death. By a strange freak of malicious fortune, just a few days before the morning on which our story opens, she had had occasion to order some alterations to be made in this house. Out from between the leaves of an old book slipped a paper which proved to be a letter from Jotham Brown to Mary Shaw. The missive contained nothing inconsistent with what I have already set forth, and a moment's cool thought would have convinced Grace that it told her nothing which she had not already known; but it seemed to her as she read it a confirmation of all her fears.

From this account, the reader can judge for himself why it was that Mrs. Brown, when her husband presented his business schemes so engagingly, smiled as if entirely ignorant of his wishes, and expressed the hope that he might obtain the money "somewhere."

Deacon Brown kept a smile upon his face until he was out of sight of home, and then let his features manage themselves. They at once assumed a vexed expression, which, after all, was more pleasant than the painful smile which had preceded. He wondered what had caused Grace to be thus wilfully blind to his wishes. What had he said or done during the last few days to displease her? He could not think. Indeed, he had been unusually gracious, anticipating his approaching necessity. Alas, Jotham! it is only that sore which has been thirty years unhealed that pains your good wife now. It is a hand which has been thirty years in the grave that is disarranging the pieces upon the board in this game which you are playing. Stop wrinkling your brows, Jotham, for you will discover nothing by your troubled musings.

At last Deacon Brown lifted his eyes from the pavement, and gave up his fruitless speculations. The scene upon which he looked was very animated and pleasing. Upton was a large and flourishing village; and nearly all of the male population, and some of the ladies, seemed to be out of doors. It was about eleven o'clock on a bright May morning. It struck Deacon Brown that he had never before seen the stores and side

walks so full, and he explained it by the fact that the weather had been bad for several days preceding.

A strolling musician had just taken his stand before the little park which stood in the center of the town at the crossing of the two principal streets. The dress and general appearance of this wandering minstrel were so strange that a crowd was soon collected, and even Deacon Brown stopped for a moment to observe him. His attire suggested nothing so much as a crazy quilt, such a mixture was it of all possible shapes and colors. Many of the bright patches upon his coat seemed unnecessary, and had probably been put on only to increase the strange medley of his plumage. His face was remarkably genial and interesting, and every looker-on felt drawn to him at once. Even the strangeness of his garments did not cause any merriment as soon as the spectators beheld his face. He was incessantly active, turning his head this way and that, and welcoming with a smile every new-comer who joined the group of which he was the center. The instrument of his trade was an old violin, from which he brought forth the most charming tones. After each tune, or group of tunes, he would stop and exchange a few bantering words with the delighted crowd. He seemed to have forgotten entirely that seducing of loose coins from the pockets of his auditors, which is not usually overlooked by gentlemen of his profession.

"Walk up, gentlemen, walk up. I will do my best to please you, my very best. Come, now, what shall it be? Name your favorite pieces, gentlemen, and I will play them."

It must have been the confidence inspired by the genial minstrel that led his auditors to follow his directions in perfectly good faith, and to ask for those melodies which were actually dearest to their individual hearts. Certainly, the pathetic tunes for which they asked him bore a great contrast to the hearty, happy manner in which his of fer had been made. But as their requests were uttered, the face of the fiddler at once assumed a sympathetic sadness. At last Jo

tham Brown, moved by an irresistible impulse, asked for an old tune of former days. It was a simple, plaintive love-song, which he had not heard played or sung during all the thirty years that had elapsed since death hushed the voice of the sweet singer, Mary Shaw. The minstrel searched Jotham's very heart, with a piercing yet kindly glance. He then took up his violin, and played through all the pieces in the order of the requests, lingering longest over the one which Jotham had named, and adding to it some beautiful variations.

After the strains of the music ceased sounding, a silence of several moments fell upon the company. Chords had been stirred in the breasts of many besides Jotham, which had not vibrated for years. During the stillness, the restless player scanned the faces of his audience, as if waiting for some signal to proceed. At length he seemed satisfied that the right moment had arrived, and, lowering his instrument, he addressed them in grave, kindly tones.

