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grudge for that. I have, as you know, a forgiving disposition. This Count Reizenbach also seated himself by Irene, and had hardly conversed with her a quarter of an hour, when he said to the Princess, "Dear cousin, your daughter is a pearl; something quite perfect, all the world wishes me joy in such a neice." Upon this, I watched him, and saw him approach a personage of very high rank, and talk with him, all the time keeping hss eye on Irene, and this high personage looked also-'

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"Then Miss Irene is not to be seen today," interrupted Litwinof.

"No, she has a violent headache. She directed me to give you her regards and thank you for your bouquet which was universally admired. She needs rest. The Princess is out, making some calls, and I too-"

The Prince cleared his throat and did not know how to finish his speech. Litwinof took his hat, said that he would not disturb them, but would come again to inquire after her, and went. A few steps from the house, he saw an elegant carriage standing before the office of the policeman. A servant in showy livery bent down in a stately manner from his seat and asked the policeman for the residence of Prince Paul Osinin. Litwinof cast a quick glance into the carriage; there sat a man of about fifty years, of full-blooded constitution, with wrinkled, haughty face, Grecian nose, and ill-natured lips; a man evidently high in rank.

[To be continued.]

"GETTING OVER" SORROW.-"Got over it "strangely do people talk of "getting over" a quiet sorrow overleaping it, passing it by, thrusting it into oblivion. Not so! no one ever does that, at least no nature which can be touched by the feeling of grief at all. The only way is to pass through the ocean of affliction solemnly, slowly, with humility and faith, as the Israelites passed through the sea. Then its very waves of misery will divide, and become to us a wall on the right side and on the left, until the gulf narrows before our eyes, and we land safe on the opposite shore.

THE SOLDIER'S GRAVE.

BY ANNA M. BATES.

He sleeps where the bright wild flowers, In early beauty wave,

And the robin trills his mellow song

Above his lonely grave;
There a silvery web of dewdrops

By the twilight's hand is spun,
It is hung with the jewels of morning
And lit by the setting sun.

But he knows not and he heeds not

That sleeper cold and white, With his pale hands meekly folded In that narrow cell from sight. Though round him music is ringing And the valleys laugh in bloom, No burst of song or sunshine

Can pierce that darkened tomb. Sometimes two pallid mourners Bend o'er that grassy bed, And they speak with tears fast falling Of him the early dead. They tell of toilsome marches

'Neath the burning Southern sky, Of a soldier's pain and peril

Till the hour came to die.

On the red field of battle

'Mid booming shot and shell, With the foemen closing 'round him On a fearful day he fell; With the cruel death-wound on him, They bore the youth away,— How for his home, his mother,

Did that fainting spirit pray!

And that mother was beside him,
And his sister held his hand,
As his spirit drifted outward

Into the unknown land;
They saw his pale brow brighten
In the light of fadeless dawn,
And whispered very softly

To each other "he is gone."

Then they bore his still form hither,

And they laid him in the tomb, Where the dark trees wave above him

And the flowers he cherished bloom. Yet they wait beside the portal

That is hung with shade like even, While beyond he is immortal

'Mid the blessedness of heaven.

'THE SHORT AND SIMPLE ANNALS all right between us. Eagerly they satisfied

The

OF THE POOR."

BY MRS. SARAH A. NOWELL.

The year 1847 saw the full tide of emigration reaching our western shores. Famine had not absolutely begun its ravages in Ireland, but prices had become ruinously high, and the cloud that afterwards gathered so darkly, was even then dimly discerned in the distance, and its advance was more than hinted at in the letters that arrived from the "dear ould counthry" to those who were toiling and pinching in America, to send out needed relief to those who were waiting and watching at home.

On a fervid July day, two young girls were walking up and down the long space that divides the ladies' saloons from the car track at the Boston and Worcester Station, awaiting the arrival of the morning train from New York. Expectation and a little anxiety showed visibly in the faces of both. They walked arm-in-arm, taking no notice of the groups that stood listlessly around, and from which they were distinguished by a certain air of refinement and native dignity. They were dressed alike, and appeared to be sisters, although the pale, oval face of the elder was quite different from the plump, rosy cheeks of the younger.

