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every fair view, dismounting to gather violets, and leaping dangerous ditches to break off boughs from the blossoming fruit trees. Once her horse seemed fractious, and she turned to him a beseeching look, her face the color of snow. He soothed and encouraged her, and his tender tones well-nigh made her heart as restive as her horse. But never once did he speak of love, and Mollie, when rallied by her companions, could answer truly, we are not engaged, we are not even lovers. Indeed, she could not for the life of her divine what his real feelings were towards her, he was so cool, so calm. She could not decline his attentions, for they were offered as a brother might have offered them to a pet sister; and why should she decline them, she asked herself, when it made her so happy to receive them. Of course she was not in love with him; no, her heart was away the other side of the continent, somewhere in the gold mines of California. And then she would draw up Frank's miniature from its nest against her heart, and look long and tenderly on the young, fresh face. Sometimes, though with a strange perverseness, she would even as she kissed it, say to herself, "I wish he were not quite so boyish-looking; I hope he will let his beard grow."

Meanwhile there came no tidings of him, and the three years rolled quite away. There was a brilliant party given that evening by one of Mollie's aristocratic friends, and she had looked forward to it with much elation. But when the dress ing hour drew nigh, she found herself strangely depressed. A steamer had arrived that day, and not a word from Frank. She had somehow cherished the thought that he would come in person, at that time, but as the twilight deepened into night, and no one summoned her, she sat alone and wept.

A servant entered after a while and said, "A gentleman to see Miss Merton." She mechanically reached out her hand for a card. "He did not give me one, nor send his name either."

It must be Frank at last," she exclaimed; and bidding the girl turn on the gas, she hurried to change her dress, putting on not the white robe that lay upon

the bed, but a plain black silk which she had taken that morning from the bottom of a trunk, the same she had worn on the last evening she had spent with her lover. It became her well, heightening by contrast the whiteness of her beautiful neck and shoulders, and her softly rounded and dimpled arms.

Her heart fluttered wildly as she entered the parlor; her limbs trembled so she could scarcely support herself; the color came and went upon her cheeks.

“You are not well, Miss Merton-suffer me," and he led her to a sofa. Who? the count.

Poor Mollie! She covered her face with her hands and sobbed.

Her visiter did not speak for some minutes. Then he said gently, "You are troubled, my little friend. Is it anything which I can drive away. Trust me, if it is."

"No, no," she murmured, plaintively; and then looking up, she smiled faintly through her tears, and continued, "I was expecting a dear friend this evening; a friend whom I have not seen for three long years; and-and-I was so disappointed when-when I saw it was you, not he."

The count did not answer her, but paced the room as if in much perturbation of spirit. Finally, he stopped just at the side of the carved arm on which she leaned, and bending his head towards her, asked in a quivering voice, was it a very dear friend you were expecting, Miss Merton, somebody who, in time, will be more than a friend."

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She knew she felt then, that he loved her; he, this nobleman, this ideal of hers. She knew, felt, that rank, wealth, eclat, aye, and happiness, might be hers; happiness, for no woman could long resist such love as he would circle around her. Did she hesitate to answer? did she trifle with him now that his closely kept secret was bursting forth into full flower? No, no; a true woman, she answered almost at once, it was a very dear friend, count-it was Frank Leonard, my lover." You are affianced, then."

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No, he left me free for three years." "But if he came not back in that time, then-"

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If he should never come back,"-he spoke tenderly.

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Never! O, count, do not, do not talk of such a thing. Never come back! my Frank, whom I have always loved with my whole heart, whom I have waited for so long; O, I respect, esteem you; you are much to me, but you can never, never take the place of Frank; he is more to me than all the world beside."

What ailed the count? Was he crazy with disappointment, or mad with love? One of the two, surely, for never before did a refused suitor catch up his darling in his arms and half smother her with

kisses.

"Sir, sir, sir, I say; " and with indignant tones, Mollie strove to free herself. Sir, I took you for a gentleman. Let

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"You are

Never, never," he cried. mine, now, mine for all time. Be quiet, little one you quiver like a hurt bird; your nerves are all unstrung. Lie still there, and I'll sing to you; music is to soothe excitement. Listen, darling.

