yet remained unsatisfied. Day after day I traversed the spacious apartments. I wandered through the long galleries, whose portraits seemed to look down upon me with a kindly greeting, haunted by dim remembrances, which grew oppressive as they mocked my efforts to solve them.

One day I strolled into the library where Francisco was busily arranging his private papers. "Teresa," said he, on my approach, “I was just on the point of seeking you to show you the miniature of my lost cousin, whom you so closely resemble."

I drew near him. "Good heavens !" I exclaimed; "that is my mother's picture!"

"What mean you, Teresa? Explain yourself!" said he, looking bewildered.

I could not. I was speechless. Seizing him by the hand, I flew to my dressing-room, and opening a trunk, from its lowest depths drew forth the counterpart of the miniature he held in his hand.

Teresa," said he, in a voice trembling with emotion, "why did you never show me this before?"

"I cannot tell," said I; "I have never shown it to any one but Mr. Thorne and his wife. I felt it too sacred to be unfeelingly gazed upon; but why I never thought to show it to you is certainly unaccountable."

Before our marriage I had confided to him the secret of my supposed gypsy origin; but I shrank from entering into the details of my early life. Now I sat down and minutely related them. My resemblance to Teresa, Savelli's attraction towards me, my own vague recollections were all explained; and we were convinced beyond doubt that I was no other than the child of Teresa, whose fate was never definitely ascertained. Together we mingled our tears of joy! together we bowed in silent aderation of that Unseen Hand which, through a dark, mysterious path, had finally led the wanderer home! If anything was needed to complete my happiness, it was granted when, a few months after, I beheld my old friend Alice, and from her received intelligence of my benefactors in America. Alice has told me allyour joys and your troubles; and my greatest desire now is to behold once more your kind faces. Francisco smiles doubtingly when I express a wish to see Miss Croft; but to her also I owe a debt of gratitude, for, had she treated me with a particle of sympathy, I might to this day have remained her faithful servant.

Accept from Francisco and myself the accompanying package as a slight token of our grate

THE BONAPARTE FAMILY REGISTER. THE register of the Imperial family, on which has been inscribed the procès-verbal of the birth of Prince Napoleon's son, is a large folio volume, bound in red velvet, and having at the corners ornaments of silver-gilt, with the family cipher "N" in the centre. It was commenced in 1806, and the first entry made was the adoption of Prince Eugene by the Emperor. The second, made the same year, relates to the adoption of the Princess Stephanie de Beauharnais, who recently died Grand Duchess of Baden, and who was cousin of the Empress Josephine. Next comes the marriage of the Emperor Napoleon I.; then several certificates of the birth of Princes of the family, and lastly of the King of Rome, which closes the series of the certificates inscribed under the reign of the First Emperor. This register was confided to the care of the Count Regnault de Saint-Jean d'Angely, Minister and Councillor of State, and Secretary of the Imperial family. It was to him, under the First Empire, as it is now to the Minister of State under the Second, that was reserved the duty of drawing up the procès-ver→ · beaux of the great acts relative to Napoleon. At the fall of the First Empire, Count Regnault de Saint-Jean d'Angely carefully preserved the book, which after his death passed into the hands of the Countess, his widow. That lady handed it over to the President of the Republic when Louis Napoleon was called by universai suffrage to the Imperial throne. In this same register, continued by the Second Empire, may be seen the certificates of the marriage of the Emperor Napoleon III., and of that of the Princess Clotilde; of the birth of the Prince Imperial; of the death of Prince Jerome; and, lastly, of the birth of the Prince Napoleon Victor Jerome Frederic, just born. The name of Napoleon commemorates that of the head of the dynasty; that of Victor is in remembrance of the house of Savoy; Jerome is that of his paternal grandfather; and Frederic was given in compliment to the family of Wurtemberg.

No money is better spent than what is laid out for domestic satisfaction. A man is pleased that his wife is dressed as well as other people, and the wife is pleased that she is dressed.

