"Most beautiful," she returned, astonishe1 at cae artist's manner, and the enthusiasm with which he aded to his own creation. "I am honored by your approval," said Paolo, laying down his palette, and folding his a to gaze at the picture-a Cupid and Psyche-with acrual rapture. It was the face of the woman, of the girl, timidly impassioned and tender, fig the around with beauty, that had struck Clorinda-wit. golden hair, that waved and shone in the sunwith a white, small, but exquisitely shaped forehead; with deep blue eyes, fixed with admiring love on the tormenting god; with cheeks on which lay so softly the bloom of health that it seemed ready to fade before the breath from the painting; with a mouth and chin moulded on some perfect Grecian statue she thought she had never seen anything so divine. "Ah," she said, with a sigh, "you painters are dreadful enemies of woman. Who would look at reality after gazing on this glorious ideal?'' "It is reality," replied the painter. "I paint from memory." "Impossible!" she said. "You must have combined the beauty of fifty girls in that exquisite creation. "No," replied the artist, gravely; "that face exists-I saw it in the mountains of Sicily. I have often painted it before never so successfully." "I would give the world to gaze on the original," said Clorinda. "I adore a beautiful woman. It is God's greatest work of art." his way with his hands. Paolo only halted when he reached the summit of the house. He then placed a key in a door, a blaze of light was seen, and he disappeared, locking the door behind him. The other stood irresolute, but only for a moment. The house was built round a square court, like a well; there was a terraced roof. Gliding noiselessly along, the stranger was in the open air; moving along like a midnight thief, he gained a position whence the windows of the rooms entered by Paolo were distinctly visible. A heavy sigh from the stranger, who sank behind a kind of pillar, revealed the countess. The sigh was caused by the astounding discovery she now made. The room into which she was looking was brilliantly lighted up and beautifully furnished, while beyond-for Clorinda could see as plainly as if she had been in it was a small bed-room, and near the bed sat an old woman, who was preparing to bring in a child to Paolo. Just withdrawing herself from his embrace was a beautiful young girl, simply and elegantly dressed-the original of the Pysche which Clorinda had so much admired. Now she understood all; that look, which she had thought the consciousness of his own beautiful creation, was for the beloved original. The child, a beautiful boy nearly a year old, was brought to him to kiss. Now all his savageness was gone; now he stood no longer the artist, the creator, the genius of art, but the man. He smiled, he patted the babe upon the cheek, he let it clutch his fingers with its little hands, he laughed outright, a rich, happy laugh; and then, turning to the enraptured mother, "It is, signora," said Paolo; and he turned away to his embraced her once more, and drew her to a table near the work. opened window. Women born in the climate of Italy, under her deep blue sky, and in that air that breathes of poetry, painting, music, and love, are not guided by the same impulses and feelings as in our colder and more practical north. Clorinda did not wait for Paolo's admiration. She loved him, and every day added to her passion, His undoubted genius, his intellectual brow, his noble features and mien, had awakened her long pent-up and sleeping affections. She was herself a woman of superior mind and had revelled in the delights of Petrarch, Dante, Ariosto and Boccaccio. Now she felt, how deeply she alone knew. But the artist remained obstinately insensible to all her charms, to her friendship and her condescending tone, as well as to her intellect and beauty. He saw all, save her love, and admired and respected her. But there was, at all events at present, no germ of rising passion in his heart. "What progress to-day?" asked the painter, gaily. "See," replied the young mother, handing him a copy-book, and speaking in the somewhat harsh dialect of a Sicilian peasant-girl; "I think, at last, I can write a page pretty well.” "Excellent," said the painter, smiling. "My Eleanora is a pretty little fairy; a prettier handwriting you will not see. I need give no more lessons." "But the reading," said the young girl, speaking like a timid scholar; "I shall never please you in that." "You always please me," said Paolo; "but you must get ri of your accent.' "I will try," said Eleanora, earnestly; and taking up a book she began to read with much of the imperfection of a young school-girl, but so eagerly, so prettily, and with such an evident desire to please, that, as she concluded her lesson, the artist clasped her warmly to his bosom, and cried, with love in his eyes and in his tone, "My wife, how I adore you!" It was not long before Clorinda began to remark Paolo's early departure from the palace, his mysterious way of going, and the fact that he never returned until the next day at early dawn, which always now saw him at his labors. The idea at once One Summer morning a young man with a knapsack on his