where a line of ineffable glory marked the outskirts of Elysium. The starry car was ready to waft her away to the regions of joy. Did she hesitate? Did the thoughts of individual happiness triumph over mighty love? Oh, no!were it so, her spirit had been no longer woman's. She turned from the inviting nymphs-she threw herself into Conon's arms

"Let me suffer-I will go with you!"

Then the merciful judges of Acheron bowed their heads in sorrowful silence; they had known, we have said, human frailty, and therefore sympathised with the erring but devoted Clymene. The lovers were about to be borne away, when a soft and rosy cloud, gliding from the region of the setting sun, swept towards the assembly; it descended, and remained for a moment stationary near the thrones. Then the judges knew that one of the celestials had arrived from Mount Olympus, and they bowed before the beauteous one; it was the goddess of love.

"Upright and wise ministers !" said a soft and thrilling voice; "rarely does the father of the gods find it needful to revoke or alter your just sentences; but now he hath been pleased to listen to me. The truth, the affection, of this maiden of earth, must have other desert than the misery to which ye condemn her. For Clymene's sake, Conon is forgiven! Her task must be to inspire him with a love of the great and good-to excite in him a reverence for the divinities of, Olympus; and she shall succeed. Let them now enter Elysium together."

THE FAIRY AND THE MAIDEN.

BY MISS M. H. ACTON.

A fairy was reclining

A moss-rose bud within, That round a lattice twining, On a cottage-room looked in,

Where a maiden fair was weeping

O'er a portrait on her knee; For she feared her love was sleeping 'Neath the waters of the sea.

The fairy marked her sorrow, And whispered soft and low,

Ah, weep not for to-morrow, No anguish shall you know.

Like a distant echo dying,

The fairy's voice stole by, And the maiden ceased her sighing Although she knew not why.

On a cloud that wafted o'er her Her course the fairy took, And on the earth before her She cast her beaming look.

But naught could she discover, Though she wander'd far and wide, Of the gentle maiden's lover Returning to her side.

A sunbeam bright and glowing
The fairy lured away,
And o'er the waters flowing
She took her rapid way.

But bay, and lake, and river,

In vain she looked upon; For nought could tidings give her Of the long-expected one.

Then the fairy was returning

With sadness on her brow, And her heart with sorrow burning For the maiden's plighted vow;

When a waving signal gleaming,

Like a dim and distant star, O'er the stilly waters streaming, Met her vision from afar.

And, bowed by bitter anguish
On a raft in low despair,
Left by rovers stern to languish,
Lay the hapless lover there.

The breaking waves were sighing
O'er his manhood's blighted pride,
When on her sunbeam flying,
The fairy reached his side;

And bending softly o'er him,

She raised his drooping head, And from the tide before him Bright drops upon him shed:

Till 'neath her gentle tending

His strength returned again, And hope fresh courage lending, He's wafted o'er the main.

Ah, quickly pass'd his sadness

As he neared the welcome shore, And the fairy flew with gladness

To her moss-rose bud once more.

There, cradled in the flower,

She watched the maiden sweet, As she sat within her bower,

With the lost one at her feet.

And again the fairy's greeting Stole forth like music gay, As smiling on that meeting She gently passed away.

married, it should be on a midsummer morning, when all things looked bright and blooming. And in the April of the year he looked forward to that day as the one which was to make the gentle being he so loved, his own for ever. He never for a moment questioned gaining the consent of his uncle, who had brought him up from childhood, when (as we before observed) he was left an orphan. For his father had displeased his proud and ancient family by his marriage, and had been cut off with £80 per annum; which was all, strictly speaking, Edward could call his own. But his uncle, Sir Meredith Pendarves, who had declared him his heir (provided he married young), had always made him an allowance suitable to such expectations; his marrying young being the proviso. As the old gentleman said, "He had found himself tired of being a bachelor when it was too late to think of changing his condition." Edward had therefore set off for Wales, where his uncle resided on his vast estates, to impart his own happy prospects, and fulfil, as he thought, his uncle's fondest wish.

"Welcome, my boy! welcome home!" shouted old Sir Meredith, who had been watching him from the library window, gallop across the park; "and welcome lad, a thousand times welcome, the sight of your noble countenance glads my old eyes," he said, as Edward entered the library, and grasped the old gentleman's outstretched hands. "Now Ned, my boy, what brings you home to your old uncle a fortnight before I expected you? Dost want money, lad? or hast made up thy mind to get married, Eh?"

