e city was greater. The idea of military disguises
then occurred. Julie and herself had already equipped themselves, and
they were provided with a uniform for Beauvallon.

Secured by this costume, the three fugitives ventured forth. In the
great square of the city, workmen were busily employed in repairing
the hideous engine of death, and Beauvallon passed, not without a
shudder, beneath the very shadow of the guillotine, to which he had
been doomed.

Seated on the cold ground, beneath the fatal apparatus, was an old
woman muttering to herself.

"Good evening, citizens," said she. "We shall have a fine day for the
show to-morrow. Look how the bonny stars are winking and blinking on
the gay knife blade they've been sharpening. It will be darker and
redder when the clock strikes ten again. Down with the aristocrats!"

The fugitives needed no more to quicken their steps. They reached the
frontiers in safety, and beyond the Rhine, in the hospitable land of
Germany, the lovers were united; nor did they return to France till
the star of Robespierre had set in blood, and the master mind of
Napoleon had placed its impress on the destinies of France.

THE OLD CITY PUMP.

Many evenings since, we were passing up State Street late at night.
State Street at midnight is a very different affair from State Street
at high noon. The shadows of the tall buildings fall on a deserted
thoroughfare; save where, here and there, a spectral bank watchman
keeps ward over the granite sepulchres of golden eagles, and the
flimsier representatives of wealth. The bulls and bears have retired
to their dens, and East India merchants are invisible. Newsboys are
nowhere, and every sound has died away. There stands the Old State
House, peculiar and picturesque, rising with a look of other days, a
relic of past time, against the deep blue sky, or webbing the full
moon with the delicate tracery of its slender spars and signal
halliards. And there stands--no! there stood the old Town Pump. But it
is no more--_Ilium fuit_ was written on its forehead--it has been
reformed out of office, its occupation has gone, its handle has been
amputated, its body has been dissected, and there is nothing of it
left.

Yet on the evening to which we alluded in the beginning, the old pump
was there, and crossing over from the Merchants Bank, we leaned
against its handle, as one leans against the arm of an old friend, in
a musing, idle mood. Presently we heard a