the evening with her, and had fanned her into a sound sleep, and letting down the musquito curtains, she put the fan into the hand of the native attendant, and sought her own cabin, for it was now past ten o'clock. On entering the little den, she saw Mary had not come; she wondered a few minutes, waited a few minutes more, and then went on deck. Every one had left it but the helmsman. A horrible memory came over Edina of one night, which she never recollected without a faint shudder; she gasped and turned giddy, and the moon, at that moment rising from a cloud, betrayed the white folds of Mary's dress, at the further end of the poop. Edina sprang towards her; she had crouched down in a dark corner, her face hid in her hands, sobbing in a paroxysm of tears. Edina laid her hand caressingly on her shoulder. 'My dearest cousin, sister indeed! dear sister! why do you grieve so bitterly?" The loving tone melted all the frost of reserve which had so long incrusted Mary's heart; she was at that moment too unhappy to care for secresy; she arose quickly, and clasped Edina in her arms-"I will tell you all!" she cried, in a low, sharp tone, "all! I am wretched beyond words. "Come with me down," said Edina, gently urging her along. Dear Mary, your hair is quite wet with the dew; you are trembling with cold." "Not cold!" muttered Mary; "I wish it were." She sat down in the cabin, tried to speak, and again burst into tears. Edina's kisses and fond sisterly soothing melted her still more; but the violent weeping relieved her, and she was able to speak distinctly, though with much emotion. "Oh, Edina, do you remember your advice the day of Cholmondely's proposal? do you remember how you warned me? I was wavering then. I loved Frank always, but I did not know it till Cholmondely began his attentions. You showed me how impossible it was for me to marry Frank; and when you went away from me, I thought, I wished my heart would break at once. Then I began to think how foolish and wickedly I was acting, how I had encouraged Cholmondely from sheer shyness, and I was afraid to see him; but just as I had resolved to leave an excuse, he came in hurriedly, and when he saw me there he seized my hand, and would not let me go. Then he spoke so passionately, yet so respectfully, he pleaded in such irresistible words-oh, Edina, you know how fascinating, how talented he is; you know what eloquence he has at command, and he touched me so much I could not speak, to make him miserable, when he seemed so hopeful and so glad. And while self and Frank, and I hoped I should be able to do my duty as a wife—indeed I did not mean to deceive him. But I was punished for my presumption in saying to my feelings-Thus far shall ye come, and no further;' they were like the waves of the sea, and overflowed all my defences. Cholmondely went away, and I thought I might innocently keep up a brotherly intercourse with Frank; but oh, Edina, that word brotherly has ruined the peace of hundreds, and it betrayed mine. For when Frank went, then I saw how I had deceived you all; I saw that I loved him alone, that I could never be what a wife ought to be to noble, generous Cholmondely, and I have been miserable ever since. I left England because I thought the voyage would do me good, and I hoped to find Cholmondely grown cold, that I might have broken off the engagement without disgrace to myself. But I will trust to you, you shall be my guardian angel; advise me, Edina, for I am both weak and wicked." "You must not marry Cholmondely with such sentiments," exclaimed her monitor; “you could give him no crueller return for his love and constancy than a cold and repining wife. Frank is at Barrackpore, he is to meet us at Calcutta ; when you see him, perhaps you may think poverty an evil to be supported with one you love." "But Frank may have changed," faltered Mary. "I am sure not," said Edina, "I heard from him just before we sailed, and he is true and self-devoting." Mary wept again, but these were happy tears. "We will trust to Frank," she cried; "oh! if he loves me still, I will struggle through any poverty for his sake. I care not for wealth now, I have suffered too much from this distortion of the heart," and again she wept. She was quite wearied by her agitations, and Edina, with the tenderness of a mother, prepared her some tea, and soothed her to sleep with her low and mournful voice. There were tears in Edina's voice when she sung; the control was wanting there which kept her speech so calm, and therefore she seldom sung, for her own melody unnerved and distressed her. But on this occasion she warbled the saddest and wildest of her ballads, till Mary was sunk in sleep and she in tears. Edina did not sleep all night, but she prayed much, and looked serene and kindly as ever in the morning. (To be continued.) I sat irresolute and trembling, he asked if he ANSWER TO CHARADE IN OUR LAST. might construe my silence favourably, and I was so weak, I did not dare to speak; and then