ken with the gout in his stomach and has sent for you to
watch by his death-bed. Make haste, for there is no time to
lose."--"Fane! Edward Fane! And has he sent for me at last? I am
ready. I will get on my cloak and begone. So," adds the sable-gowned,
ashen-visaged, funereal old figure, "Edward Fane remembers his
Rosebud."

Our question is answered. There is a germ of bliss within her. Her
long-hoarded constancy, her memory of the bliss that was remaining
amid the gloom of her after-life like a sweet-smelling flower in a
coffin, is a symbol that all may be renewed. In some happier clime the
Rosebud may revive again with all the dewdrops in its bosom.

THE THREEFOLD DESTINY.

A FAERY LEGEND.

I have sometimes produced a singular and not unpleasing effect, so far
as my own mind was concerned, by imagining a train of incidents in
which the spirit and mechanism of the faery legend should be combined
with the characters and manners of familiar life. In the little tale
which follows a subdued tinge of the wild and wonderful is thrown over
a sketch of New England personages and scenery, yet, it is hoped,
without entirely obliterating the sober hues of nature. Rather than a
story of events claiming to be real, it may be considered as an
allegory such as the writers of the last century would have expressed
in the shape of an Eastern tale, but to which I have endeavored to
give a more lifelike warmth than could be infused into those fanciful
productions.

In the twilight of a summer eve a tall dark figure over which long and
remote travel had thrown an outlandish aspect was entering a village
not in "faery londe," but within our own familiar boundaries. The
staff on which this traveller leaned had been his companion from the
spot where it grew in the jungles of Hindostan; the hat that
overshadowed his sombre brow, had shielded him from the suns of Spain;
but his cheek had been blackened by the red-hot wind of an Arabian
desert and had felt the frozen breath of an Arctic region. Long
sojourning amid wild and dangerous men, he still wore beneath his vest
the ataghan which he had once struck into the throat of a Turkish
robber. In every foreign clime he had lost something of his New
England characteristics, and perhaps from every people he had
unconsciously borrowed a new peculiarity; so that when the
world-wanderer again trod the street of his native village it is no
wonder that he passed unrecognized, though excitin