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A £Bgi'££ai I'&ffi&l jOMIM la „ 0 , a , > JligOfHß TO MTlttftffil. Til MTS MB SCIfiMGES. MB TO fillfiUL Wm&IWM. For Richards’ Weekly Gazette. THE CRICKET At Midnight, in the Chamber of Death. BY WM. GILMORE SIMMS. That chirping cricket watches like myself: lie hath his song, and, were its burden known, It were, perchance, a song of thanksgiving To the Great Father ! His untiring hymn Narrates the gilts, inordinate or mean, He wins in his short life. A week of stir, A rest in the old crevice while the day Hums fiercely, and a progress safe by night, Near the old mantel, in the hollow wall— And for these boons he blesses. Should he prate, If such were not the burden of his chaunt, Thus idly, with his click-clack, thro’ the night, In sounds that strike at vacancy, and pierce The drowsy ear of silence, mocking mine ! Oh, God! be merciful! From him 1 learn All things that live have cause of thanksgiving ; For life itself is privilegeits pains, When felt the most, are proofs of its dear worth, And holy treasure,—since, to feel its pains— Privation, for the moment, of its peace, And the complete sensation of its gifts— Extorts our groans, and lifts us in complaint, Even when we seek thee, Father. We reproach, Even when we most implore. We ask of Thee, Why hast thou ta’en our treasure—the dear child, That was so beautiful—that seem’d so sure Os health and life, and sparkled with such eyes Os intellectual promise—was so dear, That, at its taking, though we knew the bird— That bird of soul that cannot but go up— Already in Thy presence sat and sang.— Our straining heart-strings yielded, and wc lay, Crush’d, wither’d, hopeless, groaning, on the ground, And asking wildly of Thee, “ Wherefore this V* We thought not of our treasure made secure With Thee, —we free to seek it! Like the beast Itobb’d of its young, wo thought but of the day, And the day’s business, and the day’s delight; Nor, in the bosom of consoling thought, Buried our faces, until re-assured Os our dear treasure, in its angel state Preserved, an angel;—certainly secure From mortal blight—from all of evil change, Such as attends the living steps of man O’er the sad wastes of earth. And yet to think Os its unriponed beauties—oh, how ripe In sweetness—of its mild and innocent voico, And dearest prattle ;—of its cunning looks, Sly sports, gay, heart-free laughter-room to room Resounding, till a bird-life reign’d in all, And our heart's happiness was all complete:— Her self-submitting gentleness —her tears, How prompt to flow, if on her little ears Our tones grow harsh, or, in our older eyes, The glance grew stern and angry—oh, to think Os these, and other signs and sounds of joy That life no more may yield us—how her cry Saluted us at coming—how her charge Implored our soon return ; and how she clung About our necks, and fastened on our hearts, Fill she and they grew one! Oh ! that wo weep, Forgive us, Father. Thou wilt not deny Tears to such loss. We had not so much wept, Nor so much felt, nor so much spoke reproach, 1 lad she boon less an angel. If, in Heaven, White spirits of joy to meet her, with a song, Resounding through the myriad thronging choir, At coming of a sister—meetly wo Groan in our ashes. What is gained to Heaven, Is surely lost to us. Such loss may be, As thou hast said, our gain. Our selfish count Computes the several treasures of our heart, fn Heaven and Earth, and finds the greater there. How many, oh ! how many, blessed übove, And dear beyond all estimate on Earth, Implore us not to forfeit the dear hope, That all may be restored. Father, Thy help In this fond struggle! erring still, we sink, Unless Thou help us. Help us in the strife, — () ur weakness with Thy strength. Take from our hearts 1 heir wilful yearnings. Scourge us to the task, If need be, that we may not loso the boon: Let us not loiter ! Bend our knees in prayer; 1 ask us with proper work ; direct our tin lights 1 o holiest purpose ; from our passions take The low desire, and ever to our eyes Ho the dear image of our wealth in Heaven, — An image, like the angel we have lost, — White-handed, beckoning ever, and at night Whispering her mission to our slumbering hearts! We gronn, wo groan,dear Father! but we pray— Sore stricken, we can but groan; oh! be our prayer Acceptable. We know that we aro wrong, Hut we are wretched ; —sinful in our deeds, Hut suffering much from Thine. Oh! be our sins Subdued in suffering, that it may not need I'ho farther chastening of Thy awful hand ! For