yself in a mirror. It was strangely
old-fashioned; but I did not think of that. I seemed to have returned, all
at once, to the past; its atmosphere embraced me; all its flowers bloomed
gaily before my eyes.

I looked at the hole in the elbow. There were Annie's stitches--her
fingers had clasped the worn, decayed cloth--the old garment had rested on
her arm!

I think I must have gazed at the coat for an hour, motionless in the
sunlight, and thinking of old days. Then I aroused myself, suddenly, put
on my hat, and, with a beating heart, went to ask if Annie remembered.

I shall not relate the details of our interview. She remembered! Oh, word
so sweet or so filled with sadness! with a world of sorrow or delight in
its sound! She remembered--and her heart could resist no longer. She
remembered the poor youth who had loved her so dearly--whom she, too, had
loved in the far away past. She remembered the days when her father was
well and happy--when his kind voice greeted me, and his smile gave me
friendly welcome. She remembered the old days, with their flowers and
sunshine--the old hall, and the lawn, and the singing birds. Can you
wonder that her soft, tender bosom throbbed, that her heart was "melted in
her breast?"

So she plighted me her troth--the dream and joy of my youth. We shall very
soon be married. The ship which I sent from the shore long ago has come
again to port, with a grander treasure than the earth holds beside--it is
the precious, young head which reclined upon my heart!

--And again I can say, as I said long ago: "how good a thing it is to
live!"

MY SECRET.

(FROM THE FRENCH.)

BY HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW.

My soul its secret has, my life too has its mystery,
A love eternal in a moment's space conceived;
Hopeless the evil is, I have not told its history,
And she who was the cause, nor knew it, nor believed.
Alas! I shall have passed close by her unperceived,
Forever at her side, and yet forever lonely,
I shall unto the end have made life's journey, only
Daring to ask for naught, and having naught received.
For her, though God has made her gentle and endearing,
She will go on her way distraught and without hearing
These murmurings of love that round her steps ascend,
Piously faithful still unto her austere duty,
Will say, when she shall read these lines full of her beauty,
"Who can this woman be?" and will not comprehend.