and untrodden sides of one of the lofty steeps that enclosed their own solitary valley. On entering their wilderness, they traced their way through its half-lighted chaos of rocks, stones, weeds, and briars, by the guidance of the murmuring stream, and gladly opened the door of the lonely hermitage.

It is a pity that there is no word in Italian equivalent to our English "home;" for these young men then warmly experienced the home feeling, though they could not express it. Dreary and desolate as the hermitage was, still it was their home, their scene of liberty and unrestraint, of retreat from the world, and they were masters there.

Brunetto immediately busied himself in kindling the smouldering embers on their rude hearth, and supplying with fresh fuel the cheerful little fire that he produced. Valdo sat down beside it on a goat-skin, and supported Antonio in his arms. Brunetto, raising himself from his occupation, at last asked Valdo with some emotion

"Why were you wanted at the Palazzo Amidei?"

"To be questioned on a very disagreeable subject-the crime of that convent robber, the famous Captain Bastiani. The lady of that Palazzo, and the good-natured Guelph Buondelmonte, seemed incredulous as to the extent at least of the guilt of their quondam friend."

"The saints bless them for it!" ejaculated Brunetto, fervently. "Why?" inquired Valdo, surprised; "why are you pleased with foolish incredulity ?"

"Because," replied Brunetto, " Florestan was my comrade, my most intimate friend; and I know he has been cruelly wronged. But what did you say to the lady of the Palazzo Amidei ?"

"Why, quite the reverse of what you have just said. I told her Bastiani was a wretch, and my bitter enemy; for by his crimes I am the outcast you see."

"Valdo! Valdo!" cried Brunetto, bitterly, "you know not what you say. How could you, unauthorised, pour this poison into the ears of these noble Florentines."

"San Pietro!" exclaimed Valdo," the world is going mad. After the man has been fairly tried, and justly condemned, and is buried in a foreign land, some phantom seems to have risen from his grave to set people doubting. I believe I should scarcely have convinced yon lady, but for a proof I gave her that I knew Bastiani's guilt."

"A proof!" said Brunetto, trembling with agitation. "Be equally candid with me, the bosom friend of Florestan; give me your proof."

Valdo hesitated a moment.

"We have lived together," he said, "for some time in this solitude, utter strangers to each other; we must, by the Empe

ror's desire continue to live here yet awhile. Well, to prevent strife between us on the subject of your friend's criminality, I will tell you why I can testify to it,-I am the brother of Rosara!"

Brunetto started, looked fixedly at Valdo for awhile; then taking his hand gently, said—

"Brother of Rosara, I sincerely pity you!"

A pause ensued, during which Brunetto seemed to be reflecting. He spoke

"You have reason indeed, good Valdo, to think Florestan the destroyer of your peace; but believe me, believe his closest friend, who never lost sight of him in Sienna, he never even saw your sister."

"Then, said Valdo, petulantly, "all is delusion; my sister is innocent, and still in her convent; Florestan's trial was a dream, and he is alive and in high honour."

"Alas!" replied Brunetto, "all is true except the accusation against Florestan."

"It

"Who then was the criminal?" asked Valdo, contemptuously. "That I would give worlds to know," rejoined Brunetto. is to find a clue to the mystery, if happily I may, that I am here. Let me ask you an important question,-Did you ever see your sister's lover?"

"Never," answered Valdo.

"If you had seen him," resumed Brunetto, "I could (with the Emperor's permission) give you indisputable proof that Florestan was not the person."

Antonio, who had hitherto seemed to pay no attention to what was passing, now suddenly raised his head and said to Valdo in a low tone

"I am faint, come with me into the pure air."

Valdo instantly rose, carried Antonio out of the hermitage, and placed him beside himself on a large flat stone at some distance from their dwelling. Brunetto remained within, buried in deep thought, and gazing abstractedly upon the fire.

As Valdo and Antonio sat together in the night air, the latter whispered to his companion—

"I wished to speak with you, Valdo, unheard by our comrade. I fear him, I scarce know why, unless it be because he was the the friend of a bold, bad man. He, it is true, has always been gentle and kind to me, but my spirit seems rebuked before him. And he is trying to deceive you, Valdo, when he says his comrade was innocent. Dear Valdo, you have been as a brother to me ever since we met in the Apennines, and I cannot bear to see you deceived; believe me Bastiani is even more guilty than the world knows."

"Boy!" said Valdo, astonished, "who are you that speak so confidently of these evil things?"

"One," replied Antonio, "who knew this Bastiani but too well. I have been in dread and in danger to-night by speaking truth at the Palazzo Amidei; but you-I may trust you-swear to me that you will not abandon me, nor curse me for what I shall tell you."

"I swear it," said Valdo, solemnly.

66

Then," said Antonio, looking down, "I was the accomplice of Rosara's flight."

Valdo flung the boy from him with such force that he fell on the ground; and, starting from his seat, the agitated man stamped with anger as he exclaimed-

"You! you that I cherished in my heart! were you one of the vipers that have stung me?"

