Judith was caught by Dick, who pretended to insist strongly on taking the forfeit she had incurred, while she blushed and struggled to free herself from his grasp. George, seeing the pain and confusion she evidently felt at being thus surprised, insisted on Dick’s releasing her without the forfeited kiss; and it was then he first observed her great beauty and modesty. While his friend went into the house to do his errand, he so improved his acquaintance with the little girls that he soon became foremost in their plays. At “hide-and-seek” and “old Tickleder,” he was found incomparable. They were just forming a circle in “Ring around the maiden,” round Betty Brayton, a little black-eyed girl, the intimate friend of Judith, the hand of the latter of whom George had taken care to secure, when Dick came out. He, after teazing the girls and rallying his friend a little, drew him, rather reluctantly, away; not, however, before George had gathered a rose, and flinging it at Judith, said slyly, in a rather low tone, “Keep that for my sake.” From this time he seized every opportunity of improving his acquaintance with Judith; and several keepsakes passed between them. Those from Judith being extorted rather than given, and those from George received with a merry laugh. [_To be continued._ * * * * * LUCY’S DIRGE.[1] BY WILLIAM H. C. HOSMER. She was not made Through years or moons the inner weight to bear Which colder hearts endure till they are laid By age in earth. Byron. May is here with golden tresses, Tresses wreathed, with flowers— Tresses starred with dew-drops gleaming In the pleasant south-wind streaming, Giving many-colored dresses To the fields and bowers— May is here with golden tresses— Tresses wreathed with flowers, May is here, my little maiden, Maiden, passing fair! Maiden, like a seraph gifted, Ever high in thought uplifted Earth above, with sorrow laden, Darkness and despair— May is here, my little maiden, Maiden, passing fair! Hark! a voice replieth sadly— Sadly, like a dirge— Sadly, like some childless mourner, “To the church-yard they have borne her, And torn hearts are throbbing madly, Washed by Sorrow’s surge”— Hark! a voice replieth sadly— Sadly, like a dirge. “Oh! she longed for May to greet her With a honied kiss— Greet her where bright eyes were glancing, And the forms of sylphs were dancing In the sunny lawns to meet her With the boon of bliss— Oh! she longed for May to greet her With a honied kiss.