Richards’ Weekly Gazette. THEY MADE HIM A BED THAT WAS NARROW AND COLD. BY J. A. TURNER. They made him a bed that was narrow and cold, In a land far away from his own. And they left him unooffin’d to slumber and mould, in a spot that was silent and lone. And light was the heart of the stranger that toss’d The clod o'er his bosom unwept— Nor a sigh, nor a tear, did the funeral cost, Nor a vigil of sorrow was kept. Hut hearts there arc, breaking in sadness, away, As they wait for and watch his return ; And they wonder that he from their bosoms should stay, Where the sparks of such tenderness burn Ah! little they know that the clod on his tomb Long since has grown crumbled and cold— Know not of the heath, or the wild flower’s bloom, How they nod o’er the mariner’s mould. Eatonton , Geo. n as a ©a a. a ©sis. For Richards’ Weekly Gazette. NELLIE BUFORD’S QUILTING PARTY. BY JENNIE ELDER. Hor cheek was rosy, and soft, and pretty— Her eyes were languishing, large and jetty, And a glance from their depths the story would tell, That she knew the power of hor beauty’s spell. Shall I, contrary to all prescribed rules of etiquette, introduce my readers to the interior of a kitchen ? lam sadly afraid that my civility in so doing may be under valued, and so, by way of conciliation, state, that there you will find my heroine. And such a heroine! a perfect little mu seum of peach-blooms, snow-flakes, jet stars, and silky, raven accompaniments, was concentrated on and around her bright face, while the perfections of her form may be summed up in two words—symmetry and grace. Ah! a bright little witch is Nellie Buford ! There she stands —her plump little hands deep in the mysteries of pudding and pie—the up-turned sleeve re vealing a succession of symmetry and dim ples worthy an empress. The closely-fit ting striped homespun dress, while it con fers an air of neatness, adds but little to the general appearance, that, however, would be “ painting the lily and Nellie, with her bright face still brighter from such warm exercise, bustles and glides about from one delicious compound to another, in a manner peculiar to a paragon of coun try maidens. Very little, if any, cares she for the present fate of her little hands — like the ermine, they seem incapable of soil or stain; and, as to one bright gold ring, she had slyly slipped it off, and stow ed it away in one of those hiding-places, yclepd boxes or trunks, so necessary to the existence and happiness of woman. To that little ring there hangs a story, dear reader. Nellie—you know it already—is engaged. Just three weeks ago, to-day, did the little maiden take it into her head to seclude herself for an hour’s serious meditation; and, just three weeks ago, lack ing fifteen minutes, did William Barton— rude youth—intrude himself into her gar den-bower, and there, incontinently fling ing himself on the velvet grass at her feet, horrify her by “popping the ques tion !” Nellie’s little heart well nigh exhausted its vitality in a succession of fierce llutter ings, and then, when it lay quite still in her bosom, like a frightened dove, she, in gentle accents, bade the youth be seated. William obeyed, and, to add to the enor mity of his presumption, seated himself close by her on the rustic bench. “ Nellie, dear Nellie,” said he, as he plucked a budding multiflora and held it towards her, “ can you forgive me ?” “ Forgive you for what, William V’ and her little hand closed almost unconsciously on the rose. “ For loving you.” “ That was no crime.” “For seeking a return of love.” “ You are forgiven.” And Nellie’s head drooped till the dark curls floated over the supporting arm in contrast most magnificent. After the first gust of sweet perturba tion, wonder was the most predominant feeling in the breast of each—in William’s, that Nellie could and would love him —in Nellie’s, that William ever did verbally enlighten her on a subject which, in every other respect, was as evident to her as day. It would fill a very respectable novel, were I to delineate minutely the little inci dents and accidents that had germinated and fostered and ripened a passion, whose first fruits, like well matured apples, had been offered on the salver of genuine can dor, to the blushing little goddess who had acted the part of the sun thereto. Suffice it to say, that William Barton was an or phan—an orphan, in the most destitute sense of the term, for, ere yet he could lisp the name of mother, she and her emigrant husband had passed to “ the land of shad ows,” leaving the one