John drew back abashed, and the muscles of his face worked. "The past is past,' said he, in a low tone; but that was all that he said. 'Be it so, John,' said Mr. Lindsey, after a pause. Most unreservedly do I trust you; most unreservedly do I commit my child to your care.' 'I'll watch over him as I will watch over little Tom,' replied John, in a husky voice. I will, so help me GOD!'

'It's well,' said Mr. Lindsey, sinking back in his chair; 'and I thank you.'

John stood awhile, as if expecting him to say more, but Mr. Lindsey seemed exhausted by the effort he had already made.

'I think I'll go, Sir,' said he, when he was fully satisfied that the old man had said all that he desired. Tom's not well, and I may be wanted.'

'Well, good-night, John,' said Mr. Lindsey, feebly. 'I have already exerted myself too much. Good-night; but remember, I rely on you.' 'You may, Sir,' replied John; and bowing to Mr. Lindsey, he went out

and left the house.

John paused as he stepped out into the open air, and surveyed the massive building. How dark and dreary it seemed!—and there was a sad sound sighing through the old trees which overhung it, that seemed to predict sorrow.

The good are going,' muttered he, repeating the words which he had used in his shop. GOD help those who are left!'

John Biggs was not a man to yield to idle fancies. He had been dragged through the rough paths of life, and had battled his way against stern and stubborn realities; but an overpowering sense of sadness stole over him. In vain he tried to shake it off, and to struggle against it. He thought that it might be caused by the chill air of the night. He buttoned his coat more closely about him, and walked rapidly on; but it grew darker and darker as he went; and dark and more gloomy the dreary feeling gathered about his heart. Every thing seemed to grow cold and cheerless; the dim trees, stretching out their great branches between him and the sky, seemed so many shadowy spectres throwing a pall over his path-way.

'GOD grant that this foreboding may mean nothing!' said John, as he hurried on. 'GOD protect my little boy! My heart is very heavy.'

The distance to his house was about two miles, but he walked so rapidly that he soon reached his own door.

What was it that whispered its forebodings in his ear? What was the strange wailing cry that reached him? There was a stir in the inner room as he entered, a quick step, and the nurse with a blanched face hurried out.

John's heart died within him. He uttered not a word, but crossed the outer room, and went straight to the bed where his child lay. A fearful change had come over the boy since they had parted; his features had become pinched and sharp; his eyes were partly closed; and his breathing was slow and heavy.

How is it with thee, my own little Tom?' said John Biggs, taking the tiny, wasted hand in his, while he bent over the boy.

The child clasped his fingers around those of h's father, and raised his

dark eyes to his face; but oh! their patient, cheerful look was gone, and they were fixed upon him with a long, searching, and unfathomable gaze; his breath was growing more and more faint; and the pulse in that little hand was becoming more and more slow; and the grasp of those small fingers was more and more feeble; and gradually those eyes grew dim, as if a shadow were falling upon them.

'Tom, my own dear little Tom, speak to me,' said the old man, in a low, tremulous tone, kneeling at his bed-side.

Even in the struggle with the Great Enemy, the words reached the heart of the child. His eyes opened, and rested with a something of their old expression upon his father's face; there was an effort to speak, but no words followed. He was too young to fear the terrors of the Dark Valley, but not too young to love those who had cherished him on earth. Tom! Tom! my dear, dear little child, but one word—to say that you loved me to the last!'

Once more that old look of patience and of love-but no words. He bent his face forward until his lips pressed the hard hand which clasped his; then his head fell back, and the tiny fingers relaxed their hold.

John leaned over him, but the breath had stopped, and the heart had ceased to beat. He clasped the little wasted form in his arms, and burying his face in the bosom of his child, bitter sobs burst from him.

Ay, weep on, John Biggs; for never more may thy brawny arms shelter thy boy, or thy cheery voice call a bright smile upon his face. To him, earth, and joy, and sorrow are past. With a father's fondness, and more than a father's devotion, hast thou followed him to the borders of the Dark Sea, but solitary and alone has he launched his bark upon the silent ocean which leads to the Unknown Land.

HOPE .

IN unseen dew-drops cradled lie
The rain-bow colors that on high
Form the bright promise of the sky

They vanish in thin vapors cold,
Then in wild clouds are darkly rolled,
With serpent-lightnings in each fold:

Cold hail with burning flames enwound;

Swift whirl-winds loaded deep with sound.
And silence awful and profound:

Till all is swept away, and breaks

The setting sun through golden flakes

From which the trembling stillness shakes

The few bright drops that form the bow,

The promise-colors that o'erflow
With joy and hope the world below.

