want a warmed-over wife. I dunno as I need to say anything else," he remarked, after thinking a while, "except this," and he scratched across the paper the closing words: "Send letters to P. O. Box 195, Goshen, Massachusetts, U. S. A.”

"'Cause it might go to England," he chuckled, and the pen. with conscious pride at having written so many words, set a seal to its labors with a great blot.

"Well, I never!" John Randall exclaimed. "Blast you! If I haven't got to write that all over. I don't suppose any woman 'd have me, if I asked her on blotted writing paper." Having finished his third copy he started for the apple-house. He tied his letter to the largest apple he could find, and laid it almost tenderly in the barrel. Then, with equal carefulness, he packed other apples around it and on top of it until not a speck of white could be seen. All the while, his heart beat a little faster, and confused thoughts crowded up into his head. But his thoughts would have been even more confused, if he had known all that was happening even then in the kitchen; for scarcely had he reached the apple-house when Amanda Farnum opened his kitchen door.

"Goodness alive!" she exclaimed, as she entered, “I shouldn't think he'd swept here since Eliza Ann died. I don't see how he can live in such a mess! That shiftless sister of his was bad enough, but I believe even she would turn in her grave if she could see this." She held up her skirts, and tiptoed across to the old secretary.

"That everlastin' pipe of his!" she sniffed, "I wish I dared to throw it out o' the window. He could live just as well without makin' a smoke-stack of himself. But then, better a pipe than a bottle. Land! I wonder what he's been up to now!" she went on, setting down a tin pail, and taking the blotted sheet of paper. "To whom it may concern,' well, that's me, I guess,Greeting. This certifies that I, the man that packed these apples, am thirty-seven years old, and own a good farm,'— yes, and 'twould be enough sight better if you wouldn't be so shiftless, If any woman would like to marry me, I wish she would let me know. I ain't particular whether she is a widow or not. Send letters to P. O. Box 195, Goshen, Massachusetts, U. S. A.' Well, I never! what on earth is he doing that for. I wonder if he really has got tired of living alone." She read the letter again, slowly, this time, and then stood very still.

"Mph!" she said, turning away, with a strange tenderness in her eyes, I could show him a woman that would answer that, and not go very far either, and maybe-I don't know as I'd hate smokin' so, after all-guess I'll put these doughnuts in the jar, and hurry home, I forgot to tell mother where I'd gone."

In spite of all John Randall's precautions, however, the winter months passed without bringing him any reply.

"Probably," John used to say in consolation, "probably they'll keep those apples till spring. Then she'll find my letter and write."

As for Amanda, she watched him very closely. Every time he went down by her house, whistling, on his way to the village, and came back in silence, she drew a long breath, and made an extra mince-pie for him. Her attentions extended beyond bread and pies and doughnuts, to sweeping, bed-making and mending; so that John Randall no longer felt like an outcast. When April came, he even ventured to ask her to hire a woman and to give his "shanty" a "regular old cleaning," and perhaps paper the kitchen and sitting-room. Amanda did not refuse. She only tightened her lips, and thought of the woman who even now might be building air-castles about living with the man of thirty-seven" on a "good farm."

During this time, John Randall had made daily journeys to the post-office. His hope, half quenched by the constant uselessness of these trips, was growing fainter and fainter. Yet it flamed up brightly, when, in answer to his oft-repeated question, the postmistress handed him, besides his weekly Herald, a large white envelope, addressed in an unfamiliar hand, and postmarked, "Crompton, Rhode Island." Rushing back to his wagon, he jumped in, and drove rapidly till he came to the long hill just outside the village. Here he let the horse jog along at its own pace, and taking the letter out of his pocket, proceeded to examine it.

"Looks kind of scrawly for a woman's writin'," he observed, as he tore open the end. "I hope she ain't one of these mascerline new women. If she is, I shall send her back on the next train." He drew out the sheet of paper, and began to read. 'Mr. Man of thirty-seven. Your barrel of apples was opened to-day, and your letter found. I, too, am desirous of getting married. I am two years younger than you, and very beautiful as well as rich; but I long to live on a farm with some

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one I can love. For references address Rev. Peter Dogood and Dr. John Healall, both of Crompton, R. I. Hoping to hear from you soon, I am yours ever, Hannah Gage.'

"Now that sounds pretty good," he remarked. "She'll do all right. 'Beautiful and rich' just as I hoped she'd be, and 'wants to live on a farm with some one to love.' I guess I and my farm 'll be just what she wants, too. I'm glad 'Mandy's got the house cleaned up. Hope my new woman 'll hurry up and come. I never can keep it clean. My! if here ain't 'Mandy's house. Guess I better not be readin' a letter goin' by." He tucked the envelope into his pocket, drew out his Herald, and opened it. His eye glanced over the first page, and rested at last on a column headed, "Romance in Goshen."

