"No hope? Oh, Ford, you don't know what I suffer; those shrieks will ring in my ears forever."

"There is nothing favorable, Morgan, so far." And the doctor put his arm around his friend, as a woman might have done; and, as women do, both men shed tears; Morgan's of bitter repentance and anguish of heart, the doctor's for the great blight that had fallen on that young creature and the whole household.

"Dr. Wood thinks that it has been coming on some time, or more properly preparing for by her previous state of health. She has naturally a most sensitive nervous organization; I told you so once, you know; he says, as I did then, that she has needed great care and soothing."

"Oh, Ford! I could not understand it; I see it all now. It is all my fault. That's where it stings!"

"Don't blame yourself unjustly; her physical state was the disturbing cause."

"But it might have been helped; you know it; don't spare me; I deserve it all. You know how lovely she was-such a wreck! Oh, my God, what have I done! And to think she may never know me! never forgive me! Don't hate me, Ford!" And the tears forced themselves through the hands that covered his face.

"Morgan, if she did know you again; if you could make the acknowledgment to her that you are making to me-(I don't attempt to excuse it to you; I believe from what I have known and seen that you have failed in duty to her at this most critical time in her life); if you could open your heart to her, would she forgive you ?" "Yes, I know she would; she is just so unselfish, just so devoted."

"Then believe that she has done so already, and put away the past; you have enough to suffer in the future. How is the boy? he is very quiet!" And he turned towards the bed; he had been too much absorbed even to ask for the child before.

"He is dead!” and Morgan started to his feet again, "just as I began to know what he might have been to me. Oh, Ford, it is too hard; my punishment is greater than I can bear!"

Quiet, save in the room of sickness, settled down upon the household at last. Mrs. Ford returned to her own little ones; and Mrs. Lockwood sat by Mrs. Pierson, both unable to rest. In the sick-room, the new physician and Dr. Ford watched in silence and patiently, as they might, the effect of the new opiate that had been administered. Mr. Ash heard them pass

across the floor above him now and then; for, wrapped in a shawl, he had thrown himself on a sofa in their once cheerful sitting room, to wear out the night. But sleep came with midnight to his exhausted frame; and it was almost daybreak when a hand laid heavily upon his shoulder awakened him.

"Good news, Morgan; she is really sleeping -really. I could hardly believe it myself; I did not dare to stir. It is almost half an hour." And Dr. Ford, who had wept for sympathy, almost cried again for joy.

CHAPTER IX.

It was early in the afternoon of a short winter's day, and Mrs. Pierson's sitting-room was as bright as a glowing fire and a thrifty stand of greenhouse plants could make it, for all the clouds and moistiness out of doors. Ten years at least the room had worn that same familiar look; the carpet had been renewed, and the white curtains, with their blue ball fringe, were freshly done up; but all else stood as Marie had remembered it at first. The portrait of Gilbert's father over the mantel, the cheerful open stove, the ottomans standing on each side, the straight-backed, neatly-cushioned chairs, the oval mirror in which she had always given her new bonnets a parting glance, the slenderlegged inlaid table beneath it, the wide chintzcovered lounge on which she lay, all were old acquaintances, and doubly endeared as a part and parcel of home.

Yet the black-rimmed mirror would scarcely have known Marie, had she stood before it now. Her face was almost as white as the pillow upon which she was lying, and almost as expressionless. The long lashes lay upon her cheek; a soft tress of brown hair just showed beneath the delicate border of her cap, which gave transparency to her blue-veined temples. Her thin hands were folded listlessly before her, and there was not even the glitter of a ring to break their wasted outline. It was nothing new; she passed whole days thus, and had done since her illness; not even the sight of her old home had roused her from the painful apathy which had followed delirium; not the devotion of her husband when he came, nor the unceasing tender ministrations of her aunt and cousin.

