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him to her sister's, after receiving a promise to return for her in two or three days.

Towards the close of the next afternoon, as she sat sewing by the window, she saw Hiram drive into the yard accompanied by Amy. Her breath came quick and short, but she tried to look unconcerned as she went out to welcome them.

"Put on thy bonnet, my dear," were Amy's first words as she saw her. "We left company at home, and cannot tarry."

Poor Mary sat down, and, with her hands before her face, for a moment gave way to her feelings. Then, suddenly rising, found that her good friend had already informed her sister that Mary must go home, and nothing remained but for her to collect her work and prepare for the ride.

This was soon done, and they were on their way. She longed to ask some questions, yet dared not. But Amy waited not for questions. Turning to her companion, she said, abruptly

"Thy friend looks feeble; he has not been out for a fortnight. He will need thy care and nursing to make him well."

Mary could not reply. She felt as if she should weep, not for sorrow, not for joy, but for-she knew not what.

Who shall attempt to describe the workings of a woman's heart?

Soon they were at their own door. She seemed in a dream. Hiram and Amy were upon the steps, and assisting her, before she hardly knew what she was about. She was intending to run for a few moments to her own room, when the parlor door opened, and John came into the entry, accompanied by a tall gentleman, whom he introduced as Levi Harrington, from Edgeworth. She made a low courtesy, and hastily retired.

Amy insisted she should go into her warm room to take off her outer garments, "For," said she, 66 thy hands are like ice."

At tea, Mary grew more calm, and was able to answer the questions addressed to her; and when afterwards Mr. Harrington requested an interview, she was much more composed than she had expected to be.

What was said upon that occasion can be more easily imagined than described. Though doubtless very interesting to the parties concerned, we are not at all sure it would be equally so to our readers, and will therefore only relate so much of it as was communicated by her, on the following morning, to her particular friend, the clergyman's wife, to whom she very properly went for advice.

After conversing with Mrs. Romaine for an hour, on topics of common interest, she suddenly covered her face and said, "I have something strange to tell you." She then related the circumstances with which we are acquainted.

"He has been waiting for me seven years, and

now he has brought his certificate with him, and wishes to be married on Saturday."

"And this is Wednesday," exclaimed her friend, in surprise. "Can you tell whether you shall love him so quick ?"

"Why, you know that I have been thinking of him for three weeks," replied Mary, with naïveté. Then followed many questions as to his moral and religious character, his domestic habits, &c. &c., all of which were very favorably answered by Mary; and her friend saw, with surprise, that her mind was made up, though perhaps she did not acknowledge it to herself.

Still, she could not conscientiously advise her to accept his proposal without farther consideration. She urged her to take a little trip to Edgeworth, visit her friends, and make inquiries concerning him; but there were strong objections on her part to adopting this course. He had come prepared to take her back with him; he could not wait; and she hated to disappoint him.

"But," suggested Mrs. Romaine, "if you should find, on your arrival, that he was not altogether such as you imagine, you might regret all your life that you had been so hasty."

"He thinks I shall not regret it," replied her companion.(Oh, the trust of woman!)-"He thinks," continued she, "that it will be a good home for me; and my friends, where I am staying, like him very much."

After some more conversation, it was at length proposed by Mrs. Romaine that she should write to her friends, and request an immediate answer.

This advice was eagerly accepted, and Mary besought the aid of her friend in accomplishing it. "You know what is proper; write just as you think best."

Mrs. Romaine complied; and, stating to Mrs. Eames's friend in Edgeworth what had occurred, asked her to send in reply whatever she knew of Mr. Harrington. The answer was to be directed to Mrs. Romaine, and was expected the next morning. She then invited Mary to call in the afternoon, and introduce Mr. Harrington to them. This was done, and the visit proved one of satisfaction to all parties.

True to her appointment, Mary called the next morning to see if there was an answer to the letter. None had been received, and the subject had occasioned Mrs. Romaine no small anxiety; but no advice was now necessary. The widow Eames was fully decided not to disappoint so faithful a suitor, and only wished her friends to approve her choice. Busying herself about Mrs. Romaine's dress to hide her face, Mary asked

"Now wouldn't you, if you were in my place, be married Saturday, as he wishes?"

Mrs. Romaine could not resist the pleading look, as she turned to reply, and said

"I don't know but I should."

