of Jesus, his remains were bargained for by the children of Moses; and not being allowed to enter a church, they might have been shown at a fair between a giant and a two-headed calf. Thirty thousand francs equalled the product of a goodly number of concerts: he was a virtuoso even after his death.

The lawsuit went on. From the judgment of the Bishop of Nice, given the 28th July, 1840, the heir had appealed to the archiepiscopal tribunal of Genoa. This time the minister formed favorable conclusions. His memorial was a plea in honor of Paganini as a Christian and Catholic. In spite of this the archbishop would not admit his neighbor and friend at Nice to be in the wrong, and he confirmed the first judgment. Recourse was had to the supreme tribunal. The Tiara was more tolerant than the Mitre; the Sovereign Pontiff reversed the two previous judgments, and sent the affair before a sovereign jurisdiction composed of three archbishops; but while awaiting the final sentence, he authorised the body to be temporarily deposited in a place of Christian burial. The quarantine of the maestro in his lazaretto had lasted three years.

But the posthumous adventures of Paganini were not yet quite over.

V.

On a starlight night of the month of August 1843, a man provided with a paper signed by the Intendant of the province, and accompanied by two boatmen and two porters, entered the pavilion of the Lazaretto of Villafranca, and causing the coffin to be carried forth, had it placed in a small boat, which rowed swiftly away. It rounded the lighthouse, passed before the Saint Hospice, and continued on towards the east: Paganini was making his last journey to Genoa. They travelled by degrees, stopping at Bordighiera, at San Remo, at Port Maurice, Savona, and at other places along the coast. As soon as the boat approached the shore, the custom-house officers would attach it. "What are you carrying there?" they would ask, in a threatening tone. "We are carrying Paganini," would reply the coxswain of the boat; "Paganini quéou que sonnaba tan ben," (he who rang so well). The revenue-officers examined, turned the body over and over on all sides to satisfy themselves that it was not stuffed with contraband articles, and then let it pass unwillingly. And so the illustrious remains of this Croesus, who left over a million to his son, were entrusted to a simple row-boat, when a splendid ship fully equipped should have had the honor of carrying him.

At length the phantom craft entered the port of Genoa, his birthplace, and Genoa the ungrateful never even saluted him, though he left to her in his will his sword of Austerlitz, his favorite violin, and his Guarnerius. He was then taken to the Duchy of Parma, and it was there that the spectre-traveller found the repose so long refused to his persecuted remains. He was deposited in the vault that his son had caused to be prepared at his beautiful villa Gajone, purchased by him a few years previous.

The fishermen of Villafranca still imagine that in passing near the Lazaretto they hear "the prayer of Moses," and that the soul of the pretended pagan has wandered back to its ancient post.

M. C. R.

728

QUITE BY ACCIDENT.

Taller on the occasion of the farewell-performance of a popular English actor who sailed for home to-morrow. A party came in late, and caused much confusion and annoyance by crowding forward to their seats on the first row of the dress-circle. A young man who was obliged in consequence to squeeze himself almost flat against the back of his chair, and in so doing mashed his hat, lost a glove, and missed one of Callout's funniest hits, denounced with secret fervor the selfishness of persons who thus permitted themselves to be unpunctual. To make matters worse, a girl caught the fringe of her shawl in his cuff-button, and still farther protracted the interval. They both tugged at the fringe until the girl's patience gave out, and she made a hasty exclamation unintelligible to the young man, at the same time lifting to him a pair of flashing dark eyes. He was mollified instantly. Like most men, he admitted the sovereign sway of beauty, and Lilla Meyer was a surprisingly beautiful creature. tore out his cuff-button, an amethyst on which was cut his cipher, S. D. M., and left it trailing after the heavy-netted fringe of her shawl, an out-of-date heavily embroidered white China crape affair. "Pardon my awkwardness," he said, when he had not been awkward at all; may I trouble you to disentangle the button at your

HE Grand Opera-House in New York was packed from pit to

leisure ?"

