The breakfast scene passes the powers of my pen. That Emma Willis at once recognized in our hero the daring youth who had so pertinaciously sought her, the vivid blush upon her cheek at once betrayed, and that the recognition was not displeasing, the sequel will testify. As for Auburn—no matter—suffice it to say that ere long Emma sat to him for her portrait—not for her _lover_, as Kate once maliciously hinted, but for her parents, ere they bestowed the dear original upon our happy hero. Kate _did_ attend her friend’s wedding before she left the village, and Mr. and Mrs. Henry C. Auburn are now in Italy. * * * * * THE WINGED WATCHER. (WRITTEN OFF THE CAPE OF GOOD HOPE.) BY FANNY FORESTER. PART I. Morning arose, and from their dreams, Awoke the slumbering flowers; Red glowed the hill-tops in her beams, Her crest lay glittering on the streams, And on one cot her gayest gleams Broke in warm golden showers. A pair of eyes had oped that morn, Eyes soft and sweet and blue; A poor, weak, helpless thing forlorn, Beneath that humble roof was born, A folded bud from blossoming thorn, Save that a soul peeped through. And many a jocund laugh there rung, Up from that cottage low, And glad words sat on many a tongue, And bliss upon fond bosoms hung, For there a rill of life had sprung, Which would forever flow. One form unseen stood meekly nigh, Which drew the sunlight there, His radiance for a time flung by, He was an Angel from the sky, With loving pity in his eye, And brow new-wreathed with care. Down from the palace of the King, That morning had he hied; The song was stayed upon the string, The glory folded in the wing, For sad would be his wandering By that poor mortal’s side. PART II. Years passed; the boy a man had grown, And shadowy things of fear With many an ill his path had strown; Foes trooping came, and friends had flown, But one white wing, to him unknown, Kept ever hovering near. It was a lovely sight to see, By those who watched above, That Spirit glorious and free In such an humble ministry, Unfalteringly, unfalteringly, Pursue his work of love. When the worn youth lay down to rest, The Angel stood beside; And stole the burden from his breast, And soothed his wearied sense to rest, Fanned his hot brow, his cheek caressed, And blissful dreams supplied. Once on a mountain peak stood he, A high and rugged steep; Where many dangerous shapes there be, And many things most fair to see, While shouting crowds bent low the knee, And broke wild Echo’s sleep.