k to town, be sure to let me know, that I may
call upon her. Susan Goldsborough is fretted enough that she was not
apprised of her being here, and so are some of the Longacres; they
blame you with it all."

Mrs. Smith did not attempt to reply, and Miss Debby rose to go.

"It is getting late," said she, "and I must walk. If you have no
objection I will take those slices of fruit and almond cake, and a
paper of candied fruit and _bon bons_ with me--and perhaps you can
spare some more Malaga grapes--or could you send them home for me by
one of your servants? I should like to stop at Susan Goldsborough's to
tell her that you knew nothing about the good fortune in prospect for
your cousin, and it is probable she will wish me to stay for tea."

Mrs. Smith restrained herself until she had escorted her visiter to
the door, and then returning to her rocking-chair, she indulged in a
fit of weeping that looked very much like hysterics. Her most
prominent thought was, "If I had only given the party to Cousin
Sabina!"

This she had ample opportunity to reiterate--for time proved to her
that the prime object of her grand effort had failed--those who
comprised her select party never including her in any of theirs. More
particularly did it recur to her, when, some months afterward, Mrs.
Colonel Raynor, though she sometimes stopped to exchange a few kindly
words with Mr. Smith at his place of business, evaded every invitation
to his dwelling, while she went the rounds of sumptuous feting among
the Goldsboroughs, Pendletons, Longacres & Co.

SPIRIT-VOICES.

BY CHARLES W. BAIRD.

"Hast thou heard ever a spirit-voice,
As in morning's hour it stole
Speaking to thee from the home of its choice,
Deep in the unfathomed soul:
Telling of things that the ear hath not heard,
Neither the mind conceived;
Bringing a balm in each gentle word
Unto the heart bereaved?"

O, I have heard it in days of the spring,
When gladness and joy were rife.
'Twas a voice of hope, that came whispering
Its story of strength and life.
It told me that seasons of vigor and mirth
Follow the night of pain;
And the heaven-born soul, like the flowers of earth,
Withers, to live again!

"Hast thou heard ever a spirit-voice,
At the sunny hour of noon;
Bidding the soul in its light rejoice,
For the darkness cometh soon;
Telling of blossoms that early bloom
And as early pine and fade;
And the bright hopes that must find a tomb