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—,’ ’ ~ HIIOI,E NO. i2. & SWT2MH MM TO MTUMTBM, TM MTS MB SEISMS, MB TO EIiSMB ISTfiLLISSMES. gtTE SECOND PEBE POEM. For Richards’ Weekly Gazette. tiie *SWORD AND PALETTE. A KOMAUXT, BY 7. M. LEGARE. Sir Alvar in the joust no more Triumphant lifts his lance, Nor blooming lips, nor bookish lore, Can win him from his trance. Lo, through the wood, with heart that grieves, My seigneur paces lone; lie hears the sadly sighing leaves, The wood-dove’s plaintive moan. Crossed are his arm? upon his breast, Where nestles night and day A vision, blue-eyed, golden-tressed, That steals his peace away. “And who is she so debonair Beyond our fairest dames, That yonder page’s blunted .spear Our seigneur's prowess shames 1 ” Your courtly dames, like jewels strung, May courtly praises win : The sweetest of our songs are sung For Lilias of the Lynn. Once royal Charles at banquet deigned To hear my simple lays: - The burthen of my song unfeigned Was still my Lilias’ praise. But when I sang how lowly born Was she. a limner's child, Methought with mingled pride and scorn The jewelled circle smiled. Oh, be the queenly rose his boast That bears a haughty crest; I love the lowly blossom most That suits a russet vest. IK It was the gray old painter, Mhand, That stroked her radiant head; lie held his mall stick in his hand, And painted while she read. The quaint, black-letter, old romance * She read, propped on her knee, Os old Sir Hubert’s brazen lance That did the work of three. Os how Sir Guy, with cross on sleeve, In anger crossed the seas ; And left the faithless Maud to grieve On penitential knees. How county Lilsfe, in witless pride, Misnamed his people “ swine,” And how by swinish tusks he died When overcome with wine. And of the tourneys good king John Held in the open field; And of the couplet Giles of Bonn Bore ever on his shield. But more than all these gorgeous dreams Those legends golden were, Wherein nor strife nor warlike gleams Disturbed her soul with fear. Wherein from courts the noble came To woo the lowly breast: Her parted lips scarce breathed the name Her fluttering heart confessed. in. Oft-times and grim old Maller-Mhand Ilis mall-staff shook aloft; w Who rides a tilt to gain thy hand, Must be no lisper soft. Ht Besbrcw thy Baron's coat of mail; I love one of mine craft! ” Fair Lilias’ cheek waxed red and pale The while her sire laughed. Him seeking, haughty Alvar camo As one unused to plea: I wot, from Languedoc to Maine ■ No braver was than he 1 ■ Sir Painter,” Alvar courteous spoke, Beneath the painter's roof; ■ “ In vain a heart of stubborn oak I guard with armor proof. ■ “ But yestermorn, in open lists, My lance achieved the prize; I Their jewelled hands our ladies kissed, I 1 only sought her eye?. ■ “ It chafed me sore, my queen should bide Among ignoble dames: Let shield-of-eight and countship wide Henceforth assert her claims.” IV. Load laughed in scorn old Maller-Mhand, * 1 Loud laughed and curled his beard t He comes with mall-stick in his hand > | Who woos the Golden-haired. I 4 ‘ Thy breast, steel-clad, is all too cold ■ % To rest such tender head; Pale were thy boasted heaps of gold I Beside its lightest shred. I“ 1 c corn thy braggart deeds of might. T lie wolf that slays the lamb. Blood flecks thy knightly mantis white, And soils thy lordly palm. “Go,—on thy wrist, in lieu of bird, A palette perch—then come.” —Amazed the haughty noblo heard, With shame and anger dumb. Then, frowning, spoke: “ Are knightly hancU To serve for such as thou ? Know, dotard, noblc9 reap the lands, Your peasant holds the plough. “ 111 suits thy cloak of clownish red, The pearl it would conceal! ” With scornful insolence he said, And turned upon his heel. “Ila! Lilias! what evil chance, Has led thee to this place 1 ” His rage went out, so piteously The tears ran down her faco. The sorrow that her eyes replied Pierced his stout cuirass through, And all his panoply of prido Triumphant love o’erthrew. “ Oh Lilias, my only love, How can I less than yield ? This morn above a mourning dove At fault my gos hawk wheeled. “ The augury I sought to trace I gather in thy sighs.” —He held her iu a close embrace, Then vanished from her eyes. I know some angel, glad and bright, Her chamber entered in, So joyous were the dreams that night Os Lilias of the Lynn. But through the wood, with heart that grieves, Sir Alvar, pacing lone, Hears overhead the s : ghing leaves, And night owl’s boding moan. * V. Oh, happy spring-time of the heart, When love is daily food, Through which are dangers counted naught, And difficulties woo’d! Where rose in ancient Roman time Imperial Caesar’s throne, As stranger from some northern clime Was lordly Alvar known No more his knightly deeds command The lists, his shield