and sunny, with a far prospect dotted with cottages, orchards, gardens, and bounded by mountains whose tops mingle with the sky.

I live away from the bank nearly a mile distant. Emerging from the wood, I cross divers fields and meadows-then a marsh, then a hill, then I dust my feet along the highway a little distance then I strike into a narrow stretch of forest, and leave the road dust behind me-then through a lane, over a fence, into a pasturethen into a garden, and I lift the latch which calls me master. My cottage is a long, low stretch of pine, painted to a dun brown-which dun brown was only accomplished by vast courage and resolution. Didn't the town painter, and the town carpenter, and town conclaves generally, protest and declare that white (or red) was the only proper, legitimate, Christian-like color for a pine cottage? To be sure they did, but the dun brown was accomplished in the face and to the scandal of high and low, far and near. This, however, was a score of years ago. They tell me now that in some places the sometime passion for white paint is dying out. Blessed be the painters!

out restraint. Even the pony will saunter in leisurely, and more than once I have suddenly found his head thrust over my shoulder into the book in my hand. The affection of these creatures warms into my heart. Their sympathy sometimes appears almost human.

When I speak of dumb creatures, I am inclined to include the Irish pair in the category. Blundering, dull, ignorant, with very little that I can detect above my dogs in intellect, they are like my dogs in faithfulness, honesty, and devotion. Pat and Molly may grope, and blunder, and stumble on through their duties, guided by what light their affection affords them, I shall never utter complaint at their shortcomings. If ever I detect a dawn of smartness, however, I shall be sorely tempted to discharge them. But I do not think that is possible. They are too old for any such misfortune.

No other beings live within or around my cottage. It is full of books, which to me are almost humanmore than friends, because their sympathy stands the test of every storm and adversity. There are two of them which are my own offspring-children of my My cottage is occupied by two dogs, three cats, a fancy, and who shall blame me if I love them well? guinea hen, two rabbits, a peacock, a community of Once but that was an absurd fancy-I thought ducks and chickens, a pony, a pair of doves, an Irish-it possible to bring unto my lone bachelor life one who man, and Molly his wife. I have a fondness for dumb would shed perpetual day upon my household. It creatures, and surround myself with them. I give them was strange that I should think of falling inlove--if I did free access to iny domicil. They pass in and out with- fall in love. Can a man of forty love a girl of sixteen ?

I do not know. Love is supposed to belong only to youth and beauty. I have neither-and yet-but you shall see.

my veins, but a rigorous course of looking-glass always succeeded in subduing the rebellious sentiment.

Indeed, I grew to be so completely a master of what threatened at one time to be a mighty passion, and had buried my love so deeply in my bosom, that I listened one day to her frank, ingenuous confession of her betrothal to another, with no other outward emotion than a sensible paleness, which I felt spreading over my cheek. A sharp, keen blade was entering my heart as she spoke, but I kissed her on her brow, perhaps with trembling lips, and hastened away from her side. It needed all my courage, and a pertinacious, resolved, philosophical contemplation of the look

One day as I was seated "under an oak whose antique root peeped out," there came down through the trees a young girl with her bonnet on her arm, her locks lifted and floating in the wind, a bright flush upon her cheeks, a bright and beautiful light in her blue eyes, a bright and radiant smile upon her lips. She paused and threw up her hands to catch a pendant bough. Her white arms gleamed above her head, her white neck shone through the falling tresses. I thought it a rarely beautiful picture, and held my breath to look. Her form was light but full of wonderful grace; her busting-glass that day to preserve the command over my was outlined with delicate fullness; her limbs, traceable through their drapery, seemed perfect in their symmetry.

She came down to the water, starting as she saw me, and blushing with beautiful confusion. I said a word or two to her, and she went on her way. All the rest of that day I found myself musing upon this beautiful vision. I dreamed of her at night, and awoke thinking of her. We met again the next day, and after that many times. We came to know each other well, and to pass hours together upon the banks of Shady Side. Beatrice was her name. She was the only child of a gloomy, taciturn gentleman, a widower, who had come up from town to settle amid the rural beauties of our neighborhood. She was very fair, trustful, pure, gentle, loving-could I have been a mortal not to have verged upon the flowery precipice? When she would speak so soft and low, or place her hand in mine, or look up into my face with her frank, sweet eyes, or play some girlish prank, such as crowning me fantastically with flowers and oak garlands, as if she were Titania, and I Bottom-could I help the bound to my heart, and the strange thrill that went through it?