it was all over with me, I let him believe me his promised bride. Edina, Edina! I have sinned very, very deeply. I really intended then to ove him, I thought it the best way to cure my To ope the lock of my charade, If all were good, Goodall no more X. Y. Z. THE MIRAGE. BY WILLIAM HENRY FISK. On wild Sahara's savage waste of sand, A land to which the skies forbid the tribute of a tear! There, on its sand-breast, floats a phantom lake, The fretful, fragile infant, when its feet If on the plain, 'mid buds, he chance to meet 'Scaped from the dull monotony of school, Then o'er the spirit dawns the morn of love, Mounts to her mid-day zenith, warm and bright; Which shall, awhile, with truth's own lustre shine, When cold estrangement snaps affection's sway : Such is the mirage then which blights our first love to decay! And then ambition rears her lofty tower, Her palaces and monuments, to stand The ravages of time, beyond his power, And spread immortal fame from land to land; Marks in the deep futurity the goal, But sees not sickness lurking in his lair, Which early thwarts the greatness of his soul, Proving his towers but "castles of the air :" Such is the mirage then which leaves an empty, wild despair. And how, e'en to the last, to life he clings, And whilst he flutters to release his hold, He sees not dissolution; but the grave Enwraps him in her bosom damp and cold, Existence struggles (but in vain) to saveLife is the mirage stream which flows with empty phantom-wave! But it has moments-unawares they beam, With new-born joy and thrilling hope they gleam, THE STUDENT OF HEIDELBERG; BY NICHOLAS MICHELL, AUTHOR OF Nightly on Heidelberg's gray towers, In worshipping the wondrous stars. THE TRA Sigh, students of Heidelberg, over that clay; The Student's soul in midnight's noon, *For the theory of the formation of worlds from masses of nebulous matter scattered through space, vide Professor Nichols' learned and interesting work, "The Architecture of the Heavens." †The reader, we presume, needs not be informed of the fact that where air is wanting, no sound can be propagated. Appalled, the Spirit turned away, And, gliding on a silver ray, Reached the fair orb of Venus, glowing With rosy clouds, and life, and light; Bright streams are whisp'ring, musk-winds blowing, Cerulean seas in music flowing; All things seem steeped in warm delight. To which earth's loveliest scenes appear From hymning angels and their God: And as he sees them sport and dance, Their fair arms wave, their black eyes glance, A speechless rapture o'er him steals. Mercury, half lost in solar beams, He hangs in awe and dread surprise ; The planets circling through the skies. He rolls along his noiseless way; Now through the moons of Saturn wending, That world is an unfinished thing. Ere man was formed, have monstrous birth. From Saturn's sphere the depths he seeks, Where Herschel wanders far and slow; Dimly o'er him the sunbeam breaks, Buried from vale to mountain peaks, In still, calm, everlasting snow. Yes, winter here holds ceaseless reign; Yet is this globe not formed in vain : Man breathes with aspect cold and stern, And walks his world a thousand years; Sages that only think, and learn, And know no smiles, and shed no tears. Swift up the vault a comet wheels, Once more the comet seeks the sun : If it meet earth, that fiery air The Soul approached that dazzling sun, Round his huge mass, with life should teem, No, through a brilliant air, that throws Oh! beautiful and gorgeous sight! The glorious scene the wanderer sees; Islands of flowers, and fruits of gold, Bright streams through emerald valleys rolled, While balm and music load each breeze : The glories of each other sphere, With all their joys seem gathered here. Then they who tread the enchanted ground, Wreaths on their radiant temples bound, With godlike forms, and looks of love, Are all he pictured saints above. To that fair world adieu he bade, Like ours, around their central sun; Worthy the Everlasting One. * Within an old carved oaken room, One last fond look on that white brow. FLIRTING. BY ALICE ANNE LAWSON. Sauntering arm-in-arm down the main street of a fashionable provincial town were two young men, engaged in discussing the merits of a party they had shared in, the night before. The elder of the two (and there did not seem many years between them), an intelligent barrister, steady in his profession, was rather enduring than listening to the complaints of his companion, while an occasional monosyllable, uttered with a half smile, was more than sufficient to keep alive and feed the flood of his eloquence: they were not relations, but long acquaintance; and that sort of freemasonry which exists between those of the same profession (for the younger had just been "sworn in" a member of the law) acted as a magnet in this case, and made them what the world terms-Friends! "Nay; but I tell you, Percival," exclaimed the younger, while his dark eye brightened, and his pale cheek flushed with excitement, "that Grace Clifford did slight me last night to have watched her, as I did, was not easily to be deceived. She laughed and waltzed with that puppy of an officer, Murray, though she must have seen how it distressed me; more than all, her sweetest smile and most witching glance were for him all the evening." : She is not such a beauty as you imagine, Selby," interrupted his friend; "Fanny Weston, or her sister, Kate Clifford, are prettier and milder." 