This was enough, the matter was settled; Mr. Harrington need not be longer harassed with doubt. Before she left her friend, all the arrangements for the wedding were made, and Mary returned to give her consent, and to pack her trunk.

Preparations now went briskly on. Friendly visits were made; presents received; trunks packed with great speed. The marriage was to be celebrated at a quarter before two, that they might be in season for the cars to take them to Edgeworth.

At the appointed time, Mr. Harrington and Mary, with her personal relatives and friends, made their appearance. She had just begun to realize the importance of the step she was about to take; but

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THE ITALIAN SISTER S.

PART I.

BY HELEN HAMILTON.

In a small room in one of the poorer class of lodging-houses of Rome, sat a young and beautiful girl. The glowing loveliness of Italy was hersthe warm yet brilliant complexion, the dark expressive eyes, the wealth of raven hair-all were combined to render her an exquisite specimen of Roman beauty. She was clad in a rich bridal costume, and her dress of snowy satin and costly lace, ornamented with flowers and pearls, contrasted strangely with the aspect of the room she occupied. It was small, poorly furnished, and its only ornaments were a few colored drawings of Italian scenery hanging here and there upon the walls, and a large crucifix of ebony and alabaster which stood on a small table draped with colored stuff. An old guitar, with a portfolio of music, lay at the feet of the fair girl, as if she had been trying to while away the time by playing upon the instrument.

She was evidently waiting for some one. From time to time, as the roll of a coming carriage caught her ear, she sprang up and hastened to the window, but, always disappointed, turned away with a look of weariness to resume her seat. At last, after an hour's weary watch, a carriage stopped at the door, footsteps were heard ascending the stairs, the door was pushed open, and a young man entered the room followed by a priest. Uttering an exclamation of joy, the fair girl flew to meet the first, who greeted her with a smile and the words, "Well, dear Nina, have I made you wait long?" pronounced in Italian with a slight English accent.

"Oh, very long, Enrico! I was so tired; but now you are come, I am satisfied," she replied, smiling. "Does your dress please you?" he asked, attentively surveying her. "I feared it was not handsome enough."

"It is beautiful," she answered, "only too beautiful for me."

"Nothing can be too beautiful for the future Lady Lyndon," he whispered, while a rosy blush overspread the fair features of his companion. "But where is Teresa ?" he added, glancing around; "is she gone?"

"Yes, and all is secure," was the reply.

"Then come, I am impatient to call you my wife, carissima." She placed her hand in his, and he led her to the priest.

And now while the ceremony is proceeding, let us cast a look at the bridegroom.

He was tall and finely formed, with delicately cut features, large deep blue eyes, and a profusion of dark brown hair which wreathed itself in close curls around his head. He was handsomely dressed, and bore in his manners the trace of his rank, (Lord Lyndon was heir presumptive to an earldom,) yet an expression rested upon his handsome mouth which, though difficult to describe, caused an involuntary feeling of dislike in those who beheld him for the first time.

The ceremony was nearly ended, when the door was suddenly thrown open, and a young girl rushed in, her features, though wan and wasted with recent illness, glowing with excitement, and her whole frame trembling with emotion. "The Holy Virgin be praised!" she exclaimed; "I am not too late to save you, Nina!"

"To save me!" exclaimed Nina, a flush crimsoning her cheek; "from what? I am Lord Lyndon's wife."

"His wife? Oh! foolish girl, did you believe him?" asked the other. "This is an infernal snare, Nina. Look at that man," she continued, pointing to the priest, who, pale and trembling, leaned against the wall. "He is one of the lord's servants dressed

up to trick you to your destruction. That is the reason why he insisted on a secret marriage; but his valet, more honest than his master, revealed to me the whole plot scarce an hour ago, and I hastened to save you."

"Nina, 'tis false !" exclaimed Lord Lyndon, angrily.

"I am his wife, Teresa; you have been deceived," said Nina, and throwing back her veil, she gazed with a look of confiding fondness into her lover's eyes.

"Read, deluded girl," replied Teresa, placing an open letter in her hand. She glanced over a few lines, an ashy paleness overspread her features, and with a moan of unutterable anguish, she sank fainting into the arms of her sister. "My lord, your evil purpose is foiled," said Teresa, calmly. "Will it please you, leave me ?" and she pointed with a gesture of command to the door. Uttering an exclamation of rage and scorn, he rushed from the room, followed by the pretended priest, and the sisters were left alone.

