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THE EMBROIDERED MANTLE.

BY MRS. CAROLINE ORNE.

"FLORELLA, where are you going?" said Lady Katharine Hathaway to a young girl, who was sliding quietly out of the room, after having succeeded in engaging the attention of a beautiful child, just old enough to sit alone on the carpet, with the playthings spread around it.

"Only to gather a few cherries-" and the color deepened a little on her cheeks as she replied-" that grow by the old ruin, before the birds carry them all off."

"Cannot you take little Ellen with you? The doctor says we must let her feel the air and sunshine, if we wish to make a healthy girl of her."

“Yes, madam, if it be your wish," replied Florella, turning back and taking up the child with evident reluctance.

"Don't be gone more than an hour," said Lady Katharine, handing her an embroidered mantle to wrap round the child in case of a change of weather.

"No, madam, unless Ellen should be very quiet and should be loth to return so soon," saying thus, Florella hastening from the house, struck into a path which wound gracefully amongst the flowery hillocks and hollows that varied the surface of a broad expanse of ground || covered with the freshest verdure, and which led in the direction of the old ruin.

opportunities, when the wanderings of the tribe happened to lead in that direction, to meet with the beautiful brunette, with whose charms he was as deeply enthralled as was Romeo of Verona, with those of the peerless Juliet. The evening previous, he had found means to apprize Florella that he should be at the ruin, the following morning, where he begged that she would meet him. Could she refuse? A whole year had passed since they had met, and her glass, as well as the clear fountain on the hill-side as she sat by its brink and braided her long tresses with flowers, reflected back to || her now, a face and form of more exuberant beauty than a twelvemonth before, and she could not be blamed if she wished her lover to see that the rose of his heart instead of fading was brighter and fresher than ever. When arrived at the ruin, she wrapped the mantle more closely around the little Ellen, who had fallen asleep, and laying her down softly on the grass, in the shade of a tree, proceeded to the spot where her lover was to await her coming, and which was screened from the view of the inhabitants of the Hall by a part of the ruinous building. Bound by the magic spell woven by Beauty and Love, which seemed even to communicate its influence to the balmy atmosphere they breathed, and to give an aspect of tenderness, not only to the calm blue sky, but to the grey moss-grown walls of the ruin, that gave back, in softened tones, the echoes of their low, impassioned words-it is no wonder that a thousand things were left unsaid, when the harsh tongue of the chapel clock told that an hour had already passed. Florella started from the fallen pillar on which they were seated.

Florella, now eighteen, had formerly belonged to a band of gipsies, which, two years prior to the time we commence our story, encamped near the old ruin several weeks, availing themselves of its shelter whenever the weather made it necessary. During this time, Florella frequently called at Hathaway Hall to sell willow baskets, which she wove with neatness and taste. Lady Katharine, who was struck with her extreme beauty and charmed with the grace and gentleness of her deport-imprisoned in a gilded cage.' ment, won from her a promise to leave her people, and come and live at the Hall, could she obtain their consent. Thinking, probably, that it might prove advantageous to them for one of their tribe to be an inmate of a family, rich and powerful as Sir Philip Hathaway's, they readily gave it. When she went to take her final leave of her kindred and friends, before their departure, she found that a gipsy whose name was Rodovan, a native of Spain, and a few years her senior, had been received amongst them. Never until then, Florella imagined,|| had she beheld the perfection of manly beauty. His athletic symmetrical form, his classic features, and his dark, but clear complexion, set off by lustrous eyes, black as night, and when he spoke or smiled, by those beautiful teeth characteristic of his race, might indeed have satisfied a more critical and fastidious judge. Rodovan was no less sensible of the uncommon loveliness of Florella, and had they met a week sooner, she never would have pledged herself to become the handmaiden of Lady Katharine Hathaway. He told his tale of love and they parted, though he was determined that it should not be for ever, and subsequently he found several

"I must go," said she, "Lady Katharine charged me to be gone only an hour."

“Why,” said he, “should you longer remain a slave to the will of Lady Katharine? Suffer me to conduct you back to our people. Your mother mourns your absence and repents having let her bright forest-bird be

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This, and the eloquent appeals of his own love, enforced by his pleading looks, went to her heart, and her denial was uttered in a faltering and hesitating voice. He saw and urged his advantage 'till he obtained her promise to meet him again in the evening, to return no more to Hathaway Hall. They walked side by side until they came in sight of the tree where Florella had left the sleeping Ellen, and then, disengaging her hand from her lover's she bounded lightly forward. A wild shriek burst from her lips when she arrived at the spot, for the child was not there. Rodovan drew near and learnt the cause of her alarm. They searched a little near the spot, in the faint hope that she might have awoke and crept a short distance, and then yielding to the emotions of mingled terror and sorrow, Florella wrung her hands and wept bitterly. Suddenly drying her tears, she turned to her lover and placed her hand in his.