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"" Are you-are you--who are youin heaven's name, tell me," and the young girl burst from his arms, and stood before him with a bewildered look.

"The original of that miniature which nestles against your heart, Mollie; Frank Leonard, who, by your own confession, is more to you than any Don Whiskerando." She did not faint-people don't often faint with joy; but, she must have felt herself growing weak, for she fairly threw herself into her lover's arms.

"But why Frank, this disguise; this assumed name? Only think," and she spoke reproachfully, "how much your two months's silence has made me suffer."

"I don't think you have suffered very much, darling. You forget that you have been all the while the object of a count's devotion. O, Mollie, Mollie, it has been very hard to preserve my incognito. But the temptation to test your love was too strong to be resisted. three years of life in a foreign clime The change which makes in a young fellow's looks, first begot the masquerade, and with a good address, a little brass, and a good deal of gold, it is the easiest thing in the world to impose upon our social circles. As Don Carlos Pedro St. Giovanni, I have had the entree of mansions whose doors would nev er have opened to Frank Leonard, the American lawyer. I made quite a respectable looking nobleman, too, didn't I, darling," and he led her to a mirror.

She looked up to him proudly, and then averting her eyes said softly, "I shall marry my ideal, after all."

"Plain Frank Leonard, who is neither pirate nor count where is your romance gone, Mollie?

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She turned to him with the arch look of old, singing as she did so,

"Your love is not a lassie now,
Your love is not a lassie now;
Toil and trouble have worn her brow,-
Your love she is a woman now."

When I go with Christ to Calvary and hear his dying prayer, his mighty yielding up of the ghost, I am constrained to say,

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Truly, this was the Son of God." And when I tread with him the rocky pavement of the sepulchre, and feel the thrill of his rising, and hear the rush of angels' wings go by me, and he stands upon his grave-clothes, not all the light that breaks through the unsealed tomb, can dissipate my awe. But when I puse with him be fore Jerusalem, and see his full, fast tears, and hear him weep by the grave of Lazarus, I feel that he was a tender, loving being, sympathizing with humanity, and know it is the "Son of Man" whom I am called to love.

ANGEL WATCHERS.

ANGEL WATCHERS.

BY MRS. E. LOUISE MATHER.

In the stillness of the midnight,
When deep thought, like waves o'erflow
When the forms of the belov'd ones
Come from out the long-ago,-
Then my spirit riseth upward

On Love's pinions, swift and strong,
And my heart breaks forth in music,
Singing an immortal s song.

Song, e'er chanted by the bright ones,
Dwellers in the land of light,
Stooping to this barren earth-shore,
Ministering to our delight;
Guiding us through sorrow's mazes
To the clime of endless day,
Watching us in joy's deep phases,
When we sleep and when we pray.
Oh! they ever lead us upward.

Mounts of faith so broad and high,
Where the sunlight e'er is shining,
In God's clear and banner'd sky!
And we feel the soul's ideal

Is no dream to mock us now,
But a surety, firm, and real,
Shedding warmth upon each brow.
And we joy to love and labor,

While the stormy path we tread,
As this bow of promise daily

Makes a halo round each head. Oh! we all have angel watchers, High and holy,* from the sky, Giving us fond words of comfort, While we live and when we die. East Haddam, Conn.

MARGARET STUART.

BY MISS M.

"I am

do."

REMICK.

CHAPTER I.

sure I do not know what to

It was in one of the palatial mansions of the Fifth Avenue. The speaker was a lady of middle age, still retaining some pretensions to youth and beauty. She was alone in the room in which she sat, an open letter lying on the carpet at her feet, where it had slipped from her hand in her reflections.

Without, a wild winter storm was raging, flake after flake settling down upon the already whitened pavements; within, her daughter's voice rose clear and sweet from the drawing-room below, the keys of her piano ringing to some popular song.

In the letter at Mrs. Stuart's feet, the tremulously pencilled lines stood out clear and distinct.

