bottle containing volatile salts in her hand, perhaps that might account, in some degree, for the slight dew that momentarily obscured the brilliancy of her light grey eyes, which betrayed, on some occasions, more secrets than Mrs. Mexborough was desirous of being known. Eyes are sad tell-tales, and often give the lie to the tongue; and although Mrs. Mexborough seasoned every sentence with the universally palatable condiment of flattery, there was a vixenish expression in her eyes that told Adelaide something like envy was working in her mind. Adelaide thought not at the moment of her ornaments; that her jewels had a kind of magnetic. attraction; indeed, she had almost forgotten that she was bedecked with them, until Mrs. Mexborough, who had as little delicacy when her own curiosity was excited, and to be gratified, as any female in existence, with the cool impertinence of a woman of third-rate fashion, remarked the brilliancy of the pendants in her ears, and enquired if they were actually real stones. Adelaide felt like a culprit taken in the fact of appropriating the property of another to her own use; she stood for a moment in silent bewilderment, a rush of conflicting thoughts swept over her mind, one forcing the other onwards, as wave forces wave towards the beach, where they break and mingle again with the vast mass of waters, the white foam only marking their receding track. She condescended not to answer, but with a look of scorn at the trio, broke from the group and was in an instant a little speck among the assembled crowd. It seemed as though Adelaide was on this evening doomed to endure the severest degrees of mortification. Those who had been among her most familiar friends, either turned aside their heads as she approached, or audibly whispered conjectures that were neither gratifying to her ears, or favourable to her honour. She felt that appearances were against her, and, in the consciousness of innocence, she would have cast the jewels to the earth in scorn, had not a better spirit checked her ju her indignation, and whispered that by indulging in the violence of passion she must inevitably bring ruin on her husband. "They have no hearts," thought Adelaide, as she endeavoured to slide into an obscure corner of the room, if it were possible that obscurity could be found amid the blaze of an hundred wax-lights. A group of young men, engaged in conversation, were standing in the door-way of the second salon, and for a moment impeded her progress, but she gently glided past them, and the first object on which her eyes rested was the person of her father. Adelaide averted her face, and trembled so violently that her steps were as unsteady as a leaf on which the young breeze of morning faintly breathes. This apartment was as crowded as the former one, for Grisi was developing the magic powers of her matchless voice in one of the sweetest melodies of the Somnambula. Adelaide scarce heard the delicious tones that issued from the songstress, and inadvertently turned round to see if she was observed. To her astonishment she saw her father, who was evidently following her, within a few paces of the spot where she was then standing. A feeling of dread came over her; her heart sunk within her, and her hopes withered as she saw that he was approaching nearer and nearer. Almost in despair, she rushed onward, regardless of the enquiring glances that were cast upon her; yet, by some unaccountable fascination, she again looked back; her father was still pursuing her, and to her horror, she saw that either he, or herself, had attracted the attention of the lady in whose raiments she was herself attired. Bitter indeed were the feelings which now passed across her mind. She, most probably, would be exposed to the laughing scorn of the assembly; to the jibes and jeers of those, whom in her happier days she had treated with the contempt they most justly deserved; for the flatterers of society are like vipers they look beautiful and brilliant in life's sunshiny hours, but bear a deadly sting when they can, with safety, vent their venom on their friends. In desperation she forced her way, without even a civil excuse for her rudeness, through the crowd to the third room, closely followed by her father, and, almost breathless with agitation, fell upon a sofa that was placed in a recess. Her father was quickly by her side, and, gently forcing her hand from beneath the folds of her robe, implored her to speak-to tell him why thus unaccountably she shunned his presence-why thus she scorned his love? Adelaide buried her face in the cushions of the sofa upon which she had thrown herself; her frame trembled from the emotions she felt, yet, though the moment was favourable, she had not sufficient fortitude to turn her face towards the person who was kneeling at her feet; she shuddered as his lips fondly pressed against her hand, and her voice seemed to be locked up, like a brooklet that the frost forbids to flow on in its course. She knew not that the eyes of many were upon her; she thought not of the conclusions that the idle gazers, who kept without the pale of veritable intrusion upon the privacy of the closet-sized boudoir, might draw; her whole thoughts were at the moment given to her father;-that father who had now spurned her from his heart and home; from that heart in which for years she had rested, as fondly nurtured as an infant that sleeps sweetly and securely on the bosom of its mother. The lady who had added to the alarm of Adelaide stood by, a silent watcher of the scene, unseen by either of the