"I have seen toil and exposure,-- but my heart too has been glad. Rememberest thou, Glaucon, our last meeting?"

"Too well, I feared that you had perished, and that in truth we should meet no more on earth.”

The door opened again, and a dark haired girl of perhaps seventeen summers, entered. Ludovic rose, while a brighter light stole into his eye;"Ah! this is Myra,- I see you again in the groves of Tarsus, my friend.”

66

Nay," returned the mother, “she has not my stature. It is Louie. She is not so winning as Myra was;- I will have you to know that I have been persuading Glaucon, that neither of us have faded as yet, and you know, Ludovic, I always was vain."

"Come hither, Louie; can you not recite to me the gay poet's 'noverca,' that we read the other day?" said the Count as he drew the lovely girl in paternal pride, to his own couch. "You must learn to love our friend here. He saved your father's life in other days, and gave your mother to my arms, at the loss of place and home and country to himself.”

The guest folded her in his arms,- kissed her fair brow, and in a tone tremulous and low, invoked upon her a patriarchal blessing.

"I doubt me," he said, after resuming his couch, "whether ye will be yielding your fair flower to grace the new institution I hear of, at Paphos. Yoa remember the Egyptian, still? I met him years after the battle where we parted. He was pursuing his way to India, and had been driven in disgrace from the monasteries of Egypt. His crimes were too glaring even for them."

A shudder passed over Myra's face at the mention of the name. The guest hastened to change the subject: "Thy sire, Glaucon; is he at all changed?"

But from the shadow that passed over the countenance of his friend, he was aware that he had been still more unfortunate in his allusion. "It is the only sorrow I have known, my friend," responded the Count," and it has been terrible. My father drove me from his house on my professing the Christian faith, and his last taunt is ring. ing in my ears. I was just about to take my command as Count of Mesopotamia, and the last words he uttered were: Go, apostate, and drive thy traitor shaft to the Emperor's heart, and then return,- the bosom of thy sire shall be bared to thee.' And will you believe it, the suspicion that my hand did slay my sovereign has never left him.

6

O! my God, would I had trampled the gold band of the Emperor into the mire of Antioch that day!" And the strong man covered his face with his hands,— his daughter pressed her fair cheek to his, and both were wet with scalding tears.

There was a pause of a moment, when Ludovic broke the silence: "This is indeed dreadful. But have the assurances of eye-witnesses no effect upon your sire?"

---

"None whatever the suspicion has taken strong hold of his imagination, and he is now sinking with age. But let us not dwell on

it; it has haunted me through all my joys.

Tell me, my friend,”—

and he made a strong effort to compose himself, “how came you to be in the army on that terrible night? We met but a moment, and it was no time for explanation then.”

"I was forced to fly, as you know, from Tarsus, immediately after your escape; I had a brother in a troop of your division, and feared that I should see his face no more, except I met him before the final struggle with the Persian host. The flames of your fleet, blazing on the Tigris, guided me on your track, and I came up with the army on that gloomy evening, when the retreat was first rumored through the host. I saw the clouds of dust that darkened the plains, and felt that all was lost to your cause. You saw me in the ranks. I scarcely know how I came there. My brother had just fallen, and a terrible spirit of vengeance came over me. And you must admit," he said, half sportively, "that we Britons did not disgrace our commander.” "You stood the whole brunt alone, for a while. An army of such would be invincible. I remember our last charge after the Emperor had fallen, was made wholly with Gauls and Britons. Persian wing and checked their triumph, effectually. of fearful gloom. Dids't see the Emperor fall? him before. He grasped the keen javelin that quivered in his side, till his fingers bled to the bone. Had success covered his efforts, the world would have made him a hero. The madness that burned eleven hundred transports on the Tigris would have been the height of decision and generalship."

We broke the It was an hour I never loved

"It was indeed a dark hour, but the church rejoiced in it; 'twas the dawn of hope to her. And yet I know not if prosperity doth not corrupt more than adversity has ever crushed her."

The speaker was interrupted by the entrance of a youth. "My son," exclaimed Myra, and he was locked in her arms. But even

while he was embracing her, he whispered to Glaucon: Haste thee; if you would see my grandsire, ere he dies, you must depart this night. Reason has returned to him, and he has murmured the name of Glaucon."

