Stoop down and pluck a rosebud— In summer's golden blaze? I take the rose you give me Its petals damp with dew; I scent its fragrant odour, But scarce can see its hue. In memory of to-night, Joe, When dead I'll keep it still; The rose may fade and witherOur love, dear, never will. Quick! quick! my footsteps falter; Oh, take me in again, I cannot bear the air, Joe, My poor eyes feel the strain. Home, home, and bring my children, And place them at my knee, And let me look upon them While yet I've time to see. Then take them gently from me, My last fond look, dear husband, You've been my dear old sweetheart I want to see you wearing I want to take it with me To make my darkness light. God bless you, Joe, for tryingYes, that's the dear old look! I'll think of that sweet story When God has closed the book. Joe, fetch me down the picture I'd like to see the picture Once more, dear, while I may, Though in my heart it lingers As though 'twere yesterday. Ah! many bairns came after, But none were like to him. Come closer to me, darling, The light is growing dim. Come closer-so; and hold me, And press your face to mine. I'm in a land of shadows, Where ne'er a light can shine. But with your arm around me, What danger need I fear? I'll never need my eyes, Joe, While your strong arm is near. Now, be a brave old darling, I saw your face the last, dear, I saw your face the last, dear- Now you must be my eyesight, Through all the sunless land, And down life's hill we'll wander, Like lovers, hand in hand. Till God shall lift the curtain Beyond these realms of pain; And there, where blind eyes open, I'll see your face again. HAT had Paul been saying to Patty | nowhere, it was so blocked with lofty scarlet bean Westropp? Very little indeed. At the angle of the lane where Mr. Beaufort left them the girl hurried on, and before Paul could overtake her she ran away through a little white gate that seemed to lead vines. However, these bespoke the unseen presence of a cottage; and moving on a few steps, Paul came in view of the low whitewashed dwelling, with its cabbage garden. The garden showed signs of thrifty cultivation. The cabbage-stumps were left to sprout, and rows open door behind it, blushing under her white sun-bonnet. 66 She made such a picture there among the pink and white flowers that the artist in Paul got the better of the mere human being. Will you stand there a minute, please? Yes, like that; thank you." He had put in as much as he wanted of her in five minutes, and then threw his head first over one shoulder, then over the other, to look at his handiwork; Patty stood still, blushing and smiling, far happier than she would have been at the finest compliment in mere words from the stranger gentleman. tears out of her eyes. "Finished!" She knew nothing about sketching, but she felt sure that no one could make a proper painted portrait of her in that minute a painted portrait like Miss Nuna's up at the Rectory when she was a little girl, or those grander ones at the Park, which Patty had seen long ago, when as a child she had been taken up to the housekeeper's room to be shown to the grand lady who kept Lord Storton's keys. The little puss had been expecting that a full-length picture would grow by magic out from Paul's fingers, and she felt as if she had fallen into a trap. Seeing that she made no movement towards him, Paul jumped over the low fence, and crossed the Her portrait painted by a real London artist!- bit of garden between it and the porch. for she felt sure he came from London. Something in her face struck him; she looked "I wonder what Miss Coppock will say? She disappointed, he thought. "Would you like to see the sketch, Patty - must wait, Patty was not going to demean herself Patty's your name, is it not?" "Yes, sir;" and again the words dropped out like round sugar-plums. Paul felt provoked at her apparent stolidity. Patty's eyes fastened eagerly on the page he held to her; her breath came short, and her colour deepened to crimson as she looked. Why, this was worse than she expected. Painting! it was just a sort of pencil scribble that any one could have done as well. Miss Nuna had drawn Bobby Fagg ten times better. It was all porch and flowers, with a few scratches behind that might be meant for any one. by milking before this gentleman: he would think her no better than a common farm servant. Again came the same lowing sound, and fear of Peggy's temper conquered Patty's love of being admired. "I must go, sir, please." Paul roused himself; he had forgotten time and everything else. "I