"O, I forgot that I had not told you," said she, pushing back her hat, and speaking like one determined to go through with the thing. "Why, cousin, I have been told that you spoke of my manners towards yourself as being freer--more--obtrusive than they should be. And now," said she, her eyes flashing, "you see it was not a very easy thing to tell you, but I began with being frank, and I will be so, for the sake of satisfying _myself_." To this William simply replied, "Who told you this, Mary?" "My aunt." "Did she say I said it to her?" "Yes; and I do not so much object to your saying it as to your _thinking_ it, for you know I did not force myself on your notice; it was you who sought my acquaintance and won my confidence; and that you, above all others, should think of me in this way!" "I never did think so, Mary," said William, quietly. "Nor ever _said_ so?" "Never. I should think you might have _known_ it, Mary." "But----" said Mary. "But," said William, firmly, "Aunt Abigail is certainly mistaken." "Well, I am glad of it," said Mary, looking relieved, and gazing in the brook. Then looking up with warmth, "and, cousin, you never must think so. I am ardent, and I express myself freely; but I never meant, I am sure I never _should_ mean, any thing more than a sister might say." "And are you sure you never could, if all my happiness depended on it, Mary?" She turned and looked up in his face, and saw a look that brought conviction. She rose to go on, and her hand was taken and drawn into the arm of her cousin, and that was the end of the first and the last difficulty that ever arose between them. THE MINISTRATION OF OUR DEPARTED FRIENDS. A NEW YEAR'S REVERY. "It is a beautiful belief, That ever round our head Are hovering on viewless wings The spirits of the dead." While every year is taking one and another from the ranks of life and usefulness, or the charmed circle of friendship and love, it is soothing to remember that the spiritual world is gaining in riches through the poverty of this. In early life, with our friends all around us,--hearing their voices, cheered by their smiles,--death and the spiritual world are to us remote, misty, and half-fabulous; but as we advance in our journey, and voice after voice is hushed, and form after form vanishes from our side, and our shadow falls almost solitary on the hillside of life, the soul, by a necessity of its being, tends to the unseen and spiritual, and pursues in another life those it seeks in vain in this. For with every friend that dies, dies also some especial form of social enjoyment, whose being depended on the peculiar character of that friend; till, late in the afternoon of life, the pilgrim seems to himself to have passed over to the unseen world in successive portions half his own spirit; and poor indeed is he who has not familiarized himself with that unknown, whither, despite himself, his soul is earnestly tending.