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Richard Ashton was so goodso noble -SO different from the common standard of young men, that she was involuntarily drawn toward him in a nearer bond than mere sisterly affection or friendly interest. More than once, she had thought him on the very point of asking her to become his wife, when some unfortunate occurrence would bring an unwelcome visitor, or otherwise would stop his words. He had gone to the army with only a simple good-bye and "God bless you, Ruth!"- words that she cherished in her heart of hearts, yet could by no amount of love's alchemy convert into a declaration. His mother loved Ruth well and truly; and her dearest hope was that she would be her son's wife. Colored by this hope, she painted their future prospects with a lavish hand; coupling their names together always. "Richard and Ruth will live thus," she often said; or " Richard will have such a pleasant home with Ruth," until every one in Granville and Waterbury believed that they were really

engaged.

kept as bright as ever, the vases were filled with the freshest flowers, and Ruth's work-basket, books and music, were again brought forth to cheer her solitude. Precious and cherished, no less, were the dear memories of her parents; but they had both known of Richard's interest in their daughter, and she knew that their spirits would rejoice that he, of all the world, would make up to her for their loss.

Not even Mrs. Ashton's partial words could have deepened Ruth's high opinion of Richard. She had seen him, for years, growing into a strong, tender-hearted, whole-souled man, worthy of any woman's perfect confidence and trust. No breath of evil had stained him. He was a good son, a good citizen, a good soldier. Such a man could not fail of being a good husband; and Ruth, in all her home desolation, took comfort in the thought that she might share a life so free from blame and reproach.

The -th regiment was coming home. Ruth had received no letter since the kind, but brief note that her mother's death had called from Richard's pen. But his mother had heard from him; and her maternal heart beat high with pride and joy as she ran across the little grassy enclosure that separated the two houses, to communicate the news to one who, she knew, would best sympathize in her delight.

The girl sat in the neat little parlor, surrounded with all the home refinements that her parents had loved so well; the birds and flowers they had tended, the piano which they had accompanied with their voices, the books they had read. All spoke of them, until she almost felt herself in their visible presence. Mrs. Ashton ran in, bringing with her a breath and a fragrance of the fresh, clear summer air — of roses and carnations, her morning offering to Ruth from her garden. She came to tell her the good news that Richard was coming home.

Tears and blushes were all Ruth's answer. She

So, as I have said, when she sat down in the lonely house, the night after the funeral, it was not with a feeling of utter desolation; for, afar off, there shone upon her a ray of light from

the heart of Richard Ashton.

After the first few days of tearful sorrow, spent in packing away the many reminders of the dead, she settled down into a calmer state. The house subsided into its usual aspect of per

haps she could not, had she been really engaged to him. As it was, there was still a greater embarrassment in expressing herself; and it seemed a real relief when the good, kindly mother left her to her own thoughts.

Burdened by her own tender feelings, she sat, for an hour or more, wondering, unconsciously, what would be her first meeting with Richard, and how she could speak to him of her parents. Her black dress would, she knew,

shock him. He had never seen her wear black, and his favorite had been white. Often and often had she clad herself in some dainty white dress, just to please his eyes, and the admiration she had elicited from his lips had been pleasant to hear, because it was sincere and genuine.

So she went to the drawer and selected a plain white collar, thinking it would relieve the sombre hue of her garments, so as not to strike him too gloomily.

Mrs. Ashton had said that she might expect him any hour; and Ruth, to get away from thoughts that oppressed her, began in a hurried and absent way, to prepare various little delicacies which she knew Richard fancied, and which her mother had always made a point of keeping for him. Absent as she was, she succeeded, that forenoon, in storing her little pantry with things that she thought would best please the soldier's taste, after the hard fare to which he had been subjected. Ever and anon, Mrs. Ashton would call out to her, in cheery tones from her window, where she was busy in pastry and cake. She too was pleasing herself in fancying how good home fare would taste to the palate so long used only to hard tack and salt beef. Thus passed the day to the two loving women, preparing for the coming soldier.

Night came, but he came not; but, just at ten, a messenger rode up to Mrs. Ashton's door with a note from Richard, saying that he would be with her in the morning early.

"And why not to-night?" asked the mother, almost querulously. "If you could come, why not Richard?" Of course the man could not tell, and she had no resource but to run over and tell Ruth, and wonder at what detained him. "Be sure, Ruth, to spend the day with us, to-morrow," she said over and over again; and blushing and tearful, Ruth consented to be there.

