"Do you ever see her?" "Yes; she lives with her aunt, who sometimes washes for us, so that I see her niece occasionally." "Why does she live with her aunt?" "Her mother died soon after you went away "Eliza still lives in the village, then?" To this very unnecessary question his cousin bowed in reply. Few words more passed between them during the remainder of their walk. "You do not stay out as late as you used to do," said Mrs. Earl, as they entered the parlor. "We are no longer children," said Emily. Mason could scarcely repress an audible sigh, as those words fell from her lips. At an early hour, he repaired to his chamber. CHAPTER II. George Mason was left an orphan in his early youth. He then became a member of his uncle's family, and the constant companion of his cousin Emily. He desired no society but hers. Her slightly imperious temper did not interfere with the growth of his affection. She had a sister's place in his glowing heart. He was in some sense her teacher, and she caught something of his romantic nature. Of the little circle of her associates, he was the idol. At the age of fourteen he left home to pursue his studies for two years at a public institution. At the end of that period he became a clerk in a large commercial establishment in the city. At the close of the first year he accompanied one of the principals abroad, and remained there in charge of the business for nearly four years. He was now on the high road to wealth. Soon after George Mason had gone abroad, Emily Earl went to the city to complete her education. She was in due time initiated into the mysteries of fashionable life. Introduced to society by a relative of unquestionable rank, her face and form presented attractions sufficient to make her the object of attention and flattery. Four successive winters were passed in the city. She was the foremost object of all "who flattered, sought, and sued." Is it strange that her judgment was perverted, and her heart eaten out? Is it strange that her cousin found her a changed being? She had engaged to marry one whose claim to her regard was the thousands he possessed, and the eagerness with which he was sought by those whose chief end was an establishment in life. She had taught herself to believe that the yearnings of the heart were to be classed with the follies of childhood. Henry Ralston was the son of a small farmer, or rather of a man who was the possessor of a small farm, and of a large soul. Henry was modest, yet aspiring; gentle, yet intense in his affections. The patient toil and rigid self-denial of his father gave him the advantage of an excellent education. In childhood he was the frequent companion of George and Emily. Even then an attachment sprung up in his heart for his fair playmate. This was quietly cherished; and when he entered upon the practice of the law in his native village, he offered Emily his hand. It was, without hesitation or apparent pain, rejected. Thus she cast away the only true heart which was ever laid upon the altar of her beauty. He bore the disappointment with outward calmness, though the iron entered his soul. He gave all his energies to the labors of his profession. Such was the impression of his ability and worth, that he was about to be supported, apparently without opposition, for a seat in the national councils. Eliza Austin was the daughter of a deceased minister, who had worn himself out in the cause of benevolence, and died, leaving his wife and daughter penniless. She was several years younger than George and Emily; but early trials seemed to give an early maturity to her mind. She was seldom their companion, for her young days were spent in toil, aiding her mother in her efforts to obtain a scanty subsistence. Her intelligence, her perception of the beautiful, and her devotion to her mother made a deep impression upon George, and led him to regard her as he regarded no other earthly being. Long before the idea of love was associated with her name, he felt for her a respect approaching to veneration. He had often desired to write to her during his absence, but his entire ignorance of her situation rendered it unwise. The waters of affliction had been wrung out to her in a full cup. The long and distressing sickness of her mother was ended only by the grave. She was then invited to take up her abode with her father's sister, whose intemperate husband had broken her spirit, but had not exhausted her heart. It was sad for Eliza to exchange the quiet home, the voice of affection, of prayer, and of praise, for the harsh criminations of the drunkard's abode. She would have left that abode for service, but for the distress it would have given her aunt. Death at length removed the tormentor, and those who had ministered to his appetite swept away ail his property. The mind of Aunt Mary, now more than half a wreck, utterly revolted at the idea of separation from her niece. Eliza could not leave her. Declining an eligible situation as a teacher in a distant village, she rendered her aunt all the assistance in her power in her lowly employment-believing that the path dietated by affection and duty, though it might meet with the neglect and the scorn of men, would not fail to secure the approbation of God. CHAPTER III. "Well, George," said Mr. Earl, as they were seated at the breakfast-table, "how do you intend to dispose of yourself to-day?" "I have a great many old friends to visit, sir." "It may not be convenient for some of them to see you early in the morning." "Some of them, I think, will not be at all particular respecting the time of my visits. There is the white rock by the falls which I must give an hour to; and I must see if the old trout who lived under it has taken as good care of himself during my absence as he did before I went away. And there is the willow grove, too, which I wish very much | that name before. It was the name she had over so to see." "It has been cut down." "Cut down!