“And is it possible,” she thought, “that I should be such a fool as to envy them because they looked gay and graceful across the opera house? And half of the rest of them are, doubtless, no better. Oh for one pleasant, spirited talk with Allan Fitzhugh.” And then her mind traveled off to home and a certain clever young lawyer, and she fell asleep dreaming she was in C——, and was once again a _belle_, (as one always is in one’s dreams,) and awoke to another dull day of neglect and commonplaces, to return home more disenchanted of the gay world and its glitter, more thoroughly contented than she ever would have been with her own intelligent and animated home, had she not passed three days at Woodlawn, amid the dullness of wealth, unembellished by true refinement or enlightened by a ray of wit. But it was all right. To Annie had been given that which she most appreciated; to the Hautons all that they were capable of enjoying. Would either party have changed? No. The pity was mutual, the contempt was mutual, and the satisfaction of both sides as complete as ever falls to the lot of mortals. Annie had seen the other side of the medal, and the Hautons did not know there was another side to be seen. * * * * * THE WASTED HEART. BY MISS L. VIRGINIA SMITH. “The trees of the forest shall blossom again, The song-bird shall warble its soul-thrilling strain, But the heart Fate hath wasted no spring can restore, And its song shall be joyful—no more, never more.” A blush was deepening through the folded leaves Of that young, guileless heart, and far within Upon the altar of her soul a flame Like to an inspiration came; she _felt_ That she had learned to love as e’en the heart Of woman seldom loves. She was an orphan child, and sorrow’s storm With bitter breath had swept her gentle soul; But that was past—and fresh in purity It reveled in a blissful consciousness— It _loved_, and _was beloved_. She _knew_ she loved—and when the twilight dim Stole on with balmy silence, she would list A coming step, whose music fall kept time To all the hurried throbbings of her heart, And when it stayed, a softened glance would seek Her drooping eye, whose deepest faith had poured Its dreamy worship forth so fearlessly; Eyes that to him alone were _never_ silent, Whose glances sometimes sought for his, and threw Their light far through his spirit, till it thrilled To music every tightened nerve that strung The living lyre of being.