could not. She sank upon the doctor’s arm 
and swooned away. 
At the same moment a hmd shriek sound¬ 
ed from behind the garden hedge. A young 
man, of lino form, with a Ihee hill of terror 
and despair, rushed towards them, crying i—- 
“ 1 have killed her! 1 lmvo killed her!” 
and fell senseless at Paomnk’b feet. 
“Away now!” cried the doctor, to the 
Baron, who, terrified at his daughter’s swoon 
and the unexpected sight of the young man, 
knew not what to do. lie mechanically 
followed the physician’s directions, and they 
bore the insensible girl to the carriage. The 
Baroness and Pauline followed in great 
alarm. 
“ Back to the house!” cried the doctor, M as 
quickly as possible, and lay Miss Adelaide 
cn her bed. I will come in half an hour. 
Now for m 3 r other patient.” With these 
words he went hack into the garden, while 
the others drove home. 
The doctor bathed the poor young Bar¬ 
onet's brow with spirits; he soon came to 
himself and opened his eyes. 
“ Well, my dear sir, what think you of our 
poison?” asked the physician. 
“ Is the lovely girl dead ? Is there no 
hope?” demanded .Sir WiLLIAM. 
“ None whatever,” was the reply. “ As 
you saw, the poison worked admirably.” 
“ Then I wish I were dead my self I" sighed 
the young man, again closing his eyes. 
The doctor sa'ul nothing, but put bis bot¬ 
tle of spirits In bis pocket. With the assist¬ 
ance of the Boron's servants, who now came 
forward, he took his patient to dlls chaise. 
Hardly had they left the garden when an 
old man came out of the gardener’s house, 
entered by the gate, and advanced as fast as 
Jds age and infirmities would permit him to 
move, lie had a stick in his hand, and ap¬ 
peared to be in great grief, and very angry 
withal. It was old Flow an, who had 
been the Baron’s groom and coachman in 
former days, and was now superannuated. 
He had just seen poor Miss Adelaide car 
t ied home senseless, like a corpse; and he 
understood that she had been reduced to 
that condition by the sight, of the trees in 
bloom. As the old man came to the spot 
bis wrath rose yet higher. 
“ You art; blossoming for no good, you 
worthless tree 1” cried he. “I will put an 
end to your finery; for you have half killed 
my young mistress!” And at the same 
time he began to beat the boughs with his 
stick. But lo! at the touch of Ids slick the 
white blossoms fell, in a perfect shower, 
from all the trees except Adelaide’s! In a 
lev; minuti tin y . as bare and dry as 
tht^ithcjA^jiUfl.' CT<WO. 
his work with satisfac¬ 
tion. Look 1” lie cried ; “ this proves how 
good for nothing they arc 1 No good cherry 
tree would shower down its blossoms at a 
light touch like that I One would think the 
blossoms had been stuck on with glue! 
Suppose a storm had come up! They 
would have fallen at the lirst breath of 
wind." 
FloBIan’s idea, that the blossoms bad 
been glued to the branches, was in truth 
correct. 
He closed the gate and went homeward, 
lamenting the fate of such a lovely young 
My: XI. 
“ Well — the new moon is happily over!” 
said tiie doctor one day to the Baron. 
“ I have you to tluiuk, next to Provi¬ 
dence” said the father. “ My Adelaide is 
as well and blooming as ever.” 
“ Excellent I” replied the physician. “And 
my young English Baronet is recovered from 
his fever, and is cured, too, of his strange 
misanthropy, and his notions about poisons.” 
“Hi* visits us every day,” said the Baron, 
“ and the girls think him very agreeable.” 
“ Indeed I” exclaimed t he doctor. “ The 
young ladies told me not a word of this. Is 
Miss Adelaide pleased with him?” 
“ She seems very much so. I observe that 
a great ado is made if he doea not come at 
the usual Hour every day.” 
“Capital! Now we shall have a pretty 
romance of betrothal and marriage!” 
