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V OIL,. X. A KEVEBIE. BT RUT. ABRAM 3. KTAS. Those hearts of oufn—how strange! how strange! How they yearn to ramble and lore to range' Down through the vales of tha years long gone, Up through the future that l'aet rolls o»."* To-lays are dull—ao they wend their ways Dark to their beautiful yesterdays; Tli i proaont is blank—so they wing their flight To future to-vxorram where all seems bright ■ !i, Build them a bright and beautiful home— They’ll soon grow weary and want to roam; Find them a spit without sorrow or pain. They may stay a day, but thoy’ro off again. Those hearts of ours!—how wild! how wild! They’re aa hard to tame as an Indian child; Thoy’ro as restless as waves on tho sounding sen— Like tho broozo and the bird are they tickle and free. Those hearts of ours—how lone! how lono! Ilowovor, forever, they mourn and moan; Let them revel in joy—let them riot in cheer, The revelry over, thoy'ro all tho more drear. Those hearts of ours—how warm! how warm ! Like tho sun’s bright ray, like the summer’s charm— How tliey beam and burn ! how thoy gleam and glow ! Thoir flash and flame hide but ashes below. Those hearts of ours—how cold! how cold 1 I,ike December’s snow on the waste or wold; And though our Decembers molt soon into May— • Some know Deoombars that pasß not away. Those hearts of ours—how doojt 1 how deopl You may sound the sea where the corals sleep, Where never a billow hath rumbled or rolled— Depths still tho deeper our hearts hid* and hold. Whore tho wild storm tramp hath ne’er been known, Tho wrecks of tho sea lie low and lone; Thus, the heart’s surface may sparkle and glow, Thero are wrecks ftr down, there are graves below. Those hearts of ours—but, after all, How shallow and narrow, how tiny and small; Like scantiest streamlet or Summer’s least rill, They’re as ousy to empty, as easy to fllL Ono hour of storm, and how the streams pour! One hour of sun and tho streams aro no, more; One grief, how tho tears of the hoart gusli and glide 1 Ono smile, flow thoy over so fast, thoy aro dried. Those hearts of ours—how wuo 1 how wise! They can lift thoir thoughts till tliey touch tho skies 1 They can sink their shafts like a minor bold. Where wisdom’s mines hide their pearls and gold. Aloft they soar with undazzled gazo, Where tho halls of the Day-King burn ami blaze; Or tliey fly, with a wing that will never fail, O’er the sky’s dark sea where the star-ships s&iL These hearts of ours—what fools 1 what fools 1 How they laugh at Wisdom, her laws and rules! II m they waste their powors, and, whon wasted, grievo I'or what they have squandered, but cannot retrieve. Those hearts of ours—how strong 1 how strong! Lot a thousand sorrows around thorn throng, Taoy can boar them all and a thousand more, And they’re stronger thou than they W'-ro before. loose hearts of ours—how weak! how weak 1 Bat a single word of unkindness speak, L.ke a poisoned shatt, like a ripor's fang, Tuat one slight word leaves a life-long pang. Those hearts of ours—but I’ve said enough, As I find that my rhyme grows rude and rough; 1 11 rest me now, hut I’ll oome again, V iiii to-morrow’s sun to resume my strain. From the Month. Mystery of the Thatched House, H was a clean, bright, wholesome, thoroughly lovable house. The first time I saw it, J fell in love with it, and wanted t" live in it at once. It fascinated me. V, lien I crossed its threshold, I felt as if 1 hud opened a book whose perusal pro- Luted enchantment. 1 felt a passionate longing to have been born here, to have been expected by the brown old watchful vralls for years before it had been my turn to exist in the world. I felt despoiled of my rights; because there was here a a board of wealth which 1 might not touch, placed just beyond the reach of my hand. 1 was tantalized; because the secrets of a sweetly odorous past hung about the >hady corners, and lhe sunny window- i tames, and the grotesque hearth-places and their breath was no more to me tha n the scent of dried rose-leaves. ' r It was my fault that we bought the -a-hatched Louse. We wanted a country home; and, hearing that this was for sale, we drove many miles one showery April morning to view tho place, and judge if it might suit our need. Aunt Featherstone objected to it from the first, and often boasted of her own sagacity in doing so, after the Thatohed House had proved itself an incubus—a dreadful Old Man of the Mountains, not to be shaken from our necks. I onco was bold enough to tell her that temper, and not sagacitv, was the causo of her dislike that April morning We drovo in an open phmton, and Aunt Featherstone got some drops of rain on her new silk dress. Consequent ly she was out of humor with everything, and vehemently pronounced her veto upon tho purchase