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VOL. I. LINES. BY REV. ABRAM 3. BYAX. I. Go, down where the pea waves are kissiug the shore, . And ask of them why do they sigh ? The poets have asked them a thousand times o'er— But they’re kissing the shore as they’ve kissed it before— And they’re sighing to-day, and they’ll sigh evermore ; Ask them what ails them ?—they will not reply, But they’ll sigh on forever, and never tell why. “ Why does your poetry sound like a sigh?” The waves will not answer you—neither shall I. ii. Go, stand on the beach of the broad boundless deep, When the night stars are gleaming on high, And hear how the billows are moaning in sleep, On tne low-lying strand by the surge-beaten steep They are moaning forever wherever they sweep ; Ask them what ails them ? they never reply ; They moan, and so sadly, but will not tell why. “ Why does your poetry sound like a sigh V” The billows won’t answer you—neither shall I. hi. (io, list to the breeze at the waning of day, When it passes and murmurs good-bye The dear little breeze! how it wishes to stay Where the flowers are in bloom—where the singing birds play ; How it sighs when it flics on its wearisome way! Ask it what ails it? it will not reply ; Its voice is a sad one—it never told why. “ Why does your poetry sound like a sigh ?” The breeze will not answer you—neither shall I. IV. Go. watch the wild blasts, as they spring from their lair, When the shout <4 the storm rends the sky ; They rush o’er the earth, and they ride through the air, And they blight with their breath ail that’s lovely and fair ; And they groan like the ghosts in “ the land of despair;” Ask them what ails them ? they never reply ; Their voices are mournful, they will not tell why. “ Why docs your poetry sound like a sigh?” The blasts will not answer you—neither will I. v. Go, stand on the rivulet’s lily-fringed side, Or list where the rivers rush by ; 1 he streamlets, which forest trees shadow and hide, And the rivers, that roll in their oceanward tide, Are moaning forever, wherever they glide ; Ask them what ails them ? they will not reply ; On, sad-voiced, they flow, but they never tell why. “• Why does your poetry sound like a sigh ?” Earth's streams will not answer you—neither shall I. vi. When the shadows of twilight arc grey on the hill, And dark where the low valleys lie, Go, list to the voice of the wild whippoorwill, i hat sings when the songs of its sisters are still, And wails through the darkness and shrill ; Ask it what ails it ? it will not reply ; It wails sad as ever—it never tells why. “ Why does your poetry sound like a sigh ?” The bird will not answer you—neither shall I. VII. Go, list to the voices of earth, air, and sea, And the voices that sound in the sky ; Their songs may be joyful to some, but to me There’s a sigh in each chord . and a sigh in each key, And thousands of sighs swell their grand melody ; A’ l * them what ails them? they will not reply ; They sigh—sigh forever—but never tell why. “ Why does your poetry sound like a sigh ?” Tiie voices won’t answer you—neither will I. TMUTB. “ What do you want ?” , 1,1 wished to see my husband. But I b °£ pardon, for I perceive he is not here.’” the question was curt, rude, rough even ; the reply impetuous, cuttingly sar castic, and with a dash of anger in its tones lon would never have thought mat ax well Maillard, gentleman, as lie called himself and the world called him, „oum have spoken so to his sweet young wife, as any coarse, fiery man might in an imperious mood to an intrusive servant »r an annoying beggar. Nor would you have thought either that lovely Alice Maillard could have become so flushed and disturbed or have made such a replv to the husband she loved better than life itself, and then have turned and walked away with such a queenly step from his presence. Jt certainly was an unpleasant and un fortunate mood the merchant was in that evening. r lhe close of the year was near at aand, and all day long he had been perplexed by a thousand cares incident to his large business ; besides he had dis covered a gross error iri the books, the result of an incompetent book-keeper’s blunder, and had taken thorn home with him that evening to endeavor to trace its source and rectify it. Tt was while in this mood, his brows knitted with perplexity, that his girl wife came to him in the quiet little li brary whither he had retired after dinner, and stealing softly up behind him bad playfully blinded his eyes with one of her white hands, at the same time pushing away the thick ledger over the green baize covered table. In an instant the quick, rough question that betokened annoy ance, burst