whose fragrance lured them was the flower of love; and what need was there of pretense for man or maid when here was such sweet reality? And thus things went on from week to week, and month to month, and year to year, and still after the first confession no mention of the marriage day. But it was enough for her that she loved, that she was beloved; life put on such fair colors that looking through this love-lit prism all things wore rainbow hues.

I told my dear as gently as I could that her lover was gone away to visit foreign countries. She bravely bore the Winter's solitude, watching the snow fall still and white, hushing the longings of her heart, and veiling his frailties under the white mantle of her charity. She sang no more the songs he taught her, but when she softly sang, which was not seldom, they were the cradle songs she learned from me, which seemed to soothe, and gently lulled to sleep her sorrow. But there did come weaken

I never loved her more dearly than in these days that she herself loved so dearly, for love did not make her selfish; nay, it seemed but to increase her capacity for loving, and a tenderer heart never beat in human breast than hers. True love is patient, forbearing, long-suffering, and kind, and when the visits that made the sum of her earthly bliss complete grew less frequent, she ever had some cheerful excuse for him. Rumors of his haughty mother's opposition had long since reached us, and I was prepared for disappointment, but my gentle girl, who knew so little of the wicked world, feared no evil. But the evil came nevertheless, and when I chided that her lover tarried so long away, with many tears she told me he could never come again; and though all thought of marriage between them was over, yet he had sworn to love her truly all the days of his life, and she had promised to be faithful unto death.

When the news came through one of our employers that the weak young man was ill of a fever, all my care was to keep my child from this knowledge. It was, not difficult to do, as she never in these days ventured abroad, and all customers were warned to gossip nothing of the matter in her presence. Unconsciously she helped me keep the secret, for if any one knocked she stole away with her work into the garden; indeed, she spent much time there, for she seemed to like best to be alone, and I humored her mood.

In a little while I learned that the stricken man was recovering, and that his mother had hurried him abroad to confirm his health. I felt relieved when I knew his life was not to be the price of his mother's cruel pride, and then

with her sobbing. I knew that words were vain, that prayers only could avail, and through the darkness I prayed that heaven would shed its light and peace upon our souls.

The Winter passed, and the Spring unfolded with ever-renewing beauty, but the sight of reviving Nature did not revive my child. Nay, she seemed sadder still, and, drooping over her work, sighed wearily to herself, "Ah! if he would only come."

Summer was upon the heels of Spring, when the postboy dropped a package at our door. It proved to be a foreign journal, which I felt contained tidings that concerned us. She had seen the paper, and I knew concealment was not possible, for I fain would keep all bitterness from her.

"The truth is best, mother. Is he dead?" she asked, with white, faltering lips.

"Dead to us, my child," I answered, for in carefully marked lines his marriage stood recorded, and I saw his mother's hand had sent this shaft to strike the heart of my dove. It was too monstrous for belief, and her steadfast soul shook as with straining eyes she read the lines for herself. Even then she could not take in the truth.

"There must be some mistake, mother," was all she found speech to utter.

Alas! there was a sad mistake; the mistake of a true heart leaning upon a hope that pierced it. But, so far as the truth of his marriage was concerned, there was no mistake, and the neighborhood, unheeding of our woe, was jubilant with preparations of welcome for the newly wedded bride. What could we do, two needlewomen, with but one heart between us, and that heart broken? We could not stay here and wait for this triumphal procession to trample us in the dust. I resolved to go away, and counted the store laid by for my daughter's wedding day, no longer needed; and to what fitter use could it be put than to take us away from this great humiliation?

It was on a calm and peaceful Sabbath morning the news of their arrival reached us, and it threw my child all into a flutter of excitement which seemed akin to joy.

"And what shall I wear to church to-day, mother?" she cried. "Not my white gown, for white is for the bride; nor my black gown, for black is for those that mourn. I will wear my blue gown, for he liked that best."

She never appeared so fair as on that Sabbath day that I walked proudly by her side, supported by her strength and courage. As we passed up the aisle the bridal train swept up another, and, turning, my child saw her last wan hope steal away and lose itself in this white shimmering pageant.

This was the first moment she knew him

faithless, but she made no sign, save that her face was white and still as the dead's, and I knew by my own that her heart was inwardly bleeding. Her looks were meek and patient, and when the hymn was sounded her voice arose clear and sweet from her place. It was not until we reached home that her fortitude forsook her, and she threw herself upon my bosom, crying, "Mother, I have but you!" I soothed her as best I could, telling her that though all the world failed us, we would be true to each other, and true to ourselves. But I think the cry of her heart drowned my words, for she could see no rescue from the waters of bitterness which overwhelmed her. Then she put on her black gown, because she had said "black is for those that mourn," and though she made no lamentation, her looks were more touching than tears.

We could not work in this sad time, though we both tried bravely, and I strove to ease my daughter's heart by talking of our trouble, but she laid her hand upon my arm, and with piteous, beseeching eyes said, "Mother, silence is my salvation."

