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A SOUTHJBMI MffilLT WIMAi. BMCTJBB ’ffl MTMM'UM, Tfil MTS MB SCIMDIS, MB TO BSim ffimifilffl, For Richard#’ Weekly Gazette. THE FISHERMAN’S GLEE. BT MRS. C. W. DUBOSE. Merrily, merrily over the sea, Light hea; ted .and happy, wild rovers are we ; We laugh at the wind, a: and we fear not the storm. And we sing wh n thesun shin s g ad and warm ; While carele sand gay, o’er the billows we ride And we mock at the waves, ia their foaming pride. When the Storm King rule o'er the billowy main, lie struggles our stout he arts to frighten in rain ; And when the red lightnings illumine the sky, Like a bird o'er the waters we merrily fly; We dnad rot the danger—the temp st we scoi n. And undauntedly wait for the c *mi gos morn! We float o'er the waves in our f ail litt’e bark And we c st our net', in the waters so dark, — And wc fearlessly rove o’er the faithless main, An honest subsistence for lored oi.es to gain ; jWe shrink not Loin danger—our hearts are as stroi g As the oak ril-s that hear us so safely along ! Merrily, merrily over the s;a— Sails on our frail v< ss. 1 right fearless and free ; And then when our toil an 1 labor is o’er We merrily steer for the distant shore, And there, where the sun sets over the sea— To the csi net's sound —we are dancing in gl e ! Travqnilla , Sept. ISI9 jdj&Sm-n } ■ ‘ ‘ THE WAKNIXe, on MIRIAM NEWTON'S PROBATION. BY MR*. JOSEPH C. NEAT.. “ Have I not been nigb a mother To tby sweetness—tell me, dear 1 Have we not loved one another .ouuci.y l.oiu year ro year, Since our dy i- g in tlicr mild Sni 1, with acce t- undefiled, ‘ Child, be mother to this child V ” Miss Bake E rr. The bell announcing that study hours for the day were over sounded through the seminary buildings. Yirgils were closed with alacrity, and French exercises ” ere tossed aside. A hum of sweet voices swept oat into the portico, light feet danced through the long halls, and every one seemed resolved to spend her holiday after noon as happily as possible. “Where is Ellen Newton I” said a dozen voices at once, as the recitation-room was emptied. No one had seen her all the morning, and Alice Cooper, her friend and confidant, volunteered to “ find her out.” Twice had she tapped lightly at the door of No. 27, ere the accustomed “ entrez ,” gave her liberty to enter; and then it was pronounced in a low, faltering voice, as if ‘he speaker was in tears. And so it prov cd, for Alice was alarmed to find Ellen ®'-ill in her morning dress, and her eyes were sally dimmed, as if she had wept bitterly. Alice sat down beside her friend, and silently passed her arm about her waist j she could not recall any occasion for grief. Ellen never offended her teach ers, as the thoughtless Alice too often did, ’ s ne never neglected her recitations, and “as in perfect health that morning, for it had never been her turn to bring the letters fiom the village post-office. There was a manuscript package lying hear them, and as she saw the half pitying, half wondering look of her visiter, Ellen Pointed toward it. The direction was familiar to Alice. It was the hand of El len’s only sister, Miriam, and she eagerly asked : “ Was Miriam ill ? was Ellen go 'nS to leave them 1” For a moment there was no reply, save a low sob, and then the long letter was put mto the hands of Alice, and her friend said, “Sister has given me permission to read it to you; 1 ’ and with arms entwined, and their eye3 bent upon the same page, the young girls real on together. A more than ordinary attachment existed between th e two. On first enteringa large Seminary where all were strangeis, Ellen Btal clung to the light-hearted Alice, as the only link connecting her with the far-off ticiut nun nici,—anu afterwards, even when she had become a general favorite, Alice was her confidant and firm supporter in all the little trials of a school-girl life. It is true, that young lady had of late declared herself jealous of a certain 1 Cousin Horace,’ —a sobriquet , for he was pot a relative, —who had paid a visit of several weeks to the quiet country village in which the seminary was located. A visit that had been repeated the succeeding vacation, which the friends had passed together at Mr. Cooper's pleasant country seat. Alice had told Ellen's room-mate on their return, that all the use they had found for her was “playing propriety,” in their tete-a-tete rides and rambles; how