“ 1 ii which romance,” said the fat her, press¬ 
ing his friend's hand, “you play a conspicu¬ 
ous part. But now the new moon is over, 
out with the whole secret, and tell us liow 
you managed to perform such a miracle.” 
“I soon perceived,” replied the doctor, 
“ that Adelaide’s illness, which had sudden¬ 
ly become so much worse through the mere 
force of imaginat ion, could only lie conquer¬ 
ed through an appeal to her imagination. 
In her weak state one could not reason or 
argue with her. By chance I recollected 
that the Jew gardener, Jonah, had with 
great care and pains just brought some cher¬ 
ry t rees to put forth some fresh blossoms. I 
resolved on procuring those trees, cost what 
they might; and determined to fasten their 
blossoms on the trees in the neighborhood of 
A delaide’s birthday tree. Of course, when 
so many trees were seen to be in bloom, the 
fact of her tree blossoming would cease to 
be important; would cease to be regarded as 
a fatal omen. 
“ 1 found the gardener unwilling to sell the 
\r\r,l 
trees. I offered him five — ten—nay—thirty 
Louis d’ors; all in vain. At last, tic owned 
to me, with some hesitation, that ho had 
nursed the trees with oxtrordinary care, in 
order to present them to the Prince-. 
The place of chief gardener on his estate 
ivas vacant; Jonah was among the com¬ 
petitors for it, and was in hopes that his rare 
and beautiful present to the Prince, who is 
very fond of natural curiosities, would in¬ 
duce his highness to give him the place, 
“ 1 was in despair; for I had little hope of 
your daughter’s recovery, if I failed in ob¬ 
taining the trees. I offered Jonah more 
money, and, after much urging, he agreed to 
let me have them at the enormous price of a 
hundred Louis d’ors, and my promise to use 
my utmost influence to get him the place he 
wanted. We thus closed the bargain. I 
handed him one-third of Hie sum I was to 
pay. How to procure the rest? I did not 
like to apply to you, for 1 wished you to 
know nothing of my plan. 1 thought ol my 
rich patient, Bir William; and resolved at 
the same lime to make an experiment on 
him, and, if possible,cure two patients at the 
same time.” 
The doctor then told how he had managed 
with poor Sir William, and accounted for 
his presence in the garden, the day Ade¬ 
laide visited her tree. 
“ 1 took what seemed the best means,” he 
concluded, “ to oppose and conquer a wrong 
idea in the brain of each of my patients. 
God blessed me with success. They are 
both cured.” 
The Baron listened with great interest to 
this account, “ God has, indeed, blessed us,” 
he said, with deep emotion, “in sending you 
to help us! Come, now, you must go with 
me to the castle.” 
As they entered the apartment where the 
young ladies were sitting, a pleasing scene 
presented itself. Adelaide sat by the table 
near the window, as cheerful and blooming 
as a rose, working at her embroidery. Pau¬ 
line and Bir William were seated near 
her, and all three were in animated con¬ 
versation. 
The doctor went up unperceived, and 
looking over Adelaide’s shoulder, asked 
what pretty kind of manufacture it was. 
The young lady looked up and blushed; Bir 
William looked up, too. 
“ Lot me feel your pulse, my dear young 
lady,” said the physician. “ Ah, it flutters 
terribly. Here, Bir William, give me your 
hand, and tell me if Miss Adelaide has 
fever.” 
The Englishman obeyed. 
“But how is this, my dear sir?” cried the 
doctor. “You must have fever yourself; 
your hand shakes so! I must confess I did 
not expect this 1 1 thought both my patients 
were cured 1" 
The two lovers did not at once perceive 
that the doctor was jesting with them. But 
Pauline, who entered into his humor,burst 
into a merry laugh. 
“ And, pray, what are you laughing at, 
my pretty Pauline?” asked the doctor, 
gravely. “ Do you remember that you owe 
me a kiss ? 1 have come to get my debt 
paid 1” 
It, was Pauline's turn to blush. She was 
instantly silent, and ran oil. 
The doctor could play Ids serious part no 
longer, but laughed heart ily, while A delaide 
and Bir W i lli am both looked grave. Then, 
taking a hand of each of his patients, he 
turned to the Baron. 
