among

the

very old, his lounges and couches very inviting; and he could pass his hours quite agreeably for a while; for the Senora's boudoir was a capital place to kill time and flirt with a "green" subject. Day after day passed in this way, when he began to grow tired of the Senora, and he thought seriously of returning to New York, where he promised himself a rich harvest hearts of the young set, who had "come out" during his absence. Now as the love of the Senora had actually become "quite a bore," and as Mr. Walton hated scenes, especially with foreigners, he determined to take "French leave" of his fat inamorata, and not trouble the old Don with a farewell. It was the morning previous to his intended departure, that Don Cortez called at the St. Charles, having just overheard a conversation between two of Mr. Walton's friends. "Walton has been rather bold," said Henry Fitzhugh to an exquisite opposite: "they say he has flirted desperately with the Senora Cortez; why, said he (with a laugh) "the poor soul has actually lost a pound. Frank does n't intend to marry her, it's pretty certain, for he sails to-morrow." "Not quite so fasht," muttered Don Cortez; “I shall see if one of dish noble line shall be made the laughing stogh of dese Americans" and ere an hour had elapsed, he stood in the presence of Frank Walton, a strong, fierce, powerful man, armed to the teeth with bowie knives and pistols. The Spaniard's threats were so loud, that the sound of an approaching carriage was unheard, and the door slowly opened, and the Senora entered, leaning on the arm of a priest. "Yes," said the Spaniard, "she musht be your wife; you have will be meeserable midout you. I musht go back to mine own coondry, and I cannot take her mit me-she ish too grease. I give her to you vreely, for she ish not mine daughter, but my poor relashun." There stood Mr. Walton, the "elegant and the distingué," quivering like a helpless kitten, under the tiger-like eye of Don Cortez: nor did he feel" free and unincumbered," as he saw the priest and Senora slowly advancing. The ceremony was very short, and as Mr. Walton hesitated, the hand of Don Cortez grasped the hilt of a bowie knife,-a quick but expressive gesture, that forced from him a reluctant but necessary word, that made him and the fat Senora one. Instead of allowing a French leave of her, as was intended, the old Don saw them safely ensconced

shtolen her leetle heart, and she

in a vessel bound for New York, and had made him walk Spanish with her through life.

CHAP. VI.

No word of deep reproach was ever spoken:

In the cold world none knew her heart was broken;
But calm and still as dies the summer's day.
She sank to sleep, so passed from earth away.

M. Leslie.

ALFRED SINGLETON had heard it whispered in the gay world, that his wife had terribly faded, and it was no longer his pride to drive out with her in his unique establishment: in fact, he cared not to "show off" his wife, for her eye was now too dim for notice, and her pale check called forth an emotion of pity, a feeling quite repulsive to a man of fashion, "who stands alone, leaning on his own petty vanities, and looking to such worthless ends, truly the dust of which he is a part predominates." The world in which he had mingled, and for which he lived gave no knowledge of love as God had planted it in the innocent heart of his wife, a love all purity, but strangely misguided as it was. He saw the change that had fallen on the cheek and brow of Ella, and he supposed from the effects of climate. There is a coldness more chilling than that of a Northern clime, that scatters, as it passes, the frosts of death; it is the coldness of a heart on which we have wasted our affections: a chill from that will freeze the life's blood, and stifle the warmest feelings of youth. Poor Ella knew no consolation: hers was the bitterness of a torn and bleeding heart, without a Christian's hope to bind or the Christian's balm to heal; and while she mourned in despair as those who have no thoughts beyond the grave, a voice come over her spirit: it was the whisper of woman's pride; and the choking grief was stifled, and the gushing tear drop turned back to wear its already broken fountain. In all her silent sorrow, Ella's heart was true to its first passion, and she clung to its false idol, though it now lay shattered in ruins.

