Captain Clairville saw the last duties paid to the remains of the departed father and daughter, whose sad history had awakened his deepest interest, and whose prospects, had their lives been spared, it was his hope and purpose to brighten. The precious rose-tree he consigned to the charge of Ferris, who shortly afterward married an honest tradesman, exacting from her a promise to shed its flowers annually on the graves of those who so fondly cherished it—a promise which she faithfully fulfilled. Disappointed in his estimate of Alicia’s character, Clairville never, after the affair of the roses, sought a renewal of his intercourse with her, and the few times they met in society, it was as strangers. As soon as the spring opened he obtained leave of absence and returned to England, and when he again rejoined his regiment, he was the husband of a lady, who, Ferris declared, was the very image of poor Rosalie La Motte. Mortified and chagrined by his desertion, Alicia affected a gayety which she did not feel, and pursued her vain career of dissipation and vanity till the bloom of youth faded from her cheek, when she gave her hand to a man double her own age, who was supposed to be immensely rich. But he shortly transported her to an isolated seignory, which was his only possession, where, without any affection for her husband or any resources within herself, she lived a wretched and discontented being, and died unregretted and unwept. * * * * * THE NEW GARDEN. BY EMILY HERRMANN. He knows we love the flowers so well. And so they bloom His love to tell. Ewald We are filling our new-fenced garden With fresh young vines and flowers, And here we are often busy In the clear, long evening hours. The sun shines through the paling, And over the landscape green; Blue smoke-wreaths are lazily curling O’er-arching the quiet scene; They rise from the woodman’s clearing, They rise from his chimney low, They bend to his tiny wheat-field, Then mount to yon hills of snow. A change has come o’er its seeming Since first when we knew the place, A change in the woody landscape, A change in a youthful face. And changes have moved the spirit That muses above it now, Since the wild-berry clusters glittered At noon o’er my upturned brow. I stand in our pleasant garden And gaze down the years’ long track, I cherish right well their guerdon, But I would not win them back! Our brook on its way is babbling, And hastes from the open space, It misses the great oak’s shading— It misses the wild-vine’s grace.