He rose deliberately, but did not go, for I sat still. "Are you going home?" he asked after a minute. don't look so sad; you are feeling for me, don't do that. I should like to think of you when I am over the seas, as happy as I would have tried to have made you. Think of me sometimes as a friend. I don't expect to forget you, Hester. Goodbye."

His hand, as he held it out, shook ever so slightly; but it held mine in a firm pressure for an instant. Then he let it drop, stooped and picked up his gun, whistled his dogs round him, and strode away again along the sea-wall without once turning to look back.

Then I knelt down in the gray dawning, and thanked God that my inadness was passed, and prayed that as He had given me strength to make the sacrifice, so He would help me never

Milly and I were orphans. Our father and mother had both died in Mexico, and we were sent home to the care of our sole relation, my father's only sister, an elder y maiden lady, living in a kind of ladylike poverty at a dull little village in New Hamp-to repent it. shire. Aunt Dolly died when I was seventeen and Milly twelve, leaving to us the little cottage that had been her home and ours, with everything it contained: no very valuable bequest, but all the poor soul had to leave; and here Milly and I -not heiresses, no, but not destitute either-continued to live with the dear old servant, who had been our aunt's faithful friend and companion, and our own kind and affectionate nurse ever since, fatherless and motherless we had been sent to America.

There were not many people to visit at ; the rector, the doctor, and the family at the Hollies comprised them. I think we were most intimate at the Hollies; for the children there were Milly's contemporaries, and her sworn admirers and friends. I first saw Mark Sutherland at the Hollies; he was Mr. Sutherland's cousin, and I had heard of him often before I saw him. He had led a wild, adventurous kind of life, wandering all over the world for his simple pleasure, I suppose, since I never heard that he had any other object in doing so. I had formed my idea of him, to be sure; the reality was not in the least like it. No, quite otherwise; and yet, after the first five minutes, I would not have changed the real man for the ideal, for worlds.

Do not suppose that I speculated much upon Mark's character in those days; such as he was I loved him, dearly loved him: ah, he would never know how dearly, for had I not given him up?

As one in a dream I went home; as in a dream I crawled slowly up the steep winding lawn to our cottage; saw Milly hanging on the garden gate watching for me, come flying out into the lawn to meet me, all her golden hair streaming straight out behind her, heard her call me, scold me for being late; my own voice answering her; saw and heard all the familiar sights and sounds of everyday life, as we do sometimes in dreams, all made strange and perplexing by some dreadful sense of pain and trouble.

I did not see Mark Sutherland again; but the next time Milly went up to the Hollies, she told me, on her return, "that he had left the Hollies, gone away to that dreadful Mexico, and was never coming back again." My heart echoed the words, but I drew Milly to me and kissed her, and tried to be patient and to forget.

I could net forget; my nature was tenacious of what had once taken hold upon it, and the course of our lives was too uniform and monotonous to permit change and variety their usual influence. I scarcely knew, after Mark went away, how the days and years glided away, their course was so unmarked, and everything seemed so unchanged. At first I used to shrink and shiver at the chance mention of Mark Sutherland's name at the Hollies; that passed, and I pined to hear of him with a weary, anxious longing seldom satisfied. They ceased to speak of him after a while, as people do of a long absent friend, and by degrees it seemed as if he was only remembered in one poor woman's heart, who almost came to think of him, too, as if he had been removed by death. So that, when one day Milly came back from the Hollies, and said, as she untied her hat and threw it down, "Hester, guess; who in the world do you think came to the Hollies last night?" not even my thoughts suggested the right person.

46

No, no," said Milly, as I named one or two; "no; who but that cousin Mark who went away to Mexico years ago! I was a mere child at the time, but I remembered him instantly -a compliment he did not return, by-the-bye; though when he heard who I was, he asked after you."

Years ago, was it, since Mark went away? Ah! as Milly spoke it seemed only yesterday; the joy, the sorrow, the old pain, so freshly new, were throbbing so wildly once more at my heart. He had not quite forgotten me, then; but did he remember me as I remembered him?