A number of persons had accosted them while waiting here, during the last hour, and to all they had given a kindly and gentle answer, but had immediately turned away with a modest reserve that told the assembled crowd that they were not to be treated with too great familiarity. Somehow, they were followed by every eye, in their quiet almost silent walk, as they passed and repassed, with their pretty, neat pink dresses, delicate blue and gray Scotch shawls, and

modest straw bonnets.

I had watched them for some time thus, from the window of the saloon, when they unexpectedly entered the door, and sat down near me, and then I became aware from their conversation, of the object of their watching, which was the arrival from Ireland, of their father, mother. and young brother.

the harmless curiosity I manifested, and they let me into the situation of their family, opening their hearts in as perfect confidence as though our acquaintance had been of quite a remote date.

They were respectively nineteen and seventeen years of age; had come over to America three years before with a married sister and her family; had been fortunate enough to find service with a young physician's wife, the elder as general house maid, end the younger as nursery girl. By dint of prudent saving, not buying them even a common print dress since their arrival, they had been enabled to send for their parents and brother.

"With your sister's help, I suppose?" I said interrogatively.

Both girls blushed scarlet; but they seemed to trust my face, and answered candidly, "Indeed, no, ma'am. John, that is poor Ellen's husband, took to the bad habits when he came over here, and she is obliged to live in a poor place, and with four little children."

Tears stood alike in the beautiful brown eyes of Kate, and the soft blue ones of Margaret, as they told of poor Ellen's sufferings through her husband's drinking.

"We sent for father, hoping he might have some influence over him, the poor wretch but perhaps Father Matthew may do something for him."

I tried to cheer the poor girls, who seemed so sorrowful for another's sin, and I promised too, to call on Ellen, and try my poor skill at comforting her; for which the two girls gratefully thanked me.

"Margy and I hope to help her along with her children, now that we shall not have to send our money to Ireland. Father is a nice hand at tailoring, and mother helps him. They will do nicely when we have found them a bit of a house where the sign can be hung out."

I said no more, for I heard the coming train thundering into the station, and the two young girls, only waiting to tell me where I should find them, sprang out of the door to meet the beloved travelers. I followed more

Insensibly I was drawn to address them, slowly, for I wanted to see what sort of paand their looks of grateful surprise set

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rents had given birth to these two lovely ourselves," said Collins, to which his wife Irish lassies. agreed.

I was rewarded by witnessing the affectionate, but not noisy greeting they were giving to a man of serene and almost noble aspect, whose long white hair suggested the idea of greater age than I had anticipated, and to a quiet, well-dressed woman, who kissed them through her tears, and, lastly, to a pretty, pale, slender lad of thirteen, perhaps, whose countenance seemed too grave and thoughtful for his years. Certainly, there stood before me five of the most interesting specimens of the Hibernian persuasion that I had ever seen.

As if glad of some one to share their joy, the girls ran forward on discovering I was near them, and, very gracefully and prettily, presented me to the new comers. Certainly no courtly gentleman could have made a more polite bow than this man, fresh from the shores of Ireland; and the wife performed her part simply and unaffectedly while the lad was more free and unembarrassed in his behavior toward me than would have been nine-tenths of our American youths. We parted, the best of friends, and, if my husband did rally me upon my enthusiasm in regard to my new acquaintances, I did not forego my resolution to see them again.

But "in August, when the hay was down," I was overwhelmed with the visitors which my half-town, half-country residence never failed of being filled with at that season, and I lost sight of my interesting friends. What, then, was my delight one October morning, when returning from seeing my last visitor take the cars for home, to see from the corner of a pretty, neat house in my immediate neighborhood, a new sign, bearing the name of "Martin Collins, Tailor," and, directly before the front window, a large, new board, on which sat the respectable figure of my serene-looking Irish friend!

