moment closed around them, they might have heard the hard, quick gasp, and the rustle of the thorny boughs in Eliot's frenzied grasp. "And if I do still love this man," she queried, "then what would you say?" He had drawn nearer still, had grasped both little trembling hands in his. "I would say, Grace, his love was less than mine. Come, let me teach you to forget." She rose up then; and, as she stood facing her lover and the window, the man who had betrayed her love beheld her face light up as with a sudden glory. "That Christmas Eve," she said, "upon my knees, I watched, through tears-such galling, bitter tears-the gray dawn merge into the day. When the first sunbeams entered that dark room, I rose and laid that leaf-that bright leaf from my life, which I had thought could never wither-in my desk, sealed, for I said such a leaf should nevermore be turned by me. But-you have broken the seal." "And you can love me?" "Since that night I have not loved-till now." He did not draw her closer to him, nor bend toward her blushing, drooping face. Instead, he loosed her left hand as she stood opposite to him; he lifted the leaf, and led her toward the fire. He dropped it in the glowing flames, and both stood looking on, uttering no word until it shrivelled up and shrank into a puff of ashes. He turned and looked at her then. "So fades out the dead leaf from my darling's life," he said; "and, Grace, even the grange ivy shall keep no more bitter memories for you.' As he spoke, he stooped and broke off a spray from the branch on which but now she had set her foot. She did not shrink while he twined it in her hair, braided of gold in the fashion she had hardly changed in all these years; and then she raised her face, a long, full look in the deep eyes. But Eliot could watch no more. He staggered blindly from the window, down the garden walk, and through the gate. Had those two in the bright parlor not been deaf to anything outside in the dark, they might have heard the crunching of the gravel under careless stumbling steps, the sharp swinging to and click of the garden gate. Where he wandered thence, he never knew. How long it was before he found himself standing on the north terrace, he could not tell, nor how he ever reached it; only, as he paced there up and down, the morning star just broke an instant through the clouds-the day star of the merry Christmas morning; and along the foot of the grange hill flickered the torches of the village waits, chanting the Christmas carol greeting as they wended home berreath the unlighted grange. the wraiths that upon gusty nights may be heard to sweep and patter through the walls, or half aloud to sigh in the deep alcoves. There, around the north windows, the ivy waves more and more, and stronger in its age, as if it drew in all the life about the place, now falling into ruin. Its master is gone, drifting about like one of those storm-rent, storm-tossed ivy-leaves. TO A YOUNG SWISS GIRL. BY ALPH GLYNWOOD. SURE, nature by her secret hand In thy young soul, the placid light 'Neath Alpine storms the tender branch, Blooming beside the avalanche, Have glimpses lent to thee Of sanctities where none intrude, Of mountain liberty. Thine was the world of cloud and sky, The cataract and the voice Hath bid thee evermore rejoice. "Winter is here! the birds have flown The bleak, cold wind, as it waileth by, To the thoughtful heart bringeth a sigh, As it lists to the mournful chime 'The year is dying,' winter is here." THE old year has waned, and left us but the relics by which to remember it in all time. Moments that have been wasted cannot be recalled now. Seeds of good that were sown by the wayside are springing into life, and from them we will glean the reward for every thought and act of kindness. "Cast your bread upon the waters, and after many days it will be gathered to you again;" so it is that a kind word or act is never thrown away, but will come to us with a soothing influence in after days. The knell of time has tolled on the air the death of the giant year, just as the funeral knell has tolled the death of departed ones, and blighted hopes have found a grave since The grange is left to the sole habitation of the last bright, new year gladdened our hearts and quickened the senses to arise and begin anew the task of life. How many, ah! how many may be absent when the dawn of 1877 tints with his bright rays the "Orient, from whose sun-bright womb spring the thoughts of love," and we remember the "tender grace of a day that is dead" and will never come to us again? How many may have clasped the cold hand of Azrael, and as they pass through the dim portals that close on them forever, whisper but one word-" Farewell!" "Hearts are glad and hearts are broken, Anguish more than tongue can tell; But the saddest thought that's spoken Is 'God bless you, fare thee well!'" Many scenes of the past year will live in our memory forever. Moments of pleasure, when