out, that I took him from you. I have always loved all my friends. If I have sinned, it has been in loving too much. You will tell Robbie so, dear boy!"

Milla's strength had flared up like an expiring torch, enabling her to say this much; now she lay exhausted, and apparently sinking into a stupor, while the low sound of weeping filled the room.

Suddenly her voice, silver-clear and strangely thrilling, took up the burden of a poem which had been a great favorite of hers for years. Often, in the pleasant evenings forever gone, she had repeated it to her friends with an impassioned glow of utterance, which, from one so fragile, had almost startled them. Imagine, then, the pain with which they heard the familiar rhythms rise from those dying lips:

"-Behold! I have sinned not in this! Where I have loved, I have loved much and well, -I have verily loved not amiss. 'Let the living,' she said, 'Inquire of the Dead

In the house of the pale-fronted Images: My own truc deed will answer for me, that I have not loved amiss

In my love for all these."

"The least touch of their hands in the morning, I keep it by day and by night.

Their least steps on the stairs, at the door, still throbs through me, if ever so light. Their least gift, which they left to my childhood, far off, in the long-ago years,

Is now turned from a toy to a relic, and scen through the crystal of tears.

'Dig the snow," she said,

"For my churchyard bed,

Yet I, as I sleep, shall not fear to freeze, If one only of these my beloveds, shall love me with heart-warm tears,

As I have loved these!""

Their sobs were stifled, their breaths repressed, as the silver syllables stole through the room. In the stillness which followed, Milla opened her eyes, and looked from face to face with an indescribable, solemn smile, murmuring,

"Say never, ye loved-ONCE.

Love strikes but one hour-Love! those never loved Who dream that they loved oNCE!"

Then that numbness of death, which had crept up from hands and feet, touched her lips and eyelids; she lay, for hours, in a stupor, which could hardly be told from death; but, at set

of sun, she roused herself to say, quite aloud,

"If ever you see Louis again, tell him I loved him to the last. Tell him, I ask him to repent, so as to meet me in heaven."

Shortly thereafter she drew her last breath; her soul exhaled from its flower-like form, and fled to God who gave it.

It was a sleety, stormy day upon which she was buried; but all the neighborhood about Evergreen Station were in attendance. Curiosity to learn something of the details of her brief married life-a flying shadow of mystery, which all caught but none could hold-increased the interest which drew old neighbors and new to the house of mourning. They scanned, with eager eyes, the coffin-plate:

MILLA CAMERON DASSEL.

ET. 17 YEARS.

But none knew, not even Mrs. Grizzle, that the true title of the sleeper was "Countess of Konigsberg." How lovely she looked, in death's restful slumber, is still whispered by the community. All her deformity was hidden away in satin folds and fragrant flowers; her fair, bright hair, worn as always during her life, floated down either side the young face, and glittered along her white dress almost to her knees.

Count Konigsberg has not yet received his wife's dying message, nor is it to be anticipated that he ever will. What land now shelters the adventurer is not known to those most interested in tracing him. When Mr. Cameron reached St. Louis, during that search for the missing couple, of which we have told, he thought the Count's arrest was certain; but when he traced him to the lodgings where he had been living under still another assumed name, he found him-not. He had been warned, in time to flee, taking with him every thing of value, bidding his sick and wretched wife a last farewell.

The police arrested, however, a German Jew, for receiving stolen goods.

This was the person whom Dassel had represented as a cousin, but who was, in fact, a money-lender well-known of yore, in Baden-Baden, by the Count, who had "patronized" him, in that city, with magnificent liberality. This person, removing to America, had met and recognized the Count in New York, soon after his arrival in this country. To prevent betrayal, and knowing the utterly unprincipled character of the broker, the Count had bribed him to secrecy, promising him rich commissions when he should establish himself in St. Louis, whither he was going. It may be that desperation at having no money wherewith to buy the fellow's silence, drove him to commit the burglary at Borden & DeWitt's. Having secured the goods, he had invented the excuse of a journey to St. Louis, where he left the spoils to be sold on shares, through channels which the broker would be wise enough to find.

It is known that the Count escaped to New Orleans, and from thence to Cuba. There pursuit was baffled. Those who knew him best during his career in this country are divided in their opinion as to his utter depravity. It is not impossible that the utter devotion of Milla Cameron awoke some real response in his heart. It may be that his object in endeavoring to rob her of her legacy, on the night preceding the day appointed for their marriage, was to secure her fortune and save her the wretched career which must be hers as his companion. But his conduct towards his first wife was too infamous to give much ground for such belief. It is more natural to conclude that he wished to shake off companions who might fatally embarrass him in his flight.

