Sometimes a thought flashed across me that I would leave my husband and go out from his home, as he said that I had done from his heart -forever; and then, looking off to my future, it rose before me so hard, and bare, and desolate that I had not the courage to set my feet on its way, and I put the thought back; I could not live without him! Sometimes, when I caught the glance of those stern, sad gray eyes on my face, a great temptation would sweep over me to rush to his side and cling there fast, and compel him to hearken while I told him all the truth respecting my engagement with Harry Somers. But the harsh repulse, the bitter words which had once met me came back, and steeled my heart and silenced my lips. And I cried to God, and there came no answer, and I did not know that the sin of my pride lay darkening betwixt my soul and Him! I had uttered the words with which my story commences half an hour after my guests of the three or four previous days had gone. I had been pacing the floor to and fro ever since I had smiled and waved my farewells to them. It was a beautiful day in the closing up of May, the winds came through the windows like the breath of sweet spices, the year was full of the strength and joy of her youth, and the trees stood up in their white fluting of blossoms, and the sunshine wrote on the earth the old, new prophecy that the summer was at hand. But for me this beauty had now neither voice nor meaning. The darkness in my heart lay like a shadow on the fair face of the day, and when the first words I have written crept out of my lips, my resolution was taken. Afterward I did not hesitate long in making up my mind what course I should pursue; I would go up stairs, write my last letter to my husband, pack up my trunk, take the afternoon train for my aunt's that very afternoon, and leave forever the house whose proud and happy mistress I had been for a year. "Oh, Maurice, Maurice, my heart will break for leaving you!" I sat in my own room, before the open window, and the song of the spring birds, that had hung their nests on the green rafters of the old pear tree, surged sweetly in and out of the room. The pen was in my hand, and the cry was wrung from a heart too weak to write the words which were to part us forever. "Oh, Mrs. Hastings, have you heard the news?" I was quite startled at the abrupt entrance of my nearest neighbor, the wife of a lawyer, with whom I had been on quite intimate eial terms; but her white, shocked face fully apologized for her abrupt entrance. "No; is it anything very bad, Mrs. Maltby ?'' as I rose up and offered my guest a seat. "Michael, our gardener, just brought me the dreadful tidings, and as there was no one in the house I ran over here to share my horror with you! The cars ran off the track this morning, on the long bridge between Woolcottville and Glencove, and a large number of passengers were killed outright or shockingly mangled!" "My husband was on the morning train to Glencove. He left about two hours ago to visit a patient there!" I believe I spoke these words very calmly, but I felt a cold tremor stealing over me. Mrs. Maltby's face grew whiter as she gasped out: "Oh, Mrs. Hastings, have I killed you too?" "I guess you have," I said, as I passed my hand across my forehead; " but it's no matter; Maurice wouldn't care !" She thought the sudden shock had driven me wild. She chafed my cold hands amid her great jets of tears, and begged me to grow calm, and not yield until I knew the worst. And at last a great cry rushed up from my heart as the thought flashed across me that Maurice might be lying cold and stark on that fair spring day with the life suddenly choked out of him. And we had parted in silence and bitterness, and my last memory of him was not one of blessing and caress. And then the wrong and sin of my conduct for the last week rose up and reproached me. I did not excuse Maurice; I knew that before God he had somewhat to answer for his harshness when his young wife had hung upon his arm and pleaded to be heard, and he had repulsed her. But grief and despair had well nigh maddened me. I dashed Mrs. Maltby's arms furiously away, when they crept entreatingly about my neck. I stamped my feet at her when she implored me to be quiet, and at last I dashed out of the house, out of the front gate, and down the road, where her cries followed me for a while, and then grew faint, and were lost in the distance. On, on I rushed, for a resolution possessed me to walk to the scene of the terrible disaster, five miles distant, and know for a certainty whether my husband was among the living or the dead. But in descending a steep hill on my way, I suddenly caught sight of the familiar chaise approaching me. My heart stood still; so did my feet. The inmate of the carriage must have discovered me, for he suddenly spurred his horse, and a moment later I caught sight of the face of my husband! "Why, Louise, are you gone wild?" And Maurice sprang from the carriage, his face white with wonder at the sight of me. The great joy of my heart must have its way. I put my arms about Maurice's neck; I shouted, and laughed, and cried. "Oh, Maurice, I thought that you were lying there cold, and white, and dead!" And I shook him to and fro, as I held his shoulders, in my frantic joy. "My dear child, what has happened to you?” And I felt the great tenderness and the great fear which surged through the tones of my husband; and a sudden faintness went all over me. He lifted me into the carriage as though I was a little child, and, drawing one arm tightly around me, urged the horse