to protect her. Do this, and I shall bless your name morning and night in my prayers, and think you the truest friend I ever had."

"I will follow my parents," exclaimed Margaret.

"That which you request is beyond my power to obtain, nor do I think it a very desirable boon," replied Lopez, with a peculiar smile. "Nay," said Margaret, moving towards the door with a rapid step; "I shall try my power then."

"Unhappy girl, what are you about to do?" said the Spaniard, as with a few hasty strides he stood beside her, and laid a firm grasp upon her arm, which she vainly strove to shake off.

"Let me go, I entreat," implored the young girl, perceiving the fruitlessness of her efforts to free herself.

Margaret is right," said the mother, in her turn; "if there be danger we will share it with him. I will see if these men will listen to

reason.

"Are you mad, Master Cornelius?" exclaimed the Spaniard, in the greatest agitation. "Are you distraught, that you stand by and see your wife and daughter seek their ruin?"

Cornelius gazed for a moment steadfastly on the young man.

"It is, then, as I thought," said he, mournfully. "Mary-Margaret, I command you to stay. Do you hear me? I order you to my side!" The habit of obedience was so deeply rooted in the bosoms of both, that Margaret and her mother instinctively returned, though with slow and reluctant steps, to Cornelius, who, taking the hand of each within his own, said, impressively:

"Until now you have never given me the slightest sorrow. You have both been the light, the joy of my existence. Do not, I entreat, in the bitterest hour of my life, add to its pangs. Do not make my sad heart sadder, and take away from me the only stay, the only hope that I shall know in these days of trial. My only comfort now will be to think that you, at least, are safe. If you love me, prove it by obeying my injunctions and desires in all things. My first command is, that you remain peacefully here until you hear from me, or, if such may not be, until my brother's return. To his care do I commit you both, and, above all, to the care of Him who never deserts the innocent. Will you give me the promise of implicit obedience which alone can cheer my afflicted spirit?"

Rising sobs stifled the answers of those whom he addressed, but the silent pressure of their hands sufficiently expressed their readiness to obey.

"Dear ones, my blessing rest upon your heads; and, should we never meet again in this world

"Nay, nay; you must not speak or think thus," said Chievosa; "but in all cases you had better prepare everything for the possible chance of a long absence from home. That I speak and act in your interest you must be, by this time, perfectly aware. What motive, indeed, could urge me to any but a friendly course towards you? Were you not willingnay, urgent-for a speedy union between your only child and myself? Were you not the champion of my hopes? Have I not, at great personal risks, given you timely warning, and prepared you for this calamity? You see my advice was good, and I shall soon have it in my power to serve you more efficiently. Listen, then, to my counsel; entrust your house, your worldly treasures, and those who are far dearer

to you, wholly to my care. They shall be a sacred deposit, and given back to you unharmed in deed or word. But to bid those you leave behind to seek your brother at a crisis like this, is at once sealing your own doom, and perhaps theirs. If you really wish to secure their safety, and all which belongs to you-if you would be assured of their fate and yours -then sanction the speedy fulfilment of a long-made promise. Let the event take place in your absence that will make me the happiest of men. Bid Margaret bless me with her hand within as short a time as may be, that I may have a right to protect her and you as I may desire. You are a father, Master Cornelius, and a loving one; urge your daughter to embrace an opportunity of procuring for herself such absolute security. We may now look forward to times when unprotected females will encounter greater perils than those threatened by the inquisition. I speak for her sake as well as mine; for, frankly, Master Cornelius, to love and friendship I am willing to sacrifice much; but if it be to meet with no better return than distrust, and perhaps a final rejection-if I am to be thrown aside like a worthless tool when my task is done-you cannot expect that I should be willing to abandon friends, home, the pleasures and pursuits of my rank, for such a result."

"Ungenerous-unfeeling!" murmured Margaret. "To speak of this at such a time!"

"It is because moments are precious," said Chievosa, "that I lay the whole truth before your father whilst he is yet able to decide. You, Margaret, cannot, or will not, feel that these are times when maidenly caprice should be set aside-that we have no time to throw away on all the delightful embarrassments of a protracted courtship, when death and disgrace may knock at the door every hour."

