Captain Wolfang Carlo, it may be borne in mind, had retained about his person, the papers taken from De Haye’s doublet, and from time to time, as opportunity offered, spelled out the meaning in private.—He was not inclined to think them of much value, and felt only a lazy curiosity in regard to the contents, but a reference to his comrade, he had met with during his last perusal, joined to the expressions let fall by Padilh, at the examination before the marquis, excited intolerable suspicions in his avaricious soul. What! after months and years of watching and following about like a dog; to find himself swindled and his debtor an impostor and penniless. He must see. And the captain eagerly embraced the rare interval of privacy afforded by the absence of De Ladron with Inique, to find in the MS. in his possession some warrant for his doubts. As the honest free soldier read laboriously, the veins in his forehead and cheeks swelled and purpled; he churned his tusks like any other savage boar, and finally threw himself on the stone floor, howling and beating the flags with his clenched fists. This frenzy was in full vigor, when Hilo entered, unguardedly and in no amiable mood. “Get up, Flemish hog!” he cried imperiously, applying his foot to the other’s ribs. He did get up; with a yell heard by the guard through the thick wall. In the time it took to unbar and unclose the door, Wolfang had added one more to his list of crimes, and the wretched old woman, who had been placed in the same cell at her own stipulation, was discovered vainly endeavoring to break the hold of the former on her son’s throat. Come children; cries the great exhibiter of vanity-fair, let us shut up the box and the puppets, for our play is played out. * * * * * I THINK OF THEE. BY GEO. D. PRENTICE. I think of thee when eve’s last blush Falls mournfully on heart and eye; Of thee when morn’s first glories gush In gold and crimson o’er the sky; My thoughts are thine ’mid toil and strife, Thine when from all life’s perils free— Ay, thine—forever thine—my life Is but a living thought of thee. I think of thee ’mid spring’s sweet flowers, And in the summer’s brighter glow, Of thee in autumn’s purple bowers, And gloomy winter’s waste of snow; My thoughts are thine when joys depart, And thine when all life’s sorrows flee— Ay, thine—forever thine—my heart Is but a throbbing thought of thee. * * * * * RUFFED GROUSE SHOOTING. BY HENRY WILLIAM HERBERT, AUTHOR OF FRANK FORESTER’S “FIELD SPORTS,” “FISH AND FISHING,” ETC.