She left her cherished home before the final breaking up. It would have been too much for her womanly heart, to see those beloved household goods carried away to the auction-room. She lingered long by the astral lamp, and the little round table, where she and George used to read to each other, in the first happy year of their marriage. She did not weep. It would have been well if she could. She took with her the little vase, that used to stand on the desk in the old country school-house, and a curious Wedgewood pitcher George had given her on the day little Alice was born. She did not show them to him, it would make him so sad. He was tender and self-reproachful; and she tried to be very strong, that she might sustain him. But health had suffered in these storms, and her organization fitted her only for one mission in this world; that was, to make and adorn a home. Through hard and lonely years she had longed for it. She had gained it, and thanked God with the joyfulness of a happy heart. And now her vocation was gone. In a few days, hers was pronounced a case of melancholy insanity. She was placed in the hospital, where her husband strives to surround her with every thing to heal the wounded soul. But she does not know him. When he visits her, she looks at him with strange eyes, and still clinging to the fond ideal of her life, she repeats mournfully, “I _want_ my _home_. Why don’t George come and take me _home_?” * * * * * Thus left adrift on the dark ocean of life, George Franklin hesitated whether to trust the chances of politics for another office, or to start again in his profession, and slowly rebuild his shattered fortunes from the ruins of the past. Having wisely determined in favor of the latter, he works diligently and lives economically, cheered by the hope that reason will again dawn in the beautiful soul that loved him so truly. His case may seem like an extreme one; but in truth he is only one of a thousand similar wrecks continually floating over the turbulent sea of American politics. TO THE TRAILING ARBUTUS. Thou delicate and fragrant thing! Sweet prophet of the coming Spring! To what can poetry compare Thy hidden beauty, fresh and fair? Only they who search can find Thy trailing garlands close enshrined; Unveiling, like a lovely face, Surprising them with artless grace. Thou seemest like some sleeping babe, Upon a leafy pillow laid; Dreaming, in thy unconscious rest, Of nest’ling on a mother’s breast. Or like a maiden in life’s May, Fresh dawning of her girlish day; When the pure tint her cheeks disclose Seems a reflection of the rose. More coy than hidden love thou art, With blushing hopes about its heart; And thy faint breath of fragrance seems Like kisses stolen in our dreams.