"GONE." LAST eve we wandered in the quiet wood, While round me quivers the same fitful light. Floated, like angel harp-chords, sad and low. 'Tis very, very hard for me to think That our past love is but an idle dream; That memory, now, is the one only link Binding my fature to that which once hath been. I cannot see through this dark sorrow cloud, Well, earth hath deeper sorrow yet to learn ; Than never feel thy deep, rich love at all. TOO LATE. THE weather was growing clear, when Louise Hammond locked the school-house door, and came out of the yard into the road. The road was heavy, and the long grass of the meadows weighed down with water; but rifts of blue had come suddenly in the opaque sky, and the atmosphere was soft and balmy. Over the ploughed fields the crows sailed heavily, uttering their slow cry as occasionally they flew up from the moist ground. Louise looked up at the sky. The clouds were rolling away very fast, and in a moment the sun came out, and showed the shadows of the poplar trees on the ground. With a weight which she had hardly been aware of, clearing away from her spirits, she walked lightly on. A group of her pupils sauntered along at some distance before ber, chatting and laughing; but in a moment she lost sight of them, for she turned off the main road, and went down the lane. When she turned off the road, a man, who had been walking at a little distance behind her, turned off also. He walked rapidly, and gained on her; but for some time she was not aware of his proximity. The beams of the sun grew warmer, and she let the silk mantle she wore slip down from her shoulders, showing her light and graceful figure. From under the simple straw bonnet a single brown curl strayed down her neck. As she drew nearer to the house at the end of the lane the man hastened his steps. The house was old and brown, with lilacs at the door. The place was hardly in good repair either; the old shutters were falling to pieces, and the door posts were cracked and warped. There was a garden in front—a path leading from the ricketty gate to the door, where a little girl, wrapped in a shawl and bolstered in an armchair, sat in the sunshine. At sight of Louise, her little pale face lighted up. She laughed, and leaned forward expectantly. "Sister's coming, Birdie !" Louise called. "I never liked any one as I like you, Louise. You'd better have me, and keep your school, and be married in the autumn, than to get yourself into worse difficulty than you've ever known yet, just for a freak. I can see what is best for you, just as well as if I hadn't any interest in the matter." Her face had grown pale again. "I haven't time to talk with you now," said she, drawing back, evidently greatly annoyed, yet striving to be civil, if not courteous. "When will you talk with me, then?" he asked. "I don't know." "But you must decide by to-morrow. Miss Evelyn is waiting for an answer." "So soon?" "Yes; and as well now as any time." "I cannot-indeed, I cannot tell you now!" "When, then ?'' "This evening, perhaps. But—” "If I come up to the house this evening, will you give me an answer?'' "I will try to," she reluctantly answered. "Very well, then. I will come up after supper," giving a last glance at her troubled face. She opened the gate, and he bent his head and walked off. She hurried up the path as if to get away from the spot where she had stood with him. The child put up her arms. "Louise, you stayed so long !" "Did I, darling? sister loves you!" she said, taking the little soft form in her arms. She carried the child into the kitchen, where her mother was getting dinner ready. "Who were you talking with at the gate ?" asked the latter. "I wouldn't hold that heavy child, dear, when you're tired." "I wish she were heavier," Louise answered, with a sigh, hanging up her bonnet and mantle, the child still on her arm. "I was talking with Henry Dillon, mother." "He took hold of Louise's hand," said the child; "and he's got black whiskers." About the school-something; I'll tell you to-night." "You're going to have it, ain't you?" asked Mrs. Drummond, eagerly. "I don't know. Don't question me, pray," seeing her mother look at her anxiously. "I can't tell you how it will be decided, until to-night." Dinner was ready. The little one, who could not walk, though she was five years old, was put in a chair beside her sister. Her face was very lovely, but too spiritual-too thin and large-eyed, and hollow at the temples. Ethel they had named her, but oftener she was "Sissy" and "Birdie." "Dr. Dexter called this morning, to see Ethel," Mis. Hammond said. "And what did he say about her?" "He thought if we could take her to the seaside, and, when winter comes, to Havana, that she would get strong, and get over her lameness. These east winds and sudden changes are killing her, I know. Hear her cough, now! Louise, I would give the world if we could go to Havana this winter. I dread the winter here for all of us." Louise ate her dinner in silence. To follow the doctor's preɛcription was more possible than her mother knew or dreamt of. And would she like it? She had been born in Connecticut. All her happy childhood had been spent in Stamford. They had Just then she heard the step behind her. She turned