an@ THE EVE OF ST. JOHN. Translated from the German of Gustav Hartwig. EY THEODORE MARTIN. USHED as the grave is the village, and now from the belfry tower, They cease, and a hush as of death again settles all around. On through the silent street goes a man to the old church-door, That gleams in the moon's wan rays with a shimmering, ghostly light, And behind him he casts, as he goes, a fearful glance evermore, Round him he looks to see where he may be hidden secure, And he crouches down in a corner out of the way and obscure, Where never a beam from the moon to light up the gloom might stray. Every Eve of St. John, so runneth the legend old, Down the long church-aisle glideth a ghostly train, And whoso will linger there till the last stroke of twelve has tolled To him will the future dark be manifest made and plain. Spectral figures he sees through hazes phantasmal peer, Before him the phantoms pass of those whom already the doom Of death has o'ershadowed, and now, even now, their graves they are near, Here on this errand has he come in sore anguish and grief, And if before him shall pass that troop phantasmal and dim, For death, death only, can lift the curse that has weighed on his life For years, since the day when heartburnings, and discord, and wranglings aloud Set hopeless division up 'twixt himself and the once-loved wife To whom all his life could give had been at the altar vowed. Anon the dread midnight hour from the belfry begins to boom; She too has waited there, the midnight procession to see, With the self-same pain in her heart, the self-same longing to steal To see with her weary eyes what the Eve of St. John might reveal. Her glance on her husband falls, before her as in a scroll The mystery is unrolled of a future impending and drear; Backward she totters-the features, rigid and pallid and drawn, Of her spouse seem to hover before the eyes of her startled soul; And dayspring began to arise in the heart of her husband as well, He feels his heart with the throb of quicker pulsations swell, And the fires of a love long quenched are enkindled anew in his breast Thus once more as of old the ties of affection were twined, Love at their lorn hearth-fire a sheltering welcome found, Coming back as the exile comes, who in banishment long has pined, To ne home in the land of his sires, that to him is as hallowed ground. Brightly the days went by, all sunshine, undimmed by a tear, When the love came to life again, that late had been dead to the core ; And then came the Summer, and with it the Eve of St. John once more. Silent is all around, the church glimmers white in the sheen Of the moonbeams, that play around, like an aureole glory fair, day. "Grant, O God," was their thought, "that we for yet many a ["Watching in the church-porch for death-omens on the Eves of St. Mark and St. John, is a practice that in days gone by was much in use, especially amongst young people. The time observed was from eleven o'clock at night until one in the morning. In the same year it was supposed that the ghosts of all those who were to die the next year would pass into the church."-T. F. Thiselton Dyer's "English Folk-lore."] HER KING. "A FEELING OF DEADLY HATE FOR THIS WOMAN AROUSED ME. SHE LOOKED UPON ME WITH AFFRIGHTED EYES HER KING. BY NORA MARBLE. I HAVE seldom seen so sweet a face as Margaret Fuller's. Time had robbed her of the bloom of youth though I doubt if women of her type ever have that peachy bloom which at best fades so quickly-and his unsparing pencil had begun that etching process in which he is so masterful; even he appreciated the sweetness, the almost holy calm of that countenance, for the lines were as yet but faintly traced, so faintly that even the most envious could but characterize her still as young. I never left her presence but I wondered if that sweet calm had ever been broken, and, indeed, felt a desire to see the waters troubled for a time, as is natural for a finite woman to feel who is herself "Not too good for human nature's daily food," when she is brought in Vol. XXIV., No. 1-2. contact with a feminine angel. I say feminine angel, for a male angel has never appeared upon the horoscope of my vision but once, and he-well, never mind; it's not my history I'm writing. I had been impelled a score of times during our many confidential chats-though I may as well admit that all the confidences were on my side of the dialogue-to ask if there had not been a great romance in her life which made her eyes bear that look of introspection; but somehow I could never muster courage to put the question. Jack says (Jack is my husband, and, of course, that male angel aforesaid), that if I were a surgeon I'd never get beyond poising the knife-just poising, you know, to give my courage time to ooze out. Well, it was on the eve of Christmas, in the year 1880, that I was summoned to her home. She was very ill. The usual story-a slight cold, neglect, pneumonia. The doctor was about leaving as I entered the house. He had but little hopes of her recovery, and begged me to remain with her until the end. The bells were ringing out their glad chimes, calling upon the world to rejoice