advanced: Before the easel, staff in hand, The painter stood entranced. In lieu of hawk, a palette graced His wrist, of polished wood: In lieu of glittering train, pale-faced Behind the Master stood. Much mued the Fra Bartolem& This marvel to construe, That under cowl of monkish gray Lurked eyes of tender blue. And Magdalen within the wood As northern maids was fair: And choirs of bright angels stood, Each orownodwith golden hair. Lilias, the guiding thought, Ilis pencil still confessed ; While, looking inwardly, he wrought The vision in his breast. VI. Swift glide the months to years, Which patient labors claim : And once again Sir Alvar wears The recompense of fame. Now, while the wreath the painting crowned The victor paced apart: His eyes, fond musing, sought the ground While rambling with his heart: Saw. at the bending of the road, The blue Rhine reappear ; And how, through trelliscd vineyards, showed The roof lhat held his fair. “ Ah, Lilias, my only love, How can I less than yield 1” Camo sweetly to his car above The clang of listed field. “ And live? she for his boom's pride— To none her charms resigned I ” “ Peace, dreamer! ” quick his love replied, And left all doubt behind. While thus his grateful fancies ran, Like hillside waters sweet — To thirsty souls that pause to scan The valley at their feet; Nearer, along the corridor A maid and sire strayed, Until the pendant wreath before Their noiseless feet delayed. High on the wall the chnplet hung, And Alvar’s toil below ; The tale an ancient poet sung, On canvass taught to glow. In smiling light Arcadia lay Green sloping in her hills ; Burst from the mossy rocks and grey, Innumerable rills. Yet swifter than the brhok could flee, With panting bosom fled Young Daphne; supplicatingly Her little hands she spread. Sileniiß hears. With laurel bark Her tender limbs compressed: The broad and glossy leaves surround Her palpitating breast. But through the interlacing shado Os slender stems, appear Blue eyes, and oft a golden braid Os long and loosened hair. Amazed and mute the father spied His Lilias portrayed; In place of kirtlo, white and wide, In leafy robes arrayed. Amazed and fluttered stood his child, And, with a maiden art. Concealed with folded hands the wild, Loud beating of her heart Then, yielding to the inward strife, Between her falling tears, She cried aloud, “ My lord—my life !” —Oh music to his cars ! She stood in garments wide and white, Blue-eyed and go!den-tressed ; She stood and bhs ed liis raptured sight, Her burning love confessed. No longer Fatherland had charms To woo him from the South: He held her iu his circling arms, And kissed her, mouth to mouth. And as the mariners distressed, In haven safe, display Their penons all—upon his breast With smiling face she lay. —Now out upon that demon owl That boded in the wood ; That well nigb drove to monkish cowl A noble soul and good ! But said I not some angel bright Iler chamber entered in, When sweetest visions came that nighs To Lilias of the Lynn. If SHE ’ • ‘P. y 7 ‘ ~[f .■ . OUR FIRST PRIZE TALE. For Richards’ Weekly Gazette. 1’ E K C V : —OR, — THE BANISHED SON. BY JIRS. CAROLINE LEE IIEXTZ. CHAPTER THIRD. Late the next morning, the surgeon ar rived. The inflammation, caused by such protracted suffering, made it a very dan gerous case, and for many days Mr. Mon tague lingered on the borders of the grave. Claude would have written to his friends, but the speechlesslips of the suflerercould give no directions; and all that the young man could do was to watch by his couch, and await the issues of life and death. At length the inflammation subsided, and the patient was pronounced out of immediate danger. Then Claude, at his request, wrote to Mr. Vane, his son-in-law, who resided with him, near one of the large towns of the Old Dominion, several days’ journey from the mountain-cabin. A week must elapse, at the shortest possible calculation, before any of his family could arrive.- In the meantime, though helpless and suffering from his broken limb, hegraduall} r revived, and seemed to derive much pleasure from the conversation of his youthful friend. Claude, with the ingenuousness of youth, told him all his history. “Poor boy! poor boy!” cried Mr.Mon tague, moved even to tears; “so young and inexperienced! T will he a father to you; I have no son of my own; and you shall be the son of my adoption. I owe my life to your care, and am selfish enough to rejoice that Providence has opened a way in which I can show my gratitude, and pay, though but in a small degree, a debt so large. Oh, my dear boy, I will carry you to a happy home, where all is love, and peace, and joy. You shall have a sister, too, in my grand-daughter—my sweet, sweet Mary. How happy she will be to have a companion, whom she will love