should like to paint you really; if I come this way to-morrow, I shall find you here shall I?” he said so winningly, that Patty forgave the pencil. scribble at once. "Yes, sir," and this time she looked at him and Paul was watching her face, and he could not smiled while she spoke, looked as if she really mistake the vexation there. wanted to see him again. The smile drove him "What's the matter?" he said, smiling. "Isn't almost distracted. it like?" But Patty was resolved not to tell; she nearly choked in the effort to keep back her tears, but she kept them back. "I was thinking how pleased father would be to see it, sir. He was going to take the old wood down to light fires with, but I asked him to leave it for the suckle to rest on. "Take it down! why, the cottage would be hideous without it-it's the making of the place." "Yes, sir." But the enchantment was broken for Paul. Patty no longer sent up those sweet shy glances through her black eyelashes; she seemed really afraid of him now. "Do you always live here?" he asked. He was trying to make an excuse for seeing her again, and he wanted another glance from those exquisite blue eyes. "I do now, sir; I keep house for father." 66 And your father goes out to work, I suppose." Patty looked up quickly, and Paul's eyes soothed her wounded vanity. It was plain he thought her beautiful, though he had not painted her. "Yes, sir; father gardens and does for the cows and horses at the Rectory." Good-bye," he said, reluctantly. "Won't you shake hands, Patty?" He held out his slender brown hand. Patty blushed with triumph. She put her rosy plump fingers into his, and looked up in his face once more. This time her eyes did not droop again directly; they took a proud admiring glance at him. Just then Peggy lowed angrily, and Patty drew her hand from the warm clasp. Paul turned hastily away, and did not look back till he reached the little gate. There he drew a deep breath. "What am I about?" he thought. "I'm a fool; I laughed at Pritchard when he said he had better come down and take care of me among the country girls. Nonsense, I'll go and find the inn." Mr. Fagg was still nursing his newspaper, but Paul took a liking to her at once, but Mrs. Fagg's neat instincts shrank from the sight of his baggage. "I want some dinner and a bedroom," he said. "The rest of my luggage is at the station; I ; and do you go the Rectory, or what do suppose you have some one you can send out for it ?" "I see you do?" "I stay within and mind the house," said Patty, demurely. She was still framed in by the porch, her dimpled pink fingers playing with the strings of her sunbonnet, and Paul stood close to her, looking at her. He did not want her to talk now; every instant he was growing more dangerously infatuated with the strange power her beauty had on him-and Patty liked to be looked at. The landlady was pleased with his gentle manner, but this request was unusual and irregular. "There's a fly at the station, sir, and strange gentlefolks always takes it and brings their traps along. I'm sure I don't know who it is, then, I can send," she went on sharply; "Mr. Fagg's asleep, and tired besides, and folks is most all out harvesting. Roger now, if he'd been at home, he'd go for Then came a sound of lowing from the back of you. the cottage, and she started. It was long past milking-time, she knew that, and Peggy the cow would be cross, and maybe knock both her and the milk-pail over; but Peggy "Who's Roger?" A dim remembrance of the name made Paul inquisitive. "He's the Rector's man, sir; but after hours, no matter how hard he's been working, Roger 'ud walk his legs off to earn a shilling. But come in, sir, please; I oughtn't to keep you standing. This way, sir." She led the way into a small room behind her own parlour, a room like that of any other village inn, except, perhaps, that the muslin curtains looked fresher, the horsehair sofa brighter, and that instead of the usual tawdry paper flowers in the grate, it was entirely hidden by glistening white deal shavings, from the centre of which rose a plume of shield fern, with a spike or two of late foxglove here and there. thought he lived in the village, and I could see "Good afternoon, sir." Mr. Fagg's voice still sounded sleepy. "Do you know these parts, sir?" "No, I'm a stranger here." 66 It seemed to Paul, as Mr. Fagg's small inexpressive eyes fixed themselves on his face, that this clodhopper was inquisitive, and he was determined to give him as little satisfaction as possible. Only an artist knows how irritation of