"I am sorry, gentlemen, that you are so sad. One would think that you have all been crossed in love, instead of being for the most part, as I should judge, married men and wonen. I assure you that such a collection of the pathetic love-songs of the last generation has not been played upon this old fiddle for many a day. My heart has felt the same sadness which you reveal as dwelling deep in your own breasts. Truly, men and women are brothers and sisters in more ways than they themselves know. My good friends, I have obeyed all of your requests; will you please grant me one favor? I wish to ask every one of you who has either loved one that he did not marry, or married one that he did not love, to follow after me. I will play over for you these tunes which we all love, and we will all walk on together in brotherly sympathy."

As soon as he had finished uttering this most remarkable invitation, he started down the main street of the village, followed by almost all of the company which had been listening to him. Those who remained behind were for the most part urchins who

should have been in school; though a few simple couples of mature years, who had been puzzled by the words of the player, now stood stock-still, gazing after the retreating procession in blank amazement.

It is not necessary to suppose that all who hastened after the minstrel belonged to that class of persons whom he had requested to follow him. Indeed, it is strange that curiosity alone did not cause every one of his hearers to go along with him. Moreover, the stranger was an unusually fine musician, and played the old tunes with a delicate sympathy which entranced everybody. We cannot wonder, then, that his auditors walked eagerly after him; many of them, perhaps, without clearly apprehending the meaning of his invitation.

The good people of Upton were astonished as they beheld the strange procession and its more remarkable leader parading through their main street. Incessantly active, marching with his feet, playing with his hands, wriggling his body, and turning his head this way and that, his motions suggested those of a brilliantly colored snake; but the sight of his honest, cheerful face at once banished the thought.

The little company soon began to grow. In almost every group of people which they passed, the fiddler beckoned or nodded to one or more of the members. Those to whom he signaled in this manner quickly joined their friends who were already in the procession. There was no reason why they should hesitate to do so, for many of the best citizens of Upton were now in the throng which followed the musician. Indeed, the parti-colored stranger seemed to be somewhat exclusive and aristocratic in his tastes; for his troop contained far more of the wealth and fashion of Upton than of its poverty; and he did not invite into his train a single member of a large group of working men and women who were assembled at the corner of a small side street gazing upon him. They might have thought that the whole pageant represented some freak of their more fortunate neighbors, and could not concern them, had it not been that some of the worst

vagabonds in the village were scattered throughout the marching company.

Since the more respectable paraders must soon wake up to the absurdity of the whole thing, and abandon this sport for the serious business of life, let us take a hurried glance at this impromptu assembly before they scat ter. Next to Jotham Brown walks his pastor, the Rev. Mr. Shinewell, who joined him at the last corner. Mr. Shinewell is a rising young clergyman, who has lately brought home a blooming bride, the daughter of an ex-governor of the State. Few men in a place like Upton can have such prospects as are his, yet a deep melancholy now rests upon his handsome face. Usually he showers smiles upon all whom he meets. Which is the real man and which the counterfeit ? Are both equally genuine? Surely no one who listened to Mr. Shinewell's sermon last Sabbath upon saving faith, can doubt that he is a good man.

Deacon White, whose mingled goodness and simplicity often make his associates smile, was talking with Mr. Shinewell about the work of the church when the musician passed them. He was a little startled when his pastor left him to enter the receding crowd. But he is too accustomed to unceremonious treatment from his superiors in station to be very much surprised at the abrupt departure of his spiritual leader, and he hurries home to dinner. He is eager, also, to tell all about the strange spectacle to Mrs White, from whom he keeps nothing. She, in turn, aids and abets him in all his schemes, and especially in those impracticable notions which provoke the mirth of his comrades. Deacon White is truly a singular man. Had his eyes been good he would have recognized all his fellow-deacons in the troop which followed the stranger.

