Chapter IX: Part II: Courtship (2)

"Yes--yes--I say yes. Though not a quarrel, this is a sorrow which has come between us, and there must be a peace-offering. Besides, I would not have you think that you had reached the limits of my will, and of my means to gratify you."

"To think that I could have doubted--that I could have feared you!" sobbed Lady Lucy, as tears of joy coursed down her cheeks. "But, Walter, it is not every husband who would have shown such generosity."

"I think there are few husbands, Lucy, who do not estimate truth and candour as among the chief of conjugal virtues:--ah, had you confided in me when first you felt the bondage of debt, how much anguish would have been spared you!"

A WORD FOR WIVES.

WHAT is it? A little pencil note, crumpled and worn, as if carried for a long time in one's pocket. I found it in a box of precious things that Fanny's mother had hoarded so choicely, because Fanny had been choice of them. I must read it, for everything of Fanny's is dear to us now. Ah! 'tis a note from a gentleman who was at school with us at F--, whom Fanny esteemed so much, whom we both esteemed for his sterling integrity and his gentleness. It is precious, too, as a reminder of him. I love the remembrance of old schoolfellows,--of frolicsome, foolish, frivolous, _loving_ schooldays. But let me read. 'Tis mostly rubbed out, but here is a place.

"You know full well that long since, 'that _dear cousin_' permitted me to call her by the endearing name of sister; and may I not, when far away, thinking of bygones, add your name to hers in the sisterly list? You asked me when I had heard from _the dear one:_ she was down here a short _hour_ last week, but what was that among so many who wished to see her?"

Ah! that means me! If I had only known it then! And just now I was wondering if he _really_ loved me, and perhaps felt almost in my secret heart to grieve a bit--to murmur at him. I fear I spoke as he little dreamed then the "_dear one_" would ever do. What shall I do? I remember him now, in all his young loveliness, in all the excitability of a first love, and my heart kindles too warmly to write what I wished.

What if one had told me then that my home would be in his heart--that my beautiful Alma would be his child! My Alma, my beautiful babe! how sweetly she nestles her little face in his neck. She has stolen her mother's place; little thief! I wonder she does not steal his whole heart to the clear shutting out of her mother!

Little wives! if ever a half suppressed sigh finds place with you, or a half unloving word escapes you to the husband whom you love, let your heart go back to some tender word in those first love--days; remember how you loved him then, how tenderly he wooed you, how timidly you responded, and if you can feel that _you_ have not grown unworthy, trust him for the same fond love now. If you _do_ feel that through many cares and trials of life, you have become less lovable and attractive than then, turn--by all that you love on earth, or hope for in Heaven, turn back, and _be_ the pattern of loveliness that won him; be the "dear one" your attractions made you then. Be the gentle, loving, winning maiden still, and doubt not, the lover you admired will live for ever in your husband. Nestle by his side, cling to his love, and let his confidence in you never fail, and, my word for it, the husband will be dearer than the lover ever was. Above all things, do not forget the love he gave you first. Do not seek to "emancipate" yourself--do not strive to unsex yourself and become a Lucy Stone, or a Rev. Miss Brown, but love the higher honour ordained by our Saviour, of old--that of a loving wife. A happy wife, a blessed mother, can have no higher station, needs no greater honour.

Little wives, remember your first love. As for me, I see again the little crumpled note about the "dear one," and I must go to find love and forgiveness in his arms.

NO JEWELLED BEAUTY.

No jewelled Beauty is my Love,
Yet in her earnest face
There's such a world of tenderness,
She needs no other grace.
Her smiles, and voice, around my life
In light and music twine,
And dear, oh very dear to me,
Is this sweet Love of mine.

Oh, joy! to know there's one fond heart
Beats ever true to me:
It sets mine leaping like a lyre,
In sweetest melody;
My soul up-springs, a Deity!
To hear her voice divine,
And dear, oh! very dear to me,
Is this sweet Love of mine.

If ever I have sigh'd for wealth,
'Twas all for her, I trow;
And if I win Fame's victor-wreath,
I'll twine it on her brow.
There may be forms more beautiful,
And souls of sunnier shine,
But none, oh! none so dear to me,
As this sweet Love of mine.

THE FIRST MARRIAGE IN THE FAMILY.

