A cry of savage wrath checked her. Stretching one huge, bony hand,

as if to close her lips, trembling with rage and pain, livid and
convulsed in every feature of his face, Prince Alexis reversed the

whip in his right hand, and weighed its thick, heavy butt for one
crashing, fatal blow. Life and death were evenly balanced. For an

instant the Princess became deadly pale, and a sickening fear shot
through her heart. She could not understand the effect of her

words: her mind was paralyzed, and what followed came without her
conscious volition.

Not retreating a step, not removing her eyes from the terrible
picture before her, she suddenly opened her lips and sang. Her

voice of exquisitepurity, power, and sweetness, filled the old
hall and overflowed it, throbbing in scarcely weakened vibrations

through court-yard and castle. The melody was a prayer--the cry of
a tortured heart for pardon and repose; and she sang it with almost

supernatural expression. Every sound in the castle was hushed: the
serfs outside knelt and uncovered their heads.

The Princess could never afterwards describe, or more than dimly
recall, the exaltation of that moment. She sang in an inspired

trance: from the utterance of the first note the horror of the
imminent fate sank out of sight. Her eyes were fixed upon the

convulsed face, but she beheld it not: all the concentrated forces
of her life flowed into the music. She remembered, however, that

Prince Alexis looked alternately from her face to the portrait of
his wife; that he at last shuddered and grew pale; and that, when

with the closing note her own strength suddenly dissolved, he
groaned and fell upon the floor.

She sat down beside him, and took his head upon her lap. For a
long time he was silent, only shivering as if in fever.

"Father!" she finally whispered, "let me take you away!"
He sat up on the floor and looked around; but as his eyes

encountered the portrait, he gave a loud howl and covered his face
with his hands.

"She turns her head!" he cried. "Take her away,--she follows me
with her eyes! Paint her head black, and cover it up!"

With some difficulty he was borne to his bed, but he would not rest
until assured that his orders had been obeyed, and the painting

covered for the time with a coat of lamp-black. A low, prolonged
attack of fever followed, during which the presence of Helena was

indispensable to his comfort. She ventured to leave the room only
while he slept. He was like a child in her hands; and when she

commended his patience or his good resolutions, his face beamed
with joy and gratitude. He determined (in good faith, this

time) to enter a monastery and devote the rest of his life to pious
works.

But, even after his recovery, he was still too weak and dependent
on his children's attentions to carry out this resolution. He

banished from the castle all those of his poor relations who were
unable to drink vodki in moderation; he kept careful watch over his

serfs, and those who became intoxicated (unless they concealed the
fact in the stables and outhouses) were severely punished: all

excess disappeared, and a reign of peace and gentleness descended
upon Kinesma.

In another year another Alexis was born, and lived, and soon grew
strong enough to give his grandfather the greatest satisfaction he

had ever known in his life, by tugging at his gray locks, and
digging the small fingers into his tamed and merry eyes. Many

years after Prince Alexis was dead the serfs used to relate how
they had seen him, in the bright summer afternoons, asleep in his

armchair on the balcony, with the rosy babe asleep on his bosom,
and the slumber-flag waving over both.

Legends of the Prince's hunts, reisaks, and brutal revels are
still current along the Volga; but they are now linked to fairer

and more gracious stories; and the free Russian farmers (no longer
serfs) are never tired of relating incidents of the beauty, the

courage, the benevolence, and the saintly piety of the Good Lady of
Kinesma.

TALES OF HOME.
THE STRANGE FRIEND.

It would have required an intimatefamiliarity with the habitual
demeanor of the people of Londongrove to detect in them an access

of interest (we dare not say excitement), of whatever kind.
Expression with them was pitched to so low a key that its changes

might be compared to the slight variations in the drabs and grays
in which they were clothed. Yet that there was a moderate,

decorously subdued curiosity present in the minds of many of them
on one of the First-days of the Ninth-month, in the year 1815, was

as clearly apparent to a resident of the neighborhood as are the
indications of a fire or a riot to the member of a city mob.

The agitations of the war which had so recently come to an end had
hardly touched this quiet and peacefulcommunity. They had stoutly

"borne their testimony," and faced the question where it could not
be evaded; and although the dashing Philadelphia militia had been

stationed at Camp Bloomfield, within four miles of them, the
previous year, these good people simply ignored the fact. If their

sons ever listened to the trumpets at a distance, or stole nearer
to have a peep at the uniforms, no report of what they had seen or

heard was likely to be made at home. Peace brought to them a
relief, like the awakening from an uncomfortable dream: their lives

at once reverted to the calm which they had breathed for thirty
years preceding the national disturbance. In their ways they had

not materially changed for a hundred years. The surplus produce of
their farms more than sufficed for the very few needs which those

farms did not supply, and they seldom touched the world outside of
their sect except in matters of business. They were satisfied with

themselves and with their lot; they lived to a ripe and beautiful
age, rarely "borrowed trouble," and were patient to endure that

which came in the fixed course of things. If the spirit of
curiosity, the yearning for an active, joyous grasp of life,

sometimes pierced through this placidtemper, and stirred the blood
of the adolescent members, they were persuaded by grave voices, of

almost prophetic authority, to turn their hearts towards "the
Stillness and the Quietness."

It was the pleasant custom of the community to arrive at the
meeting-house some fifteen or twenty minutes before the usual time

of meeting, and exchange quiet and kindly greetings before taking
their places on the plain benches inside. As most of the families

had lived during the week on the solitude of their farms, they
liked to see their neighbors' faces, and resolve, as it were,

their sense of isolation into the common atmosphere, before
yielding to the assumed abstraction of their worship. In this

preliminary meeting, also, the sexes were divided, but rather from
habit than any prescribed rule. They were already in the vestibule

of the sanctuary; their voices were subdued and their manner
touched with a kind of reverence.

If the Londongrove Friends gathered together a few minutes earlier
on that September First-day; if the younger members looked more

frequently towards one of the gates leading into the meeting-house
yard than towards the other; and if Abraham Bradbury was the centre

of a larger circle of neighbors than Simon Pennock (although both
sat side by side on the highest seat of the gallery),--the cause of

these slight deviations from the ordinary behavior of the gathering
was generally known. Abraham's son had died the previous Sixth-

month, leaving a widow incapable of takingcharge of his farm on
the Street Road, which was therefore offered for rent. It was not

always easy to obtain a satisfactorytenant in those days, and
Abraham was not more relieved than surprised on receiving an

application from an unexpected quarter. A strange Friend, of
stately appearance, called upon him, bearing a letter from William

Warner, in Adams County, together with a certificate from a Monthly
Meeting on Long Island. After inspecting the farm and making close

inquiries in regard to the people of the neighborhood, he accepted
the terms of rent, and had now, with his family, been three or four

days in possession.
In this circumstance, it is true, there was nothing strange, and

the interest of the people sprang from some other particulars which
had transpired. The new-comer, Henry Donnelly by name, had

offered, in place of the usual security, to pay the rent annually