Lancaster Examiner and Herald

              Cawcftsta:
tmih
VOL XLIY.
LANCASTER, PA., WEDNESDAY, DECEMBER 29. 1869.
NO.7,
J'^XASnifEK &  BOERAIiD.
PUBLISHED EVEKir WEDHESDATi At Bo. 4 Korth Queeu Stroet, lanoaiter, pa
XEKJIS—$2.00 A TE,VB IN ADVANCE.
JOHN A. HIESTAND & E. M. KLINE, Editors nnd Proprietors.
THE OLD TEAB.
Lost night, when all the village
Was lying whlto nud still. With BtnrllBht In the vnlley
.^udmoonilKbl on the hlii, I waltencd from iny dreaiulug.
And hushed my hoart to bear The old clock on the steeple
Toll out llic dylnc year. Tlioy say lhat when tho angels
The blessed New Year bring, The souls that wake to llslen
Cau heur them softly si ug Tlie same melodious aniliem
Of peace and lovo on enrtb. That told to Judah's shepherds
'lhe dear Kedeenier's birth.
No souud came througii the silence,
liut waiting lliere, 1 thought Ofall the gifts and blessings
Theyear to me had.brougiit: .\ud sonietiilng saug wllhlu me,
"O liuppy lieart! l^-day Keiiiemberall who fcrrow,
.Vnd wipe their tears nway."
Sn. iu that solemn morning Wbeu llrst thy feet shall slaud,
Wluro dawn iu light unshadowed '1 he years of God's right haud;
These words of benediction Thy welcoiue homo shall be, " Thu (Iretltt of lore atttl wicrcj/ Ilitfe all brcit ilotte to Me.'''
—Lillle Oirporal.
[Comiunuicated to the Examiner it Herald.
DUFF£Y'S PARK VS. EVAN DEU.
"Ah me! what is there lu earth's various
range. Whieii lime nnd absence may nol sadly
change'.'"
It WIIS ill llie b.ilmy montli of Jiiue, when 1 m.ide my llr.st-visit lo DitJJ'ey's Park, since its completion.     It is a jirelty place—.a very pretty  place—to wliile awa.v the summer Iionrs in willi congenial frienils, bntitisartiflclal. To a stranger, who had never visitcii the place before, it is no doubt charming, hut to onc who knew the place  forty years ago, when the ground uow occu¬ pied by the I'ark was embosomed in a dense  surrounding forest,  and   upon whose memory the impressions of liis early  youth  are   still   nncfliiecd,  its cliarmsaretransient.andsoon pass away Theproprietorisentitledlocredit, and to t he lastiiiggralitudeof theneighborhood i'or  reclaiming   from   the woodman's axe, what  remains of that beautiful foiest.   Uut with all the improvements and embellishments of the Park,  the mutilations   of tho Avoody area that (itice surroundetl the space it occupies, have beeu so extensive, that it failed to excite tny poetic muse.   Upon the hy¬ pothesis that poetry is not poetry, unless it rhymes, I could not think of one word to rhyme withjjar/;, that was not as artilicial as the park ilself, or that were not common-place, cold, slid' and prosey.    Let me enumerate a few of these;  for iuslance,  ark, lark, shark, mark, atul dark; terms sufficiently sig- nilicaut indeed, but still not poetical— too matter-of-fact, and destitute of ro¬ mance, to dovetail into poetic measure. Still, Dull'ey's Park is acharmiiigenclo¬ sure, aud the youths and maidens who are wont to visit it, and enjoy their so¬ cial gatherings tliere now, may have a more cultivated aiiprcciation of it than I ever had, when the wheels of time shall have propelled them forty years nearer the close of their allotted space, 'f liey may look baok upou it as one of the scenes of their early youth, made beautiful by wealth and the erabellish- menls of art, whilst I look baek upon it, us it appeared in its sheen of una¬ dorned nature.   I kuow it as " Evan- Uell," and "Evan-Spring," wheu   a little brook meandered down through ils marshy centre,  and the tall oaks reared their lofty heads about it, stl-etch ing out their brawny arms over it, as if in friendly salutation   of each   other across the dell.   Improvements do not necessarily   involve   a   fumlamental change, uor all changes improvements, or signs of jirogression. In Duffy's Park, the character of tbe forest tlmt has beBu preserved, has been improved, but not changed; but under the former proprie¬ torship, it was fundamentally chaugetl, without beiug really improved.  We are oflen compelled lo ask, ' Why must all our beautiful foresls be dismantled, our picturesque hills be disemboivleled, and our grassy meadows be disfigureil?'— Improved culture, and the restriction of our  arlifleial  wants  wilhiii  their proper limits, would produce sufficient, in a county like ours, to satisfy all the rational wants of its population, if it were twice asiiumerous asitis now, with¬ out razing every tree to the grounti, ex¬ cavating all our hills, and covering our meadows with debris.    "The lust for wealth h:vs often led to wonderous deeds, but can 2>osscssion cliange the nature thus?"   In a new and unbroken coun¬ try, the case ma.v be very diiTerent, but eveu there, the ilismantling of foresls, will, in the future, assume an aspect tiuite   difl'erent  from   the  vtindalism which has characleri',!ed the past.   Al¬ ready, the people areagilatiug the sub¬ ject of a replanting of many of our denuded forests. Thenaked hills, where nothing can grow successfully but the hardy denizens of the forest, "have pro- tlucetl baneful  climatic ch.anges,  and there seems a j'caining for the fruitful and heathful condiliou of the "good old tiines."
Dufl'ey's Park is in the heart of Duf- fey's Farm, about half a mile hack of the borough of Marietta; and occupies the northern part of the little valley or dell, wilh the slopes on each .side of it. In the norlhern part of the farm.   The greatest change in the aspect of circum¬ stances and things perhaps is, that IMr. Dtidey should be the owner of it, and the farm aronnd it.   For full half a century this domain was iu the posses¬ sion   of  the livaus familj', and was known only as the Evan or "Evans' i-'arm."   If we are not mistaken in our chronological facts, prior to the begin¬ ning of that perioil, it was kuown as the " Laury Farm,"   whieh  was the ancestral name of Mrs. Evans, who for so many long years owned and occnpiotl lhe farm, and linally died there, or in its pos.=;es3ioii. It became, at a Later tiay, (lie "Clark Farm," and was owned by Mr. J. \V. Clark, who was married lo a ileseendant  of   Mrs.  Evaus.     AVheu "Jimmy Dudey" went appling, and cherrying, and nulling on thc farm, wilh other boys, itseenied just as likely that any otber boy might eventuallj' be its jiossesBor, as he.   And yet, there is uo blind cliance in the matter at all, for everything trauspireti under tlie auspi¬ ces of Gotl's hidden permissive provi¬ dence.   Every man on Ibis earlh is iu a special or general sense a steward,untler the   permission of the Almighty, auil will have to give an account of h is stew¬ ardship when his Eook of Life is open¬ ed ; but let no man clandestinely at¬ tempt to peeji inlo his neighbors book, but heed well what he is Writing in his own.   The sensual principle iu man is perfectly legilimale, when itis exercised in subordination to, and under the cou¬ trol of thesopersensual. Takeaway tbe sensual, and there is nothing of a true manhood remaining, but for ils o6ww, there is a stern and inevitable accounta¬ bility,   liut even in the exercise of the sensual, thc iihysical status of one man can no more be prescribed as the crite¬ rion for auother man, than his moral status can. Tlicse thi ngs are delermined, more or less, by physical compatibility and thc dictates of conscience.    We al¬ lude to Ihcse things in our reflections on " Duflcy's Park," because, excellent as tbe eniertainmenls are, which are giveii there by tbe luagnilicent proprie¬ tor, we, from somo cause, either social, moral, or physical, found ourselves un¬ able lo appreciate them as otbers seemed to appreciate them, without at all mean¬ ing to infer tbat otliers may probably have appreciated tbem too much. They, in our view, should bc more "a feast of reason anil a flow of soul," than they seem.   When ice resort to the " wooils aud wilds " of Ihe country, away from thc din and dust of the city, we prefer to commune with iuartificial and un- cmhellished natnre, aud wilh "natures Goil," and we confess that before tho park was there, the place could " slart aspirit" in us, that it can never exercise. Fifteen years ago, after an absence of two years or more, we visited the dell and spring "all alone," on a quiet after¬ noon in the ilowery monlh of June. Things had remained prelty much tbe same, iu llieimmediateviciuity, asthey wer<» on our last previous visit.    3SIo sound was heard but an occasional rustle among the letives of tbe trees above, and " the wood-pecker tapping tbe hollow beach tree."   We sat ourselves down upon   a  solitary   trunk,   of   the   Iirst tree perhapa, which had fallen by tlie ruthless axe of the woodman.   If ever Morris' beautiful lines of " Woodman spare that tree," had any special value in onr esteem, that value was enhanced on this occasion ; for the surrouudings
seemed to present such a realization of the pervading sentiment of the song, ar we hail never experienced before. We were overcome with sadness, but these waa a pleasure in the sadness, and we would not have it dissipated on any ac¬ count. Our memory wandered baok to the shades of our earliest boyhood, and thro' all its vioisitudes until we reached manhood, and maturer age. We know we are no poet, butour thoughta almost Involuntarily flowed out in tha follow¬ ing lines:
THE OAKS OFEVAU-DELL.