all around were gay in the bright glow of happiness; when every thought was one of joy, and we wondered why it was that the spirit of shadows ever came to steal the glad light from the eyes, the love-breathing tones from the heart. But change is common to our world, and we have but to be resigned to the will of One who knows His own, and will lead them into paths of pleasantness. Who has not a heart-however scared and cold by contact with the baser side of creation-that cannot cherish, in memory, sweet incidents of some Christmas spent in the days of "lang syne," or that cannot appreciate the loving kindness that dictates the bestowal of Christmas gifts, even though the gentle reminders are simple and useless, as far as utility is concerned, for we know the hand that gave them was prompted by the purest motives of love, and the heart felt naught but kindness for us. The thought reminds me of the many who know no joy; whose homes are desolate; whose hearts are blurred and wearied with the toil of years spent in fruitless attempts to acquire something it seems fate has decreed shall not be theirs. To them we can only say, "God be merciful." There are other homes, though they may be humble, where the beacon-light of love burns on, where happy hearts decorate the worn and rugged walls with garlands of beauty, and the sound of merry footsteps are heard, ever and anon, along the olden corridors; and there are homes that are darkened by passion, or where the inmates are crushed from a love of strong drink, and are dealing out death to themselves, while they chant a dirge to the fond hopes of loved ones. But if they would only pause and consider for a moment they would stop in the downward career and bring sunshine back to the desecrated fireside of home. The Lone Star State is beautiful in natural resources; her rivers, plains, and vast, rolling prairies are stamped with the fiat of a God; noble impulses beat within her bosom, and Texan hearts should strive to make Texan homes inviting, that, not only Christmas, but every day in the year may be a blessing to our lives. God has given us Christmas in memory of the birth of the one Preserver sent to us from the dark ages of the past, from whom we can gain the blessed hope of immortality, and find pardon for all the sins committed in this mundane sphere. May He give us the faith, the love, the divine inspiration to place our frail barques under His guidance and permit Him to carry us through life till we reach the silver strand on the other side. The river of our life is flowing on to join the mighty ocean beyond. "Through the valley of the shadows we must go," but from the shadows we will come to the limpid tide of the "River of Life," and to the summits of the invisible hills from whose crested tops will descend the dews of love, brighter, purer than the crystal drops from Mount Hermon. "WE NEVER MISS HER." BY GERALD. "Oh, no! I had no reference whatever to 'lazy Em,' as we call her. She is the impersonation of selfishness. The world is no better for her life, and we certainly should never miss her. It was her sister Julia whose absence I was regretting. She is the life of our circle. But to miss Emma, the idea is too comical. I think I see her now, in some out-of-the way corner, curled up in the most comfortable lounging-chair which she can find, head on hand, as if her neck did not dare assume such a responsibility unaided, and the whole sleepy phiz drawn down 80," and the burst of laughter which followed this sally convinced me that I was being caricatured to the full extent of the speaker's powers. I was lying on a lounge drawn between the windows of the pleasant back parlors of my home-these were opened to admit the cool breeze-and my cousins, Sarah and Jennie, with a guest, were pacing the shady veranda, discussing meanwhile their plans for the coming week of pleasure. My sister had been called away for a few days by the illness of a dear friend, hence the regretful exclamation to which this was the rejoinder. I dared not rise from my position, as that would bring me in full view of the mischievous girls who were making merry at my expense, and so was forced to become a most unwilling illustration of the old adage, “Listeners never hear any good of themselves." "We had better postpone our picnic until Julia's return; the loss of her clear head and willing hands will mar the whole thing," continued Jennie, as her walk brought her again near the window. "I want this to be the picnic of the season. Harry Melville is to ha there, and to bring with him that handsome young artist recently from Italy. They have been travelling a long time, and have seen scores of rural gatherings, fêtes and festivals, archery parties, and all that sort of thing, in the Old World, and I want our little excursion to compare favorably. If Emma only would rouse herself, she might be invaluable. She has exquisite taste when it is to be exercised for her