twain. Mr. Argentine was too much occupied to observe that there were standers by, and took from his pocket a small miniature of himself, studded with brilliants, which he placed in the hand of his daughter, and implored her to wear it for his sake. At this moment the lady, whose passions were excited to a pitch that almost defied the control of reason, advanced, and, placing her trembling hand on the shoulder of Mr. Argentine, demanded, not only an explanation of his conduct, but an exposure of the impostor who had made free with her dress and jewels. Mr. Argentine was speechless with amazement; he looked as wildly as if he had just been awakened from a mesmerized sleep, and seizing the hand of the widow, exclaimed, "Tell me, for Heaven's sake, what means this? Here are your robes and jewels "Most truly so," replied the lady, who felt a | little flattered that her intended husband recognized the most magnificent dress she possessed, and mortified that they should have been worn by another person, who had been mistaken for herself. "Let the impostor shew her face!" Adelaide slowly obeyed the bidding, raised the handkerchief from her eyes that were streaming with tears, and clasping her hands together, said, "pity me," in such a tone of agony that the heart must have been of flint that heard the appeal in vain. "The artist's wife!" cried the widow in astonishment. "My daughter!" said Mr. Argentine, receding from the approaches of Adelaide, who had quitted the couch, and thrown herself on her knees before her father. in bitterness of anguish, "you would love him, he is so kind, so gentle under all his troubles! But his cheek pales with over-toil and thought, and care has sent away the smile that told the summer of the heart was in its prime. For my sake see him!" "And for my sake forget me!" said Mr. Argentine, "for in the artist's wife I cannot own my daughter!" Adelaide continued on her knees before him; her upraised hands were clasped in supplication, but all speech was denied her. The young widow's expressive countenance spoke of sorrow and of anger, and addressing herself to Mr. Argentine, she said-"I would ask leave to have a few minutes conversation with you, Sir. We are affianced, and in a few days it was intended that I should be your bride: it cannot be. I never could "I knew not this, poor girl!" said the widow, feel assured that the place you gave a wife in your who bent over the form of Adelaide compassion-heart, would not as soon be vacant as that which ately, and supported her nearly fainting frame was once filled by your child. Unless full and with the tenderness of a sister. "Tell me your free forgiveness be accorded unto Mr. and Mrs. story, love! I have been wrong to make you Harstein, we meet no more! The father who can suffer thus." be deaf to the pleadings of a daughter, would be equally insensible to the affections of a wife. I would share with them your love and your fortune, and on no other terms shall our arrangements proceed further." " "Madam," said Adelaide, endeavouring to command her feelings, "I angered my father by a marriage that the world pronounced to be imprudent. I loved, and I still love most fervently the man who is now the ruler of my destiny. In vain I asked for pardon, but I know the refusal of forgiveness came not from my father's heart. Tonight my pride, the remembrance of my former state, when, as the presumed heiress to my father's wealth, I was courted by those who can despise me now, induced me to put on these borrowed gauds. My husband prayed in vain that I would be content with such gear as I possessed. I was too wilful, alas! I may say wicked, and have brought shame upon him." "And on your father, also," said Mr. Argen tine. "No," replied the widow; "you, Sir, are most to be blamed. Without the most distant idea that Mr. Holbein Harstein was in any manner connected with your family, I applied to him to paint my portrait; one that I intended to present to you on the day of our nuptials. I found him not only talented, but a gentleman both in manners and education, and on one occasion I met this lady, with whom I was pleased. I recollect being a little surprised at some enquiries Mr. Harstein indirectly put, as to the probability of my being at this party. I scarcely know what reply I made, but I think I gave a kind of half assurance that I should not be present; therefore I must lay claim to half the fault, if fault there be, in the conduct of Mrs. Harstein. Accustomed as she has been to look like your daughter, can you wonder that the temptation which my dress and jewels offered was not to be resisted? I wonder not at it; and now, Mr. Argentine, let me plead for her-restore her to your favour." "And thus hold forth a reward for disobedient children!" "No, no; she will still be obedient; be yours entirely in all things but her love, and that, like an entailed estate, naturally goes to her husband." "Oh! if you knew him, father," said Adelaide, Mr. Argentine stood silent awhile, and shading his face with his hands, gave vent to his pent-up feelings. "Adelaide !" he cried, in a voice so low and faint that none, save a listener, could have caught the echo of the accents. But his child heard it—she embraced his knees, and tears mingled with kisses fell rapidly on the hand he did not now endeavour to withdraw from her grasp. The deed of reconciliation was sealed, and the father was as happy as his child. Adelaide had no words wherewith to thank the kind widow-she pressed her hand to a heart that throbbed with gratitude, and that was far more eloquent than a volume of