"Your liberality, sir, always makes No, a fitting answer to your first question; and I trust I shall be meeting your dearest wish by saying Yes to the last."

"Now, that's right, my boy, that's right! Gad, I'm so delighted; I'll order the south wing to be new furnished for her directly, and I'll have the family jewels new set-and-and-I don't know what I won't do. I think I'll kick off my gouty shoe, and dance at the wedding myself. But have you seen Mary this morning? or how, or when did you ask her? Order the carriage, Ned; I'll go and wait on her myself, and tell her how glad I am. Sly little puss; why she was here yesterday, and never let a word drop. What art staring at, Ned? You don't look much like an expectant bridegroom."

In truth, Edward looked more like a statue than anything else at that moment; for he was struck with the idea that his uncle had gone suddenly mad.

"Come along, boy," vociferated the old gentleman, "I daresay Mary expects us."

"Mary-Mary who, Dear uncle?" demanded Edward, in a sort of deprecating tone, as if he thought it would be more agreeable to sit down quietly and talk over his own bright prospects than visit any Mary in the world.

"Mary who? why Mary Howard to be sure, who else should it be? I knew I should live to see my darling hope realized. I always intended you should marry Mary Howard."

A gleam like a lightning flash shot through

Edward's heart. He took the old gentleman by the hand, and gently said,

"Had we not better converse a little on the matter, dear sir? It is not of Miss Howard I wish to speak-highly as I respect that lady; it is not to her my heart has been poured out."

"How? what? what, Ned? Not Mary-not Mary Howard? when you know I always set my mind on her for your wife. Not Mary, I say? who else can it be who else should it be? Not Mary, indeed! don't name another, Sir, (seeing Edward about to speak), I won't hear of another. You tell me you've made up your mind to marry, and then presume to tell me it's not with Mary Howard. Who can it be but her? Don't name any other name; I won't hear it, Ned. It's my solemn determination you marry Mary Howard, or you quit my roof for ever! That, sir, is my resolution, so don't let me see your face again till you come to say you'll marry Mary Howard." "Then, dear sir, farewell; for this is an act I shall never be brought to perform. If you would only hear me, dear uncle — if hear

you

would

"I tell you, I won't hear you, sir! Get out of my presence-get out of my house. Not marry Mary indeed! when her large estates run as it were in a ring all round mine! Begone, sir! Bring up Mr. Pendarves's horse," he shouted from the same window out of which half an hour before he had leaned to bid him welcome; and the man, who not having received any orders, was still leading the horses gently up and down, approached the portico.

Edward moved forth as one in a dream, and mechanically mounting his horse, with a reeling brain and night-mare load at his heart, resumed his way across the same greensward which one short half hour before he had passed over, light as the summer air.

He made straight for the railway, which was but a few miles from Pendarves's castle. The same train in which he had come down was again about starting, and Edward took out his purse to pay his up-fare, when the groom advanced, crying "Master Edward"-Mr. Pendarves-Sir-dear Master!" Edward turned round, and the poor man (who had first taught him to ride, and was always styled Master Edward's groom), was struck to see the iron set of his features-a look such as he had never witnessed before, was come over his face.

"Dear Master Edward," spoke the faithful old servant, "I see something ugly has happened; but if you would only go back again; I'm sure Sir Meredith is wanting you. Think, sir, how dull the old Hall will be without you."

"No, Jonathan, my good old fellow, it cannot be; give my love to my uncle, and take care of Fairy and the dogs for me." He stepped into the carriage, and before the tear which obscured old Jonathan's eye was dashed away, he was out of sight.

Edward had a stunning sense of some misfortune; but it was not till he stepped out of the steam-carriage, and found himself in London streets, that he felt the whole weight of misery

P

which had fallen upon him. His first thought was of his Edith, his first impulse to go down to L, and break the matter to her himself. but then again he feared to trust himself he feared he could not resist beseeching her still to be his, and then he reflected with horror on the poverty he should thus bring her to.

Eighty pounds a-year was all he could now call his own. His uncle had not permitted him to study for any profession, and the only thing he could turn to for a subsistence, was the army. He well knew the difficulty of getting a commission, now, in time of peace; but recollecting that his mother had a cousin in the service, who had lately attained the rank of General, he determined on applying to him for advice and assistance.