"I do believe you have forgotten all about him," Milly went

"Het," said Milly, as we sat at tea, "you're not eating any-on: "and, let me tell you, I wonder at that, for I remember thing; you look pale and glum; you've sat out in those horrid marshes till the sun has made you sick. I shall not allow you to go there again, mind that."

It please Milly to play the elder sister, and I was always content that the little one should do what pleased her. She was my darling, the one thing that my solitary life gave me to love till I saw Mark; I had set up my idol long ago, but it was going to cost me dear. I remember that the child was in more than usually high spirits on that evening, that she teased me to talk to her, sing to her, and finally flew up to bed in a childish fit of anger because I could do neither one nor the other. At any other time I should have gone after her, coaxed and caressed her into good temper; but now, with a feeling of relief that she was gone, I sat at the window, staring out into the dark-scented night, and counted the cost of my sacrifice. Long, long, I sat there; long after the moon had risen, had set, and the stars began to grow pale before that streak of gray light in the east. I thought of Mark, of what I had done, of what I had given up, till I was nearly mad. I hope that I was mad, for when I stood up and closed the window before going up to my room, I had said to myself that I would write to Mark Sutherland when morning came, and tell him that I had chosen once more between the two I loved, and chosen differently. Therefore I hope that I was mad, but I went upstairs quite resolved and quiet; I undressed without ever once glancing towards the bed where my little sister lay; I meant to lie down on my pillow without doing so; but oh! I could not say my prayers and yet leave Milly without the kiss I always gave her refore I slept. So I went up to the bed, and drawing back the curtain, looked down upon what had for years been my sole earthly treasure. The child looked pale in the cold gray dawn; her golden hair was tossed wildly back from her face, and covered the pillow; and while I stood still and gazed, my madness dying away, my old self coming back, she stirred in her sleep, two great tears welled out from the closed eyes, and with a sob she murmured, "Hester."

he used to seem fond of talking to you, Hetty, and he is a kind of man that women may be proud of attracting, none the less because he cares very little, I should say for women in general.” Really, Milly, dear, you seem to have studied Mr. Sutherland very closely, considering this may be called your first acquaintance with him."

She laughed, blushed, and threw back her beautiful golden hair.

"No, don't know that I have; he devoted himself to me a good deal this evening, and I couldn't help forming my opinion, you know. There is to be a croquet party to-morrow at the Hollies, and Mr. Sutherland made me promise to come up, and to bring you, if you would come; but I told him beforehand that I knew you would not, knowing your dislike to that delectable means for the promotion of flirting."

And after this it happened that Milly either went or was sent for, nearly every day up to the Hollies-where, indeed, she was very much in the habit of going; while I, who had long ago ceased to care for any companionship beside my sister's, sat at home, longing with a feverish longing to see Mark Sutherland once more, and yet dreading with a sickening dread, to meet the careless, estranged glance of the dark eyes that had looked into mine once, full of love.

It seemed that Mark not unfrequently accompanied Milly part of the way home, but he never came near enough to our cottage for me to catch even the most distant glimpse of him, and my little sister had somehow ceased to talk of him after the first. So, though I still knew he staid at the Hollies, he might almost have been across the wide ocean, as far as I was concerned. And yet-oh, no!—the sense of his presence seemed borne to me upon every breath of the sweet summer air that floated into my room. I could not sleep at night, nor rest calmly by day; and often, while Milly was with her friends, I used to wander out, scarce heeding where I went, impatient only of rest.

One day, when this terrible yearning was strong upon me, I

"I have not come unexpectedly, I hope? Milly promised to ask you to tell you-"

"She did tell me; I expected you," I strove to say, and I hope said it, quietly.

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Did you guess why I wanted to see you?" he asked, with that directness of speech I remembered so well.

