morning, my poor Mollee, and put on your best gown, and I will marry you!" Molly, was, as she afterwards declared, struck all of a heap. She gaped, and gasped with astonishment; and then a power of words were rushing and racing up her throat to her tongue's end: a glance at her master stopped their explosion. His hands were in his pockets, his face towards the fire, his pipe in his mouth. "Yes, sir," she replied, humbly and distinctly. A few tears trickled down her cheeks, as she curtseyed low at the door, and disappeared. She knew his ways, she thought within herself, as she walked very slowly down the stairs, and she congratulated herself that she had not risked another word in reply. "And now, Betty," she said, as she entered the kitchen, "I'll put the finishing stitch to my cap, and go to bed, for master will want nothing more to-night." She sat down quietly to work, and conversed quietly with Betty, not disclosing a word of her new prospects, Betty, however, observed that she took off the trimming with which her new cap had been already half-adorned. "Why, bless me, Molly!" she cried, "you are not going to put on that handsome white satin bow, are you?"--"Why, yes! I think I shall," replied Molly, "for now I look at your cap, with that there yellow riband upon it, mine seems to me quite old-maidish." The next morning, Molly got up before her sister, and put on her best gown and her new cap. The morning was dark and dull, and Betty was sleepy, and Molly kept the window-curtain and the bed-curtains closely drawn. Unsuspected, she slipped out of the chamber, her shawl and her bonnet in her hand. As the clock struck eight, Molly was standing beside her master before the rails of the marriage-altar; and, not long after, she burst upon the astonished eyes of her sister, as Mrs. Vanderclump. * * * * * _La Villegiatura_ is a pleasant article; but we do not think there is much of the "love of pastoral associations" left in the English character, and we are sorry for it. The _Rustic Wreath_, by Miss Mitford, is very sweet; the _Cacadore_, a story of the peninsular war, is a soul-stirring narrative; there is much pleasantry in Mrs. Hofland's _Comforts of Conceitedness; Virginia Water_, by the editor, could hardly be written by his fireside--it has too much local inspiration in every line; _Auguste de Valcour_, by the author of _Gilbert Earle_, is in his usual felicitous vein of philosophic melancholy; Miss Roberts has a glittering _Tale of Normandy_; the _Orphans_, by the editor, is simple and pathetic; _Palinodia_ we subjoin:--