and friends there, and all the associations were sunny and pleasant. stopped. The man came up. Little Ethel would get well there she was sure; and yet-they "I've been behind you ever since you came out of the school- could not go. Then Henry Dillon's words came back -" And house," said he. "How do you do?" be married in the autumn." He was rich; he would take them to Havana, if she wished it. Her heart beat hard. She rose up from the table, and stood behind her little sister's chair, "Very well, thank you." Louise was suddenly pale and grave. "I have decided about the school. just as you choose," said he. You can have it or not, smoothing back the child's flossy curls. She raised her eyes, and looked into his face; then she withdrow them instantly, her own face suffused with distressed blushes. He drew closer, speaking low, and trying to take her hand. "Sister wishes Birdie didn't cough," she said caressingly. The child dropped her spoon. "It hurts here," she said, putting her transparent hand upon her slight chest. Louise had seen her father do that so often! She turned away, suddenly, and went to the window. In the still garden the soft warm sunshine was bathing the bright crocuses. Just such spring days had been the last he had looked upon. Her brother, also, had died in the spring, of that fatal consumption which threatened them all. By and-bye her mother roused her up from her musing. "Isn't it school time, dear?" "Yes," starting. "If the wind blows, don't let Sissy sit in the doorway this afternoon, mother." There were three of them, and Louise's school teaching kept them all. Henry Dillon, an uneducated bachelor of thirty-five, was, by virtue of his wealth, the most influential of the school committee. If he never examined pupils or teacher, he had more authority than had the others to install or remove the instructors; and Louise's chance for a livelihood was in his hands. He wanted to marry her, and pressed his suit, by tacitly threatening to starve her to accepting him. Circumstances combined to render her very much at his mercy. Mercy, or at least a show of it, he might have had for her, had it not have been for Owen Chester, a quiet student of the place, whom he believed to be his rival. Louise was thinking of Owen Chester, as she went back to school. She was wondering | if he loved her, her breath coming quick with the daring thought. He had never said so; and yet-well, she had found a comfort in his eyes, and a rest in his presence, which she had never found elsewhere. She dared not acknowledge to herself that she loved him; yet she could not but know that thoughts of him constituted more than half her heartache. She had time to think of a great deal, before she reached the schoolhouse; she walked very slowly, not seeing the budding birches and the wayside violets at all. Did Chester love her? Did his words and ways mean any more than a young man feels for any pretty girl whose companionship circumstances have given him during a year? Perhaps he only thought of her as of the sister he had left in New York, when he had quitted college for country change of air. He had lodged with Louise's uncle, across the meadows, since a former spring, and they had read and botanized together during all that time. He had become more to her than she knew. When she probed her heart she found it very sore, and all the painful thought had come to no conclusion when she reached the school-house door. She started when the clock struck four, and it was time for dismissal. The afternoon was gone, and she was very near the time when her decision must be made. She shivered nervously, as she went out of doors again, five minutes later, and turned her steps homeward. At the corner of the lane, she glanced apprehensively bebind her, as if she expected to see Dillon, though it wanted some hours of the time. She lingered in the garden a moment, looking around her moodily. The garden beds were full of green sprouts, and there were some little daffodils growing among the blue lilies and tulips. The place had suddenly become fresh and gay in the day's warm sunshine, but the vivid life of the flowers oppressed her somehow. "So the children told me to-day." His eyes, which had been fixed on her face, grew disappointed, and a little perplexed. "When do you go?" "To-morrow." "So soon?" "Yes; I had a telegram to-day. My father wants me imImediately in New York. We've had pleasant times since last spring. Don't forget me." "I shall not, Owen." "I wish my sister knew you. Perhaps she will some time." "I should like to know her." "And Louise, I know how hard life has been to you. I would help you if I could.” He clasped her hand, then sped along the garden path. The gate clicked, and she turned and went into the house. She went up to her room, locked the door, and flung herself upon the bed. Her dream was all over. He had parted with her as he would have parted with any one, and the love now stirring plainly in her heart, she thought was killing her. The weight of tears within her could not be shed; she could only writhe and moan for a long hour. She lay still at last, with two still, dark, steadfast eyes gazing at the white wall. She was trying to think what would be wisest to do with the