as a brother!” Claude bent his head on the old mafi's hand, and a tear moistened the dry and fe verish skin. “Think me not ungrateful, sir—but 1 cannot cat the bread of dependence.” “Fear not; I will only put you in the way of earning an independent subsistence. You shall study law with Mr. Vane, if you like the profession. In the meantime, you can give my Mary lessons in French and Drawing, and thus make a compro mise with pride. Deny me not, my son, for my heart clings to thee, and refuses to be separated from thee. I see the hand of Providence in this. Disowned by him who gave you birth, God has sent you to watch, with all a son’s devotion, by my lonely pillow, and to be cherished in a bo som that feels for you, already, all a fath er’s tenderness and love.” He opened hisarms with a benign smile, and Claude felt as if he were, indeed, clasped to the bosom of a father. That night,,he wrote to Ella that he had found a home —a father; he had no longer a dark and aimless existence, but a future il- lumineil by hope and promise: she must no longer mourn for the banished Romeo ; bright days were yet in store, when love, and faith, and constancy', would meet their reward. What a change was made in that log cabin by the arrival of Mr. Montague’s family! He was a rich Southern planter, and had all the appliances of wealth and the refinements of luxury to grace his home. Downy beds, soft cushions, and rich curtains, were all brought for the com fort of the invalid, as well as every delica cy that could please the taste and tempt the appetite. Mr. Vane was a noble spe cimen of a Virginia gentleman—his wife a fair, gentle, interesting looking lady; but Mary—sweet Mary—how lovely she look ed, clinging like a fair garland round the neck of her aged grand-father! How an gelic the expression of her soft, dark eyes! how delicate the lilies of her cheek ! Not even the faintest tint of red was visible on that beauteous cheek : it >eemed too pure, too holy, for the breath of human passion to pass over it. “All, dear grand-father!” she cried, smoothing away his long, silky hair, and kissing his pale forehead, “ you should not have crossed the mountains alone : you know how hard I pleaded to bear you company.” “These young arms could hardly have checked the fiery horses,” cried he, fondly returning her affectionate caresses. “ I be lieve I was wrong; hut when we are very young, or very old, we are apt to be too self-relying and independent. Had not my own driver fallen sick, so that I had to leave him and trust to the guidance of a stranger, this accident would not have bc f„iu„ u—. * .* .....1 prove a blessing to us all. It lias given a dear young son to my old age, and a friend and brother to my gentle Mary.” Mary’s dove-like eyes turned to him with a look ot unutterable softness. They seemed to say, “My heart yearns for a brother; have I found one in thee ?” Claude was welcomed into this interest ing family with expressions of the most cordial affection. His filial cares to the | beloved father of the household were re paid with unbounded gratitude. Claude thought that never was kindness, that cost so little, so richly remunerated. It was no sacrifice to him to linger by the way-side, and, while he administered comfort and as sistance, drink in words of heavenly wis dom, that strengthened and renovated his soul. This he repeated again and again; hut Mr. Vane would thank him—his gen tle wife would bless him, and Mary's melt ing glance would express a thousand grate ful meanings. The sunny spirit of Claude began to sparkle once more, for the cloud which hail gathered so darkly over him had “turned a silver lining to the night.” Mr. and Mrs. Vane returned home in a few days--for she had young children that required her care; but Mary remained with her grand-father, and shared with Claude the office of nurse. It would be weeks before bis broken limb would be healed, so as to admit of traveling; and, during that time, the mountain-cabin seemed changed to a fairy grotto, and Mary the presiding sylph, who breathed a spell on every thing around her. Mr. Montague was so much better, that he could sit, propped up in bed, for hours, reading— and then*Claude and Mary would ramble about the woods, in search of evergreens to decorate the walls, or moss from the grey, old rocks. It was winter, and no gav, sweet flower, peeped forth from the green underwood ; but Maiy was such a lover of Nature, that she would wander abroad, if there was nothing to look upon but the clear, blue heavens, *nd “the grand, old woods.” She had brought her guitar, for Mr. Montague loved Mary’s singing better than any nusic in the world, and Mary did not like to sing without an ac companiment. But she had an accompa niment, now, sweeter than any instrument, and that was the