Ir was a fresh, bright June morning. All the windows in Aunt Sophie's home had been thrown open to the sweet summer air. She had laid aside her work, and knelt by her favorite window, absorbing, with every sense, the joys which nature offered, while her soul expanded in worship beneath the genial influence, and her lips murmured: "And God saw everything that He had made, and behold it was very good," as the radiant smile upon her face showed that the sacred words were echoing with new power in her consciousness. Emma and Carrie were pouring forth their exuberant gladness in an anthem whose spirit at least seemed to be echoed by the canaries and the wild birds that carolled in the maple tops. The gardener was whistling cheerily, the housemaid humming at her work, children were shouting, and dogs were barking at a distance; yet all sounds were harmonious in her ear, since all expressed joy or praise.

Soon Henry came, eagerly calling, as he caught sight of her: "Oh, mother, mother! father says come down in the back porch and see the horses play; Willie and Edward have them out."

Mr. Laselle came and stood at her side to watch his noble, spirited pets; but their talk was in exclamations till the horses were led away. Then Uncle Charles said suddenly, clapping his palms for emphasis: "Come, mother, let's go somewhere this glorious weather!" "I'm ready; shall we all go to Norton Pond for a day?" responded Aunt Sophie.

'Oh pshaw! no; we will go far enough to try Colonel and Major's mettle, I don't care if it is a thousand miles. Where shall it be? Whom do you want to see?''

"I know somebody that wants to see her and me, too," said Carrie, as her mother hesitated.

"You refer to your cousin, Sophie Carr, do you not?" asked Mrs. Laselle.

"Yes, mother; she begged me for a visit in every letter since she was here, two summers ago."

"Pretty well thought of, I think,” replied Uncle Charles. "I shall be right glad to visit sister Lora and her family; so let us make arrangements, for it is a long way, and we must start soon to be home in time to welcome Rose Wilmot here."

The next morning, the family carriage having received Mr. and Mrs. Laselle, Carrie, Edward and Henry, Colonel and Major trotted briskly away, followed soon by a light carriage, which had been hired for Willie and Emma, for it had been decided that all the family should go as far as Niagara, that the children might view that wondrous masterpiece of nature, and the parents renew the reverent emotions its sublimity had long ago inspired.

It would take us long to tell of the beautiful succession of luxuriant landscapes, ever-varying cloud-pictures, neat villages, and quaint farm-houses which gladdened their observing eyes, and were laid among the sweet pictures which memory might hold ever ready for reason or fancy's draughts, as they journeyed through the Empire State. The parents, with their quick sight and cultivated love of beauty, were ready sympathizers with the fresh, social natures of the children, which found such frequent vent in exclamations of delight or surprise, or in eager, interested inquiries which drew from their father or mother scraps of knowledge they would remember longer than any they had gathered from books.

All their voices were silenced by reverent awe as they viewed the mighty Niagara amid the roar of its majestic thunderings. Then heart and lips were hushed; but afterward, many a lofty soul-flight was winged by the impressions received at that time. Their stay was not long, lest incongruous elements might be mingled in the perfect mental pictures.

Willie, Emma, and Henry proceeded directly home, while the remainder of the party went on, to make their contemplated visit in Ohio. A letter had preceded them; so eager eyes were watching for them when they arrived three days later. Carrie and her cousin, Sophie, were most enthusiastic in their expressions of delight at meeting; yet a competent observer would have seen that the joy of their elders was to theirs as a deep, rippling river compared with a babbling brook.

