rate, she betrayed no surprise or agitation at the question.

"I am sorry, but I cannot," she answered. "Why not?" he asked.

"I will tell you, John Lane, because I want you to understand me; I think few people do. I cannot marry you, because we could not be happy together. Our tastes, habits, desires, are entirely dissimilar. I have been reared here in the country among the pigs, and cows, and sheep. They are good company for one occasionally to mingle with, but they are very dull as life-long companions"—

link to connect her for a moment with the great, busy, bustling, outside world; and, giving her a glimpse of that world, leave her with new strength to take up her burden of life."

And so Hulda Hill passed out of my mind for the time. Five years later I went back there to spend another summer-this time alone. But what a change I found in the old farm-house! Hulda was still its mistress; the invalid mother had gone to her rest. Hulda met me with a smile, that showed she had not forgotten the previous visit. Instead of looking older than when I saw her last, she abso

"Wait; do not interrupt me," she continued. "I must acknowledge that I have sometimes felt what your great men have called 'longings after the unattainable,' have sometimes thought of a more intellectual life than this; but it is too late now; I am too old; have become too set in these dull, plodding, country ways, to ever make a change."

"But you would not marry David Love?" he said.

"No, I would not," she answered, slightly flushing at mention of her discarded lover. “No, I would not marry him, because I would not permit any man to share the long, dull, thank less, aimless life before me. If David Love had other views of life, it might be different. He is a farmer, and I would not have him change his calling, because I am a farmer's daughter myself; but I do think it hard that such a life must drag one down to such a hum-drum mode of existence. If David Love could see in his life anything to elevate and ennoble his character; if he would take hold of life and build it up to that plane upon which he might just as well stand as not; if-but I cannot express myself as I ought; you know what I mean, John Lane. I have enjoyed hearing you talk since you have been here; I have loved to hear of places I can never see-places that I have read about all my life; but my duty is here. I would be out of place in your grand home." Perhaps he was relieved; I do not know. I sometimes think he would not have asked her to marry him, had he not thought he was the cause of the other lover's being discarded. Perhaps but I cannot set down all the surmises that have arisen in my mind first and last over the matter. I did not hear the conversation that took place between her and John. He told me of it as we were being whirled away homeward.

"I tell you, Russell, I knew there was something more than common in that girl. I can never forget how I felt as I stood there and listened to her talk of her duty, and the hard, dull life she must lead; of her daily increasing round of hard work; of how her life might be brightened by a new book now and then-a magazine, a paper, anything that would be a

to the hard, bare sitting-room where visitors were formerly received, I was taken into the neat airy parlor. A bright carpet adorned the floor; pure white curtains shaded the windows, but did not exclude the light. Tasteful furniture was dispersed around the room in that manner which showed that it was intended for use, instead of ornament. The latest new books were upon the centre-table, in company with a half dozen of the standard periodicals and illustrated newspapers. Through the open window came floating in the perfume from a wilderness of flowers that bloomed in the yard; while Hulda herself, instead of being dressed in the old kitchen dress I remembered so well, was attired in some airy fabric, with a bright bit of ribbon and lace at her throat. She noted my look of inquiry, and said :

"Yes, the old life is changed. Mother died that fall after you were here, and father has become too old to manage the farm, and so he has given it up to my husband, and lives with us; you will see them both at noon."

"And your husband is"

"David Love," she answered, in the old quiet way of hers; and then, seeing the look of question upon my face again, added, "David got to understand me at last, and we were married two years ago." And then I understood why she had refused them both in that summer five years before.

LOVE, THE NIGHT IS COMING FAST.

BY AIDYL.

LOVE, the night is coming fast,
But a darker, drearier night
Cometh o'er my soul at last-

Not one star or ray of light,
Love, the night is coming fast.
Love, the shadows deeper grow,
But there cometh from our past
Tender dreams of long ago-

Tender dreams too sweet to lastNow the night is coming fast. Give me, love, your hand to hold, For I cannot see your face; Whisper names you used of oldAh, the night comes on apace, Farewell, love, my life's sweet grace.

Mary. You're very kind, Fraulein; but this is the drawing hour, and it's not to be intruded on with any of your German gibberish.

