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to write. Ah! when did ever a woman find it a light thing to write a book?

"Foremost among those who came to congratulate Amy on the success of her undertaking was Everard Lee. Since his parting with her he had run a fearful round of sin and folly ; the evil and the good of his nature had almost ceased to strive and combat, and evil was about claiming the victory, when good rallied, and came off conqueror. Like all truly noble natures, when once released from the degrading enchantments of sin, he looked back upon this turning-point in his life with shame and horror. He had found, too, a new love, a young, gentle girl, intelligent, amiable, and loving, fit to inspire a poet's dream, with her large, dreamy black eyes and her soft, sunny curls. He must bring her to see Amy; she was then in the city; she was a child of the sunny South, a fair type, he thought, of all Southern women; gentle, affectionate, docile, and intelligent, but somewhat languid—what her Northern sisters would call lazy; more apt to look to others for support and protection than to depend upon self. But she was very young—only seventeen; altogether, she was charming, and he was very much in love.

Amy smiled. "She was delighted to hear it; and, now, thank me, Everard, that I saved you from the fate into which you were bent upon running. Think if I had been your wife instead of this bewitching young beauty."

"I do thank you," he said, quietly; "but I am all the better for having loved you, too."

"But did you really love me, Everard? Love has many counterfeits, you know."

"Yes, I loved you at the time."

"Do not imagine that you did, for I assure you I am not of the same belief."

Everard laughed, and said: "Do not be sceptical; it was love, I assure you. I have just read a little poem by Henry Timrod, called 'Second Love.' The idea is so quaint, and so ingeniously imagined. Listen to what he says:—

"' It was, Indeed, that early love,
But foretaste of this second one;
The soft light of the morning star
Before the morning sun.
"'The same dark beauty in her eyes,

The same blonde hair and placid brow,
Tho same deep-moaning, quiet smile
Thou bendost on mo now.

M'8he might have been, shewn* no more

Than what a prescient hope could make;
A dear presentiment of thee,
I loved but for thy sake.'"

"Well, Everard, I am willing to be Moved but for her sake.'" They shook hands, and parted.

And now Everard Lee sends forth tender and loving verses to his "wife;" amid the din and confusion of bustling New York, if you will only stop to listen, dear reader, you can hear the beautiful melodies that gush up from this young poet's loving heart. You have jostled past the poet and his wife a thousand times on Broadway, but you knew it not. They are always together; he seeks no other companion for his walks, and she asks no greater happiness than to be ever by his side.

When winter came shivering along in his icy garments, Mr. Milford reappeared in the city. He quietly opened the library door, one day, and walked in. Amy was reading; he went up to her; she raised her eyes, and looked at him.

"What has brought you again, Mr. Milford!"

"To inquire if you are still as much in love with your husband, Art, as when I left you."

"You have surely taken a great deal of trouble to inquire into what cannot possibly concern you."

"The result will be well worth the trouble."

"I have always been told that it is both indelicate and unkind to complain of one's husband; if mine is not what I hoped to find him, you can scarcely expect me to expose his shortcomings."

"To a friend you may. Amy, you gave to the world a noble book. Now, tell me if in such performances your heart rests satisfied. Your mind, I knew, joys in its work. Is literature the sweet, refreshing stream beside whose still waters you can rest satisfied f Is there no yearning to realize the love you Bo beautifully paint? No desire to enter that paradise of domestic enjoyment whose calm beauties you know so well how to appreciate?"

The dewy light of tears filled her eyes; her heart was desolate, indeed; but every word he spoke seemed to pieroe her very soul. Did he know that she was struggling to orush her sinful love for him, the husband of another f She quailed as if he had struck her a heavy blow.

"Are you willing to share all your beautiful thoughts with the world, and receive the world's poor meed of praise, that wreath of applause that burns a woman's brow like a circle of fire! I remember seeing in a cathedral a beautiful statue of the Virgin; a little above her head hung a chaplet of light, formed of very small jets of gas; it encircled her with a halo of

beauty, bat nowhere touched her head; if it had, it would have consumed her. This, I thought, is the world's applause and woman; let but the glittering chaplet fall on her brow, and it will certainly scorch, if it does not burn her."