"Yes, I even went so far as that," I answered, and smiled— oh! what a wintry smile, if it did not belie my heart. **Of course, I could only have one purpose in asking to see

you say to me this time?''

"What does Milly say?"

took my sketching materials, from force of habit, and set out to walk to a pretty wood at some distance. The cool, green fragrance of the leafy shadows was grateful after the glaring sunshine, and I sat down to rest where they felt coolest. But a sudden sound of laughter and merry voices close at hand startled me, and not waiting to see who the speakers were, I got up and fled swiftly down the darkest and most tangled of the paths that branched away into the heart of the wood. I soon left the merry voices far behind me, and slackening my walk, I wandered on, dreamy and absorbed as ever, till, sud-you again," he went on quickly; "but, ah! Hester what will denly turning into another path, I saw what caused me to stand still and forget everything but what my eyes looked upon. Mark Sutherland! yes, Mark, older, darker, thinner, but Mark himself. Ah, how the green marshes, and the winding seawall, and the lark singing far up in the sky, all floated before me as I saw the downward bend of his stately head to look into the face beside him-the face that looked up again into his with those candid blue eyes, and a smile on the soft parted lips. The smile seemed to reflect itself upon Mark's grave face for an instant, and then he took up a little hand lying on his arm, and kissed it tenderly. I looked no longer. I crept away; stricken with a dumb anguish, a dreadful sullen despair, I crept away and went home. For I knew the candid blue eyes, and the sweet smile, and the floating golden hair; and they were my sister Milly's. Oh! had I not done enough? had I not sacrificed enough? was my cup not yet so full but that this bitter drop must be added to its overflow?

So I cried in my anguish, and it was long before better thoughts came to me, or that coming, I could hold them firmly and take comfort. But by-and-bye I rose up from where I had flung myself down, and sat by the window to watch for Milly. She came along presently in the quiet evening light, and I looked at her with eyes freshly opened. I had never yet ceased to think of her as a child: I realized in one minute now

that the child was a woman. I looked at the beautiful fresh young face, and involuntarily glanced at the reflection of my own in the mirror opposite. I never could have been in my best days what Milly was; and now— I turned away with a sigh from the image of that faded woman, with pale lips, and weary dark eyes.

Milly came in the next instant, threw off her hat, and, coming up beside me, took my face between her two soft hands, looked into it tenderly for a minute, then kissed me and sat down with her arms round me.

"Het, my dear, I have something to tell you," she began, with a strange tremble in her voice, though she was smiling, too: "a wonderful thing. I don't think you would ever guess it, or I should say, 'Guess !''

"And what if I am cleverer than you give me credit for, and do guess it, Milly, dear?” I asked, pressing the little one close to my throbbing heart.

"You never could; and yet-how your heart is beating!” she said, looking up at me timidly-"I believe you really do." Then, sinking her face down to my shoulder once more, she added, almost in a whisper, "Hester, he told me to ask you whether you would see him to-morrow."

"He means Mr. Sutherland, of course!"

"Milly! always Milly still! But, Hester, it is for you to answer me first," he said; and abruptly walking from his position on the hearth, he came and sat down beside me. "Hester--I must call you so did your sister tell you what I said to her yesterday?"

"She let me infer it."

"Infer!-fiddlededee. Nothing like plain speaking to express a plain meaning," he broke out, rather impetuously. "But you are so cold and unlike your old self, Hester, that I could almost take it for an answer to what I came to ask. Did Milly tell you that yesterday-for I have grown to love the little girl dearly- Hester! Hester! what have I said? What is the matter ?''

I hated, despised myself for the weakness, but the mortal struggle of yesterday was not done yet. I could not hear this man, whom I had loved so long, so deeply, avow to my face his transferred affection to my sister and be unmoved. Involuntarily I grasped the arm of my chair for support, for my very life seemed fading from me in the struggle. He bent over me, he lifted my faint head on to his broad breast, but I shrank from him feebly.

"It is nothing. I am often faint. I am quite well again. You were saying-yes, go on Mr. Sutherland."

