Mrs. Johnson paid no attention, she was looking earnestly down the street, I apprehensively followed the direction of her gaze. The two Sophomore students were coming up the opposite side walk laughing immoderately, a piece of ill breeding which they endeavored to check when their eyes met mine, but all in vain. Their eyes laughed in spite of the violence put upon the lips. I could endure it no longer but tore my arm from the tenacious grasp of my tormentor, turned the first corner and hastened home. When Mrs. Johnson returned she had forgotten my rudeness in her delight at the attentions paid her by the students. “They had talked and laughed together a full half hour,” she said, “and were so perlite.” “What did you talk about?” I inquired with uncomfortable foreboding. “Why, I believe it was purty much about you, after all.” “Me?” said I, faintly. “Yes, they asked how long we’d been acquainted, so, of course, I told them what old friends we were—kind of relations.” The last drop was flung in the bowl—and it overflowed—I said I was ill—had a headache—and running to my room, locked myself in. I never had courage to ask Maria what occurred after my exit. But the next morning I arose very early, threw open the blinds and looked out. The day was breaking, like an angel’s smile, in the east, dividing the gray mist with a line of radiance, and embroidering the horizon with its delicate golden threads. The fresh air came up from an opposite garden rich with fragrance. The flowers bent their wet heads as it came with a gentle breath and charmed the odor from their cups; the grass had not yet flung off its night jewelry, and all around was still and silent as the heart of a wilderness—no, there was one sound not so musical as it might have been, but still the most welcome that ever fell on my ear. It was the rattle of Mr. Johnson’s wagon as it came lumbering up to the front door. And the most gratifying sight of that lovely morning was the old chesnut horse stalking down the street, and dragging behind him Mr. Johnson, Mrs. Johnson, and both the little Johnsons. * * * * * THE STUDENT’S DREAM OF FAME. BY ROBERT MORRIS. ’Tis midnight’s solemn hour! And mark—yon room Narrow, and dimly lit. The thicken’d gloom Of deepest night is scarcely chased away, The lamp so small—so thin its feeble ray! Alas! poor student! What a fate is thine! Within thy bosom burns a ray divine, A fire has to thy spirit’s cell been given, Alive with flame caught from the founts of Heaven! Genius is thine, and like a worshipper Of some far world, or glory beaming star. Night after night, thou toilest slowly on, Each thought refining—each comparison, And phrase, and figure, weighing well and long, And thus thy life-blood pouring with thy song!