“I don’t know what I should be angry for,” was the impatient reply.  “Can’t a person be a little short when sleepy, without being tormented with questions about it?”

“Oh, yes, I won’t trouble you any more.”  And making due allowance for Ann’s quick temper, Christine occupied herself good-humouredly with her own thoughts.  The secret of Ann’s shortness and sleepiness lay here.  Her vanity was wounded to think, that Christine was more interesting than her own beautiful self.

“Well, he is a sort of a puritan, and now I begin to understand Christine, better, I think she is too,” thought Ann, after she had mused her irritation away a little.  “He is very polite and agreeable, and it was very pleasant to have him always ready to take me out when I wanted to go, but I never felt perfectly easy in his company; I was always afraid I might say something dreadful; something that would shock his wonderful goodness.  But Christine seemed perfectly at home.  How bright and lovely she looked!  I will not allow evil thoughts to triumph over me.  I will not be vexed simply because she eclipsed me, where no one ever did before.  She is a dear, affectionate girl, and I made a vow before God to love her always, never to be to her as I was once.”

A fervent prayer brought back to Ann all her former tranquillity, and she pressed a kiss upon Christine’s forehead, full of repentant affection.  Just before she went to sleep, she thought to herself,

“Well, if I may trust my woman’s perception, Darcet will be exclaiming, after he has seen Christine a few times more,

“Oh! love, young love, bound in thy rosy bands.”

Ann’s perception proved correct.  About a year after these cogitations, Christine became Mrs. Darcet.  The sisters were much changed, but Christine the most so.  There was a child-like simplicity and sweetness beaming from her young face, which Ann needed.  Yet had much haughtiness faded from the brow of that beautiful girl; she had grown better; but as yet her heart had not been schooled in suffering as Christine’s had.  There was deep affection in the warm tears that fell upon the bride’s cheek, as poor Ann felt that she had indeed gone to bless another with her tender goodness.  Christine’s warm heart grew yet more sunny in her own happy little home, and her feelings more open and expansive, beneath the genial influence of friendly eyes.

THE HOURS OF LIFE.

TWILIGHT.—­The dewy morning of childhood has passed, and the noon of youth has gone, and the gloom of twilight is gathering over my spirit.  Alas! alas! how my heart sinks in a wan despair!  One by one my hopes have died out, have faded like the gleams of sunshine that have just vanished beneath the grove of trees.  Hopes!  Ah, such warm, bright, beautiful, loving hopes!  But, methinks, than lived upon the earth, unlike the gleaming rays of sunshine that are fed from heaven.  The earth’s darkness dims not their glory; pure and radiant they shine behind the black shadow.  But human hopes are earth-born; they spring from the earth, like the flitting light of night, and lead us into bogs and quagmires.