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Paul walked with Carrie, I with Annette. Our way lay across a clover-field, over which, at wide intervals, were scattered bushy cedar trees. Beneath one of these we four stopped to rest. Annette was asking me a host of questions about Paris, Naples, Venice, and Rome; but I can not say I answered them, though I suppose I did. I saw nothing but Carrie Gray-heard nothing but her voice and the ringing lines of Paul's poem:

'Far in the starry deeps of light,

A vision of thy beauty gleams!'

"As we turned from the cedar I saw Carrie give Paul a pretty sprig, at the same time looking up into his glowing face with a smile of almost unearthly radiance. How fondly he clasped that twig-how religiously he stowed it away close to his heart. Annette saw it too, and immediately grew quiet and thoughtful.

"The bluff was on the opposite side of the river, and we had to cross on a bridge only one plank wide. Paul crossed first, walking backward, holding Carrie's hands. His look was one of triumph-exultant beyond description. Annette did not wait for me, but tripped across the swaying bridge as nimbly as a fawn.

"The spot of rendezvous was well chosen -a high point covered with small trees and scattered over with huge mossy stones. A better place could not have been prepared for a day's chit-chat with an interesting companion. I felt little like talking, and was really glad when Annette wandered away in search of violets. I perched myself upon a high rock where I could see Paul and Carrie far below seated near each other on the ground, eating oranges and talking earnestly. I watched both faces closely-studied them diligently. Paul's was hopeful, happy, nay joyous. Rapture was irradiated by every feature. But Carrie's face was a mystery unfathomable-a labyrinth of sunbeams. They were talking of flowers and I heard her say:

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"Poor Paul! He had read that so sweetly the day before. Ah! Paul's life is a great poem, a mighty melody now!"

"Flower de Luce" is the best poem of the kind ever written. We have read it a hundred times, and with each reading new beauties have appeared. It is a poem of art a child of midnight lucubrations-whose every feature is chiseled, painfully, elaborately, to the mask of the ideal. Not only is the rhetoric the perfection of art, but the idea of the song is itself turned to Grecian symmetry. Here is the song with interludes:

FLOWER DE LUCE.

Beautiful lily, dwelling by still rivers,
Or solitary mere,

Or where the sluggish meadow-brook delivers
Its waters to the weir.

"I have been absent again for two years. I have been to Egypt and Palestine. I have toiled up the pyramids; I have swum in the Dead Sea; I have stood on Calvary, walked the streets of the Holy City, and slept in Gethsemane. All this has failed to drive from my bosom the one haunting memorythe one holy desire. "Ali il ali!" shouted the prayerful Mohammedans, but I turned my face westward and bowed to a fair idol far in the sunset land. I have just read

Flower de Luce' for the first time, but there is something very familiar in its tone. Ah, beautiful lily by the still river! How my heart will go back to you from the filmy future years!

"Paul is looking thin and pale, and has not mentioned Carrie Gray since my return. Poor boy! he is singing beside his grave. Some of his poems are exquisite, though they are just tinged a little with melancholy.

"I shall go to see Carrie Gray to-day. Carrie Gray! How my bosom heaves at the thought of meeting her once more!

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'the whir and worry

Of spindle and of loom,

And the great wheel that toils amid the hurry
And rushing of the flume!'

"Carrie Gray's home is an old brown house of a tumble-down appearance, but the situation is quite charming. Her parents have been well to do, but are now quite reduced on account of the ravages of war. There is, however, an air of refinement lingering about the broken flower-frames on the lawn and among the tangled vines on the old porch. Annette met me at the door, holding out both her hands. She had grown to be a noble looking woman, with a face radiant with the glory of soul. I took her warm little hands in mine, and went in. As we entered, Carrie rose from an ottoman, a smile breaking in sunny waves about her lips, and the old mysterious twilight splendor in her eyes. Her robe of royal purple swept the floor, and her chestnut hair rippled over her shoulders.

Born to the purple, born to joy and pleasance,
Thou dost not toil nor spin,

But makest glad and radiant with thy presence
The meadow and the lin!'

