Wenna was coming down the steep road between the high hedges with a small girl on each side of her, whom she was leading by the hand. She was gayly talking to them: you could hear the children laughing at what she said. Old Mrs. Trelyon came to the conclusion that this merry young lady, with the light and free step, the careless talk and fresh color in her face, was certainly not dying of any love-affair. "Take the reins, grandmother, for a minute." He had leapt down into the road, and was standing before her almost ere she had time to recognize him. For a moment a quick gleam of gladness shone on her face: then, almost instinctively, she seemed to shrink from him, and she was reserved, distant, and formal. He introduced her to the old lady, who said something nice to her about her sister. The young man was looking wistfully at her, troubled at heart that she treated him so coldly. "I have got to break some news to you," he said: "perhaps you will consider it good news." She looked up quickly. "Nothing has happened to anybody--only some one has arrived. Mr. Roscorla is at the inn." She did not flinch. He was vexed with her that she showed no sign of fear or dislike. On the contrary, she quickly said that she must then go down to the inn; and she bade them both good-bye in a placid and ordinary way, while he drove off with dark thoughts crowding into his imagination of what might happen down at the inn during the next few days. He was angry with her, he scarcely knew why. Meanwhile Wenna, apparently quite calm, went on down the road, but there was no more laughing in her voice, no more light in her face. "Miss Wenna," said the smaller of the two children, who could not understand this change, and who looked up with big, wondering eyes, "why does oo tremble so?" [TO BE CONTINUED.] SONNET. The curious eye may watch her lovely face, Whereon such rare and roseate tinctures glow, And cry, How fair the rose and lily show Mid all the glories of a maiden grace! If this sweet show, this bloom and tender glance, Would so attract a stranger's unskilled eyes, Until he sees the light of Paradise Dawn in the garden of that countenance-- I, to whom love hath given finer powers, See there the emblems of a flowering soul That hath its root in other world than ours, And which doth ever seek its native goal; Meanwhile decks life with love and grace and flowers, And in one beauteous garland binds the whole. F.A. HILLARD. NICE.