she expressed her sympathy for the misfortunes of the poet, and the delicate manner in which she uttered her compassion added to its value.

On his next visit to Lady Ley, the kindhearted lady bantered him for the attention he had devoted to Anna on the previous evening.

"If you were divorced," she said, "Anna would be an excellent wife for you. I believe she is quite fond of you. She is a dear friend of mine, and will surely render happy the man | upon whom she bestows her hand. Her accomplishments and the excellent education which her father gave her qualify her especially to become the wife of a learned man like you."

Milton made no reply; he was absorbed in deep thought. The lady, however, with feminine persistency, would not so easily drop the plan which she had suggested. She praised Anna's virtues and accomplishments until she had excited in him the liveliest desire to become more intimately acquainted with the excellent girl. It was not difficult for Milton to gain access to Dr. Davies's house. Here Anna made an even more favorable impression upon him than in the brilliant circle where he had met her hitherto. The deep but not chilling gravity with which she always received him, and her dignified but cordial kindness, attached him to her, and gradually there arose between them an affectionate friendship, which, however, never threatened to overstep its bounds and pass into a more tender feeling. was not yet divorced from his wife, and hence he could not enter into a new union; and Anna was too conscientious and sensible to encroach upon the rights of another woman, however much she had deserved her fate. With seeming tranquillity she saw the poet come and go; but in the innermost recesses of her heart she bore a more tender affection, which she care

Milton

Although Milton's wife lived apart from him at the house of her parents, her love for him was not yet entirely extinct. She never lost sight of him, and frequently inquired of her London acquaintances concerning his life and all that happened at his house. Thus she was also informed of the frequent visits which he paid to Anna. This news filled her with profound grief. Fear and repentance seized her soul, and what neither Milton's remonstrances nor her own reason had been able to accomplish was brought about by jealousy, and by the thought that another woman might obtain her place. Hitherto Mary had allowed her parents, and particularly her mother, to guide her in her conduct toward her husband; now she suddenly recovered her independence, and instead of her usual weakness, she displayed now an almost unfilial harshness. Mrs. Powell was not a little surprised at this change, and still more at the reproaches with which her daughter overwhelmed her. They had exchanged parts: the weak daughter showed an unusual vehemence, and the imperious mother the most extraordinary forbearance, as she feared lest a harsher course on her part should drive Mary to extremities. For days the latter locked herself in her room, bathed her face with scalding tears, and refused to take food. She was near

cursing her mother, as the latter had threatened to do in regard to her if she returned to her husband. As usual, she had not been able to appreciate what she possessed until she had lost it. Possession does not make us half as happy as the loss of the thing possessed renders us unhappy.

It was not until a rival threatened to rob her of Milton's love that she felt the full extent of her guilt, and the whole worth of the man whom she had mortified so grievously only a short time since. Swayed by her passions, and not by reason, and going from one extreme to another, she gave way to unbounded despair. As formerly her sojourn in London, so now her abode under the parental roof, had become an intolerable burden to her. The ground, as it were, was burning under her feet, and she was desirous only of returning as soon as possible to her husband.

Meanwhile Milton was a daily visitor at the doctor's house. He had likewise perceived Anna's pallor and feebleness.

"You commit a grievous sin if you yield to such gloomy feelings, I myself was formerly a prey to these sombre spirits of melancholy; they are in our blood, and in the air, but we must keep them down. Life is so beautiful if we only know how to take it; and even our sufferings are only the passing shadows accompanying and enhancing the light."

"You are right, and I will enjoy yet the brief span vouchsafed to me."

A mournful smile played round her pale lips, and she endeavored at least to seem serene. Nevertheless, their conversation remained grave, owing in part to their peculiar surroundings. They were seated in the small garden, which bore already an autumnal aspect. The breeze stirred the foliage, and sear yellow leaves flitted softly at their feet. The whole scene breathed gentle melancholy; it was as though it were preparing for its departure. Anna gazed thoughtfully on the with ered foliage, and felt as if she herself were about to bid farewell to earth. Contrary to

A slight shudder ran through her frame, and he felt the tremor of her hands.

"What ails you, dear Anna?" he asked, still retaining her hand. "If you grieve, communicate your sorrow to me, for assuredly you have no better friend in this world than me." "It is only a slight indisposition," she replied, evasively.

"Your father is quite anxious and afraid lest you should be taken sick. Pray take good care of yourself for bis and my sake."

“Why should I?" she replied, with a suspicious cough. "The world will not lose much by the death of a poor girl like me. Since I saw my mother die, I am no longer afraid of death. She fell asleep so gently and blissfully, with a sweet smile on her pale lips, that I almost envied her fate. Blessed are the dead!"

tears trembled in her eyes.

"Winter is close at hand," she said, after a pause, in a tremulous voice, in order to break the dangerous, oppressive silence.

"And spring will succeed to winter," replied Milton, with an encouraging smile. "Death and resurrection!" murmured Anna, in a low voice.

"Nature confirms thus the faith which keeps up our hope. Every tree, every flower preaches in autumn that immortality which only fools can question. We shall meet again one day."

'Certainly, we shall meet again," repeated Anna, her face transfigured with heavenly joy. "And what we have lost we shall recover purified and ennobled,” added Milton.

"I wish you would recover as soon as possible what you have lost. You have a wife-"

On hearing Mary alluded to, the poet gave a start, and looked at Anna beseechingly.

