A black-eyed boy some three years old, Frolicked around our home,

His bounding step one morn was checked,
His laugh became a moan.

Upward he raised his dimpled hands,
As, struggling for his breath,

Love his dear eyes once more re-lumed,
And then, they closed in death.

Where Rockport slumbers by the sea,
Lulled by the Atlantic wave,
Warm, feeling hearts, and friendly hands
Prepared his little grave.

And though afar, we know 'tis watched
By those who loved him well;

And ever for his requiem,

The billows heave and swell.

"DEAR ANNIE," said Clarence Westerly, in tones of joy, as he finished reading a long letter, "cousin Georgine is coming to-morrow to make us a visit. She is a year or two older than myself, but I well remember her flashing black eyes, and her queenly, commanding figure and tone which none could resist with impunity, although I have scarcely seen her since a mere boy. How much we shall enjoy her society !"

"I am very happy now, Clarence," said his wife, as she glanced with all of a newly-made mother's joy and pride into the cradle which contained her treasure, their sweet infant, "and yet I am sure it will give me great pleasure to see your cousin here in our beautiful home."

Sweet Annie Westerly! With another glance at the dear little Mary, she arranged its tiny bed, and charging her husband to watch over its slumbers, with a graceful step and a happy, loving heart, she appeared before old Elsie the housekeeper, with a request for assistance to decorate and arrange an apartment for the expected cou

sin. It was a spacious, airy chamber fronting the south, and to the west, just down the flowery bank, a beautiful stream kept up its musicanthem of joy and hope, while some of the most adventurous blossoms bathed their cups in its pellucid waters, and the willows also dipped their foliage there. It was delicious June-and the air was redolent with the aroma of the roses which Mrs. Westerly's own hand had cultivated, for her love of flowers had made almost a paradise of the old honestead of the Westerlys. Bouquets of roses and other flowers in vases were profusely arranged in the room appropri ated to Georgine Rossiter, and the snowy counterpane and delicate white curtains, formed a pleasing contrast to the rich, dark hues of the soft carpet, shedding an air of neatness and repose around. Books were not forgotten-many choice volumes of poetry, annuals and magazines, the cherished gifts of Clarence, were placed by Annie there for her especial use, and as she finished her preparations, she turned back for another glance ere she crossed the threshold, exclaiming joyfully, "There, Elsie, is it not pleasant? Can I do any thing more for our cousin?"

"It is perfect," was old Elsie's sole reply, while a shade of sorrow stole over her features and the tears came to her eyes, unperceived, however, by Mrs. Westerly, who was upon "hospitable thoughts intent." She then tripped down the stairs, and entered the parlor just as the baby woke, and then she kissed the babe, while Clarence took the same liberty with the mother. He read aloud for about an hour in a favorite poem, while by the glance full of emotion raised to her husband's face, by the alternate lights and shadows playing over her fine countenance, by the repressed breath when some noble sentiment re-echoed in her own heart, it was fully evident Annie Westerly sympathized in her husband's tastes and feelings, and was a true companion to him. How shall I describe her? Gentle, dove-like eyes, lit up by a flood of intellect and feeling-light, brown, silky hair, parted smoothly, revealing an expanse of forehead that would have charmed a phrenologista small, beautifully rounded figure-a very delicate hand and foot were but the externals-the indwelling spirit can not be truly daguerreotyped by this feeble pen, for, touched by the holy sunlight of love, different, yet beautiful pictures would be given in rapid succession-each diversified by pure thought, radiant with affection, golden with hope, glorious with the gleams of

immortality. In early life she was left an orphan, with no relative in the wide world but a sister of her father's, who, widowed and childless, with joy took Annie to her heart, gave her an excellent education, not forgetting the accomplishments of music, drawing, etc., but above all, she instilled into her young and glowing heart, sentiments of love and gratitude to the Father of all. A sense of his presence and love, a lively faith which extended beyond the bounds of the tomb to the enduring, sorrowless home of the soul, gave an almost celestial sweetness to her countenance. Clarence Westerly, fresh from the bestowal of College honors and from his journeyings in foreign lands, the last scion of a noble line of ancestors, inheriting an ample fortune, found the delightful old homestead rather dreary without a companion, and so he offered himself to Annie Dinsmore, whom he had seen and admired at her aunt's, both before and after leaving college. He was also an orphan, with no near relative but the cousin, who had long been absent from her native land, and whose promised visit had made him so enthusiastic. During the two years of his wedded life, he had tasted unalloyed felicity, in breathing the pure air of his home, loving deeply and being loved ardently, overseeing his domains, and gathering the "ripe clusters of experience" from his large and well selected library. Annie, too, was most happy, for the frank, joyous, affectionate, cultivated manners of Clarence, were attractive and dear, and when the babe was added to their home circle, she felt that their cup of felicity was, indeed, full. The thought, however, that her husband did not sympathize with her in her spiritual hopes and aspirations, sometimes brought sadness to her soul, but she waited with earnest desire, trusting at length to see his vision purified and clear, fixed with intensity on the "Sun of Righteousness."

