“A strong shudder ran through her frame, the ice of artificial years cracked, and the clear stream of her woman’s nature welled up to the light, as pure as when she first lay on her mother’s bosom. She lifted up her eyes, and with one long look of passionate tenderness she faltered out,— “‘I love you!’ “He did not stir, but watched her with clasped hands, like one who in dreams finds himself in some fairy palace and fears that a movement may break the spell. “‘Now, go,’ she said; ‘go and let me collect my thoughts. All this has been too much for me. Do not look sad; you may come again to-morrow.’ “She smiled, and held out her hand. He caught it, covered it with kisses, and pressed it to his heart. She half drew it back, frightened. The sensation was new to her. Again the delicious feeling of being utterly in his power came over her, and she left her hand upon his heart, and blushed as she felt its passionate throbbings. “He turned to go,—not as before. She followed with greedy eyes her new-found treasure; and as the door closed behind him she felt as if Lancelot was the whole world and there was nothing beside him, and wondered how a moment had made him all in all to her; and then she sunk upon her knees and folded her hands upon her bosom, and her prayers for him were like the prayers of a little child.” The colors of these pictures are painfully heightened by contrast with the gloom of the valley of the shadow of death, through which Argemone was soon afterwards summoned to pass. * * * * * The treatment of this theme—a theme which is unfailingly attractive to both sexes, to youth with its yearnings and promptings, to age with its retrospects and reminiscences—deserves further selections. In “The Broken Pitcher” of Zchokke, the delightful German story-teller, is a pleasing scene which shows how the current of love ran smoothly at last, and how the ambitious plans of a match-making parent were defeated: “As they entered the parsonage she looked at him affectionately, and, seeing his bright eyes moistened with tears, she whispered in his ear, ‘_Dear Colin_.’ Then he bent down and kissed her hand. At this, the door of a room was opened, and the venerable form of Father Jerome stood before them. Just then the young folks seemed seized with giddiness, for they held fast to each other for support. I do not know whether it was the effect of the hand-kissing, or of their veneration for the good Father. “Mariette handed him the myrtle-wreath. He placed it around her brow, and said, ‘_Children, Love one another!_’ beseeching Mariette in the most tender and touching manner to love Colin. It seems that the old gentleman had either misunderstood the bridegroom’s name on account of his deafness, or had forgotten it in consequence of his failing memory, and thought of course that Colin must be the bridegroom.