"But, Mr. Milford, is there nothing ennobling in the pursuit of literature, even to a woman?"

"Yes; surely, sometimes there is."

"My experience, Mr. Milford, is this—that literature, like many other pleasures in this life, has its dark as well as its bright side. There are many women who enjoy its pursuit keenly. For myself, I must say that I have not that divine gift of genius which urges its possessor again and again over the thorny road, though his feet are bleeding and torn. I have fainted at the threshold of the door; the beautiful temple stands open beyond; I see the scarlet wreaths, the glittering altars, the gorgeous display of the white-robed priests; I hear the bewildering music and the silvery tones that say 'come,' but I cannot go any farther; I shrink baok like a coward from the toils, the dnst, the fierce encounters by the way. Let women who are stronger than I am go on; but as for me, I am weary, utterly weary!" And she folded her hands in her lap, with a gesture of complete dejection.

"There is a rest for you, Amy; a joy in life far beyond that of writing books."

She looked up at him, and said, quietly— "Love, you mean?"

"Yes, love."

"Yes; but where can I get lojre? Even Everard has withdrawn his and given it to another; the love you warned me to crush has died of its own accord, Mr. Milford."

"Emma is dead, Amy"—his voice trembled. "Will you be my wife? I ask a great gift— your love'; may I hope to win it?" . BrA sudden gush of tears filling the eyes, a slight tremor of the figure, a passionate grasping of the hand Mr. Milford held to her, a low murmured "yes," and Art was vanquished by love; in loving and being loved Amy Dale had found her true mission. From her we shall get no more woman's books. She was named appropriately—Amy, beloved, from amata; and in love she has found her true happiness.

But there are women who, having found love, have not lost a love of art; they have their mission, and their destiny cannot be overruled by love. More than one Mrs. Browning sings her songs, not from solitary Parnassus, but from the most sacred groves of Love himself.

DEPARTING FJtOM VENICE.

BY LUCY H. HOOPER.

Tab last luug rays of the sunset

Light the room where I 'm lying,
The fever cloud is lifted,

I wake to know I'm dying.
Slow and slower, faint and fainter,

In running life'ti ebbing sand;
Yes, I 'm dying—dying alone,

Alone in a foreign land.
I am worn with wasting fever,

I'm weary of wearing pain;
And I never shall see you again, darling,

Never—never again.

Oh, for one breath of tho breezes!

One t'team of the mlst-vetl'd rays'
That sigh and shine around my home

In these the autumnal days.
tt!i for one look at one I know,

One word of familiar speech!
'TIs hard to die, like spent-ont waves,

Afar on n foreign beach;
'Tin hard to dream of one dear face,

And wake to this wearing pain,
I never shall see you again, da: ling,

Never-never again.

I wonder, love, if you fancy

The reason I do not write ;
I wonder If you imagine

That I am dying to-night!

0 love! the fever-born vision
Of your face BO bright and fair,

That face that I shall see no more,
Is hardest of all to bear.

I think I could greet death gladly,
To rest from fever and pain;

If I only could see you again, darling
Once—once only—again.

"Never!" so murmurs the Ocean,

As I dream of what has boon,
"No more shall homo and love bo yours,

For I and Death lie between!"
Hoping, and fearing, and loving,

All life savo its end is o'er;
To-morrow I shall lie at rest

On the Lido's lonely shore.
Slowly the mists of the fever

Gather anew round my brain;
A last and long farewell, darling!

I never shall see you again.

STANZAS.

BY CLARA AUdUBTA.

A perfect life is never lived below,

Shadows will dim even our happiest hours; Undarkened days we ne'er on earth may know—

Nor can we always walk amid the flowers; But if we bow in meekness, trusting still

That all shall work together for our good, Submissive to the Great All-Father's will,

Who has our many frailties understood— We know that, by and by, we shall come forth

Into the glowing life of angelhood.

