Alice Vernon was the adopted daughter and future heiress of her uncle, a rich West Indian planter, who, although stern and cruel to his dependants, was ever kind to her: but there could be no sympathy or confidence between that iron-hearted old man and the gentle imaginative child, who looked up to him with a strange mingling of reverence and fear. Early left an orphan, she was grateful for his protection but gratitude is not love, and many a long, weary hour did the little Alice spend alone, weeping for her lost parents. She had been sent over to England for her education, upon which no expense was spared; and at the period when our history commences, was about returning to the West Indies. Every one was sorry to part with her, and Alice was half sorry to go, only for one bright dream, one wild hope, which she nursed and cherished in her heart with the beautiful romance of girlhood, or rather childhood, for she dreamt it first when little more than five years old. One of the slaves upon her uncle's estate having been severely punished for some slight offence, his piercing screams penetrated to Alice's chamber, and awoke her tenderest pity. Moved by her passionate intercession, Mr. Langford consented to remit the remainder of his sentence, and set the wretched man at liberty; but the memory of those thrilling cries was slow to pass away from the child's heart. "Uncle," said she, as she stood that night by his knee, looking into his face with eyes still glittering with recently shed tears, "when I am your heiress there shall be

no more slaves !"

The old man smiled as he patted her flushed cheek, but it was with a strange, scornful smile, and he answered not a word.

Alice had made two friends while at school, who were dearer to her than all the rest; and as they sat together for the last time, with their arms about each other's waists, they exchanged solemn promise of unalterable affection; and tif, in future years, either should be in want

or affliction, she should not hesitate to put this school-day friendship to the test. It was strange that they should think of these things, being not only rich and highly connected, but, as far as human foresight can reach, with every prospect of this world's happiness. To be sure, the Lady Emily Montague was far from strong; and Jessy Campbell, despite her sweet sunny smile, lacked the dazzling beauty of her companions; but all were young and hopeful, standing, as it were, on the very threshold of life, and seeing nothing but its roses-the thorns were as yet only a dream, or a prophecy. They likewise promised to keep up a regular correspondence, and tell each other everything, parting at length with many tears and affectionate embraces. A few days afterwards Alice Vernon sailed for the West Indies. Time, and the absence of any gentler influence, had deepened the harsher lines of Mr. Langford's character; but he was still kind and indulgent to his beautiful niece, whom he welcomed back with evident pride and gratification. Alice soon became necessary to his happiness: it seemed the sole aim of her existence to win the love of that stern old man; but the habits of a lifetime are hard to break through, and the slightest opposition, even from her, was sufficient to provoke his displeasure. Once only did Alice venture to hint at the dearest wish of her heart; but frightened by his fierce anger, the attempt was never again repeated.

Years passed away: Mr. Langford had grown old and feeble, and Alice, more beautiful than ever, was engaged to a rich merchant named Paul Raymond, whom she loved with all the devotion of a young and lonely heart, that had found for the first time an object upon which to lavish the wealth of its affections. From the description which she gave of him to her friend and confidant Jessy Campbell, one would have thought that he must be perfection: but alas! that perfection was only of her own loving creation. Paul Raymond was a very man, and Alice a very woman in her blind idolatry. But

then it is so difficult to see any fault in those we | like. As a lover, Paul Raymond was unexceptionable. Some would have smiled to hear him talking so romantically of the charm of disinterested affection and quiet happiness, when their united wealth might have almost bought up the colony: but Alice never did, because it was not romance, but reality to her, and because it seemed only natural to believe him; and then he was so gentle, so devoted, and entered so kindly into all her little schemes of benevolence. To be sure he laughed sometimes, and called her "an enthusiast;" but it was only in jest, and the scornful expression soon passed away from those thin lips when he bent down to press them upon the uplifted brow of his young betrothed. It was strange that Alice should never speak to him upon the subject nearest to her heart, strange even to herself. She often began, and then broke off suddenly, like one spell-bound. "It will be time enough," reasoned she, "when the period actually arrives; and then, perhaps, he may think of it himself-it would be so like him!"

How little do we understand of the inward thoughts and feelings even of those whom we love the best! How slow is their mysterious unravelling, unless laid bare at once, as in the case of Paul Raymond, by the force of circumstance and passion.

A few days before that fixed upon for the wedding of the youthful couple, preparations for which were proceeding on a scale of unexampled magnificence, which suited the pride of Paul Raymond rather than his timid and gentle bride, Mr. Langford died suddenly of disease of the heart. All that he possessed, which was somewhat less than had been generally supposed, was left to Alice Vernon, to be disposed of as she might think proper, the young and imaginative heiress reading in that clause, which was in all probability a mere technical phrase, his full consent to that which he had once refused.

