Her face was singularly beautiful—a dark, ruddy, peach-ripe color, eyes dark and brilliant, hair black and combed in simple plain bands back from her brow; a mouth, full and very sweet in expression; a brow, calm and placid, such as I like to see in women.

|-not even you, to whom my breast is glass, transparent of everything. Do not mock me, Grace. I tell you, because I want you to share my triumph. So listen, I am writing a book."

"A book, Mark," said Grace, suspending her work Ap-upon the garland, and looking thoughtfully upon the ground; "go on."

The oak stood upon the outskirts of the forest. proaching it with stealthy, rapid steps, unseen by the lady, was one the reader already knows as Mark Harlow.

So absorbed was the lady-we will call her Grace Ellington at once—with her occupation, or with pleasant thoughts, that the approaching footsteps fell heedlessly upon her ears. Suddenly, two arms were thrown about her neck. She gave a quick cry, and started forward, but a glance at the comer sent a bright glow to her cheek.

I was a Tittle pained at this coolness, but I continued:

"Full of my glorious dreams, Grace-full of high thoughts, a grand book." "A poem ?"

No, a romance."
"You will fail, Mark."

"Fail!" I dropped her hand. Her face was averted. "You think me a dolt," said I, with bitterness, "with

"Ah, Mark, is it you? I shall punish you for these out genius, talent--a miserable, dull, incapable fool!" frights."

Anything but banishment."

"Banishment it certainly shall be."

"I don't believe you. That would punish the judge as well as the criminal."

"Impudence! You are spoiled, Mark. I am getting tired of you." This was said with the brightest look

and the sweetest sinile.

"Are you just, Mark?" said she softly, placing her hand upon my arm.

I started up in excitement and paced the ground. "You think I have no genius, Grace, but I will prove it yet. I will climb. The ascent may be hard, but I can master it. The mountain-top for me I could not endure an obscure, dull career. I want fame, Grace. I want honor and greatness. I shall win them, too." "Greatness!" said Grace, still thoughtful, "that

Veracity! Veracity! Grace, where is your truth?" "In the well, I suppose, where it came from," seat-word, so often misused." ing herself at the foot of the tree, and gathering together more leaves for her garland.

"You doubt my power to be great—”

"No, Mark. But greatness is not fame-nor fame,

"A garland, Grace? Who is it for? Whose brow greatness. One is-" shall it grace?”

"I know," said I, impatiently, "the old, trite, dull interpretation. Greatness is goodness! Pshaw! Great

"A hero's." "It is mine," said I confidently, and flinging myself ness is mighty deeds—” upon the ground by her side.

"You are not a hero."

"No, but, by Heaven, I aspire. I have not accomplished, Grace, but give me time, and I shall do

so."

66

Accomplish? Your bane, Mark, is idleness." "No, it is love."

"Then absence is the antidote. Leave me." "I swear it is not. I am frantic when I am away from you, Grace. I swear-”

"Stop, stop, Mark. Nobody believes lover's oaths. It is useless swearing. I want facts, not words. Tell me how you pass your time, and you shall see how the charge of idleness is good. You called me judge-answer upon your truth."

"In love. Making woeful ditties to my mistress' eyebrows;' carving on every tree 'the fair, the chaste, the inexpressive she-""

66

แ

Strong deeds, I grant you."

Oh, Grace, you must be my way of thinking. When I pant for greatness, I think of you too-see your brow crowned no less than mine. My love and my ambition are twin passions, dearest Grace-and what I win, I bring to your feet. But why, cruel and inexorable judge, why will I fail?"

"Your book, I mean, Mark, will fail."
"But why? why?"

66

"You must first get beyond all these emotions and passions before you can succeed. He who writes, must sit upon a cloud-the passions of the world beneath him experienced, known, and mastered."

"Oracular and wise, 'pon my word. Go on, Grace." "You mock me, now."

"No, I do not. Go on."

"If I appear to be wise, it is only because I respect what I have heard my guardian say. First books are

"Two quotations in a breath! That's enough of so often failures, Mark, because they are the incoherent Shakspeare for at least twenty minutes, Mark." "Grace," seizing her hand, and holding it tightly, "you torment me. I love you to madness-a thousand times more than you love me, for you do nothing but banter me."

"Poor Mark!"