flashed across her mind that he had found in Venice some per- back, a pair of pistols in his belt, a staff to assist him in climbson on whom to lavish the riches of his affection, and that being the hills and mountains, and in crossing the torrents, was went every evening to plead his passion at her feet. Jealousy took possession of her. She spent a whole night in reflection; she turned over in her mind every supposition; and she rose feverish and ill. That day, pleading illness, she remained in her room, shut up with her books. About an hour after dark, Paolo, his hat drawn over his eyes, his cloak wrapped round him, and his mask on, stepped into a gondola which awaited him, and started. Another boat lay on the opposite side of the canal, with curtains closely drawn. Scarcely had the artist's gondola been set in motion than the other followed. Paolo, who had never, since his arrival in Venice, been watched or followed, paid no attention to it. The two gondolas then moved on, side by side, and that bearing Paolo stopped as usual, allowing the artist to land, and continued on its way. Another figure, also wrapped in a cloak, masked, and with a bat and plumes, leaped out from the other gondola, and, creeping close against the wall, followed him. The stranger seemed, by his gazing at the dirty walls and low shops-chiefly old clothes, rag-shops, and warehouses devoted to small trades--very much surprised, but, for fear of losing the track of the other, followed closely. Suddenly the artist disappeared. The other moved rapidly forward in time to observe that he had entered a dark alley, and was ascending with heavy step a gloomy and winding staircase. The stranger followed cautiously, stepping in time with Paolo, and feeling standing on the brow of a hill overlooking a small but beautiful plain. It was half meadow, half pasture-land; here trees, there a winding stream, little hillocks, green and grassy plots; beyond, a loʻty mountain, on which hung a sombre-tinted pine forest, the whole illumined by the joyous sun of Sicily, which flooded all nature, and spread, as it were, a violet and golden veil over her. After gazing nearly half an hour at the landscape, the young man moved slowly down a winding path that led to the river side. Suddenly he heard the tinkling of sheep-bells, the barking of dogs, and he looked around to see whence the sound came. In a small corner of pasture land, at no great distance from the stream, he saw the flock, and, seated beneath the shadow of a huge tree, a young girl. He advanced at once towards her, not being sure of his way. She was a young girl of sixteen, the same delicate and exquisite creation which had so struck Clorinda on the canvass, and in the garret at Venice. The eye of the artist was delighted, the heart of the man was filled with emotion. He spoke to her; she answered timidly but sweetly. He forgot his intended question; he alluded to the beautiful country, to the delight of dwelling in such a land, to the pleasures of her calm and placid existence; he asked if he could obtain a room in that neighborhood in which to reside while he took a series of sketches. The girl listened with attention and interest for nearly half an hour, during which he was using his pencil. She then replied that her father would gladly offer him a shelter in their small house, if he could be satisfied with very humble lodging and very humble fare. The young man accepted the offer with many thanks, and then showed her his sketch-book. "Holy Virgin!" she cried, as she recognized herself. "You are pleased," said the artist, smiling. saw, with secret impatience, the many defects which still existed in his beloved idol; he felt the restraint of confining her always within a suite of rooms; he longed to give her air and space, but he dreaded her being seen by powerful and unscrupulous men; he dreaded ridicule for her peasant origin and imperfect education. Hence the defects in his character. It was on the afternoon of the next day, when Paolo, who "Oh, 'tis beautiful!" she said; "how can you do that with had been giving some finishing touches to the Psyche, was aba pencil? Come quick and show it to father." The young man followed her, as she slowly drove her sheep along, and soon found himself within sight of a small house with a garden, which she announced as her father's. She had the drawing in her hand, looking at it with delight. Unable to restrain her feelings, she ran forward, and, entering the house, disappeared. The artist smiled as he picked up the crook of the impetuous young shepherdess, and, aided by the faithful dog, began driving home the patient animals. In about ten minutes Eleanora reappeared, accompanied by her father, her brother, and sister, regular Sicilian peasants, without one atom of resemblance to this extraordinary pearl concealed from human eye in the beautiful valley of Arnola. They were all, however, struck by the portrait, and received the artist with rude hospitality. He took up his residence with them; he sought to please, and he succeeded. After a few days the artist became the constant companion of Eleanora. They went out together-be to paint, she to look after her sheep, both to talk. He found her totally