While paled life’s early rose, Thy spirit plumed her wings, And now—how soft they close, Annie! While God’s new angel sings! “Some time before her death, the dear little child had frequently looked up in her mother’s face, and exclaimed, without any apparent or immediate cause—‘Happy Annie!’ and ‘Happy Annie!’ was the only epitaph they traced upon the simple slab of white marble that marked her little grave. “But I shall sing you to sleep, my own Marie, if I give you any more of my verses: so take a spirit-kiss, and believe me still “Your fondly attached, “KATE CAROL.” * * * * * THE OATH OF MARION. A STORY OF THE REVOLUTION. BY CHARLES J. PETERSON. (_Continued from page 8._) CHAPTER IV. Here’s a good world! ——Knew ye of this fair work?—KING LEAR. The news of so important an event as the capture of Mr. Mowbray was not long in traveling to Mrs. Blakeley’s. One morning, as she and her niece sat at work together, the butler rushed into the room, betraying considerable agitation. We have already alluded to his pomposity and affectation of high-sounding phrases; another foible, the desire to play an important part, sometimes got the better of his discretion, as in the present instance. “I’ve just heard such news, Missus Blakeley,” he exclaimed, breathlessly, wiping the perspiration from his face. “It’s completely admonished me. I’se run all de way from de head of de abenue, where I heard it from Jim Benson, who listed wid de British, and is now going home on a furbelow; a berry respectable person he is for a Tory and a common white man. In his new uniform he looks almost like an officer, I insure you!” Here the old man paused, overcome by the rapidity of his utterance. Both Mrs. Blakeley and her niece understood his peculiarities too well to interrupt him, but they looked up smiling. “Such news!” he began again. “I hope young missus won’t faint. Be sure, such things must recur; but to think it should happen to Mr. Mowbray—Lor’ save us.” Kate, at the mention of her father’s name, turned pale, and could no longer endure the speaker’s prolixity. “What is the matter with my father?” she gasped, “Is he dead?” “Oh, no, missus—only taken by de Tories. But dey say he is to be hung.” The sight of Kate’s ghastly face stopped the officious announcement—but it was too late; with a shriek she fell to the floor. At this spectacle, the old slave, struck with sudden remorse, cried, wringing his hands, “I have killed her. Oh, Lor’!—oh, Lor’!—will she ever survive again?”