The mother thought within herself, "Why is not that fine high-spirited young man the possessor of a noble name and princely heritage, instead of this dotard? Emilie never can love this man; the other she might-nay, I half fear she does." A deep sigh closed her silent soliloquy.

The Duc had not altered a muscle of his countenance; the same air of patronage, mingled with a slight sneer, was on his features; it was he who first broke silence:

"And what does my fair fiancée think of the ravings of that young fool?"

bling ashes; she might have been asleep and dreaming, so little was she conscious of outward objects or the flight of time. It would have been a curious study to have traced the varied emotions that flitted over that fair young face, like the light and silvery clouds floating over the moon, which was pouring a flood of glory without on the white and frost-bound earth. Presently she arose, and approaching her toilet, gazed on the image her mirror reflected-gazed on it as one looks for the first time on a lovely picture; then a shudder thrilled her whole frame, and, covering her face with her hands, she turned hastily away, and rang her silver bell, as if seeking companionship as a shelter from some loathsome thought. Was it that in fancy she saw the withered face of her destined For my part I am inclined to think that bridegroom close to her blooming beauty? was those are the greatest fools who make rods it that her newly-awakened sensitiveness exwherewith to whip themselves. We teach low-plained the truth, and that she felt how dreadful born people to read and write, but we cannot teach them to think or reason; the consequence is, that they only see with their own plebeian eyes, and reason with their own narrow judgments; and these being antagonistic to ours, the result is, ingratitude, insubordination, and insolence."

Simply this, that from children and fools one hears the truth," said Emilie.

"You are delightfully sententious in your replies, ma toute belle. And you, Madame ?"

Just so, Madame! For the present, adieu. At the opera I shall see you again. Adieu!"

must be the position of a wife who shrinks in disgust from the caresses of her husband--felt that nor rank, nor wealth, nor aught the world can offer, can render such slavery endurable?

Marriage was intended to be a holy thing, a blessing for mortals; but men have made it a mere business transaction, a matter of barter and calculation. It should be consecrated by love and esteem: it is degraded by mercenary love of lucre; and yet we wonder that so often its chains are the heavy irons of discontent, disunion, and misery, instead of the rosy wreath of affection exhaling perfume and delight!

"Who placed this letter here?" she inquired.
I did, Madame," replied the soubrette.
"And when?"

Madame."

That night the music was sadly wasted on the Duc; he was too much engaged in watching and delighting in the admiration bestowed on his beautiful bride elect, to be sensible of the beauties of the opera; all admiration bestowed Her attendant entered; she placed a letter on on her he took as homage to his own good taste the table by the bed-side, and then having unand was flattered by it. "She is indeed an ex-dressed her lady, retired. Emilie perceived the quisite creature, and will grace my title well," letter as she approached her couch, took it up, he murmured, as his eyes wandered over the perused the address, laid it down again, and statue-like form of the girl, as, in a reverie com- rang. posed of harmony and memory, she leaned back in her chair, thinking or dreaming of many things: a new phase of her life had opened on her; there was a great change between the giddy insouciance of the morning and the dreamy languor of the evening; she had been thoughtless and childish, she was suddenly becoming thoughtful and womanly; and yet all her feelings were so vague, that she could not have recalled them; she was simply conscious that they were pleasurable and novel, and that music to-night had a power and a beauty and a language it had never possessed before, at least for her. But with the close of the opera the rosy clouds of imagination floated away, and left the reality more cold and barren than it had ever appeared before.

to

"But now,

"And why not tell me of it?"

"Madame did not speak to me, and I feared disturb her reverie."

Emilie smiled, partly at the excuse and the tacit reproach it conveyed, partly at her own abstraction. "Ah! well, Julie, you can go," was all she said, and the girl withdrew.

It was the gallant habit of the Duc de Montferrand to send a delicately-scented billet to his fair fiancée every evening, commending himself to her sleeping fancies, bewailing his destiny, which kept him separated so long from the idol of his soul, and couched in romantic and poetic As we have already observed, Emilie had aspirations, mostly borrowed from authors he grown older in feeling and thought in the course had read at some time; and Emilie had taken a of the last few hours. Arrived at home, and in childish sort of pleasure in receiving these the solitude of her own chamber-for she de- evidences of his devotion, and had smiled at or clined the attendance of her femme de chambre-mocked at them as best suited her humour; and she threw herself in an arm-chair in front of the had never failed to ask Julie if one had not fire, and sat long and silently, with her eyes come until this evening. following the fantastic groupings of the burning embers; vague chimeras flitted like a phantasmagoria before the eye of her imagination, fantastic visions developed themselves in the crum.

