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black, electric clouds. Rose, who had been unusually restless the preceding night, had at length fallen into a quiet sleep; Rolfe watched her; I recollected somewhat remorsefully that I had once in my heart accused him of indifference to her. At noon the thunder began; low, distant, continuous, at first; it came nearer and louder; flash after flash, the lightning filled the room from which I vainly tried to exclude it. One bolt of blinding white light smote a pine-tree on the near hillside, and shivered it to the root; but Rose never moved; no more than if she had been lifeless did the tumult disturb her, not the sharp rattle of the rain, the strong rushing wind, nor the jarring thunder. The dark hair lying in heavy masses round the white, wasted temples, the fringing lashes against the pure, wan cheek, the little hand, so thin, so entirely helpless, none of these gave a sign of life. That was manifest only in the regular, gentle breathing.

Toward evening the storm had spent itself; the clouds were swept away from the sun; raindrops glittered every where; the green was brighter, the blue intenser than before, and a brilliant rainbow arched the eastern hills, from North-mountain to Monadnoc. That omen I accepted; to me it has always been a herald of good. Perhaps it was the reflex of my own mood, but I thought as I turned toward Rolfe, that he too looked as if a weight had been lifted from his heart.

When Rose awoke the fever was gone, and with it, said Dr. Warburton, apparently all danger. I was sure of it! White she was, as a snow-drop, and just as powerless; but such nursing as she had! At first we dared not let her know how very ill she had been; scarcely to manifest our exceeding gladness in the prospect of her recovery. Every day, however, brought her increased strength, and every day we felt that she had become dearer to us than

ever.

When she was well enough we gave her a letter that had come during her illness. It was from Mr. Home; he had been induced to prolong his tour beyond his first intention, and would not return till the last week in September, when, if it pleased Rose, he would like to go home as soon as possible.

She gave me the letter to read; Rolfe was there, he had just come in with his hands full of beautiful moss-roses. When I had finished reading I said, "Rose you will never leave us!" and then I bethought myself to go my ways. Something told me not to enter the room again until Rolfe came out. At last it seemed an age-I heard him open the door, and went to meet him; I took his hands in mine, and looking up, said only, "Well?" His face was transfigured, so radiant with beautiful happiness; I needed no answer. I went in to Rose; she, too! Does love always so heighten beauty, I wonder?

Mr. Home came in September; quite surprised to find his plans thwarted, he yet endured

the disappointment as well as we had expected, and, like a sensible man, made no attempt to prevent what he plainly saw to be inevitable. Indeed, as he came to know Rolfe, I think he was well content to leave Rose in his care, for he remained in America another month expressly to be present at the wedding, gave away the bride, and retaliated on Rose the surprise she had caused him, by the pretty gift of the Holbrook House, newly, completely, and most charmingly furnished; my own connivance enabling him at the same time to maintain the desired secrecy and to consult the pleasure of its future mistress.

There they live now, Rolfe and Rose. It is still the pleasantest place in the neighborhood, but not altogether the most quiet. Two children are there now; Alice, a little two-years maiden, through whose rippling curls look up trustingly a pair of loving eyes, blue as violets, and Lyndhurst, the baby, who is, it is said, his father over again; both rosy, joyous, and wideawake. I do not know a happier woman than their mother, nor one who diffuses more happiness around her.

THE STORY OF A PIANO. TT was the piano which spoke:

Strange it is how things change among these human beings! What joys and sorrows they go through-how they are born, and marry, and die-how they laugh and weep-and how in the end they all pass away like shadows! I have seen a little of their life, and it seems to me a strange tangled skein—a strange medley too of changing colors-not unlike the wild mingled hues of my mistress's perplexed embroidery.

When I was born, five years ago, and placed in Mr. Broadwood's show-room, I guessed little enough of the kind of world that I had entered. Even for six months after my birth, while I lived in a constant state of petty excitement concerning my future fate, I saw and knew all but nothing. I heard, indeed, many things that I did not understand-talk that had only a vague meaning for me; but my knowledge of life— my real acquaintance with it-only began when those six months were ended. It began at last thus.

One rainy morning I was bought by a gentleman and ordered to be sent home. The same afternoon, I reached my new abode, and was installed in a large, richly-furnished room. I soon discovered that I was a birth-day gift from my purchaser to his only daughter; I found, too, that not only was the day to be made notable by my arrival, but that it was to be celebrated also by the giving of a great entertainment at night.