merrily the girls laughed at the idea of Alice Cooper’s being “ proper!” But to Miriam's letter; thus it ran— “ I liked your can lour, my dear sister,, in thus telling me all the story of your ac- I quaintance with Horace. It would have pained me had you h'dden one feeling of your heart, had you left me to have learned i it through strangers, or from the lips of any but yourself. “ We are alone in the world, my sister. ] We have none but each other with whom , we are closely connected, /have but you. 1 Ellen, to love. Think then with what ] emotions 1 must ever listen to the history j of your joys and sorrows ; how I tremble for your future happiness, even as I have watched over and prayed for you in times that are past. Since our mother gave you j to my charge when dying,—ay, from the j terrible hour that left us fatherless, I have | tried—God alone knows how faithfully—j to keep the promise made to the dead. I stood by the side of that mother when the sleep that knows no waking had at last ended her troubled existence, and watched you smiling in the arms of your nurse, un aware of the loss you had sustained ; and 1 silently renewed my vow. that you should never know the w ant of a parent’s watch ful care. “ It was a fearful trust for one so young and erring as myself, but even then my heart was chilled ; the blight of earthly J sorrow had passed over it. It is too true that “knowledge by sulfering entereth'— and I was far older in thought than in years. The care proved a blessing, Ellen, as cares often do. It gave me anew interest in life, which, young as l was, I almost es teemed a burden ; it taught me that each has a part, however humble, in its drama, i ,1.. .viAcii cut ll; tv ia it t*in against Unit I’arent, who ‘ chastencth those He loves.’ “I have striven that you, my darling, might never stray from the path of recti tude, so that punishment might be needed. 1 watched over your young mind as il gradually unfolded, and saw that the germ of a high intellect and an affectionate heart lay within. So you grew up all that 1 could wish you. Then came the fear that I had made you my idol, and thati he in cense offered from my sinful heart that might sully the purity of your own. 1 saw, too, that your nature, naturally de pendent, was growing weak, and that you lacked that self-reliance which was to fit you to tread the path of life alone ; for, unnerve me as il did, 1 knew the time must come—it might be very speedily—when I should be taken from you, and you be left, perchance, to bear with adverse fortune. Though it seemed like severing the last tie which bound me to earth, I came from the struggle resolved to part with you for a season, and, placing you in the care of one who was our mother’s friend, I left you to bear the little trials of a school-girl's life alone. “You know how earnestly I charged you to write to me of every thought and hope. I felt that my counsel still might aid you, and I knew that so long as you kept j our promise faithfully, nothing of evil could he harboured in your heart. Ac customed to watch every variation of your moods, I was not at all surprised, when your love for Horace was at last confessed. The suspicion that it would be so, has more than once entered my mind. I say to you candidly, that I know of no one to whom ‘ I would sooner entrust your future happi ness : had it been otherwise, I should not have permitte 1 your late correspondence, and should not have hesitated to warn you of his growing attachment. Still, young as you both are, 1 do not think it quite ad visable to be bound by an engagement. — j Many years must elapse, many changes of j life must be passed through ere you can j stand to each other in the most holy rela tion of life, and during this time your characters, now forming, may grow dis- j similar,—your hopes and wishes may change. This will seem strange to you j now, and I Bust it may never be thus. “There is one thing, that more than] augnt else, will tend to p.v..,.,; >.. periect ’ confidence in each other's truth, perfect re liance in the purity of each other's motives —this will give an undisturbed intercourse of heart; and concealment is the worst ene my you have to fear. You cannot at pre sent feel the importance of this, for now every emotion is shared, hut to impress it more fully. 