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uvnnni i m > !.<> ujjw.iwi w ljc s)ein-<]in empcruncf l£ rthnuStT. JOHN H, SEALS, Editor and Proprietor. ivies’ gcprtatftti MARY K. BRYAy, Editress. FLOWERS. We scarcely expected to enjoy the luxury of flowers when we first saw the rather bare appear ance of the yard around our temporary home; but our new friends are lavish in their kind re membrances, and we have received, through them, a share of Flora’s firstlings. Our thanks v a>e due Mrs. A. for the lovely bouquet that is now upon our table. Another—a most superb one —was sent to our room during our absence, and the servant gave the name of the donor as “Miss Smith.” Who *Miss Smith may be, we do not know, but that she is a lady of taste and refinement, her beauti fully arranged flowers fully attest, and wc only wish we had an opportunity of thanking her in propria persona. Our dear little friend, Mary McNapght, who sent us the pretty handful of wild violets, shall be privately kissed for remembering that, coun try-bred as we are, and a native, as well as her self, of the “Land of Flowers,” we would natur ally long for a sight of spring’s blue-eyed dar- Kngs, as soon as we saw the hill-sides growing green in the distance, and heard the voice of “ro bin red breast” prophecying ofthecoming spring. GRIFFIN FEMALE COLLEGE. hear frequent mention made of the Female College at Griffin, which has begun its present Session under new and brilliant auspices, and bids lair to compete with any similar institution in the State. It is under the direction of Prof. W. A. Rogers, whose well known ability, long experi ence and tried integrity eminently qualify him for the post he occupies. His untiring energy, his enthusiastic love for his vocation, and the popularity he enjoys, argue well for the future prosperity of the College of which he has recent ly accepted the Presidency. We see, by the cir cular letter lying before us, that he intends car rying out his usual strict rules, prohibiting ex travagant dress, gallantries from young men, and the reading of romances among his pupils. We extract a paragraph from this circular, to show how deeply he feels the responsibility of his position: . L To us, by you, has been committed the intel lectual and moral training of your children. We feel the weight of the responsibility which there by devolves upon us. We would not —we dare not prove recreant to the duties this high trust imposes; but, on the contrary, we would dis charge them fully, faithfully and efficiently. Yet, another, to prove his contempt for the su perficial smattering of learning taught at so many female seminaries, and his earnest desire that women, as well as men, should receive a strong, thorough, practical education, to fit them for the serious business of life : We honor and admire woman. We earnestly long for her complete mental disenthrallment— we anxiously hope she will yet attain that high position, intellectual, moral and social, which God designed she should occupy, and for which her peculiar talents eminently qualify her; yet, we confidently believe she never will enjoy that disenthrallment—she never will attain that high elevation, Fhe never will fulfill her high mission, until she is educated — educated thoroughly, ap propriately, completely—educated in the fullest and highest sense of the term. Parents need have no fear in entrusting their daughters to such a man as this. * A. THE BALMORAL SKIRT. We wonder that the ladies of our alternately muddy and dusty city have never adopted the Balmoral skirt Surely, in the winter, when the streets are lit * tie better than the bog of Kilkenry, ladies (who can not stay at home forever, especially when new goods are being opened,) would find the Balmoral petticoat more appropriate for the weather and bad walking than white under gar ments, whose very questionable purity they are often obliged to display while picking their way over muddy crossings. The Balmoral has a very picturesque effect under black or dark silks, merinos, alpacas or delaines, and we see, by consulting the oracles of fashion, that it “gains in favor rapidly,” and is quite a favorite in “ high places.” We hope, next winter, that a fashion, so pretty and conve nient, will be more generally adopted here, . Bright, warm colors suit the seasons of autumn and fall, and a color that will bear contact with mud and dust better than the usual white, em phatically suits such cities as Atlanta. For light colored dresses, or for summer wear, white cam . brie underskirts with broad hems should take the place of the Balmoral. Embroidered skirts are only worn in door with morning dresses. * FAMILY PRAYER. We had stolen away from our city home, leav ing behind us pen and portfolio, and all remin ders of daily toil, and, following the pilotship of a dear little friend of ours who had come by for us on her way from school, we had gone a breezy, delightful walk, two miles out into the country, to visit the pleasant home of a friend. It was joy to be away where we could hear the free winds sweep unrestrained through the pines, r see the budding of delicate foliage and catch the lispings of the infant Spring. It was very pleas ant t# have the children run out and meet us, holding up their red lips to be kissed, ‘and to * know, by their mother’s warm embrace, how heartily welcomed we were. It was delight ful to set by a fireside so cheerful, in the midst of so well ordered a household, and *alk and lis ten. glancing often at the group of attentive little faces around us. But it was a deeper, holier pleasure still, when, after tea, the family Bible was unclasped and the children, with one accord, put aside slates, books and toys and all, even to “baby Willie,” composed themselves in their little chairs, while their father read aloud a chap ter from the open book, and bowing in the midst of his kneeling household, repeated the prayer of prayers; the one wo have all murmured at our mother’s knee; the one we first recall when death seems suddenly near and the grave yawns before us; the prayer the sinless Saviour taught to sinful man. Our Father who art in Heaven,” and then a pause, followed by the soft responses — the sweet < voice of the mother, the children’s silvery ac esnts, the lisping voice of the baby, all murmur ingly, low and reverently, “Our Father who art in Heaven.” v.