"You are mine, forever, forever, through time everlasting!" Just then they heard a great commotion, and the sound of many voices crying,-- "It is time! it is time!" The clock struck twelve, and all had disappeared, princess, palace, dolls, and emperors. Pacorrito was left alone. XIII. He was left alone in the most complete darkness. He tried to scream, but he was voiceless. He made frantic attempts to move, but he could not; he had turned to stone. He waited in anguish. Day dawned at last; and Pacorrito had resumed his old appearance, but strange to say, he was all of one color, and apparently all of one substance,--his hands, his arms, his rags, his hair, and even the newspapers which he held in his hand. "There is no doubt about it," said he; "I have turned into a stone." Before him he saw a great sheet of plate-glass, with some letters on it, running backward. Around him was a multitude of statuettes and fancy ornaments. "Horror! I must be in the show-window!" A clerk took him carefully in his hands, and having dusted him, put him back in his place. His Serene Highness looked down upon the pedestal on which he stood, and saw a card with the figures $12.00 upon it. "Good heavens! I am worth a treasure! That, at least, partially consoles one." And the people stopped on the other side of the plate-glass to admire the wonderful bit of clay statuary representing a ragamuffin selling matches and newspapers. Everybody praised the artist, and laughed at the droll expression and bungling figure of the great Migajas, while he in the inmost recesses of his clay repeated in anguish,-- "A puppet! a puppet! forever! through time everlasting!" A TRAGEDY. From the Spanish of ANTONIO MARÉ. It was a great city in the far North, a gloomy city with pointed roofs that seemed to have been carved out of the fog. The birds that hurried past it on their journey south said to themselves that it looked like a forest of steeples. Under one of these pointed roofs lived two young people whom the coldness of emigration had huddled together in a closer intimacy. They were very unconscious of the fog, and it never occurred to them that the city looked like a forest of steeples; in fact, they never thought of the city at all, and would scarcely have been surprised if they had heard it spoken of as an orange grove,--for they were lovers. The little nest they had built themselves under the pointed roof was bright with the sunshine that came from them; and the few people who entered there became intoxicated with a strange aroma of tenderness that surged to their brains like the fumes of old wine, in sweet reminiscences or disturbing suggestions.