There, still they .stand—those lofty oaks,
As erst tbey stood of j'ore, Tho eyes that sou them now, again
May gaze on tbem no more, For tiiro' the tow'ring 'broad groen crown'
Of tbose old oaken trees In rueful and prophetic moan
Thero sighs a warnuig breozo. That chants a requiem o'er tho past
All with a sad'uing wail. And seems to bold in silent tr^-st
Tho burden of somo tale— Which may not como to inonlal ken
Or break tbo inyslie spell, Tbat in deep .solitude surrounds
The oaks of Kvan-llcU.
Long years ago we bie'd ns thero
Daft Jlickey* K113' nud I, To climb tho lull persimmon treo
Or wado tho brook near b.y. And gather pebbles from its bed
To poll llio noisy Jay Anon surpriso tbo "chip monk"
And frighten him awav. Then guide onr tiny Inden bont
Adown the rippling stream. Or sit ujion lbe mossy bunk
Behind tbo leufy screen. Ami watch with envy anil wilh Jear
Tlio bairnes of ISally Hell, A delving on tho green beneath
Tho oaks of Kviin-Dell.
On withering wings old Tinio flew by,
Whon, nt tho eoltago door. No more tho dame, no more tbo Imirncs,
Bid welcomo to the poor. Dilapidations and decay
Assumed their dingy'blight, Tho "NannieJ-Gout'' bid thoro bj' day
Tbo Bat Iiew lorlli at niglil. The iieach tree nnd tho lidlly-lioek
Put on a siclily hue, Tliegalo from binges wrested oil"
The palcings mi.ssjng loo. Yet high above llie wreel: iiolow
In languago nono can tell. Communed in silent colloquy
The oaks of Kvan-Doll.
Again, in oarly manhood's filioen
We've often wiuidoretl there. With those wbo wero congenial then—
To breathe tho vernal air. And vibrato thro' unmeasured space
Upon the jlpoud'lous swing. Or (Iriuk tho purling liquid draught
Tllat ilowed from Kvan-Spring, .-Vnd then renew oft-pligliteti vows
Along lho shoal-brook's .sides Wilb maidens who in after yeurs
Bocanie our " bouie brides," Wo'd stay, till by tho palo inoon-beams
A sombre shallow fell Upon tbe path that led us from
Tbo oaks of Evan-Dell,
a stately copse of frulttrees; an airy pavillion; cool, flowing springs of deli¬ cious water, and a murmuring streams, constitutes some of its present embel¬ lishments, but perhaps it is never more embellished, than when adorned by the presence of the younp; men and maid¬ ens of the district, enjoying a summer pic-nic, or, in the language of Gold¬ smith :
"When toit remitting, lent Its tune to play. And all the village trains, from labor freo. Led up thoir sports beneath tho spreadiug
treo. Whiie many a pastlmo circled in tlie shade, Tho young contending as the oid surveyed: And many a gambol frollclc'd o'er tlie grouud, Aud slights of art aud feats of strengtii weut
round: Aud still as each repealed pleasure tired. Succeeding sports the youthful baud inspired.
These shonld ever be the chief beau¬ ties of the Park, olherwise it will be a sealed book, or a block in the/or»» of a book, but lacking its constituent principles. "Truly ye have recieved, Ireely give," nor, "let thy left hand know what thy right hand doetli." Grantellus.
And later slill in summer timo
I tbitbcrward would iiie. To hunt tbe ^mail-clad " Beetles," and
The paintctl " Butterlly," Or catch the " Wnlcr-Boiitmau," as
He skimmed the limpid stream. Anon pursue tbo "Katy-did"
Decked in bis garb of green, I'd trap tho wary " Dragon-lly"
E'ro ho could dart away— Poistjd in tho quiv'ring utniosphoro
A watebirig for bis prey. And when o'er dono by grim fatigue
To ease my bosom's swell I'd court tho breeze tbat swept umong
Tho oaks of Evan-Dell.
Tet onco again my steps I turned
To thia Old forest bome, No happy ones were witb mo thore
l-'or there I stood alono. And never dying mem'ry nsked,
" Whero aro they now—oh, whore ?" An echoing whisper from Ihose oaks
Mocked mo witb—"whero—oh where"— Whero is that living moving throng
"LangSyno" wero bright and gay? Methinks some spirit answered me"
°" Passed—and passing away,'' And as thy weary years roll ou
Prepare to iiear the knell Ofall lhat lives and moves, and e'en
Tho o—aks of Evan-Dell.
-MickC!/ A7(^.—SticbaellColly.afat, rud¬ dy, good natured, and uusopbistftated boy, latelj' from the "green l.s!o of tbe oceau." Itseems to me, that if ever a iicnuinc juvenile aflection existed nnj-whero in tllis world, it was between " Mickey" and I, I never lovod another boy afterwards a.? I lovedhim. Butin thomi'dstof bisbealtb and j'outli, nud beauty, and kind-honrleil- ne.ss, he wus suddenly cut olf bj- dp.ilb, and I feel sure, for Ihese mnny yeurs, has been a " bright parlicnlnrangel." According to my boyisli nppiclieiisioii, his death ap¬ peared a cruet bereavement.
¦\Salhj Bell.—She nnd her threo children, well-grown, occiqticd the cottage antl en¬ closure in tlie Doll, right under tbo shad¬ ows of tboso oaks; for tbo hlLsbnud had died at Slaclc-ltoek, nn the " lines of Cana¬ da," during the war of 1SI2. We bovs rather feared theni, for tbcj- watched lis, und becamo jealous of onr deprodations ainong the perismmon trees, and gavo us many a "racing" from lbe dell. .Slio was succeeded in the jiroiiiises iiy "Sammy Craig"—wbosubscqucntlyoini'giated to Li¬ beria, Africa; andtho property went iuto a rapid decline, having 110 occupant after Craig. In addiliou to lho aforemen¬ tioned persimmons, the Dell nlso yielded wild plums, aud Biack-haws, iis well ns tbe cultivutetl fruits of the collages. Two of .Snlly Bell's children slill survive.
tT/ic X'aimic-Coiit.—Hence, the old di- Inpidated cotlago was called bj'thepliiidren, visUing Ibo wood and dell.'tbo " Jfaniiio- Goat houso." Afioat or two, belongingto the neighborhood, grazing in tho enclosure of the deserted cottage, took np tlieir quarters, during Iho biitest part oftho daj", in one or tho other ofits aparlinents, and soinelimes assninod n belligerent attitude when dis¬ turbed, and espeeially bj'cliildren orslran- gers. Tlio peacb trees, whicli reinniiiod long after tlio ttolUigo and the ieiices had disapiieareil, became infected willi disease, and ripened lho frnil piemaliiiulj', but liually they ulso yielded lo tliestern decrees nf time.
Ijr/ic rt'iiil'lons Swing.—A vibrating swing was ntlaclied tu a lioi-izonl.ii arm of ono oflhose old oaks, and inviied lho lads nnd mnidens of tbu borougli liithor, on sumnier aneriioons lo partieipalo iu this pleasant nnd cooling exercise. Js'ciir the fool of ono of tho oaks, wns nu open, clear, cool, giiigliiig spring, and here the pnrly <iueiichctl liieir thirst with nnturo's own bovernge, unless on occasions when some other sulislitnic was provided. With a leniarknbio unanimity most of Ihoso who mated ut the spring nt tlio period nlluded lo, wero inarried logether afterwards, and although tbey might have gono Ihilber in ono coniptuiy or in groups, yet iu return¬ ing homo'at eventide, they generally loft bj- twos, with a ro.specluble ilislniice be¬ tween.
'fTlic Mail-clad Jicellc.—This dell, and along tbe slrenm leading from it, was my tirst entomological "stamping grouud," and liilber I repaired nt overy convenient opportunitj', or surcease from other labor. Theso wnuderinga were geuerallj' alone for uo man that is not himself imbued wilh entomological tiro, will find mucli pleasuro in accompanying an entomologist in his rambles. Tho first "waler-boatmon"— I\otonccta—l over snw or took, I captured in a litlie pool in the dell. The field titcrc was a prolific one, and I obtainod a few lliings, which uever sinco bavo been dupli¬ cated.
Tiuiiinl—tiittl ]>iui,mtg aiiiii/.—Jl is just fifty years since "Mickey Kay and I" made nl least semi or Iri-weekly excursions lo the dell: it ia fivo and forty years sineo Sally Bell lived tbero ; fortj-ywrrsngotheiinnnio- gonl hnd its qunrters lliere; and tliirtv-fivo J'ears since wo vibrated on tho swing.— Twenty-live years ago it becamo tho fleld of newlj- initiated scieutifie labors; and fif¬ teen years ago, tbo theme of inj' humble muse. Of all tbo personages naiiied, or al¬ luded to, in tbis paper—poetry nnd prose- not hnlf a dozen, to my certain knowledge, survive.   Weil may tlio spirit havewhis-
Eered mo, "Pnssed—and passing awav." 'ealli is natural, nnd is lho common lof of all. Itis tbe only ineans of cominon traiis- latiou to tliQspiritworld, aud ought to have no terrors nssociated withit, and v/ould not bave, if men walked in " wisdom's ways." .\ltbough it is always a sail thing lo part by death, with earthly frieuds and associ¬ ates, yet^ it is not necessarily a terrible thing. Tlio queslion of parliiiq is a moro trifie compared with the question, "shall wo -meet agniu, and where'i"' or, if we ilu meet, .sliall wo bo cnngeniul? If we have not done mncb in lho regeneration of onr luorai mailers, sball not we, wbo survive, be too gross for congenial companionship with thoso wbo may have mado tbeir oleo- lioii sure, long years ago? It affords no balm to a doubting conscieuco, or nn intol- ligoiil conception of self, to sny ihut " we sbali^ lie changed iu llie twinkling of nn eye, while tliatnllier patient interrogative aiul its nogalive confirmation rings in our oars,—"Can thoElhiopiaii cbangubisskiii, or tho leopard his spots? so may they do good, who are «cciwto,„„i to do evil." Vassal—imil ]>us.Hini; miai/.' what a te.vtfor private e.\horialiou and self-examiiialion.
