e stranger
entered; "he is my favourite author. His fate was mine--he describes my
feelings. He had an unnatural mother--so had I. He was disowned--so was
I. He slew a man, and so did I; but I my brother."

The voice, the words, fell upon Maria's ear. She became pale, she
glanced towards the arbour, she cast an inquiring look upon the keeper.

"Fear not, ma'am," he replied; "he is an innocent creature. He does not
rave now; and but that there is an occasional wildness in his language,
he is as well as you are. Enter and converse with him, ma'am; he is a
great speaker, and to much purpose, too, as visiters tell me."

She entered the arbour. The cripple's eyes met hers--he threw down the
book.

"Maria--Maria!" he exclaimed, "this is kind! this is kind, indeed! But
do not _pity_ me--do not _pity me again_! Hate me, Maria! you saw me
slay my brother!"

She informed him that his brother was not dead--that he had recovered
within a few weeks.

"Not dead!" replied the cripple. "Thank Heaven! Ebenezer is not a
murderer! But I am well now--the fever of my brain is passed. Go, Maria,
do this for me--it is all I now ask--inquire why I am here immured, and
by whose authority. Suffer not my reason to be buried in reason's tomb,
and crushed among its wrecks. Your smile, your words of kindness, your
tears of gratitude, caused me to dream once, and its remembrance is
still as a speck of light amidst the darkness of my bosom; but these
grey hairs have broken the dream." And Ebenezer bent his head upon his
breast, and sighed.

Maria and her friend left the asylum, but in a few weeks they returned,
and when they again departed, Ebenezer Baird went with them. He now
sought not Maria's love, but he was gratified with her esteem, and that
of her friends. He outlived the persecution of his kindred and the
derision of the world; and in the forty-sixth year of his age he died in
peace, and bequeathed his property to Maria Bradbury--the first of the
human race that had looked on him with kindness, or cheered him with a
smile.

[Footnote A: The water-ouzel, the kingfisher, and the crested wren,
abound in the vicinity of the Cheviots, though the latter beautiful
little creature is generally considered as quite a _rara avis_; and last
year one being shot about Cumberland, the circumstance went the round of
the newspapers! But the bird is not rare, it is only difficult to be
seen, and generally flutters among the leaves and near the top