"HOME!" How that little word strikes upon the heart strings, awakening all the sweet memories that had slept in memory's chamber! _Our_ home was a "pearl of price" among homes; not for its architectural elegance--for it was only a four gabled, brown country house, shaded by two antediluvian oak trees; nor was its interior crowded with luxuries that charm every sense and come from every clime. Its furniture had grown old with us, for we remembered no other; and though polished as highly as furniture could be, by daily scrubbing, was somewhat the worse for wear, it must be confessed.

But neither the house nor its furnishing makes the _home_; and the charm of _ours_ lay in the sympathy that linked the nine that called it "home" to one another. Father, mother, and seven children--five of them gay-hearted girls, and two boys, petted just enough to be spoiled--not one link had ever dropped from the chain of love, or one corroding drop fallen, upon its brightness.

"One star differeth from another in glory," even in the firmament of home. Thus--though we could not have told a stranger which sister or brother was dearest--from our gentlest "eldest," an invalid herself, but the comforter and counsellor of all beside, to the curly-haired boy, who romped and rejoiced in the appellation of "baby," given five years before--still an observing eye would soon have singled out sister Ellen as the sunbeam of our heaven, the "morning star" of our constellation. She was the second in age, but the first in the inheritance of that load of responsibility, which in such a household falls naturally upon the eldest daughter. Eliza, as I have said, was ill from early girlhood; and Ellen had shouldered all her burden of care and kindness, with a light heart and a lighter step. Up stairs and down cellar, in the parlour, nursery, or kitchen--at the piano or the wash-tub--with pen, pencil, needle, or ladle--sister Ellen was always busy, always with a smile on her cheek and a warble on her lip.

Quietly, happily, the months and years went by. We never realized that change was to come over our band. To be sure, when mother would look in upon us, seated together with our books, paintings, and needle-work, and say, in her gentle way, with only a half-sigh, "Ah, girls, you are living your happiest days!" we would glance into each other's eyes, and wonder who would go first. But it was a wonder that passed away with the hour, and ruffled not even the surface of our sisterly hearts. It could not be always so--and the change came at last!

_Sister Ellen_ was to be married!

It was like the crash of a thunderbolt in a clear summer sky! Sister Ellen--the fairy of the hearthstone, the darling of every heart--which of us _could_ spare her? _Who_ had been so presumptuous as to find out her worth? For the first moment, _this_ question burst from each surprised, half-angry sister of the blushing, tearful, Ellen! It was only for a moment; for our hearts told us that nobody could help loving her, who had looked through her loving blue eyes, into the clear well-spring of the heart beneath. So we threw our arms around her and sobbed without a word!

We knew very well that the young clergyman, whose Sunday sermons and gentle admonitions had won all hearts, had been for months a weekly visiter to our fireside circle. With baby Georgie on his knee, and Georgie's brothers and sisters clustered about him, he had sat through many an evening charming the hours away, until the clock startled us with its unwelcome nine o'clock warning; and the softly spoken reminder, "Girls, it is bed-time!" woke more than one stifled sigh of regret. Then sister Ellen must always go with us to lay Georgie in his little bed; to hear him and Annette repeat the evening prayer and hymn her lips had taught them; to comb out the long brown braids of Emily's head; to rob Arthur of the story book, over which he would have squandered the "midnight oil;" and to breathe a kiss and a blessing over the pillow of each other sister, as she tucked the warm blankets tenderly about them.

We do not know how often of late she had stolen down again, from these sisterly duties, after our senses were locked in sleep; or if our eyes and ears had ever been open to the fact, we could never have suspected the _minister_ to be guilty of such a plot against our peace! That name was associated, in our minds, with all that was superhuman. The gray-haired pastor, who had gone to his grave six months previous, had sat as frequently on that same oaken arm-chair, and talked with us. We had loved him as a father and friend, and had almost worshipped him as the embodiment of all attainable goodness. And when Mr. Neville came among us, with his high, pale forehead, and soul-kindled eye, we had thought his face also "the face of an angel"--too glorious for the print of mortal passion! Especially after, in answer to an urgent call from the people among whom he was labouring, he had frankly told them that his purpose was not to remain among them, or anywhere on his native shore; that he only waited the guidance of Providence to a home in a foreign clime. After this much--bewailed disclosure of his plans, we placed our favourite preacher on a higher pinnacle of saintship!