- Could there be any sight sweeter, holier, more worthy for angels to lean from their bright homes and look upon, than a household united in prayer —father, mother, children servants, kneeling to gether and sending up their blended praise to Will not the skeptic’s proud head bow in reverence before a picture so divinely beauti ful f Will not philanthropists—whether Chris tians or not —rejoice that there exists so purifying harmonizing a principle aB religion ? The Family Altar is the firm basis upon which rests our country’s prosperity. Washington himself bowed his noble head at tlje household shrine, and the wisest and best of his successors have done the same. May the Family Altar be forever held sacred as the tabernacle of old. Let the French (since they must) dictale to us in matters of fashion; let them mold the forms of our daughters, modify /sour manners and invade our drawing rooms, bul *t orfathing be kept wared from their sacreligious touch—let their skepticism and false philosophy never sweep away the old-fashioned Family Al tar. * A PEEP INTO MY NEIGHBOR'S WINDOW. The day is fading gloomily enough without; the ruthless March winds strip from the trees every lingering souvenir of last summer’s wealth of foliage, and the rain beats the sear leaves into the wet ground ; bnt a ruddy light streams from the window of the cottage over the way. A cheery fire upon the hearthstone is the polar star ol home, and since the snowy curtains are swept aside, there can be no harm in looking upon the pleasant picture within. lam wearied with following Shelly’s muse in its reckless wan derings upon the lonely heights of Fancy, and through the labyrinths of speculation. lam be wildered with his misty philosophy, and I long to come down to the broad, level path of every day actualities and common feelings. The voice of the wi#d, the impotent struggling of those clinging leaves, the drifts of gray clouds, the mo notonous music of the rain, are eerie as Shelly’s song itself; but nothing could be more human than yonder sweet picture of domestic happiness. How cosy and cheerful is the room, with its polished furniture, its vase of early hyacinths upon the little table, and its sparkling fire upon the hearth! Yet, it is not uncomfortably precise in its neatness. The bright faced children turn, bled, like so many rosy apples upon the rug, give it essentially a home-like appearance, like the German pictures of peasant life, whose simple faithfulness of delineation brings tears totheeyes that look upon them. The little mistress of yonder domain, whom I have been watching as she bustled about, hand ling the broom and the duster with such graceful dexterity, re-appears now, metamorphosed by a pretty head-dress and a dainty silk apron, her pleasant face beaming with quiet content. She re-adjusts the flowers in the vase, she stirs the glowing coals, she puts an arm chair to the fire, and hangs a crimson dressing gown upon it. Then, she comes to the window and looks out into the rain and the gathering twilight. She is watching for somebody. Ah! there he is—that handsome man in the gray overcoat, who passes me and smiles as he catches sight of the face looking for him from the window of his home. She has gone to the door to meet him, and they enter now with his arm about her waist. She helps him remove the wet overcoat, and substi tutes the well warmed dressing gown and the comfortable slippers. Then, she stands and looks smilingly on as he sinks into the arm chair and gives himself up to be kissed and pulled at by the happy children. A pleasant home, a loving wife and a nosegay of rosy faces clustering around him ! is he not now realizing the “Only bliss of Paradise Thac has survived the fall V Ah ! the sight is worth all the gloomy reason ings of a poet philosopher. It warms the heart with the genial glow of sympathy, and fills it with gratitude to God, who blesses His creatures with the rich boon of human love. What, if my own hearth is solitary, save the lonely figure sitting here, and looking out into the misty twilight; what, if domestic happiness is but a dream and a memory to me ; if my life shall never more be crowned by love’s “sweet fulfillment,” shall this prevent me from rejoicing in the happiness of my more fortunate sisters ? Shall I not look upon them,sittingserenely under the shelter of protecting love, without one feeling of envy, one word of murmuring at fate, and only a sigh for what might have been ? “God tempers the wind to the shorn lamb;” the destiny of all cannot be alike, and we, who now see through a glass darkly, shall acknowl edge the wisdom ot the Divine decrees, when the veil of mortality shall be withdrawn from our souls, and with unclouded vision, we shall read the solution of all earthly mysteries in the great book of life. Ah ! the white curtain has fallen upon the fair picture that smiled upon me through the dreary darkness. Nevermind; it has done me good. I am calmer and happier now. It was like a sweet hymn sung by one we love, and it is worth all the wild, melancholy music which Shelly pours from his haunted soul. It has given me more hopeful and cheering views of life, and though the twilight deepens, and the w’inds rise higher and wilder, I can thank God for the sunshine that lies, calm and sweet, in the hearts of so many of His creatures to-night. * For the Crusader. RANDOM THOUGHTS. Did you ever go out under the open sky one of these calm, bright days that come to us in the early spring: when the great white clouds sail so noiselessly by, and the chatter of the gay birds, and the whirr of the droning fly, and the noise of the street wagons, and the shout of the distant driver, and the rush of the fiery engine, and the melody of distant bells all swell and sub side, and rise and fall in a billowy anthem around you; when existence