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NO TEARS IN HEAVEN.
BY ETHEL CARLYSLE.

There shall be no tears in Heaven,
God in his holy word hath taught,
And to weary, suffering mortals,
"Tis a sweet, a blissful thought.
Tears are here our daily portion—
Scarce we dream of earthly joys
Ere some ‘sweeping storm of sorrow
Every darling hope destroys. -

War with wide-spread desolation
Shrouds our native land in gloom,
And from east to west there’s mourning
O’er some loved one’s early doom.
Mothers who have wept at parting
With a loved son, young and brave,
Are weeping now with deeper anguish
O’er a soldier’s lowly grave.

Tears are falling—sadly falling!
For borne on every south wind’s breath
Ars the sad, the bitter tidings,
Of some fond hope wrecked by death.
Thus sad tears we’re ever shedding—
They’re our heritage below—
But, thank God! when safe in Heaven,
Tears of grief will cease to flow!

Soon we’ll reach the river Jordan—
Soon we’ll cross its surging tide— -
‘Then all pain and sorrow’s ended
When we reach the other side.
There will be no grief--no weeping—
In that land beyond the skies;
God himself shall, in his mercy,
Wipe the tears from weeping eyes.
Peace, my heart! cease ali thy mourning!
Rest upon the promise given;
_Harthly griefs are only transient—
There shall be no tears in Heaven!

9 Gy 9-4 perenne

THE WIFE'S RETURN.

SCHOOLMISTRESS’ STORY.

BY MARY J. ALLEN.

“Men of different stations
In the eye of Fame,
Here are very quickly
Coming to the same.
High and lowly people,
Birds of every feather,
On a comnign level
Traveling together.”’—Joun G. Saxz,

A was not in amood to appreciate the genial,
fun-loving poet, as I took my seat in one of the
cara of a westward-bound train, on that evening,
in October, 185-.

I had been traveling all day. I was tired and
discouraged, and while the glorious autumn sun-
set deepened into twilight, my thoughts went
wandering back to the great city lying so far be-
hind me—the city which, for three years, I had
called my home, though a poor sewing-girl, with
no relatives and few friends, could know little of
home happiness. :

f had entered Cincinnati a young girl,with high
hopes and a strong faith in humanity. I was
leaving ita tried and tempted woman—clearer-
headed, colder-hearted, with no hopes beyond the
one of earning a comtortable subsistence in the
far Western State to which I was going.

A slight bustle near me, and the entrance of a
train-boy, with lights, dispelled these gloomy
thoughts, and I employed myself for a little while
in studying the yore about me, gradually grow-
ing conscious, as I did so, that I, myself, was
closely watched by a persdn sitting on the next
seat, which had been turned in such a way as to
bring its occupants face to face with me. Both
Were men; and the steady scrutiny with which
one of them regarded me was anything but pleas-.
ant. ‘The very looks of some men are insults, and
I felt my cheeks tingle under the insolent
glances, which seemed to take in every point in
my dress, face, and personal appearance; and, I
felt sure, were taking in my unprotected position
aswell. Iwas not far wrong in this conjecture,
for he leaned forward presently and spoke,

‘Young lady, I see you’re alone. Will you let
me take charge of you till we get to A—— 2”

The tone was even more objectionable than the
words, and I sprang up, distressed and indignant,
resolving to takerefuge in another seat, which
chanced to be vacant. Butthis was. not soeasy.
The motion of the train, going at full speed,
caused me to reel, and I should have fallen but
for the interposition of a friendly arm.

The stranger placed me in the seat T had been
trying to reach, and then crossed over to my tor-
mentor. It was not difficult to guess the purport
of the conversation which followed from the ex
pression of that individual’s face. He looked at
first sullen, afterward ashamed, then got up and
left the car,

“My friend,” as I mentally termed the stran gor
who had interfered in my behalf, was a good-
looking man, of perhaps thirty-five years, with
grave, dark eyes, and the unmistakable air of a,
gentleman. Ag he turned away, I saw the glisten
of a silver badge. This, then, was the conductor,

i had given my ticket to that official a little while
before, without even looking up to see what mane |

nerofman he might be. Now Eturned with a feel-
ing of genuine interest to the little card of dis-
tances in my hand, and read his name, ‘Philip

%. Harrell,”

_How attentive he was to all who needed his ser-
vices; and when, at the next station, a heart-
broken looking lady, with three little children
clinging to her dress, and a fourth in her arms,
prepared to leave the train in obedience to the
rough ‘Come on!” of her drunken husband, Mr,
Harrell’s kindly attention formed a striking con-
trasé to the brutality of their natural protector,
who, on leaving the cars, started immediately for
the nearest dram-shop, leaving his wife and chil-
dren to stand shivering in the darkness, or seek a,
shelter for themselves. They were about to fol-
low him to the miserable grocery, but Mr. Har-
vell said,

‘Madam, if you are a stranger here, let me ad-
vise you noi to go there, tis not a proper place
for you.”