His first step was to discharge the expensive apartments he had hitherto occupied in St. James'sstreet, and having ordered his luggage to one of the inferior hotels, he proceeded to make inquiries at the General's residence in Portlandplace, and was there informed that he was travelling for his health in Switzerland and Germany. This then decided his next step, and returning to the hotel where he had left his luggage, he sat down to write a long farewell to his loved and beautiful Edith. The letter was a heart-rending one, and, as there are but too many who have made acquaintance with the agonies of separation and disappointed love, we will not cause a bright eye to be dimmed, nor a sigh to flutter from a gentle heart by the transcript. It ended, however, thus:

"Edith! my best, and beautiful-mine, alas! no longer; I return the little ring I drew from your finger in the yew-tree walk, the morning we parted. (With, oh! what different prospects!) The lock of hair, I cannot part with. If ever you see that lock of hair again, Edith--know, for a certainty, that I am near at hand!

"I must keep poor little Flo', because I have no means of sending her back to you,"

This, then, was the letter alluded to by Mrs. Mendlesholm; and which, too truly, her father found her poring over. At his approach, however, she hurried it out of sight, and met him with that sweet look of lowly resignation beaming in her countenance, which can only be obtained from the source, never failing to those who seek it.

attracted his attention. For he felt the father at his heart, and knew that if he gave way to it, he should sympathise with her grief, rather than divert her thoughts from it. A moment aside, and a fervent heart-petition, where alone it can be availing, manned him again. He gently kissed the fair young brow of his lovely child, and speaking in a more indifferent tone of voice, said,

"I wonder what the new aunt will be like, as Alice says? I certainly thought your uncle William had determined never to change his state; however all is for the best, and no doubt this will be."

"Most surely it will, my dear papa; and I feel certain uncle William would not choose any lady, unless she had good qualities of heart and mind."

"You judge him rightly, my dear child; I am only surprised at his not telling us who she is, or what family she belongs to-or, in short-something, or anything about her."

They were interrupted by Margaret, who came running, breathless with delight, as well as speed, to beg that Edith would come in and select a pattern dress, to be sent up to Mesdames Smithson and Straker.

"And you know, sister, they must go directly; for it is but a week from to-morrow."

Edith silently accompanied her light-hearted sister, and as the toilet must be consulted in all marriage arrangements, it was some little time before the dresses were chosen, packed, and sent off to their final destination; not without many fears from Alice and Margaret, that, clever as be, they never could finish and send home so many

Mesdames Smithson and Straker were known to

as five dresses in one week.

family, in preparations of all sorts and kinds. And a busy week it was with the Major's The Major and Mrs. Mendlesholm had agreed that one or the other of them should be always with Edith, during the time which intervened before the eventful midsummer morn rose on them; and Ellen, who idolised her sister for the gentleness with which she bore her sorrow, (and what sorrow is so sore to the young heart as a love sorrow?) under pretence of her room being wanted, asked to share the neat little apartment which had always been appropriated to Edith, and from the window boxes of which, the earliest mignonette had ever been gathered to present her father and mother. The little chamber itself was furnished more tastefully than any other in the house; as her uncle William, whose god-daughter and

sented her with little birth-day gifts of one sort and another, and which constituted all the ornamental part of the furniture.

The morning sun shone brightly into the windows, aiding the clustering jessamine to throw its sweet odour within-the few well-chosen books were as nicely arranged on the little shelves (which old Battye, their one-eyed man-servant-ofall-work, had made and fixed for her) as they used to be-but still the chamber was not the same it had been three short months before. The spirit that moved in it was wanting! What had been a

pleasure to Edith, was now become a duty: but Ellen knew that not one of the books (save the sacred volume) had been opened since the day that Edward's farewell letter arrived.

Notwithstanding all the bustle, however, all the hopes and fears, and all the misgivings that Alice and Margaret felt, that Mesdames Smithson and Straker could never get the dresses done, Time that constant introducer of all events, whether great or small-brought round upon them "midsummer eve." Mrs Mendlesholm having got all things arranged to her perfect satisfaction, and having received acceptances to her invitations from the neighbours round, for the breakfast of the coming morning, was seated with her two eldest daughters, in Edith's pleasant little room; while the Major, Alice, and Margaret, were cutting flowers to fill the bough-pots; and Edith sat, rather listening to, than joining in, her mother's and sister's last wonderments, of who the "bride" could be! And old Batty, having polished up everything else, was amusing himself in the hall, by polishing up his master's sword-forgetful, in the pleasure of the task, that what had before given it force, was now no longer available-his master's right arm! Forgetful, too, that it was in carrying that master off the "field," he had lost his own eye-for Batty, like the Major, was an old campaigner; when Charlotte, a villager who had been hired to assist during the busy week, rushed into the room, with