1 will tell you, dear sister, a part of my own sad history, that until now has been hidden from even my dearest friends. Let Alice read with you the warning, and may you both lie preserved from like frailty, “At sixteen I left school; I was young, but a brother and sister having died in in fancy, 1 had been an only child until your birth the preceding year. I had been pet ] ted as such, and now was allowed to have |my own way, in this as in all cases. 1 had always remembered my mother as a j delicate, nervous invalid, and papa was too j fond of me to contradict me in any- trifling ! matter. I had ever been what is called *a , j fine scholar,’ —for a good memory was ! among my natural gifts—and, thus with comparatively little trouble, 1 learned my own lessons, and was at leisure to assist i less fortunate classmates. I had naturally , become a general favourite, and flattering ] remarks, to one so susceptible, were easy , payments for the services thus rendered.— j In this way flattery had become—almost imperceptibly—necessary to my existence, and when I entered society, young, accom- 1 pllshed, and an heiress, the vice was not 1 at all checked, by those who ‘ followed flattered, sought, and sued.’ “For a time, I gave myself up to the ! whirl of this new excitement. Papa was dp', io-htad at mV ■•*.*= „ „ I ..... consciously fostered my fault by making me recount my triumphs, to amuse her sick room. Every \\ him, no matter how costly, was gratified, and my cup of happiness seemed filled to the very brim. Still, alter the first flush of novelty had passed, 1 be came restless and discontented. 1 grew weary of the fashionable crowd. 1 tell that I was dastined for a purer existence, j that a deeper nature than those around me | dreamed of, lay’ ready to he developed.— They saw me vain and giddy, and thought no voice but that of adulation would be grateful to my car. But oh, the hidden ‘yearning to he understood, cherished, and loved 1’ Not for my beauty, not fur my wealth, or talents, if any 1 had, but for the love that my heart might oiler. “At length the fulfilment of th s wish seemed at hand. A distantcousin. Clauje Rossiter, returned from a northern college, where he had passed the last three years; and ere I had seen him— My heart was as i prophet to iny heir:, And told me I sh- ul i love. “A portrait, taken in his Loyhood, had always hung in mamma's loom, and both she and our father had been accustomed to speak of their orphan relative as a son.— We had not met for many y ears, out often had exchanged playful messages through papa’s letters, and once he had asked for iny miniature, which ha 1 been sent to him. As the time for his arrival drew near, I grew strangely impatient. I listened with flushed cheeks to papa's frequent praises - of his ward, but I avoided even the mention j of his name. At length he came. I had i so longed for the day, yet, as the hour of; meeting drew near, I shrunk from its ap ( proach. My toilette occupied me more hours than I had ever bestowed upon it ) before. 1 altered my hair from curls to ; braids, and then wished that it would iml | again. Even alter it was complete!, iny mirror was more than once consulted, to rearrange every trifle. For the lirst time in my life, 1 doubted my own power of at traction, and, so timid had I become, that when he was at length announced, I could scarcely rise to meet him. “‘And this is Miriam!’ said he kindly. ‘I should have known you anywhere; though you have become a young lady, l do net see that you have altered very much !’ “ I withdrew my hand from the affection ate clasp, that sent a strange thrill to iny very heart, ard tried to still its beatings as l answered coldly. He seemed disappoint- j eJ at my greeting, and, to cover my embar- j rassinent, I enticed you from Nurse, and. j for almost the first time in my life, tried to j amuse you. “ As soon as a reasonable excuse offered, i I left the parlor, and hastened to my own I ! room. 1 threw myself upon the sofa, and j | cla.-pei my hands tightly over my heart, as j if for fear that the poor fluttering, throbbing | prisoner would escape. And yet I was j vexed, disappointed. 