"Madam," answered Perico, " women sometimes exasperate men by trying to govern them. They say that I have been brought up under your wing. I intend now to fly alone," and he went toward the gate.

"Is this my son ?" cried the poor mother. "Something is the matter with him! Something is wrong!"

As Perico opened the gate, his faithful companion, the good Melampo, came to his side.

"Go back!" said Perico, giving him a kick.

The poor animal, little used to ill treatment, fell back astonished, but immediately, and with that absence of resentment which makes the dog a model of abnegation in his affection, as well as of fidelity, darted to the gate in order to follow his master. It was already shut. Then he began to howl mournfully, as if to prove the truth of the instinct of these animals when they announce a catastrophe by their lamentations.

CHAPTER XIV.

ON the following day, when sleep had dispelled from Ventura's brain the remaining fumes that confused his reason, he rose as deeply ashamed as he was sincerely penitent. He, therefore, listened to the just and sensible charges which his father made against his proceedings, past and present, without contradicting them.

"All you say is true, father," he answered, "and I can only tell you that I did not know what I was doing, but I feel it enough now! The wine, the cursed wine! I will ask Perico's pardon before all the village. I owe it more to myself than even to him I have offended."

"You promise, then, to ask his pardon ?"

"A hundred times, father."
"You will marry Elvira?"

"With all my heart."

"And treat her well?"

Both went to Anna's in search of Perico, but he had gone out, Anna told them. At sight of them, but still more on noticing the joy and satisfaction which shone in Pedro's face, Anna's vague but distressing fears were tranquillized, and, more than all, Ventura's manner filled her with hope, for she saw that he approached Elvira and talked to her with interest and tenderness, while Pedro said, with a mysterious air and winking toward Ventura, "That young fellow is in a hurry to be married. You mustn't take so long to prepare the wedding things, neighbor; young people are not so sluggish as we old ones."

They soon left, Ventura for the hacienda at which he was employed; Pedro, who was going to his wheatfield, accompanied him, their road being the same. The wheat was very fine, but full of weeds.

"The weeds are awake," said Ventura.

"Give them time," replied Pedro, "and they will vanquish the wheat, because they are the legitimate offspring of the soil. The wheat is its foster child. But, with the favor of God, wheat will not be lacking in the house for us and for more that may come."

They separated and Ventura disappeared in the olive-grove. Pedro reinained looking after him.

"Not even a king," he said to himself, "has a son like mine. Nor is there his equal in all Spain. If he is noble in person, he is more noble in soul."

Ventura had advanced but few steps into the grove when he saw Perico a a little distance, coming from behind a tree with his gun.

"I have something in my face, thanks to you," he shouted, "that provokes laughter. I have also something in my hand that stops laughter. I am a coward and a killer of locusts, but I know how to rid myself of the reproach you have put upon me."

"Perico, what are you doing?" cried Ventura, running toward him to arrest the action. But the shot had been sent on its dreadful errand, and Ventura fell mortally wounded. Pedro heard the report and started.

"What is that?" he exclaimed, "but what would it be?" he added upon reflection. "Ventura has perhaps shot a partridge. It sounded near. I will go and see."

He hurriedly follows the path his son has taken, sees a form lying upon the ground; approaches it-God of earth and heaven! It is a wounded man! and that man is his son! The poor old man falls down beside him

"Father," Ventura says, "I have some strength left; calm yourself and help me get to the hacienda; it is not far and let them send for a confessor, for I wish to die like a Christian."

The God of pity gives strength to the poor old man. He raises his son, who, leaning upon his shoulder walks a few steps, repressing the groans which anguish wrings from his breast.

At the hacienda, they hear a pitiful voice calling for succor; all run out and see, coming along the path, the unfortunate father supporting upon his shoulder his dying son. They meet

and surround them.

"A priest! a priest!" moans the exhausted voice of Ventura.

A suitable person, mounted on the fleetest horse, leaves for the village. "The surgeon, bring the surgeon!" calls the father.

"And the magistrate!" adds the superintendent.

In this manner passes an hour of agony and dread.

But now they hear the swift approach of horses' feet, and the messenger comes accompanied by the priest.

The aid which arrives first is that of religion.

The priest enters, carrying in his bosom the sacred host. All prostrate themselves. The wretched father finds relief in tears.

They leave the priest with the dying man, and through the house, broken only by the sobs of Pedro, reigns a solemn silence.

The minister of God comes out of the room. A sweet calm has spread itself over the face of the reconciled. The surgeon enters, probes the wound, and turns silently with a sad movement of his head toward those who are standing by. Pedro awaiting, with hands convulsively clasped, the sentence of the man of science, falls to the floor, and they carry him away.