But to-day some memory of the past stirred within her. It was her birthday-twenty-one; a woman now, a girl no longer. Oh no; girlhood seemed very far away, even here, surrounded by its witnesses. Her birthday! what

a happiness it used to be! how eagerly watched for! how proudly she had counted up the advancing years! How much she had passed through since she had met a birthday here! She should have had another childhood in which to live over her own again!

Gilbert had brought her flowers that morning, just as he used to do; and her aunt had left her to make some little preparations to celebrate the day, just as in the last girlhood; but they were not all now. Her last birthday she had received but one offering, a slender bracelet ; they were happy that day; it was one of the happy days; some one had bent over her with a kiss, and wakened her to find the bracelet clasped upon her wrist. By and by she would get her aunt to try and find it for her, and wear it that evening. She had no other token of that time; she must not quite forget it. Morgan had been very, very kind sometimes; only they had made a mistake when they chose each other for life. It was past now, all the pain as well as the pleasure. He would come to see her sometimes, and they would meet calmly and part so. Kind friends; oh yes! if there was one wish left to a dead heart, it was that he might be always happy; for herself it was no matter. Nothing troubled her now. There she was wrong; one other wish, which grew upon her daily until it had become a hopeless yearning, crept in now, and would not be denied a hearing.

The large, slow tears forced themselves through the closed lids and lay upon her cheek; a quivering, childlike tremulousness of the lips came, and went, and came again; then the door was unclosed gently, and she turned her head a little further from the light, lest her aunt should see the tears. Some one kissed them away softly, smoothed back the short, shining tress beneath her cap (it was all that was left of the wealth of hair she had wreathed up at her bridal); but the kiss and the touch were too tender even for her aunt's motherly hand, and she unclosed her eyes to find her husband kneeling beside her.

It was so unexpected; he had paid her a visit the week before; her heart was so stirred and wakened by the day and its associations, and he was so very near the cause of her quiet grieving; perhaps he could comfort her if she told him!

A little cry, half astonishment, half joy, escaped her; the watchful eyes brightened; it was so long since she had shown anything like emotion; her husband's arms were stretched out to her, and in another moment she had

crept nestling to his heart, where she had not expected ever to lay her head again. He held her quite still, without speaking, until the convulsive paroxysm of weeping which came upon her had passed over, only caressing her gently, as one might soothe a frightened, panting bird. But a silent prayer of thanksgiving filled his heart, for in those tears lay a promise of returning health, and he knew he had not deserved the blessing.

"You do not ask me what I have brought you for a birthday gift," he said, when the sobs had died away, and he found her still content to be enfolded by his arms. It was so long since he had held her there-thus, at least that he could scarcely bear to break the spell, though he longed to know how she would bear the test which had been, until then, his "forlorn hope." "It is a little picture, Marie; will you open your eyes, and see it for yourself?" He disengaged one hand, and softly drew back the tissue-paper. A little photograph of a sleeping child, lying among pillows; the eyes were softly closed, showing the long lashes, the delicately curved lips were slightly parted, the broad, white forehead, shadowed by rings of soft curling hair, the tiny hands were folded lightly together, the very image of peaceful repose. Marie gave one glance, and then an upward appealing look.

"Tell me, Morgan!"

"Yes, Marie, it is our baby, our child, all we have left of him but one of those little curls; I have brought that for you, too. Both must speak for me."

She did not weep again, as he had expected, but a faint smile, the first he had seen in her face for so many months, lighted her eager eyes. "My own dear baby, my precious baby!"-and she pressed the little picture to her lips, to her heart. "Oh, I do not ask for anything more; but it seemed so hard that even when I went to heaven I should not know him! My own dear baby!''

"Not our child, Marie?"

"O yes, you must have loved him, or you would not have thought of this. We thought

he would make us so happy, Morgan."

"He may yet, Marie, if you will listen to me; he has spoken for me already. For his sake-I do not ask it for my own-will you not forgive me, and love me again?"

"But do you care, Morgan?"—and her eyes were fixed on him earnestly. "I thought that was all over."