dearth which lay before her. Sho did not care for herself at all, now; so she would marry Dillon, and take care of Ethel, and make her mother comfortable. Yes, he should have his answer to-night. It was very dreary to think of, but she would not th nk of it. She would say yes, and then go to work. Ethel should go to the seasid soon; her mother should have the comforts she needed and no more care. They would have a comfortable home, and a garden, and there would be no more strife for the life which must be so bitter and cold any way. She would die some time; then perhaps she would find living easier in the next world. She settled the matter firmly in her mind before she arose and went down stairs. "Why, my dear, I thought you were never coming down," said her mother, clashing the stove door. "Supper has been ready half an hour." 66 Louise kissed Ethel, and put her in a high chair at the table. Mother, I told you I would tell you to-night about the school. The matter amounts to just this: Henry Dillon wants me to marry him. The school is insured to me for the summer, "Their gay lives are nothing like mine; they don't know me if I promise. If I do not, I shall lose it, and you and Ethel at all. I'm so tired!" she said to herself. and I am going to marry Henry Dillon, and have her properly taken care of." "But Louise-" will lose your daily bread. I am going to marry him--but not She stood there, utterly despondent. So long it had been wholly for the last consideration. There is no use in hiding hard work to live, and the compensation of living was so longer from each other the belief that Ethel will die, if she is small! She was four-and-twenty; for three years she had sp-not treated as Doctor Dexter ordered. I know that she will, ported her mother and little sister, by labor which taxed health and spirits. If they had prospered, it would have been satisfaction; but her mother had grown gray-haired with the three years' struggle of care, since she had tried to support them; and Ethel was dying now, for want of proper remedies. She shut her teeth close together, to keep back the hard, bitter sob that rose up. Yet there had been an unsafe sweetness in her life, during the last twelvemonth. There had been a content in the present, with no thought beyond it, that now left a sting. She had been happier than she had any right to be. A rumor had reached her that afternoon, through her pupils, that Owen Chester was going away. Suddenly, as she stood there, she saw him coming down the lane. She started nervously, then remained quietly awaiting his approach, and greeted him accordingly. “Louise, I am going away," he said. "Do you-like him at all?'' "Of course I do not love him," answered Louise, her cheek burning; "I do not pretend to marry him for love-but, instead, for the sake of you and Ethel. "You shall not sacrifice yourself for us, Louise !'' "Mother, will it be any more a sacrifice than my life is every day-has been every day for the last three years? Where is the use of my living in this way? I have nothing-I enjoy nothing! More-I shall die if I stay here-the whole place is hateful to me!" To these bitter, excited words, Mrs. Hammond was silent. "We won't talk about it any more, mother. I am determined." These were the last words that were said between mother and daughter concerning the matter. Louise was very pale. She sat with Ethel upon her lap until the clock struck nine; then she rose and went to the window. Some one was coming up the garden path. It was Dillon. A sudden terrible weakness fell upon her, but she had mastered it before he came into the room. "What have you to say to me?" he asked. "I accept your conditions," she answered. His black eyes lighted up. He was a good-looking man, though uncultivated. 46 You're a sensible girl!" said he, approvingly. He did not stay long after that. She was soon left alone. bright on the village of Gayeton and Woodbine Cottage shone Only she realised what solitude became then. that June day sun. Well, spring pissed, and summer came. She gave up her school in June, and took little Ethel to Newport. The freedom and purity of the sea was torture to her; but she endured itEthel was getting strong. When they returned, Dillon had been to New York, and brought home piles of fine linen and silks, with webs of rare laces, and shawls of true cashmere. She turned them over gravely, and kissed him thanks when he asked her to. They were to be married in October. Louise kept herself very busy, or else she could not have endured the fearful stillness of the place. Ethel was quite brighter, but her mother had grown wistfully quiet. She did not know what to make of Louise, of late. In the garden the roses blossomed; the pinks and marigolds succeeded them, and the dahlias came after. All day long the poplars rustled, clashing their stiff leaves. When the fresh September winds came, the gate rattled all night. It was dreadful to Louise that she could not sleep then. And all this time she had not heard from Owen Chester. He had forgotten to write at all, then. It was just as well. What difference could a few friendly letters make? October came at last. It was time for the marriage. The last evening she was in her home, Dillon spent with her; and