of the Thatched House. I was a spoiled girl, however; and 1 thought it hard that I might not have my own way in this matter as in everything else. As we drove along a lonely road, across a wild, open country, I had wor shipped the broken, gold edged rain-clouds, and the hills, with tho waving lines of light and their soft trailing shadows. I had caught tho shower in my face and laughed ; and dried my limp curls with my pocket-handkerchief. I was disposed to lovo everything I saw, and clapped my hands when we stopped before the sad-looking old gates, with their mossy brick pillars, and their iron arms folded across, as if mournfully forbidding inquiry into some long hushed-up and forgotten mystery. When wo swept along the silent avenue my heart leaped up in greet ing to the grand old treos that rose tow ering freshly at every curve, spreading their masses of green foliago right and left, and flinging showers of diamond drops to tho ground whenever the breeze lifted the tresses of a drowsy bough, or a bird poised its slender weight upon a twig, and then shot off sudden into the blue. Aunt Featherstone exclaimed against the house tho very moment we came in sight of it. It was not the sort of thing we wanted at all, she said. It had not got a modern porch, and it was all nooks and angles on the outside. The lower windows were too long and narrow, and the upper ones too small, and pointing up above tho eaves in that old-fashioned, in convenient manner. To crown its absur dities. tho roof was thatched. No, no, Aunt Featherstone said, it was necessary for such old houses to exist for the sake of pictures and romances; but as for people of common sense going to live in them, that was out of the question. I left her still outside with her eye-glass levelled at the chimneys, and darted into the houso to explore. An old woman preceded me with a jingling bunch of keys, unlocking all the doors, throwing open the shutters, and letting the long levels of sunshine fall over the uncarpeted floors. It was all delicious, I thought; the long dining-room, with its tall windows opening like doors upon the broad gravel, the circular drawing-room with its stained glass roofing, the double flights of winding stairs, the roomy passages, the numerous chambers of all shapes and sizes opening one out of another, and chasing each other from end to end of the house; and, above all, tho charming old rustic balcoDy, run ning round the waist of the building like a belt, and carrying one, almost quick as a bird could fly, from one of those dear old pointed windows under the eaves down amongst the flower-beds below. I said to myself in my own wilful way, “ This Thatched House must be my home!” and then I set about coaxing Aunt Featherstone into my way of think ing. It was not at all against her will that she completed the purchase at last. Afterwards, however, she liked to think it was so. In May it was all settled. The house was filled with painters and paper-hangers, and all through the long summer months they kept on making a mess within the y»’ails, and forbidding us to enter and en joy the place in the lull glorious luxuri- AUGUSTA, GTV., JVFRIX, 18, 1868. ance of its summer beauty. At last, on driving thero one bright evening, I found to my joy that the workmen had decamp ed, leaving tho Thatched House clean, and fresh, and gay, ready for the reception of us, and our goods and chattels. 1 sprang in through one of tho open dining room windows, and began waltzing round the floor from sheer delight. Pausing at last for breath, I saw that tho old woman who took care ot tho place, she who had, on my first visit, opened the shutters for me, and jingled her keys, had entered the room while I danced, and was standing watching me from the doorway with a queer expression on her wrinkled face. “Ah, ha! Nelly,” I cried triumphantly, “what do you think of the old house now T ?” Nelly shook her gray head, and shot me a weird look out of her small black eyes. Then she folded her arms slowly, and gazed all round the room musingly, while she said : “Ay, Miss Lucy ! wealth can do a deal, but there’s things it can’t do. All that the hand of man may do to make this place wholesome to live in, has been done. Dance a.nd sing now, pretty lady —now, while you have the heart and courage. The day’ll come when you’d as soon think of sleepin’ all night on a tomb stone as of standin’ on this floor alone after sunset.” “Good gracious, Nelly!” I cried, “whot do you mean ? Is it possible that thero is anything—have you heard or seen—” “I havo heard and seen plenty,” was Nelly’s curt reply. Just then, a van arriving with tho first, instalment of our household goods, the old woman vanished; and not another word could I wring that evening from her puckered lips. Her words haunted