MERRY CHRISTMAS QUICKSTEP. Composed and arranged for the Piano-Forte, for Godey's Lady's Book. BY WILSE REITMEYER. As published by J. STARR HOLLOWAY, 811 Spring Garden St., Philada. f GODEY'S Lady's Book and Magazine. VOLUME XCIII.-NO. 558. PHILADELPHIA, DECEMBER, 1876. A SEALED LEAF. BY LOUISE BARTON. It was such a sombre room, that, long before the darkness closed without, shadows were gathering in far-off twilight corners, and the dying embers on the hearth could only throw a fitful glow there, chasing but not routing them. No sound, except the cricket on the cheerless hearth, whose chirping was a mockery. Yet there were other sounds to Maurice Eliot's ear. Unearthly echoes of long-passed footsteps-the mockery of remembered laughter, the murmur of a merry, loving voice silent now in the old grange. The ivy-boughs which tossed against the window where he stood, framed in one of those memory-pictures which are often more real to us than anything on which our mortal eyes can look. Ten years faded out, and the last Christmas Eve which he had spent in the grange was here again; here, with its music and its lights, its bright, fair faces and light forms threading the dance in this old hall. At this same window he had stood with Grace, the orphan cousin brought up under her father's roof. What a fairy queen she looked that night-robed in white, without ornament until he, Maurice, plucked an ivy-spray for the massive braids of her golden hair. Just as now, the wind was wailing then, and gust by gust on the pane great rain-drops scattered through the trailing ivy-boughs. But they were not heard through the dance; and little Grace, at her casement, was shut from view by the dancers. Shut from view of Maurice presently, as Lady Mary's hand again and again touched his, sometimes lingering, as if she were not loath her tardy lover should know that the hand his father and the earl were ready to place in his, she was not cruelly resolved to draw away. What wonder, then, that he kept it-that he was pleading to keep it, when a rustle behind caused him to turn quickly-to meet the flash of two great, startled eyes, and the proud mouth of Grace. The picture faded there. To-night the sequel, in which the Lady Mary had thrown him over, was as nothing to him. He had gone abroad after her wedding, at which he was a guest, and had been absent almost through ten years till now. He only knew of Grace that she was no longer at the grange, but made her quiet home in the village. Never a line nor word had passed between them. He would have felt it an insult to offer her the heart just flung aside by the rival he had preferred before her. But these thoughts were unendurable. seized his hat, and went out hurriedly into the chill gloaming. He The wind was cutting on the terrace height, and he descended to the moorland's wooded edge. At first he strode along with no object save to escape from memories which dogged him still at every turn. His thoughts were in a whirl more painful than ever, as he stumbled on aimlessly in the dim light, over dead boughs, or waded through the withered leaves. The wind went with him shrieking out many a weird lament. Yonder lay the scattered village-here at last the cottage left to Grace with her little annuity. Close at hand, at the near end of the one street, Eliot bowed his head and passed under the bare rose-boughs of the arbored gate, and thence up the dripping gravel walk. The dusk had deepened by this time, so that he could discern but the dim outline of the closecut hedge. A horse saddled and tethered outside might well escape his observation. As he set his foot upon the porch, and the tangled rose-boughs drooped behind him, the light which had streamed faintly through them now shone full and softly from the windows of the parlor. White curtains fell before them, it is true, but in transparent folds, and the one nearest him was half caught back. Involun- have I done, anything to wound you? Do you tarily he paused and looked. It was a small, plain room-might have been called bare, but for the cheerful adorning of flowers in the windows, and the air of occupation in books and work on the bright-covered table, and music open on the cottage piano. The simple furniture, however, had need of no gilding in the ruddy fire-glow, and any other Christmas ornament the room required, it was fast receiving. For, mounted on a table serving as a step-ladder, a man was arranging Christmas-holly above a picture, while a little lady stood on the hearth-rug holding towards him, at arm's length, branch after branch of glittering green. Presently, with a bird-like movement of the golden head to one side, she stepped back a pace or two, looking up at his handiwork criticizingly. The gesture, the attitude, were so exactly those familiar in the bygone years to Eliot, that those years vanished away, and he forgot he had no right to stand there watching her. Forgot all, save that Grace was before him. Grace, paler, indeed, and graver than of old, and with a firm, light line or two about the pink-lipped mouth. But still Grace of the lovely figure, the fair, still girlish face, and the tiny hands dropped in a loose clasp before her. Her companion glanced around. "Is it all right, Miss Eliot?" he asked, smiling, and answered by her smile. 