They went at once to the hotel where they tainly she had a vivid idea throughout of the homely furniture scanty at that took lodgings for a few weeks, until Mrs. and her unbecoming evening dress, but the Elden grew better, and Laura could find visitor said everything that was kind. No a little time to look around for rooms. doubt he was shocked by the transforma- Her school proved pleasant, and she ention he saw before him, the change from joyed the change from the monotonous gay wife and admired daughter of the scenes which had been fraught to her with rich merchant to the pale widow and the recollections hardly less painful than those wan seamstress, and this shock opened the of her step-mother. Mrs. Elden's spirits best feelings of his nature. began to revive; she exerted herself in the homely labors of housekeeping, and in the end grew really cheerful the Laura held with reluctance, the little crowded portemonaie which he pressed into her hand as he took it at parting. It was not before Mrs. Elden, but in the ball where she had followed to show him out. "It is only a loan," said the old gentleman, kindly; "I will make no objection to a repayment at some time. few months, at most, I have no doubt I can hear of a situation which will prove advantageous to you." In a she Laura looked at the portemonaie thought of the scanty store of coal, the empty larder, her own overtasked nerves; never had she longed for rest so much as in the last few days; she tried to speak, but her voice stopped. Mr. Hawly saw her emotion, and with out waiting for thanks, hurried away. It was a comforting lesson in human nature, and it came to Laura when she needed it sorely. After all there was goodness and truth in the world; she had been very unhappy or she would not have listened to such doubts. Spring opened. April came and passed. With the dawn of May a letter was received from Mr. Hawly. It was dated from a distant Western city, and announced his discovery of a vacancy in a large school, which situation, if agreeable, he would at once endeavor to procure for Laura. There was no objection to be of fered. Mrs. Elden secretly welcomed the idea of a removal from a place now invested to her with so many memories of mortifications and griefs, and Laura wrote promptly her thanks and acceptance. Another letter came and they prepared to set out. It was a long and tedious journey. Mrs. Elden's feeble health relapsed under its fatigues, and when they reached their destination she was again seriously ill. A year passed, when an event came round which agitated not a little the now even tenor of Laura's life. It was an of fer of marriage. The proposal came from a gentleman with whom they had formed a slight acquaintance at the hotel in which they had stopped on their first arrival, and he had found the opportunity of offering the strangers many simple but kind attentions in the months which had succeeded There was no objection to be made to Mr. Herkimer, at least, so far as his character and prospects were concerned, and Laura may be pardoned that, for a moment, her resolution wavered. Here was a home for her mother, ease and comfort for herself, and a lonely path outside, stretched away in the distance. On the other hand, her regard for Mr. Harland was still unchanged; with all the force of absence, and his ungenerous conduct, it had never been put aside. Marriages, under such circumstances, may often take place, but they contain few elements of happiness. Laura knew that she could prove to Mr. Herkimer a faithful and kind wife, but she felt that in mar rying him, she would be doing injustice to herself. Her step-mother said little-no doubt a recollection of the old days, withheld her from urging what she must have sincerely desired. Laura felt herself obliged again to frame a rejection; she did so kindly but firmly; she held nothing back, and she softened the mortification she was compelled to inflict, by frankly avowing the truth. Herkimer was touched by her generosity; he knew in his own heart that he had received little encourage ment to his suit, and they parted with mu tual good feelings. Perhaps he did not quite give up hope; certainly his visits to the widow and her daughter were not whol- had taken him to C, and he en "But Mr. Herkimer is unexceptionable." To any woman who loves him. But I do not and never shall. Under such a consciousness, marriage would be a mockery." "Are you very sure, Laura? His regard is strong enough for you to judge by its persistence. Are you very sure it could never win a return?" "Do you know, mamma, objects out of our reach sometimes double in value, from that very fact. I have sometimes thought this the case with Mr. Herkimer. Not that I question his sincerity. He would make any woman a most kind husband. But I have never believed in the permanent existence of a love without return." What could Mrs. Elden urge further? she was silenced. A long period again went by, and now one of those incidents which we believe take place rarely in life, came round. Francis Harland made his appearance. It was an accidental meeting. Business connected with the firm of which he was clerk, countered Laura, by a happy fortune, in the street. He had heard of her father's misfortunes and death, had written her in the same hour, but owing to her almost immediate removal from her old home, had received no answer. When, in a few weeks, despairing of a reply, he had contrived to obtain leave of absence for a sufficient time to visit New York, he found himself unable to discover any trace of her, and was compelled shortly to give up his researches in despair. It was a happy meeting; Laura felt richly rewarded for all her patience and trust. Mrs. Elden received her prospective son-in-law with no little embarrassment, yet her congratulations to her daughter, were not really insincere. To think it should have come round so, mamma," said Laura, smiling, through