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Miivoiirneen—A Ballad. The days are dark and frowning, The nights are aloora.v now; \ml yon”and I. my darling, To cruel fate must bow. And von and I my darling, To' cruel fate must bow. A mighty beetling mountain, A river deep and wide, This hand from thine, my darling, ThVself and me divide. Thi« "hand from thine, ray darling, Thyself and me divide. But mighty beetling monntains, Nor rivers deep and wide, Shall e'er mv soul, my darling, Mv heart from thine divide. Shall e'er my soul, my darling, My heart from thine divide. In some future golden honr, Some happy sunlit dell. I’ll call thee mine, my darling, Thee whom I love so well. I’ll call thee mine, my darling, Thee whom I love so well. Beyond time’s purple monntains, On heaven’s jewelled strand, We'll walk together, darling, Forever hand in ha d. We’ll walk and love, my darling, Forever hand in hand. THE LAST LIN k IS BROKEN. BY MISS MAEY E. STEVENS. , tbo beach with swiftsteps, around the bluff; and ! there where the cliff and dense foliage of ' shrubbery shut out the world,he sat down. The j sigh of the sea, as it beat against the rocks, seem- ! ed but the sigh of his own bosom. He felt that | something terrible was about to happen, which : he had not the bravery to meet. His bent head j rested upon one band, while in the other he clasped his child’s trinket. He heard the flut- ! ter of a dress near him, and looked np. With a I face pale as the dead, and a wild stare in the | eyes, he started from his seat. Before him stood a woman of slender form, and of dark beauty. | Tha dark eyes were fixed upon him; the whole ’ face, looking proud, calm and defiant, and the white, slender hands clasped tightly together, j ‘In ez,’ said the faltering lips, ‘how came you here?—speak and tell me.’ j ‘How? I came just as any one else would come to the sea-shore. Bat. you have no right j to question me about my coming and going. It seems that my presence awakes fears within you. It is well it may.’ ‘For God’s sake, Inez, go away and leave toe I alone. I hoped we might never have met again. Why did you cross my path ? ‘I looked upon you last night, as you stood in ! the full light, seemingly so gay and happy. I 1 was in the shadow, and alone. I wondered if you had forgotten all. And I resolved that you should look upon a scene which I feel as well as | see. The scene is within my heart. Now look! | as I tear aside the pall. One year ago I buried you here, from sight of all the world, deep down in my heait; and there you will lie forever en- ; tombed. You came with a false, treacherous I tongue, with a handsome, smiling face, and won ! me. heart and soul. God forgive me for loving you so—I made an idol oi you; though I knew well enough it was an idol of clay -that some day it would shatter into atoms. I believed you were all that was true and good; and against my father’s will, I married you; for which I was dis inherited, an outcast from the home of my youth. For a while von made me happy, very happy; Ralph Leighton, with Annie Morton leaning upon his arm, was walking along the beach. Tbe stream stretched out from the white srnd- bar- like a sheet of molten silver, as the sum mer’s moonlight fell shimmeringly over the broad expanse of water. The sott sea-breeze ^ently swayed the feathery foliage of the adja- I hut soon your false heart proved traitor, and in cent shrubbery, whose greenness was silvered j your treachery you deserted me—and your over with the rays of the night-queen. j child. Yon coolly told me to go back to the •Will you trust me, Annie?’ asked Ralph home, and to the father I had deserted, that you Leighton, in a low, mellow tone, bending his had wearied of me, that you had no love for me. head till his drooping moustache swept her ; What I have suffered since then you will never cheek; ‘trust your happiness in my keeping?’ he j know.’ added, ‘I will be true to the trust, I solemnly vow. ’ ! The young girl, with her fair, fresh face i turned toward the sea, hesitated a moment, j then lifted her eyes to his, with so much ear- ; nestness in their depths. ‘Do not press me for an answer now,’ she said; j ‘let us talk of something else.’ j ‘Why put me off that way?” returned he, in ! a voice so full of pleading, full of chiding. ‘Annie, my darling, you must know I love you —love you more than my life. Nor can I be happy till yon say you will be mine. Be my wife, Annie darling, won’t you?’ •If I knew we would always be happy togeth er, Ralph—happy as we now are—I would pro mise te be your wife; but—’ ‘But what, darling?’ asked he, as she hesita- ‘O, Inez ! have you no pity for me,’ exclaimed the man, pale with terror, as he listened, shiv ering, trembling. ‘Can you need pity from me’—an outcast from all love, from all that gives life, light and warmth. I cannot believe that.’ ‘You are as cruel as death, and as cold as an iceberg. Inez, remember the man yon once loved—that you once called husband; will not that remembrance soften your heart toward me ?’ A cold, scornful smile curled the lips, while the face remained calm in expression. ‘To me, Ralph Leighton, you are forevermore dead; you can Dever touch my heart again, nev er awake a single echo of love there. Do not start and shudder so; it can make no difference to you.’ ‘It makes all the difference. O, Inez ! take ted, pressing his lips to hers. ‘I have a vague presentiment that sometime I me baok to your heart, and to your love again, in the future something might come between j I now, for the first time, find I love you—love into hers, Inez ealmy loosed his arms from around her, and stepped backward. “Farewell! Ralph. ” she said, as she waved her hand to him, a cold smile playing about the pretty, fine mouth, looking like the rays of a winter s sun falling aslant on an iceberg, glitter ing and cold. A moment more and she was gone ; and with her all hopes, ail light, of Ralph Leighton’s life went. What was there for him to live for now ? With a strong, swift tooch something had un locked the fountain of love in his breast ■ and he loved his wife with that deep, heart-felt love which brings agony to man when the object that makes it is denied him. The world, and ail its pleasures was nothing to him now. Long and wistfully did Annie Merton look for her lover that day ; but he came not. When the hour of appointment on the beach came, she stole down there, thinking perhaps Ralph had purposely avoided seeing her till the hour he was to hear her answer. She thought she must have made him suffer more than she had sus pected, by not promising the evening before to be his wife. Her heart was growing tender to wards him now. She reached the trysting spot; no lover was there. Her grief, and fears grew great and alarming ; and after waiting and watching in agony an hour she returned to the house. She went up to her room, and locked herself in. She did not know what to thmk of her truant lover; she wondered if anything had happened to him. Tears came to her relief, she indulged in a hearty crfr, next day Annie overheard a conversatiod between some of the boarders. One said that Kfclph Leighton had not been seen since he lett the hotel the mor ning before ; when another qaid he was seen late in the morning away down on the beach talk ing with a woman, and that both had disap peared. This intelligence wounded Annie to the quick. He had not cared for her at all, or he could not have gone off with another, she thought. Inez Leighton went on her way, living a hope less, aimless, desolate life, drifting adown the tide of time as a dead, helpless leaf upon a stream—with no object in view. All the sun shine had been taken out of her life ; and her once tender and loving heart had been rendered cold and embittered by cruel coldness and harsh treatment from the ones who should have loved and protected her from the cold winds of the world. Husband and father both had thrust her from home and love, out upon the cold main, to drift whithersoever she could. The helm of her bark had been placed in the hand of one who had deserted it ; and now alone, she had to struggle with the waves and rapids across the stormy sea. Yet the time had come when both, father and husband, needed her love, craved it; but they could never more thaw the ice which had gathered around her heart ; and in coldness she turned haughtily, proudly away from each. She could not forget unredressed wrongs, whicu were burned into her memory in indelible characters ; and rather than accept love that had once been denied her, she would go on her lone way, an outcast from warmth and love, forever more. After meeting with his wife, Ralph Leighton, in whose breast love had for the first time come in all its strength and power, knew he never Wliat They Dirt at Brady’s. BY MARY E,'BRYAN. isail ^ aDd Wear wrinkles ia tbe cheek—that iom ea “r^i le ; theLiterftry Clnb were having a .1 ly. good time at Brady’s. That gentleman ! r re f 1V ' D ? his S«ests in a robe de lhamWe of ‘Where now, Sue?’ said John Ingram, lazily .