broke forth:

Like a water-lily floating,
On the bosom of a rill,
Like a star sent back to Heaven,
When the lake is calm and still;
A woman's soul lies dreaming,
On the stilly waves of life,
Till love comes with its sunshine--
Its tenderness and strife.

Then hope grows bright and glorious,
Her faith is deep and strong,
And her thoughts swell out like music
Set to a heavenly song;
Her heart has twined its being,
And awakes from its repose
As that water-lily trembles
When its chalice overflows.

Then she feels a new existence--
For the loveless do not live!--
The best wealth of the universe
Is hers to keep and give--
Wealth, richer than earth's golden veins
That yield their blood to toil,
And brighter than the diamond lights
That burn within the soil.

Oh, her soul is full of richness,
Like a goblet of old wine
Wreathed in with purple blossoms
And soft tendrils of the vine;
Its holy depths grow luminous,
Its strings are sweet with tune,
And the visions floating through it
Have the rosiness of June.

Oh, she counts not time by cycles,
Since the day that she was born!
From the soul-time of a woman
Let all the years be shorn
Not full of grateful happiness--
Not brimming o'er with love--
Not speaking of her womanhood
To the Holy One above.

Mabel gave a start as the first words of this melody fell upon her ear,
and the slow crimson stole over her face; she kept her gaze steadily on
the carpet, and had any one looked at her, the sadness of her
countenance must have been remarked. But the young people were occupied
with each other, and James Harrington sat, like herself, preoccupied and
listening. As Lina broke into another and lighter air, the two looked
up, and their eyes met. The blush on Mabel's cheek spread and glowed
over her brow and temples. She arose, and went to the window.

"You have heard this before, I think," said Harrington, following her.

"Yes," answered Mabel, regaining self-control; "and always truthful. I
remembered it at once."

"And the author?"

Again Mabel blushed. "Oh, it was written years ago."

"Then you were the author?"

"Oh, yes; why not. I wrote a great many trifles like that at one time."

"I knew it; I was sure of it."

That instant the governess came in, followed