I started up. Had I been suffering less acutely, I might have considered the best way of silencing my tormentor; as it was, I could only think of disgrace and separation from Dora, and in a tone of agony, I said :

ruined -past all redemption; flight only remained. The cars left in half an hour.

"Dora," I said, and I wondered how I could be so calm, "I have received some news that calls me instantly away. Will you inform your father; he was not in the factory when I

"But where are you going? When will you return?"

"In a fortnight, perhaps. Ask me no questions, my own love;" and I kissed her. She had grown accustomed to some of my strange ways, and while she was putting up a few clothes, I talked pleasantly of some little matters. Then I clasped her to my heart, kissed the sweet lips for the last time. I fancied she looked troubled, yet I could not stay to dispel her fears.

I cannot even now tell what determined me full of the wildest excitement. Dora was lost to visit Oaklands, but I travelled day and night, to me forever, that I well knew, so it was not

hope; I could not explain the influence.

ed on.

Full of horrible fears, I suffered the

most unspeakable torments. Dora's questions and sympathy were keenest agony. I felt at times I could not endure it; that I must leave them all-hide myself in the farthest corner of the earth; yet I could not deny it was a just penalty for my sin.

Hardly six months had elapsed ere James Lee again presented himself, and was loud in his demands for more money. I could see how it would be in the future. Every few months he, regardless of promises, would drain me of comfort as well as competency. There was no mercy in him. Neither could I keep the fact from Mr. Grayson, for he would remark my lavish use of money. Some new course must be pursued. I tried to intimidate him, but he threatened to go to Mr. Grayson at once.

I could not hope to keep the secret much longer, and in a fit of desperation, said, defiantly: "Go to Mr. Grayson, do your worst; you cannot harm me much. I did have a separation from the woman you consider my wife, perhaps it would enable me to marry again; at all events, I shall go to Oaklands and have the business ended; I cannot live this way!"

I fancied he changed color as he repeated, "Go to Oaklands?"

"Yes, I shall start this very night. Now I defy you, James Lee ;" and I stood up proudly, for my new resolve gave me courage. I could see he quailed beneath my fiery glance, and with an uncertain, bewildered step, he walked toward the door; then he turned, and would have spoken. "Enough," I said, as I seized my hat, and rushed home. Once I lingered as I caught sight of him standing in front of the "Squire's." Mr. Grayson was with him.

It was all over, then! I was irretrievably

Oh,

nervous anxiety. I had nearly a mile to walk at the edge of the village. How calm and quiet the graveyard looked, made more beautiful by the crimson rays of the departing sun. why was I not asleep here, beside my parents! Why had I lived to partake of all the blessedness life can give, only to have the cup dashed down, and in its place the undying draught of remorse!

Involuntarily I entered, and walked to the graves I had loved so well. An exquisitelycarved monument, just beside them, attracted my attention. Drawing near I read :

"Gertrude Hathaway. Died July 10, 18—.” Was I dreaming? Had I possession of my senses? I sank down on the ground incapable of but one thought-Gertrude had been dead a month when I married Dora; she was mine, my legal wife, and I had been mercifully kept from so great a sin.

I did not rise from my knees that night. I knew I could never be sufficiently grateful to God, the All Wise Disposer of the events of our human lives. What I had suffered I accepted as the just punishment of weakly yielding to temptation.

The next morning I learned the particulars of Gertrude's death, and also that I was supposed to have wandered off in a fit of insanity, and perhaps perished. Her child resided at Oaklands with the cousin I have before spoken of. I did not see her. I heard she was the counterpart of her mother, proud and haughty, and my heart turned to the gentle ones at Arncliff.

I hardly dared breathe until I reached home, and folded Dora to my heart once more-her true and only resting-place. Mr. Grayson met me cordially; I felt James Lee had not be

trayed me. Probably he knew Gertrude was dead, and only worked on my ignorance for the sake of the money thus extorted.

How delightful it was to feel calm and at case, after being so sorely tossed on a raging sea, and know my sin had been one of intention only. I believe I repented fully and sincerely, and tried to render my daily life better and purer. I trust the endeavor has been accepted.

In my second marriage I have been more than happy-perfectly satisfied. My wife loves me tenderly; our children, a joyous, happy flock, enhance our content. I look in their eyes, and my heart thrills with the keenest joy to think they may call me father honorably. At times my heart yearns for the young girl growing up amid the stately beauty of Oaklands, but if she has her mother's heart, wealth and station will satisfy her.

