Sweet Anne Drummond, too, with her violet eyes and bright hair, looking like Dante's Beatrice,

"Con un color angelica di perla."

Why did she turn so pale, and tremble like a leaf, when some one asked her just now if she remembered the last race-ball, and whether it was not a very grand affair? She who seemed so happy on that night was the belle of the room, and waltzed, if we forget not, two or three times running with Cornet Fitzjames, whom all the rest of the girls were trying in vain to get to notice them; and not caring a pin although her old lover stood looking on, with his arms folded, and his lips almost as white as hers are now, as she answers her interrogator in a tearful voice

Yes, we were all very merry." "All but Mr. Atherton. By the bye, I fancied at one time he was a beau of yours, my dear."

Poor Anne! Perhaps she had thought so too, once, but that was all past now; and she only shook her head, smiled, and then sighed a moment after, and was thankful to be able to keep from crying.

We shall notice one more in that festal scene, and how beautiful she is! what a world of passion and tenderness in those large dreamy eyes! what intellect in the broad white brow! She is a poetess; and, girl as she looks, fame has already recognised its gifted one, and her name found an echo in many hearts. Mark how they crowd about her, as though that low voice were an oracle; and how the bashfulness of the woman sheds a crowning glory upon the bowed head of genius. And yet in that proud hour we would allow a momentary exultation in the triumphs so early won-in the homage of the good and great -but there was none. The idol upon its marble pedestal could not look more cold. She seemed weary and heartsick. It might be that she had many worshippers, and yet the worshipped was not among them.

She did not dance, but stood leaning against one of the pillars, and smiling when spoken to, in a sad, abstracted way; so that many whispered to one another that she was composing a new poem. At last two came and sat down, without perceiving her, on a low couch; the one a simple, child-like young thing, the other an officer in the prime of life and manly beauty.

"Well, I am glad I came," said the girl; "it is so pleasant to see one whose works I admire so much. And I am not the least disappointed she is very lovely. Do you not think so?" "Yes, certainly," replied her companion. "Nay, how coldly you answer." "Did 1? But, in good truth, dearest, I have a strange prejudice against all women who write clever women, as they are termed-and would not marry one for the whole world."

Just at that moment the dancers were startled by a wild shriek, succeeded by a heavy fall; and the young poetess was borne past, with her dark

face pale as her white robe. While the officer sneered, and whispered something to his companion about such people liking to get up a scene, to which she listened incredulously, for, simple as she was, she had a woman's heart.

From that hour the lyre of the poetess was baptized in tears; and, as she died early, the world deemed it but the prophetic revealings of her own doom, and biographers drew the history of her short life after their own fashion.

We might go on in this way until our simple tale spread itself into volumes, sad and truthful records of the human heart, but forbear; enough has been said to make us thoughtful, perhaps even sad, for who is there that cannot number among their acquaintances of past years, or does not know at the present time, at least one "Young Lady who is an Old Maid;" one seared and blighted spirit, which, however proudly it may bear itself to the world, asks only in the hour of solitude and abandonment to die? And the last stage of such is, if possible, even worse than the first; when the rust of anguish, and bitterness, and disappointment, has gathered over and dimmed every warm and kindly feeling of their natures; when ceasing to be "Young Ladies" they are still "Old Maids," and satire, born of suffering, makes them odious to themselves and others. How quaintly, and yet with what simple truth, Martin Luther tells us, "that the heart of a human creature is like a mill-stone in a mill: when corn is shaken thereon, it turneth and grindeth it to meal; but if no corn be there, it still turneth and grindeth away itself."

But it is not always so; there are some who bear the burden with a meek and patient spirit; and we know one in particular who loves nothing better than to speak of her own blighted youth, and hold it up as a warning to others never to trifle ever so lightly with the heart that trusts them. Even where this is not the case, let us forbear to ridicule or scorn one of God's creatures, once as young and merry-hearted as ourselves, stricken down perhaps in the pride of her beauty by that common scourge of womanhood, the faithlessness of him to whom she had given her whole soul. The harsh voice, the sneering lip, telleth its own tale of misery. The cold smile hides a world of bitter thoughts, and the love that lavishes itself so foolishly, as we deem it, upon the animals of her household, has perhaps in years past been flung back upon her own heart, and failed utterly to crush and deaden its tenderness.

We believe and maintain that no girl is of necessity an Old Maid; that is, that she passes through life without having the offer at least of changing her condition, be she ever so plain; that she has not at some period of her existence loved and been beloved-some madly or vainly, others in joy, until death or change crept in, and left an everlasting shadow upon their hearts. And how light a cause can divide even the most passionately attached! a word idly spoken or misinterpreted, unexplained at the moment, commented upon afterwards, perhaps by false friends, unti! "the cloud at first no bigger than a man's band,"

spreads and darkens over the sad future of their whole lives; and the mildew of time stealing away the bloom from their cheeks, and the gentleness from tempers once sunny and peaceful as a summer lake, makes us forget how a few years since they were even as ourselves; as full of hope, as rich in friends, and as fond of indulging in visions from which we shall likewise, perhaps, be awakened all

too soon.