"As you say, Marie"-and the eager hopefulness died out of his voice. "I deserve it;

I have broken faith once. I cannot expect you to trust me. Do I care? Not for myself-not that I may be made happy, I mean; yes, I care to have you give me the right to prove to you that I have repented. Be it so; do what you choose with this." And he placed her softly back upon the pillows, and laid their marriage ring in her hand.

She gave it back to him. "You put it on before." And she held out her wasted hand.

"May I? Will you be my own dear wife once more?" And the emblem of united lives gleamed again upon the hand he held, as he repeated, reverently: "In sickness and in health, to love and to cherish till death us do part."

"I promised to 'forsake all others,' then; but you had a rival left."

Marie looked up wonderingly, through the now tumultuous happiness that thrilled her heart.

"It was self," said her husband, gravely; he was always grave now; the whole expression of his proud face had changed. "I cared more for my own will than for your happiness; but I did not know it, Marie, I did not think so then. I had had my own way all my life, ever since my father died, and it was hard to bend."

"But I was wilful, too, Morgan."

He stopped the self accusing with a kiss. "I undertook to be your guide, dear child; but I know what 'cherish' means now. I only thought of my own happiness before, in receiving you, in having you for my own, a part of 'self.' Oh, Marie, how blindly we start out in life!"

And bless God for the chastening, for the fiery trials that are sent to cure our blindness, before it ends in night eternal! But we do not say so when they are upon us, not till we see His light.

The old vow had been "in the face of this company," but the new marriage bond was as in the " sight of God."

"God help us both!" said Marie, softly, resting her head once more upon her husband's breast. And his "Amen" showed where he also looked for strength.

"Do you know what I was thinking all that while?" said Morgan, when the long silence was broken. "I have no right to be so happy."

"And I-I thought of baby, Morgan. But God knew best; now that I have seen him the worst is gone. How can I thank you enough for thinking of it?"

"You must not thank me; it was Harriet." "Was it?"

"And she held our little darling when he died, dear Marie; she has grieved so over you,

and over her mistakes. She came with me today."

"Did she really, Morgan? all this distance to see me, when she dislikes leaving home so? Where is she?"

Mr. Ash went out to find her, hating even for this pleasant errand to lose sight of his recovered treasure for a moment.

Two women, sitting in earnest, friendly conversation, looked up at him questioningly.

"All is well," he said, holding out a hand to each; "congratulate me." And he led them in to find Marie herself once more, roused at length from that long fearful torpor of heart and soul; looking out from the bitter past to a future that did not belie its promise.

A bright though wintry sunset lighted up a cheerful room in Marie's own home, two years after this new beginning of her married life. It had changed from the pretty but formal outlines of its old occupancy; a fanciful basket of muslin and lace occupied the dressing-table; as graceful a crib as ever Marie's heart could covet stood close to the smooth white bed; and in the middle of the floor, on a soft, old-fashioned coverlet, certainly imported from Aunt Pierson's housekeeping stores, lay a most amiable subject of nursery discipline, a white, plump, ever-smiling baby of six months old, intent on admiring its own dimpled hands, held up in the light. A coral and silver bells lay beside it, Mrs. Lockwood's gift; and the dainty socks which were revealed by its restless movements had just been offered at the shrine of this new idol, by Aunt Pierson herself.

Mrs. Ford sat quietly stitching away by the window, the children were well disposed of, and the Doctor was coming in to tea. She was thinking of that room three years ago, and its disheartened, downcast occupant.

"Morgan already? why he's very early." And Marie, in her becoming home dress and somewhat ostentatious nursery apron, flew out on the landing to meet him. Mrs. Ford heard the cheerful welcome, the wifely kiss, and watched them coming in at the door-Marie's waist encircled by her husband's arm, and her face bright with health and happiness.

"You have no idea how much good it does me to see you and Morgan together," she said, as she sat watching Marie's motherly preparations for undressing and putting to sleep the rosy dimpled baby, when Mr. Ash had quieted her wants and carried the household treasure down stairs to see its Aunt Harriet.

