Chamberss Edinburgh Journal, No. 430 | Page 7

herself in putting some milk on the fire, and then sat down beside it to warm the infant, who seemed half-frozen. Her master watched her in silence, and when at last he saw her kiss its little cheek, he turned away with a quiet smile.
When at length the little one had been hushed into a gentle slumber, and when Margarita, with the assistance of her master's cloak, and some of her own clothes, had made a bed for the elder boy, and placed him in it, the good man told her how the children had been committed to his care, and the promise he had made, though not in words, to protect them.
'That is very right and good, no doubt,' said Margarita; 'I only want to know how we are all to live?' The priest opened his Bible, and read aloud:
'Whosoever shall give to drink unto one of these little ones a cup of cold water only in the name of a disciple, verily I say unto you, he shall in no wise lose his reward.'
'Amen!' said Margarita.
Twelve years passed by. The parish priest of San Pietro, who was now more than seventy years old, was sitting in the sunshine at his door. Near him, a boy of about twelve years old was reading aloud from the Bible, looking occasionally towards a tall, fine-looking young man, who was hard at work in a garden close by. Margarita, who was now become blind, sat and listened. Suddenly, the sound of wheels was heard, and the boy exclaimed: 'Oh! the beautiful carriage!' A splendid carriage approached rapidly, and stopped before the door. A richly-dressed servant approached, and asked for a cup of water for his master.
'Carlos,' said the priest to the younger boy, 'go, bring water to the gentleman; and add some wine, if he will accept it. Go quickly!' At this moment, the carriage-door opened, and a gentleman, apparently about fifty years old, alighted.
'Are these your nephews?' said he to the priest.
'They are more than that, se?or; they are my children--the children of my adoption.'
'How is that?'
'I will tell you, se?or; for I am old and poor, and know but little of the world, and am in much need of advice; for I know not what to do with these two children.' He related the story we have just told. 'And now, se?or, what do you advise me to do?'
'Apply to one of the nobles of the court, who must assign you a pension of four thousand ducats.'
'I asked you for advice, se?or, and not for jest.'
'And then, your church must be rebuilt. We will call it the Church of the Cup of Cold Water. Here is the plan. See, this is to be the vicarage; and here, divided by this paling'----
'What does this mean? What would you say? And, surely, I remember that voice, that face'----
'I am Don José della Ribeira; and twelve years ago, I was the brigand José. I escaped from prison; and--for the revolution made great changes--am now powerful. My children'----
He clasped them in his arms. And when at length he had embraced them a hundred times, with tears, and smiles, and broken sentences; and when all had in some degree recovered their composure, he took the hand of the priest and said: 'Well, father, will you not accept the Church of the Cup of Cold Water?' The old man, deeply affected, turned to Margarita, and repeated:
'Whosoever shall give to drink unto one of these little ones a cup of cold water only in the name of a disciple, verily I say unto you, he shall in no wise lose his reward.'
'Amen!' replied the aged woman, her voice tremulous from emotion.
A short time afterwards, Don José della Ribeira and his two sons were present at the consecration of the church of San-Pietro-del-Vaso-di-Aqua-Fria, one of the prettiest churches in the neighbourhood of Sevilla.

MUSIC-GRINDERS OF THE METROPOLIS.
Perhaps the pleasantest of all the out-door accessories of a London life are the strains of fugitive music which one hears in the quiet by-streets or suburban highways--strains born of the skill of some of our wandering artists, who, with flute, violin, harp, or brazen tube of various shape and designation, make the brick-walls of the busy city responsive with the echoes of harmony. Many a time and oft have we lingered entranced by the witchery of some street Orpheus, forgetful, not merely of all the troubles of existence, but of existence itself, until the strain had ceased, and silence aroused us to the matter-of-fact world of business. One blind fiddler, we know him well, with face upturned towards the sky, has stood a public benefactor any day these twenty years, and we know not how much longer, to receive the substantial homage of the music-loving million. But that he is scarcely old