uneducated, ignorant of everything, unable to read or write, and narrow-minded as all such natures must be; but there was a foundation of sweetness, and a quickness of intellect, which demonstrated that circumstances alone had made her what she was, and Paolo loved her. He had been a fortnight at Arnola, and he had made up his mind. One beautiful morning, soon after they had taken up their usual position, Paolo said, "Eleanora, I love you with a love that is of my life. I adore-I worship you. You are the artist's ideal of loveliness; your soul only wants culture to be as lovely as your features. Will you be my wife? Will you make my home your home, my country your country, my life your life? I am an artist; I battle for my bread, but I am already gaining riches. Speak! will you be mine?'' "I will," replied the young girl, who had no conception of hiding her feelings of pride and joy. "But you do not know me," said Paolo. "I am jealous and suspicious, I am proud and sensitive. You are beautiful-you are lovely; others will dispute you with me; but I would slay those who sought you, or offered you a gift. You are a simple peasant girl; those around me might smile at your want of town knowledge-might jeer at you for not having the accomplishments and vices of the town ladies. I should challenge the first who smiled or jeered. You must, then, if you can be mine, and will make me happy, live apart from men, for me alone; you must know of no existence but mine; you must abandon all society, all conversation with your fellow-creatures I must be your world, your life, your whole being." "I will be what pleases you best," said the young girl, gently. "The picture does not alarm you?" he said. "Will you always love me?'' she asked, timidly. "While I live, my art, my idol, my goddess, Eleanorawhile I breathe, I will always love you." "Do with me as you will," replied the gentle and lovely Eleanora. sorbed in its contemplation. He held the brush in his hand, and stood back a little way, examining it with attention. "It is beautiful! The Countess Clorinda was right," he exclaimed. "Not nearly so beautiful as the original," said a voice behind him. "Great heaven!" cried Paolo, turning round, pale and fiercely; but he started back in silent amazement. There was Eleanora, blushing, trembling, timid, hanging a little back, and leaning on the arm of the countess, who smiled a sweet, sad smile of triumph. "Be not angry, signor," she said; "it is all my fault. You excited my curiosity relative to the original of this picture. You said it existed. I immediately connected your mysterious absences with something that might explain all. Last night I followed you home. I saw this beautiful creature; I understood the motives of her seclusion. This day I went to see her early; I forced my way in. Half by threats, half by coaxing, I elicited the truth from her. Signor Paolo, your conduct is selfish; to save yourself from imaginary evils you condemn this angel to a prison life; you deprive her of air and liberty, the very life of a Sicilian girl; you prevent her from enjoying the manifold blessings which God intended for all; you deprive us of the satisfaction of admiring a face so divine, and a mind so pure. But then, you will say, she is beautiful enough to excite love; she is simple enough to excite a smile. Signor Paolo, she is good enough to scorn the first word of lawless passion; she is intelligent enough to learn everything that becomes a lady and befits the wife of a man of genius, if you will but let her mix with the world. You are yourself miserable; your life is a torment. I, the friend, the confidant, the sister of this innocent and good girl, declare to you that you must change your mode of existence." "Countess, you have conquered," said Paolo, who guessed the truth, and intuitively felt that her generous heart would find, in devotion to Eleanora, means of withdrawing her attention from her unfortunate passion. "Do with her as you please," he said. "When the Countess Clorinda, only child of my generous patron, calls my wife her sister, my wife is hers for life." The result was natural. Paolo ceased to be suspicious and restless. Eleanora was universally admired; and when, ten years later, the artist, after finishing the paintings for the gallery of the Palace Bembo, took up his residence permanently in Venice, his wife had become an accomplished and unaffected lady, capable of holding her position in the elevated circles to which the genius of her husband, and the friendship of the tess remained true to her friendship all her life, delighted and Countess Clorinda, established her right to belong. The Counhappy at being the ensurer of permanent happiness to two loving hearts, which, under suspicion, fear, and seclusion, must otherwise have been utterly wretched. THE OLD LADY OF THE OLD SCHOOL. J. S. A month later they were married, her parents being proud, indeed, of the elevated position which their daughter had attained. In the autumn they went to Rome, where Paolo had WHAT a treat it is in these days to meet with "an old lady of prepared for his wife's mysterious existence, through his faithful] the old school"-one who is wise enough to eschew peach-blesand