She understood, and turned her white, agonized
face toward him.

“Ob, what shallT do? Ihave no place to go!
I know nobody here. We are strangers in a
strange land.”

“Don’t be alarmed, madam. There is a board-
ing-house near by—that two-story frame building
that you can see just there with the lights gleam-
ing out. It’s a respectable place, and—ah! there
is Mr. Green now!” as a plain, farmer-like man
made his appearance. “Mr. Green, here is a lady
who will stop at your house to-night. Her hus-
band has gone to Brady’s, and you will please
send over there in the morning and let him know
where his family is. Keep up a good heart, mad-
am; I trust everything will come round right to-
“morrow,” and lifting his hat with a courteous
good-night to the sorrowful woman, he was gone,

I think the mother’s heart shone from her eyes
as she looked after him with a fervently uttered,

“God bless you, sir!”

“Charleston! Fifteen minutes for supper!”
shouted the brakesman, an hour later, as he threw
open the door and closed it again with a bang.

Losiantly all wag contusion, while Mr. Harrell’s
voice at my side inquired, ‘Will you allow me to
escort you to supper 2?”

I thanked him, but declined, saying that I

didn’t care for any supper.

“Let me persuade you to come and have a cup
of coffee, ifnothing more. You are tired, and it
wili refresh you.”

He spoke kindly, gently, as a brother might
have done, and I knew that some hot coffee would
do me good; sol laid my hand on hig arm and
went with the rest.

At midnight we reached C__, where I bade
farewell to my gentlemanly protector, and re-
paired to a hotel to wait for morning and the ar-

% vival of Mr. Reulison, who resided some five miles
s outside the city.

Many years before, when Mr. Reulison was a
poor mechanic and my father a prosperous mer-

chant in a small town in Ohio, they were warm

friends. Afterward, when success came to bim
and death and poverty to us—when he had be-
come a wealthy farmer in the fair State of his
adoption, and I, the last of my father’s family,
was compelled to ply the needle for my daily
bread, this true friend sought me out and wrote,
saying that he would procure a situation’for me
as district school-teacher, if I desired it, at the
same time offering me a home in his own family.

It is needless to say that I thankfully accepted
both propositions. I did not anticipate any plea-
sure from pe journey, norfrom the new life upon
which I was to enter when I got to the west. Sor-
row and that pitiful struggle for a mere subsis-
tence, which makes go many women in great
cities old, and hard, and stern, had rendered me
gloomy and morbid, distrustful of men and women
alike. But, some how, after that dreary night
ride, which a stranger’s thoughtful attention had
made actually pleasant, I sank to rest, weary
enough, itis true, but more hopeful than I had
been for many a day. And the next morning, as
I stood before the mirror for a final survey of my
simple toilet before descending to breakfast, the
polished glass reflected a happier face than I had
ever thought to wear again. The frosty air was
bracing and healthful; the mellow October sun-
light seemed a blessed augury of brighter days
in store for me.

In the genial atmosphere of my new home, and
the heartsome warmth that surrounded me there,
past shadows were soon almost forgotten. It
was pleasant indeed to haye my wishes consulted,
and to be treated in all respects as a daugh-
ter by Mr. and Mrs. Reulison, who could not
have received me with more cordiality if I had
been in very truth their own child. My new em-
ployment suited me. It was hard work—called
into active play every energy of mind and body
which I possessed; but the new sense of freedom
and independence which it gave amply compen-
sated for all.

Mr. Harrell had told me that he was acquaint-
ed with Mr. Reulison and his wife, so I was not
surprised to find him at the farm-house one even-
ing when I returned from school. I was glad to
see him, and offered my hand as to an old ac-
quaintance. He took it with some words of cour-
teous greeting and a smile that brightened his
grave face like sunshine, and for the first time I

He talked well, too; in an easy, unembarrassed
manner, that was irresistably attractive; and long
before the evening was over I owned to myself
that I liked him thoroughly.

At parting he told Mr. Reulison, in answer to
some questions, that he had resigned his situa-
tion on the railroad, and was now engaged in a

} different business.

