TWILIGHT. 
Oft as thy thotwcbts are overproud and gay 
With pomps of I.ife, and glories of the World, 
Or Sorrow’s knotted serpents, round thee curl’d, 
Fetter thine, arms, and cat thine heart away, 
Turn back and look upon the solemn Past; 
Think thou what all hath been, what all shall be, 
ThoBe pale gray hues of onr Mortality 
Are Joys that faded, woes that could not lust. 
Stand thou on Memory’s peak at set of Day, 
And in the dusky air’twist. Norm and Night, 
Which is the funeral torch, and which the light 
That goes before the bridal, const thou Bay? 
As moon-lit gardens, with their alleys gray, 
Invite more lovers than the glorious Morn; 
As the bright Champaign, with its waved corn, 
Into Boft seas of azure dieB away : 
As mountains with their pinnacles of ice. 
As barren crags lit with the flaiuc of Even 
Look beautiful, and stars come forth In Heaven 
When Hay no longer dazzles in the bIucs: 
As unseen violets yield their rarest, balm, 
As trumpet notes wax sweet upon the wind, 
As lovely colors float before the blind. 
As torrent waters from afar look calm; 
So Joy grows tender, Sorrow’s self is mild, 
Forgotten voices sweet as music seem, 
And Btormy troubles quiet as a dream. 
And Good and 111, Old foes, seem reconciled. 
®k 
THE SINS OF THE FATHERS. 
A broad archway, the gloom of Its drill, murky 
shadow only deepened by the flicker of the shat¬ 
tered gas lamp that hangs from the center, Its 
silence only broken by the agonized weeping of a 
poor girl who strives to still the throbbing of her 
temples by pressing them against the clammy 
stones; while, little as one would Imagine It, but 
a few paces separate her from the crowd and 
glare of the wide si reels—such a scene is too com¬ 
mon after nightfall In the heart of a great En¬ 
glish manufacturing town. As such It did not at 
first produce a very startling effect upon Leonard 
Vincent, who, as lie was hurrying home by short 
cuts from a social gathering of follow students, 
was stopped at I hc mouth Of the archway by I hr 
sounds of distress that fell upon Ida ear; but bis 
interest was more vividly awakened as be caught 
a glimpse oi the upturned race faintly illumined 
by the light which Just then a gust of wind blow 
Into a flame- The dark, flashing eyes, the long, 
black hair all unkempt ami streaming over the 
girl’s shoulders, the taco, lovely In Its outlines, 
now weli il with Its look or agony and ghastly 
pale, made a picture such as he had never looked 
on, and held him for a moment as Immovable as 
though he had boon ga/.lug upou the head of a 
Medusa. It was hut a moment, however, that ho 
remained irresolute. Stepping quietly up to the 
sobbing girl, who was too much absorbed lu her 
own grief to notice Ills presence, Vincent, touched 
her lightly on the shoulder. Slio instantly turned 
around to meet his gaze, suppressing with a sud¬ 
den and violent effort any trace or her emotion 
save the great tears, which she could not at once 
check In their course down her cheeks. The 
cheeks were pale and somewhat sunken, as it' 
hunger is well as grief lmd begun to mar her 
beauty, and, as she looked at the young man’s 
face a proud, Impatient gaze, her tightly com¬ 
pressed Ups trembling despite her efforts, sbe 
aroused In him a teellugof the profoundest com¬ 
passion. 
For some minutes they stood regarding each 
other In silence; then, as he saw the girl determ¬ 
ined not to speak, Vincent began to address her, 
though with diffidence. “ May 1 ask the cause of 
your grief? Ho not think me rude. I ask because 
I might—It Is my wish to help you.” 
The young man, usually somewhat brusque In 
his manner of addressing his inferiors In station, 
was himself surprised at the tone he was led to 
adopt. The position of tho girl before him, and 
the plain, much worn character of her dress, 
showed that she belonged to the lower class; yet 
he almost quailed before her look, and felt uncon¬ 
sciously that In nature she was not, beneath him. 
The object of his compassion stood for a mo¬ 
ment as It undecided; then, the proud expression, 
on her face still unaltered, replied briefly and In 
a low, quick voice: 
“ I wish to be alono. You are very kind. I do 
not need help.” 
Leonard Vincent smiled In spite of his pity. 
“ You must allow me to doubt that,” he said. 