itself seems ecstacy; when the rustle of the leaves sends a thrill of happi ness to your heart: when the far-off sound of wandering winds float dreamily past, through the blue ether, and you wish your material part could dissolve and leave you free to soar away —on through the dim distance from whence so many voices of love and forms of beauty seem continually rising—on and on, away from this world’s petty cares and disheartening trials, to bathe forever in the sea of loveliness spread out before you ; to plume your wings and fly to Hea ven’s gate and catch a glimpse of our Father’s throne, or rove to other bright worlds, wheeling on through the dim immensity? This must be Heaven, indeed ! Purified from sin, freed from sorrow and human infirmities, clothed in robes of immortal beauty and glory, methinks the cher ubim and seraphim could ask no greater. For, would not the wisdom, power and glory of the Creator shine forth in his works, and the love of our Father fill the hearts of all his Creatures? MYRA. THE VALUE OF STORIES. A gentleman who acted as private secretary and amanuensis for Prescott, the historian, gives some extremely interesting particulars in rela tion to the daily habits of that remarkable man. He was as regular in his movements as clock work, and among his invariable habits was that of listening every day of his life, for the space of an hour, to some story or tale read to him by his wife or his secretary. He needed this kind ot mental refreshment ns a relief from hisgravestu dyofthe matter-of-fact histories in which he worked, as much as he needed sleep or exercise in the open sir. And what he required every mind requires. Stories, therefore, are as neces sary to the preservation and improvement of the human intellect as any other kind of literary ex ercise. It is only the thoughtless and unphilo sophical who speak of stories with contempt. They are to the sober realities of earth what flowers are in the vegetable world. Roses and violets are as important in the economy of the universe as are oaks and cedars. The story-wri ter, therefore, is not to be held in less esteem than the author of ponderous volumes of history or dissertations on philosophy and political economy. Each has his sphere, and is entitled to respect according to the degree of ability with which he fulfills the duty which his talents qualify him to discharge.— Ex. Os all thieves, fools are the worst; they rob you of time and temper.— Gostht. FOR THE CULTURE OF TRUTH, MORALITY AND LITERARY EXCELLENCE. ATLANTA. BY MBS. SUE P. FRANKLIN. Atlanta! at that name what varied memories start, Like phantom shapes from out the recess of my heart! Some strike the wildly echoing chords of grief, To which the joyous tones of others give relief. I love thee, fair young city, for the memories you recall; Love thy railroads, churches, citizens and all, For around them all are thrown cherished mem ories of a time When I dwelt within your precincts, and heard your sweet bells chime. I love thee for thy many pure hearts and true, Whose love revived my drooping soul like dew That falls upon the Earth at twilight’s hour, Giving new life and vigor to the flower. I loved thee long ago, for the sake of one who died; I’ve loved thee since I left thee, ablest and hap py bride; Far better that thou wert the birthplace of my love, That there I found whai now makes Earth almost like Heaven above. Young city of the South, I hope, like the fair maid, Whose father reigned in the sweet valley of Ar cade, You may for courage and for beauty be renowed, And soon the Empire City of the South be crowned. Yes, like that fair Atalanta for whom thou wast named, May you for matchless swiftness and daring strength be famed, And no Meilanion, with his golden lure. Outstrip thee in the race tor honors which en dure. May you all cities of the South excell; May it be sweeter in your homes to dwell, Than in the fair Arcadian vale or wood, Whence sprang thy namesake beautiful and good. Monti cello, Ga. PAUL DESMOND. A STORY OF SOUTHERN LIFE. BY MARY K. BRYAX. (Continued from last week.) CHAPTER VIII. Those were merry days that followed. We hunted and fished to our heart’s content in the cool morning twilights, read and dreamed in the sultry noontides, as we swung in our hammocks, under the shade of the magnolias, and then the nights—those glorious, tropic nights, with their brilliant, constellated heavens, their perfume, their music and their beauty—we passed hours of those magnificent nights, talking and idly smok ing our Havannas, among the Oleanders that had overgrown the ruins of the Old Castle. Petranelio seemed another being. Harry’s ex uberant spirits were the very tonic he needed, and the pure air, the horseback exercise, the ex citing outdoor amusements, and, more than all, the scenes of rich natural beauty—amid which he reveled with all a poet’s delight—wrought in him a complete metamorphosis. But he, as well as I, knew that this idle life must not continue. We had begun the ascent of a weary steep, whose summit was veiled by the mists of uncertainty, and we must not pause to pluck the roses along the wayside. So, notwithstanding Harry’s vehe ment protestations against it, I engaged rooms for Petranelio and myself, at a pleasantf private boarding house in Havanna, and we took posses sion of them soon afterwards. The apartments were on the second floor, and one of them—a cool room, looking to the West—was fitted up with easel, pallets, pencils, etc. for Petranello’s studio, while I occupied the two adjoining rooms. For the first few days, we had nothing to employ our time, and spent a great portion of it in stroll ing over the town, and in the evening, taking our station upon the balcony to w atch the singular looking volantes passing along with their pictu resquely attired occupants. In the absence of better occupation, I became curious to know something of my fellow lodgers, especially the occupants of the first floor, who, my talkative little landlady informed me, were an English family of good descent, comprising Mr. Atheling, his wife and little son. Mr. Athe