But, breaking through these reveries and reflections on things ambiguous or obsolete, let us return to the Park again, although .all the ancient land¬ marks of the Park are nenrly oblitera¬ ted, yet a few years more w'ill restore much of its departed beauty, in a more highly cultivated form. Beautiful walks and drives; picturesque I ponds and dams stocked with most delicious
JEROME EAYMOND'S HEW YEAR'S GIFT.
" A w^oman to see mc, Jane ? Doyou know who she wa-s""
Ko,ma'am, she was never here before. She looked vory much disappointed when I told her you were out, and she said she would call agaiii to-morrow at the same hour." "No mes.sngeV"
"No, ma'am. She .said her business was verj' important, but sho must see J'OU, aud couhl not leave anj'message." "Take my cloak and hat lo ray room, Jane, I will lie down awhile on the lonngehere;! am tired, aud my head aclie.s." But when the .servtintleft the room, Helen Raymond did not lie down. Thcspirit of restlessness seem¬ ed lo possess her, for she paced np and dowu the floor, pressing her hand upon her burning, aching forehead, aud trj'- ing in vain loslill her unquiet thoughts. Two days ago, had you askeil this young wife where perfect liappine.ss could be found, she would have answer¬ eil that it rested upon her own heart. Oue j'ear before she had married the man she loved, believing her deep, pure an'eotiou was fullj' returneil. Jerome Raymond was older than his gentle, beautiful wife lij- some Iifteen J'ears, but he was a man whose love might crowu any woman's life with blessings. He was a merchant of high standing and ample means, and he maile it the study of this first year of wedded life lo add by every means within his power to Helen's happiness. They had been abroad, aud thegirlishenthusiasm oftho beautiful bride had stimulated the husband to many a ramble after the picturesque, manj' an hour spentinhis- torioal research, aud many a long drive or ride over grounds fllled with histo¬ ric or artistic associations. Only one littlo week hail they beeu in their own home, where lasle and aflection had dictated the expeuditure of wealth,nnd where there seemed nothing wanting to mnke a true home of elegance, com¬ fort, and happiness.
To say that Helen Haj'iuond loved her husband with licr whole heart g-ives no exaggerated idea of her afl"ection. She had just been emancipated from scliool life when she met him, so noble, so true, and so good, respectetl in soci¬ etj', and standing high amongst mer¬ chants. Herfather washislawj'er, anda troublesome lawsuit was in progress, requiring the client to call often upon his professioual adviser. So the grave mau of business met the fresh j'oung girl with her unformed mind aud un¬ tried heart, and he grew lo love her, to look upon her aweet, innocent face witli the feeliug of delight one feels in contemplating somo fresh mountain flower in a hothouse.
Jerome Raymond was no novice in the world's ways. More than oue fair tlamsel in the full paraphernalia pf fash¬ ionable fripperj' liad let him see that see would be willing to accept his name nnd wealth in exchange for as much of lier heart as two or threo seasons of flirting had left her. He had jiassed hy so many of these, that the voice of so¬ ciety inophcsied a life of celibacy for him.
But sweet Heleu crept into his heart by no such portal 113 these had tried to force. She gave him at first the respect due lo a man older than herself, aud whom sbe believed far superior to all her other geutiemen friends iu intelletit antl moral worth, ami he gave her the protecting fonilness he would have ac¬ corded to a pretty ehild. How these emotions grew fuller and more perfeet, till they stood upon thc equal ground of slrong, mutual love, it were too loug a talelu record. It was au iu.slance of true love whose course ran perfectly smooth. Reliitivesaud frieudson both sides were deligbteti, all agreeing as to thc merits c>f bride anti groom. Birth, social standing, wealth, all things in keeiiing, antl love being addetl, there .seemed nothing to cloud the skj' mat- trimonial.
One year of married life had but uni¬ teti the two more closelj'; for, while Ilelen's cliaracter developed, her mind expanded, autl her intelcct fed upou atronger footl than it luul ever before received, ahe lost nothiugof her .sweet¬ ness of dls]iosilion or lhat gentleuess and frankness thnt had first won her husbniul'a heart.
Anil, now, pacing up and down tho litlie sitting-room fltted up for her es¬ pecial use, what is the bitter grief that clouds all the felicity of her life'? Only a fow words apoken in aleep. When Jerome Raymond, two morninga be¬ fore, had kLssed his wife's lipa, and remarked npon their pallor, hehad uo idea what his own lixis had betrayed in the still hours of the night. Only one sentence had escaped them, as he turu¬ ed uneasily in his sleep, but that sen¬ tence had been like a tiagger thrust lo the heart of the wife wlio had loved him so fervcntlj".   It was—
" Itosctta, my poor, deserted dar¬ ling !"
Over and over again, in the two miserable diij's thatfollowed, did Helen Raymond repeat the phrase. Who was Rosetta"? Was she ileserled for her sake ? It was some one Jerome loved; the tender inflexions of hia voice prov¬ ed that. No relative of whom Helen had ever heard bore the siugular name. Somewhere, ahe knew not where, there was a deserted Rosetta for whom her husband mourned. And, now, with this fact before her, Helen begau lo re¬ call other facta of equal slguilicance. She remembered hours of sadness pas¬ aed by her husband, even iu their hon¬ eymoon ; there were lelters, too, sent from abroad, whose address sho wasnot allowed to3ee,audsome receivetl who.se contents were not imparted to her. All had seemed right when she was happy and trustful, believing iu her husband'a love, but how dark it all looked now. And, while her lieart waa so torn and troubled, here was a mj'sterious wo¬ man, who would not leave her uame or erand, "whishing to see her.
No wouder that her face waa pale and haggard when she arose thenext inorn¬ iug after a sleepless night, and her smile wan anil feeble when her husband com¬ mented upon it.
"Indeed, I am quile well, Jerome," she said, aa lie pressed a loviug kiss upon her faoe, and in her heart she wondered how he could he false to her, and feign such lender devotion.
Aud he, wilh clouded brow, waa hur¬ rying lo his counting-house with his heartfuUof sorrow. "What ails Helen '! Can sho suspect anything? In three daya to change liko lhat. I will tell herall. But she is so jealoua; she has told me often she hated a flower if I admired it too warmly. Howwouldshe hear to have me tell her of Rosettti? No, no, not yet. Ltitcr, perliaps, I will tell her all, hut not now, not yel."
Yet it wtis eviilent that tlie'secret op¬ pressed him, deepening the furrows ou his brow, and castingashadowintothe ilcpths of his lai'ge black ej'es. The ilay passed bnsilj', for it was the last week of the J'ear, and merchanls all know there ia little time to waste in lhat week.
While .Jerome thrust back his sad thoughts to give his whole mind lo husiness, Helen was striving to banish all unwortliy suspicion from her own mind, trying to remember nothing but the love lavished upon herself, and the year of unalloj-ed haiipiness sbe had passed. She wns iu her little sitting- room with a dainty piece of embroidery in her hand.s, trying to inlercst herself in the intricate iialtern, when Jane an¬ nounced :—
" The woman, Mra. navmond, who wns here yesterdaj'."
Looking up, she saw .standiug.in the doorway a tall, rather plen.sant-faeed Irishwoman, who held by the hand a little girl of abont seven years of age. Looking at the child, Helen saw large black ej'es, a pale complexion, delicate
-—, ~„  —«=„ uciii^iuu^  features, and a mouth of great sweet- trout; grassy and flower decked lawns; I ness, and sensitive almoat to a fault.
It was a lightning glance that took all' this Id, and the woman was invited to take a seat. She seemed terribly em¬ barrassed, playing with the friuge of her shawl, adjusting the child's hat, and getting so red in the face that Helen feared she would burst a blood-vessel. " You wished to see me," she said, at last. " Can I be of any service to you'?" " Well, ma'am, if you will, you can serve me and do a good turn for your husband at the same time; but it'a a queer errand I'm on, anji. I am afraid you ^von't hear me out.""'
"I do not understand you," Helen forced herself to say.
" I am afraid you will not listen toall I want to aay. If you will promise, ma'am, to let me flnish my story, I'll tell you how you can do a good turu for a htisband who loves yon."
"You have said that twice. Tellj'our aliiiy.   I will hear j'ou tell it all."
"Well, ma'am, aud thauk you, too; it's a long oue to be sure. It's little mure thau twelve years ago, ma'am, thitt I waa cook in Mrs. Raymond'a family—Ihat's your liusbaud's mother, m.^'am—and she wanted a girl to run erranda and teud the door. I had a liltle slip of a aiater, ma'am, ouly six¬ teen, nnd Mra. Raymond took her for her work. She had been there about tbree months when Mr. Jerome came home from across the water, where he had beeu to finish his studies, they said. Au only son he was, and his parents that proud of him that tbey uearly wor¬ shipped him, yet holding liim in good coutrol, too, and telling him sometimes of the great marriage he would make. Well, ma'am, we were all blind, his father and mother, and myself, her sister. I must tell j'ou, she was very beautiful, my sister Rosetta."