But sister Ellen was to be married--and married to Mr. Neville. And then--"Oh, sister, you are not going away, to India!" burst from our lips, with a fresh gush of sobs.

I was the first to look up into Ellen's troubled face. It was heaving with emotions that ruffled its calmness, as the tide-waves ruffle the sea. Her lips were firmly compressed; her eyes were fixed on some distant dream, glassed with two tears, that stood still in their chalices, forbidden to fall. I almost trembled as I caught her glance.

"Sister! Agnes--Emily!" she exclaimed, in a husky whisper. "Hush! be calm! _Don't_ break my heart! Do I love home less than--"

The effort was too much; the words died on her lips. We lifted her to bed, frightened into forgetfulness of her own grief. We soothed her until she, too, wept freely and passionately, and, in weeping, grew strong for the sacrifice to which she had pledged her heart.

We never spoke another word of remonstrance to her tender heart, though often, in the few months that flitted by us together, we used to choke with sobbing, in some speech that hinted of the coming separation, and hurry from her presence to cry alone.

Our mother has told us the tidings with white lips that quivered tenderly and sadly. No love is so uniformly unselfish as a mother's, surely; for though she leaned on Ellen as the strong staff of her declining years, she sorrowed not as we did, that she was going. She, to, was happy in the thought that her child had found that "pearl of price" in a cold and evil world--a true, noble, loving heart to guide and protect her.

Father sat silently in the chimney-corner, reading in the family Bible. _He_ was looking farther than any of us--to the perils that would environ his dearest daughter, and the privations that might come upon her young life, in that unhealthy, uncivilized corner of the globe, whither she was going. Both our parents had dedicated their children to God; and they would not cast even a shadow on the path of self-sacrifice and duty their darling had chosen.

To come down to the unromantic little details of wedding preparations; how we stitched and trimmed, packed and prepared--stoned raisins with tears in our eyes, and seasoned the wedding cake with sighs. But there is little use in thinking over these things. Ellen was first and foremost in all, as she had always been in every emergency, great or small. Nothing could be made without her. Even the bride's cake was taken from the oven by her own fair hands, because no one--servant, sister, or even mother--was willing to run the risk of burning sister Ellen's bride's cake; and "_she_ knew _just_ how to bake it."

We were not left alone in our labours: for Ellen had been loved by more than the home-roof sheltered. Old and young, poor and rich, united in bringing their gifts, regrets, and blessings to the chosen companion of the pastor they were soon to lose. There is something in the idea of missionary life that touches the sympathy of every heart which mammon has not too long seared. To see one, with sympathies and refinements like our own, rend the strong ties that bind to country and home, comfort and civilization, for the good of the lost and degraded heathen, brings too strongly into relief, by contrast, the selfishness of most human lives led among the gayeties and luxuries of time.

The day, the hour came. The ship was to sail from B. on the ensuing week; and it must take away an idol.

She stood up in the village church, that all who loved her, and longed for another sight of her sweet face, might look upon her, and speak the simple words that should link hearts for eternity. We sisters stood all around her, but not too near; for our hearts were overflowing, and we could not wear the happy faces that should grace a train of bridesmaids. She had cheered us through the day with sunshine from her own heart, and even while we are arraying her in her simple white muslin, like a lamb for sacrifice, she had charmed our thoughts into cheerfulness. It seemed like some dream of fairy land, and she the embodiment of grace and loveliness, acting the part of some Queen Titania for little while. The dream changed to a far different reality, when, at the door of her mother's room, she put her hand into that of Henry Neville, and lifted her eye with a look that said, "Where thou goest will I go," even from all beside!

Tears fell fast in that assembly; though the good old matrons tried to smile, as they passed around the bride, to bless her, and bid her good--bye. A little girl, in a patched but clean frock, pushed forward, with a bouquet of violets and strawberry-blossoms in her hand.

"Here, Miss Nelly--please, Miss Nelly," she cried, half-laughing, half-sobbing, "I picked them on purpose for you!"

Ellen stooped and kissed the little eager face. The child burst into tears, and caught the folds of her dress, as though she would have buried her face there. But a strong-armed woman, mindful of the bride's attire, snatched the child away.

