Wherefore, if the boy were, indeed, what he has been described, and no more, impulsive, willful, rash, headlong, irresistible in his impulses—if not a base traitor, full of dark plots, deep-laid beforehand—wherefore, if he did love the girl, with all the love of which his character was capable, if he had not predetermined to desert her—wherefore did he not wed her openly in the light of day, amid crowds of glad friends, and rejoicing dependents? Why did he not gladden the heart of his aged father, and lead her to the home of his ancestors a happy and honored bride, without that one blot on her conscience, without that one shadow of deceit, which marred the perfect truthfulness of her character, and in after days weighed on her mind heavily? [_To be continued._ * * * * * THE FOUNTAIN IN WINTER. BY BAYARD TAYLOR. The northern winds are raw and cold, And crust with ice the frozen mould; The gusty branches lash the wall With icicles that snap and fall. There is no light on earth to-day— The very sky is blank and gray; Yet still the fountain’s quivering shaft Leaps upward, as when Spring-time laughed. No diamonds glitter on its brink, No red-lipped blossoms bend to drink, And on the blast, its fluttering wing Is spread above no kindred thing. The drops that strike the frozen mould Make all the garden doubly cold, And with a chill and shivering pain I hear the fall of sleety rain. The music that, in beamy May, Told of an endless holyday, With surly Winter’s wailings blent, Becomes his dreariest instrument. The water’s blithe and sparkling voice, That all the Summer said, “rejoice!” Now pours upon the bitter air The hollow laughter of despair. So, when the flowers of Life lie dead Beneath a darker Winter’s tread, The songs that once gave Joy a soul Bring to the heart its heaviest dole. The fresh delight that leaped and sung The sunny bowers of Bliss among, But gives to Sorrow colder tears, And laughs to mock our clouded years. * * * * * A PARTING SONG. BY PROFESSOR CAMPBELL. Free—as the lonely eagle free— A leaden sky is o’er me— I’m out upon a leaden sea— A wide, cold world before me. Wait’st thou to woo a breeze, my bark? The eager wave’s upheaving Chideth thy stay—the little lark Her upward way is cleaving. Hymn-bird, how oft thy glorious note Hath trumpeted the day, When bark and I were both afloat Upon our wandering way. For I have wandered many an hour, My trusty bark, with thee, And culled full many a breathing flower Of wildest Poesy.