Fraulein. Do not be zaucy, Miss. German a fine, grand dongue. (Knock at the door.) Ellen. Come in! (Aside.) Here he is! Enter MR. D'ARCY. He bows to FRAULEIN and the young ladies, and seats himself to the latter.

D'Arcy. Show me, if you please, what you have done. (They show drawings.) This tower appears to be intended for the leaning tower at Pisa, Miss Masters.

Mary. I know, sir, it's crooked; but I've had it out four or five times, and it won't go straight.

D'Arcy. (Smiling.) I must request you to try again, but not rub it out. Do the whole drawing again.

Mary. Oh, now, what a shame! I'm so sick of the thing! That horrid old woman who's been getting water out of the well for this three weeks, and has not got a drop in her bucket yet! I shall never make that tower straight-never!

D'Arcy. Well, then, I suppose you must have a fresh subject. Yours, Miss Meredith, is excellent. You are making great progress. (Aside to her.) In my affections, beloved one!

Mary. (Aside.) He's whispering to her, I declare! Oh, these quiet girls! (Utters a sharp scream.)

Fraulein, D'Arcy, and Ellen. Good gracious! what's the matter?

Mary. Nothing. I pricked my finger. Fraulein. Vot a vulgar girl you are, to scream in so unloving a way!

Mary. I could not help it, Fraulein. You would scream if anything suddenly frightened you.

D'Arcy. I hope you are not too much hurt to draw. I should like you to sketch me a dove-cot from memory.

Mary. Yes, sir. And put two doves in it? D'Arcy. That is as you like. Now, Miss Meredith, please, I should like you to let me have your drawing repeated for the next lesson from memory. There is no better exercise ask Miss Burchall to allow the class to go out than that. I am going, at my next visit, to sketching.

All the young ladies. Oh, how nice! (D'ARCY FRAULEIN, who has just opened her work-box, looks at the several drawings and corrects them. drops it, and jumps up screaming. All rise, exclaiming:) What's the matter?

Mary. Dear me, Fraulein! how could you scream? What could have made you do so? Fraulein. A thing, a creature, a beast in my box! It must be some one to put him there. Mary. What sort of a beast, Fraulein, was it? ing to the ground.) Fraulein. Ah, there! there it goes! (Point

chairs, except MARY, who stands watching them (The young ladies all scream and jump on and striving to smother her laughter.)

D'Arcy. (Stooping, as if picking up something.) Is this the beast which has caused such terror? A harmless little frog. O Fraulein !

Fraulein. Some one has put him in my box, and I sall make gomplaind to Madame. I go at once. A beast in my box! It is shameful! [Exit.

Ellen. (Aside to MARY.) Did you do it? Mary. I'm afraid I did. She is such a horror! (Great bell rings.)

D'Arcy. I was late to-day. Ladies, I will not detain you; that is the dinner bell, I think. (All rise, collect their things, etc., whilst he whispers earnestly to ELLEN. MARY watches them.)

Mary. (Aside.) Oh, if I were to tell! But I won't. Poor Nell! (The girls go out, bowing to MR. D'ARCY, who is too much occupied to observe them. She goes on tiptoe behind them.) Boh! (Runs out, laughing. Both start and turn.)

Ellen. (Seeing they are all gone.) Oh Mr. D'Arcy, go! I beseech you, at once!

D'Arcy. I am going; farewell, dearest, till Saturday. In the mean while, think over my plan, and make me happy with consent.

[Kisses her hand, and exits nimbly.

(MISS BURCHALL, during this speech, has appeared at another door, and advancing slowly, puts her hand suddenly on ELLEN's shoulder, as the curtain falls.)

End of First Syllable.

SECOND SYLLABLE.

SCENE.—A breakfast room at MR. MASTERS'. MR. M. seated at a table, arranged for breakfast, with his paper. Young MR. ARTHUR STANLEY standing near him, with his hat and cane in his hand.

Mr. Masters. This accounts for the pleasure of so early a visit, then. Will my dear boy take a seat and let us talk it over? (MR. STANLEY seats himself.) You have known my daughter how long?

Stanley. A week, sir, a whole week!

Masters. You don't mean it! And in that time you have discovered that Mary possesses every virtue under the sun?