"Margaret, I am very poor. My child

*Danie!, iv. 13

459

is suffering for want of bread. Anything I could bear for myself, but not for her. I have toiled these last eight years since my' husband's death with my needle, but my work and health are both failing. O Margaret, do not forget how we once shared one home, that we are still sisters, that no disparity of circumstances, no wrong, or anger, can break the tie of blood. For my child's sake, my little Frances, if not for mine, be pitiful and help us."

What was there but one answer to this? who could reject such a prayer? What, indeed! As Mrs. Stuart sat there in the waning winter light, a long vista of the past opened before her. She was a child again in her early home, which, though fitted with ease and con fort, had not the luxury of to-day. She remembered her mother distinctly, a stately, beautiful woman, whose tender kisses and words of endearment lingered to-night in her recollection.

There came dark days, a rush of anguish -hushed footfalls, tears, stillness; she was lifted up to the coffin to look on the white, still face, so like, and yet so unlike. How her father put her from him, stung by her baby questions; how the kind old nurse soothed pityingly her sobs and told her her mother had gone to a beautiful country where she would some day join her. There was no pain there, no sorrows, no parting, no tears.

Months went by, the child's grief was outwardly stilled, but it was not forgotten; children laugh and play but they do not so soon forget. Her father went away; he was gone for weeks, and months they seemed to the child; when he returned a beautiful lady came with him who, the servants told her with grave faces, was to take her last mother's place. Her little heart rebelled against it. How could this be? She would not be coaxed, she would not be won. Madeline had not the patience to the wilful, wayward temper of persevere; the child who had been so long left to the She was neglect of servants vexed her. thankful when a home opened for her new charge with a kind aunt, and overruled her husband's faint remonstrances and regrets.

Thus Margaret grew up, with bitter and haughty memories in her heart, disdaining her young step-mother who had stolen

into her dead mother's place; looking with doubt and envy, on the daughter who soon came to rival her in her father's love, the little that was left to herself.

In her aunt's home her childhood and girlhood passed. On the dawn of womanhood a great sorrow met her, the death of this kind friend, and she went back to the home where she could anticipate no very tender greetings. Years had passed since she had met them, for which the long dis tance lying between, and then the difficulties of travel had been a sufficient excuse. She found her sister in her ripe girlhood, a beautiful creature, the first glance upon whose face, she knew not why, thrilled her with pain. Her father met her kindly, her step-mother with courtesy, and she took up her old place and tried to accustom herself to her surroundings.

There was one thought which had consoled her on her journey. Her stay here would not be for long. She loved and was beloved. At least she believed so. Henry Armond had shown her every attention short of a plain avowal, and her aunt had favored his evident suit. This mutual attachment had taken the sting even in the first hours from her bereavement. Armond was coming to H― in a few weeks, he had said to her at parting. No doubt he would then avow himself, and entreat her father's consent. The future was very beautiful to her. There was no room now in her heart for envy. Love glorified everything.

He came. Ah, it was not pleasant to look back to-night, here, sitting in this home of wealth and prosperity, bearing the name of a merchant prince, mother to two dearly-beloved children-no, though years lay between. Those weeks which followed were such as come only once in a life

time.

Her sister loved Armond. Poor Elanour, was she so very wrong? Margaret thought SO. Yet between you and I reader, until the marriage preparations were completed, the very day fixed, she never once dreamed that she was Margaret's rival. He had never spoken, why should Margaret say he was her lover? it was not her nature to do

so, least of all these. Business took him to F, so Elanour thought, and what

more natural than that he should call on an old friend? Margaret received him in their presence with the same stately cour tesy which she extended to others. Elanour, foolish girl, lost her heart almost at their first meeting. He saw his conquest. Why, or on what grounds he acted, Margaret never knew. She gave him up, silently, haughtily, she could do no other wise, but her faith in human nature died out. A strong bitter hatred of her beauti ful, prosperous sister seized upon her. She grew too wretched to keep her secret, and when the day at last drew near for Elanour's marriage she knew all. It was too late now for any change. Elanour showed no triumph, she said nothing, but her face revealed in that one startled moment that he understood all.

Mrs. Stuart's face dropped in her hands. She turned from the picture of the second wooing, where she bartered her hand for gold. Her husband was twice her years, sordid, ignorant, cold, but he was a Crosus, that was enough.

