judged that I do not appear to recapitulate these facts without a knowledge of the actors and an intention to communicate it."

I bowed impatiently, and he continued:"I need scarcely say to you, who know what followed, that the shadows fell that night upon at least one happy heart-the heart of Maggie Falmer. In that wide world which had hitherto accorded her but scorn and coldness, she had found one heart of tenderness, one being who professed and promised an unalterable love. Is this true?"

"It is," I replied, "and God knows how religiously I kept my promise. Not a day, not an hour was she absent from my thoughts,

until-"

"Until you found that the world pays little heed to pretty flowers, unless they bloom in choice and cultivated gardens; until you began to fear that, were your blossom of the hillside transplanted to a fashionable parlor, its owner would become ridiculous, and itself unhappy?"

"You have guessed shrewdly, but rather wide of the mark," I said. "I never suffered myself to compare the child of poverty with the favorites of fortune, for a generous heart and noble spirit are themselves the best estate."

"I have no need to learn of the generous soul of Mr. Fairfield," observed the stranger, "for I am not ignorant of his past singularly upright career."

I bowed in acknowledgment, and he proceeded:·-

"However thoroughly you sought to drive such difficulties from your mind, even your most cautious tenderness could not blot their shadow from your letters as the months succeeding your departure from Smalley gradually widened into years, blending your memories of Maggie and her merits, as they grew dimmer, with new and brighter visions, which sadly impaired the older ones by contrast. Think you that an over-sensitive mind, like that of Maggie Fulmer, could fail to trace the outlines of a fear that had once darkened the page while it was written? Your letters, it is true, were very, very kind, and would have satisfied many an ardent mistress; but the doubt which grew larger and larger in your soul could not escape the eyes of Maggie; and then, Mr. Fairfield, you received no more letters."

"Thus far," I said, as the speaker evidently paused for a remark, "thus far you seem to know all. What constant but ineffectual attempts I subsequently made to discover the retreat of her who had been so long the

moving element of many a dream you must surely know, since you know so much."

Something of that I know," he answered; "but my business here to-night is not so much with the past as with the future."

"Proceed, sir," I observed, "and you need no assurance from me that if any means of mine can benefit Maggie Fulmer, I shall need no prompting."

"Let us follow for a moment further, then, her fortunes," he resumed. "You need no minute narration to imagine her constant application of your advice, after your departure as before; and her unceasing aspiration after the prizes you bade her struggle for-wisdom and goodness. Had wealth lain at her command, which could smooth away the fearful difficulties in her path, the task would have been easier, though many, even with such advantages, esteem it hopeless; but for that unaided child of sorrow to climb the steeps of life, in poverty and hunger, destitute of friends, of means, and almost of books, was a task which few can appreciate who have not done the same. Can you not realize, Mr. Fairfield, the long and weary pilgrimage, the secret tears, the uncomplaining toil, the unwearied study, the hopeful trust which witnessed and sustained the struggle? And if, indeed, it might be said at last that her fortunes assumed a brighter aspect, as she rose by slow gradations from the dependence of the girl to the independence of a woman, it is none the less a truth that her guiding stars along the toilsome journey were the counsels of Henry Fairfield, the noble future he mapped out for her unfledged ambition, and, more than all, the memory of-himself. Such, sir, is the history, in part, of the school-girl Maggie Fulmer, now grown into a woman whom experiences sad and bitter have made wise, and who is in all things but wealth and adventitious rank your equal. And my errand here this night, sir, is simply to inquire how, after so many years of cruel privation and brave endurance, you would meet her?"

There was something in this question, or the emphasis conveying it, that stung me strangely. Full as my heart already was of pity for the unhappy child whose servile lot had never blossomed but with hope to welcome me at last, his words seemed to imply, "Mr. Fairfield, your integrity has withstood many trials, but here you will act the coward." Perhaps the contrast which I had drawn while he was speaking, between the gentle nature of Maggie, who had, through years of suffering, looked only to my love for a return, and the wayward, capricious

coquette, Mary Seymour, who a few hours previous had met me with a cold condition which must separate us perchance forever, had originated the suspicion, for I could find no such expression as I looked again into the penetrating eyes before which I felt the secrets of thoughts unfolding like the pages of a familiar book. In my present irritable mood, I was vexed at the cool superiority of the stranger, and made a powerful struggle for my dignity.

"Sir," said I, "if I have thus far submitted to be catechized by one of whose authority to speak in this matter I know nothing, I am scarcely so forgetful of our relative positions as to discuss with him my probable conduct under any supposable circumstances. If your business be to trifle with my feelings, your errand, sir, is perilous. If you have any definite purpose, it were wise perhaps to state it."