Stanley. I have not thought of or asked that. I only know that I love her, and would make her mine.

Masters. And that you offer her your heart and hand, and nothing to keep her with, eh? Stanley. Well, sir, 1 must, of course, work to obtain something; and trust, if you will give me time, to secure a home worthy of her, if there be such on earth?

Masters. Umph! you're young, sir, very young.

Stanley. Not very, sir. I am four-and-twenty. Masters. Well, well, never mind, young enough to have time to grow wiser, I hope. Now, tell me, you are at this moment a Fellow of your College, with every comfort under the sun, and about two or three hundred a year; and you would resign this for what? For the burden and anxiety of a wife and probable family. Twelve of them, I dare say, if you get a small situation under Government-squalling brats about your heels, instead of jolly undergraduates-a little poking room, littered with toys and woman's work, instead of the large, airy apartment, with its envious couches and handsome prize books. No wine parties; no cigars; no hunting and steeple-chasing; no combination-room. Claret cup exchanged for tea cup, comfort and luxury for discomfort and penury. Sir, I put all this before you, and if, in spite of all, you persist in marrying my daughter; I say-although, perhaps, I should be the last to say it-you're a confounded fool!

Stanley. I fear, sir, I must allow you to labor under that impression, for I am willing, most willing to resign my Fellowship-pleasant as it is-for the still greater happiness of calling your Mary my wife.

Masters. Very well, sir-very well; then I can have nothing more to say. If she likes to

Mary. (Who has stolen in behind her father, throwing her arms around his neck.) Everything but Arthur!

Masters. (Laughing.) Saucy jade! Take him, then; there he is! But mark my words: I prophesy that when you are living in your little-looking lodgings, you'll wish yourself back at Oatlands; and you'll wish you were a wise Fellow at Yale, instead of a silly one at Boston.

Both. We're willing to try!`` Stanley. And I defy your prophecy. Masters. Then, like Dundreary, I say, "Blees -blees you!" (They kneel comically, he puts his hands on their heads as the curtain falls.) End of Second Syllable.

THE WHOLE WORD.

SCENE.-A room in a suburban villa, prettily and tastily furnished, flowers on the table, etc., MRS. STANLEY working, and singing as she works, as the curtain rises.

Enter a MAID.

Maid. There is a lady down stairs, ma'am ; she says she wishes particularly to speak to you.

Mrs. Stanley. To me? What name?

Maid. She did not say any name, but begged to see you alone.

Mrs. S. Is she a poor woman or a lady? Maid. She looks like a poor lady, ma'am. Mrs. S. Who can it be? Well, show her up, Susan. (Erit SUSAN.) I wonder who it is.

Re-enter MAID, showing in MRS. D'ARCY, closely veiled. They bow. Exit MAID.

Mrs. S. May I ask whom I have the pleasure of addressing?

Mrs. D. (Raising her veil.) An old friend, Mary.

Mrs. S. (Rushing to her and kissing her.) Oh, my dear Nell, how d'ye do? Tears! Why, Nelly, what is it?

Mrs. D. O Mary, Mary, I am so wretched! Mrs. S. Sit down, dear, and tell me all about it, and how I can help you. (Drawing an easy chair and placing her in it.)

Mrs. D. I must go back a long way. You left Miss Burchall's before I did, you know? Mrs. S. Yes, dear; well

Mrs. D. Well, you said you knew what was going on before you left.

Mrs. S. With the drawing master? Yes, naughty Nelly!

of;

Mrs. D. Still more naughty than you know I ran away from school, and with him. Mrs. S. O Nell! how did you manage it? How elude the vigilance of Fraulein?

Mrs. D. We went on a sketching expedition with the English teacher; and he and I, on pretence of going to see some other view, started together, never to return. O Mary, deeply have I repented my folly! He has left me, and I am penniless and alone.

Mrs. S. Poor, dear Nelly! (Rising and going to her.) How can I help you?

Mrs. D. I hardly know; help me if possible to help myself.

Mrs. S. Well-now, you know I'm married too, and I've got, oh, such a husband-so wise and so good, and he'll be home by and by, and he is sure to think of some wise plan or other; so, now, darling, let me take off these things, and we'll go and have some lunch, and be quite cosey till he comes. Where are you living?

Mrs. D. I had a lodging at Hoxton, but-but left this morning, Mary; I had no more money to pay for it; and but for this blessed chance of finding you, I must have slept in the streets to-night. I shall not now-if I remember you right.

Mrs. S. (Turning away her head.) The light in this room is so strong, it makes one's eyes quite weak. But now off with these things, and we'll forget trouble for the present, in hope for the future. (Taking off her bonnet, smoothing her head, and kissing it.) Poor old Nell! Sleep in the street, indeed-I should think not; if it had been old Fraulein, now, I'm not sure but I should have let her. Oh, wasn't it fun, Nell, when I put the frog in her box? (Mimicking.) “A beast in my box! I will gomplain to madame." Ha! ha! ha!

Mrs. D. Yes, you mischievous girl! And when you told her a wrong meaning to the English words, and made her make such a ridiculous speech to the dancing master

Mrs. S. Ah, that was fun! and when those good-for-nothing fellows in the 7th jumped over the garden wall, and would dance with us; and when the black page boy-don't you remember him?-was sent to turn them out, how they made him dance too!

Mrs. D. You make me laugh in spite of myself, Mary, with these pleasant memories. Would that I could laugh at all the past.

Mrs. S. We can none of us laugh at it all, dear; let us forget it, save that much of it which teaches us wisdom. Look forward hopefully to the future; but use the present carefully and well, for it is all we can really call our own. There, that is a better sermon than I ever preached you, dressed up in a sheet, in the school bed-room, is it not? And now I shall carry you away to inspect a small but most important item in my establishment-the❘ baby; leaving our good friends here (to the audience) to tell us what we are, and to guess our little Charade.

DYSPEPSIA.

BY MRS. AUGUSTA H. WORTHEN.

DYSPEPSIA, a disease of the digestive organs, so it is commonly defined; but a better definition would be, a disease of the whole system. The stomach, however, seems to be the basis of its operations, whence it sends forth pains, and aches, and uncomfortable sensations, in squads and detachments, all over the body. To describe properly all the various kinds and degrees of suffering which have their origin in a diseased stomach, demands the pen of a writer of high tragedy; but the description will be sufficiently painful, even if given in such plain terms as I know how to use. Sometimes the victim of dyspepsia complains of his stomach as being in an exceedingly collapsed condition. He experiences therein a sensation of "goneness," as if it were entirely empty, had become a sort of "banquet hall deserted,' a mere vacuum in fact, that nondescript which nature is said to abhor, and which at the same time he is himself conscious of abhorring no less. At other times he complains of an oppressive sense of fulness there, reminding him strongly of a pudding boiled in a bag by far too small for it.

Then he feels a sharp pain, then a dull gnawing pain, not quite so animating as the first, and far more aggravating. He has moments when he fancies he has long ago unwittingly swallowed some horrid, ill-tempered reptile, which, by the mere force of its own venom, has been able for years to resist the corroding action of the gastric fluids, and grow to enormous size. Now, in revenge for its long imprisonment, it bites and tears with relentless animosity. The dyspeptic sufferer seems to undergo a complete transformation.

His flesh wastes away, so

that he may, indeed, "tell all his bones;" his skin becomes pale and yellow, and he grows low-spirited, moody, and fretful. Only when discoursing of his ailments does he seem to bring all his mental forces into action. Then his dull eye assumes a temporary brightness. He reads attentively all the newspaper ad vertisements of various medicaments offered for the relief of stomach complaints, and almost devours the annexed descriptions of signs and symptoms, to which his own dyspeptic experience bears, as he thinks, such close analogy. He acquires a fondness for works of a physiological character, and studies as carefully a diagram of the digestive organs as if it were a plan of a hostile fortress, to which he were about to lay siege. He speaks so confidently and so familiarly of having injured "the coats of his stomach," that you begin to think he intends soon to give the tailor a job. He consults the looking-glass every morning, with his mouth open; and if, after careful scrutiny, he discovers any unusual appearance on his