"Mph!" he snorted. "Wonder who's been bein' silly up here. Like as not it's that Williams girl. She tried to catch me with her little tricks, but I was too smart for her."

But what was this he was reading about a barrel of apples packed in Goshen, and a note tied to one of the apples? Whose letter was it that was printed out to the light of day? and what was that about a grocery clerk's finding the letter, and, instead of giving it to some eligible person, handing it to the village wag? Could that last sentence be true, that those fellows had made up a letter to send to him in reply? He was far beyond 'Mandy's house now-he could look at the letter again. Yes, the handwriting was certainly that of a man. It was a joke, a cruel, heartless joke, and his dream of a home must perish. Worst of all, everybody would know, and 'Mandy would know; and what would she say?

"Oh, if I was only married!" he groaned. "Then people wouldn't think it was me that did that. If I was only somebody else!" He thrust the letter back into his pocket, and folded up the Herald, as the horse, of its own accord, turned into the dooryard. 'Mandy was at the kitchen door, shaking dust-cloths. John Randall kept his face turned the other way, and drove straight on into the barn. It took him a long time. to unharness. Once he took his pipe out of his pocket and half filled it. Then, for no apparent reason, he emptied it, and stuck it back in his pocket. And this, too, took a long time; so that it was six o'clock before he decided that he could go into the house. As he entered the clean kitchen where 'Mandy had just finished spreading a little table, she was putting on her hat.

"Any news?" she asked.

"Not as I know of," he replied, lying consciously.

But 'Mandy's quick eye had caught a glimpse of a white edge protruding from his pocket, and her face paled. Randall, feeling her gaze, shuffled his feet uneasily. There was an awkward pause. His eyes, trying to avoid hers, strayed over the neat room, and rested a moment on the carefully set table.

'Mandy was putting on her jacket, and wondering how soon the new mistress would come. She buttoned up her wrap, and turned to the embarrassed man beside her.

"Goodbye," she said, and put her hand on the door-knob. But John Randall snatched it away.

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"Don't go," he cried, and a sudden determination leaped into his eyes. "I can't never get along alone again. And I won't smoke at all, if you'll only marry me,-'Mandy."

EVA AUGUSTA PORTER.

SUNSET

Above the purple pine tops,
Above the purple hills,
From rosy purpling grayness
The golden rapture thrills.

To the azure zenith
Orange flames aspire,
Swirling 'gainst the glory

Of turquoise and sapphire.

Up into the zenith

Pours the golden flame,
Leaping, lingering, longing
For the way it came.

Hush! across the beauty
Of the salmon gold
Amethystine splendor
Drifting, fold on fold.

Far behind the mountains,
On the sapphire sky,

Streaks of golden salmon
Darkness still defy.

But the gorgeous glory

Fades to purple gray,

And in royal raiment

Darkness follows day.

SARAH BARBER WEBSTER.

NEVIN'S “GONDOLERI’

Among those widely loved reminiscences of Italy, called by Ethelbert Nevin "A Day in Venice," the "Gondolier's Song" stands forth, not only for its dreamy beauty, but as an instance of a conflict between art and nature. It represents the song that the Venetian gondolier sings as he plies his oar, in the early morning, a song as natural and unconscious as that of a bird, he sings because he is happy and cannot help singing. Then his mood changes, and he recalls a dreamy melody that came to him at dawn, a suggestion of love, perhaps, with a touch of passion, fading into regret. But such thoughts cannot hold him long, in the fresh morning air; he breaks off abruptly and launches again with new spirit into his first happy, inconsequent melody. This, at least, is my interpretation of the music, which is so suggestive that one can scarcely help reading some such meaning into its notes.

The idea is well carried out, to the point of the sudden break in the singer's strain of regret. Here a strange thing happens. The gondolier not only abruptly changes his train of thought, which is not surprising, considering his volatile nature, but he jumps to an entirely different key. In so doing he violates a fundamental rule of the art of music, which, though perhaps not commonly known, is quite commonly felt. It causes a jar. You feel that there is something wrong, and your attention is taken from the unconscious song of the godolier by wondering what has happened, and what made him do it. The whole point of the change of thought, which should illustrate the spontaneity of the singer, is lost.

Music is a strange thing, of a nature so changeable as to be able to reflect every mood of man, often better than any words could express it. Natural music,-music which is unrestricted by the rules that in time grow up in any language of thought,-seems to be absolutely free and unfettered. But in our universe noth