"Oh! ma'am-oh! Miss-oh! Miss Ellen!— such a power o' boxes! Tim Bentley was forced to hire another cart to bring 'em on." And away she darted, to help, as she said, old Batty and the carrier to lift them down. Alice and Margaret soon got tidings of the great arrival; and down went all the honeysuckles and rosebuds, that had been so carefully selected in order to be just in time to blow on the morrow, till their path was, literally, "strewed with flowers."

At length, all the neat deal cases were finally dislodged from Tim Bentley's cart, Tim himself paid, with a trifle over for helping to carry them up stairs-where Charlotte was soon at work, with right good will and a stout hammer, raising the nails; and all the while dying with curiosity to lift the covers and behold the beautiful things they concealed. Alice and Margaret could not restrain their rapture, and almost screamed with delight.

"Oh! mamma, look here! Oh! mamma, do look!" and Alice held up a lovely Brussels lace dress, over pale pink satin; "three skirts, too! just like what Mary Dalton said she saw, when she was companion to Lady Fanny Vallego. And, oh what a darling bonnet, and lace scarf, too! Yours and mine are just alike, Margaret. Ellen, hold up yours. All the same !"

"Mamma, mamma! only see-how beautiful they do look!" exclaimed all the three girls at

once.

And, truly, Mrs. Mendlesholm thought with her daughters, they did look beautiful; "only too costly," she said, "for their quiet way of living."

"How I wish to-morrow was come, that we might wear them, Ellen!" said Margaret.

"And I," cried Alice, "should like uncle William to be married every day."

Ellen was, meanwhile, spreading out on chairs, for admiration, their mamma's dress-of rich pearl gray satin; with the soft and delicate barége shawl, and other et ceteras. All was perfect, nothing was wanting that imagination could supply, and all were animated in the praises of uncle William's kindness in sending them such splendid things; and how good it was of Mesdames Smithson and Straker not to disappoint them, when there were five to be made all at once. (It is to be hoped the above mentioned ladies will pardon their unsophisticated admirers!)

"Oh! but we have not seen Edith's yet," exclaimed Margaret; "let us go and look at hers, now."

And away they bounded, like the three graces, linked arm-in-arm; but, on approaching her door, they all instinctively stopped-for amid the exhilirating buoyancy of their own hearts, they remembered Edith's had a grief!

The ten minutes she had passed alone, in the bustle of uncasing and admiring, were profitable to her. Edith had poured out a full heart, and "found strength in time of need;" and, opening her door, she begged her sister would come in, and assist in unpacking her things for her; which they all, joyfully, volunteered to do.

"Why here are two cases, both directed to you, sister! How can that be? Make haste with the hammer, Margaret. Oh! there it is! it's open now-and here's mamma, too, just in time! See, mamma! here are two cases for Edith. But, look! why her dress is white-all white. It is not like ours!"

"Yes it is like ours, only white. Oh! mamma, how lovely Edith will look in it," observed Ellen; "white lace and white satin !"

Alice now held up one, the most elegant of all bonnets, from which depended a rich lace veil, tastefully mixing in with a superb wreath of orange blossoms.

"Here must be some mistake," said Edith. "This could never have been meant for me. All this must be meant for the bride," and the colour slightly rose in her fair cheek.

Let us see what the other case contains, Ellen," said their mother; and to the eagerly expecting eyes, it displayed a perfect dress of the most delicate lilac, made of rich silk, with a magnificent shawl of white barege, and a white paille de riz bonnet, ornamented like the other, with a lace veil and orange blossoms. "This is some fancy of your uncle's, Edith-you know you were always his darling. I conclude he wishes you to be bride's-maid," and Mrs. Mendlesholm felt angry with her brother for trying Edith's feelings so unnecessarily. "But what is this?" as stooping over the beautiful white dress, rather to conceal her vexation at what she thought her brother's thoughtlessness, than to admire its graceful perfection; "what is this? Some rich ornament fastened to the sleeve-look, Edith;" and the girls all bent their eyes upon a magnificent bracelet, which Mrs. Mendlesholm detached and handed to her eldest daughter. They all admired the rich work