terial for a new dress-an elegant thing, of the loveliest texture, and the shade so well suited to her complexion; how could Fred have known exactly what to choose in order to please her? Evidently this was no time to complain of the eigar, though he was smoking it under her very nose with all the assurance imaginable.

A day or two after, finding it become a settled and regular thing, Susie undertook to debate the point with him; but here again he was too much for her. He was full of sophistical reasoning, and could rattle away so much faster than she could, that she was silenced completely.

first, with her mincing, affected ways; yet, for your sake, I have tried to like her, and I always treat her politety when you choose to invite her here. And, Susie, darling, as to your other charge-my having less regard for your feelings than formerly-do you think you are quite as careful in your attentions to me as you were before we were married? Seems to me now"-Fred hesitated, and racked his brains to think of something to prefer against her-"seems to me, when I took breakfast with you at 'grandpa's,' you didn't come down in anything so unbecoming as your present style of morning-gown, or with your hair all

"But I knew also that you were a sensible person in the main, and was confident I could argue you out of such a mere whim. You have never brought one rational objection yet against the practice."

"There is the consideration of health, I am sure," said Susie. "The effects are allowed to be most injurious."

"My doctor says just the reverse, my dear, and Doctor G- hasn't his equal in the country hardly. It is rather a disputed point, I know, but of the two the weight of authority is quite on my side."

"Such a useless expense," suggested Susie, and she was beginning to calculate the amount at so much a cigar, so many cigars per diem, when Fred laughingly interrupted.

"Don't puzzle yourself with the arithmetic of the thing, my dear. Pray, allow me to ask if you never indulge yourself with anything not strictly useful and necessary. Supposing I should go to estimating the length of the bills you are likely to run up at fancy and jewelry stores for gossamer and gewgaws and all that kind of thing. I tell you what, if you'll dress in a calico gown, and wear calf-skin shoes and everything to correspond, I'll be a convert to your principle of economy. But nothing short of such a lovely example of consistency will ever quite convince me."

"My wishes go for nothing with you now," said Susie, the rosy mouth beginning to quiver. "You professed to have great regard for my feelings before we were married."

"Now, my dear little wife," returned Fred, "why isn't it just as fair to put it the other way? Where is your affection for me if, just out of a mere caprice of yours, you forbid me a practice in which I take such an innocent enjoyment? Matrimony, the wise ones say, is a system of mutual concessions. Don't I have to tolerate some little peculiarities in you, and make various little sacrifices not at all to my taste? You know I detest cats, and always did; yet I allow that ugly beast the liberty of the house because he is such a pet with you. Then there is that particular friend of yours, Miss Simonson. The girl was odious to me at

of this now, and I don't think any the less of you on account of it; pray, don't suppose that I do. But the long and short of it is, don't you see what a piece of perfection you have got for a husband? Nothing in the world out of the way with him but this one little thing-this smoking business. You will conclude to gloss this over, I know; so now," giving his cigar a toss clear over into a vacant lot adjoining, "get your bonnet, and let's have a stroll. There's the most delightful little nook I want to show you down by the river-side where we haven't been yet. Or shall we go up and see the sun set from the top of the hill? Come."

Susie went to get her bonnet just as she was bid, and that was the last we saw of her. Our heart rather aches for the mortified, distressed little thing. Still, if no worse trouble than this ever comes upon her to the end of her days, we suppose she ought, upon the whole, to be very thankful.

Let us now change scenes and characters a little. A young lady was slowly walking up and down a graveled walk, leaning upon the arm of a gentleman somewhat her senior in years. The fine old country house and the grounds about it belonged to him; and the young lady and her father, with some other friends, had been making him a visit. Rather a family gathering it had been of relatives, near and remote; for, as the young man said, he had but few connections at the best-not half enough to fill the great old lonely house; and their stay at the old family mansion had been of some weeks' duration. But all had now left, except Mr. Walter and his daughter, and they were to go upon the morrow.

The young lady's face wore a gentle, pensive, and, just now, rather troubled expression, though the large brown eyes lighted up brilliantly at times, making her most beautiful to look upon. Probably the gentleman thought her beautiful always, for his countenance expressed the most undisguised admiration; and, from the nature of the conversation which was passing between them, it was but fair to conclude that he had just declared his total inability to live alone any longer, and invited her to "come and reign queen in his household, as

she was already in his heart," with nobody knows how many other fine speeches of the sort.