“Will you not trust me? It is not from mere 
curiosity that I ask your confldence. l feel sure 
I can help you, ir you will let me.” 
Again she replied quickly, but the tone was not 
that of her former speech: 
“ You are very kind. It Is long since I have 
been spoken to kindly. But I need no help, In¬ 
deed I need none.” 
The young man again smiled as he looked In 
her still unmoved face. 
“You are very proud,” he said. “It Is long 
since I met any one so proud. I am proud too. 
Will you not confide In a kindred spirit ?” 
It was now her turn to smile, and for a moment 
her countenance brightened with a look that was 
like the talut memory of happiness long past. It 
was enough that there was a sign of relenting. 
Vincent continued to urge her, and, after a few 
moments of hesitation, she seemed about to com¬ 
ply with his request. 
“ Why should I trouble you with a miserable 
story ? You know It all before I begin. And yet, 
perhaps, you seem as If you had a good home and t. 
good parents; I will toll you In a few words. Jt l 
will make mo cry again; that Is good for my 
prlil* ’. t 
Then she told, briefly and plainly, the story of r 
her young days; of a happy childhood In a little j 
market town In tho south of England, of school t 
days, and the Joys of loving companions. All r 
was happy till her father, who had been a small t 
farmer, died, and her mother, a beautiful woman, > 
yielded to their rich landlord's entreaties, aud f 
married bltn. She had acted on an Impulse of i 
pride, anil her punishment was severe. I.aura i 
I.lndon, her only child, was hated by her step- | 
father, chiefly because she would not, give up her , 
old rustic friends. The man, whose nature was ] 
coarse and vulgar, abused the poor girl dread¬ 
fully, till at length her life became int olerable to ( 
her. 
“ What could 1 do 7 I could not kill myself tor ( 
ray poor mother’s sake; so I resolved to leave 
him. I came north, accompanied by a girl of my 
own age. who had always been my best friend. 
For a few weeks wo Just managed to live on what 
we got for sewing, and then poor Lizzie would not 
bear that hard life any longer, and -irrtine. Do 
not ask me what has become Of her; I dare not 
tlilnk. 1 have seen her but, once since; God grant 
I may never see her again. And myself? You 
see mo; I am alive, and that is all. I can no 
longer earn enough to live oh; 1 am getting weak, 
I am afraid. I grew desperate to-nlglit and came 
out, wny and whore I did uot know. There la my 
tale. You seo you cannot, help me. it was kind 
or you to think of helping me. It is getting late, 
1 am afraid. Good night,.” 
Hhc turned quickly round, wishing to Ulde the 
teal's that, wero again coming Into her eyes, and 
lii another moment would have been gone; but 
Vincent, hastening after her again compelled her 
hi stay. 
“ But, I can help you, Miss Llndon. I must help 
you.” 
nis first impulse had been to offer her monoy; 
but. he at once saw how unwelcome such an offer 
would be. bow Impossible to make her accept It. 
Instead of t hat, lie proposed to find work, to pru- 
vtdo her sewing enough to enable her to make a 
living. The offer was at once thankfully accepted. 
" And,” said Vincent, as they were parting, “ 1 
may see you again. J may come and seo you?” 
“Thank you,” she replied, tlrmly but modestly. 
“ I had rather you did not. I must work all my 
time. You are very kind to got me work.” 
And so they parted. 
Leonard Vincent was as good as his promise 
with regard to finding Laura work; but, alter a 
few weeks, lie: proved disobedient to her wish that 
he was not to visit, her. in lime she grew more 
cheerful ami more wilting to talk freely, though 
It was long before she lost, when speaking to her 
friend, tho air of reserve, which was the result of 
her natural pride. • 
At last Vincent, Obedient to an Impulse which 
had now become too powerful for restraint,, told 
Laura that he loved her, that lie wished to make 
her his wife. He already knew that she was uot 
indifferent to him ; but he little knew of the con¬ 
suming passion Which, kindled at first by grati¬ 
tude. now burnt Ilereely In her heart—of the ef¬ 
forts It had long cost her to choke ardent affection 
beneath the garb or cold respect. 
Laura’s emotions were powerful; but, her snir- 
command stlU remained more powerful; and now, 
while she modestly confessed her love, she ur¬ 
gently besought her lover to reflect, beroro he 
committed what might prove an Irreparable error. 
