their fire till they sho he's on'y a citizen." He let his foot down into the stirrup again, and they all smiled broadly. "Good-morning!" The two parties went their

ways.

"Jess as leave not of met with them two buttermilk rangers," said the spy, once more at Mary's side; "but, seein' as thah we was, the oniest thing was to put on all the brass I had."

From the top of the next hill the travellers descended into a village lying fast asleep, with the morning star blazing over it, the cocks calling to each other from their roosts, and here and there a light twinkling from a kitchen window, or a lazy axe-stroke smiting the logs at a woodpile. In the middle of the village one lone old man, half dressed, was lazily opening the little wooden "store" that monopolized its commerce. The travellers responded to his silent bow, rode on through the place, passed over and down another hill, met an aged negro, who passed on the road-side, lifting his forlorn hat and bowing low, and, as soon as they could be sure they had gone beyond his sight and hearing, turned abruptly into a dark wood on the left. Twice again they turned to the left, going very warily through the deep shadows of the forest, and so returned half round the village, seeing no one. Then they stopped and dismounted at a stable-door, on the outskirts of the place. The spy opened it with a key from his own pocket, went in, and came out again with a great armful of hay, which he spread for the horses' feet to muffle their tread, led them into the stable, removed the hay again, and closed and locked the door.

"Make yourself small," he whispered, "and walk fast." They passed by a garden-path up to the back porch and door of a small unpainted cottage. He knocked, three soft, measured taps.

"Day's breakin'," he whispered, again, as he stood with Alice asleep in his arms, while somebody was heard stirring within.

"Sam?" said a low, wary voice just within the unopened door.

"Sister," softly responded the spy, and the door swung inward, and revealed a tall woman, with an austere but good face, that could just be made out by the dim light of a tallow candle shining from the next room. The travellers entered, and the door was shut.

THE LIGHT OF THE HAREM.

SUSAN E. WALLACE.

["The Storied Sea," a vivacious description of a trip up the Mediterranean, and of life and incidents among its bordering peoples, is the source of the richly-colored picture of life in the harem which we give below. It reads like a chapter from the "Arabian Nights' Entertainments" written with a Western pen. The writer is Mrs. Susan E. Wallace, the wife of General Lew. Wallace, and the work is based on actual observations during her residence in Constantinople, where her husband was United States minister from 1881 to 1885.]

It was in the land of crumbling cities, strange religions, deserted fanes; of quiet men, in twisted turbans and long beards; of placid women, with faces shrouded like the faces of the dead, as pale and as calm. Tranquil prisoners, with respite to drive and walk about the streets, and for a brief space of time escape bolt and bars, in charge of armed attendants. A land silent as though Time himself had dropped to sleep and broken his emptied hourglass.

By the bluest and clearest of seas there is a deep bay, where the navies of the world might ride at anchor. The sweeping curves of its shores are drawn as by an artist's hand, and from its margin rise terraced heights, like the hanging gardens of Babylon. Toward the west are hills, with capes of olive green, from which the breeze blows deliciously cool in the hottest days. Away to the south tall, slim minarets point toward the glittering god of the ancient Persian, and dwarf the rounded domes below by the ethereal grace of their tapering spires. Close to the water's edge stands a palace worthy the golden prime of Haroun al Raschid, nobly built of white and pink marble, the latter brought from Egypt. In the distance, under a sky that would be dazzling were it not so soft, it shines like a temple of alabaster and silver.

Its crowning glory is a central dome, rising in peerless beauty, like a globe of ice or of crystal, and seeming to hang in air. Mirrored in the glassy water, the plume-like pillars and slender turrets are a picture to make one in love with its builder. He had the soul of an artist who measured the span of its rhythmic arches and told the heights of its colonnades, harmonious to the eye as choice music to the ear. He must have toiled years to embody in this result his study of the beautiful. The architect was a Spaniard, and he had the same creative faculty (this man who worked in formless stone) that the poet has who brings his idea out of hidden depths, polishes his work with elaborate care, nor leaves it till every line is wrought to perfect finish. Under a despotic government architecture that is magnificent flourishes, though all other arts languish. Among a semi-civilized people kings prefer this expression of power, because it is readily understood, demanding no instruction, no book or guide. He who runs may read, be it the stupendous monument

of Cheops or the airy pinnacles of Solyman the Magnificent. The wish is to give form which shall compel the entire people to admiring astonishment of works they cannot hope to imitate.

Let us call this the Palace of Delight, for there dwells in the luxury and aroma of the furthest East Nourmahal, the Light of the Harem, and we were invited to see her, -the bulbul, the rose, the Pearl of the Orient, the bride of Prince Feramorz. Dear reader, do you know how come the brides in this strange country? Do you think it a wooing of an innocent, laughing girl, who, as in lands of social freedom, lays her light hand, with her heart in it, in yours? A prize won in an emulous game, where beauty is weighed against all beside which the world has to offer, and he who has the right divine may carry her off from Love's shining circle to be the centre of another of his own creation? There was no flavor of American matches in this betrothal, no hint of golden afternoons in shady lanes, nights of moonlit silence, and dreams better than sleep, of wedding-bells in festal rooms, and orangeflowers that leave a sweetness outlasting the waste of years. Nor was it like European marriages,-say the French or Italian,-where a demure young girl is taken from the convent, and by her parents given to the most eligible parti, of whom she is not allowed an opinion, whom she sees not one hour alone till after the ceremony, in which her dot is the first, second, and third consideration.

Nor yet is it brought about like the weddings in kings' palaces, by negotiations for babies in the cradle, long, tedious betrothal, interviews at proper times, in proper places, and presences appointed, where exact proprieties are observed by the happy or unhappy pair. Nor was the contract made as of old, in plains not very far distant

from this, when Abraham sent out his most trusted servant as a business agent-a travelling man, if you please -seeking a bride for his son Isaac. By no such devious windings did our princess come to the altar. The lovely Nourmahal was bought at private sale for ten thousand pieces of gold, and thus the marriage was accomplished. It is not our business to inquire whether the bargain was made in the shadow of the black tents of the Bedouin, or on the frosty heights of Caucasus, or in some verdant vale in Araby the Blest. It was to a better condition, came she from dissolute races, like the Georgian, or barbarian hordes, like the Tartar and Circassian, where the bride's portion is a sheepskin, a sack of barley, a handmill, and an earthen pan. It was a moment of melancholy disenchantment when I first learned how she had reached the rank and power of princess, by what means been lifted from desert sand and gypsy poverty to eiderdown and silken luxury, and made a true believer, walking in the paths of the faithful. To be young, beautiful, and beloved is heaven; she was this, and, it was said, sweet as summer cherries withal.

Our amiable inquiries about what is not our concern availed little. Her history was colorless till the fated hour came when its blank page should be illuminated and glow with tropic splendor. She was a chosen beauty; princes seldom sigh in vain; and, so long as men have eyes to see, fair women will wear purple and sit on thrones.

Our names were sent in ten days before the date of the reception, a day which stands apart in memory in the year 1881, in the Time of the Scattering of Roses, or, as we would say, in the month of August.

The heaviest iron-clads might lie close to the quay where we landed. So pure is the water and so intensely clear that, at the depth of four fathoms, fish swim and