"I was saying-ah! Hester-I think I need not go on-you are so changed, my dear," he said, looking down at me with sorrowful perplexity. "Well, well, Milly led me on to hope; but I ought to have known better. You never cared for me in the beginning, as I did for you."

Surely, surely, that by-gone ought to be a by-gone now," I cried out, bitterly.

"If you say that, it ought, indeed, he answered, turning from me; "but I told you then, Hester, that I should never forget you; and from something Milly said, and your remaining unmarried, I was wild enough to dream-to hope--"

in upon me as he spoke.
Something a light that dazzled my poor eyes-was breaking

"Mark!" said I, "what did you come here to-day to ask me?"

For a long, long time, I think, after this, we forgot the existence of any one else beside ourselves. Then I told Mark the little game of cross purposes we had been playing. His incredu

"Of course. Hester, do you mean to say yes?" asked Milly, lous wonder that I could imagine he had ever thought of any stealing another of those timid glances at me. "My 'yes,' will go with yours, Milly, dear."

"God bless you, Hester!-my darling, my dear, dear sister!" cried Milly fervently; and for a long while we were both silent. Nor, indeed did she mention Mr. Sutherland's name again, nor recur in any way to the subject, till about the middle of the next day, when she suddenly sprang up from her place by the window, and glancing at me with a vivid blush and smile, ran out of the room, and I heard her fly upstairs.

Then I knew who was coming, and I sat still, because to move would have been out of my power. So, when he entered the room, I sat, and though I held out my hand-and tried to utter a greeting, I knew that my lips only murmured inarticulately. He looked at me as he held my hand in a momentary grasp, and I thought there was both pain and a shocked surprise in his face-then he began—

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one but me, touched me to the heart.
"Poor Milly," he said; so you would have put her off with
the reversion of a heart. No, when she marries, may she be
what you are, Hester-her husband's 'first love and his last.'

OLD MAIDS.-Many of the satirical aspersions cast upon old maids tell more to their credit than to their disadvantage. Is a woman remarkably neat in her person, "She will certainly die an old maid." Is she frugal in her expenses, and exact in her domestic concerns, "She is cut out for an old maid." And ' if she is kind and humane to the animals about her, nothing can save her from the appellation of "an old maid." In short, we have always found that neatness, modesty, economy and humanity are the never-failing and admitted characteristics of an old maid.

GRAVES OF THE STONE PERIOD.

rare occurrence-they loved him. Then he was generoushearted and noble; his time, bis purse, his advice, were all at their service. But his whole soul was in his art. Night and day, day and night, he seemed to think of nothing but bis painting. In Rome he had been looked upon as mad, for he was not content with remaining close at work in his master's studio in the day, but at night he invariably shut himself up in an old, half-ruined house in the outskirts, where none of his friends were invited, and where no man ever penetrated, and no woman, save an old nurse, who had known him from a child. It was believed, with considerable plausibility, that the artist had a picture in hand, and that he passed even his nights in study. He rarely left this retreat before mid-day, and generally returned to his hermitage early, though he could not occasionally refuse being present at large parties given by his

STONE chambers, which once formed places of interment, are frequently discovered within large barrows of earth raised by the hands of man. They are to be referred to the period of the Danish invasion, which is generally termed among antiquarians the "stone period," because the use of metals was then in a great measure unknown; and while a few are to be found in Great Britain, there are many more of them in Denmark. These tombs, which are covered with earth, have most probably contained the remains of the powerful and the rich. They are almost all provided with long entrances, which lead from the exterior of the mound of earth to the east or south side of the chambers. The entrances, like the chambers, are formed of large stones, smooth on the side which is turned in-patrons. wards, on which very large roof-stones are placed. The chambers, and even the entrances, which are from sixteen to twenty feet in length, are filled with trodden earth and pebbles, the object of which, doubtless, was to protect the repose of the dead in their graves, and the contents which are found in them consists of unburnt human skeletons-which were occasionally placed on a pavement of flat or round stones-together with implements and weapons, and tools of flint or bone, ornaments, pieces of amber and urns of clay. In some cases, smaller chambers have been discovered, annexed to one side of the passage which leads to the larger chamber; and one of these smaller chambers we have engraved as a specimen of the sort of tombs we are now describing.