pledge of love to the mercy of strangers, and the care of Heaven. Their last prayer wasanswered. A benevolent neighbor, Mr. Maxwell, and his wife, took the little stranger to their home, and reared it as tenderly and kindly as they did their own offspring. Had William been a careless or joyous child, he might have been happy; but thought brooded in his heart and in his large eyes, and, while yet a very child, he discovered the sad truth that parental love must be as a sealed book to him forever. Thus he grew up, retiring and shy, shun ning and being shunned by the lively and gay-—all but his little neighbor, Nellie Buford. She had talked with him, read with him, offering flowers of the field and of fancy, on the altar of childish pity and friendship, until, one bright summer’s eve, emboldened by her sweet manner, he had told her she was, and must ever be, his dear sister. Nellie consented willingly, and, from that evening, to the evening marked by the event in the garden, his fra ternal feelings had been in the state “ac tive-transitive.” Superior keenness of perception in these matters, has, from time immemorial, been conceded to woman; and, while William moped and wandered like a lost spirit, brooding over what had befallen him, and lamenting his inability to return injury for injury, or seek redress, Nellie, the little sprite, was coquettishly laughing in her sleeve at his stupidity, and wondering if she must change the order of things and turn wooer. Things had remained in this state for a year or more, when Nellie, being in her eighteenth summer, and somewhat of a belle withal, received an invitation to a ball at the county court-house. A perfect tremor of delight pervaded her bosom, as, having arrayed herself in a pretty dress of white muslin, with a wreath of fresh, white rose-buds encircling the heavy braid on the back of the head, she, for the first time in her life, entered a ball-room on the arm of a very handsome partner. There was a perfect jam of beauty and fashion there as sembled, and Nellie’s little hand was ner vous, and her cheek wore its richest hue, as she took her place in the dance. But her confusion was soon lost amid the gay ety, the brilliant lights, the inspiring music and harmony of motion, and ere the night had half waned, her reputation as a Hebe and a Grace was fairly established. She was escorted home by quite a little retinue of gallants, who, on the pretence of enjoy ing the sports of the field with her brother, tecklessly set their hearts up as targets for the exercise of the skill of the boy-god Cu pid, as he lay in lustrous ambush beneath the silken fringes of her dark eyes. It was anew warfare to Nellie, and, on the evening of the departure of her visiters, she had sought her bower to collect her vague thoughts, when she was interrupted in the manner aforementioned, so that she left the bower more perturbedly than she en tered it. It all seemed so like a dream, that, in a few days, she almost fancied it as such; but just then she became the recipient of the ring, and thenceforth all was plain and intelligible. Their engagement was for a year. Nellie wished to see more of the world that had opened so pleasantly, and to “fix,” and as both purposes might be answered thereby, she was now to have a quilting party. William demurred a little to this arrangement at first. He had been frightened at former events, and—as the truth must be told—Nellie had learned to practice the mood coquettish, in a manner that made him tremble for the effect of time and gratified vanity ; but he could not— indeed, she had hinted he need not —object to her desires: and so we return to the starting point, the kitchen. The sponge-cake, queen-cake, transpa rent pudding, etc., all lie done, tempting and rich, on the table, ready for transporta tion to the neat little dairy. Nellie has entrusted this task to her younger sister, Mary, and she has flown off to give the finishing touch to the “ big room.” Her first act was to draw forth a capacious basket, in which were carefully deposited long, delicate vines of running cedar, tro phies which the youngsters, at Nellie’s suggestion, had borne off from the woods. Nellie, with a unique as well as romantic taste, tacked these in fanciful festoons over the snowy window-curtains, and wherever they could be placed with effect. There is such a thing as carrying these little rustic adornments to excess, liut, where there is just so much poetry in a woman’s soul as to enable her to admire and appreciate Na ture’s