l, my unhappy mother. But you suffer no loss
now; you rather gain, for here, in our dear Arthur, is your _real_ son,
the true Lord Alverley."

After a time of blank amazement and incredulity, followed by scores of
eager questions, which Philip calmly answered, the truth of the strange
story was admitted, and the Earl and Countess turned to embrace their
new-found son. But the painful excitement of the scene had been too
much for that grateful, generous heart. With a piteous look at Philip,
and a gasping sob, the poor boy fell in a swoon at the feet of his
parents.

Well, the strange, perplexing change about was arranged after a while,
even to the names of the lads, and Philip became plain Arthur O'Neill,
and Arthur found himself Philip Alfred Reginald, Lord Alverley, &c.

It was long before he was fully reconciled to the greatness thrust upon
him at the expense of his best friend. He hated his title like a born
Democrat. Indeed, it was said that when he was first my-lorded by his
brother's valet, he flew into a most unbecoming rage. He took to his
new condition more kindly, however, when he found that Philip was not
desperate or unhappy, that he was not too proud to accept from him such
aid in life as an older brother might give. They went to the
University and travelled over the Continent together. Then Arthur
O'Neill entered the army, and his regiment was soon after ordered to
India.

Seas rolled between the foster-brothers for years, yet their hearts
were not divided. "Many waters cannot quench love," neither can the
floods of death drown it. The "golden auburn" locks of the last Earl
of Ellenwood were scarcely touched with silver when the coffin-lid hid
them from sight.

Colonel O'Neill fell in the wilds of Afghanistan. One was "the true
lord," one was a hero; both were noblemen.

A REBUS.

Entire, I circle Kitty's wrists
Or deck small Percy's breast,
Or Annie's night-robe, or beneath
Mamma's soft cheek am prest.

_Behead_ me, and I wander free,
In wood or meadow fair,
Leap down the rock on mosses soft,
Tall ferns, and maiden-hair;
Or linger in the sedgy deep,
And baby-lilies rock to sleep.

_Behead_ again, and to your door,
If I presume to come,
I warn you, bid the porter say,
"To _him_ I'm not at home.
Heaven save me from the visitations
Of all that sort of poor relations!"

_Frill-rill-ill._

STORY OF A FRENCH SOLDIER.