slowly homewards. And his words and his voice were after the manner of a mother soothing her frightened child: "There! don't be scared, darling. Nothing shall harm my little girl. Try and be quiet;" for he evidently thought that I was partially demented. "How came you to be here, Maurice ?" I gasped at last, as long shudders went over and shook me as winds do autumn leaves. "I thought that you took the train for Glencove." "I intended to, but when I left the house I found a hasty messenger for a man who had broken his arm about three miles off. And so I delayed my trip to Glencove for the after noon." "Thank God! thank God, Maurice!" "What do you mean, my dear wife?" "There was a terrible accident-the bridge broke down-the dead and the mangled lie heaped together. Oh, Maurice, I thought that you might be among them." He understood all now, my frantic fears, my wild flight, and, drawing me closer to him, Maurice Hastings bowed his head, and reverently repeated my prayer-"Oh, thank God, Louise, thank God !" We stopped at a tavern on the road home, where Maurice procured some cordial which restored me. And now all the barriers of my pride were broken down. I knew that the deep well in the heart of Maurice Hastings had not grown dry in the last dreadful weeks, and that its springs had burst and overflowed his soul like the freshets of April. between us any more?" I whispered, in the old tavern parlor where we were left alone with the sunshine and the singing of the birds of May. "Never, Louise, never!" for he knew now that my heart was his. And laying my head down on his shoulder, I told Maurice the history of my engagement with Henry Somers, and all the weight and pain which the knowledge of that one secret hidden from him had caused me, until the day on which he presented himself in my parlor, and Maurice coming in to the sitting-room a moment later had heard nearly all that passed betwixt Henry and me. My disclosures set the whole matter in its true light. There was no need that I should say to Maurice-"You will forgive and forget it all?" "All, Louise. It is I who have sinned more in my anger and harshness than you." We drove home in the golden May noon, our hearts flooded with light and gratitude fairer than its sunshine. On the way we encountered Michael, Mrs. Maltby's gardener, whom she had dispatched in a fruitless search for me. And so the only secret which my life had held from Maurice Hastings was revealed at last. It has its message and its warning. "Oh breathe," the ballad saith, some sweetness out of each." A GOLDEN HOPE. BY J. BRAINERD MORGAN. WHEN fragrant flowers shall stand again While purest joys do live again "Oh, Maurice, it shall not be as it has been When blooming flowers stand o'er the plain. THE FIRST OF MAY IN ROME. BY J. F. G. IT is the First of May, and we are in the Campagna! To those who have been in Rome what a scene of beauty do I summon up with those words. The most exquisite wild flowers growing in varied and blithe profusion; foliage of the softest, freshest green, garlanding ruins, mounds, and walls; picturesque slopes studded with white blossoms, and massive rocks of a burnished red, in which are set like jewels the purple cyclamen and golden jonquil; the whole picture framed by the distant hills, ever varying in shade from ash-gray to opal blue-and over all the radiant skies of Rome! It is the First of May, and there is unusual stir and bustle on the road. We meet first slow droves of dun-colored, majestic eyed oxen, then herds of black and white goats, those frisky sages whose sidelong gambols misbecome their beards; yonder come the buffaloes, with their rude, earthy, sphynx-like look, as if the mud from which they were made had not been thoroughly animated, and scattered along the road their savage-looking drivers mounted on fiery little horses, and clothed in tattered goatskins. There is something wild and primitive in these pastoral appearances in these broad prairies. But besides these, strange-looking horsemen and charioteers are gaining on us every moment, and momently they increase. Here is a good-looking young man equipped in a helmet and feathers, a slashed doublet, and a velvet mantle; there is another dressed like a Mousquetaire, and as handsome as Aramis himself; there is a third in the picturesque dress of a Roman Senator. I wonder, but am suddenly enlightened: it is the First of May, and the artist's festa. Kept up with less spirit than of old, it is still a pleasant holiday to persons willing to make the best of this workday world. A society of artists of every nation assembled to spend an idle jovial day in the open air, dining together, and concluding the festivities with rustic and athletic games. It interests me, for I am not one of those who think the whole duty of Christian sympathy is centred in weeping with those who weep. I can spare some of my brotherly feelings to those who rejoice. As the cavalcade proceeds, it increases in picturesqueness of costume; flag-bearers join it, then come carriages filled with gay dresses; others of a less grotesque description, but adorned with as bright colors from gay bonnets and light mantles. Several of the fair visitors of Rome take this opportunity of spending the whole day in one of the fairest scenes of God's fair creation. Last comes the elected king of the day, in his barouche drawn by six horses. Let no judge of horseflesh critically examine these poor beasts. By his side are his two squires, with gigantic shields, and swords with the inscription "Thou shalt not kill." Soon, Five miles out of Rome the encampment