ed with the happiest result. Behold," he added, pointing to the packet in Donna Ibarra's hand,, "the order for his unconditional pardon. Ramon can now enter Madrid in face of all the world!"

"Oh, this explanation makes me so happy!" exclaimed Isabella, radiant with joy. "Do you know, Cristina," she added, turning to that lady, "that I have been very jealous of you!" "Pardon me, pardon me—” began Donna Ibarra.

"Oh, it is all over now," cried Isabella, interrupting her, with a playful smile. But I shall certainly," she added, with a mischievous glance, "tell Ramon, on his arrival, of your strange conduct!" Then turning to her husband, she observed, "You are a very naughty fellow; but I suppose," she added archly, "I must forgive you !"

"Dine with us to-morrow, my friends," said Corriano, "and you shall see the happiest couple in all Spain."

"To-morrow," said Pedro, significantly, "is the twentieth." "True," answered Corriano. "And we'll have our Ramon with us. I'll despatch a courier to hasten his arrival." "Ah!" murmured Donna Ibarra, "that word makes me so happy!" "But not," returned Corriano, "happier than it does myself, in the restoration of the confidence and affections of my ever-beloved wife. Good night !"With these words they parted.

"Said I not, Isabella," murmured the nobleman, as they returned home, "that a new happiness would meet you to-night at the ball?" His wife replied only with a warm pressure of her hand.

"They are happy now!" murmured Piquillo, as they brushed by him in the hall.

"I wish to go into your room, Jose," said Isabella, as they passed up the staircase.

"Ah! you have a lingering doubt still,pretty one!" replied Corriano. And they passed into the chamber.

"Show me," said Isabella, "the letter I saw you kissing so rapturously to-day."

Corriano, without manifesting any surprise, drew forth the table, took out a small packet, and opening it, placed it in her hand. It was one of her letters, written in the days of their courtship. "What do you say now?" he said, with a smile of loving triumph. "This!" she cried, bursting into tears, and throwing herself into his arms.

WHO that lives, thinks and feels, has not some cherished trifle which gold could not purchase, for it is sacred to the absent or the dead?

Mementos-what are they? Things, often, in themselves valueless, but more beautiful and precious than sparkling jewels in our eyes, because of associations which gild them with that lustre which the heart lends-silent, yet eloquent-speaking of those we love or have loved.

I have now before me a rose tree, in a simple earthen jar. It was reared by a young friend who has lately left us, to reside in a distant state. While she was with us, I seldom remarked it, unless she purposely drew my attention to it; though its flower is a rose, it is not brilliant, and, among other flowers, there is nothing about it to strike the eye or impress the fancy. But it was her parting gift; she is gone-and now, how much fairer the bloom, how much more pleasant the fragrance of her rose, than the deeper tints and richer bloom of its splendid neighbora costly exotic, forced to expand in an ungenial climate. One addresses itself to my taste, the other to my affection. Onc, as I gaze on it, invites my imagination to ramble in those laughing valleys, where

"Blossoms and fruits and flowers together rise,"

rejoice and repose, beneath skies that almost embody a poet's dreams of heaven. The other appeals to my memory-touches, with every leaf and petal, some spring of her casket-brings all but sensibly to my eye the graceful form of my friend, bending, as I have so often seen her, over its delicate branches-and to my ear the mellow tones of her voice, ever warbling snatches of sweet song. Truly is it, in my sight, "more precious than silver or gold."

I know a bereaved mother, venerable in years and in piety, who keeps always on her table, lying underneath her Bible, the comb that was used in arranging her son's hair for his last resting place the coffin. Those bright locks, and the manly brow around which they clustered, have long since faded in the darkness of the grave; but the comb which, in friendly hands, performed its humble office in their behalf for the last time, speaks yet of both, with melancholy distinctness, to that mother's heart; is still preserved, and will be until her own waning life is ended-a priceless memorial of the beloved dead.

