upon a beautiful moonlight night, under the trees in the garden of madame bourges' boarding-school, near versailles, quite secure from observation stood arthur barrington and louisa aubray, engaged in earnest conversation.

"are you happy here, dearest louisa?" he inquired, in accents of deepest tenderness.

"happy! ah, no, louisa is never happy," she answered, "but lonely and unhappy--so unhappy and miserable!"

"but you are not lonely now that i am here, dear louisa."

"no; but, when you are gone, it is so dreary--oh, so dreary!"

"you used to think that you would be so happy at school."

"ah, yes! but i'm not. madame is harsh, the teachers cruel, and the girls so strange: they do not love me," she cried, in a burst of passionate weeping; "nobody loves louisa!"

"oh, louisa, dearest louisa, do not say so!" he exclaimed passionately; "do not say that nobody loves you, when i have come so far expressly to see if you are happy. i love you, louisa, with all the warmth of my ardent nature, with undying affection. i want you to be mine--mine! that i may guard you from every ill but such as i can share."

"oh! can you--will you--do this, arthur? will you, indeed, share all my troubles and sorrows, nor deem them, when the first full joy of love is past, unworthy of your attention--your cares, too great to admit of such trifles, claiming your consideration? if you will, and also let me share all your joys and griefs in perfect sympathy and love, then--then my dream of happiness will be fulfilled; but if, in years to come," she continued, with suppressed emotion, "you should change, and a harshness or indifference take the place of sympathy and love, oh i would wish to die before that day!"

"dearest louisa, can you doubt me?"

"i will trust you, arthur, but i have seen that which makes me almost doubt the existence of love and happiness. i can picture to myself the home of love and peace that i would have. is it an impossibility; is it but an ideal dream?"

"may it be a blessed reality, my darling louisa!" he exclaimed, with ardor, as he clasped her passionately in his arms. she made no resistance, but, with her head resting upon his breast, she said, in a tone of deep earnestness:

"if you loved me always, and were always kind, oh arthur, i i could do anything--suffer anything--for your sake, and care for naught beyond our home. but, my nature is not one" she continued impetuously, "that can be slighted, crushed, and treated with unkindness or indifference, and endure it patiently. no!" she added, with suppressed passion, "a fierce flame of resentment, bitterness, perchance even hatred, would spring up and sweep all kindly feelings far away!"

"oh, louisa, louisa!" interrupted arthur in a tone of tender remonstrance, "why do you speak in this dreadful manner--why do you doubt my love and constancy?"

the impetuous mood was gone, and a trusting confidence succeeded it. she fixed her eyes upon his face with an expression of unutterable tenderness, as she answered, in a sweet, soft voice, "i love you, arthur; i cannot doubt you; you are all the world to me."

"then you will leave here as soon as i can make arrangements for our marriage."

"how gladly, how joyfully, i cannot tell!" she replied, smiling sweetly through her tears. "tell me again that you love me; i do so want some one to love me! is it true that you do, indeed, or is it only a beautiful dream? i have lived so desolate and alone that i can scarcely believe my happiness."

"you may believe it, louisa, it is no dream; my love for you is no passing fancy--it is true and sincere, and will last till life shall end," he said, kissing her tenderly.

"ha, ha!" laughed lucy mornington, as she came full upon the lovers, "now i have found you out, miss aubray; i wondered what was up. oh, if madame could only see you, what a scene there would be!" she cried, dancing about and laughing immoderately."

"how dare you come here?" exclaimed louisa, her large eyes flashing angrily, while her whole frame trembled with passion. "how dare you follow and watch me, how dare you?" she repeated.

"hush, louisa!" said arthur, soothingly, "lucy is never ill-natured. you have nothing to fear, for i am sure she would not be unkind; and we must not mind her laughing, as i'm afraid that either of us would have done the same if placed in the same unexpected position."

louisa now clung to lucy, weeping violently, and imploring her in the most winning manner not to betray them to madame.

"don't be afraid, louisa; lucy and i were always good friends, and, now i come to think of it, she will be a most valuable assistant. i am sure we may trust her," and he looked inquiringly at lucy.

"that, you may," answered lucy; "but there is no earthly use in trying to keep a secret from me, as that is utterly impossible; but whatever you may have to say, you must defer to a more auspicious moment, for mademoiselle mondelet has missed louisa, and she is hunting everywhere for her. so make yourself scarce, mr. arthur; we will enter the chapel by a secret door that i discovered in some of my marauding expeditions, and they will never imagine that we came from the garden. come along, louisa."

