ssed my
gratitude, she flung herself upon my shoulder, and said she would give
me herself."

"And was it not me you meant by the treasure you talked of?" said Miss
Arabel, starting up.

"No, madam. 'Twas my grandmother's portrait, by Sir Joshua Reynolds."

"Now, that's all right," said Mr Roe. "This young gentleman is the one
I talked of, Gus--that I wants to buy this house for. I don't think
your daughter will care to give it up to poor Charles that she took
such a fancy to"----

"They seem attached, sir," replied Mr Howard. "And if they like to
marry"----

"Bah!--he's to be married next week to my little grandchild, Fanny
Smith, and we'll include the pictures in the purchase-money, for one
of them is a portrait that was left by mistake when Bill Wilkins
bought the hall, and he would never give it back to the real owners.
But, now that Charles Walrond is to be my grandson, I'll take good
care he recovers his grandmother's likeness. Come--shall I go on and
give these ladies the facts of some of your other stories, or will you
close with my terms at once?"

Mr Gillingham Howard did not take long to decide, and a very short
time saw Surbridge Hall once more in the ancient line; and old Mr Roe,
in relating the means he used to expel the vainglorious descendant of
his partner, generally concluded with the moral, if not the words of
Shakspeare--"Men's pleasant vices make whips to scourge them."

VANITIES IN VERSE.

BY B. SIMMONS.

LETTERS OF THE DEAD.

TO LIVIA.

I.

How few the moons since last, immersed
In thoughts of fev'rish, worldly care,
My casket's heap'd contents reversed,
I sought some scroll I wanted there;
How died at once abstraction's air--
How fix'd my frame, as by a spell,
When on THY lines, so slight, so fair,
My hurrying glance arrested fell!

II.

My soul that instant saw thee far
Sit in thy crown of bridal flowers,
And with Another watch the star
We watch'd in vanish'd vesper hours.
And as I paced the lonely room,
I wonder'd how that holy ray
Could with its light a world illume
So fill'd with falsehood and decay.

III.

Once more--above those slender lines
I bend me with suspended breath--
The hand that traced them now reclines
Clasp'd in th' unclosing hand of Death.
The worm hath made that brow its own
Where Love his wreath so lately set;
And in this heart survive alone
Forgivene