“Perhaps they may be,” I replied; “but I cannot answer to a certainty, for my means of ascertaining their endowments were very limited: they did not either of them direct a half-dozen words to me.” From this time there was a marked change visible in Fanny. There was no unusual gayety in her manner, but a habitual look of quiet happiness. She talked no more of her presentiment, and, though strongly tempted to do so, I could not bear to annoy her by reminding her of it. Harry Lambert was our constant visiter. No, not our, for his visits were evidently only meant for Fanny’s benefit. They walked, and rode, and played, and sang together; always preferring a duet to a trio, or quartette. His appearance in Mr. Alden’s neighborhood was entirely unexpected to both of us. We did not know where he had settled. During his visit to Philadelphia he had been very attentive to Fanny; yet we all regarded this as a mere flirtation, or rather as the attentive kindness of a friend, who had had no thought of becoming a lover, as he left the city without having made any profession of attachment to her. This, I ascertained since, was owing to his having been led to believe, just before the termination of his visit, that she loved another. Afterward he learned that these suspicions were unfounded, and deeply regretted that they had ever existed. Howard Russell performed the same part toward Caroline that Harry Lambert did to Fanny, during the remainder of our stay: but after the few first days had passed, I was not left companionless; for I formed some pleasant acquaintances there, the thoughts of which will be always dear to my memory. Before Fanny returned to Philadelphia, with the full consent of her parents, she had entered into an engagement with Harry Lambert, and the daguerreotype was left as her parting gift to him. Thus ended Fanny Day’s presentiment. * * * * * THE PALE THINKER. BY “ORAN.” I SAW him, at the dawn of day, come forth to greet the sun, With salutation not unlike Electra’s orison; And, as with sad, though manly voice, he breathed his morning prayer, I knew that, like Electra’s self, he felt the weight of care. “An idle student,” many said, “who talks to trees and flowers, And loiters by the running brook, and wastes away his hours.” I saw him in the maple wood, beside that murmuring stream, Stoop, gazing downward thoughtfully, as in a pleasant dream; And as he gazed thus often spoke—“O stream, away, away, To some far-off and unknown sea thou hastenest every day! And trees and flowers and stars and clouds are mirrored on thy breast, They cheer thee on with greetings kind thou smilest, but dost not rest. So to its far eternity the longing spirit goes— This stream of life—away—away—O God, how fast it flows!”