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peach-ripe hue paint those of the young. Time is selfishit loves the young—the gay-the blooming; but alas ! its love for them is but short, for when he passes in his careless round he leaves a wrinkle on every brow.

There was one form, however, upon which his eyes rested, that seemed to have a sort of fascination about it. There was the outline of a man familiar to him, but the filling up was new—the features were swollen bloated with liquor-the eyes bloodshot and wandering.

“ 'Tis my father-but, oh! how changed !"

Scarcely had he uttered these words, before a rope which had been thrown upon the wharf, passed the unfortunate man, and though but a touch, it hurled the victim of intemperance into the current - a cry of horror ran through the crowd, which was, however, speedily subdued by witnessing the heroic act of Henry, who sprang from the deck of the vessel into the river, and succeeded in rescuing the unfortunate man from immediate death. He had him conveyed to a public house, and by the proper applications he was restored to life and consciousness. As he opened his eyes, they rested


his son — his preserver- a shudder like that of death passed over his frame, and for a moment he shaded his eyes with his trembling hands, as if to keep out of sight the form of one he had so deeply wronged. Gradually, however, he recovered a degree of self-possession.

“My son, you are revenged. I have made no will—you are my only child — my heir — it is not all gone — not all gone yet — pardon your father, boy - pardon him ere he die."

“Oh! father don't say die—there are many years of happiness for you yet—say not die!"

No, no, my son, my days - nay, my hours are numbered--do you forgive me?"

“Forgive you!--I have long since forgiven you !"

A change now came over the wretched man-his features seemed to contract-- his swollen cheeks sunk -- his eyes grew glassy--and the lips paled at the approach of death -there was a struggle—a heaving of the breast-a contraction of the muscles of the hands—a stiffening of the limbsit was death, spider-like, enmeshing his victim!

On the following morning, Henry paid the last sad tribute to his father's memory, by shedding tears over his grave. Tears are holy gifts.

The reader must not suppose, that during this time Henry was neglecting those who were as near and dear to him as the object of his present solicitude ; on the contrary, he had called at the house of Mrs. Snyder, and found that, that good lady had paid the debt of nature, leaving all others unpaid. None knew her family, nor could he obtain any traces of his wife. Almost distracted, he determined to advertise his arrival in the papers, thinking thereby to convey to his wife the fact of his being in the city. In passing through an obscure street, he was startled by the scream of a woman; turning suddenly around to ascertain the cause, he perceived a small boy attempting to get up from where he had fallen, and to avoid the swift approach of a carriage, with two mettled horses, which were dashing furiously up the narrow street. To spring forward and snatch the boy from impending danger, was the work of an instant; a door of a small house being opened, he took the child in, whose screams at the sight of a stranger, soon brought the mother down. Mrs. Jones, who had the child in charge, had fainted in the street, and was just at that moment led in by one of the neighbors. Her joy on seeing the infant safe was unbounded, and she poured her thanks upon Henry, who, to avoid some of them, turned to the mother, to whom he addressed a few words of condolence and satisfaction, that he was the instrument of preserving her son's life. But she was so taken up with her child, that his words fell soundless on her ear: but, conscious of the impropriety of her conduct, she raised her dark sparkling eyes to him, she had yet to thank, when a wild exclamation of joy again escaped her, and in the next moment, to the astonishment of Mrs. Jones, she was in the arms of her husband!

We will not attempt the inkling of a scene like this.

Henry, upon an examination of his father's affairs, found that out of a princely fortune, there was left the old family mansion, and about twenty-five thousand dollars ; sufficient, however, as he said, to render his little family happy, not forgetting the kind Mrs. Jones.

Having now disposed of the few characters in this little drama of real life, we would, in conclusion; wish to make one remark in the way of advice to parents. Always study the happiness of your children ; this you will find in the end to be productive of richer fruit, than that which springs from mistaken notions of pride and love of wealth.







“Oh grief, beyond all other griefs, when fate
First leaves the young heart lone and desolate
In the wide world, without that only tie
For which it loved to live, or feared to die.”

I was seated at my desk, the index box was filled with letters, the great southern mail having just arrived. “Are there any letters for me, sir, Henry Middleton ?" I glanced my eyes at the applicant; there was something in his voice, look, and manner which for a moment riveted my attention; he appeared by no means annoyed at my scrutiny of his person, no doubt ascribing it to the nature of our situation ; he was apparently about twenty-three years of age, eyes dark and penetrating, a shade of melancholy passed over his countenance and withered the sunshine of hope; a mouth of the most marked character conveyed to the observer a knowledge of his ; the lower lip firmly compressed and the curl of the upper denoted strong and agitated feeling, and an irritable temperament. Having gathered this much from Henry Middleton's personal appearance, I took out from the box M a handful of letters —

one was addressed to him ; the hand-writing was evidently that of a female ; he seized it with a nervous grasp, a momentary gleam of hope lighted up his shadowy countenance, and he rushed out of the office. For the first time in my life, I felt a degree of curiosity to know the contents of another's letter; it was a strange and to me a new feeling; in vain I battled with the demon which seemed rising within me; in vain I turned over letter after letter to withdraw my mind from this dangerous focus of thought; it was utterly useless; that night I dreamed of being condemned for breaking open letters entrusted to my charge.

Towards evening on the day following, to my extreme joy, Henry Middleton stood at the little window. “I wish to pay the postage of this letter, sir.” Twenty-five cents I informed him was the charge. The letter was in my

hand - Middleton had departed. The address, Miss Amelia Templeton, a small seal, with the impression M upon it, was the padlock to my curiosity. I turned the letter over and over. My brain grew giddy with the intensity of desire -I held the epistle up to the light-the paper was coarse and thick-I peeped into the folds—ah! what is that! part of a sentence visible ! Love, Amelia, acknowledges no tie but that of its own creation." What a sentence! In vain I tried to follow it up; not a word beyond this could I make out. Here I was left in the dark—then my imagination completed a volume of surmises. He, Middleton, was endeavoring to pursuade Amelia to elope, or rather follow him hither, and the above line constituted a portion of the argument used by him to effect this object.

Such were my conjectures relating to the affair, derived from such evidence as the reader is now acquainted with.

A month passed over, and my note book contained several incidents of an interesting nature; but the lovers as I con


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