‘In that case your evenings will be at your own
disposal and we shall hope to see you often,” said
placid Mrs. Reulison. Mr. Harrell thanked her,
and said something about esteeming it a privil-
ege to come as he bowed and withdrew.

To my mind no man who is no\ essentially a

course, without betraying that fact in some way.
The outside polish may be ever so charming, but
some unguarded look or wordor tone will inevita-
bly betray the coarseness if it exists. Judged by
this test Phillip Harrell was the truest gentleman
I have ever known.

He was an especial favorite with Mr. and Mrs.
Reulison, and came often to see us; while I—
words can never tell what he grew to be to me.
Always courteous and friendly, he never flattered
me, never sought to monopolize my time or at-
tention, seldom paid me those gallant compli-
ments which younger men were so ready to offer;
and yet one glance of his dark eyes was more to
me than the highest praise of any other.

But I guarded my secret well. Iwas a woman
—too proud to betray any preference for one whom
I firmly believed cared nothing for me. This feel-
ing grew too painful at last, and I resolved to go
away—out into the world again; and one day,
when this worse-than-useless passion had died out
utterly, I could return to the place and the friends
I had learned to love so well.

An opportunity of doing this soon presented it-
self. An old schoolmate of mine, Edith Turner,
with whom I still kept up a correspondence, was
teacher of drawing in a seminary for young ladies
at Chicago, Just at this juncture she wrote me,
saying,

to, You were a proficient in the old days when we
were room-mates at Mrs. Hadyn’s, and I should

you come ?”

A letter of acceptance was written and dis-
patched, and I prepared to leave the only place
in the world that seemed to me like home. I gave
myself no time for reflection or regret, but work-
ed on with feverish haste; hoping, I scarcely
know why, that Mr. Harrell would not come again
tilll wasreadyto go. He didnot. It was the
evening before my intended departure, and I sat
alone in the sitting-room, putting .the finishing
touches to my preparations for the morn. A
murmur of voices came from the kitchen, where
Mrs, Reulison was washing the supper dishes. I
knew that she and her husband were talking
about the stranger lady, whom the stage-driver
had left at our door, a few hours before, saying,
that his passenger was too ill to proceed any fur-
ther. A well-bred, lady-like woman she seemed.
Beautiful, too, in spite of the deathly pallor of her
face and a few.lines of care about the otherwise
perfect mouth. ,

A physician was immediately summoned, who
decided that his patient was laboring under some
intense mental excitement, prescribing absolute
quiet and powerful. sedativef as the best means of
preventing the fever, which he feared might au-
pervene.

She was asleep at last; and after softly closing
the door of communication between her chamber
and the sitting-room, I proceeded to answer a
knock which I felt sure announced the coming of
Philip Harrell. :

I was not mistaken. The man I had so longed,
and yet dreaded to see, was before me, holding
both my hands in his as heinquired after my own
health and that of my friends, adding, with a
glance at my trunks, which stood there, packed
and corded,

“Itis true, then, that you are going away ?”

‘I believe it is,” Treplied, smiling up into hig
face that he might not guess what it cost me to
say that.

“And you were going without letting me know.
Was that kind of my little friend ?”

I did not speak, and he encircled my waist with
his arm, and drew me toa low seat beside him.
I did not resist; I could not. Everything was ior-
gotten in the thought that we were about to part,
and I might never see him again.

‘When are you coming back?” he asked,

‘T cannot tell, Itis very probable that I shall
never return.”

I felt, God forgive me, as if those words were
setting a seal to all my hopes of happiness in this
world and the world to come.

‘You will be a happy wife, and perhaps, before
we meet again, with no room in your heart for
those who love you here.”

His voice was low and sad, I had not thought
thai he cared so much for me,

‘Why do you say that?” I asked.

“Because you are just the woman to make the
happiness of some good man. Others can see
this as well as an old man like me; but, my child,
no one will ever know how hard it is for me to
give you up.” :

“Why are you doing it, then?”

He drew me suddenly close to his heart and
kissed me passionately. :

“God bless you for those words, my darling,
my darling! And yet I have no right to hear
them, If you knew all_—”

“Tell me,” 1 whispered.

He did tell me, and with my head on his shoul-
der and my arm about his neck, that he might
knew how fully I trusted him, I listened with
breathless interest while he told me of the fair
young wife he had wooed and won in his early
manhood, and who, after ne short year of wed-
ded life, brought ruin on herself and dishonor on
her husband by eloping with a villain.

