At Francisca’s request, Don Manuel presented Willis with his plantation and the country-house on the bay, where, with his loved and lovely bride, he settled. And no one who had looked upon them four years afterward, would have recognized in the loving father playing with a little boy about three years old, and laughing as heartily as the child, Willis, the Slaver, had they not looked around and espied the beautiful Francisca, now a settled matron, with an infant on her knee, but as lovely as ever; and a little further off, through an open window that led to the piazza, was seen the cheerful face of Don Manuel. And glimpses might be caught of the old duenna, as she bustled about the house, in all the pride of chief manager. In all that vicinity, no one has a higher character for kindness, charity, or benevolence, than Don Carlos Willis; and no one is more ready to relieve the wants of his fellow man, either moral or physical; but none know that the good man, whose name they all unite in praising, was formerly the notorious slaver! the outlaw! the desperado of the “Maraposa!” * * * * * TO A CENTURY PLANT. BY MRS. JANE C. CAMPBELL. An hundred summers, and the sun Hath poured on thee his light; An hundred winters, and the storm Hath swept the earth in night. Yet thou, unhurt by sun or storm, Art standing firm and green As when by bright eyes long ago Thy broad dark leaves were seen. Art standing stately in thy pride, While fragrant flowers unfold From every branch of thy tall stem, As if thou wert not old. Not old! an hundred years has time Borne silently away; Of all who saw thee first, not one May look on thee to-day. I would that every flower of thine Were gifted with a spell, Which, whispering to this heart of mine, Of all the past might tell. For much I love the olden time, And many an olden theme; Their pleasant memories haunt my heart Like shadows in a dream. And I from thee a tale would hear Ere thou dost fade away, For thou, with all thy thousand years, Art hasting to decay! A true, true tale of human hearts, Of human hopes and fears, And I will give to joys a smile, To griefs will give my tears. And yet, mayhap, the wish is vain, To wake the solemn past, Or break the darkly-woven chain By silence round it cast. Mayhap ’tis but a foolish wish, And yet the thoughtful mind Will love the lore of human hearts, That links it to its kind. Thou of the hundred years! what change Hast seen around thee wrought? Hast thou no voice, no truthful voice, To tell of buried thought? Still silent—but thy rustling leaves Whisper in spirit-tone, “Wouldst learn the tale of other hearts, Look, then, into thine own.