"I'll run if you mock me so, Grace. But let me tell you. You accuse me of idleness. You are unjust, and I will prove it. I have a secret-not a soul knows it

tumultuous overflow of emotions felt-rushing into being through vague, wild, but powerless expression. It is our dead passions only, Mark, which we can analyze, master, and express."

"Infidelity, rank. Look at the poets from the beginning."

"Like a woman, Mark, I judge only from the little world I see. But never mind. I have, perhaps, a reason for wishing you not to plunge into that dangerous

course. Men who are ambitious make glory their mis- | bright, mantling blush-a frown with difficulty forced tress." -a laughing threat-and that was all.

"What, jealous!" Arm locked in arm, we walked through the twilight "I am or would be," replied Grace, laughing together. The sun had just dipped behind the westgaily. ern hills. Our distance was scarcely half a mile—not 'Silly girl. I might climb to the moon, and my far enough to fill up the long mellow space between Grace should ever be above me to worship." the sunlight and the stars.

"A very pretty speech. Yet I fear you might forsake me. Ah, Mark, for your sake, perhaps I should be glad to see you famous-but not for mine. Our happiness," placing her hands upon my shoulder, "does not lie that way, Mark." "Our glory does."

She shook her head, slowly and thoughtfully. She had risen and we were standing together close by the trunk of the tree.

"Is there not more bitterness, heart-burning, envy, disappointed hopes, and unsatisfied desires, than of glory, Mark?"

"Oh, you little wise woman. Shake not those locks at me so ominously. I will not hear such croaking, Grace. I am young, and full of ambition-ambition and love. That's enough for the present. Come, your garland is finished. Who shall be crowned? Grace Ellington, the new Minerva!"

"Hush, you mocker. The garland is for you."
"For me? Shall I kneel?"
"You are foolish, Mark."

แ Folly is the lover's privilege. Would you have me wise and sensible? Ah, Grace, I must say and do extravagant things—it were not love else. It is this playful bantering which restrains me on the brink of passion's deep gulf. Fire breaks from my heart, to escape from my lips in laughter. Grace, Grace, I do love you

so!"

"Back from the brink, you madman-you are falling in!"

We walked by forest ways, with half merry, half passionate words upon our lips-saying and doing a hundred absurd things, as lovers ever have since Adam, the first love-maker, courted Eve. And yet, in all our loves' fond foolishness, we were wise enough to avoid the depths of sentiment, adventurously singeing and dipping our wings in the dangerous flame, as we hovered, and played about it, but guarding against a plunge into the consuming fire. Grace, in her woman's wisdom and woman's wisdom is perfect in the sphere of love and feeling-knew what the danger was, and spun her tissues of mirth and laughter as the slight but firm ligaments, which alone could restrain and control the impulsive Mark.

We approached her cottage by the river walk, and at the garden gate I bade her good night. I saw her flit into the house, and then, in a pleasing reverie, I walked slowly away. The night was settling fast, and with the view of returning by the open road, I passed around in front of the house. My eyes were bent upon the ground, my thoughts absorbed, and I did not notice surrounding objects. In the midst of my reverie, I was aroused by the champing of bits close to my side. I looked up hastily, and found myself within a few feet of two of my father's horses, saddled, and tied to a post. A little surprised at this, I turned back to enter the house. The door was open and I went in. No one was near. I entered the parlor, my footsteps echoing loudly through the empty hall. Still no one. A free visitor, I felt myself at liberty to proceed. I strolled

"No, no. I am at your feet. The garland, Grace." through the rooms, shadowy and dim in the fading "There you are crowned-" day, and approached one that Grace called her bou"Before the victory, but I swear to deserve it. I doir where amid books and music her time was must kiss your hand." mostly spent. I heard a rustling as I drew near-a receding footstep, and as I stepped through the open

"Have done-how silly, Mark!"

"There! there! Grace," catching her in my arms, "the door, I saw a figure pass out from the room in the hand is not enough." opposite direction, which I detected as my father's Grace was standing erect by a chair, deadly pale, I could see, even in the darkening shadows.

"It is. Back, Mark. I'll have no raptures. tread upon the brink, indeed."

"Your cheek, if not your lips."

You

She stood suddenly still, and demurely held her cheek up to my lips, but I could see an arch twinkle in her eye.

Go," said I, my passion suddenly cooling, and turning her face away with my hand, "go, I climbed the wall to steal the fruit."

"Why, Grace-" I began, but with a motion of her hand, she stopped me.