"How fast the hours sped that day. We talked, and read, and sang; then we strolled down to the summer-house at the foot of the hill, where Annette made me a superb bouquet of roses and tulips. Carrie played with her dog and sang snatches of Moore's songs. About three in the evening, Paul came, looking perfectly pallid. Both Carrie and Annette greeted him with great warmth, asking about his health. He replied in monosyllables, barely smiling. He was evidently laboring under some terrible grief. He and Carrie soon wandered off together, leaving Annette with me. I watched Carrie walk beside him in the golden sunlight among the roses and humming insects, and wondered how he could be unhappy.

"The wind blows and uplifts thy drooping banner,
And round thee throng and run
The rushes, the green yeomen of thy manor,
The outlaws of the sun!

The burnished dragon-fly is thine attendant,
And tilts against the field,

And down the listed sunbeam rides resplendent With steel-blue mail and shield!' "Carrie is so wicked!' said Annette, when the two were beyond the reach of her voice. As she spoke she burst into tears, hiding her face in her hands. I knew what she meant after a moment, for the whole truth flashed on my mind.

"She is killing him, then?' I asked. "'Yes.'

"Do you know this?'

"'Yes.'

"And you have not told him?'

"Oh, yes, yes!-a hundred times; but all in vain!'

"My heart rose into my throat, and I could talk no more.

"Paul and Carrie returned presently, the latter radiant and joyous as ever. Paul held his handkerchief to his mouth: it was saturated with blood. He said it was from a tooth: I knew it was from his lungs! Thou art the Iris, fair among the fairest, Who, armed with golden rod, And winged with the celestial azure, bearest The message of some god.

'Thou art the muse who, far from crowded cities,
Hauntest the sylvan streams,

Playing on pipes of reed the artless ditties
That come to us as dreams.'

"Here is Paul's grave. He is at rest. I will plant this, his favorite flower, at the head of his lowly couch, where its rustling leaves may sing to him through many coming summers. Brightly and gladly flows the little river! High waves the purple pennon of the lily!

O Flower de Luce! bloom on, and let the river
Linger to kiss thy feet;

O Flower of Song! bloom on, and make forever
The world more fair and sweet!

"I stood beside the grave a long time in deep meditation, and presently from the flowers, and trees, and rivers, and winds, there came a deep but sweet voice, saying:

"Go not toward Parnassus, for you must cross the foul morass of sorrow to reach it.

He who longs for the flowers that are upon the mountain reaches out after death. Poetry is but the shadow of things unattainable—a magic light far off in a maze of darkness. He that sleepeth here was but a type of him who grasps after the songs of Heaven. He worshiped a shell of beauty; his ears were filled

with the murmur it had caught from the great ows of Helusion. He longs for nothing but ocean of life. So with the poet: he bows to rest-eremia-nepenthe-lethe!'" the hollow sky and mimics the meaningless whisper of the winds! At length he spreads out his arms to grasp the living form of Nature, and lo! she will not. Then walks the sickened poet down from Helicon, and, looking forward, sees nothing but the shad

We have filled the space allowed us. We shall always love "Flower de Luce," but this June weather is too sultry for criticism. Our cigar is out, and a feeling that plays about our eyes reminds us of our evening nap. Au revoir.

THE WINDING OF THE SKEIN.

London Society.

THE Orchard trees are white with snow,

As they were white with bloom,
Foam-white, and like a sea beneath
The window of the room;
And fitfully an April sun

Now went, now gleamed again,
But longest gleamed, I think, to see
The winding of the skein.

We were two sisters, Maud and I,
And dwelt, as still we dwell,
In the old house among the trees
Our mother loved so well;

A few old friends we had, and prized,
Nor others sought to gain,

But chiefly one whose name recalls
The winding of the skein.

Our artist-neighbor, Clement, loved
The orchard like a boy,
The blossom-roof, the mossy boughs
Made half his summer joy;
And like a brother in our hearts

He grew in time to reign

And this was he whose name brings back The winding of the skein.

There was a fourth that day. You guess
The story ere 'tis told:

Our cousin back from Paris-gay,
Nor coy, nor over-bold;
But used to homage, used to looks,
There was no need to feign,
As Clement found ere they began
The winding of the skein.