"Chievosa speaks but the truth, my child," said Cornelius, who had first listened with deep attention, and then with a gradually increasing eagerness, to the Spaniard's address. "You are yet too young and too inexperienced to feel how correct is the view that Lopez takes of the future. Besides, dearest Greta, he has been devoted to you for years, has proved himself a friend to us in the hour of danger, and is yet willing to become my deliverer-your guardian. Surely it were madness and ingratitude to refuse any longer to fulfil an engagement entered into in more cheerful hours. All mists of distrust must vanish from every honest mind while listening to his words. Come, Margaret, concede to my wishes in this one further instance; you may never have to obey me again. There, Lopez, is her hand; I give her to you, and enjoin her to trust and submit to you in all things, as she has hitherto done to me. Margaret, I require of you that you get a priest to sanction your union as speedily as possible, and my blessing shall not be wanting even from afar. Mary, see that my will be obeyed. I doubt not my child's readiness to comply with my desires; but it is your province to see those desires enforced, should she be reckless and ingrate enough to hesitate after so formal a command. Mary, you at least will never grieve me. I know you will see to this for our child's sake; and accept my best thanks, dearest, now, for all the enduring love and kindness you have borne me through life. Should I not be able to thank you again here below, I shall remember it above, from whence my blessing shall ever rest on you until we meet again.'

As he spoke, he folded his weeping wife in his arms, and seemed for

getful of all else but the pang of parting. At last he tore himself from her, and received his daughter's embrace. Her sorrow was not vehement, but she felt as if her heart was breaking.

"Promise, Margaret-promise," he whispered in her ear.

"Anything, father, to please or soothe you," was the scarcely audible reply.

"Lopez Chievosa, I entrust to you my dearest pledges. Let happen what will, to me be a son-a husband to them; and may God deal with you as you deal with the confidence I repose in you. The trust of an honest man and a true Christian, young man, is a thing too sacred to be trifled with."

Chievosa, in his turn, received a fatherly embrace from Cornelius. The next instant the impatient familiars were within the chamber, and, to avoid the prolongation of the painful scene, Cornelius, clasping his rosary firmly in his hands, followed them from the room without casting another glance on the fainting figure of his wife, whom Chievosa supported in his arms, or on his scarcely more conscious daughter, who had sunk upon her knees.

THE UNMATCHED SOUP.

BY E. P. ROWSELL, ESQ.

In one of those dingy courts in the City, which I never enter without a strange feeling as though I were being squeezed, so obnoxious do they look to anything at all wide or free, so prison-like are they in their aspect, so associative of thin bodies and narrow minds-in one of these dismal localities, many years ago, stood the dining-house of old Jeremy Brand. The dining business had been carried on there from time immemorial (Jeremy had it forty years), and at the period of which we speak a most extensive business it was. In all probability there were very few houses in the City at that time where so much money was taken as at Jeremy's. And why was this? Not because the dining-room was a nice one, for it was as dark and as dirty as it could well be-nor was it on account of the viands generally, for though they would pass muster, they were not particularly commendable, and certainly could not claim credit for attracting the number of visitors who daily satisfied their appetites at " Old Jeremy's." It was mainly on account of Jeremy's soup -his perfectly unrivalled soup of all kinds, which he sold, too, at a very moderate charge, that Jeremy had such a superb share of custom. Everybody who went to Jeremy's had soup, and everybody vowed that such soup as that soup they had never tasted before, and, probably, should never taste elsewhere again.

Now Jeremy had been solicited by all sorts of people, and he had been offered large sums, to reveal the secret as to how he made this soup. His mock-turtle his ox-tail-his gravy, were quite unlike what were obtained elsewhere. There was a peculiar flavour about them, a richness, an enticingness, that no cook out of Jeremy's could achieve; and intense was the desire on the part of the best cooks in London to

ascertain the concealed method by which Jeremy was enabled to arrive at the wonderful result exhibited in that unmatched soup, the praises of which were so frequently and gallingly sung in the ears of irritated competitors. But Jeremy was firm. That secret, he said, he never would divulge: his pocket would be injured and his pride hurt by that soup, that now could only be obtained in Undertaker's Court, being to be purchased all over the town. And what was more, Jeremy's cooks seemed to share their master's feelings, for though mighty bribes had been offered to them to tell the mystery, they were likewise unmoved, and to all appearance immovable; and so it was that at this time Jeremy's secret was locked up in the breasts of some four individuals— his business was greater than ever, and his wealth day by day grew and increased in a manner wonderful to behold.

