was published in book form in 1866, under the nom de plume of G. F. Harrington. The hardest hits in the volume are at the men most bitter of all for secession - the Northern men then resident in the South. As the author

and all of his relatives were of Southern birth and residence, it results naturally, as his works testify, that he has never written a line inconsistent with the most ardent love to his section, as well as to his country.

Rev. Mr. Baker in 1865 accepted the charge of the Second Presbyterian Church at Zanesville, Ohio; and afterward ministered to a congregation at Newburyport, Massachusetts. He now is pastor of a Presbyterian Church in South Boston, Massachusetts. Although he has contributed for years to the various religious journals and magazines of the country, he has always made his literary labors incidental and subordinate to his pastoral duties, to which he gives the chief energies of his hand and heart. His later writings include: "Oak Mot," 1868, a Sabbath-school volume prepared for the Presbyterian Board of Publication; "The Virginians in Texas," which appeared serially in Harper's Magazine; and "The New Timothy," 1870. The latter sketches the odd phases of

ministerial and social life in the rude frontier settlement of the Southwest, the rollicking humors, boisterousness, and vicious characters of the borders, and the experiences by which the young pastor was taught the tact of becoming "all things to all men." His latest work, "Mose Evans," first published in 1874 in the Atlantic Monthly, has since been issued in book form by Hurd and Houghton, New York; The Riverside Press, Cambridge.

- In dull times booksellers hire little boys to ask for books by imitation titles. "In a Garden," by Tennyson, did service at one time. "You know how it is yourself," by Charles Reade, is a recent one, and we ourselves heard of an instance where "Who's your Schoolmaster?" was asked for at a library. Say the words rapidly.

-Two enterprising students of Harvard are preparing for publication what is likely to be a valuable souvenir for graduates. It will be an expensive quarto volume, and contain heliotype illustrations of all the buildings, and of persons holding full professorships in the university. The portraits will be accompanied by brief biographical sketches, and the views of the buildings will be complemented by histories of them. Among the contributors are Samuel Eliot, who will write a history of the institution; J. L. Sibley, the librarian, who will furnish a sketch of Gore Hall and the library; Oliver Wendell Holmes, who will give a history of the Medical School and the old Holmes House; Colonel Higginson, ex-Governor Emory Washburn, and Asa Gray, who will give the history of other buildings, and Mr. C. P. Cranch, who will write a poem on Memorial Hall. The excellent history of Harvard by President Quincy is now quite rare, and to follow the more hurried fashions of the day a brief sketch which should give a view, from the inside, of the gradual development of the university would be very interesting, though we suspect that the institution is in too much of a transition state to permit such a view to be wholly satisfactory. - We have referred before in these notes to the Dining Hall which forms part of the pile of buildings of which Memorial Hall at Harvard is the centre. It is by far the largest college hall in the world, being one hundred and sixty-five feet in length, sixty feet in width and from fifty to sixty feet in height, or one third larger than Christ Church Hall at Oxford. It has been proposed to make the hall the dining-hall of the students, instead of reserving it for state purposes. We find in the Magenta, a college

paper published by Harvard students, the following prac tical plan: "At a meeting of the Thayer Club officers in consultation with President Eliot, the President informed them that if it could be made certain that three hundred men would board at the Club next year, the dining-hall in Memorial would be used. Circulars will be issued, pos sibly distributed next week to the undergraduates and members of the schools. If the required number is made up before the end of the year, the necessary work will be immediately commenced, and it is hoped that the hal will be ready for the club at the beginning of the ner academic year. As has been stated before, the tables it the new hall will seat twelve, and to each table one waite will be given. A professional steward will be hired by the Corporation at a salary of $1500 a year. In orde to keep the price of board at the lowest, in additio the steward will be given 10 cents for each man if the price is $4; if $4.10, he will receive but 9 cents, when it reaches $5, he will receive nothing. With the exception of the appointment of the steward and financial control, the management will be in the hands of the st dents. But by giving three months' notice, the directory can remove the steward. These directors are to be chose by the students, two from each class and school, providel the number in each is more than forty; if less than forty one director will be allowed. With the officers is to rest the choice of an auditor, who shall keep the accounts an exercise a general supervision, at the salary of the prese steward. The pictures now in Massachusetts are to be hung in the hall, and every means used to make the b of dinner pleasant and social.”