any kind is allayed by an object of beauty, no matter what. He went to his sitting-room window and looked Paul had not felt peaceful or contented when he out. Mr. Fagg was coming across the garden. He reached the "Bladebone," and now something, per- was a short stout man, and walked with his legs haps the exquisite grace of the foxgloves, soothed wide apart; his head was narrow at top, with him at once. He walked on to the window at the a massive jowl and throat, so that Mr. Fagg bore end of the room, and looked into the garden, and in some respects a likeness to the letter A, he breathed freely with a sense of keen enjoyment. especially when he walked. His neighbours said A London gardener-the possessor of any con- he was like a flat-fish, but that was probably because ventional garden with close-shaven lawn, rolled of his small dull eyes, and wide thin-lipped mouth. gravel-walks, and box-edged flower borders-He looked up at the window and touched his hat. would, I suppose, have shuddered at the irregular mingling of flowers and fruit, and herbs and cabbages, displayed in the garden of the "Bladebone." It was not very wide; the wall that fenced it in on one side was gemmed with ruby morellas, some of them so purple that they looked ready to drop into the mouth of any one who might go near enough. It was difficult to guess how far the garden reached: golden brown wreaths of pears and red and russet-cheeked apples so overshadowed it that the eye was baffled as to its extent; and the gay plots of cloves and marigolds and snowy rocket was backed by dwarf hedges, in which large lusty apples lay basking as if the sunshine were made specially to burnish their jolly brown faces; lavender bushes, like middle-aged women with scanty hair all sticking up on end, were frequent ; and so were courtly holyhocks, suggestive of powder and propriety, and others with stocks, quaint old-fashioned darlings, which we can never improve on, though we may add to their number. Just below the window grew a hugh patch of mignonette, and Paul leaned out to enjoy the fragrance. "Will you like to see the bedroom, sir?" said Mrs. Fagg; and when she had shown him into it she left him, promising him his dinner in a quarter of an hour. The bedroom was so exquisitely clean and fresh, with its snowy dimity and neat furnishings, that when Paul had washed away the dust and heat of his journey he felt quite at home. "I believe I'll stay here," he said, as he went down-stairs again; "this Bright may be a disagreeable, ignorant fellow, for anything I know. I would not have accepted the introduction, only I "Do you know whether any one can fetch my portmanteau from the station?" he said. "If to-morrow 'ud do, sir, I'd go myself." Fagg had a slow, ponderous utterance; his mind had become overgrown by matter, and so had a weary journey before it could find an outlet. "To-morrow won't do. You don't mean to tell me there is not a single industrious fellow in the village besides this Roger your wife talks about.” "Well, sir, you see, Roger-well," Fagg stopped to scratch his head, "he's a wonner, he is. Now, sir, that chap passes for being poor, and it's my belief that he hoards and saves every farthing instead of keeping things about him comfortable, and letting that pretty lass of his see a little life." Paul's reserve melted on the instant. "He has a family, then?" He had no intention of owning his acquaintance with Patty. "Well, sir, hardly what you'll call a family. His wife died years ago, and left him with this one girl, and he's brought her up hisself; and I must say," Fagg looked behind him cautiously, and then lowered his voice," and I'm sure if you come across Patty you'll bear me out in saying she's as pretty a face as ever you looked on." "Dinner, if you please, sir." Mrs. Fagg's voice sounded very sharp at Paul's elbow, and then she placed a chair for him at the table, and took her place behind it. STORM AND RAIN. [By MAX ADELER.] T is difficult to imagine anything more. dismal than a rainy day at New Castle, particularly at this late period in the year. The river especially is robbed of much of its attractiveness. The falling drops obscure the view, so that the other shore is not visible through the grey curtain of mist, and the few vessels that can be seen out in the channel struggling upward with the tide or beating slowly downward to the bay look so drenched and cold and utterly forlorn that one shivers as he watches them, with their black sails and their dripping cordage, and sees the moist sailors in tarpaulins and