thanks. That night Adelaide was borne home to the dwelling of her husband in the carriage of her father. Harstein came to the door to receive her, but Mr. Argentine was too much agitated to receive him, and avoided observation by throwing himself back in one of the corners of the carriage. He felt that he had been unjust, and he considered that his pride was then too much prostrated to permit him to go through an interview with proper decorum. Adelaide's fortitude left her as soon as she reached her chamber. Harstein became alarmed, and would have called in assistance, but Adelaide rallied her spirits on the emergency, and begged him to desist, as her emotion was caused by her interview with her father. "And he was cruel to you, my poor wife!" said Holbein, wiping a tear from his own eye. "Cruel!" ejaculated Adelaide. "Yes, he was cruel. But, Holbein, he has pardoned us, and the artist's wife is proud to own that the fondest wish of her heart is fulfilled-she can make her husband happy!" The morrow beamed a sunny day to Harstein and his wife; and on the morn that placed the young widow in the position of the maternal pro tector of Adelaide, the portrait which the young artist had so ably finished of the bride, was by him placed in the hands of Mr. Argentine, who still proudly points it out to every guest at his hospitable mansion, as the most valued work of his excellent and beloved son-in-law. SONGS FOR THE CAMP.* BY MRS. CORNWELL-BARON WILSON. No. II. THE PARTING. When the Soldier-boy departed That waits on early manhood's steps Loud wail'd his gentle SISTER As round bis neck she clung; (The accents of her tuneful voice Seem'd like a lute unstrung;) His weeping GRANDAME blessed him With an aged matron's prayer; Lifted tow'rds Heaven her wither'd hands, And gave him to its care. Sternly the FATHER bade him A burried, brief farewell! While the heavings of his manly breast No tear was seen to start No drop bedew'd her cold pale cheek- And HE, beyond earth's treasure Sprang proudly on his waiting steed, But, in many a lonely watching, When mem'ry's spells bave power, Through tears, Night's stars alone may view, He'll mourn that PARTING HOUR! At eve I watch the polar star; At morn I seek the camel bones To lead me; thus I see afar The best land-marks-vast heaps of stones. The desert has a fatal name! Look back to history's pages, So the vast desert still doth wave Her sandy billows, dark and deep; Forms Christian, Jew, and Moslem's graveA lonely mound for final sleep. There I have seen the Arab's sweep Along the arid, sandy plain, Steal on the Turks, while half asleep, And Allah cry with might and main. All loudly on the prophet call, Fiercely on each the Arabs fall; Quickly they force the Turkish gold Out of each shawl and turban fold. Free Arabs would not give a date For Turkish valour: 'tis their fate, And not a zechin do they leave In Turkish or Armenian sleeve. Proudly they turn their coursers back, Then vanish, as they come in sight, 'Tis vain to try to find their track. Swift on they came, and swift their flight. They left us thus, a total wreck, As pirates leave a trader's deck, Strewn o'er with limbs, and stain'd with gore- Mayhap the vessel did resist; Ì shed; then sought my peaceful home, WOMAN'S TRUTH. BY JOHN PERCIVAL. Say not that woman's smile deceives; When once the heart that's woo'd believes Say not that woman's tears are light, The tears of her I love are true, As silently they pour Say not that woman's vows are vain; As fervent I implore; A LAY FROM THE EAST. BY MAJOR CALDER CAMPBELL. Where fleecy mosses fur the rugged rocks, There, 'midst the purple heather, do thy feet The Findhoru-wild and rapid river-sings And each mad cadence to thy memory brings Is it not so?-doth not the pregnant past Thou dost! Thou dost !-And thoughtful shadows, pale, Steal o'er thy countenance; and in thine eyes, Weep not-oh! weep not, dearest! If I die, PLAINT OF THE CONVICT'S CHILD. The hopes of my childhood are fled, The of life's once happy hours; peace My parents are both doom'd to tread Where their tears will bedew the wild flowers; And now the lone child of their love Must pine till she sleep with the dead; No more shall her music be heard in the grove; On yon forms that can never return! H. S. TRANSFERRED AFFECTION. BY MRS. EDWARD THOMAS. Alas! they had been friends in youth, He strove to think she look'd the same It were a crime to dim with tears; Replete with graceful, girlish glee, The music of a heart unsad, The dearest of earth's melodyYet, had this one that loveliness, That would have fill'd the unsered breast To brimming, with that joy's excess That lends the life of youth such zest! And his soul died to think that he Had link'd her to his destiny Had pledged his vows-too hasty pledged, That she-that other one-in sooth, Had been-but that was scandal's lie, And he, more idle still, or proud, He should have ask'd, ere seal'd her doom. One can be false, be deem'd for years Their native paradisean spheres? And silent bows to its behest; With flashing eye and heaving breast. Those tears that reason vainly chides. Heavy it fell upon her heart, And in an hour it grew as cold, As strange as his-save in the smart Of blighted hope, through life untold! THE FLIRT. "'Tis a sharp frost to-night, the stars look unusually bright, and the trees are already covered with snow; to gaze upon a landscape like this makes one turn with redoubled delight to the comfort of a cheerful fire." Thus murmured an old lady as she gently drew down the window curtains and seated herself beside the blazing fire. There was something