His affianced bride laughed musically at his perplexity; and leading him to a _tête-à-tête_ said, as she laid her hand fondly on his shoulder: “Are you astonished? Will you believe me when I tell you that all this is mine? You have thought me a pattern of frankness, dear Derwent, yet I have been deceiving you for a whole year; making you work, when I had enough for us both. But I wished to test you; and now that I have found you even more than I hoped, and that I love you better than ever, you will not,” she continued, looking up archly into his face,—and, truth must be told, positively kissing him—“disown me, even though I am co-heiress with my cousin, in my own right, to twenty thousand a year.” How would you have acted reader? We will tell you how Derwent did; he took the beautiful creature in his arms, and blessed her over and over again. Blessed her, not for her fortune, but for her having taught him to rely on himself, and not to live the idle life of a mere man of fortune. “And you will still follow your profession, and win an even greater name?” said his lovely mistress, her fine eyes kindling with enthusiasm. “I want a husband I can be proud of, and I know I have found such a one in you.” Derwent made the promise, and she continued— “As a girl, I wished to be loved for myself rather than my fortune; and my scheme of going to Newport, as my cousin’s poor companion, was the result of that desire. There I found one whom I felt had but one fault, and that was idleness. There I found you preferring the penniless girl to the rich cousin. But I saw you wasting your fine powers away in a life of mere fashion, and was hesitating whether I ought not to strive against my increasing affection, when your ruin”—she hesitated, and then added quickly, blushing roseate over face, neck, and bosom—“but you know the rest.” Derwent has now no superior as an orator, and has declined a nomination to Congress, because even higher honors are open to him. His wife loves him more devotedly than ever, and is still as beautiful as when known as THE BELLE OF NEWPORT. * * * * * I’M DREAMING NOW. Speak gently, tread lightly—I’m dreaming now, And the soft light of Hope gilds my upturned brow, While brightly love-phantoms before me shine, And joy’s festal garlands around me entwine. Light carols the Future—I echo its lay, And am happy and glad as a young child at play. Speak softly and low:—Though I’m dreaming now, A shade from the _past_ presses cold on my brow: I list for loved voices—they greet not mine ear; And I watch—all in vain—for the forms once so dear. Naught, naught is forgot—and a quivering thrill, As I dwell on lang-syne, in my breast responds still.