m

- Mr. Theodore Thomas, who has shown that an b est man may succeed even when charlatans have achieve an apparent success, makes the agreeable announcement of a series of concerts at the Central Park Gardens, fr children. We should like to see the experiment well trie and it would be safe in such hands. We should like t hear Haydn's Children's Symphony given before su an audience, or Hadyn's Surprise Symphony, or s of Schumann's Kinderscenen. We do not believe it wo be necessary or indeed best to select only such musis was written for children. We have had enough of tis principle in literature, but it certainly would be poss for one of wide acquaintance with musical compositio and of genuine interest in and knowledge of children. select instrumental pieces which would give exceed delight. We suspect it would be found, however, that t children would give more frank expression to their 5 and dislikes, than older people in the same circumstan - We cheerfully copy from the Tribune report of meeting of the American Oriental Society the follow paragraph, although it may turn out that the manuscr belongs to the Cardiff Giant: "A letter from the Charles H. Brigham of Ann Arbor, Mich., may result finding the owner of a stray manuscript picked up November on the premises of the Michigan Central Es way by a laborer. The manuscript is made of thin parchment, in the form of a roll, and, according to 3 Brigham's description, is a genuine Ethiopic docu It was conjectured by some of the members that the uscript might have been obtained in Abyssinia by sc one who accompanied the late English expedition." C it be that some Ethiopian has changed his skin for sa change?

The recent strike among the stage drivers in N York seems to have set people on their legs again. I now that the lumbering, noisy vehicles have stopped r ning, there is a general sense of relief.

VOL. I.]

A ROSE IN JUNE.

CHAPTER VI. (continued.)

IN-DOORS, however, Mr. Damerel's illness was a very terrible matter, and affected every member of the household. Mrs. Damerel gave up everything to nurse him. There was no hesitation with her as to whether she should or should not postpone her family and cares to her husband. From the moment that the dreadful word "fever" crossed the doctor's lips she put aside the house and the schoolroom and every other interest, and took her place by the sick-bed. I do not know if any foreboding was in her mind from the first, but she never paused to think. She went to the children and spoke to them, appealing to their honor and affection. She gave Dick and Patty permission to roam as they liked, and to enjoy perfect immunity from lessons and routine, so long as they would be quiet in-doors, and respect the stillness that was necessary in the house; and to Agatha she gave the charge of the infants, exacting quiet only, nothing but quiet. "The house must be kept quiet," she said to them all imperatively. "The child who makes a noise I shall think no child of mine. Your papa's life may depend upon it. It will be Rose's part to see that you all do what I tell you. No noise! that is the chief thing. There must be no noise!"

The children all promised very solemnly, and even closed round her with great eyes uplifted to ask in hushed tones of awe, as if he had been dead, how papa was? The house altogether was strangely subdued all at once, as if the illness had already lasted for weeks. The drawing-room became a shut-up, uninhabited place, where Rose only entered now and then to answer the inquiries of some anxious parishioners not too frightened to come and ask how the rector was. The tide of life, of interest, of occupation, all flowed towards the sick-room -everything centred in it. After a few days it would have seemed as unnatural to Rose to have gone out to the lawn as it was at first to sit in the little anteroom, into which her father's room opened, waiting to receive her mother's commissions, to do anything she might want of her. A few days

SATURDAY, JUNE 20, 1874.

sufficed to make established habits of all these new circumstances of life. Mr. Damerel was not a bad patient. He was a little angry and annoyed when he found what his illness was, taking it for granted, as so many people did, that he had taken it from Susan Aikin. "I wish Providence had directed me anywhere else than to that cottage door at that particular moment," he said, half ruefully, half indignantly, " and put me in the way of that fanatic Nolan, who can stand everything. I knew my constitution was very different. Never mind, it was not your fault, Martha; and he is a good fellow. I must try to push him on. I will write to the bishop about him when I get well."

