e
leapt to the rescue. He was a good swimmer, and soon came to the
surface after the plunge, but the shadow of the rock retarded his
search. At last he found her, and then a new difficulty, that of
landing, presented itself. The shore was covered with a fringe of
impenetrable brushwood, which gave him the scantiest support, and it
was impossible to mount the face of the rock. Almost in despair, he
looked across the water, where he saw in the moonlight a fisherman's
boat. Slowly the little craft obeyed his repeated calls for help.
Sturdy arms relieved him of his insensible burden, while he, scarcely
taking time to climb beside her, hoarsely bade the men row for their
lives.

It is needless to describe the scene of confusion which followed on
their arrival at the hotel. The only practical man there was Dr.
Grey, who gave orders and applied remedies with desperate energy.
His persistence was rewarded: the veined lids opened, the white
lips parted, intelligence returned: she spoke, and Maurice
threw himself on his knees and bent over her that he might
catch the words. "My warning was true," she whispered slowly,
"but--I--am--willing--to--die--for--loving--you." Then perception faded
from those gentle eyes, breathing ceased, the muscles relaxed. Fay was
dead.

And the doctor?

He afterward married his cousin: she was so kind to him at the time of
his sad affliction.

ITA ANIOL PROKOP.

A SCENE IN THE CAMPAGNA.

You remember the Piazza della Bocca della Verita at Rome? No? Perhaps
it is too far away from the Piazza di Spagna and the stairs of the
Monte di Trinita, which may be taken to be the central points of
English or American Rome. Yet you must have passed by the Bocca della
Verita on your way to your drive on the Via Appia and the tomb of
Caecilia Metella. Do you not remember a large, shambling,
unkempt-looking open space, a sort of cross in appearance between the
_piazza_ of a city and a farmyard, a little after passing the remains
of the Teatro di Marcello, the grand old arches of which are now, in
the whirligig of Time's revenges, turned into blacksmiths' shops? The
piazza in question is nearly open on one side to the Tiber, on the
immediate bank of which stands that elegant little round temple, with
its colonnade of charming fluted pillars, which has from time out of
mind been known as the Temple of Vesta, though the designation, as
modern archaeologists tell us, is probably erroneous. All the world