But. Leonard was heedless of tho consequences. 
In the warmth or the moment, lie sought an Inter¬ 
view with his father, and desired him to sanction 
Ills marriage with Laura, at the same lime giving 
a truthful account of her life and present condl- , 
lion. 
Old Mr. Vluccnt was a retired cotton spinner, 
ills Immense wealth had been accumulated by 
lifelong devotion to business; and his nature, of 
coarse material to begin with, was now rendered 
moresclflsh and Intolerant by the addition of a 
vulgar pride. 
Furious at first when he hoard of his son’s an¬ 
nouncement, second t houghts Induced him to rely 
upon low cunning as a better Instrument against 
hia son, who was himself proud, but not Ignobly 
so. lie protended to consent to the match on one 
condition—that Leonard should first enable him¬ 
self to support a wife by bis own exertions, Inde¬ 
pendent of any hopes he might entertain of set¬ 
tlement from his lather. 
Laura had awaited the Issue of the conference 
* with outward calmness, but In reality, to sus¬ 
pense that amounted to agony. 
“ You have askedshe exclaimed, hastily, as 
her lover came to see her Immediately after re- 
: cel vlug Ills answer. 
i “All is well, dearest,” be replied. “But we are 
both too young as yet. Let us be faithful to each 
; other. Till our marriage, you will live at my 
home and my parents will care for you. 1 am 
> going to spend a year abroad.” 
Laura strove bravely with her emotions and 
tried to appear glad. In another week she was 
i living under Mr. Vincent’s roof and Leonard had 
sailed for America. 
! Part II. 
• Two years have passed, and we meet with Leon¬ 
ard Vincent, this time not In the old, but In New 
t England. The school year Is Just at an end. the 
s summer vacation Is about to commence, and to- 
t day all the scholars are assembled to show by an 
. exhibition the results of their own work and that 
i of their teachers, of whom our friend Is one. The 
- members of the graduating class aro here In all 
their glory; the boys, as Is usual with hoys on 
: such occasions, well dressed but awkward; the 
, girls resplendent In the combined charms of na¬ 
ture and art—a perfect bouquet of rich buds Just 
breaking into the full blow of womanhood. 
l.etus notice Minnie Warren, the young lady 
whose place Is at the head of this class. She Is 
not, tall, hut her figure Is perfect In symmetry. 
Minnie Is grace Itself, from the lit,tie slipper with 
the blue bow which now and then peeps from be¬ 
neath the muslin, to tho simple but jaunty coll of 
rich brown hair t hat sits on the buck of her head. 
The face, usually wreathed In the most attractive 
smiles, but now demure-looklng from a sense of 
being regarded toy the whole assembly. Is not 
handsome but, Is incontestably pretty; her checks, 
perhaps a trifle redder than on ordinary occasions, 
are soft and smooth as tho petals of a flower, and 
her Ups—description falls. 
On Minnie all eyes are llxi.! and among them, 
those of her teacher, Leonard Vincent; but does 
not the gleam of Joy In t.ho eyes of tho latter Indi¬ 
cate more than the Justifiable pride of one who 
had helped to make Minnie’s mind rich In learn¬ 
ing and wort hily corresponding to a faco so rich 
In beauty ? 
Whnt, has time brought about tu the two years 
that have passed V Leopard Vincent never forgot 
his promise to Laura, but for many weeks wrote 
regular and loving letters, to which his betrothed 
replied in lines that showed tho sincerity or her 
love and the nobility of her nature. Then, all at 
once, she ceased to write, and the cause was ex¬ 
plained by a letter which Leonard shortly after 
received from Ills father, wherein It, was stated, 
with much attempted sympathy and overstrained 
expressions of regret, that Laura had been taken 
sick of a fever suddenly, and very shortly after 
hacl died. 
Musi It be confessed that, Leonard experienced 
no keen sorrow at this sudden news? Ho was 
shocked: but he did not experience a lover’s 
grief. Ills nature would never have allowed him 
to prove false to Laura as long as he knew her 
living In the constant hope of becoming his wife; 
but absence and reflection had so far altered his 
feelings its to enable him to bear her loss with 
equanimity. The truth was that from the first 
his love had contained farmoro of mere compas¬ 
sion and self-coinpluceney than ho could Imagine 
or would have been willing to admit. Very soon 
after leaving England, ho had confessed to him¬ 
self tho wish that Laura had been Intellectually 
more of a companion for him. Ills soul was not 
great enough to too contented with simple devo¬ 
tion in tho woman who was to be his wife, ami 
his imperfect sympathies required morn points of 
contact. 