when he went away, he drew her out into the porch. The air was chilly; he wrapped her shawl close about her; she was his-f course he was careful of her. The cottage yclept "Woodbine" was an abode of retiring and modest aspect. Protected by tall elms, it nestled in a sequestered nook, the home of happiness and comfort. Its gorgeous flower garden, its fruitful cucumber frames, its diminutive chaise house, all proclaimed the easy circumstances of the inhabitants. A vain peacock strutted on the emerald lawn, watched with ill-concealed disdain by a huge Newfoundland dog, which lay basking in the summer warmth, occasionally snapping at the passing blue-bottles as he reposed in idle luxury. The rooks cawed sleepily in the elms. Busy bees and wasps, with a numerous company of their affinity, buzzed harmoniously among the blossoms; and the soft breeze, now lulled, now gently agitated, wafted fitfully these happy sounds and the fragrance of the garden into the open windows of the cottage; also contributing, and not slightly, to the enjoyinent of Mr. William Walker, the gardener and coachman of the establishment, who, stretched at full length under a currant bush, devouring lazily the products of that useful shrub, substituted that luxurions pursuit for the more useful one of weeding, in which occupation his deluded master and mistress believed him to be engaged. Within this rustic dwelling, in a small room delightfully draped with Holland, sat a short and stout comfortable-looking elderly gentleman, who had probably attained his fiftieth summer. Opposite to him was a maiden lady, who was not much his junior. This lady lacked the jovial appearance of the gentleman, as though Nature had used vinegar in her composi You'll like me betier, by-and-bye, Louise," said he, holding | tion, while treacle had been largely employed in the manufachis arm around her. "I shall try." "There's a good girl! Now, good-night." When he was gone, the garden fell into a strange unrest. It was only a wind coming up, after the rain; but the tumult seemed supernatural to Louise. Her blood chilled, and her eyes grea wide and dark. She thought she heard a voice crying-but it was only the wailing of the boughs. The voice besought her; she grew defiant. ture of the other. By the side of the gentleman sat a handsome woman, of about thirty years of age; and it would not have been difficult to tell from the demeanor of her male companion that this was his wife. She sat in a low chair, reclining back, her hands employed in knitting, though her thoughts were evidently far from the present scene. The name of the family was Gambey-Mr., Mrs., and Miss M-lissa Gambey. Mr. Gambey, who was reading aloud from a newspaper, sud“I will—I will do this thing!" she uttered, stretching her denly paused and laughed. Miss Gambey's mouth also underhand out into the dark night. As if she had conquered the spirit of the place, the wild, wet garden grew suddenly quiet. She went in, pale and smiling. The next day she was married. When she was seated in the carriage, there was some delay. Dillon went back to the house. Just then the child of the postmaster came running up with a letter. went a spasmodic distortion, which facial gymnastic she generally substituted for a more hearty demonstration of mirth. But the lady of the house went on knitting, apparently utterly heedless of the laughter-moving passage or the pause made by her husband. "Emily, my dear," said Mr. Gambey, "you are not listening to me. I particularly desired that you should have given your "For you, ma'am !" he panted, coming up to the side of the attention to this paragraph, and now I've finished I find you carriage. have not heard a syllable." Louise smiled at the little boy, and took the letter. It was covered with postmarks and altered superscriptions-evidently a miscarried letter. She opened it; it was as follows: "NEW YORK, August 30th. "DEAR LOUISE-I left you with silent lips, but with a full heart. I could not tell you then that I loved you; I had nothing to offer you, but a poverty equal to your own. I left you in silence, and came away without any assurance from you; for the surprise which I hoped would betray to me your heart, was forestalled by a rumor of my sudden departure reaching you before I saw you. The silence I have imposed upon myself has "Oh, I'm sure I beg your pardon dear," said the lady addresse, and she relapsed into forgetfulness. "When persons have something on their minds, it is not easy for them to give their whole attention to an article from a newspaper," said Miss Melissa. "But Emily has not got anything on her mind," cried Gambey. Rubbish! she's sleepy, Melissa." Miss Gambey suffered another vinegary spasm, and was silent. Mr. Gambey looked from one of the ladies to the other, and shook his head; he knew his sister and his wife had never quite hit it," and he discreetly sighed and was silent. It may be observed here that Mr. Gambey had married Emily | and snorts, which failed to gain her brother's attention, the May about four years before the opening of our stry. Notwith-worthy spinster spoke out. standing that it was a marriage of real affection on both sides, "My remark, Gideon," said she, "as to something weighing Miss Gambey