We have left ourselves but little space to illus trate these remarks, but the tale shall be as brief as it is truthful and melancholy.

Clara and Sophie Brandon were twin sisters; but how unlike! The former was a belle and a beauty, full of a brilliant wit, as yet untainted by one particle of malevolence or causticity; buoyant with gaiety and happiness, and it may be a little, or not a little proud of her powers of fascination. Sophie-but we need not describe Sophie Brandon-there are thousands like her in the world, good, quiet little souls, whom no one thinks of noticing, or misses if they are absent; and yet they do a deal of good in their own way, and are the blessing of many a heart and home. The sisters loved each other very tenderly, but there was no confidence between them, their thoughts and pursuits being so widely different; and then Sophie was so quiet, and Clara so gay.

About the time of which we write, Mr. Brandon's ward (Edward Dalzell) returned from abroad, and took up his residence in his guardian's house. He was handsome and animated; had a foreign, but not disagreeable, empressment of manner, even when he spoke on the most trivial subjects; praised Clara's style of singing, and offered to learn her favourite duets, and try them with her; encouraged poor Sophie, who really had no voice at all, by kind words and smiles, and was a universal favourite with the whole family. A grand ball was given in honour of his return, at which Mr. Dalzell danced the first dance with Clara, who, radiant in her brilliant beauty and costly attire, was the acknowledged star of the festival. And then taking compassion on Sophie, whom no one else seemed to think of noticing, devoted himself solely to her amusement. He had a kind heart, that Dalzell. In the solitude of their own chamber, the sisters spoke of him to each other.

"What a sweet voice Edward has !" said Clara, "Such a distinguished air, too; and how well he waltzes! It was very good-natured of him to dance so much with you, dear."

"Very," replied the young girl in a low voice; she never said much.

"Do you know he told papa that I was the handsomest girl in the room, and the best dressed! Certainly that pale pink satin, with the pearls and blush roses, was very becoming. I wonder you always wear white muslin, Sophie, although I admit it looks very neat and simple; but somehow gentlemen never think of noticing girls in white muslin !"

Sophie laughed; she was very good-tempered, and seemed pleased that Mr. Dalzell should admire her sister; but then, who could help it? And Clara patted her pale cheek, and called her

" a dear little flatterer!" After which they kissed each other and went to sleep.

Edward Dalzell was as good as his word, and Clara very soon liked nothing half as much as practising duets with him; but then he had such a clear rich voice, and knew so well how to put in the proper note just where hers failed. He sang, too, with great feeling and expression, and had a habit-or else it was the girl's own fancyof seeking the veiled eyes of his companion when they came to certain passages in the air, as if to ascertain whether she felt it too; and always when the lesson was over, he would go and sit down by the side of Sophie, and tell her in a low voice what they had been singing about, for she did not understand Italian, although she liked to listen to them, and wished now she had paid more attention to music; but until of late she had always had very bad health, and was not allowed to study much.

More than six months had passed away since Mr. Dalzell's return to England. Clara was more beautiful, although perhaps less brilliant, than ever. Sophie, just the same. It was evening, that pleasant twilight hour when it is so delightful to gather around a blazing fire, and talk, or think, or fancy images to ourselves in its fitful light. Mr. Brandon was dozing in his arm-chair. Edward sat between the girls; but they were all strangely silent, and yet very happy. What could they be thinking of? There is a proud smile upon Clara's beautiful lip; and even Sophie has a warm, bright flush upon her cheeks, and a subdued joy in her eyes, which makes her look almost pretty; and we have an idea Mr. Dalzell must agree with us, by the way in which he is regarding her. Mr. Brandon was the first to move.

"Are you going to your study, sir?" asked Edward, in a voice that faltered slightly. "Yes, for half an-hour. Do you want anything, my dear boy?"

66

"I will accompany you, sir, if you please?" Very well; but I warn you I am too sleepy to attend to business until after tea."

The sisters were left alone; it was strange that neither of them should wonder what Edward could possibly want with papa-it would have been but natural: perhaps they both thought they could guess. Clara went to the piano, and played over a little air Mr. Dalzell had given her in the morning, and then practised the duet they were to sing together that night. But Sophie never stirred, or spoke; she was always so quiet.

Presently the door was flung open; and Edward Dalzell, his handsome face beaming with animation, walked straight up to Clara, and kissed her bright cheek for the first time, calling her “his dear little beauty of a sister." But for Sophie he had a more sacred name still, who wept and yet joyed when he uttered it. Was it a dream, or did Clara really see her father standing over them, with his gray hair, and pale, happy face; and hear him bless them both, and tell Edward that he who gained his sweet Sophie could not fail of being blessed. At which the lover bent down and kissed that fair brow, while she bit her lips until the blood came, to keep herself from shrieking aloud in her

agony; and then went up to them, and put her cold arms about the neck of her sister, wishing her all happiness.

