The New-Year's day—the day after which the year is no longer new—is come and gone; and while sitting here to record its events before I sleep, I look back at it with pleasure, chastened by such thoughts as the young seldom have. I believe of all such eras the aged may say as the poet says of his birthday:

To all, these eras mark their progress on the journey of life; but to the young they are bright with the promise of a happier future; the aged, they direct to the grave of the buried past, and they read on them the inscription so often found on the Roman monumental stones, "Siste, Viator." Travellers are we from time to eternity, and it is well that we should meet with these imperative calls to stand and consider. Cheered by the Christian's hope, we can stand; we can look steadily on the past, count the lengthening line of these memorials of our dead years, and feel that but few more probably lie between us and the river of death, yet, strong in the might of Death's great Conqueror, "bate no jot of heart or hope."These are grave though not sad thoughts; too grave to mingle readily with the record of mirthful scenes, howsoever innocent may have been the mirth. I must, therefore, lay aside my pen, and reserve the description of our New-Year for tomorrow.

Our New-Year opened with a cold and cloudless morning, and our party met at breakfast with faces as bright as the sun. Gifts were exchanged between the parents and children, the brothers and sisters—gifts, trifling in themselves, but dear from their association with the cherished givers. It was an endearing sight to see the venerable parents receiving from their children testimonies of that affectionate consideration which the care and tenderness of years had so well deserved. Tears were on Mrs. Donaldson's cheeks, and even the Colonel's eyes glistened as they clasped one after another of their children to their hearts, and invoked on them the blessing of Heaven. From this scene Mr. Arlington and I had stood aloof, silent, but not uninterested spectators. As the excitement of the principal actors subsided, we approached and tendered our hearty congratulations, and received equally hearty congratulations in return. Neither had Aunt Nancy been altogether forgotten in the mementos of affection provided for the day; and I thought Mr. Arlington looked a little envious as Annie, with a kiss, threw around my neck a chain woven of her own hair, and suspended to it the eye-glass which I always wore. I do not know but his envy may have been somewhat allayed by a very handsomely decorated copy of an English work on sporting, with which Col. Donaldson presented him. He had scarcely found time, however, to admire it, when all attention was attracted to Philip Donaldson, who entered with a servant bearing the mysterious box to which I have before alluded.

"There is my New-Year present to you, Annie," he said, as he began to open it. All drew near and looked on with interest, yet few felt much surprise when, the cover being removed, a Greek dress was disclosed. From the rich head-dress of silvered muslin to the embroidered slipper, all was complete. Annie looked on with a smile as he displayed piece after piece—yet her smile wore some appearance of constraint; and when Philip, drawing her to him, kissed her cheek and said, "Not a word for me, Annie!" with her thanks were mingled some hesitating expressions of apprehension that this dress would be very conspicuous, concluding with the timid question, "Do you really wish me to wear it this evening, Philip?"

"Certainly, Annie. It was in order to show you in this dress that I proposed fancy dresses for this evening; you will not disappoint me?"

"Certainly not—at least not willingly—I will wear it. If I wear it ungracefully you will forgive me?"

"I am not afraid of that," said Philip, as he glanced at her glowing face with a brother's gratified pride.

Miss Donaldson advised that Annie should try on the dress at once, as she prudently suggested it might require some alteration.

"Come with me, Aunt Nancy," said Annie as she left the room to comply with this advice.

"Come back here and let us see you, Annie, when you have put it on," said Col. Donaldson.

Annie would have passed from the room without an answer, evading the compliance which she could not refuse, but the Colonel called her back and did not dismiss her till assured that the request, which he knew would be regarded as a command, had been heard.

The dress needed no alteration. We afterwards found that Philip had sent his friend a measure procured from Annie's maid, and the fit was perfect. I am not quite sure that Annie, as she saw the beautiful figure reflected in her glass, regretted the command which compelled her to show herself to the party awaiting her in the library, to which we had withdrawn from the breakfasting room, that we might not interfere with the household operations, of which the latter was, at this hour, the scene. Yet it was with a little coy delay and blushing timidity that she, at length, suffered me to lead her thither.

"Beautiful!"—"I never saw her look so well!"—"I knew it would become her!" were the exclamations that greeted her, on her entrance, deepening the flush upon her cheek, and calling up a brighter smile to her lips. Mr. Arlington alone was silent, but his soul was in his eyes, and they spoke an admiration compared to which the words of others were tame.

"My dear Annie," said her mother, as she gazed delightedly upon her, "how I wish I had a likeness of you in that dress!—you do look so remarkably well in it."

Mr. Arlington stepped forward. "Would you permit me—" to Mrs. Donaldson—"Would you do me the favor—" to Annie—"Might I be allowed—" with a glance at the Colonel, "to gratify Mrs. Donaldson's wish. It should be my New-Year's offering. I would ask only an hour of your time—" deprecatingly to Annie. "That would give me an outline which I could fill up without troubling you."

Mr. Arlington was so earnest, and Mrs. Donaldson so gratefully pleased, that if Annie had any objections, they were completely overborne. Mr. Arlington produced his sketching materials, and disposed his subject and his light, and then intimated so plainly that the consciousness of the observation of others would be fatal to his success, that we withdrew, leaving only Philip with a book in a distant corner "to play propriety," as he whispered to me on passing, with a mischievous glance at the blushing Annie.

And now the reader doubtless thinks, that in the engraving prefixed to this volume, he has a copy of the sketch made on this New-Year's morning. In this, however, he deceives himself, for the work of this morning amounted to the merest and most unfinished outline, which would have stood for Zuleika as well as for Annie Donaldson. Yet instead of one hour, Annie generously allowed Mr. Arlington nearly to triple the time. How he was occupied during all this time, I cannot tell, though that he did not spend all of it in drawing I had ocular demonstration.

