"Aha! come along, I will immolate self; but those are odd names for a Frenchman." "De Melville, then," said Charles, laughing.

De Melville was introduced. At the name, Agnes looked up; there was something of disappointment in her eyes, yet she might well have been mistaken. It was six years since she saw the lover of her childhood, and six years bring many changes. Charles was taller now, dressed en militaire, and, in keeping with the profession of arms, he wore a superb moustache and whiskers; his complexion had a southron tint, his expression was saddened, and his manner the calm hauteur of one who has seen and observed the world. Embarrassed amid a profusion of compliments, the näive Agnes' replies were confused, and Harman, with high-bred adroitness, sought her hand for the ensuing dance-it thrilled as he led her triumphantly to the floor. There was a curl on her lip of some inward delight; for she had heard his voice. What disguise can baffle the eyes of love, especially when those eyes belong to a woman?

Agnes Woodville was nearly seventeen-a half-blown rose, shrinking in its first timid glance on the beautiful world, yet smiling through its blushes. Alone with her, in the voluptuous dance, where their hands met so often, and her every smile and word were his, the happy Harman was inspired. The case and brilliancy of his conversation astonished himself, and spell-bound his partner. Her girlish hesitation vanished at the magic of his elegant address, and her sweet low laugh was less often checked by a blush. Her whole soul seemed to revel in its first glad taste of a new delight, and unconsciously her tones were thrilling, and her looks wore a blissful tenderness fresh from an artless heart.

The hours fled on their lightest wings, and Charles and Agnes were walking in the spacious gardon of the festal mansion. Many others had escaped from the heated room, and from every walk merry voices were ringing in chaste or broken French and Spanish. It was winter-if such a name can be given to the hazy slumber of the seasons in that sunny clime-the air was mild, and the rising moon shone as soft on the jewelled tresses of the belle and the lace of the military, as when pearling the orange blossoms.

Harm an and his lovely charge were afloat on the wizard current of talk. They culled the choic est flowers that perfumed its banks, and wreathed each other's brows. They tasted the tempting fruit that overhung, and gathered the rarest gems on the fountain floor. It was " the feast of reason"-no not reason, that cool closet reason, that exact matter of rule and measure, of cause and effect-it was passion's feast and the flow of soul. O, there is a spell of deep deliciousness in the converse of kindred souls, more powerful far than heavenly music!

As yet no allusion had been made to their former delightful intimacy Now that they had drawn out each other's powers in the brilliant play of mind each feared that the other had forgotten. “It is time," thought Charles, and he quivered with dread lest the precious prize might escape.

"How strange," he began, with an air of sentiment, "is the harmony of names and natures! It was a beautiful idea to give language and poetry to flowers; music they had already. Who that hears the name of lily, does not associate it at once with music and loveliness? Agnes Woodville! there is a melody in those gentle syllables that has lingered on my ear for six long years; it has floated in my dreams, and in the moonlit watch I've caught its harmony from the sighing waves, and fancied a Peri was singing near. Was this not a lay of delight, sung by the minstrel Hope to the soul, when it was troubled at dark futurity? One of that worshipped name did once minister to my sickness; she was then a child-but how lovely she must be grown now, and very beautiful! We loved-and she promised to be my little wife."

The girl looked up. "Would you know her now?"

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Yes, among a thousand."

A wicked laugh rang on the air.

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Then," said Agnes, "I must presume that you cut my acquaintance."

"How very well done!" wickedly exclaimed the girl; "and when did you get the name of De Melville, sir? Oh, that I had changed mine, too!"

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Forgive me, my lily; it was love that taught the fraud. You have not forgotten?" "No-but you don't deserve it."

Agnes, sweetest," he passionately spoke, " our promise shall be redeemed?"

That soft hand slightly returned the pressure of his, and Harman murmured" my little wife," as he printed love's hallowed seal on her lips.

"Let us go," whispered the blushing girl, and the lovers, silent and happy in the treasure of each other, sought the lighted halls again.

"Aggy, my puss, it is late, and I have been looking for you," said a rosy old gentleman, slightly bowing to Charles.

"Father," said the girl, "don't you know Mr. Harman?"

"Why, bless me so it is! Hurrah, my young adventurer, I'm delighted to see you."

Young Harman warmly greeted his generous friend, and the happy old gentleman, thanks to champagne, rattled and asked a thousand questions.

"Come, come-go home with us this very night," he said, as Charles was reluctantly handing his own Agnes into the carriage.

