"Oh, I don't! Indeed I don't! Now will you obey?" "No. I don't believe you."

"Oh !"

He possessed himself of her hand again.

"My love-my dearest! What is this trouble, that you can't tell it? It can't be anything about yourself. If it is anything about any one else, it wouldn't make the least difference in the world, no matter what it was. be only too glad to show by any act or deed I could that I would nothing could change me towards you."

66

'Oh, you don't understand!"

"No, I don't. You must tell me."

"I will never do that."

"Then I will stay here till your mother comes, and ask her what it is."

"Ask her?"

"Yes! Do you think I will give you up till I know why I must ?"

"You force me to it! Will you go if I tell you, and never let any human creature know what you have said to me?"

"Not unless you give me leave.'

"That will be never. Well, then-____”,

She stopped,

and made two or three ineffectual efforts to begin again. 66 'No, no! I can't. You must go!"

"I will not go!"

"You said you-loved me. If

He dropped the hands he had stretched towards her, you do, you will go." and she hid her face in her own.

"There!" she said, turning it suddenly upon him. “Sit down there. And will you promise me-on your honor— not to speak-not to try to persuade me-not to-touch me? You won't touch me?" "I will obey you, Penelope."

"As if you were never to see me again? As if I were dying?"

"I will do what you say. But I shall see you again; and don't talk of dying. This is the beginning of life—————' "No. It's the end," said the girl, resuming at last something of the hoarse drawl which the tumult of her feeling had broken into those half-articulate appeals. Sho sat down too, and lifted her face towards him. "It's the end of life for me, because I know now that I must have been playing false from the beginning. You don't know what I mean, and I can never tell you. It isn't my secret; it's some one else's. You-you must never come here again. I can't tell you why, and you must never try to know. Do you promise?"

"You can forbid me. I must do what you say."

"I do forbid you, then. And you shall not think I am cruel

"How could I think that?"

"Oh, how hard you make it!"

Corey laughed for very despair. Can I make it easier by disobeying you?"

"I know I am talking crazily. But I'm not crazy."

"No, no," he said, with some wild notion of comforting her; "but try to tell me this trouble! There is nothing under heaven-no calamity, no sorrow-that I wouldn't gladly share with you, or take all upon myself if I could!"

"I know! But this you can't. Oh, my

"Dearest! Wait! Think! Let me ask your mother -your father

"No! If you do that, you will make me hate you! Will you

The rattling of a latch-key was heard in the outer door.

"Promise!" cried Penelope.

"Oh, I promise!"

"Good-by!"

She suddenly flung her arms round his

neck, and, pressing her cheek tight against his, flashed out of the room by one door as her father entered it by another.

LIFE IN BRUSHLAND.

JOHN DARBY.

["John Darby" is the nom-de-plume assumed by Dr. James E. Garretson, a physician of Philadelphia, who has made the charms and advantages of country life the basis of several enthusiastic works. "Brushland," as will appear from our selection, is the sandy-soiled and forest-covered region of Southern New Jersey, at first sight seeming utterly unfitted for agriculture, yet which has proved remarkably prolific in the growth of the vine, small fruits, and "garden-truck” in general. It has become a very important source of fruit and vegetable supply to the two great neighboring cities of New York and Philadelphia, while German cultivators have succeeded in making parts of it a veritable "American Rhine." The following description of its two main vine-growing districts may be of interest to our readers.]

IF the author of the "Deserted Village" be right in his assertion that "every rood of ground maintained its man," these Jersey barrens are capable of affording support to all the unemployed of the United States. Let the rood be changed for a twenty-acre farm, and homes are to be found in them for all the houseless in the two great cities bordering the region.

Jersey brush is not a home in itself: quite the contrary. Many is the man who has come to grief amid its scruboaks. Many another will lay down the budget of his hopes among its brambles and briers, cursing the fate that

led him to what he is to find a dreary disappointment. To flourish in Brushland is to carry into it common sense and energy. To starve in its woods is not to take into them judgment and industry. The man who would make for himself amid Brushland cheapness the results of Johannisberg must be sure that, in locating his vine-hill, he buys red clay and gravel. He who would have a vintage smacking of the bouquet that lives about the ChâteauMargaux must not be uncertain as to the percentage of potash, iron, and soluble silicates to be analyzed from his soil.

Reminded of wine-growing is to recall many pleasant experiences enjoyed with the growers. Egg Harbor and Vineland are the regions of this most delightful industry. The possibility of the whole brush country for the profitable raising of the vine, and of fruit generally, is something that home-seekers might wisely consider. Certainly it is the case that here growing weather comes earliest and stays latest. Undeniably, a seed dropped in the ground is sure to come to something if the ghost of a chance be allowed it. It happened the writer on an occasion to be invited to meet in the brush a commission of gentlemen appointed by the Legislature of New Jersey to make explorations of a character similar to some engaging at the time his own attention. The day of meeting was a hot one, and after a long morning spent in digging out specimens of soil and in détouring here and there through trackless places, a ride was proposed to what, again using Carlyle's word, and adding to it, we will call "Weissnichtwozweitens." Assuredly, as one at least of the party was concerned, it was a ride having no objective point, but influenced solely by the accidents of roads that might be met with. It was certainly a narrow way in which we found ourselves immediately on leaving the

street of the village, so narrow as to beget at once the thought "Suppose we meet somebody?" Where did the road lead? To see the most of the particular locality was the special object; plenty of time was just then at the author's command. Where the single track went was not a matter of the slightest consequence; it led somewhere, that was enough.

What a surprise when a sudden turn in the road showed an ending of the brush, introducing a scene fair as eye could desire to look on! Flatness was lost in undulation; sterility replaced by fruitfulness. Along the sides of many hills of gentle elevation were seen the dressers tying up their vines. From every direction came songs from the lips of the workers, borne by a hazy atmosphere. The scene was not at all American. It was an involuntary motion of the eye that turned to look for the Rheinfluss. Vineyards in every direction. Houses exhibiting both means and taste. Here, perched on the top of the highest hill, a beer-brewery. One place, beautiful as a picture, showed a garden filled with long tables; evidently a pleasure-resort; German, very German; one on taking a seat would unconsciously have given his order in the Sprache des Vaterlandes. But the people to fill up these long tables; where did the convivialists come from? Who could manage to find so out-of-the-way an Anpflanzung?

Turning up a lane, bordered on either side by rows of vines, our excursion found a terminus before what, at first sight, might readily enough have been mistaken for a house-roof lying upon the ground. This, however, was a wine-vault, the roof acting the part of a water-shed.

It is not to qualify the hearty welcome given our little. party by any reference to the official character associated with it. The proprietor represented his vines, the vines expressed the proprietor. There was plenty of wine,