How she suffered! It broke my heart afresh to see her wandering about so white and dumb, with such a burden of woe weighing her to the earth. I bitterly reproached myself for bringing her up in such seclusion, remote from companionship with her own sex, and I strove to rouse her to some interest in life, but she only consented to visit those who were as wretched as herself.

She sang no more; it seemed as though her grief had grown too great to be lulled to sleep, as children outgrow their cradle hymns, and slip from their mother's knee to beds which are not always beds of ease. Her whole aspect

row.

worn and weary woman before her prime. The sunny, wayward locks were smoothed severely back, and seemed to fade and darken with sorIndeed, it was as though the cloud under which she walked cast its shadow on her head, and veiled the brightness of her being. But she was sweeter and gentler even for this sadness, and more precious through her sufferings. She made a great effort to throw off her apathy and take her share in the labor of life, and after awhile she conquered her grief, and set steadily to work again. Her work was not the less well done that it was done with an aching heart; and though she no longer wrought tender fancies along the borders of her hems, it may be that tender memories were not without a blessed

consolation.

In time it came to pass, so famous grew her skill in needle-craft, that all the country-side sought her aid. And she for whom no wedding garment ever would be made, made bridal robes for those who would be wed, and burial robes for those who must be buried.

So great was her skill that the bride who had long been a wife, and hoped soon to become a mother, brought all her dainty things and left them in her hands. And surely no fairy fine ever did more beauteous work; such tucks, and hems, and frills, all decked with costly lace and For were not cunning device of needle-work! these precious garments for his child? and could mortal fingers make them too fine? And people, pleased with her fair work and fairer face, grew to love her. She had such gracious ways and gentle words for all, and carried about her an atmosphere of peace that won all hearts unconsciously.

By slow degrees the stone was rolled away from the sepulcher of her heart, and all the gloom imprisoned there took flight, and in its place the glory of the Lord shone down. I heard her singing,

"How firm a foundation, ye saints of the Lord,

Is laid for your faith in his excellent Word!" Then I knew that the foundations of her hope were laid deeper than the earth, and the pinnacles of her faith rose higher than the heavens; that peace and good-will to all filled her heart.

The rolling years passed. I ceased to count them, but their snows descending softly settled on her head. To me she grew no older; for though her hair was blanched her face was fair and unvexed, and through the mild melancholy of her eyes shone the sweet trust which comes from heaven. She had passed from under the cloud, which had found her hair gold and left it gray; yet it shone with a more precious glory

than of old; for then she wore but the nimbus of a cherub, now she was crowned with the halo of a saint.

She wrought not only on garments for the body, but she wrought for good on the souls of men, and far and near the young and old sought her for counsel and consolation. No web was so tangled that she found not its clew; no path so intricate but she came upon the true way; and when those who had committed grievous sins, even crimes, went away comforted, I marveled at her; but she answered with that sweetest answer of charity, “Nay, mother, they know not what they do."

Ofttimes I saw her press her hand upon her heart, while a look of anguish crossed her face, and to my anxious inquiry she answered it was only a passing pang, gone with a breath; but I noticed the action grew more frequent, and often she sat with her hand upon her heart singing victorious hymns-I was blind and did did not see the truth-to stifle the anguish of the flesh.

The brightness of her soul shone through and made such a glory about her that all things were transfigured in this light. My eyes were dazzled, and I would not believe the truth when friends warned me of her failing strength, and told me that she could not live many months. It is written, "Two women shall be grinding at the mill, one shall be taken and the other left;" but I did not think it could be that she would be taken away and I be left toiling alone at the mill of life, for the waters ran low and the stones moved slowly; my head was white with the dust of age, and I longed to be at rest.

But her garments were whiter than mine, and one day, her work being done, I was left alone and another voice was singing on the heavenly shore.

And he whom she had ever loved, watching her from afar through disappointment and remorse, loving her with a love that was stronger than his will, placed above her heart a marble slab, on which alone was written, In pace.

No doubt hard work is a great police-agent. If every body were worked from morning till night, and then carefully locked up, the register of crimes might be greatly diminished. But what would become of human nature? Where would be the room for growth in such a system of things? It is through sorrow and mirth, plenty and need, a variety of passions, circumstances, and temptations, even through sin and misery, that men's natures are developed.

A

ANIMAL INTELLIGENCE.

NEW champion for the Intelligence of Animals has revived the discussion in a book* full of facts and inferences which, if not all new, are all to the point. Without admitting that humans are the issue of quadrumans, he believes with Lactantius that animals possess in a certain measure the faculties of men, and that our inferior brethren, as St. Francis d'Assisi calls them, preceded us on earth, and were our first instructors. We take an example or two of what the smallest and the dullest of them, as well as the biggest and cleverest-fleas and fish as well as elephants-can do.

There were industrious fleas before our time. Baron Walckenaer-who died in 1452-saw with his own eyes, for sixpence, in the Place de la Bourse, Paris, four learned fleas perform the manual exercise, standing upright on their hind legs, with a splinter of wood to serve for a pike. Two other fleas dragged a golden carriage, with a third flea, holding a whip, on the box for coachman. The flea-horses were harnessed by a golden chain fastened to their hind legs, which was never taken off. They had lived in this way two years and a half, without any mortality among them, when Walckenaer saw them. They took their meals on their keeper's arm. Their feats were performed on a plate of polished glass. When they were sulky, and refused to work, the man, instead of whipping them, held a bit of lighted charcoal over their backs, which very soon brought them to their

senses.

