oh, dear, I can't blame you. It was exactly so with your father, and my father objected because of his poverty. He used to be very romantic himself in those old times. Such letters as he wrote to me. I have them in my desk yet. He said he'd die if I refused him.

"So does Fred," said Lucilla.

And that life would be worthless without me, and about my being beautiful,-I'm sure he ought to sympathize a little," said Mrs. Richmond.

She went into her own room to put the letters into her desk; and as she placed them into one of the pigeon holes, she saw in another a bundle, tied exactly as these were, and drew them out. These letters were to a Lucilla also, one who had received them twenty years before. A strange idea came into Mrs. Richmond's mind.

The

When she left the desk she looked guilty and frightened. The dinner hour arrived, and with it came her husband, angered and more determined than ever. meal was passed in silence; then, having adjourned to the parlor, Mr. Richmond seated himself in a great armchair, and demanded, in a voice of thunder: "Those absurd letters, if you please."

"Six letters-six shameful pieces of deception, Lucilla," said the indignant parent. "I am shocked that a child of mine should practice such duplicity. Hem! let me see. Number one, I believe. June, and this is December. Half a year you have deceived us then, Lucilla. Let me see ah! From the first moment I adored you,' bah! Nonsense. People don't fall in love in that absurd manner. With your smiles for a goal, I would win both fame and fortune, poor as I am!' Fiddlesticks, Lucilla. A man who has common sense would always wait until he had a fair commencement before he proposed to a girl. Praising your beauty, eh? 'The loveliest creature I ever saw! Exaggeration, my dear. You are not plain, but such flattery is absurd. 'Must hear from you or die!' Dear, dear, dear-how

absurd!" And Mr. Richmond dropped the first letter and picked up another. "The same stuff," he commented. "I hope you do not believe a word he says. Ah! now in number three he calls you an angel!' He's romantic, upon my soul! And what is this? Those who forbid me to see you can find no fault with me but my poverty. I am honest-I am earnest in my efforts. I am by birth a gentleman, and I love you from the depths of my soul. Do not let them sell you for gold Lucilla.' Great heavens, what impertinence to your parents!"

"I don't remember Fred's saying anything of that kind," said poor little Lucilla. "He never knew you would object."

Mr. Richmond shook his head, frowned and then read on until the last sheet lay under his hand. Then with an ejaculation of rage, he sprang to his feet.

"Infamous!" he cried! I'll go to him this instantI'll horsewhip him, I'll-I'll murder him! As for you, by Jove, I'll send you to a convent. Elope-elope with a music teacher! Here, John, call a cab, I

"Oh, papa! you are crazy!" said Lucilla. "Frederick never proposed such a thing. Let me see the letter. Oh, that is not Fred's-upon my word it is not. Do look, papa, it is dated twenty years back, and Frederick's name is not Charles! Papa, these are your letters to mamma, written long ago. Mother's name is Lucilla, you know."

Mr. Richmond sat down in his arm-chair in silence, very red in the face.

"How did this occur?" he said, sternly; and little Mrs. Richmond, retreating into a corner, with her handkerchief to her eyes, sobbed:

"I did it on purpose! You know, Charles, it's so long ago, and I thought you might not exactly remember how you fell in love with me at first sight; how papa and mamma objected, and how, at last, we ran away together; and it seemed to me if we could bring it back all plainly

to you as it was then, we might let Lucilla marry the man she loves, who is good, if he is not rich. I do not need it to be brought back any plainer myself; women have more time to remember, you know. And we've been very happy-have we not?"

And certainly Mr. Richmond could not deny that. The little ruse was favorable to the young music teacher, who had really only been sentimental, and had not gone one half so far as an elopement; and in due course of time the two were married with all the pomp and grandeur befitting the nuptials of a wealthy merchant's daughter, with the perfect approbation of Lucilla's father.

ABNER AND THE WIDOW JONES.-ROBERT BLOOMFIELD. "Well, I'm determined! That's enough! Gee, Bayard! move your poor old bones. I'll take to-morrow, smooth or rough, To go and court the Widow Jones. "Our master talks of stable-room, And younger horses on his grounds; 'Tis easy to foresee thy doom,

Bayard, thou'lt go to feed the hounds.
"But could I win the widow's hand,

I'd make a truce 'twixt Death and thee;
For thou upon the best of land

Shouldst feed, and live and die with me.
"And must the pole-axe lay thee low?
And will they pick thy poor old bones?
No! hang me if it shall be so,

If I can win the Widow Jones."

Twirl went his stick; his curly pate
A brand-new hat uplifted bore;
And Abner, as he leapt the gate,
Had never looked so gay before.

And every spark of love revived
That had perplexed him long ago,
When busy folks and fools contrived
To make his Mary answer-No.

But whether, freed from recent vows,
Her heart had back to Abner flown
And marked him for a second spouse,
In truth is not exactly known.

Howbeit, as he came in sight,

She turned her from the garden stile,
And downward looked with pure delight,
With half a sigh and half a smile.
She heard his sounding step behind,
The blush of joy crept up her cheek
As cheerly floated on the wind,

"Hoi! Mary Jones-what! won't you speak ?"

Then, with a look that ne'er deceives,

She turned, but found her courage fled;
And scolding sparrows from the eaves
Peeped forth upon the stranger's head.
Down Abner sat, with glowing heart,
Resolved, whatever might betide,
To speak his mind; no other art
He ever knew, or ever tried.
And gently twitching Mary's hand-
The bench had ample room for two-
His first word made her understand
The ploughman's errand was to woo.

"My Mary-may I call thee so?

For many a happy day we've seen; And if not mine-ay, years ago—

Whose was the fault? You might have been!

"All that's gone by; but I've been musing,
And vowed, and hope to keep it true,
That she shall be my own heart's choosing
Whom I call wife! Hey, what say you?

"And as I drove my plough along,

And felt the strength that's in my arm, Ten years, thought I, amidst my song, I've been head-man at Harewood farm.

"And now my own dear Mary's free,

Whom I have loved this many a day, Who knows but she may think on me? I'll go hear what she has to say.

"Perhaps that little stock of land

She holds, but knows not how to till,
Will suffer in the widow's hand,
And make poor Mary poorer still.

"That scrap of land, with one like her,
How we might live, and be so blest!
And who should Mary Jones prefer?
Why, surely, him who loves her best!
"Therefore I'm come to-night, sweet wench;
I would not idly thus intrude—”
Mary looked downward on the bench,
O'erpowered by love and gratitude,

And leaned her head against the vine,
With quickening sobs of silent bliss,
Till Abner cried, "You must be mine,
You must," and sealed it with a kiss.
She talked of shame, and wiped her cheek:
But what had shame with them to do,
Who nothing meant but truth to speak
And downright honor to pursue?

His eloquence improved apace

As manly pity filled his mind.

"You know poor Bayard? Here's the case,― He's past his labor, old and blind.

"If you and I should but agree To settle here for good and all,

Could you give all your heart to me,

And grudge that poor old rogue a stall?

"I'll buy him, for the dogs shall never Set tooth upon a friend so true;

He'll not live long, but I forever

Shall know I gave the beast his due.

"Mongst all I've known of ploughs and carts,
And ever since I learned to drive,
He was not matched in all these parts;
There was not such a horse alive.

"He was a horse of mighty power,
Compact in frame and strong of limb;
Went with a chirp from hour to hour;
Whipcord? 'Twas never made for him.