Let us descend now to the city, and stroll through its narrow winding streets, where the sunshine scarcely gains an entrance. Here is the Tacatin, the shopping-street, with its narrow lanes, impassable for carriages, and its little low shops, just as they were left by the Moors.

Now we come to the place of Bib-Rambla, the heart of Granada, once filled with bazaars, where the richest products of the east were displayed. Here were held the festivals and tournaments; and here, according to tradition, was given the last fête beheld by the beautiful Zoraya, which terminated in a bloody combat between the tribes of the Zegris and the Abencerrages, which was a prelude to the fall of this long flourishing and happy kingdom.

The public promenades are charming retreats at all hours of the day. Here, beneath avenues of gigantic trees, and amid the song of numerous fountains, which shed around their refreshing influence, the élite of Granada resort, to take their evening stroll.

We will pass now to the Albaycin, the most ancient and curious part of Granada, which has remained almost unchanged since the days of the Moors. It is now almost entirely inhabited by a race of Gipsies, who flourish amid the mud and filth of the dirty narrow streets. Just at the outskirts of the town, numerous caves were pointed out to me, which are also inhabited by a part of this ragamuffin

race.

The cathedral is well worthy of a visit. This immense structure is in the Græco-Romano style, and was founded in 1529. Its fine beautiful naves are formed by enormous pillars, composed of four half-columns united at the top by Corinthian capitals; and its lofty dome, painted in white and gold, gives an air of grandeur to the interior. Many of the chapels contain beautiful paintings, particularly those on the right-hand side of the grand portal. In the Capilla de San Miguel, the first, there is a fine Cano, called La Virgen de la Soledad. The expression of the face is melancholy, but full of

sweetness.

In the Capilla de los Reyes, the largest and most beautiful chapel connected with the church, are the sepulchres of Ferdinand and Isabella, upon which repose their full-length statues. This tomb is most exquisitely wrought, and the figures and ornamentation afford a study for hours. Next to the tomb of Ferdinand and Isabella, is that of their daughter Inasca, and her husband, Philip of Burgundy. The sacristan removed an iron grating in the pavement, which displayed a flight of steps, and we descended by them to a small vault beneath the tombs, where I beheld the coffins of the wisest and greatest sovereigns that ever ruled Spain. Ascending to the chapel, the sacristan pointed out to me the carved effigies of the king and queen on each side of the altar, which are said

The painted carvings behind them, on the retablo of the altar, are very curious, representing the conquest and conversion of the Moors. The first is the surrender of the Alhambra. Isabella is seen mounted on a white steed, riding between Ferdinand and the celebrated Cardinal Mendoza. The latter has his hand extended to receive the key of the city, which the conquered Boabdil submissively presents. Behind are knights, ladies, and numerous captives.

The other basso-relievo represents the conversion of the Moors after the conquest, where shorn monks are baptizing the crowd by wholesale.

There are numerous other churches and convents in Granada, a description of which, however, would scarcely interest the reader, for they have nearly all been stripped of their most valuable works of art, and appear to be in a decaying condition from long neglect. In 1835 and 1836, all conventual establishments were suppressed throughout Spain, and their property confiscated by the State, to be sold, and applied to the payment of the public debt and expenses. This wholesale spoliation brought great poverty into the church: for although the government undertook her support, it has never been able to fulfil its engagements, owing to the financial difficulties of the country.

It is for this reason that we see so many churches and convents stripped of their riches and works of art, and that the eye is so frequently pained with the ruin and desolation that surrounds so many noble edifices in Spain.

R. T. M.

NATURE'S SONG IN THE NIGHT.-Night hath its songs. Have you never stood by the sea at night and heard the pebbles sing and the waves chant God's glories? Or have you never risen from your couch and thrown up the window of your chamber and listened? Listened to what? Silence, save now and then a murmuring sound, which seems sweet music then. And have you not fancied that you heard the harp of God playing in Heaven? Did you not conceive that yon stars, those eyes of God looking down on you, were also mouths of song-that every star was singing God's glory, singing as, it shone, its Almighty Maker, and his lawful, well-deserved praise? Night hath its songs. We do not need much poetry in our spirit to catch the song of night, and hear the spheres as they chant praises which are loud to the heart, though they be silent to the ear-the praise of the mighty God, who bears up the unpillared arch of heaven, and moves the stars in their courses,

CHAP. VI.