Now she took up the letter, and returned to her former seat; the hand-writing was not the same, and she examined it and the seal, as we are all apt to do, for some moments before she

opened the letter: at last she broke the seal, and read:

honour of your note? for I confess myself puzzled to guess what induced you to write to me."

Emilie smiled, but it was not her frank smile of old; there was some embarrassment in it, and she paused, as if uncertain how to word what she wished to say; but the Duc perceived

"Pity me, Mademoiselle, and pardon my weak pride; my words may have offended you, but I was not sufficiently master of myself to pause to weigh them. Why was not I born noble-or rather why may not I achieve nobility? But what use to rail against fate? I am but a serf, a plebeian, a vassal-nothing of this, or, if he did, interpreted it in therefore I say, pity me!

the way most flattering to himself; and again "You have always been kind and condescending, took up the conversation, and gossiped away in Mademoiselle; you have appeared to me like my his ordinary style, scarcely pausing for the moguardian angel; but I quit you. What lies in the future I know not-perhaps the Bastile with which nosyllabic replies of his companion. At length Monsieur le Duc threatened me; perhaps a bullet he said, "But I must tear myself away, my duHeaven only knows. I cannot depart without bid- ties summon me—shall I not first hear why you ding you farewell, without praying you occasionally wished me to call? or may I flatter myself that to waste a thought on the companion of your child-it was because, like me, you find the hours of hood; without assuring you that I can never forget your kindnesses to the poor vassal; and that I will strive to prove that they were not bestowed on one wholly unworthy. Adieu! All good saints guard you! "ROGET."

per

Emilie read this letter over two or three times, folded it thoughtfully, and clasped it between her hands: "Strange," she murmured, "sad and strange! Why did I bid him come back to speak to me this morning? I was so happy until then, so content; and now-now all is confusion in my brain. And Roget, poor Roget, my kind companion, my devoted page, into the wide world to struggle, and goes haps to die. I never thought it would pain me so to part with him-I never thought to part with him-I fear me I never thought at all, vain, weak, and foolish that I have been! And now I cannot think, cannot decide." She sank on her knees before an ebony crucifix; and with the letter still clasped in her uplifted hands, prayed long and earnestly, in words which burst spontaneously from the heart, with an impulse and a vehemence which would have astonished herself, had she been less under their power. On arising from her knees, she went to her desk, and sitting down, wrote:

66

Although to-morrow is not one of the days on which we usually see you, may I request you to

bestow a few minutes of it on

"EMILIE DE SEMONVILLE."

The note was sealed, Julie once more summoned, and bidden to see that it was forwarded to the Duc de Montferrand the first thing on the following morning; and Emilie went to bed, and soon fell into a deep sleep.

It will easily be imagined that the Duc lost no time in obeying the summons of his lovely bride-elect. As soon as etiquette admitted of a visit, he betook himself to the Hôtel de Semonville, and was at once ushered into the presence of Emilie, who was in the drawing-room, endeavouring to appear occupied with a piece of embroidery. Drawing a chair to her side, he kissed her hand with his usual gallantry, and

said:

"You see me here, only too happy to be by your side, and too proud of having been summoned to so enviable a post. May I inquire, ma toute belle, to what I may attribute the

absence all too long? Day by day I chide the weary foot of time, and would move heaven and earth to speed its flight, and approach the happy day of our union.”

It was of our marriage that I wished to speak to you, my dear Duc. I have thought much on that subject during these last four-andtwenty hours."

My thoughts are never absent from it," observed the gallant lover.

"And how do you think of it?" inquired Emilie.

"How? What delicious naïveté! I think of it, fairest, as of the epoch of my existence, as of the portal of a happiness beyond what poets ever dreamed of-as of an earthly paradise, to which an angel is to admit me."

'Your Grace, this is rhapsody, not an answer to my question.'

"I do not understand you to-day, Emilie. You are pale-agitated-in tears! What means You must not weep, bright one."

this?

You must promise to pardon me, Monsieur de Montferrand; but I know you will, you have ever been kind and indulgent to all my childish follies; I think you love me as you would a child, a mere girl—not as men love a bride; and I also feel that I do not love you as a woman should love the man she marries; forgive me if I grieve you, but I felt that I ought to tell you this-as soon as I knew it myself."

The Duc fairly started as he heard this confession, and looked in blank amazement at the earnest countenance which was upturned to his; but it was only for a moment that his wonted self-possession deserted him; the next he reflected that this was probably some girlish caprice, some maiden coyness, which with management might be easily got over; so he once more took her hand, and in his suave accents said:" I never asked you for love, dear one; I only besought your friendship, and having that I flattered myself that unalterable devotion would in time win for me a warmer feeling. I exact nothing, but put the happiness of my life in your hands, trusting to your excellent nature, your young and gentle heart."