But of what use is cleverness without a heart? The flea has strong maternal affections. She lays her eggs in the crannies of floors, in the bedding of animals, and on babies' night-clothes. When the helpless, transparent larvæ appear, the mother flea feeds them, as the dove does its young, by discharging into their mouths the contents of her stomach. Grudge her not, therefore, one small drop of blood. For you, it is nothing but a flea-bite; for her, it is the life of her beloved offspring!

While pleading, however, for the flea, we can not do as much for the bug, though he is gifted with fuller developed intelligence. An inquisitive gentleman, wishing to know how the bug became aware of a human presence, tried the following experiment. He got into a bed suspended from the ceiling, without any tester, in the middle of an unfurnished room. He then placed on the floor a bug, who, guided probably

L'Intelligence des Animaux, par Ernest Menault. Paris. Hachette & Co.

by smell, pondered the means of reaching the bed. After deep reflection he climbed up the wall, traveled straight across the ceiling to the spot immediately over the bed, and then dropped plump on the observer's nose. Was this, or was it not, an act of intelligence?

The fish belongs to the great flathead family. The same sort of platitude which you see in his person, doubtless extends to the whole of his character. You have met him somewhere in human shape-one of those pale-faced, wishywashy gentlemen, whose passions have extinguished all heart and feeling. You often find them in diplomatic regions, and can't tell whether they are fish or flesh. But if their mental powers are less developed, their term of existence is more extended. They gain in longevity what they lose in warmth of temperament.

Nevertheless, the skill with which the stickleback constructs his nest is now a matter of natural history. Other fishes display an address which we acquire only by long and constant practice. One fellow, with a muzzle prolonged into a narrow tube-which he uses as a popgun-prowls about the banks of tidal rivers. On spying a fly on the water-weeds, he slyly swims up till he gets within five or six feet of it. He then shoots it with water from his proboscis, never failing to bring down his game. A governor of the hospital at Batavia, doubting the fact, though attested by credible witnesses, procured some of these fish to watch their pranks. He stuck a fly on a pin at the end of a stick, and placed it so as to attract their notice. To his great delight they shot it with their waterguns, for which he rewarded them with a treat of insects.

during the operation; when it was over he plunged into the pond. At first his sufferings appeared to be relieved, but in the course of a few minutes he began rushing right and left until he again leaped out of the water.

"I called the keeper, and with his assistance applied a bandage to the fracture. That done, we restored him to the pond and left him to his fate. Next morning, as soon as I reached the water's edge, the pike swam to meet me quite close to the bank, and laid his head upon my feet. I thought this an extraordinary proceeding. Without further delay I examined the wound, and found it was healing nicely. I then strolled for some time by the side of the pond. The fish swam after me, following my steps, and turning as I turned.

"The following day I brought a few young friends with me to see the fish. He swam toward me as before. Little by little he became so tame as to come to my whistle and eat out of my hand. With other persons, on the contrary, he continued as shy and as wild as ever." This anecdote is averred to have been read, in 1850, before the Liverpool Literary and Philosophical Society.

The elephant, with a sort of humorous justice, is given to return injuries or insults in kind. In Madagascar, an elephant's cornac, happening to have a cocoa-nut in his hand, thought fit, out of bravado, to break it on the animal's head. The elephant made no protest at the time; but next day, passing a fruit-stall, he took a cocoa-nut in his trunk and returned the cornac's compliment so vigorously on his head that he killed him on the spot.

"While living at Durham," says Dr. Warwick, "I took a walk one evening in Lord Stamford's park. On reaching a pond in which fish were kept ready for use, I observed a fine pike of some six pounds weight. At my approach he darted away like an arrow. In his hurry he knocked his head against an iron hook fixed in a post in the water, fracturing his skull and injuring the optic nerve on one side of his head. He appeared to suffer terrible pain; he plunged into the mud, floundered hither and thither, and at last, leaping out of the water, fell on the bank. On examination of the wound, a portion of the brain was seen protruding through the fractured skull.

"This I carefully restored to its place, making use of a small silver toothpick to raise the splinters of broken bone. The fish remained quiet

his pay, found himself the worse for liquor. When the guard were about to carry him off to prison, he took refuge under the elephant and fell asleep. His protector would allow no one to approach, and watched him carefully all night. In the morning, after caressing him with his trunk, he dismissed him to settle with the authorities as he best could.

Both revenge and gratitude imply intelligence; still more does the application of an unforeseen expedient. A train of artillery going to Seringapatam had to cross the shingly bed of a river. A man who was sitting on a gun-carriage fell; in another second the wheel would have passed over his body. An elephant walking by the side of the carriage saw the danger, and instantly, without any order from his keeper, lifted the wheel from the ground, leaving the fallen man uninjured.