Although grateful for her uncle's kindness, her grief for his loss was by no means deep or lasting; and Alice was too sincere to feign; nevertheless he was her only relative, and as she told Paul Raymond when he was again permitted to see her, "she had but him now in all the world!" We will not attempt to chronicle his reply, which was everything that a lover's should be, only that such records always seem strange on paper, or to a third person, aye, even to ourselves, when we recall them years afterwards, as Alice did, in bitterness and tears. He was eloquent in pleading that the wedding should not be very long delayed, and spoke of some alterations which he was having made some arrangement of luxurious ease, which he deemed indispensable to the comfort of their new home; and no man studied his ease more than Paul Raymond, or was more reckless of expense in so doing. Alice had playfully called his dwelling "the Castle of Indolence;" but on the particular morning of which we are now speaking, she was too much in earnest to smile at the fastidious refinement of her lover's taste. The pe

riod had come at last when she must tell him everything. "Paul," said she, gently, "to-day, for the first time, I felt glad when I heard some one say that you were the richest man in the colony; otherwise, with your peculiar habits, what I am about to propose might almost have seemed selfish and yet you would not have thought it so, but rejoiced to make this sacrifice for the good of others." And then, encouraged by his smile, and feeling, in her credulous affection, so sure of his perfect sympathy, Alice went on to tell him how it had been the dream of her life to emancipate every negro on the estate the very moment that it should be in her power, and free them forever from the curse of slavery and oppression !"

Paul Raymond still smiled; but now it was with something of scorn, although Alice perceived it not.

"This enthusiasm is of English growth," said he.

"No, indeed. I can scarcely remember the time when I felt it not."

"Are you aware that this very romantic project will reduce your present fortune to a mere trifle?"

"Yes, I know; but then you are so rich, dear Paul! We shall still have more than enough for happiness. And think of the joy, the blessings of those poor liberated slaves!"

It was all in vain that Paul Raymond endeavoured to laugh or reason Alice out of what he called her " Utopian dream;" his subtle arguments, his winning sophistry, were for once completely powerless. The young and earnesthearted girl could not be persuaded to see with the eyes of the cold, calculating man of the world-the slave-merchant by habit and profession. For the first time her lover's voice grated harshly upon the ears of Alice Vernon; and then vexed with herself for the feeling, she drew still closer to his side, and leaning her head upon his shoulder, said gently, almost timidly," You are jesting, dear Paul?"

"No, by Heaven!" replied her companion; and his brow was flushed and angry. What followed seemed like a fearful dream, which Alice never could distinctly recall.

"He was but jesting," repeated she again, as she sat alone, with throbbing temples and a beating heart. "He only said it to try me. Dear, dear Paul! how silly of me to think for a moment that you could have been in earnest and spoken thus; spoken, too, of our separation— as if it were so light a thing to part for ever. Anyhow it was a cruel jest!" And the young girl bowed down her head upon her hands, and wept long and bitterly.

A few hours afterwards Alice Vernon stood pale and smiling among her slaves-slaves no longer! Some prostrate at her feet, covered her hands, nay even her very clothes, with their tears and kisses; while others, half beside themselves with joy, tore away the gyves from the wrists and neck of their companions, and snatching the long, blood-stained whip from the hand of the overseer, broke it into a

thousand pieces. They laughed-they danced -they sang-they embraced one anotherthey even wept in their strange happinesswept for joy that they were free! Some, in their sudden transport at the time, went away and forgot even to thank her who had conferred upon them this glorious boon; but remembered it afterwards with deep gratitude in their far-off homes, and the name of Alice Vernon passed into a prayer.

The following morning all was silence in the plantations-a silence never again to be broken by those sudden shrieks, those wild, human cries which had so often startled and thrilled to the heart of Alice in her happiest hours, and every one of which went up to heaven for vengeance on the oppressor.

"He will come again," thought she; "surely he did but jest!" But Paul Raymond came no more. It was no jest when he bade her choose between his love and her own wild will, as he termed it. He should have found a new name for both; Alice had chosen, and that choice separated them for ever.

We will not attempt to describe the feelings of the desolate girl when the real truth broke slowly over her mind. No murmur escaped her lips; she even took Paul Raymond's part when others would have upbraided his cruel desertion. "It was my own doing," she would say; "my own act that separated us. I only am to blame. Heaven grant that he may be happy and forget

me!"

A few months after Mr. Langford's death, Alice Vernon disposed of the little property remaining to her, and embarked for England. Upon inquiring for her old school-fellows she found that the lady Emily Montague was dead (much as she loved her, Alice could not weep), and Jessy Campbell recently married to a young clergyman. The latter received her with the most affectionate sympathy, and the weary traveller spent many quiet and happy weeks beneath their humble roof, cheered by the kindly spirit and simple piety of her early friend. Jessy was far from rich; some said that she had married beneath her-but could that be, when Mr. Brandon was a good man, and she loved him? Surely not! If they had few of the luxuries, they wanted not the comforts, of life; and had always a trifle to bestow upon the poor and needy.

