Almost a year has elapsed since that time: she is calm and composed, but her spirits have never recovered the severe shock that they have sustained; she feels that for a short time she was living in an unreal region, and her violent descent to earth has humbled and bewildered her. Had she never been led to fancy that she was an object of tenderness and affection, her good sense would in time have reconciled her to the disadvantages under which she labored; but the fitful light thrown across her path only served to make the darkness more unbearable when it was withdrawn. Mr. Chetwode and Philippa have each requested her to visit them, but she has resolutely excused herself from again joining a world for which she feels herself alike unfitted in person and in spirit. The marriage of Philippa and Captain Warrington has, to use the words of Theodore Hook, produced as much "happiness for two" as the world can be expected to give. Philippa is as charming as ever, and in one respect her character has materially improved. Formerly, Philippa, partly from good-nature, and partly from a wish to be universally popular, was very much in the habit of saying things to her friends that were more pleasant than true; she would tell fourth-rate poetasters that everybody was in raptures with their genius; she would assure mothers that their sickly pedantic prodigies were extolled in every circle; and she would protest to faded spinsters that the gentlemen declared them to be handsomer than they were a dozen years ago. Now, however, Philippa, although still kind and courteous, is as particular in the veracity of her civil speeches as if she had studied Mrs. Opie's "Illustrations of Lying" for the last five years: and all are delighted to obtain her praise, because all feel that she is sincere in bestowing it. One day her husband found her in tears, and anxiously inquired the reason of her sorrow. "It will soon pass away," she said; "but I have just been thinking with grief and repentance of a very faulty action in my life, although you, to console me, are in the habit of calling it an amiable weakness. I allude to my unjustifiable imposition on poor Janet; the present day causes it to recur most forcibly to my mind--it is the anniversary of VALENTINE'S DAY!" THE FOUNTAIN VERY FAR DOWN. BY VIRGINIA F. TOWNSEND. "I don't believe it," said my cousin Ned, who was passing his college vacation at our house, and there was a world of unwritten scepticism in the air with which he dashed down the paper over whose damp columns his eyes had been travelling for the previous half hour.