The coming of these dear friends from among their native New England hills was like moving back their sun of life to the morning hours of promise, to Lionel and Lora Carr. Association brought before them many a scene of youthful joy, which had long been dimmed by the dust of everyday labor and the cobwebs of daily

care, and they saw them now, even brighter, from memory's gilding, than they had been in passing. It was rare happiness also to hear of the participants in those long gone delights, and Uncle Charles and Aunt Sophie had their thoughts quickened by interested questions, till they seemed to gain new wealth of experiences of life in that there was so much in their memories they had not realized. Old acquaintances, who had not been thought of for years, came in association's train to suggest bright thoughts of the holy home awaiting a glad reunion, or sad ones of earth's changes. This first evening was devoted to the past, for the morrow would be soon enough for the ladies to chat of their children, their housekeeping, and present surroundings; and for the gentlemen to interchange opinions concerning business and politics, since these later topics had engrossed the recent letters. Long after Carrie and her cousin had fallen asleep, sitting both upright, with each an arm about the other, their parents talked unweariedly. Uncle Charles and Aunt Sophie disclaimed all unusual fatigue, as well they might, since travellers who have pleasant companions, an easy carriage, and horses to be indulged in long and frequent rests, as family pets, should be exhilarated rather than overworn by journeying. Colonel and Major pranced as gayly, as they were led into Mr. Carr's barn, as they had done on the morning before leaving home, though their proud owner took no credit for extra care of them, since he fancied he came leisurely, merely to gratify the tastes and ensure the comfort of liis wife.

It is not our purpose to give a detailed account of this visit of our friends. We pass over many interesting conversations and pleasant excursions to places of interest, or natural beauty in the vicinity, to note part of a morning's talk and some of its results.

"Where does Ella keep herself of late? I am afraid the child isn't well, she is so unusually quiet," said Mrs. Carr.

"I think you need not be particularly alarmed about her," replied Jennie, with a half sarcastic smile, as long as she can sit and read from morning till night. She reads in our room since Aunt Sophie came."

'Ah! that is it, is it?" said the mother. Then, turning to Mrs. Laselle, she continued, with an intonation of satisfaction in her voice: "I expect Ella will be the scholar of the family. Though she is not yet thirteen, she has read more books than all the rest of us, I believe; and the more she reads, the more she wants to."

"What does she read ?" asked Aunt Sophie, quietly.

Oh, everything she can get; nothing comes amiss with her, I think; and everybody in the neighborhood is willing to lend to her, for she never injures a volume. She has a new stock now, I see, from a family who have lately moved into the place, and I suppose she will not have a thought for anything else till she has been through them all. It tries my patience sometimes; but I am glad to see the child improving herself."

"I hope you do not forget that not all books are sources of improvement, and that a mere taste for reading is not always a test of scholarship," responded Aunt Sophie.

Mrs. Carr hesitated before she replied. She had an indistinct remembrance of the warnings against bad books she had heard long ago. They seemed very unreal to her, since she had never been tempted in that way. She had never formed any decided taste for reading of any kind; but from the days when, as a child, she had been mortified by her accustomed place at the foot of her class, she had felt an, earnest admiration for scholarship. Intellectual attainments had never been within the scope of her practical powers, but she was not the less ambitious that some one of her children should excel in them; hence her maternal pride had been gratified, in that the more abundant leisure which had been allowed to Ella, as the youngest daughter, had fostered a love for reading which she did not suppose could prove a source of anything save reasonable pleasure and improvement. Not having an intelligent appreciation of the advantages. and resources of a well-disciplined and wisely stored mind, she had not craved such a possession for all her children; but had been well content to leave their mental culture to chance, which had so far favored her. The western township, in which her husband had located himself a few months before marriage, had been settled by New Englanders, who had brought their system of common schools with them, and also established an academy at an early date. Her children had profited by these educational advantages, and the older ones were intelligent and teachable, without being remarkable as scholars.

A six months' stay among friends at the East, two years before the time of which we write, had been of great advantage to the eldest daughter, and, through her, to the younger members of the family. She came into the room with Carrie just as Mrs. Carr

was saying, in response to Mrs. Laselle's last remark:

"I know that one has to guard against bad books where they are plenty, but I suspect one could not find enough of any kind in this town to harm her."

"It isn't the quantity, but the quality that harms," said Aunt Sophie, looking involuntarily at the speaking face of her namesake.