takes place, and the artists look out for a convenient sheltered spot for their dinner. The preparations are commenced with the earnest solemnity which distinguishes humanity, anticipating feeding time. And it is a struggle with difficulties, this mid-day repast. however, baskets are opened, fringed tablecloths, like gigantic daisies, are spread on the grass, and there is an encouraging jingle of knives and forks, and tumblers. Voices in a Babel confusion of language are heard on all sides-Russian, Swedish, Danish, German, Italian, English, and French. Sometimes the irrepressible joy of some young heart, intoxicated by a sense of youth and hope, breaks forth into song with as natural and musical an expression as a lark or thrush. Some more steady ones, who cannot forget duty in pleasure, have set up their brown umbrellas, and are sketching. They have drawn on their wide-awakes, and perched on their low stools look like the whitish roots of giant mushrooms. Yonder, ascending a steep bank, I see two figures, one a young lady in a fluttering muslin dress, and bonnet thrown back from a lovely face; the other, a handsome youth in a light blouse. The air, soft and bright as liquid crystal, which they breathe, gives a glow to her cheek and a light to her eyes. The small curved mouth, with its half open full red lip, showing the prettiest infantine-looking teeth, and the bright gold-colored hair, identify her. She is an English girl, an orphan heiress, frank and spirited in her manners, and more unconventional than the English generally are. Given a certain quantity of white muslin and dancing lessons, and the supply of English "young ladies" shall equal the demand. None but a countryman could take such liberties h them. Remember, I do not say "English girls," but "English young ladies," who seem all cut out from one pattern: their conversation, their appearance, their manners being identical. My "English girl's" companion was a young American sculptor. He was evidently very much delighted with her beauty, and her genial lively remarks. Was he in love? "O Primavera, Gioventii del'anno; O Gioventii, Primavera, della veta." Hackneyed phrase; but where shall we find one as true to the feeling? Are not the "blend motions of the spring" similar to the rapturous indistinct yearnings of youthful hearts? Both so brief, yet more delicious than all the riper felicities of more perfected seasons. A little lower down stood the English girl's friend-a matron, occupied in watching a group of rosy, laughing children. Hers was the unmistakable presence so beautiful in its serene comeliness of English mature womanhood. Beauty in no other nation wears as well. Other women may preserve an air of youth as long, but when once the dread foe Time does manifest itself, they are no longer beautiful. Whereas an English woman, even after her hair be silvered, her complexion faded, her form enlarged, still manages to look well-her beauty ripens into an autumnal phase, unknown to the fair of other countries. With American, French, and Italians, beauty has no twilight. thing of this may be owing to the fact, as regards Americans at least, that the English woman never does possess that exquisite, aerial, and Psyche-like freshness which is seen, during their flower, on the cheeks of her American sisters. Some Look at that girl, for instance; she has just arrived, and has cast a searching look once or twice up that bank, and followed, with eyes as large and dove-like as those of the Beatrice Cenci herself, the pretty little bonnet and its wearer. A skin as fine and pale as a primrose, but with a delicate bloom on the oval cheek, features so delicately cut and spiritual in their expression that sculptors look at her, as they do on the Psyche at Naples, with a "divine despair," hopeless of emulating such perfection, yet desirous of doing so; a brow as lucent as wet marble, and a mass of chestnut hair braided back in rich soft waves from that perfect outline. In a ball-room the English girl might be unrivalled, but here, there is no doubt. The sunshine gives a radiance to the transparent skin which brings out all the delicate perfections of the face. Presently a loud blast of horns is heard, and the different groups gather together, for it is dinner time. Huge wooden trenches are laid on the ground, with slices of beef and ham cut in Gargantuan proportions; dark-looking but fresh loaves, bowls filled with sparkling Roman lettuces and flasks of wine are for the artists. Flung down upon the grass in careless ease, in good humor with all around them and with themselves, that most important item in our social enjoyments, the artists dined with satisfactory appetite and infinite merriment. Their vivid dresses, like tulips amid the solemn green prairies around, looked picturesque and romantic. All men, who, either from necessity or choice, habitually tasked themselves hardly, they rose from the daily pressure with an elasticity and a freedom which was as unusual as it was delightful. Mostly young, the same enthusiasm for Art and Rome, however variously manifested at other times, seemed to establish a bond of fraternity for the moment. The mirth and laughter grew fast, though not furious. Later the more languid groups seemed touched by the magnetism and drew nearer. Then some of the Germans, after a little consultation, withdrew a space and commenced singing. With what precision and harmony they sang can be understood only by those who know what German choral singing is. How beautiful! as the melody of these manly voices rings out truly and with such perfect