THE promised morrow had arrived, which was to add a new inmate to the circle of the Westerlys. It was one of Nature's own gala-days, and every thing around the pleasant old mansion was serene and delightful. Every bud and flow. er was rejoicing in beauty-the birds carolled right merrily to the chimings of the stream, and the music of human hearts was filling all the home atmosphere. In the vine-wreathed piazza sat Clarence and Annie-the former holding and caressing his child, the latter giving a low, sweet prelude, ere she commenced a favorite air

on the harp. "Your strains are sad to-day, dear Annie-why is it?" he tenderly inquired. She hid her face on his shoulder. "Do not chide me, Clarence, when I tell you that an indefinable sense of coming ill is pervading my spirit. Coming events cast their shadows before,' sometimes, and to-day, contrary to my wont, I feel sad."

With an assuring caress, Clarence said lightly, "Nothing can harm you, dearest, while I am here to defend you. But look! There is a carriage coming-it must be Georgine. We will go down the path and meet her."

He handed the babe to Elsie, and drawing Annie's arm within his, they proceeded down the shady carriage path. Clarence was bareheaded, and the breeze lifted gently his dark locks from his brow, and as the light of hope and gladness danced in his eyes, he looked nobly beautiful.

"Dear cousin Clarence," exclaimed Georgine, as she folded him in her arms, and kissed his brow, "how very much 1 have wished to see you."

"My wife," said Clarence, as he presented Annie to his cousin with a glow of conscious love and pride.

Miss Rossiter but just touched her lips to Annie's cheek with a patronizing sort of air, and did not give her time to return the compliment; then leaning on Clarence's arm, she entered the house.

What a contrast was she to Annie! Annie was dressed in white with no ornament save a small likeness of her husband suspended from her neck by a gold chain, while Georgine's dark locks were wreathed with gems, and her whole attire sparkled with jewelry. Her forehead was not high, but her proud, flashing black eyes imparted a commanding beauty to her countenance. She was quite tall, and as Clarence had remarked, "a queenly figure," and well aware was she of the fact.

"Now I will show you one of my treasures," said Clarence, gaily, as he brought in the infant. "A very pretty child, truly," remarked Georgine, as she bent very gracefully towards Clarence to kiss it," and it looks exactly like yourself."

No, no, cousin," replied he with a smile, "I can see it is the softened image' of Annie." Georgine was soon conducted to her chamber, from whence she did not emerge till teatime, and if she had appeared superbly attired in her travelling dress, how much more so in the

light, flowing drapery which she now assumed. After tea, she took her station at the piano, and played several airs, and then turning to Annie, said, "Do you play?"

"Sometimes," was the quiet response, as she seated herself, and performed several difficult pieces, showing great skill and musical appreciation.

The haughty cousin evidently was not prepared for this, for she bit her lip, and her face grew dark with passion, although it was unnoticed by Mr. Westerly, who was listening intently to his wife's music.

"Do you ride out often?" inquired Georgine the next morning.

"Not very often," replied Annie,

as we en

joy ourselves so delightfully here at home with books, music, our own thoughts, and little Mary."

"And has Clarence Westerly settled down into such a hum-drum, stupid, matter-of-fact, every-day personage?" said Georgine, a slight sneer curling her lips, as she turned to her cousin.

"We will be neither hum-drum nor stupid, if we can avoid it, whilst you visit us, Georgine," he replied pleasantly, "and so we will ride out to-day, if you desire it. We will all go."

Accordingly Mr. Westerly, his wife and child, rode out several miles with Miss Rossiter, who was very fond of showing her authority over Clarence, ordering him to gather mosses, flowers and pebbles at almost every step, and to assist her out of the carriage, in order to walk with him.

