Mrs. Waldorf rode home with her heart and head full. “How could I ever content myself with giving _money_,” she said to herself, “when there is so much to be _done_!” * * * * * “How do you find yourself, this morning, my dear madam?” said Doctor R——, shortly after this. “Oh, quite well, thank you!” “What! no more lassitude! no more headaches.” “Nothing of the sort, I assure you! I never felt better.” “When did your symptoms abate?” “I can scarcely tell; I have been too much occupied of late, to think of symptoms. I am so much interested in the study of Italian that I am going to ask Madame Vamiglia and her daughter to come to us for awhile, and we shall have Adelaide at home to take advantage of so good an opportunity for learning to converse.” “And your ardor in searching out the distressed has been the means of restoring the son to the mother! How happy you must be!” “That is a happiness which I owe to you! and Mr. Waldorf is going to employ Mr. Vamiglia, who understands and writes half a dozen different languages, and will be invaluable to him. But first the family are to go to the sea-shore for a month, to recruit; and I imagine they will need a good deal of preparation—so that I have really no time to be ill.” “Then you have given up the going to the Pyramids?” “Ah! my dear sir! I must thank you for showing me better sources of interest and excitement. I believe it must have been a little _ruse_ on your part—say! was not that famous medicine of yours only a trick—an _inganno felice_?” “A trick! Oh! excuse me! ‘Call it by some better name!’ I beseech you,” said the doctor laughing, “it was a most valuable medicine! Indeed the whole Materia Medica would be often powerless without the _placebo_! But I confess I could not think of sending you to the Pyramids, when there are not only pyramids but mountains of sorrow and suffering at home, which shun the eye of common charity, but which must be surmounted by just such heads, hearts and purses as those of Mrs. Waldorf!” * * * * * THE FIRST AND LAST PARTING. SUGGESTED BY THE LUCKLESS AMOUR OF A FRIEND. BY C. F. HOFFMANN. We parted at the midnight hour,— We parted _then_ as lovers part. The stars which pierced that trellis’d bower, They saw me press her to my heart! I left her with no fear—no doubt! I left with her my hopes—my all— I left her then,—oh! God!—without A dream of what would soon befall. I went to toil—far from her sight, Far from her blessed voice away— But still she haunted me by night, Still murmured in my ears by day. The hours flew by in dreams of her, Those hours which claimed far other care, I wasted them—fond worshiper— In dreams, whose waking was despair!