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alive or dead, saving thyself only, will serve me so well again."

What a strange thing this was to hear; but the walls. of the old Italian city echoed the sound so softly that none awoke to listen, and the two figures, gliding under the deep shadow of the houses, passed away, and were seen there no more.

By morning dawn a vessel left the harbor, and two brothers stood upon the deck, bidding farewell to their native country. One was young, the other had a wan face, and hands hardened by labor; but the prison dress was gone, and both were clad in the usual costume of their rank and order.

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"And now that we are safe and together," said Anselmo, "I pray thee tell me thy story. Why didst thou keep me waiting so long, and where didst thou rise from at last?"

"That I can tell thee at all is thy doing," answered his brother," because thou didst never fail to bring me the lantern."

And then, while the gray Italian shores grew faint in the sunny distance, and all hearts began to turn toward the new world, whither the vessel was bound, Anselmo's brother descended into the cabin, and there told him, with many expressions of affection, the story of his imprisonment and escape.

On the night when he disappeared he was surrounded

by a number of his enemies, but after making a desperate defence, he was overpowered and thrown into prison. In a dreadful dungeon he lay until his wounds were healed, and then, for some reason unknown to himself, he was given into the keeping of his worst enemy. By this enemy he was taken to the palace and confined in a dungeon, that, as he said, "nothing it seemed could have broken through, unless his teeth had been strong enough to eat through the wall."

Almost every hour in the day his enemy came and looked at him through a hole in the door, his food was given him by means of this same hole; and when he complained of the want of bedding, they gave him, also by means of the small opening, a thin mattress and two coarse rugs to cover him.

This dungeon contained nothing but one large chest, placed against the wall and half filled with heavy stones. In the daytime light came through the little slit in the wall; but in daylight he could do nothing, for his enemy's eyes were frequently upon him. From twelve o'clock till three in the night were the only hours when all his jailers slept; and then it was dark, and he could do nothing but feel the strength and thickness of the wall. A hopeless task, indeed, to break it down with one poor pair of hands!

But, after months of misery and despair, one of the jailers took pity on him, and asked him whether there

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was anything he could do to help him to endure his captivity better. "Yes," said the poor prisoner; "I have been a studious man, and if I could now read, it would help me to forget my misery. I dare not read in the daytime, for my enemy would not allow me to have such a solace; but in the night, if I could have a light in the slit, I could read while my enemy sleeps."

The jailer was frightened, and told him not to think of it; yet, when he looked at the height of the slit and its small size, and heard the words which were to convey this request for a light, and knew that they told nothing as to where Anselmo's brother was, he consented to convey them, first getting a promise that he would never attempt to speak to his brother, even if he should find it possible.

Whether this jailer felt certain that he never could escape, whether he was partly willing to aid in his escape, or whether he pitied him, and thought no harm could come of the light, is not known; certain it is that he searched the dungeon diligently every night, and examined the iron protections of the slit. It was far above the prisoner's head, and when the jailer found that all was safe, he appeared satisfied; yet the work of breaking through the wall began the first night of the lantern, and never ceased until it came to a triumphant conclusion. The great chest, as has been said, was half full of heavy stones. As soon as the light enabled him to act

with certainty and perfect quiet, he laid his mattress and rugs beside it, opened its lid, took every stone out in turn, and placed it on the mattress. Then, exerting all his strength, he lifted the chest away, and began to undermine the stones behind it and under it.

With wonderful skill and caution he went gradually on; but it took twenty minutes of labor to empty the chest, and twenty minutes to fill it, with equal quiet. There remained, therefore, only twenty minutes in which to perform the rest of his labor.

But for the light, he would have been obliged to handle the stones with less certainty, and, of course, the least noise would have caused all to be discovered. How little could be done each night becomes evident when it is remembered that the stone and rubbish which he displaced had to be put back again, and the chest returned to the same position before the light was withdrawn.

For nine months he made little progress, and for the next two months the difficulty of disposing of the rubbish daunted him; but the last night such a quantity of earth caved in that he resolved to make a daring effort to escape. He crept through the hole, and shielding his head with one arm, pushed upward with the other. More and more earth fell, and at last, nearly suffocated, he applied all his strength to the flat stone that it had left bare, pushed it up, and escaped to life and freedom.

-JEAN INGELOW.

THE BUILDING OF THE SHIP

"Build me straight, O worthy master! Stanch and strong, a goodly vessel, That shall laugh at all disaster,

And with wave and whirlwind wrestle!"

The merchant's word,

Delighted, the Master heard;

For his heart was in his work, and the heart
Giveth grace unto every Art.

A quiet smile played round his lips,
As the eddies and dimples of the tide
Play round the bows of ships,

That steadily at anchor ride.

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And with a voice that was full of glee,
He answered, "Ere long we will launch
A vessel as goodly and strong and stanch,
As ever weathered a wintry sea!"
And first with nicest skill and art,
Perfect and finished in every part,
A little model the Master wrought,
Which should be to the larger plan
What the child is to the man,
Its counterpart in miniature ;

That with a hand more swift and sure
The greater labor might be brought

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