Antonio, without rising, twined his arms round Valdo's knees. "Do not curse me, Valdo. Is not my life one continued penance? Did you not often promise never to upbraid me, even if you should have cause? and that promise was so dear to me."

"I did," said Valdo, relenting and raising him; “and I must believe in the sincerity of your repentance. So you knew my wretched sister? who are you?"

"Forgive me, Valdo, that I cannot tell you till my dying hour; you shall-you must know it then. Suffice it now that I was Rosara's only confidante and accomplice."

"Tell me," inquired Valdo anxiously, "tell me, do you know her fate? where is she hidden? I have sought her eagerly but in vain. Where is she?"

Antonio hesitated, then said in a broken voice,-"Bastiani was her murderer."

Valdo groaned-"A miserable fate indeed; A miserable fate indeed; a wretched retribution. But how do you know this?"

"I was present," replied Antonio.

"Present! and could you not save her?"

Antonio answered by lifting up his slight, weak arms, and pointing to his fragile frame.

"True, true," said Valdo, understanding the gesture. Then, musing awhile, he added-" When I found you in the Apennines, you were suffering in consequence, you said, of an outrage from banditti, was it not rather,"

He was interrupted by the approach of Brunetto, who came from the hermitage and inquired-" How fares our young comrade now?"

"Better, better," replied Valdo, quickly; while Antonio hastened away into the hermitage.

Brunetto remarked to Valdo,-"Your young companion is a chance acquaintance, whom you met not long since?"

Valdo assented.

"You do not know who or whence he is?"

Valdo nodded. Brunetto continued-" An idea has struck me which his whole deportment seems to countenance,-I fear he is insane."

Valdo looked astonished "Insane!" he murmured; then stood silent, revolving every part of Antonio's conduct. The boy's haggard countenance, deep and continual dejection, and wild self-accusation, gave sufficient colour to the imputation of madness, while the general quietness and consistency of his conduct threw discredit on it. Valdo was completely vacillating in his judgment. One moment he felt certain that all Antonio said was the ravings of derangement; the next, he believed everything, and was convinced of his saneness.

In this perplexity he exclaimed-" Diabolo, comrade! you have given me a riddle that I cannot read. My very inclinations distract me. I cannot bear to believe that poor lad a maniac; and still less to think that his self-accusations are true,-he so young, so mild, What shall we say or do to him?"

"We must be careful of him," replied Brunetto; "we must treat him kindly, and drop no hint of our suspicions, for that would but aggravate his malady, and most probably make him quit us, and wander away to his own destruction. We will silently observe him; and, if my fears are well founded, we will place him in the care of some charitable ecclesiastics."

They walked together to the hermitage; Antonio was within, seated by the fire.

"Lie down on your pallet, Antonio," said Brunetto; "sleep, and compose yourself."

"Sleep!" replied he, looking up with a bitter smile, and a hectic spot burning on his cheek.

"Sleep!" repeated Valdo," who can sleep after such feelings as have been excited to-night? Hark you, Brunetto! you have heard me declare myself the brother of Rosara. Hitherto I have been unknown to you; but now, if you are inclined to listen, I will relate my story, though it is but a simple one-a story of feelings more than of facts or adventures; it may while away the midnight hours, and amuse our restless minds."

"I will listen to you," said Brunetto, "with an interest deeper than you can guess.

And he seated himself opposite to Valdo, and Antonio retired back into the shade and supported himself against the wall.

THE PALM-TREE OF CEYLON.

BY MRS. ABDY.

It is said that there is a sort of palm-tree in Ceylon that never bears fruit till the the last year of its life.

It grew and it flourish'd, that beautiful tree,

Sustained in its life by the sunshine and shower,
Its fruit the worn traveller langnish'd to see,
But his eye only dwelt on the leaf and the flower.

Its owner was tempted its stem to uproot,

But in merciful kindness suspended its doom,
And for years it remain'd undistinguish'd by fruit,
In the cold barren pride of its profitless bloom.

But the wayfarer once was astonish'd to find
That the tree an unusual luxuriance wore;
At length it fulfill'd the design of its kind,

And clusters of fruit on its branches it bore.

All eagerly hastened the spoil to divide

For the fruit, borne so late, was a marvel esteem'd;
At the close of the year the tree wither'd and died,
But its end was attain'd, and its fame was redeem'd.

Oh! may not this record some comfort bestow

On those preachers of God who in sadness complain-
That to numbers the way of salvation they show,
Yet seek for the fruits of their labours in vain?

Ye may breathe to the careless the Gospel of truth,
Their hearts ye may outwardly fail to engage;
Ye may sigh o'er the waste of their frivolous youth,
And mourn for their useless and indolent age.

Yet turn not aside from your labour of love,
In patience continue their safety to guard;
The faith ye have kindled your fears may remove,
The fruit ye have cherished your cares may reward.

Ye have prayed for success, and it grieves you to wait,
While your pleadings avail not an answer to win;
But remember, on earth it is never too late

For the season of spiritual life to begin.

God waters the blossoms of grace in the heart,

And the fruit, long withheld, may be suddenly shown;
Oh! then, should we weep though the tree may depart?
The Lord hath prepar'd it in time for his own.