Mat was laying shingles with unsteady hands, and she tried to go on with her work as she answered him:

"Because, Alf, you've been playing fast and loose long enough; an' you'd better marry Fanny, if she'll have you."

"She'd have me fast enough," laughed Alf, scornfully; "but I don't want her."

"Yes you do, Alf, you want to marry her or let her alone. It's time you done one thing or th' other."

"I'm going to marry you, Mat," said he, thoroughly roused by her opposition, "so don't make such a confounded fuss, but let a fellow have some peace, can't you?"

"You don't want to marry me," said Mat, quietly, dropping her work and looking him steadily in the eyes; "you. don't care for me as you used to," here her voice slightly trembled, "and you never shall marry me. You know me, an' you might 's well talk to these rocks. You know it-let it pass. But that girl-"

"What's that to you?" asked Alf, roughly. "If you turn me off, I shan't answer to you, and it's none of your business. I shall pay attentions to whom I please.”

"Alf," she replied calmly, "it's my business, an' it's the business of any other decent woman, how you use that girl. She's a foolish young thing - not the wife I hoped you'd have - but she loves you, an' if you don't marry her you'd better let her alone. You could break my heart, but ye could never make me lose my self-respect."

"Nonsense, Mat! who wants to hear any thing about self-respect?" exclaimed Alf. "You've turned me off, and you needn't expect me to be preached to afterwards!"

"O Alf!" sobbed the girl, "only tell me ye mean honorable by her!"

"Of course I do," said Alf, "and perhaps I won't come to see her any

of it, Mat."

She shook her head.

"Some times we wake up and find

our dreams gone; but we don't often break our hearts, Alf, only we are sorry. An' now you'd better go," she said.

"Say good-by, Mat, and that we'll be friends."

"Yes, we'll be friends," repeated she, mechanically, giving him her hand.

He took it in his-her hard, brown, working hand-and perhaps he thought of the many times he had held it fast, and pictured an easier life for her in his own home. Perhaps a waft of the old sweetness came back upon him, like the breath of a faded flower. But Fanny's light voice and gayer laugh recalled him, and, with one glance at the stony face before him, he was gone.

There are times when the daily cares and dull routine of life are almost maddening; when the petty tasks and trials of daily life are almost unbearable, and the heart beats and frets against them like a bird against the bars of its cage. Life is a trial of patience, and it is often easier to die than to live.

Mat never knew how that summer wore itself away. The days had never seemed so long, the nights so unending. The sun seemed to shine with double lustre, as if mocking the brightness that had gone from her life; and the gay songs of the birds were the echoes of the joys that were past. It was a hard, bitter summer, and she was often tempted to curse God and die. She was poor and friendless; she had nothing but Alf. Fanny had home and friends, and the beauty that had taken her all. Was it right? Why had God made her poor, ignorant and homeless? Why had he given Fanny all and her nothing? And from her work by day, and her hard bed at night, there went up an exceeding bitter

cry-a cry that her burden was heavier than she could bear. It was a hard, bitter life, hidden under a mask of indifference and smiles that cost her untold pain. It was a long, pitiful summer; but at last it wore itself away. And the pain and weariness have been mercifully hidden and softened by the hand of time, as the ivy greenly covers the ruins to which it clings.

Autumn came at last, and the wild flowers faded one by one; the wild berries ripened, and the frosts painted the leaves with gold. The days were mild and dreamy; the sun shone softly on the rocks and streams, and the air was sadly laden with the breath of the dying year. The flowers had faded like Martha's hopes; the earth, like her heart, had put away its gladness; and she welcomed the fallen leaf and the shorter days as if they were her friends. She hoped that the birds and flowers, the cool shadows and the summer days, would take her old life with them and bury it from her sight. Then-when the snow was piled in the cañon, and the winter wind drifted it in clouds, and the torrent lifted its white arms as it roared through the rocks- she would take up her life, patiently and calmly as might be, and carry it to the end. She was poor and ignorant and alone; but she had suffered, and suffering was the noblest teacher she could have. It had brought out the cravings of her better nature, and sent her blindly groping for an unseen light. Out of the mist and darkness she was slowly creepingstruggling for foothold on the rocks of doubt and despair, and gathering strength for the journey to that blessed country where the tears shall be wiped from all eyes.

But she was to have one more struggle in the old life, one more fiery trial, before the days of pain were past. Her old friend Bill, who had watched her so long, and grieved over her white face and sleepless eyes, came to her one

day with a grave face, and they talked for a long time while she sat at work. What he told her no one ever knew; but in that hour she grew ten years older, and her face was as white as the snow that already lay thickly on the mountains.