The fine face of the stranger was overspread with a look of haughtiness as he replied: "My authority for this interview, sir, is Miss Margaret Fulmer, and my specific purpose is to learn how much the Henry Fairfield of thirty has changed from the Henry Fairfield of eighteen. The picture which I drew is not a fancy sketch, but wholly true. You may think, as many might, that the end scarcely warranted such disproportioned sacrifices; but love only can estimate the power of a woman's will, and her solace during all has been a hope that the one who gave a color to her whole existence is the same as when he said to her, twelve years ago

'Tell me that you love me, Maggie, and some time, when you have outlived these girlhood troubles, we may realize this dream together.' As I have said, sir, she has lived years upon the anticipation of this hour. She has at last become, what you taught her was worthy of the love of all men, a being of intelligence, respectability, and virtue, and in this position desires to know if you have forgotten and ceased to love the Maggie of your boyhood. Sickness, poverty, and the vicissitudes of misfortune have failed to erase your image from her heart, and she now offers you the boundless affection of one who, if poor, is virtuous and respected; who, if she has suffered from misfortune, has not wrecked therein her nobleness of soul; and who, though she has forgotten volumes from the past, still wears in her bosom an image which bears your name. And now, Henry Fairfield, decide," said my guest, calmly rising and folding his arms-"decide whether you will reject the offer of this being, dissever all past ties, and cheat the promise of her youth."

This unexpected and direct appeal, so calcu lated to recall the image of my boyhood's idol, affected me most powerfully. Rapidly, as I paced the floor, the outlines of later things grew indistinct, and the half forgotten features of Maggie Fulmer strengthened into distinctness in my soul, where old associations were powerfully working. What should I do? I had thought this dream long faded out; but as I reverted to the poor and loving girl to whom I had once plighted my affection, all the circumstances of the brief season in which she figured came in their beauty back. Singular to tell, old fountains of feeling were unsealed, and therewith something of the fascination which the presence of Maggie Fulmer once held over me returned. I could recall the slowly falling tear, the last fond, timid glance at parting, and could see that entire weary struggle which succeeded to make herself deserving my regard. The constant toil, the submissive patience, the weary brain, the unexampled self-denial, all ran through my mind like lightning; and at that moment, the stranger, as if guided by an intuitive perception of my thoughts, placed in my hand a miniature, which revived in sudden strength the spell of her bewildering beauty. There, almost incarnate, were the strangely lustrous eyes, the pale, reflective forehead, masses of luxuriant dishevelled hair, the haughty mouth, the graceful oval of the face, and over all brooded that mysterious expression of a gifted soul which was worth them all. Yielding to the sudden impulse of the moment, I flung myself upon the sofa, and wept like a child. By degrees my calmness came again, and with it a conviction that, if my whole life were laid as an offering at the feet of this wondrous creature, it could scarcely repay the worth of such devotion. A moment served to fix my resolution, and, seating myself hastily at the table, I penned a hurried note to Mary Seymour, in which I cancelled all past ties, and declined her conditional favor. I cannot now recall the phraseology, but it was curt and cold. For my refusal of her requirement I offered no apology; I did not at the moment deem it needed any, so worthless seemed the woman who could distress a loving, trustful heart, in comparison with her whose constancy years could not discourage. As I cast the completed note upon the table, I said, calmly, with a feeling of relief:

"I cannot conceal from you," said the stranger, "the esteem and admiration with which your honorable conduct fills me; but I am likewise instructed, in event of this decision, to clear her conduct from all mercenary suspicions. The changes of a capricious fortune have blessed her with wealth superior to your own.'

A blush of embarrassment was hot upon my cheek as, while I perceived that my own hesitation might be imputed to mercenary motives, her own were placed above suspicion; for, had fate denied her this equality of means, she would never have claimed a fulfilment of my promise.

"I have further to add," he continued, without pausing, "that, some eight years since, accident developed the fact that Maggie Fulmer, the supposed drunkard's daughter, was the orphan child of wealthy parents. I need not say that her relatives, who reside in England, have spared no expense to supply the earlier deficiencies which cramped her girlhood; and all that art could suggest or wealth secure has been brought to the accomplishment and refinement of a mind naturally of a lofty order. Affluent, accomplished, beautiful, and respected, the Maggie Fulmer of your boyhood offers to release you from your pledges, if you desire." "I will at least see her once more," I replied.

Throwing around my shoulders a light mantle, to shield me from the night air, I mechanically followed my conductor through the deserted thoroughfares. The moon had set some hours before, and but a few faint stars twinkled indistinctly in the sky. Notwithstanding the obscurity, my guide moved forward with the alacrity of one familiar with the route, while I followed silently, bearing in my bosom a tempest of conflicting emotions. Our journey was no very brief one, and led into the suburbs of the town. At last the stranger halted before a building whose lofty gables lay in dusky outlines against the darkened sky. It was evidently a situation which I had never noticed, and the hall into which I was immediately ushered presented nothing familiar to my eye. A single pendent chandelier displayed the costly decorations of a room which might have served as a fitting entrance to a palace. Throwing off my cloak, I was conducted into a lofty and extensive chamber, when, having motioned me to be seated, he simply added "Wait," and disappeared.