“ I give them lip to you, my friend, well, 
in body and mind. How it stands with their 
heart* 1 am not able to decide.” 
Here all, together, joined in the laugh, 
and harmony was restored. 
XII. 
It was a lovely morning in spring, and all 
was festive preparation at the castle. The 
gate, the trees and the doom, were decorated 
with garlands of flowers. Old Pi.oKlAN was 
chief manager among the domestics. The 
Baron’s family were assembled on the lawn 
just after the sun appeared above the eastern 
hills, and were joined by two men, who came 
up on horseback dressed in holiday fashion. 
One was the good doctor, the other 1 Ienk v, 
the brother, now a student of medicine. lie 
had obtained leave of absence, and rode all 
the way from Leipsic, to be at home on this 
happy day. 
The occasion was no less than the mar¬ 
riage of Bir William and the charming 
Adelaide. 
The air was balmy and soft, the sun shone 
brightly. The bells of the neighboring vil¬ 
lage were ringing. The Baron’s tenants, to 
whom a holiday was given, and who w ere 
invited to fenst at his expense, were indulg¬ 
ing in innocent hilarity; the trees were 
gently stirred by the light breeze, and the 
flowers were sending forth fragrance; all be¬ 
spoke peace, health and happiness. 
The newly married pair and the united 
family spent the hours of the morning de¬ 
lightfully. The parents thought they were 
never so happy before. 
The table was set in the park, under the 
green canopy of shade trees. All insisted 
that the doctor should take the place of 
honor, between the bride and Sir William. 
The dinner went off admirably, with pleas¬ 
ant jokes and lively conversation. When the 
dessert was brought on, old Flow an stepped 
up, and with an air of military dignity, re¬ 
quested permission to bring forward a cul¬ 
prit. Permission granted, Lips made bis 
appearance. lie walked up to Adelaide 
and presented her with a small basket sur¬ 
rounded with flowers. 
The bride lifted the flowers from the top. 
Tin: basket was filled with large and beautiful 
ripe cherries, a great rarity lor the early 
season. 
The gardener, Jonaii, who, through the 
doctor’s exertions bad succeeded in getting 
bis place, could not bring himself to keep 
the enormous sum paid him for bis cherry 
trees. It. was returned to the doctor, who 
established with it a little fund for the benefit 
of poor gardeners. 
The cherries were sent by Jonah, and 
Lips hoped by being the bearer, to obtain 
forgiveness for his spying in the garden, 
which had caused so much mischief. 
“ Eavesdropping and watching should be 
punished, nevertheless,” observed Bir Wil¬ 
liam. “I recommend, my dear father-in-law, 
that you give the boy his discharge. Yet, 
not to leave him without a situation, I will 
take him as my groom,” 
This extraordinary promotion enraptured 
Lips, who seized the Baronet’s hand, kissed 
It, and sang out “ Rule Britannia l” 
The conversation, while the cherries w ere 
eaten, naturally turned on the blooming 
cherry tree. The fancies of the bride and 
bridegroom were discussed. Hunky made 
a fiery declamatory speech against all 
superstition, closing with the sentiment, 
“ Long live common sense ” 
But even superstition, the Baron said, w r as 
to be conquered by moderation and wisdom, 
not by boisterous Impatience, lie referred 
to the doctor’s worthy example, and gave 
the toast, “ Long live our wonderful doctor.” 
The whole company stood up to respond 
Old Flohian gave a leap, and Lips shot off 
to give a signal, at which there was a sud¬ 
den burnt of trumpets and kett le drums from 
the musicians, mingled with loud cheers 
from all the Baron’s household. At another 
signal from Flokian, there was a firing of 
guns and a ringing of hells. In the midst 
of the general glee, Pauline sprang up, ran 
to the doctor, and gave him, unexpectedly, 
the kiss lie had claimed so long. The rest 
all laughed, and applauded the lively girl, 
who thus gave expression to the gratitude 
of all. 
