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ating two weeks to me, for Miss Fannie compelled me to see everything she chose to assert 'good;' and I, to my shame, abjured, in the most pusillanimous manner, my most cherished blindnesses, and came out with telescopic power to look admiringly on all objects haloed by her approving smile.

"When they went back, leaving me an informal invitation to the wedding, 'to give me time to see if I could see it, before the envoy of the required-by-etiquette pasteboard,' said Miss Fannie, I spent a whole day and night (till I fell asleep) searching my inner self; and then it was that, after a rigid examination, I first discovered, lodged in a fructifying nook of my bosom, a specimen of that luxuriant plant yclept love, already bursting into bloom. It absolutely frightened me.

"My first impulse was to run away-as if I could run away from myself! To this succeeded an intense desire to be encouraged by somebody, to make a confidant of some fellow experienced in such affairs, and get his opinion of my case. Finally, I felt horribly anxious to know what Miss Fannie thought of me, but to discover it without the terrible ordeal of asking her. I somehow felt absurdly afraid of meeting her now. I fancied she would read my desperate state in my face, and would be mercilessly jocose upon it. This idea made me savage

"I went down to Caltrup's rooms. 'Cal,' said I, 'I don't exactly see this wedding, as far as my presence is concerned.'

"If you want to have my sister Fannie your enemy for life, you'd better not go, that's all,' retorted he.

"In a few days Caltrup came to see me. 'We'll have glorious weather for our jaunt,' cried he.

"Well, really, now,' said I, somewhat faintly, I own, 'I fear I cannot make up my mind to the thing, Cal.'

"And yet, do you know, Charlie, I felt an intense desire to go, every now and then. Wasn't it strange?

"Look here,' said Caltrup. If you are not ready to start with me next Monday, I'll tell them all at home that you are in a desperate state of love-unrequited toward the bride

elect, and can't stand the sight of your lucky rival's happiness-I will, by Jove!'

"And I knew he would, so there was no resource; go I must, for I was always horribly sensitive to ridicule when a woman was concerned. I went like a lamb to the slaughter; I mean that was the way I looked at it then.

"There were not a great many people there. The bride looked charming, of course. By the by, did you ever notice how universally becoming the bridal costume is? I never saw a bride well got up but looked handsome, even though ordinarily a commonplace-looking girl. Bridegroom Harry was considerably subdued, and a little scared; but with excess of happiness, no doubt. Fannie, first bridesmaid, was disastrously I thought then-bewitching. The last feeble defence of my cynicism, as well as nearly the last spark of my hope-or, rather, courage-sank before her fascination. How often that morning I tortured myself with the question: Did she love me? could she love me? And did not dare to answer it, save by a very lugubrious sigh. I had little experience in the wiles of Cupid, you know, and a woman's heart was a Rosetta stone to me.

"As we were looking at the trousseau-'Oh, what a delightful thing it must be to go to Europe!' cried Miss Fannie. 'Just think, Mr. Telford, Clara and Harry are to be gone a whole year; and are going all over Italy, and France, and Germany, and through all those grand old galleries, and cathedrals, and—and everything! How I wish I could go with them!'

To be

"I can't see the delight to any extent, Miss Fannie,' I replied, rather spitefully. rushed from one place to another, and dragged through dreary picture-galleries and damp, gloomy churches day after day, until it's all a muddle, as somebody says, seems to me a fearful bore.'

"You are an obstinate, crotchety old bachelor, I declare,' cried Miss Fannie. But I don't think a wedding is a wedding without a bridal tour to Europe; and it was I who influenced sister to go, and persuaded mother to let her, and ordered Harry to make all the arrangements; and if ever I-' She stopped suddenly, and then tripped from the room like a fairy, but not before I saw a rosy blush flushing up from her cheeks to her brow, like a translucent cloud inted by the rising sun.

"I pondered over this declaration of Miss Fannie's, and her suddenly interrupted ‘if ever I'―pondered in a vague, worried sort of way, without making much out of my ponderings, except the making myself more or less miserable

the entire evening, after bride and groom had driven off, with much luggage, hand-claspings, embraces, and tears. Why will people cry at weddings? It gives them a not peculiarly cheerful resemblance to funerals.