I have never told Dora the fearful past! Perhaps when we sit down in another land, beside the River of Life, where love is unbound from its earthly chain, and freed from all selfishness, when our hearts are unveiled, and the mysteries of life are mysteries no longer, she will learn how near I came to losing the Eden home that crowns the endeavor to lead a just life. In her heavenly love and pity she will forgive, even as the Saviour of weak, sinful men, has, I trust, done.

A PRIVATE LECTURE.

BY FIDELIS.

WHY is it that my heart will rebel so often, and raise such a dreadful tumult? It is wild to-night with the old pain; saddens my soul, drags down my strength with its vain repinings, and will not be hushed. The fault is in me. I need a little plain common-sense reasoning, and shall have it.

As for the heart, to bestow reason there, would be a waste of the raw material. A woman's heart laughs at that, as love is said to do at locksmiths. So ache on, poor, trembling, bleeding thing, till time shall bring from the great store-house of nature some healing salve to calm the restless fever of thy wound.

Now you, Miss, are a responsible being, some folks say a sensible one, and shall not escape so easily. You ought to be ashamed of yourself to lose your self-control for such a trifle. Do you mean to yield the sceptre of mind and will to this miserable little despot? Don't you see how quickly she quivers at a chance touch, even while reaching forth to grasp the ruins of empire? A grand queen, truly, such a coward would make? You cannot give her what she asks. Why listen to her delirious rage? What have you done with pride? Smothered her, when in such need of help? Come, that won't do. Pull her out from beneath the rub- |

bish that is taking her breath away. Dash the cold water of reason in her face; pour the health-giving tonic of common sense down her throat until she shall arise in her might, and in her turn strangle into silence this wild, ungovernable insurgent. The foolish heart that torments you so is like a silly child who turns away from all the gifts lavished upon it to cry itself to death because it cannot have the moon. You know this; nevertheless, are sometimes weak enough to take sides with it. Don't tell me you are maddened by its ceaseless wailing. Stop your ears. Do your duty in spite of all.

Do you think God did not know what he was doing when he selected just this particular path from all the others in life, and set your feet upon it? What are you, that you should rave at, and struggle with your destiny in this style? After all, only an atom of one of the myriads of worlds which He has created. What does it matter whether so puny a thing is bathed in the golden light of bliss, or wrapt in misery's dark mantle? A grain of sand upon the shore, a dew-drop in the ocean, a leaf in the wild-wood, might murmur and complain with equally as good a right. See here, every grain of sand can't be made into chrystal. Caterpillars must eat, or the world would go without butterflies. So some of the leaves, be they never so fresh and green, have to serve their hairy lordships for dinner, instead of idly flirting with the south wind in the spring.

"One star differeth from another in glory." What sort of a universe would it be if every little twinkler wanted to shine as bright and be as big as Jupiter or Venus, and went to fretting, and fuming, and puffing themselves out until they bursted, or were consumed in their own heat? Now do you understand all this? Do you see how wicked and presumptious you are?

"But it would take so little, so very little, to make me happy and contented!" you reply; I only want"

Hush! don't tell me what you "only want," or that your having it would hurt anybody. Maybe some silly leaf high up on a tree "only wants" to live that it may whisper, and laugh, and sing soft lullabies over a nest of young doves in the warm, bright, summer sun. But suppose Madame Dove chooses to keep house nearer the ground; what then? Must the leaf tear itself from the parent stem for spite? or pine until it withers because it did not happen to grow lower down? No, no; it must look up at the sun, not down at that other leaf that has the place it covets. Let it do its best to chime in tune with the grand harmony of nature, and be patient. It will not matter when the frost comes, where it grew.

Your path is not a pleasant one; a hard, well-beaten track; but many heavy-laden ones have trod it, long before you were called into existence, and will travel it again when you

have been forgotten. Some have marched along with strong, brave tread, shoulders that scorn to stoop beneath the burden, and eyes that look straight forward. They kick stumbling blocks out of the way. Others went slowly, falteringly, mourning and sobbing because of the weight they carried, and often turning to look back. They not only fell themselves, but dropped stones to trip up those

who come after them. You must not do that. Everybody can't "suffer and be strong;" but, by trying in the right way, even weak souls like you may learn to "suffer and be still." Fight back the cry that rises to your lips. Don't let the world see the fox in your bosom. Yes, I know! It is hard to keep silent when he is gnawing the heart-strings one by one; and when tears refuse to come to you who need them, sharp notes will creep into the voice sometimes, and bring them to eyes that ought to smile. But watch, and guard, and pray. What though you shiver with cold, and may not warm at your neighbor's hearth; is that any reason why you should quench the fire that burns there? What though the harp of Hope be broken, and for you her sweet voice hushed forever; should you carry a gloomy face to frighten song and laughter from the lip of childhood?