voice of Claude —the clearest, richest, most melodious voice, that ever warbled from human lips. It was as tonishing to hear such music as they made gushing through the chinks of that old log-cabin. When Mr. Montague was tired of sitting up and reading himself, he would lean back on his couch, and Mary and Claude would take turns in reading aloud. Every night, before he fell asleep, they would read a chapter in the Bible ; and Claude thought the poetry’ of Shakspeare less beautiful than the minstrelsy of David, breathed from the sweet lipsof Mary Vane. What would poor Ella have thought, who was mourning in desolation of soul for her banished cousin, and whom she de picted to herself as a forlorn and heart broken wanderer, could she have seen him thus closely domesticated with this angelk young creature, associated in such an en dearing task, and bound by such tendei and near-drawing ties I And was he in danger of forgetting Ella—the companion of his childhood—the generous, devoted, fond and faithful Ella 1 No! the presence of Mary only brought her, by the force ol contrast, more vividly and constantly to his remembrance. Her’s was the changing cheek and lightning glance that spoke of the quick-flowing blood and the electric spirit; Mary's the pearl-white skin, and the soft, heavenly, prayerful eye, that re minded one of a beauty not of this world. Ella was the loveliest of the daughters of earth, and he loved her with youth’s first, warmest passion ; Mary, an image of the angels of heaven, whom he could worship and adore as a guardian saint. No! in Mary's presence, he loved Ella with a ho lier, deeper love, for she awoke all lhat was pure and holy in his nature.—lt was only the poetiy of nursing that devolved on Claude and Mary. All the drudgery, if such it could be called, where all seemed a labor of love, was performed by a negro servant, an old and attached slave, who had come to take care of her old master. It was affecting to see with what tender ness, reverence and devotion, she watched over him—what motherly kindness and love she manifested for her sweet young mistress! Mrs. Vane would hardly have been willing to have left Mary with her helpless grand-father, and this fascinating young stranger, had it not been for the guardianship of this faithful and intelli gent creature. The log-cabin was deserted, and the ever green wreaths hung withering on the walls. ¥4.. ntuf, at itiuriltfl to lilo liKiiic, still an invalid, but able to walk, support ed by the arm of a friend. Itwas a beau tiful scene! The return of the Christian master—the affectionate father—the be loved patriarch—to his own dwelling! To see the rows of negroes, with smiling ivo- ry gleaming white through their sable lips, looking so happy, so respectful, standing each side of the avenue that led to the no ble mansion, ready to welcome home their almost worshipped master; to see him bending his venerable head, with such a benign smile, and taking these humble, af fectionate creatures, so kindly by the hand, asking after their welfare, and blessing God that he was permitted to return to them once more ! Whoever had witnessed this scene, would have been convinced that the bond that binds the master and the slave is not always an iron-bond, and that beautiful flowers of gratitude and affection may be made to flourish in the dark bosom of the negro. Warm was the welcome they gave the “young master,” who was “slablished at once as an adopted son in this abode of princely hospitality. He im mediately'. commenced his studies with Mr. Vane, and his instructions to Mary. By day. an indefatigable student; at night, the teacher of his lovely, adopted sister. Days, weeks and months, glided away. Mr. Montague noticed, with anxiety, that Claude's brow wore a saddened expression, and his cheek a paler hue. Alas 1 he be gan to feel the withering fear that he was forgotten by Ella, as well as disowned by his father. He had written again and again to the first, telling her where to di rect her replies; and once lie had written to his father—not to ask for restoration to favor—not to supplicate for his forfeited place in his heart and home—but to tell him of the friends he had found—the pro fession he had chosen, and the solemn resolution he had formed to make himself worthy of the name of Percy—so that, in future years, when his “reformation, glit tering o'er his fault,” should efface its shadow from remembrance, he would dare to claim his esteem as a man, though lie had alienated his affection as a son. In this high-toned, manly spirit, wrote the banished youth; and yet no reply was vouchsafed by the inflexible father—no answer came from the once loving and de voted cousin. Had not the heart of Claude been shielded by a prior attachment—an attachment that was entwined with every fibre of bis being—he could not have been insensible to the almost celestial loveliness of Mary. Nor was he insensible. She was to him the incarnation of all that was pure and holy—the sister of his soul —the star of his spiritual heaven. But Ella was ‘ A creature not too bright nor good For human nature’s daily food— For transient sorrow, simple wiles, Praise, blame, love, kisses, tears and smiles.’ But Mary, though she had the face of an angel—had the heart of a woman—and though it sent no blushing heralds to the cheek, throbbed wildly and warmiy with newly awakened emotions. In the soli tude of that mountain-cabin, the light of a new existence had begun to dawn upon her, and that light had grown brighter and brighter, till it enveloped her spirit as with a glory. Thus two years passed away. The let ters of Claude still remained unanswered, and, with a freezing sense of her heartless ness and inconstancy, he tried to forget the Juliet of his boyish imagination. He was assisted in this by a solemn scene, in which he was made an actor. The aged grand-father lay upon his death-bed. He had never recovered from the effects of the accident, which led to the adoption of the banished Claude.— Three-score years and ten had left their * snows upon his head, without withering the bloom of his heart. But Death was now near, and the warmest heart grows j cold at his touch. Once, when it was be lieved he slept, and Mary and Claude sat by his bed-side, as they had often done in the mountain-cabin, he opened his eyes! and gazed upon them both so earnestly and wistfully, that they involuntarily drew nearer to him, and asked him what he de sired. “My children,” said he, in feeble ac-: cents, taking a hand of each and clasping | them in his own, “ 1 am going home. The aged pilgrim is about to return to his j God. But you, young travelers, your jour ney is but just begun. It is a weary jour- j ney; but, if we go hand in hand with one ; that loves us, the way seems smooth and pleasant to the feet. Mary, my darling, you have been the child of my old age— ; the object of many prayers. 1 die happy; | for I know there’s one—one, whose hand j is even now clasped in mine—who will make life a sweet pilgrimage to you. j ciiluoc, my near udum;, l Know you aim t my sweet Mary love each other! Both so good—so beautiful! Heaven lias made you for each other! I give her to you, Claude, as my dying legacy; and may the Lord be gracious to you, as you are faith ful to this holy trust.” Claude, incapable of utterance, knelt by the side of the kneeling Mary. Her hand trembled in his—her eyes, swimming in tears for one moment, turned towards him, then, lilted to heaven, were filled with a love so deep, so pure, yet so impassioned— a love which, for the first time, she had suffered to rise from the depths of her heart free and unchecked—sanctioned and hallowed, as it now was, by the blessing of a dying saint. Claude would as soon have disputed the decree of Heaven, as the wish of his benefactor. The patriarch was gathered to his fath ers. The leaves of autumn fell upon bis grave. With the flowers of May, Mary’s bridal garlands were to be woven. Thus solemnly betrothed, without any volition of his own, Claude was at first op pressed by the most stiange and bewilder ing sensations; hut honor, gratitude and delicacy, all urged him lo endeavor to transfer to Mary the love he had so long i cherished forthe faithless Ella, lie would j think of her no more. She belonged to j the life that wa° past—the life of vanity, self-indulgence and pride; Mary to thut j new and spiritual life, born of suffering and , self-humiliation. Mary's check had always been as color less as Parian marble. Now a soft, bright rose-tint, began to tinge its snow, and a lustrous beam was seen playing in the iris of her soft, dark eye- Claude watched, with deepening tenderness, these bright and shifting hues. They humanized, as it were, her too spiritual loveliness, and gave her a resemblance to one, whose image cbuld never be destroyed. Claude grew happier in the consciousness of his increa sing love for Mary, but an unaccountable sadness seemed to oppress her. Often, when he attempted to lead her mind to sweet thoughts of the future, she would lean her head in silence on his bosom, and weep; and all the time her cheek wore a deeper rose, and her eye a more intense lustre. One evening—it was a warm, dewy, moon-lighted April evening—Mary sat with Claude in the long, pillared piazza. The vine-leaves, already in full luxuriance, clustered round the pillars, and cast their shadows on Mary’s alabaster blow. He held one of her bands in his, and they both sat in silence, looking out into the pale, silvery night. A slight shiver ran through Mary’s frame “ The night-air is too damp,” said