in the face of the speaker that called forth immediate respect, it was a face in which the deep feelings of the heart were pourtrayed in stern and sad reality; it told of past suffering, blended with present resignation and peace; her forehead was broad, high, and white, scarcely a wrinkle had forced itself upon the smooth surface of her skin to mar its beauty; her eyes were bright, soft, and intelligent, but round her brows were planted deep traces of past sorrows-sorrows that had changed her once golden tresses to the silvery whiteness of venerable old age long ere her buoyant footstep had lost the elasticity of youth. She drew a small table close to her side, snuffed the candles, and commenced knitting with apparent assiduity; but her thoughts were sad, and her large dark eyes were frequently bent, with a look of earnest attention, on a young and lovely girl who was standing with an air of assumed indifference and nonchalance, conversing with an intelligent and handsome-looking man; they had retired to a recess near the window, under the pretence of a quiet game at chess; their conversation, began in whispers, had gradually become audible, and the old lady listened with a mixture of pain and sorrow to the following dialogue : "I tell you, Frank," exclaimed the young lady, tossing her head with a half scornful laugh," you are unreasonable in your wishes; you speak as if you had already the right to control my actions, but my fancy is free as air, and it shall never be restrained by you; nay, I repeat, I shall speak to whom I please." "Of course, Ellen, you can do as you think proper, but I again tell you I will not allow the woman I intend to make my wife to dance with every puppy who chooses to solicit her hand. You hear me -" Aye, and mark thee too, Hal," interrupted the young girl with a smile of tormenting indifference. "Ellen, I cannot bear this jesting: remember, you may step over the bounds of forbearance. I say, as your accepted lover, "Accepted lover! Ha, ha! An accepted plague, you mean; you don't know what you are talking about to dictate to me as if I were a child in leading-strings; you have harped on the chords of affection till they jar-unpleasantly; change the theme, if you please, I hate the constant repetition of an old song. Love! pshaw! 'tis scarcely an hour since I gathered that sprig of myrtle and gave you, and now every leaf is broken and lies scattered at my feet-call that affection ?" "Really, Ellen, my feelings are so excited by your conduct this evening I had forgotten the flower, and so unconsciously have destroyed it." "Forgotten it, Mr. Clifford ! I thank you for your candour, it tells me you'd quite as soon forget me as my gifts. Oh, if any one I loved had given me the meanest leaf e'er wafted from the trees in autumn I would have cherished it for ever, if he had only touched it; and yet you speak of love." "This to my face, Miss Thornton! Then indeed I am but your dupe-your jest; it was but yesterday I brought you a nosegay, and requested you would wear it; when at the ball last night In the where did I see those flowers, Ellen? coat of Frederic Wallace, your favourite partner all the evening." "Indeed! And you are quite positive they were the flowers you gave me-what a remarkable circumstance. Did you mark them, eh?” "Enough, enough, Ellen; I need no more sarcasm to convince me of your indifference; you have said sufficient. Much as I love you I wish you farewell for ever, and may you meet with that happiness with another I had once flattered myself you might have shared with me." "Oh, if such be your will, Mr. Clifford, I wish you good bye, and when I do have another I hope he will be a little better tempered. Adieu! and if you should meet Fred. Wallace in your travels, just tell him to keep that nosegay for my sake, will you?" "Madam," exclaimed the young man, turning with a face pallid with emotion to the old lady, who had quietly heard their conversation; "I thank you for the kind attention I have always received from you, and I now wish you farewell." Shaking her hand with a melancholy smile, he bowed and left the room without one glance at Ellen. "Oh, he is gone, and I shall never see him again!" cried the young girl, flinging her arms round the neck of her aged companion, and weeping bitterly. "I am sorry for thee, Ellen," murmured the old lady, parting back the long jet ringlets from her snowy forehead, and tenderly kissing her. "Yes, my poor child, I feel truly sorry to see you have so little command over your temper as thus to insult and abuse your friends. If half I have heard is the truth, Frank has done perfectly right in wishing you farewell. What could be more unpardonable than parting with the flowers he gave?" "'Tis false, mother, and the invention of his own jealous mind; I have them still in my bedroom. So, because I did not choose to feed his vanity by wearing them, he thinks I gave them away; let him think so if he pleases, I shall never undeceive him. He does not care for me or he could not be so suspicious and unkind." 'For shame, Ellen; 'tis you who act unfeelingly; you know he loves you to sport with his affection by flirting with every young fellow who approaches you is not right." "Well, mother, and if I do, he might be sure I could not love them all. I should like to cure him of such unjust suspicions; he must have a very mean opinion of me, or he never would be jealous; I am sure I never was of him." "No, Ellen, because he has too much consideration and delicacy to wound your feelings by trifling with another; but your love of raillery |