Hardly awaiting further explanation, the Count addressed himself at once to the necessary preparation, and to an early hour in the morning, the whole household was in confusion. It was in the gray dawn, and on the bosom of the Mediterranean, that Glaucon learned more fully, that Libanius had been for several days at the point of death, and that it was more than probable, his arrival would be now, too late. 'Twas there, too, that the youth learned for the first time the whole history of his father's conversion, and Glaucon listened to that eloquent exposition of the Christian faith, which had shaken his own prejudices in other days. The night of his imprisonment was acted over, and the earnest voice of Ludovic left an impression on the son, not less deep and lasting than that which had determined the character of the sire.

[CONCLUSION IN NEXT NO.]

EDITORS' TABLE.

"The way we have at old Amherst,
To drive dull care away."

Amherst Creed.

Though it is the pleasantest day of the season, the combined influence of the mud and the printer has compelled us to give up our anticipated drive, and shut ourselves up in our Sanctum. So seat yourself, public, in the red-cushioned chair of the Patriarch on the opposite side of our Franklin, select the brownest of those "Brown Havannas," (Spear's best, and large enough for your collective mouth), and let us have a chat together.

We are in the best of humor to-day, though not a bit funny, but a kind of subdued cheerfulness prompts us to take a charitable glance at this "old Amherst." We are not going to interfere with its inhabitants, they “speak for themselves," and we are in too good humor to heap coals of fire on their heads; nor shall we consider it as "pleasantly situated in the valley of the Connecticut,

eight miles from Northampton," but we'll try to transcribe a page from the inner life of the Amherst we've lived in. The warm sun and clear sky tell us that the bright flowers and green fields of Spring are soon coming,- coming for the last time to the class of '51. We've been here "man and boy," these four years, and we can't help thinking this afternoon that it's long enough. But still we would like to ask if there is any one among our number whose pleasure at leaving will be unmingled with regret? We think not. We are of the opinion that we have enjoyed our course as well as most, and that most enjoy their time in College as well as any four years in their lives. There's an earnestness even in the romance of College Life, it seems to us, which we can never find elsewhere,-something even in its trifles and foibles, which though we cannot wholly approve, we think we never shall altogether regret, even when looking back from the gray hairs of old age. We are shut out from the world, to be sure, made a sort of living mummies of, but the dust will soon shake off, while the very seclusion has given to College the character of home, more than anything else could. And then, we have friends here, whole-souled, tried friends, such as we never had before. Who cannot count at least one, a "fidus Achates," to whom often the inmost recess of his heart has been unveiled? and as we leave here, and strike out on the broad prairie of life, each on a separate trail, 'twill be hard to think these paths may never run together again. We've had our share of faults, we'll allow, but don't be totoo ready to count on our ruin. We've often moralized on the ways of College. We're a theory that man is n't utterly depraved while he will not do a meanness. It seems to us that there is a strange charm in playful wanderings from a prescribed course, merely because it is prescribed. Children like to "see the folly of it" for themselves. Many whose high sense of personal honor and desire to win place and name, would compel them to "be strong and show themselves men," if thrown upon their own resources, are led during this College life, to the error of fancying that they are under a system of conventional rules, and that the circumstances under which they are placed do not call for that strict propriety of action, which they would feel bound to follow in their homes or in active life; but we have little fear that the truths and duties of the great world before them, will fail to win them back from folly.

We care not now to notice anything which may have detracted from the pleasure of our sojourn here, nor the prevalence of a spirit in our midst, “quae carpitque carpitur unà, suppliciumque suum est." It would lead us away from our original purpose and indicate a sensitiveness we don't feel. Those things are past now; they may have done us good; at any rate, what they have taken from the pleasure, they have added to the interest of our College life. That life is now nearly over; and while we are not sorry to escape from its restraints and nerve our energies for a closer grapple with the world, still we are ready to confess that the blood flows quicker through our veins as we think that it is so close at hand.

Perhaps we have been wandering,- perhaps our reveries have carried us away from the legitimate course of an Editor's Table. We are not sorry for it; if you are,wait till you are Seniors. Foila tout.