PART II.

FIVE years have passed away since the events described in the first part of this tale, and our scene is no longer laid in the little room at Rome, but in the elegant boudoir of a titled lady in London.

The room was richly yet tastefully furnished. The delicate tints of the carpet and the satin-covered furniture harmonized well with the silvery hue of the paper that covered the walls. A few beautiful paintings, one an exquisite Madonna, the rest glowing Italian landscapes, were hung with an artist's care in the best lights, and in a recess stood one perfect statue, a graceful Hebe, from the magical chisel of Canova. Above the mantel-piece of Sienna marble hung one other painting; it was concealed by a curtain of black velvet, on which the words "La Mia Sorella" were embroidered in silver thread.

Seated at a marble table, which was drawn near the centre of the room, was a young and beautiful woman. Her large, black, brilliant eyes, and heavy braids of silken hair of that rich bluish black never seen except on a native of Italy, contrasted the dazzling whiteness of her broad and noble brow, and the soft yet rich tint of her cheek. Her dress of violet satin was cut so as to display the perfect contour of her ivory shoulders, which were farther set off by a berthe of black lace fastened with a diamond star. She was employed in looking over the contents of a small portfolio, covered with crimson velvet, with clasps and corners of gold studded with pearls, and filled with small pieces of paper, all in the same handwriting, and bearing the same signature. A smile curved her beautiful lips, a strange smile for a mouth so lovely; it was cold and bitter,

more painful to look upon than a frown. Such was the Marchesa d'Agliano, the most beautiful woman in London. A servant announced "Lord Lyndon," and, closing the portfolio, she rose to receive him, the smile on her lip giving place to one of welcome. Five years had made but little change in the appearance of Lord Lyndon, except that he was still handsomer than when he won poor Nina's heart, and his manners had acquired additional grace. Clasping the offered hand of the Marchesa, he pressed it to his lips before he spoke; then drawing a chair close to hers, he said, "Well, Beatrice, to-day the year of my probation is ended. It is now exactly one year since the day I first told you loved you; will you not give me a definite answer now?"

The Marchesa listened with the same cold and caustic smile playing upon her lips, and when he paused for a reply, without heeding his words, she said, "Lord Lyndon, I will tell you a little story." The lover looked surprised, but without heeding his astonished looks, she pressed the black heavy braids from his brow, and, after a moment's thought, began. Hitherto the conversation had been carried on in English, but now she spoke in Italian with a rapidity of enunciation that effectually precluded every attempt at interruption.

"Some years ago, my lord, there lived in Rome two orphan sisters. They were of noble birth, but poor, and they depended upon their talents for subsistence; the elder taught drawing, and the younger music. She was very beautiful, and very guileless, and the elder watched over her with all a mother's care, for she was the last being who claimed her love. She always accompanied her when she went to give her lessons, and guarded her with the watchfulness necessary in a land where beauty is almost a curse, but at last she fell sick, and her sister went forth alone to her daily tasks. She met, at the house of one of her pupils, a young foreigner; he was captivated by her beauty, and made her proposals, which she spurned with indignation; he then offered her his hand on condition that the marriage should be kept secret; she loved him, and she consented. But the valet of the young man sought out the elder, told her that her sister was about to become the victim of a pretended marriage performed by a false priest, and, as a proof of his assertions, showed her a letter which his master had given him to burn, a congratulation from some one as base as himself, on securing so easily the lovely prize. He indicated to her the house where the ceremony was to be performed; she hastened thither, and arrived in time to save her sister; but her heart was broken. Wealth and rank became theirs by the death of a distant relative, but all too late. My lord, look here." And rising from her seat, the lady drew aside the black velvet curtain, and Lord Lyndon looked once more upon the face of Nina. But how changed! The same brilliant eyes and glowing cheeks were there, but the lips that had ever greeted his coming

with smiles wore an expression of deep yet patient sadness, and the very beauty of that fair face seemed like flowers strewed upon a corpse to hide by its loveliness the ravages of death. Lord Lyndon seemed violently agitated, and seizing the arm of the Marchesa, he exclaimed, "In pity, tell me, Beatrice, is she dead ?"