Assisted by their interest and advice, Alice took a school not far from them, the profits of which, joined to her little income, enabled her to live independently and even happily; for those who have nothing to reproach themselves with can never be miserable. Her sweet and gentle temper soon won the hearts of her young scholars; only it made them sad sometimes to see her steal away, and weep when she thought herself unobserved, and they wondered that one so good should have known suffering-Suffering, the Purifier! If it happened by chance that Alice caught their earnest and affectionate gaze riveted upon her pale face, she would look up

and smile, talking cheerfully of other things until the impression had passed away.

Alice was a dreamer-most women are!-and loved nothing better than to sit alone, shaping out the dim future in which Paul Raymond ever bore a part, and even fancying all that she would say and do under circumstances that could not possibly exist, save in her own imagination. Sometimes she dwelt upon the remorse that he would feel when he heard of her departure; and how, after a time, he would come to England in search of her-how easily she could forgive him, and how happy they should be once more together. So vivid were these dreams that she often looked quickly up as though almost expecting to see him standing by her side, and awoke weeping, still haunted by the unforgotten tones of that once familiar voice. Then again she thought he might become poor or ill, and that she would love, and nurse, and work for him; or that he might write, imploring her return. imaginary struggle between pride and strong affection in her woman's heart; the former home the bride he once scorned;" while love, said, "No, let Paul Raymond come and fetch less seas like a dove, to his bosom! ever triumphant, sent her back over the track

There was an

How natural-but, alas! how vain-are all such visions! How many dream away their lives thus! how few such visions are ever realized! The active performance of present duties, and the prayerful committing of the future to God, is our safest path; and He who sendeth sorrow in love, will also give us strength to bear it when it comes.

One bright summer evening, Alice Vernon dismissed her little school earlier than usual. She complained of not being quite well; and had, in truth, appeared strangely absent and preoccupied for the last few hours. A West Indian newspaper lay unopened upon the desk before her; another time she would not have hesitated a moment to inform herself of its contents. How true it is that "coming events cast their shadows before them!" Smiling at her own fears, Alice slowly unfolded it; her glance rested involuntarily on the "Deaths ;" and then, brightening as it found no cause for dread, wandered on in search of other news. A few moments afterwards one of the school-children, returning for something she had forgotten, heard a sudden cry of agony, and entering the cottage, found Alice extended lifeless on the ground, with the newspaper crushed together in her convulsive grasp.

A long illness followed, during which Jessy Brandon nursed her with the tenderest care. She asked no questions, and Alice told her nothing; but when she said her simple prayers at night amid pain and fever, a new name mingled in them, and was never again omittedthe name of Paul Raymond's youthful bride! It would have been wicked to dream any more of an earthly future, and so Alice learned in tears to look heavenward.

In relating how Alice Vernon found peace in

the humble sphere which she had marked out for herself-how not only her little scholars, but all the village loved and looked up to her-and how the memory of the past had its sunshine as well as its shadow, we prefer the simple poetry of Professor Longfellow, to any language of our

own:

"She reads to them at eventide

Of One who came to save-
To cast the captive's chains aside,
And liberate the slave.

"And oft the blessed time foretells
When all men shall be free,
And musical as silver bells

Their falling chains shall be.

"For she was rich, and gave up all
To break the iron bands

Of those who waited in her hall,
And laboured in her lands.

"It is their prayers, which never cease,
That clothe her with such grace;
Their blessing is the light of peace
That shines upon her face!"

Alice Vernon never married. Her life was one of active usefulness on earth; and her death, which happened early, opened for her, through faith, the gate of Heaven.

A DREAM.

I had a dream-a blissful dream-
So vivid, pure, and free from pain,
That even now its shadows hold

Dominion o'er my waking brain;
"Tis shrined within my inmost soul;
It seems of life itself a part;
And I must deem 'twas sent in love
To soothe this lonely heart.

I thought I dwelt in our old home,
That cherished home of other years,
Endeared by childhood's simple joys,
Hallow'd by childhood's tears;
I sat beneath the old elm-tree,

Watching night's deepening gloom, While my mind wandered forth in dreams Of death-of life to come.

I mused on friends, the loved, the lost, In happier homes above;

And yearn'd to burst the earthly bonds
That held me from their love.

And fancy roved o'er bygone hours,
Till, all around me spread,

I felt with overwhelming power
The memory of the dead.

My soul grew faint, mine eyes grew dim ;
My head sank on my arm,

And midnight flung o'er every sense
Its soft mysterious charm;

The gentle moon withdrew her rays,
The stars in heaven waxed pale,

And suddenly there stole a sound
Of music up the vale.