1 was vexed that he 1 should think me unalterel. I had hoped j he would have remarked the change from a romping school-girl, to what I thought a j beautiful err refill n.nna I was disap- j ; pointed in him. Despite the boyish por trait, which was by no means flattering, 1 had idolized him as very beavtiful, and 1 found him almost the reverse Indeed, a delicate, almost feminine mouti, and large eloquent eyes, that mirrored evjry emotion, were all that redeemed him firm absolute plainness. “ I need not tell you, Elies, how that disappointment grew to earnest, fervent love. He never saw the weak points of my character. Before him I concealed all lightness, all frivolity. Love had made me already a better and nobler woman, and I tried to be in reality all that I seemed in his presence. The developmentof Claude's affection was more gradual; it seemed to come to his heart “ Like light into a fountain running o’er but never till I saw those calm eyes lighted ; with deep emotion, and marked the quiver- J tng lips, as tie iota me that Dis iuture hap- j pincss was in my keeping, did I dream of i the wealth of that tenderness which was so freely bestowed upon me. “Our father was delighted when Claude had confessed all to him. I am almost sure that he had looked forward to this; and mamma welcomed her son, as she had always called him, more warmly thad ever before. I remember that lie now spoke always of you as ‘ our little sister,’ and you cannot think of the charm conveyed in that one simple word. “For a time 1 was perfectly happy; hut the parting came. Claude was to spend two years at a German University, so said his father's will. In the mean time our engagement was to remain secret, and on his return we were to be un : ;- J v/iauuc vtas nut jcaJUUS 1U uISpOSItIOM. ! neither was his love of an exacting na ture. “ ‘ I will accept no vows from you Mi riam,’ said he, as we sat together the even ing before his departure. ‘ You are very young, and beautiful,’ (it was the first time an allusion to my personal appear ance had ever fallen from his lips.) ‘lt woul 1 he injustice in me to bind you with pledges that some day may prove but irk some shackles. Nay, do not look at me so reproachfully,’ for my lips quivered, and the tears sprung to my eyes, that he could dream I should ever love him less. ‘ Do you not know, darling, The thiug we love may change. Yet I cannot believe, even though I seem to reason coldly, that the day will ever come when those eyes will speak any other language, than perfect purity and perfect love.’ “ He dre w me more closely to him as he added :— ‘ lam a strange creature, neve;* theless, and you may think me unkind, yet I have one thing which I wish you to pro mise me. Should you ever love me less, 1 mu-t hear it first from you. I could not endure, that while I still lavished my love, your heart should cherish the image of an other. Such wilful deception I would never never pardon.’ “ His vehemence alarmed me; for a mo ment I gave no answer, then l unshrink ingly encountered the gaze of those earnest, almost mournful eyes, and said calmly, j ‘ Claude, t should feel that your words j were unjust, did I not know how good anJ I honorable is the love that prompted them. If 1 should ever deliberately deceive you on this point, 1 will never hope to regain your confidence and esteem’ ‘“lt shall be as you have said,’ was the whispered reply, and I felt tears, yes, burn ing tears fail on the band that was clasped in his own. “ For a month or two after his departure, I shunned all society; my own thoughts were sufficient companions. I passed many hours in entire solitude, while I re called every look, every tone, of the absent one. Each cvjiression of his fondness for me was repeated in the stillness, and I sometimes smiled as 1 thought how need less had been his parting request. “But the winter advanced ; the season was unusually gay, even for our crowded city, and soon these precious recollections I grew dim and indistinct, and in my dreams 1 oftener saw the faces of those wh.i now . crowded around, than the calm eyes of love that had once seemed bending over my pillow. Still the reception of his frequent j betters were joyful epochs, and they were answered in a kindly, affectionate spirit! “ At length my faith wavered, and one . who truly was not at fault became my suitor. The secret of my engagement was not known beyond our family circle, and he saw no bar to his hopes. I was the guilty one, for I am conscious that I en couraged him by look and tone. Yet I was fearfully startled when a rumor of his con stant devot’on and evident acceptance, be- j gau io float about our fashionable circle. A voice within whispered that I had already trifled too far, but I stifled it though it ever sounded in my ears, as 1 read or replied to Claude's