"The next day, however, I made a sudden, startling, and quasi-involuntary resolve, and acted upon it instantaneously; how I did it or even why I really cannot explain; it was an impulse-a most happy one, I feel now. nie and I were on the piazza. I don't think we were saying anything very special, when the boy drove up with letters from the adjacent village.

Fan

"Miss Fannie,' said I, suddenly, 'it may be true, as you have said, that I am obstinate and crotchety; but, believe me, it is my misfortune, not my fault. I never had the gentle influences of mother or sister, or even a lady cousin-ahem!-to mould my harsher nature. I begin to see that-that I should and could see many things which-in short, I really want to see-to-to-' I stopped to take a fresh start. This is what I mean,' said I: 'you are the sister of my most intimate friend, and as such you-no! I mean independently, entirely so, of that-you are the most, the only' -she was looking straight into my eyes, with such a half startled, half tantalizing glance that I could not proceed for the life of me as I had wished, but, drawing a hurried breath, I almost stammered: 'Will-will you permit me to-to write to you?'

"The blush rose again slightly as she replied: 'I shall always be happy to receive a letter from the most intimate friend of my brother; but-'

"But you will not promise to answer it?' queried I, in a melancholy tone.

"Not without my mother's approbation,' said Miss Fannie, with a demure smile that instantly roused a fierce desire on my part to kiss her there and then. Which, however, I did not do; but, on the contrary, proceeded to argue the question of the extent of parental authority over children who had arrived at years of discretion, in an eloquent, but somewhat irrelevant and desultory manner, I fear. We talked warmly about it, and branches of it, notwithstanding, for an hour, after which Caltrup called me to 'pack up my traps for the back-track.'

"When we were about to leave, I searched in vain for Fannie, to say a last word of our argument and a good-by. She was nowhere to be found, and I bade the rest of the family a rather gloomy farewell; when, just as I had finished my little speech of thanks to Mrs. Caltrup, that good lady placed in my hands a VOL. LXIV.-48

small slip of paper, with the words 'I trust you will find no flaw in this document, my dear Mr. Telford.'

"I opened it before we were out of sight of the Homestead, and read :—

"KNOW all concerned by these presents, that we vouchsafe our sovereign consent to the Esquire George Telford to indite epistles unto the damosel Fannie Caltrup; and we furthermore give our approbation unto the aforesaid damosel to answer the epistles of the aforesaid Esquire. Provided, that the said correspondence shall be carried on within the compass of reason, and the mail-bag of S

"Given under our hand and seal, this 16th day of May 18-, at our palace of the Homestead. Signed, CATHERINE CALTRUP.'

"My face must have betrayed my sensations, for Caltrup exclaimed: 'Whew! what's up? Has mother bequeathed you all her fortune, including the Mayflower teapot? Or has she given you a long lost MS., proving you to be the actual and indubitable Bourbon whom we have among us?'

"I showed him the document. "Is that all?' cried he. But it 's just like mother. She is still fond of a joke. They say she was just such a merry girl as Fan. I don't know that she would have consented though, my boy, if I hadn't told her what a lonely, unhappy, much-to-be-pitied old fellow, and perfect brick, you were.'

"I didn't care a button for his fun then. I was deeply intent on the composition, mentally, of my first letter to Fannie.

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IV.

"My first epistle was sent, and in it the overeign consent and approbation.' In a fortnight, cruel delay, I received a charmingly piquante reply. The very next day I mailed epistle No. 2. A week only this time elapsed between expectation which is the thief of time (that's my improvement on the old saw), and the answer. From this time we corresponded regularly until-"

"Until," said a sweet voice with a touch of malice in it, unexpectedly interrupting George, "until the obstinate, crotchety old bachelor's eyes were opened-so he avowed-and he saw distinctly many things not given him to 'see' previously."

We both started and turned round. There stood Mrs. George Telford, once Miss Fannie

Caltrup, with the bright, provoking smile on her radiant face, and her slender finger upraised threateningly to her surprised husband.

"My-ah, Fannie, how-when did you come in? Oh! allow me to introduce my friend, Charles Seavor."