ling was an invalid, who had left his bleak island home and sought the mild climate of Cuba, hoping that its genial atmosphere might arrest the destroying hand of consumption. His fair, girlish looking wife I frequently saw, reading in the piazza or watering her geraniums andEnglish flowers, or oftener reclining on the settee with roses on her bosom and in her fair curls, playing with a little milk-white Spaniel, while her own beautiful boy sat on a low stool at her feet, with his large eyes lifted to his mother’s face, coveting the caresses she was bestowing upon the pam pered pet. I felt drawn towards this lovely child, and it was not long before we were the best of friends. His grave gentleness, his sweet replies and his manner, full of childhood’s intuitive grace, yet, with a quiet thoughtfulness beyond his years, pleased and interested me. I made his acquaintance th-ough his admiration for my horse—a fine, half breed Arab—a present from Harry Roysdan. He came out on the piazza every day to watch me drive away. I saw him gazing wistfully at me one evening as I was tak ing the reins in my hand, and, going back to him, I asked if he would not like to ride. A glow of pleasure overspread his countenance. “ Ask mama,” he whispered, eagerly, grasping the hand of his child mother, and looking into her face. “ Mama will consent, I know, when I assure her that there is not the slightest danger ; that my horse is perfectly safe, and I will take as good care of her boy as she could do herself.” Mama smiled and twisted the bracelets on her pretty arms. “Certainly,” she said. “ You are quite welcome to him, if you are willing to trou ble yourself with him, Sir. But Charlie is a sad bore. He has been teasing me all the evening with his strange, silly questions.” And so we rode away together, I and my little chaige, and Charlie at first held his breath with delight, mingled with a slight feeling of terror, as the horse swept rapidly along; but this soon wore away and he became quite sociable, asking sage questions, neither pert nor silly, about the trees, the birds, the cloud-sprinkled sky and every thing that pleased him. “ Can you read any, Charlie ?” I asked, after he had called to my mind the touching story of “Robin Red Breast” covering with leaves the dead “Babes in the Wood,’’ suggested by seeing a pretty Red Breast in a hedge as we passed. “A little; but I mean to learn very fast. Mima has a pretty book with pictures, that she is going to give me when I learn. Oh ! Ido so want to read stories, like Mima tells me. You don’t know how nice—one about a little girl with a red cloak, that a wolf eat up, and one about a poor old lady that had a dog, and nothing but one bone in her cupboard. I will ask Mima to tell them to you.” “I shall be glad to have her do so,” I said, gravely. “ And Mima is your mama, I sup pose?” “No, no; my mama’s name is Susie. She made me this and this,” pointing to his embroi dered sacque and dress; “but Susie don’t know any stories. Did you never gee Mima, that live. Atlanta, Greorgia, March. 11, 1859. in the same house we do, and is always painting pictures? She wears black dresses all the time ) and has white hands and shiny hair like her own pictures.” I now knew that “Mima” must be the “myste rious artist” whom Petrart dlo had several times spoken of as his rival, though it appeared that she painted landscapes and fancy sketches only, while his forte was portrait painting. Petranelio praised the specimens exhibited in the window of her studio, and was curious to see the lady; but although occupying rooms on the same floor with the Athelings, she kept herself in such se clusion that neither of us had yet obtained a glimpse of her face. I had seen her figure a few times upon the street—always enveloped in folds of black crape, and with the Spanish mantilla shading her features. She had a class of young ladies who came every evening to Like lessons in drawing, and some times she went out with these, but not often. I questioned Charlie as to her name, but he knew nothing except “Mima,” and that the lady “was sweet and pretty,” which opinion might have been owing to her faculty of telling “nice sto ries.” When we returned that evening, Charlie had an enormous bouquet for his mama—so large that she declared she could not hold it in both her hands, and she spread them before us to show how much too small they were for that. I was passing on in search of Petranelio, when I saw him in front of the “Mima’s” studio, which, as the house was situated on a corner of the square, opened upon the next street. He beck oned me to him and bade me look at a picture, which had recently been hung there. It was a strange, fanciful conception, looking as though it had been dreamed on some mid-summer night. It represented a lake, with a back-ground of shadowy mountains and forests, stretching away into seeming infinity. A gray old ruin was dimly seen, crowning a wooded height in the distance, and the halo of moonlight lay over it all, flooding the silent waters and touching the misty moun tain tops with chastened glory. From the lotus flowers and leaves that imbedded the lake, rose the head and half-uncovered bust of a female figure with a face beautiful as that of Venus, when she rose from the Egean foam, with fair, long ringlets, damp (as could be seen) with dew, and crowned with the half-opened buds of the lotus. The face was serene as the moonlight that fell upon it, the eyes partly closed and the lips half parted in something that was not a smilei but an expression of dreamy tranquility, removed from positive sorrow or happiness. Beneath the picture was written “ Lethe.” It was well conceived. Nothing could have better conveyed the idea of forgetfulness—of serene oblivion, than that scene of unearthly still ness and calmness, the unruffled waters, the silent moonlight, the stirless leaves, and that face, placid and emotionless as a babe’s, sinking into sweet slumber on its mother’s bosom. But the face had another charm for me. Although greatly changed, spiritualized and etherialized by the artist’s fancy, the