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Hb was a grand baby, this hero of mine. One of your splendidly-developed, stirring boys, with good powerful lungs, big bright eyes, tiny rings of tightly curling hair, and a frame that might have been a model for an infant Hercules. Not one of the fat, heavy sort, but stout, sturdy, and active. He was ten months old, and looked sixteen, and his name was Freddy Lawson.

Fred Lawson the elder, who was the proud papa of this wonderful baby, was a tall, finelooking man, with a loud voice, a clear, ringing laugh, and a heart as tender as a woman's.

Mrs. Lawson was the weest little blue-eyed morsel of a woman that ever fell in love with Six feet of manhood (in this case spelt Fred), and Mrs. Lawson's proudest title at the time my story opens, was baby's mother.

There was never such a baby.seen; that was admitted on all sides. The angelic patience with which big Fred trotted, walked, and dandled that boy, was a study for paternal fondness; and as the youngster repaid him by crowing and laughing all day, and sleeping all night, Fred's devotion was not to be wondered at. As for Mrs. Lawson, who went at home by the name of Pet or Petty, words fail to express her maternal tenderness. Such embroidery as her little hands could produce to adorn baby, such dreams for baby's future, such care for baby's comfort can only be shown by a young mother over her first child.

There was still another devoted attendant in the boy's train. This was his nurse, Keziah, or generally called Keezy. She was a redhaired, freckled country girl of fifteen, whose whole soul was bound up in love for her gentle mistress and that baby. Tall, awkward, and ungainly, her gentle touch was only for Freddy, her voice softened for him alone, and her care was so faithful and affectionate that even the loving parents were satisfied to trust Master Freddy with Keezy.

My little hero lived in the country, in the little village of Towerdale some five miles from the town of Duncan; there were many pretty villages within a pleasant riding distance of this town. To the north lay Towerdale, to the south Mount Mayview, and other pretty places east and west, though we have to speak only of these two.

It was Fourth of July, 18—, and a grand military parade, review, flag-raising and speechmaking was promised by the good people of Duncan, and from all points the village people flocked to the town. Mrs. Lawson had promised to spend the day with her cousin, Amelia; and at an early hour Master Freddy was bathed and dressed for his ride. Keezy, proud of her charge, whose embroidered dress and pretty hat particularly pleased her, was put on the back seat, with a thousand charges about baby; Fred the elder, and Pet occupied the front seat, and the party started. Cousin Amelia would expect them early, and Freddy must not get sleepy and crush his new hat; so "White Boots" was whipped up, and they drove rapidly in the direction of Duncan.

One of the principal men, in the village of Mount Mayview, on the south side of the town, was Oliver Moseley, a bachelor of about sixty, who lived in the largest house of the place with his housekeeper, Mrs. White. Hl-natured persons did say that this lady was Miss White, until her hair, beginning to turn, suggested that she was far on the road to old-maidism, and that she adopted the matron's title with her caps. Certain it is, that nobody in the village had ever seen Mr. White, and that the lady was never heard to mention her "dear departed. ''

Now, Mrs. White wanted to see the parade and review, and Mr. Moseley had positively refused to have the carriage sent to town for any such "nonsense." But "a wilful woman will have her way," as Mr. Moseley soon discovered. On the morning of the eventful day Mrs. White found, to her utter astonishu, u*, of course, that there was no sugar in the house' the little village store could not furnish the loaf which Mr. Moseley BTriit^nid after-t;ryjr1g to drink his coffee unsweetened, the old gentleman surrendered at discretion and ordered the carriage to take Mrs. White to town to buy sugar.

