A noise, low and faint at first, just taking the edge of silence with a musical murmur that seemed to die out for an instant now and again, then coming again stronger than before, and so growing by fine degrees louder and more confirmed, and resolving itself at last into a sound which could not be mistaken for that of anything but falling water.  The sound was clearly in front of me; I was being swept resistlessly towards it.  A curve of the river and a swelling of the banks hid everything from 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.