delicate fiery power of the speeches of Wendell Phillips to the men of Boston? The golden bees that clustered at the lips of baby Plato, must swarm again from old Hymettus to the cradle of the child unborn who shall essay to tell the magic of that eloquence. Say that in an age and land of muck-rakes it was the speech of a gentleman—say that in its tones were heard the ancestral voices from the blocks and battle-fields of liberty—say that it touched with heavenly ardor and lifted to nobler life all uncorrupted hearts, and was light to the blind, and conscience to the base, and to the caitiff whatever he could know of shame; so leave it to worthier and more abundant praise, and to the future. The applause which had burst forth again and again during the speech, now swelled into a tempest of acclamation as the orator withdrew. Muriel still kept her lit face fixed on the platform, and Emily, kindled into ardent color, leaned back with a sigh. Wentworth, meanwhile, flushed with delight, was splitting his gloves to ribbons with vehement applause, when looking around, his eye fell upon Harrington, and stopping in the midst of his furore, he stared at him, amazed. Harrington’s strong face was white, his brow knitted, and his nostrils tensely drawn. “What’s the matter, John?” cried Wentworth, alarmed, and raising his voice to be heard amidst the cheering. Muriel and Emily both looked at him suddenly, and the young man recovering, smiled like one sick at heart, and rose. They thought him ill, and unheeding the announcement of the next speaker, they left their seats and went from the hall, Muriel and Harrington noticing, as they passed up the aisle, that the seats occupied by Mr. Atkins and the stranger were vacant. In the vestibule, Harrington paused with Emily on his arm. “Muriel,” he said, “I want to speak with you a moment.” She left Wentworth instantly, and came to him, with a face of inquiry. “Muriel,” he said, in a low, clear voice, taking her hands in his, and looking into her eyes, “I feel a dreadful foreboding. It struck upon me just now who that man is we saw with your uncle.” “Who is it?” she said, quickly. “Lafitte! I know it is he. I feel it in my soul,” he replied. For a moment she looked at him vacantly, with parted lips and dilated eyes. “Hurry,” she cried, breaking from him; “hurry home. Come, Wentworth. Oh, it’s nothing,” she said, with a vanishing smile, as she caught the astonished eyes of the young artist. “Ask me no questions, Richard. You shall know hereafter.” And putting her arm in his, they went off rapidly together, followed by Harrington and Emily. On the way, Harrington told Emily of his conjecture, and they excitedly discussed the matter till they arrived with the other two at the door of the house.