The roads which led from Duncan to Towerdale and Mount Mayview met near the marketplace, and here were assembled so great a concourse of vehicles that Mr. Lawson and Mrs. White were compelled to abandon the idea of driving through the town, and, hitching up their respective horses in the hotel shed, they started on foot to find a good place from which

to view the parade. The crowd was very great; from milea around the country people had flocked to see the show. Young and old, families and couples; farmers' wagons loaded with the representatives of three generations; smiling young farmers driving their sweethearts in the high or low ohaise; young folks on horseback in couples, groups, or single, all were crowding round the market-place to obtain a good stand.

Giving Pet his arm, and bidding Keezy keep close to them, Mr. Lawson elbowed his way forward; his hearty voice, pleasant greeting, and allusion to the lady on his arm, winning for him an easy transit; while close behind him, with both Freddy's hands tugging at her flame-colored locks, came Keezy; her eyes and mouth wide open with anticipation of the sights she had come to behold. An open place was gained at last, and Pet stationed upon the porch of a small store, obtaining a seat for a cou-sider-a-tion. Keezy stood near trying to obtain a peep over the heads of the assembled multitude.

"Can you take that baby on the other arm?" said a pleasant voice near Keezy; "his hat is right before my eyes."

Keezy turned at the request, to see a very small, tidy elderly lady just behind her, who was trying in vain to look round Master Freddy's hat.

"Freddy, take his hands out of Keezy's hair," said the nurse, trying to move the baby, and proving that a second effort would certainly dislocate her neck.

"Let me try," said Mrs. White; for it was the housekeeper, who was Keezy's neighbor. "What a beautiful child 1" she addeffj as Freddy, taking his hands from Keezy's hair, turned his large dark eyes upon the little old lady, and signified his approbation by a crowing laugh.

"He's a booty," said Keezy. "Ain't him pooty, pooty boy?" she said to the child. "Ain't him dood boy? come to see sojers 1"

Another crowir? laugh from Freddy com

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the music and gay uniforms, held him up, moving a little away from Keezy as she saw a vacancy in the crowd, and a chance to get a little nearer to the front line of people. She was almost unconscious of these movements till an alarm was made in the crowd. One of the carriage horses on the outside of the throng had pulled himself loose from his fastening, and was dashing through the people, dragging the vehicle after him, and scattering the good folks right and left. Mrs. White looked round. The tall, gawky nurse was nowhere in Bight, and the crowd was pushing, trampling in all directions, threatening to crush her to death unless she moved forward too.

Separated by the alarm in the crowd, it was some time before Mr. Lawson discovered that Keezy was not behind them with Freddy.

"Where's Keezy?" he said, stopping suddenly, as the alarm subsided.

"Where's my baby? Oh, Fred! Where's our baby f" cried Pet. "She 's been killed by the runaway horse 1"

"Hush, Pet I Nobody was killed; and see, they have caught the horse. Stay here, and I will find Keezy in two minutes."

Two minutes, five, ten, thirty, sixty passed, and the anxious mother could endure the suspense no longer. She started to return to the market-place, and met her husband returning, pale and breathless, after a fruitless search. A heavy rain now began to fall, to add to their troubles.

"Perhaps she has gone to Cousin Amelia's," said Pet, ashy white with terror.

"Certainly I What a fool I was not to think of it I" said Fred, cheerfully, his handsome face brightening as he spoke. "Come, we will find the carriage and drive over. How it rains!"

It rained harder before they reached the house, to meet another shock. The baby was not there. It was useless to talk of staying; the last hope was that Keezy might have started for home, and they drove rapidly out of town, hoping to overtake her. Anxiously they looked through the pouring rain for baby's white dress and Keezy's blue shawl, but in vain; and when Fred unlocked the house door to find it empty, poor Pet fell fainting at his feet. Leaving her with a lady who lived in the next house, with a few hurriedly spoken words of explanation, Fred put up the carriage, saddled a fresh horse, and dashed off again towards Dunoan.