thought that she had good grounds of umbrage upon Emily's mind, was hardly noticed by you, but it was at the match in the first place, she thenceforth ceased to be founded upon close observation, and to pass it over in so light mistress in her brother's house; and secondly, her sister-in-law a manner is I think scarcely consistent with your duty as a huswas yet young and attractive, which high crime and misde- band." meanor Miss Gambey, who was neither, could not find it in her heart to forgive. เ "Don't you, indeed ?" said Gambey. "I am sure I'm obliged to you for your opinion, Melissa, but I really think you might have spared my wife such close observation.' If Emily has anything upon her mind, she will doubtless communicate it to me, if she wishes me to participate in the secret; and if she does not, why there's an end of the matter-as far as you are concerned, at any rate." Perhaps not, brother," said Melissa. "What do you mean, Melissa," he blurted forth. While this little episode was enacting in the cottage, William, the recreant coachman and gardener, was disturbed in his absorbing occupation by a low whistle, which proceeded from behind the hedge which separated the garden from the Elm Grove. The youth apparently recognised the signal, for jumping up and hastily glancing at the cottage window to see if he was observed, he darted down a walk shaded on each side by filbert trees. At the bottom of this walk was a little door leading into the Elm Grove; he silently passed through it, and thereupon confronted a seedy gentleman, who as to age was yet young, but whose features were marked and lined by dissipation, and whose dull, watery eyes betokened many an hour wasted in midnight re- | phraseology." velry. "My good boy," said this individual, "I want you to give this letter to Mrs. Gambey as soon as possible; it is of the utmost importance; and if you bring me an answer to this place by nine o'clock this evening I will give you half-a-crown." "I'll try, sir," said William; "you know I ailers does my best." 16 "You do, I believe," said the seedy party; so mind you don't fail this time;" and without further speech he withdrew into the grove and speedily disappeared. William turned the note over three or four times in his dirty hands, and having done that, scratched his head violently, then, apparently deriving some satisfaction from these exercises, he returned to the garden and began to hoe as vigorously as his cargo of currants would allow him. Presently Lion was heard to give two or three deep, joyful barks, and with that worthy dog as advanced guard, Mrs. Gambey appeared approaching the spot where the boy was. "If you please, ma'am," said the toil worn youth, handing his mistress the seedy man's letter, "Muster Morgan's giv' me this for you, and I'm to take him an answer to the Elm Grove by nine o'clock this evening." Mrs. Gambey took the paper and having read the contents, merely observed that she would attend to it, and passed on to the summer house. Now William had been well tutored to silence on the subject of the notes which he frequently conveyed from the seedy gentleman, whom he called Morgan, to Mrs. Gambey; but it was not in his boy nature to keep the secret from Lion, to whom he now intrusted his observations. "Rum go, sir!" said he ; "that Morgan wants money, I'll be bound; it looks queerish altogether, but I'd trust missus to the end of the world; still, it might be awkward if Miss Melissa was to get hold of the circumstances. She won't learn much from me, however, Blacknose." The latter appellation was not intended for Miss Gambey, but for Lion, who straightway lay down to consider the subject at his ease, and with all the due deliberation it called for, while he watched his young friend at his labor. It was evident that something lay heavy on Mrs. Gambey's mind, and her respected sister-in-law's observation on that point was correct; for when the lady arrived in the summer house, after she had again perused the letter, she fell into a deep meditation, and remained for some time with her face buried in her hands; then taking out her purse she counted the contents, and placed apart from the rest some bank notes. Returning the porte-monnaie to her pocket, she beckoned William, and instructed him, in case he should see Mr. Morgan before night, to say that she would see him herself in the Elm Grove at nine o'clock; then enjoining strict secresy on the part of the boy, she left him and went into the house. While these events were occurring out of doors, Miss Melissa had taken the opportunity of being left alone with her brother to renew her attack upon him. After a short prelude of sniffs "If Emily's secret-for I know she has one-is not of such a nature as would meet a husband's approval, she might not communicate it to you," said Melissa. "And yet there ought not to be an end of the matter, to use your own wanton careless "You're not sober, Melissa,' ,"delicately hinted her brother. "In the performance of my duty, even insult shall not daunt me," murmered the upright one. "Well, then, confine yourself to your duty, and mind your own business," said Gambey. "The family honor is at stake!" said his sister. Folly is not worth an argument," said