er harbor his cruel fear, with the lad there before him.

"Silas, what do you mean, Sir? Here's Mr. Dexter's shop broke in, and
his till robbed, and you off, and the Devil to pay! But Columby, there,
said you had gone in search of the thief. Oh! oh!"

"Of course!" cried Dexter, the words rolling out as a cloud of smoke
from a conspicuous safety-valve,--"I knew 't was all right. I'd expect
the world to bu'st up as quick as for you to cheat us. I said it, I did,
fifty times." And there Dexter choked, and was silent.

Ay, time for him to return! "Glory to God!" said Silas, and he looked
around him, scanning every face, as a man might scan the faces of
accusers.

More than any said or thought he saw in Columbia's eyes. Silent, pale,
she merely sat gazing at him steadfastly. Oh, powers of speech,
surrender! It was a gaze that made the young fellow turn from all, that
the spasm of joy might pass, and leave him breath to declare himself
like a man in the hearing of those present.

The words he spoke might not disturb the dreaming halcyon, but they must
have brought angels nearer,--so near that not one there in the little
back-room could escape the heavenly atmosphere.

Was Love born in a stable? Is Nature changed since, that a little room
back of a shop should not be heaven itself, and the inmates kings and
priests, though without the ermine and ephod?

Shall we sing the halcyon's song?

ON TRANSLATING THE DIVINA COMMEDIA.

Oft have I seen at some cathedral-door
A laborer, pausing in the dust and heat,
Lay down his burden, and with reverent feet
Enter, and cross himself, and on the floor
Kneel to repeat his pater-noster o'er;
Far off the noises of the world retreat;
The loud vociferations of the street
Become an undistinguishable roar.
So, as I enter here from day to day,
And leave my burden at this minster-gate,
Kneeling in prayer, and not ashamed to pray,
The tumult of the time disconsolate
To inarticulate murmurs dies away,
While the eternal ages watch and wait.

HOUSE AND HOME PAPERS.

BY CHRISTOPHER CROWFIELD.

XI.

My wife and I were sitting at the open bow-window of my study, watching
the tuft of bright red leaves on our favorite maple, which warned us
that summer was over. I was solacing myself, like all the world in our
days, with reading the "Schoenberg Cotta Family," when my wife made her
voice heard through the enchanted di