that the Saviour of man was born that day, when I heard Margaret's voice faintly murmur: The way cannot be dark. He was born to make it light. I shall leave the darkness behind and grope no more." Then, through my fast-falling tears, I asked that question which I had thought to ask in other words and under different circumstances: for I read in them an approval and admiration which thrilled me with delight. "My king!" I whispered, as I laid my head upon the pillow that night, and I knew his reign over my heart had already begun. It was only at balls, parties or the drive that I was made happy by meeting him, for, to my astonishment and chagrin, he had never called upon me at my hostess's. Notwithstanding, I was assured that I filled his mind and heart, assured by that subtle intuition which lovers possess, in women more keenly active than in men. But few of my acquaintances knew anything of him, and nothing whatever of his antecedents. "Was he wealthy ?" My heart answered, "He is a king." Was he distinguished? Was he worthy? But one "Margaret, have you nothing to tell me? Of what answer could my heart give, "He is my king, my king.” darkness do you speak?" After a short pause, with a slight tremor in her voice, she said: "In my desk in the outer room you will find a sealed letter. It was written for you to read after my death. Read it now, and you will rejoice with me that the shadows are soon to be dissipated. Leave me a while; but I'm not alone, dear, not alone, and I have no fear." I obeyed, and in the desk found the letter. With trembling hands I broke the seal. No feelings of curiosity actuated me now, for I felt that shuddering awe which even the most thoughtless must experience as the key turns in the lock, and you enter a room closed and darkened for years. The echoes of your footsteps jar your nerves; every shadow appears the wraith of the one who last occupied it, and you feel a vague consciousness that his dust, long moldering in the churchyard, is disturbed and tremulously moved by the wind which the opened door admits as it goes searching into every corner and hallowed nook. For some few moments I held the letter, unable to command my emotion, but at last I reverently broke the scal and read the following: Twelve years ago I had my dreams of love, conquest and bliss, as all young girls have, with the advantages of beauty and social position to lend color to their dreams. By nature I was romantic, and I never left a gay scene without a pang of disappointment that all men were to me so commonplace, so devoid of the qualities with which I had imbued my hero. No King Arthur, no Sir Launcelot, not even a Lucifer, to stir my imagination, and so I sighed and dreamed on. I was satisfied." A biting wind and a suspicion of snow in the air, one day in early December, made me draw my furs more closely around me as I hurriedly entered my carriage with the order to the coachman, "Home, quickly." Suddenly a shriek of terror and pain, accompanied by the abrupt reining up of the horses, aroused me from a delicious reverie. The coachman had too well obeyed my order, for on the ground lay a delicate child, poorly clad, over whose tender limbs our cruel wheels had passed. She was tenderly laid upon the cushions before me, and, save for the white lips and dumb anguish of the eyes, gave no sign of the great suffering she was enduring. Only once did her fortitude forsake her, and that was at my inquiry as to her name and residence. "Poor little mother," she sighed; "what will become of her when I'm dead ?" There was a look in the child's eyes and a cadence in the voice which stirred my heart as with a vague memory of a voice and look once familiar, but long since forgotten. I shrank from the ordeal of meeting that mother, and no murderer ever felt a more shuddering horror when confronted with his dead victim than did I at the thought of meeting her reproachful eyes. Fifth floor of a tenement house; one of the poorest. Ascend those narrow stairs, view the poverty and distress upon each landing, and then cease to wonder that men and women look up to the pitiless bit of sky above them, and in their hearts say, "There is no God." Ascend those stairs, knock at each dingy door, then descend the thoughtless and giddy butterfly of fashion if you can. The mother's grief I will pass over. All that money and medical skill could do was done ere I left the stricken child. To my query, in the carriage, of her name, the child had answered "May." So upon taking leave, I said: "Mrs. May, may I inquire if you are a widow ?" A flush overspread her face as she somewhat coldly replied: 66 You are in error with regard to my name. May is the child's Christian name. Mine is Helen Dinsmore. am not a widow." Dinsmore! his name; my king's! I Like a flash before my mind's vision came the picture of his beautiful eyes, his fair, noble head, and that child— oh, God in heaven!-had his eyes, his hair, his voice. The blackness of despair for a moment made all things dark-a ringing in my ears, a sensation as of drowning; and then a feeling of deadly hate for this woman aroused me. She looked upon me with affrighted eyes as I |