These were heavenly dispositions, as the reader will perceive. He was a very good patient, grateful to his nurses, cheerful in his demeanor, making the best of the long struggle he had embarked upon indeed, few people could have rallied more bravely from the first shock and discouragement, or composed themselves more courageously to fill the first position which was forced upon him, and discharge all its duties, such as they were. His illness came on not violently, but in the leisurely, quiet way which so often distinguishes a disease which is meant to last long. He was ill, but not very ill, on the fourth day, descending into depths of it, but going very quietly, and retaining his selfcommand and cheerfulness. This particular day, on which he was a little worse than he had been before, was mild and rainy and warm, very unlike the wonderful blaze of summer which had preceded it. Rose sat by the open window of the little anteroom, which was now her general position. The rain fell softly outside with a subdued, perpetual sound, pattering upon the leaves. The whole

atmosphere was full of this soft patter. The door of the sick-room was ajar, and now and then Rose heard her father move in the restlessness of his illness, or utter a low little moan of suffering, or speak to Mrs. Damerel, who was with him. Everything was hushed down-stairs; and the subdued stirring of the rain outside, and the sounds of the sick-room within, were all that Rose could hear. She had a book in her hand, and read now and then; but she had come for the first time to that point in life when one's

[No. 25.

own musings are as interesting as any story, and often the book dropped on her lap, and she did nothing but think. She thought it was thinking, but I fancy that dreaming was more like it. Poor Rose her dreaming was run through by sombre threads, and there was one shadow of wondering doubt and suspicion mingled in it. As she sat thus, one of the maids came softly to the door to say that Mrs. Wodehouse and her son were in the drawing-room, and would she tell Mrs. Damerel? Rose's heart gave a sudden leap; she hesitated a moment whether she should not run down without saying anything to her mother, as it was she, up to this moment, who had answered all inquiries; but the habit of dependence prevailed over this one eager throb of nature. She stole into the sick-room under shade of the curtains, and gave her message. The answer had invariably been," Go you, Rose, and tell them I am very sorry, but I cannot leave your papa." She expected to hear the same words again, and stood, half-turned to the door, ready, when authorized, to rush down-stairs, with her heart already throbbing, and nature preparing in her for a crisis.

"What is it?" said the patient, drowsily.

"It is Edward Wodehouse come to say good-by," answered his wife. "Herbert, can you do without me for a moment? I ought to go."

"Yes: go, go; Rose will stay with me instead," said Mr. Damerel. He put out his hot hand and drew the girl towards him, who almost resisted, so stupefied was she. "Do not be long, Martha," he said to his wife; and before Rose could realize what had happened she found herself in her mother's chair, seated in the shaded stillness near the sick-bed, while Mrs. Damerel's step going softly along the passage outside testified to the bewildering fact that it was she who was to receive the visitors. It was so sudden, so totally different from her expectations, so cruel a disappointment to her, that the girl sat motionless, struck dumb, counting the soft fall of her mother's steps, in the stupor that fell upon her. Her father said something, but she had not the heart to answer. It seemed incredible, impossible. After ten minutes or so, which seemed to Rose so many hours, during which she continued to sit

dumb, listening to her father's stirrings in his restless bed and the pattering of the rain, the same maid came to the door again and handed in a little scrap of paper folded like a note. She opened it mechanically. It was from Mrs. Wodehouse. Dear Rose, dearest Rose, come and bid my boy good-by, if it is only for a moment," it said. She put it down on the table, and rose up and looked at her father. "If only for a moment," - he was not so ill that any harm could happen to him if he were left for a moment. He did not look ill at all, as he lay there with his eyes closed. Was he asleep? and surely, surely for that moment she might go !

While she looked at him, her heart beating wildly, and something singing and throbbing in her ears, he opened his eyes. "What is it?"

he said.

"It is-oh, papa! may I go for one moment-only for a moment - I should come back directly; to bid poor - Mr. Wodehouse good-by?"

"What, could ye not watch with me one hour?" said the rector, with perhaps unintentional profaneness, smiling at her a smile which seemed to make Rose wild. He put out his hand again and took hers. "Never mind poor Mr. Wodehouse," he said; "he will get on very well without you. Stay with me, my Rose in June; to see you thus does me good."