It was nearly three months after the incidents of the last chapter, that hectoring March, like some extravagant "blood" who reforms in his last days, woke up delighted one morning, and lavished his sweetest smile on the elegant family mansion of the Harmans. It was a morning of promise and mirth. Nature reposed voluptuously in her morning gown of sunshiny haze. The sky, the sea, and hills, were bathed in a flood of mysterious light which may well be called the atmosphere of poetry, the soft contagion of love and sentiment, the airy cradle of dreams that never redeem their promise, of changes that never change. It was a season when the future is fair as the enchanted distance, and elated man smiles at the lesson of the past. The mansion stood in the same delightful spot, yet it seemed smaller than when we left it three years ago. The carpet lawns, the leafless groves and avenues, and the pretty out-houses, had gathered, it seemed, into a smaller space. The blue hills in the back-ground had stolen nearer to the bay, which itself looked more river-like than of old, and its dim floating line beyond was no longer the limit of the world. Every thing around, however, was laughing in peace and sunshine, as if no longer fearing the rude visit of war. There was something of glee even in the smoke that wound so solemnly aloft on a calm spring morning, giving the idea of the fire's funeral train; for henceforth the myrtle and fragrant lilac usurp its place in the hearth. The merry robin piped a thankful note to find his last summer's nest safe in its treefork; the hermit sparrow, who had spent a grave winter, drawn up, philosopher-like, under a hawthorn shed of snow, now stretched himself out, and hopped a fandango to his own music among the naked shrubbery. Larks were singing in the fields; flocks of blackbirds chattered from the trees; and often the flute-like whistle of the partridge swelled from the distant hedge. The broad and tranquil bay was spangled with fragments of ice, on many of which sea-gulls were perched to devour their prey. Several sail were standing listlessly on the ample sheet; and away from the shore, at the long blue line of deep water, whole acres of wild fowl were gathered in council, preparatory to their annual migration. Nearer in, numerous flocks of dippers frolicked around the bank; the beautiful swans had long since gone, and now the wild geese were on the wing and their wild bugle notes floated to the sky.

On that balmy morning, Catharine Harman, the last of her name, and sole mistress of a splendid estate, the gifted belle and the bereaved orphan, the mirror of fortune's brightest smiles and darkest frowns, had wandered without attendants to her favorite grove, and reclined herself on a vine-sheltered seat by the shore. She was dressed in deepest mourning, and there was something of holy harmony in its contrast with her unearthly beauty. Just before the end of the war, her father had died of the gout, like a true gentleman as he was; and his last breath was a prayer for his proud nephew's return, and his daughter's happiness. The orphan clung to her father's grave, and felt that she was desolate. At the winter's eve she would linger there, and murmur with the chilling winds, "I am alone;" and then came the memory of her cousin, so proud, so wronged, and now so wildly loved! Often would she steal, on the cold moonlight nights, to the lonely shore, to pray for the absent, and wonder at his fate. And oh! could he have seen that face in tears for him, and heard the wild and melancholy blessing of his name, what then would have been the struggles of pride, the hopes of fame, to the priceless homage of such a heart-the prayer of a lip so pure?

Catharine had changed; for she was no more a coquette. Ah, when the heart has once felt the bitterness of unhappy love, its anguish is no more a mockery. From that fatal evening when the offended beauty had driven her injured cousin from her presence for ever," a change came over the spirit of her dream." It was a first and bitter lesson in that unread tome of mysteries, the human heart. The wand was struck from the enchantress' hand, and she was poring over her own hidden couplets. She read them-they spoke of love for her noble cousin; deep, eternal, and breathing of worship, was that love.

Catharine had changed; for her exceeding loveliness was stripped of its scorn and hauteur. There was a lonely and tender sadness in her matchless features, more fatal to the heart than the blandest lines of the conscious beauty. Three years and accusing regret had wept from her eyes the fire of the morning sun, but left in its place the mournful poetry of the star. Sorrow might have stolen a rose from her cheek, but a softer lily slept in its stead. Before, she was the laughing wave of the ocean, singing with the summer wind, and splendid in its glee; now, she was that wave, exquisite in its weeping roll, when left by the wind that gave it life.

The orphan lady sat long and musingly by the shore. The soft influence of the season stole cheeringly over her soul. She smiled so like the Catharine of happier days, and there was a thought so fond and eloquent in that smile, as would lure cherubs down from their palaces of clouds.

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Surely," said the lady, as she flung back the crowding ringlets from her cheek, and her dark eye flashed, and her ripe lip curled with a meaning so like her former self; "surely that Power who gave this beautiful world its life, will not mark me for a cheerless pilgrimage through its singing vales. Have I not suffered enough-a mother, a brother, a father, and my cousin who always loved me! My thoughtless sin is bitterly atoned, and could he know all he would forgive-he did forgive me even when my curse was spoken! Oh, yes, he will come back and say, 'See, dearest, my life shall be a delightful task to make thee happy!' Oh, eternal hope, like the watch-light on the stormy coast, thou shinest the brighter for the darkness of the future. Has that future no bright spot for me?" and her eyes rested on a fleecy spot, away down on the scarce-defined bosom of the bay. Catharine watched it with a half attentive interest; and when, after an hour, it came up with the morning breeze, and emerged from the distance, a tall and splendid packet-brig, a wish, wild, thrilling, and tremulous, found utterance on her lips.