There is not a man in the marching company whose face bears exactly the expression to which his friends are accustomed. In every case it seems as if a surface layer of expression has been removed from the face; letting the observer behold a more natural countenance, a more genuine and complete soul revelation, than persons of good breed

ing are accustomed to see in their friends, or expose to them. Notice Jotham Brown, in particular. All the unusual sadness in his face cannot conceal a new dignity and simplicity of expression. The manly carriage of his head, his firm step and his truthful countenance, all seem to say that he means to let no deceit or shadow of untruth taint his future life. I say future life, for there is a humility with all this which indicates that he has some confessions to make before his life can have a new and a true beginning. It must be the old tune that is helping Jotham. He sees the mild eyes of Mary Shaw shining upon his soul and approving his new resolves.

All that I have said of the men was equally true of the women, for, strangely enough, a few ladies accepted the fiddler's invitation. A visitor who came into Upton the ollowing summer, and who tried hard to ascertain all the facts connected with the scenes which I am describing, declared that he could not find a single family in Upton in which either the husband or wife did not have an opportunity to join the impromptu procession.

The company had at last reached a place on the main street where the houses ceased. This point was about a mile from the part at which they had started, and the road here entered a wood composed of large chestnut and oak trees. The fiddler was playing again the air which Jotham loved. As soon as it was completed he stopped marching, raised his bow and turned about, facing his followers. Gesturing with his bow, and smiling like a gracious prince upon his temporary subjects, he addressed them a few words of farewell.

"I am sorry, friends, that I cannot stay longer with you. I have enjoyed greatly playing the old tunes for you and hearing them with you. They are very dear to me. They always seem to me to be whispering, 'Be true! be true! be true! Never deny or disown that which you have once been. Never forget one whom you have once loved.' Truth toward the living and the present, dear friends, can never demand falsehood toward the dead and the past. Now, good

bye, all. I have money enough for my present needs, and your kindness has been pleasanter to me than coins; so I will not pass around my hat. Remember me whenever you recall the old tunes or hear them played." Waving his bow with airy grace, and whispering something which could not be heard, but which some of his audience afterward declared to have been a benediction, he turned on his heel and disappeared in the wood. The flickering spots of sunlight and shadow which covered the ground, the variegated soil of the forest, and the corrugated tree-trunks, all harmonized well with the parti colored garments and the writhing form of the stranger. He almost seemed to some to melt away into the ground, or to dissolve among the trees, rather than to walk away; and he disappeared so rapidly that he was not long seen by any one.

All

After

No one thought of following him. accepted his words as a final farewell. his departure they all stood gazing at each other, as if awaking from a dream. Each man seemed now to ascertain for the first time who had been his comrades. Even Deacon Brown and his minister did not appear to realize until now that they had been walking side by side.

The habit of falsehood was so strong with some, that they soon began to explain away their presence in the company. One man declared that he had never in his life before felt such irresistible curiosity as that which drove him to follow the fiddler, in the hope of learning more about such a remarkable man. The village music-teacher declared that such a concert was worth more than a short walk, and that the tones which the stranger evoked from the old violin were as pure as those of the wood-thrush. Rev. Mr. Shinewell explained to Deacon Brown, in the hearing of the whole company, that such a phenomenal personage as they had seen could not be without interest to one whose profession compelled him to search into the mysteries of the human breast. He would have continued in this strain, but Jotham gave him a look of incredulity which silenced his glib tongue, for once, in the midst of a

sentence, and brought a blush to his smiling face. No others spoke after the poor success of Mr. Shinewell; but in silent groups they all wandered back to the village.