beautiful gifts, it will also act as a guide infallible to the eye and hand, in the disposal of a simple flower or vine. Nel lie, therefore, who had a sweet little well of uncultured poetry gushing in her heart, knew exactly the appropriate location for her pet vines, and a feeling of intense sat isfaction was her’s, as, standing by the door, she surveyed her handiwork, and thought of how it all would look on the eventful morrew, and how, especially, it would appear to the eyes of William Bar ton. The sisters were up by the earliest dawn of morning, and Nellie, answering admira bly an old-fashioned description of a per fect woman, with “ her garments brushing the dew,” surprised the roses and their sis ter flowers, while yet they slumbered like Innocence, with pearls of purity folded in their heart of hearts. These were arranged effectively in two quaint glass pitchers, while a coarser one stood on the hearth, filled with feathery sprigs of asparagus dot ted fancifully with dwarf roses. The quilt was to be quilted “ by the piece,” so the girls soon had it in the frame, and then flew off to perform a more elaborate toilet. Nellie seemed to be in a wilful mood that morning, for her rebellious hair was car ried nolens volens over her temples, and then, like a loosened stream, floated in lustrous confusion over her neck : she would wear a pink, though her sister re commended a blue, lawn dress; and, after all, it was a happy choice—the loose, half long sleeves showing her round white arm to sweet advantage, and the short curls foiling strikingly the faultless neck. At a pretty early hour, the girls had all assembled, and, after a few preliminaries, went to work “ right off.” There were the usual remarks on the pattern, the thread, &c., interspersed with little tit-bits of maid enly gossip, and sly quizzing of the fair owner of the quilt. Julia Riggins had heard she was “ engaged” to Mr. Purdy, and Sally Higgins, that the day was set for her marriage with William Barton, and as Nellie blushed equally deep to all their accusations, and as anew ring glittered on her finger, they all unanimously rendered their verdict that “something was to pay.” The gentlemen all arrived before dinner, and, as if to con over their most fitting phrases of gallantry in their occiputs, and also to give the last external application of brushing thereto, they dispersed themselves in the porch and under the shady old oaks in the yard. Abner Purdy was the first to make his bow to the ladies. He was one of Nellie’s conquests at the ball, and her most devoted admirer. He managed to se cure a seat conveniently near to Miss Bu ford, rendering himself of essential service by handing thread, and even quilting a few straight lines, and, whenever an opportu nity offered, telling her how well she look ed —looking,-himself, as if he thought she really ought to return the compliment. A perlect specimen of a rural fop was Mr. Abner Purdy; tall and straight, with a height of complexion that made it difficult to determine whether Old Sol or John Bar leycorn were the donor of it; his hands, of the same bright hue, he carefully ensconc ed in kid gloves on “company” occasions; while his feet, like great pedestals, were, on this particular occasion, encased in pa tent-tipped gaiters. His simplest word was pompously delivered, and the vowel ‘a’ in variably received its highest intonation— -1 aw.’ Joined to all these outer accom plishments, he was fully blessed with a sense of his own importance and irresisti bility. and felt that there was more conde scension than love in his attentions to Miss Buford. We will conclade this digression by saying, that there was neither conge niality nor liking between him and William Barton. In the evening, the quilt was forcibly taken from the weak hands of the girls, and hoisted to the ceiling. Then arose an animated debate as to what would come next; some were for dancing, others for playing, and at length it was referred to the ladies. They were equally divided in opin ion, but, at length, a small majority gave their vote for play. “Do you intend playng'?” said Nellie, addressing William Barton for almost the first time that day. “Do you wish it, Nellie 1” William was slightly rabid. “ No, certainly not, if you don't.” “ Mr. Purdy will, perhaps, take my place.” “ He may, if you yield it to him.” And Nellie, piqued more than she was willing to own, hastily took her place in the gay circle. She was unusually un- lucky, her handkerchief being a perfect string of knots. At length came the set tlement. The gents paid first, and Nellie blushingly and very reluctantly afforded Mr. Purdy material assistance in the re demption of a very flashy silk handker chief. Her time soon came, and judgment passed on “ the owner of this fine thing.” She cast a look at William, but he would wait for a word. The word came not, and unwittingly her eye rested on Mr. Purdy. He had no scruples of conscience, but “jumped right up like a rocket,” and “in less than no time,” there was a knot less on the kerchief. William Barton remained a restless spec tator for an hour or two, and then, on pre tence of urgent business, took his leave.