features of the face were Net tie Griswold’s own. The resemblance might be purely accidental, but it seemed to me rather re markable. “Petranelio,” I said, “I admire this picture so much, that I believe I will become a purchaser, if the artist is willing to dispose of it. Stay a moment, and I will see,” and I left him and knocked at the door of the studio. It was opened by a little cherry-lipped, Creole child—just such an attendant as I would have fancied the con conceiver of a picture, like that I had just seen, would have chosen. She left the room and I turned to examine some unfinished sketches upon the table. , “ Paul Desmond ! can it be possible?” exclaim ed a voice I should have recognised among a thousand. I sprang to my feet and found myself face to face with Myra Allingham. I have not a very distinct remembrance of what I said or did during that interview. I believe I must have acted very foolishly, for I could not command my feelings sufficiently to converse upon ordinary topics. It seemed as though she must know how constantly her image had been present to my mind; how often I had pictured to myself this meeting, hoping, almost unconsciously, that the happiness it would bring to me would be shared by her. But after the first surprise was over, her old calm, self-possessed manner returned. She was kind, affable, entertaining, but as unapproachable as ever—as completely folded in a delicate but impenetrable reserve. Perhaps I had expected too much. I had, it is true, one claim upon her friendship, but nothing more. I had been thinking too much of her part ing words on that memorable night, when grati tude melted away the reserve of her nature, and for one brief moment unveiled the warm heart that was hidden beneath her cold exterior. What a simpleton I had been, to fancy that she had ever thought of me during that long absence, while I was connecting her with all my hopes and dreams of the future ! My baseless cloud castles dissolved into empty air, as I watched her. She was as calm as I was agitated and restless, and there was no heightening of the faint color on her cheek ; no tremor of the hand, that played with the flowers strewn over the table. We spoke of the changes that had taken place since we last met, and unthinkingly, I recalled some by-gone in which her father bore a part. “You knew,” she said, looking down at her black dress, “ that the chief object of my life was gone. I had begun to hope that, to make his life happy was my mission. I sometimes think that I have nothing to live for now.” Her lip quivered as she spoke, and I regretted having awakened such sad memories. “ You have other friends,” I said, to change the current of her thoughts. “ Was it not cruel to leave them without informing them of the place of your destination ? Your disappearance was a profound mystery, and is so still.” “My friends !” she replied, in surprise. “If I have any that regretted my absence, they could not surely be ignorant of where I intended going. My step-mother knew of it.” “Mrs. Allingham?” “Yes; I left without taking any precautions to conceal my departure, and gave the driver, who carried me to the wharf, a note for Mrs. Alling ham, informing her that I was going to Cuba with the Athelings, whose acquaintance I had formed during their short stay in New Orleans. I left in Mrs. Allingham’s own carriage.” “ At night, I suppose ?” “No; about four o’clock in the morning. No one was up on the place, I believe. I was obliged to leave then, as the vessel was advertised to sail at half past four. The old coachman slept al ways in the carriage house; so I had nothing to do but awake him, order the carriage and leave Allingham Place forever. I never thought of concealment. The impulse was a sudden one, and having no one to consult, I acted upon it im mediately. Did Mrs. Allingham really inform you that I left clandestinely ?” “ She did, indeed, and, as the driver was the only one besides herself who knew where you had gone, he was probably ordered to keep it a secret.” Nothing more was said, but we looked in each other’s faces for a moment and each, I think, un derstood what was passing in the other’s mind, relative to Mrs. Allingham’s misrepresentation. “ I could not bear the idea of dependance,” she at length resumed. “ The very air of my former home stifled me, when I remembered that it was my home no longer. Happiness is the aim of all, and I felt that I could never again be happy at Allingham Place. Fortunately, I had one re source. Drawing had been a passion with me ever since my childhood, and I had careftilly cul tivated this natural talent. It was well that I did so, for I am now dependant upon it for a sup port.” She said this with her usual quiet dignity. There was no false pride—no repining against fortune—no complaints against those who had robbed her of her birthright. She spoke with a frank, cheerful independence that commanded respect and admiration. And this was the girl who had been educated in ignorance of toil or privation—brought up to think heiself an inde pendent heiress ! I looked down at the delicate, white hands lying in snowy contrast to the sable of her dress, and thought how unfit they were for labor. She must have interpreted uiy look of sympathy ; for she said, smiling pleasantly: “ It was the best thing for me that ever hap pened. It has called forth powers of which I should have remained unconscious, and contact with the world has worn away the too delicate edge of sensitiveness; the unhealthy spirt of over refinement and of romance, that my secluded life had fostered. I think an occasional mingling with the busy, bustling, commonplace world is a kind of necessary shower bath to a tempera ment like mine. At any rate, I feel the better and stronger for it. I was becoming a mere dreamer, dreading contact with every day things —living in a fanciful realm of my own creation. I have awakened now to a sense of life’s reality.” We were conversing in a small apartment ad joining her studio—a kind of sitting room, in which she had asked me to be seated. While she was speaking, her little Creole