"And for what would ye be whimpering in that style, as if _you_ had any right to Miss Ellen?"

"She was always good to me, and she's my Sunday-school teacher," pleaded the little girl, in a subdued undertone.

Agnes drew her to her side, and silently comforted her.

"Step aside--Father Herrick is here!" said one, just then.

The crowd about the bridal pair opened, to admit a white-haired, half-blind old man, who came leaning on the arm of his rosy grand-daughter. Farther Herrick was a superannuated deacon, whose good words and works had won for him a place in every heart of that assembly.

"They told me she was going," he murmured to himself; "they say 'tis her wedding. I want to see my little girl again--bless her!"

Ellen sprang forward, and laid both her white trembling hands in the large hand of the good old man. He drew her near his failing eyes; and looked searchingly into her young, soul-lit countenance.

"I can just see you, darling; and they tell me I shall never see you again! Well, well, if we go in God's way we shall all get to Heaven, and it's all light _there_!" He raised his hand over her head, and added, solemnly, "The blessing of blessings be upon thee, my child. Amen!"

"Amen!" echoed the voice of Henry Neville.

And Ellen looked up with the look of an angel.

So she went from us! Oh! the last moment of that parting hour has burnt itself into my being for ever! _Could_ the human heart endure the agony of parting like that, _realized_ to be indeed the last--lighted by no ray of hope for eternity! Would not reason reel under the pressure?

It was hard to bear; but I have no words to tell of its bitterness. She went to her missionary life, and we learned at last to live without her, though it was many a month before the little ones could forget to call on "Sister Ellen" in any impulse of joy, grief, or childish want. Then the start and the sigh, "Oh, dear, she's gone--sister is gone!" And fresh tears would flow.

Gone, but not lost; for that First Marriage in the family opened to us a fountain of happiness, pure as the spring of self-sacrifice could make it. Our household darling has linked us to a world of needy and perishing spirits--a world that asks for the energy and the aid of those who go from us, and those who remain in the dear country of their birth. God bless her and her charge! Dear sister Ellen! there may be many another breach in the family--we may all be scattered to the four winds of heaven-but no change can come over us like that which marked the FIRST MARRIAGE.

ONLY A FEW WORDS.

MR. JAMES WINKLEMAN shut the door with a jar, as he left the house, and moved down the street, in the direction of his office, with a quick, firm step, and the air of a man slightly disturbed in mind.

"Things are getting better fast," said he, with a touch of irony in his voice, as he almost flung himself into his leather-cushioned chair. "It's rather hard when a man has to pick his words in his own house, as carefully as if he were picking diamonds, and tread as softly as if he was stepping on eggs. I don't like it. Mary gets weaker and more foolish every day, and puts a breadth of meaning on my words that I never intended them to have. I've not been used to this conning over of sentences and picking out of all doubtful expressions ere venturing to speak, and I'm too old to begin now. Mary took me for what I am, and she must make the most of her bargain. I'm past the age for learning new tricks."

With these and many other justifying sentences, did Mr. Winkleman seek to obtain a feeling of self-approval. But, for all this, he could not shut out the image of a tearful face, nor get rid of an annoying conviction that he had acted thoughtlessly, to say the least of it, in speaking to his wife as he had done.

But what was all this trouble about? Clouds were in the sky that bent over the home of Mr. Winkleman, and it is plain that Mr. Winkleman himself had his own share in the work of producing these clouds. Only a few unguarded words had been spoken. Only words! And was that all?

Words are little things, but they sometimes strike hard. We wield them so easily that we are apt to forget their hidden power. Fitly spoken, they fall like the sunshine, the dew, and the fertilizing rain; but, when unfitly, like the frost, the hail, and the desolating tempest. Some men speak as they feel or think, without calculating the force of what they say; and then seem very much surprised if any one is hurt or offended. To this class belonged Mr. Winkleman. His wife was a loving, sincere woman, quick to feel. Words, to her, were indeed things. They never fell upon her ears as idle sounds. How often was her poor heart bruised by them!

