ELFIN FOLK. (ROUMANIAN.) "SISTER, they say that in this dell "And furthermore 'tis credited They kiss their lips to ruby red. "Sister, our mother oft has told Lurk in this darkling dell for hours To pounce on maids that come for flowers, "And spoil them merrily of these, I fain would know, And of their chains and necklaces The maidens laugh, and look so sly! ELIZABETH CLEGHORN (STEVENSON) GASKELL. ELIZABETH CLEGHORN (STEVENSON) GASKELL, an English novelist, born at Chelsea, London, Sept. 29, 1810; died at Alton, Hampshire, Nov. 12, 1865. She married William Gaskell, a clergyman of Manchester, and gave all her leisure to ministry among the poor of that city, and thus became intimately acquainted with the lives of operatives in the factories. Her first literary work was a paper entitled An Account of Clopton Hall, written for William Howitt's "Visits to Remarkable Places." This was followed by short tales contributed to the People's Journal. "Mary Barton," her first novel, a story of manufacturing life, was published in 1848. Her next publication was "The Moorland Cottage" (1850). "Ruth," a novel, and "Cranford," a series of sketches of life in a rural town, appeared in 1853. Mrs. Gaskell's other works are "North and South " (1855); a "Life of Charlotte Bronté" (1857); "Round the Sofa" (1859); "Right at Last" (1860); "Sylvia's Lovers" (1863); "Cousin Phillis," and "Wives and Daughters," the last of which was not quite completed at the time of her sudden death from heart disease. A LOVE AFFAIR OF LONG AGO. I THOUGHT that probably my connection with Cranford would cease after Miss Jenkyns's death; at least, that it would have to be kept up by correspondence, which bears much the same relation to personal intercourse that the books of dried plants I sometimes see ("Hortus Siccus," I think they call the thing) do to the living and fresh flowers in the lanes and meadows. I was pleasantly surprised, therefore, by receiving a letter from Miss Pole (who had always come in for a supplementary week after my annual visit to Miss Jenkyns) proposing that I should go and stay with her; and then, in a couple of days after my acceptance, came a note from Miss Matty, in which, in a rather circuitous and very humble manner, she told me how much pleasure I should confer if I could spend a week or two with her, either before or after I had been at Miss Pole's; "for," she said, "since my dear sister's death I am well aware I have no attractions to offer; it is only to the kindness of my friends that I can owe their company." Of course I promised to come to dear Miss Matty as soon as I had ended my visit to Miss Pole; and the day after my arrival at Cranford I went to see her, much wondering what the house would be like without Miss Jenkyns, and rather dreading the changed aspect of things. Miss Matty began to cry as soon as she saw me. She was evidently nervous from having anticipated my call. I comforted her as well as I could; and I found the best consolation I could give was the honest praise that came from my heart as I spoke of the deceased. Miss Matty slowly shook her head over each virtue as it was named and attributed to her sister; and at last she could not restrain the tears which had long been silently flowing, but hid her face behind her handkerchief, and sobbed aloud. "Dear Miss Matty!" said I, taking her hand-for indeed I did not know in what way to tell her how sorry I was for her, left deserted in the world. She put down her handkerchief, and said "My dear, I'd rather you did not call me Matty. She did not like it; but I did many a thing she did not like, I'm afraid —and now she's gone! If you please, my love, will you call me Matilda?" I promised faithfully, and began to practice the new name with Miss Pole that very day; and, by degrees, Miss Matilda's feeling on the subject was known through Cranford, and we all tried to drop the more familiar name, but with so little success that by and by we gave up the attempt. My visit to Miss Pole was very quiet. Miss Jenkyns had so long taken the lead in Cranford that, now she was gone, they hardly knew how to give a party. The Honorable Mrs. Jamieson, to whom Miss Jenkyns herself had always yielded the post of honor, was fat and inert, and very much at the mercy of her old servants. If they chose that she should give a party, they reminded her of the necessity for so doing; if not, she let it alone. There was all the more time for me to hear old-world stories from Miss Pole, while she sat knitting, and I making my father's shirts. I always took a quantity of plain sewing to Cranford; for, as we did not read much, or walk much, I found it a capital time to get through my work. One |