But for the first time throughout the day, the gentle combatant played carelessly. Her eyes were riveted upon the countenance of her opponent, rather than as previously, fixed upon the board. Her moves seemed made without foresight, resembling those of a beginner more than an adept, and she failed to crown a single king. In a word, the meanest antagonist might have won the game at issue, and in a quarter of an hour her opponent gained an easy victory. “Dare I,” asked he—gathering some suspicion of a preference on her part, which alone could have led to this result, after the skill she had previously manifested towards his rivals—“dare I presume to claim the rich reward?” His voice grew lower—he drew his chair to her side, and ventured to raise his eyes to her countenance. It beamed sweet affection; and as she extended her hand to meet his, the nobleman grasped the treasure as one which that gesture made willingly and confidingly his own. The victorious gallant was Lord R., and ere another winter, the Lady Arabella H—— became his bride. Draughts went out of fashion in the _beau monde_, but, during their hours of privacy, the game continued, throughout their life-time, a favorite recreation of the happy pair whom it was instrumental in bringing to a blissful union. * * * * * THE “STILL SMALL VOICE.” BY A NEW CONTRIBUTOR. THE stars were weary—all the summer night They held high revelry through heaven’s blue halls, And danced along their wanton wanderings To the weird chiming of the “Sister Seven,” Now, slowly paling like young beauty’s cheek Returning from the midnight festival, Their glances faded, lest they should behold The gentle dalliance of the earth and sky. The silver lute of the young morning star Thrilled faintly into silence, as the dawn With red lip kissed the mountain’s snowy brow, Which, bathed in softest slumber, blushed to own The gentle pressure. As the waves of light Broke o’er the margin of a darkened world, In golden ripples, faintly they revealed Bright uplands, where the spirit of the mist Hung low upon the bosom of the hills, And wept soft dewy tears, while o’er their crests Swept her long tresses of the wreathing cloud, With white peaks flashing through their tangled curls, Like jewels crushed in the disheveled hair Of maniac beauty, in some gentle hour Of quiet sadness; and more faintly still, Gleamed through the shadows at the mountain’s base, Where smiling valleys dimpled Nature’s cheek, And laughing meadows cradled singing streams.