ONE3LLAR PER ANNUM INVARIABLY IN ADVANCE. TOWANDA: .'hursday Morning, Jane 12, 1862. jsjlcttcb ADA. ■T FLOBSNCK FKRCT. Here U one of of those uweet facea Made to light earth's darkest place herein chidhood'a playful archness brightens earnest thought's repose— She is fairer, purer, sweeter Than when woman's years shall greet her, /en as is tho bud unblosaomed sweeter than the ripen' ed rose. There is no voluptuous splendor In her face so pure, so tender-r- Niugh of mid suoimur perfection—'tis the promise of young June— Naught of womanhood's completeness, Dm an innocent, a nreetness Dearer far, as in the morning lovelier than the perfect moon. Less an angel—more a woman, Less etherial and more human,.. Will she be, when lire more Aprils shall have browned each sunny curl- She will seem another crealnre Changed in heart, and hope, and feature. When the yvoma.n'B carej and trialr down the dreamiags of the oiul. Lapsed in bright and georgeous dreaming, Wiih romance's rose rays gleaming, Yet she makes a gentle effort to awaken him from its power. Conscious of a sphere of being Just beyond her tinted seeing, Like a bee at morning drowsing in a yet unopened flower. And she looks with childish wonder Toward the misty realms beyoud her. Where are eares and strifes and discords—toil for heart and hand and brain. But she hearkens, all unfearing, Like a young bird faintly hearing From beneath its mother's pinions, the rude rushing of the rain. Time will be co partial preacher— Good and evil he will teach her, Hope* and lears will fill her bosom—joya and griefa will tryjtheir power ; But the innoctncy tender Ila'oing her brow with splendor, Will depart as does a raiu-drop from the forehead of a flower. As a woman ahe Is fated ; She will be adorned and hated, Know all depths of joy and sorrow—see glad days and gloomy years ; And her path that now lieeglowiDg Through green vales—by streams eweet flowing, Will wind sadly tinough dark places where the ground Is wet with tears. Ah,the" evildnys" are Hearing, When, her day dreams disappearing. She will make to morn the nbsenct of this freshness Joy and truth, And her spirit backward turning Will be vaguely, vainly yearning For the tender light and gladness of the morning-land of youth. Ah, that woman's gladdest laughter Has a mournful echo alar ! Ah, that time should sow wild dis:ord 'mid her heart's resounding strings 1 Ah. that wealth and pride and power Should eclipse love's h"ly dower- That earth's rolling dust should gather on her spirits snowy wing! Stay awhile, oh, dawning maiden ! Coming time with change is laden— Lingering ret upon t!i threshold of tuv womanhood"'s domain ; For as years around thee cluster t Though they bring the added lustre, They will take a bloom, a freshness that will never come again. jsdttttb ©avt. A Blindfold Marriage. The elite of the Court of Louis the XI Y.the great monarch of France, were assembled in the chapel of the great Trenton,to witness the nuptials of Louis, Court of Fruuche Compet— a natural sou ot the King—with Lydonie, Duchess de Baliverue, a worthless heiress. Tiie singular feature of the ceremony was, that tfie bridegroom's eyes were to be baudug td with a white handkerchief. This circumstance excited the wonder of all Had the bride been old and ugly, they would not have been-surprised. Ou the contrary,she ; was yor.ng and quite pretty. The King alone understood this strange freak ot the bridegroom, and though much en raged, he prudently held his peace and suffered the ceremony to proceed. A few words will explain the motives of the bridegroom. Wnen LouisXlV came back from his great campaign In the Paiatiuate, he determined to unite h;s son,whose valor and daring in the war had greatly pleased him,to cue -of the wealthy wards of the -crown. He propostd the union to the yoeng Du chess of Hahverene, and found her favorably iuciined. She had just come t© conrt, having just emerged Irotu the couvent where she -had com pleted her education. She had seen the yonng Count often,though be had never designed to cast u glance upon her. she knew he was brave and. noble, fl "d, she thought handsome. Tne