But this marvellous prosperity could not be expected to last for ever. An evil day was at hand. One of the villanous-looking old cooks who was entrusted with the making of the matchless soup, fell in love with Jeremy's pretty housemaid, who, though she hated the miserable old fellow, for a certain purpose pretended warmly to return his affection. Mary was, in reality, engaged to the son of a tavern-keeper in the neighbourhood, and the only bar to their union was one which, unfortunately, has very often existed-the bar of insufficient worldly goods to make matrimony a prudent proceeding. Under these circumstances Mary's wits were sharpened to discover some way of improving her pecuniary condition, and the first thing that struck her was that there was a secret the possession of which would be equal in value to a little fortune. True, there was every reason to believe that old Jonathan had never in the very slightest degree divulged that secret to any human being, but there was no doubt of the venerable idiot being over head and years in love, and there was no doubt, either, that his silliness, in consequence, would exceed even the inordinate quantity invariably exhibited by persons in his melancholy situation. Well, then, she would set to work; and she did set to work, and, melancholy to relate, old Jonathan, who had withstood the most tempting offers of advantage of every kind to reveal the mystery of the soup who had cast them all aside with scorn unspeakable-this hitherto faithful old servant was at last led into a shameful violation of confidence; after an agonising struggle between love and duty, love triumphed, and in a trembling voice he whispered the secret into the ears of his beloved Mary. But ah, mark the consequence! Conscience was soon busy, remorse quickly ensued, and that very night the wretched Jonathan, racked and tortured beyond endurance, walked from his bed to the kitchen, gazed long and lingeringly upon a quantity of that precious soup, with which he had been so proud to be identified, but the sight of which now drew from him moans inexpressibly sad and dismal, and then did something to himself with a carving-knife, which put an end straightway to his mortal career.

We need scarcely say that the marriage of the diabolical housemaid with the son of the tavern-keeper was not long taking place. They were quickly united; money was raised for the opening a dining-house, and business was commenced forthwith, in a locality not far from Jeremy's. Of course the first thing done was the publishing far and wide the possession, by the proprietors of the new dining-house, of the secret of Jeremy's soup; and in order to remove all doubts, the whole story (till

Mean

then withheld) as to the manner in which the secret had been obtained was likewise fully made public, and the circumstance of the ancient cook's tragical end was pointed to as confirmatory in great measure of its correctness. Jeremy went raving-his anger passed all bounds-he vowed he would have up the body of Jonathan and cut it into pieceshe rushed to the new dining-house, asked for the mistress, and on her appearing seized her by the throat and all but choaked her (for which feat, by-the-by, he would have suffered unpleasant pains and penalties, only his doctor certified to his having been labouring under a slight attack of delirium tremens), and then was so completely prostrated and cast down that he took to his bed and laid there for some weeks. while, a division existed among his old customers. Many had tried the new dining-house, and declared that its soup was at least equal, if not superior, to Jeremy's; while many, on the other hand, contended that Jeremy's soup still maintained its clear and unquestionable superiority. This circumstance afforded some consolation to Jeremy. All was not lost. His house might yet regain its position. If he could only get a decided majority of his customers to decide that, after all, there was no soup like his, he might by-and-by insinuate afresh that the revelation of the secret by Jonathan was only a made-up story, and thus the time would, in all probability, return when men would own that Jeremy was still triumphant, and that in the concoction of soup he and his assistants might still look down upon all the world. This idea cheered the old man; he grew better he got well-he was about again, and day by day he was greeted with friendly smiles and encouraging words; and day by day was his hand shaken by multitudes, who declared their continued belief that his mock-turtle and his ox-tail were unequalled, and could not be equalled. At length it seemed as though Jeremy's opponents were falling into a bad way. They made solemn affirmation that precisely as soup was manufactured at Jeremy's, so was it made at their house; they reiterated the story as to how the secret had been obtained; they pointed afresh to the significant suicide of the unhappy Jonathan ; still, even those who had supported them at the outset, now looked at them coldly and incredulously, and their visits grew fewer and fewer. At last one or two friends suggested that, as a final effort to convince the public that really and truly there was no difference between the soup— that theirs quite equalled Jeremy's, and that as their room was a much nicer one than Jeremy's, the balance of advantages was on their sidea grand challenge should be issued to Jeremy. It should be proffered to him to entertain a select number of customers one day, whom they should regale the next; and that on the third day a solemn gathering should take place, when judgment should be delivered as to which party's soup had been most exquisite, and thus the much-vexed and important question be finally set at rest.

The challenge was given, and, after some hesitation, it was accepted. Great was the excitement among the soup-loving public-intense the anxiety of the lovers of mock-turtle-indescribable the agitation of the adherents of ox-tail. The days were fixed, the guests were invited, they were men of surpassing appetites, yet of exquisite taste; an awful thing, indeed, would be their decision.

The first day-the day of Jeremy's entertainment-arrived.

In the early morning the youthful servant of Jeremy's married daugh