Monsieur de Salins, for his part, smiled at my enthusiasm, while Madame de Salins wept at it; but he answered kindly and affectionately, putting quietly aside all points difficult to deal with, and saying jestingly, “Why, you would not have us quit this little, rosy dwelling where we have been so happy; but be assured, my dear young friend, that no guest will be more loved and honored within its walls than the Count De Lacy.” I felt from his tone, that it would be in vain to press my request further that day; but I knew the effect of perseverance, and I had hope for the future. At all events Mariette and I had met again. I was resolved that nothing should make me lose sight of her thenceforth, and like all young hearts, I gave myself up to the present joy with trustful confidence in the happiness of to-morrow. Several hours glided sweetly by, and it was late in the day when Father Bonneville and I retrod our steps to our own dwelling, each full of thought. [_Conclusion in our next._ * * * * * I WOO THEE, SPRING. BY WILLIAM ALBERT SUTLIFFE. I woo thee, Spring, and I wed thee, Spring, To a kindly-thoughted lay, And I sing thee, Spring, in thy blossoming, Through the lee-lang sunny day! When young loves bud and old loves bloom— When the warm earth bans all shade of gloom, And bees hum summerly. I woo thine ears to a kindly tale, And what shall the story be? I will tell thee dearest bonds are frail, And that stars and flowers flee. I will tell thee a tale of woful wings That rive from the soul its precious things, And shadow sweet fantasy. I will tell thee of some that have fled away Since last we saw thy face; And some that are gone from the sheeny day To the lonesome burial-place. And of joys, like a string of pearls unstrung— Like treasured flowers to the fierce wind flung, That sleep with the buried grace. O, I woo thee, Spring, and I wed thee, Spring, To a sadly-thoughted lay, And I sing thee, Spring, in thy blossoming, Through the lee-lang cloudy day! For the lone day dies through purple bars— And a misty grief enwraps the stars, And our hopes are ashen-gray. But the flowers bud and the flowers blow And the mossy streams are sheen, And the downy clouds to the Norland go, While the blue sky laughs between; And the light without, to the dark within, Would seem to say—“Will ye up and win While the paths of life are green?” But the outer joy on the soul’s annoy Looks in and laughs in vain— For the inner chains of the spirit’s pains May ne’er be reft in twain; And the song that erst in joy begun Sinks into wail ere the setting sun, A sad and deathful strain.