The room into which I had been ushered was singularly luxurious in its equipments. The

upper ceiling was carved in beautiful devices, and bordered with rich mouldings, gleaming with arabesques of gold. The carpet glowed with more than living flowers, and never whispered of a footfall. On tables of rare and curious workmanship stood vases of strange flowers, and ornaments suggestive of impossible handiwork. Around the walls were suspended several paintings, and above a mirror which, at the upper end of the room, doubled all it looked upon, reposed a marble statue of Minerva. The apartment was unoccupied, save by myself, and I was at liberty to sink into a seat and prepare for the approaching interview. Not a sound disturbed the impressive silence of the building, and, as minute after minute glided away, I lost myself in contemplating the singular events of the last few hours. How suddenly and unexpectedly had fate linked the earlier with the later period of my life! The spring flowers of that age when all the brightest dreams of boyhood are springing in the heart were mingled strangely with the sterner creations of manhood. It was as if by some magical illusion a sudden undergrowth of flowers had obliterated every footpath in a grove of giant oaks. By what slight incidents, and yet how naturally had the thread of my existence been woven with the destiny of another! Could she who, years before, seemed doomed to a life of misery and want, have become the mistress of this regal splendor? And yet, through all-woe that would have worn away such memories from many minds, years that would have withered all faithfulness in the hearts of most, and fortune which would have addled the better judgment of thousands-through all this she had kept her eye upon one steady hour-the hour of our meeting. As these reflections hurried through my mind, I rose and paced the apartment with hasty strides. Busy with the past, I scarcely noted the lapse of time until I suddenly recalled the fact that nearly an hour had passed since I entered the building; and, raising my head with sudden impatience, I found myself facing two portraits hanging side by side. I stood wonderstruck at the vision, and rubbed my eyes to assure me of my wakefulness. In one portrait, with the loosely flowing hair, the mystic eyes, and the supernal beauty of expression, I could not fail to recognize the likeness of the school-girl, Maggie Fulmer, with her half developed form, her olive cheek, and air of desolation. In the other, ripe and full in outline, yet wearing a strange resemblance to the first, as I saw them thus contrasted, I beheld

one whose beauty thrilled me with intolerable anguish the peerless Mary Seymour.

"Can it be possible," I said, half audibly, "that these two beings, both strangely connected with my fate, are relatives? are sisters?" "Nay, even nearer," said a soft voice at my side, "for the form and features of Mary Seymour are but the development of the once unfortunate Maggie Fulmer, a name which is now a myth, that serves to chasten one who was born to better fortunes."

Startled at the interruption, I turned and beheld the stranger, holding in his the hand of Mary Seymour.

"Paul Seymour, late Paul Devereux, can have no fears," he said, smiling, "in resigning to the charge of Henry Fairfield the reality of his long-worshipped dream, for she who has been twice won may well be worth cherishing."

So saying, he disappeared, leaving me, in the unutterable emotions of that moment, to realize, if possible, the enchantment which had so divinely blessed me.

A DREAM OF THE PAST.

BY ANNIE M. BEACH.

I HEAR the raindrops dripping
From the crumbling old stone wall-
And I hear the night wind sighing
Through the elm-trees, dark and tall-
And my thoughts go straying backward
To the distant days of yore:
To the forms that now are sleeping,
And the years that are no more.

I sit in the silent darkness,

And list to the raindrops fall,
And the ceaseless ticking, ticking
Of the old clock in the hall-
And I think of the many footfalls
That have echoed to and fro,
In time to the beating, beating
Of hearts in the long ago.

Oh, where are the feet that wandered?
And where are the hearts that beat?
Oh, where are the smiling faces?

And the voices low and sweet?
They are gone! they are passed forever
From the hearthstone and the hall:
And their graves are among the willows
That wave o'er the crumbling wall.
There was one with a fairy footfall,
As free as the young gazelle,
And a wealth of golden ringlets
That over her shoulders fell,
And a glad heart, young and happy,
Till there came a fatal honr,
When a stranger guest was welcomed
To the magic love-bound bower.

Oh low where the words he uttered,
And sweet where the songs he sung,
And his glance was kind and tender,
And his face was fair and young;
So they wandered back and forward
Through the long moonlighted hall,
And he told her how he loved her,

And the angels heard it all.