'Well, not quite," she demurred. "I'm afraid, Mr. Artist, your hand is rather stiff. Don't you think something lighter drooping down the side-something with a little more”— "A little more of Grace? That ivy at your foot-will not that do?" "Ivy?" she repeated, slowly, "I did not see it before. I did not know you had brought any, Mr. Livingstone. How luxuriant this is!" He had turned again to the adjustment of the scarlet berries. He replied: "There is not much, you see. Just that bough which you hold and another. I was riding by the grange last evening-you know what a bower there is over the north windows. I confess to being guilty of petty larceny, for I thought a garland from your old home would brighten Christmastide. That branch now, please-I have a place for it just here.” He extended his hand for it; but, after an instant, finding that nothing was offered to his grasp, and that no reply was made, he looked around. Grace was standing there, her blue eyes flashing, fixed on vacancy, and the hot blood rushing to her brow. The ivy was no longer in her careless hold. She had dropped it suddenly upon the hearth, and her foot spurned it aside impatiently. Livingstone sprang from his place, and was at her side in an instant. not know that for worlds I would not hurt you? It tortures me to see you thus. Grace, are you angry with me?" for she had turned from him, had suddenly thrown herself into the arm-chair by the table, and laid her brow down on it, shivering from head to foot. Not a sound escaped her, however; and, when he drew near, pouring forth eager, incoherent words, the burden of which was still his love, untold before, she did not stir for a long moment. Then she lifted her head slowly. There were no tears, nor traces of them, on the crimson cheeks. But even the watcher at the window could see how her hand shook, as, instead of answering, she reached forward, and drew a small desk toward her. She took a key from her work-box deliberately, and unlocked it; and then, more deliberately still, she lifted letter after letter, till she came to a worn envelope. She hesitated then; her color changed, and she half moved to lay the envelope in its place again. But she did not. As if summoning her utmost resolution, slowly, painfully, she held it out to Livingstone. It was without address, and sealed. He tore it open hastily. No letter, not a scrap of paper in it; but as he held it up, a dry, dead ivy-leaf fell out. He looked at her inquiringly. A quiver passed across her mouth, and once and again she tried to speak, but utterance failed. But her eyes did not shrink from his, and presently she spoke, so clearly that every word might be heard at the near window. "Only an ivy-leaf, you see-an ivy-leaf from that north window of the grange. But, before you spoke those words to me, you should have known the story I see written on that withered thing. This night ten years ago it was worn in a girl's hair; placed there lightly by a hand to which she thought her own as well as pledged. Not that there had been a word spoken on either side. Both understood without a word. You know the saying,” she added, bitterly-"one does not need to prove that the sun shines. But neither was fettered by a promise, and he showed his sense of freedom on that very night by pledging himself to another woman. Since that time, this one leaf from his wreath has lain sealed in this desk as a memento." He had not moved, nor dropped his eyes from hers. He had only grown very pale, and his lips were white as he said distinctly:— "As a memento of his love?" "No, no; of his falsehood." "Grace," and he came a step nearer, and laid the envelope down between them on the table, "do you still love this man?" Her color rose again, but still her lashes did not fall, and still her face was raised to his. The watcher without listened breathlessly. "Miss Eliot-Grace," he cried, "have I said, Had not the whole world of those two that |