotonous and regular, and not a word of joy or sorrow
uttered by any one of the party thus hurrying on through the night.

[TO BE CONTINUED.]

CAMP-FIRE LYRICS.

I.--CAMP--IN THREE LIGHTS.

Against the darkness sharply lined
Our still white tents gleamed overhead,
And dancing cones of shadow cast
When sudden flashed the camp-fire red,

Where fragrant hummed the moist swamp-spruce,
And tongues unknown the cedar spoke,
While half a century's silent growth
Went up in cheery flame and smoke.

Pile on the logs! A flickering spire
Of ruby flame the birch-bark gives,
And as we track its leaping sparks,
Behold in heaven the North-light lives!

An arch of deep supremest blue,
A band above of silver shade,
And, like the frost-work's crystal spears,
A thousand lances grow and fade,

Or shiver, touched with palest tints
Of pink and blue, and changing die,
Or toss in one triumphant blaze
Their golden banners up the sky,

With faint, swift, silken murmurings,
A noise as of an angel's flight,
Heard like the whispers of a dream
Across the cool clear northern night.

Our pipes are out, the camp-fire fades,
The wild auroral ghost-lights die,
And stealing up the distant wood
The moon's white spectre floats on high,

And lingering sets in awful light
A blackened pine tree's ghastly cross,
Then swiftly pays in silver white
The faded fire, the aurora's loss.

EDWARD KEARSLEY.

OVERWORKED