almost persuaded me to follow the example of divine Achilles and 'refresh my soul with tears.' He has that tear-bringing privilege of genius, to a certainty." And so it seemed, indeed; for presently the worthy Mr. Buckhurst made his reappearance in quite a sad state, mopping his red face and swollen eyes most vigorously with a figured cotton handkerchief, and proclaiming, with as much intelligibility as the cold in his head and the peculiar circumstances of the case would admit of, that he'd "be dagg'd ef he hadd't raver be chucked idto _two_ cadawls dad 'ave dat iddocedt baby beggid his pardod about de codfouded duckid! Wat de hell did _he_ care about gittid wet, he'd like to kdow? Dodsedse!--'twad all dud id fud, adyhow!" ----"And now _you_, my dear, dear friends," said Clarian, turning his sad, full eyes upon us, and calling us to his side, and to his arms. But I shall draw a veil over that interview. That night, after we had talked long and lovingly together, and were now sitting, each absorbed in his own thoughts, and emulating the quiet that reigned around college, Clarian softly joined us, and placed an open book in Mac's hands. "Will you, dear Mac?" murmured he. Then Mac, all full of solemn emotion, read through the grand periods of the Church Litany, and when he had finished, Clarian, with a thrilling "Let us pray," offered up such a thanksgiving as I had never heard, praying to the kind Father who had so mercifully extricated him, that our paths might still be enlightened, and our walks made humble and righteous. "Clarian," said Mac, after a pause, when we were again on our feet,-- he laid his hands on the boy's shoulders, as he spoke, and looked into his eyes,--"Clarian, would it have happened, if you had not taken that foul drug?" Clarian shuddered, and covered up his face in his hands. "Do not ask me, dear Mac! do not ask me! Oh, be sure, my aims, I thought, were noble, and myself I thought so pure!--but--I cannot say, Mac, I cannot say. "'We are so weak, we know our motives least In their confused beginning.'" "At least, Clarian," said Mac, after a while, his deep voice wonderfully refined with strong emotion, "at least, the picture was not painted in vain. Even as it is in the play, Banquo died that his issue might reign after him; and this lesson of ours will bear fruit far mightier than the trifling pains of its parturition. Ay, Clarian, your picture has not been vainly painted.--And now, Ned," said he, rising, "we must put our baby to bed; for he is to wake early to-morrow, and know himself a man!" SPRING. Doves on the sunny eaves are cooing, The chip-bird trills from the apple-tree, Blossoms are bursting and leaves renewing, And the crocus darts up the spring to see. Spring has come with a smile of blessing, Kissing the earth with her soft warm breath, Till it blushes in flowers at her gentle caressing, And wakes from the winter's dream of death.