On arriving at Venice, Paolo resumed his former mode of life. He had an apartment at the Palace Bembo; he took his meals there, but at nightfall, when there was no grand reception, he wrapped himself in his cloak, put on his mask, and drawing his sword-hilt close to his hand, went forth. He took a gondola until he reached a certain narrow street, and then, gliding down it, he disappeared in the gloom caused by the lofty houses. No one noticed this mode of life; he did his duty; he was polite, affable, and respectful with his patron; he was gallant with the ladies, but no more. He did not make the slightest effort to win the affections of those around him. Now, all this passed in general without much observation. Still, there was one person whom this wildness and eccentricity of character-al that has a stamp of originality is called eccentric -caused to feel deep interest in him.

She asked

please relations, but herself. From the first she noticed Paolo
favorably; he received her friendly advances respectfully but
for lessons to improve her slight knowledge of painting; he
coldly, and rarely stopped his work to converse.
gave them freely, but without ever adding a single word to the
necessary observations of the interview. He seemed absorbed
in his art.

The above sketch represents a chamber which was discovered in a barrow, situated near Paradis, in the parish of the Vale, in the island of Guernsey. On digging into the mound a large flat married from interested motives to the old uncle of the doge, The marquis had a daughter, who, at sixteen, had been stone was soon discovered; this formed the top, or cap-stone, of the tomb; and on removing it, the upper part of two human now dead. Clorinda was a beautiful widow of one-and-twenty, skulls was exposed to view. One was facing the north, the who, rich, independent, of a determined and thoughtful charother the south, but both disposed in a line from east to west.acter, had made up her mind to marry a second time; not to The chamber was filled up with earth, mixed with limpetshells; and as it was gradually removed, while the examination was proceeding downwards into the interior, the bones of the extremities became exposed to view, and were seen to greater advantage. They were much less decomposed than those of the upper part; and the teeth and jaws, which were well preserved, denoted that they were the skeletons of adults, and not of old men. The reason why the skeletons were found in this extraordinary position it is impossible to determine. Probably the persons who were thus interred were prisoners, slaves or other subordinates, who were slain-perhaps buried alive on the occasion of the funeral of some great or renowned personage, who was placed in the larger chamber at the end of the passage; and this view of the case is considerably strengthened by the fact that the total absence of arms, weapons or vases, in the smaller chamber, denotes that the quality of the persons within it was of less dignity or estimation. The barrow in Guernsey was explored in the year 1837.

One day Clorinda stood behind him; she had been watching him with patient attention for an hour; she now came and took up her quarters in the gallery all day, with her attendant girl, reading or painting. Paolo had not spoken one word during that hour. Suddenly Clorinda rose, and uttered the exclamation, "How beautiful!"

"Is it not, signora ?" said Paolo.

THE PAINTER'S BRIDE.

Ir was during the very brightest days of the republic of enice, when her power was in its prime, together with the arts which have made her, like every Italian state, celebrated all over the world-for Italy has produced in poetry and painting, and in the humbler walk of musical composition, the greatest of the world's marvels-that Paolo Zustana was engaged by the Marquis di Bembo to paint several pictures to adorn his gallery. Paolo had come from Rome at the request of the marquis, who had received a favorable account of the young artist. He was but thirty. Paolo was handsome, of middle height, dark, and pale; he had deep black eyes, a small mouth, a finely-traced monstache, a short, curling beard, and a forehead of remarkable intellectuality. There was a slight savageness in his manner, a brief, sharp way of speaking, a restlessness in his eyes, which did not increase the number of his friends. But when men knew him better, and were admitted into his intimacy-a very