bar sinister to his escutcheon was no objection. She ac cepted him. Unfortunately, Lonis of Franche Compte, *ho, like his father, wan something of a rep * te, would not accept her. My son,'' said the King, " f have resolved A you shall marry." h Ay worthy sire and most excellent father," p:'*d the Count, " i have resolved to do *lMg. ve him ?' "Oh, so dearly; that is why I married him. I had loved him from tiie moineut I first he held him. And uow I am his wile, he will not look at me." Lydonie burst into a flood of tears,aud sank upon a sofa. Tiie King pitied her sincerely, but what could he do ? He had forced him to marry her, but lie could not loree him to love her. He thought of the Bastile. It would uot make huu love his wife to seud him there. " Well, weii," he said, " you are his wife I will make him a Duke, and 1 dare say you'll fiud him home before morning." With these words the King withdrew. Lydouie was lelt ulone with her sorrow.— But she was oot to droop long. She soon dried her tears, and looked all the better for them, like a rose alter a shower. Her old nur-e came in,aud together they in spected her new home, wtiich Lydonie found entirely to her satisfaction. The Count did not come home that night. A weak passed by aud he did not make his appearance Lydouie cauie to the conclu sion he never would come. She knew it was useless fo appeal to the King. lie had made Franche Compie a Duke, but he could do nothing for her. She determined to ascertain what her hus band was about. She dispatched a trusty servant for intelli gence, and.l.ke all wives who place a spy upon their husbands' movements, she was not at all pleased with the news she received. The Duke was plunging into all kinds of di.-sipatiou lie was making love to all the pretty daughters of the shopkeepers in the Roe St. Antoine. in fact, for a newly-married man, his con duct vi as shameful. " So leave me to run after such canaille!" exclaimed Lydonie. She pa;:sed suddenly. An idea had enter ed her brain. She determined to act upon it. While she is meditating upon it, let us see what the Duke is about. One night, abont eight days after his mar riage, the Duke, plainly attired and muffled in a cloak, roamed through the Faubourg St. Autouie, as was his weut, in quest of adven tures. As he tamed the corner of one of those nar row lanes that intersected that quarter at that period, a piercing shriek burst apon his ear, mingled with suffocating cries for assistance. The Duke's sword was out in an instant He was brave to rashness. Without a mo ment's thonght he plunged into the lane. He beheld a female straggling in the grasp of a man. * The man fled precipitately at bis approach, and the girl sank into his arms, convulsively exclaimed:— " Save me, ob, save me V The Doke sheathed his sword and endeav ored to calm ber fears PUBLISHED EVERY THURSDAY AT TOWANDA, BRADFORD COUNTY, PA., BY E. 0. GOODRICH. He led ber beueatb the lamp that swung at the corner. " Why, you are a perfect little beauty I" be cried rapturously, and in surprise. Tiie girl cast down ber eyes and blushed deeply, and the Duke felt—the little baud that rested upon bis arm tremble. But she did Dot seem displeased. " Do you reside in Paris ?' " Yes; but we have only been here a short time—we came from Bellvtlle—mother and I." " From the country, eh 1" Where do you live, my pretty blossom ?' " In Rue fct. Helena.' " What, that is some distance from here.— Will you permit me to escort you home. These streets are dangerous, as you have fouud, to cue as beautilul as you are.' " I would very much like to have yoa see me home—if—if She paused and uppeard confused. " If what ?" asked the Duke, eagerly. " If you would only be so goo—as to prom ise oot to—to —to —try to—kiss me again, if you please sir," replied the girl innocently. The Duka was churmed. There was a sim plicity, a freshuess about this young girl which pleased him. " I give you my word as a gentlemaD," he said, frankly, " that uo action of mine shall despleuse you, if you accept of ray escort. She came to his side aud took bis arm with confidence. " I tun uot afraid of you," she