Everybody, as they went into the town-house, turned square round, and stood and looked Mrs. Andrews in the face several minutes, and read the inscription on her forehead. Old Deacon White, who was rather long-sighted, put on his spectacles and stood facing her, about a yard off, and read the inscription over three times, loud enough to be heard all over the room. And long-legged, razor-faced Peter Johnson, who was very short-sighted, put on his spectacles and stood so near her to read the inscription, that his nose almost touched hers, causing some rather rude and irreverent laughs among the younger portion of the multitude. In short, the punishment was effectual, and the sin of selling stones for butter was not repeated again by the housewives of New Somersetshire during the life-time of that generation. * * * * * THE INVALID STRANGER. A SKETCH FROM LIFE. BY MISS MARY E. LEE. I ne’er had seen her face before, and yet ’Twas difficult to own that she was but A common stranger; till a little while I gave my fancy freedom, and was pleased To shadow out some former spirit-sphere, Where we had held companionship, and twined A subtile link of sympathy and love. Where lay her secret spell? What charm of hers Thus played upon the harp-string of my mind, Stirring it up to music? I knew not! The maiden was all loveliness, and wore Her beauty like a queenly robe, but yet It was not that which won my lingering gaze, And made me yearn to ask her tale of life, And tell it out in poetry. ’Twas strange!— Yet, though I studied long, I could not learn The color of her eye, that seemed to change Beneath the ivory lid, from brilliant black To liquid hazel, then to full, soft gray, Fast melting into violet: Nor the hue Of her loose curls, to which each passing breeze Gave some new shaping; making them appear Within the shade, pale auburn; but when stirred In sunny light, like sprinkling gleams of gold Within a silken tissue. More than all, Were I an artist, it were needless task To seek to match the tinting of her cheek, One moment wan to sickliness, and then Trying which best became it, the pure snow Of the white lily, or the delicate blush Of the pale, perfumed wild-rose. I was blind To all this touching beauty, and looked not Upon the outward temple, for my mind Had caught some glimpses of the shrine within, And gave _that_ all my worship. It was _soul_. High, holy, living, intellectual soul, That lit her perfect features, like a lamp, That burns in alabaster; or some star Whose rays vibrating through the ether’s space, Transmit its _softened image_ from afar. Yes! this it was that made me read her face, E’en as one reads the language of a book, With a forgetful earnestness, until The secret fountains of my heart were moved,