There was a silence of some minutes. Mary could scarcely breathe: she knew not what to say. Her fingers refused to perform their duty, and her skein of silk became more and more entangled. “Shall I help you?” said Ashton, approaching her. “My patience used to be a proverb with you.” Mary could not trust herself to answer, for her fingers were actually trembling with agitation. She felt she could have sunk into the floor. She proffered the silk without looking up. Ashton took hold of one end while she retained the other. Neither spoke; but Mary’s bosom heaved tumultuously, while Ashton felt his heart in his throat. At length, in mutually untangling the skein, their hands met. The touch thrilled them like lightning. Ashton almost unconsciously retained the hand of his cousin in his own. She trembled violently. “Mary!” he said. She looked half doubtingly, half timidly up. “Mary, we love each other—do we not?” There was no answer, but as he pressed the fingers lying passively in his grasp, the pressure was gently returned, and, bursting into tears, his cousin fell upon his bosom. And Ashton and Mary have been wedded for years, but their honey-moon still continues, for they have not yet quarrelled. * * * * * THE PRECIPICE. There is a rock whose craggy brow Hangs beetling o’er the wave below, Adown whose sheer descent the eye, When twilight’s gloom is gath’ring nigh, Will gaze, but vainly, to descry The sullen waves that wash beneath, As endless and as dark as death. You see no tide—you scarcely hear— You only feel a nameless fear; The night-bird, sailing slowly by, Dares not his melancholy cry: Dares scarcely flap his lazy wing: Dares not behold this fearful thing— But far beneath, will upward soar, To cross the dread abyss no more. H. J. V. * * * * * THE MISTAKEN CHOICE; OR, THREE YEARS OF MARRIED LIFE. BY EMMA C. EMBURY. “So you are really going to be married, Charles?” “Yes, uncle; and I hope you will agree with me in thinking that I have made a very prudent choice.” “That remains to be seen yet,” said Mr. Waterton. “In the first place, who is the lady?” “Miss Laura Tarleton.” “I know her _name_ well enough, for you have scarcely uttered any other one these six weeks,” was the crusty reply; “but I want to know something of her family.” “Her father was a southern merchant, and died four or five years since, leaving only two daughters to inherit his large estate; one of these daughters married about two years since, and is now in Europe; the other I hope to introduce to your affections as my wife.” “Has she no mother?” “Her mother died while she was yet very young.” “Where was she educated?”