he. • Folly, brother!" exclaimed the spinster. "You are getting old and doting, Melissa," he continued. "This requires no comment; as you are reduced to abuse, the last resort of vanquished weakness," retorted Melissa. "I shall say no more." "Thank Heaven," said Gambey; "but if you choose to cast groundless aspersions upon my wife, I may as well add that it can be for no one's advantage for you to remain under this roof." "I have no desire to do so," she replied; "but since you term my words of warning 'groundless aspersions,' you must, in justice to me, either prove that I am wrong, or let me prove that I am right." "Prove it, then," said Gambey, bouncing out of the room, well pleased at having set Melissa a task which she could never accomplish. Mr. Gambey took a few turns in the Filbert Walk by way of cooling himself; but not succeeding in doing so, he sat down in the summer house. A paper on the ground caught his eye; he picked it up-it was addressed to his wife. As a matter of course, he unfolded the paper and read: "I must have more money. I positively forbid you to do as you propose; you, as well as I, are amenable to the law. I shall be in the Elm Grove to-night at nine o'clock; you will not fail me." "Whew!" said Gambey; "what's this. Why. Emily can never-no, no,-I doubt not that this can be explained in a moment. I'll go and see her at once." "No, brother," said Miss Gambey, who had overheard him, "you have accused me of acting in bad faith, and I demand that you put me to the proof in a proper manner.' "Well," said Gambey, who was rather pale by this time, "I'm puzzled. 'Amenable to the law!' what does it mean?" Miss Gambey had by this time mastered the contents of the paper which her brother held in his hand, and replied-" It means-it means-Emily has another husband!" ''Tis false?" gasped Gambey; "tis a lie-a lie, I say!" "It will never do for you to betray this agitation, brother, said Melissa, tossing her head. "I have reason to believe that Emily has lately had several interviews with the writer of that letter." "What of that?-what of that ?" cried Gambey. "I will go to her now. She will set it right in a moment I know." No, brother. You must trust to nothing but your own senses," said Melissa. You must wait until this evening." "I cannot wait, Melissa," replied Gambey; "a single hour of such agony as this and I should go mad. I must speak to Emily. If it should be as you suggest, if she was united unhappily before she married me, we will go away where no one knows us; we will still live together. I could not relinquish her. I will go to her at once." "Brother, you are mad!" cried Melissa. "It is your duty to yourself, and also to me-although that is, indeed, a secondary consideration--to probe this matter to the bottom, and to ascertain the truth of our surmises."' "Our surmises," groaned Gambey. "It would not do to question Emily," continued the spinster, "she may be tempted to offer excuses or explanations, which would only complicate matters more. You owe it to me, brother, to put the matter beyond doubt, and you must not say or do anything which may lead to a suspicion that you intend to be present at the interview appointed in that letter.'' "I don't, said Gambey." "You must," said Melissa. You must confront them together. Question one apart from the other, and you may never learn the facts. I presume, whatever the case may be, Gideon, you wish to know the truth." "Well, well, I consent," said Gambey; "but only because I know the stronger the test the purer will my wife appear. know her, Melissa, and you do not; but that you may be satisfied, I will onserve implicitly your directions. I do not doubt her-no-but I feel so like a criminal in keeping my knowledge of this affair from her that I cannot meet her; in the meantime, I will go now to Darton's and stay there until to-night, and at nine o'clock I will be in the Elm Grove, and, as you suggest, confront them together. I will carry out all your wishes, Me lissa, except to doubt my wife." Mr. Darton, poor Gambey's friend, was a substantial farmer, who lived a couple of miles from Woodbine Cottage, and who would only be too glad of Mr. Gambey's company for a few hours; so he determined to drop in as if for a few minutes' rest after a walk; and he knew a hospitable invitation to spend the remainder of the day would be pressed upon him. This he did, and presently found himself seated at the Darton's dinnertable in the midst of a noisy, happy family. The poor man could not quite, though he did his best, compose his counte nance to a joyous expression, but he accounted for some lack of joviality by pleading a headache ; and truly he might have added heartache, for his thoughts kept reverting to that letter-what could it mean? The after part of the day Mr. Gambey passed much more comfortably, for he accompanied his agricultural friend around the farm, and Mr. Darton's society was very acceptable to one s engrossed with his own thoughts as Gambey, for that worthy farmer's idea of companionship was to stand by your side and gaze reflectively at a sheep or cow, now and then observing with a tone of awful sagacity, "Hum!" At last the weary hours fled, and as Mr. Gambey neared Woodbine Cottage, .the clock struck Line. After