But I did penance for these heart-bounds. "Hi, old fellow," said I, "look in the glass. What do you see there? Is there a face for sweet sixteen? Look at the crow feet, sir-at the furrows and the wrinkles, and the hair and beard already pepper and salt! Is that a face for beautiful Beatrice ?"

emotions. I kept repeating, as if it were a text— "You're old, old boy, old and ugly, too!"

I recalled, too, Goethe's plan, who, upon the occurrence of any calamity, betook himself forthwith to the study of a new science. But, it was sternly difficult to follow the cold abstrusities of a science, with visions of what might have been-of trusting, up-looking, confiding love ever at my side, nestling in my heart-of a radiance upon my hearth-stone, where only a shadow was now forever to rest—of sunlight in my heart which now could never more enter-with visions of youth, and bloom, and beauty thrusting themselves between me and the page! I was weaker than Goethe. The study afforded me no oblivion. I paced my floor that night until the dawn broke into my room, and then I buried my face in my pillow, and half slept, half dreamed away an hour or two.

In the morning, I breakfasted before the lookingglass, and I sternly said, "Old and ugly! What presumption to think of love! Study it well, old boy; it is your only cure."

The wedding-day came, and I stood up in church, very calm and very passive, to see the ceremony. Every eye was strained to see the bride enter; she came, and her course led her within a few feet of me. The church grew suddenly dark as she swept by. A book dropt from my hand. I could neither see nor hear.

It was over, and the crowd passed out. I followed staggeringly, and when I reached the porch the bride

I winced a little, but I rigorously enforced myself to came up-so rarely beautiful-called me her old friend, study the looking-glass every day.

"You're old, old boy, old and ugly, too. Your heart is choked with the ashes of old, dead sensations; it has burnt out its fire long ago. Shall you take a withered heart, and a withered face, and dead hopes, and sluggish brain, and tainted blood, to the pure, fresh, unstained youth of Beatrice? Out upon you, old boy! Don't you see how monstrous the thought is? Look close in the looking-glass, and you will see it fully."

This plan was a happy one. It cured me of all thoughts of loving Beatrice, and kept down into the recesses of my heart, emotions and passions that otherwise would have struggled up. Occasionally, indeed, at some word of hers, or some sweet caress-for we grew to know each other well and freely-my heart would rise in my throat, and the blood run tingling through

and asked my blessing. I pressed back her curls, gave the last kiss, and took the last look. Then the crowd came in between us, the old church tottered, sky and earth were commingled, and I grasped at a column for support.

I hardly knew what followed, except that I found myself shortly afterwards hastening through the fields with a wild, irregular step, pausing mechanically to stare up at the sky, following the devious zig-zag fences abstractedly, until at last I came to the old familiar Shady Side. I flew to the water-side, threw myself down upon the bank, pulled my hat over my brows, and for once allowed the pent up grief to break, unchained and free.

The next morning I brought out a rod, clapped a small glass in my pocket, went down to the old spot,

threw my hook to the stream, and taking out the aforesaid glass, read myself a lesson, while with one eye I watched my reel.

your rods, and your dogs, and don't ever aspire to so much happiness again. It wouldn't be wise. You'd only be dropped down upon earth as harshly as now. Be a man-that is, grub-make money, love stocks, count shares, pile up acres, take to Wall street—after the manner of manhood! But don't think of beauty and youth again, old boy!"

My line suddenly shot out. Away went the glass over my head, and I sprang to my feet. A bouncer was on my line, that was certain. Now for my skill. Love and such folly, avaunt! What are you to the glorious sport at hand? The fish, a splendid fellow, was safely landed, and I went back to the looking-glass. It was shivered into a hundred pieces.

"Old boy! Sentiment and passion at your time of life, hey! A pretty how to do, upon my word! You're a man of the world, I should think. Because you met a pair of pretty eyes, and a bright smile, and a peachy cheek, you thought they were for you, hey? And now you'd like to be melancholy and sentimental, and prate about unrequited affection, I suppose. You are an old fool if you do. Shake it off, sir. It was only a dream. Wake up, rub your eyes, dash your head in water-it will be all over with. You were weak, yesterday. You must shake and tremble like a girl, or a schoolboy. Bah! Can't you see beauty or loveliness "Never mind, old boy!" said I, "You're old and without thinking they must belong to you? What ugly, you know, and you'll never be guilty of such folly are you, old, dull, senseless block, that you should dare again! Your passion is shivered as the glass is, as your hope for so much? Keep along with your books, and | foolish dream was!"