•- *-*-+ - 
A SCHOOL - GIRL’S GHOST STORY. 
BY LESLIE. 
ScnooL would be over in a week, and then 
we should all be at home. We had talked 
over this blissful coming time till it seemed 
that language w as exhausted on the subject. 
Yet there were many regrets mingled with 
going away. We had been together so long, 
—there was such a multitude of us, com¬ 
pared to the small families each one would 
settle down in now,—that we knew there 
must be a blank, a want of something, till 
wo got used to the old life again. Bo we 
avoided speaking of the parting,—the “ good- 
by,”—as \vc sat round the open fire in the twi¬ 
light; and, as all thoughts were full of it, we 
were silent, racking our brains for some¬ 
thing to say next 
Just then one of the small girls came to 
our relief, calling out, 
“ A story 1 a story ! Who’ll tell a story ?” 
A story was a god-send, as much as in 1 lie 
nursery-days; hut who should tell it ? There 
was the difficulty. 
We all looked at Genie Vance, as she 
was the universal refuge in every distress, 
and, like a good genius, she answered our 
imploring looks. 
“ Well, girls, I’ll tell you a real ghost 
story, if you’ll promise to be quiet and not 
intrude any irrelevant comments till I come 
to the end. It’s every word true; and if, in¬ 
stead of this bright fire, we had only the 
moon streaming down upon us, to give a 
ghostly light, you wouldn’t be skeptical 
about It. ’Tlsn’t very long, and you mustn’t 
interrupt, so 1 can get into the spirit ot it.” 
We all arranged ourselves as an earnest, 
listening audience, breathless with expecta¬ 
tion; and Genie began: 
Alors pour avnnwncer , I never did believe 
in ghost stories. No one could who had any 
common sense, I used to say. But 1 have 
heard that everybody secs a ghost once in 
their lives, so I suppose this is mine. 
You remember last summer when I went 
With mother to visit my uncle in that little 
out-of-the-way place near Savannah V It was 
in December, but everything was just as 
lovely as it could be there. My uncle has a 
beautiful plantation; and the house was a 
perfect wonder and delight to me, after be¬ 
ing cramped in one small room for my own 
here, without any very extravagant sur¬ 
roundings. 
The darkies were all free, and they did 
have such a good time, carrying on some 
marvellous scheme evciy day, and screaming 
after “Missus Genie” with their hands full of 
flowers, till I was loaded down with sweets; 
and yet they’d work for you, too, and seemed 
happy about it. 
They don’t belong to my story, but I 
thought you might suggest one of them as 
my ghost, so I mentiou them beforehand. 
Mother and I spent a fortnight there, and 
were about as gay as we could be till just 
before I left,—parties outdoors or indoors all 
the time; but that you know about. 
Well, let me see; we came away Satur¬ 
day, and this was the Wednesday before. 
We had a little company that evening ; they 
went away about eleven o’clock, and we 
went up to our room very soon after. It was 
in the front of the house, a large, square 
room, with very high ceilings, furnished 
with a dark oak set; and several pictures hung 
round on the walls. 
I was never tired of watching the moon¬ 
light, as the swaying branches of the tree 
by the window shifted it here and there in 
the room. It made strange, weird shadows, 
and filled my chamber with unsmnmoncd 
guests. But, though 1 liked to lie awake 
and fancy odd things in the corners, I never 
felt a bit. afraid. You know I’m not ono of 
the timorous kind, and mother slept with 
me, too. Tills night she was asleep before 1 
could get undressed, and the clock had just 
struck twelve ns I was saying my prayers. 
There was one portrait that, hung near 
the door, just opposite my side of the bed. 
It was beautiful; entrancing, was the word 
I bestowed upon it, I always lay still, look¬ 
ing at it till 1 fell asleep, so as to bring it 
bock in my dreams. My uncle said it was 
Ills cousin, the daughter of General G-; 
and that she lived somewhere in Massachu¬ 
setts. It was taken when she was about 
thirty years old; hut you wouldn’t have 
thought her a day over twenty, except that 
her dress was rather old for a mere girl. 
