WE had finished our simple repast. My old friend put aside her cup and leaned back in her chair with a pleasant smile. I rose and rang the bell, and when the servant had cleared our tea-table I sat down in a comfortable rocking-chair and suffered my eyes again to wander round the well-known, neat and tastefully furnished room. It was elegant and simple, without a trace of pretension; it was like its mistress, who with her snow-white hair and her dear loving eyes sat opposite to me in silence, and watched my looks with a smile. My regards wandered from the old family pictures on the walls to the writingtable with its drawers and compartments, then to the work-table in the window, and then to another smaller table covered with books and periodicals, till it finally rested upon a little box near me.

VOL. XIV.-20

"What is my little inquisitive looking for?" said the old lady, as she kindly took my hand.

"It is so pleasant here; so different from what it is in other houses. I am never so comfortable as when I am with you, Aunt Lydia," I replied, bestowing on her a title which was warranted by no relationship, but which only sprang from my affection. "But," I said, suddenly, as my eyes again rested, as if by accident, on the box by my side, "what am I thinking of? Did you not promise me that I should rummage over your treasures to-day?"

My old friend nodded her assent, and I ran joyfully to bring the box a little nearer. I continued for a while to turn over its contents, sometimes drawing forth a stone with initials engraven on it, sometimes a miniature set in pearls, and Aunt Lydia had always some recol

lection of a deceased friend in connection with each. Suddenly, on my touching a spring, a partition gave way and a hollow place appeared in the cover of the box, from which fell a packet, tied with a faded ribbon. Triumphant at this new discovery, I. looked at Aunt Lydia; her head was bowed and her hands held out in a deprecatory manner. I was shocked, and endeavored to repair my thoughtlessness by closing the box and endeavoring to place it aside; but she would not allow this-she took it herself, and drew forth the packet, the covering of which she removed with her own trembling hands.

There was a bunch of withered violets, and a painting on cardboard which gave such an exact represen

tation of those violets in their former freshness that you felt inclined to raise them from the paper; a plain gold ring, and some faded letters.

"How lovely!" I exclaimed, as my eyes rested on the painting. "Who could have painted that beautiful group?"

A sad smile passed over the face of my old friend as she answered: "I painted them when I was a happy girl of eighteen."

A gentle sigh and the trembling of her lips showed me that she suffered.

"The sight of these things makes you sad," I exclaimed. We will shut them up again."

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"Sad?" she replied. No, not sad-the remembrance of many happy hours is in connection with these things, and if time and sorrow have made the fair hopes of the past like to that bunch of flowers, the recollection of them is as fresh and bright as is that little painting by my hand."

I ventured not to ask, and yet how gladly I would have heard the story of that treasure. My old friend seemed to read my heart.

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Now, Elsie," she said, "would you like to turn over some of the

pages of the past? Will you live with me through the three days, the remembrance of which is so vividly recalled by the sight of those violets ?"

My only reply was to press a kiss on the forehead of the dear old lady. I placed myself on a stool at her knees, and leaning back in her chair and shading her eyes with her hand, she began her story as she only could tell it:

It is a beautiful spring day. The sun is in his meridian splendor, and fills the air with light and heat. The birds sing joyously on the flowery branches, the butterflies pass from flower to flower, the mayflies dance up and down, brightness is over everything.

A girl is sitting at the window of a handsome house, which opens into the garden; she may be eighteen or nineteen years old. A pure and innocent heart and the freshness of youth are all the charms which she has to boast of. But in the eyes of the world she adds to these a name of some renown and a handsome fortune. The little figure in the bow-window, who is so intent upon one of La Fouqué's tales that she forgets almost everything else, is a rich heiress. She has the misfortune to be an orphan. The tall pale lady on the sofa and the gentleman hidden behind the newspaper are the maiden's only relatives, and since she returned from school with them has been her home. Well for her that her happy disposition, her luxurious surroundings, and the dawn of a feeling which sheds brightness around it, had not yet permitted her to awake to the consciousness that she was suffering from the want of that love which can be bestowed upon us only by our parents.