The courtesies of the introduction over, Mrs. Telford resumed her peculiar smile, and said: "I have not been eavesdropping very long, gentlemen; but, coming to the door a few moments ago, I heard George repeating the jocose document my dear mother gave him, and I confess to have listened from that crisis, because I thought it very probable he would let his vanity run away with his conscientious duty as an autobiographer, and cunningly turn his defeat into a triumph; and when I imagined I saw, or rather heard the 'moment critical' approach, I entered, and terminated the rather tedious narrative by the brilliant climax that so startled you."

"But I have a few more words to add," said George; "I have to add that I made several more delightful visits at the Homestead, deeper and deeper in love with the many charming qualities of my dear Fannie, more and more convinced of my former wilful blindness to the cheerful and happy aspects of many things in life, until, just three weeks ago, day before yes

terday, I stood in the long parlor there, with this little hand in mine"-he took his wife's hand with a proud smile-"and vowed, before a reverend man, to love and cherish Frances Caltrup till death should us part-"

"And," again interrupted Mrs. T., this time with a tear twinkling through the old smile, "it was by George's earnest wish that we drove from the Homestead, as Clara and Harry had done before, an hour after our marriage, for a wedding tour in Europe; for I hesitated somewhat about leaving father and mother alone. Brother is in South America, you know, 'doing the tropics,' as he calls it; but George insisted on coming out to meet Clara and Harry, and besides, he said that-that under the new aspect of things, he was sure he should see Europe immensely."

"All true," cried George, with a good-humored laugh. "I was bewitched, I am bewitched, and I fervently hope and believe," added he, again clasping Fannie's hand, "that I shall continue to be bewitched to the end! I see everything that is good now! Let us go to dinner."

As Mrs. Telford took my arm, I noticed, on her third finger, a very beautiful diamond and ruby ring, which I thought I had seen before, but I made no remark thereon!

A WOMAN'S CONSTANCY.

BY MARY E. CLARKE.

THERE was no fairer child ever pleaded silently for love and care than the tiny baby my brother brought me one bright summer day, and placed in my arms, saying: "My Lucy is dead, Mary. Will you care for Constance?"

His voice was firm, yet well I knew how his heart shuddered with the agony of the first sentence. My tears blinded me as I heard of the death of the fair, frail little beauty I had learned in one short year to call sister; but I took the babe, and Roger knew by my look that I accepted his charge. Only for a few months did he share the care with me, and then my baby, my little niece, was an orphan. Rich in beauty, in this world's treasures, in talents; poor in one great gift, the gift of health. She was never very sick; but she inherited a delicate constitution, and she was always slight and fragile, needing all my loving care to keep her from illness.

We were alone in the beautiful house my

darling owned, yet we were never lonely. She was my pride, my comfort, my heart's choicest treasure, and I missed nothing when she was near; for herself, her playthings, and, as she grew older, her books, her teachers, music, and work, filled all the time, and she shared all with me. We pored together over each day's tasks, for her loving heart fancied that auntie's explanations made them easier; we practised duets, we worked on the same pieces of embroidery.

With this daily companionship my darling's heart was won, not away from me, but into the keeping of another, who said I must love him as he loved me, for the sake of the love we both lavished upon the fair-haired girl who had promised to be his wife; and I accepted my new nephew gladly. He was all I wished, even for my Constance. There was truth in his frank, handsome face; strength in his tal graceful figure, his hearty, genial voice; lov

in his dark eye; and tender protection in every movement. True, strong, tender, loving -I asked no more.

She loved him fondly. She leaned upon his strong arm, so sure that it would always protect her; and when her step grew weak, her eye dim with age, she knew his love would watch over her, as it did now over her delicate, fragile form. It seemed to me the beau ideal of true love. He so strong, dignified, and tender; she fair, trusting, and so ready to follow meekly where his judgment led. Her lonely life, her orphanhood, and weak health had made her peculiarly dependent upon love, and she was like the vine that would fall did not a strong heart stand ready to support her clinging love. So I thought then.

My new nephew was the son of my old friend Frank Lawrence, a man of standing and wealth, who gave his consent to the marriage, and fondled my pet's curls with an abstracted air, which we all attributed to absent-mindedness, and thought of no more. Young Frank was a physician, and, as his father desired it, he left home to settle in a small town in Ohio, there to establish a practice. We all thought it odd that Mr. Lawrence should be so anxious for Frank to make his own way so entirely; but the lovers parted, with vows of constancy, and he went to Ohio.