her tears. "If I had married Mr. Herkimer!" "My dear, such an event does not occur once in a thousand lives." "How I pity Laura Elden," said one of her old friends, laying down the paper which contained the announce nent of this marriage; "poor girl! she has married that clerk who used to be at Haughton's. She must have repented a hundred times, her refusal of Mr. Crawford; why, Audly told me, only last night, that he is one of our millionaires now. Poor Laura!" What does the reader say to the verdict? We give such a theological sense to our words that even the holiest precepts ring like counterfeit coin. But if we really knew that to love Jesus Christ is like loving anything else, if theological or relig ious love would only mean natural love, as it ought to mean,—how many would say, "I love Jesus Christ!" Infidels and sceptics, carping at miracles, and cutting out one half of the New Testament, if they could see such a character as that, exemplified in such a beautiful life, standing in the gloriousness of its meekness and the majesty of its holiness, would come to it as if drawn by the law of attraction. THE SOLDIER'S WIFE. BY ANNA M. BATES. Come to my side, my gentle child, And I will hold thee here awhile Till the moon grows large and bright. How like a golden queen she shines, Above yon drifts of snow, As fair as o'er the budding rose, Close to my heart, my gentle child, While we, (thank God for every gift,) Hark! how the blast so bitter blows, Of thee and me to-night. I would not lack a patriot's blood, And yet my heart grows strangely wild, You know his hero blood sprang up, His grandsire fought in earlier days, Close to my heart, my gentle child, Await for thee and me, 'Mid scorning foes and friends grown cold, One treasure we can claim, A prouder heritage than gold, Kneel by my side, my little child, Lift up your voice and pray, For you are one of Jesus' lambs, And God hears such as they; Pray for your father on the field, Amid the bloody fight, Pray for the mourning, stricken ones, Who fill our land to-night. And ask of Him who guides the world, Thy father's grave must be, ELEANOR WARE'S MANUSCRIPT. BY DELL A. CAULKINS. The revelations of an inner life are sel dom made, yet every heart knoweth its own bitterness, and in its secret recesses hang faded wreaths of hopes once dazzling in the brightness of their beauty, pale, scentless garlands, reminding the posses sor of some fair, long-passed May-day of the heart,' when all its inharmonious chords were tuned to melody only less sweet than angel hymnings. The soul shrinks from revealing its hidden life, and as the imprisoned bird folds its wings, and sends forth upon the air its sweetest notes of song, so the deepest emotions of the human heart, held captive in its secret cell, lie hidden from the outer world's rude comments, while smiles wreathe the lips that dare not give utterance to grief, and eyes beam brightly that fain would quench their light in tears. God pity hearts like these -hearts whose sorrows lie too deep for words, that put aside the robes of mourning, and wrap themselves in festal garments of airy lightness, symbolizing the joyous hopes forever faded. Yet, at times, have been given to our view, glimpses of a deeply shaded avenue, leading by many a winding way, to a sanctuary where bitter memories lie heaped, like lifeless forms washed shoreward in some disastrous storm. And like the low, sad notes of a solemn chant above the shrouded dead, come to us the utterances of a soul's bitter anguish, while with bowed heads, we humbly whisper-"O, God! give to Thy sorrowing ones, Thine all-protecting grace, to guard them in life's dark ened ways, till at last, triumphant over earthborn ills, crowned with the crown of immortal life, and bearing in their hands palm branches, they shall joyfully wave them at the golden gates of the New Jerusalem. Thoughts like these floated through my mind after reading a mass of manuscript that had been placed in my hands a few hours previous. I was not unprepared for the announcement that came with it, yet it saddened me deeply, and still, with tear-filled eyes, I inwardly exclaimed "Well done of God! to halve the lot, To her, the heaven's completeness." And then my mind wandered slowly backward through the sunny fields of the past where, along the bright horizon, hung the gold and purple clouds of my girlhood's early morning. And one roamed with me who was the fair ideal of all that poet's sing or painter's love to trace. To say I loved this friend, would but feebly express the feeling that held possession of my heart. I reverenced her! My soul bowed humbly in homage at the shrine of her loveliness, for I worshipped beauty. Oh! they on whom this precious gift has been bestowed, should wear exultant hearts in sinless bosoms, giving earnest, and fervent thanksgivings for the divine talisman, to Him who is divinely good. Like a dream of heaven comes to me now the memory of Eleanor Ware's sweet face, as it beamed upon me in our sunny childhood's days. Eleanor's was not alone the beauty of artistic lines, and graceful curves, such as win a sculptor fame, and place an unfading wreath of glory on his brow; but, giving brightness to this harmony of features, was the inner, purer light of loveliness, emanating from the soul; the beauty living when the roseflush fades, and the white brow wears the care lines of life's added years. nature, Eleanor formed many friendships that were lasting and sincere, and yet, on the unblotted records of her heart, I had every reason for believing that my own name was written in characters distinct and clear, however unworthy the place assigned it. Before she had quite completed her sixteenth year, Eleanor left her village home and school to finish her education in a distant city, whose institutions of learning were supposed to possess advantages superior to our own. We corresponded regularly, during her absence, and