NELLIE'S ILLUSIONS.

If ever there was a happy, bustling, comely little | morrow would show what they were: and then Carry woman, it was Ellen Fairfield, when the first time for twelve hours she seated herself beside her bright hearth, and looked into the clear fire, with a positive certainty that everything was done, everything prepared for the eventful morrow.

Ellen-no, let us call her Nellie at once, for that was her pet name, and no one ever said Ellen after a single day's acquaintance-Nellie was now at housekeeping; it was the first Christmas eve she had ever spent in her own house, the first Christmas dinner she had ever prepared for, on her own responsibility. This was being married, indeed; and there was that husband of hers, sitting on the other side of the fire, reading away as if unconsciously as if there was nothing in it, as if any one was equal to such a task, as if Christmas puddings came down from heaven ready made, and mince pies grew in the garden. Another time Nellie might have gone to him, coaxed the book out of his hands, insisted on his taking off those odious spectacles, and claimed his attention, while she bewildered his intellect with an account of frightful perils and narrow escapes which had befallen her in the domestic arena. Not that he took in a word of it at all: he only understood that he had a dear little wife, whose fair face, upturned with animated glauce, was a pleasanter page to read than the rarest author on his well-filled shelves, and comprehended that she was a very fairy in household management, inasmuch as she never scolded, did everything quietly, and religiously abstained from setting his books and papers to rights.

But Nellie was too dignified to chat to-night; she felt that even her husband was unworthy a confidence he could so little appreciate; no one but a woman could sympathize in all the conflicts and triumphs of that day; many of them must die unrecorded, but others to

and Margaret would be there; they were not like Robert, they knew what it was! She had a clear half hour before the coach brought them, however; and, as there was nothing more to be done, she seated herself as we have said, and gradually fell into a musing review of the last two years of her life, and the circumstances that had combined to fix her happy lot in that pleasant, simple home.

There are few memories that are not sad ones; for if they are of pleasant hours, those hours are gone for ever; and if of sorrow, there is a scar upon the heart, which burns afresh when touched.

To judge by the cloud gathering over that smiling brow, by the gradual closing of lips generally parted, as if the heart within were ready to disclose itself, the drooping of lashes on the round rosy cheeks, Nellie's memories are very sad ones indeed. We have a right to know them, Nellie—what are you thinking of?

The old, old home, where the first prayer was lisped at a mother's knee; the dear spot hallowed by such sweet childish memories, remembered always as in an atmosphere of Spring; sunshine, and flowers, darkened only by thought of death, when they who made it home were hidden from the orphan's gaze in the tombthe old, old home, when they parted from it, never to behold it again, conscious that strangers' footsteps would wear out the tracks they had trodden, and sweep away traces mingled with their dearest love.

Two large tears gather slowly on Nellie's lashes. an offering on that happy evening to the beloved dead, to the sacred past.

Now comes another phase, a memory of one who wronged her young heart, won its love, and flung it idly by; the warm proud flush dries the tear, and a flash steals out from the downcast eyes. Nellie,

the heart that is so angry still, is hardly healed of its love-wound! She flies the thought as she fled from him. In fancy she leaves again the wealthy home where he had crossed her path, rejects dependence on rich relations, for harder dependence on a grudging, poor one: that was a hard trial, Nellie, but it was bravely borne, and it has led thee here. Those long solitary walks of thine, intended to drive away the bitter thoughts that thronged the heart's still chambers, how little couldst thou dream, when they were first crossed by that strange, thoughtful-looking man, that he would be all to thee one day, the consoler of the past, the object of the present, the guide of the future. A strange thing is life, Nellie; and it is well sometimes for the prettiest and happiest even to lay a small round chin in the palm of a soft white hand, and ponder on it, as thou art doing now. It was those primroses that did the mischief first (that such innocent-looking flowers should so demean themselves!) didn't they grow in such an unattainable spot, that when Nellie had climbed up there, she could not get down again, but was obliged to accept the extended hand, proffered by Mr. Fairfield?