— Nellie was more hurt than she was even willing to confess to herself, and though she made an effort to be as gay as ever, a most incorrigible quivering of the lip beset her sadly. She thought, however, that William would come over in the morning, when all could be easily explained; but she was mistaken. Persons of quiet, un obtrusive manners, often possess a fixed ness of purpose—l had almost said mulish ness—which their more impulsive fellow mortals little dream of. This was William’s failing. In general, gentle and amiable in the extreme, he felt now as if he was look ed on as one whose easiness and pliancy of disposition would enable him tamely to endure a slight bruise in his affections.— This was the very repelling point, and so for three whole ages of days he absented himself from the dwelling of Mr. Buford. It was late on the evening of the fourth day, that, somewhat ashamed of his sulki ness, he walked over for the purpose of reconciliation. Nellie was seated in the porch, seemingly in a very serious mood, and as he seated himself beside her and took her hand, drew back with her most stately expression, and responded to his greeting in most cold and measured ac cents. “ Nellie, do you receive me thus I” said William reproachfully. “ I hardly know how to receive you, Mr. Barton, unless you first warn me which mood would be most acceptable— grave or gay.” “ You are inclined to be sarcastic, Nel lie. I little expected so formal a recep tion.” Each waited for the other to yield. “I am sorry my manners are so dis pleasing to you. Must I smile and weep, and ask your pardon for my offences 1 — You are quite exacting.” “ Is it possible that the feelings which I had fancied went forth to me alone, have ceased, or passed to another I I knew you liked that fop, Purdy.” “ Indeed! Then, perhaps, since you have lost confidence in me, it were better we should part.” “ Do you really wish it V ’ “Just as you please.” “So soon !” ejaculated poor William.— “ But I will not hesitate an instant, when it is so plainly your wish. Farewell, Nel lie, perhaps for a long time.” Nellie reached forth her hand in silence. She would fain have spoken words of kindness, but, as she looked on William as the aggressor, a feeling of pride deterred her. And so they parted, Nellie still hope ful, and William hopeless, of reconcilia tion. Their feelings were little to be en vied, but por William’s were by far the most acute. It was the first outpouring of affection from his lonely heart, and now, when it had gone tremblingly, confidingly forth, to find it chilled, wasted, was agony to his sensitive spirit. In a week, Mr. Maxwell was highly surprised on receiv ing from William’s lips an avowal of his intention of going West or South, but as he was ignorant of what had passed, and very willing to assist him in any project for bettering his fortunes, he freely gave his consent to the proposal. In a few days, William was ready to depart. He could not trust himself to bid farewell to Mr. Buford’s family, and so they knew no thing of his intentions till it was too late to prevent them. It was a sad blow to Nellie when she received this news. She had loved deeply and truly as she was be loved ; but William, fancying that all hearts, like his own, expressed their feel ings plainly and openly, mistook the little mark of female vanity and wounded pride for the true features, and turned in pain and bitterness of soul from the pictute. It was as well for Nellie, after what had passed, that pride came to her aid ; regret and sorrow she would and did feel, but pride enabled her to hide it from the eyes of the world. Few knew of their inter course, or of the cause of William’s emi gration, and so, in a few weeks, the event was forgotten in the new topic of Mr. Pur- dy’s attentions—ooecplnt>ln aUcnlioii#, tl was deemed—to the fair Nellie. Asa matter of course, Mr. Buford had various