Marie turned from the little night-clothes

with an affectionate glance. "It ought to make you happy; it's so much your own work; and the comfort I have in Harriet too. You have no idea how devoted she is to baby, and myself, for that matter; and this is the third time she has been in since Aunt Pierson arrived."

"I can tell you something more wonderful than that; she has invited Sophie for Christmas!"

"And all their children?" Even Marie looked aghast.

"Not quite all, the two youngest; and there is to be a grand dinner in honor of Aunt Pierson-our children and your baby included. Now if that isn't a change?"

"Who would have believed it? But then I did not understand or appreciate Harriet in those days."

66

We all alter," said Mrs. Ford, laconically. "See how she and Aunt Pierson have been chatting there ever since I was called to baby; and she did not seem to mind in the least when you said you would come up too. Do you think baby has really improved so much?"

"Oh, wonderfully! but then she never was very delicate, and she has such famous nursing. Harriet was saying only yesterday that you made a most admirable mother. She told Grace Logan so."

"Did she?"-and Marie's face flushed a little, for she was as keenly sensitive to praise or blame as in the olden time, particularly from Mrs. Lockwood. "But then who could help being devoted to baby? she is such a little darling."

Both were silent for a time, Mrs. Ford over her needle, Marie looking dreamily into the cheerful fire, and then she rose and went to the rosewood desk, her depository of treasures.

"Yes, she's a little darling! But oh, Mrs. Ford, not quite like my own first baby yet," and she drew out the picture of the sleeping child tenderly. "No child will ever take the place of my little Peace."

And when Marie knelt down and laid it on her friend's lap, in the clear wintry twilight, Mrs. Ford felt that the name was fitly chosen, from the placid face and the child's heavenly mission.

EXPERIENCE keeps a dear school; but fools will learn in no other, and scarce in that; for it is true, we may give advice, but we cannot give conduct. However, they that will not be counselled, cannot be helped, and if you will not hear reason, she will surely rap your knuckles.

UNDER THE SEA.

BY LLOYD WYMAN.

THE bold sun splintered his golden lance
In the cause of the beautiful Day,
On the starry shield of the conqueror Night,
Who closed in the fiery fray,

And stained the vest of the shrinking west
With a plash of crimson spray.

But the blood of the day soon paled away
In the gleams of dying light,

And the violet flower of twilight bloomed
On the highest heavenly height,
And silence fell! and over the earth
Is the calm of a cloudless night.

The white moon hangs in the purple east
Above the slumb'rous sea,

And a path of shivering silver runs
From under the moon to me;
Like a sleeper's breast in quiet rest
The sea breathes tranquilly.

A murmurous cry like a smothered wail
Steals up through the moonlight dim;
Is it the crash of the crystal waves
Which roll to the ocean's brim?
Or the broken notes of a song that floats
From the banded cherubim ?

A year and a day agone I climbed

The headland's pinnacled spire,
And thrust my eyes through the blinding muik
In the pain of my wild desire;

And the midnight sky so bleak and high
Was riven with shafts of fire!

A storm bowled out from the black nor'west,
With flame and crashing hail;

And the demon winds leap over the floods,
And split the tortured sail

Of a goodly ship that was blown athwart
The brow of the bursting gale.

And the horrible winds rushed through the sky,
Nor moon nor stars were there,

But the shattered peaks of the struggling waves
Were lit with the ghastly glare

Of phosphor flames and lightning jets
That clove the moonless air.

The ship was caught in the sea's great arms,
Aud crashed at a single twine;

A swift form sprang to the swaying rail
And waved to me as a sign;

The ship went down, and the hope of my life
Was drowned in the boiling brine!

O low sea muttering to the shore!
I list to your horrid tale;
From the iron keep of the deathful deep
Comes up that murmurous wail;

A year and a day has passed away
Since you caught your captive pale!
My heart is stabb'd with a sudden pang,
Alas, and alas for me!

