om me.
The sound was momently growing louder, and had distinctly resolved
itself into the roar and rush of some great body of water. I shuddered
and grasped the sides of the boat with both hands.

Suddenly the curve was rounded, and there, almost in front of me, was a
mass of buildings, and there, too, spanning the river, was what looked
to me like a trellis-work bridge, and on the bridge was a human figure.
The roar and noise of the cataract were deafening, but louder than all
was my piercing cry for help. He who stood on the bridge heard it. I saw
him fling up his hands as if in sudden horror, and that was the last
thing I did see. I sank down with closed eyes in the bottom of the boat,
and my heart went up in a silent cry to Heaven. Next moment I was swept
into Scarsdale Weir. The boat seemed to glide from under me; my head
struck something hard; the water overwhelmed me, seized on me, dashed me
here and there in its merciless arms; a noise as of a thousand cataracts
filled my ears for a moment; and then I recollect nothing more.

(_To be continued._)

SONNET.

Wouldst thou be happy, friend, forget, forget.
A curse--no blessing--Memory, thou art;
The very torment of a human heart.
Ah! yes, I thought, I still am young; and let
My heart but beat, I can be happy yet.
Upon a friendly face clear shone the light;
Without, low moaned the mountain's winds, and night
Closed our warm home--sad words of fond regret.
A voice which in my ear no more shall ring;
A look estranged in hate like lightning came,
My very soul within me died as flame
By strong wind spent. It was not grief, for dead
Was grief; nor love, for love in wrath had fled;
It was of both the last undying sting!

JULIA KAVANAGH.

THE BRETONS AT HOME.

BY CHARLES W. WOOD, F.R.G.S., AUTHOR OF "THROUGH HOLLAND," "LETTERS
FROM MAJORCA," ETC. ETC.

The long grey walls, the fortifications, the church towers and steeples,
the clustering roofs of St. Malo came into view.

It is a charming sight after the long and often unpleasant night journey
which separates St. Malo from Southampton. The boats leave much to be
desired, and the sea very often, like Shakespeare's heroine, needs
taming, but, unlike that heroine, will not be tamed, charm we never so
wisely. As a rule, however, one is not in a mood to charm.

[Illustration: A BRETON MAIDEN.]

The Company are not accommodating. There are