-what for?" often when she had the fever, poor thing! I did not know what she said, though she did not say a word during the whole time that would not look well "Mr. Bullard thought it interfered with his printed in a book. Did you use to live in the big prospect." white house?" "Why did you not interfere, cousin?" turning to Emily. "Yes, I used to live with my Uncle Earl." "And with that lady," laying a fierce emphasis "It was nothing to me what he did with his grove," upon the word, "who never speaks to Eliza now, said Emily. "Oh, I had forgotten-" George did not finish the sentence. He turned the conversation to some of the ordinary topics of the day. After breakfast, he set out for Willow Brook, and seated himself upon the white rock. The years that had passed since in childhood he sat upon that rock, were reviewed by him. Though he had met with trials and temptations, yet he was thankful that he could return to that rock with so many of the feelings of childhood; that his heart's best emotions had not been polluted by the world, but were as yet pure as the crystal stream before him. When he rose from that rock, instead of visiting the other haunts of his early days, he found himself moving toward the village. Now and then a familiar face was seen. By those who recognized him, he was warmly greeted. It was not until he met a stranger that he inquired for the residence of the widow and her niece. He was directed to a small dwelling in a narrow lane. He knocked at the open door. The widow, who was busily employed in smoothing the white linen before her, bade him enter, but paused not from her work. "Is Eliza at home?" said Mason. "Who can you be that want to see Eliza?" said the poor woman, still not lifting her eyes from her work. "I am an old friend of hers," said Mason. A friend! a friend!" said she, pausing and looking upward, as if striving to recall the idea belonging to the word. "Yes, she had friends once-where have they gone?" Again she plied her task, as if unconscious of his presence. He seated himself and watched her countenance, which revealed so sad a history. Her lips kept moving, and now and then she spoke aloud. "Poor girl! a hard life has she had-it may all be right, but I can't see how; and now she might be a lady if she would leave her poor, half-crazy aunt." Her whispers were then inaudible. Soon she turned to Mason and said, as if in reply to a question, "No, I never heard her complain. When those she used to visit don't know her, and look the other way when they meet her, she never complains. What will become of her when her poor old aunt is gone? Who will take care of her?" though Eliza watched night after night with her when she was on the borders of the grave. Are you like her?" observing him to hesitate, she asked in a more excited manner, "are you like Emily Earl?" Fear, ing that her clouded mind might receive an impression difficult to remove, he promptly answered "No." "I am glad of it," said the widow, resuming her work. The last question and its answer was overheard by Eliza, as she was coming in from the garden where she had been attending to a few flowers. She turned deadly pale as she saw Mason, and remained standing in the door. He arose and took her hand in both of his, and was scarcely able to pronounce her name. The good aunt stood with uplifted hands, gazing with ludicrous amazement at the scene. Eliza was the first to recover her self-possession. She introduced Mason to her aunt as an old friend. "Friend!—are you sure he is a friend?" "He is a friend," said Mason, "who is very grateful to you for the love you have borne her, and the care you have taken of her." "There," said she, opening a door which led to a parlor, perhaps ten feet square, motioning to them to enter. Mason, still retaining her trembling hand, led Eliza into the room, and seated her on the sofa, the chief article of furniture it contained. Her eyes met his earnest gaze. They were immediately filled with tears. His own overflowed. He threw his arm around her, and they mingled their tears in silence. It was long ere the first word was spoken. Eliza at length seemed to wake as from a dream. "What am I doing?" said she, attempting to remove his arm, "we are almost strangers." "Eliza," said he, solemnly, "do you say what you feel?" "No, but I know not-" she could not finish the sentence. "Eliza, you are dearer to me than any one upon earth." She made no efforts to resist the pressure of his arm. There were moments of eloquent silence. "Eliza, will you become my wife?" "Do you know how utterly destitute I am?" "That has no connection with my question." "If you are the same George Mason you used to be, you wish for a direct answer. I will." It was not till this word was spoken that he ventured to impress a kiss upon her cheek. "I have not done right," said Eliza; "you can never know how much I owe to that dear aunt. I ought not to engage myself without her consent-I can never be separated from her." "You cannot suppose that I would wish you to "George Mason! George Mason!