but a moment before, and there was no use in ringing, so he stepped at once into the parlor. Poor Kitty sprang to her feet at the intrusion, and crushed with her fingers two tears that were just ready to launch themselves upon the roundest and rosiest cheek in the world; but she might have done better than blind herself, for her foot touched Aunt Martha's fauteuil, and in consequence her forehead touched the neck of Rover. It is very awkward to be surprised in the luxurious indulgence of tears at any time, and it is a trifle more awkward still to fall down, and then be raised by the last person in the world you would receive a favor from. Kitty felt the awkwardness of her situation too much to speak; and, of course, Harry, enemy as he could

was,

not release her until he knew whether she was hurt. It was certain she was not faint, for the crimson blood dyed even the tips of her fingers, and Harry's face immediately took the same hue, probably from reflection. Kitty looked down until a golden arc of fringe rested lovingly on its glowing neighbor; and Harry looked down too, but his eye rested on Kitty Coleman's face. If soul and heart are one and the same thing, as some metaphysicians tell us, Harry must now have discovered the mistake he once made, for there was a strange commotion beneath the bodice of Kitty Coleman; it rose and fell, as nothing but a bounding, throbbing, frightened heart, in the wildest tumult of excited feeling, could make it. And then (poor Kitty must have been hurt, and needed support), an arm stole softly around her waist, dark locks mingled with her sunny ones as a warm breath swept over her cheek and Kitty Coleman hid her face-not in her hands.

Harry forgot his book again that night, and never thought of it until the squire put it in his hand the next morning; for Harry visited the squire very early the next morning, and had a private interview; and the good old gentleman tapped him on the shoulder, and said, "with all my heart;" and Aunt Martha looked as glad as propriety would let her. As for Kitty Coleman, she did not show her face, not she-for she knew they were talking about her, the sober old people and the meddling Harry Gay. But when the arrant mischief-maker had accomplished his object, and was bounding from the door, there came a great rustling among the rose-bushes, insomuch that a shower of bright blossoms descended from them, and Harry turned a face, brimming over with joy, to the fragrant thicket, and shook down another fragile shower, in seeking out the cause of the disturbance. Now, as ill-luck would have it, Kitty Coleman had hidden away from her enemy in this very thicket; and there she was discovered, all confusion, trembling and panting, and—I am afraid poor Kitty never quite recovered from the effects of her fall-for the arm of Harry Gay seemed very necessary to her forever after.

THE EVE OF ST. AGNES.

WITH REMARKS BY LEIGH HUNT.

[The history of Keats, the author of this enchanting poem, is well known to our readers. His death is said to lie at the door of Lord Brougham, who wrote the criticism, in the reading of which Keats burst a blood-vessel. He had been an apothecary's boy, and the critic unfeelingly counselled him to "return to his gallipots." The writer visited his grave at Rome, and read there the epitaph he himself directed to be graven on the headstone-"Here lies one whose name was written in water." It almost requires a poet to appreciate the unreachable delicacy of Keats's use of language. He plucks his epithets from the profoundest hiding-places of meaning and association. He wrote with a nib inevitable-its forked pursuit being certain detection to the elusive, reluctant, indispensable best word. The sense of satisfaction aches while you read his poetry-so clear to the bottom of the capability of language drops his plummet-word. The italicised passages in "The Eve of St. Agnes" will be a guide to what we mean.-N. P. W.]

ST. AGNES was a Roman virgin, who suffered martyrdom in the reign of Diocletian. Her parents, a few days after her decease, are said to have had a vision of her, surrounded by angels, and attended by a white lamb, which afterward became sacred to her. In the Catholic church, formerly, the nuns used to bring a couple of lambs to her altar during mass. The super