own benefit; but it is useless to wish her to exert herself for others. Dear Julia puts self aside, sad at heart as she now already is, since the wreck of that steamer nearly two years since, when her betrothed was lost. No trace of her sadness is allowed to shadow the enjoyment of others; but she is untiring in the ministry of love." Just then the sound of the tea-bell dispersed the group, and I was at liberty to rise and make good my escape to my own room. There, throwing myself on the bed, I buried my burning face in the pillows, vainly trying to shut out the hateful truths, to which I had been such an unwilling listener, from my thoughts. I was angry with my cousin, but conscience lifted up her voice, and I was forced to be angry with myself as well. ting from my sight all view of others' interests, my little world holding myself alone. Could I blame them for giving their love elsewhere? Jealousy, anger, and remorse by turns possessed my mind. I turned the key in the lock of my door, and a deaf ear to all who knocked for admittance. My retrospection that night was deep and bitter; but after awhile, in the solemn hush of the midnight hour, better thoughts gained the ascendancy, new resolutions were formed in my heart, and I prayed earnestly for forgiveness for the past, and strength for the future. Toward daylight I fell asleep, but still through the web of my troubled dreams ran the thread which discolored the whole fabric. I beheld my sister, ever busy and happy, but, as it seemed, floating in the blue expanse at a great distance above me; while I plodded along in some dark, cold region below, companionless and unoccupied, hearing happy voices, and catching glimpses of scenes of rav-. ishing beauty, from which I was forever shut out. The next morning my old habits pleaded hard for a little indulgence; the tempter whispered, "This once only; your night was a sleepless one; all think you indisposed, and will readily excuse you if you are a little tardy to-day. After this, you can turn over a new leaf;" but I did not yield. My first thought was to give pleasure to my patient, all-enduring mother. She was passionately fond of flowers, and I laid my morn Lazy Em, forsooth! yet I knew that I merited the title. I longed to be loved supremely, to be necessary to the happiness of others, yet was too selfish and indolent to put forth any exertion to win that which I longed for. My mother petted and indulged me as she would a prevish child; but, did she require a service rendered, sympathy or advice given, or an hour's companionship, she turned to my sistering offering beside her plate in the form of a -never to me. I was never missed! The words stung me sorely, and none the less that the arrow was pointed by truth. I heard a gentle step ascending the stair, and presently my mother's face looked in upon me. "What is the matter? are you ill? Your cousins are at tea; will you not come down? Crying! What grieves you, Emma?" But I gave no sign; I could not tell even the kind mother-heart of the random shaft which had struck so. I only wanted quiet; so, with a sorrowful look at my tear-stained face, she passed her hand caressingly over my head, and, giving me a tender kiss, left me to myself. I lay there through the pleasant summer twilight, thinking, thinking, thinking, listening to the hum of voices below, with now and then a bit of a song stealing out from the shadows, as my cousin's fingers idly strayed over the keys. Once, when all voices united in the plaintive strains of "Do they miss me at home?" my tears burst forth again, and my sense of isolation was complete. The family circle needed me not; I was in no degree necessary to their happiness; I was not in their minds as they sang; and why? My thoughts carried me back over the years, from my childhood up, and I saw myself as others saw me, with my narrow horizon shutVOL. XCIII.-33 fragrant bouquet gemmed with dew. But even this rose was not without a thorn; to my cousins did my mother turn, with her thanks for the little attention, showing me anew the fruit of my own deeds. Each disclaiming the act, and ny heightened color betraying me, the look of surprise which passed over my mother's face, although quickly followed by loving words and her own gentle kiss, stung me sharply. Do not think this scene an exaggeration; I wish that it had been such. But I had lived solely for my own pleasure, never rendering any of those little offices to others which make home life so happy, and they had ceased to expect them from me. I was not missed, neither were they. I cannot describe the alternations of feeling on that day, or the next, or for many succeeding days. I scarcely knew how to proffer a kindness gracefully; I was awkward and constrained; while ever and anon, in the midst of some of my happier moments, those scornful sarcasms of my cousin would flash out from my memory, and I was ready to give up all effort in my jealousy and