“Your excuses are unnecessary, my good 
friend,” returned the other. “Many a time 
would such a supper as this have been more 
welcome to me than gold. I have kuown 
poverty, and now that I may call myself 
rich, my greatest pleasure is to relieve 
those who are poor as I once was. Your 
supper shall bring you a price that will 
amply repay your hospitality.” 
Taking a potato from the dish, he dropped 
a pearl in its place. As it rolled into the 
coarse platter, Eric looked earnestly at his 
guest. 
9 * ’Do you know what these are?” asked the 
latter, dropping another and another of 
the same jewels. “For these, men dive to 
the bottom of the ocean, where they remain 
till the gushing blood forces them to return 
to the surface for a moment’s breath; 
to gain these, they are content to injure 
health and risk life. They are pearls; and 
of such price that a few of them will make 
a poor peasant rich as his lord. Take them, 
my good father; they are yours in requital 
of your kindness to a stranger.” 
‘ ‘Dost thou hear, Margaret?” said the old 
man, whose eyes glistened with delight. 
“All these precious things are ours! We 
are rich, child!” 
“I hear, father,” replied she. “Praised 
be the Almighty who has protected the 
traveler!” A look of intelligence passed 
between her and the new-comer; but Eric 
was too much occupied in the contemplation 
of his newly-acquired treasure to observe it. 
“And who are you that thus deign to 
shower riches on a poor peasant?” said he 
to the stranger. “I fear we have been too 
free. ” He made a movement as if to throw 
himself at his feet, but the other preventing 
him said, — 
“You mistake my rank, my good friend. 
Like yourself, I was born a peasant, and my 
early years were passed on the other side of 
these mountains. I was a goatherd; but 
while guarding my flock my thoughts wan¬ 
dered to things beyond my sphere. Many a 
beating I got for suffering my charge to stray 
while I watched the sun and stars, or sat 
pondering over a bunch of field flowers. In 
time my love for plants became a passion; 
I noted their seasons for blossoming, and all 
the peculiarities of their formation; but, at 
the age of eighteen, new ideas began to min¬ 
gle with those that had hitherto occupied 
me. In my wandering life I had become 
acquainted with the daughter of a peasant 
whose abode w-as at some distance from 
mine; her beauty as far surpassed that of 
her companions as my thoughts were ele¬ 
vated above those of the shepherd lads 
among whom my lot was cast. I loved her, 
and Margaret (she bore the same name as 
your daughter) returned my affection; but 
her youth and poverty forbade the hope that 
her father would consent to our marriage. 
I proposed to seek my fortune elsewhere, 
and with many tears and sad forebodings,, 
she consented to my departure. At that 
time I fancied that dreams of enriching her 
alone prompted my wish to roam; for I have 
since known that ambition mingled with 
zeal for her welfare. Even in our remote 
mountains, stories were related of those 
who, having visited other lands, had re¬ 
turned home enriched, and I believed I had 
only to try my fortune to be equally suc¬ 
cessful. Margaret promised to be faithfu 1 
till my return—” 
“And you may be sure she has kept her 
promise,” interrupted the peasant’s daugh¬ 
ter. The stranger looked tenderly at her as 
he continued: “I shall not dwell on the 
hardships that a poor lad without friends 
or money was likely to encounter. Yet I 
must not be ungrateful. I was not quite* 
without money; for round my neck hung a 
small silver coin, of no great value, but suffi¬ 
cient to have helped me in my necessity. 
It had been placed there by my Margaret, 
and not for worlds would I have parted 
with it. It hangs there now.” 
Again he paused, overcome by some secre t 
emotion, or interrupted by the noise of a 
violent storm which had commenced since 
his arrival. The rain and sleet beat furious¬ 
ly against the windows, and the wind blew 
jn gusts that shook the little tenement to 
its foundations, then died away in howls 
and moans that sounded like the voices of 
complaining spirits. 
“It is a fearful night,” said he at length; 
“and I ought to be doubly thankful that 1 
am with you, my good friends.” 
Eric paid little attention to what was 
said; for avarice, a passion till then un- 