Not long since, I was spending a few days at the house of a friend in the country. In one cf the rooms I saw a fragment of ribbon lying on the carpet. It was very small-the outline of a square inch would almost have enclosed its entire dimensions. I should not, probably, have seen it, but for its color, which, contrasting rather strongly with that of the carpet, attracted the eye, and then should have thought no more of it, but that I recollected having, several months before, in the same room; stooped to examine the same discolored spot on the carpet. My hostess, Mrs. R-, is emphatically "a notable housewife”—and this proof, as I thought it, that her carpet had not been thoroughly swept during four or five months, tempted me to the perpetration of a little playful raillery. When she next came into the room, I informed her that I had just made a surprising discovery. She naturally inquired what it was, and I replied that I had ascertained, beyond all chance of contradiction, that either that particular apartment of her house was, like the peasant's "broken teacups, wisely kept for show," or her reputation as a busy and orderly housewife was not altogether merited. She admitted that my last supposition might be correct, but with respect to the first she "would like much to know on what it was grounded." I pointed to the shining shred on the carpet.

"There," said I, "is my informant. That bit of ribbon was lying precisely where it does now, when I was here last. I do not think it has moved half an inch in five months."

She looked down, and smiled, but her smile was not joyous. That is one of my monuments," she said. "I have a score or more about the house, each as insignificant in appearance as that. The day before Maria (one of her sisters, who had married

and removed some hundred miles west, half a year before,) left us, to assume other relations and enter another home, she stood here and trimmed the ends of a neck-ribbon. That piece fell where it now lies. I saw it as it fell, and found it there when she was gone. It has been my care to keep it on that very spot, and as this room is not in every day use, I have succeeded in doing so. I have fastened a pin, as you will see, in the carpet, to make the exact point. When I sweep, I take up the ribbon, and when I have done, I replace it."

I said no more. I was myself conscious of a hoard of relics equally worthless, equally sacred.

This power of small things to thrill us with pleasure or with pain, through the force of association, is depicted with poetic strength and beanty by one who because his evil genius was ever waging triumphant warfare with his better angel-more frequently recognized the severe than the grateful attributes of these tiny ministers to our finest perceptions. His words are, doubtless, familiar to every reader of these pages, yet I cannot forbear transcribing them here :

"And slight, withal, may be the things which bring.
Back on the heart the weight which it would fling
Aside forever; it may be a sound--

A tone of music-summer's breath, or spring

A flower-a leaf-the ocean-which may wound,—

Striking the electric chain where with we are darkly bound."

Who, that reads, does not respond to the truth as well as the beauty of these lines? But, happily, the weight which wounds is not all that these slight restorers "of scenes gone by and days that were," may bring back on the heart. Our childhood's years -life's earliest joys--its later smiles and tears—its hopes, friendships, and affections, are, each and all, conjured up at times by a single glance on some mute memorial; and though, with such a retrospect, our spirits will often sadden over the past, yet they do not always so; for memory has its lights as well as its shadows, and if we strive to fulfill our part, as human beings and as christians, will gild the pleasures we have left and are constantly leaving behind us, with a ray on which we shall ever love to look back as we move onward in the path of life. "Tis true that, in cherishing our memories, we are nurturing

"the shadows of our hopes

Which ever lengthen as the sun goes down:"

but these lengthening shadows, at the close of a well-spent day, are the gentle precursors of a time of rest. If our day has been one of pleasure, rest should be welcome as one of pleasure's varieties if cares or griefs have marked our passing hours, then surely every premonition of eventide may be hailed as a harbinger of sweet repose.

"AMO."

BY CELIA.

I love the beauty of an earnest soul,

That sheds a holy radiance o'er the face-
The buoyancy that yields to "no control

Save the sweet one" of gentleness and grace-
The spirit that delights in all things free,
With joyous fervency!

I love the impulse, generous and glad,
Upgushing from the fountains of the heart-
The true benevolence, that cheers the sad
And weary hearted by its kindly art-
The deep and tearful language, full and free,
Of yearning sympathy.

I love to watch the changeful light that plays
Upon the soul-lit face, in converse free—
To catch the sunny sparkle of the rays
That flash upon the surface of the sea-
The heart's deep sea- -whose earnest-heaving flow
Rolls silently below!

I love to meet the spirit that rejoices

In all the bounty that our Father gives-

That fondly lists to Nature's gentle voices,

"Glad with the birds, and silent with the leaves"

That sees deep beauty in the pencilled flower,
The Peri of an Hour!

I love to read the language of the Holy,

Deep graven on the tablets of the heart-
To see the image of the "Meek and Lowly,"
Made radiant by the mild Refiner's art;

To listen to the Spirit's earnest breath,

The fervant prayer of faith!