have forgiven me and loved me still—but you never, never loved as I did you. But it is, as I said, all, all past; my dream is ended, and I now walk sadly my allotted time on earth, a sorrower and a sojourner in a vale of tears. * * * * * Here ended this sketch from her journal; and Cora Norton sat at first meditating, with her head still leaning on her arm. Turning at last to her aunt, who was dozing across the room, she said— “What has become of Col. Dudley, Aunt Mary?” “Ech! what!” exclaimed the old lady; and then being thoroughly roused, she took her knitting from the floor, where it had slipped during her nap, received from Cora her spectacles, and upon her niece repeating her inquiry— “He is now,” said Aunt Mary, gaping and rubbing her eyes, “the husband of Clare Alton, and lives in his far distant home—at least so I heard about five years since, the only time I ever heard of him. It is said that the match was made up for him entirely by his aunt, and that Clare is an excellent housekeeper—raises more chickens and turkies than any lady in the neighborhood. She, as my informant told me, is quite the _model_ housewife of her neighbors, and has finished a hexagon bed-quilt, of I don’t know how many thousand patches. As to herself and the colonel, they get along very politely I believe— “Living together as most people do, Suffering each other’s foibles, by accord, And not exactly either one or two.” And now, Cora love, it is bedtime. Need I ‘point a moral’ to the journal you have read? Ah! no, you say. Well! when that little rattling tongue of yours seems disposed to laugh and say flippant things about your lovers, think of my girl-friend, Florence Walton, and profit by her dear-bought experience.” * * * * * THE PRISONER’S DEATH-BELL. BY REV. H. HASTINGS WELD. Blessed be His name whose messages of peace Not to the worldly or the proud are borne: Whose light bids in the dungeon darkness cease, Whose mercy clothes him whom the world has shorn. Vain are the efforts of vindictive power, Vain are its chains to bind a spirit down; For that to Heaven in prayer can calmly soar When earthly foes in utmost fury frown. Death to the youthful is untimely wo— Death to the happy is a fearful grief— But weary age is not averse to go:— The captive welcomes even death’s relief. What then to him the frowning prison-walls— The clanking chain, the tyrant’s vengeful spite? From the freed spirit every shackle falls— Earth’s gloom is lost in Heaven’s glorious light. * * * * * A STORY FOR CHRISTMAS. FROM THE GERMAN.