There was murder in the injured man’s heart
when he discovered it, and for weeks he followed
on the track of the fugitives, forgetting that ‘“*Ven-
geance is mine—I will repay, saith the Lord.”
Tracing them at last to Cincinnati, he arrived
there only to learn that both his guilty wife and
the companion of her flight were dead—swepi off

 

by that fearful scourge, the cholera.

thought what a handsome man Mr. Harrell was. |

gentleman can mingle long in free, social inter-_

“I have more pupils than I can possibly attend |

be delighted to have you for an assistant, Will!

 

“I sould not go back,” said Philip, in conclu-
sion, ‘‘to meet the hollow sympathy of some of
my friends and the open sneers of others, even
though the disgrace which had fallen on my name
was caused by no act of mine. So I dispatched
to settle up my business, and became a wanderer,
For years I have been travelling up and down in
the world—anywhere, everywhere, for change of
scene and occupation; always seeking rest and
finding none, till I met you, my ——”

“Oh, Philip! my husband!”

It was a woman’s voice, sharp with suffering,
which interrupted the unfinished sentence, and
the strange lady knelt at Philip’s feet, her wide
black eyes luminous with a deathless love, her
white hands clasped in prayerful entreaty.

“I have sinned against Heaven and against
you, my husband, but my punishment has been
very, very bitter. I did not die, as you thought.
He did, but I recovered, and I’ve been trying ever
since to find you. I donot ask for a wife’s place
—I have forfeited all right to that; but, O! Philip,
I have waited tem years for your forgiveness.
Will you refuse it now?” :

The last words died away in a whisper. She
had fainted.

Slowly, mechanically, like one in a dream, he
lifted and bore her to a lounge; but his face was
whiter than hers as he turned to me, saying,
“God bless us both!”

Philip Harrell took his wife away that night,
and I never saw Cither of them again.

More than twelve months ago I received a let-
ter, written on the battle-field of Shiloh. Friend,
aout friend, would you know how a soldier can

)

“iy DaRLine—Now that I am dying, it can do
no harm to call you so once more, nor to tell you
what I must say quickly, for my time is short—
that I have loved you to the end. The battle is
still in progress. My men have fought bravely
and are still engaged, but I shall never lead them
again. The surgeon tells me that my wound is
mortal; that I have but afew hours, at farthest,
to live; but I have no fear, for ‘I know that my
Redeemer liveth.’ If I could only see your dear
face once more before I go; but that cannot be.
Tam growing very tired. Good-bye, my darling.
For the last time good-bye, PHILLIP.”

This letter in its worn envelope, soiled and
crumpled from having been carried for weeks in a
soldier’s pocket, I have put carefully away with a
little slip cut from a newspaper. Perhaps you,
my friend, have some such record over which
you have shed just such bitter tears as fell from
my eyes as I read one line of that fearful list:
ao Phillip R. Harrell, —th Regiment,

illed.

My husband is all that any reasonable woman
could ask; tender, patient and forbearing. I have
a luxurious home and three little children who
callme mother. But, oh! this is not the life I
dreamed of once; and sitting here to-night, with
my latest born in my arms, my thoughts go wan-
dering back to another well-remembered night
when a low voice uttered words that I would give
years of my life to hear once more. When dark
eyes looked intc mine—dear eyes that I trust are
now viewing the glories of the upper country.
And one day, when the golden-haired baby on
my breast has grown to man’s estate, perhaps I,
too, shall embark with the grim boatman and
cross over to join my beloved in a land where
‘they neither marry nor are given in marriage,
but are as the angels of God.”

>¢@r

*SHE DOES NOT WISH YOU
DEAD.

BY LONA LEE,

She does not wish you dead—oh, no!

~ But have you kept that trust?

Perchance she’s now heart-sick with woe,
Hor hopes consumed in dust!

She does not wish you in the grave,
Though you may prove unkind;
The love in youth to you she gave .

Around you still entwines.

That love will never turn to hate,
Though you a man to dread;
Truthfully, trustingly she waits—
She does not wish you dead!

Then comfort her—oh, be her shield
In sorrow’s deepest gloom,
And joy to you a crown will yield
Beyond the dreary tomb.
*In answer to ‘Does She Wish Me Dead?” in Wrrx-
Ly No, 15, by J. N. S.
9 penn

HOPE LATIMER’S CHRISTMAS GIFT.

BY MRS. HELEN CORWIN FISHER.

