are more than that, senor; they are my children--the children of
my adoption.'

'How is that?'

'I will tell you, senor; for I am old and poor, and know but little of
the world, and am in much need of advice; for I know not what to do
with these two children.' He related the story we have just told. 'And
now, senor, what do you advise me to do?'

'Apply to one of the nobles of the court, who must assign you a
pension of four thousand ducats.'

'I asked you for advice, senor, and not for jest.'

'And then, your church must be rebuilt. We will call it the Church of
the Cup of Cold Water. Here is the plan. See, this is to be the
vicarage; and here, divided by this paling'----

'What does this mean? What would you say? And, surely, I remember that
voice, that face'----

'I am Don Jose della Ribeira; and twelve years ago, I was the brigand
Jose. I escaped from prison; and--for the revolution made great
changes--am now powerful. My children'----

He clasped them in his arms. And when at length he had embraced them a
hundred times, with tears, and smiles, and broken sentences; and when
all had in some degree recovered their composure, he took the hand of
the priest and said: 'Well, father, will you not accept the Church of
the Cup of Cold Water?' The old man, deeply affected, turned to
Margarita, and repeated:

'Whosoever shall give to drink unto one of these little ones a cup of
cold water only in the name of a disciple, verily I say unto you, he
shall in no wise lose his reward.'

'Amen!' replied the aged woman, her voice tremulous from emotion.

A short time afterwards, Don Jose della Ribeira and his
two sons were present at the consecration of the church of
San-Pietro-del-Vaso-di-Aqua-Fria, one of the prettiest churches in the
neighbourhood of Sevilla.

MUSIC-GRINDERS OF THE METROPOLIS.

Perhaps the pleasantest of all the out-door accessories of a London
life are the strains of fugitive music which one hears in the quiet
by-streets or suburban highways--strains born of the skill of some of
our wandering artists, who, with flute, violin, harp, or brazen tube
of various shape and designation, make the brick-walls of the busy
city responsive with the echoes of harmony. Many a time and oft have
we lingered entranced by the witchery of some street Orpheus,
forgetful, not merely of all the troubles of existence, but of
existence itself, until the strain had ceased, and silence aroused us
to the matter-o