With his goblet high in his stout hand tossed, The baron shouts aloud:

"Tis a bitter shame that our booty's lost By the rain-drops of the cloud!'

'So pledge, my bold retainers all!'
Cried he, with a fearful oath;
'Since HEAVEN is deaf, on the FIEND I call;
Fair sky and the Fiend: pledge both!'
Cup rang to cup as the revellers sprang
With a wild shout to their feet;
And a deafening peal of thunder rang,
As heaven to earth did meet.

Still faster flowed the crimson tide
Of the wine in the banquet-hall,
When an out-stretched cup at the baron's side
Was held by a stranger tall.

'I drain thy pledge,' said the stranger-guest,
'From the deep wine-cup to-night;
"Tis but a right bold pledge at best,
And will bring fair skies with light.'

The baron looked from his chair of state.
And he saw the feast was done;
For of all his two-score guests that sate,
There now remained but one.

The o'erturned cups and flagons tall,
And the board all splashed with wine.
And the heavy breath of the stout men, all
Confessed the potent vine.

He filled the cup of the stranger-guest,
As they sat at the board alone,
And pledged again with a bacchanal jest.

As the castle-bell tolled ONE!

'What ho! my warder, seest the sky?
Do the rain-drops fall as fast?
Up! up once more to the turret high,
And see if the storm be passed!'

'Hold!' said his guest; and stand we high.
And look on the cloudless night!

Said I not so, that a fair blue sky
Should come with the morning-light?'

The golden sun with its cheerful beams
Shone bright in the festal hall;

It flashed on the o'erturned cups, and gleamed
O'er the armor on the wall.

It unsealed the eyes of the bacchanal throng,
That were stretched by the festal-board:

They started up and searched full long
For a sight of their absent lord.

High up the winding turret-stair

The trembling warder led;

On the last broad step, o'er the threshold bare, Lay the baron, stark and dead!

LETTERS FROM POPLAR

HILL.

LETTER FIRST.

Lockhurst Seminary, July 18,

DEAR EMILY: In one short week I shall be at home, bidding an eternal farewell to schooldom, but I trust not to school-books. Imagination and affection have already borne me over the coming seven days, and I am with you in your quiet home and in my own, which has long been no home to me.

When I think of my almost orphan condition, of the mother I have recently lost in my departed Aunt Mary, of the almost forgotten faces of my brother and sisters, I cannot wait the wearisome flight of the hours and days, but long inexpressibly to be folded to the hearts of those who are at least bound to me by the ties of relationship. Five years from the paternal roof is a long time to look back upon; but to me those years have been fraught with so much happiness, that their flight has only been too swift.

Yet it is this very retrospection that weighs heavily on my spirits. The superior advantages I have enjoyed; the friendships I have formed; the approbation for which I have earnestly toiled; and more, far more than all, the delightful vacations with Aunt Mary; the remembrance of her goodness, her purity, her love; and now-it is very wicked to feel and say it-all incentive to action seems gone for ever! While she lived, my early love was supplied; the love I pined for, she freely gave, and in the realization of its serenity, I dreamed of no change. But she is dead! and without the support of her sympathy, I must go forth to perform my duty in an over-clouded path-way. I believed the agony of our last parting would ever remain unequalled; but now that a vacation unbroken by studious hours is almost here, and she has passed away for ever, I feel that I have not before appreciated my loss. And yet, Emily, how can I sorrow when I know she is happy? How can I hesitate to fulfil new duties inspired by her treasured counsels? I shall not hesitate. The associations of years will be severed in one short week, never again to be united.

It is a great consolation to know that my sister Agnes has returned from Europe, and is settled so near home. Although so many years older, there has, you know, always existed between us a more than sisterly regard, notwithstanding our separation from one another. How we used to feast on her letters, when you were here, firing our young imagination with visions of Italy and France!

And you, too, dear Emily, I shall see often; at least every Sabbath; when I shall satisfy the eyes that have not gazed on you for months, by looking at you during the whole service, which procedure will doubtless elicit a reprimand from your clerical father. When I think and talk of that dear village of Beverley, my spirit is drawn irresistibly over these two hundred miles of space, folding every one of you in a close embrace, blessing you again and again. Yet how many hours must pass ere I can whisper a 'God bless you' in your ear!