Helen turned so wliite, that the wo¬ mau p.iuscd, but she signed her logo on. " Well, ma'am, it was a gooil j'ear before auy one suspected what waa go¬ ing on, and then my Rosetta ran away in the night. Nobody knew where she had gone, .iud I was turned away without any reason given for it. It w us four years, aud not a word eame to me from my sisler, when one day Mr. Jerome himself came to the service place where I was, and said lo me:—
"'Maria, como to Rosetta. .Sheia very ill, and she wants you.' . " So I left all antl went to her. She wna liviug in a pretty cottage just oul¬ sideof the town, and I found heriu bed, with a wee baby nestled up to herbreast. She told me that ahe knew Jerome had made a mistake in taking her away; that he had tried to teach her and make a lady of her, but she could not learn. She was very happy, she said, and he had given her every kindness, but she was glad to tlie and leave him free to marry again.
"She was his wife?" said Helen, hoarsely.
The woman flushed angrily, aud drew a paper from her bosom.
" 'There's the certiflcate, ma'tim. I took it, and I took the child, when ahe died the uext daj'. Mr. Baymond was good to her, andhe haa been good to the child; butahe wasnotalit wife forhim. It was a very young, man'a love for a beautiful face, and when that died out there waa notbing left. Still he waa good to her. But now, ma'am, I'm wanting to go away. I've been mar¬ ried four j'ears, aud I've two children of my own, and my husband's got a gootl ofler to go to Califoruia, ouly here's thechild.
"Nobody living but me knows of mv sister's marriage; and Mr. Raymond, I ean seo, cannot make up hia mind to tell you. The little girl is old enough now to be put to school, but be shrinks from that, loo, because he must own her in aome way. Now, ma'am, jou know the storj'." " Is this the child ?" asked Helen. " Yes, ma'am. Rosetta, speak to the lady."
But the ehild tmly looked shj'ly nt her, while Helen scanned her face and dress. In the latter there waa every evideuce of the generosity of her father, aud no less of the vulgar taste of her auut. Rich malerial, ill-assorted colors, and gaudy trimmings, m.arred the beau¬ tiful face, and look awaj* from it the refinement Nature had placed there.
"Wait here!" She must be alone; she must tliink.
" She's da'zed like," the woman .said to herself, aa Heleu rose and left the room ; .and dazed like she felt aa she shut lierself in her bed-room aud tried to compose her miud.
If he had only trusted her ! If he had only told her wliy the shadow rested so often on his brow ! She \vould gladlj' have given the child a place iu her home and heart if her husband had asked her to do so. But it was so hard lo have suoh a story told her by stran¬ ger lips, lo have tlie closed secrets of his life opened by such rude hands.
The womauand chilli were very wearj' of waiting, wheu Helen cume to thetn again.
" Leave the lillle girl with me until afternoon," shesaid, "and come again for her."
Maria looked earnestly into the pale, sweet face, and then rose, satisfied. " I will come at four o'clock, ma'am. Ro¬ setta, stay with the lady."
The ehild obeyed, and w.as soon talk¬ ing fi'eely. She told of her dear papa, who had been away ao long, but wna at home again now; of the pretty presents he had giveii Iter, and of the beautiful lady she was to see some d.ay if ahe was vcrj' good, aud who would perhaps be her new mamma, if she was very, very good. As she prattled the bitter¬ ness was charinedawayfromthelislon- er's heart, anil a great jiity for the father anil child arose there. The old yenr wns dj'ing, and she resolved to bury away all jealousj* and billerness, and prove her love as nnselflsh as it was strong antl tleep. So when Maria came, she loltl her that soon there wouhl be no obstacle to the California voyage.
It was New Year's morning, and a heavy storm was raging. Tlie winil blew aud the anow whirled throngli the atreeta, while even the most ardent fol¬ lowers of fashion shrugged their shoul¬ ders at the idea of New Year's calls.
The morning w.as somewhat ntlvan- cetl, and Jerome Raymond sat in his library alone. Helen, he aupposed, was receiving auy cnllerswho might venture out iu the storm. He had been alinost provoked with Heleu, she waa so bright and gay. All the pallor of the past few daj's was gone from her face, ami when she challenged his admiration for her rich new dress, and wished him a Happy New Year, there was an anima¬ tion in her manner, and sparkle in her eyes, as if she was anxious to welcome her guests and begin the festivities of thc day. And now, sbe was prohably the centre ofan admirmg group of call¬ ers, whilst he sat aloue in tbe midst of his perplexities. Twenty times he re¬ solved to tell Helen of Rosetta, and as often shrank back from the task. No, he would keep his secret still, antl put the child in a good boarding-school, for he fully realized lhat she wtis getting too old for her aunt's liouse to be any longer a suitable residence for her.
The hardest part of the businesa was that he really loved his little daughter. Even in the happy j'ear speut abroad with Heleu, he liad missed the child, and his heart had gone out to her on hia return, with a j'carnlng, fatherly love. Wilh a heavj' aigli, he pushed away the book which he had beeu try¬ ing to read, and rested his head upou his handa, thinking, ever thinking, but resolving upon nothing.
There was a soft tap npon the door, hut he did not heed it. Then Itopened, and alittle flgure came in softlj'. Glo.ssy curls of dark hair clustered rounil a pure, white forehead, aud a dress of soft white eaahmere, trimmed with pure swan's-down draped the liltle fig¬ ure; the little feet were cased in white kid boots, and the only ornament was a slender gold chain encircling the throat, and from which depenUeil a golden heart. With footfall as noise¬ less as the falling of a snowflake, the little flgure cmssed thc room, and two liny hands fell upon .Iciome's boweil head.   "Papa."
He starled as if a allot had whizzed past him, tind gazed wouderingly nt the child.
" My uew mamma sent me here to say that I am a New Year's gift lo you with Helen's love."
"Who sent j'ou here?" he aaked, honrselj'.
"My new mamma. The beauliful latly .with the blue silk dress. Bee, here she comea!"
He could only open hia arms lo her. Words wouid not eome to thank her, hut he held her fast in a close embrace, while tetirs, his manllnesa would not disown, lilled his eyes. The child, too, crept into the embrace, and Helen drew her iu between them.
So the New Year opened with uo se¬ cret to close the loving hearts, aud Ro¬ setta fOund a true home and parents.— Godey's Lady's Book.
THE WE05G TICKET.
One of the many men who came and went as patients in wards of our hospi¬ tal at Washington, was BernardHeine, a handsome, stalwart German, fresh, blonde, brave and merry. He was there three months in all; and being a social fellow, and a favorite of mine, told me all his history, in general terma at first, but gradually growing more conflden¬ tial as he knew me better and became assured of my sympathy. I knew what a wild, adventurous youth he had been In the dear fatherlauil; by what hair- brained scrapes he had angered hia frieuds how, at 19 years of age, ho had to run away and come to this country; how his pareuts had died during tho two years in Avhich he hail heard noth¬ ing from home aud they nothing from him; and how sore his heart waa when he thought of thetn, aud knew whnt grief he must have caused them. I knew about the Van Dorms, with whom lio had hoarded two years before he en¬ tered the army, and how the j'oung people were like brothers and sisters to him, anil the old people like fatherand mother, and how Liza Dorm wrote to lllm every woek. Ami here I guessed somewhat more than 1 kuow. Iguess¬ ed fron.> the slight embttrrassment, the mingled coldiiesa and kindness wilh wliich he spoke of her, tite unsatisfac¬ tory way in whieli he aecouuled for haviug entered the armj', the faint shade of annoyance whicli sometimes crossed his face when ho read her let¬ ters, antl Ills slowness in answering them, that Miss Liza was fonder ofhim than he of her, antl that, roay be, he had enleretl the army lo get rid of her. I had known caaes wliere nice youug men had beeu cordiallj' received aud fondly cherished in families where there were marriagcble ilaughters, and where, iu spite of themselves, tbe force of cir¬ cumstances htul obliged them to.issuiiie ties which they look reluctantly.
I like to see men ihi their owu woo¬ ing, and alwaj's rospectaman who files from a wooing womau. So my guesaea made me like this youug soldier .all the better. He had made his will before entering the armj', ho lohl me, and he left everything he h.id, among tbo rest a life itiaurauco of flve thousand, to the Van Dorms. He exaggerateil hia cause of gratitude to them. He had no one else in the world who cared for him, and, besides their general friendliness, they had nursed him through a severe sickness, and refused to take any extra pay for It.
" They are the only ones in the world who would inouru, if I should happen to get a bullet through me," be said, with a touch of bitterness in his voice whieh showed tliat there waa aome¬ thing yet untold in hia atory.
Later, one evening, when I was sit¬ ting by him lo aootbe and quiet liim, after thc tormenting paiu of having his wounded foot dressed. I got the rest of the storj". He was feeling unusually depressed that night, aud seemed lo wiah for a confldant. It was theu that I flrst beard Heleu Ayre's name. She was a little yellow haired schoolmia- tress who had boarded at Mrs. Van Dorm's; had. Indeed, known thetn longer than he had. I could see how he had.loved her from the tone of un¬ willing^ yearning, angry tenderness with which he spoke her name. I could see more than that, what he, like a fool, as meu always are in such cir¬ cumstauces, could not see, the angry jealousy of the Van Dorms, their insin¬ uations, the seeds of distrust which they slyly sowed, how, while he hail not dared to speak of love lo tho girl, they had matle him believe that she had boasted of her power over him, how he had been made to think hera coquette and mercenarj', careful not to give him too much eucourageiuent till sbe should know how much money he hail. When he spoke of her capricious treatment aud growing coltlness to¬ wards him, I could see that they were but refleclions ot his own distrust of her, and the elTect of their mischief making. I hinted that lo hiiu, but he would not hear to it. Ob, the Van Dorma wore the salt of the earth, and his best friends, and they were incapa¬ ble of deceit.