Every day Miss Rossiter would ride out for her health, and " 'cousin Clarence" must accompany her, for she would not excuse him. "She wished," she said, "to visit the old, familiar places where she and Clarence formerly played when children-to see how they would appear, now that they were older." She never insisted upon Annie's company, and indeed Annie could not, and would not, day after day, forsake her family duties for the sake of mere amusement. After a while, Clarence no longer urged her to ride with them, or even hinted a desire to that effect. Indeed, his whole time and attention were taken up with his fascinating cousin, in the daily walks and drives, botanizing and geologizing; and when they returned, and Georgine took her place at the piano, Clarence no longer felt and admired his wife's superior musical abilities, for he was entirely chained and charmed by Georgine Rossiter.

Had he looked into the sad, yet still loving eyes of his Annie, he would have seen that they were familiar with tears. Yes, her step was languid, and her voice no more gushed out in the richness of its melody. Ah! what can make up for the loss of affection in the one to whom is given our all of love and joy, in whom centre all the dearest and best of our feelings and emotions, whose smile is our heart's most precious sunlight, whose lightest tone, a wealth of music and tenderness?

At last, Annie's health, always delicate, gave way, and she was confined to her room, but Clarence was not the tireless watcher, as in other days, at her slightest indisposition. It is true, he applied for medical help, but who can successfully "minister to a mind diseased?"

Old Elsie was unremitting in her attentions, and availing herself of the privilege of being a favorite servant, she said, one day, "I shall be so glad, ma'am, when Miss Rossiter leaves, and Mr. Westerly knows again that he has got a wife and child to take care of."

"Do not speak so of him, Elsie, now," murmured poor Annie, as she buried her face in her pillow.

"How can I help it, ma'am, when I see you neglected for that brazen-faced cousin. I knew how it would be, when I heard she was coming, for I lived at Esq. White's, who, you know, is distantly related to Mr. Westerly, and she came there and stayed three months and bewitched him, so that he paid no attention to his wife, who was a sickly woman, and she took it so to heart that she died before Miss Rossiter left. But it waked up Esq. White's old feelings when he saw his young wife lying dead before him, and he and Miss Georgine had a dreadful falling out, and she has never been there since."

Say no more, dear Elsie," said Annie, imploringly; and as the old servant left the room, bitter were the reflections to which she left her mistress.

Should she be left to die of neglect and unanswered affection, and leave her infant alone and unprotected? In that sweet, old home of beauty and peace, where she had so joyously raised the chalice of domestic happiness to her lips, must she be compelled to dash it to the earth?

"No! no!" exclaimed Annie, "looking earnestly at the Cross, I will suffer and be strong' -I will not waste time in fruitless repiningthough the cup is unspeakably bitter, I will drink it, trusting in God's own good time, that drops of sweetness and hope will again be min

gled there. I will, with divine assistance, again take my place in the family circle, for evil, doubt and despair will not ever thus triumph.”

Filled with these high and noble resolves, inspired by her confident trust in God, she was, or appeared to be stronger, for who does not know how at times the soul will completely triumph over its frail, earthly tenement?

The next day, therefore, just before the dinner hour, she descended to the parlor. She intended to surprise Clarence and Georgine by the suddenness of her recovery, and she could not, she would not think illy of her own Clarence, or of Georgine either, despite Elsie's mournful tale. No, in her fond, woman's heart, were many excuses for her husband's neglect of her. Was not Georgine the only relative he had on earth? Why should he not then love her, and pay his undivided attention to her, during her stay? And yet in spite of all these excuses, there was a low, solemn under-tone, ever murmuring, "Dearest Clarence, I would not thus neglect thee for any one on earth!" Never had Annie looked more lovely than when she descended the stairs, bent on surprising her husband. Her loosely flowing white robes imparted an aerial |. lightness and beauty to her figure, and her eyes i glistened with new-born hope. She entered the parlor they were not there, and she seated herself with glowing cheek in a favorite recess which concealed her from their sight, to await a favorable moment to burst forth upon them. Not long did she wait-her husband came in with his arm fondly encircling his cousin's yielding form, while her head rested on his shoulders, and those glistening black orbs were upraised to his, in all the ardor of passion.

"Why could I not have known before this, dearest Georgine, that you had ever loved me from my youth," he sadly murmured. "I should not now have been so miserable in my absorbing but vain love for you."