Claude; for, though she shuddered, her hand glowed with feverish heat. “ Let us go in, Mary, lest a mildew full to wither the blossoms of my May.” “It is so lovely, sitting here in the moon light!” cried Mary, looking upward with a melancholy smile ; “ and when this moon has waxed and waned, and another comes with softer, mellower light, who knows if my eyes will be permitted to gaze upon its ; beauty?” “ VVhy speak in so sad a strain, my ; Mary, when every thing around us breathes of hope, and love, and joy 1 Ah! you know not the fear your deepening melan choly awakens, as the hour approaches that will make you mine forever—the fear that you love me no more.” “Notlove you! not love you, Claude!” repeated she, with impassioned emphasis. Then suddenly throwing her arms round his neck, and suffering her head lo droop upon his shoulder: “Oh, it is this love— too strong—too deep—binding me too closely to life—that makes my misery and despair! Oh! Claude—Claude—l cannot, cannot give thee up 1” “Mary, talk not so wildly. Youalartn— you terrify me ; you know not what you utter.” “Yes, Claude,” raising her head, and ! fixing on him a dark, thrilling glance. “ I know too well what 1 am uttering ; I have wanted strength to say it; but I could not | bear; you have made life so dear to me. | Put your hand on my heart, Claude, and | feel it flutter like the wings of a dying j bird. Thus it flutters day and night. I hear it; I feel it; I know that lam dying, i It was thus she died—my own sweet sis ! ter! Oil, Claude, I love you too well: j there is not room in this poor, weak heart, | for such boundless love. It is breaking— j dying!” Her arms relaxed; her head fell heavy !on his breast; she had fainted. The al j most frantic Claude bore her into the house, i The father and mother hung over her with 1 an anguish which only those parents know, j who have seen sweet household blossoms 1 nv iitier uius instantaneously in tneir arms. Another lovely daughter of the family, an elder sister, had been smitten in a similar manner. Thus insidious had been the ap proaches of disease—thussudden had been the prostration. It was strange they had not perceived, and been alarmed by the symptoms—the hectic flush, the lustrous eye, the quick and panting breath. But they thought the purple bloom of love was in her cheek, and itsagitation in her heart. They dreamed not that the destroyer was near. The anguish of Claude baffled descrip tion. Mary, with the doom of death hang ing over her young life, was loved as she never had been in the hour of health and joy. lie would willingly have purchased her life with the sacrifice of his own. Her loveliness, purity and truth, and, above all, the intensity of her love, were worthy of such a price. That one so young, so fair, so angel-like and loving, should die in the brilliancy of her bloom, and lie down be neath the clods of the valley—it could not be. God, the Almighty, would stretch out His omnipotent arm, and save her: God, the All-merciful, would not inflict so fear ful a chastisement. It was not till near the dawn of morning, that Claude sunk into a feverish slumber. Then the shrouded form of his adopted father seemed to stand by his bed-side,_ and, in a voice deep and solemn as the dis tant murmurs of the ocean, exclaimed, “Be still, and know that 1 am God; thus saith the Lord.” Claude trembled in every limb. Again the voice from the grave spoke: “Return,'my son—return to the home of thy fathers. We, that love you here, are leaving you, one by one. You have a mission yet to fulfil, before we meet again.” The vision fade*!, but it left a deep and solemn impression on the mind of Claude. When he stood by the couch of Mary, hope rekindled in his heart. Surely Death never came in a guise like that. The rose is glowing in her cheek with even brighter radiance. Alas! the blood that dyes that glowing rose is taken, drop by drop, from the fountain of life. Mary had been strug gling with her destiny, silently, darkly— struggling in the strength of her love— that human love which had interposed a shadow between her and her Heavenly Father's luce. But now the strife was over. She met bin* with a smile of heav enly serenity. “ I am calm, now, my beloved,” she cried : “ God has given me strength lo re sign thee. Oh, Claude, 1 have been an idolator, and my soul must be torn from the idol I have adored. Hiave sinned, and deserve the chastisement. Had l beer, permitted to live for thee, the world would have been too dear to me. I would have asked no other heaven.” Thus she continued to speak to him, who knelt in speechless agony at her side, till her fluttering breath coyl-i nofonger utter any but broken senleitcfcs. ami then her eyes, bent upon bis face, beamed with unutterable love. Mary died—the sweet, holy-minded