tongue, his conviction that he does not feel so well as he did yesterday is much strengthened. In his reflections upon the physiology of the digestive apparatus, the Spleen, the organ which the ancients believed to be the "seat of melancholy," and concerning which modern M. D.'s know so little that they have not decided what other use to put it to-this strange organ, I say, excites in him no small degree of interest, and he wonders if, like the others, it be liable to derangement. His long-suffering friends are at times constrained to believe that, in his case at least, it is thus liable, and that to this very liability may be referred many of his peculiar mental and physical conditions. But most curious of all it is to watch him when he goes by a slaughter-house. Do you know why he casts such long, lingering looks therein? It is because he is seized with a sort of cannibalish desire to know what livers are made of. "But," says the sufferer, "if I am in this deplorable, ridiculous condition, so that you scarcely know whether to cry or laugh at me, what has brought me to it? Who is to blame for it?"

Yourself, without much doubt. Perhaps you had an inherited tendency to bilious complaints; but you have probably aggravated it by some imprudence of your own. You have taken too little exercise, or you have indulged your appetite unwisely.

"But," says he, "people are not thus severely punished for so slight an offence. There was Mother Eve, the very first person on record who indulged her appetite unwisely; she never had the dyspepsia."

How do you know she did not? It is quite possible that was a part of her punishment, being a natural consequence of a lack of selfdenial.

"But I am positive she did not have the dyspepsia; because, if she did, there was no need to punish her any further. Her expulsion from Paradise would become of no account whatever. She might as well be out of it as in, for she could have no heart to enjoy its beauties if she had the dyspepsia for a companion. Besides, Milton, from whom we draw so much information concerning the character and condition of this lady, does not mention that she had even a slight attack of indigestion."

Very true; but you must remember that Milton was not a physician; and moreover, when he spoke, he was not under oath. He was a poet; and poets, like peddlers, being allowed a license, will sometimes make most astonishing statements. Like them, also, they may sometimes find it for their interest to suppress important facts. Milton wanted a heroine for his poem; he knew it would be very dry without one. In the age of which he wrote, material for heroines was scarce; so he was forced to take Eve, with all her imperfections. He naturally desired to have her amiable and

interesting. This he knew she could not be if suffering with dyspepsia; and so he does not say whether she had it or not. Nevertheless, I incline to my first opinion; I think she had it, and I fancy I see her now in one of her worst attacks, sitting with both hands clasped, looking piteously up to Adam, as if to say, "Can't you bring me a little saleratus and water?" Alas! I fear that Adam is more vexed than grieved at her distress. If he is like many husbands, this is the case, for it is one of the peculiar aggravations of this disease that it renders the victim so disagreeable in disposition and appearance that even the most affectionate partner will begin to think there is room for improvement. Therefore, wives,

"You that have the charge of Love,

Keep him in rosy fetters bound;" and, as you value your domestic happiness, do not grow yellow and fretful through accumulations of bile in the system. Try not to have the dyspepsia; but, if you must have it, keep as still as possible about it. If your husband comes in and says, kindly, "How is your stomach to-night, my dear?" be sure you tell him, "Better." If you have to disoblige the truth a little in saying so, it is not so bad as to see, settling down upon its face, that look of blank hopelessness which, of late, it always wears when you rehearse the story of your aches and pains.

"So, then," I think I hear one say, "I must suffer till I die, and say nothing."

Do not be alarmed; you will not die; dyspepsia does not often kill. But, supposing you knew it would kill you, your pains will not become less, but greater, by constantly talking of them. When you have once acquired this foolish habit, the worse you feel the more you will want to talk about it, and the more you talk about it the worse you will feel. Besides, none of your friends wish to hear about your sufferings. The well do not, because they cannot appreciate them; and those who are similarly afflicted would much rather talk about their own. Therefore, try always to remember that, when people ask you how you do, they give no more thought to the inquiry than to the common remark, ""Tis a fine day." They neither expect nor desire a full report of your sanitary condition; and, if compelled to listen to it once or twice, will be careful how they put you on that track again.

Now, I perceive that you are a little provoked at what I have said, especially at my allusion to that unsympathizing spouse of yours; and so you are ready to answer that, since dyspepsia does not confine its operations to the narrow limits of feminine stomachs, he may be obliged to take his turn, and you may

recover.

Do not say it; do not suggest anything of the kind. If such a change in your relative conditions should occur, you will not be a