"Now, Lydia," said the lady, as she placed her lap-dog, the plaything of her idle hours, on the sofa, "have you considered Edward Harvey's proposal ?”

Lydia looked up and shook back her dark locks. "But, aunt, I have already said that I do not love Mr. Harvey, and I will not marry him." "But it would be such a good match," continued the lady as her husband nodded his head approvingly. "What can you have to say against Edward Harvey? He is young, handsome, amiable."

"He is the most amiable man in the world," broke in Lydia, quickly, "but I feel like a stone towards him.' With these words she again took up her book and was soon so deep in its contents that she gave no further attention to the conversation of her relatives, which immediately turned on the income and property of Edward Harvey. From time to time a look wandered from her book to the clock on the mantelpiece which now indicated ten minutes past twelve.

A servant entered the room and informed her that Mr. Valery had

come.

Lydia laid aside her book; she left the room, and crossing a small hall entered a kind of studio dedicated to her use.

"I hope I have not kept you waiting, Mr. Valery," she said, as she advanced towards a young man, who with a countenance which bore all the expression of genius, was bending over an easel.

"No, lady," he said as he bowed and fixed his eyes on the maiden. "I have added a stroke to the light just here, and am pleased to see how well you have succeeded with your violets. There is hardly any difference in the color," he added as he threw a bunch of flowers on the table which he had worn in his buttonhole.

“Indeed? Then you are pleased with me, Mr. Valery? This is the first time that you have given me a word of commendation. I am accustomed to read your approbation only in your looks."

She looked up smilingly to her teacher, whose manly face was deeply

suffused. Was it this or was it the words that he spoke that brought the color to Lydia's face also?

"I have admired your talent in silence, lady," he said, "but now when it shows itself yet more strikingly, I am obliged to allow what you yourself must be aware of-that your talent far exceeds that of the greater number of amateurs.

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Thank you,' ,"replied the girl, kindly offering him her hand; you cannot think what pleasure your words give me; I love art, and the hours I spend over my easel are the happiest of my life."

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"It is well for you that your fortunate position protects you from the curse of being obliged to make art a profession with which to fight against sorrow and suffering. May the sun shine upon your path to the end," he added as he placed a chair for Lydia at the easel, and began to prepare the colors which she was to lay on under his inspection,

"What can be the matter? You are quite solemn and almost illhumored to-day. Let us be merry. Cannot I succeed in driving away those clouds from your brow?"

Valery made no answer; he only shook his head, offered his pupil her palette, and took his place behind her chair.

A pause ensued in which nothing was heard but the twittering of the birds, and the splashing of the fountain before the window.

Valery at last broke the silence. "Pardon me," he said, "these shadows must be rather deeper— right-now a little more light here, the transition is too sudden. Allow me." With these words he took the pencil from her hand and began to make the improvement himself, Lydia meanwhile leaning back in her chair.

As he rose and returned her the pencil, "Have you been forbidden to speak?" she asked; "I cannot bear to see you so silent and sad."

Valery sighed. "There is a weight

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"So it has really come," she said, hardly mistress of her voice. "You are going to Italy, to the land of your longings and your dreams. I did not expect that it would be so soon. I congratulate you with all my heart," she added as she offered him her hand, but not daring to look up lest he should observe the tears that hung upon her eyelashes.

Valery took the little trembling hand and raised it to his lips.

Lydia withdrew her hand and looked down on it; she could not yet venture to raise her eyes, for the weil of tears which obscured them had become still thicker.

There was a painful silence. Neither ventured to speak, and yet the heart of each was full even to bursting. At last Lydia, who had not yet learned to control her feelings, hid her face in both hands and gave free course to her tears. Valery remained near her pale and immovable.

The stillness around her at last brought her to her senses. What had she done? Had she not wept like a child for one who only would laugh at her. What must Mr. Valery think of her? She quickly dried her tears as she said, "I am a great baby. Pardon me. Now I am calm again."