He

She bowed slightly and passed on. He could see that she spent the greater part of the next twenty minutes in untwisting and untying. Then his property was passed down the line to him, via a vulgar young man with a good deal of flashy jewelry on his person; a vulgar old woman, fat and florid; a hideous yellow-skinned old man - all her companions. S. D. M. bowed his acknowledgments and slipped back his button into its proper place. But he was haunted by the girl's face; he wanted to see it again. He hung back when the play was over and the crowd began to pour out. He did not stare or push, but he simply fell back until he was exactly behind the party I have enumerated. The girl was lovelier even than he had pictured her. She was pale, of a somewhat dazzling paleness, in fact; her hair was thick, soft, very dark; her lips as red as a rose; her eyes almondshaped. She was unfashionably dressed; the shawl I have described, draped over a cheap lawn gown, and with an ugly worsted head-covering in her hand, which she tied over her head on her way out. "Take my arm, Lill," the vulgar young man suggested.

"I do not want it; I want to hold up my dress."

"You better had take your cousin's arm," put in the old lady. I don't want to, Aunt."

"Oh well, well, have your own way. You always were as obstinate as a mule," growls the old yellow man.

"I can get on without you, I guess," the

young man remarks.

The girl does not reply. She looks angry, fretted. S. D. M. decides that she is one of those rare cases where anger is becoming, as her brows contract and her lips quiver.

The four go on to the corner of the street and look for a horse-car. S. D. M. saunters slowly on, sees them get into a car, and follows their example. Are not horse-cars public conveyances? They ride on and on, past the pleasanter parts of the city into the business streets. The car thins gradually. Our party relaxes. "Reckon you got your money's worth, Ben?" inquires the father.

"Seems to have put Lill into a confounded bad humor. Lill, I'll think twice before I take you to the theatre again."

I say,

"I do not care if you think three times," the girl replied. "It is equal to me."

"What a little Tartar you are! There is no pleasing you."

"Not for you," she began; then suddenly caught S. D. M.'s eyes fixed upon her, and turned, not red, as perhaps another girl would have done, but pale.

The car stopped. The old man had pulled the strap. It was a dry-goods store with the name Meyer over the door. Adjoining was a small door leading into the dwelling-house, in all probability. Into this smaller door the family party disappeared. S. D. M. rode on down to the next corner, then took an up-town car and returned to his world. 'Lovely girl! Sorry for her; old uncle wants her to marry that greasy Israelite, no doubt. Wonder if she'll give in. Looks as though she had pluck." Such were the reflections of Mr. Sydney Des Milles, as he let himself into his rooms with his latchkey. He turned up his gas, lighted a cigar and looked around him for a book. He then noticed for the first time a letter lying on the floor which some one had pushed in under the door. It was written by the head of the firm he was doing business with, written after they had parted that afternoon; a sudden necessity had arisen that the house should be represented in France and Germany for a while. Mr. Des Milles was suggested to Mr. Premium as a proper person to go, because of his knowledge of the languages. Would he give the matter his consideration and let Mr. Premium know his decision the following day? He would be obliged to sail in a week's time.

Sydney Des Milles decided almost on the first impulse that he would go. In fact, this would be a capital thing for him. He had met with a reverse in fortune, and had gone into business six months ago. He had done remarkably well since; but it was up-hill work, he had discovered, and here was a sudden push for him. In a week's time? To-morrow, if need were. So he smoked his cigar out, then went to sleep.

The next day he communicated his decision to Mr. Premium, then he went to the Star Line office and engaged his passage.

As he came out of the door he ran against a girl who was so engrossed in thought that she neither saw nor heeded. But he recognised her at once. It was the "Lill" of the night before! As the Arabia steamed out of port, Sydney marched up and down the deck and surveyed his fellow-passengers with the vivid interest of a man new to ocean-voyages, Almost the first face that arrested

his attention was that of a girl standing in the hatchway, with a crimson hood pulled up over her face- her face with its startling, shall I say its brilliant pallor? its dark splendid eyes, its red lips. He started. It was Lill again, and evidently alone. Her vulgar friends had not even come to bid her good-bye, and she had apparently stayed below until the Arabia was under weigh. Sydney was fascinated by this girl, and permitted himself a good long look at her face. He saw for the first time how extremely youthful it wasnay, even childish in expression. And there was a fixed look about the mouth and a dark circle under each eye which distressed him. Sydney was a kind-hearted fellow, even when a remarkably pretty girl was not in the case. "Has she run away from the ugly cousin? was his conjecture. "I shouldn't wonder. She is quite capable of it."

