ell myself for wealth and a title? Proud I
may be--but not, I thank God, mercenary nor mean. And what a lofty,
noble spirit is that of your friend! What lord or duke could match the
height of his intellect or the gorgeousness of his imagination. Oh,
too soon my beautiful dream is broken!" and the young lady, all power
of her usual self-restraint being lost, wept like a child upon the
shoulder of her brother.

"Nay, nay, sister dear, weep not," at length said the squire, tenderly
raising her head and leading her homeward. "All is not lost that is in
danger. And so that you really _have_ lost your hard little heart to
my noble, glorious friend, I'll take care that it is soon
recovered--or at any rate another one quite as good. Come, come, cheer
up! All will go well."

The squire, although not usually rated as a prophet, predicted rightly
for once; for the very next day saw young Walter Willie at Sweetbriar
Lodge, with a face as handsome and happy as the morning. Hortensia was
ill, and must not be disturbed; and at this information his features
suddenly became overcast, as you may have seen a spring sky by a thick
cloud, springing up from nobody knows where. However, the squire
entered directly after, and whispered a few words to his guest, which
seemed to restore in a measure the brightness of his look.

"And you really think, then, that I may hope?"

"Nay, my friend, you may do as you like about that. All men may hope,
you know Shakspeare says. But I tell you that Hortensia has fallen in
love with your foolish face--it's just like her!--and that's all about
it. Come in and take some breakfast. Oh, I forgot--you've no appetite.
Of course not. Well, you'll find some nice fresh dew in those
morning-glories yonder, and I will rejoin you in a minute. We 'll make
a day of it."

That evening the moon shone a million times brighter, the sky was a
million times bluer, and the nightingale sung a million times sweeter
than ever before. At least so thought the beautiful Hortensia and her
artist-lover, as they strolled, arm-in-arm, through the woody lawn
that skirted the garden of Sweetbriar Lodge, and held sweet converse
of immortal things by gazing into each other's eyes. And so ends our
veracious history of the Pic-Nic in Olden Time.

TO THE VIOLET.

BY H. T. TUCKERMAN.

Sweet trophy of life's morning, fresh and calm,
Dropped from the gleanings of relentless time,
How from thy dainty chalice steals