Keezy's despair, when, after running like the rest from the horse, she missed the baby, cannot be described. She was not a very bright

girl, and fright was too much for her intellect to bear. A thousand terrors flitted before her mind, not the least of which was the vengeance she was convinced Mr. Lawson would take upon her for the baby's loss. She well knew the idolizing love of both parents for the boy, and she had lost him. Not knowing a street of the town, after one wild look around her, she turned and fled from the place, uncertain where to go, only anxious to escape from the parents whose treasure she had lost.

All the afternoon, until late in the evening, did the father pursue his inquiries for a girl with a blue shawl and red hair, carrying a baby. Some had seen her early in the day, but the rain had driven people away from the town, and no trace of her was left. It was near midnight when, after leaving an advertisement for the Duncan Daily yews, Fred went home. I draw a veil over the scene that followed. The hope that had sustained poor little Pet through the dreary afternoon and evening fell to the ground as he entered the room alone.

In the mean time, where was the baby? Mrs. White's search after Keezy was as unsuccessful as Mrs. Lawson's, and she was still looking for her when William, Mr. Moseley's man, joined her to urge the necessity of returning home before the rain fell.

"But goodness me, marm !" cried the man, "wherever did you get that baby?"

"We must find the nurse, William," said Mrs. White. "Look for a tall red-haired girl with a blue shawl."

"Bless me, marm! there's fifty of 'em here," said William. "There, it's raining! Do come home."

"But the baby?"

"Lay it on the steps somewhere, and let the nurse find it."

"In the rain !" cried the horror-stricken little old lady. "How it pours! Poor little fellow! he will be wet through."

"You '11 have to take him home, then, and find out where he belongs to-morrow. You '11 never find the nurse now, and folks is all going away with the rain. Wonder how the old gentleman will like a baby!"

Mrs. White Wondered, too, and somewhat uneasily; but there seemed no help for it, so c'.ie got into the carriage and drove to Mount May view. A little moaning, fretting noise from Freddy was but the beginning of trouble. Before half the drive was accomplished it was settled into a shrieking cry, and when they reached home the lovely baby was crimson with his efforts in the screaming and sobbing

way. Mrs. White coaxed and scolded, whispered and screamed, soothed and shook him.

"Now, baby, dear baby, be good!"

A long yell.

"Will you be quiet, you brat!" A longer yell, with a gasping sob at the end of it.

"Hush, baby! He's a pretty boy. Hush, little boy; be quiet. 'Itty baby! You imp, be still!"

Only a succession of shrieks answered the appeal, and by this time they were at home.

Mr. Moseley was on the step. Could he believe his cars? A bahy, a screaming baby in his carriage, in Mrs. White's arms.

"Where did you get that brat?" he thundered.

"Oh, I'1l tell you all about it in a minute," gasped the poor little woman. "Hush, baby."

But baby was determined tofmake all the noise that was made, and only screamed the londer.

"Perhaps he is hungry," said William.

"Of course he is, poor little fellow! Have dinner immediately !" said the housekeeper, in a lond tone, in order to be heard above the darling infant's tones.

Snddenly, with one of the freaks which beset infantile minds, Freddy stopped crying, as abruptly as if he had been choked, and after a few sobbing sighs, dropped his head wearily upon his new friend's arm, and went to sleep. With a sigh of relief Mrs. White unfastened the little hat and cloak, and put him gently upon the velvet-covered sofa, and then went to take off her own bonnet.

Mr. Moseley would deeply resent the fact being known; but, after watching the little white-robed figure from a distance for some minutes, he approached it softly, and stood looking down upon the little stranger. The round white arms and shoulders, set off by their crimson background, the flushed cheeks, long, wet eyelashes, curling hair, and the attitnde of unconscious grace which th.% child had taken formed a lovely picture, and the artist part of the old gentleman was gratified. His had been a lonely, unloved life, and something in the innocent loveliness of this noble bahe stirred a new emotion in his heart as he stood watching the deep respirations and weary sighs of the little slumberer. A smile hovering for a moment on the baby's lips brought a strange moisture to the old man's eyes, and only a feeling of shamefacedness prevented him from kissing Master Freddy.

Mrs. White found him still looking dowu at

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