mortification. I think that my mother recognized the change in my usual habits very soon, but with delicate tact forebore comment, and I could not yet bring myself to the confessional. It had become such a settled fact that my co-operation was not to be expected in any of the plans which usually interested the others, that naturally I was not now consulted, and many a falling away from my new resolutions was the result. had been planned — Harry Melville and the stranger artist. These soon appeared in sight from above the mill, where the road formed a sharp angle, making all haste to join us, Harry waving his hat and cheering as he came on. The road here was narrow, we were in the carriages and arranged in order for starting, so, without staying for formalities or introductions, we immediately set forward. I was in my happiest frame of mind; I had worked unceasingly, packing and helping oth My patience and quick temper were sorely tried by the lifted eyebrow, the sly jokes, and wondering comments upon "Em's return to life," and "Rip Van Winkle" was the favorite name bestowed upon me by my unthinkingers, cousin. At last, my sister returning with her appreciative nature and overflow of loving kindness, I worked onward in my course more steadily, resolved that, whatever my hands "found to do," I would do "with all my might." Finally, after being twice postponed, the morning of our picnic dawned, and most gloriously. It was in the queen month of the year; all nature was jubilant. The carriageroad to the grove selected was long and roundabout, giving us a drive of many miles; but we were to start early, spend the entire day, and finish by a row home across a little lake by moonlight. We were to rendezvous at an old mill about a mile from our residence, and I shall never forget the familiar beauties of the scene as we drove from the door that lovely June morning. The ceaseless plash of the busy wheel, as it turned its untiring round, was but half heard above our gay talk and merry laughter, while the miller (not fat and rosy, as tradition hath it, but lean and shrewd) kept an eye for our interests in the midst of his own labors. The little brown house attached to the mill was a cosey nest, its homeliness half hidden by the bower of wild grape-vines trained over it, and launching themselves beyond into the great apple tree by the door. It stood almost at the foot of a high hill, which on this side | rose into a nearly perpendicular wall, up, up, many hundred feet of gray stone, until crowned at the top with a growth of pine, which gave to it its name. From the opposite bank of the little river, which supplied the motive power, came the faint tinkle of the bells as the miller's herds grazed, peacefully unconscious of any changes or chances of this mortal life. Just there not one other house was in sight. The nook yet lay in shadow; the mists from the river had not gained the hill-top, but were curling lazily upward, touched by the rising sun, and blushing rosily red as they floated on. Most of our party were in carriages; but a few gentlemen were mounted and gayly praneing their horses up and down the green turf, crushing hosts of wild-flowers at every step. At last all was arranged, and all were in readiness, the servants with the hampers had been sent on before, and nothing detained us but the absence of those in whose honor the picnic called for a dozen ways at once, until my spirits were elated by my own activity. My sister and I appeared to have changed natures. She was preoccupied and sad. I knew it to be the anniversary of the day appointed for her marriage, and could see how little her heart at that moment was with us.. As Harry galloped past us with a merry good-morning greeting, and the profile of the stranger with him came in our view, Julia started violently from her seat, but in a moment repressed all outward signs of agitation. In reply to my anxious inquiry, she answered evasively that it was nothing; she was "Tired and a little nervous, and the air would soon restore her." Our drive was lovely; past well-kept farmhouses, whose kitchen doors stood invitingly open, as if with hospitable welcome to bid us enter; past orchard and meadow, fields of grain, rippling in great billowy waves of green in the morning breeze; but chiefly through grand and fragrant woods, whose tree-tops were softly hymning to themselves, as if their joy was too deep for utterance. Squirrels leaped from bough to bough over our heads, birds sang as if for us alone; we could claim all this beauty as our heritage, and with swelling heart exclaim, "My Father made them all." My sister scarcely spoke during the ride; but I could not keep quiet, I was too happy— merely to exist, to breathe, to be, was a joy. A new world was opening to me. I was winning a place of my own in the hearts of those around me. I was learning to plan for others, to work for and with them, and it was already bringing me a deep and enduring