As she looked up she saw that

there were tears also in the eyes of him she was addressing. A feeling of joy shot through her at this sight. Much that had passed in her own heart, and Valery's behavior to her, became suddenly clear. She knew now what made art, what made life so dear to her; but she knew also that it would be dark night around her when she should no more see the tall manly form, nor hear the dear honest voice.

Valery looked at her sorrowfully, and pain and pleasure contended wildly in his heart. He appeared as if about to speak, and then his lips again closed. At last he spoke quickly, like one who is flying from temptation. "We must separate,'

he said; "I can no longer continue your instructor after to-day. Farewell; may heaven protect us both!"'

He would have hastened to the door, but Lydia stood before him. "Separate, separate, Mr. Valery!" she exclaimed. Separate now? Can you think of it?"

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Valery hid his face in both hands, and said slowly and softly, "Separate, separate! Yes, we must be strong. And then he added, with the energy of despair, "How can

I, the poor unknown artist, aspire to the hand of the rich and noble heiress. It would be madness to think of it. We must separate, lady, such a union is impossible.'

Lydia still stood before him with her hands clasped.

"It might be," she said.

Valery had become still paler. "You break my heart," he said at last. "Could I so abuse the confidence placed in me by your relatives? Can I reconcile it with my honor or even with my love to unite you, to whom the whole world lies open, to my dark and uncertain fate? Might not the day come in which you would repent of the sacrifice which you had made so willingly in the first overflow of your feelings ?"

Again Lydia looked up at him.

The young man looked after her as with trembling steps she returned to her easel and with nervous haste put her painting materials in order. He had a hard battle to fight. At last he said softly, and with deep feeling, "Lydia, Lydia, will you be mine?"

My old friend stopped. She leaned her head on her hand and seemed lost in thought; at last she continued.

So they were engaged. Lydia would allow herself no thought of Valery's unequal position. She told him that she was alone in the world, that in two years she should be of age, and that then she should publicly declare her engagement.

In one thing the young artist was resolute-they should not write to each other during the two years he would pass in Italy. Lydia was too young; she did not sufficiently know her own heart; he would not allow her to consider herself bound to him.

"Here," he said, when Lydia at last had consented to his wishes, 66 we will divide this bunch of violets into two parts. If, dear Lydia, you should ever feel that the sacrifice you have this day made is too much for you, then send these flowers back to me. You shall have no word of reproach; I shall submit to my fate without bitterness, and the remembrance of this sweet hour will be a balsam to my wounds. Do you agree to this?"

"Yes, Valery, if you will make me the same promise. I have no difficulty on my part; our poor violets will make no journey; but our thoughts, Valery! Will you not often think of this hour? And of me?" she added.

"As long as I live and breathe," answered the young artist.

It was evening. Lydia stood looking dreamily from the window. The moon shed her silver rays upon the dark shrubs of the garden, while the gravel-walk shone like white bands. Thousands of stars twinkled in the heavens. The crickets chirped in the grass, and there, behind that rosebush, a nightingale was pouring forth her melody. One light after another was extinguished in the neighborhood, till only a lamp was left burning in the window of the roof over there.

And now the window was opened, and Lydia heard through the sweet May air a strain of music which first attracted her attention, and then in a sweet, rich voice the words of a parting song. The song ceased, the light had long been extinguished, while Lydia still knelt by the window and wished a thousand times 'good-night" to the singer from her overflowing heart.

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She

Again the narrator stopped. leaned back in her chair and gazed in deep thought upon the wall which, with the pictures that hung on it, was now gilded by the evening light, as if she was reading in its tracery the story of her heart. Then she heaved a deep sigh, took my hand in hers, and continued her story.

It was a different life at the little German Bath, where we find Lydia after the lapse of one short year. Her relatives lived in the world, but she had a world of her own; other thoughts, other wishes quite different from those of the joyous, laughing world by which she was surrounded. She could not expect much affection from her guardian and his superficial, but good-natured wife, but for this very reason they left her the freedom she so greatly prized. And so it came to pass that while her relatives were completely absorbed by the claims of society, Lydia seldom took part in it, but would wander about the neighborhood for whole hours. with her sketch-book, or in the evening would make long excursions on