Oh, were there none to whisper
To that trusting heart "Beware"?
Were there none to warn the birdling
Of the wily sportsman's snare?
None, none! The stars shone dimly
Through the twilight curtain's fall,
And the old clock still kept ticking,
But the angels heard it all.

And those vows have been recorded
Where they cannot fade away;
He will hear them at the coming
Of that great and dreadful day,
When the King shall judge us, justly,
By the deeds which we have wrought,
By the words which we have spoken,
By the thoughts which we have thought.
The spring-time came and vanished,
But her young heart still was strong,
For she said he would be coming
When the summer days grew long:
But when the flowers had faded,
And the leaves began to fall
On the grass before the doorway,
And into the broad old hall-
There came for her a letter,

In a well-known writing bold,
But her cheek grew paler, paler
At the tale that there was told:
And her trembling hand grew colder,
And the sheet it held let fall:
We do not know the writing,
But the angels saw it all.

They saw, and at the coming

Of the mighty judgment day,
It will witness there against him,
It will banish him away
From the flower-clad fields of Eden,
Where the pure in heart shall dwell,
Where none but the just and holy,
The songs of the saints shall swell.
The raindrops still keep dripping
From the crumbling old stone wall,
And under the weeping willow
On a grassy grave they fall,
Where a fair young form lies sleeping
In the snowy grave-robe dressed,
With her cold hands folded lightly

On her still and pulseless breast.
But the angels watch around her:
They will wake her from the sod:
We shall look upon her beauty
In the paradise of God.
Oh, we yet shall hear her singing

With the white-robed band above,
And her heart shall know no sorrow
In the cloudless land of love.

Two ladies were seated at a window, and one whispered to the other a love-tale.

The scene and the hour suited the subject of conversation. It was near sunset on a mild evening in May; the soft, cool air fanned from the window curtains of costly lace, and opened a view of parlors richly furnished and lighted by shaded lamps. The ladies were both fair to look upon; the eldest was a blonde, whose forty years sat lightly upon a tall figure, and beautiful, though haughty face; the younger, whose low, sweet voice stole caressingly upon the air, was very lovely. Soft dark eyes, now beaming with happiness, a fair complexion where rosy blushes contrasted well with the white open brow, a tiny rosebud mouth, dimpling with smiles, regular Grecian features, and a graceful slender figure, were Edith Lawrence's claims to admiration.

"And you would leave me, Edie ?"

The smiles left the girl's face at the question; she looked sad, perplexed, and then softly whispered

"Hush, gently! Yes, darling, try to forget!" "Ican never forget Horace, mother. Why-" "Why? Because his father is one of our proudest millionaires; a man who would sell his soul rather than let his only child marryWhat am I saying?" she muttered, interrupting herself. "Edith !" A world of tenderness of love was thrown into that one word, as Mrs. Lawrence spoke it.

"Yes, mother, I am listening."

"Did I ever ask of you a sacrifice that you repented granting? Look back, my child! Through your childhood and girlhood, have I not granted every reasonable indulgence?"

"Always, dear mother."

"And if I ever crossed your will, was there not ever some good reason why you were denied what you requested?"

"Yes, mother."

"Then trust me now. This marriage with Horace Arnold can never be."

"Never!" The young girl shuddered as if the chill of the words had stricken her to the heart. "Oh, mother, he loves me! It will break his heart if I refuse his love now." "And you?"

"I have told him that I love him." The sweet smile came back as she whispered the words.

"Yet you must forget this day. Edith, I never threatened you in all my life, and what I say now is a warning only. I tell you, if you do not heed my words and forget Horace, that he will-what can I say to her? Edie, trust me, trust me, your mother. This marriage cannot be."

"I cannot understand."

"Nor can I explain. I only ask, by the love I have given you, by the long years of care I have shown you, to obey me in this one, my first urgent request."

"Must it be so, mother?" "My child, it must.”

"Then tell him. In an hour he will be here. Send him away, mother; but oh, let it be final! I cannot bear to meet him again, coldly, or indifferently. Let us part, since it must be, forever."

She rose, as she spoke, and went with a slow step from the room; once or twice she reeled as she mounted the wide staircase, but it was not until she reached her own room that she fell, and then she lay, in an agony of grief, weeping, as only a young, pure heart, smitten in its first love, can weep.

Mrs. Lawrence sat quietly watching the slight graceful figure until it was out of sight, and then she bowed her head on her hands, shuddering at the task before her. All the love of her life was centered in that young girl; and all the pride of her haughty spirit was roused to combat her marriage. Motherless herself, she had been married at sixteen to a man thirty-five years her senior, who wedded an heiress, too young to resist her father's stern will. At twenty, orphaned, widowed, and childless, Amy Lawrence had still shut in her heart a wealth of love, longing to burst its prison and spend its strength on an answering heart. It was in her first year of widowhood