"And are not engaged to any one?" "To nothing but an old love, dear! Was that why you were afraid to show yourself to me?" "Yes!" I answered, making no resistance to the arm that was put gently round me. He was mine now, I knew, as I felt the strong heart beating fast against my own. "Rachel," he whispered, "the only woman I ever did or ever can love, will you send me away again?" A SHETLAND SHAWL. It was made of the purest and finest wool, As fine as silk, and as soft and cool; It was pearly white, of that cloud-like hue Which has a shadowy tinge of blue; And brought by the good ship, miles and miles, From the distant shores of the Shetland Isles. And in it were woven, here and there, The golden threads of a maiden's hair, As the wanton wind with tosses and twirls Blew in and out of her floating curls, While her busy fingers swiftly drew The ivory needle through and through. The warm sun flashed on the brilliant dyes Of the purple and golden butterflies, And the drowsy bees, with a changeless tune, Hummed in the perfumed air of June, As the gossamer fabric, fair to view, Under the maiden's fingers grew. The shadows of tender thought arise In the tranquil depths of her dreamy eyes, And her blushing cheek bears the first impress Of the spirit's awakening consciousness, Like the rose, when it bursts, in a single hour, From the folded bud to the perfect flower. Many a tremulous hope and care, Many a loving wish and prayer, With the blissful dreams of one who stood At the golden gate of womanhood, The little maiden's tireless hands Wove in and out of the shining strands. The buds that burst in an April sun Had seen the wonderful shawl begun; It was finished, and folded up with pride, When the vintage purpled the mountain-side; And smiles made light in the violet eyes, At the thought of a lover's pleased surprise. The spider hung from the budding thorn His baseless web, when the shawl was worn; And the cobwebs, silvered by the dew, With the morning sunshine breaking through, The maiden's toil might well recall, In the vanished year, on the Shetland Shawl. For the rose had died in the autumn showers, That bloomed in the summer's golden hours; And the shining tissue of hopes and dreams, With misty glories and rainbow gleams Woven within and out, was one Like the slender thread by the spider spun. As fresh and as pure as the sad young face, The snowy shawl with its clinging grace Seems a fitting veil for a form so fair: But who would think what a tale of care, Of love and grief and faith, might all Be folded up in a Shetland Shawl? ROBA DI ROMA. [Continued.] CHAPTER VI. GAMES IN ROME.