Since the day of Eleanour's marriage, which her own quickly followed, she had not looked upon her half-sister's face. When her step-mother died she had sent a trifling excuse for her failure to be present at the funeral, and when her father's decease followed, an actual attack of illness had prevented her presence. These two had stood from that day as if the existence of the one, was forgotten by the other, and now to-night this letter had come Stuart's hands. Armond was dead, and his wife and child begged for charity.

Mrs.

There was a step on the stairs. Mrs. Stuart knew her husband's tread, deadened as his footfall was in the soft carpets. She looked up as he entered. "You are early to-night, Mr. Stuart," she said, quietly stooping to rescue her letter from the floor. A second thought seized her and she extended it toward him.

He took it, though with an air hardly of curiosity. There was a weary, jaded look about him, as he flung himself into the chair by his wife's side.

"From Eleanour," said Margaret, introducingly, "she has written me, and I do not know how to answer her."

She did not say what gave strength to the struggle within.

"Poor relations," muttered Mr. Stuart, running it over "My dear, what did Mrs. Armond do with the very handsome portion your father left her? twice the amount of yours I remember."

It was a circumstance which Mr. Stuart had from that time laid up against the younger sister, whose impoverished circumstances had drawn this preference from his father-in-law.

"Mr. Armond wasted it in speculations," said Margaret, shortly.

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And we are bound to provide for his widow? I don't know."

Margaret was silent, she knew well the direction to which her husband's thoughts were tending.

"A few dollars," he resumed, reflectively, "would be no loss, though our expenses are enormous, but it might have the effect of encouraging her to fresh applica

tions.

Margaret shut her lips tightly, a voice within pleaded for her unfortunate sister, but she crushed it down.

The tea bell rang, Mr. Stuart put down the letter, and they went down stairs.

CHAPTER II.

Day after day Mrs. Armond waited for the letter which should come, the visitor whose well recalled step should press with its firm imperious tread upon those rickety trembling stirs up to her lonely attic, but letter or visitor never came. Haggard want stared her in the face, the last penny was gone from her purse, one by one the humble articles of furniture were sold, the last dear relic of happy days surrendered to the pawn-broker's shop.

It was a cold bitter day, no fuel, no food, her daughter, a bright intelligent child of eleven years, sat cowering over the decaying embers of the hearth, wrapped in her faded woolen shawl.

Mrs. Armond put on her bonnet, tying the strings with trembling fingers. She was going out to ask for charity; a glance at her child's wan face had nerved her resolution.

Who would have dreamed of this the old bridal days.

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"I shall be back soon, Frances," she said, trying to speak cheerfully, "you had better lie down, love, and cover yourself with the quilts," turning to the bed with its wretched coverings, "the fire is quite out, and it is very cold."

She turned away quickly from the question on the child's lips and hurried out.

Was it a providence which directed her steps? She believed so all her life. It is true that God directs our ways always, but there are moments when the veil seems to be parted, and this truth stands forth.

The winter air was chill and piercing, as it crept through her thin garments, but with the recollection of the desolate room behind her, and the pale little waiting face, Mrs. Armond pressed on. Twilight had fallen, the dusk of the short December day, and the lights were gleaming along the streets. The pavements were still thronged with the busy stream of life pouring to their homes from their daily tasks. By an involuntary impulse she drew her veil more closely over her face as she hurried on. In all the multitude there was no pitying glance or heart for her. She came soon upon a quiet street where stately buildings showed the presence of wealth and pretention. With a fluttering heart she ascended the steps of the second and rang. The servant who answered her summons, contemplated her with a gruff stare, and hardly pausing to hear her errand, closed the door in her face, with a half muttered exclamation, "another beggar."

Mrs. Armond descended, and tremblingly tried the next. Here her reception was more civil, a buxom looking Irish girl made her appearance, who told her the mistress was engaged with company, and could see no one, it would be as much as her place would be worth, to disturb her. Elanour might have remonstrated, but the girl closed the door and she had no choice but to turn away. Should she go on? Her heart sunk within her, but the mother's love triumphed. She went on slowly up the street. At the corner she came upon a mansion of less pretentious appearance than the rest, but which wore somehow a more inviting as

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