The next morning rose, bright and serene as a poet's dream of heaven. The sky was one unclouded blue. The birds sang in the trees, the cows stood knee-deep in the clear pools of water, making as pretty a rural picture as ever Hering painted. Ruth's windows shone bright and clear, and her snowy curtains were flapping in and out, in the light summer breeze. roses and pinks in her garden were all abloom, and her flower vases in the house breathed out a delightful fragrance. She thought what a sweet, lovely day it was to come home "after long years spent in the rough world," to

The

come to such a haven of peace, after months upon the battle-field, or amidst the groans and tears of the sick and dying, in hospitals. She had risen early, cut her flowers with the fresh dew glistening upon their leaves, and sat down by her window, half hidden by the blind, to watch stealthily for the homeward bound soldier.

The sun was not high when the sound of wheels made her start. "Richard is ill and they are bringing him home," she said to herself, as she unconsciously cowered in a distant part of the room, lest her eyes should meet some sad or dreadful sight.

The wheels stopped. It must be at Mrs. Ashton's door, for they had passed hers. Perhaps it was his dead body they were bringing to his mother. Could it be? O, God, could she be thus a third time bereaved! Poor, pour Ruth! How she trembled! For worlds, she could not have risen from the dim corner where she had thrown herself down affrighted.

It was nearly two hours afterwards, before she recovered herself sufficiently to go again to the window and look over to Mrs. Ashton's. All seemed still and quiet there in the genial sunshine. She laughed at herself for her cowardice. "That was not Richard, at all,” she said to herself. "He has not come, and his mother is crying alone for her disappointment. I will go over and try to comfort her." And she threw on her garden hat and ran through the little gate that led to Mrs. Ashton's back door. Not seeing her in the little kitchen, she turned herself into a side room lying between that and the parlor.

She was bewildered by the sight she saw there. On the small couch lay a figure, scarcely larger than a child's. A pale face, whiter than the pillows, gleamed up from the couch. A pair of black eyes, intense in radiance and sparkle, were turned upward to the face of a man who bent over her, as Ruth thought, with a tender and touching care. The room was so still, that even Ruth's light steps were heard. The man looked up; and spite of the bronze tint, spite of the wasted form, spite of the thick, matted beard, her heart told her that it was Richard.

But who was this pale angel that lay beneath his tender and watchful look? Whose voice was this, soft and sweet, and tremulous with weakness, that called him "dear Richard?"

Twice Ruth tried to turn away, but she was spell bound to the spot. It was indeed Rich

rd, and he now came forward, greeting her gravely, yet kindly. He glanced at her black dress, and a tear came in his eye; but none to hers. She was cold, hard, petrified into a statue. Grief for her dead parents might have thus affected her; but, in that brief moment, Ruth thought not even of them. All her being was swallowed up in the scene which she had just witnessed and which she might now witness, if she would but turn those stony eyes upon it. And still Richard stood, with grave, yet kind looks, as if uncertain what to say or do, until a sigh came to his ears from the couch. Then he hastily drew Ruth into the room. "Ruth, you are good and kind! Will you help me to take care of this child? this little feeble girl who is now my wife?”

"His wife!" How Ruth's heart beat at the words. She had not much time to promise; for a stream of red blood was issuing from the pale lips, dyeing them with its crimson stain, to the hue of health. Tenderly, Ruth wiped it away. She had been more or less than woman, had she failed to do so. A smile, like that of the angels, thanked her; and then the little patient sufferer put her hand into Ruth's and fell asleep.

While she slept, Richard told his story. He had found her the night after a battle, lying on the field beside a dead soldier. She had fainted, but he restored her sufficiently for her to tell him that the soldier was her father, her all in life. Around her were groups of lawless men who were struck with the perfect beauty of her sweet and innocent face, and were freely commenting upon it. She shrank from them all, and turned her appealing gaze upon Richard's honest face, as if there indeed she might put her trust.

He took her in his arms—child as he thought her—and bore her away from the scene. The soldiers — let us rejoice that they were rebel, not Union soldiers — followed, uttering deep imprecations upon the man who had carried off their prize.

A church—a little ark of safety - was in his way, as he ran on with his burden. The doors were open - a little wedding group, one man and three women, and the minister, caught his eye as he looked through the vestibule.

He set down his precious burden on the stairs and then said to her, "Where are your friends?" "I have none, God help me! since my father si dead."

"O, yes! keep me from those men, and I will bless you forever."

The wedding group passed out at that moment. Richard laid his hand imploringly upon the last two witnesses, and entreated them to go back and witness his own. A brief word or two with the minister, and the ceremony was hastily performed and duly registered.

"Now, Agnes, neither men nor devils shall take you from me,” he exclaimed, as he pressed the first kiss upon the quivering lips of his child-bride.

He hid her, until the time came for his return, and then took her home to his mother. "I shall not have her long," he said, as he concluded his narration to Ruth. "That dreadful evening scene, and the night air acting upon her feeble frame, has thrown her into a quick decline. Poor little Agnes! She lives now but in my love; and she will have that, Ruth, to the last moment of her sweet young life. Ruth, I need not ask how you will act now. I know!”

