The good countess, who in silent grief had beheld her son’s danger, and had even dreaded that the suspicion of his having destroyed his wife might possibly be true, finding her dear Helena, whom she loved with even a maternal affection, was still living, felt a delight she was hardly able to support; and the king, scarce believing for joy that it was Helena, said, “Is this indeed the wife of Bertram that I see?” Helena, feeling herself yet an unacknowledged wife, replied, “No, my good lord, it is but the shadow of a wife you see, the name and not the thing.” Bertram cried out, “Both, both! O pardon!” “O, my lord,” said Helena, “when I personated this fair maid, I found you wondrous kind; and look, here is your letter!” reading to him in a joyful tone those words, which she had once repeated so sorrowfully, _When from my finger you can get this ring_—“This is done, it was to me you gave the ring. Will you be mine, now you are doubly won?” Bertram replied, “If you can make it plain that you are the lady I talked with that night, I will love you dearly, ever, ever dearly.” This was no difficult task, for the widow and Diana came with Helena purposely to prove this fact; and the king was so well pleased with Diana, for the friendly assistance she had rendered the dear lady he so truly valued for the service she had done him, that he promised her also a noble husband: Helena’s history giving him a hint that it was a suitable reward for kings to bestow upon fair ladies when they perform notable services. Thus Helena at last found that her father’s legacy was indeed sanctified by the luckiest stars in heaven; for she was now the beloved wife of her dear Bertram, the daughter-in-law of her noble mistress, and herself the countess of Rossilion. THE LAST SNOW OF WINTER. By SARAH DOUDNEY. Soft snow still rests within this wayside cleft, Veiling the primrose buds not yet unfurled; Last trace of dreary winter, idly left On beds of moss, and sere leaves crisply curled; Why does it linger while the violets blow, And sweet things grow? A relic of long nights and weary days, When all fair things were hidden from my sight; A chill reminder of those mournful ways I traversed when the fields were cold and white; My life was dim, my hopes lay still and low Beneath the snow. Now spring is coming, and my buried love Breaks fresh and strong and living through the sod; The lark sings loudly in the blue above, The budding earth must magnify her God; Let the old sorrows and old errors go With the last snow! CONJURORS. By THOMAS FROST.