Two years passed away, and my pet was of age. There was a meeting of lawyers, some signing of papers, and Constance was in possession of the large property her father had left. On the day she came of age my old friend Mr. Lawrence died, and Frank was sent for to come home. I knew my child's hope, which was mine, too, that his father's death, making him independent, would allow him to remain at home.

It was the evening after the funeral. We were seated in the parlor, listening to a gentle rain pattering on the window-panes, listening, too, for a well-known footstep, when the bell rang violently, and then, with a hasty step, Frank came in.

We knew he would be sad, for he had loved his father well; but we started as the light fell upon his face. Such a look of utter, despairing misery I never saw before. Constance was beside him instantly.

"Frank, dear, you are ill!"

His lip quivered, and he took her in his arms, and looked into her face with a passionate look of love and sorrow that was heart-breaking; then he came to me, and, putting her on the sofa beside me, he said, softly :—

"Take her, auntie! I-I must give her up." "Give her up!"

"I am not inconstant! I love her"-his voice broke here; but, after a moment, he said: "I will tell you. When my-when Mr. Lawrence's will was read this afternoon, it was found that he had only a few thousand dollars to will away; these he left to me. The rest of his property goes to the heir-at-law, his nephew."

"Surely his son is heir-at-law," I cried.
"I am not his son !"
"Not his son ?"

"I never meant to deceive you; I thought until to-day that I had the right to call him father, but I have not. He left me a letter, telling me that years ago he was called to see a dying woman, who had heard that he was rich and charitable; she begged him to care for her baby, and died while she spoke. He did as she requested. May God reward him for it! And-and-that is all! I know not who I am; nameless, poor, I came to tell Constance that she is free."

My darling had listened quietly; now she left her place beside me to go to her dearest resting-place, in his arms. She did not speak; she only rested her fair head on his bosom, drew his arms about her waist, and so, silently, lovingly, renewed their engagement. I stole away, leaving them standing there.

The next day he left us to return to Ohio. He wished, he said, to make himself a home and a position before he married, and we respected the noble heart that shrank from seeming to woo the heiress, and he went back. At first his letters were frequent, then longer intervals came between them, and we noticed that each time the writing was less distinct, the words of love more constrained, and the letters shorter. Constance trusted; I-I blush now to own itI doubted. There was at last an interval of six months, in which our letters were unanswered. Then came one in a strange hand; I opened it, for my pet shook and trembled so that she could not break the seal.

"He is not dead?" she whispered.
"No; the letter is signed with his name."
"Read it."

So I read the letter:

B, June 16th, 18-.

I am writing to you, Constance, by the hand of a friend to tell you that which I have tried for months to tell, and yet hoped might not come true. There is no hope now, and I must resign the one love of my life. I am blind!

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So we went. We took rooms at a hotel, or rather tavern, and then inquired for Dr. Lawrence's office. It was easily found, and we were soon on the door-steps. The door was open, and we entered very softly. He did not hear us. He was seated before a little table, upon which were writing materials, and he was evidently learning to trace the letters without seeing them, and what was on the page-no word but Constance-in large irregular characters, crooked, meeting, crossing each other, often the one name was multiplied upon the sheet.

Constance went close to him, and then bent over and read what he wrote. The next moment she drew the pen from his fingers, and knelt before him; he did not start; he only said, softly

"Constance !"

"Yes, Frank. How could you write such a letter, Frank? If I were in trouble, would you cast me off?"

"Constance!" so softly and tenderly, he said the name again; his hand resting on her head, and his sightless eyes fixed on her face.

I cannot tell how my darling became gradually the strong one to lead the wavering steps of her blind husband. Some there were who pitied her for passing her bright youth with a man blind, poor, and nameless; but I knew that his loving helplessness made him dearer to her than all else the world offered her; and that in heart and truth they were indeed one.

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THE nightingale is a lively bird to the young and joyous; a melancholy one to the declining and pensive. He has notes for every ear; he has feelings for every bosom; and he exercises over gentle souls a wider and more welcome dominion than any other creature

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