will therefore understand what I mean, Mr. Burr, when I say, that, during the time of her stay with us, we should prefer not to receive calls from you.

“Your language, Miss Scudder, has certainly the merit of explicitness."

"I intend it shall have, sir," said Mary tranquilly; "half the misery in the world comes of want of courage to speak and to hear the truth plainly and in a spirit of love."

"I am gratified that you add the last clause, Miss Scudder; I might not otherwise recognize the gentle being whom I have always regarded as the impersonation of all that is softest in woman. I have not the honor of understanding in the least the reason of this apparently capricious sentence, but I bow to it in submission.

ners.

"Mr. Burr," said Mary, walking up to him, and looking him full in the eyes, with an energy that for the moment bore down his practiced air of easy superiority, "I wish to speak to you for a moment, as one immortal soul should to another, without any of those false glosses and deceits which men call ceremony and good manYou have done a very great injury to a lovely lady, whose weakness ought to have been sacred in your eyes. Precisely because you are what you are,-strong, keen, penetrating, and able to control and govern all who come near you, because you have the power to make yourself agreeable, interesting, fascinating, and to win esteem and love, just for that reason you ought to hold yourself the guardian of every woman, and treat her as you would wish any man to treat your own daughter. I leave it to your conscience, whether this is the manner in which you have treated Madame de Frontignac."

"Upon my word, Miss Scudder," began Burr, "I cannot imagine what representations our mutual friend may have been making. I assure you our intercourse has been as irreproachable as the most scrupulous could desire."

"Irreproachable!-scrupulous!—Mr. Burr, you know that you have taken the very life out of her. You men can have everything, ambition, wealth, power; a thousand ways are open to you; women have nothing but their heart; and when that is gone, all is gone. Mr. Burr, you remember the rich man who had flocks and herds, but nothing would do for him but he must have the one little ewelamb which was all his poor neighbor had. Thou art the

man! You have stolen all the love she had to give,—all that she had to make a happy home; and you can never give her anything in return, without endangering her purity and her soul, and you knew you could not. I know you men think this is a light matter; but it is death to us. What will this woman's life be? One long struggle to forget; and when you have forgotten her, and are going on gay and happy,-when you have thrown her very name away as a faded flower, she will be praying, hoping, fearing for you; though all men deny you, yet will not she. Yes, Mr. Burr, if ever your popularity and prosperity should leave you, and those who now flatter should despise and curse you, she will always be interceding with her own heart and with God for you, and making a thousand excuses where she cannot deny; and if you die, as I fear you have lived, unreconciled to the God of your fathers, it will be in her heart to offer up her very soul for you, and to pray that God will impute all your sins to her, and give you heaven. Oh, I know this, because I have felt it in my own heart!" and Mary threw herself passionately down into a chair, and broke into an agony of uncontrolled sobbing.

Burr turned away, and stood looking through the window; tears were dropping silently, unchecked by the cold, hard pride which was the evil demon of his life.

In a few moments Mary rose with renewed calmness and dignity, and, approaching him, said,-"Before I wish you good morning, Mr. Burr, I must ask pardon for the liberty I have taken in speaking so very plainly.”

"There is no pardon needed, my dear child," said Burr; and turning, he bowed, and was gone.

Harriet Beecher Stowe.

GAYETY.

In this class of selections the same suggestions that were made on the subject of common reading are pertinent and practical. However, greater variety of intonation, a quicker movement, and a higher pitch, are required. Flexibility of voice is indispensable, so that the slides of the fifth and octave may be easily reached, while the voice remains free from strain and harshness.

GAY AND ANIMATED SELECTIONS.

THE DAFFODILS.

I wandered lonely as a cloud

That floats on high o'er vales and hills,
When all at once I saw a crowd,-

A host of golden daffodils

Beside the lake, beneath the trees,
Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.

Continuous as the stars that shine
And twinkle on the Milky Way,
They stretched in never-ending line
Along the margin of a bay;
Ten thousand saw I, at a glance,
Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.

The waves beside them danced, but they
Outdid the sparkling waves in glee;
A poet could not but be gay

In such a jocund company;

I gazed-and gazed-but little thought
What wealth the show to me had brought.

For oft, when on my couch I lie,

In vacant or in pensive mood,

They flash upon that inward eye
Which is the bliss of solitude;
And then my heart with pleasure fills,

And dances with the daffodils.

William Wordsworth.

CUPID SWALLOWED.

T' other day, as I was twining
Roses for a crown to dine in,

What, of all things, midst the heap,
Should I light on, fast asleep,
But the little desperate elf,-
The tiny traitor,-Love himself!
By the wings I pinched him up
Like a bee, and in a cup

Of my wine I plunged and sank him;

And what d' ye think I did?—I drank him!
Faith, I thought him dead. Not he!
There he lives with tenfold glee;
And now this moment, with his wings,
I feel him tickling my heart-strings.

Leigh Hunt.

THE SOUTH WIND AND THE SUN.

O the South Wind and the Sun!
How each loved the other one-
Full of fancy-full of folly-

Full of jollity and fun!

How they romped and ran about,
Like two boys when school is out,

With glowing face, and lisping lip,
Low laugh, and lifted shout!

And the South Wind-he was dressed
With a ribbon round his breast

That floated, flopped and fluttered
In a riotous unrest;

And a drapery of mist,

From the shoulder and the wrist

Flowing backward with the motion

Of the waving hand he kissed.

And the Sun had on a crown
Wrought of gilded thistle-down,
And a scarf of velvet vapor,
And a raveled-rainbow gown;
And his tinsel-tangled hair,
Tossed and lost upon the air,
Was glossier and flossier
Than any anywhere.

And the South Wind's eyes were two

Little dancing drops of dew,

As he puffed his cheeks, and pursed his lips,

And blew, and blew, and blew!

And the Sun's-like diamond-stone,

Brighter yet than ever known,

As he knit his brows and held his breath, And shone, and shone, and shone!

And this pair of merry fays

Wandered through the summer days;

Arm in arm they went together

Over heights of morning haze

Over slanting slopes of lawn

They went on, and on, and on,

Where the daisies looked like star-tracks

Trailing up and down the dawn.

And where'er they found the top

Of a wheat-stalk droop and lop,

They chucked it underneath the chin

And praised the lavish crop,

Till it lifted with the pride

Of the heads it grew beside,

And then the South Wind and the Sun Went onward satisfied.