A face fresh and bright as a June rose picked
before the sun. has shone on it; eyes dark and
dewy, and fond as a young wife’s ought to be, and
tender red lips that quivered with feeling as Hope
Latimer hung upon the shoulder of that happy
fellow, her husband, and called him all sorts of
fond, sweet names, emphasizing each with a ca-
ress that in the old courting days would have
crazed John Latimer completely, but which, be-
ing three years married, he received now with
appropriate and philosophical resignation, every-
thing considered. Said John had just got home
from the store, had his tea, and been duly en-
sconced in the most comfortable easy chair that
ever welcomed a man’s wearied limbs, and that
with even more than the usual tenderness, by his
little wife. :

Hope Latimer’s eyes were just ready to fill with
tears as she hovered round him, keeping back of
his chair, lest he should see how agitated she
was.

‘John,” she said finally, with an arm around
his neck, ‘‘I want a Christmas present.”

“To be sure, Pet; you always get one, don’t
you? You wait till Christmas comes, and see!”

“T know John,” with a little sigh, and the soft
lips against his cheek, ‘you always get me some-
thing nice.” j oe

‘‘And it’s to be something nice this time; you
couldn’t guess what, if you spent all the week be-
tween this and Christmas in guessing,” said John,
securing the little fingers that were fluttering
about between his whiskers and his neck-tie, and
he drew Hope round in front of him.

“Why, Hope, what is this? Upon my word,
if you ain’t crying.” *

Hope laughed and dashed her hands across her

eyes: .
vert is nothing,” she said, ‘‘only—only—I want
something in particular this Christmas.” :

“Well, that is nothing to cry about; foolish
little puss, to cry about a Christmas gift!”

“But I want something that you won't be willing
to give me, John, dear.”

“Try me and see,” with a complacent shake of
the head.

“But you won’t; I know you will say no when I
tell you.” -

“Try me and see!” with a firm setting of the
manly lips and a fonder look at his pretty wife.

Hope crept close into his arms and stole her
arm round his neck before she spoke.

“T want to take a little child in Bertie’s place!”

John’s head went up and his color rose.

‘In place of Bertie? Oh, Hope!”

Hope waited, and slowly drew his ear back to
her soft lips. 28

‘Bertie was God’s child, you know, dear. If
God had let us keep her, 1 should never have
thought of this, but he saw fit to take her, and
to-day [ have been thinking how many more of
God’s children there are left in the world, who
are needing the very care and loving that we have
no Bertie to lavish on.” :

Jobn was silent, and he looked a grave disap-
proval. ; .

“You know, dear,” Hope went on, her voice
trembling, and then getting stronger, ‘‘that Dr.
Bay said that if Bertie bad lived she would al-
ways have been larne. There’s a little girl next
door, a year older than Bertie, and she is hurt
just as Bertie was, and worse, and she hasn’t any
mother, and they are sending her to the alms-
house to-morrow—I—I want to take her John,
dear; she looks like Bertie, some; let me be a
mother to the poor little thing |” _ :

‘It is impossible—quite impossible, Hope; ask

me anything but that,” John said; ‘I couldn’t
bear to see another child in Bertie’s place, and a
cripple, too; don’t ask me that!”

but with her large, soft eyes fixed in tender wist-
fulness upon her husband’s face.

Presently John began to talk of other things,
with an effort at lightness, and gradually having
succeeded in drawing Hope into an apparently in-
teresting chat, he congratulated himself upon
having so easily induced the dear little puss to
relinquish her generous but decidedly incon-
venient whim.

He was deceived, however, in supposing that
she had relinquished it. The next morning as he
was leaving she stood on tiptoe to kiss him, and
thus holding him, with her tender eyes upon his
face, she said: :

‘Bertie would have been a cripple too if she
had lived, John, and then, if you and I had both
died instead of her—”

John looked uneasy.

“I should have left money enough to have
taken care of her, thank God!” he said.

“But something might have happened to the
money, too.”

John stooped and hastily kissed his wife, and
went away without reply.

Hope watched him down the street with a heavy
heart. She knew before her husband’s prejudices
on this point, and she had not expected him to
‘yield them readily. Still she was more disap-
pouied than she had expected to be at his disap-
proval, is

Two months before they had lost a little baby
girl, John Latimer had suffered acutely in losing
the child, but he had his business cares to divert
himself with, while Hope sat at home, among
constant reminders of her vanished darling, real-
izing drearily as the days went by, the emptiness
of her arms. '

In some of those tender charities which she
sometimes took upon herself, she chanced upon
this little motherless and crippled child of which
she had spoken to her husband, The very first
sight of the child reminding her, as in its look
and like misfortune it did of her own little one,
touched her to tears, gradually there grew up in
her an eager desire to adopt it. If her husband
would only consent! But he did not seem likely
to do that. She could see that he looked upon
the very idea as almost a sacrilege,

She found time in the course of the morning to
go out to see the orphan, but to her keen disap-
pointment found that it had already gone.