She had on a soft silver gray silk, made 
with a long pointed neck and loose, flowing 
sleeves. The most delicate lace fell over the 
neck and arms, and the folds of the dress 
were exquisite. She had a little, fair face, 
with a perfect, wealth of light hair gathered 
hack from it.; and such eyes! deep, deep 
blue, that made you think of the loveliest, 
most dazzling June sky you ever saw. She 
seemed to be leaning forward, as if to speak 
to you, and was the most graceful creature 
I ever knew—in licr picture, at least. 
I was perfectly fascinated by her, as I 
said. When I was saying my prayers on 
this particular night, and wanted to he most 
devout, illy eyes involuntarily opened and 
fell on the portrait, and I could hardly take 
them off it. 1 determined not to look again, 
but just, then 1 heard a slight nailing. 1 
thought it was a branch against the window, 
but as I glanced around that picture seemed 
to move. The frame shook a little, and the 
form within glided out from it in an unearthly 
way, and stood opposite me, waving her 
hand towards the door, l rubbed my eyes 
to sec if I was awake, and started to go 
round the other side, when 1 felt as if some 
one passed me. Looking at the picture 
again, there it was, the same as ever. I only 
said “ folly,” and went to bed. 
Of course 1 didn’t go to sleep for some 
time; hut the next day I was heartily 
ashamed of uiysclf. 
This Thursday was as merry as any of the 
other days. My visit had been a dream of 
delight; and I went up stairs that night 
without a thought of my picture, but with a 
good many for—you know who. 
As the midnight hour drew near, I re¬ 
membered how bad 1 had been about my 
prayers, and was feeling very penitent and 
Conscience smitten, when that same rustling 
sound struck on my ear again. The moon¬ 
light flooded the room, and the portrait was 
very plainly visible. There was just a gentle 
movement of the dress, and my friend again 
stood in the room. 
Bhe had a sorrowful expression on her 
face l had never seen there before, and 
seemed to want something, as she beckoned 
to me, going slowly to the door. I tried to 
speak, but my tongue was glued ; my knees 
seemed rooted to the floor, so that 1 could 
not move. 1 saw her pass out into the hail, 
and sprang forward, but she was gone, and 
the portrait was as sweet and placid as ever. 
1 was provoked with myself, and though I 
lay trembling till 1 went to sleep, I knew 
what a foolish girl 1 was. Still I didn’t 
reason my way out of it; and after they had 
rallied me on my pule face at breakfast, I 
imparted to mother, in confidence, my story. 
She thought the portrait had made a great 
impression upon me, anil probably my im¬ 
agination bad assisted my eye-sight more 
than 1 knew. But she said as this was our 
last night at uncle’s, we would watch togeth¬ 
er about the time ghostly visitants came. 
Well, I forgot my troubles till the evening, 
when we said good-by to many of our pleas¬ 
ant friends, and went up stairs lor my last 
sleep in Georgia. 
Then I reminded mother of her promise; 
and though she said she should keep it, I had 
some doubts about the matter, as I saw a 
comfortable sense of repose stealing over her 
face. However, I undressed, and put out 
the gas, just as my watch said a few minutes 
to twelve. I had a heavy dread of some¬ 
thing impending ; but the church dock rung 
out on the stillness the mystic hour, and 
nothing came. Bo, dismissing my foolish 
foal's, 1 said my prayers and crept softly into 
bed, not to wake mother, laughing at my 
weakness. 
But, just then, as plainly as I see that fire, 
I saw the empty frame on the wall and *iy 
ghost standing by the door. Bhe looked 
very pale, and wrung her hands as if in dis¬ 
tress. I must, speak, I thought; so, calling 
up all my courage, I said, “ What is it?” 
“ Come, come, conic!” she replied in the 
saddest voice. 
I shook mother and jumped up, following 
tho gliding figure. Bhe went swiftly to the 
stairs, and disappeared In the darkness below. 