said, with sweet simplicity ; " I know you are too good to injure uie.' The Duke blushed for the first time in—he could uot remember how mauy years—he knew he was receiviug a better character than he deserved. "What is your name ?" he asked, as they proceeded ou their way. Bergerouetle,' she replied. " What a pretty name 1 And yoa live here in Paris, all aloue with your mother." "Yes" " I dure say you have plenty of .weet hearts ?' " No, I haven't one." " What, no one that loves you ?" " None," repiied Bergeronette, quite sadly. " Would you uot like a sweetheart ?" " Perhaps." " You must be particular in your choice, or you would have had a sweetheart before uow. What kind of oue would you lik ?" "I would like one,if you please,like —like, — " Like who t" " L ke you." "Phew 1" thought the Duke, " I am get tiogon here. Now, is this cunning, or is it simplicity ?' They walked on sometime in silence. Bergeronette checked the Duke before a lit tle cottage, with a garden iu front. There was a wicket gate leading i to the garden. " Here is where I live," she said, She took a key from ber girdle aud unlocked the gate. " Will she invite mo to enter ?" Thought tho Duke—aud the thought was father to the wish. " Good night, sir,"said Behgeronette, "and many thauks lor your kindness." " She is a Diana 1" was the Duke's meDtal reflection " Shall I never have the pleasure cf seeing you Hgaiu 1" said the Duke. " Do yru wish it ?" she said earnestly, " Most ardently." " I'll u.-k my mother." An oath rose to the Duke's lip, but he pru dently checked it. " Will you receive me to-morrow " You muy come, if my mother is williug —yes." " I shall be sure." " You will have forgotten rao by to mor row." " I ehnli not forget you." " I have heard ray mother ray the men al ways protest uiore than they mean.' " Your mother is " the Duka paused, and bit his lip. " What is Ehe ?" asked Bergeronette arch ly. " She is—right. But I mean what I soy. As sure as the morrow comes, so wiJl 1." " Come. Good night.' She turned from him, and was about to en ter the garden. " Bergeronette." he said quickly, "one kiss before I go. Surely my lorbearunce deserves it." She made no answer, bnt she inclined her head gently towuds him. For a moment she lingered in his arms, and then tore herself from his embrace and passed quickly through the gate. The Duke determined to follow her. When he placed his hand against the gate he found it securely fasteoed. Bergerouette had pi n c'ently locked it after her. So the Duko went to his lodging—he had taken bachelor apartments on his wedding day —to dream of Bergeronette. The next day he went to the cottage in Rue St. liekue. He was received by Bergeronette timidiy, and introduced • y her to her mother, a fine, matronly dame.wbo sat quietly spinning in the corner, and allowed the youug couple to rove about the garden at will. The Duke thought she was a very sensible old woman. The Duke departed, -at the end of three bonrs, more in love than ever. He came every day for a fortnight, and ev day he pressed his rait. But there was only one way in which Bergeronette could be won —an honorable marriage. The Duko was in despair and at his wit' 6 end. He bad a stormy 6ceoe with the King, who threatened to 6end him to the Bastiie if he dtd not return to the' Duchess. So he came to Bergeronette, on the four teenth day, to meke a final effort to obtain ber. Tb°y were alone together in the gar den. r > " Here me, Bergeronette,' he cried, when be bad exhausted every argument and found ber still firm, ' I swear to jfoo were I free, " REBARDLESS OF DENUNCIATION FROM ANT QUARTER." this instant would I wed yoo. I will confess it aii to you. I have told you tbat I am a Duke tie Francne Compt, and— l am married.' " Married. ?' echoed Bargerouette with a smotheriug scream. " I was forced into this union by the King's command. Ido not love my wife I have nev er even seen her face. I left her at the altar's foot, and we have never met since. She pos sesses my title,but you alone possess my heart. Fly with me. In some distant laod we may dwell in happiness, blessed with each other's society. Time may