-I have heard be separated." "You are the same-" she was about to add some epithets of praise, but checked herself. "How is it that you have remained unchanged?" | city on the afternoon of the following day. Mason, for various reasons, determined to accompany him. Part of the morning was spent with Eliza, and "By keeping bright an image in my heart of arrangements for their union were easily fixed upon. hearts." With some difficulty Eliza rose, and opening the door, spoke to her aunt. She came and stood in the door. "Well, ma'am," said Mason, "I have gained Eliza's consent to change her name, if you will give your consent." She stood as one bewildered. The cloud which rested on her countenance was painful to behold. It was necessary to repeat his remark before she could apprehend it. "Ah, is it so? It has come at last. He doeth all things well. I had n't faith to trust Him. He doeth all things well." "We have your consent?" "If she is half as loving to you as she has been to me, you will never be sorry. But what will become of me?" "We have no idea of parting with you. She has given her consent only on condition that you go with us." The old lady fixed her gaze upon her niece. It was strange that features so plain, so wrinkled by age and sorrow, could beam with such affection. She could find no words to express her feelings. She closed the door, and was heard sobbing like a child. Hour after hour stole away unnoted by the lovers. They were summoned to partake of the frugal meal spread by Aunt Mary's hands, and no apologies were made for its lack of store. Again they retired to the little parlor, and it was not till the sun was low in the west, that he set out on his return to the "white house." "We conclude that you have passed a happy day," said Mrs. Earl, "at least your countenance says so. We began to feel anxious about you." "I went to the brook first, and then to the village." Mason was released from the necessity of answering further questions by the arrival of a carriage at the door. Mr. Earl rose and went to the window. "Mr. Benfield has come," said he. Emily arose and left the room to return in another dress, and with flowers in her hair. No costly preparations for a wedding were thought to be necessary. Emily devoted herself so entirely to Mr. Benfield. that Mason had no opportunity of informing her respecting the state of his affairs. He sought his uncle, expressed to him his gratitude for his kindness, informed him of the state of his pecuniary affairs, and of his affections, and asked his approbation of his intended marriage. "I can't say, George," said the old gentleman, "but that you have done the wisest thing you could do. Emily may not like it. I have nothing to say against it. I didn't do very differently myself, though it would hardly do to say so aloud now. Emily is to be married in three weeks. You must be with us then." "Suppose I wish to be married myself on the same evening?" "Well, I don't know. I think you had better be with us, then make such arrangements as you please, and say nothing to us about it. It may make a little breeze at first, but it will soon blow over. Nobody will like you the worse for it in the end." Heartily thanking his uncle for his frankness and affection, and taking a courteous leave of Emily, he took his departure, with Mr. Benfield, for the city. CHAPTER IV. The white house was a scene of great activity as the wedding-day drew near. Aunt Mary's services were put in requisition to a much greater extent than usual. When she protested that she could do no more, Mrs. Earl suggested that her niece would help her. Aunt Mary could not help remarking that Eliza might have something else to do as well as Miss Emily. It was understood that a large number of guests were to be invited. Many dresses were ordered in anticipation of an invitation. The services of the village dress-maker were in great demand. Eliza ordered a plain white dress-a very unnecessary expenditure, it was thought, since it was certain that she would not receive an invitation. It was a pity that she should thus prepare disappointment for herself, poor thing! Benfield and Mason arrived together on the appointed day. All things were in order. The preparations were complete. The guests assembled the Mr. Benfield was shown to his room, and in a few moments joined the family at the tea-table. Emily received him with a smile, which, however beautiful it may have been, was not like the smile of Eliza Austin. Mason saw that Mr. Benfield belonged to a class with which he was perfectly well acquainted."big white house" was filled as it never had been filled "It is well," thought he, "that she has filed down her mind, if she must spend her days with a man like him." Mason passed the evening with his uncle, though he was sadly inattentive to his uncle's remarks. Emily and Mr. Benfield took a walk, and on their return did not join the family. Benfield's object in visiting the country at this time was to fix a day for his marriage. The evening was spent by them in discussing matters pertaining to that event. It was necessary for Mr. Benfield to return to the before. Suddenly there is a hush in the crowd-the folding-doors are thrown open-the bride and bridegroom are seen, prepared for the ceremony that is to make them one-in law. The words are spoken, the ceremony is performed, the oppressive silence is removed-the noise and gayety common to such occasions take place. After a time, it was noticed by some that the pastor, and Mason, and