was married, Mary, with her infant daughter, spent some weeks with us, and I thought she had never looked so lovely. She returned to town, and I saw but little of her afterward. The week before Christmas she sent me word she was going home to spend the holidays. I went over to see her, and thought she looked paler and thinner than usual, but supposed it was caused by the care of her child, who was ill. A few days after this, the startling intelligence reached us from town, that Harry had been engaged in some dishonest transaction, had been discovered, and had fled the country. I went to see Mary. She did not speak of him, but I saw the worm was in the tree. Not long after, her child died; and the first spring flowers bloomed on Mary's grave. The world said she died of rapid consumption-it was hopeless brokenness of heart. Harry has not been heard from since."

'Poor Mary! and this was her end. I have often thought of her; how beautiful and amiable she was. But, Ellen, it was not like Harry to so heartlessly desert her."

"You forget he was always weak in character, easily led astray, dreadfully afraid of his tyrannical old father, and passionately fond of show. He had neither moral nor physical courage to face the wife he had injured, and must escape the law. Conscience made a coward of Harry, as it does of us all."

"Had he embezzled money?"

"I do not know. The old gentleman was much blamed; but the affair was hushed up, and the particulars were never made public."

"Where is Mary Leathers?"

"At home. She is to be married in a few weeks to a West India planter, and goes to Cuba to live."

"Indeed! I must ride out there and see her before she goes, for 'auld lang syne.' Poor Mary! how well she and Harry sung together. I can hear her now, and see her too, sitting in the

moonlight, singing-Oft in the stilly night;' she sung it for me the night I left; do you remember? I had said good-by to all save yourself and her, and had to ride to town to be ready for the boat in the morning, yet still I lingered, and led my horse while you both walked down the avenue with me. When we reached the gate, she jumped upon the broad rail, and, at my request, sang it again, the full-moon shining full upon her. She was then so joyous and full of life; I little thought she would be missing at my coming."

"I remember it; she was staying with me when you left."

Do you ever sing now? Have you ever heard 'The Irish Emigrant's Lament ?'

Often, and try to sing it sometimes; is it not beautiful?"

"Very. I only heard it once, but shall never forget it. We had been following the course of the Yellow Stone, or what we supposed to be the Yellow Stone, all day, and pushing for a strip of timber-land in the distance, which, tired and travel-worn, we reached after night. The moon was full, and riding high in the heavens a pale pilgrim,' but not in a troubled sky; it gave to view the vast prairie, stretching far away to the west, and the little strip of timber-land imbosomed in it like an island in mid-ocean. Weary and sleepy, we had thrown ourselves down to rest, when suddenly a clear voice broke the stillness, and the beautiful words of the Lament pealed forth. I shall never forget my sensations. Every man started to his feet, or leaned in breathless silence on his elbow. Not a word was spoken. I can give you no idea of the pathos with which it was sung. When he sang the words

'And often in those grand old woods,
I'll sit and shut my eyes;
And my heart will travel back again,

To the place where Mary lies ;'

I could see the big tears forcing their way through his closed eyelids."

"Who was he?"

"A young Irishman belonging to our party, who had joined it as man of all work; he was faithful and steady, but had so little to say, that he was called 'Silent Dan.' He was not at all like others of his countrymen, and this was the only impulsive thing I ever knew him to do. I suppose the beauty of the scene and the hour sent his heart traveling back to the Emerald Isle. I know it put mine on homeward paths. I thought of our parting-the moonlight-Mary's song-and your hand resting in mine. Weary as I was I could not sleep, but lay for hours thinking, with the rich tones of that man's voice ringing in my ears. It was a beautiful picture, to see him as he stood leaning against a tree, his hands clasped on the muzzle of his gun, the full moonlight falling on his figure, and his whole face eloquent with emotion; while around him, in their half-startled attitudes, lay grouped the forms of the men who had been roused by his voice from their home dreams. We none of us knew he could sing, and although he sang for us often afterward, his voice never affected me again as it did that evening.”

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'What became of him?"

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He was one of the three who staid out there, making their homes in the untrodden wilderness. I have no doubt he will often sing that song in the dim woods, when thoughts of his far home come upon him. I felt a great interest in him after this."

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song.

There must have been some history connected with the

Like all women you are ready for a romance, I see; but all your ideality could scarce make a hero of Mr. Leary; not a name for a novel, is it? There was nothing remarkable about him; he had a fine open face, and a robust figure—

had evidently always belonged to the laboring class, was reserved, but had strong good sense. I have no doubt he had left some loved one behind him; and the softness of the hour called forth tender recollections, with which this song was connected; this was the general impression; for when his evident reluctance to sing this particular song for us was observed, he was not urged to do so."

"I have romantic recollections connected with the 'Lament' myself, and shall inquire of all travelers from the region of the setting sun of your hero's whereabout and welfare."

"You have not told me any thing of Sallie Ross. She and George Thornton had entered into an engagement to become bone of one bone when I left."

"They are like Cliffs that have been rent asunder.' She married that, as we thought, confirmed old bachelor, Mr. Hamilton; lives in a palace of a house, and rides out in her elegant carriage, spattering the mud from its wheels upon us unfortunate pedestrians, with royal unconcern."

"And George-has he turned Benedict?"

"No; he is the beau about town-the most improved man I sometimes think Sallie regrets; but you you ever saw. know she always had an eye for the gilding and carving of life."

"And Lizzie Gordon is dead?"

Yes; I wrote you of that; her sister Mary has grown up,

and has just come out."

"When did you see Jane Lawton ?"

"About six months since; she is quite a belle."

"Has she grown pretty?"

"No; but is most agreeable."

"That is a homely woman's privilege; but what has become of Charlie Steele Prince Charlie,' as we used to call him, because of his passion for being waited on?"

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"This passion has not decreased; he is in Europe, but expected home in a few months."

"A traveled gentleman. What changes a few years make. I feel sad to-night; old Time has been busy with those I love, in my absence. I can not get Mary and Harry out of my mind; they were among my favorites. But here is Nannie."