remove the obstacle to our union—death may befriend as, a divorce may be obtained, and tbeu I swear to you, by every saint iu Heaven, you shall become my Duchess.' " Were you free, would you really make me your wife 7' " I have pldged yon my word.' " I believe you.' " You will fly with me V " I will.' " Dear Louis," she UiOrmured, for so bad he taught her to call him. " I also have some thing to impart to you My name is not Ber geronette, and I am not what you take me to be.' " What do yon mean ?" " I have a title equal to your own.' " Then this old woman 7' " Is not my mother, bat my nurse.' " And the man who assaulted you?' " Waß my lackey, instructed for the pur pose. The Duke looked bewildered. " Aud like you,' she continued, I am MAR RIED.' " I'll cut you husbands' throat,' exclaimed the Duke wildly. " I dou't think you will when you know him.' " Who Is be then, and who are you 1' " lam Lydonie, Duchess de Franche Compt, and you are he.' The Duke was thunderstruck. Lydonie kuelt at his feet. " Forgive ma for this littie plot,' she plead ed ; "it was to gain your love . If it has succeeded lam happy—if it has failed, with my own lips I will sue the King for our di vorce.' " Up—op to my heart,' cried the Djke, joyfuiiy, as he caught her iu his arms ; "you nave iusured our mutual happiuesss. Ah.noue are so blind as those who will not see.— Little did I think when I stood blindtolded by you side at the ultar that I was reject ing such a treasure.' They passed their honeymoon in the lit tle cottage, and the Duka was not sent to the Bastde. An Angel. BT MARY A. DENNISON. A little pauper boy sat down on the curb stoues, and tried to think. His feet were bare, red, and cold ; but never mind that. The chill uir penetrated his ragged garments ; but never mind that. He wanted to think. Who are these people passing him, looking so warm aud comfortable? What did it mean that they should be happy uud cheerful, and he so sad ? None of them had such heavy hearts ; thai he was sure of. He looked up into the cold blue sky. What was it, and who lived up there ? Some bo y had said once that God would take care of him. Where was God? Why didn't he take care of him ? Oh if he could only see God for one little minute, or the utigcla that the good men told him of when his mother died I Did they eVer see angels ? An organ grinder coiue near and took his stand. The melody he played lightened the little boy's heart somewhat ; but it didn't warm him ; it didn't make him less hungry. He kept shivering iu spite of the music, and he felt so all alone, so despairing? Then the organ grinder passed away ; he never heeded the lit tle child sitting on the curbstone, he had so many things to think of. The carriages passed by, and the cart 9 and a company of soldiers; b-t it was all dumb show to him—be was try ing to think, with such a dull pain at his heart. Presently, three or four course-looking boys gathered behind him, and wiuked and laughed at each other. In ■another moment, the young est gave a thrust, and over went the poor little homeh ss child into the gutter. One scream, one sob of anguish as he gathered himself up, and looked after the boys, now flying away with shouts of mirth. Oh ! how cruel it seemed in them—how cruel ! The little hungry boy walked slowly on, sobbing and shivering to himself. He did i't know what he was walk ing tor, or why he was living. He felt out of place—a poor little spirit that had lost its way—a braised reed that any one might break —a little heart so tender that look was an guish, how much more a blow ! The little boy stood at last near the corner of a street. An apple 6tand, at which he gazed with longing eyes, not far off, was tended by a cross-4ooking old man. There cakes on the stand, and the ptor little month of the home less child watered as he saw oue boy after an other deposit his penny, and take his cake.— Ho had no penny, and though there was hun ger in his eyes, the cross looking old man never offered him a morsel. The tempter came. The old mail's back was tnmed. A vile boy at his side—at the side of the homeless child—nudged his elbow.