Clara, however, was not satisfied; but having had some experience in regard to her husband’s sensitiveness when any question touching their property came up, she was afraid to say a great deal in opposition to a purpose that was so fully formed as to admit of no check without painful disturbance. So she permitted him to take his own way, neither approving nor objecting. Alfred understood, however, from his wife’s manner, that she had little confidence in the new business upon which he was about entering. “Happily, I will disappoint her fears,” was his consoling and strengthening reflection. “When her little property has swelled in value to fifty or sixty thousand dollars, how different will be her feelings! She will then understand the character of her husband better—will know that he is no common man.” With a presentiment of coming trouble, Clara saw their stock sold, and three thousand dollars paid over to Claxton; but she appeared to acquiesce in the transaction so entirely, that Alfred was deceived as to her real feelings. [_To be continued._ * * * * * [Illustration: THE PRIZE SECURED. Engraved expressly for Graham’s Magazine] * * * * * THE PIRATE. BY HENRY B. HIRST. TWELVE hours along the glowing strand The sunlight, like a flame, hath lain; The surf is swelling on the sand, And day is on the wane; And, like a shadow on the shore, The pallid plover winnows by, And, like a ghost’s, the heron’s cry Rises above the breakers’ roar. And eddies down the sky. Who saw her gliding from the stocks Would know my gallant brigantine? The granite teeth of rugged rocks Have torn my ocean queen: A royal ransom under deck, The slave of every wave, she lies Never, ah, nevermore to rise, A helpless hulk—a crumbling wreck— Before my dying eyes. Alone! alone! alas! alone! Not one of those who swayed the wave Survives, to hear my dying moan, Or give his chief a grave. No, no, not one; alone I tread These desolate, desert sands—alone, Where, in the moon, as they were thrown, My merry men lie, cold and dead And motionless as stone. Night after night, along the sea, In maiden modesty of mien, Glides, gazing mournfully on me, My gentle Geraldine. Her glances pierce my penitent heart, As like a statued saint she stands— A seraph from those unknown lands To which my soul must soon depart, Freed from its fleshy bands.