Saxon maid. She came by stealth into the strangers' hall, and gave these papers to the monk as he sat by the fire, bidding him deliver them to the prior. Why I took them from him I know not, except it were God's will, for I thought no more of them till yesternight, being distraught at what the page told me." "What did he tell thee?" asked Agnes of Solier. "That thou wert a king's daughter, and betrothed to Gui of Tours." The king's face flushed red, but Agnes of Solier, pale as the holy napkin, neither spoke nor stirred. "What happened at supper thou knowest," continued Passe Rose. "But what happened afterwards I know not!" cried Agnes of Solier, torn between her jealousy and her pride. "I am come to tell thee," answered Passe Rose with dignity. "When thou wert gone, I said to the captain, 'Though I were the meanest slave in the kingdom, what God hath given the king's daughter he hath given to me, and I yield it to none except at his altar.' With that I ran to the chapel to pray and seek counsel of the priest. But because in my anger I had cast down the image of the Virgin above my bed, God would not listen to me; the priest at Immaburg is witness that he took away my senses, and when I got them back I was in the wagon on the high-road. Dost thou remember how the stream was swollen at the ford? I was there, and while they sounded the water I heard the voices of women in the wagon next to mine. One said that the heart of the captain was plainly mine, and could not be had of me for all the gold of the Huns." "Insolent!" murmured Agnes of Solier, tightening her fingers on the king's hand. But the king, chary of words, waited. "Another," pursued Passe Rose, "replied that it were easier for a dancinggirl to give herself to a captain than for a king's daughter to forget an injury. 'Mark well what I tell thee,' she said: 'one hath his heart; the other will have his head.' Liar!' I said to myself. What a king's daughter will do I know not, but what a dancing-girl can do I will show thee.' So, when the ford was passed, I cut a hole through the skins with my knife, and went mine own way." A gesture of surprise escaped the king, who had risen from his chair, and was pacing slowly to and fro between the door and the window. At this moment the troop was filing through the archway into the square, and the Gascon, followed by the prior, was opening the wicket gate leading to the room where the body of Rothilde lay. It were idle to deny that Passe Rose was conscious of the greatness of her action, for even the angels serve God with pleasure; and if it be that they rejoice over the sinner's repentance, some echo, as it were, of this rejoicing is borne to the soul which doeth well, for its encouragement and satisfaction. Yet so little did Passe Rose think to win applause that she mistook the king's gesture for a sign of impatience. "I am coming to it fast," she said, pointing to the parchment, and hurrying on to tell how she hid in the sheepfold, how Jeanne came bereft of reason and without the power to know her own, and all she saw and heard from the tower while Jeanne slept. Not once during this recital did the king cease his walk or lift his eyes from the floor till Passe Rose told how Friedgis was slain; "I heard a sword drawn, and the rustle of leaves under foot; afterwards, from the wood, a cry -and then the Saxon maid said " She stopped short. The king stood before her, his brow knit as with pain and his face gloomy with suppressed passion. "Well, what said she ?" he asked, fixing upon Passe Rose his piercing eye. 666 Bring me now thy Greek, and I will show him the way to the king's bed."" The king drew himself up to his full height. For a moment he was silent, his eyes shining with points of flame. Then he struck his palms together, whispering a few words to the page who at this signal came in haste from the adjoining room, and, returning to the window, gazed thoughtfully into the court. Passe Rose, motionless, stood speechless. It was one of those silences which one does not dare to break. "Continue," said the king at length, in a calm voice. "When the Saxon was gone into the wood, the prior concerted with his companion how they should get the papers from the captain that night, by fair means or foul," pursued Passe Rose, stealing a glance at Agnes of Solier. "Ask her where this captain lies,' said the soldier. Nay,' replied the prior, 'it will alarm her. Hist! she comes.' "Aye, she comes," murmured the king, beckoning to Passe Rose. "See." Obeying his motion, she approached, holding her breath with the presentiment of impending shock. The throng had followed the troop into the square, and the court was empty. From the farther angle a litter, borne by soldiers, issued from the shadow of the gallery. Over the litter a cloth was spread, and on the cloth a cross glittered in the sun. Passe Rose, leaning forward, drew a quick breath. "The Saxon!" she whispered. "Slain, yesternight, by the monk." "By the monk!" gasped Passe Rose. "Yonder, in the square." "Nay, it was I!" she cried vehemently, grasping the king's arm. "Look, the marks of her knife! My mother spake in her dreams when the prior was gone. I laid my hand to her mouth, but it was too late. Before I could get to my knees, she"-pointing to the bier-"was on the stair. I caught the blade in my hand as her blow fell, and then we locked, without breath to speak, she above, and I below. God is my witness I had done her no harm but that I knew she or I must die, and die I would not till the