"Leave me, Mark. Come to-morrow. Go at once." She sat down in excess of agitation. I moved towards her, but she almost imperatively waived me back. I turned away, pained and perplexed. Upon the door-sill I paused and looked back. Her face was

Grace laughed a gleeful laugh as she caught my averted. She would not see me. hand and kissed it, then looking up, exclaimed:

The sun is down. It's time for home." "Her lips were near.

With strange fears and dark thoughts, through the narrowing arch of the night, I passed slowly home

One quick, full kiss-a cry-award.

(To be continued.)

"Он, what fine peaches! Stop one moment, only a land breadth of her face which, geographically speakmoment they are the first plump, sunny-cheeked ing, offered a very uneven but broad expanse for the peaches I have seen this year. Do stop!" smile to travel over.

No, my companion was inexorable. The last bell of that prince of river steamers, the Alida, was sounding, and our carriage dashed by the stand heaped with delicious fruit, almost on the gallop. A flourishing check of the horses, a quick handling of luggage, a simultaneous spring for the gangway plank, and all was right. The Alida swept boldly out upon the Hudson, and we had pleasant seats upon the deck. But those peaches were left behind, the finest of this sterile season. That was a disappointment.

But for the peachy glow which my thoughts gave to everything, I might have been led to reflect more seriously on the probable social level of my new acquaintance. Indeed, I did turn my thoughts that way once or twice, when she ventured on some remark about the scenery we were passing. The language was of the best old Saxon, though I must confess it would have been improved by a slightly different arrangement of words. Her dress, too, had a doubtful originality of outline that might not have been considered the thing It was wonderful how that heap of sunny peaches at Genin's, and her mantilla certainly did not come from haunted me that sultry morning. My lips were fever-Molyneux Bell's cut; but, having once mistaken a crown ish, for I was not quite well, and this was why we prince for a travelling agent, I am rather shy at jumptook a trip up the river. We made inquiries for fruit ing at conclusions, especially en route, when the best on board. Water and wine, and delicious ice-cream there was, but no peaches, and then nothing else seemed capable of appeasing my thirst.

You would not believe how regretfully I looked back on the city; not that I objected to leaving its dust and glitter, but that stand of peaches with the stout old woman behind it, how I envied her! True, she might not afford to eat the peaches, but then she could enjoy the fruity odor, and I would have given something for that.

The North River scenery is superb, finer than that of the Rhine, and almost equal to the wilder passes of the Danube; but I had seen it a hundred times, and the rich crimson that lay like a haze on that heap of peaches, floated between me and the shore all the time. The boat was crowded, and a blessed old woman-I did not exactly know whether to call her lady or not-drew close to my seat, and looked with a sort of sympathy into my face. I have no doubt she fancied a half-famished expression there, for directly she drew a little closer, and opening a square travelling-basket that exactly fitted upon her lap, which was not over capacious, though she was, took out a couple of crackers, and placing them in her plump palm, offered them

to me.

"No," said I, a little disappointed, for a faint idea of peaches presented itself as she opened the basket, and looked so compassionately my way, "no, thank you, not a mouthful. I am rather feverish and thirsty, that is all."

"Ah," said the dear lady, "that is very hard; have they nothing on the boat?"

"No," said I, with a mournful sense of bereavement, "nothing. They have inquired at the office; so I must make the best of it."

That dear ld soul felt sorry for me, I could see that plainly enough; she opened her basket a little, and closed it again irresolute. It was a good-sized basket, and must have held something beside crackers. I am afraid I looked wistfully that way, for she gave me an encouraging nod, and a smile ran over the entire length

class of travellers usually dress the plainest, and so reserved an opinion regarding my new friend, subject to farther developments. One thing was certain, whatever deficiency might present itself in quality, there could be no want of compensation in quantity; for, search as you would, it was impossible to get even a glimpse of her chair, it was so completely overflowed and pressed out of sight by her person.

When the old lady opened her basket, I was disposed to take the bright view of her worldly condition—but, as she closed the lid, I paused with a prudent secondthought regarding the peaches that I felt more and more certain were laying their crimson cheeks together in the bottom of that basket, and began to reconsider probabilities, as a prudent person should.