"But maybe tliej' ^yantelJ you for aiiss Liza," I ventured. He drojiped his ej'es. " If they did," he said, "they would not use dishonest means to (ning it about. I ought to consltler that a new proofof their friendship for, and conli¬ dence ill me, eveu though I aliould be unwilling lo gratify tbcir wishes."
I liked his reserve autl bia tru.st. They were honorable.
"Atlast, she left the houseand went
somewhere else lo boanl," he said.   " I
think they had been a llllle cool with
or tiealiug me ao, and she didn't
her for
want to stay. Besidea, I aupposed ahe hated the sightof tne. When she went out of the iltair the last lime, I came from the parlor to bid her good bj-, and sho turued her head away."
"Did J'OU ever luive aiij' talk, or at¬ tempt any explanation with her?" I asked.
" No. AVe never had auything on the .subject, either tinder.slaiidIiigormIsun- dcrstnndiug."
"MasierHeine," Isaid, em phaticallj', " it is my privale opiniou thatyou have been matle a tlupe of."
He smiled fninllj' .is he shook his heatl.
" H.ive J'OU ever lieartl from her si nee J'OU came here ?" I .isked. "Notawiml."
I was silent a moineut, \vonilcring if the poor liltle yellow haired schiiol- miatress might not have been breaking her heart slowly duriug the last year, and ifslie couhl know just wliere I was at that moment, if she would not con- siiler mc the most enviable woman iu tbe world.
"I wonder nono of the Vau Dorms came out to see j'ou," I .said incscully. " Oh, they wauted to conic," was his quick reply; " but Mrs. V:m Dorm has been aick, aud there waa no one else who couhl leave. Liza had lo take care of her mother. The boys and their fath¬ er are driven wilh husiness. Besides, I wrote them that I was only slightly hurt, you know I am going to have a furlough iu a few weeks."
Our conversation waa inlerrupled here, for moro sick and wounded were brought in, and I liad to attend to theui. The ward already seemed nearly full; but mauj' were convalescent, nnd those we wished banished to the convale¬ scents' room, and crowded all the beds we conid get iuto tbe ward. The next moruing, the man in the bed next to Heine's tiled. As the custom was, .ia soou as he died, the card containing hia name, age, place of birth, regiment, company, rank ami disease, was tnken ilowii from the wall at the liead of his hed, and carried to the office to be re- corileil aud reported. The weather was cool, and his funeral was put off till the next afternoon.
The next day, just after funeral time, as I sat In the ward taking a fe^v mln¬ ntes' rest, after giving the three o'clock medicines I glauced towanl the tloor, and saw two spectators there. I'o be sure, they were men, stout and tanned, but thelt faces were, in apito of tan, of a sickly white, and their eyes were open and fixed glaringly. Thej' both were staring at Heine, who aat up in bed readiug the Washington iS^nrnewa- paper.
I approached tliem, though half afraid. Ifthey were madmen, It would be well to have them stopped ou the threshold ; if they were clairvoj'ants who beheld some vision of horror to us unseen, I felt safer to be near their piercing ej'es.
" You wish lo soe anj- one ?" I aaked politely, much as in a dream we com¬ pliment a wolf or a pnuther who we expect will devour its the next mo ment.
One of the men never stirred, nor seemed lohear me; hut the oilier, with¬ out turning his eyes from their terrified gaze, puinteil mutely, and with a ahak¬ ing hnnd lo the man \vho sat so calmlj' rc.iding his newspaper.
" That is Bernard Heine,"  I aaid. " Did you wish to see him ?" The m.in shuddered. "He is dead," he said.   "We have just been lo his funeral."
" Oh, xo! it is a misttike," I replied soothinglj', beginning to see whut was the matter, though not knowing how the mistake had occurred. " He ia get¬ ting along nicely. There ia not the leaat likelihood of his dyiug at present." "But," the ranu persisted still, star¬ ing, " his tieath waa reported with his age, place nf birth, his regiment aud compauj-, and we have been together the whole year. We heard it and saw it in the morulug paper, and we came down from Camp Distribution to his funeral."
Bj' this time the other man had got his jaws together and looked at me.
" Did you not get near enough to the chaplain at the funeral to hear the ' names read ?" I asked.
" No, we were late, aud the oamea had been read," was the reply. " But we saw the paper with all the particu¬ lars in it." I could but smile at his persistence. " Well, you can go and ask him ifhe ia dead," Isaid, turning away to attend to my busineas.
They crosaed the waril w.axUy, ,wJth tbeir eyes stlU intently flxed on tbe object of their incredulous fear, and when they were half way across, Heine looked up and saw them. A bright smile broke over hia face, and he held out both handa.
" How ate you, Herman ? And you, Matt? I'm glad to see you."
At the sound of his ringing voice, and the sight of his cheery face, their last doubt vanished, and they sprang for¬ ward to grasp his hand, and one hung about his neck and kissed him and hurst into tears, while the other stood silent, hut with brimming eyes and quivering lip. It made my own eyea ttU.
At firat Heine liatened to their story with wondering incredulity, and sud¬ denly turned about and reachiug the card above his hed. Ho glanced over it, theu looked at me.
" Have you succeeded in convincing J'our frieuds thatyou are uot tiead?" I asked, going to him. He gave me the card. "'Thatexplains," hesald. "You know our beds were pushed aloug nigbt before laat, and we forgot to move the carda, I suppose, iu the hurry, when 'Thomaa died, the ward-master took do\vii the card over his bed and seut it to the ofliee without looking at it."
Heiiie^seemed moved, not so much at the thought of death, iissocialetl with him, lie had become too familiar with it for that, hut at sight of his friends' iinexpecteil devotion,
I left tbem, aud they sat along with him, not going till the very last minute that left them time to get to camp be¬ fore their pasa should be overatayed.
I found that Heine'a name had not been read out at the funeral, the chap¬ lain, who was acquainted with him, aud had seeu hitn that day, perceiving that there must be some mistake.
" Well, Heine," I aaid, " you see you were wrong in oue thing; there are others besides the Van Dorms who would mourn j-ou deatl." He looked up with glistening eyes. " Yes, God bless the poor fello\V3 ! I didn't dream they cared so much about me."
" Learn one thing by this,"  I said sigulflcanlly.   "It is not the deepest or truest affeetion that professes the most." He dropped his eyea, and for a mo¬ ment was aileut.   Then he said:
"They all will hear of my death. Ned Trusk, who told these fellows, told them he hall written to Vau Dorm and seut the paper."
"Such au unlucky mistake!" I said, and went in a fever of anuoyance, to scold the ward-inaster and send the right card to the office.
Later in the afternoon Heine beckon¬ ed me to him. There waa a little unu¬ aual color iu his face, and liglit iu his eyes; and tliough hs smiled, it was a merry amile.
" I've been thinking that I will wait awhile before wrltlug," he said. Per¬ haps I ought not, but I would like to see how they all take it."
I agreed with lilm. Perhaps I was wrong, but I also would like tosee how they all would "tako it." So we prac¬ ticed a "masterly inactivity," and \vaited.
Two daya after, as iiuIckly as the mail could bring a letter, came an epiatle di¬ rected to the lad.v nurse of Ward Six, New Jerusalem Hospital, I opened it, and read at the bottom of the secontl page, " Gertrude C. Van Dorm." It waa a precious epistle, written as ahe assureil me, by a woman at death's door, though the writing wns uncom¬ monly flrm, anil the language anrpris- inglj' fluent for a peraon in that condi¬ tion. She also asanretl me that the de¬ ceased waa unto her like a son, and in¬ deeil, had he lived, he would have been a son, heing engaged to her eldest daughter. I reatl it all, then weut anil sat bj' Heine, feeling angry enough with hilll for this engagement, and ful¬ ly willing to tease him by telling him tlie wliole truth.
"Heine," I.said holdiug upthe lel¬ ter before me, " Mrs. Van Dorm is anx¬ ious that j'our Avatch, any papera and money you maj' have dietl possessed of, shoulil be sent to her forthwith."
He colored, and looked intently at me but said iiuthiug.
" She says she hna done a great deal foryou," I wenton, "and thatyou are untler great obligtition to her.
"ItobI J'OU what they have done," he said, a little hastily. " For the rest, I have alwaya jinid my board, and nev¬ er counted the many presents I have made. I tried to paj' tliem ten-flold all the expense thej' have been at for me, and 1 guess I have sttcceoded."
"She is verj- far goue," I aaid show¬ ing him the letter. "See how feeble the writing is? It is impossible for them to come ou after j'Our bodj'. She supposes it will be decently buried here."
Heine grew redder in the face, and 11 look of pain aud inortiflcation clouded hia uuusuallj' frank expression.
" She saya ybu were engaged lo her d.iughter," 1 said finally.
A spark of flre shot from his wide- opened CJ'CS. " It ia a lie!" he cried. I gave him tho letter and he read it, hia hauda ahtiking and hia eyes flashing while he read, and, at the last \yord, he fiercely tore the sheet from eutl to end and turned aud hid hia faoe in hia pil low. I think the poor fellowahed tears at the bitterness of his awakening. I hent over him for a whispered wonl— "Remember the comrades who lovetl you so niuch better than you thought. Perhaps they nre not the onlj' oues." Then I left him to get over hia tronbles the beat he might.
Once in a wliile aa I went ahout, I glanced at him aitting pale and grave, pretending to reatl. When I fonnd time, I was about going to ask him what I shonld do about answering the lelter, when ono of the nurses came to me saying that a ladj' was iu the room waiting too aee mo. I weut out imine¬ diately.