jocular intimations of what was passing beneath his roof, the result of which was, that Nellie was summoned to take a seat in the porch with her father. “Nellie,” said he, when they had re mained tete a tete for a moment in silence, “ Nellie, they tell me you are going to mar ry this fine Abner Purdy.” Nellie answered in but few words. Thay were satisfactory, however, for, as he a rose, he patted her head, and told her she “ was a wise as well as good child.” He was scarce out of sight, when the identical Mr. Purdy arrived, and sealed himself with an air of even greater impor tance than usual. His stay was little longer than Mr, Buford’s, and his counte nance was fairly purple, as he strode off muttering through his clenched teeth : “ Lord! Lord! what a fool I was, to give that madam a chance to kick me ! But I’ll be even w'ith her; I’ll hint to eve rybody that l backed out.” Two years passed swittly away, and no news of William Barton, except that he was living with a wealthy gentleman in the West. In this time, there had been a change, a sad change, in Mr. Buford’s cir cumstances. Two-thirds of his moderate fortune had been swept away by the law, as payment of security for the debt of a spendthrift brother, and the remaining pit tance had dwindled away by that fate which ever attends falling fortunes, until mere subsistence could scarce be gained by the utmost exertion. Mr. Buford had friends, some of whom really deserved the name, but others who, partaking of the nature of summer birds, chirping and flut tering under the wide-spread branches of prosperity and hospitality, now, like swal lows taking fright at the slightest indica tion of chilly want, flew off suddenly, and without warning. Mr. Buford, with true American independence of character, ap preciate! highly the first, yet refused all offers of assistance, and the last he dismis sed from his mind without a sigh. “ There’s nothing like reverses for shar pening the wits and strengthening the arm,” said he, “ and, with the blessing of Heav en, and the aid of my able sons and willing daughters, I will soon regain my footing.” The West and South offered strong in ducements to the industrious and enter prizing, and the worthy family unanimous ly concurred in the father’s determination to emigrate thereto. There was no weak shrinking from the fatigue of a long over land journey and the hardships of new set tlers ; and though there was pain in their hearts at leaving the home and friends of childhood, they saw the old homestead pass into the hands of strangers, with feel ings more of hope than despair. After four or five weeks’ weary travel, they arrived, and settled in a flourishing portion of Tennessee. The hospitable in habitants afforded them every facility to wards establishing themselves comfortably. One gentleman supplied them with corn for a year; another, with meat; another, with land—all of which Mr. Buford insisted on repaying—and so on, until it seemed as if, after all their vicissitudes, “the lines had fallen in pleasant places.” And now the benefits of a domestic edu cation were made manifest. The sturdy sons made “ the wilderness to blossom as the rose,” while the pliant fingers of the daughters wrought substantial, even beau tiful, fabrics, in the loom, for which they found ready sale among their neighbors.— With woman's taste, too, they laid off walks and threw up borders in the rude garden, where they sowed the seeds of sweet flow ers, brought all the way from their old home. A rude frame at the door of the rough log house, supported a perfect wil derness of convolvulus and wild honey suckle. In short, every thing betokened industry and perseverance. No doubt it will seem strange to some of my readers, that a love-lorn heroine, instead of listlessly folding her hands, and trying her best to look wan and faded, should pursue her avocations with untiring indus try and vulgar vigor; but, dear friends, I am sure when you reflect on it, you will admit she acted wisely and dutifully. She had her own little dreams—she had her re grets, but still, felt that she had a duty to perform, which, although it afforded her no time to waste in sickly sentiment, still af forded sufficient opportunity of keeping old memories alive in her heart. In her new home, as in her old, she found many a rustic admirer, and many a thriving old farmer recommended her to his son as one who would make “ a purty, smart, and in dustrious wife.” But their advances were discouraged, until the adjectives “ proud” una “sassy were added to the list of her virtues. Things were iu this state, when one evening, an acquaintance had come to spend the evening with Miss Nellie.