Na natural platform that projects from the side of a hill-one of the highest in a mountain region far away-stands a lonely tower, called by the people who dwell in the valleys below, "The Magician's Castle." It is formed of great blocks

of granite, rudely piled together and cemented by clay and mould, from which hang out tufts of stone-crop and draperies of delicate fernleaves, filling every crevice with such beauty as no human workman could hope to rival. But in winter-time, when the fern is all withered and dead, the old place looks desolate enough-with

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its empty door-way and blank window-holes, the mountain summit rising bleak and bare behind it, and the wall of enclosure in front broken and ruined. Standing on the flat tur before the door, one may see great hill-tops rising to the right and left, while far down below lies a green valley, with a river winding through it like a thread of silver, and here and there a farm-house on its bank. Dense woods clothe the lower steeps of the mountains, though even the last stray larches cease many a foot lower than the ledge on which the tower is built. Very seldom is the solitude there disturbed by a human footstep, for those who wish to ascend the mountain can find an easier path on the other side. and then a shepherd in charge of the flocks that feed on the scant herbage of the slopes may take refuge from a storm within the ruin, or a sheep may stray near to drink from the pool hard by; otherwise the tower is unvisited from one year's end to another. If a stranger inquires the meaning of its name, he is told by the old people of the valley below, that they can yet remember the magician who once made his home there; that all night long a lamp burned in the highest

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window, for he never needed sleep; and that one old man yet living remembers to have met in the dusk, a tall gaunt figure in black robes, with snow-white beard and burning eyes. On the roof of the tower, they say, was erected a wooden chamber, now fallen to decay, but then filled with strange brazen instruments, with which the magician was supposed to read people's fortunes in the stars; while in the upper room of the tower itself he was believed to spend long hours of the night in trying to find out the secret of making gold—a secret, however, which he certainly never discovered, though he was probably on the point of doing so, when he was interrupted by an awful and mysterious death. Such are the tales yet. lingering in the valleys. The truth shall be told here.

Jerome Fauster's ancestors had for many hundreds of years owned the tower on the mountainside. At one time the broad valley below had been theirs also, and the woods that hung on the opposite slopes; but as years rolled on, the boundaries of their property had gradually contracted, till Jerome, on the death of his father, could only lay claim to a few barren acres sur

rounding that tower, which was all that now remained of the once formidable castle of his forefathers. But Jerome cared little for the lost grandeur of his family. So long as he had bread to eat, he made no complaint. He had been for years a poor student in some far-off city, and when he received the news of his father's death, he resolved to make his home in the tower, because its situation was favourable for those observations of the stars which made the delight of his life. He had a room built on the roof for his telescopes, and in a few weeks he was settled on the mountain. But he did not come alone. Toiling up the steep path after him was an elderly woman laden with bundles, and leading a mule, on each of whose sides hung a pannier containing a little child, while a boy rode astride on its back. It was old Ursula, the faithful nurse, bringing Jerome Fauster's motherless children to their new home. The mule-driver followed, carrying more bundles and baskets; and thus the little procession reached at length the grassy ledge in front of the tower. Jerome (who carried, slung on his shoulders, a box containing some of the precious instruments he used in his midnight studies) took