Thus It, was that very soon after receiving the 
letter which told him or Laura’s death, he had 
consciously proceeded to form a now attachment, 
the seeds or which had already been sown. With¬ 
out, being handsome, ur In any sense a lady-killer, 
Vincent had yet, lor those who know him well, a 
decidedly pleasing appearance, which, Joined to a 
Uveb&md agreeable manner, considerable pow¬ 
ers, ami the polish of culture, made him decidedly 
pleasing and attractive. JHs cheerful equability 
of temper had speedily resigned him to the lot his 
father imposed on him, and he had very soon be¬ 
come adeemed favorite with the pupils, especially 
tho young ladles. 
The exhibition was considered a great, success. 
The singing, tho declamations, tho recitations, 
were voted delightful by the assembly of parents 
anil friends. At last alt was over, the people were 
dispersing, and Vincent was engaged In making a 
few lust arrangements In his own room, when 
there came a knock at, hla duor, and, without, 
waiting for an invitation, Mias Warren walked in. 
“ Well, Mr. Vincent, are you satisfied now ?” 
“Decidedly, Miss Warren, and above all with 
you. You were charming.” 
Minnie appeared to take no notice of the com¬ 
pliment, but went on lu her usual voluble man- 
“Oh, Mr. Vincent, did you notice Grace Wilson, 
how she spoke her piece ? ft was Just elegant !” 
“No doubt.; but, there was some one else who 
spoke a piece, and she was more than ‘Just ele¬ 
gant,.’ ” 
Minnie shook her head with a pretty air of 
mock impatience. 
“ How provoking you are! I really don’t wish 
for any compliments, s-; no; 1 was just going to 
call you ‘sir;’ but I’m not a school-girl now. and 
1 shan’t call you • sir ’ any longer.” 
“Very well, Miss Warren; then tn revenge I 
shall deprive you of your title, and henceforth 
call you Minnie.” 
Minnie blushed slightly, and turned round to 
look out of the window; but directly afterward 
she turned her face to Vincent again. 
“Shall you be here again next term, Mr. Vin¬ 
cent ?” 
“lam very uncertain. 11 depends greatly upon 
circumstances.” 
Minnie laughed merrily, and laid her hand upon 
the door as if about to leave the room. 
“That is onu of your provoklngly Indefinite 
philosophical phrases. I suppose time will show. 
But really all the people have left. I must be 
quick and get home. Good-by.” 
She opeued the door and pretended that she 
was about to bo off in a great hurry. Leonard 
appeared ror a moment undecided; then he took 
a step toward bur. 
“ Minnie!” 
She stopped and turned around with an assumed 
air of Indifference. 
“So you are going off without wishing me a 
happy vacation. I am lnded surprised at Miss 
Warren 1” 
“ l thought you wero not going to call me 1 Miss ’ 
any longer," she said. 
“ Oh, I forgot. Have you nothing to say but a 
cold ‘good-by,’ Mlnnte, now that we are seeing 
each other, perhaps, for the last time?” 
Minnie exhibited a scarcely perceptible start a 
this announcement,. 
“Oh, l am not going uway,” she replied, per¬ 
haps a trifle more earnestly than the occasion 
seemed to warrant; “i shall bo at homo when 
school begins again." 
“ But I think It very likely that l shall not. I 
think I shall go to England for good. I havo been 
here long enough.” 
“ 8o you are already tired of us Americans. Ah, 
well, wo aro stupid people, I suppose. Good-by, 
then.” 
she hold out, her delicate whlto hand, and It 
trembled Just a little. Leonard took It, raised It 
to Ids lips, and then gently let It go. Minnie 
laughed her ordinary gay laugh. 
“ Is that how Englishmen say good-by ? What 
a knightly lot of people you must be !" 
“No,” replied Leonard, earnestly, drawing 
nearer Lo Minnie, “ that, Is not, how wo say good- 
by. Wo only do that when we mean that vve are 
never going to say good-by." 
“ Oh, indeed! Then I must leave you, I sup¬ 
pose, without exchanging the customary civili¬ 
ties?” 
