“You are quite welcome,” said the merchant, kindly. “In future, consider me your friend; and, if you should at any time be in want of advice or assistance, do not scruple to confide in me.” “At least,” said the merchant, thoughtfully, “I have done something to make this a ‘happy New Year’ for others. The lesson conveyed in the dream of last night shall not be thrown away upon me. I will take care that many hearts shall have cause to bless the vision of THE VEILED MIRROR.” SUMMER HOURS. It is the year’s high noon! The air sweet incense yields; And, o’er the fresh, green fields, Bends the clear sky of June. I leave the crowded streets, The hum of busy life, Its clamor and its strife, To breathe thy pérfumed sweets. Oh rare and golden hours! The birds’ melodious song Wave-like is borne along Upon a strand of flowers. I wander far away, Where, through the forest trees, Sports the cool summer breeze In wild and wanton play. A patriarchal elm Its stately front uprears, Which, twice a hundred years, Has ruled this woodland realm. I sit beneath its shade, And watch, with careless eye, The brook that babbles by And cools the leafy glade. In truth, I wonder not, That, in the ancient days, The temples of God’s praise Were grove and leafy grot. The noblest ever planned, With quaint device and rare, By man, can ill compare With this from God’s own hand. Pilgrim with wayworn feet, Who, treading life’s dull round, No true repose hast found, Come to this green retreat;— For bird and flower and tree, Green field and woodland wild, Shall bear, with voices mild, Sweet messages to thee. THE PRIZE PAINTING. I. It was a small attic chamber in an obscure part of London. The light that entered at the open window revealed two figures,—Arthur Elliott and his young wife. “Dear Arthur,” said the latter, as she brushed back the heavy chestnut locks from his pale brow, “you must not—indeed you must not—labor so incessantly. You will injure your health,—perhaps ruin it entirely,—and then what will be left to me?” “Mary,” said the young painter, caressingly, “you are alarming yourself to no purpose. I am not weary. Besides, what were a little weariness in comparison with the great purpose I have in view? You know the exhibition will open in a fortnight; and my picture is still unfinished. Oh!” continued he, with enthusiasm, while a faint flush overspread his pale cheek, “if it could be my fortune to gain the great prize of five hundred pounds which has been offered for the best painting on exhibition, I believe I could die content!” “Arthur!” said his wife, reproachfully.