"Years ago, my children, years ago,
When your mother was a child, she came
     From her northern home. and here she met
     Love for love, and comfort for regret,
In one early friend,—you know her name.

"And this friend—a few years older—gave
Such fond care, such love, that day by day
     The new home grew happy, joy complete,
     Studies easier, and play more sweet,
While all childish sorrows pass'd away.

"And your mother—fragile, like my May—
Leant on this deep love,—nor leant in vain.
     For this friend (strong, generous, noble heart!)
     Gave the sweet, and took the bitter part,—
Brought her all the joy, and kept the pain.

"Years pass'd on, and then I saw them first:
It was hard to say which was most fair,
     Your sweet mother's bright and blushing face,
     Or the graver Margaret's stately grace;
Golden locks, or braided raven hair.

"Then it happen'd, by a strange, sad fate,
One thought enter'd into each young soul:
     Joy for one—if for the other pain;
     Loss for one—if for the other gain:
One must lose, and one possess the whole.

"And so this—this—what they cared for—came
And belong'd to Margaret: was her own.
     But she laid the gift aside, would take
     Pain and sorrow for your mother's sake,
And none knew it but herself alone.

"Then she travell'd far away, and none
The strange mystery of her absence knew.
     Margaret's secret thought was never told:
     Even your mother thought her changed and cold,
And for many years I thought so too.

"She was gone; and then your mother took
That poor gift which Margaret cast aside:
     Flower, or toy or trinket, matters not—
     What it was, had better be forgot:
It vas just then she became my bride.

"Now, I think May knows the hope I have.
Arthur, darling, can you guess the rest?
     Even my little Olga understands
     Great gifts can be given by little hands,
Since of all gifts Love is still the best.

Margaret is my dear and honour'd wife,
And I hold her so. But she can claim
     From your hearts, dear ones, a loving debt
     I can neither pay, nor yet forget:
You can give it in your mother's name.

"Earth spoils even love, and here a shade
On the purest, noblest heart may fall:
     Now your mother dwells in perfect light,
     She will bless us, I believe, to-night,—
She is happy now, and she knows all."

Next day was farewell—a day of tears;
Yet Sir Arthur, as he rode away,
     And turn'd back to see his lady stand
     With the children clinging to her hand,
Look'd as if it were a happy day.

Ah, they loved her soon! The little one
Crept into her arms as to a nest;
     Arthur always with her now; and May
     Growing nearer to her every day:—
Well, I loved my own dear lady best.

A NEW MIND.

"I WILL tell you that lady's story," said
my friend, the doctor, after we had left the
Asylum, and while he was showing me the
way back to the railway-station; "and you
shall judge for yourself whether I am right
or wrong in granting her privileges which
are not enjoyed by my other patients,
and in allowing her to spend some hours
every day in the society of my wife and
children."

If you had been in the far West of England
about three years since; and if you had
happened to take up one of the Cornish
newspapers on a certain day of the month, which
need not be specially mentioned, you would
have seen this notice of a marriage at the
top of a column:—

On the third instant, at the parish church, the
Reverend Alfred Carling, Rector of Penliddy, to
Emily Harriet, relict of the late Fergus Duncan,
Esq., of Glendarn, N.B.

The rector's marriage did not produce a
very favourable impression in the town,
solely in consequence of the unaccountably
private and unpretending manner in which
the ceremony had been performed. The
middle-aged bride and bridegroom had
walked quietly to church one morning; had
been married by the curate, before any one
was aware of it; and had embarked
immediately afterwards in the steamer for Tenby,
where they proposed to pass their honeymoon.
The bride being a stranger at Penliddy,
all inquiries about her previous history
were fruitless; and the townspeople had no
alternative but to trust to their own
investigations for enlightenment when the rector
and his wife came home to settle among their
friends.

After six weeks' absence, Mr. and Mrs.
Cariing returned; and the simple story of
the rector's courtship and marriage was
gathered together in fragments, by inquisitive
friends, from his own lips, and from the lips
of his wife.

Mr. Cariing and Mrs. Duncan had met at
Torquay. The rector, who had exchanged
houses and duties for the season with a
brother clergyman settled at Torquay, had
called on Mrs. Duncan in his clerical
capacity, and had come away from the interview,
deeply impressed and interested by the
widow's manners, and conversation. The
visits were repeated; the acquaintance grew
into friendship, and the friendship into love
—ardent, devoted love on both sides. Middle-aged
man though he was, this was Mr.