"I am ready to go with you now,” said she, “for I can never bear to again look upon the face of Sir Philip or of Lady Katharine."

He waited not to reply, but half sustaining her trem

bling form, he hastened with her to the banks of a river, || river, she and the child had both been drowned. This and placing her in a light boat that was moored in the account, which the gentleman, on his return communishade of some overhanging birches, and seating himself, cated to the bereaved parents, while it extinguished the with his paddle they were soon flying swiftly as a bird last latent sparks of hope and revived their anguish, had over the yielding waters. Half a mile distant, in the ultimately a favorable effect, as it terminated their glade of a deep wood, was the encampment of the gypsies. anxiety and suspense. As there was no heir to inherit Fearful of pursuit, they made immediate preparation to his rich and extensive domains, Sir Philip began to think depart, and the next morning the sun rose upon them in it best to adopt one, and in his own mind, fixed upon the a safe, and to persons unacquainted with the country, an son of an old college friend, a smart, active lad, who had inaccessible wild. When they had kindled their camp for some time been an orphan. He mentioned the subfire and firmly fixed the cross-sticks in the ground, by ject to Lady Katharine, whose wishes being in unison means of which they were going to suspend the kettle with his own, Arthur Levering, having received the over the blaze in which their breakfast was to be cooked, || additional name of Hathaway, was from that time conthey for the first time missed one of their number. sidered their son, and heir to Sir Philip's title and estate.

"Where is Liz Looney?" inquired one of them, who had not forgotten to cause the hen-roosts to do them tribute during their hasty night march, "she is the best hand at dressing fowls for the pot."

They all looked round, but Liz was nowhere to be found, and then, several called to mind that they had seen her leave the camp directly after Rodovan went to visit Florella, and no one could remember having seen her afterwards. The truth at once flashed upon the mind of Rodovan. He knew that he was beloved by her, and as the river in one place was fordable, she had|| doubtless followed him to watch his interview with Florella, and to revenge herself upon her rival, had taken the child. Florella's sorrow was but little ameliorated by this conjecture, as she feared that in attempting to return, she and the child had both been drowned; she however, for a long time, cherished a faint hope that she would rejoin them.

Lady Katharine, at the expiration of the hour, went to the window and looked out towards the ruin, yet she did not feel particularly uneasy until another hour had passed, and then she sent a servant to hasten Florella's return, who soon brought back word that neither she nor the child could be found. When it was ascertained that a band of gypsies had recently encamped on the opposite side of the river, Sir Philip and Lady Katharine immediately suspected that Florella had been enticed to join them, and had carried the child with her. A vigilant search was instituted without delay, which proved utterly unsuccessful. Long was it ere the voice of mourning for the loss of an only child, was hushed, in their late joyful abode; but time, the soother as well as destroyer, at length blunted the poignancy of their grief, though a melancholy had settled upon their hearts which nothing could dissipate. After the expiration of five years, a gentleman whose estate lay contiguous to Sir Philip's, while on a journey to Scotland, came suddenly one evening upon the band of gypsies to which Florella belonged. Having frequently seen her when an inmate of the family of his neighbor, he instantly recognized her, and demanded information respecting the lost child. She gave a simple and faithful narration of all the circumstances she herself knew, and informed him who they suspected had stolen it. As they had never, from that time, been able to obtain the least information concerning her, they imagined, as they had feared from the first, that in attempting to recross the

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Six years more had glided away, when a celebrated musician, by the name of Belmont, in company with his sister, was returning from Wales, where they had been to visit a brother. Mr. Belmont, with the assistance of vocalists belonging to his own country, and those procured from Italy, had, for a series of years, been in the habit of giving concerts during the fashionable season in London, and at other times in any place where sufficient patronage could be obtained. It was near sunset, and the surrounding country was wild and desolate. It soon became apparent that they had lost their way. As there appeared no vestige of inhabitants of whom inquiry could be made, after consulting with the driver, it was decided that they should turn back and endeavor to ascertain where they first deviated from the direct road. || For a quarter of a mile they proceeded briskly, then the driver suddenly stopt the horses, being perplexed by the meeting of several roads. As they all appeared to be equally worn by travel, it was impossible to determine which ought to be taken, and as the driver observed that it would be luckier to turn to the right than the left, he was suffered to follow his own humor. The road being grassy, the carriage rolled along with but little noise, and they had gone only a short distance, when the sound of music, faint at first, but every moment growing more full, came floating by on the air. Soon a sweet female voice, somewhat infantile in its tones, singing an exquisitely wild and beautiful air, and accompanied by a violin was distinctly heard. As Mr. Belmont called to the driver to check the horses that he might determine with certainty whence the music proceeded, he observed a light wreath of smoke curling above a clump of beeches.

