I attempted to seize her—she eluded my grasp, and ran shrieking from the room. I rushed wildly after her, shouting madly down the stairs—through the hall. I saw her white garments as she sprang through the street-door. “On—on—after her—after her!” cried the demon. But strong men seized me; they bound me with cords—they called me _mad_—they brought me here—they shut me up with maniacs; but I am not mad—no, no, no—not mad! The demon, with a fiendish joy, whispers, “Fanny was an angel—Fanny was innocent—that I have killed her!” Fanny! Fanny! Fanny—where are you? Come to me, my love! No, she will not come! the fiends are keeping her from me! Ah, I see them as they wind themselves around her delicate form—break from them, my angel—my wife, come to me! _See!_ she too laughs and mocks my groans! Now—now I am, indeed, growing mad—mad! * * * * * MISS DIX, THE PHILANTHROPIST. BY MRS. E. C. KINNEY. FROM the deep heart of Wo went up a groan That, piercing the cerulean vault of heaven, Found access to the great Eternal’s throne, Amid the prayers of such as are forgiven:— When, from that throne—where none but seraphs gaze, And only they as reverent worshipers— Like lightning through th’empyrean did blaze A mandate writ in shining characters! And then a spirit meek, yet pure as snow, The mission craved, and swiftly winged to earth, Where, in the modest form of woman, lo! That angel took a new, terrestrial birth! The form was woman’s—but the voice that spoke To love’s key-note attuned—the dauntless heart— The smile, that on Wo’s night like morning broke, Were still the angel’s—still of Heaven a part. And when the man of crime that eye beheld, And felt the power of that transforming smile, Beneath sin’s iron breastwork beat and swelled The heart that seemed in contrast doubly vile. Next to that glance of calm divinity, Through which the Saviour’s eye could guilt disarm, Was her mild look, from human passion free, Subduing evil by its silent charm. And as Christ’s voice made frantic demons flee, Or lulled the raging elements at will; So her soft tone made discord harmony, And frenzied minds obeyed its “peace, be still!” She through the dungeon’s gloom did fearless grope— Herself a light that on the sufferer gleamed— As if the day-star of celestial Hope Serenely through his grated window beamed. The eye, whose intellectual ray obscured, Had fixed on vacancy its soulless stare, Grew lucid from a spirit reassured In faith and trust, through Mercy’s brooding care. The ear, that only jarring sounds had heard, Now, listening to Love’s heavenly dialect, Was moved, as when an exile’s heart is stirred By native tones, ’mid strangeness and neglect.