constant and delightful letters. — The quiet lasted not always; the report reached him through the messages of some friendly correspondent, and I was roused at last by a letter, oh, so kiud, yet so sor rowful, that hut reminded me of my pro mise. He conjured me, as I valued his fu ture peace, and my own, to examine well my heart, and see if 1 had not deceived my self with regard to my love for him. I never shall forget the conclusion of that earnest appeal. “‘ I speak but for your own happiness, darling; for 1 love you so dearly, so far, so very far beyond my own insignificant anJ seifi-h enjoyment, and I am proud that my heart has a strength so to love, though I the multitude would probably misapprehend j j n uiiogeitier; 1 would claim your coufi- I | dence to sue h an unreserved extent, as to declare in the holiness of truth, that if your misgivings at all prcpondeiate, the fact should be communicated tome as your best friend, in the assurance that I would guide you disinterestedly aright. Ay, even though I thus saw every hope for the fu ture destroyed ! I should not blame you in the slightest, if it is as 1 fear, but 1 should regard it as a deadly wrong—more to yourself than to me —if I were not so confided in. “ * I am aware that this is all very differ ent from what is usually believed of lovers; but it is my peculiarity, that if I thought a rival better calculated than myself to make her I loved happy, 1 could—at least I think I could—crush and,cast aside mv /.• r njuvH tu JUUkUll’ her welfare. For what am I, to require an immolation “Thatletter has been discolored by time, and the words one half effaced by bitter tears, but they are burned on my memory , Ellen ! “ With a heart lull of self-reproach, of regiet at my past conduct, and fears for the future, I was summoned to meet the very object of these words. Ere I was aware of the import of what lie said, for my mind was turbulent with a thousand thoughts, l j had listened to an avowal which, as the 1 etrotlied of another, it was guilt for me to hear. 1 remember indistinctly saying something of an insurmountable obstacle, but the words were unheard, the blush of shame was misconstrued; weak, guilty that I was to sutler it, a k ss was jue. se i upon the lips that should have told him they were sacred to another! “I could not, 1 dared not sjieak. Quick as thought, I resolved 1 would write that very day and explain it all; even at the risk of being termed a heartless coquette. So I suffered him to leave me in error. “I |iassed the night in agony, such as your pure nature can never conceive of; ! you will never know, my sister, the misery j which guilt, ay, perjury must bring. Be fore morning I had written two letters; I they lay side by side as the day dawned. | One to Claude denying all foundation for | his fears, even reproaching him that 1 e j should cherish them ! Shudder not, Ellen, j God knows my repentance has been ‘in dust and ashes.’ I thought to spare him misery; I kne'w that my vanity and pride only had been aroused in my acquaintance with S , and I hoped iny tault could be repaired by unswerving devotion in the future. I forgot that the purity which he so prized in me was thus lost, 1 knew not that I should be ever haunted by that burn ing ki-s, the seal es my falsehood! “ The other letter gave a partial explan ation of iny engagement. I did not tell w hom 1 had so injured, but sai I that we were unavoi lably separated for the present. I prayed S to forget that he had ever known me, and to pardon me lor seeming (’) duplicity. I never saw him again; the next day he had taken passage for Europe; hut 1 heard from one who knew him well that he had cursed me deeply, for a vile coquette, and that morti fied pride mingled strongly with his disap pointment. “I felt now that I was free again. Free to retrieve past errors, free from the fear that the tale woul 1 ever reach Claude.— But vengeance was swift in flight. Claude 1 had been the bosom friend of S—. They met at Heidelberg; mutual confidence I was interchanged, an 1 S , still burn : ing with resentment, poured out his rage : and his disappointment to the very man ’ whom, most of all, he w ould have shunned, had he known the whole. His excited ’ imagination colored the picture. I was ] represented as most heartless, most calcu lating; ‘I had even allowed his caresses.’ Such was the terrible revelation to which Claude listened. “Yes, listened calmly as to a thrice-told tale, and in the letter penned to me ere he slept, no tremor was betrayed. But its very calmness withered me. Its forbear ance told how he despised the falsehood of which l had been guilty! “ 1 Wilful deception, he would never for give'.’ “My father never knew how weak 1 had been. Claude left to me all explana tions. lie alluded only once to the change in his hopes, and referred him to me as the cause. I dared not deceive again, but 1 begged that for a little time all might rest unexplained. I did not wish to meet Claude again, now that the sentence of separation was pronounced. 1 knew that I never could endure the gaze of those calm, searching eyes. Act I yearned to hear forgiveness from his lips; and often have I awaked in the still and holy night, murmuring ‘forgive,’ ‘ forgive,’ while my i pillow was wet with tears that could not wash out the stain. “One year had sped since I had received that fatal letter, an 1 though so great a change had passed over me, outwardly there was none in our family circle. Tiue. our mother grew daily more delicate, and jiaja now and then complained of a quick sharp pain scar his heart, that, for a time, alarmed us no’ a little. But as both he and our physician made light of the attack, I gradually forgot that they had ever been, so wrapped was I in my selfish sorrow. “I remember one evening that papa was more than usually affectionate, lie 1 seem ed to invite my confidence, -but I still shrunk from probing the wound. ‘Do not let that scape-grace Claude vex you in this and then lie kissed me tenderly. “ I awoke the next morning from a flush ed and feverish sleep, uiqted by a strange prompting. I had real, ere retiring, some of Claude's first letters, in iny dreams I had lived over again the short yet blissful period of my betrothal. A hand grasped my own: it was our mother's, and its fearful coldness chilled my veins like ice. ‘Your father, Miriam; come to his room, I cannot wake ! hi in.’ “ It was a low, hoarse whisper, and there was an unnatural brightness in her eyes “But, sister, you have heard all the hor ror that awaited me. That we were sud denly made fatherless by the d.-case whose ! approaches had been so silent, and that from the moment of the fearful discovery our mother's reason wandered. No won der. To hen 1 over the dcaiest earthly idol with a morning kiss, an i to tin 1 that the seal of death was already pressed on the pale brow! Without warning, without farewell! Even to the siionge.-t it would have been a terrible ordeal. Then a long and dangerous illness followed ; formonihs my own life was despaired of, and God forgive me that 1 prayed for death. But in the long dull liouis of convalescence, a change came to my heart. I began to have an imperfect and feeble conception of the use of sorrow in purifying our nature, and, as I grew less selfish, I saw that my life had been spared for the sake of others. My physician assured me there was little hope that our mother would ever recover her reason; thus we were orphaned at a single blow. “He told me, moreover, that, by my father's will, more than one half of his property was to pass into the hands of Claude, on condition—or rather with the i expectation that he would make me his wife. The will was dated a few weeks after our engagement. Our mother's joint ure was secureJ to you at her death. As j we had no other near relatives, Dr. Barry, who was one of the executors, had written to Claude long before, requesting his im mediate return, that these arrangements might be at once adjusted. “He came. The evening of the day on which I had first seen our mother in her helpless and sorrowful affliction, a nste | with the well remembered signature was placed in my hands. There was no one near me. Oh, how feverishly it was press ed to my heart, to my lips, ere it was un sealed ! I seemed at once to have risen above my grief. 1 had at least one friend remaining. Then came the revulsion, for as I read on, a consciousness of the gull that separated us was forced back upon me. “ Yet his note was kind, very kind. A brother would have written so to an only sister suffering from like bereavement; but 1 missed those wools, ‘ Which f.-ora his lips, seemed a caress.’ the many little tokens his letters had ever contained that I was his all of life. “ ‘ Would I see him the ensuing day V At first I could but think of the pleasure of being in his presence once more. But I dqnied my heart this, and in very kind- n s-, for I knew bow difficult it would be lo restrain all the torrent of grief, self-re proach, anl hopelessness, that was swell* ling there! That my first impulse would be to cast myself upon his bosom—nay, at his feet, and sue for pardon and for comfort. And then the fear that he would repulse me—that would have driven me mad. So day after day he was denied ; for ; bis presence was sometimes necessary in the house, and he always asked kindly for i me. I heard his voice, Ellen, often, his ’ tread upon the stairs, both still so dear.— I Once bis very breath was on my cheek, as he passed close to my concealment, for I I looked on him, though he never dreamed j how I haunted his footsteps. At length all was arranged; he had refused to accept iny father’s more trilling legacies, lest he should aid in depriving us of our comfort and luxury, that we had been accustomed ■O. As it was. a partial sacrifice of pro perty was necessary, and, though comfort able, we were left with much less wealth than the world had usually accredited to I us. “ Then Claude left the city—his couu* , try. 1 have heard from him uow and then : through strangers, lie has become a pro fessor, in a foreign university—he is loved ! and respected. •‘I need not tell you how iny heart sunk within me, when 1 knew that the last hope of reconciliation was for ever past ! Then began my daily, hourly struggles, for re signation to my altered lot, for happiness in the discharge of the duties now devolv ing upon ine. You wcie my greatest so lace through all. Love, hope, and pride, became centered in you, even before our her peaceful death. “llad I obeyed inclination, 1 should have shut myself from all society; but I found that solitude cherished both regret for the past and fears for the future. I emerged from my long seclusion, and en deavored to find interest in every-day oc currences. “Os late you, as well as myself, can juJge ho.v I have trodden the lonely path thus marked out, sometimes through bit terness of spirit, often even in anguish. It has been a fearful struggle, and God only knows when the end will come. “ But 1 have told you this not to win your sympathy, but as a warning, lest you shoulJ ever swerve from the right. Think how—but for falsehood—l might have been more than blessed. Darling, God shield you.” The closing paragraph bore a later date, and was written in a hurried and uneven hand. “ Ellen, 1 have hcai J that he is now on his return. Yesterday, I was told that he might be hourly expected. Shall we meet again! Af.er more than twelve years’ separation—can he have forgotten me!” “It is very sal,” said Alice Cooper, as they finished reading the !ong letter. “But don't cry any more, dear Nell, I am sura Miriam will be happy after all. She is so good, she deserves to he, I am sure.” “And to think, that he never for gave her. I hope he never will come. I am sure I shall hate h.in if he is my own cousin.” It was the evening before the annual ex amination, of the Female Seminary : a yearly festival of the little village in which it was located, for strangers fiom all parts of the Union then thronged the narrow sidewalks, and crowded the small hotels. Many had already arrived, and joyous greetings were everywhere heard. Two stage-coachcs instead of the one lumbering vehicle which usually brought the mail, had dashed up successively to the principal inn, and many a school-girl’s heart beat high as among the passengers a father, a brother, or friend, were recognised. Ellen Newton alone seemed down cast, and as she stood with Alice, leaning against the pi.lars of the portico, her sweet face grew almost sad, as arrival after arrival was re ported, and Miriam had not come. Be sides, to confess the truth, a whisper in her heart had bade her expect that Ilorac3 would have beea her sister's escort, for she had received no outward intimation of such an event. But it had become a fixed fact in her mini th t so it was to be, and thus l heie was a double disappointment. “Do not mind me, Alice,” she said at length, with a trifle of pettishness in tone anl manner; “tell your father f will coma and see him by and by, when I have re covered a little from rny disappointment,” “But Miriam may come yet,” replied Alice, coaxingly. “No, the Lorings and the Simjsjns came an hour ago. She would have beea with them, or with the Bradle} s; you know she can't travel alone.”