On this particular morning, Mrs. Winkleman, whose health was feeble, found herself in a weak, nervous state. It was only by an effort that she could rise above the morbid irritability that afflicted her. Earnestly did she strive to repress the disturbed beatings of her heart, but she strove in vain. And it seemed to her, as it often does in such cases, that everything went wrong. The children were fretful, the cook dilatory and cross, and Mr. Winkleman impatient, because sundry little matters pertaining to his wardrobe were not just to his mind.

"Eight o'clock, and no breakfast yet," said Mr. Winkleman, as he drew out his watch, on completing his own toilet. Mrs. Winkleman was in the act of dressing the last of five children, all of whom had passed under her hands. Each had been captious, cross, or unruly, sorely trying the mother's patience. Twice had she been in the kitchen, to see how breakfast was progressing, and to enjoin the careful preparation of a favourite dish with which she had purposed to surprise her husband.

"It will be ready in a few minutes," said Mrs. Winkleman. "The fire hasn't burned freely this morning."

"If it isn't one thing, it is another," growled the husband. "I'm getting tired of this irregularity. There'd soon be no breakfast to get, if I were always behind time in business matters."

Mrs. Winkleman bent lower over the child she was dressing, to conceal the expression of her face. What a sharp pain now throbbed through her temples! Mr. Winkleman commenced walking the floor impatiently, little imagining that every jarring footfall was like a blow on the sensitive, aching brain of his wife.

"Too bad! too bad!" he had just ejaculated when the bell rung.

"At last!" he muttered, and strode towards the breakfast-room. The children followed in considerable disorder, and Mrs. Winkleman, after hastily arranging her hair, and putting on a morning cap, joined them at the table. It took some moments to restore order among the little ones.

The dish that Mrs. Winkleman had been at considerable pains to provide for her husband, was set beside his plate. It was his favourite among many, and his wife looked for a pleased recognition thereof, and a lighting up of his clouded brow. But he did not seem even to notice it. After supplying the children, Mr. Winkleman helped himself in silence. At the first mouthful he threw down his knife and fork, and pushed his plate from him.

"What's the matter?" inquired his wife.

"You didn't trust Bridget to cook this, I hope?" was the response.

"What ails it?" Mrs. Winkleman's eyes were filling with tears.

"Oh! it's of no consequence," answered Mr. Winkleman, coldly; "anything will do for me."

"James!" There was a touching sadness blended with rebuke in the tones of his wife; and, as she uttered his name, tears gushed over her cheeks.

Mr. Winkleman didn't like tears. They always annoyed him. At the present time, he was in no mood to bear with them. So, on the impulse of the moment, he arose from the table, and taking up his hat, left the house.

Self-justification was tried, though not, as has been seen, with complete success. The calmer grew the mind of Mr. Winkleman, and the clearer his thoughts, the less satisfied did he feel with the part he had taken in the morning's drama. By an inversion of thought, not usual among men of his temperament, he had been presented with a vivid realization of his wife's side of the question. The consequence was, that, by dinner-time, he felt a good deal ashamed of himself, and grieved for the pain he knew his hasty words had occasioned.

It was in this better state of mind that Mr. Winkleman returned home. The house seemed still as he entered. As he proceeded up stairs, he heard the children's voices, pitched to a low key, in the nursery. He listened, but could not hear the tones of his wife. So he passed into the front chamber, which was darkened. As soon as he could see clearly in the feeble light, he perceived that his wife was lying on the bed. Her eyes were closed, and her thin face looked so pale and death-like, that Mr. Winkleman felt a cold shudder creep through his heart. Coming to the bed-side, he leaned over and gazed down upon her. At first, he was in doubt whether she really breathed or not; and he felt a heavy weight removed when he saw that her chest rose and fell in feeble respiration.

"Mary!" He spoke in a low, tender voice.

Instantly the fringed eyelids parted, and Mrs. Winkleman gazed up into her husband's face in partial bewilderment.

Obeying the moment's impulse, Mr. Winkleman bent down and left a kiss upon her pale lips. As if moved by an electric thrill, the wife's arms were flung around the husband's neck.

"I am sorry to find you so ill," said Mr. Winkleman, in a voice of sympathy. "What is the matter?"

