was not enjoying himself and feeling rather happy here, for one cause or another, he would go on to the water-cure establishment-to the parental arms?"

Well, I am pretty obtuse, John says, and I begin to think it; but nevertheless, with all my dullness, I did see that it was getting to be the old romance of "Under the Linden."

One evening John was at home, and we all sat in our pleasant parlor listening to Hannah's music; she and Fred had been singing some of the still popular Foster songs and southern camp-meeting hymns. They were touchingly beautiful, and we felt it to be so, when John suddenly spoke up, saying: "Hannah, sing my favorite, 'I Would not Live Always.'" "And mine, too," said Fred.

Without a word she played over the grand old tune "Frederick" once, then they sang it together beautifully, beautifully! I mean what I say. John does not often sing, but this time he sang bass, and Fred the tenor. When it was finished tears were in our eyes, for different and various reasons.

I said to myself, "Now, John did that on purpose; he's going to slip out, now, and then call me, so as to leave them alone, to see what'll happen," which would have been a very good plan; but you see, "Man proposes and God disposes,"

though sometimes God has more to do with the proposing, as well as the disposing, than we think.

As Fred turned away from the piano he said: "There is a story associated with that hymn in my mind which I must tell you. It is about a little girl, the dearest, sweet, earnest-eyed young girl I ever saw. I have wondered a thousand times if I should ever see her again on earth. She was an Odd Fellow's orphan child, and the only time I ever saw her was at the burial of her mother; that hymn was sung beside the grave. I have thought of her face, her eyes, her whole manner and appearance, with tender pity, with anxiety, hoping she found her friends, but fearing she may have fallen into evil hands."

Reader, it was a short story at most which he could tell, yet it was the other side, another phase of the same story we already knew, and invaluable as perfect corroboration of Hannah's version, if we felt need of any.

"Yes," said he, "I've thought of her when on the march, in lonely hours of night-watch, in prison and in hospital, and with thoughts of her would recur to mind God's words of promise to the orphan, and my own comforting knowledge of the watchful care of our order over the orphan children of its members, causing me to hope she

had fallen into such faithful hands. I sent the child a card to take to my mother, and it has always seemed strange my mother never heard of her or the card."

"Do you suppose you'd know her?" said John. "I can not say certain, but I think so."

"I think you are very much mistaken. You've spent the last ten days in her presence (or a considerable portion of each day), and I've never seen or heard any sign of recognition. This is the little girl, and she can tell you herself if she fell into good hands."

CHAPTER XVIII.

"Love! What a volume in a word, an ocean in a tear,
A seventh heaven in a glance, a whirlwind in a sigh,
The lightning in a touch, a millenium in a moment,
What concentrated joy or woe in blest or blighted love!

"For it is that native poetry springing up indigenous to mind,
The heart's own country music thrilling all its chords,
The story without an end that angels throng to hear,
The word, the king of words, carved on Jehovah's heart!"
Tupper's Proverbial Philosophy.

THEY do say that our volunteer army produced some as brave and efficient officers and soldiers as our military academies have ever sent forth, and it is also said by those who knew Fred Ronaldson that he stood as high as any for bravery, promptness and faithfulness; that he was never known to flinch in the face of danger, or to shrink from any known duty while in the service; and it struck me now that the best thing for him to do was to walk up like a man and congratulate Hannah on her escape from dangers, seen and unseen-in short, to speak and say something. However, on the contrary, he sat and looked at her, then looked down,

while she did exactly as he did, as if they were playing the play called "Do as I do."

They both turned very red in the face, and both looked exceedingly gawky."

"Well," said John, "suppose we have some more music; and while you two sing I'll go and get something to eat."

Now, whenever John desires to call me out of the room this is the strategem used, for he knows very well I will not trust him at the cupboard, for if there is a thing he ought not to touch or meddle with, he's sure to do it-sure to leave spoons, forks or napkins out of place, or in something which they ought not to be in. But I followed John out, remembering what he had said, "two are company, and three are none," and he is nearly always in the right. We left them to themselves, their music, their romance; and that is all I can tell you about it now, reader.

The next day brought news of the old people's return, the first of the week following, but we told our young friend he should remain quietly where he was, that the proper persons would attend to the warming and airing their house. He very quietly remained, and with no apparent reluctance.

The evening before he left our house he asked for a private interview with John and me, and