As the mist creeps up from the sea, my cry
Rises, oh God, to thee!

Pity, oh pity, and break the chains
Of him in the cells of the sea!

C

THEY were English people, the Evelyns; they had lived in our village many years, much respected, though a little reserved. Old Mr. Evelyn had been in the British civil service in India, and was reputed to have a nice little property. He had come to this country, and, taking a fancy to a cottage in the English style, situated in a retired part of the village, he had bought it and settled down quite contentedly among us, with his wife, a widowed daughter, and her child.

The family attended service at the Episcopal church, but Mr. Evelyn never made his appearance there. One of his inquisitive neighbors took the liberty to ask him the reason for so singular an omission; and Mr. Evelyn, with a most serious air, assured him that he could not possibly go to church in the village, on account of certain conscientious scruples which he felt at the omission of the prayers for Queen Victoria and the royal family in our church service. His interrogator seemed perfectly satisfied with the answer; but, considering himself quizzed, he spread a report about that old Mr. Evelyn was an infidel, and this imputation stuck to him till his death, which occurred not long after.

Soon after this event the widowed daughter, Mrs. Marston, sent to England for her little nephew, Godfrey Marston, who had been suddenly left an orphan, to come and live with her. He was about twelve years old, two years older than Lizzie Marston, the widow's little daughter.

It was beautiful to see these two little English children playing about the green lanes and shady groves of the village; they were always so neatly dressed, so blooming, so lively and full of vigorous health. The boy was a fine, manly little fellow, with light hair, blue eyes, and a fair complexion; and the girl had dark hazel eyes, a profusion of auburn hair, rosy cheeks, and the whitest complexion in the world. They fraternized readily enough with the children of the village, and their good natere made them immensely popular.

At home in the cottage it was not very lively. Old Mrs. Evelyn was stately and formal, wore a high cap, of old-fashioned, elaborate cut, a rich damask silk gown, large, highly-worked ruffled sleeves, and silk mits. She sat in a highbacked, old-fashioned arm-chair, bolt upright; and, as her failing eyesight did not permit her to work, her principal employment was thinking and talking of old times in England and in

India, which somehow did not greatly interest the children.

Mrs. Marston was often ill; but she was most kind and affectionate to the children, and endeavored to render their lives as happy as possible. Their school instruction was carefully attended to, and they were rapidly improving.

One of the greatest treats the children enjoyed was to go into their grandmother's chamber, and take a look at the curious things the old lady had collected there. The furniture itself was a curiosity, being old-fashioned, darkcolored, and richly carved. The books in the book-case were old, richly bound, and many of them in the Oriental languages, with which Mr. Evelyn had been acquainted. But what pleased the children most was the multitude of beautiful shells, brought from the Indian Ocean, which decorated the what-not and mantel-piece, interspersed with grotesque images of Hindoo gods and goddesses, cut in marble, and soap-stone, and other stones of which they did not know the names. Grandmamma, it is true, was not very communicative. She knew little and cared less about the shells, which had been collected by her husband; and the idols she abominated, although she did not like to throw them away, because they had belonged to her husband. So the children had to content themselves with admiring the beauty of the curiosities, without learning their history.

One day, seeing the door of this mysterious apartment ajar, they crept in and surprised grandmamma at her little old ebony desk, which she had just opened. She had in her hand a small, curiously carved ivory box, yellow with age, and not bigger than a pigeon's egg. Carried away with the impulse of curiosity, little Lizzie shouted: "Oh, grandmamma! do let us look at that queer little box! It is so odd. I never saw anything like it."

Instead of complying with this request, Mrs. Evelyn seemed a good deal disconcerted at the intrusion of the children into the room; put the box into the desk, locked it, and, turning round in her chair, said, gravely: "Little children should not be too curious; and they should not come into grandmamma's room without being invited."

Godfrey and Lizzie retired, greatly abashed. From that time forward, they were in a great taking to know what was in that queer little box, and why it was so hurriedly put out of