He

At dinner he discovered that her seat was next his own. He bided his time, treated her with distant reserved politeness, and waited. But that very evening his chance came. He was promenading the deck when some one crossed his path hurriedly. gave way, but the slight figure with its red hood tottered, and would have fallen forward had he not caught her in his arms. Lill had fainted. He laid her on a bench and she opened her eyes. Then he went for a glass of wine. In a few moments she sat up, looked about her, and thanked him in the foreign accent he had noticed in in her speech the only time he had heard her speak before. And he was more and more impressed with her extreme youthfulnessa mere child. She looked at him with perfect simplicity and directness. "I have seen you before," she said. "Your cuff-button caught in my shawl. S. D. M."

"Sydney Des Milles, at your service."

Exceedingly unconventional, of course, but then the whole story I am telling is unconventional. Besides, this girl did not belong to the class of society where prevail the very strictest laws of etiquette. And Sydney, for his part, treated her like a child.

Are you alone, Miss Lilla ?

"Yes" with a scared, furtive look, and suddenly stopping.

"If you were my sister I should be sorry for that."

"I am sorry for myself."

"Perhaps you are going to join your mother in Europe. You speak like a foreigner."

"Oh! I wish I were; my mamma is dead. She was Italian. I am going to Pisa, where we used to live."

"You have friends there?"

"Yes, a few-if they have not forgotten me.

since I left a year.'

It is, oh! so long

"That is not quite long enough to forget in. I have friends whom I would not forget after twenty years of absence."

"Twenty years! I hope I shall be dead in twenty years."

Such a look of despair on her face; such a desperate look in the eyes that wandered out over the broad, desolate sea.

"Dead? You have hardly begun to live yet."

"I am fourteen- - fifteen in four months."

She was even younger than he had thought, then. Like her Italian mother, she had matured early. So she was only a little girl after all. Mr. Sydney was emboldened to take a seat beside her.

"You are in trouble now," he said; "I can see that. I wish I could help you. Perhaps I could show you how to take a more cheerful view of life."

She turned around and looked at him gravely. "I think I will tell you," she said, "but not to-night- to-morrow. Now I will go to my stateroom. Good-night."

And she went, poor little girl! leaving Sydney alone in the searching white moonlight. He walked up and down in the moonlight, thinking chiefly of her. Her loneliness, her unhappiness, her helplessness, had made a strong impression upon him. He had all his life prided himself upon not being in the least an impressionable man, and suddenly this mere little girl had given him a new sensation at the heart, such as he had read of, to be sure, in a chance novel or story, but had never experienced before.

The next morning she did not make her appearance at the breakfast-table, nor did she come up on deck until towards noon, when she made her appearance, paler even. than the day before, with slow, dragging steps. Meantime, Sydney had taken occasion to inform the captain that he had known Miss Meyer before. He did not think it necessary to state how slight their previous acquaintance had been ; nor do I consider it incumbent upon me to criticise my hero's stretching the point in this way. It was better for the child, he argued, that she should not be supposed to have contracted a hasty friendship with him on shipboard.

He made her seat on the end of a bench as comfortable as circumstances would permit; he went for his own travelling-shawl, and borrowed two cushions from the stewardess. As a reward, he had the satisfaction to see poor little Lilla drop off to sleep presently, with a weary little sigh.

But after she had slept profoundly for an hour or two, she opened her bright eyes very wide, and expressed the deepest gratitude when he came and stood beside her and asked her how she was.

She struggled to an upright position. "Oh, I am a great deal better; a weight is off my mind. I felt that I could go to sleep as soon as I came on deck and saw that we were out of sight of land." Sydney brought a camp-stool and sat down over against her. She continued, still in her halting English, which henceforth I will leave you to imagine for yourself:

"I have been so dreadfully unhappy; sometimes I thought I should lose my mind."

"Had you no friends in New York?"

"I knew no one, except my uncle's family; he was my father's brother. My father was in business in Pisa for many years, and it was there he married my mother. I don't know what the reason was, but there was some reason why he had to leave Italy - - it was a difficulty with the Government so he joined his brother in New York. My father had made a great deal of money, and my uncle was very