"Then you must have your church rebuilt, and by the side of it, a pretty parsonage house, with handsome iron railings to inclose the whole. When this work will be complete, it shall be called the church of the _Vasa d'Agua_, (Glass of Water.) Here is the plan of it, will it suit you?" "What can this mean?" "What vague remembrance is mine; these features--this voice mean that I am Don Josè della Ribera. Twelve years ago, I was the brigand Josè. I escaped from prison, and the times have changed; from the chief of robbers, I have become the chief of a party. You befriended me. You have been a father to my children. Let them come to embrace me--let them come," and he opened his arms to receive them. They fell on his bosom. When he had long pressed them, and kissed them by turns, with tears, and half-uttered expressions of gratitude, he held out his hand to the old priest-- "Well, my father, will you not accept the church?" The curate, greatly moved, turned to Margarita, and said: "Whosoever shall give even a cup of cold water unto one of the least, being my disciple; verily I say to you, he shall not lose his reward." "Amen," responded the old dame, who wept for joy at the happiness of her master, and his children by adoption, at whose departure she also grieved. Twelve months afterward, Don Josè della Ribera and his two sons attended at the consecration of the church of San Pedro, one of the prettiest churches in the environs of Seville. * * * * * SONG--BY MISS JEWSBURY. There once was a brave cavalier, Commanded by Cupid to bow; And his mistress, though lovely, I hear Had a very Sultana-like brow; In battles and sieges he fought With many a Saracen Nero, Till back to his mistress he brought The fame and the heart of a hero: But when he presumed to demand The hero's reward in all story, His mistress, in accents most bland-- Desired him to gather more glory Poor Camille! So back went the young cavalier, (Where dwells such obedience now?) And he wove amid pennant and spear, A wreath for that fair cruel brow; How crimson the roses he sent, But not with the summer sun's glow; 'Twas the crimson of battle--and lent By a brave heart forever laid low! Now if such a lover I knew, And if I might be his adviser, I would bid him be tender and true, But certainly bid him be wiser. Poor Camille! * * * * * FROM PETRARCH.