attached nurse. He devoted to Eleanora every moment not som silks and gauze bonnets, and does not consult the "Book devoted to his art, and at once began her education. He of Fashions" when she requires a new dress. There is somefound her an apt and earnest scholar, and at the time of which thing truly respectable in the rich black silk gown, generally we speak Eleanora was possessed of all the mental advantages exchanged at weddings and christenings for a brown lustre ; to be derived from constant intercourse with a man of genius. there is becoming simplicity in the snowy lace cap, with the grey But Paolo, out of his home, was a changed and unhappy man. hair smoothly banded under the full bordering; and there is an He lived in constant dread of his treasure being discovered; he unfathomable charm about those side appendages called pockets 66 observes, those writers were so simple. She has also a predilection for "Whittington and his Cat," and "Little Red Riding Hood." All the juvenile possessions in this depart. -we do not mean those shallow modern reservoirs, that are only licensed to carry a laced bit of cambric and an embroidered purse-we mean those ample developments of stitched dimity. You will be safe to find a pincushion, a bottle of smelling-salt,ment are the gifts of grandmamma, and it is shrewdly suspected a thimble, a piece of sealing-wax, a pocket-book, filled with choice recipes and particular records, a penknife, some carraway comfits and Spanish liquorice, a Chinese puzzle and an English apple, with not unfrequently, a peg-top, a bag of marbles, and a half-dressed doll-these last items being indicative symptoms of grandchildren. Indeed, the old lady is not seen in full character without she has a tribe of girls and boys of the second generation growing up round her, who induce the exhibition of her partialities and prejudices. As for the boys learning Greek and German, it is all a parcel of nonsense, and might just as well be done without. She strongly objects to the girls stooping over framework and drawing, and is rude enough to stigmatise the first as "a lot of trumpery," and honors the last with some indistinct opinion, not at all calculated to increase the artist's vanity. she sometimes has a peep into them on her own account, without even the excuse of little Tom's wanting to know what that pretty yellow book is all about. As regards dancing, she cannot bring herself to understand "The Lancers" or "First Set," and looks with something very like contempt on the couple walking through "L'Eté;" but when the opening bars of "Haste to the Wedding" are heard, and preparations for "down the middle and up again" are making, then do we see the old lady nodding time with her head, and betraying certain fidgety symptoms with her feet; and if it should happen to be Christmas-eve, do not be astonished if she suffer some favorite and audacious young friend to pull her into the rank, where we find her jigging away in a fashion that causes one to doubt whether her frequent complaints of rheumatism are quite justified. At cards she is very serious, and sits down to a rubber with imperturbable gravity and precision. Even the darling grandson stands a fair chance of being "snubbed," if he dare to address her while the "odd trick" is pending; and though she be of a most amiable and forgiving disposition, she has been known to bear violent animosity, for three months, toward the best of obi gentlemen, because he trumped her best card. She does not patronise French dishes nor Italian music. She enjoys roast beef, and has a juvenile attachment to apple-pie, being rather critical as to its flavor of cloves and lemon-peel. She insists that "Old Robin Grey," and "Time has not thinned my flowing Hair," are far superior to any compositions of Weber and Rossini. Should any humane Goth venture to sing "Jessie the Flower of Dunblane," or "The Bewildered Maid," she will grow ecstatic, and peer through her spectacles The Old Lady of the Old School is generally beloved and into the face of the singer with most admiring affection, express-respected by the servants. She supplies them with infallible ing a hearty wish that the young people would practice such remedies for chapped hands and chilblains. She manages to things, instead of the fine "fal lals" that begin with a groan, bequeath a silk dress now and then, while it is as good as new ; and end with a scream. The Old Lady of the Old School generally has an especial and peculiar arrangement of working tools, in the shape of scissors, pins, needles, tapes, thread, and so forth, with which no one dared to interfere, under her severe displeasure and very active resistance. She will graciously lend or give from her stores; but the articles must be asked for, not taken; and a vulgar snatch at a piece of bobbin, or an unceremonious appropriation of her best scissors, may be productive of considerable mental excitement. She is ever obstinately bent on threading her needle herself, particulary by candl -light; and when she by chance does allow another to perform the task for her, it is only on the strength of her firm conviction "that the eyes of the needles in our days are made very differently to what they