I saw them as they met, and read
The wonder in his face,
And how his artist-eye approved
Her beauty, and the grace
That kindled an admiring love

His heart could not restrain,

Though hard he strove with it, until
The winding of the skein.

The idle hours with idle toil

We sped, and talked between:
With all her skill our cousin wrought
A 'broidered banner screen:
And so it chanced that Clement's aid
She was so glad to gain,
And he could he refuse to help

The winding of the skein?

Ring after ring the golden floss
About his fingers rolled :

He thought" Her hair is brighter yet;
It has the truer gold."

I read this in his eyes, that strove
To turn from her in vain,

And loathed my raven tresses through
The winding of the skein.

Round after round they wound before
The task was wholly done,

And if their fingers touched, the blood
Straight to his cheek would run;
And if the knotted silk she chid

Her voice through every vein
Went with a thrill of joy, throughout
The winding of the skein.

Round after round, until the end,

And when the end was there.
He knew it not, but sat with hands
Raised in the empty air:
The ringing of the merry laugh

Startled his dreaming brain,

And then he knew his heart ensnared
In winding of the skein.

Beneath the apple-blooms that day,
And many a day they strayed:

I saw them through a mist of tears,
While hard for death I prayed.
And still those blossoms like these snows
Benumb my heart with pain,

And Maud knows well when I recall

The winding of the skein.

THE SECRET MARRIAGE;

OR, THE SIN AND

EXPIATION OF HELEN GREY.

A STORY OF LIFE.

"

BY MRS. C. A. Warfield, authoress oF THE HOUSEHOLD OF BOUVERIE," ETC.

One fatal remembrance-one sorrow that throws

Its bleak shade alike o'er our joys and our woes;

To which life nothing darker nor brighter can bring

For which hope hath no balm and affliction no sting.-MOORE.
And yet these blottings chronicle a life. - Paracelsus.

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O reason! who shall say what spells renew
When least we look for it thy broken clew?-MOORE.

VERY soon after the departure of St. Mar, a breathless messenger arrived at the palace of Lord Dartmore, and gave to the porter an unfolded slip of paper, to be handed speedily to his mistress.

Immediately on reading it, Lady Dartmore equipped herself hastily, and set out on foot for the residence of St. Mar, giving orders as she left the gate that her carriage should follow her as promptly as possible. The agitation of her manner did not escape the notice of her attendants; they surmised the cause vainly until the slip of paper she had received was found on the floor of her chamber after her departure, and perused, as much from affectionate anxiety as curiosity. contained only these words:

It

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Dartmore, and seemed to have forgotten that she had called her there, or the mother Catarina; or at least made no allusion to having done so. The change in the condition of the child had been so rapid since the messenger had been dispatched as to preclude every ray of hope; the cold lethargic stupor which so often precedes death had succeeded the tossing restlessness and the wild delirium of the fever that had consumed her.

The physician, the nurses, stood silently at the foot of the bed, waiting for the awful moment when the pure soul should put aside its beautiful and perishing clay. They could no longer minister aid, nor hope, nor counsel; and a deep and solemn awe seemed to have fallen over them and silenced the expression of their feebler sorrow, in the pres

ence of the mother's sacred and awful affliction. Her own malady it seemed—a nervous fever-had been communicated to her child.

I will not linger on a scene that stirs the utmost anguish of every nature capable of sympathy or emotion. Those who have looked on a spectacle like this (and unfortunately there are many such), will comprehend at once its dark and fearful character; and to those who have not, God forbid that words of mine should unvail its surpassing bitterness and agony! It is enough to say she died:-the fairest flower-the loveliest being that ever saw the light-the idol of a bruised and broken heart-the solitary star of a rayless night! She died;-and still more piteous is the task which tells-her mother lived.