"Sir magistrate," the surgeon says, "he is not capable of making a declaration, he is dying."

With

These words rouse Ventura. that energy which is natural to him, he opens his eyes and says distinctly: "Ask, for I can still answer."

The scribe prepares his materials and the magistrate asks:

"What has been the cause of your death?"

"I myself," distinctly replied Ventura.

"Who shot you?"

"One whom I have forgiven."
"You then forgive your murderer ?"
"Before God and man."

These were his last words.

The priest presses his hand and says, "Let us recite the creed." All kneel, and the guardian angel embraces as a sister, even before hearing the divine sentence, the parting soul of him who died forgiving his murderer.

CHAPTER XT.

THE women were together in Anna's parlor, and although not one of them, except Rita, knew of the events of the night before, they sat in oppressive

"I don't know why," she said at last, "nor what is the matter with me, but my heart to-day feels as though it could not stay in its place."

"It is the same with me," said Elvira, "I cannot breathe freely. I feel as if a stone lay on my heart. Perhaps it is the air. Is it going to rain, Aunt Maria?"

"My poor child," thought Anna, "the remedy comes too late. Earth is calling her body and heaven her soul."

"Well, I feel just as usual," said Rita, who was in reality the one that could hardly sit still for uneasiness.

Angela had made her a rag baby, which she was rocking in a hollow tile by way of cradle, and the painful silence which followed these few words was only broken by the gentle voice of the little girl as she sung, in the sweet and monotonous nursery melody to which some mothers lend such simple enchantment, and such infinite tenderness, these words:

"I hold thee in my arms,
And never cease to think,
What would become of thee, my angel,
If I should be taken from thee.
The little angels of heaven-"

The childish song was interrupted by a heavy solemn stroke of the church bell. Its vibration died away in the air slowly and gradually, as if mounting to other regions.

"His Majesty!" said all, rising to their feet.

Anna prayed aloud for the one who was about to receive the last sacraments.

"For whom can it be?" said Maria. "I do not know of any one that is dangerously sick in the place."

Rita looked out of the window and asked of a woman that was passing, who was the sick person?

"I do not know," she answered, "but it is some one out of the village." Another woman cried as she approached, "Mercy! it is a murder, for the magistrate and the surgeon have

"God help him" they all exclaimed, with that profound and terrible emotion which is excited by those awful words, a murder!

"And who can it be?" asked Rita. "No one knows," answered the woman.

Then the bell tolled for the passing soul; solemn stroke; stroke of awe; voice of the church, which announces to men that a brother is striving in weariness, anguish, and dismay, and is going to appear before the dread tribunal-momentous voice, by which the church says to the restless multitude, deep in frivolous interests which it deems important, and in fleeting passions which it dreams will be eternal: Stand still a moment in respect for death, in consideration of your fellowbeing who is about to disappear from the earth, as you will disappear tomorrow.

They remained plunged in silence, but nevertheless deeply moved, as happens sometimes with the sea, when its surface is calmn, but its bosom heaves with those deep interior waves which sailors call a ground-swell.

And not they alone. The whole village was in consternation, for death by the hand of violence always ap palls, since the curse which God pronounced upon Cain continues, and will continue, in undiminished solemnity throughout all generations.

"How long the time is !" said Maria, at length. "It seems as if the day stood still."

"And as if the sun were nailed in the sky," added Elvira. "Suspense is so painful. Perhaps robbers have done it."

"It may have been unintentional," answered Maria.

"Mamma Anna, who has killed a man, and what made him do it?" asked the little Angela.

"Who can tell," replied Anna, "what is the cause, or whose the daring hand that has anticipated that of God in extinguishing a torch which he lighted?"

At that instant they heard a distant rumor. People moved by curiosity are running through the street, and confused exclamations of astonishment and pity reach their ears.

"What is it?" asked Rita, approaching the window.

"They are bringing the dead man this way," was the answer.

Elvira felt herself irresistibly impelled to look out.

"Come away, Elvira," said her mother, "you know that you cannot bear the sight of a corpse."

Elvira did not hear her, for the crowd, that drawn by curiosity, sympathy, or friendship, had surrounded the body and its attendants, was coming near. Anna and Maria, also

placed themselves at the grating. The corpse approached, lying across a horse and covered with a sheet. An old man follows it, supported by two persons. His head is bowed upon his breast. They look at him-merciful God! it is Pedro! and they utter a simultaneous cry.

Pedro hears it, lifts his head and sees Rita. Despair and indignation give him strength. He frees himself violently from the arms that sustain him, and precipitates himself toward the horse, exclaiming : "Look at your work, heartless woman! Perico killed him." Saying this, he lifts the sheet and exposes the body of Ventura, pale, bloody, and with a deep wound in the breast.