“It had been adopted out,” the woman said,
and that was all she could learn regarding it.

Gone without even a good bye! She had grown
to love the child so already that it was almost
like losing Bertie over again. Dropping her veil
she turned away towards home, shedding tears
as she went.

John Latimer was tenderer than usual of his
little wife that night when he came home, and all
ao the week, but neither alluded to the little
orphan.

Christmas day dawned finally, and John loaded
his wife with gifts. Always lavish, he had never
contrived for her such pleasant surprises as now.

There was a new piano and a set of furs, and
the most charming rocking chair, cushioned with
crimson velvet; and through the day one thing
after another, John ail the while watching his
wife with a half remorseful look of inquiry, as
though he were asking if these did not atone for
his denial of her plea of a week before.

She understood him, and tried to look satisfied;
but her arms were empty and her heart longed
for the child.

As evening approached he erew more and more
restless, and presently he drew her away from the
parlor, up to the aursery, little Bertie’s nursery.
Hope shrank a little, and the tears came into her
eyes as they approached it, but John, with his
arm round her, drew heron. They entered the
childless nursery with solemn step and hushed
breath. Hope kept it as nearly as possible as it
had been when her darling was alive. There was
the little lace folded crib with Bertie’s playthings
beside it. There was a little rocking chair near,
which Bertie’s potent little form had _ often
pressed, and across the room was a child’s bu-
reau, and a carriage with Bertie’s hat and cloak
across it. John Latimer’s eyes went reverently
over each trifle, and then he,turned to Hope.

‘Could you bear, my love, to see another child
in Bertie’s place?”

“She wouldn’t be in Bortie’s place, dear,” Hope
said gently.

John took a long breath.

‘‘Would it make you so very happy to have that
little orphan, Hope? Had you rather have her
a any one of the presents I have made you to-
day

“You're a good husband, John, and your pres-
ents are very beautiful; but—bat—you won’s feel
hurt, dear Hf

“Not a bit; out with it! Shall I send the pres-
ents back where they came from, and give you
that little starveling instead ?”

“Ah, if you would !” Hope said, and it was evi-
dent that she meant it, though she looked half
frightened lest she had “hurt John.”

John winced a little, but he bent his head, and
kisséd her, and then stood softly stroking her hair
with his hand, ;

“Why, you don’t love this strange little crip-
ple ?” he asked.

‘Bertie would have been a cripple, you know;
and she is so gentle and tender, and seems to love
me, and would goto no one so readily asto me.
Yes, I love her, I think, and I think God moved
my heart toward her, and that he would make it a,
blessing to us, doing for her as we should like to
have had some one do by Bertie, if she had been

left so.”
Hope felt it, and drew his

John winced again.
hand down to her lips.
: ‘If you care go much about it, Hope——” John
egan, ‘
Hope brightened, and then her countenance
fell again.
“Never mind, dear, you are very good, but
she’s gone now.. I hope she’s got as good a home
as this, that’s all, Shall we go down now ?—the
door-bell rung sometime ago.”
John suffered her to draw him down toward
the parlor again, but at the door he paused be-
fore opening it, saying, as he turned the sweet
face of his wife toward him,
“And are yousure you had rather have the
child than all of these pretty things ?”
Hope hesitated, but it was easy enough seeing
that she had.
John kissed her again, and opened the door.
In the very centre of the parlor stood the new
crimson cushioned rocking-chair, and smiling
from its depths, stretching up its loving hands to
her, was the child—the child that looked like
Bertie !
If John Latimer had doubted the expediency of
denying his own prejudices for the sake of grati-
fying his wifein a very laudable matter, he was
inclined to yield the doubt now,when Hope turned
toward him, the child clinging to her, and saying
only, ‘‘Oh, John,” laid her head upon his shoul-
der, and sobbed as she had not done before, since
Bertie died. He doubted less and less the wis-
dom of what he had done as the years went on, -
Other children came to them in turn—tfair and
noble children—but never one that was so much
a blessing to allthe house, as the child that
‘looked like Bertie 1”

‘A LEAP YEAR STORY.

