pews; the eyes of many, however, wandered from the aged parson to an empty pew, as if looking for some one, who, it seemed, should have been there--a whisper ran around, "not here, where can she be?" A shrug of the shoulder, a knowing look seemed to tell a tale of one, who if not already lost, was, in the estimation of the congregation, in a fair way of being so. One old lady, whose look indicated much sagacity, and whose every wrinkle seemed a written page upon the village calendar, whispered to her neighbor on the left, that a certain lone willow, whose branches overlooked a beautiful stream, could a tale unfold, whose slightest touch would harrow up the soul, make the young tremble and shun, forever after, all willow trees. They are fatal to the young and innocent. Their very branches breathe a note of love, and whisper soft nonsense to a maiden's ear. Still the object of their research, the subject of their conversation, came not-the ceremony went on--still she was absent; and, it is said, that the worthy pastor, during the pauses of his discourse, cast a wistful eye to the Robert Elliott.

pew of

It has been said, and justly too, that there is a fatal influence in the willow tree. It has always been an emblem, if not a canopy of love; beneath its branches, what oaths, what sighs, what heartfelt speeches have been and will yet be breathed. To young girls I should say avoid the willow--trust not to your own strength, for, alas! that is as frail as the fickle branches of the fated tree.

On the borders of a small stream which empties its waters into the river Schuylkill a short distance from the city of Philadelphia, stood one of these cupid-onian trees. The bell of the village church had long since ceased to toll, the voice of the aged pastor rose on the breeze, and the

swell of the deep-toned organ, told that the service was nearly over. Beneath the willow tree sat two persons, evidently in deep conversation; the one a beautiful girl of some sixteen summers old, the other a handsome and seeming young man, whose dress and appearance bespoke the city bred, while the plain simplicity of the other, denoted her village birth. What their previous conversation might have been, could only be gathered from the latter part of it --as the young man pressed her hand he continued, "fail me not, Mary Elliott, there is life and death in your refusal, and come what will, you must be mine."

"I will not fail you, I cannot William, we have gone too far to recede--oh! that my poor father were in his grave; what will become of him when he finds all that he loved, all that he treasured most, is lost to him forever."

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Say not so, Mary, you only give up the dull, cold routine of a country life for the gay charms of a city one. You shall be mistress of a palace, Mary; you shall reign sole empress there, and in the whirlwind of pleasure forget these vallies, and your country ties-they are but ligaments which keep you from pleasure--burst their feeble barriers and be as nature intended you to be

"Your mistress--"

"Any name but the wife of a plodding country booby-but, hark! footsteps approach--the service is over-we part, Mary, but remember twelve.-They parted.

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Upon the old chair, which seemed to have been as an heir-loom in the family, sat old Robert Elliott, his head resting upon his hand, while his eyes were bent on a well thumbed bible, his grey locks hung gracefully over his neck and as he sat where the sun shed her beams through the clustering vines, he looked like one of those eastern sages,

upon whom the mantle of inspiration falls, and whose afte years are devoted to the fulfilment of their holy destiny The door opened, and a light footstep recalled him from his heavenly dream; for there is a dream, a holy and pure vision seen through those pages, written by no common hand, recorded by no earthly pen; there is an inspiration. as pure as it is divine, in tracing the career of our Lord through the hallowed pages of that holy book-he turned his head, and as he kissed his lovely child, he pointed to the open volume, "see, my daughter, what I have just been reading--it is the simple and pathetic tale of Ruth. never read it, my Mary, but I think of thee, and oh God, how often have I prayed-but you weep, child-come, come, no tears now; what said our old pastor this morning?"

"Much father, much; more than I dare; more than I can remember."

"Well, well, Mary, get our humble meal, and after that we will select out the text, and you shall go over the heads of it for your poor old father."

It was twelve o'clock, the moon shone very bright-not a cloud passed over the pale sickly hue of the scene; rich floods of light rested on mountain-top and tree-the breeze wantoned lonely through the grove, and a stillness, otherwise of death rested o'er all,-nature herself was asleep.

There came footsteps o'er the lawn-they were those of Mary Elliott and her destroyer; that night she fled.

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Why should I attempt to describe a father's feelings? why picture a parent's grief?-who can tell of his sleepless nights, and his horrid dreams of virtue gone?-virtue from one on whom his heart doted-one in whose blue eye he

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traced the likeness of her sainted mother; she who left as a legacy, the dear pledge of a long wedded life. I cannot paint that parent's grief who mourns over the wreck of a lost child. I cannot lay open the charnel house and show sepulchred there, his festering wounds. I leave the old man to his griefs, and time to soothe them.

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In a stately chamber hung round with rich tapestry and splendid oriental paintings, sat, or rather reclined on a cushion of silken velvet, Mary Elliott, her dress was rich and costly, corresponding with the splendor which surrounded her a close observer might have watched a countenance of beauty, overspread with clouds of sorrow and gloomy grief-could hear a deep drawn sigh, and see beneath the rich chasing of gold which hung upon her breast a heaving of inward woe; Mary Elliott was not happy; for who can be so when the heart corrodes a canker there, and bitter recollections recall the past? what a magic there is in the word past; let us roll back the curtain of recorded time from its musty envelope, and read in the adamantine letters written there, our deeds! who can revert to them, and say, had I to live my life o'er again, this, should be my path.The past, there is a curse on the past; we madden at the recollection of it, and as the mind reels on its unsettled throne, we fall at the shrine of religion, and call upon the waters, the dark waters of Lethe, to wash them over us forever.

Mary Elliott was alone; her eyes wandered around as if wanting to rest upon some objects familiar to the eye; or, as if associated with some old reminiscence, there was nothing all traces of even former self were gone. The mistress of a wealthy man, had no other name now; the door opened and he entered; there was a frown upon his brow; she caught the electric spark from the darkened

cloud, and asked the cause; his answer was as cold as was brief; she, the victim of his villany, was the cause she stood in the way of his marriage to an heiress, and ye -that night she left the house.

It had snowed hard all day; toward evening the weather changed, and a slow, melting rain patted against the windows of the houses in the little village of R, in a wretched low hut, on the bed of death, lay an old grey-headed man; his hands were clasped as if in silent prayer, and ever and anon there was heard the name of Mary, breathed as it were from the inmost recesses of his heart; it was Robert Elliott on his death-bed; there was no hand to close his eyes, no voice to soothe his mental or physical pain; the wind and rain beat without-the night settled in cold, and a chilly air pervaded the chamber of death.

Footsteps were heard, they came nearer; his ear caught the sound; then came a knock; the latch was raised; a wretched outcast, ragged and wet, rushed in—she threw herself on the body of her father-breathed forth his name, asked and obtained forgiveness.

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See yon line of carriages, prancing steeds, and gay dressed horsemen, usher in a splendid cavalcade; and see the bridegroom, who leads his fairy looking bride, while smiles of joy light up their youthful countenances. The destroyer of Mary Elliott is on the way to be wedded— roses are strewn in his path, and exclamations of pleasure escape from every tongue-they stand before the altar; a note is slipped into the bridegroom's hand; he reads-a cloud passes over his face; he looks upon the sun of brightness beside him, and the recollection of Mary Elliott is eradicated forever; forever, did I say? alas no! upon the