Nellie did it, blushingly indeed, but still she thought such an old gentleman it could not matter; and so she suffered him to walk by her side that day, and many other days when they met, until she discovered suddenly that he was not so old after all, and that her walks were very lonely when she did not happen to meet him.

a candle. A great confusion, a rush of cold air from the frost, a smell of damp straw from the luggage an odor of fustian from the guard's coat, a general confusion from every one's talking at once, and chinking money in unison, and then a cheery "Merry Christmas to you, sir." "Health ladies," from the man, as he drained the glass Nellie had filled for him, and he was gone, the door closed; and the three sisters stood together again for the first time for three long years; the first time since they bade adieu to their early home, and their mother's grave.

The memory comes throbbingly to Nellie's heart, it rises in her voice, and swims in her bright eyes; but she forces it back with words and smiles of welcome.

"Dear Carry, how handsome you have grown! I can see that, though you're blue with cold."

A quieter, tenderer greeting for Margaret, who is already seated in the easy chair, close to the fire, with that dear, clumsy Robert trying to get her out of her wraps-he does it, too. Nellie would never have believed him capable of such a thing; and Margaret's quiet eyes are raised to thank him-she is too tired to speak; but they seem friends already, that is pleasant! Now to see him greet Carry: he turns to her with frank kindness, a little awkward, perhaps, but brotherly too, and imprints a paternal kiss on her cheek, which she accepts with a certain hauteur, for Carry prefers distant homage.

Nellie has no time to think what she feels; but as her quiet eye remarks, she does feel something. Margaret must have some tea, and go to bed, that is quite clear, she is so pale and tired.

with another atmosphere than that of ordinary life?

Nellie would have repulsed him angrily, had he made love to her. The wounds in her heart were too recent, and fancy's ideal still too vividly engraved there, to be What is all this care for Margaret? why do their displaced quickly, and by such a man, too, as Robert voices sink to gentler, more caressing tones, when Fairfield; but he contrived to get possession of every-speaking to her, and their actions shadow her round thing else, if he had not love; he opened the rich stores of his mind for her improvement; he won her confidence, her esteem, her friendship; and at last, when she had accompanied his mother, such a dear old lady as she was, to the lonely cottage he inhabited, and seen how desolate it looked for want of a woman to take care of it, and set it to rights, pity finished off the business, and Nellie suffered Robert to take her hand in his, and promised at the altar to be a true and loving wife.

Margaret is an invalid, doomed never to know the blessed meaning of health and strength; there is no hope for her, only a long, lingering life of pain, perhaps; but this sad certainty, and the mystery of her patient suffering, make her a holy thing to those two kindly natures. Robert has taken off his spectacles, and forgotten to replace them in his anxiety about her; and had Nellie time, she suspects she should detect tears in those eyes, so occupied with her invalid

She had never once repented of it. Busy, merry lit-sister. tle creature that she was, she not only seemed to But it is all bustle (quiet bustle though, for Nellie is be making honey all day long, but always had a quan- never noisy) till Margaret has had her tea, and is safely tity on hand for immediate consumption; and the pret-stowed away in her warm room, too weary to admire tiest cottage in the village had become, thanks to her its neat cleanness or to say more than a faint "God clever hands, the neatest and most tasteful. Robert bless you, darling!" to her attentive sister. said so, and his mother said so, and so did the neighbors; and as strangers always stood and peeped in as they passed by, it was to be presumed they were of the same opinion.

And now they three draw in their chairs round the fire, and prepare, as Nellie says, for a nice chat. Who is to begin? Carry sits on one side, very upright; tired, but refusing to own it; handsome too-a showy beauty, a fine bust, quick flashing eyes, wanting softness it may be. She is beautifully dressed also, for she lives with the wealthy relatives whom Nellie had left for solitude and a maiden-aunt; and her silk dress fits nicely, and has an evident self-consciousness of being in Nellie ran out in the dark, and Robert stayed to light the newest fashion. It was not a dress she need have

Nellie had just reached this pleasant consummation of her reverie, and had regained the same bright glad look with which she had started on it, when wheels were heard at the garden-gate-a sure sign that the coach was come in, and the sisters at hand.

Nellie had never found it out.
"You are accustomed to such grand doings, you see,

"How you could leave a town for such a place as this, Nelly, is what puzzles me; and then to fix yourself in it by marrying? Why did you not wait till I was settled? and then you could have come to me, and I would have found you some one worth throwing yourself away for."

apologized for at any rate, as a travelling one, especially
to Robert, who never knows even what his wife wears,
has no knowledge of silk or satin, but calls everything | Carry."
stuff, whatever its texture. But when Carry had made
the apology, which had been on her mind ever since
her arrival, and Robert had begged her not to name it,
and Ellen had smiled at her innocence, the conversation,
so feebly begun, came to another dead stop. Why
didn't Robert begin? He sits looking through those
dreadful spectacles of his at the fire, thinking abstract-
edly, when he ought to be talking instead; one of his
funny stories now would set them all off, if he would
but tell it.