the interview with her brother in the summer house, Melissa returned to the society of her sister-in-law, brimful of anticipated triumph and smothered spite. All day long she kept up a dribbling brooklet of hints and inuendoes, and entertained Mrs. Gambey with the particulars of every divorce case she had ever heard of, and on her showing, the wife appeared in every case to be the aggressor. Mrs. Gambey took but little heed of this, and never for a moment guessed its import It was the custom of the charitable Melissa to walk out every summer evening to visit the poor of the village and excite her organ of benevolence, which she did partly by scolding and rating the rural housewives, and partly by collecting their little tales of scandal. On this occasion, however, she made but a short foray, and then, as nine o'clock approached, she retired to the Elm Grove, and ensconced herself in a place of vantage which overlooked the garden door, and it caused a pang of disappointment in the spinster's gentle bosom that she could not with safety find a hiding-place within earshot of the door, for she had no doubt that that would be the place of meeting. Now, through the Elm Grove ran a deep ditch, which passed in the rear of Mr. Gambey's stable and pig-stye, and received the drainings therefrom. All along the bank of the ditch, to hide it from view, bushes were thickly planted; and it was among these, on the edge of the drain, that Melissa concealed herself. Nine o'clock struck, and Mrs. Gambey, carefully shutting up Lion in the drawing-room, issued forth into the garden. She looked cautiously around her, and passed down the Filbert Walk, and through the little door into the grove. A stranger met her, and took eagerly from her hand a little packet, which he concealed. At this moment Gambey stole under the hedge, pale and tottering; he stooped down by the little door, and listened to what they were saying. Mrs. Gambey was entreating the strangerthat man !—perhaps her husband! Oh, who could have thought her false?-stay. What, what was she saying? "You do not know my husband if you say so. You may trust him; besides these frequent meetings may compromise me, John Gimbey?" What name?-John Gambey? Why, 'tis my brother John! Oh, Heaven!" and the poor husband fell heavily and senseless against the little door. It opened, and Mrs. Gambey and the stranger beheld the swooning man. Another sound was heard in the rear, but it was unheeded. Miss Melissa Gambey fell headlong into the ditch. Yes, after all, it was that erring scapegrace, John Gambey, who had a few years previously been most properly transported. He had, however, obtained a conditional pardon, but in coming to England had broken his ban, and was of course liable to be arrested on that account; it was in this respect that Mrs. Gambey was "amenable to the law" for harboring a criminal. On account of former quarrels John feared his brother, and thought he might even give him up to justice if he knew of his presence in England. But he knew the generosity and goodness of his sister-in-law, and to her he had appealed for money and assistance. Mr. Gimbey being recovered, the trio adjourned to the cottage, but neither Mrs. Gambey nor the brother could account for the exceeding kindness of that gentleman to them both. Mrs. Gambey had anticipated much difficulty in reconciling her husband to the brother who had brought such trouble and disgrace upon him; but Mr. Gambey agreed with the readiest possible cheerfulness to send John out to some respectable colony with money and introductions, and, in fact, behaved as though his brother were his best benefactor instead of a pestiferous εcamp. Melissa was not seen by any of the family that night; she went straight from the ditch to bed; nor did she appear the next morning at breakfast; but further on in the day she and her brother had rather a warm, if not affectionate interview, in the library; and before lunch the village fly was at the door, and presently flew away, containing the estimable spinster and her worldiy goods, never to trouble Gayeton again. "And a good riddance too," said the cook, as she viewed the retreating equipage. "Which likewise is my sentiments, and Lion's as well," added William, speaking for himself, and also faithfully interpreting the dog's opinion. When the last sound of the wheels had died away, Gambey took his wife to his heart and kissed her affectionately. "I hope," said he, "you won't miss Melissa very much.” Mrs. Gambey's Reply cannot be recorded, the resources of the English alphabet being far too limited to enable me to give you any idea of the sound produced by her lips. READERS.-Coleridge divided readers into four classes; the first he compared to an hour glass, their reading being as the sand--it runs in and out, and leaves not a vestige behind. A second class, he said, resembled a sponge--which imbibes everything, and returns it in nearly the same state; only a little dirtier. A third class is likened to a jelly-bag--which allows all that is pure to pass away, and retains only the refuse and the dregs. The fourth class he compared to the slaves in the diamond mines of Golconda, who, casting aside all that is worthless, preserve only the pure gems |