The Christian's jest--the Christian's scorn, Still let me see and hear, From some bright mansion in the sky, Thy loved ones and their melody." The sun goes down with sudden gleam, And beautiful as a lovely dream, And silently as air, The vision of a dark-eyed girl With long and raven hair, Glides in as guardian spirits glide, And lo! is standing by his side, As if her sudden presence there Was sent in answer to his prayer. Oh! say they not that angels tread Around the good man's dying bed? His child--his sweet and sinless child, And as he gazed on her, He knew his God was reconciled, And this the messenger. As sure as God had hung on high His promise-bow before his eye, Earth's purest hopes were o'er him flung, To point his heaven-ward faith, And life's most holy feelings strung To sing him into death. And on his daughter's stainless breast, The dying Hebrew sought his rest.[4] "Have I fulfilled my task?" asked Mr. Arlington, as he touched the picture on which Annie's eyes were still fixed. "By no means," she answered; "the poem is beautiful; but is the drawing from your own pencil?" "Oh, no! It is a copy of a copy. The original is by Biederrmanns, and may be seen, I believe, in the Dresden Gallery. This sketch was made from a copy in the possession of my friend, Mr. Michael Grahame. He had it done while he was in Russia. By-the-by--if I had Aunt Nancy's powers as a _raconteur_, I think I could interest you in the history of Mr. and Mrs. Grahame." "Let us have it," exclaimed Col. Donaldson; "we will be lenient in our criticisms; and should we ever call on you to give it to severer critics, Aunt Nancy will dress it up for you." Mr. Arlington in vain sought to excuse himself. "It is of no use," cried Col. Donaldson; "I am a thoroughbred story hunter, and now you have shown me the game, I must have it." To Mr. Arlington, therefore, the reader is indebted for the following incidents, though I have fulfilled the promise made for me by the Colonel, and dressed it up a little for its present appearance. I have called the narrative thus prepared, "ONLY A MECHANIC." With beauty, wealth, an accomplished education, and a home around which clustered all the warm affections and graceful amenities of life, Lilian Devoe was considered by her acquaintances as one of fortune's most favored children. Yet in Lilian's bright sky there was a cloud, though it was perceptible to none but herself. She was the daughter of an Englishman, who, on his arrival in America with a sickly wife and infant child, had esteemed himself fortunate in obtaining the situation of farm-steward, or bailiff, at Mr. Trevanion's country-seat, near New-York.