Then came a form of life and light,

With heavenly face and radiant brow; And something whisper'd to my heart

That though so changed, so fair, 'twas thou. Deep awe, wild hopes, and rapturous joy, My wandering spirit stirr'd; Hosannas burst upon mine ear,

And harpings high I heard.

The glance of thy clear, star-like eye,
Sank deep into my heart,

And chid each anxious doubt and fear,
And bade each care depart.

The air grew hush'd-and then, thy voice
The spell of silence broke,

And with a trembling thrill of joy

I started and awoke.

A. T

THE SUMMER TIME.

BY MRS. F. B. SCOTT.

Let us, oh, friend beloved, go forth at morning,
When the clear dew-drops sparkle on the spray,
When the first rosy light through valleys dawning
We will repose where some sweet stream is flowing
Heralds the coming of the fair god-Day;
With a low voice of spirit-melody,

And we will watch the mossy violets growing
Fast by the roots of the old forest tree.

And let us wander, when the moon is gleaming, Through the bright corn-fields, waving in the sun, Marking each sunburnt brow, whose healthful seeming

Bespeaks the happy heart when toil is done; Or, let us listen to the joyous chorus

Coming from busy bee, or bird, or brook; All nature's pages shall be bare before us,

And we will read (how eagerly!) the book.

Then, when the evening in her golden splendour
Majestically moveth o'er the plain,

We to her mystic sway our minds will render,
And choose the green earth for our couch again;
The quiet round us shall our spirits soften;

The moments undisturbed will fly full fast,
And pallid Memory, absent ones, shall often
Point to the hour wherein we met you last!

The blue sky, and the young fawns shyly starting
Out from the shelter of the lordly beech,
The gold stars through the fleecy night-clouds
darting ;

These wrap our minds in thoughts too high for speech.

So, let us ne'er forget in bitter sorrow,

Through every change of fortune or of clime,
To wait in patience for a brighter morrow,
And bless God for the glorious Summer Time.

HOME.Pious souls, when they speak of death, say that they go home; their longing for heaven is to them a home-sickness. Jesus also represented the abode of eternal happiness under the similitude of a home-a father's house. Does not this tell us that the earthly house is appointed to be a picture of heaven, and a foretaste of that higher home ?

HOME IN SWEDEN.-The north is cold and severe. The arts abide not there-the time of the flowers is short. Wouldst thou see their land, behold Italy-behold France; but wouldst thou contemplate the consecrated soil of domestic happiness, look at Sweden.

THE BRIDE.-We dress ourselves in flowers for the first festival, in deep mourning when the last resting-place is opened for one of our family; yet with justice might the contrary be often done. But a young bride is charming, and her face involuntarily allures the heart to joy. The bridal garments; the myrtle-wreath round the maiden brow; the loving looks of all, which seem to adorn and beautify her; the presages of a future which appears beautiful for her-all is charming ! By her, through her, we behold a new house raised on the earth, a Noah's ark on the wild waves of the world, where the white dove of peace will build and dwell; and fair children shall be there, and sweet caresses, and joyous looks; and love-warm hearts and friends shall rest under the hospitable roof; and many an exertion, many a glorious talent shall centre there, and spread a blessing over life. She stands there, the young bride, the creator of all this; hopes and joys surround her. On a wedding-day we think not of suffering; and if the eyelids of the bride are heavy with restrained tears, if her cheek be white, if her manner when near the bridegroom betrays more fear than

WISDOM.-By books alone we cannot become wise; no! not by books, not by travelling, not by wise men, not by the whole world, if we do not possess within ourselves the modelling power which creates an harmonious form out of scattered fragments, or-more simply and better to speak-if we do not understand how to com pound a rational idea out of words.

LovE.To try to love-what Sisyphus labour !

MY FAITH.-Seest thou those clouds which the storm has just driven over our heads? Now they have separated; they are enlightened by the sun, and the evening of this tempestuous day is beautiful and clear. This is the picture brightened my gloomiest hours. I believe in a of a faith that attends me through life, that has clear evening sun, in a light that will disperse the clouds, in a rest after the storms of the day.

LIFE. Oh, it is glorious to live, if only to contemplate and to reflect upon the works of God!

SYMPATHY.-There are eternal harmonies, eternal sympathies; there are people who were born united. When they meet in the world, then spring up those suddenly formed friendships, those irresistible powers of attraction, those inward sympathies between two beings which our limited understandings cannot explain, and in which it is no longer the fashion to believe; yet which nevertheless are to be found, and are sweetly felt in the hearts where they reveal themselves; they are sparks issuing up from mysteries which may well be called Elysian.

MISTRUST.-The wounds inflicted by mistrust bleed long.

THE WORLD'S IDOLS.-Riches, beauty, and rank, though they be ever so often called dust and ashes, maintain their magical influence in

the world.

MYSTERY.-The deepest mystery of life is Death.

CROWNS.-The greatest and the most virtuous have worn crowns of thorn.