id; may future blessings crown your
present happy prospects; and may your latter days never be embittered by
the premature loss of near and dear----"

Pungent grief here choaked his utterance, and at this moment Melissa,
falling upon her knees, "Dear father! she exclaimed, bursting into
tears, pardon deception; acknowledge your daughter--your own Melissa!"

Her father started--he gazed at her with scrutinizing attention, and
sunk back in his chair.--"My daughter! he cried--God of mysterious
mercy! it is my daughter!"

The guests caught the contagious sympathy; convulsive sobs arose from
all parts of the room. Melissa's father clasped her in his arms--"And I
receive thee as from the dead! he said. I am anxious to hear the mighty
mystery unfolded. But first let the solemn rites for which we are
assembled be concluded; let not an old man's anxiety interrupt the
ceremony."

"But you are apprised, sir, said Alonzo, of my inability to support your
daughter according to her deserts."

"Leave that to me, my young friend, replied her father. I have enough:
my children are restored, and I am happy."

Melissa soon resumed her former station. The indissoluble knot was tied:
they sat down to the wedding feast, and mirth and hilarity danced in
cheerful circles.

Before the company retired, Edgar related the most prominent incidents
of Alonzo and Melissa's history, since they had been absent. The guests
listened with attention: they applauded the conduct of our new bride and
bridegroom, in which Melissa's father cordially joined. They rejoiced to
find that Alonzo's father had regained his fortune, and copious
libations were poured forth in honour of the immortal Franklin.

And now, reader of sensibility, indulge the pleasing sensations of thy
bosom--for Alonzo and Melissa are MARRIED.

* * * * *

Alonzo's father was soon in complete repossession of his former
property. The premises from which he had been driven by his unfeeling
creditors, were yielded up without difficulty, and to which he
immediately removed. He not only recovered the principal of the fortune
he had lost, but the damages and the interest; so that, although like
Job, he had seen affliction, like him his latter days were better than
his beginning. But wearied with the bustles of life, he did not again
enter into the mercantile business, but placing his money at interest in
safe hands, lived retired on his little farm.

A few