used to be." and it is strongly suspected that the smart handkerchief and fancy waistcoat, which the groom wears when he takes a walk with the housemaid, were the gift of "old mistress." By dint of worrying and coaxing, her purse is considerably lightened of its contents by the juveniles of her family. Edward has seen a splendid riding-whip, which he would fain add to his possessions; and if grandmamma would give him ten shillings he could manage it. Little Tom who has set his heart and eyes on a monstrous kite, artfully contrives to lead grandmamma to the toy-shop window, and fully persuades her that it would be a delightful evening's employment for to help him make a tail to it. Miss Clara stops short on Ludgate Hill, being inspired with "love at first sight," by a sweet work-box; and, considering she has made a marble bag and hemmed two handkerchiefs in her lifetime, the desire for such a necessary appendage is not to be wondered at. Miss Emily, who has a She is a little given to etiquette, and meets strangers with a visible evidence of having studied the "Minuet de la Cour ;"pet spaniel, happens to see a beautiful silver collar, and divines, but if you can once get her to dilate on the acting of Mrs. Siddons, or to get back to the palmy time of Vauxhall, her formality dissolves wonderfully, under the recital of a crush she endured when she went to see "Isabella," and the delight she felt in listening to Mrs. Bland's ditties, while it poured with rain one summer night. She cannot be induced to admire railways, and strenuously declares, that people never know when to stop with their inventions and science. She thinks it very strange that the world cannot go fast enough with respectable stage coaches and eight-horse wagons, as it used to do; and on her son's proposing to take her to Brighton by express train," she indignantly and seriously begs him "not to talk nonsense." The Old Lady of the Old School frequently appears as the patroness of a venerable spaniel, or antiquated ringed tabby, whom she protects from the violent clutches of her youngest grandson, with uniform benevolence. The domestics may occasionally neglect herself, and she pardons the delinquen's unconcernedly; but if they venture to forget "Fop's" dinner or "Tibby's milk," a very decided reminder is now volunteered. On inquiry, the dog or cat will often be found to have been the favorite or gift of her late husband, and the old lady's love for the dumb thing is a tender and natural compliment to the memory of the departed. In literature, she prefers Shakspeare and Goldsmith. She honestly declares she cannot understand much of the poetry put forth in our time, but that she can perfectly compreheud "Othello" and the "Deserted Village ;" "but then," as she with the most extraordinary sagacity, that it would “just fit Fido's neck. In short, there is no end to the demands upon the old lady's generosity; but then it is well known she has a handsome independence, and "if she chooses to spend it in such a way, what is it to any one?" It is quite useless for papa or mamma to interfere. It is vain to tell her she spoils the children, for she only smiles a little sadly, and says, "Never mind! my race will soon be run; I shall not be here long to spoil them ;" and then who can breathe another word of expostulation to the Old Lady of the Old School. GREAT WATER DRINKERS.-They are very wasteful of water in Boston. When the waterworks were constructed the experience of other cities was consulted, and thirty gallons per day allowed for every man, woman and child. But in 1857 the consumption had reached seventy-five gallons daily for every inhabitant, and last year ninety gallons, at which the water commissioners are justly alarmed, and the people are enjoined to reform their habits or the supply will fail. THE PRESENT.-Look not mournfully into the past-it comes not back again. Wisely improve the present-it is thine. Go forth to meet the shadowy future without fear, and with a manly heart. GOOD DOCTRINE.-Every good doctrine leaves behind it an ethereal furrow ready for the planting of seeds which shall bring an abundant harvest. 'A SPRING LANE. CARL, WHAT WAS IF YOU PROMISED TO TELL ME?" 1 You see it happened in this wise: having just graduated at a fashionable boarding-school, and being tired of my own gorgeous home (for you must know I was an heiress and an orphan) and desperately plagued by a swarm of fortune-hunting suitors, I finally came to the conclusion that I would visit my dear cousin, Kate Hunstead, at her charming residence in Berlie. Mrs. Kate was a married lady, and a charming little wife she made, too, with her smooth brown hair and sunny smiles; and taking into consideration the fact of her having no "little ones to worry and love me to distraction, I concluded to answer her letter of two weeks standing, and accept the kind invitation therein expressed to visit her the coming month of June-and to prolong my stay to an unlimited length of time. So calling my maid, Louise, with her assistance I soon had the VOL. XVII., No. 4-16 satisfaction of finding myself and wardrobe en route for Berlie, dear, quiet Berlie. I traveled alone-having for once overstepped the rules and regulations