from his lips, and in an in stant more the white hand was snatched away, the little graceful head tossed, high, a red spot appeared on both cheeks, and the cutting, sarcastic answer was given. And in a few moments more the mer chant was left alone, his handsomely shaped head, covered with thick iron-grey locks, was bent again over his books, but with a compression of his lips and a glitter in his eye one seldom saw there, while the girl-wife was sitting iu the parlor quiet as a statue, but with that same high color and excited mien with which she had left the library. For some minutes Alice Maillard sat thus, perfectly motionless, looking straight before her; then her countenance soft ened—a grieved, wounded look came in to her eyes ; her lips relaxed and quiv ered with feeling, and she burst into tears and sobbed as though her very heart would break. The sobs increased, and the tears rolled down the cheeks now pale with emotion ; but after a time site grew calmer. “ I am, sorry I spoke so,” she said, con fessing her fault to herself with as much earnestness as though her husband were a listener. “I am sorry. If Max were rough” (here the lips trembled again), “ I was hasty. I suppose those tiresome books troubled him ; I will go and apologize.” And, rising, she left the room, and walked along the hall to the rear of the house where the little library was situated. But laying her hand on the knob of the door, she was surprised to find it fastened. The lock was fastened. “ Unkind,” she said now, the red spot deepening again on her cheek ; and as noiselessly as she had come she returned to the parlor. Two, three hours passed away ; lone some enough felt the solitary Alice, striving to pass the time with her sewing, upon which, now and then, a tear dropped silently. All that time, howevei, thoughts were busy ; and she clung to her first resolve not to sleep until she had made peace with her husband. For it was anew thing to this lovely young creature—the pet of her girlhood home, and the bride of less than a year—to hear a harsh word or utter an unkind one ; and all that long evening, while she sat there in tears, seemed an age to her. Ah, little Alice, can such exquisitely keen suffering ever come again ! Nine, ten, eleven o’clock struck, and then she heard the library door open and her husband’s footsteps along the hall. But they did not pause at the parlor, though the door was partially ajar ; they passed on, and he ascended the staircase to their chamber. This was too much. Tears again swelled in the large, sensitive eyes ; and womanly indignation prompted her to re main below until she was calm; and when she went up to her room her hus band was, or pretended to be fast locked in sleep. Next morning, at breakfast, the young wife was prepared to expect the way might be easier for the establishment of peace between them, but there was a re serve and iciness in Mr. Maillard’s manner which quite frustrated this intention. He -AUGUSTS, GA, MAY 16, 1868. hurried through the meal, went to the library for his books, looked into the breakfast-room again for a courteous ki good-morning,” but did not unbend to bestow the customary parting kiss. Alice felt more than ever grieved, thus thrown back upon herself. All dav long she was most unhappy, and could not settle herself about her usual employ ments. The feelings she suffered were so new toiler; it was something she had never thought could happen—to speak a quick, angry word to one who was all the world to her ; and, though she had been be trayed into the utterance, she never could be happy again till it had been explained and forgiven. She would speak to her husband before sleep again sealed her eyelids; although very sound, indeed, had not been the slum l >er that visited her last night. When evening arrived, and Mr. Mail lard came to dinner, Alice met him as usual with an affectionate greeting, and put up her lips for the customary kiss, but very icy was the salutation, and such a tone of restraint pervaded his manner, that she found herself deterred from utter ing a word. At table Mr. Maillard was politely at tentive, and led the conversation to sub jects of general interest, keeping it up so I skillfully that not an opening appeared i for the introduction of any reference to the particular subject that engrossed his wife’s mind ; and when he arose he said : “ 1 have ( an engagement at the club to night, Mrs. Maillard, and it will probably be late when I return,” and went out. “ Why did T not speak ? T won’t let it pass so ! He is as cold as an ice-berg. I will have an explanation before I sleep to-night,” said Alice, passionately. “He shan’t treat me like a child