the days on which her letters came were the brightest that greeted me. But, when the long vacation came, my happiness was complete, for then we were seldom separated, and many a long day we wiled away with books, or work, or talking, as girls will, eagerly, of present pleasures, or those in anticipation. And as three years passed rapidly away, and we had each finished the education commenced in our village academy, when I wore my hair in braids, tied with blue ribbons, and Eleanor's hung in smooth and glossy curls, over a neck of pearly whiteness, and caressed lovingly, cheeks "Bright as the bloom Of the pinkest fuschia's nodding plumes." O, those brief years, that flitted so swiftly "down the ringing grooves of time, were years of many joys, yet even they were not without some shadows, and the memory of them brings me both smiles and tears, as I recall their varied scenes of joy or sadness! Soon after Eleanor left school she accepted an invitation from a near relative to spend with her the coming winter in the gaieties that a city home offer to the votaries of pleasure. Thus were we again parted, and while I passed the time in home duties and simple pleasures, I learned from frequent letters that Eleanor was having a splendid time," seeing "eveFrom childhood we had been school- rything," going "to parties and balls inmates, and warm and earnest friends, numerable," and, in brief, spending though differing widely in mental as well very gay winter." I was pleased that Elas physical endowments, and greatly dis-eanor was enjoying herself so well; yet I similar in temperament. Ardent in her felt no envy in my heart, for, if stern neattachments, and eminently social in her cessity had not compelled me to a different 46 a mode of life my tastes would have inclined me to the pleasures of home pursuits, rather than those that Eleanor made choice of. And yet at times I fancied a tone of sadness in her letters, implying that her heart sought joys higher than any yet attained, and though she strove to disguise it from me, there evidently was a feeling of "vague unrest," underlying all her seeming gaiety, that she strove vainly to conceal. underneath the broad shadow of the elm tree at the foot of my grandfather's gar den and talked of life and beauty, joy and love, terms synonymous then, for the chill fingers of disappointment had not yet rested on our life's sweetest flowers, blighting their beauty and scattering their fragrance forever. That spring and the succeeding summer months were the last that Eleanor Ware and I ever spent together. When the autumn winds came whispering low words that flushed the maple leaves with beauty, I bade her a sad good bye, and with heart made sorrowful by past memo alone, to make myself a home in a far Western State, where destiny had given me a niche as an humble village teacher. We corresponded regularly for two years, then Eleanor's letters were few and far between, and one day the mass of manuscript was placed in my hands, and a last, brief note. I read the few sweet words of farewell from my early friend, and knew the hand that penned them was resting forever on a pulseless heart, in the little graveyard near her early home and mine. I put the note aside, and laying my wea ry head upon my folded arms gave way to the bitterness of the hour. Before that winter ended the still current of my life was stirred by angel wings, and over the tiny, rippling waves flashed the sunlight of my girlhood's brightest dream. But the white wings flitted slow-ries, and the present parting, I went forth ly past, the shining waves were darkened by many a lowering cloud, while the fair dream faded, leaving on my heart shadows deeper than those that hide the sunlight from the water,-deeper, far deeper than any it had known before. And these shadows on my life were all the angel presence left me, save a few sweet memories, - a vivid contrast to the gloom in which they were encased. I recall this dream at times, yet it is nothing now but a memory and a name." Alas! for all dreamers, are they not laying up in the vast storehouse of earthly being that which shall leave no space for the true and the tangible, the real good that should be garnered and cherished, yet which is so often overlooked in the outreaching for the ideal? And then, when the awakening comes, how sadly do they gather, one by one, the sweet flowers of hope, and lay them away, pale and withered, beside the fair forget-me-nots of memory, to be gazed upon only when the overburdened heart would rest, and dream again, amid the treasured joys that only memory's key unlocks. Eleanor Ware returned late in the spring. We felt instinctively that each withheld some portion of confidence from the other, yet neither questioned the depth or strength of the friendship of her who quietly and silently maintained the right of giving or withholding an entrance to the heart's most sacred chambers. And so it chanced. I did not know till long years after how the even tenor of her life had changed since, as school girls, we sat The life that is rounded into beauty by the fulness of love, grieves most deeply, when one dearly loved, is missed from the familiar paths of earth, but only they who have parted with each and every treasure that the heart held dear, can realize the silent anguish of that soul who sees its last dear one follow the white angel down to the silent home of death! Were it not for the sustaining arm of One mighty to save, how could frail mortality, at times like these, walk with unfaltering step, over the surging waves of darkness, where no light beams save the one faint ray from the far-off shores of the eternal world of glory! The manuscript accompanying the note, proved the key to the cipher in Eleanor Ware's history, that had been so carefully guarded during her life. And thus it was unlocked to me in the silence of my lone ly room, in the quiet of an autumn evening. 1 |