Few, indeed, are the flowers that grow by the wayside; but it might have been worse. See the path runs along by other people's gardens, ripe with bloom. If anything that your feeble hand can do will make them brighter still, do it willingly. Some stray seed of heartsease may cling to your garments, fall upon your land, spring up, and blossom there, and some day help to soothe your pain with its fragrance.

Gather the violets and daisies that are free to all alike. Pause not to think of the one ripe red rose that was yours once, nor lament that you plucked and gave it without the asking. What if the snow-drop offered in return does look pale and insignificant by contrast. Quit comparing them; it will not matter when the frost comes. Make the best of it. Keep it pure and fresh as long as you may. Somebody lives in this world, perhaps, without even a snow-drop to cheer them.

Thank God! the burdens will all roll into the grave some day, and the weary feet and aching hearts rest under the coffin lid. The free, unfettered soul will not find heaven less radiant for having toiled so long in the dim twilight of sorrow.

SIT in your place, and none can make you rise.

IT is an error of the unlearned to suppose that the knowledge of books is of no account, and an error of scholars to think there is no other knowledge worth having.

THE

DOCTOR'S WONDERFUL ONE-STORY HOUSE.

TO BE READ AFTER THE GREAT CENTENNIAL SHALL HAVE PASSED AWAY.

HAVE you heard of the wonderful one-story house
That was built so tight, neither rat nor mouse

Could gain an entrance by window or door,

Or break in the wall, or ceiling, or floor?
This house was built in so faithful a way,
That it lasted a hundred years to a day;
And then, though it showed little sign of decay,
It had a "collapse," as the doctors would say,
Presenting a spectacle-ah! but stay-
With the numerous facts I've been able to gain,
Just how the thing happened I'll try to explain.
Seventeen hundred and seventy-six-
That is a day it is easy to fix,

For it happened just then that George the Third,
Who the ire of the Yankees had thoroughly stirred,
Rubbing his eyes, began to see

That, right or wrong, they meant to be free.
'Twas the Fourth of July in that same year
This wonderful house began to appear.
Now, in building of houses, I tell you what,
It is oftentimes found the builder cares not
To look to his work from rafter to sill,

So the job is got through, and he's paid his bill;
But the doctor swore,,with a good round oath,
He would build a house that should answer, both
To live in to-day and a hundred years hence,
And at once he determined the work to commence.
The doctor declared, and the same would maintain,

The first thing to do was fo build a good drain;
It should be so built you might hunt for a week
And not find the sign of a crack or a leak;
For, said the doctor, if cellar be dry,
All chance of decay you may safely defy,
And with your foundations cemented and thick,
You may then go on with your mortar and brick.
So the doctor employed a number of men,
And, as he looked after them now and then,
And walked round and round and gave his com-
mands,

He seemed much delighted, and, rubbing his hands,
Declared that his work, with such caution begun,
Should be to the end just as carefully done.

His bricks that he took from a neighboring kiln, Which had burned a whole year, were selected with skill;

His mortar was tough and as hard as cement;
In fact, to procure it, to Rome he had sent:
His timber for sills was the heart of the pine
That grows down in Maine, near the Canada line;
His studs were of spruce, and his braces the same;
His beams of tough hemlock-no odds whence they
came-

His rafters and collar-beams, juniper wood,
As strong as the others, and equally good;
His roof of clear-stuff-not a hole nor a split-
For the finest and costliest furniture fit,
And covered with tin from a mine in old Wales,
That never gets rusty, nor blisters, nor scales.
His chimneys of brick and of iron, so blended
That where one began and where t'other ended
'Twas hard to decide; and so strong was the draft,
It wasn't quite safe, as you walked fore and aft,
To go near the fire-place and there make a stop,
Lest you might be drawn up and come out at the
top.

His floors were of oak, and were got from the wreck
Of a ship that was sunk, being part of her deck,

And so hard that the workmen were greatly annoyed,
For most of the tools that they used were destroyed.
The glass in his windows was half an inch thick,
And would bear a stout blow from a stone or a stick,
And every joint in the house was so tight

That, save from the windows and doors, neither light

Nor air from without could an entrance gain,

Nor the dry whirling dust, nor the snow, nor the rain.
In short, all the parts were so thoroughly done
That I'll not mention others, except only one,
And that is the cellar, whose floor was a rock,
With a wall on all sides, built so thick that the shock
Of an earthquake its masonry couldn't have stirred,
And this I record, on the doctor's own word.