me, and I went homo with my mirth consid erably sobered ; and dreamed all night of wandering up and down that long dining-room in the dark, and seeing dim ly horrible faces grinning at me from the walls. This was only the first shadow of the trouble that came upon us in the Thatched House. It came by degrees in nods and whis pers, and stories told in lowered tones by the fire at night. The servants got possession of a rumor, and the rumor roached me. I shuddered in silence, and contrived for the first few months to keep it a jealous secret from my unsus pecting aunt. For the house was ours, and Aunt Featherstone was timorous; and tho rumor, very horrible, was this— the Thatched House was haunted. Haunted, it was said, by a footstep, which, every night, at a certain hour, went down the principal corridor, distinct ly audible as it passed the doors, de scended the staircase, traversed the hall, and ceased suddenly at the dining-room door. It was a heavy, unshod foot, and walked rather slowly. All the servants could describe it minutely, though none could avow that they positively heard it. New editions of this story were con stantly coming out, and found immediate circulation. To each of these was added some fresh harrowing sequel, illustra tive of the manners and customs of a certain shadowy inhabitant, who was said to have occupied the Thatched House all through the dark days of its past emp tiness and desolation, and who resented fiercely the unwelcome advent of us flesh-and-blood intruders. The tradition of this lonely shadow was as follows : The builder and first owner of the Thatched House was an elderly man, wealthy, wicked and feared. lie had m air id a gentle young wife, whose heart had been broken before she consented to give him her hand. He was cruel to her, using her harshly, and leaving her solitary in the lonely house for long winter weeks and months together, till she went mad with brooding over her sorrows, and died a maniac. Goaded with remorse, he had shut up the house and fled the country. Since then differ ent people had fancied the beautiful, ro mantic old dwelling, and made an at tempt to live in it ; but they said that the sorrowful lady would not yield up her right to any new comer. It had been her habit, when alive, to steal down stairs at night, when she could not sleep for weeping, and to walk up and down the dining room, wringing her hands, till the morning dawned ; and now, though her coffin was nailed, and her grave green, and though her tears ought to have long since blown from her eyes like rain on the wind, still the unhappy spirit would not quit the scene of her former wretched ness, but paced the passage, and trod tho stairs,, and traversed the ball night after night, as of old. At the dining-room door the step was said to pause : and up and down tho dreary chamber a wailing ghost was believed to flit, wringing her hands, till the morning dawned. It was not till the summer had de parted that I learned this story. As long as the sun shone, and tho roses bloomed; and the nightingales sang about the windows till midnight, I tried hard to shut my ears to the memory of old Nelly’s hint, and took good care not to mention it to my aunt. If the servants looked mysterious, I would not see them: it they whispered together, it was nothing to me. There was so short a time for the stars to shine between the slow darken ing of the blue sky at night and the early quickening of flowers and birds and rosy beams at dawn, that there was lit erally no space for the accommodation of ghosts. So long as the summer continued the Thatched House was a dwelling of sun shine and sweet odors, and bright fancies for me. It was different, however, when a wintry sky closed in around us, when solitary leaves dangled upon shivering boughs, and when the winds began to shudder at the windows all through the long dark nights. Then I took fear to my heart, and wished that I had never seen the Thatched House. Then it was that my ears became gradually open to the dreadful murmurs that were rife in die house ; then it was that I learned the story of the weeping lady, and of her footstep on the stairs. Os course 1 would not believe, though the thumping of my heart, if I chanced to cross a landing, even by twilight, be lied the courage of which I boasted. I forbade tho servants to hint at such folly as the existence of ghosts, and warned them at their peril not to let a whisper of the kind disturb my aunt. On the latter point I believe they did their best to obey me. Aunt Featherstone was a dear old, cross, good-natured, crotchety, kind hearted lady, who was always needing to be coaxed. She ‘considered herself an exceedingly strong minded person, whereas she was in reality one of the most ner vous women I have ever known. I