IN the eighteenth century Ireland did not possess the boon of Commissioners to prepare useful and interest ing school books. However, as the mass of the peasantry wished to give their children the only education they could command, namely, that afforded by the hedge schools, and as young and old liked reading stories and popular histories, or at least hearing them read, some Dublin, Cork, and Limerick printers assumed the duties neglected by senators, and published "Primers," "Reading-made-easic's," "Child's-new-play-thing," and the widely diffused" Universal Spelling Book" of the magisterial Daniel Fenning, for mere educational purposes. These were "adorned with cuts," but the transition from stage to stage was too abrupt, and the concluding portions of the early books were as difficult as that of the Universal Spelling Book" itself, which the author, in order to render it less practically use

ful, had encumbered with a dry and difficult grammar placed in the centre of the volume.

Two Dublin publishers, Pat. Wogan, of.. Merchants' quay, and William Jones, 75 Thomas street, were the educational and miscellaneous Alduses of the day, and considered themselves as lights burning in a dark place for the literary guidance of their countrymen and countrywomen, of the shop-keeping, farmer, and peasant classes. In the frontispiece of some editions of the spellingbook grew the tree of knowledge, laden with fruit, each marked with some letter, and ardent climbers plucking away. Beneath was placed this inscription :

"The tree of knowledge here you see,
The fruit of which is A, B, C.
But if you neglect it like idle drones,
You'll not be respected by William Jones."

That portion of the work containing "spells" and explanations was

66

thoroughly studied by the pupils. The long class was arranged in line in the evening, every one contributed a brass pin, and the boy or girl found best in the lesson, and most successful at the hard spells" given him or her by the others, and most adroit in defeating them at the same exercise, got all the pins except two, the portion of the second in rank, (the queen,) and one, the perquisite of the third, (the prince.)

Every neighborhood was searched carefully for any stray copies of Entick's or Sheridan's small square dictionaries, (pronounced Dixhenry's by the eager students,) for hard spells and difficult explanations to aid them in their evening tournaments.

The grave Mr. Fenning was censuruble for admitting into some editions the following jest (probably imported from Joe Miller) among his edifying fables and narratives:

"A gay young fellow once asked a parson for a guinea, but was stiffly refused. 'Then,' said he, give me at least a crown.' 'I will not give thee a farthing,' answered the clergyman. 'Well, father,' said the rake, let me have your blessing at all events.' 'Oh! yes: kneel down, my son, and receive it with humility.' Nay, said the other, 'I will not accept it, for were it worth a farthing you would not have offered it.'"

country at a tester (64d.) each. Of history, voyages, etc., the peddler's basket was provided with Hugh Reilly's History of Ireland," "Adventures of Sir Francis Drake," "The Battle of Aughrim," and "Siege of Londonderry," (the two latter being dramas,) "Life and Adventures of James Freney the Robber,” “The Irish Rogues and Rapparees," "The Trojan Wars," and "Troy's Destruc tion," "The Life of Baron Trenck," and "The Nine Worthies-Three Jews, Three Heathens, and Three Christians."

The fictional department embraced, chiefly in an abridged state, "The Arabian Nights," "The History of Don Quixote, "Gulliver's Travels," "Esop's Fables," "Adventures of Robinson Crusoe," "Robin Hood's Garland," "The Seven Champions of Christendom," "The History of Valentine and Orson," "The Seven Wise Masters and Mistresses of Rome," " Royal Fairy Tales," etc., etc.

In the department of the Belles Lettres may be classed, "Lord Ches terfield's Letters to his Son," "The

Academy of Compliments," The Fashionable Letter Writer,” “Hocus Pocus, or the Whole Art of Legerdemain,” "Joe Miller's Jest Book," etc.

The list would not be complete without mention of the books of bal lads.

These were soid in sheets, each forming 8 pages, 18mo, and adorned with cuts, never germain to the bal lads they illustrated. Some of these sheets contained only one production, the "Yarmouth Tragedy," or some early English ballad sadly disfigured.

The same followers longo intervallo of Stephens and Elzevir published, besides prayer and other devout books, a series of stories and histories, and literary treatises such as they were, printed with worn type, on bad grey paper, cheaply bound in sheep-skin, and sold by the peddlers through the

accused by an envious liveried brother, of being a confirmed card-player. On being examined he obtained a complete victory over the informer, convincing his master that what he, the master, called cards, was to him a prayer-book, a catechism, a calendar, and what not. The different numbers reminded him of the six days of the creation, the seven churches of Asia, the ten commandments, the twelve Apostles, etc. The