The young lady glanced about her at the beautiful home which might be hers, and up into the fine face looking so beseechingly down upon her. It was a great temptation, evidently.

her judgment was blinded, and heart and fancy had everything all their own way.

Her father, too, as ministers sometimes will, looked upon the matter from rather a worldly point of view. He was far from being well or strong himself, and he belonged to but a shortlived race; how soon he might die, or break down in the midst of his labors, and his daugh

"Right, dearest?" returned her companion. "As if there could be anything wrong in so simple a thing as marrying me and making me happy for life. I know what you mean, though," as his eye caught the sad glance of hers. "I am not as good as you are, I know; but you shall make me what you will, my sweet Mary. I will be as wax in your hands." Mary shook her head a little doubtfully. "I would rather see you right now, than to trust to any influence I may chance to have over you for good hereafter."

"Am I so very bad in your eyes, Mary, that you look so despairingly upon me? What have you heard about me?"

"Nothing, nothing, Charles. I know you were the best of sons to your widowed mother while she lived; you have been the best of brothers, too; and there is not a spot upon your reputation. But something more is necessary to make you what you should be. Mere kindness of disposition and mere morality are not enough."

"I am not what is called 'pious,' it is true," answered Charles; "but I love and admire religion in you, and I have the greatest respect for its institutions generally."

"You told me, the first Sabbath we were here, that you had not been in church for more than a year," said Mary.

Charles' inward thought was, "Yes; but I should have kept that to myself if I had dreamed that I was going to fall so desperately in love with you, my dear little angel of purity." He answered aloud, in a remorseful tone of voice, "I know I have been very remiss here; I must reform in this respect, and the sooner the better. I almost always went half a day when mother was alive" (if his mother could have risen from the dead and given in her testimony, probably she would have said "sometimes," instead of "almost always"), "and I should certainly not do less for a wife-if you will be that wife, dearest Mary."

Mary was not quite satisfied with him, nor with herself. She had always pictured in her own mind something so different-a marriage in which there should be perfect congeniality of religious feeling, as well as upon other subjects. But Charles adored her so; he had so many amiable and estimable qualities; such a delightful future every way opened before her ; all these things were to be considered; and, like many another woman similarly situated,

without any dependence! Here was a sphere, too, in which her means and her influence would be greatly extended, and she might make herself very useful; in a word, the life which now is and that which is to come might both be secured.

So, in the following autumn, there was a quiet wedding at the old parsonage in the small village where Mr. Walter lived; the father was left in the care of a maiden sister who had long resided with him; and Mary was established in her beautiful home with the "kindest and best husband in the world," as every woman mentally styles her own, during the continuance of the honeymoon at least.

For a while we don't know just how longeverything went on very smoothly. Charles was at church as regularly as Sunday came; once a day always, and not unfrequently twice. Parson Deane began really to have hopes of him, and Mary herself had quite ceased to dread his relaxing into any of his bachelor, anti-go-to-meeting propensities, believing them all effectually sunk in the sea. But, sooner or later, old feelings were sure to revive, and old habits to assert their power over him, as we could have told her to begin with, had she asked our advice. It is no matter of surprise to us at all that at last Mary found her dear husband of a Sunday morning, just as the distant bells were beginning to ring for church, still in his dressing-gown and slippers, leaning back in his easy-chair, his newspaper dangling idly from his hand, and his eyes fast shut as if he had fallen into a snooze.

"Why, Charles, dear, you will be too late,” said Mary, laying her hand upon his arm.

"I think I won't go to church to-day," said Charles, making very hard work of opening his eyes, and shifting one leg over the other to change his position a little. "I don't feel like it some way. I am dreadfully drowsy," and he yawned, stretched himself, and closed his eyes again, as if about to settle back and enjoy the rest of his nap.

"A ride in this brisk air will wake you up, I think," said Mary, "or shall I give you a shake or two?" and she gave a little preparatory pull to his arm. But her pleasantry not seeming to answer the desired purpose, she leaned over him and said, in her most persuasive voice, "You know the agreement, Charles, darlingone service with me regularly every Sabbath. Come, you are not going to break your word with me for a trifle, I know ;" and, seeing that

is so severe; I'm afraid I have a tendency to lung disease," and he laid his hand upon his broad chest, to indicate the seat of his maladies, groaned a little groan, coughed a little cough, and assumed altogether such a whimsical appearance of distress that Mary smiled in spite of herself; but her countenance was heavily overcast again in a moment.

