is to be bridesmaid to Emma, and I cannot pay you a higher compliment than to assign you Kate as a partner."
Alfred could not refuse, after having accepted the invitation, and besides, since his friend seemed ignorant of his former love for Kate, he determined to do nothing that might betray him. He felt too by the flutter of his heart that his love for Kate was not wholly eradicated, and he asked himself " if she is really so changed may we not yet be happy ?" Nor will we deny that the fancy, that his abrupt departure may have had some influence in bringing about this reformation, rose up before his mind.
"I have brought you a new beau, Kate," said Emma's betrothed, as he entered the room where the two girls were sitting, " or rather an old one, come to life. Moreover, I have asked him to be your partner at my wedding -have I done right ?"
" Oh ! yes," said Kate smiling, and little expecting the answer, she added, " but who is he ?"
"As noble a fellow as ever breathed. You know him well, Emma-Alfred Townsend."
The blood rushed to Kate's very brow, and she felt her senses reeling ; but making a powerful effort to command her feelings, she rose and would have left the room .
" Are you ill, Kate ?" said Emma's unthinking lover, but at a glance from his affianced bride he was suddenly silent. Kate rushed from the room followed by Miss Glendroy, and as soon as the door was closed, the overwrought girl fell weeping into her friend's arms.
The next day Alfred, who had learnt all, was at Kate's feet begging forgiveness for the past ; but the sweet girl took all the blame on herself, and said it was she who ought to be penitent.
Let us forget the past then, dearest," said he, " and look only to the future."
And Kate answered, smiling through her tears !
___
THE DYING MOTHER.
BY WILLIAM WALLACE.
NIGHT with her myriad eyes and azure wing
Sat in her spheréd hall : and silence laid
Her finger on the world's great pulse. The winds
Had closed their pallid lips , and Nature seemed
Like one who breathless waits beside a shrine
For some most holy rite.
Upon a couch
She lay her mild blue eyes were upward turned,
And on their lashes shone the light of tears.
Wasted, yet lovely as a star when pale
With its o'er-watching through the stormy dark !
Like it the Mother, too, for such the one
Was passing silently to heaven : and thus
Her spirit gave its feelings utterance
Ere she had left the world.
Leave! leave me not !-for only thou
Remain'st of all I knew,
And oh! my very heart would break
To lose the last one, too.
I cannot-cannot speak that word
It dies upon my lips unheard—
Though thou hast said "adieu!"
Last blossom lingering on the tree
Which witheringly has waved for thee!
My feet are on the grave with her
Who left the parent bough,
And soon I'll lay beside that leaf
A mother's aching brow :
-I would not make thee tarry long :
Ah! soon thou might'st have joined the throng
Where thou art struggling now:
These withered cheeks-these locks of gray
Tell that I, too, must pass away.
Tears ! tears ! ' t is well to weep, but not
From eyes alone they start
These drops-these burning drops have had
Their fountain in the heart.
Yes, I have wept ! of all bereft
By even thee thus lonely left
And doomed , for aye, to part
Oh ! say, why should not tears be shed
When thinking of the lost and dead ?
The Dead! how oft thus beauteous forms
Are floating in the light
Of yon pale moon whene'er she walks
The shadowy halls of night!
I see them now! Their gentle eyes
Speaking of Love and Paradise,
As if it lay in sight :
And I can hear their voices say
"O'er wearied ! come, oh! come away!"
Yes! I will come ! I feel my life
Fast wearing to its close,
And soon the flowers above her grave
Shall guard my own repose.
A mother's blessing on thee, boy!
May thou know all a parent's joy,
But nothing of her woes!
I feel! I feel the deathly spell :
Now can thy mother say, "farewell !"
Her blue eyes closed, and thus her spirit fled
Within the music of its own sad thoughts,
Which even in death were with her reckless boy,
Wandering afar in unknown climes, whom now
She pictured by her side and then away.
Well hath the minstrel saug a mother's love !
It is a stream of beauty, where the stars
That light the inner heaven, by seraphs watched,
But all too holy for an impure sense,
Are mirrored : yes , a stream of gentle tone,
Soft as the whispered hymn of fading eve,
Ere she has put her crown of sunset off;
But yet hath it a force and majesty
The torrent of the North may never claim.
