istook my feelings for him from
the first. I fancied I loved him dearly, when I only loved him as a
sister. Believe me, if that love had existed once for him, his foolish
infatuation for Kate Barclay would not have been regarded by me one
moment."

Two or three years passed, and Effie still remained unwedded, when, to
our delight, Mr. Grayson, who had returned from Europe, again
addressed her. She accepted him; and I was, indeed, happy when I
officiated as bridesmaid for her. One year after that joyous wedding
we stood over her bier, weeping bitter, bitter tears. We laid her in
the grave--and the heart-broken mother soon rested beside her. Among
her papers was a letter directed to me; it was written in expectation
of death, although we did not any of us anticipate such a calamity.

"I am not long for this world, dear Enna," she wrote, "I feel I am
dying daily; and yet, young as I am, it grieves me not, except when I
think of the sorrow my death will occasion to others. When you read
this I shall be enveloped in the heavy grave-clothes; but then I shall
be at rest. Oh! how my aching, weary spirit pines for rest. Do not
fancy that sorrow or disappointment has brought me to this. I fancied
I loved Lucien Decker fondly, devotedly; and how happy was I when
under the influence of that fancy. That fatal summer, at the time of
his infatuation for that heartless girl, insensibly a chilling
hardness crept over my feelings. I struggled against my awakening; and
if Lucien had displayed any emotion before his departure, I might
still have kept up the happy delusion. But in vain, it disappeared,
and with it all the beauty of life, which increased in weariness from
that moment. I sought for some object of interest--I married; but,
though my husband has been devoted and kind, I weary of existence.
Life has no interest for me. I hail the approach of death. Farewell."

I read these sad lines with eyes blinded with tears; and I could not
help thinking how Effie had deceived herself; unconsciously she had
become a victim of the very pride she had condemned.

EARLY ENGLISH POETS.

BY ELIZABETH J. EAMES.

I.--CHAUCER.

Yea! lovely are the hues still floating o'er
Thy rural visions, bard of olden time,
The form of purest Poesy flits before
My mental gaze, while bending o'er thy rhyme.
No lofty flight, bold, brilliant and sublime--
But tender beauty, and endearing grace,
An