fying colors. How was she to know that young Lancing, whom she entertained so hospitably, was a spy of Davis's? She invited loyal men and women to meet him, and, indeed, had herself received him on the authority of people known to be loyal. And when it was found out that the rebel Colonel Wilworth had been in Washington in disguise, how was that unsuspecting creature to recog nize him when he was at her house, even though he had been an old acquaintance of hers?

"I had not seen him for five years," she said, "and was not expecting to see him. Besides, he has red hair, and how should I know him, so tanned, and with black hair and beard? It must have been a remarkably well-fitting wig. I thought I could always detect a wig, but it seems I was deceived there. I don't like it. If I should ever see him again, I shall tell him I think he served me very meanly in playing such a trick. I never said an unfriendly word to him in my life, and he had no reason to treat me so."

Poor, injured Mrs. Seymore!

It was the fall of the year '61, when one afternoon toward evening Mrs. Seymore sat alone in her parlor, looking dreamily out the window. The sun had just gone down, and the twilight was too dim to illumine this room, though the heavy curtains were looped back as far as possible; but a rosy glow pervaded it from the fireplace, which was heaped with red coals. This steady light touched with a warm color pictures, and busts, and bijouterie; it painted a deep blush on purple cushions and curtains; it flushed the amber hues of the carpet, kindled mimic conflagra- · tions in the polished steel andirons and fender, and put gold rings on the knobs of the cabinet doors. It woke a yellow gloss on the smooth bands of Mrs. Seymore's hair, and defined the shape of her head. You might notice now in this simple and steady light, which revealed so much while seeming only to hint, that Mrs. Seymore's head, phrenologically considered, expressed far more force of character than she usually got credit for. She had caution, but she was also adventurous, and firmness was astonishingly large for a person who appeared so gentle and yielding. There was great width of brow also; but the drooping hair hid that, and the pink color and pretty curve of the lips made you forget to notice how thin and tightly-closed they were. The small, pointed chin wou'd have a shrewish look on any other face, the

slightly piquante nose is more spirited than the lady's manner; and if she did not manage so well those large blue eyes of hers, they might be called bold and determined. Lest we should seem to prophesy after the event, let us hasten to say that we should guess this lady to be a finshed intriguante; one capable of keeping many irons in the fire, and of handling them with perfect composure, being sure to get herself the cool end, and give somebody else the hot one. Nevertheless, in spite of these little clashing evidences, this lady who sits dreaming in the twilight looks a delicate, dainty little woman, admirably calculated for the role of peace-maker, which she is so ambitious to take.

As she sat there, there was a ring of the door-bell, a step on the stairs, and the door of the room opened to give admittance to a swarthy, broad-shouldered man, in the uniform of a major. She sat quite still awaiting his approach, but her pleasant smile was welcome enough.

He bowed profoundly on entering the room, but paused again half way to her.

"It is proper to bow three times before royalty," he said.

"Is it only royalty which does not advance to meet its visitor, major ?" she said, extending her hand. "I claim the privilege of an invalid to await you."

"You evade my compliment very dexterously," he replied, as he bent over her hand with a homage which was half-laughing, halfearnest. "I was thinking you looked like a fairy queen, throned on your twilight-colored cushions."

A queer little smile caught her lip, but it was gone before she raised her head.

"I am glad that you have come to cheer me," she said, plaintively. "I have been annoyed and depressed."

"Annoyed!" he repeated, taking a seat near her. "Who has dared to annoy you?"

"Frank Mason has been here," she said, after a momentary hesitation; "and really, major, I don't think I can have him come any more. He is violent and quick-tempered, and though I wouldn't call him disloyal, he does say things which hurt my feelings. I have tried for a long time to restrain him, and have really been worried more than I can well bear. I think it very unkind of him."

"That fellow has been let alone too long," the major said, reddening all over his swarthy face. "He insulted Captain Cartwright last week. The captain ought to have knocked

him down; but he didn't. I hear of his having made an impudent remark about me, too. If I had met him here, I would have kicked him into the street."

"Not from my door, major," she said, softly. "Surely you wouldn't have done that. And I'm sorry now I mentioned him, since I have only increased your dislike for him. Pray forget what I have said. After all, I pity him."