In I walked, amidst the exclamations of pleasure uttered by the old couple and the young boy, Michael. They were delighted with their pretty house, which stood on the corner of two streets. It was so convenient, so comfortable, with its four neat rooms, and then the families on the floors above were so pleasant-not thinking they are better than VOL. XLI.-7

But, after all, they felt very lonely in this strange place, and, some months after, Kate and Margaret left their place and came home. Their plan was to take in all the work they could find. They could sew nicely upon their father's work, were adepts at plain sewing for families, and could do wonders in the way of clear starching. After long separation from their children, it wae delightful to have them together, and they were glad too, to be able to help poor Ellen by giving her some work, as she was living at a short distance.

From Margaret I soon ascertained that Kate had left her place mainly on account of a troublesome follower, who had persecuted her to marry him for months.

He was a Mexican by birth - Francisco by name. He was very handsome, she said, and a great favorite of the doctor with whom. the girls had been living; but Kate, somehow distrusted him. One thing she knew,. that he was very passionate in temper, and that he had wooed her far more frequently by threats of vengeance if she did not marry him, than by any show of tenderness, or real. affection. He had become so thoroughly arbitrary and overbearing that Kate had made a hasty retreat home, and Margaret, fearing and disliking Francisco, had as hastily left her charge the moment she could find a substitute.

I approved their course, gave them all the work I had, and solicited patronage from my friends. I often employed them for weeks. together at my house, and whenever I was about to be absent, one of them was regularly installed as housekeeper. They were very gentle with the children, and so refined that I felt that such influence must be for good.

But, on returning one night somewhat late, we found Kate looking very pale and wretched, and the handsome foreigner, with a very red face and a very loud voice, insisting upon an immediate marriage, on pain of some terrible vengeance to be inflicted on her father.

He stopped suddenly as we entered, and my husband, who was in Kate's confidence, and knew how greatly she was annoyed,

Litwinof poured forth enthusiastic praise, but already Irene listened no more to him; holding the bouquet before her face, she looked again into the far distance with her mysterious eyes, which had grown darker and larger, while the ends of her ribbons, lifted by a light draught of air, fluttered like wings around her shoulders.

The Prince entered dressed in white cravat, black threadbare coat, from whose button-hole hung the noble's medal fastened with the ribbon of the Wladimir order; behind him, in a flaming, old-fashioned dress, came the Princess, who with that captious restlessness, behind which mothers conceal their excitement, immediately began to set her daughter's dress in order; that is, to lay it in superfluous and unmeaning folds. The wheels of the hired carriage creaked on the frozen snow at the door; a very little servant, dressed in fantastic livery, rushed into the entry and announced in a doleful voice that the carriage was before the door. The Prince and Princess gave their blessing upon the children who remained at home, wrapped themselves in their furs and entered the carriage. Irene silently followed, scarcely covered with a miserable little cloak, which had always been an object of her strong hatred. Litwinof accompanied her, hoping still to catch one more glance, but she seated herself in the carriage without turning her head once towards him. Towards midnight Litwinof went past the windows of the Assembly; the red curtains did not prevent the light from numberless candles, illuminating the lined with equipages, and even in square the distance were heard the wild, merry accords of the Strausz waltz.

The next day towards one o'clock, Litwinof went to the Osinin's. He found the Prince only at home, and was immediately informed by him that Irene had headache, that she lay in bed, and would not rise till evening; adding that such a slight indisposition after a first ball, signified nothing. "You see that it is very natural with young girls," continued he in French, to the astonishment of Litwinof, who now observed that the Prince was not dressed as usual in his morning gown, but in his walking coat. "And how should one not be sick after the events of yesterday?"

"Events?" stammered Litwinof.

"Yes, events; truly events. You cannot conceive, dear Monsieur Litwinof, how great her success was! She attracted the attention of the whole Court. Prince Alexander Feodorowitsch said that she was not in her place here, and that she reminded him of the Countess of Devonshire; you know — the renowned. Old Count Blasenkrampf declared aloud that she was the queen of the ball, and expressed the wish to be introduced to her; he was also introduced to me; that is, he said to me, he remembered to have seen me as a hussar, and he asked me where I now served. He is very entertaining, this Count; and what an admirer of the fair sex! What shall I say! Even the Princess was not left in peace. Natalia Nikitischna herself conversed with her. What would you wish more? Irene danced with the most distinguished cavaliers; so many were brought to me as partners for her, that I gave up counting. Think only, all the world crowded around

us;

for the Mazourka

they chose only her. A foreign diplomat who was told she was a Moscow woman, said to the Emperor, 'Sire, Moscow is decidedly the centre of your empire.' Another diplomat added, 'This is a true revolution, sire!' Revolution, or revelation, something of the kind. Yes, yes, I assure you, it was very extraordinary."