of my guardian-forbidding Louise and every one else to accompany me. I was very happy that day, rushing along through green fields and pleasant woodlands; and, among other things, was just congratulating myself upon reaching the mature age of nineteen, without meeting one specimen of the genus homo whose presence could bring a flush to my cheek or a-. Just then I raised my eyes suddenly, and gracious! my visual organs encountered a pair of the softest, darkest gray eyes they had ever looked into. For an instant my heart stood still, then began throbbing and beating against my gipsy waist, until I was fain to turn my head and hide my blushes by looking out at the car window. I was ashamed of myself. The dignified Florence Audley to be thus startled out of her habitual selfpossession, by simply meeting the gray eyes of a gentleman in a railroad car; it was too humiliating. Florence," I said to myself, "you are a great goose. You have been and gone and fallen in love with a man at first sight. What would your respected grandmother, aunts, uncles and cousins say to such unseemly conduct? You must do penance by looking out of the window the rest of the afternoon." Looking out of the window soon became irksome, and before I was quite aware of it I was gazing intently at the owner of the aforesaid eyes. I could find fault with nothing. The unknown was a model of manly beauty and elegance. A beautiful little black straw hat, soft brown hair, just inclined to curl at the ends, smooth forehead, fine gray eyes, a sizeable nose, neither too large or too small, sweet grave mouth, shaded by just the nicest brown moustache you ever saw; a square white chin, underneath a charming little cravat, English walking coat, fashionable inexpressibles, little shiny boots with Washington buckles and black over-gaiters; brown kids and an ivory-topped cane. There! you have the tout ensemble of my traveling companion complete. Although fashionably dressed, one could see plainly he was no fop. There was about his whole person that grave, distingué air, which compelled me to acknowledge him a gentleman. The rest of the afternoon I passed in a day dream, the unknown and myself figuring largely in my thoughts Just as the sun was sinking behind the hills, I was aroused by the conductor's calling out Berlie! at the entrance, and was surprised to see my fellow-traveler moving towards the door as I was about to cast a farewell glance towards the seat he occupied; but my consternation knew no bounds, when, after hugging cousin Kate and shaking hands with her husband, Jack Hunstead, I espied the veritable stranger making his way towards us, and in five minutes afterwards he was formally presented to me as Jack's cousin, Mr. Whitiker. Was ever a young lady so blessed? I could scarcely believe that I was to have for a vis-a-vis, during the drive home, the fascinating young stranger who had so taken my fancy in the cars, but such was the fact. After arriving at cousin's, Mr. Whitiker assisted me to alight, and rushing upstairs into my pleasant front chamber, I threw myself into the first chair I came to, and was-the happiest little girl in the universe. Then came the trying ordeal of choosing something to wear down to tea. My trunks had been brought into the room, and after tumbling them upside down to find something light and cool that suited me, I finally decided upon an India muslin, pure and white, which lay at the very bottom, of course; then putting some scarlet verbenas (which I found on my table) in my hair, my toilet was complete. I will just tell you here that I was very pretty indeed, (excuse me), had crimson cheeks, black eyes, dark hair that fell in a "waterfall" of curls (not false ones) at my neck, of medium height, form well rounded, small feet and hands, and possessed of a grace which can only be acquired at a French boardingschool. I tell you this simply to give you an inkling of the effect my brunette face, white robe and scarlet verbenas, in connection with my high spirits must have had upon Mr. W. That evening was a triumph; and eleven o'clock found us still on the piazza enjoying the summer moonlight. As our little party disbanded for our respective sleeping apartments, cousin Jack whispered in my ear "If I am not very much mistaken a certain young gentleman, Carl Whitiker by name, is suffering from a severe case of smile." "For shame, Jack! how can you use such slang phrases, and how can you entertain such absurd ideas!" ejaculated I, as I ran upstairs to bed. The next morning found me wide awake at a very early hour, listening to the birds, and thinking of-Mr. Whitiker. Even then, I knew I loved him; my strong passionate nature was for once fully aroused. The sound of his voice, and the touch of his hand at parting the evening before, gave me a delicious thrill I had never known before. I lay, then, for a long, long time it seemed to me, but glancing at the little clock on the mantel, I saw that 'twas only seven o'clock, so jumping out of bed I hastily dressed myself, went downstairs and out through the garden to a little summer-house at the farther end, where I had spent many pleasant hours during my former visits to cousin Kate's. Upon entering I was considerably