"I don't understand why you should pity him," the gentleman said, a faint frown drawing his heavy brows; "unless because he is a pretty fellow, and manages to talk love and treason in the same breath. They had him in Fort Warren once, and the authorities were glad to release him to get rid of the women who were weeping, and wailing, and gnashing their teeth about him."

"He is as handsome as a picture," said Mrs. Seymore, sinking back in her chair and folding her hands in her lap, sighing softly as she spoke, but watching the jealous major with a merry twinkle in her eyes.

"He had better take his handsome face out of Washington, or it will have to see daylight through bars," said the gentleman, angrily, pulling excitedly at his long mustache. "I wont have him here!"

"But poor Frank has been disappointed in love," the lady said, softly; "and you know we ladies are always pitiful towards such sufferers. You must have heard of his affair." "Not a word."

"Shall we have the gas lighted ?" she asked, half rising.

"No, no! let me have a love-story told by you in this magical light," he said, eagerly, quite mollified by her coquettish sweetness.

"Once upon a time there was a little boy and girl who lived in a rose-garden,” she began, in a tone of silvery music through which trembled a little laugh; "and these children they lived with no other thought than to love and be loved by each other. The maiden's Rame was Leda-"

"What! you don't mean that he was in love with Leda Stanley ?" interrupted the hasty major.

"Precisely!" was the reply, the lady's eyes fixed keenly upon him.

"And she doesn't favor him?"

"Not at all!" Mrs. Seymore said, decidedly, dropping her coquetry and assuming a dignified manner. "He is extravagant, and has no profession, and hardly enough to live on. Besides, he is not one to rise in the world.

He is too impetuous and indiscreet. He is constantly doing things to injure himself."

The officer was still slowly pulling at his mustache.

"So you think that if he had been rich and likely to rise in the world, Miss Stanley would have favored him?" he asked.

"I do not say that," was the cool answer. "Indeed, I think that Leda had no fancy for him. Hark! wasn't there a carriage stopped at the door ?"

Major Winfield rose to look out of the window. "Yes," he said, impatiently. "Who would have expected a visitor at this hour? I never have a minute with you."

It would seem that the major did not care to be caught in so sentimental a situation as sitting in the twilight with a lady; for he made such haste to reach the lamp-lighters, that he upset a chair and vase in his way. The chandelier was scarcely lighted, and he was still standing with upraised arms, when the door opened and a clear young voice called out, "I was so much afraid you might be out, when I saw no light." And Miss Leda Stanley came tripping into the room, holding up the train of her dress with one hand, while the other held a mantle about her.

"O, Trumpet-flower!" cried Mrs. Seymore, hastening to meet her young friend. "It is so kind of you to let me see you. Come to the light, dear. Major, will you please to touch the other burner, since you are performing the part of lamp-lighter?"

At the sound of his title, Leda Stanley turned abruptly to face the gentleman.

"O Major Winfield!" she said, haughtily, and coloring. "Perhaps I intrude. I really took for granted it was a servant."

"I am a servant," the major said, laughing, trying not to show his annoyance at the

situation.

"How could you intrude ?" interposed Mrs. Seymore. "The major and I are not plotting to deliver up the city to the rebels, nor are we planning a campaign; and I really don't see what other privacy we could have. To tell the truth, though, we were talking of you. Now let me see your dress. Major, you're to have a treat."

The girl who stood there silent and blushing, partly with the pain of a sudden jealous pang, partly with vexation with herself for having betrayed the feeling, was one of the most beautiful girls in Washington. Tall, slender and stately, she reminded one of a

calla lily, yet gave the impression of a certain kind of fine strength, as she stood beside her frail companion. The white skin looked as though it covered firm flesh, the long, tapering fingers were rounded perfectly, the head was firmly though lightly poised. With any other hair she would have been a very pretty girlwith that crown of gleaming gold, she was beautiful.

"Our drawing-room at Willard's is so small, I couldn't resist the temptation to look at the hang of my flounces in your long mirror," she said, recovering herself, and walking with a nonchalant air straight before the mirror. "I don't quite trust my dressmaker. What do you think?"

Miss Stanley wore a dress of pale-green crepe with lace flounces, and had bands of emeralds in her hair, around her throat, and on her arms. She was almost always pale, but now a rich color burned in her cheeks, and gave warmth to what would otherwise have had too cold an effect.