Well had it been for thee, Helen, had the grave opened for thee its cold and quiet arms

On a low couch in the center of the large and gloomy chamber, lay the beautiful and (it was even so) the dying child. Beside her knelt the stricken mother, clasping in hers one chilling hand, while she bent upon her-its friendly bosom-when thy light of life face that steadfast wild and insatiable gaze, which once seen on the human countenance can never be forgotten, far less described. She scarcely noticed the entrance of Lady

went out! Who speaks of death as the darkest evil earth has in store? The loss of friends, the loss of fame, the loss of reason— are all incomparably, in their anguish, their

shame, their horror, beyond the mere loss of life. How quiet, how calm, how sweet, seems the slumber of the newly dead!-how visibly that word of God's own coinage, Peace, is written on their silent faces! Who is there that in the midst of sorrow, of turmoil, of trouble-nay, even of daily and petty cares-stretches not forth his arms at times, in solitude and weariness of spirit, craving to be one of these chosen ones?

As I have said, Helen survived-to become the victim of a despair that never was surpassed, that rarely knew a parallel, which vented itself at first in days and nights of shrieking and tearless agony, and, later, in weeks, nay months, of strange and utter imbecility. Her physicians, with a sole exception, pronounced her case one of hopeless idiocy. But Dr. Bartola (an eminent and enlightened man) was from the beginning of opinion that a reäction would ultimately take place, even if it heralded death.

The clew had not yet been found by Lady Dartmore whereby to trace the wanderings of St. Mar. She had written him letters to England, Carolina, France-hoping that one might reach him; but as yet no notice had been taken of them, nor had any line from bis hand reached his wife.

During her dark state of unconsciousness of more than chillike helplessness, Helen had found devoted and unwearying friends, such as are not often vouchsafed even to the prosperous and happy. By day and by night she was faithfully, tenderly attended by Lady Dartmore and the Countess Clare.

From the moment of her return from Rome (which occurred soon after the death of Eudora), this lady had been unremitting in her devotion to the unconscious invalid. Captain Sedley-scarcely convalescent-had insisted on returning to Florence as soon as he was able to bear the motion of a carriage; for, although seeking no further difference with St. Mar, he cared not to avoid him. It was on reaching the abode of Lady Dartmore that they heard the news of Helen's bereavement; and the Countess Clare hesitated no longer to go to her and minister to her affliction.

She had shown no recognition of her so far, nor indeed of any one; nor was it necessary for Mrs. Forrester to explain away the deep interest she could not conceal from her own breast, that she felt in the invalid, to the affectionate and unsuspicious mind of

Lady Dartmore, who saw in sorrow alone sufficient cause for love and pity and respect. It need not be said how deeply Captain Sedley participated in his sister's feelings, nor with what anxiety he awaited the fulfillment of the predictions of Dr. Bartola.

It was early dawn, and the grey mists were floating away before the first beams of the yet unrisen sun, when Mrs. Forrester arose and threw open the window of the apartment in which she had watched since midnight. The bland fresh air of morning was reviving to her wearied frame, and the twittering of the birds that made their nests among the trees in the garden below, was a sound full of sweetness and cheerfulness to her ear; the mere aspect of awakening nature had power for a moment to fill her soul with emotions of purest consolation and awaken thankfulness. It was indeed a fitting place and time for the solemn morning prayer that left her lips, and I doubt not found its steadfast, unselfish way to the Ear it was addressed to. After a space, she turned away and closed the casement, and crossing the room with quiet steps, drew back the curtains of Helen's bed to look upon her face-ever lovely, even in unconsciousness. To her surprise, she found her sitting up with her arms extended and eyes fixed as if in ecstatic contemplation of some object before her. She continued this for a few moments, when slowly and gently she suffered her arms to fall, and bowing her head, while large tears stole down her cheeks, she murmured the words: "She is gone."

It was a moment of intense interest to Mrs. Forrester. She could not doubt from the whole expression of her face and attitude-from her words-from the tears which had until now been strangers to her eyesthat reason was restored to the brain of Helen St. Mar. Yet she feared to stir, to speak, lest any sudden movement should throw back the soul to wrestle in darkness again.

At last the sufferer ceased to weep, and bending a calm and earnest gaze on her gentle minister, she said to her in her natural voice-one whose tones were peculiarly sweet and touching:

"Mrs. Forrester, I have seen Eudora! No-it was no dream"-shaking her head gently, with a faint mournful smile-“ no dream! She was here in spiritual presence

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