menial less" distinguished than a groom of the chambers of a major domo, was per mitted to appear in its truly select and exclusive pages. The action took place in May fair, in Belgravia, and in the ancestral halls of dukes and earls. Manchester was alluded to by the refined author much as if it had been of about equal importance ■with Tirabuctoo ; the whole a tawdry tin sel pasted together in a very poor second rate manner. Mylos read on, and Edmund listened. Perhaps he was aware that the story was rubbish, but it took him into a world which by contrast with his own was beautiful; it spoke of something else than the Townfield as a pleasure grouud, grey factories, smoke; and .chimnies by-way of prospect. It pointed out another sort lof existence than that led by Mm and his.' '■■ ' ■••'-' '<■"■> ' Edmund hud an intensely poetic tempera ment. ' Poetry of some sort, in real life, or in books, he must have or die,: It was not forthcoming in real life ; Myles never read novels for his own pleasure,. therefore Edmund'liad no beneficent hand to point td:hini the: shining treasures of real poetry •with which our' English literature abounds ; so he.had to rely on'the titles in the cata logue of the Thanshope Free Library, and often'received a stone instead of bread, in ,the shape of such jingling 'nonsense as he Was greedily listening to just now._ •< ; ■ Myles was' a great; reader 'of politics arid science^ The romantic and.poeticiside of liis nature liad been left to itself : the soil, whether sterile or fruitful, had never -received the least touch of cultivation-^yet. He had some strong convictioas on the sub ject of ethics, which will be best left undescribed, to display their results -, in, his actions as circumstances put his theories to the test.' :'.■ . : '.'.: '..;';';,•,' ' ' ' ;'.. There was something striking and uncom >mon.in all. three, of this group of brothers -and sister. Mary was comely7-a tall,; well formed, well-grown young woman, with the :pale but clear and healthy' complexion, aarkeyes and hair, of her elder brother—a . calm, sensible face, not destitute of a. certain- still, regular -/beauty, but lacking the impetuousness and intensity of Myles's 'expression, She sa t knitting a long grey stocking, and looked with a large, • steady gaze/ now at Myles, now'at Edmund, 'whose ■face" was equally sharp cut as his ■■Mother's but worn aud drawn with pain and iil-health. Edmund :was nineteen; Mary 'twO-and twenty ; Myles six-aud-tweuty; .another, •between them, had died an infant. ■ •'> l:'At this juncture the back door was heard to open. Someone entered, and in :the / pause : made by Myles in his reading there was distinctly audible a heavy sigh—almost a groan.1 Glances were exchanged between ■■.Myles and Mary; .both, looked: as if they braced ~thems.elves to meet. some ordeal. ' Edmund's face darkened visibly. • : . "Is that you, mother?" called out Mary, -: ■. . :,,.'■' wVt " Ay, it's me!" replied a rather grating voice—a soiccJiighj-though .not loud, and complaining in the midst of ail ostentatious resignation.- : ''>'■;*■'■':' •> "Go on, Myles!'-' said- ildmund, in an undertone. , _ ." Can't, my lad. You know mother can't abide it."1 "Why am I never to have a bito' : pleasure ? It's precious little as I get," ' grumbled ihe lad, as he turned away and lay with his face concealed; " See, lad ! Tak' the book, and read for ' thysel'," said Myles, who'indulged in a - tolerably broad dialect when in the bosom of his family. ■ Edmund shrugged his shoulders irritably and made a-gesture of aversion.- Myles closed the book, rising from the side of the couch and going to the table, as a woman came.in. from the back kitchen—a small, sharp-featured woman, comely, yet with a bright cheek and a dark eye. She was the mother of all those tall children,' though she was'only. fiye-and-forty, haying been niar ' ried,; as too Many of her class dqjmarry, at eighteen~~lhc.great.wonder.was that she had remained a widow so long, for in ad • diiidn i» good looks, clever fingers' and a ' stirring; disposition, she possessed property 'to the extent of thirty pounds per annum, :- left'by-aTich relation toher years ago;; An "' ignorant observer,, looking at the family • party jtist* now, would have said what a ' good-looking, prosperous, ■ well-to-do party •they were. But Mrs. Hey wood had; scarcely : sfinken vet. "',''.'." '■./'.' ,tj Evening mother," said her eldest son, • civilly,• but, •'it' must be - owned, -. hardly ■cordially.' ;: ■• ' - i: ' :'' "/'" ■■•'• -"Good evenin'," she returned, in her high-pitched, dubious voice. "What, you've managed to get th' tea ready, lass ? ■ But I know what that means. Just 'twice . as-muchteain the pot as we've any need for, or as I should- ha' put in mysel', ■ Waste, waste, on every Bide!": •': --• "; ..' As this was Mrs. Heywood's invariable . remark when she came in from her occa sional day's, sewing at one of the large . houses in the neighbourhood and found the , tea-prepared, it excited neither.comment '. nor indignation, and the excellent woman, ■ seating herself, cast a sharp, discontented look around, as if wishing that someone • would give her an opportunity of saying . ■ something disagreeable. .i ?• Eh, bi' the mass ? It is some and hot! .If some folks had to walk as far as me, - mayhap they'd understand what I feel at .. this moment." ■ . .' •■ : Again no answer.. Myles was-buttering a piece of bread. His eyebrows were con ■ tracted again. The serpent in that Eden was the contentious woman. Myles never . answered her complaints, on principle, for fear of saying something outrageous and unbecoming, but it was often with a sore --struggle; that-he abstained ;he did not want to become a household bully, for he knew— he had found it out. by accident one day —that a 'certain look and tone of Ms could quell Airs. Heywood's temper in one minute. He swas very much afraid of using it too frequently, though often sorely provoked, "Such people as Sebastian Mallory," he reflected (whose mother was said to live for him and his happiness), "were not obliged to'stay-in'one room, listening to maddening complaints,.like the. continual dropping of a rainyyday, with no.alternative but soli; tude, silence, or the taproom. "*" Edmund's shoulders were drawn up to his ears, and his back expressed distinctly ' that he felt, himself, jarred, and grated in every fibre of .his being. , . ; " Now theiij Edmund," said Ids motherj M!her thin/penetrating voice ; "art comin' to the table,'or imp thou have thy tea carried..tolthee,. to drink on th' sofa, like a lady, eh ?" .. . , . ] Answering to this appeal, he raised him self, his face darkened, his lips quivering with anger. ' ■'-■ " That's right,' he said, bitterly. "Do insult me a little more. It's so nice :t6 be ill, and so pleasant to spend your day by yourself on a sofa in a kitchen, I'm likely .;: tokeep it up: as long as ever I can.1 So would you if once you knew how agreeable .; it was." - , !•.-.! v-i . ; '•' jj '■*•■' 'il I He had supported himself by means of a ~;stick.to the table, and as he limped along ;'.,to,the chair which Mary had placed for him one could see how much' deformed' he was, and how clumsily he moved. No look: of ~pi^r"warmea''the woinaiTs faceas shesaw •him. -Hewaa not • like many:a weakly: or deformed child, the object of the mother's ' divinest love.and tenderest;care._' He had been born tiree .inpntha.', after .his father'fl