"I did leave my guardian in England and returned here as soon as I learned you had also returned from your travels, but being informed of your recent marriage, I visited awhile at Esq. White's, and then left again my native shores. But ever I thought alone of you, and I could not resist the attraction which drew me hither.” "Oh, that I were free from these hateful bonds," exclaimed the infatuated Clarence.

"Let us leave them behind and be happy yet,” said the unprincipled Georgine, as she moved towards the piano, and while her husband's eyes were following Miss Rossiter's movements, poor

Annie, more dead than alive, toiled wearily up the long stairs, and sunk fainting upon the floor. The noise aroused the faithful Elsie, who flew to her aid, and in a few moments she was restored to consciousness--yes, a thrilling consciousness that Clarence's love was lost to her!

CHAPTER 11 I.

IN the pleasant, sunlit room of an old-fashioned farm-house, surrounded by all that could minister to the wants of body and mind, lay amid the crimson cushions of a sofa, a young, delicate, yet sorrowful looking woman, watching the movements of a sweet but pale child, who was seated on the lap of a middle-aged lady, who seemed to feel a peculiar interest in both mother and child.

"Have they ever called since I have been here, aunt?" said Annie Westerly in a faint voice, for she was the beautiful invalid, so dear to the heart of Mrs. Laight, her aunt.

"They did call this morning, dearest, but it was a mere form-there was no heart in it, as they inquired for your health. How I wished to taunt Clarence with his baseness, but my promise to you forbade it."

Do not, my dear aunt-he has misery enough in store for him, on earth. When I shall have passed away from earth, do not forget him. Let the love you feel for me, be transferred to him. Lead him gently to the still waters and overflowing founts of redeeming love. Tell him I have ever loved him, and if permitted, in heaven will be his guardian angel."

She sunk back upon the pillow, overcome with this effort, and Mrs. Laight, after administering a sedative, had the pleasure of seeing Annie fall into a quiet sleep. The infant, too, was asleep, and the kind aunt relieved her surcharged heart by exclaiming as she knelt by Annie's side, "Poor, weary, parentless bird! Why didst thou leave my protecting wing to receive so unkind, so fatal a wound? Would that I could administer a balm for thy cruel agony! I cannot. Thou must journey on through the valley of death, to the glorious mansion of the great Physician of souls. There is consoling balm, and agony, parting, doubt and coldness shall be thine no more forever!"

Clarence Westerly evinced no grief as he saw his wife and child (from whom a few short weeks before he could scarcely bear a momentary separation), driven away from that home, which had been an Eden of love to both their hearts. He had granted her request, to stay

awhile at her aunt's, for the purpose of amending her health, with a secret joy- for now he had no longer even to keep up the ceremony of looking in upon her every day, and inquiring tenderly about her. True, he called occasionally with Georgine at Mrs. Laight's residence-but even if he had wished it, she would not have allowed his mockery of affection to poor Annie in person. As she looked back from the carriage at the old homestead, and saw the graceful, overhanging branches lave their foliage in the stream, and the music of the waters sank deep in her heart, she felt it was the last time she should thus gaze-the last, dying echo of homehappiness to which she should ever thus listen. The quivering lips which she pressed to her husband's cheek, she knew were pressed there for the last time, and when she held out the babe for his embrace, she said in her heart, "We shall see thee no more on this 'barren strand' of mortality, but on the golden shores of the immortal country, surely we shall be re-united in love."

After arriving at Mrs. Laight's, her health slowly, but surely declined-weak was she in body, but her spirit was exultingly trying its angel-pinions--the tabernacle of clay was fast dissolving, but each newly-made aperture let in the resplendent glory of "that house not made with hands, eternal in the heavens." The child, too, was fading away with every dying breath of the mother-that little "life which sprang beneath her heart," must cease with its last pulsation. With much effort, Annie traced a few parting lines to her husband, and gave them in charge to her aunt.

A beautiful December morning, just as the prancing steeds, with their gay attire and the jingling of sleigh-bells, were coming up to the mansion of Mr. Westerly, to convey Miss Rossiter and himself on a sleighing excursion, it was perceived that Mrs. Laight's messenger was also approaching. Clarence stepped out into the piazza and received two letters-the first in Mrs. Laight's hand-writing-the second a straggling hand which he could not recognize. Mrs. Laight's ran thus:

MR. WESTERLY: Your wife and child are dead. For the sake of the dear departed, who would not allow a syllable spoken against you, I will only say, come and see the desolation which you have brought upon yourself and upon me also.

H. LAIGHT.

He tore open the other epistle-it was no