"No, no," she said; "you shall and must listen to me. I have hitherto avoided alluding to an affair which cannot but stir sorrowful recollections in your bosom; but the time has come when I must speak to you frankly, and as your true friend. I have attentively read your essay on divorce, and, despite my religious scruples, I must admit that you are right on the whole. You have convinced my mind, but not my heart; and you are aware that women reason with the heart rather than the head. I am sure your wife is far more to blame than you, but are you entirely free from guilt? Should you not accuse yourself also, instead of blaming only your weak wife?"

"No man is devoid of faults." "Therefore, judge not that ye be not judged."

"Another motive guided me. The longer I lived with my wife, the more I was impressed with the fact that the sympathy necessary for wedlock was wanting to us, and that our characters were incompatible."

"It was because you neglected to devote the necessary time and attention to bringing about this harmony. We women resemble delicately-stringed instruments which must be played by artistic hands to utter their true sound. A breath of air, to say nothing of a rude contact, untunes us at once. We must be treated tenderly and affectionately. If you fail to do so at the outset, there remains a dissonance, which it is difficult afterward to remove. I am afraid this happened in your wedded life. You did not know how to play the instrument intrusted to you, and as it did not at once emit sweet sounds, you cast it disdainfully aside. Give it another trial, take it up again tenderly, familiarize yourself with its innermost nature, devote yourself fondly to studying its peculiarities, and you will discover every day new and beautiful harmonies, such

as slumber in every female heart, and such as true men and artists are almost always able to elicit from it."

"My wife is not a euphonic instrument. Education and habit have spoiled her better nature."

"In accusing her, you excuse her. What her parental education spoiled should be repaired by her matrimonial education. For matrimony is a continuous mutual school, in which husband and wife are both pupils and teachers. The sternness of the husband is to be lessened and ennobled by the mildness of the wife; the weakness of the wife by the strength of the husband. And as some claim to have noticed that married persons, after a long wedded life, begin to bear a strong physical resemblance to each other, so by and by that intellectual and moral sympathy, which your essay on divorce declares the essentialcondition of matrimonial happiness, will not be wanting to them. Therefore, do not turn a deaf ear to my request, but reconcile yourself with your wife. I can neither conceive nor approve the idea of your being divorced from her."

"What! You ask me to take her back?" said Milton, mournfully.

"I earnestly call upon you to take this step," replied Anna, with dignified resignation. “I demand it as a proof of your friendship and esteem."

He was about to make a reply, but Anna, who was afraid lest he should make a declaration of love to her, interrupted him quickly.

"Pledge me your word that you will reconcile yourself with your wife as soon as she feels repentance and returns to you."

Milton hesitated, but he was unable longer to withstand her pressing entreaties. Finally, to indicate his consent, he held out to her his hand, which she grasped in thoughtful melancholy. She then averted her face, and signed

to him to leave her. No sooner had he done so, than she pressed her white handkerchief to her feverish lips: when she removed it, the fine cambric was reddened with the blood flowing from her lungs. She leaned her head in utter exhaustion on her arm.

"It will soon be over," she murmured, in a low voice.

Her father came into the garden. She perceived him, and hastened to conceal the traces of her heart-struggle and her disease from his searching eyes.

"How are you?" he asked, anxiously.

"I am better, much better," she replied, although her pale cheeks refuted her cheerful words.

Milton was unable to banish Anna's image from his heart; he was thinking all day long of the excellent girl with whom he had become acquainted too late. He was vividly impressed with the sentiment which he expressed afterward in the following lines of his "Paradise Lost:"

This mischief had not then befallen, And more that shall befall; innumerable Disturbances on earth through female snares, And strait conjunction with this sex: for either He never shall find out fit mate, but such As some misfortune brings him, or mistake; Or whom he wishes most, shall seldom gain, Through her perverseness, but shall see her gained By a far worse; or, if she love, withheld By parents; or his happiest choice too late Shall meet, already linked and wedlock-bound To a fell adversary, his hate or shame: Which infinite calamity shall cause

To human life, and household peace confound." A few weeks afterward, Milton paid a visit to a near relative in St. Martin's Lane.. He was, as he had always been, received by the family with great kindness, but not without a certain embarrassment. While he was engaged with the husband in an animated conversation on various topics, the wife was walking up and down in great uneasiness. From time to time she added a remark to the conversation, which she took pains to turn toward Milton's wife.

"Have you heard any thing of Mary?" she inquired.

"For months past I have not had any news whatever from Forest Hill,” he replied, evidently unwilling to speak of this subject.

"You do not know, then, that she has left her parents secretly?"

"I do not. What may have induced her to take such a step, and whither has she gone?"

"I believe she acknowledges the fault which she committed, and that it was repentance that drove her from the house of her parents. The poor woman is at a loss whither to turn, and is now wandering about among strangers-without parents, without her hus

band."

"If she really were repentant, she would not hesitate to approach him."

At these words, the door leading to the adjoining room opened suddenly. A sobbing woman approached Milton and threw herself at his feet.

'Mary!" exclaimed her husband, in surprise.

"Yes, it is I," she sighed; "it is your guilty wife, who implores your forgiveness on her knees. Oh, have mercy on me!"

He averted his head irresolutely. Pride and just sensibility struggled in his heart with his innate kindness and the pity with which her humble condition filled him. She had clasped his knees and moistened his hands with her scalding tears. Her dishevelled hair fell upon her heaving bosom, and her rosy face betrayed the most profound grief of which she was capable.

"Do not disown me!" she wailed, with uplifted hands. "I willingly admit that I alone am to blame for every thing, but I can no longer live without you. I left the house of my parents secretly to return to you. If you do not take me back, I do not know where to go; nothing remains for me then but to die."