“‘They might come from Flora herself,’ said he, kindly; ‘and I renew again my vow to the Graces that I will wear no other garlands while thy hands can weave me such as these.’ “‘And how find you the flowers in your viridarium? are they thriving?’ “‘Wonderfully so—the Lares themselves must have tended them.’ “‘Ah, now you give me pleasure; for I came, as often as I could steal the leisure, to water and tend them in your absence.’ “‘How shall I thank thee, fair Nydia?’ said the Greek. ‘Glaucus little dreamed that he left one memory so watchful over his favorites at Pompeii.’ “The hand of the child trembled, and her breast heaved beneath her tunic. She turned around in embarrassment. ‘The sun is hot for the poor flowers,’ said she, ‘to-day, and they will miss me, for I have been ill lately, and it is nine days since I visited them.’ “‘Ill, Nydia! yet your cheek has more color than it had last year.’ “‘I am often ailing,’ said the blind girl, touchingly, ‘and as I grow up I grieve more that I am blind. But now to the flowers!’ So saying, she made a slight reverence with her head, and passing into the viridarium, busied herself with watering the flowers. “‘Poor Nydia,’ thought Glaucus, gazing on her, ‘thine is a hard doom. Thou seest not the earth—nor the sun—nor the ocean—nor the stars—above all, thou canst not behold Ione.’ Nydia, too, is a slave, and to a coarse inn-keeper, who would make a profit by her beauty and her singing. How her heart breaks daily at the brutal treatment of her master, and the still more cruel language of his patrons! But at length Glaucus purchases her, and she is comparatively happy. And through all her melancholy history how does her hopeless love shine out, beautifying and making more sweet than ever, her guileless character! It is a long and mournful tale. Glaucus at length succeeds in winning Ione; they escape fortunately from the destruction of Pompeii; but Nydia, uncomplaining, yet broken-hearted, disappears mysteriously from the deck of their vessel at night. Need we tell her probable fate? * * * * * THE REEFER OF ’76. BY THE AUTHOR OF “CRUIZING IN THE LAST WAR.” FORT MOULTRIE. How often has the story of the heart been told! The history of the love of one bosom is that of the millions who have alternated between hope and fear since first the human heart began to throb. The gradual awakening of our affection; the first consciousness we have of our own feelings; the tumultuous emotions of doubt and certainty we experience, and the wild rapture of the moment, when, for the first time, we learn that our love is requited, have all been told by pens more graphic than mine, and in language as nervous as that of Fielding, or as moving as that of Richardson.