"It is just that which I feared. I know your goodness and generosity, and I felt that I could not repay you as you would hope and expect," sighed Emilie.

"You love another, then," murmured the Duc, bitterly.

66

My heart has created an ideal of the being I feel I could love!" faltered the girl, while her face became flushed with crimson.

"Why lower yourself by descending to subterfuge, Madame? You love another-doubtless one in all the glory of youth, one who woos you with the vehement passion of that impressionable age. But have a care, lady; fierce flames speedily burn themselves out; and once gone, the most hoary winter is not colder than that sunless spring! But I will relieve you of my presence, and hope that my successful rival may succeed in making you as happy as I should

have endeavoured to do."

Emilie started from her chair, and catching his arm as he hurried across the room, forced him to return. "You are too hasty, Monsieur de Montferrand!" she said gently and kindly. "I have no lover and you no rival! It is but an ideal love my heart has dreamed of, and while so doing it became awakened to the fact | that it was deceiving you. I have been very thoughtless, and have never reflected until just lately on what marriage was, what were its duties

prove

1

A VALENTINE.

BY MRS. VALENTINE BARTHOLOMEW.

And wilt thou for an idle word

Neglect thy truest friend;
Will nothing short of constant praise
Thy stubborn spirit bend?
Will TEMPER always interfere
To wound the heart thou shouldst hold dear?
Believe me, Temper, not the world
Has been thy deadliest foe;
Its baneful influence uncontroll'd
Oh! be thyself, and break in twain
Will work thy overthrow.

The fetters of this slavish chain.

I am thy mother-sister-friend-
And cannot bear to see

The pure of heart-the faithful few-
All pass away from thee.
But vered, not angry thoughts are mine,
To greet thee on St. Valentine.

and requirements. Forgive me, mon cher Duc, THE OLD MAN'S SONG TO HIS WIFE. for I am but a child-forgive me! I am grateful for your friendship, for the honour you have done me, and I would fain it by learning to love ere I become a wife." "Sweet child, who could refuse forgiveness? But why not wed me first, and let it be my happy task to compel you to love me?"

Emilie shook her head, and involuntarily shuddered.

The years
have departed since first my affection
Clung round thee in purest devotion and truth;
The sweet silken bond which then form'd the con-
nection,

Remains now as firm as of yore in my youth.
The spring of my life long ago hath passed over,

And winter's dull stage is alone left for me;
But still I've within the warm heart of a lover,
Though its pulses are weak, yet they beat true to
thee.

"You are a strange girl!" soliloquized the Duc, as he looked thoughtfully on the clear brow and dark eyes, whose unfathomable depths were fit mirrors of the soul within, waking into consciousness of its purest and holiest feelings. "And you would have me believe that I have no rival, but that this is a mere caprice—a foolish That spark cherish'd well, now benignly sheds o'er

whim."

Oh, not so! not so, your Grace! it is no caprice, but a deep sense of what is just to you and to myself. I will teach myself to love you; I will endeavour, with every power of my being, to feel towards you as a wife ought to do; and my prayer is, postpone our marriage until I can say that I have succeeded."

"And what if I refuse this prayer?"

"Then I will marry you, Monsieur le Duc, on the day appointed, and in accordance with my plight; but I shall not love you; may be I shall not endeavour to do so."

"Fear not, Emilie! I will bide your time, sweet girl, and meanwhile count as ever on my friendship and regard, and let not what has now passed interrupt our kindly intercourse.”

The young girl pressed his withered hands to her rosy lips, and her features beamed with gratitude; never perhaps had she felt so kindly towards him as at this moment. The Duc bent forward and kissed her snowy forehead, and hastily departed.

(To be concluded in our next.)

The fierce flame of passion burnt on for a season,
That beauty, soul-thrilling, lit up in my mind;
Till soften'd by time, and the dictates of reason,
The fire dwindled out-but a spark was behind.

me

A light calm and clear as the stars from above;

A symbol, my dearest, of how I adore thee,
That light is the light of my undying love.

J. J. REYNOLDS.

ALONE.

To be alone-a peopled wilderness

Affords more paths than nature's woody ways; Voices of crowds bewilder and oppress,

With sadness falling on the heart which stays
The spirit of our thoughts. The soul, alone,
Shrinks from the turmoil of the outer world,
The din of voices-not beloved, or known,

Breaks all communion with the passing crowd,
Or valued. So upon our pathway hurl'd,

Throws back the heart upon itself. So thrown,
The pomps go by, and laughing tones are loud.
Lock'd up within itself, it dreams its dream-

alone!

F. F. C.