Nearly three hours, as I have said, had passed since we left the library, when, looking from my window, I saw Philip, returning to the house on horseback. Having left in the library a book in which I was much interested, I had been waiting somewhat impatiently for Annie's appearance, to satisfy me that I might without intrusion return thither for it. I now concluded, somewhat too hastily, as it afterwards proved, from seeing Philip abroad, that the sitting was at an end, and accordingly went for my book. I entered noiselessly, I suppose—I am usually quiet in my movements—by a door directly opposite to the seat which Mr. Arlington had arranged for himself, and behind the sofa on which, at his desire, Annie had been seated when I left her. There still was Mr. Arlington's seat, and before it a table with the drawing materials and unfinished sketch, but Mr. Arlington was on the sofa beside Annie. He was speaking, but in tones so low, that even had I wished it, I could not have heard him; but the few seconds for which surprise kept me chained to the spot, were sufficient to suggest the subject of those murmured words. The reader will probably conjecture that subject without aid from me, when I tell him what I saw. Of Annie, as she sat with her back to me, I could only see the drooping head and one crimson ear and cheek; Mr. Arlington's face was turned to her, and was glowing with joy, and as it seemed to me with triumph. Before I had turned away, he raised her hand to his lips. I saw that it rested unresistingly in his clasp; and gliding through the door by which I stood, I closed it softly and left them unconscious of my presence.

The invitations had been given for the early hour of half-past seven, and at seven, by previous arrangement, our own party collected in the library dressed for the evening. There stood Col. Donaldson in the uniform of a continental major, gallantly attending a lady whose fine dark eyes and sweet smile revealed Mrs. Seagrove, notwithstanding the crimped and powdered hair, patched face, hoop, furbelows, and farthingale, which would have carried us back to the days of Queen Anne. Mrs. Dudley, in similar costume, was attended by Philip Donaldson, who looked a perfect gentleman of the Sir Charles Grandison style in his full dress, with bag-wig and sword. Arthur Donaldson, in the graceful and becoming costume of the gallant Hotspur, was seated with his Kate by his side, and if Kate Percy looked but half as lovely in her bridal array as did her present representative, she was well worthy a hero's homage. But in the background, evidently shrinking from observation, stood a figure more interesting to me than all these—it was our "sweet Annie" as Zuleika—our Bride, not of Abydos—leaning on the arm of a Selim habited in a costume as correct and as magnificent as her own, yet who could scarcely be said to look the character well; the open brow of Mr. Arlington, where lofty and serene thought seemed to have fixed its throne, and his eyes bright with present enjoyment and future hope, bearing little resemblance to our imaginations of the wronged and desperate Selim, whose very joy seemed but a lightning flash, lending intenser darkness to the night of his despair. I was the last to enter the room, and as I approached Mr. Arlington, he presented me with a very beautiful bouquet. I found afterwards that he had made the same graceful offering to each of the ladies at the Manor, having received them from the city, to which he had sent for his Greek dress and Philip's wig. Put up in the ingenious cases now used for this purpose, the flowers had come looking as freshly as though they had that moment been plucked. The bouquet appropriated to Annie differed from all the others. It was composed of white camelias, moss-rose buds, and violets. As I was admiring it, Annie pointed to one of the rose-buds as being eminently lovely in its formation and beautiful in its delicate shading. It was beautiful, but my attention was more attracted by the sparkling of a diamond ring I had never before seen upon her finger. The diamond was unusually large, the antique setting tasteful. With an inconsideration of which I flatter myself I am not often guilty, I exclaimed in surprised admiration, "Why, Annie, where did you get that beautiful ring?"

The sudden withdrawing of the little hand, the quick flushing of cheek, neck, brow, told the tale at once; a tale corroborated by the smiling glance which met mine as it was turned for a moment on Mr. Arlington. Her confusion was beautiful, but he was too generous to enjoy it, and strove to bring me back to the flowers.

"Have you ever seen some beautiful verses, translated from the German, by Edward Everett I believe, entitled 'The Flower Angels?'" he asked.

"I never did; can you repeat them?"

He answered by immediately reciting the verses which I here give to the reader.

THE FLOWER ANGELS.

The visitors soon began to arrive. There were among them some amusing characters, so well supported as to give rise during the evening to many entertaining scenes; but to me this was the group and this the incident of the evening. Not a group or an incident for prurient curiosity or frivolous jest, but for an earnest and reverent recognition of that beautiful law imposed on Nature by her Great Author, by which the feeble delight in receiving, and the strong in giving support—that law by which a pure and self-abnegating affection is made the source of life in all its commingling relations—of its duties and its sympathies—its joys and its sorrows—of its severest probation and its loftiest development.It was in the solemnity of spirit, engendered by thoughts like these, that I stood at the window of my room, looking forth upon the still and moonlit night, long after our friends had left us. My door opened softly and Annie glided in, and ere I was aware of her presence, was standing beside me with her head resting on my shoulder. A tear was on the cheek to which I pressed my lips. A few whispered words told me whence the ring came—but not for the public are the pure, guileless confidences of that hour.

Our holiday festivities were over, and the next day the Christmas Guests departed. They had stepped aside awhile from the dusty thoroughfares on which they were accustomed to pursue their several avocations, for the interchange of friendly sympathy with each other, and the offering of grateful hearts to Heaven, and now they were returning, cheered and strengthened to their allotted work. Reader, go thou and do likewise

THE END.