Some days afterwards three gentlemen were waiting before the door of a large, lonely house on the borders of Cumberland. It might have been unoccupied for all the sign they saw of any living thing; the garden was a wilderness, the fence broken down and rotting, and the gate through which they had entered had no hinge, but lay back helplessly against the shattered post. The youngest of the three visitors looked round upon these evidences of neglect with some uneasiness.

"I don't remember that it used to be so," he said; "I hope there is no change inside."

"It seems to me that we are not intended to know much about the inside," retorted George Burford, repeating his clamour at the door. "You take it very coolly, Spencer; I shouldn't have expected a man like you to stand examining scenery like a school-girl or an artist." Mr. Spencer made no reply, except a sort of dissatisfied grunt, as he looked at the obstinate door.

"I'll try again," said George, raising his arm; but just then there was a sound of bolts creaking and chains rattling, mingling with the subdued grumbling of a human voice; and the door opened about two inches, suffering a face to become partially visible.

"This is Mr. Fellerton's school, is it not?" asked Burford.

"There's no school here at all," was the gruff

answer.

"There was formerly.”

No answer to that.

"Does not Mr. Fellerton live here-the old schoolmaster?"

"There's no school nor schoolmaster here.” The door drew together a little, as if it would close itself and the colloquy together, but Harry Sutton sprang forward.

"My good woman, I was a pupil here: we mean no harm to Mr. Fellerton; surely he will see an old pupil."

I know nothing about pupils. There's nobody in the house but master and me," persisted the woman, sullenly.

"I tell you," began Harry, savagely; but Mr. Spencer stepped before him, and made use of an argument which shone in the eyes of the old woman, so that she no longer saw any reason why the gentlemen should not enter. And as they did so that same argument clinked against

the chain she still held.

"I'll ask, but he doesn't care to see com. pany."

"Tell him it's on urgent business."

There was a long interval; then a sound of slow, halting footsteps; and a grey-haired old man came in, and stood looking from one to another of his visitors with no symptom of recognition.

Harry was the first to speak.

"You do not remember me, sir?” "No, I do not."

"I have not forgotten you, however, nor all your kindness to me. I am Harry Sutton." The old man looked at him for a moment, and then shook his head gravely.

"I don't know what you want, gentlemen," he said. "I am but a poor bookworm, with just sufficient to gratify my humble tastes. I have done with the world, long ago."

"You have done with the 'As in præsenti,' said the lawyer, affecting a schoolboy drawl; "or is it the Amo, amas, amabas ?'”

"Amat!" exclaimed the old man, a gleam of intelligence passing across his face, as his hand grasped an imaginary ferule.

The lawyer smiled.

What they were in our young days, Mr. Fellerton. Of course not. Amongst your pupils, about that time or earlier, there was one who came to you under peculiar circumstances

why, he must have been so young that you would have to nurse him, Mr. Fellerton!" The schoolmaster looked puzzled, but did not speak.

"He must have been a great trouble to you, this Harry Sutton," continued the lawyer. Foremost in all the rows and squabbles, was he not? But he has not forgotten how, when he left you, after his father's death, an orphan without a single friend in the world, you provided for him a home with a connexion of your own, I believe; was it not?"

"Yes," said the schoolmaster, staring; "I remember young Sutton did go to my sister's husband; but he wouldn't stay, he wouldn't

George Burford turned towards his friend, with a smile; but Harry was proving his identity by marching about the little room in a state of violent excitement.

"As soon as this is over we will send him back," whispered the lawyer. "He keeps me in constant hot water. Then you recollect the little boy first coming to you?" he continued, turning to the schoolmaster.

He was silent for a few minutes, then waving his hand he said, “You must have patience with an old man, gentlemen. I believe I can recall everything, but I must not be hurried. The boy was brought here late one evening by a gentleman, that is to say by his father." "You can describe the gentleman?” "No, I cannot."