That night she told the miller that the next day she must go down the cañon to the nearest town; that she would walk and come back the day after. To all his remonstrances about the distance, and advice of waiting until next day, when he was going down with a wagon, she replied that she could walk and she could not wait. The miller's wife hoped that she would see Fanny, and loaded her with messages to her friends. "Yes, she would be sure to see Fanny," she said, and she bitterly thought that they did not know how sure.

All that night she tossed sleeplessly on her bed, often clinching her hands lest she should cry out in her misery, and sometimes fearing that she would lose her reason. For her all was gone-her trust and faith; the sanctuary had been unveiled, the idol thrown down. But she might save Fanny from a sadder fate. If the girl would not believe her, she would tell her of the love that had trusted and believed him, and how this losing all faith in him had almost broken her heart. Nothing should be left unsaid, though the mere thought was almost more than she could bear. Then other thoughts came; temptations of the evil one. What was Fanny to her that she should so wring her heart for her? Had not the girl robbed her of all that was dear to her on earth? Why should she lower the man she loved in the eyes of the woman she hated? Perhaps she would not believe her- even after she had laid her heart bear to unpitying eyes-and Alf would hate her, and it would be very hard to bear.

There are martyrs whom the world

knows not of; who are neither burnt at the stake nor tortured in prison; who drag out days of misery and nights of tears, and at last "die and make no sign." They may never be heard of on earth, but their names are written in heaven.

As soon as the day had fairly broken, Martha set out on her journey. The air was cold, and the leaves crackled beneath her feet. The stream was rapid and foaming; but the water had frozen in eddies around withered blades of grass, and the dead leaves, like summer hopes, were whirling down the stream. She went on her way with a calm face and firm step; without haste or hesitation. It might have been that for her the bitterness of death was already past.

The "Lower Mill" was quiet as she passed it; there was no one stirring. Alf must be away, she thought, or he would have been at work at daylight. But Alf's horse neighed as she passed the stable, and, with a look of surprise, she went on.

The cañon grew narrower below the mill, and the rocks rose in a perpendicular wall on either side. The road was narrower wedged in between the rocks and the stream-and, in some places, the banks had given way. Just at a sharp angle in the road, which suddenly turned to the right, she stooped to pick up something which had caught in a branch overhanging the stream. It was Alf's hat. Almost sick with a vague fear, she knelt down and looked over the bank. There was nothing there. The water almost splashed in her face, but its clear depths did not hide what she feared. She got up and breathed more freely, as she looked across the stream, went a few paces down the road, and still saw nothing. Then she walked on slowly, watching the stream as she went.

The sun was up now, brightening the gra cheerlessness of the early morn

ing, and dancing on the rushing water; but she started at every jet of spray, and at every quiet shallow which the sun had touched with gold. She was thinking of him as her lover, of the days when he had loved her so wellwhich last night had seemed so far away-and that she might have been his wife, looking for him in the cold gray of the morning, and calling for him in vain. She forgot where she was going, and that he could never be any thing to her again; nothing spoke to her then but the heart that had been so long his own.

On she went, until the cañon was wider, and the stream broader and more shallow; and then, at a sudden turn of the road-she found him. He was lying on his back in the stream, with his face upturned to the sky. He was cut and bruised, and his clothes were torn; but his lips wore a smile, as of a pleasant dream. The swift current had brought him down, and, at the sudden turn in the stream, left him in the shallows, with his back upon a rock. She dragged him to the bank, and wiped his cold face and hands, and kissed him passionately on cheek and lips and brow. He was hers now, as only death could make him; - he was hers!

Years after, she could thank God that she had found him thus, and that mortal ears had never heard the tale she had to tell; but then she only remembered that she had found him, and he was dead. She could never hear the voice again, never see the love-light in those dear eyes, never feel that life was worth the living because he loved her. She had found him; and he was hers. Let us leave her with her dead.

For many years weeds have sprung up and snow has drifted on Alf's grave. It is the only memorial of him on earth. Perhaps he has been forgotten by all save one heart. But she will never forget him; she never loved any one but Alf.

CONT

NONTRASTS are inevitable, whether flashed on the passive mind or consciously drawn with the design of deducing some desired conclusion. Good and evil, greatness and littleness, riches and poverty, and so on, through all the lengthening list, are ranged side by side, and the relative contrasts stand out in vivid colors. The inexorable dissimilitudes of life, in many instances so startling and painful, are ever present to some thoughtful minds; and the whole world stretches away in still more striking contrast to an unseen but fairimagined heaven.

So, also, is the milder comparison useful and unavoidable. Degrees of talent, usefulness and beauty, have ever been subjected to critical comparison, and ever shall be. But are there not times when the adage becomes true, that "comparisons are odious?" Is there not a modern tendency to pursue the habit to that point when it becomes no longer profitable or legitimate?