I know it right well," responded the girl, "and we have just found Ella crying over a yellow-covered novel that you would no sooner let her read than you would feed her with arsenic, Carrie says.

"What do you say?" said Mrs. Carr. "Where did she get the book?"

"Of Angelina Potter, and she has borrowed a half dozen of the same style, with a promise of more when those are read."

"Call her, Jennie; tell her to bring the book she is reading, directly."

Very soon poor Ella came in, holding one hand before her tear-stained face, and looking like a convicted culprit, though she said in a pleading tone, as she handed the book to her mother:

Please, mother, let me finish reading it; it is not so bad as Carrie and Sophia think it is, and I do so want to see how it comes out.”

Perhaps we can tell you that, dear," said Aunt Sophie, who pitied the child.

Mrs. Carr looked at the book an instant, then saying, in a tone which made Ella extend her hand to take it :

"It is founded on fact." She passed it to Mrs. Laselle, who remarked, as she glanced over its pages:

"Yes, it professes to be founded on fact, but I pity the author who could pass by all the pure and beautiful facts of life, to feed his fancy upon a morbid and distorted reality, as I would pity the artist who should ignore all beauty and healthy development upon his canvas to find his satisfaction in representing festering sores, deformed limbs, blasted flowers, and decaying fruit. A fact may be a very unwholesome thing for little girls, so I think our little Ella will be content to let her mother return the dear, delightful books that make her cry, to their owner, for we can tell her that at the end, she would find the bad all killed, the good all pleased, and herself wearied and irritable from over-excitement." Noticing that the child still eyed the book greedily, Aunt Sophie saw that its spell must be broken, or its haunting power would linger over the susceptible mind. For a moment she was at a loss, but after a

closer examination of the book, she asked Ella to tell her how far she had read. With nervous eagerness the little fingers turned the leaves, glancing more frequently as she ad. vanced, till, at about the middle, she said :

"Here is my place, and I do so want to see how Emilia will escape from that wicked Claudio." 'Well, child, you shall know. If you will tell us the story so far, I will tell you the remainder. Just commence. I will prompt you from the book, and I doubt not the girls will be exceedingly interested."

'That we shall," said Carrie, encouragingly, "and mother will tell almost all the story, if you will only get her to begin.”

She

"Perhaps I had better begin,” responded Aunt Sophie, as Ella still hesitated, and glancing at the first page, she commenced, in a style even more verbose and extravagant than the author's, a description of the heroine. mingled incongruous and ridiculous, put high sounding epithets occasionally, for the sport of the elders, but she went on so fluently, that Ella was lost in admiration, and soon exclaimed: "Why, Aunt Sophie, you have read it yourself, hav'n't you ?”

"No, dear; you will find I need a deal of prompting, if I am to tell the story, but I can put big words together beautifully, when I have à pattern."

"O, yes, she can tell us how gracefully the timorous, intrepid maiden perambulated the periphery of her father's luxuriant, closelycropped lawn, while reclining upon the verdant, gray rock where the mignonette shed its delightful fragrance," said Carrie, her eyes sparkling with mischief.

"You did not say that, did you, auntie ?” said Ella, half indignantly.

“I think I said some things quite as absurd, even if the author does not, but certainly one should be held excusable for some nonsense, if he must write more than three hundred closelyprinted, double-columned pages like these, with neither purpose nor sound ideas to ennoble his work," replied Aunt Sophie gently, and then continued: "However, we must not forget that we have undertaken to tell this story. When I relate, you must correct me, and when you take up the account, I will look out for your mistakes. We must be very watchful of each other, and not let these girls discover a flaw that we do not. Will you go on?"

"I wish you would," said Ella, timidly. "Very well, I will until one of the others notices a blunder that you do not; you will need to watch closely, for Carrie has a quick ear,

when I am likely to be caught tampering with the Queen's English."