"adieu! lucy, and many thanks for your warning, for i certainly don't want mademoiselle to find me here. farewell, dearest louisa; i will be here at this time to-morrow evening," said arthur, and then he quickly disappeared.

lucy and louisa went into the chapel, and the former commenced playing the organ, which she often did. so that when mademoiselle came into the chapel, by-and-bye, fuming about louisa, lucy replied, with the greatest coolness, "oh, we have been here ever so long."

shortly after this, isabel received the following epistle from lucy:

dearest isabel,--i am at school again, instead of being in london enjoying myself as i expected. i am cooped up in this abominable place. i suppose mamma thinks me too wild. heigho! but, never mind; ada and charles are going to remain three years in london, so you see i still have a chance. ah, me! i think i should die of ennui in this dismal place (which was once an abbey, or a convent, or something of the sort, i believe,) but, fortunately for me, an event has occurred which has just put new life in my drooping spirits. we have // who in the name of wonder do you think the parties were? arthur barrington and louisa aubray. oh, what a rage lady ashton will be in! don't be shocked, my pet, when i tell you that i went into the affair with all my heart and soul, and was bridesmaid at the interesting ceremony. oh, isabel, arthur is so thoroughly nice that i almost envied louisa her husband. we managed everything so beautifully that they were married and off upon their travels before madame found out that there was anything in the wind. and the best of the fun was that arthur brought a clergyman friend with him, and they were married in the school chapel at four o'clock in the morning. of course this sweet little piece of fun is not known, and is never likely to be. i enjoyed the whole thing immensely. of course they don't know that i had anything to do with the affair. woe betide me if they did! if louisa had had a father and mother, i would not have had anything to do with it; but, under present circumstances, i thought it was the best thing she could do. so i helped them all i could--in fact i contrived it all for them--when i once found out what they were up to.

yours, at present, in the most exuberant spirits,

lucy mornington.

p.s.--the happy pair have gone to switzerland or italy.

"here, emily," said isabel, when emily came in, "i think this will amuse you."

"i think arthur and louisa did very wrong," she resumed, when emily had finished reading.

"ah, well, i have not much fancy for secret marriages, but in this case it was unavoidable, if they were to marry at all," said emily, laughing.

"but i thought that second cousins couldn't marry."

"they can't, i believe; but then arthur and louisa are no relation--for though he always calls lady ashton 'aunt,' she is not his aunt in reality. don't you know lord barrington's first wife was lady ashton's sister, and arthur's mother was the second wife; so you see they are no relations," replied emily. "oh, what a rage lady ashton will be in!" she resumed. don't you know that louisa's father was arthur's tutor. there was a dreadful quarrel between the two families about that marriage; they wouldn't speak for years, and the old folks are barely civil to each other when they meet even now. but she likes arthur. what a good thing it is that she is going to stay away so long. but i'm sorry about lucy; we shall miss her at christmas."

"so we shall, but may and peter will be here, and they are a host in themselves."

"but may can't be compared to lucy; i will have her come; i will tell harry so. she can come out with her papa and mamma, and go back in the spring. and now, my dear, guess what i came to tell you."

"rose told me your brother was to come to-day."

"what a sieve rose is," exclaimed emily. "but i have more than that to tell. i have a letter from harry; he is coming soon, and has passed his examination already. what do you think of that?" and she looked so triumphant and delighted.

"why, emily, how ever could you read my letter, and discuss the news it contained, when you came on purpose to tell me? i declare, wonders never will cease."

"the fact is that i was so astonished to hear about the elopement, that i almost forgot about my own letter for the time."

"i suppose harry will make a long stay now? that will be very nice."

"no, he says he can only stay a week, or perhaps a fortnight. he has promised a friend to go to the blue mountains," pouted emily; "i wish his friend was at jericho."

isabel laughed. "suppose in that case harry had gone with him."

"don't be provoking, isabel. but, to turn the table, how is it you never get any of those 'nice letters' now-a-days."

"don't be provoking, emily!" said isabel, growing very hot.

"ah, you see i always get the best of it," returned emily, laughing. "i must go and dress, for i have to make some calls with mamma and grace."