That entertainment I remember well. Even yet I recollect, as a thing I scarcely hope to see again, its splendor and its brilliancy. How like a fairy scene it seemed to me, with its gleaming, dancing lights, with its wonderful gossamerdressed figures, with its music and flowers, with its smiles and laughter. I have grown some

her face when he was with her that it never wore with any one but him. I wondered; there were many others there whom I would rather have seen talking to or dancing with her, and yet she seemed to think of none of them what she thought of Mr. Linton. Before the evening came to an end, a hundred things had put it into my head that his presence made the happiness of it all to her.

what wiser in the ways of this strange world | timid and quiet, yet always with something in since then, and, looking back now upon that night, I can imagine that all hearts were not as light as they outwardly appeared to be-that some of the smiles had sadness under them, and some of the pleasant words were false and hollow; but I had no suspicions of such things then. I never thought of doubting what I saw, or dreaming that things were other than they seemed. I looked upon that bright scene in perfect faith and joy: it was all solid and real

to me.

It was my first sight of the world-and even before this one night was ended, the history of all whose future scenes I was a witness began to unfold itself before me.

I did but little work throughout the evening, for, as I found was the habit, there was a hired band which performed all the dance music that was required. I did not, however, stand absolutely idle, for at one period of the evening a few ladies in succession sang before me, and after they had performed, my young mistress also came and trilled out a merry little song.

My mistress was young, and fair, and timid -a little delicate thing, with the brightest curling golden hair that I ever saw upon a woman. She had a pair of soft, blue, long-lashed eyes, and a bright quick color that came and went. She was dressed to-night in gauzy white, with some blue flowers in her hair, and the golden curls around her neck and on her shoulders.

She sang, I say, but when she had finished the song she did not rise like the others, for some one close to her asked her to sing again. The voice came from behind her, and I saw the speaker for the first time-a tall man, as dark as she was fair, as proud-looking as she was timid and gentle.

They danced till the morning light began to shine through the closed curtains. It was broad day before the rooms were finally cleared, and my mistress's face looked pale, I thought, when they drew up the blinds, and let the white morning in.

I had heard before to-day of love and lovers: I had not been altogether clear about what either the one or the other meant, but I suspected that I had seen something of both to-night. I suspected, but was not absolutely sure: therefore, on the following day and days I kept my eyes alert, for I desired exceedingly to know what kind of thing this was in whose name and for whose sake, I had vaguely heard, some of the wildest deeds this strange world does are committed.

I watched, and discovered various things. I discovered that my mistress cared for Mr. Linton above all things else on earth-that he never came but she trembled with joy-that he never spoke to her but she flushed with happiness-that she was like a stringed instrument in his hands, echoing in her heart each word he said-taking the color of all her moods from him-silent when he was silent, gay when he was gay, sorrowful and grave when he was cold and proud.

I learned this soon-it was all easily read. "Do not rise yet, Miss Ashford," he said; But of him I discovered less. I only knew "you must give us more than this one song,' ," that he sought her constantly. For the rest, and he looked into her blue eyes as she timidly her presence never agitated him, his dark face raised them. never changed its color when she spoke, her words were never echoed and lingered over: his wooing was, I think, without the slightest doubt or fear of what its end would be. Nei

"But every one is so busy with dancing tonight," she said.

"Not every one."

He bent toward her, and she smiled and blush- ther did I doubt, yet I watched curiously. ed as he spoke.

When the crisis came at length, it happened

"I will sing again if you wish it," she said. thus. "What shall I sing?"

He chose her song, and stood by her while she sang it. He talked to her, too, again when she had ended it, nor moved from his position, until at length another gentleman came up to her and addressed her with a quick, familiar— "Amy, I want a partner-come away!" Then with a laugh her dark companion suddenly offered her his arm.

It was a June day, and Mr. Linton had dined with us. It was evening, and he and my mistress and her father were in the drawing-room alone. Mr. Ashford and he had been talking for a long while together; and presently, while they talked, my mistress had stolen away and

come to me.

For a little while she played alone, and then Mr. Linton left her father and followed her. I "I was engaged to Mr. Linton before, Char- do not know that he cared much for music-I ley," she eagerly explained-and, as the new-think he did not, for he often let my mistress comer retreated, with his composed smile Mr. play without taking notice of her-but to-night Linton led her away. he came. She looked round as she heard his

She danced this dance with him, and more than this one. Again and again throughout the evening saw him with her: she was on his arm, too, when they went down to supper

step.

"Oh, have I interrupted you?" she cried, quickly.

He said

"No, go on. Play what you played just in her traveling-dress, and stood for a few monow again. It sounded pretty." ments looking round it. I watched her till she went. My own removal was close at hand. I knew that I should never see her in that room again.

"Yes," she said; "it was a little song of Beethoven's," and she repeated it as he sat down beside her.

I remember even already, before the hour became memorable, thinking that this evening my mistress looked more than commonly beautiful. Her white dress came to her throat, and she had no decoration about her but one crimson rose fastened at her waist, and the abiding ornament of her golden hair. It was all round her neck now, not yellow only, but burning, for the low even red sunlight was shining over it.

As she played, Mr. Linton sat and looked at her. He did not watch her fingers, or, I think, listen to the music, but he gazed long and steadily at her face and figure as she sat-criticisingly at first, then admiringly, and then with a look deeper and warmer than admiration. I saw it, and felt that I had not seen its like on him before. My mistress saw it too. While he still wore it, her playing ended, and she turned to him.

She understood in a moment what with me had only been a dim suspicion. She had scarcely looked at him when her color sprang up like a frightened child's-there came a fluttering movement a nervous effort even to rise, until he said one word-" Amy !"—and then she sat motionless.

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There she lay-happy and at rest-but, as I looked on her, I scarcely know what feeling it was that made my thoughts sadly follow the extinguished sunbeams that had taken away their golden burnish from her hair.

They were engaged only for two months before their marriage, but even these two months, happy as she always said she was, brought changes on my mistress. She grew so grave and anxious that I sometimes thought the weeks might have been years falling on her head. At the foundation of all her love for Mr. Linton there lay an insurmountable fear, which made her dread of offending him, or of falling short of what he expected her to be, a painful thing

to see.

And yet she always said that she was happy beyond all that she had ever deserved. They were married on a day in August. They had what they call a fashionable wedding, and the scene was a very pretty one when the drawing-room, after they had come from church, was filled with its gay guests; yet to me it was not like that first bright gathering. The laughter and the smiles to-day had lost a portion of their light.

It was afternoon when she went away. The guests had gone down stairs to breakfast, and into the empty drawing-room my mistress came

II.

My mistress and her husband went abroad, and I had been for two months in my new abode-a very spacious handsome house-before I saw them again. It was almost winter when they at last came back—a wet evening of a cold November.

Through the open drawing-room doors I heard the sounds that betokened their arrival before I saw themselves; among these sounds, I caught Mr. Linton's voice.

"Make haste, Amy-do not let us stay here, for Heaven's sake!" he was saying. "Come up stairs. What a blast is blowing from that open door!"

Their steps were on the stair-case, and, in a minute more, they both had entered the room; Mr. Linton first, my mistress a step behind him. He walked straight to the fire, and angrily addressed a servant who was stirring it.

"What are you doing? The room is as cold as ice. Could you not have seen to this fire before?"

"It has been burning all day, Sir," the man said, sulkily.

"All day! It would not feel like this if it had. Upon my word," he exclaimed, shivering, "the room is like an ice-house!"

"The night is so cold-but it will feel more comfortable presently," my mistress said, cheerfully. "It is not easy with only fires to heat such a large room well.”

"We must see to-morrow about some other means of managing it, then," he said, hastily. "But don't stand talking about it now, Amy; get your bonnet off, and let us have dinner."

They dined, and then returned to the drawing-room together. Mr. Linton wheeled a large chair, as soon as he entered, to the front of the fire, and took possession of it; my mistress rang for coffee, and then tried to talk, but Mr. Linton yawned and scarcely answered her. She was silent the moment she perceived he was disinclined to speak, and stole quietly about the room until the coffee came; then, pouring out a cup, she took it to him, and knelt at his side, holding the saucer while he drank.

"You had better go, dear-don't let me keep you from yours," he said, carelessly, when she prepared to stay; but when she told him she liked it, the service was accepted without another word

"Abominable trash English coffee is!" he said, when the cup was emptied. "There-go and take your own!"

He leaned back in his luxurious chair, and in five minutes he had begun to doze. Not another word was spoken between them. My mistress crept softly about, as if she was moving in a sick room: presently, taking up a book, she stole to a chair near Mr. Linton's, and sat

down with her face to me. fully then for the first time.

