_I do!_ Let the rain fall; let the wind moan; let the leafless trees reach out their long attenuated fingers and tap against my casement: pile on the coal; wheel up the arm-chair; all hail loose ringlets and loose dressing-robe. Not a blessed son or daughter of Adam can get here to-day! Unlock the old writing desk; overlook the old letters. There is a bunch tied with a ribbon blue as the eyes of the writer. Matrimony quenched their brightness long time ago. Irish _help_ (?) and crying babies, I grieve to say, are ’mong the may-be’s! And here is a package written by a despairing Cœlebs--once intensely interested in the price of hemp and prussic acid; now the rotund and jolly owner of a princely house, a queenly wife, and six rollicksome responsibilities. Query: whether the faculty ever dissected a _man_ who had died of a “broken heart?” Here is another package. Let the fire purify them; never say you _know_ your friend till his tombstone is over him. What Solomon says “handwriting is an index of character?” Give him the cap and bells, and show him those bold pen-marks. They were traced by no Di Vernon! Let me sketch the writer:--A blushing, smiling, timid, loving little fairy, as ever nestled near a true heart; with a step like the fall of a snowflake, and a voice like the murmur of a brook in June. Poor little Katie! she lays her cheek now to a little cradle sleeper’s, and starts at the distant footstep, and trembles at the muttered curse, and reels under the brutal blow, and, woman-like--loves on! And what have we here? A sixpence with a ribbon in it! Oh, those Saturday and Wednesday afternoons, with their hoarded store of nuts and candy--the broad, green meadow, with its fine old trees--the crazy old swing, and the fragrant tumble in the grass--the wreath of oak leaves, the bunch of wild violets, the fairy story book, the little blue jacket, the snowy shirt-collar, the curly, black head, with its soft, blue eyes. Oh, first love, sugar-candy, torn aprons, and kisses! where have ye flown? What is this? only a pressed flower; but it tells me of a shadowy wood--of a rippling brook--of a bird’s song--of a mossy seat--of whispered leaf-music--of dark, soul-lit eyes--of a voice sweet, and low, and thrilling--of a vow never broken till death chilled the lips that made it. Little need to look at the pictured face that lies beside me. It haunts me sleeping or waking. I shall see it again--life’s trials passed. A CONSCIENTIOUS YOUNG MAN. “There is no object in nature so beautiful as a conscientious young man.”-- _Exchange._