sudden death. Mrs. Heywbod had never been noted for enthusiastic devotion to any of her children, "or to~her husband, or, indeed, to anyone but herself and her own interest. Myles could influence her; but she seemed.to have a positive aversion to Edmund, who used to say that his real, mother was Mary. ■• -.;. ; ■ i When the meal was over there was a little movement. Edmund looked wistfully towards Myles and the book. ; "but Myles did not offer to resume. He had begun to think over that conversation in the office before pay time,.' and was wondering, -if.it COuld bereally true that Sebastian' Mallory meant to retnm.' " - . ;* '~!.',,. i Sebastian Mallory was, and had been for years, his btic'nbvre; He had seen him once' ten years agq,, a handsome,"fair-faced, ?' yellow-haired laddie!! ofjsixteen, who had come to look round his own works, with a somewhat listless gaze. 'Myles's vigorous soul had been filled for him with contempt at that moment, and: he' had never seen tit to alter! that feeling. . All '. lie.' heard ,of Sebastian Mallory was exactly contrary to his ideas'of what iv 7««rt^-unlcss;the man weresome irresponsible be'reon; with neither busiu'essnorestate in theba'ckground—ought to be and do. He had aVi ry strong sense of duty himself, and' never, 'so far.'as he knew, left a duty unperformed., He struggled hard; according to his Ught. to do what was right j: consequently he felt him self in a position to be somewhat censorious upon those who, lie considered, obviously did not fulfil their- duties—duties toj their - property, their dependents,- their privileges, to him—such persons as this very Sebastian .Mallory. Therefore hei smiled somewhat grimly to himself as he imagined tliat lily- Banded, • yellow-haired, -delicatojlobking 'young man coming to take his.place at the head of affairs at such .a crisis as Syas . striding towards Lancashire —a storm which .it would take ;tlie keenest.,_heads, the strongest hands, .the most practised eyes of .the wariest ''business -pen who should • succeed in weathering, it.' TroDably'Mr. Sebastian Mallory, if he did. ■ come,.would cut a sorry spectacle, and would soon \>c glad to retire again to' more cougenial scenes abroad.., , -■■,■'■. , .'■■ ■ ■■-,[ :He did: not feel> it his duty.: to excite 1 Mrs. Heywood'a disagreeable remarks by reailing aloud >yhat,£e justly considered " balderdash'. >Itd; Edmund'; ;he' therefore • suggested that they should go and take a '. turnoh;the Townfieldv ;!."' ; ';.,•• ';';:'"

Edmund, .Syhb for some reason was inr: a more unhappy .temper than usual, said he did hotfeel.inclined to go out ''~.' „.. . .."No?; Then I must, go out.by myself, I Suppose,", said' Myles. ■■'■■< > --'' - i >i-"i « But he made no immediateI'effort'to leave the house..; He seated, himself at;,'the table with ia: book, and • might> possibly haye remained in the hbusfe' but foT- Ms mother, who, having ascertained that tliia'book; was entitled "The '.llistory of .KationaHsm, announced thatxthe bitterest grief..of her declining years'corißisted in having to see a spnoflhers growing 'aj aninli'dtel, or Syofse. She - hunted 'under. the' family Bible, and E reduced a tract,'which she ottered him.: in eu of the work he was reading. It bore the alluring title, "Thou also, Worm 1" -And on his refusing this titbit of religious badinage, she put it aside with a.bitter smile, and an audibly expressed hope,that it might not' in, the future go too hardly with those who had spurned the means of grj^ce proffered by-a mother's hand. ; t -- fi . Myles endured these and a succession of similar remarks for some little time, while he appeared to go on with his book without •heeding them;-but, as none knew better than she who-made them, the contracted i eyebroWs and the impatient twisting of his moustache covered .considerable inward irritation.- He aflast abruptly, rose, and took his capi off-the nail on which it hungj '.. " Out again," said Mrs. Hey.wood.in the same maddening voice ; "and if a,mother may ask, what pothouse are you going to now? ~ ".No thanks to.you, niother, that I've' not taken to the potlibuse long ago," replied' the .young man curtly, slapping his hat upon his head and leaving the room. ■ •.. .' • ." If' he doesn't break the door .of its hinges, some fine day in one; of his 'tempers, my name's not Sarah - Ann' Heywood, re- Tnarkedhiß.mother.' "It's a grievous thing to haye an ungbveniable temper.- His Bible, if he ever read it,' would tell him the tongue -is a little member; but'a consuming fire.' f " The Bible never, said a';'truer word, retorted Edmund, witheringly; and .Mrs. Heyvvood, returning to her-knitting with the pleasant-sense of haviiig driven Out the strongest, sank into silence....'. . ~,*>.!' '■ ' ■'■ ;■■■■■ (To be continued;) >-■'

Thomas Carlyle and the Lord's Prayer.

Thomas Cariaxe. ia a letter to the late Mr. Erskine, of LinlaQien, dated 12th: February, -1869, says: "I was agreeably surprised by the sight of your handwriting again, so kind, so '. -welcome I The letters are as firm and honestly distinct as eve»—the mind, too, in spite of its frail environments, as clear, plump-up, cahnly expectant, as in the best days; right so; so be it with us all, till we !quit' this dim sojourn, now grown so lonely to us, and-our change come! pOur Father which art in Heaven, Hallowed be Thy name. Thy will be done! i what else can we say ? The other night, in my rieepless tpssings about, which were growing more and more miserable, these words, that brief and grand Prayer, came strangely to. my'mind, with an altogether new emphasis; as if written ana shining for me in mild, pure splendour, on the black TJoeom of the night there: when I, as it were, read them word for.word—with a sudden check to my imperfect wanderings, with a sudden softness of composure .which was made unexpected. Not for perhaps thirty or forty years'had I once formally repeated that Prayer; nay, I never felt before how intensely the voice of man's soul it is; the inmost aspiration of all that is high and pious in poor human nature; rljfht worfliy to be recommended with an 'After this manner pray ye.'" ■ -.'■ . ■ , : • ;

Marriage of Hindu Widow.

There is great excitement among the Bhotias, a rich and important Hindu section of western India, owing to the occurrence of the flrstwidow marriage in their caste; The lady is 27 years old. and has been a widow since the age of. 10. She and her husband; who are both Bhotias, became acquainted in the native State of Kutch, the head-quarters of the caste, and, knowing their marriage to bo impossible there, they eloped to Bombay, where the Bhotias are.also very strong, and where the ceremony -was cele brated under the- auspices of the Widows Re marriage Association. A small band o,f native reformers thoroughlyapprbve the marriage, but a feelingof strong indignation has arisen among a great majority of the caste., The only Bhotia who attended the marriage, haa.been.excom municated, and the lady's relatives are-attempt ing to. have the bride and bridegroom arrested and sent to Kutch, where ,they propose dealing with them for an offence against the caste rules.

Hindus Adopting Christianity.

