He rose as she spoke, and looked at her
doubtfully. The musical-box, enclosed in its
well-worn leather case, lay on the grave near
the place where he had been kneeling.
Rosamond took it up from the grass, and slung it
in the old place at his side, which it always
occupied when he was away from home.
He sighed a little as he thanked her.
"Mozart can sing no more," he said. "He
has sung to the last of them now!"

Don't say to the last, yet," said Rosamond,
"don't say to the last, Uncle Joseph, while
I am alive. Surely Mozart will sing to me,
for my mother's sake?"

A smile—the first she had seen since the
time of their grief—trembled faintly round
his lips. "There is comfort in that," he
said; " there is comfort for Uncle Joseph
still, in hearing that."

"Take my hand," she repeated softly.
"Come home with us now."

He looked down wistfully at the grave.
"I will follow you," he said, " if you will go
on before me to the gate?"

Rosamond took her husband's arm, and
guided him to the path that led out of the
churchyard. As they passed from sight,
Uncle Joseph knelt down once more at the
foot of the grave, and pressed his lips on the
fresh turf.

"Good-bye, my child," he whispered, and
laid his cheek for a moment against the grass,
before he rose again.

At the gate Rosamond was waiting for
him. Her right hand was resting on her
husband's arm; her left hand was held out
for Uncle Joseph to take.

"How cool the breeze is!" said Leonard.
"How pleasantly the sea sounds! Surely
this is a fine summer day"

"The brightest and loveliest of the year,"
said Rosamond. "The only clouds on the
sky are clouds of shining white; the only
shadows over the moor lie light as down on
the heather. The sun glows clear in its glory
of gold, and the sea beams back on it in its
glory of blue. O, Lenny, it is such a different
day from that day of dull oppression and
misty heat when we found the letter in the
Myrtle Room! Even the dark tower of our
old house, yonder, gains a new beauty in the
clear air, and seems to be arrayed in its
brightest aspect to welcome us to the
beginning of a new life. I will make it a
happy life to you, and to Uncle Joseph,
if I can—happy as the sunshine that we
are all three walking in now. You shall
never repent, love, if I can help it, that
you have married a wife who has no
claim of her own to the honours of a family
name."

"I can never repent my marriage, love,"
said Leonard, "because I can never forget
the lesson that my wife has taught me."

"What lesson, Lenny?"

"An old one, my dear, which some of us
can never learn too often. The highest
honours, Rosamond, are those which no
accident can take away—the honours that
are conferred by LOVE and TRUTH."

THE END.

MAKE YOUR GAME, GENTLEMEN!

THIS famous music begins already to grow
faint. It is hushed in many halls over Europe.
The Great Dagon worship has plainly fallen
into disfavour with its votaries. Cold police
functionaries have intruded into those glittering
salons, and roughly extinguished the
shaded lamps that played so genially on the
soft green of the tables. In the long white
chambers of Aachen Kurhaus—over whose
oaken floor used to wander the restless flood
of many nations—there is desolation now,
and a dismal solitude. The ukase has gone
forth. The voice of the king has spoken it:
there shall be no more play in Aachen. Le
jeu shall be defunct: and so the bright little
town, deprived of its unholy aliment, is settling
to decay, and wears in approaching dissolution
a kind of shabby gentility. The chief-priest,
or croupier with—his weary chaunting
that the couleur is at that present moment
passing, or winning, or losing, or paying—is
now utterly swept away; he and his
instruments of office, his rakes, and his new clean
cards, and ivory balls. Perhaps he has since
taken service with some other great society,
and may be sitting at this moment behind
his files of napoleons, and thalers, and
fluttering notes. There is little doubt but that
the doom of the surviving temples of play is
already written in the future. The
handwriting may be seen upon the wall, and it
becomes now only a question of time.

Any one who has gone the beaten round of
such popular places, and has tasted of the
springs of Baden and Wies Baden, and
Homburg, and Spa, must have noted some curious
shapes of tradition common alike to them all.
that is to say, certain melo-dramatic histories
pursuing him close from one to the other. At
one time there travels to him from Ems or
other remote places of waters, the annual
legend respecting the young Russian nobleman.
Who is not familiar with the tale! The
young Russian nobleman has been sitting for
twenty-four hours at a stretch, and during
that time has staked, and lost—first, all his
money, in the shape of untold roubles—
then his jewels and plate—his vast estates
at home, his trees, malachite mines, serfs
and all; and, finally, with the sangfroid of his
nation, has withdrawn into a quiet corner,
and there pistolled himself. Or, it may be,
that the stranger has hearkened to a dim
tradition of the wealthy financier, who had
lost his five hundred thousand francs in a
night, and whom the bank considerately
presented with sufficient to defray his
expenses home. Perhaps, too, there has been
pointed out to him the gentleman, who had