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called to him: no! Why, what could be the meaning of all this! Had Sylvester murdered and buried him? She really thought this extremely possible, and shuddered, and ran back to Mary, and told her to go to her mistress immediately, and let her know that Sylvester was in the parlour, while Judkins could no where be found.

Mary accordingly went, and told her mistress, who feeling quite certain that all was not right, slipped on her morning gown hastily, and with great trepidation descended.

Sylvester was still on the couch, and she approached him, and sat by his side, and found that he was in a deep sleep.

"Sylvester, my love!" she cried. "Sylvester!—Sylvester!—My dear!"

Sylvester opened his eyes, and started. "Why," he exclaimed, looking round, "how is this? In the parlour!"

"How long," said Aunt Eleanor, affectionately: "how long have you been sleeping here?"

"Oh! aunt, I'm sorry—very sorry for this. It's galling in the extreme." He added, angrily, "Judkins ought to have known better. It's monstrous, that a man like that is not to be trusted."

"Do not vex yourself, my love," said Aunt Eleanor, "pray do not vex yourself. Let us thank God that you are safe. Where is Judkins?"

"I know not, aunt: nor do I know how I came here. I know only this, that we went up to bed about ten; that I was well secured to him, and that here I am now."

"But is it not strange? He is no where to be found."

"It 'll be no great loss if he never be found. I might have I might have gone and broken my neck; what did he care? I thought him a different man."

"Nay, my dear, do not thus censure him yet. First ascertain the cause of his letting you free. I have always found him faithful and obedient."

"Why, I thought that I might have trusted my life in his hands; and yet, although I enjoined him not to suffer me to leave the room, here I am, while he is gone no one knows where, and no one cares."

"I hope, sir," observed cook, with tears in her eyes, "that you haven't been doing nothing with him: I hope, sir, you haven't been doing him no mischief!"

"Mischief!" cried Sylvester. "What do you mean?"

"No, cook: certainly not," said Aunt Eleanor. "He will, I have no doubt, return by-and-bye, and when he does return, I shall expect him to give a good account of his conduct. Now go and get the breakfast ready. Mary, come with me. Do not be angry, my dear," she added, addressing Sylvester, and kissing him with the deepest affection. "Let us thank heaven that nothing dreadful has occurred."

She then went up to dress, and so did Sylvester, who found the key on the bed, but, of course, not the chain: and while he was indignantly shaving himself, cook was utterly lost in conjecture. What a number of dreadful deaths she conceived that Judkins might have died while she was getting the breakfast ready! What stabbing, drowning, poisoning, strangulation, and burying alive, rose before her vivid imagination