That night when they were alone, the hitherto silent girl poured out every secret of her innocent and guileless heart-the history of her young love, even from the very first-her fear-her wonder and wild joy to find it returned.

"It would have been but natural, dear Clara," said she, "for him to have loved you who are so beautiful."

Her companion shuddered and answered not, but her silent caresses manifested her sympathy; and poor Sophie fairly wept herself to sleep upon her bosom like a child.

The wedding day was fixed, and followed in due course of time; Clara being bridesmaid. And how beautiful she looked! How merry she was! How wildly she laughed at every little jest, common on such occasions; and when some one told her that one wedding never came alone, and her turn would be next, she did not attempt to deny it, but only smiled, as if in scorn or triumph, for she had many admirers, as was well known.

Sophie, for the first time in her life an object of attraction, looked a very bride; so shy and interesting, and so happy. Many wondered that they had never noticed before what sweet eyes she had, but then how should they when they were so rarely lifted up; and a few thought her almost as pretty as Clara, only not so animated. As for Mr. Dalzell, had the question been asked him, he would probably have affirmed that there was not her equal in the whole world. She was so gentle and affectionate, and proud of him, and loved him so much! a fact which she cared not to conceal from the first moment that she had dared to hope the knowledge would add to his happiness. The ceremony passed away as usual. Sophie cried a little, as all brides should; but Clara never shed a tear. Nay, it is even affirmed that she was seen to catch the smiling glance of a certain handsome bridesman, who stood opposite to her, and hid her face in her veil, to avoid the contagion of his mirth. Or she might have been laughing too, for her bosom heaved strangely.

All is over at last-the bride and bridegroom have gone away in their splendid travelling carriage. The guests dispersed to their various homes. The father to pray that they may be happy; although he has no fear, for they love and are worthy of each other. The bridesmaid to her now lonely chamber; the excitement has been too much for her-she flings herself upon the ground, and in her madness and despair, dashes her head against the hard floor, and shrieks aloud! The orangeblossoms were torn from her hair, part of which came out also in the struggle; but she feels no pain-there is a deadness-a void in her heart, which will never be filled up again. "There are hours in life," says Dewey, "like martyrdom-as full of bitter anguish-as full of earthly desolation-in which more than our sinews-in which we feel as if our very heart-strings were stretched and lacerated on the rack of affliction-in which life itself loses its value, and we ask to die!" This was one of them.

Presently the first dinner-bell rang. They are to have a large party, in honour of the day; and she starts up like one awakened from a horrid dream! She changes her soiled dress, and smoothes her dishevelled tresses. She hides the fearful paleness of her cheeks with rouge; and tries, before her mirror, whether those rigid and sorrowful lines about the mouth, can ever be taught to relax again into smiles. The metamorphosis is at length completed, and she goes down to preside over her father's guests; and will be perhaps, in appearance, the merriest and most animated of them all.

Poor Clara! how will you bear that sister's return? To have her hanging upon your neck, in her fond, child-like way, and looking up into your eyes, while she tells you how kind Edward is—and fond of her—and how happy they are together; entreating, so earnestly, that you will come and stay with them, and be a daily and hourly witness of their felicity. Why, it would be the death of you! Her assurances, that nothing would give Edward more pleasure, for she is certain that he loves you-and the hope, half timidly expressed, that before long you will be settled in equal comfort. Alas! for your firmness-for your pride, when that hour comes! And yet it will not fail you; you will go down into the grave, and your sad secret be buried with you.

This is one of the many strange alchymical processes by which warm and joyous hearts are seared and chilled, and oft-times broken; and when this last is the case, they are least to be pitied. Clara Brandon, from the hour in which she first heard of her sister's engagement, passed into that common and melancholy thing, a "Young Lady who is an Old Maid !"

"She was foolish," perhaps some of our readers will say, "to give her love unasked;" but are we quite sure that Mr. Dalzell, with his fine, expressive eyes, and sweet voice, was not a little to blame also? And even if this was not the case, who shall dare to judge these things by common and every-day rules? Be it as it may, the punishment was greater than the error committed-and hard, grievously hard to be borne.

There is a mystery in all this, past human comprehension; but hers was no isolated destiny; it was "the love of the moth for the star"--the longing for the unattainable, hunting us with a resistless power, and poisoning the joys yet within our reach. But while one of this class, as in the history we have been relating, by a strange infatuation works out her own doom, how many fall unwilling sacrifices at the altar of ambition; or are the victims of jealousy, mistrust, false friends, and falser hearts! How many are stricken down into their joyless doom by death! But for heaven and the grave, alas! for every one of them.

And now, my friends, rise up from this melancholy sketch. Go forth into the world again; a bright world after all, for the most part. And whenever you meet such an one as we have been describing, be not repelled by the pale, scornful lip, and blighting sarcasm; but call up your kindest tone, your gentlest smile, and remember that, could you see into their inmost souls, you would be more likely to pity them for the cause, than hate them