We do not at present refer to any thing of the kind which may have been instituted between Mrs. Noveau Riche, in her crimson satin with foamy lace trimmings and diamonds; or Miss Meredosia, in clouds of gauzy white with blue rosettes and pearls, and that long line of ancestors in chiffonnier costume! Neither is included Mr. Benedict's transparent reminder, at breakfast, of the bewitching loveliness of either of those ladies to his faded wifeprematurely passé under frantic endeavors to make a little money go a great way, and the devoted care of six children and a husband more difficult to manage than any of them! That

all similar comparisons may be characterized as odious, is a foregone conclusion.

If

But when Sol is compared to Luna, with the idea of deciding the question as to which is the most useful luminary, does not the effort appear absurd? those heavenly bodies were involved in a lofty dissension, and required the interference of sublunary minds, the discussion of their comparative merits might be pardonable; but, so long as each moves serenely in its own appointed orbit, with only an occasional eclipse, and Miss Moon declines to assert her superiority to Mr. Sun, why not accept the benefits conferred by each, and leave them alone in their respective glory?

The cry of the Present is ever toward the Past-the beautiful Past! The old man sighs over recollections of boyish sports; the matron discovers a silvered hair, and drops a regretful tear over the sweet reminiscences of girlhood. The garments of our grandmothers, though railed against by the masculine portion of society then, are now cited as robes of propriety compared with the prevailing styles of the present; and the modern critic laments the departure of the mist-hightened glories of centuries agone, and deplores the decadence of literature, art and oratory!

True, the literature of successive ages, and of all countries, must constantly be brought into comparison. Styles of writing prevalent at different epochs are as distinctly marked as are the various styles of drapery for the human form at successive periods. As great dissimilarity is discovered between the pedantic literature of the time of

James the First, when writings were cumbered with lengthy Latin quotations, or the flowery euphuism of John Lyly, and the idiomatic style of Addison and Goldsmith, as between the extravagant court costumes of 1785 and the extreme simplicity-approaching nearly to nothingness—of the classical costume of 1796. The fashion now in vogue of writing works of fiction for the purpose of incorporating the author's individual views and sentiments concerning some absorbing question of the day, in which beautiful thoughts are twined amid the intricacies of the plot, and pure morality and religion are pleasantly inculcated, differs widely from the proverbial levity of style of the French novel era. And it is curious to observe the petite fashions which obtain in the floating literature of the day like the varying rosettes on my lady's slipper, which prevail for a time and then are thrown aside for new.

In childhood, the mysterious allusion to "crossing the Rubicon" was so frequently encountered, that it actually produced a sensation akin to nervousness, even after the reference was made clear. Lovers invited their adored ones to cross the Rubicon" with them; every difficulty to be surmounted was likened to that same "Rubicon," and had a dangerous undertaking proved successful," the Rubicon was crossed!" It was met the first time in years the other day; possibly it may go the rounds again. The "Ides of March" were forever turning up at all unexpected times and places, and constituted the crisis in many an exciting narration. Lately every thing has been "sandwiched," from the gentleman between two ladies, to the fair day between two rainy ones. Had the "British refreshment sangwiches" of Mugby Junction any thing to do with inaugurating this fashion? A heroine never looks out of a window now-a-days; she invariably "flattens her nose against the

pane." "Ox-eyes" became epidemic in current literature after Mrs. Stowe's description of the noble animals of the Roman Campagna; and "hungry eyes" are always encountered in the characteristic stories of Mrs. Rebecca Harding Davis. One at all conversant with her productions can not fail to recognize the identity of the writer upon perusing any five lines of a new work.

Yet it is far from the present intention to descant upon national or individual styles of writing. Are we not repeatedly startled by the sweeping assertion that there is no such thing as American literature? Books, magazines and journals, teeming with the productions of American minds, are literally whelming the land with fluttering showers of printed leaves; yet we are assured, with the critic's deep-drawn sigh and elongated countenance, that American literature does not exist! American novel has never been written; an American poem has yet to be produced! That an Englishman should thus asseverate, is not surprising; but for a native of our own fair land to utter such acknowledgement, seems at least more generous than just.

An

If the subjects and ideas of our writers are not always confined within provincial boundaries, is it not because the national mind is enlarged, and draws inspiration from the whole world which lies visible to the broadest vision, and refuses to be held in bounds, as others may be, by the contracted limits of some sea-girt isle? "Ah," deprecates the English antiquary, "from the heroic measures of Homer to the jingling rhymes of Jean Ingelow what a fall is there, my countrymen!" "Ah,' the strain of lamentation is continued by that American whose entire stock of reverence is sent over the sea, "Longfellow is not a Tennyson; Julia Ward Howe is not Mrs. Browning; we have no Swinburne!" May the latter deficiency be perpetuated, say some!