While she stands there, there comes out of the door of the bridal reception-room a gentleman with a stylishly-dressed lady on either arm, with whom he seems wholly absorbed.  He is of middle height, peculiarly graceful in form and moulding, with that indescribable air of high breeding which marks the polished man of the world.  His beautifully-formed head, delicate profile, fascinating sweetness of smile, and, above all, an eye which seemed to have an almost mesmeric power of attraction, were traits which distinguished one of the most celebrated men of the time, and one whose peculiar history yet lives not only in our national records, but in the private annals of many an American family.

“Good Heavens!” he said, suddenly pausing in conversation, as his eye accidentally fell upon Mary.  “Who is that lovely creature?”

“Oh, that,” said Mrs. Wilcox,—­“why, that is Mary Scudder.  Her father was a family connection of the General’s.  The family are in rather modest circumstances, but highly respectable.”

After a few moments more of ordinary chit-chat, in which from time to time he darted upon her glances of rapid and piercing observation, the gentleman might have been observed to disembarrass himself of one of the ladies on his arm, by passing her with a compliment and a bow to another gallant, and, after a few moments more, he spoke something to Mrs. Wilcox, in a low voice, and with that gentle air of deferential sweetness which always made everybody well satisfied to do his will.  The consequence was, that in a few moments Mary was startled from her calm speculations by the voice of Mrs. Wilcox, saying at her elbow, in a formal tone,—­

“Miss Scudder, I have the honor to present to your acquaintance Colonel Burr, of the United States Senate.”

(To be continued.)

THE WALKER OF THE SNOW.

  Speed on, speed on, good master! 
    The camp lies far away;—­
  We must cross the haunted valley
    Before the close of day.

  How the snow-blight came upon me
    I will tell you as we go,—­
  The blight of the shadow hunter
    Who walks the midnight snow.

  To the cold December heaven
    Came the pale moon and the stars,
  As the yellow sun was sinking
    Behind the purple bars.

  The snow was deeply drifted
    Upon the ridges drear
  That lay for miles between me
    And the camp for which we steer.

  ’Twas silent on the hill-side,
    And by the solemn wood
  No sound of life or motion
    To break the solitude,

  Save the wailing of the moose-bird
    With a plaintive note and low,
  And the skating of the red leaf
    Upon the frozen snow.

  And said I,—­“Though dark is falling,
    And far the camp must be,
  Yet my heart it would be lightsome,
    If I had but company.”