Aunt Sophie altered her style, as she commenced again, choosing words within Ella's comprehension, when she intended to blunder, and soon hearing the story became like a lively game, in which their quick wits were taxed to the utmost in finding phrases to be substituted for those to which they objected. After a few hearty laughs, the story was of far less importance in Ella's eyes, and as Aunt Sophie insisted upon her taking her turn, she found long chapters, which she could dismiss with a sentence. Then there were various, romantic moonshiny episodes, which proved exceedingly ridiculous, when subjected to the keen, mirthprovoking comments of Carrie and her cousins. The pathetic scenes, too, which had called forth Ella's tears, being held up in the light of cold criticism, lost their semblance of reality, and the child did not wonder at Jennie's asking if she were not ashamed to have cried so much over such nonsense. She was heartily ashamed of herself and the book, of which the heroine and her companions were now mere puppets to her, concerning whose fate she was indifferent. Aunt Sophie saw that it was time to stop the sport, which was becoming bitter to the little girl, so she checked the older girls, and briefly and soberly showed Ella the bare plot of the story, and its probable ending; then talked earnestly with all her companions of the folly of devoting precious time to such silly novels. Ella voluntarily brought the remainder of her borrowed store. Mrs. Laselle glanced over them and said:

"It was evidently your good fortune, my dear, to chance upon the least objectionable of these books. Emilia's story is only silly and śhallów; thèse are foul and despicable. Impulse prompts me to throw them all in the fire, but it belongs to the owner to do that, as I should certainly advise her, Lóra, upon returning them. However, let me warn my nieces against becoming in any way intimate with a young lady who would own or lend such trash. Neighborly kindness may prompt occasional calls, and you can lend her your books, but do not again borrow of her, or expose yourselves to her influence. I am glad to see that Ella loves to read; but she must be careful that this taste remain a healthful appetite for mental food rather than a morbid craving for mental stimulus. Your father has many of the old English classics; they have to me the flavor of delicious winter-apples, juicy and nourishing so long after the winter snows have covered the boughs

which bore them. You have the Bible, too, which is the very Bread of Life. With these, and your school-books for meat, your minds will not lack nourishment, though you may sometimes wish for the lighter productions of the day, which we may compare to the smaller fruits and berries with which a provident housekeeper so loves to vary her family's diet. Do you understand the comparison well enough to remember it, Ella ?"

The little girl looking somewhat puzzled, Aunt Sophie glanced inquiringly at Jennie, who said: "I do, auntie. We have minds which must have food; so we have the Bible for bread, school-books for meat-some of them are tough and gristly, I am thinking-and then we have Goldsmith, Addison, Shakspeare, Plutarch, Pollok, Young, Pope, and dear Mrs. Hemans; besides some children's stories for goodies, and besides we have father's newspaper, what's that?-potatoes, I guess. Well, I am not going hungry."

"If you are hungry, don't try adulterated brandy in the shape of Angelina Potter's novels," said Carrie, roguishly.

"My child!" spoke Aunt Sophie, in a tone of grave rebuke, which sobered her daughter instantly, who blushed as she said:

"Oh, I beg pardon, Ella. I know you were not to blame, since nobody had told you they were bad. I will never plague you about them again."

"Nor I, either," said Aunt Sophie. "We ought to be obliged to them for bringing the subject into our talk. Don't let us drop it yet."

"You don't object to all novels, Aunt Sophie? How are we to tell the good from the bad-by the binding? Shall we discard all in paper covers, and accept those in cloth or leather?”

"You may answer, Carrie," said Aunt Sophie, smiling, as she glanced at her daughter's animated face.

"I only wanted to say, mother, that that. would not do at all, for then we should lose or have to wait for late editions of dear Miss Bremer's charming stories; delightful David Copperfield, your favorite John Halifax, and others almost as good. I should say throw all yellow covers to the flames, and read the brown."

Ah, ha! confidently spoken, and very conclusive, if we could only be sure that you know the whole story," responded Aunt Sophie, laughing.

Well, is it not the way you do, mother?'' asked the girl, a little abashed.