Then stooping down, she kissed the little girl a hundred times, pressed her to her heart, laid her hand upon her head and looked up to heaven; and now the tears fell plentifully. From time to time, however, she whispered a few words in the child’s ear, and they seemed to have a great effect. She wept still, and somewhat clung to her mother; but when, at length, the lady replaced the child’s hand in mine, saying, “Now go, go, and God Almighty be your God and Protector,” she made no further resistance; but with bent head, and eyes dropping fast, ran on beside me. Suddenly I heard a voice cry, “Stop, stop!” and turning round, saw the lady running fast after us. She caught the child’s hand and mine with a quick, eager grasp, and looked up on high, seeming to consider something deeply, and I could see the pulse beating in her beautiful neck with fearful force. At length, however, she dropped our hands with a deep, heavy sigh, and murmured, “They will never hurt two children—surely, they will not hurt two children. Go on—go on—” She turned sadly away, and walking on, I was there in the forest leading the little girl by the hand, and with a walk of more than four miles before us. [_To be continued._ * * * * * THE KISS. BY E. ANNA LEWIS. Two lovely beings near me stood, The one a tall and blooming youth, The other in sweet maidenhood, All wreathed with smiles, and love, and truth. He gazed upon her beaming face, As if his soul lay mirrored there, Then drew her close to his embrace— But shrinking back, she said—“_Take care!_” “It never gave me joy,” he sighed, “The dew from saintly lips to sip— I’d rather quaff the lava tide That flushes Passion’s burning lip.” “Then go,” she said—“I spurn thy kiss— Go, kneel at glowing Venus’ shrine, And drink thy fill of wanton bliss— Thy lip shall never feed on mine.” * * * * * THE CLOSING SCENE. BY THOMAS BUCHANAN READ. Within his sober realm of leafless trees The russet Year inhaled the dreamy air, Like some tanned reaper in his hour of ease, When all the fields are lying brown and bare. The gray barns, looking from their hazy hills O’er the dim waters widening in the vales, Sent down the air a greeting to the mills On the dull thunder of alternate flails. All sights were mellowed and all sounds subdued; The hills seemed farther and the streams sang low; As in a dream, the distant woodman hewed His winter log with many a muffled blow.