"And you have forgotten the boy's name.” "Not at all. He was called Sutton. As that was the only occasion on which I saw the father I cannot be expected to know much about his personal appearance. He wrote to me once every month, to enquire for his son; but he must have gone abroad immediately after leaving him here, as the letters always bore a foreign postmark or marks."

"Of course you have preserved them." "What for? If I had kept all the letters from my boys' friends-"

"How were they signed ?"

"Why that I can tell, because it used to puzzle me. Sometimes H. Sutton, the same as the son's name, and sometimes with initials, and the puzzling part was that the initials were always three."

"What was the third ?”

"I really cannot say. My own letters were always addressed to Mr. Sutton, of course." "And have you none of his letters ?"

"No.

Stay, I might have the last, if it was not burnt amongst the rubbish when I gave up the school. I think that one might possibly be in my desk, because I know I meant to keep it for a time. It was posted in England, and contained, as far as I remember, a notice that the gentleman was coming either to see his son, or to take him away. But you see he never did come. I suppose he must have died.”

"And you made no enquiries?"

"No; how could I? I am not sure that the last letter had not three full names; I know there was something particular about it."

"Why don't you show it us?" called out Harry, suddenly."

The schoolmaster started, and George put his hand deprecatingly.

"Could you let us see the letter?" asked Mr. Spencer, moving so as to face the old man again.'

"If I have it, I can."

He went to a huge old desk in one corner, and after fumbling in pigeon-holes, and talking to himself about the various bundles he produced, the letter was found, and George Burford

Mr. Spencer turned to the old man. "Did you take no steps in consequence of this signature ?"

"No. What steps should I take?"

"And no enquiries reached you about this gentleman-Mr. Rutherford, of Rutherford, either then or afterwards-years afterwards?"

The schoolmaster shook his head. "No, he had heard no inquiries; he was little better than an anchorite, living alone up there with his books; he had never heard of the Rutherfords, of Rutherford."

"Then you cannot recognize this young man as the orphan to whom you were so kind ?" The old man looked at him attentively.

"I see no reason to doubt that it is he, if he says so; but of course I could not swear to him. I think the boy had fair hair."

"And was there no peculiarity, no mark by which you could identify him ?” ́

"I can tell you one thing which may help," said the schoolmaster. "The boy had an unfortunately quick temper, and was what some people call brave-others, myself among the number, foolhardy. He once had a battle with a fellow about twice his own size, and I fancy one of his shoulders will bear the mark of an ugly gash which had to be sewed up."

"Let us see. There!" cried George Burford;

"I think this is sufficient."

The lawyer drew him on one side.

"We can do without young Rutherford, now," he said. “Indeed, I wish he was at home again. Persuade him to go back; we shall get on much better without him."

George shrugged his shoulders. It was all very easy to say "persuade him," but who was to do it?

66

"Mr. Rutherford," said the lawyer; and Harry started at the name, we bave little more to do here. Your friend and I are going on a few miles further; but in the meanwhile it is very desirable that our movements should not get wind in the neighbourhood of Bellenden."

"Well, I could not prevent that, could I?" "If you were stationed quietly at Leighton Wood I should feel more satisfied." "Why?"

"Because any rumours which may get afloat will reach you, and you can communicate with us!"

"I don't see how I am to communicate with you if I don't know where you are," persisted Harry.

"At the post-office, L-," replied the lawyer. "I have particular reasons," he added, earnestly, "for wishing to be informed at once if report catches hold of anything. It may alter our plans."

"Why not say at once that you want to get rid of me," suggested Harry, goodhumouredly. "However, if I can do any good-"

"You can. Go down to Leighton. Keep as quiet as is possible to your unquiet nature, and let me know if anything transpires,”

And Harry Sutton was back at the little inn at Leighton Wood. But though he knew that his case was so secure as hardly to admit of a doubt, he could not rest. Was all this singular fortune to separate him from Marie? Was he not acting against her, depriving her, in his own person, of her fortune? It was nothing that his greatest hope in life was to restore it to her: he could not divest himself of the haunting idea that in all this he was, as it were, fighting against her; that it must appear so to her; and how would she look upon or believe in the love of a man who had struggled so hard to eject her, that he might step into her place?