— " You take one," he whispered ; " I'll give you half." The little child gazed at him steadily. He saw something in the bleared eyes that made him shrink ; something that set his heart to beating. " i tell you, hook one," whispered the boy ; " I won't tell, aud we'll go awey and eat it." " I don't want to steal," said the homeless child. "Oh 1 you fool," mattered the brutal temp ter, and smote him iu the eyes, his heavy hand dealing a blow that sent the poor little child against the wall, his whole frame quivering with angsish. The terrible blow bad almost blinded bio for a moment. A sob came np io bis throat. "Ob t what bare I done to be treated eo V There never, never was a Crodj or he would not let him suffer so, and that be cause be refused to be wicked. I doQ't believe that ever a man in his deadliest bereavements suffered more than that sad little child. His heart was literally swelling with grief, and though be could reason about it, he felt as if there were great aud sore injustice somewhere. He started to cross the street. A dark, bliodiog pain still made his poor temples ring. " Back 1 back 1 Good heavens 1 The child is under his feet I Back ! back I " Oh ! mamma, it is our horses run over a poor little boy. Oh 1 mamma, mamma 1" "Is he hurt much, coachman ?" The wo man's face is pale as ashes. " Yes, he is hurt badly. Take him right in ; don't wait; carry him right in aud up 6'air. It was your care lessness. The child shall be attended to." There is no anguish oow. Perhaps God saw he had borne all he could, and so took the poor little broken heart there ro heal. How very white and quiet ! "Oh ! a sweet face— a Bweet, sweet face 1" murmured the woman, bending over the boy ; and tears fell npon his forehead, but he did not feel them. " Oh, the poor little boy 1" sobs Nelly," the poor little boy I I wish he had kept on the sidewalk ; I wish he had staid at home with his mother " Alas ! in this world there was no mother to keep him. The doctor came, said he was not dead, bat would very likely die. Tnere was a hospital near. The poor thing had better be sent there. But the good woman would not allow that She would care for him herself, she said. Ho had been injured by one of her horses, and she felt it was her duty to attend to him. Besides it was likely the child had no mother. Such a boy as he, with a face so sweet and girlish, so pure and loveable. would never be sent on the streets like that,if be had a mother. Besides (and here her tears fell) there was a little mound not yet greeu over just such a child.— No, no ; it was not in her heart to put the poor wounded boy away. Let him stay, whether he i.ved or died. The weary, weary days passed on. One morning, the little boy opened his dim, blue eyes, but he did not know himself. His glance fell wearily on bis hands. There were white bands around his wrists, with ruffle 3 on them. The bed was so snowy white, too, aud a erim son light fell over every thing. " Dear God 1 I am in heaven," murmured the child. " Yes, God will take care of me uo\" What visions of loveliness glanced forth from the shadow behind the bed ? The rich curls fell around a face of exquisite beauty.— The beaming eyes looked love and giadness upou him. " Oh i yes, there is an angel !" he said soft ly. " I aui giud. They wou't knock me over again ; they wou't want rae to steal apples here ; and perhaps I shall never die again.— Now, I waut to see toy mother.'' "My dear boy, are you belter this morn ing asked a low, soft voice. He turned slowly, wearily. " Is it mother 1" he murmured. " Oh, yes," and there quick sobs and tears ; " yes, my little child, I will be your mother, and you shall be my son. Will you love me dearly ?" " Yes, I do love yon, mother; is it heaven?" " Heaven I no, darling it is earth ; but God sent you here to our hearts, and you shall be loved and cared for. See, here is a little sis ter, and you will be very happy with her.