surprised to find the subject of my thoughts stretched out on one of the settees quietly smoking. The moment he saw me he arose, and gracefully offered me a chair. I had a great mind to run away, but, thinking better of it, I fin y accepted his earnest request to "come in," and for a whole hour had the exquisite pleasure of listening to the tones of his glorious voice. But everything must have an end. Three weeks had passed away. The precious moments had dragged themselves. into hours, the hours into days, and the days into weeks, and Carl Waitiker and myself were still visitors at cousin Kate's, when one afternoon as I was returning from the woods laden with flowers and mosses, Carl met me at the gate with “Where have you been, Flora? Your name is no misnomer, for you look a very queen of flowers just now." "Thank you, Carl, I have been out in the woods with the fairies, and now allow me to ask where have you been spending your precious time this glorious afternoon." "Me? Ob, I have been out on the lake. By-the-way, will you give me the pleasure of your company this evening? I would have you see the effect of the moonlight on the waves, and besides I have something to tell you." "Certainly," said I, and we walked towards the house. That evening, as we were rowing about among the pond lillies. it suddenly came to my mind what he had said about telling me something, so I broke a long dreamy silence, (for somehow we were both unusually grave) by saying abruptly, "Carl, what was it you promised to tell me ?'' He dropped the oars and began smoothing my hair (he had a strange way of smoothing my hair when talking to me earnestly), I wanted to tell you, little one that I loved you, and wanted you for my little wife." To think that glorious man loved me! I was so happy I could hardly speak. But what do you think I did? Why I refused him point blanck. I was afraid he would think of me lightly soon, so I dashed aside my cup of happiness to gratify a miserably foolish pride. But oh! the wretched days and sleepless nights I passed after that. Carl treated me politely and kindly, although he was the aggrieved party, and suffered even more than myself. I can never forget the sad grieved lock that came into his eyes as he said, "Flora you have made my life wretched, may God forgive you." The day before my return home came, and with it, in the afternoon, a terrible thunder shower. When the storm was at its height I started out to make a farewell visit to the lake, the scene of so much joy and misery to me. The rain splashed in my face, nearly blinding me, but I did not care, the thunder and lightning pleased me. By-and-bye the storm abated, and the sun came out in splendor. I sat leaning against the trunk of an old elm, sobbing bitterly, when some one touched my shoulder, and I looked into the frightened eyes of Carl. "Great heavens! Miss Audley, where have you been, and what are you doing here in the wet grass half drowned." I sprang up fiercely, saying, "Why do you torment me with your presence? Can't you leave me alone the last day of my stay?" "Do you then hate me so much?" and he turned and walked sadly towards the house. I gave way then; I could hold out no longer. How I did love him! "Carl! Carl! I cried out, come back to me." The next moment I was clasped between two loving arms. But I will leave the rest to the imagination of the reader; simply saying if you wish to see two of the happiest mortals living, you have only to visit "Whitiker Place, when my husband and myself will only be too glad to welcome you this glorious June. THE FIRST GUILLOTINE. AFTER ruling Scotland, under favor of Elizabeth, for nearly ten years, the regent, Morton, fell a victim to court faction, which probably could not have availed against him if he had not forfeited public esteem by his greed and cruelty. It must have been a striking sight when that proud, stern, resolute face, which had frowned so many better men down, came to speak from a scaffold, protesting innocence of the crime for which he had been condemned, but owning sins enough to justify God for his fate. As is well known, the instrument employed on the occasion was one forming a sort of prototype of the afterwards more famous guillotine, and named The Maiden, of which a portraiture is here presented, drawn from the original, still preserved in Edinburgh. Morton is believed to have been the person who introduced The Maiden into Scotland, and he is thought to have taken the idea from a similar instrument which had long graced a mount near Halifax, in Yorkshire, as the appointed means of ready punishment for offences against forest law in that part of Eng land. CANDLES.-The origin of candles is obscure. They were first used to light cathedrals and churches, and were made of wax. History records that Alfred the Great employed a graduated wax candle, enclosed in a lantern, as the best mode then known for ascertaining the divisions of time. Candles were not in "But supposing it should rain, and why can't you tell me general use for domestic purposes till towards the close of the now." "I had rather reserve it until then. Will you come ?" thirteenth century, when they are first noticed as being made of tallow. |