66 Ah, nonsense! Fanny is a stupid, milk-andwater girl, and Kate too mild, quiet, not life or spirit enough. Grace's winning, half coquettish manner is not easily forgotten, and her ringing laugh is even now in my ears. Oh, the mockery of her step and glance, as she passed me, en route to the supper-room, leaning on that handsome tinselled boy, while I was reclining sorrowfully against the ballustrade, I could have died of very vexation that she caught me. Even Kate saw her conduct, and made excuses for the gay disposition of Grace; but when next we meet, I will show her I value not a flirt!" "So like Kate, to be sure," said Percival, "kind and good; but that reminds me, I met Grace this morning. She asked after you, and mentioned they would be at Mrs. Mansergh's party to-morrow night; so go, for pity's sake, my young lover, and arrange the quarrel-by Jove, here's Murray! Now, Selby, we shall see how warmly you rivals will meet.' Confound the fellow, I wont meet him-I have business this other way. Au revoir." And having reached the end of the street, they separated. Selby shot out of sight in a minute; but Percival remained, with his usual steady, sombre manner, to speak to the young officer. It was the scorching noon-tide hour of a June day, about the same time as the above conversation was taking place, that Kate and Grace Clifford were seated in their drawing-room, with open windows, and sun blinds half pulled down, amusing themselves talking over the affairs of the evening before. Kate was bending over a frame, working with the greatest attention, her ringlets shading her cheek; but now and then, as she raised her eyes, to glance toward the blue sky and green trees without, a merry laugh or suppressed sigh would come startlingly on her ear; and then, she would remember to check that flighty, wayward Grace, for her idle ness. In an arm-chair reclined Grace Clifford, her head thrown back resting on the cushion, with eyes half closed, and one hand falling listlessly at her side, while the other held a book; with a face, pale as the white rose in her bosom, without a sign of life or animation, lay the brilliant flirt of the night before. Any person visiting the young ladies just then, would be justified in proclaiming Kate "a very pretty girl-one calculated to make a useful member of society;" and Grace, a rapid victim of ennui, either dying from ill health or disappointment. We will let their conversation speak for them. Grace, are you ill, or out of sorts-which? or do you regret having made a conquest of the young officer?" Nothing of the kind, Kate; but I am tired, must be that I talked and laughed too much, for and have not a word to say this morning. It it is a very trouble to open this book and read, though I should like it; nay, more, I believe the day is warm and sunny without, yet I am cold as snow. Don't talk of Murray, I hate him!" Kate smiled astonishment, and suspended her "Well, but employment to look at her sister. you are strange, Grace; after dancing with him, flirting until I was certain you were in love; to declare now that you hate him. But tell me, what do you intend doing with Alfred Selby? he made fifty complaints to me about you. I do not think you have behaved well.” "Dear Kate, what a prude you are! however, I intend to make up' with him to-morrow at Mrs. Mansergh's. I will lay all the blame on himself-say that he flirted with Fanny Weston, while I was jealous, and that Murray is odious to me. It will be a capital scene: if I can keep my countenance, all will go on well. Alfred is becoming a little annoying; he has no money, nor a prospect of any; I have none either. What would he? To love, I suppose, and die about it. If he had hundreds, I would not marry Alfred Selby." Murray has riches, I hear," said Kate, quietly; "why not think of him, then?” "Oh, because he is too much of my own age; I hate boys with handsome faces. Only fancy Grace Clifford at twenty, wedding with Dugald Murray of twenty-one; I should dislike him for the very leading-strings with which I could hold him. But you are not saying one word about yourself and Edward Percival, whereas you were whispering all night in a corner." 