g lady raised her head and opened her great
ox-like eyes; the bridegroom looked sheepish and hung his head; King
Paterflor seemed suddenly troubled with a severe fit of coughing, and
the priest could scarcely forbear a chuckle.

"Father, dear father, what is the meaning of this cruel joke?"
exclaimed the poor lady Dewbell, running to her father and catching
hold of his arm. But the old king's cough was still very troublesome.
She then appealed to the priest, but he seemed deaf, and only made a
grum kind of noise in his throat, that sounded a good deal like "Pat
O'Rafferty."

"Who, then, are you, sir?" demanded she, at last, of the groom,
turning suddenly and imperiously upon him her piercing gaze.

"So plaze yer ladyship, I am Paudeen O'Rafferty, the son of the
forester--at yer ladyship's sarvice."

The fairy princess was about to faint, in the most approved manner,
and had already selected a convenient cushion upon which to fall, when
a tall and noble form crossed the moon-ray, and Sir Timothy Lawn stood
before her.

"Beloved princess," said he, kneeling, and respectfully taking her
hand, "I hope my presence is not disagreeable to the queen of my
heart, for whose love I have so long pined. Speak to me frankly, sweet
lady Dewbell, tell me, can you love me? Will you permit me to call you
mine forever?"

The lady Dewbell changed her intention respecting the cushion upon
which she had intended to faint, and, somehow, found herself before
she was half conscious of it, in her lover's arms. An explanation
ensued; the prince Paudeen gave up his post of honor to Sir Timothy;
the ceremony was concluded on the spot; and as the gay and joyous
party left the church, Puck was seen sitting at the organ accompanying
himself in a sort of wild yet sweet chant, of which the lady Dewbell
easily distinguished--

"Oh, a merry tale will the gossips tell,
Of the happy mishap of the proud lady Bell."

A NIGHT THOUGHT.

BY THOMAS BUCHANAN READ.

Long have I gazed upon all lovely things,
Until my soul was melted into song,
Melted with love till from its thousand springs
The stream of adoration, swift and strong,
Swept in its ardor, drowning brain and tongue,
Till what I most would say was borne away unsung.

The brook is silent when it mirrors most
Whate'er is grand or beautiful above;
The billow which would woo the flowery coast
Dies in the firs