I lutrriod back to mother, and wo both 
saw the framo without its picture. I looked 
away a moment, and when I turned again 
nothing was changed. The moonlight played 
on the little face, and the hands were as still 
as ever. 
I could not understand It. Mother said, 
“ It must he an optical illusion; we will talk 
it over tomorrow. Go to sleep, now, dear.” 
Easier said than done. T felt that the poor 
lmly was In some r<:tl trouble, and deter¬ 
mined to brave all ridicule and tell my uncle 
the first thing in the morning. 
“ L'homma propose, mm's , Dim dispose'' 
We were hardly seated at tho table when a 
telegram was brought in to my uncle. 
“ Maky died last night. Bhe wanted to see 
you very much.” That was Mrs. 11., the 
original of the portrait. Then I told my 
story, and I have never spoken of it since, 
till now. 
I was awe-struck. I know not whether 
in those hist moments the veil of flesh grows 
thin, and spirit can reach spirit, across the 
bridge of space. It is all a mystery to me, 
hut every word I’ve told you is true. Aud 
t hat’s my ghost story. 
We were all thinking. At last little Nell 
said: 
“Oh, Genie! do you think ’twas her 
spirit o»dling you ?” 
“I don’t know, Nell; 1 only know just 
what I’ve told you.” 
-- 
PRESENTIMENTS. 
K 
“ What is the subject of your next de¬ 
sign ?” asked a merry party of the friends of 
Hogarth. “The end of all things,” was the 
reply. “ In that case,” said one, jokingly, 
“ there will be an end of the artist.” “ There 
will,” rejoined Ilogarth, with a depth of 
solemnity that was strange in him. He set 
about the plate in hot haste, broke up his 
tools when he had finished it, entitled the 
print “ Finis,” and a short time after its pub¬ 
lication lay stretched in death. 
“ Poor Weston !” exclaimed Foote, as he 
stood dejectedly contemplating the portrait 
of a brother actor recently dead,— “poor 
Weston! Boon others shall say, ‘ Poor 
Foote!”’ In a few days he was borne out 
to his burial. Woolsey knew the exact time 
at which his death should take place. “What 
is the hour of the day?” he asked Cavendish 
on the morning before his death. “Some¬ 
thing past eight,” replied the attendant. 
“Past eight?" mused tho little great lord 
cardinal, “ eight — eight of tho clock, for by 
eight of the clock you shall lose your mas¬ 
ter.” On the following morning, while the 
clock was striking eight, he died, lie was 
wrong as to the day — right as to the hour. 
A French lady of title had a presentiment 
that on a given day she should die aL twelve 
o’clock. Believing it to be a delusion, her 
physicians ordered every clock in the neigh¬ 
borhood to be put back by an hour. Btie 
was sinking fast, hut lived, on until nearly 
one, when she was told of the innocent de¬ 
ception which had been practiced upon her. 
The doctor had underrated the power of 
imagination. “ Cruel,” she murmured, “ thus 
to lengthen out the pain of dying,” and, 
sinking hack upon her pillow, she expired. 
“ Better in arms than upon one’s bed,” 
muttered an officer of the army of Italy, on 
beiug appointed to lead a forlorn hope. 
Napoleon sent for the man, and learned that 
he believed he was to die at midnight. The 
expedition was postponed for an hour, and 
another leader had to be selected for it 
The captain who had the presentiment was 
seized with au apoplectic fit while marshal¬ 
ing his men, and died on the last stroke of 
twelve. 
“ We sometimes feel within ourselves,” 
says John Hunter, “ that we shall not live; 
for the vital powers become weak, and the 
nerves communicate the intelligence to the 
brain.” Mozart had long been in failing 
health when he received his order for his 
last “ Requiem;” Hogarth was conscious of 
decaying powers when he sat down to de¬ 
sign the “ End of All Things.” Both held 
out till they finished the work they had in 
hand.— Selected. 
-- +++ -- 
The man who can make his own fire, 
black his own hoots, carry his own w ood, 
hoe his own garden, pay his own debts, and 
lives without wine and tobacco, need ask no 
favor of him who rides in a coach and four. 
