The Argosy — page 93: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

80 Gwen's Lover. But, however, there 1s an end to everything. The end of the chapter did come nearer and nearer slowly, and still the nearer it came the more Mr. Owen had to say. The clock struck again, and then a cock, that had made some mistake about the time, began to crow. It was getting colder every minute, and there was not the least ? hope of the second candle burning out. Mr. Owen seemed as fresh as when he began, and just as friendly and cheerful. The room |, began to get hazy; the candle seemed to have a halo round it, like the one the moon has sometimes. Mr. Owen seemed to be a long way off, or talking through a blanket. Sometimes he went out of sight altogether, and sometimes he looked like Merlin, or some old enchanter sitting there saying spells out of his big black book. Well, he did stop at last ; and he had hardly got the last words out of his mouth, and shut to the heavy book-cover with a bang, when the young man jumped up in a hurry. “Are you going?” says Mr. Owen. ‘‘ Well, perhaps it is time. Come again as soon as you can, my young friend, and then we'll read the tenth chapter of the same book.” “Good night, Mr. Owen,” cried Gwen’s sweetheart, as he hurried down the stairs. ‘Good night, and much obliged.” “Tm very glad to have seen you,” Mr. Owen called after him. “Come again, whenever you like.” That is all the story ; because, you see, he never did come again. And that was the way Mr. David Owen got rid of Gwen’s sweetheart. THE NEW YEAR. WHAT time at Winter’s touch, Earth doffs a little while her softer guise, And in his icy clutch Sweet nature like a swooning maiden lies; When the cold night stays long, And dim and scanty are the hours of day, And silent is the song Of piping birds that made the woodland gay ; When boding hearts own nought But joy afar and desolation near, To still the ungracious thought Comes the rich promise of the glad New Year. Deep must the diver grope, When he would bring the purest pearl to light; And the fair gem of hope Could not be ours if all the way were bright. SYDNEY GREY. E@RNIELIOOOKS EO)