When the building was finished, the doctor said, "Well,

I guess I may rest from my labors a spell;

I have worked here so long that the house isn't new,
But it wants nothing more, and I think it will do."
Do! 'Twas a wonder, and no mistake;
Parents their children may never forsake;
But for that fine building the doctor's great love
Was high as the heavens, all others above;
Greater than that between sister and brother,
Warmer than that between daughter and mother,
Stronger than that between husband and wife,
That often continues, or ought to, through life.
He had looked on it long as a cherished prize;
'Twas a joy to his heart, and a feast to his eyes;
And as to his fame, he had now little fears

But 'twas made to him sure for the next hundred years.

The grounds were adorned and the garden was tilled,

And in process of time the house was all filled;
Children and grandchildren made it seem gay;
Boys grew to manhood, and men became gray;
Time rolled around, for it brooks no delay,
Yet vainly you'd seek for the marks of decay;
And, after the lapse of a half century,

Any change in the house you would still fail to see.

Eighteen hundred and thirty found

The doctor's master-piece firm and sound;
A little fresh paint was all it demanded,
Except some repairs in the floor, that was sanded
And scrubbed down so often the boards had worn
thin,

And up on the roof a few pieces of tin.

This done, it was good for a dozen years more;
In fact, that was all it received for a score.

Eighteen fifty arrived at length,

And proved a test of the mansion's strength,

For in that same year the buildings around,

In one of its tempests, were blown to the ground;

Yet the brave old house which the doctor had planned,

In the midst of the wreck seemed the firmer to stand.

Sixty and seventy both have passed,
And now comes seventy-six at last;
Nothing of all we cherish below
Lives for a hundred years or so,
Without both looking and feeling funny-
The only exception I think of is money—
For in this very seldom a change is seen-
Silver and gold, of course, I mean,
And not bits of paper with backs as green
As the people who take such worthless trash,
Content to receive it as so much cash.

This is a lesson of which, no doubt,
You'll say I might better have left it out;
But the poem to imitate which I try*
Has given a lesson, and so must I.

Eighteen hundred and seventy-six,
A hundred years since England's tricks,
In trying to put the Yankees down,
Lost her the brightest gem in her crown;
And the liberty born that glorious year
Tyrants have learned to hate and fear.
Fourth of July, Centennial day,

The house shows signs of early decay;
No place in particular, one may say;
There couldn't well be, for the doctor's skill
Had made it so like from roof to sill
That no one part than another was stronger,
Nor in the least likely to last any longer;
For the walls were just as strong as the floors,
And the windows just as strong as the doors,
And the studding just as strong as the braces,
And the mouldings just as strong as the cases,
And the back under-pinning as strong as the fore,
And the collar-beams neither less nor more,
And the sleepers and girders and posts encore,
And neither the surbase nor wainscot nor ceiling
The slightest appearance of weakness revealing;
And yet, as a whole, there was cause to fear
That decay had commenced and its end was near.

Fourth of July, on the morn of that day
The house seemed to stand in the usual way,
But towards its close the shouts and the screeches
That came from the crowd as they listened to
speeches

Which orators made, and the ringing of bells,
The music of bands, and the villainous smelis
Of sulphur and whiskey that fille i the air,
Was more than the poor old house could bear.
As the day wore on midst noise and fun,
There came a report from an Armstrong gun,
So loud that it gave the village a shock,
And made the house tremble, and reel, and rock
From gable to base with a singular motion,
Like that of a ship on the swell of the ocean.
The people looked on with wondering eyes
As they saw the house from the ground arise,
And, after making a surge or leap,
Fall back again in a shapeless heap,
Where everything appeared to mix-
Wood and stone and mortar and bricks.
'Twas a mournful sight, and many an eye
Was wet with tears in passing it by.

Around the heart sweet memories throng
As the mind runs back to the jest and song
That were wont to be heard in that charming place
Where the doctor presided with infantine grace,
And greeted his guests with a smiling face,
And with generous welcome bade them share

His costly wines and sumptuous fare;

And now what remains, and remains alone,

Is simply this heap of rubbish and stone.
You see, of course, how it came about,
For though when built it was strong and stout,

In the course of time it must feel decay,

And the stirring events of that notable day
Were sufficient cause that the house should give way
As it did altogether, and no part first,
Exactly as bubbles do when they burst.

Thus ended the house, like the one-horse-shay;
In both there was logic-that's all I say.

# The Wonderful One-Horse-Shay. By Oliver Wendell Holmes.