"I cannot find a flaw," Mrs. Seymore said, after the girl had turned herself about before the mirror, revolving lightly, in a waltz step, on the toes of her little white satin shoes. "If you had not so much color, I should call you champagne; but your cheeks are too bright for that."

"Champagne reminds me that the ambassador's dinner is at seven," the girl said, hastily catching her wraps about her and going to the door. "Thank you for enabling me to see myself as others see me. I will leave you and the major to finish your conversation about me."

As she turned away with a careless nod to the two, Mrs. Seymore made an imperative gesture to the major to follow her.

He stared, but took his hat.

"Good-by!" called out Miss Stanley, in a gay tone; but her cheeks had grown suddenly white. For once Mrs. Seymore had been careless, and had not thought that perhaps her young friend might see her gesture in the mirror.

"What does it mean?" thought the girl, as she hurried to escape the step that pursued her. "There is evidently an understanding between them. Can that woman be coquetting at the age of forty? She must be forty. Or has it anything to do with politics?"

"Allow me," said Major Winfield, at her elbow, as she reached the carriage. "Thank you; I can do without help," replied Miss Stanley, sharply, taking her seat.

He would have spoken, but she motioned the driver and was driven away, leaving the major standing there.

It is true that I am an old maid. I am forty-four years old. No, not quite, for I was born on Saint Valentine's day, forty-four years ago; it was leap-year, too. Is it strange that I am interested in this season? The date of my birth alone would have caused it to be a marked day in my calendar; but every event of any importance in my life has been closely connected with the month of February, and with the fourteenth day of that month.

Do not sneer, my dear young friend, or my very dear married friend of forty-four, and wonder what interest the life of an old maid can have to herself or any one else. I was young once, and possessed at least the charm youth gives. I once received Valentines, laughed over them before mother and sister Mary, then carried them away to the secrecy of my own room and pored over them, doted upon them, believed they were all true expressions of love and admiration, even as you do now, my dear girl.

But Valentines then and now were different affairs. Now one goes to a shop and buys cupids, hearts, verses, flowers, what not, as pleases his fancy. When I was young, a copy of original verses was the only missive that would meet with any consideration by attractive maidens. There was a reality about the thing, that cannot be felt about these “ready made" articles; (unless one considers the price of these modern contrivances.)

I will not rail at the young people. There must certainly be less wear and tear of brain during the first half of February now than formerly, which will, I doubt not, leave that valuable organ in full strength for the business of life.

A few days ago, sister Mary's eldest daughter, now just fifteen, came and asked me why I always passed Valentine's day in my room; would I not come down this year and have some fun in the parlor? She wondered why my faded lips quivered, and at my reply; which was that I would write her a Valentine on that day, but that she must not expect to receive it till the day after the fair.

And so, my reader, will you step aside with me and read the history of one day in

my life, as I wrote it for my wondering, blooming niece?

I was eighteen years old. I had a lover, and was loved as ardently as I loved again; but even my love could not tame the spirit of roguery within me. It was my greatest delight to puzzle, almost vex Albert, then 'make friends with him again as only lovers can. Perhaps the very warmth of the kiss I was sure to receive after such an escapade, was the chief incentive to my pranks. So, without realizing it fully, I had worried and vexed him again and again, but he was too noble to complain. I had counted too securely upon my power over him.

Valentine's day came, with its presents and verses in abundance from loving friends, but no word from Albert. I laughed when the omission was noticed, and said, O, well, if he forgets me, I can bear it," when he entered the door. He had heard the laugh. It was an admirable counterfeit of the thoughtles ha ha! a young girl would utter at any sport. He was deceived. He thought I meant it all, and I only talked the more and laughed the louder.

After an hour's stay, Albert took from a case a letter, and handing it to me said:

Some hours after I stole to my room, and with many kisses upon the words his dear hand had traced, opened, and read a beautiful "Tribute to my Betrothed, on her Eighteenth Birthday."

Many a tear fell upon the paper as I read the praises he gave me, the expressions of his true, manly love. Why could they not have flowed on? while, with more delicacy than I can now command, he hinted at the fault that was cankering so fair a flower, and begged me to crush it now, while I might.

I paused not, but scribbled upon a sheet of coarse paper these words: