pect to find everything in life exactly to your mind. As a housekeeper you will probably find a disagreeable mingling of perplexities and pleasures, or are you relieved from family cares by a fashionable term of boarding?"

"No; we went directly to Mr. Frazier's home. As he requested us to keep all the old servants I have escaped many trials incident to new housekeepers. They know how the domestic affairs had been managed in the past; we did not wish to make it unpleasant or disagreeable by the introduction of any important change."

Mrs. Fletcher's face expressed bewilderment, as she dreamily inquired:

"You at Mr. Frazier's home?"

"Yes-you have heard of his death?"

"Death! Is Ralph Frazier dead?"

"Yes. He was Henry's uncle, and died last week. I see I have a story to which you cannot afford to listen this evening." "I cannot afford to wait. Tell me how Henry Flint happened to be the nephew of the wealthy banker."

"Because he was the child of his only sister, whose youthful indiscretion her exasperated father and brother would never pardon. She was driven from her home and found an abode with a distant relative in the country. After this the elder Frazier lived only one or two years, and died without a spoken word of forgiveOne of his last acts disinherited a repentant child,

-"whom the God of heaven and earth

Was not ashamed to call His own?'

"By this violation of right the brother became sole heir to the father's possessions.

"For sixteen weary years the sister lived in seclusion, then she was laid in a small country churchyard, leagues away from the tomb of her family where the rest of her kindred mingle together

in the bosom of a common grave. It makes no difference, yet it is sad to think of the suffering entailed by one wrong act, at last leaving the offender in an obscure grave. I hope that Henry's mother will be placed ere long by the side of her mother, in the shadow of the Frazier monument. From the grave of his mother Henry went forth to battle with the world, fully acquainted with her past life and the unforgiven fault which had separated her from her friends.

"Three years later he came to Lewiston. Here the uncle and nephew met face to face. Each recognized familiar looks in the other. As Henry saw the banker enter his stately home and read the name of Frazier on the door, he knew it was his mother's brother, his only living relative. He lingered one brief moment, looking at the door through which the worldly man had entered, then turned away with higher purposes and firmer resolves.

"Before he had crossed to the next street, Mr. Frazier had followed at a safe distance, never losing sight of him till he saw him enter a boarding-house owned by the company for which Henry has always worked. At an early hour the following day Mr. Frazier visited the company's office and found registered on their books the name of Henry L. Flint.

"As I thought,' he murmured, 'no other face could look so nearly as Martha's looked years, years ago. Does the boy know his own history? Will he dare breathe it here? Why is this new vexation added to my overburdened heart? Why did this child outlive the mother, his very existence perpetuating and branding deeper the stain her folly had stamped on our name?'

"He did not know Henry or understand the varied feelings that sealed his lips for six consecutive years, till the proud relative saw the handwriting on the wall.

66

"Do you know me?' he asked, as Henry stood by his bed, in answer to a summons from the dying man.

"You are my mother's brother. I have known you long, but chose that you should first speak of this family connection.'

"They remained together many hours, and, ere the close of another day, half of the Frazier wealth had been transferred to Henry. He, in turn, had bound himself to guard well the remaining half for the only child of Mr. Frazier-the little Ralph whom your courage rescued from an untimely end. He is a beautiful child and we already love him tenderly. You see, we

have all something by which to remember you."

"I regret," replied Annie, "that one whom I have reason to respect could be so cold and unforgiving to his kindred, yet I am glad for you, Celia, glad that Henry at last received his own with usury."

"Thank you; yet why can't you seem to know how much you have done for Ralph and myself, and by benefitting us, for Henry? We know it, and would gladly acknowledge it by some tangible proof, if you had not thwarted such a wish by placing yourself beyond the need of pecuniary aid.”

"You may do for some needy and deserving person all that you thought to do for me."

Here the friends separated.

"Only a woman, yet bearing away laurels a man might well covet," whispered Mr. Fletcher, who had, unnoticed, heard the conversation between the ladies.

"See by this what any woman can do,” replied the new wife with a roguish look. "The fault is not that woman cannot-but that she does not-know what she can do and be."

CHAPTER XXIV.

More than we hoped in that dark time,
When, faint with watching, few and worn,
We saw no welcome day-star shine,
The cold, grey pathway to the morn!

Oh, loved of thousands! to thy grave,
Sorrowing of heart, thy brethren bore thee,

The poor man and the rescued slave

Wept as the broken earth closed o'er thee.

THE din of battle and its wild confusion rolled on while the wail of its many horrors came to us from the field of strife and the desolate home.

Onward! onward! with a dauntless, determined leader, marched the Army of the Potomac, with devastating strength, till it neared the last stronghold of the great rebellion. Yet a nation's heart sometimes trembled in uncertainty. Its people had often listened for the shout of conquest, and, instead, heard the dull tramp of our retreating army before a victorious force. Others had stood on the threshold of success, gazed on the glittering prize, yet loitered till the usurper had strengthened his posts and the golden moment had passed.

"Oh, these sickening details of blood and carnage," remarked

Mrs. Fletcher, laying down a journal she had been reading. "When shall this terrible war end? Shall peace never again spread her broad wings over our sorrowing land?"

"You surprise me," replied her husband. "Through all the past you have been confident, looking beyond the disasters that brought pallor to the strong man's cheek and ploughed more deeply the furrows in his brow. Will you become discouraged now, when all other hearts are hopeful? Will you give up while Grant, with his sleepless thousands, watches at the very gates of Richmond?"

"You mistake," replied the wife, her flashing eye betraying the depths of her feeling, "I was only indulging in a momentary impatience growing sad over the misery created by this fratricidal war. There have already been millions of treasure destroyed, hosts of brave men have fallen in battle, starved in noisome prisons, or died from disease induced by hardship and exposure. There are lonely homes on every hand, families left to struggle with want, or, it may be, die of actual need. Give up, did you say? No, Wallace, I would not give up. Sooner let the mighty waves of the Pacific overleap their bounds and mingle with the lesser waters of the Atlantic than listen to the clank of slavery's chains sounding from our hilltops and burdening the free air of our Northern homes. But do you know, the end is not yet. Even the fall of Richmond may not terminate our disasters and troubles. We have suffered, and should have learned wisdom, but have we?"

"One hard thing at a time," replied Wallace. "We have been, in a measure, successful. If other difficulties arise, as those with which we are now contending disappear, may we not reasonably suppose there will be a way provided for us to pass through the Red Sea? You are unnecessarily anxious."

Here the noisy Charlie came shouting through the hall.

"Papa," he said, his bright eyes dilating with a joy he could not understand or define, "only think-somebody, I forgot who, has