e does not get well. She lingers on. She is not
strong enough to come to me. I cannot go to her. She will not consent.
They would declare I had run away. Her short letters are full of
encouragement and consolation. Ah, if these men knew--but we must be
patient. The doctor positively assures me she is doing very well."

Three weeks later I was again taking a walk through the Thiergarten,
wrapped in my cloak, for it was winter, when I perceived M. Delille
sitting on a quite wet bench. His face was very pale. I never saw a
sadder expression. Hoping to rally him, I said:

"What a melancholy countenance! What a brown study! Come, I have arrived
in time to laugh to you and of it!"

His face did not reply to my gayety. He asked after my health.

"But you are sitting on a wet, snowy bench. You will take cold."

"No, I shall not take cold."

"And how," said I, "is your----"

I paused, for I now for the first time remarked a black crape on his
hat.

He perceived my embarrassment and relieved me.

"My children?"

I was silent.

"They are very well, I thank you--they are very well."

"Come," added he, with an effort, after covering his eyes a moment with
his hand, "what have we now? Is there _really_ to be a war?"

THEODORE S. FAY.

INFLUENCES.

The southern bird, which, swift in airy speed,
Toward ruder regions wings its careless way,
Wafts from its plumage oft a floating seed,
Unheeded relic of some tropic day.

And lo! a wonder! on the spot beneath
The tiny germ asserts its mystic power;
With sudden bloom illumes the rugged heath,
And bursts at once to fragrance, light, and flower.

All the sad woodland flushes at the sight:
The brook, which murmured, sparkles now, and sings:
The cowslips watch, with yearning, strange delight,
The bird which shed such glories from its wings,

Watching it hover onward free and far;
Breathing farewell with restless doubt and pain.
What were a heaven with but one only star?
Must this be all? Will it not come again?

While the new lily, lonely in her pride,
Sighing through silver bells, repeats the strain,
Longing for sister blossoms at her side,
And whispering soft, Will it not come again?

CHARLES CARROLL.

DRIFT-WOOD.

THE TWELVE-MONTH SERMON.

The year's end is traditionally the seas