He had been brooding over these thoughts a whole morning; if hope came to him he refused to admit it, and yet he could not bring himself to wish that affairs were back in their former position-he Harry Sutton, the penniless composer, and Marie the promised wife of Sir Miles Bellenden, without any hope that she could be rescued.

Suddenly he started up. He could stand inactivity no longer: he would go out.

But the thoughts followed him still, and would not be exorcised. The sharp frosty air could not drive them away, nor the bright cold blue of the winter sky.

As he stood at the gate of the churchyard, listlessly watching an old daw that was flapping amongst the headstones, the sound of music tempted him to enter. The organist was practising. Old memories began to steal over Harry, at the well-known bits from Mozart, and the passages over which he had so often lingered lovingly. He stood leaning against a pillar, with one hand shading his face, and the voice of that genius, which had been his inspiration called once more at the door of the musician's heart. But other things filled it.

He started. The music had ceased, and there was a sound of shutting books and closing the instrument. He had no wish to be seen there, and certainly no desire to be locked in and left to spend the night there. At the door, however, some impulse caused him to turn and look back into the church; and then he stood silent, like a statue, face to face with Marie Rutherford, He was close to her, within reach of her dress. Only for a moment they looked at each other; and though neither spoke, yet each one knew well enough what the silence cost the other. Harry Sutton could not speak to Marie, as another man's promised wife. With the slightest possible salutation Harry was gone.

Marie waited, never moving from the spot where she had stopped before him, trying to steady herself-trying to bring back the colour to her cheeks, so that her companion might not

notice anything unusual. For Sir Miles had taken her there to listen to the organist, in order that her taste for music might be developed. By-and-bye he came up to her, and offered his arm. Marie need not have been frightened; the baronet's head was so high that he did not even look at her face; and he was so perfectly self-satisfied and complacent that it never occurred to him to think of her composure.

During the walk home he delivered an eloquent discourse upon the arts in general, and music in particular, of which he said he was very fond. He talked, and Marie, when an answer was required, answered mechanically, and, as soon as they reached home, she darted away to her own room. Her heart was like lead in her bosom; she could have cried out, with a very bitter longing, that name which would have been gall and wormwood in the baronet's ears, but she did not dare to give way. She did not know how soon some one would come to seek her, for they had grown very watchful of late. It had dawned upon the lethargic mind of the baronet that it was just possible his betrothed cherished no very violent affection for him. He did not afflict himself about that; he had none for her. He did not believe it was at all necessary. In a lower station, and with people of no comparative responsibilities, he allowed that it might be all very well to indulge in the feeling vulgarly known as "falling in love;" but for a man of his dignity, with his rank and respectability to keep up, it would be simply absurd. He liked Marie very well; he thought that with a little more manner, a little cultivation, and a little more power of conversing technically on the subject of the fine arts, she would make a very good Lady Bellenden, or Lady BellendenRutherford if it must be so; she would look well enough at the head of his table-not so well as his sister perhaps, but still she would improve under his and their tuition. Lately, however, he had seen and others had seen, for it was very palpable, a strange alteration in the future Lady Bellenden-Rutherford. She was whimsical and uncertain: at one time in high spirits-so high, indeed, that Sir Miles would feel it incumbent on him to look grave; at another, so sorrowful and downcast as to be absolutely oppressive to the poor baronet. She would start and blush painfully, too, if suddenly spoken to; and would stammer and take back her words with a frightened look, which did not at all please her lover. It was no wonder. She had for the first time the consciousness of a secret. Alternating with hope came the terrible uncertainty and suspense, together with the fear lest she should say something which might lead the baronet to suspect it.

And such a strange secret, too! one which must so materially alter her own life and the views of Sir Miles. But would he release her, even if it were all true? George Burford had seemed secure, but Marie was not. Perhaps in her secret heart she believed that the baronet

must care a little for her, and not all for her money; no woman likes to think that she is valued simply at her price in the money market. But, to be free! out of Sir Miles' power, free and unfettered! It was too good to be possible. In her moments of weakness and weariness, she used to tell herself dismally that nothing would make any difference; Sir Miles would never give her back her promise, and therefore she must fulfil it. Fair and pleasant as it may seem, there had been times in the life of the little heiress when the going to bed at night was but a refuge from dreary wretched ness; and the waking to the sunlight brought only that bitter aching at the heart, which says drearily, "Another miserable day to be lived through, and what is the use of living?"