— When other topics were well-nigh ex hausted, he asked— “ Are you goin’ to preachin’ next Sun day, Miss Nellie'?” “ I suppose so. Who’s to preach ?” “Oh ! there’s to be four or five preach ers—it’s a quarterly meetin’, you know— but there’s one in particular, a stranger, who they say’s all sorts of a preacher.” “Do you know his name?” “ I did hear it; it’s—it’s—hang it, if I aint forgot it!” “It makes no difference, Mr. Smith,” said Nellie, smiling at the poor fellow’s anxiety to enlighten her. “If, as you say, he is such a good preacher, his name will soon spread.” “ Sister Mary says you must be sure to come, and go with her in the barouche.” “ I will, with pleasure, and thank her for her kindness.” Sunday soon came, and there was an overwhelming crowd assembled at the meeting-house. It had been considered necessary to construct a booth, or tempo rary arbor, at the door, for the accommo dation of those who could not secure seats in the house. Nellie and her companion, Mary Smith, being somewhat late, had seats at the very extremity of the arbor— thus debarred from the pleasure of seeing, and almost of hearing, the new preacher, who stood within the door of the meeting, house. In a few moments after their arri val, he opened the services of the day. He read a hymn, and in a full, deep-toned voice, and addressed the congregation in expla nation thereof. That voice! what a chaos ot conflicting feeling it stirred in Nellie’s heart! What a crowd of old cherished memories thronged on her soul at the sound! it seemed so like, and yet so un like, that of William Barton. It could not —no, it could not be, that the shy, unpre tending youth she had known three years since, was now an eloquent minister of the Gospel. The remainder of the sermon fell on her ear like waking sounds mingled with a dream, and as at intermission they all assembled round rustic tables, yet re fined cheer, she became assured of tha fact that she stood within a very short dis tance of William Barton. He was so sur rounded by a group of his brethren and sis ters in the church, that it was impossible, had he been so inclined, for him to dispense a shake-hands or a kind word outside the phalanx ; but, being a stranger, and ex pecting to see none but strange faces, his curiosity was but little thwarted. Nellie, by choice this time, occupied the same seat that she had in the morning, and tried to be very much interested in the sermon by another preacher; she succeeded, as far as poor human nature is capable of, and, after the services were over, exchang ed kind words and greetings with her ac quaintance, in quite a natural tone. Wil liam passed close to her on his way out, with a wealthy brother in the church—and whether it was the tone of her voice, or fate, or accident, or design, that influenced him, he turned abruptly round, just as Nel lie performed the same evolution. Their eyes met one instant—the next, he had passed on, without a word or sign of re cognition. “ And this is the reward of my folly and harshness,” thought poor Nellie, as, be neath the folds of her green veil, the warm tears flowed freely. She dared not trust herself to mention his name when she reached home, and, as none of the family had been out that day, they remained in ignorance, for the present, of her discovery. Her domestic tasks seemed unusually heavy on Monday, and, towards evening, Nellie thought that perhaps she might find amusement in the cultivation of the many hued “Touch-me-nots” and “Ladies’ de lights”—so she took her light hoe, and ac complished wonderful revolutions among her favorites, decapitating some and bury ing others, until at length, as the evening shadows began to deepen, she became aware that sounds, very like those pro duced by horse’s feet, were floating through the still air to her ear. We are told by the wise, that a kind of magnetism is always operating on the system of lovers: this it was, perhaps, that made Nellie’s heart flut ter and thrill with a sweet presentiment.— It was correct, too, for in another instant, she recognized, and was recognized by, the long-lost William Barton. It was very un-preacher-like, but we feel constrained to chronicle it, the peculiar curve he de scribed in clearing the garden-fence, and the ungenteel haste with which he pressed his ideal of beauty, and loveableness, and caprice, to his breast. “ And you always loved me then ?’’ said