eart was
bound up, for many and many a year."

"Her sister, her sister Bella," whispered Dolly.

"No, but with yourself, my own own Dolly," cried he; and turning, and
before she could prevent it, he clasped her in his arms, and kissed her
passionately.

"Oh, Tony!" said she, sobbing, "you that I trusted, you that I confided
in, to treat me thus."

"It is that my heart is bursting, Dolly, with this long pent-up love,
for I now know I have loved you all my life long. Don't be angry with
me, my darling Dolly; I'd rather die at your feet than hear an angry
word from you. Tell me if you can care for me; oh, tell me, if I strive
to be all you could like and love, that you will not refuse to be my
own."

She tried to disengage herself from his arm; she trembled, heaved a deep
sigh, and fell with her head on his shoulder.

"And you are my own," said he, again kissing her; "and now the wide
world has not so happy a heart as mine."

Of those characters of my story who met happiness, it is as well to say
no more. A more cunning craftsman than myself has told us that the
less we track human life the more cheerily we shall speak of it. Let
us presume, and it is no unfair presumption, that, as Tony's life was
surrounded with a liberal share of those gifts which make existence
pleasurable, he was neither ungrateful nor unmindful of them. Of Dolly
I hope there need be no doubt. "The guid dochter is the best warrant for
the guid wife:" so said her father, and he said truly.

In the diary of a Spanish guerilla chief, there is mention of a "nobile
Inglese," who met him at Malta, to confer over the possibility of a
landing in Calabria, and the chances of a successful rising there. The
Spaniard speaks of this man as a person of rank, education, and talents,
high in the confidence of the Court, and evidently warmly interested in
the cause. He was taken prisoner by the Piedmontese troops on the
third day after they landed, and, though repeatedly offered life under
conditions it would have been no dishonor to accept, was tried by
court-martial, and shot.

There is reason to believe that the "nobile Inglese" was Maitland.

From the window where I write, I can see the promenade on the Pincian
Hill; and if my eyes do not deceive me, I can perceive that at times
the groups are broken, and the loungers fall back, to permit some one to
pass. I have called the waiter to explain the curious circumstance, and
asked if it be royalty that is