"Then I must go unpardoned," he said, in a low tone.

Beatrice buried her face in her hand for a few moments; when she again raised her head, the scornful expression of her features had given place to one of sadness. "My lord," she said, "I believe you, and in that belief I renounce a project of vengeance treasured ever since my sister's death. The Italian count who nightly tempted you to the gaming table, and to whom you lost such immense sums, was my tool, for I sought to avenge my sister by taking from you what I believed every Englishman held dearer than life, money. I can Here," she con

She burst into a sardonic laugh. "Listen to this man!" she exclaimed; "he breaks the heart of a girl who truly loved him, and then asks, 'Is she dead?' She died in my arms scarce a year from the time you so cruelly deceived her. I am her sister; but as you never beheld my face but once, pardon you for not recognizing in the Marchesa Beatrice Teresa d'Agliano the sister of your victim."

He did not seem to hear her, but stood gazing on the portrait, his lip quivering with painful emotion. "Beatrice," he at length said in a deep troubled tone, "I scarcely can hope you will believe my words, yet if ever remorse visited human heart, mine has felt its bitterest pangs. Were Nina living, my hand and heart should be hers; but, alas! I can give you no proofs of the sincerity of what I say. I dare no longer hope you will listen to my suit; I can no longer offer you my hand; I may only plead that you will pardon the bitter wrong I have inflicted on you, and that you will believe in the truth of my repentance."

"You can then feel remorse, contrition!" she exclaimed; "you, the cold-hearted libertine; you, the murderer of my sister! No, I cannot realize such a change."

tinued, laying her hand upon the little velvet-covered portfolio, "lies all your wealth, and thus do I restore it to you."

She opened the portfolio, and, taking out the papers it contained, tore them into atoms; then, turning to Lord Lyndon, she said, "My lord, we part now forever. Farewell."

"Forever! Oh, not forever, Beatrice!" he exclaimed. "Your generous forbearance gave me hope; do not crush it at once."

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My lord, farewell," she repeated, extending her hand. He raised it to his lips, and then, with a look of passionate adoration, repeated her last words, "Farewell," and retired. As his last footstep died away, she turned towards the portrait. "Is not this the vengeance that would have gladdened thy heart, my sister?" she murmured.

It may have been the waving of the curtains, the flickering of the dying sunlight, but something like a smile flitted over the sad sweet face of Nina's portrait.

WOMAN.

BY W. L. TIFFANY.

ALL men in the society of women are romantic. Nature holds this quality to be the fittest garb for the occasion, and the onlookers stare that its plastic folds enwrap the uncouth as well as the graceful. Each, gentle or clownish, selects his Eve for the nonce, and devotedly clothes himself with an air. He feels that grace is becoming to the presence of beauty, and courtesy an excellence not to be left unperformed.

Among men, we are bored, angered, or pleased, as the case may be, but we never idealize. We find no man who absorbs our whole nature, in our admiration for his own. No male can fill our soul with a vision of beauty completed, or a dream of delight unalloyed; because, like us, he is male which suffices to keep us distant and foreign. Resembling us, and we him, knowing our own vulgarity, we dread his. Competing with us continually through life, he

wounds us often and sorely. We may not always call him brother, and he is not lovely in our eyes. However much we envy his superior energy, or action, we find sympathy or joy with but few of his kind: throughout the pages of history even, here and there one only.

The difference in sex is a ravishing riddle, to solve which our attempts at least never fail. The Sphynx, Nature, hides her secret, yet gives us woman, of whom we are born, by whom nurtured, and under whose tender care when saying "Thy will be done," we call Death somewhat robbed of his sting. It is certain that the admiration with which woman fills all mankind is somewhat a cunning and sleight of Nature, with a design to propagate our race: yet the spiritual-minded man finds it somewhat difficult to reconcile Nature's main object with his own paramount desire, which is to define and enjoy woman

as unity and completion. At the best, the circle of his insight is circumscribed, and none of us may question the Infinite.

