“Sir commandant,” the lieutenant responded, simply hearing him through with some little mortification in his frank face, “you pain me by such permission, for neither I, nor any other French gentleman here, would leave you an instant without being compelled by your commands; and that I am sure you know.” “I know it so well,” cried the commandant at this, “that I am not sure I spoke the truth in even hinting my distrust just now.” And truly the lieutenant was as good as his word; for when the French crossed the neck of the promontory I have mentioned, and coming too late to reinforce Bourgignon, fell upon a strong party of the Spaniards, detailed to take possession of a spring near by, with a determination which brought about a general and very bloody battle; there was not one in the tremendous uproar of voices and of arms, smoke of arquebuses, blood spattered and welling, screams, shrieks, groans, and huzzas!—huzzas! ensuing—who did such execution with the sword, as that same lieutenant; it was he that killed the father of poor little Margueretta, who, for want of bread, the next year became what even famine must not excuse. And, perhaps, as he did his share of irreparable mischief with an easy conscience, and certainly to the best of his ability, when his corpse lay stark as the mail encasing it, that same afternoon, by the eminence to the left, where Hilo was seen aiming an arquebuse at one time of the fight, his spirit may have been regaling in Paradise with other performers of that much abused sentiment, duty. [_To be continued._ * * * * * THE NAME OF WIFE. BY MRS. A. M. F. ANNAN. O name most blesséd, or most sorrowful, thou, As from the Urim of Experience fall The lights or shadows on thee; seeming now Radiant as bliss upon an angel’s brow, Then ghastly dim as Hope’s funereal pall! Up to my vision thou dost ever call Twin pictures—women—one with calm, meek eyes, And soft form gently bent, and folded hands, Brooding in dove-like peace o’er her sweet ties Requited truthfully; the other stands With sunken cheek by tears unheeded glazed, Her wan feet bleeding, and her thin arms raised, Knowing no help but from above the skies. * * * * * SONNET.—THE OLIVE. BY WM. ALEXANDER.