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red rose of the spring, not quite half blown, dewy fresh. She is old no longer. She is not Aunt Kindly now; she is sweet Agnes, as the maiden of eighteen was, eight and sixty years ago, one day in May, when all nature was woosome and winning, and every flower-bell rung in the marriage of the year. Her lover had just put that red rose of the spring into her hand, and the good God put another on her cheek, not quite half-blown, dewy fresh. The young man's arm is around her; her brown curls fall on his shoulder; she feels his breath on her face, his cheek on hers; their lips join, and like two morning dew-drops in that ose. their two loves rush into one.

But the youth must wander away to a far land. She bids him take her Bible. They will think of each other as they look at the North Star. He saw the North Star hang over the turrets of many a foreign town. His soul went to God; there is as straight a road thither from India as from any other spot. His Bible came back to her; the Divine love in it, without the human lover; the leaf turned down at the blessed words of St. John, first and twenty-seventh verse of the fourteenth chapter. She put the rose there to mark the spot; what marks the thought holds now the symbol of their youthful love. To-day, her soul is with him; her maiden soul with his angel-soul; and one lay the two, like two dew-drops, will rush into one immortal wedlock, and the old age of earth shall become eternal youth in the kingdom of heaven.

CROSSING OVER.

FROM THE GERMAN OF UHLAND.

M

ANY a year is in its grave,

Since I crossed this restless wave;

And the evening, fair as ever,
Shines on ruin, rock, and river.

Then, in this same boat, beside,
Sat two comrades old and tried;
One with all a father's truth,
One with all the fire of youth.

One on earth in silence wrought,
And his grave in silence sought;
But the younger, brighter form
Passed in battle and in storm.

So, whene'er I turn my eye
Back upon the days gone by,

Saddening thoughts of friends come o'er me;

Friends who closed their course before me

Yet, what binds us, friend to friend,
But that soul with soul can blend?
Soul-like were those hours of yore —
Let us walk in soul once more!

Take, O boatman, thrice thy fee!

Take! I give it willingly;

For, invisibly to thee,

Spirits twain have crossed with me.

THEY are all gone into a world of light,
And I alone sit lingering here!

Their very memory is fair and bright,
And my sad thoughts doth clear.

DEAR, beauteous Death! the jewel of the just.
Shining nowhere but in the dark!

What mysteries do lie beyond thy dust,

Could man outlook that mark!

H that hath found some fledged bird's nest may know,

At first sight, if the bird be flown;

But what fair field or grove he sings in now,
That is to him unknown.

And yet, as angels, in some brighter dreams,
Call to the soul when man doth sleep,

So some strange thoughts transcend our wonted themes,

And into glory peep.

HENRY VAUGHAN.

A LOVE AFFAIR AT CRANFORD.

BY MRS. GASKELL.

THOUGHT, after Miss Jenkyns's
death, that probably my connection
with Cranford would cease.
I was

pleasantly surprised, therefore, by re

ceiving a letter from Miss Pole proposing that I should go and stay with her. In a couple of days after my acceptance came a note from Miss Matey Jenkyns, in which, in a rather circuitous and very humble manner, she told me how much pleasure I should confer if I could spend a week or two with her, either before or after I had been at Miss Pole's; "for," she said, "since my dear sister's death, I am well aware I have no attractions to offer it is only to the kindness of my friends that I can owe their company.'

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Of course I promised to go to dear Miss Matey as soon as I had ended my visit to Miss Pole. The day after my arrival at Cranford, I went t

see her, much wondering what the house would be like without Miss Jenkyns, and rather dreading the changed aspect of things. Miss Matey began She was evidently

to cry as soon as she saw me. nervous from having anticipated my call. I com forted her as well as I could; and I found the best consolation I could give was the honest praise that came from my heart as I spoke of the deceased. Miss Matey slowly shook her head over each virtue, as it was named and attributed to her sister; at last she could not restrain the tears which had long been silently flowing, but hid her face behind her handkerchief, and sobbed aloud.

"Dear Miss Matey!” said I, taking her hand; for indeed I did not know in what way to tell her how sorry I was for her, left deserted in the world.

She put down her handkerchief and said: "My dear, I'd rather you did not call me Matey. She did not like it. But I did many a thing she did not like, I'm afraid; and now she's gone! If you please, my love, will you call me Matilda?"

I promised faithfully, and began to practise the new name with Miss Pole that very day; and, by degrees, Miss Matilda's feeling on the subject was known through Cranford, and the appellation of Matey was dropped by all, except a very old woman, who had been nurse in the rector's family, and had persevered, through many long years, in calling the Miss Jenkynses "the girls" she said "Matey" to the day of her death.

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