Gently Ruth put her hand into his.

"Believe it, Richard! I will do all that a woman can do for this poor child. I will not leave her a moment, unless you or she desire it."

And Richard accepted her words just as she spoke them. Night and day Ruth maintained her post by that couch, bestowing the sweet ministry of a woman's best and holiest devotion to the sick. Agnes learned to watch every motion, every glance, with a love as deep as that with which she regarded Richard.

Mrs. Ashton looked on, astonished. She had mourned in secret, ever since they came, over Ruth's disappointment; but now, she saw what a true woman can sacrifice without repining; and her admiration of the girl received new strength.

Agnes died, and was buried close to the parents of Ruth; and then Richard Ashton went back to fight his battles over again, while Ruth went back to her lonely house, with a look that spoke, not of unhappiness, but of inward peace and quiet.

Now that the battles, thank God! are over, we shall have leisure to wonder what the widowed soldier will do next.

IRVING AND THE HUDSON.

BY ELIZA A. CHASE.

en

adjacent country. The Highlands are chanted; Tappan Zee is full of weird associations; Dunderburg, Sleepy Hollow and Antony's Nose, have each its peculiar legend. The rich, warm imagination that threw its grace over them, is at the same time, so quaint, so apparently serious, that we find it hard to doubt these wonderful stories, incredible, our reason assures us, but told with such an air of sincerity, and certified by the mark of some Dutch burgomaster, that we almost insensibly give credence to the greatest improbabilities at least, during their perusal. We are seized upon by the magic of the writer; we surrender ourselves to the fascination of the moment, too delighted to inquire whether "these things be so."

What can be more delicious than to read the wonderful adventures of Ichabod Crane, while sauntering through stubbles and corn-fields in that dreamy, golden season, so admirably described in the Legend of Sleepy Hollow? And who, coming home on a summer's night, and being struck in the face by a "great blockhead of a beetle in his blundering flight," has not recalled the ghostly tales of Cotton Mather, with which the immortalized pedagogue held his eager audience in terrible fascination? Where in all the galleries of books, can be found a word picture more perfect than the description of the birds, "the blue jay, that noisy coxcomb in his gay light-blue coat and white under-clothes, screaming and chattering, nodding and bobbing and bowing, and pretending to be on good terms with every songster in the grove?" or that of the imaginary feast which spread itself before the delighted eyes of Ichabod as he rolled them over the rich domain of the father of his Dulcinea?

And who can fail to see the confident lover as "he rode with short stirrups which brought his knees nearly up to the pommels of the saddle; his sharp elbows stuck out like grasshoppers'; he carried his whip perpendicularly in his hand, like a sceptre, and as his horse jogged on, the motion of his arms was not unlike the flapping of a pair of wings?" But the mind once divested of the fascination, begins to wonder how Irving ever could have imagined such characters as those he delights in describing.

quaintly could have comed

so recently. But it is nevertheless true, that even at this day, there may be found in the outlying towns of the country bordering on the Hudson, persons and customs that strongly cor roborate the grave assertions of Diedrich Knickerbocker, or suggest the admirable pictures of Goeffry Crayon.

It was my fortune to spend a couple of years in one of those good old Dutch settlements. I had been from childhood an ardent admirer of Irving, but I had supposed that he drew as largely on his imagination for his description of character as for his four tales of diablerie; and I should as soon have expected to find a living prototype of the "grave roysterers" who played at nine-pins with Rip Van Winkle as their flagon bearer, as of Herr Van Tassel and his taciturn neighbors. What was my surprise then to find among the older people, customs exactly like those of which I had so often read; their use of the parlor for instance. This was kept closed as though there were enchantment within; and when on some exceptional occasion it was necessary to enter it, there was a kind of awful preparation that instantly sent me back to my childhood, when, seated at the foot of a chestnut, the silence around me unbroken, save by the lazy ripple of the brook near by, or the occasional tinkle of a nut dropping on the russet leaves at my feet, I read the magic words of Irving, and walked in an enchanted land. First, a murmured consultation, next a solemn approach to the sacred door, then, the shoes left in the hall as if the owner were about to enter on holy ground, the privileged individual turned the glittering brass door knob and disappeared in a darkness as profound as that of Erebus. All parts of the house, except the lodging rooms and kitchen seemed made, like the sepulchres of the ancients, not to be inhabited by the living. Though I was a frequent guest at many of these houses, the mysteries of the parlor were never revealed to me. The dining-room and kitchen, often combined in one, were the only rooms in common use, and in summer the table was invariably set in a shed adjoining the house, no matter who might be the guests. Here, too, I often saw the old ladies lay their sugar on the table-cloth and