e investiture with one mighty shout--"Ramiro! Ramiro! long
live Ramiro! Infante of Arragon!"

THE FARM-LABORER.--THE SON.

BY HARRIET MARTINEAU.

It has been told that Susan Banks found herself well placed, after the
death of her insane aunt obliged her to look for a home and a
maintenance. As I am not telling her story, I will pass over the account
of the efforts she made to be a schoolmistress, and the instruction she
had as a dressmaker. She was in poor health (reduced by hunger) and in
debt L3 to her uncle, and nervous and anxious, when she heard that a
lady from the North, then visiting in the neighborhood, wanted just such
a maid as Susan thought she could become with a little teaching. She
obtained the place, took pains to learn to wait at table, &c., and
within a year had paid her debt to her uncle, and spared L2 besides to
her family; and all this, though her box had had but few clothes in it
when she went to her new home.

At the end of a year, her employer, Miss Foote, began to think of
cultivating the small portion of land about the house which had hitherto
been let off for grazing, and which was deteriorating in quality from
the mismanagement of the tenant. Not approving of the methods of tillage
in the neighborhood, and knowing that there were no spare hands there,
Miss Foote wrote to a parish officer in Susan's and her own native
county, to ask if a laborer of good character and sound qualifications
could be sent to her by the parish, on her engaging to pay him twelve
shillings a week for a year and a half, while her experiment of
cultivation was under trial; and longer, if it should be found to
answer. This was all she could undertake, as she could not afford to
carry on the scheme at a loss. The answer was some time in coming. When
it came, it told that pauper laborers could not be recommended; but a
better sort of laborer might be sent, and his place in the parish would
be filled, only too easily, by some of the young men from the workhouse.
The proposal was to send the very best man of his class known to the
parish officers. He and his wife had money enough in the savings' bank
to pay their journey, and they were willing to make the venture. The
man's name was Harry Banks. Miss Foote took the letter into the kitchen,
and read it to Susan and her fellow-servant. When Susan heard the name,
she started as if she had been shot, and screamed out, "Why, that's my
brother!" Thus far, far away fro