— Kiss him, Nelly. Iler rosy lips touched his paie ones, and a heavenly smile lighted np his face. The past was not forgotten, hut it was gone. No more mouldy crusts, oaths, harsh words, and b!ow3. No more begging at basement doors, and look ing half famished to envy a dog gnawiug a bone in the streets. No more tear of rude children, who never knew where their hearts lay ; no more sleeping on door steps, and list ening in terror to the druuken quarrels of the vicious aud depraved. Yes the past was gone ; aod in the rosy future where love, home, even God and the angels. Certainly sweet spirits had guarded that child, aud guided him out of seeming evil into pusitive good. Surely henceforth he would put his baud trustingly in theirs, and turn bis fuce heavenward. Yes, it was so to be. The dear teachable child—a jewel picked from the raire, a brand snatched from the bnrning—was yet to illumine the dark paths of this world with bis holy, heaven like teaching. Like a dove he was to go forth over the waters, and find the oiive branch with which to garland his glad tidings. Blessings, then on all who hold their arms out toward needy little chil dren, making their homes arks of refuge 1 — Beautiful stars shall they have in their crowns of rejoicing, for surely there is no jewel bright er iu all the world, and perhaps iu all eteruity, than the soul of a little child. Niglit." Hearing a confused noise In front of my house, the other night, writes a correspondent, I threw up the window to ascertain the cause. I observed a dark object clinging to the lamp post that stands sentinel in front ot my door ; and listening attentively, I overheard the fol lowing soliloquy : " Mariur's waitin' np for me 1 I see the light in her win'er. What the deu deuce does she act so darnfool (bic) foolish for on lodge lodge nights ? 'S'well enough to stay up ou o'rrer nights—bat's all dam uousense, ye know, to wait for a fell'r on lodg • (hie) nights. She knoirs 's'well as I do, basin' 's'got to be 'tend ed to—committe 's'got tt> report, an' var'ns o'rrer little matters —she oughter 'ave more sense. Said she had the head (hie) headache when I left'er—told me not to stay ont longer than I conld 'elp. Well, I didn't 1 how could I 'elp it ? Besides, I'll have the headache worsen she will'n the nornin'. So devilesh stupid in her to get the headache when 6he knew I'd big bianess to 'tend to. Ah 1 these women, these women, they'll never (hie) learn any thin', never I '"So let the world wag as wMa at ft win, I'll ba gay and (hie) happy still.'" "Hal ha ! ba! (blc) Wood* what's be . a e% VOL. XXIII. —NO. 2. come of Bulgor 1 Left 'im settin' on a curb stone. Kaiuin' like blazes, and the war'rer op to his middle. He thought be was at Niag (hie) Niagara Falls. Says'e, says'e, 'Spicer me boy, aint this glo'us ? Don't ye bear the ra rapids ? I was strike'n oat for home as ra (hie) rapidly as I could. T'9 pity for Bulger, cause I don't think he can swim ; and he hates —ha ! ha 1 ha ! (hie) hates war'rer like p-poison. Wish 1 was 'ome and in bed.— B-r-r-a ah 1 I'm ail of a shiver ! Clos' all wet outside, and I'm dry as thunder inside.— Think I'll tell Mariar I ju Jumped overboad to >ave a feller screechef from (hie) drowning.- Then she she U want to know what I did with the fell (bic) feller creature. So that won't do. She's got a pretty good swallow, but— egad 1 she—she can't swallow —ha ! ha 1 ha ! (hie) no drowned man, you know. Tba-tbat'a a ieetle too much I She's taken some awful heavy doses of lit from me, but I'm afraid lha drowned chap woald choke her." At this juncture a guardian of the public peace approached aod a*ked the votary of Bacchus what he was doing there at that time of night, and v>by he did not go home. " What'in I doiu' here ? Why, I'm holding on like grim death— that's what I'm doing.— Howsever, ole feller, I'm gl- (hie) a-ad to see ye. Fact is, I've been oui'd ibe raiu, aßd I've got a leetle so soaked, d'ye see. Itaia warrer alters did make consiruble 'p presiion on me.— Say, you 1 can yt t-tell mewhy I'm like a pick* (bic)-picket-guard ? But I know you can't; 's'no use asking youa p'iice fellers anything.