"Did you ever hear anything so wildly sweet?" said the enraptured Belmont to his sister. "That voice, with proper cultivation would be superior to the Prima Donna's I have engaged for my London concerts. I am determined to ascertain who the syren is, inhabiting these solitudes."

Saying thus, unmindful of the playful remonstrance of his sister, who warned him against being lured into danger, he sprang from the carriage, and was soon winding his way along a faintly traced footpath, several of which were discernible leading in the direction of the beeches. He was not long in attaining the summit of an eminence of easy acclivity, which, on the opposite side, sunk

shall be yours," said he, taking the number he mentioned from his purse and offering them to her.

The woman's countenance brightened as she said“Will you promise not to inform against me if I let you take her? Shall I lie down at night without the fear of being dragged from my hut by those people you call offi|| cers of justice? What would the five gold pieces be worth to me in prison?"

“I can have no hesitation in promising what must be for my own benefit."

She may go then if she will, and I think she will need but little persuasion. Remember to abide by your promise, for you are dealing with one that knows how to plant the thorn in the heart!"

"You will not," said he, "forget Peter and his fiddle, Lizette?"

abruptly down into a deep dell of the wildest and most romantic appearance. Half a dozen huts, sunk several feet in the ground, with sod-covered roofs, forming an irregular group on the opposite side of the dell, indicated the presence of a gypsy hamlet. A number of the inhabitants, both male and female, were moving about in different directions, or reclining negligently in the shade of the trees. Most of the latter, by being attired in garments of a bright scarlet, with kerchiefs of the same color wreathed not ungracefully round their heads, from beneath which strayed their coal black hair, imparted to the scene a novel and peculiar character. But there was another object which, to Belmont, was more attractive. Beside a fountain, that sparkled in the slanting sunbeams, as if some invisible fairy were pour- As the woman had imagined, the child readily coning into it thousands of her hoarded gems, was a child, sented to accompany him, and running into the hut, and apparently ten or eleven years old, seated on a rock putting on a little scarlet cloak with a hood which she half imbedded in the ground. Her head was slightly drew over her head, she told him she was ready to go. elevated, and her complexion of a clear, pearly hue, The people regarded the transaction with looks of curicontrasted finely with the rich, nut-brown curls, that fellosity, but attempted not to interfere. The man with the so low as to mingle with the clustering columbines that violin alone came forward. grew at the edge of the rock. Her hazel eyes, darkly fringed with long silken lashes, had a deeper and intenser expression than is common in one so youthful, and the slight rose tinge on her cheek was evidently of that flitting kind, which waits only on exercise or excitement. Her dress of light blue-that and red being the two favorite colors of the gipsies-consisted of a velvet boddice ornamented with a tarnished cord of silver tinsel, a full skirt of similar hue but different material, and sandals, shielding not cramping the small symmetrical feet peeping from beneath it. The music had ceased before he attained the height, which commanded a view of the dell, but he felt sure that the beautiful child was the songstress. He was right, for in a few moments she commenced a strain wild and sweet as the one which attracted him to the spot, but far more melancholy, a middle aged gipsy accompanying her with his violin. Her voice for one so young, was of wonderful power and compass, and as Mr. Belmont stood listening, he felt determined to possess himself of one, who in a professional line, he doubted not would prove a rich treasure. As he was endeavoring to decide in what manner it was best to address her, a woman came from one of the huts and directing towards him the attention of the child, commanded her to return with her to her dwelling. Belmont hastened forward, and taking the woman aside, explained to her his wishes.

"Never," replied the child, and the tears came into her eyes, as she gave her cheek to him to kiss."

"You will leave me with joy instead of sorrow," said the woman, "for I have often chided you without cause, only to relieve my heart of its bitterness. Yet remember that I heeded not the smile of the treacherous waters when they tempted me to bury you in their bosom, but still bore you on in my arms, though hungry and weary, and with a heart ten times heavier than the burthen I carried in my arms."

Her melancholy, half regretful manner, at once banished from the child's mind all memory of her former harshness and magnified her capricious kindness.

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"I will not go," said she, "if you wish me to remain." "Yes, yes, go," she replied, turning quickly away, 'we shall both be the happier."

When at the top of the steep and rugged ascent, the child looked back. The few joys and the many sorrows of her short life came crowding into the brief space that she stood gazing into the deep dell. As she turned to resume her walk, the last lingering sunbeam that played upon her favorite fountain, departed.

"I have brought the syren with me," said Belmont, addressing his sister, as he placed the child in the carriage.

Familiar with the surrounding country, she informed them that they were pursuing an indirect road, and pointed out the way which would lead to the right one. It was Mr. Belmont's next care to ascertain how far distant they were from an inn, or other dwelling, where they could pass the night.

"We are only a few miles from Mat's" said the child.
"And who is Mat?" inquired Mr. Belmont.
"One of our people."

"But shall we find good accommodations?" said Miss Belmont, with some solicitude, as she pictured to herself what they might expect at a gipsy inn.