“Because I’m no writer, and meant to come myself. You said you’d wait for me—and I knew you never broke your word. So now, my sweet little flower, I’ve come to claim you, like a blunt sailor, as I am, with few words, but a heart full of love, and what is better, something to live on beside.” “You are in a great hurry now,” said Rose, laughing and blushing. “Suppose you wait a little, seeing you learnt the art so well in your absence. Why I have not had a chance yet to ask you what kept you away so long.” “Never mind that, coz. There ’ill be plenty of time hereafter. Answer my question first, whether you mean to have me or not, and let me know which way to shape my course. If you’ve changed your mind, and lost your affection for me, just say so at once, and I’m off to sea in the first ship. You’ll never be troubled with me again.” “What an unreasonable man you are,” said Rose, “just as impatient and headstrong as before you went away.” “You knew all my faults, dearest, long, long ago,” said Selwyn. “They did not hinder you from loving me once. Love me still, Rose, as you once did. Be mine, as you promised you would before we parted, and you shall make me what you please.” Rose was silent. Her lover’s arm was around her, and memory was holding its mirror to her mind: and when she did speak at length, her voice was low and indistinct, and her words nearly unintelligible. The spirit of them may be guessed, however, from the fact that Selwyn did not go to sea, and she resigned her situation as teacher, and returned with him to her former home. The wedding was soon after celebrated with the sanction of her father, and but one source of regret to Rose, that the old minister, who in her youthful days was the pastor of her native village, had been removed in the meanwhile to another world, and the ceremony of her marriage was performed by a stranger. * * * * * [Illustration: THE MINIATURE.] * * * * * THE ZOPILOTES. BY FAYETTE ROBINSON. [A Mexican soldier, being grievously wounded in one of the battles of Hidalgo, was deserted by his victorious companions. Unable to defend himself against the numerous Zopilotes, or vultures, which hovered around him, he put an end to his life with his own hand.] I feel the motion of each heavy wing— I hear the rustling of the air they cleave— The shadows they, like sombre phantoms, fling Closely around and o’er me, hovering, Beget wild fears, which busy fancies weave Into a dreadful certainty.