And what was the result to Upton and its citizens of all this strange serio-comic performance? Was it only the theme of a day's talk and then forgotten? Certainly the consequences to Jotham Brown were lasting and beneficent. Mrs. Brown was more than appeased, she wept in sympathy, when Jotham that evening opened his heart to her. This may seem very strange, when we consider that the first thing he revealed was that love for Mary Shaw, the mere suspicion of which had vexed her life for thirty years; but when a man speaks from such a full soul as did Jotham that night, he never gives offense. Moreover, he had much to say in praise of her wifely obedience and faithfulness during their wedded life; and she felt more sure than ever of his hearty respect and faithful tenderness, now that she knew that his heart's deepest love had never been hers and could never be. Perhaps it was the feeling that he was not entirely frank with her, that had been the real trouble in the minds of both. And then she had her confessions to make, too, into which we will not inquire; and "confession is good for the soul." The sun which rose upon Upton the following morning saw a new life begin in the family of Jotham Brown—a life of mutual trust and truthfulness.

I am not well acquainted with what occurred under the other roofs of the village; but it may have been that similar scenes were elsewhere enacted. At any rate, there were many altered faces in Upton after the visit of the fiddler, and many altered lives. An atmosphere of greater simplicity and genuineness seemed to pervade the whole place. Deacon White and a few men like him found themselves looked up to and honored for their transparency of character, instead of being set aside with respectful smiles. Mr. Shinewell's sermons were not such great efforts as they had formerly been; as he grew to speak more from the heart, there was not so much need of effort in speaker or hearers.

The visitor already mentioned, who afterwards investigated the matter, became convinced that the strange musician was a supernatural being, as he could not find any other trace of him after the most painstaking search. Almost everybody laughed at such an absurd and unscientific hypothesis; while some made biting remarks about learned in

between an angel and an escaped lunatic. At any rate, whether we consider his suggestion to be reasonable or absurd, it resulted from the only attempt at a complete investigation of these occurrences that was ever made. For myself, I prefer not to offer an explanation, but to leave each reader to form his own conclusions. Albert H. Tolman.

It is not generally known that in the year 1516 a brother of the King of Scotland, hav. ing taken the vows of a Franciscan monk, came to America as a missionary to the Indians. No historian tells his name; yet he came only thirty years before the birth of the first who mentions him. If Herrera had not been careless, the tale would have been a threadbare subject generations ago; but he left it half told, and it passed out of the realm of the historic into the misty country of the picturesque, where it has been forgotten. Before reading the story of this lost prince in the new light we hope to have thrown upon its mystery, we must turn for a moment to see what manner of world it was from which this Scotch nobleman turned away three hundred and seventy years ago.

The period to which his life belongs was one of the great epochs of the world; one of the times in which the mighty powers that were seething in human hearts broke through the crust of old customs, and wrenched the forests of centuries from their roots, rushing hot over dust and ashes and decay like the passions of a man in the strength of his youth, headlong, destructive, burning, but alive. The Roman Catholic Church stirred in its luxurious sleep with a dream of reform, and made vague resolutions before the New Year morning which was to dawn, when the thoughts of a monk in Germany should be ready to alter the Christian world.

In Scotland, our hero's native land, the

nobility were haughty, warlike, illiterate ; border ruffians, who plundered their neighbors when the country chanced to be at peace. The long struggle for national existence through which Scotland had passed, had aggravated the natural reserve of the people into suspicion and isolation; and in the one year to which this sketch is restricted, 1516, the luxurious appointments and courtly polish of the French whom the Duke of Albany had brought with him some months before, when he came from the land of his education to the place of his duties as regent, were jarring with the homely life and shy pride of the Scots. He was a reasonably upright man, who had made the mistake of bringing continental ideas of despotism to rule over the least tamable community on earth. A legate of Leo x. was establishing monasteries of the Franciscan order in the country rather slowly, for only nine were reported as successfully incorporated after the legates of several preceding popes had given to the task many years of toil. The Queen-mother, angry at not being allowed to rule the kingdom alone, had gone back to England, where she was trying to induce her brother, Henry VIII., to rouse himself to right her, while her baby son was strictly guarded in Scotland, lest she should steal him into England. Albany, weary of the cold, poor country, had taken a vacation for refreshment into his favorite France this summer. Lord Home, the only man of distinction who had survived the