attendant came in to announce that her class in oil paint ing was waiting for their lesson. “ Then you must excuse me,” she said, rising and turning to me. “ Pleasure, you know, must yield to duty.” “But is not this monotonous routine of duty very irksome and wearying to one so little accus tomed to forced tasks as you have been?” “Not often. Ido not suffer myself to think of it as taskwork. I like to feel myself no longer a drone, but a co-worker in the great hive of hu manity. It is better, as one has said, to wear out than to rust out.” Her words and manner puzzled me. Was this cheerfulness real, or only assumed to repel any feeling of sympathy or pity on my part ? My knowledge of her perfect truthfulness prevented my admitting the latter. Doubtless, she was en joying the calm satisfaction which self-reliance and a consciousness of powers, well employed, never fail to bring. She had emerged from her dreamy, purposeless girlhood, into an active, thinking, earnest womanhood. OHAPTER IX. After this, scarcely a day passed without my seeing Myra Allingham; though often, it was only for a few moments at a time. She received me always with the same easy friendliness that she did Petranelio, and I looked in vain for any indications of a warmer feeling. If I came in while she was occupied, my presence did not in the least retard her employment. She went on mixing her colors, touching and re-touching her pictures, and leading me on to converse by an occasional suggestive word or question. If I chanced to come in while she was engaged with her class, she handed me a book with which to amusfc myself, and quietly kept on with the les son she was giving. I wondered if there was no deeper and warmer under-current concealed beneath this placid sur face. I found her one evening bending over her easel, so absorbed that she did not at first notice my entrance. The hair was pushed back from her temples—a sure indication of lassitude or fatigue—but when she turned her face to ms, I saw a flush of fever ish excitement upon either cheek. I bent over to examine the picture. It represented a desert —a sea of yellow sand, stretching away until it met the fiery and cloudless sky. In the centre was a small oasis, with a solitary cluster of date trees drooping towards the green spot below> whose fresh grass and flowering shrubs seemed to indicate the presence of water. A wild, hag gard looking wretch had thrown himself upon his knees beside this greenest spot of the oasis, and tearing aside the shrubs, revealed only the damp traces of the dried up spring. The picture told its own story —a man, lost from his caravan in the pathless desert, or spared by the dread Simoom for a fate more horrible and more lin gering than that of his comrades : wandering about over hot sands and under burning skies; at last espying the little green island in this fiery sea, with its leafy promise of water to quench his consuming thirst; falling down half fainting be neath the friendly shade of the palms ; tearing the shrubs frantically away that he might plunge his black, baked lips in the cooling fountain and finding no water there —only the mockery of damp, smooth sand. The blank despair in the hollow eyes of the famished man was so strongly depicted, that I shuddered as I looked at it. “What do you think of the picture V’ asked Myra, looking up; “or arc you thinking of it at all?” “ 1 was wondering if it were not a symbol, as well as a representation; if, beyond its plainly apparent meaning, it had not another typical one. Women become poets through the necessity of giving expression to feelings which they dare not utter except in song. Do artists never symbol ize their own moods and personal experiences by the poems they paint upon canvass? This pic mro, for instance—is it merely a man famishing among the sands of Sahara, or does it typify the desert of human life, with its solitary hope bloom ing in its midst like this oaiis; the delirious eagerness with which the thirsting pilgrim pre pares to partake the joy he believes within his reach, and his deep despair at the overwhel ning disappointment that follows? I wish I knew what led you to conceive that picture. How could you paint despair so strongly?” “ I am not satisfied with the expression of the face,” sho said, evasively. “ I think I shall re touch those lines around the mouth.” “Never mind it now ; you look tired and fever ish. You confine yourself too closely, and study too hard. See what a lovely evening! Come, let us go where we can breathe fresh air and see green fields and the open sea. My buggy is at the door, and while you are. getting ready, I will examine your picture more thoroughly. Y ou see I am prepared to accept no refusal.” Old Series, Volume UV, —New Series, Volume IV. No. 10 “Then I have nothing to do but obey,” she said, smiling, as she laid down her brush and quitted the room. She re-appeared soon after, in a delicate white dress, with a black scarf thrown across her graceful shoulders and float ing around her like a cloud. Our course lay away from the bustle and heat of the city, among quiet, country scenes, and past rich fields and little cottages, where black eyed peasant girls, with bright colored boddices and bare, brown arms and ankles, were feeding poultry under the trees. On our return, we paused upon one of the beautiful hills that command a view of the city. Dome and spire, rich groves and picturesque houses rose indistinctly beautiful as a dream in the distance. The voices of busy life could not be distinguished, and the city lay under its thin mantle of mist, seemingly calm and fair as a kneeling nun beneath the white veil of her novi tiate. “Who,” I said, looking on the quiet beauty of that scene, “ would realize that through it flowed the turbulent tide of human life, dark with wretchedness and want; with shame and sin ?” “It but typifies the life of mortals,” said Myra, with her dreamy gaze fixed upon it. “ Out wardly, calm and still; within, a den of unrest, haunted by goading memories, by vain regrets, by passions that, though fettered by the iron Will, still