"But Irene," asked Litwinof, whose hands and feet had grown cold as ice, “has she amused herself? did she seem satisfied?"

we

"Certainly she has amused herself; that would have been fine, if she had not been satisfied. To be sure, one cannot see easily into her heart. All the world said to me yesterday, 'this is very astonishing; would never have believed that this is the first ball of the young girl, your daughter.' So for example, the Count Reizenbach-you certainly know him?"

"No, I do not know him; I have never seen him."

"He is a cousin of my wife." "I know nothing of him.”

"He is a Croesus; a chamberlain of the Court; he lives in St. Petersburg. He plays a great part there, and in Lievland all dance to his pipe. Till now he has not concerned himself much about us, but I bear him no

grudge for that. I have, as you know, a forgiving disposition. This Count Reizenbach also seated himself by Irene, and had hardly conversed with her a quarter of an hour, when he said to the Princess, "Dear cousin, your daughter is a pearl; something quite perfect, all the world wishes me joy in such a neice." Upon this, I watched him, and saw him approach a personage of very high rank, and talk with him, all the time keeping hss eye on Irene, and this high personage looked also"

"Then Miss Irene is not to be seen today," interrupted Litwinof.

"No, she has a violent headache. She directed me to give you her regards and thank you for your bouquet which was universally admired.

She needs rest. The

Princess is out, making some calls, and I too-"

The Prince cleared his throat and did not know how to finish his speech. Litwinof took his hat, said that he would not disturb them, but would come again to inquire after her, and went. A few steps from the house, he saw an elegant carriage standing before the office of the policeman. A servant in showy livery bent down in a stately manner from his seat and asked the policeman for the residence of Prince Paul Osinin. Litwinof cast a quick glance into the carriage; there sat a man of about fifty years, of full-blooded constitution, with wrinkled, haughty face, Grecian nose, and ill-natured lips; a man evidently high in rank.

[To be continued.]

"GETTING OVER" SORROW.-"Got over it"-strangely do people talk of "getting over" a quiet sorrow overleaping it, passing it by, thrusting it into oblivion. Not so! no one ever does that, at least no nature which can be touched by the feeling of grief at all. The only way is to pass through the ocean of affliction solemnly, slowly, with humility and faith, as the Israelites passed through the sea. Then its very waves of misery will divide, and become to us a wall on the right side and on the left, until the gulf narrows before our eyes, and we land safe on the opposite shore.

THE SOLDIER'S GRAVE.

BY ANNA M. BATES.

He sleeps where the bright wild flowers, In early beauty wave,

And the robin trills his mellow song

Above his lonely grave;

There a silvery web of dewdrops

By the twilight's hand is spun, It is hung with the jewels of morning And lit by the setting sun.

But he knows not and he heeds not

That sleeper cold and white, With his pale hands meekly folded In that narrow cell from sight. Though round him music is ringing And the valleys laugh in bloom, No burst of song or sunshine

Can pierce that darkened tomb. Sometimes two pallid mourners Bend o'er that grassy bed, And they speak with tears fast falling Of him the early dead. They tell of toilsome marches

'Neath the burning Southern sky, Of a soldier's pain and peril

Till the hour came to die.

On the red field of battle

'Mid booming shot and shell, With the foemen closing 'round him On a fearful day he fell; With the cruel death-wound on him, They bore the youth away,— How for his home, his mother,

Did that fainting spirit pray!

And that mother was beside him,
And his sister held his hand,
As his spirit drifted outward

Into the unknown land;
They saw his pale brow brighten
In the light of fadeless dawn,
And whispered very softly

To each other "he is gone."

Then they bore his still form hither,

And they laid him in the tomb, Where the dark trees wave above him

And the flowers he cherished bloom. Yet they wait beside the portal

That is hung with shade like even, While beyond he is immortal

'Mid the blessedness of heaven.

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