Had Nellie written a description of Robert at that moment, and Carry another, how different they would have been! Nellie would have said, that it was the dearest, kindest face in the world; that the spectacles concealed the mildest, most beaming eyes, that ever a manly soul looked through; that the scanty hairs on his nearly bald head, covered the most clever, sensible brain. And Carry would have said in three words, what a queer, old-fashioned-looking husband poor Nellie has got!

But the evening that promised to be so cheerful was going by, and they were all speaking in monosyllables. Nellie made a dash; she began upon their childish days. Carry let it drop: she had a bad memory, and wasn't sentimental, she said. Nellie talked of the town she lived in; Carry grew communicative on the score of society, gossip, and the fashions. Robert showed great signs of weariness, and looked wistfully at his book. Nellie made a great effort, forced him into the conversation, and at last into one of his best stories. But alas! just at the very best part, where the interest was greatest, Carry gave most evident signs of being bored; Robert saw them not, but deliberately pursued his way; Carry yawned behind her hand. If he would but talk a little faster, and not laugh at his own jokes: no-he is fairly off. Poor Nellie was greatly troubled; were it possible to hurry him, or to interest Carry; but no, Carry will not be interested; she begs his pardon just as he reaches the very point of the whole matter, and asks what time it is, for she really thinks she must go to bed. Robert, not a whit disconcerted, answers her question; but Nellie blushes for both, is angry alike with the long story, and the rude inattention it received. However, it is all over now, and so is the evening she looked forward to; and she marshals Carry upstairs to her room.

The visitor's room, par excellence, with a broad, oldfashioned lattice casement, half-overgrown in summertime by scented flowers, with a cheerful fire in a modern grate, picture-covered walls, and a white dimitycovered bed, the essence of cleanliness, and inviting comfort.

The words implied something distasteful about Robert, and Nellie colored violently.

"I am quite happy, Carry," she said; "I do not wish to change my lot."

"Quite happy? Nonsense!" said Carry; "do you mean to persuade me that any one can be happy without society, mewed up the whole day long in small rooms, with a husband in spectacles, who tells long stories, and laughs at his own jokes ?"

"Oh, Carry, he is the best-"

"My dear, I don't say he isn't, for I'm sure he is all that; but you can't deny, and I'm sure it's no disgrace to him, that he does wear spectacles, is very prosy, and old-fashioned."

"Never mind, when he is kind and good," said Nellie.

"No more than he ought to be, with a young, pretty wife like you, Nellie dear; but still I do maintain, that you ought to have married better. Fancy the fun that would be made of him, if he were introduced at N. in our set! It would be impossible. But there, don't be angry, it's no use talking now, it's done; you must come without him-say you want change of air, and leave him at home. I shall expect you very soon, my dear; for I'm expecting to be married; and when I've a house of my own, I hope often to have my sisters with me."

Nellie forgot everything else in her joy at this news. "Dear Carry, are you really engaged? Oh! tell me all about it."

"I really am; and who to, of all men in the world ?" Nellie shook her he 1.

"Why, Charles Sew 1."

Back, back, wild throbbing heart! what have you to do with this? Back, back, hot blood! painting tales that should never be told on the blushing cheek. Should Robert Fairfield's wife start thus, at a name connected with falsehood and wrong?

Carry wonders at her emotion; but her triumphant pleasure blinds her eyes to its extent.

"We shall be married early in the summer; we have chosen our house, and when I return, shall begin furnishing.”

Then followed a list of all the furniture, useful and ornamental, which would be absolutely necessary; the catalogue was unheeded by Nellie, though she seemed

Carry throws herself into an easy-chair, and yawns to listen attentively; but Carry was startled when she again.

rose at length, and putting her arms round her sister's

"How do you contrive to breathe, Nellie, in these neck, said, with a short, quick sob: rooms?"

"Very well, dear; why not?"

"They are so low, they quite suffocate me."

"God bless you, dear Carry, and him too; I hope you will be very, very happy."

Not another word spake poor Nellie that night in any