Pressing him to her heart, while the tears streamed down her own benevolent face, she said, hushingly, “There, there now, never mind! God takes care of the orphan!” while her good husband, who had taken the youngest child upon his knee, brushed his sleeve across his eyes, saying, “There, there, never mind; don’t cry, and to-morrow Johnny shall take you a good bit of your journey on the old mare.” The good couple had so won on Arthur’s heart, that ere supper was over he had told them his simple tale; and they felt a still deeper interest when they found in him the companion of their eldest son, who had been in Mr. Buckler’s store for several years. And as he knelt with them ere he retired to rest, and heard them ask God to bless and protect him, a feeling of happiness crept over his soul, such as he had never felt since that fearful night on which he had sought bread for his dying mother. [_Conclusion in our next._ * * * * * [Illustration: THE BELLE OF THE SEASON. Engraved expressly for Graham’s Magazine by A. S. Walter.] * * * * * THE BELLE OF NEWPORT. BY CHARLES J. PETERSON. It was the height of the season at Newport, and the long piazza of the Ocean-House was crowded with loungers. Suddenly a young man, with something of a foreign air, exclaimed— “Heavens, Harry! what a divinity!” He pointed, as he spoke, with his light cane to a young lady, who, having approached on the other side of the street, was now picking her way daintily across the dusty road. Her figure was one of unusual grace, and her step light and elastic. When she reached the pavé she glanced up at the piazza, but seeing a score of idle eyes fixed upon her, she dropped her veil, and advanced to the ladies’ entrance with a slightly hurried pace. But the momentary exposure of her countenance showed that its beauty justified the general look of admiration. The eyes were lustrous and dark, a rich bloom mantled healthily on her cheek, and the fresh air blew freely to and fro her redundant curls of glossy raven hair; added to this the mouth was one of indescribable loveliness, around the dimpled corners of which Love himself seemed to lurk. “By Jove!” said the gentleman who had spoken before, “I have seen no woman so beautiful in all my travels abroad. What eyes! they seem to look into one’s very soul. And such a step, free and graceful as a fawn’s, or rather like that of Diana, the maiden huntress, herself.” “That, Derwent,” replied his companion, “is Miss Stanhope, the belle of Newport we call her; beautiful enough, to be sure, but only the companion to some rich Southern heiress.” “And half the house, I suppose, is in love with her?”