"Only a sick-headache," replied Mrs. Winkleman. "But I've had a good sleep, and feel better now. I didn't know it was so late," she added, her tone changing slightly, and a look of concern coming into her countenance. "I'm afraid your dinner is not ready;" and she attempted to rise. But her husband bore her gently back with his hand, saying,

"Never mind about dinner. It will come in good time. If you feel better, lie perfectly quiet. Have you suffered much pain?"

"Yes." The word did not part her lips sadly, but came with a softly wreathing smile. Already the wan hue of her cheeks was giving place to a warmer tint, and the dull eyes brightening. What a healing power was in his tender tones and considerate words! And that kiss--it had thrilled along every nerve--it had been as nectar to the drooping spirit. "But I feel so much better, that I will get up," she added, now rising from her pillow.

And Mrs. Winkleman was entirely free from pain. As she stepped upon the carpet, and moved across the room, it was with a firm tread. Every muscle was elastic, and the blood leaped along her veins with a new and healthier impulse.

No trial of Mr. Winkleman's patience, in a late dinner, was in store for him. In a few minutes the bell summoned the family; and he took his place at the table so tranquil in mind, that he almost wondered at the change in, his feelings. How different was the scene from that presented at the morning meal!

And was there power in a few simple words to effect so great a change as this! Yes, in simple words, fragrant with the odours of kindness.

A few gleams of light shone into the mind of Mr. Winkleman, as he returned musing to his office, and he saw that he was often to blame for the clouds that darkened so often over the sky of home.

"Mary is foolish," he said, in partial self-justification, "to take my hasty words so much to heart. I speak often without meaning half what I say. She ought to know me better. And yet," he added, as his step became slower, for he was thinking closer than usual, "it may be easier for me to choose my words more carefully, and to repress the unkindness of tone that gives them a double force, than for her to help feeling pain at their utterance."

Right, Mr. Winkleman! That is the common sense of the whole matter. It is easier to strike, than to help feeling or showing signs of pain, under the infliction of a blow. Look well to your words, all ye members of a home circle. And especially look well to your words, ye whose words have the most weight, and fall, if dealt in passion, with the heaviest force.

THE TWO HOMES.

TWO men, on their way home, met at a street crossing, and then walked on together. They were neighbours, and friends.

"This has been a very hard day," said Mr. Freeman in a gloomy voice.

"A very hard day," echoed almost sepulchrally, Mr. Walcott. "Little or no cash coming in--payments Heavy--money scarce, and at ruinous rates. What is to become of us?"

"Heaven only knows," answered Mr. Freeman. "For my part, I see no light ahead. Every day come new reports of failures; every day confidence diminishes; every day some prop that we leaned upon is taken away."

"Many think we are at the worst," said Mr. Walcott.

"And others, that we have scarcely seen the beginning of the end," returned the neighbour.

And so, as they walked homeward, they discouraged each other, and made darker the clouds that obscured their whole horizon.

"Good evening," was at last said, hurriedly; and the two men passed into their homes.

Mr. Walcott entered the room, where his wife and children were gathered, and without speaking to any one, seated himself in a chair, and leaning his head back, closed his eyes. His countenance wore a sad, weary, exhausted look. He had been seated thus for only a few minutes, when his wife said, in a fretful voice,

"More trouble again."

"What's the matter now?" asked Mr. Walcott, almost starting.

"John has been sent home from school."

"What!" Mr. Walcott partly arose from his chair.

"He's been suspended for bad conduct."

"O dear!" groaned Mr. Walcott--"Where is he?"

"Up in his room. I sent him there as soon as he came home. You'll have to do something with him. He'll be ruined if he goes on in this way. I'm out of all heart with him."

Mr. Walcott, excited as much by the manner in which his wife conveyed unpleasant information, as by the information itself, started up, under the blind impulse of the moment, and going to the room where John had been sent on coming home from school, punished the boy severely, and this without listening to the explanations which the poor child; tried to make him hear.

"Father," said the boy, with forced calmness, after the cruel stripes had ceased--"I wasn't to blame; and if you will go with me to the teacher, I can prove myself innocent."

Mr. Walcott had never known his son to tell an untruth; and the words smote with rebuke upon his heart.