Esq. Ralston had disappeared. They repaired to Aunt Mary's, where a few tried friends had been invited to pass the evening. These | ere the lights were extinguished in the parlors of the friends were sorry that Eliza had not been invited to white house, it was known throughout the village the wedding, but were pleased to find that she did that there had been two weddings instead of one. not seem to be disappointed-she was in such fine Early in the morning, before the news had reached spirits. She wore her new white dress, and a few them, Mr. and Mrs. Benfield set out upon their roses in her hair. wedding tour. Emily learned her cousin's marriage from the same paper which informed the public of her own. The entrance of the pastor, Mr. Mason, and Mr. Ralston, seemed to cause no surprise to Aunt Mary, though it astonished the assembled guests. After a kind word from the pastor to each one present, for they were all members of his flock, Mason arose, and taking Eliza by the hand, said to him, "We are ready." Prayer was offered, the wedding-vows were spoken, and George Mason and Eliza Austin were pronounced husband and wife. Joy seemed to have brushed away the clouds from Aunt Mary's mind. She conversed with the intelligence of her better days. The guests departed, and George Mason had no time for a wedding tour. He removed his wife and her aunt immediately to the city, and at once resumed the labors of his calling. Emily did not become acquainted with Mrs. Mason, until Mr. Benfield had failed in business, and was enabled to commence again, with capital furnished by her cousin, who had become the leading member of his firm. THE DAYSPRING. MOURNER, bending o'er the tomb Deep and burdened are thy sighs: 'Neath the drooping willow's shade, In a quiet, calm repose. BY SAMUEL D. PATTERSON. Broken is the "golden bowl," And the worm, foul banqueter, Riots on that matchless cheek. And the night winds, as they sweep And each plant and leaf and flower down Truly has thy sun gone But, amid thy load of wo, Turn, thou stricken one, thine eyes In the blue expanse above; Life's bright harp of thousand strings But the realm seraphic rings With the victor notes of heaven. See thy cherished one appear! SONNET.-CULTIVATION. BY MRS. E. C. KINNEY. WEEDS grow unasked, and even some sweet flowers While plants most cultured have most lasting powers. But are the birth of time, and mental toil, And all the culture Learning's hand can give : ON paying a visit to my friend Agnes Mason one morning, the servant told me his mistress would be 'Certainly," replied Agnes eagerly, and she added with a slight expression of feeling which I well unpleased to see me in her dressing-room. Thither Iderstood-"I will watch over her, for she will need repaired, and found her, to my surprise, surrounded my careful love now even more than in childhood." by all sorts of gay, costly articles, appertaining to "Where is the pretty cause of all this anxiety and the costume of a woman of the world. To my sur-attention?" I inquired. prise, I say, for Agnes has always been one of the "Charlie would not dress for his morning walk," greatest home-bodies in the whole circle of my ac-answered the mother, "unless sister Lillie assisted quaintances. A party, or a ball she has scarcely in the robing of the young tyrant, so she is in the visited since the first years of her marriage, although nursery." possessing ample means to enjoy every gayety of fashionable life. Over the Psyche glass was thrown a spotless crêpe dress, almost trembling with its rich embroidery; and near it, as if in contrast, on a dressstand, was a velvet robe, falling in soft, luxurious folds. Flowers, caps, coiffures of various descriptions, peeped out of sundry boxes, and on a commode table was an open écrin whose sparkling, costly contents dazzled the eyes. We inspected the different robes and gay things spread out so temptingly before us, and grew femininely eloquent over these beautiful trifles, and were most earnestly engaged in admiring the parure of brilliant diamonds, and the spotless pearls, with which the fond, proud father and husband had presented them that morning, when a slight tap was heard at the door, and our pet Lillie entered. A bright-eyed, light-hearted creature is Lillie Masona sunbeam to her home. She ran up to me with "Hey-day!" I exclaimed to my friend, as she ad-affectionate greetings, and united in our raptures vanced to meet me, "what's the meaning of all this over the glittering bijouterie. splendor?". "I was just on the point of sending for you," she replied laughingly-" Madame M- has sent home these lovely things for Lillie and I--and I want your opinion upon them." "How will you like this new life, Lillie?" I asked, as the lovely girl threw herself on a low marchepied at our feet, as if wearied of the pretty things. "I can scarcely tell," she replied, and she rested "And you are really going to re-enter society?" I her head on her mother's lap, whose hand parted the asked. clustering ringlets on the fair, smooth brow, while Lillie's eyes looked up most lovingly to that beloved mother, as she added-"How we shall miss the quiet reading hours, mother, darling. What time shall we have during our robing and unrobing for the gentle Una and her milk-white lamb,' and 'those bright children of the bard, Imogen, the fair Fidele and lovely Desdemona?' What use is there in all this decking and adorning? Life is far happier spent in one's own home." "I fear," said Agnes, as she fondly caressed her |