But Mrs. Castleton, though very gentle, could be very firm, when her own wishes were concerned, and as she did not care to meet Mr. Sutherland again, who had quite devoted himself to Grace the last few days at Niagara, and as his friend had been indifferent from the first, she saw no reason why she should stop there. As for the ball, she quite laughed at the girls for even wanting to go at all. “It’s useless to say any thing more, Ruth,” said Harry, in a loud tone. “She’s a selfish creature—that’s the end of it.” But that was not the “end of it,” for the three girls did not meet for a month that at least half an hour was not devoted to a lively abuse of their once _beau ideal_, “that lovely Mrs. Castleton.” And we are mistaken if Mary Randall, to whose joining the party Harry Meredith had so warmly objected, because he’d have to be civil to her, has not made a conquest of the same Mr. Harry Meredith. And there is every appearance of Trenton reminiscences leading to something with Grace and Mr. Sutherland; and so I rather think there’ll be two weddings next winter, at which Ruth will be bridemaid. * * * * * MARY. BY WILLIAM M. BRIGGS. THERE was a maiden once—so fair— So shy in look—yet so beguiling— With wealth of changeful golden hair, And eyes so bright, yet ever smiling; That fain thought I—so fair was she— It should be writ in Poesie! Her name was like a poet’s dream— And that sweet name, they call it Mary— A word of gentle, sunny sheen— Though names may, like young maidens, vary— And MAY, with woman’s wayward will, Had sometimes gleams of APRIL still! But often on some dreamy day, Out where the old green woods were swaying, When the blue skies stretched far away, And the glad sunshine’s every ray Seemed with each bud and floweret playing, And misty air and sunny beams Grew tempting-full of foolish dreams; Then would she sit in quiet mood, With thoughtful face and gentle tone; I dreamed the spirit of the wood Had come to tryst with me alone, And speak such earnest words as tell That human hearts may love too well: Such exquisite, sweet thoughts as rise From souls that artless passion moves, And mounting upward through the eyes Betray the heart that loves, And whisper, ere the lips can part, That love lies brooding at the heart. That love—young love—oh! who can tell How much there is of mad’ning pain For one who loves too deep—too well To be beloved so back again— To be so loved, yet doomed to see All that he loves droop hopelessly!