any longer.” i It was late when Mr. Maillard returned, and lie did not expect to find the watcher who sat in the parlor, and a little surprise was in his glance when he entered, but he made no comment. “It is past twelve, I know, Maxwell, but I sat up for you. The truth is I wanted to speak to you about—about—” but here she paused. “ Well ?” There was hut little encouragement in the cool monosyllable that Mr. Maillard uttered, and the eyes upon which his wife’s were t urned appealingly evinced no glance of tenderness to lure her on in ihe path that was now growing painful to her, al though he very well knew what was going on in her mind. Was this man a hardened boor ? Society, as I said, called him a gentle man. lie had many excellent traits, and he had not really felt comfortable himself ! since that affair in the library ; but he had a strong, passionate nature and an iron will that had never been subdued, and, like many of his proud and imperious type, he would neither b?nd to acknow ledgements himself nor seem to encourage by any tenderness of maimer his wife’s. So he sat, stately and frigid, in the seat he had taken by the register. Meantime, Alice, affectionate and sen sitive, with her whole heart in her eyes, and those eyes eagerly beseeching Ids, stood near him, where she had advanced as she spoke. At first it had been easy for her to utter those words, but that one unimpassioned monosyllable checked fur ther utterance and froze her lips; but at length she burst out, passionately : “ I will speak ! Maxwell, you know what 1 want to say ! I am very un happy !” and the hot tears thickened her voice. “ What makes you unhappy, Mrs. Maillard ?” Yes, the man actually asked that ques tion—he who knew how that noble, sen sitive and affectionate girl was suffering. Not an embrace, no opening of his arms to draw her to his breast, no kiss on her quivering mouth, no tremor in his own tones, but instead that passive question ; “ What makes you unhappy, Mrs. Maillard?” I or an instant the ice thus driven into the gulf stream of feeling checked its current; then it came on again, but not 1 to warm as before. “ I am unhappy because I have suf fered—am still suffering ; and I want a reconciliation. You know, Maxwell, those words spoken in the library the other night. I was sorry the very minute afterward.” “ And I was sorry also, Mrs. Maillard. Any exhibition of impetuousness—tem per, I might say—disgusts me. 1 think any wife ought to know that, and avoid such things 15ut I forgive you ” Mr. Maillard said this as sternly as though he were a judge pronouncing sen tence—as if he, himself, were not the cause of it all. A chill ran through poor Alice’s veins. She had read of lovers’ quarrels and trifling estrangements be tween the married —hut here was anew phase. She had expected to be taken to her husband’s heart and restored to hap piness again. She never dreamed of thus being thrown off, baffled by the power of that cruel will—she, who was all heart and affection. If he was only downright an gry with her—would even scold her— then the tempest would pass; but no, there was only this lofty assumption of superiority. Site was cast back on her self, and could say nothing. Chilled, amazed, humiliated, and half stunned by the turn the matter had taken, the poor girl-wife went to her chamber. Maxwell Maillard sat for perhaps half an hour <*rc he left the parlor, buried in a reverie. But his thoughts were not of a gentle character. One could have seen that by the lips that were still close ly shut, and the expression of triumph that shone in his bright blue eyes. Had this man a heart, and did it hold one throb of love for his wife ? Yes, he thought so. He had been a most ardent wooer ; he unbent, to enslave, subdue, and win ; and no lover of younger years ever could have so completely over powered the sensitive, impulsive, Ligli souled, beautiful Alice Amiable as this stately, handsome, middle-aged gentleman. Yes, he loved her with a strong, im perious love, such as men of his type ! feel—a selfish love, in that she ministered to his pride of possession ; but he loved himself more. And, as he sat there after she had left him, the expression of his eyes fully showed this thought : “1 intended to let her suffer. And I intend that she shall suffer more. It is not a man’s place to yield. A wife’s spirit should be broken to her husband’s. When I think she is sufficiently punished I shall take her back to my heart again.” And the poor girl above was taking her first lesson in that bitterest knowledge that ever comes to woman’s heart —the feeling that she is treated unfairly and unkindly. Bhe half doubted if she had heard her husband