"Very well--we will see about that," he answered, with forced sternness, and leaving the room he went down stairs, feeling much worse than when he went up. Again he seated himself in his large chair and again leaned back his weary head, and closed his heavy eyelids. Sadder was his face than before. As he sat thus, his oldest daughter, in her sixteenth year, came and stood by him. She held a paper in her hand--

"Father,--" he opened his eyes.

"Here's my quarter bill. It's twenty dollars. Can't I have the money to take to school with me in the morning?"

"I'm afraid not," answered Mr. Walcott, half sadly.

"Nearly all the girls will bring in their money tomorrow; and it mortifies me to be behind the others." The daughter spoke fretfully. Mr. Walcott waved her aside with his hand, and she went off muttering and pouting.

"It is mortifying," spoke up Mrs. Walcott, a little sharply; "and I don't wonder that Helen feels unpleasantly about it. The bill has to be paid, and I don't see why it may not be done as well first as last."

To this Mr. Walcott made no answer. The words but added another pressure to this heavy burden under which he was already staggering. After a silence of some moments, Mrs. Walcott said,

"The coal is all gone."

"Impossible!" Mr. Walcott raised his head, and looked incredulous. "I laid in sixteen tons."

"I can't help it, if there were sixty tons instead of sixteen; it's all gone. The girls had a time of it to-day, to scrape up enough to keep the fire going."

"There's been a shameful waste somewhere," said Mr. Walcott with strong emphasis, starting up, and moving about the room with a very disturbed manner.

"So you always say, when anything is out," answered Mrs. Walcott rather tartly. "The barrel of flour is gone also; but I suppose you have done your part, with the rest, in using it up."

Mr. Walcott returned to his chair, and again seating himself, leaned back his head and closed his eyes, as at first. How sad, and weary, and hopeless he felt! The burdens of the day had seemed almost too heavy for him; but he had borne up bravely. To gather strength for a renewed struggle with adverse circumstances, he had come home. Alas! that the process of exhaustion should still go on. That where only strength could be looked for, no strength was given.

When the tea bell rung, Mr. Walcott made no movement to obey the summons.

"Come to supper," said his wife, coldly.

But he did not stir.

"Ain't you coming to supper?" she called to him, as she was leaving the room.

"I don't wish anything this evening. My head aches badly," he answered.

"In the dumps again," muttered Mrs. Walcott to herself. "It's as much as one's life is worth to ask for money, or to say that anything is wanted." And she kept on her way to the dining-room. When she returned, her husband was still sitting where she had left him.

"Shall I bring you a cup of tea?" she asked.

"No; I don't wish anything."

"What's the matter, Mr. Walcott? What do you look so troubled about, as if you hadn't a friend in the world? What have I done to you?"

There was no answer, for there was not a shade of real sympathy in the voice that made the queries--but rather a querulous dissatisfaction. A few moments Mrs. Walcott stood near her husband; but as he did Not seem inclined to answer her questions, she turned off from him, and resumed the employment which had been interrupted by the ringing of the tea bell.

The whole evening passed without the occurrence of a single incident that gave a healthful pulsation to the sick heart of Mr. Walcott. No thoughtful kindness was manifested by any member of the family; but, on the contrary, a narrow regard for self, and a looking to him only to supply the means of self-gratification.

No wonder, from the pressure which was on him, that Mr. Walcott felt utterly discouraged. He retired early, and sought to find that relief from mental disquietude, in sleep, which he had vainly hoped for in the bosom of his family. But the whole night passed in broken slumber, and disturbing dreams. From the cheerless morning meal, at which he was reminded of the quarter bill that must be paid, of the coal and flour that were out, and of the necessity of supplying Mrs. Walcott's empty purse, he went forth to meet the difficulties of another day, faint at heart, and almost hopeless of success. A confident spirit, sustained by home affections, would have carried him through; but, unsupported as he was, the burden was too heavy for him, and he sunk under it. The day that opened so unpropitiously, closed upon him, a ruined man!

Let us look in, for a few moments, upon Mr. Freeman, the friend and neighbour of Mr. Walcott. He, also, had come home; weary, dispirited, and almost sick. The trials of the day had been unusually severe; and when he looked anxiously forward to scan the future, not even a gleam of light was seen along the black horizon.

As he stepped across the threshold of his dwelling, a pang shot through his heart; for the thought came, "How slight the present hold upon all these comforts!" Not for himself, but for his wife and children, was the pain.