sea-boots hurrying over the slippery decks. The grain schooner lying at the wharf has all her hatches down, and there is about her no other sign of life than one soaked vagabond, who sits upon the bowsprit angling in a most melancholy fashion for fish which will not bite. He may be seeking for his supper, poor, damp mortal! or he may be an infatuated being who deceives himself with the notion that he is having sport. There is a peculiar feeling of comfort on such a day to stand in a room where a bright fire blazes in the grate, and from the window to watch this solitary fisherman as the fitful gusts now and then blow the rain down upon his head in sheets, and to observe the few people who remain upon the streets hurrying by under their umbrellas, each anxious to reach a place of shelter. The water pours in yellow torrents through the gutter-ways, the carriages which go swiftly past have their leathern aprons drawn high up in front of the drivers, the stripped branches of the trees are black with moisture, and from each twig the drops trickle to the earth; the waterspout upon the side of the house continues its monotonous song all day long-drip, drip, dripuntil the very sound contributes to the gloominess of the time; there is desolation in the yard and in the garden, where a few yellow corn-stalks and headless trunks of cabbage remain from the summer's harvests to face the wintry storms, and where the chickens gathered under the wood-shed are standing with ruffled feathers, hungry, damp, and miserable, some on one leg and some on two, and with an expression on their faces that tells plainly the story of their dejection at the poor prospect of having any dinner. It is a good time, Mrs. Adeler, to offer a few remarks upon that subject of perennial interest, the weather, and especially to refer to some facts in reference to that useful but uncertain implement, the umbrella. I do not know why it is so, but by common agreement the umbrella has been permitted to assume a comic aspect. No man, particularly no journalist, can be considered as having wholly discharged his duty to his fellow-creatures unless he has permitted himself to make some jocular remarks concerning the exception of umbrellas from the laws which govern other kinds of property. The amount of facetiousness that has attended the presentation of that theory is already incalculably great, and there is no reason for believing that it will not be increased to an infinite extent throughout the coming ages. It is perhaps a feeble idea upon which to erect so vast a structure; but if it makes even a dismal sort of merriment, we should not complain. And then reflect with what humorous effect the comic artists introduce the excessive and corpulent umbrella to their pictures of nervous or emphatic old ladies, and how much more convulsive the laughter becomes at the theatre when the low-comedy man carries with him an umbrella of that unwieldy description! It is universally admitted that an umbrella with distended sides is funny; and if general consent is given to such a proposition, the consequences are quite as satisfactory as if the article in question were really plethoric with humour. There are occasions when the simple elevation of an umbrella is grotesquely absurd, as when a group of British guardsmen sheltered themselves in this fashion from the rain during a certain battle, to the infinite disgust of Wellington, who ordered the tender warriors to put their umbrellas down lest the service should be made ridiculous. It was a Frenchman-Emile Girardin, I think— who brought an umbrella with him to the duellingground, and insisted upon holding it over his head during the combat. "I do not mind being killed," he said, "but I object decidedly to getting wet." They gave him much credit for admirable coolness; but I cherish a private opinion that he was scared, and hoped, by making the affair ridiculous, to bring it to a conclusion without burning powder; and he succeeded, for the combatants shook hands and went away friends. And there was the case of Colonel CoombsCoombs of Colorado. He had heard that the most ferocious wild beast could be frightened and put to flight if an umbrella should suddenly be opened in its face, and he determined to test the matter at the earliest opportunity. One day, while walking in the woods, Coombs perceived a panther crouching, preparatory to making a spring at him. Coombs held his umbrella firmly in his hand, and presenting it at the panther, unfurled it. The result was not wholly satisfactory, for the next moment |