Going iuto the shaded room, I saw a sniall black robed figure sitting in my arm-chair, aud, as she put her yell fur¬ ther back, caught sight of a thin, white face that turued toward me. Sbe said not a word, aud did not rise, but only sat there, as if half-fainting, and looked at me. Alas! in that sorrowful place, I had growu familiar with such sights. On looking more closely, I saw that this little lady was a youug girl, hut so pale aud hollow-eyed, thut at a first glance I might have taken her for twice iier age.
"My dear," Isaid, taking her hand, "j'OU have come here to look for some frieud. Do you kuow whether he ia living or deati?"
She panted ont a breath or two, and herpalelipa fashioned the word "dead!" " Will J'OU tell me his name?" Isaid presentlj'.
She strove to ape.ik, but seemed una¬ ble to utter the uame. Theu she put her hand to the bosom of her dreas, and taking therefrom a card photograph, held It lowards me but without relin¬ quishing it. I looked and saw a fine likeness of Bernard Heine, in civilian's dress, evidently taken two or three yeara before.
Thoaight electrified me. I glanced up at the white forehead, and there were the pale yellow locks drawn baek from it, aud there waa tho violet hlue of the eye, in which Heine had never seen such anguish, so that only the color was left true of his desorlptlon.
" Y^ou dear little creature!" I exclaim¬ ed, taking lier in my arms, and tender¬ ly removing her bonnet and shawl th.it I might hold her more closely. " So J'OU love Bernard well enough to como
liorn fnr Ilim. "
peep at him, aa he sot there reading.— Trembling all over, ahoatood, and, with¬ out moving her eyes, drank in the sight, as one perishing in thirst drinks in wa¬ ter. The teara begau to flow fast and the sobs to oome.
" I loved him so all the time," she said, "and pnce I thought be loved me. But it seema not, or elae they maile mis¬ chief between us. I would never have sought him living, uever! but when I thought him dead, my pride was in the dust, I would have crawled here on my knees, if I could have got here in no other way. How pale and sober he looka! ia he very ill?"
" No, hia foot has been bad, it ia get¬ ting on 80 well that he oan walk about a little ou a crutch,"
"I have aufffered so during the last year," ahe sobbed, but wiping lier streamiug eyea that she might not lose aight of him. They thought that I wna in the consumption, and let me think it; butit wasonly heartache, and that is worse. You may think it strauge, dear lady, that I talk so to you," stretch¬ ing out alittle white hand to me, but unable to remove her eyes fniiii him; " hut this ahock has broken my reserve and I must speak once, or die!"
"Dear child, couflde in me," I snid, "and trust also the future. Nowlmust go back to thc wanl. Will you stay here alone, or do you wish to go in now to see him?"
"Oh, no!" ahe cried in alarm' the blood pouring iuto her face. "What would he lliink ! I ouly wauted to go in when I didn't kuow what I was about. I wouldn't have him know, not for worlds, that I am here!"
"What! you will go bnck without speaking to him or letting him kuow?" I asked.
"Surelj'!" she said. "It is enough for me that he lives. Dead. I might have claimed him; but living, Iam uothing to him."
" You are much to him," I could not help saying. "He haa told me of you, and I think he prefers you loany other. Bealdea, you should pity, aa well aa love him. He thinks tbat he h.ia aearcely a friend in the world. Th.it ia what lie looka so pale aud sober about now."
"But don't lell him Iam here!" she pleaded, as I went out the door, aud turning to promiae, I aaw a light of a uew hone blooming in her face.
I could thing of noihing else, and made every excuse to go of ten and speak to Heine, that she might see him more and look up. But she nor I could see a smile on his face, though he had seldom more reason to smile. Liltle did he know whose loving ej-es were watchiug him.
1 ^vent back to my room presently, and the more I sawof thisj'oungstran- gertlie more I admired her, and the less I wondered at lilm for loving her. She was so sweet aud dainty; andsuch a atrong, true heart iu her breaat. I did not like her leaa that she peralsted she must go back the next morniug, and refused me permission to tell him of her coming, tliough I had no intention of obeying her.
Sbe stayed with me that uight, and was expecting to atart iu the morning at ten o'clock. My morning labora done, I weut aud aat by Heine'a bed, mindful of the eyes that unseen watch¬ ed ua.
"Heine," "woHldn't.vouliketoknow how Helen Aj're took the newa ofyour death?"
He was sittiug pale and gloomy, all his old cheerfulness goue. At mj' ques¬ tion, he half turned away hia head.
"No!" he auswered, bitterlj'. "I have had enough."
"Oh, very well, then! I won't tell J'OU. ButI thought you miglit care to know," I said, earelessly.
" What do you mean," he exclaimed, turning hia eager face lo rae again.
" Oh, it'a no matler;" I said makiug a pretense of golugaway. " If you dou't feel auy interest—"
A powerful haml grasped mj" wrist and hehl me. Heine must have been strongly moved to do lhat. He did not eveu apologize when I resumed mj' seat, aomewhat diacoucerted at sncli an e.x- liihition hefore a score or so of men who couhln't kuow what the matter waa.
" Haa she written?" he asked, tremb¬ ling with impatience.
"No; but I happen to know her. She had business iu Washington, ami called to see me."
"Darn the.se women! AVhat tor-, ments thej'are!" he exclaimed fiercely. "Why don'tyou tell tne?"
I forgave liliii ou the apot, for he couhln't help it.
" The poor little soul wtts verj- much grieved, though you don't deserveit, "I said. "But I oomforted her. ATou were a wretch to ilesertsuch a creature, aud a fool to let the A''au Dorms dupe you so." " Where ia she?" he panted out. "Ob, she is going Nortii this morn¬ ing," I said, carelesslj'. "Her visit is over. She has frienda here (soahe bad, Heine antl I), and she is now going to leave them."
"AVhere did j'ou see her?" ho de¬ manded, as if I were nobodj' at all aud he my master. "You haven't been outof the hospital since I died; aud shu must havo been here. Who ia that looking tlirough the window of j'our room ?"
I couldn't help laughing, hut sobered myself the next moment. For Heine, with hia face of fire, aud liia breath ooming like thatof a.speiit runner, was atretching hia arm to reach his crnleli that laj' umler the bed, autl xireparing to get up. "Now Heine-"
He nilnded me no more th.in he woultl a feather. Staggering rapidlj' on his one foot, he rested 011 his unaccustomed crutcli, and began eroasing the lloor with seven-leagued strides.
I coiihl not follow him, hoping that he would htive somo delicacy about en¬ tering my room uninvited. Not a hit. Before I reach it, ttung the tloor open and leaped over the threshold. And there slood the dear little frightened, mortified creaturo in the corner of the room, vainly trying to liitie her face.
"Mj'dear littlegirl!" ho cried out, "is it J'OU? and do you care whether I am dead or alive?"
She dropped her hand from her face, and looked nt him staudiug there, maimed, radiant, with eager arms out- atretched. There was no room for pride In her generous heart. She came shylj' forward a step or two, till within reach of his arm that caught aud clasped her. I meekly withdrew aud closed the door afler me, carrying a vision of that j-el- low head resliug against Heine's blue jacket.
It waa uearly a week before I found myaelf at leisure to reply to Mrs. Ger¬ trude C. A'ati Dorm's letter. My reply waa as follows:
My Deau Madam : I regret not be¬ ing able to send you Str. Heine'a watch, money aud papera. He icfusea to give tbem up, insisting thathe has nse for them himselt. He sends his regards, liowever, and begs that j'ou will have no uneasiness coucerniug his welfare, as his wife, Mrs. Heleu Heine (formerlj' Miss Helen Ayre), is here and iu cou¬ stant attendance on him.- I have the houor to be, eto."
What I wrolo was simply true. Thcj' were married. Heine, terrified lest he should lose her again, entreated, and I was on his aide. He waa six feel tall, and I was five feet six; he was a lieu¬ tenant In the artillery, and I latty iiursc, regnant in the ward; what could a poor little yellow-haired school-mistress do against ua?
" Why, they had heen married in spite of nij' teeth," the minx would say, if .vou should aak her now.
But the only way iu which slit showed her teelli on this occasion was in the happiest smiles that ever were smiled.
FOR THE IITTLE FOIKS.
POLLA'- SYLVESTER'S DKEAM.
Little Polly Sylvester lay fast asleep on her cot-bed in IMra. Tarhox'a garret. It was a cold, dreary place, where the rats scampered about, aud the mice scuf¬ fled and squeaked in every corner; there were broken panes In the window, that let in the bitter November wind', and all about hung streaming cobwebs, bundles of drj- herbs, hanks of yarn wi.ips of fiax, till you could bai'diy set- that there was a window ; but tlirough its dingy glass what little light there was on that grey morning, fell ncross the bed and rested on Polly. She laj- very still; the tangled muss of deep chestnut curia was brushed away frotn her pale, tlellcato face, the great eyes Were shut tight, anil their heavj' fringe of dnrk Ittshes never quivered; but lliere was a smile on her parteti lips sweet as summer's own sunshine, and so wistful It would have made anybody with a heart ache to aee it.
But Mra. Tarbox hatln'l any heart, or Ifslie had, and ever felt It throb In her breast, it betl its ears boxed long ago, antl was now hard anil silent.
She came lumbering up the stairs thia morning with Fish iu her arms, in a great passion.
"Get up, you litlie carrot-head! get up, I say! You're hizli-r thau aauail. Ef I git at ye I guess j-nu'll move pretty consiiler'ble spry!"
