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. resemblance to that of the young French girl ; it was mournful and sad ; that of Mademoiselle Beranger was glad and joyous ; while in her disguising attire, under the clouds of night, he could not suppose for one instant the lovely face and sylph-like form of Lucille were concealed ; but still the tones of the harp recalled her to his mind ; and it was the knowledge of the anguish he himself had endured, which prompted him to wish happiness to Ida. Little did he dream he was the being on whom her happiness depended ; he loved her as a brother loves, but nothing more.

It was night, dark, gloomy, desolate night to such hearts as Ida's ; but it was day-bright joyous sunshine -to the expectant Lucille. The lamp shone brightly, the jewels sparkled gaily, and, harp in hand, she stood beneath the centre chandelier of the magnificent drawing-room, where Ida sat in desolation, to meet for the last time Ferdinand, her idolized Ferdinand. It was late when he entered, with a smile on his lip and a sparkle in his eye, as elegant, as polished as a monarch need be ; and as the first tone of his voice fell on the ear of Lucille, she sprung forward, and in a moment the parted lovers were closely wrapped in each other's embrace. I pass over the scene so painful to Ida ; to feel she loved, but in vain ; and in despair to hear the words of love ; to hear the tale of long-remembered days gone by, was more than Ida's heart could bear, and she could only bless them and bid them farewell. Three weeks after this a marriage appeared in the 66 Morning Post," celebrated first at St. James's, Piccadilly, and afterward at the Catholic Chapel, Warwick Street, Golden Square : it was the marriage of Ferdinand Beresford and Lucille Beranger ; and immediately below that were these words ::-" Died of a rapid decline, Ida, the beloved and only child of Horace Ilderton, in the nineteenth year of her age." She was dead ; her heart was broken ; and in the long white fingers, cold and stiff, lay the faded rose-bud, given by one who was that day wedded.

GOD'S TEMPLE. BY WILLIAM WALLACE. "Tis not the great Cathedral richly dight With jewell'd altar, paintings grand and old— Where dusty banners, in the doubtful light, Wave mournfully around the tattered fold-Like a weird shadow of the Past unrolled,I hail God's Temple--though the soul may there With Christian fitness thrill in contrite prayer-Humbly imploring, passionately bold, As kindling Faith illumes the swelling theme Of warm adorer, whose enraptured eye Sees angel-forms on shining pinions gleam As if in answer, from the opening sky : There is a Fane far holier- not of art,The Temple of a pure, and trusting heart.

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THE MEETING. BY S. H. ANDERSON. HARRY MORTON was the accepted suitor of Mary Wilson. Young, ardent and enthusiastic, he had bent the knee in adoration to her superior charms, he had worshipped at the shrine of beauty in all its pristine splendor, and now he was happy. And Mary was all that the most fastidious in female beauty could wish. She was one of those quiet and retiring spirits that we sometimes meet with in our journey through life that captivate us not so much by their beauty as by a certain undefinable spell. Harry Morton had first met her at the house of a mutual friend, and at once was struck with the ease and elegance of her manners, as well as by the rich stores of thought that sparkled in her conversation. Casual visits soon gave way to others of a more formal nature, and as he had no direct intimation that his calls were intrusive, he continued them. Some times he fancied that the cheek of Mary was suffused with a deeper blush when he pressed her hand, but a second thought would check the illusion. Hope still , however, bid him not despair, and showed him the future bright and cheering. It was a beautiful evening in the first month of summer ; the moon was shining clear and silvery from out the blue expanse. The stars were one by one becoming visible to the eye, as they took their places in the heavens. Scarce a breath disturbed the stillness that reigned around. All nature was clad in smiles as fair as a bridal. Allured by the beauty of the evening, to enjoy the pleasures of a stroll, I called at the residence of Harry, and in answer to my summons was told that Mr. Morton had just gone out. As I was of opinion that the extent of his visit would be the residence of Mr. Wilson, I bent my way thither. Before I reached the house I was surprised to meet Harry returning. If I was surprised at the extreme shortness of the visit, I was still more so at the answers that Harry returned to my various enquiries. As I was on the most familiar terms with him, no invitation was necessary as an excuse for me to enter with him ; and it was there that I heard from his own lips, the narrative of the occurrences that made so deep an impression on his feelings, on the evening in question. He had called at the house of Mr. Wilson, and was told that Miss Wilson had gone out. The mere annunciation of that fact was the means of arousing his feelings, as he was aware that this was the evening that he usually visited her. This circumstance made the events doubly suspicious ; but the matter was made more so as he perceived lying on the sofa a gentleman's glove. This was enough -there was a rival, and that without his knowledge. Mary had concealed the fact, and with a motive—and that motive in his mind was the fact that she loved another.