I saw that face made it, for while I knew him he was always grumbling at English manners and habits; and he must, in truth, have found time hang heavy on his hands, for he ha no natural employments here to occupy him.

I think it is less than the truth to say that she looked as if years, rather than months, had passed over her. She was very beautiful still -possibly more beautiful than she had ever been-but all look of girlishness was gone from her forever. Such an anxious, wistful look had come to her eyes, such strange thin lines were beginning to form about her lips. To-night, too, she looked so pale and tired, and all her hair-her rich golden curls-were gathered from her face. I saw the change in her far more clearly now than I had done at first, while she had talked to Mr. Linton: it all came strangely out when the face was in repose. It was almost as if a mask had fallen from it. She never read a word. She sat for a whole hour with the book upon her knees and never opened it. She sat, looking sometimes into the fire, oftener into her husband's face. At the hour's close a clock over the mantle-piece struck, and the weary look fled from her face, for Mr. Linton started and awoke.

"What time is that?” he exclaimed. en? Oh, Amy, you should be in bed! say you are wretchedly tired."

"Elev-
I dare

"You are tired, too," she said. "I? Oh, I am as tired as a dog!" and he yawned prodigiously. "I wish you had awakened me before. What have you been doing? reading?"—he gave a short laugh. "You are very studious, Amy!"

"I only had the book in my hand," she said. "Well, put it away, and go to bed now. I will follow you immediately. How wretchedly cold it is!" and he poked the fire into a blaze, and bent over it.

She lighted her candle, but she did not go at once. She stood a moment looking wistfully toward him; then, with her timid color rising, she went to his chair again, and, stooping down, stole her arms round his neck.

How he did pass most of his time I never clearly knew. While he was wooing my mistress I had seen him often content to lie for hours in the hottest sunshine, holding her hand, and scarcely ever speaking to her; but after he returned from the continent there was no hot sunshine to bask in, and little caressing-in any position-of my mistress's hands. His resources, therefore, whatever they were, he found thenceforward out of the house.

Before they had been at home more than a month he had fallen into the habit of passing almost every evening, until very late at night, away from my mistress. Where he went I did not know, nor did she ever ask him. Sadly and uncomplainingly, night after night, she sat alone. From the servants I occasionally heard hints, which I in no way understood, that he played and lost money. My own experience only told me that he came home at every hour of the night, and often in a furious temper.

I suppose that no one who had watched things from the first would be surprised to find that Mr. Linton's affection for my mistress did not last long. He soon tired of her. She knew this herself as well as any one, and almost before she had entered her house her heart had begun to break.

The winter passed, and in the spring, upon a day that I well remember, I, for the first time, saw a face that soon mixed itself familiarly with my mistress's history.

She had been out one morning, and coming, on her return, into the drawing-room, I perceived a very unusual brightness in her look. Mr. Linton was in the room.

"Oh! Sherard," she exclaimed at once, "I am so glad you are at home: I have something I have had such a surprise!" she

"I am glad we are at home, Sherard," she to tell you. I whispered. cried.

The tears were in her eyes as he turned round to her. He saw them, and looked softened. He took her by the hands and drew her toward him; he kissed her, and said, kindly,

"I ought to have given you a better welcome, Amy; but I am sure you know how glad I am to have you here. You do not think me unkind for not having said so ?"

"Oh, no, no,” she whispered.

He put his arm round her, and kissed her more than once before he let her go. He called her "his darling." It was the first caressing word, I remember, that he had said to her all the evening.

Mr. Linton was rich and idle. He had been born in India and had been in the army, as I heard, in that country, until a year ago, when, the death of his father having brought him into a large fortune, he had thrown up his commission and returned to England. But I do not think he much liked the change when he had

"Indeed!"

His tone was cold enough to have chilled her, but she would not notice it. Still cheerfully

she went on:

"I have just seen some one at papa's whom I scarcely thought I ever should see again—a cousin of mine-an old playmate. Sherard, who do you think it was ?"

"How can I possibly tell ?" he said, impatiently.

She laughed out merrily.

"Ah! but that is the wonderful part of it!" she exclaimed. "It is somebody you knowsomebody you used to know well in India. You can not guess, Sherard? It is Henry Vaughan!" "What! Vaughan from Calcutta? Vaughan of the 4th?" he cried.