We all know what it is; we have all felt it; I myself, and you to whom I speak, I care not what you are, struggling and work-weary, as Heaven knows I am myself at times! as many of us are; or living in wealth and comfort, yet having lost that which made wealth valuable and ease a blessing: we have all felt, or shall feel, that heaviest of all weights, which makes daylight bitter to us and life a burden. If you who read are one amongst such sufferers-my brother or my sister, take comfort in the thought that the Giver of the burden gives also strength to bear it; and when you see another in sorrow, help him if you can. Surely it is good to care for the poor, but it is good also to care for the mourner and sorrowstricken! And because I cannot speak of balls and merry-makings in the same breath with that sorrow that goeth to and fro upon the earth, I close my chapter here. Vale!

CHAP. VIII.

"Marie, come down please: Miles wants you."

Now Marie would have liked to linger with her own thoughts alone, but she went down obediently.

Sir Miles placed a chair for her with his usual scrupulous politeness; but Marie looked uneasily from one to another, half-dreading that this must be the preface to something disagreeable. "You are aware," began Sir Miles, "that the ball takes place to-morrow." "Yes."

"I do not like such-such-gaieties," said Sir Miles, stumbling about for a word. "It is no fault of mine that this one occurs at all; I fancied you had set your mind upon it." 'I! Oh, how could you?"

"Now, Miles," interrupted Augusta, "was it not enough that I set you right upon that point? Why must you go on blundering over nothing, in that way?"

Sir Miles heard his sister to the end, with exemplary patience, and then turned to repeat his speech to Marie.

“Yes,” he said, "I imagined that your mind

was set upon it, or I should not have given my consent. I find I was mistaken; at least circumstances misled me. But," continued the Baronet, "as it is now unavoidable-I repeat that I am very sorry that it is so-I do think, Marie, that it is scarcelythat is to say, I hope you are not absolutely determined not to put off your crape." "It

"I wish to wear it," pleaded Marie. can make no difference."

"But it can, and does. Good gracious!" exclaimed Sir Miles, as the enormity of the thing struck him afresh: "heavy black crape at a ball! My dear Marie, do me the favour to reflect, how very singular-that is, how utterly inconsistent!"

"I know it would be inconsistent if I were to appear," said Marie. "But I thought that might not be necessary."

"Not necessary! not appear! I do not exactly understand."

"How slow you are, Miles !" said Augusta. "She wants to sit mooning up in her own room, to be sure."

Sir Miles lifted his aristocratic eyebrows with an expression of dignified amazement.

"If you have no insuperable objection, Marie, I should be very much obliged-suppose it were to be still crape; but white instead of black. There is such a thing, I believe. No doubt Augusta will see to it for you."

"Oh yes, I offered; and that was how I found out what the queer child meant to do."

"Augusta, I have spoken before, I think, on the same subject; the word 'child' is totally inappropriate. You know, Marie, I do not ask you to wear ornaments, if you object; but plain white-and then it is six months since."

"Yes, yes," broke in Marie, hurriedly. "It shall be as you like." "Thank you."

"May I go now?"

A frown deepened on the forehead of Sir Miles as be bent it slightly in assent. He liked to reign supreme, but he disliked the childish appeal which showed that he did so.

The next day every one was much occupiedevery one, that is, except Marie, who took no interest in the coming festivities. Sir Miles, who hated what he called "fuss," betook himself to the library, and was invisible; Cecil was from home, and Marie's movements were singularly uncontrolled. Under plea of a headache she made her escape into the park, and went to walk up and down in a favourite spot whence she could see just across the road the lime avenue of Rutherford.

And, as she looked, a temptation came upon her to do more than look: she was cold, a sharp walk up that avenue and back would warm her. She knew that Sir Miles particularly objected to her walking alone beyond the boundaries; she knew also that she had left him safe in the library; but she did not know that, as she started for the desired spot, Sir Miles started from his seat in the library, for the purpose of seeking her to walk with him.

If