The followers of Keshub :Chunder Sen'have made another step In advance. On Snnday; the 6th of March, the Sacrament was administered In the spirit of the early Church, though in a form differing from that adopted in Europe. The Hindu Apostles of Christ, as they call themselves, gathered after prayer in the dinner hall, and sat upon the floor on the bare ground. Kice was brought in on a silver plate, and water in a goblet. The minister then read the words from Luke xxii., "And he took the bread land gave thanks," &c. A prayer was then offered asking a blessing on the saoramental rice and water: " Touch this rice and this water; O'Holy Spirit, and turn their gross material substance into sanctifying spiritual forces, that they may upon entering our system be assimilated to it as the flesh and blood of all the saints in-Christ Jesus. Satisfy the hunger, and thirst of our souls with the rice, food, and drink Thou hast placed before us. Invigorate us with Christ forces, and nourish us with saintly life." After the rice and water had been blessed they were served in small quantities to those present. Men late arid drank -reverently, sa. dffl. the women and children, and they blest sd God, tlio God of prophet andeaints,;^. -•■:-/Vw ,

BACK TO REASON.

A DOCTORS STORY.

I am a doctor, a busy, professional man, whose time is money ; whenever, therefore, I can save it, I do. Many and many a night have I passed in the train counting the hours thus gained as a miser docs his gold. Upon this point, unfor tunately, my little wife and I do not agree, and it is, I think, the only point upon which we do not. Eight hours in a comfortless railway coin : partment, rolled up in your plaid like a snake In a blanket, instead of in your comfortable Sheets, stretched over a comfortable spring mat tress—no, she cannot be made to see the pro priety of the exchange, nor will she believe that I sleep quite as well, if not disturbed, in the plaid as In the sheets. ' ... ■ • i The train was just off as I sprang in, and the shock of.the start landod.me in my seat. Being of a slow, placid nature, I was in no hurry to recover from the shock, and we were fairly off. speeding away as only an English express can speed* before I looked ronnd. , I had not the carriage to myself, as lat first supposed; a lady occupied the farther end, and at the first glance, spite of the dim light and the fact of her veil being downi I.saw that her eyes, unnaturally large and intense in their expression, were fixqd upon me. lat all times prefer a carnage to niygelf, and if a companion I must have, let it be a gentleman, not a lady; but there was no Jiclp for it-r the lady was. there, and, moreover, Bhe was looking at me. "So she may,' I said to myself; "* that shall.not prevent me making my self as comfortable as circumstances will allow^ Slowly and deliberately, therefore, I removed my hat, substituting for it a cloth cap, which I drew well down over my ears; then I folded my arms and composed myself to sleep. But in vain: the eyes of my .fellow, passenger haunted mo ; I saw them as distinctly as if my own were open. Was she watching me still? In voluntarily I looked up and around, and my look met hers, full, burning, intense, with far ■more of meaning in it than I could fathom. It was getting decidedly unpleasant, and I was growing decidedly uncomfortablo; try R8 I might, I could not keep my eyes closed; hers !were on me, and meet them I must. ■,-- \ • < ; In her attitude, too, as well as in her .look, there was1 something strange and mystenous. Huddled up in the corner, she seemed to bo holding something close pressed. to her beneath ,thelong loose mourning cape, bending low over it in a crouching posture. Once or twice, h6r eyes 'still' fixed upon mine, I saw her shiver; but for that slight convulsive movement she sat ■ perfectly still and motionless. ... ■ • ■!■■,. , Was she cold 1 1 offered her my plaid, glad of an opportunity to break the ominous silence. If ■ Bhe would but speak, make some common-place remark, the spell might be broken. . . : "I am not cold." ~.;,.. ■ ■•„ A commonplace remark enough, out the spell ; was not broken. The mystery that lay in her eyes lay also in her voice. • > ■ ■~ What, should I try next? I looked, at,. my watch—ll.3o; our train speeding on at aiunous rate, no chance of a stoppage for some time to come, and the full wide-open gaze-of my motionless companion not for one moment re moved from my face. . It was unpleasant, cer-. "taihly. If I .changed my position, faced tho, 1 wioaow 'instead of her, she must reniovo her eyes from my fueo at last.' But there was a sort of fascination about !her, and her look wlucn I preferred meeting to shirking, knowing it was on me all the time. ','';*. There was nothing for it then but to' give up all hope of sleep, and moke the best of my posi tion and. companion, whqm I now observed ' more closely.- That she was a lady there could ■be littledoubt; there was that in her dress and appearance that was unmistakable. : That she was pretty, there could be little doubt either; those great dark, intensely eyes, the thick coils of warm burnished hair, the small palo features, seen dimly beneath the veil; yes, she was young, pretty, a lady, and in trouble. So far I got, but no further. How came she to be travell ing alohe'at that time of night, and with that i-look on,her face? What could it be that she was holding pressed so closely to her, and yet so carefully kept out of sight 1 From the size and uncertain outline, I should have guessed it to be a child; but then thero was not the faintest motion, nor could she have held even a sleeping infant long in that position. I think something of curiosity must have been betrayed' in my look, for her own darkened and deopened into a perfect agony of doubt and fear. , Ashamed, Iwithdrevr my gaze at once, and drawing out my note-book, was about to make a memorandum, when, with a sudden forward movement she fell at my feet, arresting my hand by the agonized grasp of her own, its burning contact sending through me a painful thrill. ' .!.■•■• '»■ i

; .:: "Don't betray mo! • Don't give me up to him I Oh, don't! lam so frightened 1" It was but a whisper, breathed out rather than spoken, yet it shuddered through me like aery. •-... - •. :• . ■-■~-- --"I cannot always hide it! I cannot always bear It about with mo; it breaks my heart, and :—I am'so tired." " : •: And letting the hand which still held/pressed . closely to her, the mysterious burden that had so raised my curiosity drop heavily to her side, there lay at her feet and mine a little dead baby, a tiny creature evidently not many iwefeks , old. ~, i . ..- ■ , ..-■,■;. '.' hi ... TJhen the woman threw up her veil, and, with drawing her eyes for the first time from mine, ' clasped her hands before her, her figure thrown , slightly back,--and looked down upon it.. A pretty picture: the poor young mother, with her pale child's face and deep mourning dress 1 the wee baby, gleaminfr"so white in its death and baby rope against the heavy crape skirt on which.it lay—a pretty picture certainly fora railway carriage, and lighted by its dim mid night lamp. . . •• , 'TDeod I' 1 vras'my involuntary exclamation. ■ She stretched her clasped hands downward toward it with a despairing gesture, speaking • with low; wild, rapid utterance. . ''It. was not his look that killed it, but my ■ love. He hated it, my baby, my first-born; for ■ all the love I gave him, he hated it; and that ■ his look might not kill it, I held it in my arms so close/so close, till it was dead, oh, my baby, i mybabyt" •■ The outstretched hands had reached it now, •and raised it from the floor to the seat, folding it:around until the enclosing arms and the down-bent face hid it once more out of sight :. Was ever luckless traveller more awkwardly placed?—the dead child, the prostrate woman; the scene, a public railway carriage % the hour, midnight. I am of a blunt nature. Mrs Mer • ton often scolds me for my blunt, straightfor ward speeches; but then she has such a pretty way of beating about the bush, which it would be as absurd ft* me to imitate as it was for the ass to mimic the tricks of his masters lapdog. I must go straight to the point as soon as ever I see it I did so now. ■ "How come you to be travelling alone, and with a dead child r Are you going home V i The question seemed to rouse her once more .to a perfect frenzy of fear. She turned to me . as before, clinging to my hand with' small hot fingers, and the old heartbroken cry: .': "Don't betray me; don't give me up to him 1 I /His look would have killed my baby; it would kill me if I had to meet it. She is safe, for I killed her, and she is dead; and he hates me, and I have no home—no home!" I was in a perfect maze of doubt Could tho pretty soft young creature at my feet be indeed amurdoress? and could it be her husband of whom she seemed in such abject terror. My blood boiled; I felt ready to defend her against a dozen husbands; but how? It was midnight now; we could not be far from London; • the guard might be popping hia head in at any moment. I jumped to a sudden conclusion. .. .:...• ■ " Were you going to any friend in Lonaon l »■ "I know nobody in London." . . : !'The poor little thing is either mad or her husband; is a brute," was my mental' ex clamation : ■■ • ■ ■- " • • ■■ • "She won't betray me or—take baby from me r And once more the wee dead thing was lifted up into the arms that seemed almost too frail to hold it, and hidden away beneath the long mourning cape. • .. . I took her home. Mary received her with a broad look of amaze that made me smile, but that found no expression in wordß. When, taking her aside, I told her all I know, she wrung her hands in sheer sympathizing pity. "Murdered: her own baby—her first-born ! Oh,, how sad,how dreadful!" Andinvolun ii tardy-she;glanced toward the door.that.hid from us • our own little ones, safely cradled and •asleep.. Then she went back to our strange guest, who sat huddled up in my-own big easy chair, the dead baby still at her bosom, i' -.■• "I must get her to bed," Baid Mary, with a l quick determined nod; and she really- did: con . trive to do so by soft, tender, cooing words, and ■ solemn assurances of safety for herself and baby, whom she kissed and cried over, and considered as she might some living object of solicitude, much to tho little mother^ comfort. . . ■ ■ "Ana you won't betray me; and he:wont come and take her from me, or hurt us with, his angry look.! Oh,. dear, 'how nice it is to he down 1 lam so tired and baby is so cold; but I think I can sleep now a little and—forget I . She was half asleep already; the heavy hds had dropped together, the small pale face had dropped downward upon the little downy head : that Jay against her bosom. _ ■ ■' "Her husband must be sent for," I said reso lutely when we found ourselves once- more alone j and I glanced at an envelope I had taken from the stranger's pocket: <•,;.;'•■" ,

MRS.. IREMAYNE, '. .., i ■'.-.■ GranUey Lodge, Grantley.

: -Mary.stared at me aghast. -. ; ..-■■ -■-i , a ; "Her .husband, who hates her,. and would have killed her baby! Oh, John, you would not be bo "cruel I She seems so frightened of^ him, I poor litUe,thing! Yqu may be sure he is somo ' Horrid; wicked tyrant. And it he really...WUetl i

herbaby-^Oh, dear, howsaditis! ■ ha ever will become of her!"; ■■, ~.., •,. , "But, my dear, if she has a husband or friends we must restore nor to them. Why, she is little more than a child! If s very strange, very, and sad; but the mystery must be cleared and tho baby burled." :. ; Mary still pronounced mo cruel and unfeehng beyond anything she could have conceived. "Of course her husband is a madman, who will murder her as soon as he gets her into his hands. You know, John, that husbands are always murdering their wives." : •' Middle-aged wives, dear, or elderly, whose lives are heavily insured. I shall telegraph at once." ■ ■ ■ . -. " Then her death will be at your door, sir mind that!" and too indignant to waste upon me more words, away \yent Mary to take a la.it peep at our own sleeping babes, at the dead baby about which there was so much mystery, and ,the poor younc'mother whom she had doomed to a violent death.1 ■■■.:•■ ■ - . She was still bonding over her, and had called mo up to tho bedside to notice tho extraordinary length of the lashes, and the beauty of the face in repose, when we were startled by a knock at the front door.-,.'; ~"lt's tho husband. I know it is. Oh, John, don't betray her; don'tgjveher up; you would nt be so cruel.'' ::-.i.-.r :■: " Nonsense, child; watch, by her till I return. If she awakes, say nothing about—-" . "Her husband. As it,l should !" ' Our household having long since retired, long indeed before my return, I myself opened tho . The street lamp lighted dimly two figures; one tall, stout, and muffled. ' "Mr. Morton?" ' : 1 '•'"'.' ■ I answered in the affirmative. - • : , "You have kindly given shelter to a lady ?

"Just 8O."f ■ .|if - 'The speaker nodded to his companion, who touched his hat and vanished. ■ . , ~ V „ The other stranger had now entered the hall and grasped my hand. : . " Mr Ti'emayner,l asked, hesitatingly. • " Captain Trcrnayne. Howie she!" . • "Asleep under my wifo's care; sleeping as peacefully as a child.",, . ■~ ■ s "Thank God ISo young—at such an hour— ihsuchastate "■/•' ' : ~ . •', •I saw a long' shudder.runi through theitall • powerful frame. : i..;- ' j, ■■ ' ■ , "Andthe child?" he added after a pause, in a horror-stricken' whisper. "She had it with I hardly knew what to answer; but he had , thrown off his heavy ulster and travelling cap, and now stood before me as handsome and .pleasant and honost-lopking a young fellow as I over saw, and my heart warmed to him. Ho ! was no assassin or ruffian, or cowardly bully, whatever/ Mary might say. The shadow of a' great horror, that lay. in the blue mellow eyes ad been laid there by terror, not crime. .■; " The child is dead," I said softly; . ; " It died two days ago, died suddenly in con vulsions in her arms, and the shock turned her brain. She was doing so well, poor little thing, but afterwards sho grew delirious, and in nor ■ ravings she accused hersalf and me. I could do nothing; sho would not have mo near her, but beat me off with her hands, as she couldn t bear ; the sight of mo. And I was so fond of her, and she of me 1" Here tho man broke down. Ho walked to tho window, then turned and asked ' abruptly, " May I go to her T I thought of Mary and then hesitated. ■ " Sho is Bleeping so peacefully just now, and if she awoke suddenly and saw you—" "She shall not see me," he broke in eagerly. "I will be so quiet;"but I must see her. I nursed her through a long illness a-year ago, ■ : and she i would have none other near her but mo: and now—" '. „ . ...-J Under the heavy military moustache, I saw his lip quiver. He paused, then added, "I must go to herT not in command, but a yearning appeal, both in voice and eyes. " Will you wait here a minute ?, I will Bee ■whether she still sleeps." : She Btill slept the heavy peaceful sleep of a tired child, Mary keeping a .stern watch and guard over her. I beckoned her out of tho room. ---"Well?" with fretful; impatient eagerness. '• You have seen him I, :>Vhat is ho like ( Is he "Judge for yourself; he ia in the dining room. He says he must see her—he must como i "That he shan't, the cruel wretch; or it will be over my prostrate body!" tragically. "Well, go and tell him so." . . ■ "I will!" and away, nothing daunted; ■went Mary. I smiled. " She will no more resist the ' pleading of thoso blue handsome eyes than did her husband. He will win her over with a look." I was right; she soon returned, and n°"fte "will be very quiet, and slio need not see him. I thought it would be' better;" and this aPHe gcrossed the room as noiselessly as a . woman, stooped over the bod in silence, then sat down beside it. , Mary ;shaded the lamp so that the room was in twilight, and so we all threo sat down to wait. ■ .. . _ For more than an Jiour we waited • then Mary stole out. Captain Tremayne looked up as the door opened and closed: then, with a : quick sigh, laid the1 brown curly head down npon the pillow as close as possible to that of the poor young wife without touching it, and his hand moved up towards hers where it lay on the coverlet, But : without touching either for fear of awaking or disturbing her.. It was not until the first gray streaks of day light were struggling in through the window, : beside which I sat, that there was a slight stir; sue was awaking at last. _•,■ i"j>~,t "Hugh!" eho breathed—dreamily at first, : th i enurgently t) "Hughl" . SheTurnoAher face toward his whero it lay beside her. She was only partially awake as yet; her eyes were still closed; but the hand on the coverlet orcptupsoftiytowardhim.fluttered over his faoe, rested one moment caressingly on tho brawn curls, then, with-a long;contented sigh, her arm stole rqund his nock. " HifprSeiicehas saved her," was niy mental comment; " there is nothing now to fear;" and, UnaSued dand e"r^^d>ith the long sitting after the night's journey, I was not sorry to find the sitting-™omtri«ht with lamp and hrehgh , the kettle singing on the hob, breakfast as com ifortably laid outlor two as if the hour had been 9 instead of 6, and Mrs Merton as neat and fresh andSas if that midnight tragedy had been all a dream. Let caviliste sneer as they may, there is nothing for a man like a wife, if she be a good one. I myself mayhavo had my doubts on the subjecta-wives are but women after nil, and must therefore be trying at times, even the best of them. But I- certainly bad no doubts whatever as I stretched out my feet to the blaze, and resigned myself cheerfully to being petted Mrs Merton, when my creature comforts had aU.been duly attented to, aid not before. I told her how matters stood. S^d so'th^ot fond of each other, of ter all; and his being unkind to her, and her poor little baby wasonft a delusion. How dreadful! How delightful,Tmeanl Poor fellow! So young and handsome and nioel I felt so sorry for " He must have travelled down in the same me all about it. He had been summoned up to town on business, and leftJiomc yesterday morning. In tie evening the nurse left her, as sho thought, asleep, to fetch something from the kitchen. ■ " Have a gossip there, you mean. __,„ . "John," solemnly, "you don't like nurses; married man, and more over an M.D. A well-balanced mind must hate somebody or some class of bodies; and, aa a^dn^n^Z n! hwtu n, US>rcmaync-got S5 »& "thfUtfon^erfsfe 'gfe tokenatoket for London, Captain Tremayno have brought him; two came to the door. ■''It willbe all right now that he has found her and is'fond ofher; she will get quite well, anS he will only have to comfort her forthe loss ; °% P Pe O°my tpeWor the MS., and rise. My storF Ts done;ana, as it isjthe first so will it ■though, her uncle,'the d.uke, wasion&_ w-aiting But I slized my hat and gloves. Mary is. as I have said, the best of wives, if just a Uttleltry ing at timea. and her baby the most wonderful of aE created babies —but I have an appoint ment at 12 !—' f'Tinsley's Magazine.

In ancient days the precept 'was " Know thyself." In modern times it has been supplanted by the far more fashionable maxim, "Know thy neighbour, and everything about lnm. ■ -i

Lecturer—" Now let' any one gaze stead fastly on any object-say, for Instance, his wife s eye-and hell see himself looking so exceedingly small "-Strong-minded, woman (ujfrontrow) :"Hear3 hear! hear:! "—JPunc/u _._,.,;.■ _

LINES TO AUCKLAND, N.Z. (ORIGINAL.)

Hail city decked in youthful bloom By Waitemata's tide. Fair are the scenes and hills that loom Around thee far and wide. The massive structures that I see Where'er I cast mine eye Are promises of what shall bo Beneath thy Southern sky. The trees that now thy walks adorn A grateful shade shall bring. And with their perfume scent the morn Of ever-present spring. The hueß of health thy daughters weai* Are beautiful to see. And prove that climes of solar glare Are far remote from thee.