"That bark," she whispered," is freighted with the destiny of many hearts-perhaps of mine?" Sweeping the curls from her eyes, she looked again, and the brig, like a stately swan just alighting, suddenly furled her snowy wings, and dropped anchor a half mile off, just opposite the grove. A boat was lowered-she saw it-it rowed towards her-she saw the silvery oars glancing in the sun, the glazed hats of the sailors, and the group of dark forms astern; she caught a glance of something like a female dress, and how strange that she should feel an instant pang-a dread she knew not of what! The boat came nearer-a tall form stood up in the stern, as if eager to spring to land, and she saw the gleam of naval buttons; but, suddenly, the boat had swept around a beautiful slope towards the landing, in a mimic bay, on the northern side of the mansion.

Trembling and agitated, she knew not why, Catharine Harman hurried towards the house. At the gate of the lawn, she met her favorite servant. The girl was almost out of breath.

"Mercy! what is the matter, Sarah ?" asked Catharine.

Oh, Miss Kitty, I'm so agitated—don't know who they are-it is a very pretty lady, almost as pretty as my mistress, and a gentleman favors poor dead Mas Charley, he's so handsome-but ah, poor young master!"

"Hush!"

Pale and faint, she leaned on the servant's arm, and they flew to the house.

"I showed 'em in the front parlor," said the girl, but don't go in now, my dear mistress, you look so sick."

"Leave me," said Catharine, in a whisper; "I am well." Her cold hand was on the bolt-she stopped-then opened it with a shudder.

A girl whose almost infantile loveliness would shame the fairest plaything of the pencil bounded with out-stretched arms from a sofa, and stood a living, eager, beautiful statue of impulse. The mournful yet splendid beauty of the superb woman before her-her form of such elegant mould, and her features so finished—faultless, yet so like his—seemed to have overpowered the innocent creature in her haste. Catharine was rooted to the spot; and the girl sunk to the floor like a dying flower, and murmured gently-" Sister !"

"Sister!" burst wildly from Charles Harman, as he threw aside a folding door, and sprang to her side.

Catharine stood white and hushed as the chiselled inspiration of the sculptor.

"Speak to me, Catharine, my own sister," and the lady was strained convulsively to her brother's

bosom.

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Sister," she slowly repeated, as if talking to spirits of air, "I am no sister!" "Catharine! Catharine! I am your own brother Charles! Speak-oh, tell me that you know

me!"

Reeling like an exquisite statue shaken from its base, she swooned on her brother's bosom. For many minutes of intensest interest, Catharine was stretched upon the sofa, in the embrace of the agonized Charles; her hair had showered in dancing masses around, in vivid contrast with the fearful white of her features. The lovely girl at her side was endeavoring with caresses to win her back to life.

"See, Agnes," said Charles," she recovers."

"It was a sweet dream," heavily whispered Catharine; "oh, come back again !"

66 Sister, it is no dream."

"That voice-Charles ?"

"Catharine!"

A searching glance, a scream of delirious joy, and the frantic lady poured a flood of delicious tears on the neck of her long-mourned brother. When she looked up again, an arm as soft and fair as her own stole around her neck, and the weeping Agnes drew their lips together. Charles Harman placed her lily hand in that of the bewildered Catharine, and fondly said- My wife."

And a happy day was that. The strange news of young Harman's life and return flew over the estate like a prairie fire. The wondering negroes capered and flew to the "great house," to see the dead alive. Those only who have witnessed the return of a travelling "young master," can form any idea of the outbreak. Every soul, young and old, man, woman, child, set into dancing as if for life. With a negro, dancing is the out-pouring of the soul; it is his religion and poetry. Never was there such a scene of jollity since the prime days of their fox-hunting "old master." A month passed amid the wonder and congratulations of friends. (To be Continued.

LIFE AND DEATH.

BY GEORGE L. CURRY.

LIFE.

How transient! yet how wearisome it seems!
In infancy, like flower of early spring,
It struggles on, as weak and frail a thing;
Then youth, and with it pass those golden dreams
That have the inner temple of the heart

Illum'd with joy above the worldly kind,
But, ah! too transitory-too refined!

Then comes mid-age, most prone to guilt and art,
Avarice, exulting in his baneful power,
Impelling onward to inglorious ends,

Till in old age is wept the bitter hour

Of birth, and penitence at last befriends,

Or in despair, when all with ill seems fraught,
Death as a speedy antidote is sought.

Boston.

DEATH.