I do not think that Mr. Linton cared much in general for his friends-I had seen small signs of such affection in him hitherto; but either the surprise of finding that this one was

related to his wife, or the thought of seeing | had traveled into old times. Do

you remember an old Indian comrade again, for the moment a particular day that I was thinking of, when roused and pleased him. He went out at once they nearly cheated us out of an afternoon toto seek him, and, within an hour, he brought | gether, because you had not known some leshim to the house. Captain Vaughan dined and son, and they wanted to shut you up alone?" spent that evening with us.

It was spring time, I said. The primroses -the first spring flowers, as I have heardwere beginning to come out, and a glass of them, I remember, freshly gathered, stood this day on one of the drawing-room tables. My memory fails me sometimes in trying to count by days and weeks; but long before the primroses had ceased to blossom that year, I recollect that Captain Vaughan was daily at our house.

I liked him, and for a long time I was glad he came. He was lively, and he cheered my mistress. It was a kind of brightness for her, in each day, to see his pleasant, handsome face, and hear his kind voice. I saw, too, that he was very fond of her, and I did not like him the less for that.

It was more cheerful through this spring than the winter had been, and yet, presently, out of the very midst of this relief, slowly and gradually, there arose some mystery that I did not understand. It was a thing that crept over us like a shadow. What it was, what the change it wrought meant, I did not know; what even the explanation that I at length heard signified, I did not clearly understand. I only heard the servants whisper that Mr. Linton was growing jealous of my mistress.

It was full summer-a July morning. Mr. Linton was from home, and my mistress and her cousin were together in the drawing-room. He had been with her at the opera the night before, and he had come, he said, only for five minutes, to ask how she was; but, as usual, the five minutes soon lengthened out. He was fond of music, and they stood together that morning before me, turning over the music that they had heard last night-it was an opera that they called "Fidelio”—and my mistress, every now and then, at his request, sang little snatches from the different airs to recall them to him. At last they came upon one which he persuaded her to sing throughout. She sat down to do it, and he drew a seat beside her.

He sat looking in her face the whole time she sang. His eyes never left her. He looked at her as Mr. Linton had done the night when she promised to marry him.

Her song was ended. Before she turned to him his face had regained its customary look, and, in his usual voice, he spoke at once, though what he said had little reference to her singing.

"How long it is ago," he exclaimed, "since we were playmates together, Amy!"

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"Yes," she said, smiling; "and how you came and helped me, and the lesson got said. Harry, you used to help me very often with those lessons long ago. I missed you so when you went. I used fairly to sit down sometimes and cry about you."

"Did you, Amy?"

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'Amy," he said again, after a pause, "I often think that those years when we were children together have been the happiest of our lives at least they have been of mine. No happiness has come to me since but it has been mixed with clouds, and disappointments, and shortcomings."

She was pale-always very pale now; but while he spoke a flush of color came upon her cheek. For a few moments she made no reply. She turned her head away a little; she put up her hand and shaded her eyes before she answered him.

"There were clouds and disappointments then, too," she said, in a low voice, at last. "It is only we who, in looking back, half forget them. They were lighter than the clouds of after life, perhaps, but if they were"-her voice grew suddenly clear-"oh, Henry, the happiness was lighter too!"

"Perhaps you are right," he said, slowly." "You have had more cause for happiness in later years than I have had."

He watched her as he spoke. I watched her too. I do not know if he saw the tears that were visible to me, starting to her shaded eyes. If he did, it was not love, but selfishness and cruelty, that made him speak again.

"I sometimes can scarcely think that nine years have passed away since we were children," he said. "At times-though God knows the change is great enough!-when I talk to you, I can almost forget that I have been away at all—I can almost delude myself with the belief that every thing remains as it was once, with only a few years added to our ages."

She raised her head. I saw her face, with a startled look upon it, half of uneasiness, half of pain. His tone changed suddenly.

"What has set me thinking of these old times to-day?" he exclaimed. "Your singing must have done it, Amy."

She tried to smile.

"There was little in the song to recall them," she said.

"Then it must have been something in your look while you sang. Do you know, Amy, there come at times across your face such strange, flit"What made you think of that just now ?" ting likenesses of your former self that they oftshe asked. en startle me."

He laughed lightly.

She raised her wan face to him reproachfully

"You think I ought rather to have been list--almost sternly. ening to your song? Well, so I ought, Amy,

'You think I am so changed, then ?" she

and so I was, in a way-only my actual thoughts said.

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