At 111* lilt C itao one#, J nut once, dear low, wh#a I Mil M- Ah, Ood, I wonld it wm Una honr to-night— And look your !*•( upon the fro ion foe That w* to you * nimoiert brief delight. The Mien I Up* will not entre*t yon then. Nor the cyee res you with unweloome te*r* The lew, Md voice will utter no complaint, Nor the heart tremble with it* restless fears, I shall he •till—you will forgive me then For *ll that I hare been, or failed to be— (lay, a* you loot, " Poor heart, ahe loved me well, No other lore will be o true to me." Then l tor all the doar laaJ days,— Say onoe, "Ood reet her soul 1" theu go in peace. No haunting ghast shall meet yon in roar waya, . The Confidante. A letter, T.M.-T for me to wad ? Ah t tell-tale biuahea, what secret now lam but teasing. There, never heed, Nor Ulur ith furrow* that tilde brow. Yes, as I thought. Tie the old, ohl tale ; He lovee you dreams of you night ami day ; With hope he brightens, with ,lred turti* pale. Truths, dear sister, or babblings gay, Love lives trover, if heart-born rvat; But fades like the rosea I've now just clipped. When told by one who yonr peace would steal, Then flit to BOOM blossom u honey-tipped. To you eaeh word here is troth's own mint: To we, onoe cheated, there's room for doubt ; You, sister, could giv# him your love a#n< stint Whsi? tear* and trembling ? a dawning pout? Well, darling, b*l *e then, aud cyuie thought Khali fade away in yonr love's sweet sun ; He ia not worldlv, nor fashion-taught ; I would uot dareou new light begun. His words are manly; an honest ring Sounds in each sentence. Ah. Lucy, live Long in the love that can nsver wing. Whilst I—well, yea—l have yet to give. Mviirs LOVE. "Marian f* "Marian Hoi brook. Where can that girl be ? Idling away her time, I'll warrant, over spotted butterflies, or sumthin' like it, and them currant* onght to be on a ate win'." Standing up. in the white door, wreathed with it# exuberant scarlet run ner, the good lady shaded her weak blue eyes with one brown hand, and lacked long and earnestly across the garden expanse—the lows of thrifty plants—a sentinel column of hollyhocks, red and white, around which the bees were droaning, clumps of cinnamon rosea' showered down with every breath of air, | four o"clocks, and stunted geraniums, i to the thick hee best room and poured out Miss } mgsbie's tea, wondering why she I remained all the years of her life i' strictest servitude at that homely old farm house, the only home she had ever known. To l>e sure, it had not been so ' bad as it might. Very many young people were in worse straights than she, and she was not peevish or without con tent in the main, and yet of late she had .begun to realize the something lacking in her dgys. She had thought so more, mnch more, since Miss Follingsbie had comedown to spend her summer. Yet she was not so idle as to envy anv woman whom a gentle fate bad placed far above her in a social scale. She „ enly hoped in a far-ofl way to be near akin to such, one day in her life. Miss Follingsbie soon finished her tea and had gone away to her airy chamber, while all the tedious business of setting things to rights filled Marian's hands, her ears were lent to catch every strain of sweet song which floated in from the room above. Mrs. Higgins, quite {"tuckered out' with the many things to which she bad given her mind and hands daring the long day, had retired, as was her custom, while the crickets were chirping their first lays. Closing up the botu;e softly, Marian took a path through a white gate which led to the east meadow, whose fragrant stubble and morning-glory vines were thrown out in bold relief by the summer moon, just climbing the heavenly track. Marian held her breath and exulted in tba utter stillness. Pr&ently a broad shadow fell athwart her own. She bad taken the same road as David He walked like one in a dream, his lian *s clasped behind him, his eyes troubled. "Marian !" "Well, David, I suppose JJone may make a turn in the air without the chance of trespassing. Is not this a Sirt of Rye Fields—belonging to Mrs. iggins, and am I not part and parcel of the whole ?" David cast his eyes over the smiling land and heard the night air sweeping through phalanxes of supple grain, the result of his own labor. He put away from him all show of lightness and insincerity. " Marian, things cannot go on aa they have fer very leag. I have so often longed te tell you many causes for being a changed man, as mother says I am." "I knew I could trust you with this. She is old ; I wish to keep all thorns and hindrances from her path. She eould not understand; you can and will." With a qniek motion peculiar to her when vexed, the girl threw np her hands and covered her face. "O, David, please don't. If it's any thing bad I don't want to know it; yon don't know, David, how many things there are to worry me—little things I . could never feel like talking to any one. So please, David, don't tell me, lam FRED. KURTZ, Editor and Proprietor, VOL. V. sure to prota not worthy (if your eon- Adetnw—tit Wast tuioUrw* now. 1 fee! aa though to-night I could uot hear iiuotlior jot." Ikirid gently put out n l*rso brown hand, and, mtetftenug rt.e girl'* face, looked into the blue eyes with a new and expressive sorrow dou n deep in his own. "Marian, has any thing gone wrong anew ? I hope you don't miud mother; folk# at her time of life mmire forbear ance. Your life is alt Iwfore you, you know." Marian looked out to the wept where the black shadows lay, and almost wished that alt the years which were to be, had been known and passed. "I have no complaint to make of your mother, David, ahe has Iwsn the only woman friend I liave ever known ; she has not understood me, perhaps, but that may not be her fault. No, I don't know what it is that makes me so , but 1 feel that I should love to go awav from here—at least for a little time." "Oo a any from Rye Fields home without Marian !" David's hands dropptvl Dermic** at his side. After all th<