“Amelia, what is this—what does this mean? Whom do I hold on my arm?” “It is your Amelia,” said the girl—“Amelia Benton.” Mrs. Bertrand was placed in the chair which the captain had occupied, while he kneeling at her side, and Amelia rested her hand upon her mother’s knees. “It is Amelia Benton!” cried the captain—“but who are you?” “I am her daughter.” “No, no!” exclaimed Mrs. Bertrand, “not my daughter—not _my_ daughter; your daughter, sir—the child of Amelia Woodstock!” I saw this scene. I heard the wild burst of grief, of joy, of passion, of shame from the captain, and the anguished cry of the young Amelia, but I cannot describe them. She prevailed, nevertheless; and two months after that, Amelia Benton was again married to William Wilkinson; but not until she was satisfied that his “repentance was unto life, not to be repented of.” They left us, returning only for an occasional visit. Yet one of their children, and his daughter, Amelia, are buried in this village. She lived to do good, and to enjoy the blessings she had assisted to promote. She died with no wish ungratified, and was buried here; strange as it may seem to you, buried where the sunny hours of childhood had been spent, and where she had in that childhood selected a spot in which she desired to await the call at which her mortality should put on immortality. * * * * * A SPANISH ROMANCE. BY FRANCES S. OSGOOD. BRIGHT fell thy smiling ray, Rosy Aurora! Where Alvarado lay, Dreaming of Mora! To the tent stole a youth Lovely as morning, Yet was his mien in sooth Full of proud scorning. Bright, wavy locks fell o’er Eyes wildly beaming, Deep the plumed cap he wore Shadowed their gleaming. To his pale cheek there came Hues like the sunset, For his light, fragile frame Thrilled for the onset. Fiercely his sword he drew, Bold was his bearing, While to the knight he threw Words of wild daring. Crying—“Thou craven false!” Dark the knight lowered— “He who in battle halts Proves him a coward.” Long had he calmly heard— Brave Alvarado— Deeming each daring word Boyish bravado; But as that bitter name Left the lip curling, Flashed his swift sword—a flame Through the air whirling. Proud as his princely foe, Dauntless in danger, Springing to meet the blow Sprang the bright stranger. Home struck the steel—and ah! At his feet lying, Pale as a waning star— _Who_ is it dying? Back fall the cap and plume, Back the bright tresses— No more her rosy bloom Meets his caresses. Lightly her lovely hair Floats o’er his shoulder, To his heart’s mad despair Soft his arms fold her.