What to do she really did not know. She saw, through all this assumed playfulness upon the part of her husband, a steady determination to carry his point, and her heart sank within her.

"Won't this broken promise of yours lie rather heavily upon your conscience?" she said at last, tenderly taking his hand in hers.

"I have done so many other dreadful things, according to Parson Deane," said Charles, "that this single item weighs very light. I shall add it to the general stock, and repent of my sins all in a lump by and by.”

"My dear husband," said Mary, looking very much shocked, "pray, talk seriously upon such a subject as this, if you talk at all."

Anything to please you, my dear. But, Mary, I really believe that your people think that the sum total of religion consists in 'going to meeting.'"

"No, indeed, my dear husband," said Mary, earnestly. "But those who truly love God, and desire communion with him, are always fond of meeting him in his house, I think. And isn't it very strange now that you should have such a repugnance to hearing the gospel preached?"

"I don't dislike it, except from Parson Deane," returned Charles, stroking the little hand which was still in his. "It doesn't do me a bit of good to hear him; but you shall preach to me as much as you like by your own sweet spirit and beautiful example. I reverence Christianity as I see it in you; but my right and title where Parson Deane is concerned I really must make over to somebody else."

Mary saw how vain it was to remonstrate or insist any further, and she said no more. It was plain how it would all end; and, sure enough, it was not long before she had ceased even to ask her husband to accompany her to church, going off alone, and sitting in her wellcushioned pew all by herself, quite as a matter of course.

But Charles really loved his wife, you will say, and he was an excellent husband in the main. Exactly. More fortunate than some women, Mary had not taken the whole of his character upon trust, blindly relying upon the professions and promises made to her. What he was before marriage, was secure. A good son, a kind brother, of irreproachable morals -here was a rock to rest upon. And possibly, through the blessing of Heaven upon her salutary example, and in answer to her many

prayers, he did at length become all that she desired to see him; we certainly hope that he did. But she had not the slightest guarantee for it beforehand, don't you see? A wise wo man-if a woman can be wise in love-will look at what a man is in himself, at what he wishes to do and to be for his own sake; not at what he promises her when, as Fred Sunderland would say, "he does not well know what he is about."

GRATITUDE.

THE boundary lines of feelings are more or less confused, and sentiments run into each other almost as undistinguishably as colors. Crudely catalogued, we know clearly enough what each thing is. Blue is blue and vice is vice; and there can be no mistake about either. But there are tints where blue and green are so cunningly commingled that we cannot say to which side of the chromatic scale they belong; and there are feelings so complicated that it is impossible to determine whether the actions resulting ought to be called virtuous or vicious. This is especially true of venality and gratitude. Isolated, we know what venality is and what gratitude is; but in certain men and women weakness and self-interest, affectionateness and want of self-respect are so mixed up together that no one can say whether such a one can be bought or only influenced, and whether the controlling force which makes him or her the âme damnée of the stronger will is weakness or wickedness, venality or gratitude. The âme damnée, however, gets no credit for any modifying grace of feeling. He is assumed to be bad all through because he may be weak in parts, and to sin wilfully against his better nature when he shores up his friend's shaky pretensions by a thousand false assertions, or maintains that his patron's worst offences against morality are virtues in disguise, if people only knew it. It is never conceded as possible that a man can be such a fool as to get his moral sense so obscured by weakness of will, or that exaggerated kind of attachment which burkes principles in favor of persons, as to really see his friend's follies or his patron's faults modified into beauties and virtues, as he says; or even if not quite this, then that he should honestly convince himself that gratitude, and what he perhaps calls loyalty, is the finest virtue going, and that uncompromising truth counts as nothing in comparison with the active remembrance of past favors. When, therefore, he lies to save his friend's reputation, when he takes doubtful offices on himself and does things which go by queer names out of consideration for his patron's bounty, he does that which is substantially a vice, whatever the motive; and though he may be able to persuade himself that he is right, he is none

the less the âme damnée in the eyes of othersscorned by all men with finer moral perceptions and a less pliant will; and rightfully scorned. Of such a man it cannot be said that he has not his price. His friends soon find out what it is; and he is bought and paid for by a few good turns which touch his heart and throw him into bondage for the remainder of his days. He might have been impervious to mere considerations of self-interest, and he may reject with disdain anything like a confessed bribe; but flattery, a kind manner, or more substantial benefits knock down all his defence-work, and he becomes as clay in the hands of the potter when it pleases those of his acquaintance who require his services to manipulate him according to his bent for their own purposes.

