remnants of the past, the drooping figure of Minnie Clifton stood between him and the sudden blaze. A wild cry broke from his lips, he started from his seat, and at that moment a servant unclosed the door. To the day of his death Hubert Woodley believed that by the mysterious agency of fire, burning as it did into the very soul of that mystery which involved the happiness of a human being, he had called up the spectre of the wronged and joyless object of his early love—the victim of his selfishness—whose whole life had been like a dull and dreary dream. * * * * * SONG. BY THOMAS FITZGERALD, EDITOR CITY ITEM. Ah! do not speak so coldly, Cold words my heart will chill; If I have loved too boldly, Oh, let me worship still. The pure heart loves forever, To its own likeness true, And though fate bids us sever, I’ll love, I’ll love but you! The heart will throb in sorrow If from its idol torn, Nor elsewhere joy will borrow If love’s return be scorn. Then do not speak so coldly, Cold words my heart will chill; E’en if I’ve loved too boldly, Oh, let me worship still. * * * * * IBAD’S VISION. BY RICHARD PENN SMITH. Ibad the Dervise, instead of feeling proud in the right of the Source of All Good, shrunk from his sight as if unworthy of the hand that had fashioned him. He did not worship as the birds and children worship, with songs and joy, but he built himself a cell, and there, in solitude, worshiped his God, amidst groans and torture screaming—“Yahu, ya allah! I am not a Naeshbendee, and live not among sinful men.” The birds and the children in their simplicity thank the Prophet, and even while dying sing their gratitude. Ibad worshiped in suffering, believing that temporal torment, self-inflicted, would be acceptable in the sight of him who gave all to render man happy. The children and the birds understand God’s dispensations better than did Ibad the dervise. Ibad slept and had a vision. He beheld a broad and extended path over a verdant meadow, where balmy breezes sported in the sunbeams. A stalwort figure suddenly appeared, with head erect, front of pride, and with eyes that quailed not while staring at the eye of day. Onward he strode, and seemed to spurn even the path he trod, and as he gazed at the sun, his shadow that dogged his heels was tenfold his colossal stature; yet the shadow was willing to follow, without an attempt to lead the way. The figure was Ambition; the shadow Dependence, hunting in his trail. Onward they strode. The pathway was strewed with flowers and tempting fruit, when suddenly a fascinating figure stept beside Ambition—it was Friendship, and Friendship cast his shadow also—a shadow as substantial as the substance.