The hellish invitation was repeated. Now infatuated, he divided his heap into three portions, placing them respectively on the rouge, the last dozen and the pair. He awaits the result. A mist swam over my eyes; I felt when that was gone, my sister's child was penniless. The sum was staked; even should he wish to do so, it was too late to withdraw it. Too late!

66

Le jeu est fait"—the whirling ball was heard, then a click, then the wheel swang slower and lazier, and after one or two bounds, the ball had found a home.

"Neuf,-noir,-impair,-manque !"

I felt what was to come. I sprang from my seat, about to rush forward to beg his forgiveness, to embrace him, to nurse him as a child, to give him all he should want, my hoards, my love, his bride, his life— but it was too late. I screamed, "Oh, Charley, stay!" but it was too late; the hand that had been concealed in his pocket moved rapidly to his head; a click,-a report, and he lay prostrate on the ground; his brains spattered on the floor.

I rushed towards him; the liveried servants raised the corse, and, supported by the Russian, I followed him unconsciously through the long hall. The door opened for him, and as I saw him, his shattered head lying on his bosom, borne from the place whither he had entered full of youth and life, the ball was whizzing on the wheel, and the unfeeling voice still reached my ears, "Messieurs, faites vos jeux; le jeu est fait." The portal closed upon the rest

Is this a dream ?-No. The homeless man wanders from room to room of his wide habitation, heirless, friendless, kinless, no vision of his old age can be fulfilled, no children prattle at his knee, no soft woman can shed peace upon his hearth. He can crave forgiveness of no earthly thing, his prospects offer nought but solitude, while his hopes seek nought but death.

The "Miscellany" for January 1st, contained, in addition to numerous articles by distinguished writers, a Memoir, with a fine Portrait, from a drawing by E. H. Eddis, of the Right Hon. Thomas Babington Macaulay.