"Dit up, tullnt-hed, else I'll bang 00!" echoed Flali, who was almost three yeara old, hut 11 babj- still, and a horrid one.
The smile nn Rally's tender liltle mouth changcil tn n piteous i[tiiver as she flung aside the bed clotbes, and witlt a shiver jumped nut of bed. "I W.1S dreaming," she snid, In such a aad voice.
"Dreamln'I I'll bo hound you're al¬ lus tlreamin', day In autl day ont! but you've got to dream out o' hed earller'n this, morniu's now I tell j'c. Hurry up antl come down! There, he's most ready for his hreakfiuat, 'ml I've had to lug this great feller all round, and A'i- o/t-lyshe wants her shoes tieil'nd her thiugs hooked up."
" Turn along tick, 'fore me kick 00!" shouted Fish; and PoUj', h.iving hud¬ dled on her thin ami raggetl clothes, slipped Into her shoes—au old pair of Mrs.Tarbox's-antlscuttled down slaiis as fast as she could. She didn't atop to comb her hnir or to wnah her face, bnl took Flab in her arms antl went iuto the bedroom to dreaa VIohly (whose name waa A'iola), a 'scrawny girl some eight yenrs old, wilh thin, light hair, weak blue ej'es, nntl a .sallow complex¬ ion; fretful and sickly, but, after all, kinder to Polly tban aiiyboil.v else in the house, and Itjved accordinglj'. ilaa- terFish wnssetdownon the fioiirwhile Ilia slater's boots were laced, her hair brushed, her clothes fastened, aud the rent in her pink calico frock basted np; nnd he amusetl himself bj' overturning his mother'a mending b.isket, which Polly must aet to right."; then .she spread up the bed, and shoulderiug Fish, went into the kitchen. There at the breakfast-table sat the reat of the family—Jehiel Tarbox, the father, a rough, stingy, coarse farmer, wliose loose lips, red ej-ea and stupid expres¬ sion told the road he htul taken at once; Vio/ily, her mother, and two big boj's, Jacksou aud EvereW, thu terror and tor¬ ment of Polly's life—two j'ouhg brutea who Ihought a poor tiembling child fair game, and took pleasure iu her abrieks and supplications. Now Mrs. Ttirbox took Fisli ou her lap ami fed him with fried pork, colil cabbage, and hot bis¬ cuit yelluw with soda, while Pollj' fried eakes over tbe hissing stove—not faat euough by auj- meana to suit the boj's or their father.
" Hurry up your cakes. Silly Poll! " shouted oue, "or I'll let llie'ohl bull out iuto the barn-yanl 'ml set j'ou to catchin' chickens there."
" Come on, Polly Syl!" chimed the other; ''fetch along your slapjacks, or I'll come 'nd stir j-e up"—a process Polly had experieucotl before, ami alood in uiorlal fear of.
But wheu breakfast was scrambled through, antl Polly allowed to eat her aora])S of food stunttlng nt one enil of the table, and, because she had slept to late, tlenietl the one thing that coulil have made her scaiitj' meal tolerable to her,—a cup ofthe hot di'ink lliej' called coU'ee-Mrs. Tarbox begun to map out her tlay'a work.
"Come! dou't be a-slanding there ttll day ; swaller j-our vlttles ipiick 'ml fly round. There's heaps'nd heaps to do. After J'ou've fed the cliickens, 'nd emptied the swill-pail, 'nd drove the caows, atlll got Fish to sleep, 'ml right¬ ed things ginerallj-, there's two barrels o' red apples tbet'sgot lobe fixeil fur dryin'; Viohl.y she can string 'em, I guess,"
"Say, i\lar! can't I go down to the jiastur' lot, long of Polly" whined VIoIily.
" ATes, If J'ou're a mliul ter, only ilou't bang rouml there all daj-; get'home quick."
So when Pollj- had done her first "chores," autl established Fish safely iu a tlrj'-gootla hox with aheap of .saml, au ear of corn, aud a siring of thread- spools lo play with, in whicii primitive nurserj' hewas used tnciiiitent himself for an hour at a time, porhnps, the two girla put ou their hootla and shawls, such as thej' were, and sett oil'. Polly openetl the cow-sheil door aud let the niild-cj'ed, friendij' crealtircs outinto tlio lane, saj'ing a word or tivo to each of the three tis they passed, quite as If they had been frienda.
It ia now time to introduce our little girl. Her father had beeu a flourishing young carpenter iu ti Vermont village, thtit hill itself among vast and verdant hilla like a nest iu llic crolches of a fir- tree. Sam Sj'lveater loved his sweet little wife .so much, that, when oue daj- she died and left him, liew-anted toilie too; antl iioboily could comfort him— not even the tiiij' babj' that laj- aud wailed in an old cratlleasif itfelt, what it could not yet know,—the sorrows of a motherlesa child. 'I'liere waa no oue in Hillvale in any way related to Sam; be w.is au orphan, like his wife, anil any relatives he might have In the sea¬ board New Englauil town where his father had livetl he had never seen or heard from; so that when he inatle np Ilia mind to try his fortune in Califor¬ nia, becanse Hillvale was so desolate to him now, heputlltllePnulino, whoivns named for her mother, under the care pf his next door neighbor, a Mrs. Moore, letivlug euough monej' to pay her for a .year, and jiromising to sentl on more. He weut awny with a sad henrt; but wheu he got to Califoruia, the voj'age and change hatl tnken his thoughts off his own trouble, antl hard work at the mines still more. He was quile success¬ ful. Inthe meantime Pollj' grew uuder kind and motherlj- Mrs. Moore's care iulo a fat and bajipy baby.
One day, about a year after he left home, a couiile of mining mates, who liad heen to Ban Francisco for stores, stepped into his tent, autl after.standing nbout uneasily for a moinent, one of them spoke.
"Saj-,   Sylvester,  you  didu't  oome from Hillvale, A'crmout, did j-e?" " Ves, I did, to be aure." The two exchanged a glance, and the one who had not spoken .sauntered out. Bill Decker went ou,—
"Anybodj'there relalcil lo j'e anj-- waj's?"
" Nobody hut my llllle girl."
"Name's Marv, ain't it?"
"No, Pauline.'"
"Good Jupiter!"
" AVliat are you asking for, Bill Deck-
here for him
"Cau I get him?" she whispered faintly, too much exhausted to weep, "I have come for him. Icameassoou as I heard; and have not slept or eateit since."
" A''ea, J'OU cangethim!"Isaid,hard¬ lj- knowing how to temper the news I had for her. "You can have him for¬ ever. Do you know, dear, there haa been a mistake made?"
She lifted her head from my shoul¬ der, and clasped my hands In her sha¬ king palms, lier startled ej'es upon my face.
" Be happj'!" I said joj'fully. " He lives."
The sweet head nodded aside, aud she sli|ipcd down lainting.
It wasn't long before she revived, hnt it was long hefore I could quiet her and persuadeher, notouly that Heine lived, bnt it was best ahe shouldn't rush to him that rainute. At length I thought of the little curtained window iu my room, looking into the ward; and draw¬ ing the curtain partly away, gave bera
Au Irishman, on arriving in this couutrj-, look a fancy to the A'ankee girls, nnd wrote to his wife: "Dear Norali—These melancholy lines arc to inform you that I died yesterdaj-, and hope you are enjoying the same bles¬ sing. I recommend you to marry Jem¬ my O'Rotirke, anil take care "of the childer. From your all'ecliotiate hus¬ band till death."
Says JoahBIllinga: " Most enay man will conceed that it looka very foolish tu seea boy drag a heavy sl.iy up asleep hill for the fleelin pleshurof ridin dowu ngain; butlt appeara lo me that that boy ia a sage hy the side of that young man hoo works bard all the week, and driuka hia atamps up Saturda nite."
A cockney physlc-flrni ia manufact¬ uring "Patent breast milk!" With the aid of "switches," false teeth, plumpers, cotton bosoms, bran calves, whalebone, wires and gutta percha, the genuine AVomau may fluallj' be dis¬ pensed with.
AVhat a world of business ours would be if eaeh would give hia exclusive at¬ tention to his own ofTairs!
"O nothin', onlj- suthin' or other turned up queer down ill Frisco."
" Tell me whnt it was, quick !" said Sam, rising lo hia feet wilh a jiale face ami angry ej-es.
" AVell, my mtile anil I we wont Iul" a saloon like lo get a drink, 'nil ther' wos a paper lyiu' round liaise on the bar, 'ml I chanced to see 'Sylvester' ou it. I kinder thought it migbt be .sonic o' your folks bed kicked the bucket, 'ud so I'd tell J'e about it; nud I read it, an' it sed Panline Sylvester \yaa ilead, up to Hillvale."
Sam sat tlown on a box antl put up his bands tts If to wipe tiwaj- some mist before his ej'es. Baby waa tieail theu ; the little creature he hoped wouhl grow into ns aiveet a woman as her dead mother, while she waited for hiui to come back and claim her.
" Well!" said he, slowly, "that's the laat on't; but I ma.y aa well go to work," and he did. Nothing more waa lieard of him in Hillvale, aud he never know that the paper Bill Deekerhadaeen wna an oltl oue—ao old that it was bla wife's death in the register, andnothlscbild's.