“ t broca de, loosely bound at the waist raising his eyes from the book, over which he j a 8 ! ,kfm ^ sash in the Turkish style the had been trifling, to look up at his sister, who . . lmself on bis eccentricity in dress had entered the room cloaked and hooded, and ?? a 8 mn S » careless grace to his fine figure laid her little hand upon his shoulder. a ?” B0 ^ e ’. dark i°°hing man of thirty- ‘ To auntie’s, John, and I want you to go with a tace that betrayed the blase man of me. I wns to see her this morning, and found “® 5!.’. , en 14 Wfls not disguised, but he her quite lonely and depressed in spirits. The j u tb an y mask he pleased. He could Doctor came while I was there, and said she! a d insinuating, or modest and un- needed cheerful company and something to di- I i> D g- or courteonsiy cool, so as to repel, vert her mind. So 1 promised her we would ottendmg Without compromising go over after tea this evening and play and sing :y point ® d attentions, he played the for her. You know how dearly she loves music, j a B* eeable generally to all the marriageable and the piano has never been opened since , mft nouvenng mamas, and touched Clara’s death. Wont you go, John?’ ! - ls , ba , wltb a respectful smile to all old ladies ‘Not to night Sue. It is the night for our in bombazine and overshoes, or elderly gentle- club to meet, you, know, and I must not miss j men m spectacles, as well as to the market wo- it. Make Fred go with von.’ men and and the street-sweep. He spoke with ‘ Oh ! John, but I want you to sing duetts * ee eloquence, of the immorality of the age with me. Aunt will want to hear Antioch you ;° *>iamai«s, who thought him a model of vir- know, and your bass suits my voice so well.— i complimented married ladies on their Then auntie will be so pleased to see you. She al bloom; he patted the heads of all the asked me about you when I was coming away, i children he aiet and gave them sixpences and and said yon never came to see her now, and : sugar plums, he won the hearts of all mothers I told her I would be sure to bring you to-night.’ . y all0 * in g their greasy-fingered cherubs to ‘Well Sue, I am really sorry to disappoint j P u| l_bis hair and moustache; he conciliated the vou, but this club meeting is an engagement , minister by his attitude ot profound attention that we are bound to keep. I saw Brady this i dnrmg service, and the same night excited the afternoon and promised I would be there, with- . admiration °1 tue ‘fellows at Daloionieo's, by out fail. Yon would'nt have me break a prom- ■ caricaturing the parson and burlesquing the ise, would you. 9 ” and he reached up and drew’ se ^i no ? * b bls m08t . ludicrous manner, the little hand quite around his neck and looked ( r, ratly s popularity seemed only the inevi- into the troubled eyes of his pretty sister. tab ® re8u “ ot a naturally insinuating manner, ‘ I think you would be more usefully em- ; but he had toned hardly for it, and sacrificed ployed, giving pleasure to one who has been so kind to ns. Somehow, I don’t like Brady, though I know nothing about your club mat ters. What is it you do there John ?’ ‘ Improve our minds by literary conversation, . select readings an ^criticisms of various books. ! a g rtte with their tastes, so often wholly unlike To-night, one of our number reads a literary j , 8 own - Lut Mr. Lradyaimedatcongre8sion.il much. For his pride was acutely fastidious, and he had a cynical hatred for his race under all his air of genial bon hommie. It cost him much to mingle with the mass and humor their caprices—adapt himself to their manners and essay of his own preparation, and we are to have something of the kind every week. It’s nearly the hour for meeting now, and I must be o-p-h. Take Fred with you to auntie’s and present my love and excuses. You know how to fix up such things. Good-night.’ He patted his sister’s cheek, kissed her and left the room. While this little domestic scene was going on in the pleasant little back parlor of the Ingram’s, the pretty Mrs. Mayfield, who lived just across the street, wa3 flitting about in the supper room, honors, and every man was a vote in his eye, and every woman an agent to aid in affecting his purpose. Brady’s rooms were the most elegant in the city. Into an adjoining apartment, where were a black walnut predieu, a dozen morocco-bound Bibles strewn over tables and mantles, and a Christian library, Brady’s man Creigh was di rected to show all religious looking persons, and all with black coats and white neck chokers. But the room in whieh tbe dignified Literary club held its