accord. There are tears in the eyes of some of the Germans who do not sing. I suppose it carries them away with an unutterable longing from these southern skies to their far distant homes. But those who sing seem to find a vent for a thousand feelings in this divine utterance, and are absorbed in it alone. Present enjoyment, past regret, future hope, are all blent in, yet subservient to, the music through which these contending feelings are upborne into a region of pure and spiritual triumph. Commonplace as these men might be in the ordinary acceptation of the term, the music crowned themsinking away in wild notes of inexpressible sweetness, down, down, like the bright Arethusa, through dreary depths of earthly sorrows, or climbing upwards again through echoing galleries of pleading deprecation, till the blue skies are again overhead and the united streams flow into a blissful sanctuary of calm seraphic joy, and transfigures those who give it voice. Poetry must be translated; painting is often misunderstood; music is universal as love. Lowell calls it rightly "God's great charity." Whatever utilitarians may assert, music like color is a pure, gratuitous blessing. Form predicates purpose; sounds an end, but color and music are unnecessary, and therefore free bounties and divine. After the music there is a pause; hearts have been lifted too high during these Sabbath moments to resume at once daily life; but after a while there is a move, and many disperse. Some wander about and gather flowers, aided by urchins who have assembled like an army of vultures to feast on the banquet deserted by nobler bipeds. Others linger on the spot where they have been entranced. Then, after a period of rest, commence those sports to which from time immemorial the afternoon of the festa is devoted. More and more carriages, more and more horsemen crowd up the road. There are horse-races, donkeyraces, pig-races, races in sacks, mock-fights, and every kind of game. During this time a little incident I witness moves me much. I am near a group who are watching the games. There is the English lady, her children, and her fair young friend; also the lovely American and her party. They are all apparently intimate acquaintances, and the girls talk to each other in the pretty caressing manner so common to youthful friendship. I do not see the young sculptor-yes, here he is, hastening to them, accompanied by a ragged, barefooted, dark-eyed little fellow, who holds in his hand one of those beautiful small green serpents which are sometimes found in the Campagna. Writhing in his grasp, and changing in color with every motion, it looks like a superb molten emerald varied with gold. Every one admires it; but I confess to an instinctive abhorrence for these reptiles, a deep and mystic dread. "What a lovely bracelet it would make!" says the English girl, and with a pretty show of bravery she holds up her wrist. "Try it on." "Judge of its effect on me ;" and the young man evidently shudders at her wish, but draws up his sleeve to place it on his own arm. "Let me try it on," says a gentle voice, and a hand like a white flower is held out, and the green serpent coils round the wrist in a moment. It is all done so quickly no one can prevent it. The young man turns pale as death, and his eyes are riveted on the exquisite faee which droops beside him. "It is quite harmless," calls out another voice, a great authority on all matters of natural history, even to wise and learned societies, an oracle to us poor dunces of the Campagna. I Every one admires the lithe and flashing circle round that delicate arm. No queen's armlet, not even the rare Egyptian's, could have been more gorgeous. It is then undone and returned to the little boy, whose speculation on its beauty has answered well, to judge of the pauls he is pocketing so fast. Had I been the American sculptor, I should have kept it, and had it oxidized on a piece of marble, like the lizards in the Via Condoth; perhaps he did. The attention of the party is attracted to some other object of interest, but two still remain together, and I linger (unseen by them) so near that I can hear them speak. "Did you know it was stingless, Emily ?" "No." "Was it a voluntary act, putting out your hand so quickly before mine?" "I was afraid for-you." This last word is breathed rather than uttered. There is no immediate reply; but I see the young man stoop and kiss that wrist with reverential adoration. "And yet I know that for some days past you might have perhaps thought you had reason to doubt me; but believe me, my darling, and if it were not the truth, I feel I should this moment be struck dead at your feet. We artists may in fancy flutter moth-like round every new and beautiful face, but the heart is true, and wavers not. Say that you believe me." The downcast face is raised, and I see a glance which reassures him. So angels look when they rejoice over "He who was lost, but is now found." But see, gathering up towards the west, that panoply of flushing clouds, deepening and deepening from palest green to fiery orange, and then on to vermilion; the day is dying, and with what a glorious hectic on its cheek! With the dew of the fast approaching evening a pathetic sentiment seems to enter many hearts who have not many such bright days as this to enumerate. Yonder the evening star has gleamed out amid the purple. A moment since and it was yet day; and now the day is dead, and that star is the first torch lit by the mourners over its corpse. We must hasten home. All are now on their way. We leave the large, dark mounds, the |