It is not improbable that he first engaged himself to Elizabeth because he had nothing else to occupy his mind, and was reckless of consequences. His settling in New York, where, at any moment, he was in danger of being recognized by foreigners or followed by detectives from abroad, may seem a bold venture on his part. Yet this was in

keeping with the cold courage of his character. Being rendered entirely penniless by his sudden flight from Europe, he had to begin modestly, keeping, at all times, a look-out for superior chances to operate in wider fields.

Upon the occasion of his visit to the photographer's with Mrs. Grizzle, he came near betrayal. The French minister was well known to Count Konigsberg, who, fortunately for himself, was the first to perceive an acquaintance. He concealed himself by means of a screen which stood at the foot of a second flight of stairs, through which he was peering with that sardonic smile which sometimes curled his lips, when the astonished lady missed him from her side.

Sam Grizzle and Miss Bayles are married. They had a grand wedding in May. It took Mrs. Grizzle some time to reconcile herself to Miss Bayles' humble origin! But, when she did fully accept her as her future daughter-inlaw, she did it with her usual heartiness. She insisted upon her coming to Rose Villa to make her preparations, and would hear to no less than six bridesmaids with interminable trains. The bride, with the blood of three generations of poor artists in her veins, was a person upon whom money could be lavished to advantage. Mrs. Grizzle was delighted with her when her "good points" were "brought out" with white satin and point-lace, and beamed her motherly effulgence equally upon her and the bridegroom, who had toned down into quite a modest representative of Young America, and was far worthier of his honors than when first we made his acquaintance.

Grizzle, senior, pronounces his new daughter "prime," which, with him, means "A No. 1,—no better in the market."

We are sorry to have to chronicle that Abel Bellows drew a prize with that last ticket which he purchased before his visit to the Tombs-a prize of twenty-five hundred dollars in gold, which was less by fifteen hundred than he had spent on lotteries since he first

began to invest in them. We are sorry, because we wish no lottery prizes ever were drawn. But, since Abel is one of our friends, we must keep a true record of what happened to him. By advice of Miss Bayles and his wife, he retired to a small fruit-farm in New Jersey, for which he paid cash down, and where he and his children are very happy in the midst of Lawton blackberries, Bartlett pears, and Newtown pippins. Mrs. Bellows' melancholy temperament finds occupation in predicting terrible drouths, devouring insects, and early

frosts. Still, she is a happier woman than of old.

It is yet winter in the home of the Camerons, where once there reigned a perpetual summer of love and happiness; but God, who is the only perfect Lover, will surely, some time, renew

the bloom.

On the slender marble shaft which points to heaven, from Milla's grave, is inscribed:

"Love strikes but one hour-LOVE! those never !: 7ed

Who dream that they loved oxCE!"

THE adventurous spirit of our age has distinguished itself in no respect more than in the energy and zeal in which it has pushed forward researches into the physical history and condition of mankind, and in the cognate department of physical geography. Hardly any portion of the earth's surface can now be called terra incognita; and the most distant seas have but few secrets in their keeping. The mysteries of the polar ocean have been in great part explored, and the enigmas of Africa are fast giving way before the zeal of the Barths, Livingstones, and Du Chaillus of this generation. As regards our own continent more especially, there remains but little, or comparatively little, to be done in the way of exploration. Fremont and his thousand successors have completed the work of Pike and Lewis and Clark, and made known to us the recesses of the Rocky Mountains and the general features of that great terrestrial basin which we call the Salt Lake Valley, but which figured in the maps of twenty years ago as a "Great Unexplored Desert." Shomburgh has unfolded to us the intricacies of that vast network of waters between the Orinoco and the Amazon, and of the Amazon itself; and in that direction Edwards, Wallace, Herndon, and Bates, have given us all the information necessary to satisfy the requirements of general geography and popular intelligence. And if there yet remain, among the broad alluvions of the Atlantic slope of South America, some considerable tracts of country comparatively unknown, it is because no sufficient inducements exist for their exploration. It is because they present only a monotonous succession of sullen rivers flowing through vast tropical forests, where savage Nature holds despotic reign, and where man maintains only a furtive and squalid existence, timidly disputing his life with wild

beasts and dangerous reptiles. Regions like these possess but little interest beyond their more obvious geographical features; and, when these have been once ascertained with approximate accuracy, the present requisitions of knowledge are satisfied.

