The professor passed his hand, which trembled a little, over her shining hair, saying, with a paternal smile, “I shall kiss my daughter in the way that best pleases me.  I am going to be a very strict and exacting father.”

She laughed gleefully, as if it were the best joke in the world, and her merry “Good-night, dear father,” followed him as he went out into the darkness.

He held Mr. Symington to his engagement to row Rosamond and himself to the island, but he took with him a large canvas bag and a geological hammer.  And how, pray, could any one talk to, or even stand very near, him, when he was pounding off bits of rock for specimens with such energy that fragments flew in all directions?  The sound of the hammer ceased as soon as his companions had disappeared among the trees; they were going to look for a spring, but, strangely enough, they did not notice this.  No need now for him to school his face, his voice, his trembling hands.  They found the spring.

And did my professor die of a broken heart, and leave a lock of Rosamond’s hair and a thrilling heart-history, in the shape of a neatly-written journal, to proclaim to the world his sacrifice?  No; that was not his idea of a sacrifice.  He burnt that very night each token—­and there were many—­which he had so jealously cherished,—­each little, crookedly-written, careless note, and, last, the long bright curl which, before her heart awoke, she had so freely given him.

It is true that there was a gradual but very perceptible change in him.  He had been indifferent formerly to the members of his class, excepting from an intellectual stand point.  Now he began to take an interest in that part of their lives which lay outside his jurisdiction, to ask them to his rooms of an evening, to walk with them and win their confidence.  Not one of them ever regretted that it had been bestowed.

MARGARET VANDEGRIFT.

“WHAT DO I WISH FOR YOU?”

    What do I wish for you?  Such swift, keen pain
      As though all griefs that human hearts have known
      Were joined in one to wound and tear your own. 
    Such joy as though all heaven had come again
    Into your earth, and tears that fall like rain,
      And all the roses that have ever blown,
      The sharpest thorn, the sceptre and the throne,
    The truest liberty, the captive’s chain.

    Cruel, you say?  Alas!  I’ve only prayed
      Such fate for you as everywhere, above
    All others, women wish,—­that unafraid
      They clasp in eager arms.  So, little dove,
    I give you to the hawk.  Nay, nay, upbraid
      Me not.  Have you not longed for love?

CARLOTTA PERRY.

LETTERS AND REMINISCENCES OF CHARLES READE.