Iu the meantime, good Jfrs. Moore, not receiviug anj- monej-, or bearing auy news from Sam Sylvester, still took careof the lovely little child us If it had beeu herown. It had fouud ita place iu her great teuder heaft, and tbough
she was poor she would never give Pol¬ ly up. The child waa alx yeara oltl when Stoore dietl suddenly, and being a cbihlleaa widow, with no properly to leave behind her, Polly Sylvester was sent to tbo selectmen of tbe town anil by them hound out to Mrs. Tarbox. Two long J'eara ago, and aix "months beside, had Polly taken hor place Iu this new fiiiuily,—for it was not a new home. AVlienshe came there she waa a plump and rosy child, with rowa of shining cliestnut curLs, eyes na brown, clear, and large as Ilylngaquirrei's antl neatly dresseti'. To-day she was what haveseen her; the loug drudgerj', un- kimlness, improper food, ami no care had mado little Polly a forlorn sight We left ber driving cows wllh Viohly. " Say, Polly, whut make j'on sliiver so ?" inquired the other little girl.
"O, I'm dredful cold ;  seema as if I should freeze, Vi!"
" I ain't! tlie collee was real warm." "But I didn't have any cofl'ee, be¬ c.iuse I didu't get up quick."
"AVell, why didn't j'ou get up? yim 'most allers do."
"O \'lo/ilj-, I had such a splendid dream! Don'tyou know we bail that picture-paper Miss Slater Ictus tuko one time, and it had ahout Christmas in it, and how chlldreu somctt'lieres haugeil up their stockings, tind you said it was real splendid, 'ml you wish j'our folks had a Christmas; 'ml I said t gtie.sst!il if my father and mother wa'n't dead f should have one, because JfothcrMooie alwaj'S lold me what clever folks thej- waa? Antl then don't yon rek'leetthat queer picture of—lel'a .set;, wliat's hia name? nh! SanIi Claus lillin'tlieslock- in's? AVhey, Rainbow !" sboutlug toa i:ow that left the lineof march lempleil hy a turnip-liuld wilh Ihe bars down.— " Well, I dreamed that Saiili Cbitis came down the cblninej' right there in the garret somehow, .ind huiigtheilred- fuUeat great big red alnckiii' j'oti ever did see close to the foot of mj- bed ; 'ml when I looked at him he kinder laugh¬ ed aud said,'Get up, Ptdlj', and look lu j'our stockin'; it'a Ciiristmas day.' So I looked in aud lhe sloekin' grew bigger '11 bigger, anil there was a most splendid kind of a wagou or sometliin' drawed by two white liorses, ami in it —O A'lohl.y, what do you think'.'—nij- owii reallj' truefatherand motlier hold- in' out their arms lo me—O dear!"
The le.irs streamed dowu tho.Ne Utile pale, holloiv cheek.a, and Pollj-.sat down on a slone sobbing bitterly; forshe had driven the cows into the lot and ]iiitiip tbe bars whileshe was telling her storj-. A'iola wns not a bad child, antl she was a child ; a eerlalu ilull .sympathj' fllled her heart for the poor liltle thing who sat there trying to aob, and luiiii- piug her face with the corner of her ragged calico apron.
" Sny ! don't you cry no more, Poilj-. I'll give J'e a real soft apple lo slop ; don't no more, now."
"I cau't help it; A'ioblj-, I'm .so tired; 'nd soinelltnes I'm so scared iiii garret nights, and the boys di> pe.-^ler me tbe whole time. I wish, O I du wish, I had a real live father and mulh- er! Seema aa if I couldn't stand il m> longer. Miss Slater, aometltncs she talks lo me ubout bavin' ji Fntber up iu tlie skj-; but I expect he's forgot about me, he has such sights of things lo .'^ee to!"
Poor liny soul! He had not forgot¬ ten you!
Daj- after day went bj-, aud Pollj- grew J'ct more pale ami pinched. Au¬ tumn had brought its still hnriler work than summer, and wheu winter came, with drifts of pitileaa snow over moun¬ tains and valleys, and the flerce winds blew more ami more kceiilj- upon J'ul- lj''3 half-clothed bodj- ami iioor pro- lenoc of a beil, the child seemeil to .shrink away daily ; there waa no jilacu for lier b.y the lire at nigbt, uo warm anil nouiisliing food bj- iiny, and when she was worn out with hard work she croticlietl nud shivered under hersi-auf j- hed clolhes at niglil, falling asleep from fatigue, without beiug warm.
Ono iiKiiiiiiig—it wua tltc dtiy hcfor,- Clirlstuiaa, but P.illy did not know it, fur uo record of anj' liolidaj' but Tbaiiksgivlug was ever kept in Ihe Tarbox family—she was fmiuil iu her garret so drow.sj' and still" with colli that AIr.a. Tarbo.x took alarm lest some dnj' her boiiinl girl might be unbotitnl, antl leave her for lhe house of that rather whom tlie poor child llinugbc had forgiitten her.
So tliey lold her she might bring her betl down at uight and spread it^'iiiu corner of the kitchi-n, if It was iloue oulj' after the familj- had gone to bed and removed before Ibej' got up. That night the moou shone full and clear o'.'er the sheeted suow, silvered the cresia of the great mountains thnt bore up ifa drifted piles, und stre.'inied into thc darkest deiiths of the valle.vs. Bj' ils llghtPoUj' crept up to the garret ami loaded her treinblingshoulders wllh the husk mattresses and cotton comforta¬ ble. Everj'lioilj' i n the liiittse w.is warm In bed, auil juat aa she flung her bur- deii down ou the kitchen floor there came a loutl rap at the door. Pollj' was friglileueil, and Alr.s. Tarbox called from her bedroom,—
"Opeu that are iloor. Poll, prell.v quick ; don't slaud gawjiiii' roiiiid as ef J'OU was citj- folks!"
Thc startled liltle cicalure ilitl as sho was bill; and there on the duor-sfepa stood a man, while hej'oiiil  him, iu a aleigh licnped with furs, the iiiiiiiii, now ahitiitig like ilaj', showed to Pollj' a hulj- muflled f o lu-r t hmat, tuid just hold¬ iug aside a.silverj' veil lo look out; and tbe ladj- .s:iw- a slciider, pallid  child, with large .soft oj'cs ami a bead of lang- leii  curls  sliivering   on   the door-step hefore   the   .strauge   genllemmi.   This look but one iiistniif's glance, and the .sfrangcr askeil  if Mrs. Tarbox   livnl Iheie. " A*es, sir," said Pollj-. The ninii seemeil shocked wilh his uext qticalioii. It came so painfullj- and ao alow— " What ia vour name, tdiild?" "Polly Sylvester, sir!" " ^Ij' own babj*!" waa fhe tleep, low answer; aud Pollj- rested right itt her father's arni.s, sobbiug to  heraelf she couhl not hear fhe answering tliroba of his heart, though her poor lired head laj- upou it..
"Pollj-, shut (hat door!" scrcaim-d Mrs. Tarbox; but there was np ati.swer. Out sho lio|iped frum her bed, fullj' in¬ tending togive Polly a tnmuciug, ami came upon the sight we haveseeu. " AVell! I should like to know—" "You shall," iuferriii>ted tbe slniu- ger. "Jtra. Tarbox, I nm Pollj- Syl- veater's father; vou have treated iiij' little darling, whom I believetl dead long ago, worae thnu n dog, and she shall not stay nuother uiimtte in j'our bouse!"
"I guesa there's two folks fo settle that barg.ilii. Ftislilj', how do 1 know you be her father?"
"Look at me!" said he,  liffiiig hia cap. "Whj-, Sam Sylvester!" " Now J'OU hnvecommittetl j'ourowit- self, Mra. Tnrbo.^:.   I have nolcbaiigeil too much iu niue j'cara lo be known again." ""Anyhow (here's (he s'leclcm, ami the bond, 'nd I'll have you iieiaeciilcil su re's my nnnie's Ttirbox,'ml hev lhu law   011 ye ef you  letch  lo take  bcr awaj-!" Sa'ni Sylvester laughed. "Do   it if J'OU dare!" said he, ami taking tbe great traveling ahawl oil' bis shoulders, hewrajilieil I'ollj- all over In it  ami   carried   her   off bodily to tin- sleigh.
"Darling," .said he, .is he put her in¬ lo the lailj-'s anna, "1 have brougiit ymi a new mother ns sweet ami sjood as J-our lirat one was."
Polly ilill not iloubt tbat the loS'ely face beniling over her with kisses anil fond words wasall her father .said ; and wben he S|iraug into the aleigh and llie tlrivcr let his iniiiatient horses boiiiiil awtiy nntl shake their silvery bells along the snioolh road, Polly oulj-wliia- jiereil, "This is belter than mj' drcatii *.'" Il seems thai Sam Sj'lvi s!er, now a rich man. tititl married to *.i j'oung Etiglitb girl he htul met and loved in San Fran¬ cisco, l-.iul, about three months belore, met a Hillvale man freah from liiniie, who, ttfler he hail got over his aiiiitiao atbeholilltig Sam alive and well, tiilil hint all about Pollj' ; anil of courae the father aet out at once lo fiud hia cliihl. They drove over lo Drayton, the near¬ est large village to Hillvale, and there, after a warm linlli and a good sup|)er. h.-ippy Pollj- fell .sound .-laleep, hobiiug Iter new mamma's haml; butw-lieiisbo woke up uext morning her firat wonl.s, in anawer to the loving amile of thosu blue ej-ea were, "Mother, it ia Chilat- mna ifaj'?" " A'e.s'dear!"
" And did j'ou come out ofa red atofk- ing'."' -¦ Whv, no, my liltle girl 1" "O, f'ni so glad! then it Isn't all a dream!"-Our 'Voung Folks.
Contentment ia better tlian wealth.