speak at all. Had he even answered her? she asked herself. How very far apart they seemed still. Was this the reconciliation to which she had been looking forward ? Sheshuther eyelids hard to press back the hot tears ; and murmured, with a little sob, “ And yet, when one loves, it is so easy to for give.” Poor Alice ! “ The mills of the gods grind slowly, but they grind exceeding ly small.” One day that proud, imperi ous man will weep bitterer tears than he is now causing you. Days, and weeks, and months, followed that first rupture between Maxwell Mail lard and his wife ; and though to all out ward appearances they were attentive to each other, and, in society, as happy as ever, vet Alice felt that the gulf between them had never been bridged. She had, indeed, often essayed to fling across it the rosy bands of affection ; but in that chill, icy air they had withered speedily ere they reached him standing on the other side. And yet had any one come to that man, and said to him, “ You are to blame, and are daily adding to your sin,” he would have indignantly denied it. The truth was, his imperious will, pampered by that first entire submission on the part of his wife, had grown with what it fed upon until it overshadowed his whole nature. Had Alice been a different woman —less submissive, less impulsive, more persistent of her rights —even had she, in acknowledging her error, thrown a portion of it where it just ly belonged, on his head, angry though lie might have been, be would eventually have found a will that matched his own ; but she was not of that class. High spirited she certainly was, but most affec tionate, and with the greatest sense of honor and delicacy for the feelings of others ; and it was offer?, a marvel to her self how she had been betrayed into that reply. Situated as she now was, Alice grew daily more unhappy. Week after week, month after month went by; and she hungered after the word of love that never came. Sometimes, goaded almost to agony by this slow torture, she grew irritable; but the cool eyes, the lofty manner, and that steady negative course of her husband—neither repellant nor in viting—only added to her sorrow. “Her spirit is not broken yet,” Mr. Maillard said to himself; and so lie kept up his system of wifely training. It was at this time that a summons came from Allice’s girlhood hoirm.* Her widowed mother, long an invalid, was rapidly failing ; and the elder sister— good, kind, motherly Hester—and her high-browed, studious twin-brother Hor ace, whom she had loved with a stronger affection than sisters usually bestow, since, up to the time of her marriage, they had shared the same studies, and lived in each other’s hearts, united by that closest tie of twin birth, sent Tin ur gent message for her presence. She de parted in haste—so hastily that the train was reached within an hour after the le ceipt of the telegram ; and she traveled alone, as Mr. Maxwell’s business engage ments were of that nature to detain him at home at that season. When the merchant, evening after evening, returned to his handsome house, deserted save by the servants, he began to grow more dissatisfied with its cheer less aspect than he thought could he pos sible, or would have acknowledged to an other. Entering the drawing-room, so dreary and empty-looking, cue evening atter he had visited his club, he paused before an exquisitely crayoned portrait on the wall, and said, with more feeling than he had shown for many a month, “ Home is lonely without you, Alice 1” Ah, if he had only bethought himself to i write such a sentence to her! | The days went by; and, in her girl hood home, the trio watched around the bed of their dying mother The summer vines clambered up against the walls ; the roses reddened in the garden ; the | June grass grew tall, and waved in the warm south winds ; while the hectic deepened on the consumptive’s cheek, and the life tide ebbed more faintly through her heart. At the close of one of those pleasant days when the last red sunset arro.v slanted through the windows, the end came ; the earth-life lapsed into the better; and the meek eyes, closing with maternal love lingering last in their gaze, opened again to look upon the glories of that beautiful land where illness never comes nor Death’s dark pinion droops. On the day following the funeral Mr. Maillard bore his wife back to her home again. At the parting Alice wept unre strainedly upon the bosom of her twin brother, then turned to receive her sister's farewell kiss. “ I must be mother to you now,” said Hester—faithful, devoted woman, ten years older than the weeper she held in her arms—and then she whispered, “ In No. 0. [1