bound in the radii of their chains. We cannot judge of the inner life by its outward seeming.” She looked up, met my searching eyes and colored beneath the earnestness of their gaze. “ You speak feelingly,” I said. “ Can it be that what you have said is applicable to myself? Your ‘outward seeming’ is the perfection of tranquility.” “ Every heart knoweth its own bitterness,” she replied, and lapsed back into her dreamy mood. Was she thinking of Herman Rodenstein? Was the memory of his love one of the memories of which she had spoken ? Did this beautiful even ing remind her of the many she had passed in listening to his musical voice—in watching the dawning of the young love in his blue eyes ? I longed to know, but I dared not ask. Roden stein’s name had never been mentioned; for I re frained, through delicacy, from speaking of him myself, and she gave no outward token of still remembering her “young Love’s dream.” I al luded to it afterwards in a manner I regretted very much, but I was prompted by a jealousy which I had not, for the moment, power to resist. I had been standing unperceived, watching Myra, as she sat in the dusky twilight upon one ot the rustic seats in the pretty garden summer house, unconsciously caressing the curls of the sleeping Charlie, who had drawn his stool to her side and laid his head upon her knee. She had sung nursery lullabys to him until he slept, but now she substituted for these the German words of a song, whose first verse is rendered thus, in English : “ 1 My heart, I bid thee answer— How are Love’s marvels wrought? Two hearts to one pulse beating, Two spirits to one thought.’ ” I had heard Rodenstei n sing it a dozen times. He had learned it to her, I knew, and by her plaintive lingering upon the tender words; by the sadness of her tones and the yet deeper sad ness of her eyes, I knew that Rodenstein was not forgotten. I came out from among the shrubbery and stood by her side.. “ How strangely partial you are to that guttural language!” I said, “and to every thing pertain ing to 1 vater land,’ its beer swilling and fiddle playing not excepted.” 1 emphasized the last clause of my sentence, and fixed my eyes meaningly upon her. I saw her oheek flush and her eyes darken, but the next moment she raised them haughtily. “You are right,” she said; “I do admire the strong, terse German language—the language of Schiller and Goethe. I acknowledge, too, that I like the national characteristics of the Germans— their genial kindness of heart; their calm impnr turbiiity, so different from the volatility and cynicism of the French, or the cold selfishness of the English; and yet, they are not wanting in re finement of feeling, as their love for music and poetry attests.” I had probed her heart, to see if it still retained a love it had once cherished, and she had quietly given me an analysis of German character. Her coolness and reserve baffled me. I would have thought her almost incapable of strong feeling, had I not seen the passionate love she lavished on little Charlie. All the tenderness of her wo man’s nature seemed poured out on this gentle, loving child. Often, when wearied of his mama’s teasing, he would come to her, throw his arms around her and exclaim: “ Dear Mima, I love you best in the world !” and then she would press her lips to Ins and clasp him tightly to her heart as though his baby love was the most precious thing under heaven. He was with her almost constantly; for, with her time divided between her romances, her canaries, her guitar, needle work and shopping, Mrs. Atheling had little leis ure to devote to her child. Mr. Atheling’s health did not improve, and Harry had taken him to the Cocoas to see if change of scene and country air would not be beneficial. His pretty young wife, meantime, re mained in town. One evening she came bounding into the room where Myra, Charlie and I were sitting, and, holding up an ornamented envelope, waltzed gaily around the room. “A ball!” she said, as she threw the billet in Myra's lap; “ a regular Fancy Ball at the resi dence of the English Minister. Won’t it be de lightful? Myra, you will go, of course.” Myra glanced down at the black dress she wore. “Oh what a pity I But you can wear white, you know.” “But with black trimmings? and besides, I have no desire to go.” “How provoking! You had best turn nun at once, and take Dr. Paul here for a Father Con fessor. But lam determined on going. Cousin Elliott is coming for me, and I have decided on my costume. I will personate the ‘ Fairy Queen.’ It will just suit me and Charlie, my pet; you can be Robin Goodfellow. Don’t you think you might ?” “ Mama,” said the hoy, fixing his large eyes upon her, “ what is a ball?” “Oh ! a place where people go to enjoy them selves and be happy.” “ Like Heaven?” said the child, musingly. “Oh you silly creature!” she cried, forcing a laugh, but coloring deeply, as she turned away. “ What strange fancies you have! Quit looking so grave, like a little miniature parson, and let us go put some water in Jenny’s cage.” A few evenings after this, I went with Petran elio to Myra’s studio to show her a portrait of Charlie, he had just completed, and was on the point of bidding her gooduight, when we were surprised by an apparition in the doorway. It was Mrs. Atheling’s, dressed as the “ Fairy Queen” of*Spenser. Titania’s self, just alighted on the unbending stalk of a lilly, could not have been lovelier than the radiant little figure in its cloud-like drapery of rose-colored silk and gos samer lace, with the crown of queenly roses on the fair brow, and flowers looping up the lace skirt, and mixing with the curls that danced on the dimpled, rosy shoulders. She waved her flower-twined wand, and stood with an air half playful, half proudly, conscious of her beauty, enjoying our involuntary surprise and admiration. “I came to look in a moment upon you prosaic mortals before my entrance into Fairy Land. Cousin Elliott is waiting for me. He is to play Oberon to Titania to-night. I believe Charlie de clines being Robin Goodfellow; so I leave him with his dear Mima until I return. I shall, after the manner of all fairies, 1 Be back to my secret hiding-place Ere break of day.’ Au revoir,” and she made a graceful mock obei sance and flitted from our sight, like a suddenly clouded sunbeam. “Cousin Elliott,” I must mention, although a very devoted and affectionate cousin, was only a distant relative of Mr. Atheling—a handsome, dashing young Lieutenant in the fortieth regi ment. j That night, just before the Cathedral bell tolled the hour of eleven, I was aroused by a messenger from Myra. Charlie was taken suddenly very ill, and I must come down as soon as possible. “ 111!” I repeated, in astonishment. “ Why he was quite well this evening !” “Oh ! Sir,” sobbed the girl, who was Charlie's nurse, “he was caught in that quick shower of rain this evening, while he was out in his little garden. They sent me away on an errand, and Mrs. Atheling said she was too busy to change his clothes. He will die, Sir, I know he will!’ she continued, wringing*her hands in grief. “I never saw a child so good and sensible, that ever lived.” We had hurried down the flight of stairs and were now at the door of Myra’s room. I entered. They had just taken him from a warm bath, and he lay now in Myra’s arms, clinging to her with that look of terror on his face which I have al ways observed in very young children when sud denly smitten with violent illness. It is as though they recognise the presence of something infinite and terrible, from which no love can shield them. As I drew nearer, I heard the rattling in his throatand thequick, hoarsecough, thatsound edlike a death knell through the room. He strug gled for breath, and his little bands clung to Myra’s neck convulsively, as though, hitherto his guardian angel, could shield him from the fear ful presence of the Destroyer. I knelt down to examine him. It was the croup, I knew, and the very robustness of his little frame gave greater violence to the disease always the worst enemy of childhood. I hastily tried several remedies in succession, and then went, for leeches, telling Rosalia to go for Dr. Wilson, an elderly physician, whose office was on the adjoining street. He came, and the moment his eyes met mine, after a brief exami nation of the case, I knew that he, like myself, had little hope. We applied the leeches to his fair, white throat. He resisted at first and threw up his hand with an appealing look at Myra, but she put her own grief aside, and, taking his little hand in hers, sought to soothe him by singing the nursery hymns he loved. He lay perfectly quiet now, with the leeches hanging to his throat and Dr. Wilson’s finger upon his wrist. Myra’s voice, low, yet faltering sometimes, sounded through the stillness; the old in the arm chair swung to and fro with unintelligible mutterings, while Charlie’s young nurse knelt at the foot of the bed, with a gleam of hope dawning in her face. He seemed to be sleeping so peacefully. Suddenly be opened his eyes, now startlingly large and bright. They roved anxiously over the group of faces around his bed. “What is it, darling?” asked Myra, laying her cheek to his lips. “Mama,” he uttered, in a hoarse whisper. “ She will come soon. We have sent for her, and she will be with her sick boy in a little while,” said Myra, choking hack her sobs. “Is there any thing you want?” He motioned feebly to a little pasteboard box on the table. It was brought, and opening it, Myra found a bunch of freshly gathered violets. “God bless him!” said his weeping nurse: “he means for you to give them to his mama, Miss Myra. He gathered them for her this even ing; that was why he was caught in that shower; but she was fixing her dress, and never noticed him. May the Lord forgive her for it!” He was again convulsed with pain ; it was evi dent the struggle was too severe to last much longer. The Cathedral bell struck two. “ She w ill come too late,” said Myra, in a whis per, to me. “ There is such a crowd there to night, I was fearful the messenger would not be able to find her.” It was soon over. Myra had stood by him to the last, helping us administer remedies, sooth ing him with her voice and her hand, raising him up on her arm and keeping back her agony of grief that she might be useful to him, who would soon require her loving care no longer. It was over at last. Still, she only bent her w hite face over him and kissed his lips, his eyes, his fore head, w r ith passionate tenderness. Then she closed the blue veined lids over his eyes, lately so full of affection and dawning intellect; she folded his hands softly upon his breast and, kneeling down beside him, buried her face in the bedclothes. She sprang up hurriedly, as a light step and the rustle of a dress were heard in the passage; but she was too late to intercept Mrs. Atheling, who hurst into the room in her gala dress. “ Where is he ? how is he ? Doctor, how is my baby?” she exclaimed. “Ah!” she contin ued, seeing the placid figure upon the bed, “he is sleeping; he is better, then, is he not ? Has be been very sick ?” She laid her hand softly upon his forehead. Heavens! how she started, as though an adder had stung her, and what a look of fear and agony transfigured her countenance! “Dead!” she shrieked, as she clutched my arm. “For God’s sake, only say he is not dead 1 Dead! dead! and I murdered him. Oh my child! my child !” I caught her in my arms, as she swooned, and laid her on the bed beside the body of her child. Oh! it was a strange, a mournful sight—the rigid limbs and pale face of the corpse, the gay dress, the glittering ornaments and that uncon scious form, so soon to waken to all the agony of remorse and despair. [T be continued.] Proof of a Helpless Old Bachelor.— l al ways know a helpless old bachelor (says a clever lady) by looking at the corners of his pocket handkerchief. If I notice in them any little pieces of red, blue or yellow worsted—such as washerwomen run in to identify the property of each separate customer—l know at once that he has r.o one at home to mark his linen, and that he must be a poor, pitiful, misanthropical, friend less, helpless old Lchelor.