long."

"They have not done me justice, then," he said, quietly. "I seem to have
the warmest recollection of any. Good-night, Miss Mead. I shall not be
likely to see you again."

He gave me his hand, but it was very cold, and I let it slip as coldly
from mine. He went down the gravel-walk slowly and heavily, and he
certainly sighed as he closed the gate. Could I give him up thus? "Down
pride! You have held sway long enough! I must part more kindly, or die!"
I ran down the gravel-walk and overtook him in the avenue. He stopped as
I came up, and turned to meet me.

"Forgive me," I said, breathlessly. "I could not part with old friends
so, after wishing so much for them."

He took both my hands in his. "Have you wished for me, Rachel?" he said,
tenderly. "I thought you would scarcely have treated a stranger with so
little kindness."

"I was afraid to be warmer," I said.

"Afraid of what?" he asked.

My mouth was unsealed. "Are you to be married?" I asked.

"I have no such expectation," he answered.

"And are not engaged to any one?"

"To nothing but an old love, dear! Was that why you were afraid to show
yourself to me?"

"Yes!" I answered, making no resistance to the arm that was put gently
round me. He was mine now, I knew, as I felt the strong heart beating
fast against my own.

"Rachel," he whispered, "the only woman I ever did or ever can love,
will you send me away again?"

A SHETLAND SHAWL.

It was made of the purest and finest wool,
As fine as silk, and as soft and cool;
It was pearly white, of that cloud-like hue
Which has a shadowy tinge of blue;
And brought by the good ship, miles and miles,
From the distant shores of the Shetland Isles.

And in it were woven, here and there,
The golden threads of a maiden's hair,
As the wanton wind with tosses and twirls
Blew in and out of her floating curls,
While her busy fingers swiftly drew
The ivory needle through and through.

The warm sun flashed on the brilliant dyes
Of the purple and golden butterflies,
And the drowsy bees, with a changeless tune,
Hummed in the perfumed air of June,
As the gossamer fabric, fair to view,
Under the maiden's fingers grew.

The shadows of tender thought arise
In the tranquil depths of her dreamy eyes,
And her blushing cheek bears the first impress
Of the spirit's awakening consciousness,
Like the rose, when it