BY HELEN FORREST GRAVES,

Itwas a cheerful kitchen, full of ruddy fire-
shine, and frescoed with the soft smoke-tints
that had curled around the ceiling from blazes
innumerable—a kitchen where every vein in the
floor-boards was outlined againstthe ivory white
surface, and the afternoon sunshine came glinting
in among the velvety green leaves of Gracia
Wyatt’s geraniums that filled the low window
seat. And Gracia herself stood at the table, pick-
ing over raisins fora plum pudding with fingers
which could not have been whiter or more deli-
cate if they had been straying over the keysof a
piano-forte, or embroidering on velvet.

She was as much out of place in that little farm-
house kitchen, as a flashing diamond among the
pebbles of a river-bottom, or as aroyal pome-
granate rearing its chalice of flame in a field of
wild daisies—a tall, faultlessly shaped girl with
burnished braids of shining golden hair, and blue

 

The two were silent, Hope crying no longer, |

delicious eyes, asif Heaven’s own dazzling azure
had lest itself among the glimmering net-work of

erlong curved lashes, And then she had a
damask rose complexion, and a mouth like eut
coral, and shy dimples fluttering ever and anon
round her cheeks ; and altogether Gracia Wyatt.
was born to be a queen of hearts, and rule her
subjects With a smile for a sceptre!

She started a little and turned her head, as a
brisk step came trotting across the kitchen floor.
‘Dear me, Gracia |” said the Widow Peck, a tall
thin eee with satumnal vor ay ering
aroun r 4ace Cap-border, and gol ectacle
“what's this book on theshelf?” > »

“It’s a volume of poems, aunt, that Mr. Drew
left here last night!” said Gracia, looking very
earnestly at the bloomy raisin-clusters on the
table, and growing perhaps a shade rosier.

“Do tell! said the Widow. ‘Well, now, it’s
very kind of Mr. Drew—I calc’late he knows how
fond I always was of varses. But how do you
s‘pose he found out yesterday was my birth day?”

‘Really, aunt, I don’t know!”

‘‘He’a a very nice man, isSquire Drew!” said the
Widow, simpering over the volume of poems, “I
always kind o’ fancied him, Gracia, but I do wish
folks wouldn’t talk *bout me and him go’ much,
Yes, you may well blush—it’s awfal embarrassin’!
Don’t you think its high time he declared what
his intentions was? But I s’pose he’s kind o°
bashful, and thinks maybe I wouldn’t hear to
him, because I’m ten year or so the oldest! Good
land! that wouldn’t makeno difference, for al-
though I always declared nothin’ should induce
me to marry again-—”

The stew-pan of dried peaches, which was on
the stove, bubbled over with a great noise at this
stage ofthe Widow’s remarks, and she rushed
precipitately to take it off. And Gracia, taking
advantage of the general confusion, slipped out
of the room, cutting short by this retreat the con-
fidence of her aunt, which would otherwise have
extended half over the afternoon.

The Widow, left to herself, adjusted the yellow
ribbons of her cap, and smiled languishingly at her
own likeness in the little looking-glass between the
windows.

‘‘T see how it is, poor fellow,” murmured Mrs.
Peck, apparently addressing the geraniums in the
window seat. ‘‘He’s bashful—and like as not he’ll
go on to the end of his days a solitary bachelor,
when he needs a wife somuch. He’s gota nice
farm, and a good deal o’ property besides—and
half the gals in town are pullin’ caps for him, It
would be a great shame for such a likely man not
to get a likely wife—it would !”

The Widow nodded emphatically to the gera-
niums.

_ ‘I have it!” pronounced the Widow, giving her
ribbons a triumphat toss. “He never'll muster
up courage toask me—T'll ask him! Ain't it leap
year, ’d like to know? A woman don’t get a
chance but once in four years, dear knows—it’s a
pity if she don’t improve her opportunities, Dear
me, what a strange sensation it gives a body.
Jehiel Peck must ha’ had jest the same queer feel-
in’ the night afore he popped the the question to
me. Poor dear Jehiel! if he could only know
what a capital second marriage [’m going to
make |”

The sunset glowed in scarlet waves of cloud
above the hills, whose wooded crests seemed to
lean against the horizon, and the little farm-
house, in the valley below was veiled in soft opal
shadows, deepening into darkness, where the
heavy cedars threw their canopy of blue-green
shade over the porch. From the window a pleas-'
ant line of light streamed outacross the leafless
currant bushes in the garden, for the Widow
Peck was dressed in plum colored silk, with a new
lace cap gorgeously trimmed with pink ribbon
sbows and artificicial butterflies, and had no idea
of hiding her splendor in the dim softness of
twilight !

