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could have sworn to Arnaut's foot, and bounded onward. Sometimes I lost the track, again I found it, and was off like a blood-hound, shouting all the way for my companions. The snow, however, began to whirl through the bare branches with blinding impetuosity, and soon filled up the foot-prints. We were all at fault, and stood shivering together with fear and cold, uncertain how to proceed. Time after time, the men took turns to run home, but all came back without intelligence. Inquiries had been made at every house, and the consternation was universal.
I scarcely know how the night passed away, my mind was so strangely agitated; I only remember that once or twice, in the intervals of the blast, something was heard like the howling of a dog, but each of us fancied it in a different direction, and toiled after it to no purpose. At last, the storm abated; our lights burnt paler, and a cold blue streak announced the approach of day; after awhile, it expanded and broke into clouds, which sailed along like icebergs in a Polar sea.
We pursued our search with unabating vigour; moving like men of frost - our clothes absolutely rattling and cracking as we went; till once more we heard the sound which had baffled our inquiries in the night. It was now beyond a doubt the wild wailing of a dog; and the stillness which had succeeded the storm enabled us all to agree as to the point whence it proceeded. My heart beat with a sensation of real bodily anguish ; and, as we scrambled midway in snow for nearly a quarter of a mile, not one of us had breath to speak a word. The first sentence that was uttered was, “There is his gun!” It was leaning against the stem of a tree. I snatched it up, and discovered that it had never been loaded—an appalling proof of the state of mind in which he had left home. In a moment a faint whimpering directed my eyes a few steps farther, and there lay the favourite setter, curled up and unable to rise. He had placed himself under what at first appeared to be the snow-clad stump of a tree. I looked upon it a second time, and cried aloud with horror. It was Arnaut himself. He sat upon a piece of broken bank, his hands clasped between his knees, and his head sunk upon his bosom. My first impulse was to seize him by the arm, but his frame was rigid as iron. His eyes were open, his brow knitted, and his teeth clenched, and his whole countenance exhibited an expression of sullen despair ; but the feeling of it was gone.
He had sat down in the anguish of his heart, and the pains of the flesh were trifles insufficient to warn him of their existence. The hours of storm and midnight had passed like sounds to the deaf or sights to the blind, and death had imperceptibly borne him away to his rest!
The remembrance of our petrified groupe as it shuddered around this dismal sight shakes me, even at this distant period, like a dreadful nightmare. I have lain thinking of it in my bed, and struggled to awaken myself from what I could not believe to be a reality. I have sought in vivid regions of fiction to weaken the impression by familiarity with horrors yet more appalling — but in vain. My fancy seems no less perpetual in its operations than my memory. I cannot listen to the winter blast, but I hear the lamentations of the faithful dog. I cannot look upon the landscape of snow but each laden bush and broken knoll assumes the startling appearance of despair and death. Poor, unhappy Arnaut! Sad, sad, indeed, were the hours I watched over his coffin ! I saw him in his shroud. I laid Mary's ringlet next to his heart, and I buried him in the little village churchyard, where he has received as fond a tribute of tears as ever fell upon
of mortal man.
Thus ends the story of Arnaut, and Mary's is not far from a close. Her beauty is decayed, her health gone, her spirit broken; and the only prize which her ill-judging husband has obtained in her is liberty to watch the progress of death, and take the last breath which will escape in blessing the memory of another. .
How will the world repute me
Two Gentlemen of Verona.
COME hither, dear pride of the boardingschool, just emancipated from thy last halfyear-come hither, where the hazel boughs and twining honeysuckles exclude every peep of the summer sun, and of eyes that are something keener; sit thee fearlessly amongst the daisies and dandelions, and “ we two will talk of precious mischief."
And now will you tell me your story, or shall I tell you mine? I cannot state the precise period of my first love-fit. I have been subject to attacks of that nature as long as I can remember, and, probably, a little longer, but they never led to anything like adventure till I was somewhere about fifteen. Even now but little occurred which could merit