"I _have_ found it!" she cried, betrayed into a transport of feeling; then, checking herself, she added, "and I have lost it. Would to God I had never found it!" Her head drooped--it touched my shoulder; my arm pressed her waist--I was ignorant of it; a haze swam before my eyes. Tumultuous sensations beat audibly at my heart. Astræa, the haughty beauty--the intellectual, proud Astræa--where was her dominant power--her lofty self-possession now? Subdued, bowed down by emotion, the strength of her will seemed to pass from her to me, reversing our positions, and placing in my hands the ascendency she had so lately wielded. The air seemed to palpitate with these new and agitating feelings. I made an effort to control myself and speak, but could only pronounce her name "Astræa!" There were a hundred questions in the word; but she was silent, and in her silence a hundred answers. "Not here, Astræa," I cried; "we shall be more free to speak elsewhere--away from those vacant eyes through which no hearts find utterance for us. One word, and I will be still--one word--" She trembled violently, and pressed my hand convulsively, as if she desired that I should not ask that word. But it was no longer possible to restrain it. That word was spoken. A shudder passed over her, and as she bent her head I felt a gush of tears upon my hand. At that moment a muffled step was on the stairs, and I had scarcely time to disengage myself when our imp half opened the door, and looked in with a leer of ribaldry and suspicion that chilled me to the core. (_To be continued._) WILLIAM PENN'S CONVERSION TO QUAKERISM.[1] [Footnote 1: From a new life of Penn, by Hepworth Dixon, in the press of Blanchard and Lea, Philadelphia.]