man, with poetic taste and feeling, rather than poetic inspiration or artistic culture, might compose with credit, but not for fame. But suddenly, as he turned over these 'Occasional Pieces,' Leonard came to others in a different handwriting--a woman's handwriting--small, and fine, and exquisitely formed. He had scarcely read six lines of these last, before his attention was irresistibly chained. They were of a different order of merit from poor Mark's; they bore the unmistakeable stamp of genius. Like the poetry of women in general, they were devoted to personal feeling--they were not the mirror of a world, but reflections of a solitary heart. Yet this is the kind of poetry most pleasing to the young. And the verses in question had another attraction for Leonard: they seemed to express some struggle akin to his own--some complaint against the actual condition of the writer's life, some sweet melodious murmurs at fortune. For the rest, they were characterised by a vein of sentiment so elevated that, if written in by a man, it would have run into exaggeration; written by a woman, the romance was carried off by so many genuine revelations of sincere, deep, pathetic feeling, that it was always natural, though true to a nature from which you would not augur happiness. Leonard was still absorbed in the perusal of these poems, when Mrs Fairfield entered the room. "What have you been about, Lenny?--searching in my box?" "I came to look for my father's bag of tools, mother, and I found these papers, which you said I might read some day." "I doesn't wonder you did not hear me when I came in," said the widow sighing. "I used to sit still for the hour together, when my poor Mark read his poems to me. There was such a pretty one about the 'Peasant's Fireside,' Lenny--have you got hold of that?" "Yes, dear mother; and I remarked the allusion to you: it brought tears to my eyes. But these verses are not my father's--whose are they? They seem a woman's hand." Mrs Fairfield looked--changed colour--grew faint--and seated herself. "Poor, poor Nora!" said she falteringly. "I did not know as they were there; Mark kep 'em; they got among his--" LEONARD.--"Who was Nora?" MRS FAIRFIELD.--"Who?--child,--who? Nora was--was my own--own sister." LEONARD (in great amaze, contrasting his ideal of the writer of these musical lines, in that graceful hand, with his homely uneducated mother, who can neither read nor write.)--"Your sister--is it possible? My aunt, then. How comes it you never spoke of her before? Oh! you should be so proud of her, mother." MRS FAIRFIELD (clasping her hands.)--"We were proud of her, all of us--father, mother--all! She was so beautiful and so good, and not proud she! though she looked like the first lady in the land. Oh! Nora, Nora!" LEONARD (after a pause.)--"But she must have been highly educated?" MRS FAIRFIELD.--"'Deed she was!" LEONARD.--"How was that?"