On charming sites among thy hilla Thy massive buildings stand, While round thee cool and sparkling rills Meander thro' the land.

Above thy slopes on quivering wing The,Bkylark carols free, And in thy graved the thrushes sing- Familiar minstrelsy. The furze perennial beauty shows On waste and rocky ledge, While in thy parks the oak tree grows Near scented hawthorn hedge.

Thy British pleasures, sports, and tastos > Beam everywhere around, And British strength to clear thy waste . i In time shall more abound. The hills detached amid thy plains, , Where circling walls entwine, ' .- Add beauty to thy green domains, : And charms to imx with thine. i A forecast of thy future pride, ' Thy commerce on these seas Rests on thy harbour's swelling tide, , And speaks in eyery breeze. . ..

The sturdy oak falls in the storm, . ■~ The sapling bends its head, ■ . But grows apace to stronger form, With branches farther Bpread. So may thy strength for ever gro \V, « Thy youthful vigour spring, And nobler pens thy actions show, Or bards thy praises sing. '. Hail Auckland 'neath thy Southern clinic By Antipodean sea, . J Thy greater strength shall grow with timo Wealth, people, unity!

THE DANGERS OF THE OCEAN.

Though dangers lurk on every hand, And shadow-like dog motion, Exceeding dangers of the land Are dangers of the ocean. For those who sail upon the sea Have far more to confound them— From fear they never can be free— There's danger all around them. Thoughtherearedangers everywhere That wait on every motion, 1 The greatest share have thoso who dare The dangers of the ocean.

"When landsmen calmly, safely sleep, Relieved from toil and trouble, Our seamen wide awake must keep, . And vigilance redouble. With lives precarious, fear o'ercast— In peril-haunted places- Next moment may turn out their last Death's staring in their faces. Though there are, &o.

The near ones, dear ones, left behind By those who man each vessel With dread and sore distress of mind Have constantly to wrestle. For those at soa they fondly yearn— Their tracks, in thought, they follow— For they may never more return: . The stateless sea may swallow. Though there are, &c.

THERE IS NO DEATH.

There is no death! The stars go down To rise upon some fairer shoro; And bright in heaven's jewelled crown Xhey shine for evermore. There is no death'! The dust we tread • Shall change beneath the summer showers To golden grain or mellow fruit, Or rainbow-tinted flowers.

The granite rocks disorganize To feed the hungry moss they bear; The forest leaves drink daily lixe from out the viewless air. There is no death 1 The leaves may fall, The flowers may fade and pasa away; They only wait through wintry hours The coming of the May. There is no death! An angel form . Walks o'er the earth with silent tread; He bears our best-loved things away, And thon we call them " dead." He leaves our hearts all desolate, He plucks our fairest, sweetest flowera; Transplanted into bliss, they now Adorn immortal bovvers. : . • The bird-like voice, whose joyous tones Made glad these scenes of sin and strife, Sings now an everlasting song Amid tho tree of life.

And whore he sees a smile too bright, Or heart too pure for taint and vice, He bears it too that world of light To dwell in Paradise.

Born unto that undying life They leave us but to conio again: With joy we welcome thein-the same, Except in sin and pain. And ever near us, though unseen. The dear immortal spirits tread; For all the boundless universe Is life—there is no dead.

-Sir E. Bulwev Lytton,

EYEBROWS.

A Candid Young Woman's REVELATIONS

Concerning Them,

From the St. Louis Post-Diapatch. "Ttem—Two eyebrows, indifferent, badly put on" concluded a young lady, talking with true feminine charity of a fair Bister then going thCgh the"mazes of the Lancers on tho middle O£"\vhat°do you mean ?" said the reporter. "Why they are a misfit." , ■ ~ A long loot, a steady look, and a look alto eetherat he eyebrows in question did indeed fndtaate a something wrong about them, but what it was was not so evident. "Do youreaUy mean that they are false!" '•And'that the resources of civilszatlon have OTtTWtWn the reach of lovely woman the means Sf rircumventing nature when the good dame °s pSTonlSus fn the matter of eyebrow 1" JS??«fiWft«* "• arc they would understand it if you did nn f£e how it was done; the process fe called Sune?tes S'woSd generally wish to have more eyebrow than they can grow naturally. " Because it sets off the eye, and takes off that mMsmm Xd ho°ut e to Utne Sprope^elative place in the pre -2 she wants to look pretty.

A lawyer's client, being show into his^office, hodsiredto "keep expensea aown as nnicuas possible." ■;"_'.. . ;: .'• ; ■• t

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