"Father's come!" cried a glad little voice on the stairs, the moment his foot-fall, sounded in the passage; then quick, pattering feet were heard--and then a tiny form was springing into his arms. Before reaching the sitting-room above, Alice, the oldest daughter, was by his side, her arm drawn fondly within his, and her loving eyes lifted to his face.

"Are you not late, dear?" It was the gentle voice of Mrs. Freeman.

Mr. Freeman could not trust himself to answer. He was too deeply troubled in spirit to assume at the moment a cheerful tone, and he had no wish to sadden the hearts that loved him, by letting the depression from which he was suffering, become too clearly apparent. But the eyes of Mrs. Freeman saw quickly below the surface.

"Are you not well, Robert?" she inquired, tenderly, as she drew his large arm-chair towards the centre of the room.

"A little headache," he answered, with slight evasion.

Scarcely was Mr. Freeman seated, ere a pair of little hands were busy with each foot, removing gaiter and shoe, and supplying their place with a soft slipper. There was not one in the household who did not feel happier for his return, nor one who did not seek to render him some kind office.

It was impossible under such a burst of heart-sunshine, for the spirit of Mr. Freeman long to remain shrouded. Almost imperceptibly to himself, gloomy thoughts gave place to more cheerful ones, and by the time tea was ready, he had half forgotten the fears which had so haunted him through the day. But they could not be held back altogether, and their existence was marked, during the evening, by an unusual silence and abstraction of mind. This was observed by Mrs. Freeman, who, more than half suspecting the cause, kept back from her husband the knowledge of certain matters about which she had intended to speak with him--for she feared they would add to his mental disquietude. During the evening, she gleaned from something he said, the real cause of his changed aspect. At once her thoughts commenced running in a new channel. By a few leading remarks, she drew her husband into conversation on the subject of home expenses, and the propriety of restriction at various points. Many things were mutually pronounced superfluous, and easily to be dispensed with; and before sleep fell soothingly on the heavy eyelids of Mr. Freeman that night, an entire change in their style of living had been determined upon--a change that would reduce their expenses at least one-half.

"I see light ahead," were the hopeful words of Mr. Freeman, as he resigned himself to slumber.

With renewed strength of mind and body, and a confident spirit, he went forth on the next day--a day that he had looked forward to with fear and trembling. And it was only through this renewed strength and confident spirit, that he was able to overcome the difficulties that loomed up, mountain high, before him. Weak despondency would have ruined all. Home had proved his tower of strength--his walled city. It had been to him as the shadow of a great rock in a weary land. Strengthened for the conflict, he had gone forth again into the world, and conquered in the struggle.

"I see light ahead" gave place to "The morning breaketh."

LOVE'S FAIRY RING.

WHILE Titans war with social Jove,
My own sweet wife and I
We make Elysium in our love,
And let the world go by!
Oh! never hearts beat half so light
With crowned Queen or King!
Oh! never world was half so bright
As is our fairy ring,
Dear love!
Our hallowed fairy ring.

Our world of empire is not large,
But priceless wealth it holds;
A little heaven links marge to marge,
But what rich realms it folds!
And clasping all from outer strife
Sits love with folded wing,
A-brood o'er dearer life in life,
Within our fairy ring,
Dear love!
Our hallowed fairy ring.

Thou leanest thy true heart on mine,
And bravely bearest up!
Aye mingling love's most precious wine
In life's most bitter cup!
And evermore the circling hours
New gifts of glory bring;
We live and love like happy flowers
All in our fairy ring,
Dear love!
Our hallowed fairy ring.

We've known a many sorrows, sweet!
We've wept a many tears,
And often trod with trembling feet
Our pilgrimage of years.
But when our sky grew dark and wild,
All closelier did we cling;
Clouds broke to beauty as you smiled,
Peace crowned our fairy ring,
Dear love!
Our hallowed fairy ring.

Away, grim lords of murderdom;
Away, oh! Hate and Strife!
Hence, revellers, reeling drunken from
Your feast of human life!
Heaven shield our little Goshen round
From ills that with them spring,
And never be their footsteps found
Within our fairy ring,
Dear love!
Our hallowed fairy ring.

FANNIE'S BRIDAL.