66 Kate was shocked at her almost livid appearance and unearthly smile. "Ah!" exclaimed that gay girl, as she shut herself within the solitude of her own room; "well may Kate say, 'pursuing a phantom,' for I love one who does not value this wild heart's beating, who has looked on me with coldness and smiled with indifference; yet I love him still. Though he has gone far away-true, he does not dream it-one nearly old enough to be my father; still let the image sleep-aye, in unfading beauty. Be quiet, thou proud heart, and I will punish those who come within my reach." And the gay Grace leant against the windowseat, while her pale lip quivered with intense and smothered emotion. Ah, ye proud hearts! woe to you, when the comes that you must bow to your idol; for sooner or later it will come; deprived by your nature of the solace of friendship, and reposing your grief in some gentle person, thought and memory are like so many poisoned arrows, The love of a proud woman is a deep and beauti Ah, my dear Grace," answered Kate, while her face blushed a bright rose colour; "Edward Percival and I may have been talking, but that was all he is quite taken up with his profession, and seems to be making rapid steps toward a name and wealth: I hope he may prove success-time ful. But let me speak still of your affairs: you say it would be impossible to love Mr. Murray, even with his independence and handsome face; yet you encourage young Selby, two years his senior, without a penny, and actually seeing that he neglects time and opportunity. Is it wo-ful study; hers is no waxen heart, that receives manly such conduct, Grace? Your heart condemns you; though vanity, and weak, selfish love of admiration, are urging you to conquest; and you are passing over, also, the best days of life in pursuit of a phantom. It is not well to throw aside always the golden opportunity.' If your father died, little or nothing would be yours; and life will be a burthen to you with-in believing aught against the cherished idol; out ease and affluence." "No, Kate, it would not," said Grace, starting up all life and energy, while a colour gradually spread over her pale cheek, and the eyes, that lately slept in apathy, beamed with magnificent expression, "if one I loved shared it with me; not a pining romantic boy, with a heart all sighs, and a tongue all lisping compliments, but one who had lived years longer than I, a man in every feeling-noble-minded, generous, one to whom I could look up; whose example should encourage feelings of adoration: such a one I could endure even poverty with. I am doing Alfred Selby every good in the world; I am teaching him to be a man!" "For shame! You are an enthusiast, scarcely of sound mind. Take my advice, Grace, and treat Alfred otherwise: he loves you; and ought we ever to tread rudely or trample on the hopes we ourselves have raised? Let your woman's heart direct you. Gently and kindly shew him that it is unwise to himself and you, encouraging what never could bring but unhappiness; in after years he will then remember Grace Clifford as the faultless vision of early days, and respect your motives as he ought." A loud knock at the door startled both girls, and Grace put her head out of the window to see who it could be. "I declare, Kate, here is Edward Percival and Murray; but, as I am not inclined for talking, I will vanish, and leave them to you; meanwhile I shall think on the best way of attacking Arthur. I hear my mother coming this way also." And Grace went away quickly, while in turn every impression, retaining its beauty to the last; once win the priceless gem, which has been kept locked up in a casket bound with iron, and it is yours for ever-aye, even through slight and insult-her love, amounting to adoration, making her the veriest child in submission; when at length awakened, and she is ever slow denied even a boon she would hail as happinessdeath and oblivion! No; she must live on; pride sustains her; with a heart all seared, keenly alive to a sense of its wretchedness, and a brow all smooth and peaceful looking-eyes blandly smiling. But come to offer at her shrine the usual acceptable offerings, so gratifying to a gentle, feeling nature, and a triumph rises within her, unworthy a woman. "Tis true that she will make others feel what she has felt; but every sting that proud heart inflicts, revolves on herself, for she lives over again her own agony. The social party at Mrs. Mansergh's, which was to work out a reconciliation between Alfred Selby and Grace Clifford, like all other assemblies, had its commencement and conclusion; but we will proceed regularly. When the Cliffords entered the drawingroom, most of the company had arrived; and Grace scanning hastily the room, with a single glance saw Alfred was not amongst the number. Kate, with her usual easy manner, smiled affably, and sat down next Fanny Weston: in a few minutes Edward Percival, with his quiet whisper, was behind her. The brilliant Grace was talking with some married ladies, looking and smiling most provokingly over a book of engravings; while Dugald Murray was hovering near-not speaking, indeed; but if eyes tell tales, his dark ones were flashing meaning. A servant carrying a tray stopped before the group, and the young officer gladly stepped forward to offer his assistance, and handed Grace a cup of |