If this is true of a certain kind of boneless man, it is still more so of women, whose natural weakness makes them more easy to serve, and whose sense of gratitude, if they have any at all, is frequently in such excess of their selfrespect as to render them willing and facile tools, ready to do any kind of work if craftily cajoled, or even brutally coerced. All annals of crime are full of instances of women, probably naturally good if necessarily weak, being led into the commission of the most horrible erimes under the guidance of the man who had got hold of them through their passions, their fears, or their gratitude; though, indeed, gratitude carried to this extent is more often than not love under another name-gratitude pure and simple, uncomplicated by personal affection, being a sentiment even more rare among women than among men. But, on the other hand, women deceive themselves on this matter, and call themselves grateful when in reality they are in love; thinking they are influenced by principles when they are simply swayed by sentiment. What the cause may be, however, does not belong to this part of our subject. The result is the only thing that concerns us; and the result is, that an affectionate woman makes herself easily enough the âme damnée of the man who has been kind to her, and is ready to go through fire and water, as the phrase is, to serve him, and to prove to him how deeply she feels his generosities. She is not so facile to her own sex; though a few exceptionally weak sisters do every now and then give up their souls to the stronger-minded among themselves, and traffic in forbidden fruits of many kinds become influenced thereunto by some feminine friend who has studied the fable of the monkey, the cat, and the chest nuts, with intelligence.

One unmistakable form of gratitude is the active remembrance of good deeds in the past which can now be repaid in kind, when there is no chance of giving back from the friend who once bestowed so liberally; a distinct revolution having taken place in the relative position of each. That kind of gratitude which

has been called a lively sense of favors to come has no place here. Your friend who gave you largely of his substance last year has followed the usual course of persons who do not calculate, and has come to grief this. You remember what he did for you when he was at the top of the wheel, you ever so many spokes below; and though you know that he can never now repay you for any excess you may bestow on him, and that time wipes out debts in fact, if not by right, you act out your gratitude, and give him a helping hand in return for the many lifts he gave you. Perhaps, however, you are of a thoughtful turn of mind, and do not help him. You argue that he was unwise to part with his money as he did, and you would be, therefore, just as unwise to part with yours. "Fast bind safe find" is a good motto to your way of thinking; and the care of number one the most rational object of a man's life. You hold that gratitude is a weakness unworthy a reasonable being who appreciates values; so you button up your pocket with an extra turn, and are really very sorry you cannot help him. It is marvellous how one's relation to a principle changes its aspect. The virtue of generosity, which, when we were feeding on husks, we thought unequalled in moral value, loses all its charm when we are in clover; and the severest maxims of political economy, and deep convictions on the immorality of assisting the weak, take its place. Besides, everything we give to others is so much loss to ourselves-the twiceblessedness of giving being a delusion and a snare. And no one can afford to lose power. The story of Lear touches the strongest chord of the human heart, and is one of the lessons every man and woman has to learn. So we learn it for our own part on Regan's plan and Goneril's teaching, when our friend, who was once so great and good to us, has come to grief, and we might help him-but do not.

Sometimes the expectation of gratitude on the part of those who have shown us attention is embarrassing, not to say painful. An author invites us to dinner, and expects in return a flaming review of the dullest book of the year; an actress sends us a couple of theatre tickets, and looks for an introduction to one's wife and daughters as repayment, having a desire to play the part of social propriety for a season; a painter dashes us off a miserable daub, which he presents with a flourish, then pointedly remarks that his picture this year at the Royal Academy is the best he has ever done, and underpriced at two hundred. There is a vast amount of this kind of thing in the world; and the sprats which are thrown for herrings are as numberless as the gudgeons which take the bait. Another awkward thing of the same kind, but not identical, is to be found in the transfer of friends. A and B are friends; whereof A is perhaps the more able to show civilities, B the more apt to receive them. But