— Bat's dev-desiiish good— ha 1 be 1 he 1 (hie)— for me. I—l'll tell ye why I'm like a black guard—l mean a p-picket guard. Beeause I c can't leave my p post until I am re-(hic) re lieved 1 P'iice feller, d'ye aee that shutter over the way, the one with the green Venitian houses iu front, three doors to go up to the step—that is my (hie) house, aud therein dwells my s& saiuted Mariar. Did you ever belong to a spout-shop ? But 1 spose not.— As the charming P-Portia says : " ' That light we see is burning in my hall; How far that little beam throws his c-canilles! So shines a g-ood (hie) deed ia a naughty world.' " Th-tben pity the sorrows of a poor young man wh-ose tangled legs have b b-brought him to this spot. Ob, relieve, and take him home at ouce, and heaveu will ble-bless your store —when you get (hie) oue." The polieemau kindly assisted him to his house aud rang the bell. The door partially opened. I got a transient glimpse of a night capped head, as our boro was hurriedly drawn in by nusceu liand9 ; and a shrill voice, that pierced the midnight air, was heard to say : "Solyou'ie tight again, you brute 1" The door was rudely slammed in the unoffending policeman's face, while 1 crept shivering to bed, wondering at the probable fate of " Bulger." The Woman who never Gossips. Ob, no, I never gossip! I have enough to do to take care of my own business, with out talking about the affairs of others, Mrs. Smith. Why, there's Mrs. Crocker, she deals in scandal by the wholesale. It does seem to me as though that wouran's tougne must be almost worn out ; but no, there's uo danger of that. If everybody was like me, there wouldn't be much trouble in the world. Oh, uo, I never gossip ! But did yon kuow that Miss Elliott had got a new silk dress, Mrs. Smith ? \ou didn't ? Weil, she has. It's a real brocade j I saw it myself ; and I do say its a shume for her to be so extravigant I mean to give her a piece of my mind, Mrs. Smith. You believo her uncle gave it to her ? Weli, I dout care if he did. Why its ouly two months 9ince her fattier failed ; and now to see her dash oat in this sjy e it's & burning shame. I soppose she thinks she's going to catch young lawyer Jones ; but I think she'll find herself mista ken. He's got more sense that to be caught by her, if she has got a brocade silk dress. And there's the upstart dressmaker, Katie Man'y, setting tier cap for the doctors son.— The impertinence of some people is periectly astonishing. I dont think she's any better than she ought to be, for ray own part. I never did like her, with her mild, soft look, when anybody's about. My word for it, she can look cross enough when there ain't. Then she says she is only seventeen ! Good ness knows she's as old as my Arrabella Lu cretia ; and she's —well, I won't say how old, but she's more than seventeen, and I ain't ashamed to say so, either : but I think Dr. May's son will have more discretion than to think of marrying her. Some folks call her handsome. Well, I don't. She ain't half so good looking as my daughter Jane. Then the way she does up her hair in such fly away curls 1 and, if you believe it, Mrs. Smith, she actually had the impudence to tell me she conldu't make her hair as straight as my Ma ria's. Impertinence! If she would let curiiDg papers and curling-irons alone, I'd risk but what her hair would be as straight as any body's. But what do yon think of the minister's wife, Mrs. Smith ? You like her ? Well, all I can say is you've got a very peculiar taste, — Why she's as proud as Lucifer —been married a whole week, and hasen't been to see me yet. Yoa presume 6he hasn't had time ? j don't see what the minister wanted to go oat of town to get him a wife for, anyway ; and then, above all things, to get that girlish-look iug thing? Why didn't he take oue of hsi par ishioners ? There's my Arrabella Lucretia# would have made him a better wife than he's got now. And she's joet the right age for him. What do yoa say ?—that Arrabella Lncretia is two years older than the minister? I should think it was apitty if I didn't know my own daughter's age, Mrs. Smith ! If soma folks would mind their owu business, as I do, I'd thank them. * There's a woman at the bottom of every mischief,' said Joe. ' Yaa, lap Had Charley; 'when I nsed to gat in chief, my mother was at tba JP* ma' .. '"' T