HERE is one day in the year on

T which the postman's knock

seems to herald none but pleasant tidings-at least to all the younger and fairer portion of the community; a day on which its sound sends a flutter of anticipation from the drawing-room into the very kitchenand that day is St. Valentine's morn. It is true that in the upper strata of society Betty gets more valentines than her young mistress, and that valentines would be deemed vulgar in Belgravia or Mayfair; still, writing valentines is a time-honoured custom that will not be rooted out by modern over-refinement, and in the middle classes, at all events, there still exist timid lovers who pen valentines, and romantic young ladies who receive them, read them, and are pleased with them too, in spite of the frowns of fashion. Be not shocked, therefore, gentle reader, that a missive of this kind should just have been handed by a simpering maid to Miss Anna Matilda Audley, as she sat in her little boudoir, in her uncle's handsome house at Bayswater.

Martha guessed it was a valentine, as she had just received one from her sweetheart, the policeman; and she lingered in the room under pretence of making up the fire, to see whether the effect on her young mistress would be as pleasing as Tom's epistle had proved to herself. But she was doomed to be disappointed; for the young lady, determined on not displaying the least eagerness to open the letter in presence of her maid, waited with an air of the most sublime indifference, until Martha, having no excuse to remain, was reluctantly obliged to quit the room.

Anna Matilda then tore the letter open with undisguised impatience. The haughty bearing that suited her regal style of beauty so well, gave way for the moment to a girlish curiosity that made her look more fascinating still. The address was in an unknown hand, but on unfolding the letter, she started,

flushed, and felt a thrill of gratified pride such as she had never before experienced. The letter, though unsigned, was from Harry Clifford, that was obvious, yet hitherto Harry had been supposed to be paying his attentions to her intimate friend Georgiana Fletcher. Had he pledged his troth unthinkingly, and then repented when he beheld Anna Matilda's superior charms? (for that her beauty was superior to her friend's she never for an instant doubted), and had he taken this mode of conveying to her what his real sentiments might be, though honour might forbid his declaring himself more explicitly?

Anna Matilda's heart beat quicker than ever it had done at all the knee-worship and passionate protestations of Frank Blythwood. She cherished a secret admiration for Harry's manly beauty, and had felt piqued that the only being she thought worthy of her should remain insensible to her attractions. Now, after all, it was plain his heart was touched, though prudential reasons relative to being off with the old love,' as the song inculcates, induced him to beseech his fair one, in case she took pity on him, to signify as much by wearing a red rose in her hair the next time they were to meet at a party-which mysterious telegraphic sign would have no meaning for the uninitiated. She was still holding the valentine in her hand, and perusing it for the twentieth time, when the door opened, and Georgiana entered, saying: 'I would not let your maid announce me, as I knew you would be at home for me; so I ran upstairs, for I have something particular to say to you.'

Georgiana Fletcher was one of those charming, plump little creatures that everybody must love. But so absorbed was Miss Audley by her thoughts, that it was not till Georgiana exclaimed in a merry voice: So you have had a valentine, too, Matty!' that the latter awoke her from her reverie.

'I don't know whether I ought to show it to you,' said she.

'Oh, do!' said Georgiana; 'I'm so fond of valentines!'

With a deprecatory shrug of the shoulders, as if the fault were none of hers, Anna Matilda proceeded to do what she most longed for, and held out the letter for Georgiana's inspection.

Georgiana looked, started, and then burst into tears, till suddenly checking herself, she exclaimed: 'It cannot be!'

What cannot be, Georgy ? asked Anna Matilda.

'It's only a joke; I'm sure it is,' said Geórgiana.

'A joke, Miss Fletcher?' said Anna Matilda, assuming an air of frigid dignity; 'do you think Mr. Clifford would dare to joke on such a subject?'

But,' sobbed poor Georgiana, 'Harry Clifford loved me-at least he gave me to understand he did; he always danced with me, and turned over the leaves when I sang; and can he be so wicked now

'My dear,' interrupted Miss Audley, if after dancing with a young lady and turning over the leaves of her music-book, a gentleman sees another woman whom he prefers, what is he to do?'

'Do?' exclaimed Georgiana; he has no business to prefer another, after-after

'Dancing and turning leaves,' said Miss Audley. Well! I think in such a case he is much to be pitied, and that the young lady ought not

Here she paused. Georgiana left off crying for a moment, and looked up expectantly, when, finding her friend did not proceed, she exclaimed eagerly, ought not to do what?'

'To endeavour to retain a heart no longer hers,' said Miss Audley, authoritatively.

Georgiana sank back in her chair, and indulged in another long fit of weeping. Miss Audley waited patiently till the storm was over, knowing from experience that her gentle friend's blue eyes were frequently lit up by a ray of sunshine after an April shower, until, finding that this time such a result seemed

less likely to follow, she said, in a conciliatory voice: 'What was it you had to say to me, Georgy?'

'Oh, I had forgotten!' replied Georgiana; 'I wanted to show you a valentine I received this morning -I cannot imagine from whom.'

She then drew forth her valentine, and observing they were such beautiful verses, read the following lines

Go, Valentine, and tell my Story.
'Go, Valentine, and tell that lovely maid,
Whom fancy still will portray to my sight,
How here I linger in this sullen shade,
This dreary gloom of dull monastic night;
Say, that from ev'ry joy of life remote,
At evening's closing hour I quit the throng,
List'ning in solitude the ring-dove's note
Who pours like me her solitary song.
Say, that her absence calls the sorrowing sigh,
Say, that of all her charms I love to speak,
In fancy feel the magic of her eye,
In fancy view the smile illume her cheek,
Court the lone hour when silence stills the
grove,
And heave the sigh of memory and of love.'
'Are they not pretty?' added she,
as she concluded.

'Very,' said Anna Matilda, disdainfully; but they have not cost your unknown admirer much trouble, for they are Southey's lines.'

They may be flattering for all that,' said poor Georgiana, whom Harry's desertion had rendered all the more sensible to a compliment; ' and see what a nice hand they are written in!'

Anna Matilda took the proffered letter, but had no sooner cast her eyes upon it, than she turned pale, aud appeared violently agitated.

'What is the matter?' asked Georgiana.

'Matter!' exclaimed Miss Audley, whose dilated nostrils breathed unutterable indignation, while her fingers unconsciously crumpled the luckless valentine. 'Frank Blythwood is false-that's all.'

'You don't mean to say this is Frank Blythwood's handwriting, do you?' asked the bewildered Georgiana.

'I should have thought you knew his hand,' said Miss Audley, sarcastically, since he writes so very tenderly to you.'

"Oh, Matilda!' cried Georgiana, reproachfully.