To see a beautiful woman appropriately costumed leaves the eye nothing to seek. It has found its ideal and panacea. Mountains, waterfalls, pictures, statues, Rome, and Vienna are all insignificant in comparison to her, and sicken' us with their death and inanity. Radiant in her blessed beauty, perhaps inhabiting our dwelling, sitting near us at our meals, passing us in our walks, what satisfying pleasure possesses the soul! We would tempt any fate to find favor in her eyes. If forced to reflect, she is beyond our attainment, or exists for another, the tender and lingering melancholy felt in the heart is sweeter far than many a joy. Language overruns the heavens and earth for images that shall faithfully reflect her eyes and hair, the mould of her throat, the color of her lips, and the correctness of her shape. Finally, recognizing the soul as being the secret spring of beauty thus streaming through her, we are doubly and virtuously inspired and delighted. At this season, an heroic action is the most natural one; a sacrifice, if noble, most easy to undergo. We bid meanness and cowardice at once begone. We neither are shamefaced, nor do we lack anything. The conquering Carolus Magnus is then our equal only. The song and wisdom of a Shakspeare we have attained at once. Her beauty awakes our own. The miraculous light of her eyes transforms us to heroes and emperors.

Wherever a graceful, genial woman dwells, her home and vicinage ar ate once poetical. Her palace or cottage is an enchanting realm to us. The flowers and trees around partake of her loveliness, and reflect it variously and anew. The bare hills no longer seem dreary and irksome; a glad stateliness of her enwraps them and commands us. We penetrate the leafy valley and lonely glen, peopling the solitudes with the coy nymph, and doubting the poet's fairy brood no longer. Each spring and river is bereft of life denial, and the Undine is our warm and fleshly familiar.

It is because of this transforming spirit that Art so revels in the beauty surrounding woman, and everywhere seeks its immortal embodiment and fixidity in her form. All lovers are artists and poets, with passion and genius variously measured and striving. The dream of ecstasy completely possessing one, he shall travail with lifelong sweat and agony, that the wondrous beauty of his Beatrice may be revealed to us in words, colors, or stone, that all men may adore with him. The Medicean Venus, Raphael's Madonna, and the "Loves of the Poets," in thus enchaining our adoration, are symbols of our true religion. To have lived without loving, is to have lived negatively and slavishly. To have loved once and completely, is to have conquered the universe and bound it in chains. No fortune can be adverse while our condition simply is priceless and

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divine. Grief and terrors may threaten, yet we exult that our all-conquering passion will prevail. Though comfortless, landless, and desolate, have we not an imperial realm in the empyrean, where we walk in golden companionship with joys whose fulness suffices the soul to its uttermost desire? banish a Dante from Florence with scorn and insult, is not the heavy misfortune to him it seems to others, for he shall build cities throughout all space fairer than any Florence, and Beatrice with her rewarding beauty shall beckon to him from each.

The soul as naturally craves love, as the invalid longs for his native air. Its solace and health it finds likewise therein; for the soul was born of love eternal, and the highest triumph of philosophy and religion is to teach its perfect reunion with its eternal type. Yet man so misjudges and demeans himself, that to acknowledge to an earnest love, or enrapturing desire, never so pure, is to own to a comical and witless thing, bringing naught save jeers and ridicule in its train. Hence when the fire of the soul burns purest and brightest within us, we seek a darkness or solitude, hoping there for the force, or fortune, to create or meet our shrine, that we may adore and enjoy unobserved.

SONG.

BY WM. M. BRIGGS.

I've been wand'ring-I've been wand'ring
Where the flowers are blooming fair,
With their petals turned to the summer light,
In the breath of the perfumed air;
Where the wild bird's lay through the sunny dav
Rang out from the myrtle bowers;
Yet slowly the dim hours passed away
To my heart in that land of flowers.

I've been wand'ring-I've been wand'ring
By the side of quiet streams,
Whose murmurs brought to my soul the spell
That woke in my earliest dreams;
And the noisy brawl of the waterfall
Called me once more a boy:
Oh! the heart grows faint to idly paint
The glow of a vanished joy!

I've been wand'ring-I've been wand'ring
In the land of citron flowers;

In the southern clime where the moonlight falls
With a charm unknown to ours;
Where the dreamy spells of their haunted dells
Are broke by the bulbul's cry,

And the holy sign of the southern cross
Gleams out on the midnight sky.

Yet I come with a wakening heart once more,
Bold land of the northern blast!
For my spirit pines in the gorgeous glow,
And yearns for the dear old Past;
For the dear old Past and the dear old eyes
That glanced from the window pane;
For the wild delight of the winter's night,
And my native land again!

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