verily believe that, if she had known that storv of the footstep, she would have made up her mind to hear it distinctly every night, and would have been found some morning stone-dead in her bed with fear. Therefore, as long as it was possible, I kept the dreadful secret from her ears. This was, iu reality, however, a much shorter space of time than I had imagined it to be. About the middle of November Aunt Featherstone noticed that I was begin ging to look very pale, to lose my appe tite, and to start and tremble at the most commonplace sounds. The truth was that the long nights of terror which passed over my head, in my pretty sleeping room off the ghost’s corridor, were wear ing out my health and spirits, and threat ening to throw me into a fever ; and yet neither sight nor sound of the super natural had ever disturbed my rest — none worth recording, that is ; for ot course, in my paroxysms of wakeful fear, I fancied a thousand horrible revelations. Night after night I lay in agony, with my ears distended for the sound of the foot step. Morning after morning I awakened , weary and jaded, after a short, unsatisfy ing sleep, and resolved that I would con fess to my aunt, and implore her to fly from the place at once. But, when seated at the broakfast table, my heart invaria bly tailed me. I accounted, by the men tion of a headache, for my pale cheeks, and kept my secret. Some weeks passed, and then I in ray turn began to observe that Aunt Feather stone had grown exceedingly dull in spirits. “Can any one have told her tho secret of the Thatched House ?” was tho question I quickly asked myself. But the servants denied having broken their promise ; and I had reason to think that there had been of late much less gossip on the subject than formerly. I was afraid to risk questioning the dear old lady, and so I could only hope and surmise. But I was dull, and. Aunt Featherstone was dull, and the Thatched House was dreary. Things went on in this way for some time, and at last a dreadful night arrived. I had been for a long walk during the day ; and had gone to bed rather earlier than usual, and fallen asleep quickly. For about two hours I slept, and then I was roused sud suddenly by a slight sound just like the creaking of a board, just out side my door. With tho instinct of fear I started up. and listened intently. A watery moon was shining into my room, revealing the pretty blue and white fur niture, the pale statuettes, and the va rious little dainty ornaments with which I had been pleased to surround myself in this my chosen sanctuary. I sat up, shuddering, and listened. I pressed my hands tightly over my heart, to try and keep its throbbing from killing ine ; for distinctly, in the merciless stillness of the winter night, 1 heard the tread of a stealthy footstep on the passage outside my room. Along the corridor it crept, down the staircaso it went, and was lost in ;hc hail below. I shall never forget tho anguish of fear in which I passed the remainder of that wretched night. While cowering into my pillow, I made up mind to leave the Thatched House as soon as the morning broke, and never to enter it again. I had heard of people whose hair had grown gray in a single night* of grief or terror- Whon I glanced in the looking glass at dawn, I almost expected to see a white head upon my own shoulders. During the next day, I, as usual, failed of courage to speak to my aunt. I de sired one of the maids to sleep on the couch in my room, keeping this arrange ment a secret. The following night 1 felt some little comfort from the presence of a second person near me; but the girl soon fell asleep. Lying awake iu fearful expectation, I was visited by a repetition of the previous night’s hor ror’s. 1 heard the footstep a second time. I suffered secretly in this way for about a week. I had become so pale and ner vous, that I was only like a shadow of my former self. Time hung wretchedly upon my hands. I only prized the day inas much as it was a respite from the night ; the appearance of twilight coming on at evening invariably threw me into an ague tit of shivering. 1 trembled at a shadow; I screamed at a sudden noise, My aunt groaned over me, and sent tor the doctor. 1 said to him, /Doctor, lam only a little moped I have got a bright idea of curing myself, must prescribe me a schoolfellow.’ Hereupon, Aunt Featherstone began to ride off on her old hobby about the lone liness, the unhealthiness, and total ob jectionableness of the Thatched House, bewailing her own weakness in having allowed herself to be forced into buying it. She never mentioned the word “haunted,” though I afterwards knew that at the very time, and for some weeks previously, she had been in full possession of the story of the nightly footstep. The doctor re- No. 5.