“There !” said the Widow Peck, starting up
and nervously arranging her curls; “that’s him;
I knowed he’d come !”

Her quick ear had caught the low click of the
gate latch, and the next minute there was a
knock at the door. i

-“Come in!” faltered the Widow Peck.

_ Andthere entered a handsome dark complex-
ioned man, of about thirty-five, whose bright
black eyes and arch mouth bespoke a sunny
temper, and a disposition where the mirthful
strongly predominated. Harry Drew—Squire
Drew as the neighbors generally called him—was
a bachelor, to be sure, but he had made up his
mind to continue in that state of exile no longer
than was absolutely necessary, and it was on this
very mission he had come to the farm-house this
March evening.

Ifthe Widow Peck could have known it!

“Sit down, Squire Drew,” said the lady, hos-
pitably. ‘‘Nice evenin’, aint it? Things begin to
look quite spring-like. No, Gracia isn’t home this
evenin—she’s gone up to the minister’s; they’ve
got a sick baby there. Awfulsickly the neighbor-
hood is to be sure.”

Mr. Drew did not answer,
the fire in a sort of reverie.
he raised his eyes.

‘Mrs. Peck——” And then he paused.

“I knowed it!” palpitated the Widow. ‘He
can’t get out the sentence, not to save his blessed
lips! Pll help him on withit. Mr. Drew,” she
faltered, playing with her cap strings, “there
ain’t no call for you to be embarrassed. I know
what you're goin to say 1”

“Do you?” he exclaimed, his whole face light-
ing up with surprise aud pleasure. ‘Then——’}
“It’s leap year,” went on the Widow, beaming
all over, ‘‘and so you wont think it so strange if
T avail myself of the—the privileges of the season,
and tell you what a deal I’ve always thought of
you. I’ve been sensible these six months that
you was sort 0’ partial to me, but dear me! these
things ought to be undersood between both par-
ties! It’s a delicate thing fora woman to say,”
smiled the Widow, ‘“‘butit’s gottobe said. Will
you hey me, Harry Drew? Yes orno!”

And the Widow sank back, all tremor and
blushes, into her moreen cushioned rocking chair,
For a moment Harry Drew’s senses seemed to-
tally bewildered by this unexpected declaration
of affection, but it was not long before he recoy-
ered his presence of mind.

*T cannot but feel under great obligations for
your very flattering esteem, Mrs. Peck,” he said,
with the most perfect seit possession ; “‘but, being
arondy engaged, IL cannot accept your generous
offer.”

‘Engaged |” shrieked the Widow.

“To your niece, Gracia Wyatt. And it was to
obtain your sanction to our marriage that I came
here to-night.”

“Walk out 0’ this house!” ejaculated the Wid-
ow, rising to her feet in stony indignation. ‘And
don’t let me ever see your face agin, Harry Drew!
Ill give Gracia a piece of my mind !”

The Widow was talland strongly built; mores
over, she was beligerently inclined, and the very
butterflies on her cap vibrated with wrathful mo-
tion, and Harry Drew, wisely deeming discretion
the better part of valor, withdrew from her infuri-
ated presence !

‘Why, Harry! you here?”

For he had met the graceful gray-mantled
figure in the twilight road, just beyond the wood.
“I wanted to meet you, Gracia,” he said, draw-
ing her arm into his. ‘‘My darling, will you turn
back to the clergyman, with me ?” ;
‘What for?” she asked, wonderingly,

‘To be married.” :

And he told her the scene that had just trans.
pired in the dwelling ofthe Widow Peck,
“Considering her very unamiable turn of mind,”
he said, half vexed, half laughingly, “I hardly
think it would be best for you to braye the im-
pending storm, Gracia; you must never return to
Mrs. Peck’s home and guardianship. Give me
the right to shelter and protect you—to offer you
my home henceforward. Become my wife, dear-
est, and bestow on me the priceless gift of this
little fluttering hand now, instead of threemonths
hence!” And Gracia said,

“Certainly not!” and “what would people
think ?” and finally—consented,

So the old Drew mansion is brightened with the
loveliest mistress whose footsteps had ever waken-

He sat looking at
At length, however,

firmly resolved “never to speak to that ungrate-
ful-minx Gracia again !”

But she has not yet settled on the successor to
Harry Drew, in her good graces ; and every wid- &
ower and bachelor in the village stands in immi- |
nent danger, until the sun has gone down on the
last day of Leap Year.

*

 

 

 

 

 

 

ed the echoes of its wide halls, and Mrs. Peck has ~%