She turned and moved very slowly toward the 
door. Vincent, reached her side with a single 
step and took her hand In his own. She turned 
around, and the blossoms In her cheeks deepened 
In color us she looked In bis taco, unable to utter 
a word. 
“Minnie,” said Leonard, In a low, earnest tone, 
“ you understand me, though you pretend not to. 
May l always keep this hand?” 
She looked flown at, the ground, a most unusual 
thing with her, and replied somewhat Indis¬ 
tinctly : 
“ Really, that would be asking mo to stand hero 
too long.” 
“ It Is a very pretty hand. May I kiss It again?” 
Minnie gave no reply. He took silence for con¬ 
sent. 
“ Those are very pretty Ups, Mlnulo. May I kiss 
them ?” 
The question was asked In a tone little above a 
whisper. The reply was not in words, but tho 
look that was In her hazel eyes as she raised her 
face to Ills told him that Minnie Warren, with all 
her beauty and all her rogulshness, was Ids own. 
And so he dirt not leavu America. lie wrote to 
Ids father telling him that ho had won a wife who 
belonged to a family that the old cotton spinner 
had no reason to be ashamed of as bis relations; 
In reply, Ids father opened If not Ids heart, at all 
events his pockctbook, to Ids no longer wayward 
Hon. Mr. Vincent, for reasons of Ids own, had no 
particular wish that Leonard should return to 
England, and experienced no great sorrow when 
lie was told that Ids son desired, for some tlrno at 
least, to continue to reside lu America. 
Port III. 
And Laura Llndon? Was she really dead, as 
Leonard bad heard from Ids father? No, It was 
but a cruel scheme Invented by the purseproud old 
man to trustrato a marriage In which he could see 
nothing but disgrace to himself and to his sod. 
At tho same time that be. had written to Leonard 
to tell him that Laura was dead ho had been to a 
man skilled In such matters, and got him to forgo 
a letter from Leonard, which said that he had for 
some time felt, how unfitted ho and Laura were 
for each other, owing Hi the, latter's Jack of educa¬ 
tion ; that he had hitherto been silent on the 
matter, endeavoring to overcome his doubts; but 
that ho at last felt It to be his duty t,o free Laura 
from her engagement, aud hoped that she would 
ere long find a hustfand better suited to her. At 
the same time he stated that he had left his 
former residence, and thought it better that she 
should not know his present address. The forgery 
was skillful, tile awkward appearance or tho 
letter so exactly like those she had hitherto re¬ 
ceived, that the poor girl never tor a moment aus- 
’ pected any deception, all the less because Mr, 
' Vincent, with a cunning foresight, had always 
■ behaved to her with the utmost apparent kind¬ 
ness, and had openly professed himself anxious 
for the uulon of the two lovers as soon as T.eonaid 
should have attained his majority. Tho result 
i was exactly what ho had forseen. I.aura, after 
• passing some days In an agony of grief, had sud- 
I donly asked Mr. Vincent It he would provide her 
with suniolent money to pay her passage to 
I America, and upon his refusal had disappeared 
i from the house during the night, and never been 
heard of since. The old man, confident Of the 
> perfect success of Ills stratagem, rubbed his hands 
1 In satisfaction, and turned his attention to other 
matters. 
Meanwhile all was peace and comfort In the 
little homo In New F.ngland over which Mlnnlo 
i Warren, now Mrs. Vincent, presided, with all her 
natty ways. Minnie, herself scrupulously neat 
i and careful or her appearance, was resolved that 
everything and everybody about her should be no 
i' less Irreproachable, and lie would indeed have 
. been a happy man whose wife was a better hou.se- 
c keeper. Leonard passed his days In elegant 
lolsure, his easy nature Haltered to the extreme 
n by the affectionate attentions of tils excellent 
i little wife. It is true that he did occasionally re- 
k vert In thought to his old home, and to the memory 
of her whom he had once fancied so dear to him; 
but his easy-going philosophy was at no loss to 
d providecobsoiatlon for Irremediable events; and 
It Is probable that,, in such momenta of reflection, 
a his train of thought resulted In conclusions not so 
a far removed from those which hJs father had 
made use of to disappoint poor Laura’s hopes, 
i ’ It was an afternoon In January. New England 
weather had of late been doing Its best to rnaln- 
a tala Its reputation for variability, while the 
g streets were still wet with the recent rain, tho 
still heavy sky, which was striving to stint the 
