Oh! how he longed for liberty and life—for some power to lift the awful punishment from his soul. A confused thought of escape crept in—of the dark well running the length of the house down to vaults where the refuse flesh was cast. How deep and dark to his mind it seemed—deeper and deeper, miles and miles into the earth. The hall seems to lengthen out—how huge it is? Again he turns to the body that consumption owns—he tries to look from that to her—in vain. His eyes are fixed, they see no farther. Did that hand move?—it seemed to move. It did—the body turns—it raises and points its long, skinny arm at her—and shakes its horribly mutilated head. Another and another—and all raise slowly up and point at her. And now they speak—what confused blasphemy—what groans and cries! Hark! that well-known, once-loved voice, hear it—hear its gentle tones and die— “Oh! Dudley, come to me.” He sees no more, he hears no more—gasping he falls, striking heavily against the oak door. Early next morning the janitor found him lying senseless where he had fallen. He was carried to his room, and all that medical science could do was done. Slowly he returned to sense, but not health. The cold had perfected its work—his limbs were without life, and after many days he was carried back to his father’s house helpless as a child. So he yet remains, humble, sad and repentant. In the little church-yard, not far from his home, is a green mound, where the soft falling snow of winter and the wild birds of spring see no name—no marble tomb, but where the long grass whispers in the summer winds, Dudley Fletcher may be frequently seen reading or musing silently, having been carried there, his only haunt from home. * * * * * =THE DEAD AT THERMOPYLÆ.= =FROM THE GREEK OF SIMONIDES.= =BY HENRY WILLIAM HERBERT.= Bright was their fortune and sublime their doom, Who perished at Thermopylæ—their tomb An altar of their sons—their dirge, renown. Their epitaph not rust shall e’er efface, Nor Time, who changes all things else, debase, Nor later ages insolent disown. Their tomb contains, enshrined beside the dead, A mightier inmate, her for whom they bled, Glory—their country’s unforgotten fame. Witness the royal Spartan, who in death Did win high Valor’s, more than Pythian, wreath, A crown immortal, an unfading name. * * * * * =THE OPIUM EATER’S DREAM:= =OR THE MODERN FORTUNATUS.= =FROM THE GERMAN OF GEORGE DÖRING.=