upon

A whisper went round among the gay and fashionable, that Ella Singleton was dying of consumption, (alas! it often comes in such a form,) and as the gay and thoughtless looked at that once beautiful eye, now closed forever, and the lifeless form of Ella Singleton, they did not know how memory had gnawed at those heart strings, which fancy had tuned too tightly for the blasts of life,-how hopes had all died in that heart, and its cold and empty chambers could only echo back the bitter word, unloved. Alfred Singleton was no longer a husband, and he wept over the remains of his wife, or rather his young victim, as a man of the world would over any accident, regarding it as his fate; but no feeling of remorse mingled with his worldly sorrow for his wife, for he knew not her heart was broken. In a few months only sorrow that touched not the soul will wear away, and an affliction that chastens not the spirit never troubles it long. In a very short time Alfred Singleton was married to the reigning belle of the city of New York; and every bright day that unique establishment, those liveried servants, and that elegant looking creature buried in laces and ribbons, are seen driving through Broadway. Alfred is "happy;" she is no sighing wife, no sentimental or romantic girl: she asks not his society by the soft light of the solar, and interferes not with his private arrangements; for what cares she where her husband is, when she is a the world," and he a "man of fashion."with our friend Fannie de Lacy? We will hear by a letter poor Ella received a few works before her death, and whose soothing words and kind counsel we trust calmed her last moments.

66 woman of -But how fares it

CHARLESTOWN, March 18

Three years have passed, my dearest Ella, since I wrote you I was the happiest of mortals. Do you not think it strange I can echo those words to-day, when in that brief space, time has made so many ravages? Good old Aunt Becky has gone to a long and happy home, she was ever striving to reach in her quiet peaceable way. It was a sad day for me, Ella, when she closed her eyes in death, and although there was a desolate feeling in my heart, I looked upward to that God who had taken her to himself, and I trust bowed submissively to this heavy affliction. I tried to remember God had not left me in this cold world alone,

for he had spared to me a kind husband who was ever near to soothe mc, gentle and loving friends to shed with me the tear of sympathy. But I feel, dear Ella, the worth of the inhertance which I have begun to realize in the dark hour of affliction far more than all earthly blessings,-an inheritance which consists of the ample promise of the "Word of Life and a hope of Heaven.

"The gloomiest day hath gleams of light;
The darkest wave hath bright foam near it;
And twinkles through the cloudiest night
Some solitary star to cheer it."

It was a pleasant thing to see the tears that Aunt Becky's hand had dried starting afresh from many a poor eye, when God called her away from us; and though she has gone from our sight forever, she will live in the hearts of all who knew her; for the "memory of the good is blessed." This my first sorrow was not my only one, though the most bitter in my cup. We were obliged to dispose of our plantation and cottage home at Hazel Glen; for with the failure of the United States Bank our ample possessions were scattered to the winds; but "despair is never quite despair," and I was enabled through God "to see a silver lining to this cloud." We had been too happy in our cottage, and I saw the finger of God in this trial. In the midst of my afflictions I have always felt more grateful than ever that in my choice of a companion for life I was neither guided by my eye or fancy, but have ever found in Arthur de Lacy one who could with a true Christian spirit rise above misfortune. To my father's house in Charleston we have taken refuge, a poor though comfortable dwelling; but I am in the very midst of brothers and sisters, and turning to advantage, I trust, an education so carefully acquired, for I act the important part of governess to no less than nine mischief-loving boys and girls. Arthur's term in Congress has expired, and he is a practising lawyer in the city of Charleston. There are no long partings, Ella, and every evening we are as happy a domstic circle as you would wish to see. I cannot look for more happiness than I now enjoy in this world; I know I should not find it. Life has been full of "smiles and tears," but I have always found a hand near to dry up these drops of sorrow, and my spirit has been soothed and softened by the "joy of

grief." In this world, dearest Ella, joy and grief are strangely mingled, and there is but one place, and that place is Heaven, where we may find a smile without a tear.

Always yours,

THE BURNING SHIP.

FANNIE.

BY W. H. C. HOSMER.

"The vessel sinks-'tis vanished, and the sca

Rolls boiling o'er the wreck triumphantly;

And shrieks are heard, and cries, and then short groans,
Which the waves stifle.-Barry Cornwall.

I.

The shades of midnight fling

Gloom on the rolling sea,

While, swift as osprey on the wing,

A bark moves gallantly.

Hundreds within her cabin sleep

In quietude profound,

Unconscious that the waters sweep

Above them and around.

II.

Amid the sleeping throng

Are men of iron frame:

The gifted sage and statesman, long
Known in the lists of fame;

Frail woman is on board

Old age with trembling hands;

And son and sire to health restored

By the balm of Southern lands.

III.

They leave behind in dreams

Old Ocean's briny foam,

And wander by the laughing streams

And pleasant bowers of home;