Now it was a very strange thing that that same driver, who kissed Kate’s little hand—for he actually had kissed it—instead of staying by his horses, as every good driver should do, gave them up to another, and walked into the house close after the bride and bridegroom. It was also strange that the bride kept the elegant Mr. Augustus Nob impatiently waiting in that front parlor for at least twenty minutes; but the strangest thing of all was, that when she did make her appearance, she still had her bonnet on, as when last he saw her, and was leaning on the arm of a handsome young gentleman wearing mustaches and white kid gloves, whom the stupified Augustus at once recognized as the impertinent driver, and whom the reader may recognize as Henry Willis, the artist. Mr. Willis politely thanked Mr. Nob for having kindly attended his wife thither, and assisted him in bringing the affair to its happy termination, and added, that as he had driven the party thither, he hoped that Mr. Nob would condescend to reciprocate and take the box on their return. Nob, however, having _got the sack_ in so cruel a fashion, felt no inclination to _take the box_, and in a few moments he was among the missing. He was never again seen in the city of Brotherly Love. The young artist and his beautiful bride entered the carriage and drove to Jones’s Hotel, where they remained until sent for by Mr. and Mrs. Crossley, which happy event occurred a day or two after. Whoever should see the modest and matronly Kate now, with her two beautiful children, would hardly credit the story that she had ever been a coquette. This, however, was positively her last adventure. * * * * * DEATH OF THE GIFTED. BY JOHN WILFORD OVERALL. Inscribe on my grave-stone—“_Here lies one whose name was writ in water._” John Keats. To that sweet land of lyre and song, Of storied ancient fame, Where deeds of old, like pilgrims throng, To bless its mighty name; A minstrel went, unloved, to weep, And lay his aching heart, Where golden skies serenely sleep. And fruited gardens start. ’Tis bitter for the young to die, And leave this world of ours, Its sunshine and its sparkling sky, Its paradise of flowers— But oh! when tears mark every track, And woes lead on to death, ’Tis blessedness to render back The feeble, gasping breath! The brightest, frailest, fairest things That to the earth are given, Feel first the angel’s snowy wings To waft them home to heaven— And like a meteor in the sky, Or foam-beads on the wave, They dazzle man’s bewildered eye, And sink into the grave.