society during the past winter, and now the same irresistible power drew her to the turbulent scenes of a fashionable watering-place. Poor thing! she was certainly to be pitied, and so thought Cecil Forrester. He was upon the point of expressing his ardent admiration, and offering his heart and hand to her whose tender friendship had made him bankrupt in all that was worthy of her acceptance. But, somehow or other, no opportunity occurred for any such explanation. The lady rather avoided those delicious walks which, though favorable to the growth of affection, might afford chances for an unseasonable declaration. So Cecil was only able to inform her of his intention to meet her at ——, and contented himself, for the present, with offering her a splendid copy of Rogers’ Poems, in which he had inscribed her name in the most delicate of Italian writing, and where she found, on further examination, the words “To her who will understand me,” written over the pretty pastoral poem entitled “The Wish.” “Mine be a cot beside a hill; A beehive’s hum shall soothe mine ear; A willowy brook that turns a mill, With many a fall shall linger near. The swallow oft, beneath my thatch, Shall twitter from her clay-built nest; Oft shall the pilgrim lift the latch, To share my meal, a welcome guest. Around my ivied porch shall spring Each fragrant flower that drinks the dew; And Lucy, at her wheel, shall sing, In russet gown and apron blue. The village church, amid the trees, Where first our marriage vows were given, With merry peals shall swell the breeze And point, with taper spire, to Heaven.” It was certainly a most appropriate and delicately expressed choice for such a lover of natural beauty and quiet happiness as Miss Laura Oriel.