"There, isn't that a nice house? I shouldn't mind living there myself," she said, lifting her plump hand, and pointing as well as the great strain upon her mit would allow, toward the opposite bank where two houses were visible; one, a pretty rustic cottage, nestled down in a hollow and half-buried in vines-and the other, a great staring white house upon a lift of the hills, without a tree to shade it, and with red, short moreen curtains streaming through the open windows. going to see my daughter, who lives in just such a house; to tell the truth, I make my home with her!"

"I'm

"I say," whispered the old lady, giving another peep into her basket, and bending toward me, mysteriously, as if delicately ashamed of her own generosity; "I've got something besides crackers in this basket. Come down into the cabin, and I'll give you something nice!"

My heart rose and smote me at the same time. Something nice-peaches, of course, it could be nothing else that dear old lady, how kind she was, and I to think that a person so delicate and thoughtful could live in a great impudent house with red curtains like that; of

THINGS WE TALK ABOUT.

-Two art curiosities now arrest the attention of the Broadway promenader. One is the copper statue of Washington, hammered out of sheet-copper by Mr. Neumann, a coppersmith. In view of the material, the implements, and the untrained skill of the worker, it is a wonderful product of patience, labor, and native genius. Its proportions are not, perhaps, entirely perfect. It is somewhat stiff and rigid, but no more so than we could expect. As a likeness, it is not inferior to some more pretentious performances. Copper statues are neither desirable nor agreeable, but Mr. Neumann, in his earnest evolving of grand ideas, through such poor channels as they could find, proves himself to be of superior metal, and capable, with proper opportunities, of becoming an eminent sculptor.

The other art-eccentricity is a portrait of Shakespeare, burnt with a poker up on a common board. Shrewish wives have always been addicted to the use of this peculiarly feminine weapon (offensive and defensive), but we here have it made available upon heads in a new, and we will venture to say, more agreeable way. The portrait is singularly good for such peculiar execution.

Let us say, however, that oddities and tricks in art ought to be condemned. There is a disposition in the public mind to mistake mechanical trickeries and juggleries for true art. People are prone to run after monstrosities in art just as they are in natural history. The five-footed calf is an institution which thrusts itself through all the arts, and invariably sets the world astare. There are an abundance of people who never take any interest in art unless it is standing on its head. They don't know what it means unless it is in connection with something fantastic. It must be playing some antic to make it to them at all acceptable. Of the existence of Idea they have no conception. They think that art means the triumph over mechanical difficulties. If a man will sing from the bottom of his boots, or make music from pop-guns-paint a picture with a tooth-brush upon a cheese-box, or mould a statue richly shaded with all the inter-blending hues of old castile, why then they are in ecstasies. The jugglery of a sham art is all they can comprehend. A wax figure in a pea-jacket is finer than the Greek Slave, because more life-like. At the Crystal Palace, a few years ago, the veiled busts (pieces of mere mechanism), were surrounded by a crowd of admirers, while the noblest groups of marble remained unnoticed. Go to any exhibition and you will see the same thing. The mechanical, the trick, the antic, the juggle, lords it over the Idea. Art, in its true significance, is but little known. struggling to rise above the level of the pig with three heads.

It is still

We

-AMID the variety of shade trees in our city, how is it that the locust tree is scarcely to be found, when in the characteristics of beauty, cleanliness, freedom from worms, thriftiness, and rich depth of color, it peculiarly recommends itself for the purposes of city shade trees? allude, let it be understood, to the yellow locust, and not to the honey locust. The foliage of the locust is peculiarly beautiful, rich and dark in hue, and affording contrasts in play of light and shade, exceeding in fineness of effect that of almost any other tree. The locust, moreover, is attractive when of any size or height-even when no bigger than a shrub. Its shade is singularly sweet; anything will grow under it. It does not exhaust the soil where is grows, but so enriches it as even to make a poor one good.

-THE widow of Lord Byron is still alive and in good health. She has recently purchased the residence of the late poet Rogers, in London.

The friends of Mr. Rogers will hardly be pleased to know that his pleasant home has passed into the possession of a woman who embittered the life of his dearest friend. "Read this," said Rogers to me one morning, as we stood in the great bay window of his drawing-room, which overlooks the Green Park, just before going down to breakfast, "read this, and you will think more kindly of poor Byron." The letter which he held had just been taken from a portfolio of autographs. It seems that some charge had been made against the passion-poet, that he had spoken harshly of his wife, and he appealed to Rogers, his intimate friend, to say if he had not always mentioned her with the utmost