How dreadful 'tis to some-by others thought
A peaceful, though a dark and lonesome sleep;
And they who solemn vigils strictly keep,

And worship Heaven in truth, have wished for nought
Less terrible more earnestly than this;

Ye tired pilgrims journeying here below,
Weary and heart-sick of a world of wo,

Longing for immortality and bliss

Ye world-adoring mortals! then prepare,

Make pure your hearts, that God may enter in,
For it is terrible to die in sin;

The dread Hereafter foolishly to dare,

To have your spirits, wingless, doomed to dwell,
Forever in Corruption's loathsome cell.

THE MAGIC FIDDLE.

A FORECASTLE YARN.

TALK O' music-you should a' heared my old messmate Jack Splice, or " King Jack," as we afterwards called him, play on the wi-o-lin: it would have done your hearts good. Ah! Jack did with his fiddle what our guffees never did with their baggonets ashore; he saved the lives of a boat's crew; and more nor that, married a gov'nor's daughter, and was made King of the Island, and all along cause of his being sich a rare hand on the fiddle. Ah! you may snigger, my hearties, and thimk I'm running my chaffing ta'kle out, and coming Tom Pepper over ye, as was kicked out down below cause of his pitching it too strong; but I'm blessed! if the yarn isn't as true as that I'm capt'n o' the foretop o' this Her Maj'sty's ship B. But you shall hear the sarcumstances jist for all the world as they happened.

Ye see, my boys, when I was a young 'un I first of all tried my hand in the marchant sarvice, and having a straight-for'ard kindly sort o' a skipper, I took a trip or two in a trader to the West Ingees. The "William," as she was called, was a long wall-sided craft, with sich a sheer as ye never seed. Well, for the matter o' that she was decent enough for a marchantm'n, and if her decks war'n't holy-stoned as this here is, why there was some'ut less to do. In them 'ere days there was none o' your must'rings and 'spections, piping up and piping away, and exercises at great guns and small arms, as one sees and feels a-board a king's ship, and that too when an honest man might be taking his quid in peace, and be never the worse seaman; but I must belay my jaw-tacks, or mayhap the off'sir o' the watch mayn't like my 'pinion o' these here matters-not but all on ye knows I'll stick by the sarvice as long as my old timbers can lay out on a yard. Well, it was my third trip in the ship William, and we started with a fair wind from the Thames in the spring o' the year for Cuba. We carried out with us, besides our cargo, a lot o' pass'ngers. There was a young madam, the sweetest cretur ye ever knowed, a daughter o' a gov'nor o' one of the West Ingee islands, with an old lady and two sarvants to wait on her; and then there was a couple o' planter chaps, as yellow as a quarʼntine flag, together with a young sodger off'sir. But the best man o' the ship, for'ard or aft, was Jack Splice! He was a pictur o' a seaman to look on, and though more of a youngster than an oldster, he could hand a sail or box the compass with e'er a blue jacket as ever sailed. The gals ashore said as how he was the prettiest lad they ever clapped eyes on, while the oldest on the crew 'knowledged he was the smartest hand they ever seed aloft, and so Jack was—I never knowed his like. But Lord bless ye! this valeys as nothing to Jack's playing on the fiddle: it was sweeter nor any thing you ever heared. Jack was the boy to make ye dance: give me sixwater grog! if there was ever a man as could well keep his legs steady when he struck up " Jack's Alive," or the "C'lege Hornpipe." Ah! I've seed Jack play and foot it at the same time-coming the double shuffle and toe and heel touch, as never a player-m'n a-port could. Well, as long as the fair weather lasted, the watches went pleasant, as we had Jack's fiddle, and now and then may-be a can o' grog from the pass'ngers. We had been running afore the wind for three weeks, when, after chopping about for a matter o' two days, it shifted, and a reg'lar lot o' heavy gales from the nor'-west set in. Well, we were 'bliged to shorten sail, and stand to the south'rd, but it wouldn't do, there were so many hands at the bellows we were forced to scud for it for three days, a dead loss on the log, as the first mate said. On the fourth day the wind went down a bit, and shifted a few pints round to the west, though it still continued to blow fresh. I had just turned out with the second mate and six hands for the morning watch, and the ship was bucklingto agin under courses and reefed to'sels on the starboard tack, when all ot once a hand for'ard sings out "breakers a-head!" The skipper as was on deck had just time to pipe all hands, that the ship might be put about, when she ran dead on to a coral reef, the formast smashing off by the board, and ev'ry man being pitched off his legs. Well, there the ship stuck, as fast as if she had been on the stocks, a long heavy sea making clean breaches over her groaning timbers as she lay cast over to leward. Well, what with the screeching o' the poor young madam and her women—the cries o' the other pass'ngers, and the roaring o' the breakers as dashed over the decks, it was enough to have

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