meetings, was fitted up in most putting away tea things and giving out butter j "and’ and eggs to the cook for the next morning’s break fast. There was a little flutter in her manner, as though she were in a more than usual hurry. When directions had been given for the omelette and mutton chop, and the table had been re arranged, ready for the next meal, she went into . vases, filled with aromatic flowers. The low table in the eenter of the room was covered with costly wines > nd viands in goblets and dishes of silver, Bohemian and cut-glass. Around it, reclining on divans in the orient style, were seated the us and cause ns to be Unhappy; and then it | you as I never loved woman, nor ever shall love | again could be happy in his reckless, old way ; would be better had we never met.’ 1 woman again. Here, down on my knees,’sink- and with a great pain rankling in his heart, •Nonsense, darling. 1 never thought you one I ing at her feet, ‘let me plead for the lore that to indulge in snch chimerical fancies. Nothing j once was mine. Inez, be merciful to me—to can come between us—nothing shall come be- | your husband.’ he fled from his life of careless gayety. to drift hither and thither, with no more rest than the Wandering Jew. He knew there was but ono Tell me, sweet one, that you will be ] ‘Alas!Ralph, you murdered your noble self • person he could ever be happy with now ; and tween ns. my wife.’ All was quiet, save the sea lapping the shore, and the occasional peals of silvery laughter from other strollers on the beach. Ralph Leighton pressed the little hand that lay upon his arm in his own, and gazed down with an intense look into her face, as he listened and waited for her answer. Annie Merton lbved the handsome man be side hi r; loved with the one and first pure love of her life, though she Lad known him but one short wefcl;. Yet, as this new life, so filled with love, was so entirely strange to her, she feared to pi’ve h« rs It up to the sweet hallucination. .Ralph, lot us return to tbe house. I dare not speak anv more upon that subject to-night. To morrow evening,' at this hour, I will give you my answer—here atthib place. ‘Why not now, Annie. It is so long to wait. Suspense is terrible. Come, do not be so cruel.’ ‘It is best—best for the happiness of both; that you will see.’ But could Ralph have seen within that breast, he would have known that the throbbing heart, the melting love, would have belied those cool, calm words that fell from the rosy lips; he would have seen she longed to tell him slie wenld be his—forever his. Yet with this longing at heart, some inner power held her back, and made her speak the words she had spoken. Silently they retraced iheir steps to the house —both seemed to be thinking. On the broad piazza of the hotel, in the shade of the draping vines, they kissed each other good-night Annie did not go in the parlor, where merry voices, and music floated out through the open windows to her; she felt she had rather be alone. But Ralph went in. He mingled among the merry people, chatted lively, with a free and easy air:as if no inner thoughts, no inner things, troubled him. He stood by the piano, turning music for a bright eyed girl, with the full blaze of the chandelier tailing in splendor ever his handsome person, his clear-cut features appear ing to fall advantage. But thus occupied, Ralph wa3 all unconscious of the slight form that passed along the piazza, stopping before the window, in the shade of the vines, fixing her dark eyes intently upon him. With the long, intense look she gave Ralph, scanning him closely, she silently reflected: ‘He seems happy; his handsome face has no marks of sorrow; there is no taint abont him. Yet with all this, what a blight-marked path he leaves behind him.’ With a sigh, heavy and deep, the slight form, with clinging drapery about her, stepped off the piazza, and disappeared among the shrub bery. in my heart in the days agone, and the dead comes no more to life. It was a cruel blow, but you did it.’ A groan rsoaped from the agonized heart and tears flawed down his cheeks. 'Cruel Intz, have you no heart ?’ that person was Inez—his wife. But, between them was a barrier—a yawning chasm, which grew wider with each succeeding year ; and he was utterly powerless to bridge it.* Ralph set out to search for his wife. After weary searches he at last found her ; but he saw ‘Yes, but you can nevermore stir its depth, j her only twice. Once he saw her standing in and your tears move me not. You had no pity for rhe heart you had wrung—the heirt that tuen Ic red you so.’ J ‘Inc-:.—our child; will not that be n tender link to bring and bind our hears together?— our own little Glady—where is she?’ ‘Glady is sleeping in the cold, silent tomb. The last link is broken that could have brought our hearts together.’ ‘You are killing me, Inez—my wife. Foor little Glady! How much I would give to clasp thee, my baby, to my aching heart. Inez,’ said he, rising up, ‘I found this on the beach this the doorway of a time-stained hovel, whero all around looked bare nijtl d«vaiyukvi coH ■ with her thin hands clasped tightly together, and her pale, proud face turned tcjtvar^ the winder sky ; her large, starry black eyeball lustrous as if she saw something in the far-lying arches of the blue-heavens to thrill her soul. In spite of shabby apparel, aud apparent sadness, she looked beautiful still. ‘Inez. Inez !' exclaimed Ralph, as he bounded toward her. ‘Hear me, Inez,’ said he, sinking on his knees before her, lifting up his hand im ploringly, ‘listen to me, I pray.’ With one swift glance she scanned the her own pretty ohamber, and passing through ' nin e members o t e slnb enjoying the oysters, it, emerged into the sitting-room withacrimsou ! 9a | ada ° d ' enl80n wl ^b a gusto uot peculiarly dressing-gown and lounging cap on her arm,and ' ^telleotnal. Presently, these were removed to a pair of daintily embroidered slippers in her j 8 1V ® p a f e t .° 1 E ^ or ® decanters nod bottles, hand. It was a cozy little room, with its bright . j S0 1 ^’ sa J d ^ r * , y ’ wl . t K a g ! ' ac ®fal wave of his carpet, neatly swept hearth, cheerful fire and . g lr l lsb jy ^bite and small band, ‘before proeeed- ronnd table drawn before the fender with a vase ; wl ^ b the more seriou-. business of the sup- of white and blue hyacinths upon it, and be side this, a papier mache work box of the little lady and a volume of Hayne s poems, bound in blue and gold, and fresh from the press. Mr. Mayfield, thrown back in his easv-chair with his feet elevated in true American style, saw these feminine arrangements, through the frag rant smoke of a cigar he was indolently puff- , - ing, and hardly roused himself from his otium was a P n P“_ ancl a 1 per—as I take the wine drioking to be—we will season our repast with a feast of reason. Mr. Wylde, you were appointed to favor us with an essay to-night. We are impatient to bear it.’ Mr. Wylde, whose untrimmed locks and by no means immaculate anen, proclaimed him a ‘child of the Muse,' (who is noted tor neglect ing the personal appearance of her children •, tege of Brady's, and faith fully copied him, whenever he could do so. He rose, running his fingers through the brush- heap on the top of his head, read an essay on the character and wrongs of Shelly. It was an artful defense cf that erring poet’s morals and I social opinion.- Brady’s hand fcal add. d the cum dignitate, when his wife drew a footstool to his side, and sitting down, laid her bright lit tle head on his knee. ‘What a nice time we shall have all to our selves to-night !’ she said. I hurried to get the. ugh, for fsar you “■•oaid bo runEiD«< aw*v i „ . j. - , T » from me; but I have yon safe enough now. j.j finishing tone ms, ana it was iDgenious.y elo- war.t you to read some to me from this new j ^ aent abd w ' ! calculated to blind the judg- book, Hayne’s poems, sis^r Annie sent to me “ ent and enhat th ^, 8 ? m P ath y and admiration to-day, while I sit her- and finish embroidering ! ot youn S f :adp ' pa83a ,? e8 ’ hower : that ‘mysterious’ scrap of muslin von were »n ! er > in vindication of Shelley s peculiar news of marriage, evidently a little startled Miyfield morning,’ holding up his baby’s trinket, ‘and thought that you and Glady must be somewhere j crouching figure, and without one word, glided about, and with thoughts of the past coming ! in and shot the door. in my mind, I sought this nook to be alone— ( All that night the wretched husband haunted hoping you and I would never meet again, that place, walking to and fro underneath the Alas! how little did I think that to meet you leafless branches, all unmindful of the cold and would be to awake the love which was never I s veeping blast, like some nneasy spirit from yours all the months that we lived together; and worst of all for that love to be rejected—scorn fully rejected. Inez, I love you—how much you cannot tell now. Let us be happy togeth er—forget the past.’, ‘The past is dead, not forgotten. Yonr love comes too late, it can never awake the corpse which lies buried in my heart.’ ‘Can this be the once loving and tender Inez —so cold, so cruel now ? Take me to our baby’s grave, and over that little mound let us resolve to be to each other what its parents should be.’ ‘Glady’s grave is far from here, and were you to see that little mound, would not remorse tell you that want and neglect laid her there, while you reveled in luxury, with smiles of beau ty and happiness around you ?’ * ‘Be pitiful, O, Inez! You torture me with a cruel taunt. The heart that is bleeding you stab afresh with a keen pointed dagger, and can smile as you see the cold, glittering steel cutting among the chords.’ He choked down the sobs as he added: ‘This little trinket I will keep as a souvenir of my baby, of the past, of what we onco were to each other—husband and wife.’ ‘Rather a souvenir of murder. You murder ed yourself in my heart, you sent your child to an untimely grave, and you murdered all joy and happiness and hope of my life.’ ‘You can speak thus to me, and yet, if you another world. When the sun shone on the cold world again; Ralph saw the door was ajar, and entered. But the room was empty—no Inez was there. He looked around at the rude surroundings, and saw what the room contained afforded but little comfort. He reached abont and around the place for Idoz, but could find her nowhere. He saw a well worn path leading through cluster ing evergreens, which he followed." He soon found the object ot his search, lying prone on the ground. He hastened near, and there she was in a heap, with arms thrown out over a. little mound—a grave. Ralph bent down to raise her up; but when he took hold of her, he drew back, ghastly pallor gathering over his face. It was a corpse he held in his arms. •Ines,’ was all he could articulate; and gently laid the dead body down. He looked at the white grave-stone, and saw the word ‘Glady.’ Grief swept over his once cal Ions heart in strong, swift waves, crushing him down, down, with iron weight. In that hour of supreme agony he felt he was the mur derer of the two who slept the silent sleep, ly ing there before him -his wife and child. Inez was laid besides Glady, to rest till the morn when the great trumpet shall sound .rough all space, and call her among the my riads of pale sleepers to appear before the tsupreme Judge of all beings. And while she ! curious about this morning. Come, let me heip • you exchange this tight coat and boots for your I comfortable gown and slippers, and then I “Read from thisdainly volnme The poem of yonr choice, And lend to the rhyme of the poet The music of your voice.” ‘Another time, dear,’ he said, laying his hand j patronizingly upon the brown curls of the ; pretty head. ‘I must finish this cigar now, and j go directly to Brady’s, ©ur club meets there j to-night.’ | ‘Oh, that horrid Brady ! I wish he lived in Utah, and had a dozen wives to keep him at home.’ Mr. Mayfield smiled in his superior way. and two other young husbands, who belonged to the club. Brady’s quick eye discovered it. ‘Wyl ie,’ he said, ‘you are too strong to please the ta-re of our young Benedicts. I see they seem disposed to disagree with Shelly and your self. You poets are a little visionary, and Shel ly was a fast chap. ‘After all tho’, what does it matter? Every body that is held enough to have an opinion of his own, has a right to it. Social rules are mere- 1> arbitrary—changing in almost every country I and nation, and made only for the sake of con venience. If Shelley had written a psalm, he would have been forgiven his immorality. That solemn owi, Milton, was pardoned for defend- ; ing bigamy, and canonized becanse he wrote a Morning broke the gloom of night with the j you such love as woman never yet knew.’ will only allow me to, I would clasp you to my j rested there, Ralph walked the earth W6arv- heart as the one darling of all my life, and give ‘ ^ern and heart-sore, alone, alone, alone; and through all space of fntnre life, not one rav fell effThzent rays of the day-god, as he came flood- j Proud ani cold as an icicle she stood there, ! open him to cheer the dreary i ears. No living V j . 1.4 a nnliUn cmil an malri n rr nil I innirinn fl T1 f.l-ia in a n KafTwa h C.V liar all .ill f t! ,~r ha I.l (1 OOUld h6ftl 1 li n 1-. 1 J: 1 » ... in»the earth with Lis golden smiles, making all j looking on the man before her, her slight fig- ! band could heal the bleeding heart, or set its Rungs glad. I are erect and hands clasped together, her wrap j broken chords to tune; and the jar oi’ these nn- AVnile Annie sat within her room watching j and dress fluttering with the breeze. strung chords sounded ’Regret, regret, regret.’ and listening to the beanty and animation of *Raph,’spoke she, after an interval of sileuce, 1 e ■ • ; ’ 'good-bye. We may never meet again. I hope the out-door world, as it reveled in all gladsome ness of a sun-bright morning in midsummer, while she waited for breakfast, Ralph took a stool down on the beach. The fresh sea-breeze, balmy with the breath of a thousand flowers, sent a new current of life tingling through his veins. Something glittered in the white sand at his feet as it caught the morning sunlight. He started and turned pale, as if some one had pointed a deadly weapon at his breast. It was £ Id trinket, tbet his child had worn around her neck when he to dandle her upon his knee He turned it over; and there was ’Gladly’ engraved on the under part-His child’s name R, rhi id It was an ecno from the past; the M which he hoped he had baried-which he had fled from. Now he trembled, and was as £*»k M« child, * tbi, one foot-print of the dead past; and it awoke a train oi thoughts W1 ‘HoVcame it here ?’ he said. ‘What does it S«r-~nl bo near ? O. God! I bop. “°He threw his bands up to his face witn ages- - of despair. The gted sunshine now seemed mock his agonized mind. He sped down not—not that I much care ; I can look upon you and not be moved, just as I would look upon any other worthless man. ” ‘Wait one moment,’ aked he, as she tamed to go, ‘will you notallow me to touch your hand— clasp it in mine as I did in the days of yore. ‘Mr. Brady’s a capital fellow,’ he said-‘high- i stnp id medley, of which the Devil was the here, son led and generous as a prince, if he is a ii tie j an( j which nobody reads and everybody pre lux sometimes. His rooms are splendidly iur- tends to admire, simply becanse they cannot nished—pictures, statues and all that; his li- 1 compr ehend it. brary is an excellent one and his—’Mr. M : v field i •Well; this world is a humbug and life is a farce. The only true philanthiopy, is to enjoy ■ was going to say ‘his iciue,’ but he prudently stopped. THE BEST TIL EON-FLY. From „!« nCa 40 this * One Hour Fifteen Minutes and’ ten seconds. T 4 he J besfc i tin ? 0 ever made by pigeons was re corded yesterday by a red checkered bird owned , by J , obb Dalton of this city. The occasion was . - , . - , . *h® . 8t fly of the season of the Philadelphia Inez, let me take you in my arms and kiss you ! Homing Society No. 2, for old birds the distance good-bye ; please, my darling, my peerless j being sixty-eight miles, as the crow flies from love.’ That voice which had, with its rich melody, won so many hearts, was now full of pathetic pleading. •It is not worth the while. It will profit neither of us anything.’ But with the last desperate effort of a man wounded unto death, he sprung forward, clasp ed her in his strong arms, pressed her to his agonized heart, and showered burning kisses on the month and cheeks. They were the first pure love kisses he had ever given his wife ; and she received them as coldly as if she had been a marble statue. The love that lay dead within her heart oould nevermore be warmed to life ; the glowing warmth brought to bear against it now, had come too late. With hia heart beating against her own, his warm breath on her cheeks, his eyes looking be.” T - - ~ 11UU1 it was hard to resist the pleading eyes of the -Philadelphia, te n birds being pretty, loving little creature, but he only smiled Tbe fas:- j and leiterating his advioe ‘not to be absurd;’ he He is an ugly old ogre that entraps poor wo men’s husbands into his den, and maGs them do all kinds of naughty things, while their wives are crying their eyes out at home.’ ‘Don’t be absurd, Nelli©.’ ‘Well; but what do you do at Brady’s?’ ‘Our club meets there, child, and .ve do a great many things that you would not understand. What do women know of men’s business, and what should it matter to them, so they are treat ed kindly, and have a new bonnet and a new silk every season?’ Ourelub L literary and po litical, and women have no business with liter ature or polities.’ “Oh 1 Harry, but you can stay with me this one time. You were at the c muting room last night, and at the opera the uight before, and it really seems as though you were almost a stran ger. See here, (tugging ut his coat sleeve with her little hand) let me hdp you off with this, and then throw that stemp of a cigar in the grate and talk or read to me to-night. I have been so lonely all day, and I’ve thought about your coming back :uid being with me to-night a dozen times. Now, you shan't go. I have both my arms around you and you can’t get loose. I will hold yon so.’ Six months ago those round, white arms would have been fetters harder to break than links of iron—but the moon changes, and so do men. Mayfield had been married a year, and had be gun to sneer at the “silliness” of the billing and cooing stage he had passed; and besides, Brady had asked him a day or two before, with his in imitable mixture of sarcasm and good humor, how long his wife's apron string was going to thrown for four prizes in ten entries est time for the distance hitherto, os shown bv | the record is one hour and thirty-seven min- | ates ’ .Yesterday Dalton’s bird made it in one lionr fifteen minutes and ten seconds, and thus winning a purse of $3o. A. B. Fox’s bird came in second, taking the second purse, S20, in one hour thirty-two minutes and five seconds. -John Parker s bird was three minutes and five seconds later, and John Grist’s toss came in 47 40 tak- ^f^®., 1 , 884 P»2e. This bird was a light ash, with trill. The other entries were by Joe Bnok- ley, Alfred Gohr, James Grist, .Joe Sherwood, George Woodward and Henry Heintz. Lancas ter is just forming a homing club, and the birds were thrown by its organizer, Mr. Streyn, who kept the time. Buckley, Parker and Thomas Grist were the timers for the finish. unclasped the arms, kissed the pouting lips, called her a “foolish child” and left her alone. I am afraid the embroidery on the mysterious little garment, which looked very muoh as though intended for a doll or a monkey, was not so good as it might have been that night, for thread and needle sometimes swam before the dim sight of the blue-eyei sewer, and more than one tear dropped upon the muslin, and was stitohed into it. They were not the first tears that were ever sewed into needle-work. If they left a stain, weshould see many of these betraying tokens upon the work that patient, gentle wo men have bowed over, seeking heartsease and respite from loneliness in the soothing sound of the thread, as it is drawn through the cloth by their weary fingers. But tears only oorrode it while it is ours, pluck every rosebud from the tree, drink the cup to the dregs—sweet or bitter—what does it matter ? Ingram, you are the swan of our company. Sing us that blood- ronsing song you sang last club meeting and we will join you in the chorus. Fill up all. Mayfield, the wine is with yon; glorious Bur gundy it is too. See the dust and cobwebs on the bottle; it has been lying down oeller for five years Wine, you know, is not like women; it improves with age.’ And so the ‘serious business’ of the night be gan, and continued until the ‘we sma’ hours had drawn on, interspersed with Anacreonic songs and jests. Brad .cool as when the feast began (for he never e .rUred wine to steal his brains, or excite him beyond consciousness) was the life of the pnrty, and played the gen tlemanly and genial host to perfection. Tongues began to grow thick ami listeners to laugh in the wrong place at j >.:ts they did not compre hend, and Brady ord red strong coffee and bowls of cold wat“- to counteract the effects of the Burgundy. Aster‘hat tho party broke up with a cordial good night from their host. ‘All to be here this uight two weeks without fail,’ said his mellow, musical voice, as he closed the street door, and eight rather thick voices echoed ‘without fail.’ ‘A.precious set of fools!’ soliloquised Brady, as he re-entered his room, throw himself on the sofa and lit a cigar, ’but their influence is of use to me. To-morrow night I must go to old Parson Crosby’s prayer meeting.' Next morning, pretty Mrs. Mayfield’s blue eyes were rather red and swollen, but her afiectionate spouse did not think it worth while to inquire what was the matter. He ate his mutton chop in silence, with the air of a grand Seigneur, and gave laconic responses to his wife’s attempts at conversation. After break fast she came np behind his chair and threaded his hair with her fingers in her pretty, winning way. •Dearie,’ she said, ‘you stayed away so long last night I thought you were never coming baok. What did you find to keep you so long at Brady’s ?' ‘My dear,’ replied the pater familias, with se vere dignity, ‘I have told you that it was an in dication of contemptible female cariosity, for a wife to he always inquiring about her hus band's business. We did a great many things last night at Brady’s. ’ - . i .. - Gold must be beaten, and a child scourged.—’ [Ben Lira.