"I know him, then!" interrupted William, with pleased curiosity. Yes, to be sure! Don't you remember our all drinking tea together at Farmer Wilmot's last Sunday was three weeks? Lucy knew it all along." "Frank! Frank Willatts?" inquired William eagerly. "Was it for you, then, that Lucy wrote that letter?" "To be sure she did. And were you jealous of her, William? And was that why she went away? Oh, William, William! to be jealous of dear, good Lucy, because she kept my secret! Oh, cousin William!" But William was too happy to be very penitent, and Kate was too pleased and too busy to dilate upon his offences. She had her letter to dictate, and, with a little help from her willing amanuensis, a very pretty letter it was; and so completely in charity with all the world, especially with the Franks of the world, was this amanuensis, that, before he had finished Kate's epistle, he had written himself into such feelings of good will towards her correspondent as to add a most friendly and cousinly postscript on his own account. What were the contents of the far more ardent and eloquent letter which William Marshall afterwards wrote, and whether he did or did not obtain his mistress' pardon for his jealousy and its fruits, we leave to the imagination of our fair readers. We, for our part, knowing the clemency of the sex, incline to think that he did. LIFE'S LAST FLOWER. BY MISS SAVAGE. A TANGLED, thorny path I trod alone, Where flowers were few, and sunshine rarely shone. I watched amid the untrimmed garden spring I loved it! as the blind man loves to hear The lark's sweet song, whose fearless wing draws hear Unto his well-known hand, and memory seems |