discovers the depth of a love that has been trampled under foot! This mariner had slain the creature that, on all the earth, loved him best. In the darkness of his cruel superstition he had done it, to save his human brothers from a fancied inconvenience; and yet, by that very act of cruelty, he had himself called destruction upon their heads. The Nemesis that followed punished _him_ through _them_--him, that wronged, through those that wrongfully he sought to benefit. That spirit who watches over the sanctities of love is a strong angel--is a jealous angel; and this angel it was 'That lov'd the bird, that lov'd the man, That shot him with his bow.' He it was that followed the cruel archer into silent and slumbering seas; 'Nine fathom deep he had follow'd him Through the realms of mist and snow.' This jealous angel it was that pursued the man into noon-day darkness, and the vision of dying oceans, into delirium, and finally, (when recovered from disease) into an unsettled mind. Such, also, had been the offence of Kate; such, also was the punishment that now is dogging her steps. She, like the mariner, had slain the one sole creature that loved her upon the whole wide earth; she, like the mariner, for this offence, had been hunted into frost and snow--very soon will be hunted into delirium; and from _that_ (if she escapes with life) will be hunted into the trouble of a heart that cannot rest. There was the excuse of one darkness for _her_; there was the excuse of another darkness for the mariner. But, with all the excuses that earth, and the darkness of earth, can furnish, bitter it would be for you or me, reader, through every hour of life, waking or dreaming, to look back upon one fatal moment when we had pierced the heart that would have died for us. In this only the darkness had been merciful to Kate--that it had hidden for ever from her victim the hand that slew him. But now in such utter solitude, her thoughts ran back to their earliest interview. She remembered with anguish, how, on first touching the shores of America, almost the very first word that met her ear had been from _him_, the brother whom she had killed, about the 'Pussy' of times long past; how the gallant young man had hung upon her words, as in her native Basque she described her own mischievous little self, of twelve years back; how his color went and came, whilst his loving memory of the little sister was revived by her own descriptive traits, giving back, as in a mirror, the fawn-like grace, the squirrel- like restlessness, that once had kindled his own delighted laughter; how he would take no denial, but showed on the spot, that, simply to have touched--to have kissed--to have played with the little wild thing, that glorified, by her innocence, the gloom of St. Sebastian's cloisters, gave a _right_ to his hospitality; how, through _him_ only, she had found a welcome in camps; how, through _him_, she had found the avenue to honor and distinction. And yet