captain was warned, for the prior's words were in my ears. Time was lacking to pray, but I saw the stars, and strained leg and arm till her fingers gave way and my throat was free. Then I stood up alone-how it happened I know not, but I heard the waters splash, and, once, a cry." She stopped, her bosom heaving, her eyes fixed upon the litter. "Jesu!" she murmured, her voice falling to a whisper, "it was I." The king regarded her in a stupor of wonder and admiration. He strode back and forth from wall to wall, looking now at Passe Rose, and now, uneasily, at Agnes of Solier, who, pale and speechless, stared back with eyes of stone. Suddenly, with an abrupt gesture, he stopped before Passe Rose. "If the King of heaven gave thee thy heart's wish, what wouldst thou ask ?" "The reason of my mother Jeanne," said Passe Rose. The king started. "I will ask it this day in my prayers. And of me" his voice trembling-"what wouldst thou?" "To give me leave to go in peace to Maestricht, and then to send thither my mother, whom I left in the house by the gate at Frankenburg; for if she see me in the garden combing wool, in my own attire, her reason will return." "Afterward," said the king, a shadow of vexation passing over his face. Indeed, it were hard to say which was suitor to the other, for his voice faltered, and hers was firm and clear. "That is not all. Afterward," he repeated impatiently. The color deepened on Passe Rose's cheeks, she trembled violently, and, no longer able to support his gaze, she turned her shining eyes to Agnes of Solier, and threw herself at her feet. "By the Mother of God!" exclaimed the king, taking Agnes of Solier's hand and seating her in his own chair, "thou art right. She is a king's daughter. Ask her, and thou shalt see what a king's daughter can do." And stooping to Agnes of Solier, he kissed her on the forehead, and left the room. If love and death could be made subject to will and reason, so that instead of loving love and fearing death, as nature and instinct compel us, we should love death and fear love, then had Passe Rose never gotten from her knees when the Saxon's knife threatened her, nor thrown herself at the feet of Agnes of Solier. But in concerns of love and death nature is stronger than reason, and impulse will countervail consideration; and though at the king's going Passe Rose felt shame drying the source of her tears, and pride nipping the buds of her heart's promise, yet, "If I rise," she said to herself, "all is lost"; and thus bowed down by the weight of her love, before lesser motives could sway her she felt warm arms pressed about her neck, her face was drawn upwards, and she saw two eyes shining in tears like her own. No word was spoken. They thought no more of their grief and joy than of the coarse wool and silken tissue which clothed them, but like two naked souls fresh from God's hands gazed at one another. "Thou hast seen him?" murmured Agnes of Solier. Passe Rose's eyes answered." And he loves thee-he has told thee"- Passe Rose buried her face in the broidered dress, her shoulders shaken with sobbing. It seemed to her that she could not bear the kiss she felt upon her hair, nor the arms' tender pressure. "By the Blessed Jesus," she exclaimed, struggling to her feet, "would I might die for thee!" 1861-88] HENRY AUGUSTIN BEERS. AS Henry Augustin Beers. BORN in Buffalo, N. Y., 1847. BUMBLE-BEE. [The Thankless Muse. 1885.] SI lay yonder in tall grass A drunken bumble-bee went past His hairy thighs were wet with dew. Oft had he lit with thirsty lip Or over tangled stamens trip, 1 H THE SINGER OF ONE SONG. E sang one song and died-no more but that: A single song and carelessly complete. He would not bind and thresh his chance-grown wheat, Nor bring his wild fruit to the common vat, To store the acid rinsings, thin and flat, Squeezed from the press or trodden under feet. A few slow beads, blood-red and honey-sweet, That weight his pack, will carry diamonds long. William Henry Bishop. BORN in Hartford, Conn., 1847. A LITTLE DINNER. [The Brown Stone Boy, and Other Queer People. 1888.] REGRET to have to use so unpleasant a description,-and nothing in to use so a the world would induce me to do it outside of this confidential circle, -but Juliet Scatterbury-who afterwards became Mrs. Bang-was one of the most superlative of liars. Oh, it was so admitted. You should hear the gentle irony of Sam Lambert's remarks about her! His wife checks him, it is true, as to the particular case here to be described, believing that to have been largely her own fault, but the fact remains that Juliet was an egregious follower of Ananias and Sapphira. There was wide range and ingenuity in her inventions; no one ever appeared to take a more genuine comfort in mendacity than she. It often seemed as if she would rather employ it than truth, even when the latter would have answered the purpose better. She sometimes wore a rapt and imaginative air as if she thoroughly believed in her statements herself. She would romance, for instance, about her early life, tell you of journeys she had made, thrilling adventures she had met with, priceless jewels and wondrous ball-dresses she had worn, and unmeasured social attentions that had been showered upon her. She would make small scruple, if it suited her whim, of claiming she had owned the largest steam-yacht in the world, had written, anonymously, the last popular novel, or had sometimes played the parts of Ristori or Bernhardt, appearing under proper disguise. With all |