you loved me once!” “Oh! as I love you now, dear Ernest, fully, completely, gladly, do I pardon you, and take you to my heart, never again to part, my own dear husband.” Groaning she clasped him close, and in that act, And agony, her happy spirit fled. Annabel saw her head fall on his neck, and, fancying that she had fainted, ran to relieve her, but ere she did so both were far away beyond the reach of any mortal sorrow—nor did the survivor long survive them—she faded like a fair flower, and lies beside them in the still bosom of one common tomb. The Hall was tenanted no more, and soon fell into ruin, but the wild hills of Wharfdale must themselves pass away before the children of the dalesmen shall forget the sad tale of The Sisters. * * * * * THE WALK AND THE PIC-NIC. BY ALFRED B. STREET. The sky is a sapphire, the clouds pearly white, The wind from the west winnows blandly and light, Deep and rich is the gloss of the sunshine below— The grass, leaves, and flowers all rejoice in the glow; The shadows, cast down by the air-skimming sails, Are rippling o’er hill-tops and glancing o’er vales; ’Tis the day for our pic-nic; let’s haste, or the sun Will be dipping below e’er our long path is won. At length, from all ports of the village, we throng— O’er the maple-lin’d sidewalk we scatter along, With baskets well stor’d; and so loud our delight, That we start Taggett’s team from Nate’s store in affright: We pass by the office—“Alf, why do you wait?” To a laggard shouts Cady—“you’re always too late!” We turn the stone store—up the Pleasant Pond road: Green richer the fields on each side never show’d; We pass the flat rock, where we often found rest, When, on our return-walk, gleam’d golden the west; On the hill-brow we turn, the white village to view, Its three modest steeples trac’d clear on the blue; To the right Brownson’s pond—now we enter the wood: Its echoes leap out to our frolicsome mood; The sweet ringing laugh of gay Martha is heard, And Kate trips along with the grace of a bird; To the wind’s downy kisses bares Sarah her brow, And Mary’s black eyes were ne’er brighter than now, While one, grave and thoughtful, to each proffers aid,— My friend! sleeping now in the valley of shade, As the cloud over sunshine, remembrance of thee, My boyhood’s companion! draws sadness o’er me. “Alf, faster!” cries Cady, “and think where you are; Bring your thoughts from the clouds, or we’ll never be there!” We all move on speedily; down the descent, With song, talk and laughter, our journey is bent: “Alf, carry this basket!” says Wright, in a huff At the speed of our way, “I’ve had trouble enough!” “See that rose!” cries Louisa, and instant the stem Is mourning the loss of its beautiful gem.