blessing. I took with me that day a look of approbation from my loving mother, which went far towards healing the wound made by those stinging words, which were nevertheless so truthful. Arrived at the grove all was bustle and gayety. I was immediately summoned for especial consultation with regard to bowers, tables, swings, and a dozen other arrangements for the general pleasure; this separated me for a short time from my sister, but in the midst of my work a loud exclamation, as of alarm, attracted my attention towards her. I hastened to the spot. I found Julia senseless, and the yoùng stranger bending over her with an appearance of absorbing anxiety. All made way for me as I approached, and at the sound of my hurried footsteps, the young man raised his head, throwing back the heavy masses of hair which had half concealed his features from me. I screamed in absolute terror, for before me in the body, living, breathing, radiant with hope, stood Mark Lee, my sister's betrothed! Had the sea given up its dead? was I dreaming? would no one speak to explain the mystery? But Mark himself was the first to recover, and grasping my hand with a force which gave me crushing evidence that he was in the flesh, exclaimed, "Emma, have you no welcome for the exile returned home?" I could not speak; I could only sink on my knees by my sister's side, and clasping her in my arms, sob out thanks to the God who "ruleth over all," and out of thick "darkness bringeth light.' The rest of that day I was in a whirl of excitement; my sister had been startled as we set out, when Mark rode past us so rapidly, by what she supposed to be a resemblance to her lover, hence her emotion; but as our carriage was nearly the last in the line, we did not see him again until we reached the grove. A few moments after, Harry Melville brought him towards her for the purpose of introduction, when, casting her eyes on his face, she fainted. In the explanations which followed my appearance, we gathered the outlines of his story for the last two years. The vessel was wrecked and all perished but himself; he was picked up more dead than alive by an outward-bound ship and kindly cared for. The captain landed him at the first principal port, where he could seek aid from the consul, thence he made his way to Italy. His first care was to communicate with his bankers, and through them transmit letters to us. These were soon returned with the message, "No traces of the family to be found," "The father has died, the eldest daughter Julia married and gone to a Western State and taken her mother and sister with her." This blow ended his hopes of happiness, and, turning to his art for distraction, he determined never more to revisit his native land. Falling in with Harry, a close friendship was formed, which finally resulted in his return with him to America. By some strange providence, which men call chance, our names were never mentioned, else Mark would have learned that the "eldest daughter Julia" who married was my eldest cousin, not sister. But he knew nothing, heard nothing until he met her face to face. We returned home, as previously planned, in boats; and to some of our number at least, heaven seemed opened, and the angels to sympathize with our joy. We sang, but not loudly nor even merrily, our very laughter was subdued; we seemed to have looked into the grave and received back our dead to life again. Months rolled away; the earth had put on her mantle of white, the waterfall was silent, the wheel of the old mill stilled, our birds had left us to sing their songs in balmier airs; yet I was happy, and why? My sister was away with him whom she loved, brightening his home by her welcoming smile, and receiving, as his wife, the whole homage of his warm heart. I felt her absence sorely every hour of my life, and yet, again, I was happy, and why? Not only that to my mother did I seem dearer than ever, that she leaned upon me and missed me if I stirred from her side; but to my soul had arisen still another guiding star-I loved and was beloved. Harry Melville had held a long interview with my mother, in which he had given utterance to his affection for me, speaking words of praise of what he termed my unselfishness, that rewarded me a thousand times over for all my struggles and all my remorseful anguish of mind. Then and not till then did I confess to my darling mother the pain and penitence which followed overhearing accidentally those condemnatory words, "We never miss her." Thus much for my love and reward in earthly happiness: heaven ward, I could only pray, that my repentance might be accepted, and that His spirit might so guard and guide me, that I should not miss the heavenly happiness which waits for His beloved. MY GARDEN FAIR. OH, where the deep-red roses grow The giant poplars stand; Frail vines in matted woof Rich pinks their every shade and tint I, from the grass on which I lie, In pictures quaint and rare. |