The second day brought me in sight of the gates of Pomfret Hall, and as I dashed up to them, and felt that my suspense would soon be terminated, my heart fluttered wildly. As the carriage whirled into the avenue, I saw a procession of the neighboring village girls proceeding to the hall. They were dressed in white, and bore flowers, as if going to some festival. At that instant I recollected that the church bells had been ringing merrily ever since I came within hearing of them, and, with a sudden thrill of agony, I stopped the coach as the village girls stepped aside to let it pass, and inquired the meaning of their procession. My voice was so husky that, at first, it was undistinguishable; and I was forced to repeat the question. “Oh! it’s the meaning of our going to the hall, the gentleman would know,” said a female at the head of the procession; then turning to me she said, with a curtsey, “The young mistress was married this morning, and we are going to the hall to present her with flowers. This is her school, sir, and I am the mistress.” I sank back in the carriage with a groan. At first I thought of ordering the postillion to return, but then I resolved to go forward, and, concealing my sufferings, appear the gayest of the gay. “Yes!” I exclaimed in bitter agony, “never shall she know the misery she has inflicted. And yet, oh, God! that Annette should thus have deserted me—” and, with these words, I sternly bid the postillion drive on. But I felt like a criminal bound to his execution. * * * * * TO MY SISTERS. WRITTEN AFTER THEIR DEPARTURE FOR EUROPE. BY ANNA CORA MOWATT. Sweet sisters! have I on your lips The farewell kiss imprest! And are you sadly sundered now From all who loved you best! Must years roll on ere I again Shall spring your kiss to meet? Ere fondly clasped to yours this heart Once more shall wildly beat? Ye ocean waves that round them dash, Oh, bear them on your breast, E’en as the mother’s bears the babe That sinks on hers to rest! Oh! swell their sails, ye prosperous winds! And waft them gently on, And tell them with their smiles, alas! Our sweetest joys are gone. Though wide that ocean is, and deep, Not all its waters blue Could from my memory raze one hour, Dear sisters! spent with you. And though the wild wind’s angry roar Might fill my soul with fear, It could not drown the tones—your tones Still sounding in mine ear. It may be I no more shall list That cherished music here; Yet shall I greet it where ’twill sound More softly sweet, more dear. And though our lips must first be cold, Our next kiss may be given, Where angels smile upon the pledge, When we are met in heaven! * * * * *