There are, however, two or three considerable districts of country, to the northward of the Isthmus of Darien, and almost at our own doors, which have a broader appeal to our interest and curiosity, but which are still involved in deep obscurity; namely, the interior valley or basin of the Rio Frio and its tributaries, comprised partly in the republic of Nicaragua and partly in that of Costa Rica, and known as the Bolson of the Guatusos. It is so named from an incommunicative and unconquered people who inhabit it, who have succeeded in maintaining an entire isolation from the rest of the world, and who, consequently, preserve unaffected their primitive ideas, language, religion, and modes of life. The Rio Frio, on the banks and in the valley of which they live, takes its rise in the highlands of Costa Rica, and flows nearly due north, between the Pacific or volcanic coast-range of mountains, and the true Cordillera, into Lake Nicaragua, at its southern extremity, and within a few hundred yards of the point where the river San Juan, the outlet of that lake, makes its débouchure. Numerous attempts were made by missionaries and others, under the Spanish rule, to ascend the river and open communication with the people on its banks, but without success; and it was only in August of last year that its ascent was effected, by Captain O. J. Parker, an American, who, with three companions, in a light canoe, went up the stream to the head of canoe navigation, a computed distance of one hundred and twenty miles. They however failed to open communication with

the Indians, who are wary and hostile, nor have they given us much satisfactory information concerning them. Their character, language, and modes of life, are all open questions for future investigators.

But the Bolson of the Guatusos is not the largest nor yet the most interesting portion of Central America which has hitherto remained unexplored and unknown. Whoever glances at the map of that country will observe a vast region, lying between Chiapa, Tabasco, Yucatan, and the Republic of Guatemala, and comprising a considerable part of each of those states, which, if not entirely a blank, is only conjecturally filled up with mountains, lakes, and rivers. It is almost as unknown as the interior of Africa itself. We only know that it is traversed by nameless ranges of mountains, among which the great river Usumasinta gathers its waters from a thousand tributaries, before pouring them, in a mighty flood, into the Lagoon of Terminos and the Gulf of Mexico. We know that it has vast plains alternating with forests and savannas; deep valleys, where tropical Nature takes her most luxuriant forms, and high plateaus dark with pines, or covered with the delicate tracery of arborescent ferns. We know that it conceals broad and beautiful lakes, peopled with fishes of new varieties, and studded with islands which support the crumbling yet still imposing remains of aboriginal architecture and superstition. And we know, also, that the remnants of the ancient Itzaes, Lacandones, Choles, and Manches, those indomitable Indian families who successfully resisted the force of the Spanish arms, still find a shelter in its fastnesses, where they maintain their independence, and preserve and practise the rites and habits of their ancestors as they existed before the Discovery. Within its depths, far off on some unknown tributary of the Usumasinta, the popular tradition of Guatemala and Chiapa places that great aboriginal city, with its white walls shining like silver in the sun, which the cura of Quiché affirmed to Mr. Stephens he had seen, with his own

eyes, from the tops of the mountains of Quesaltenango.

It is a region, therefore, of singular interest, appealing equally to the geographer, the student of natural history, the antiquary, and the ethnologist. And lying, moreover, almost at our own doors, rich in its resources and tempting in its natural wealth, it must soon appeal to that restless spirit of enterprise and commercial activity which, not content with its past triumphs, longs for new conquests and a wider field of exercise.

It is true that Cortez traversed a great part of this vast region in his adventurous march from Mexico into Honduras. For nearly two years he struggled among its deep morasses and almost impassable rivers, through its untracked wildernesses and over its high and desert mountains, with almost superhuman courage and endurance. But his brief letter to the King of Spain, giving an account of his adventures, affords us only a faint notion of the country, and no very clear ideas of its people. He reached the mysterious Lake of the Itzacs, and left there his wounded horse, the image of which, nearly two centurics later, the Spaniards found elevated to the rank of a god, and invested with the powers which control the thunder and the lightning. It was into this region that the early enthusiasts endeavored, but with imperfect success, to carry the symbol of the cross. Many a missionary found among its implacable inhabitants the crown of martyrdom. In vain did the Church seek to bring it under the shadow of the faith, and plant the cross on its savage mountains. Equally in vain did the royal cedulas urge on the Audiencia of Guatemala and the Governors of Yucatan the necessity of reducing it under the real as well as the nominal authority of the crown. Expedition after expedition. was fitted out in accordance with the imperial mandate, only to be utterly cut off or driven back in disaster and dismay. Nor was it until near the close of the seventeenth century, in 1698, that the combined forces of the surrounding