"I should only stay one moment." Her heart beat so that it almost stifled her voice.

"No, my darling,' he said, coaxingly; "stay with me."

And he held her hand fast. Rose stood gazing at him with a kind of desperation till he closed his eyes again, holding her tightly by the wrist. I think even then she made a little movement to get free- - a movement balked by the closer clasping of his feverish fingers. Then she sat down suddenly on her mother's chair. The pulsations were in her ears like great roars of sound coming and going. "Very well, papa," she said, with a stifled voice.

I do not know how long it was before she heard steps below, for her senses. were preternaturally quickened and then the sound of the hall door closed, and then the rain again, as if nothing had happened. What had happened? Nothing, indeed, except that Mrs. Damerel herself had seen the visitors, which was a great compliment to them, as she never left her husband's side. By and by her soft steps came back again, approaching gradually up the stairs and the long corridor. The sound of them fell upon Rose's heart

was it all over then? ended forever? Then her mother came in, calm and composed, and relieved her. She did not even look at Rose, as if there were anything out of the ordinary in this very simple proceeding. She told her husband quietly that she had said good-by to young Wodehouse; that

he was going early next morning; that she was very sorry for his poor mother. "Yes, my dear; but if mothers were always to be considered, sons would never do anything. May n't I have something to drink?" said the patient; and thus the subject was dismissed at once and forever.

"Go and see if Mary has made some fresh lemonade," said Mrs. Damerel. Rose obeyed mechanically. The pulses were still beating so that her blood seemed like the tide at sea beating upon a broad beach, echoing hollow and wild in huge rolling waves. She

went down-stairs like one in a dream and got the lemonade and carried it back again, hearing her own steps as she had heard her mother's. When this piece of business was over, and Rose found herself again in the little anteroom, all alone, with nothing but the sound of the rain to fill up the silence, and the great waves of sound in her ears beginning to die into moans and dreary sobbing echoes, what can I say of her feelings? Was it possible that all was over and ended that she would never more see him again

that he was gone without even a good-by? It was not only incredible to her, but it was intolerable; must

she bear it? She could not bear it; yet she must. She stood at the window and looked out, and the bluishgray world and the falling rain looked in at Rose, and no other sound came to console the aching in her heart. He was gone, and there was no hope that he would come back; and she could not, dared not, go to him. The evening went on while she sat in this train of excited feelings, wondering whether the anguish in her heart would not call for an answer somehow, and unable to believe that neither God nor man would interfere. When it was dark she broke forth from all control, and left her post, as she could not do when leaving it was of any use: but there is a point at which the intolerable cannot be borne any longer. She put a blue waterproof cloak on her, and went out into the rain and the dark; but what was poor Rose to do, even when her pain became past bearing? She strayed round the dark lawn, and looked, but in vain, for the lights of the cottage at Ankerwyke; and then she ventured to the gate, and stood there looking out, helpless and wistful. But no good angel whispered to Edward Wodehouse, heartsore and wounded, what poor little watcher there was looking helplessly, piteously out upon the little gulf of distance which separated them as much as continents and oceans could have done. He was packing for his early journey, and she, poor maiden soul, could not go to him, nor could the cry of her heart reach him. When she had waited there a while, she went in again speechless and heart-broken, feeling indeed that all was over, and that neither light nor happiness would ever return to her more.

Poor child! I don't think it occurred to her to blame those who had done it, or even to ask herself whether ther knew what they were doing. Perhaps she did not believe that they had done it willingly. I do not thick she asked herself any question on the subject. She had to bear it, and she could not bear it. Her mind was ta pable of little more.

CHAPTER VII.

"It does not seem possible," said the rector, slowly; "and yet somehow ] cannot help thinking sometimes the I must be going to die." "Herbert!'

"It is very curious- very curious - my reason tells me so, not feeling I myself am just what I always was but I think the symptoms are agains me, and I see it in Marsden's looks Does n't he say so to you?"

"Dear," said Mrs. Damerel, with a trembling voice, "he does not conced from me that it is very serious; bu oh, Herbert, how often have we ga even the children at death's door, and yet brought back !"

"At death's door," he said refert ively; " yes, that's a good expressi at the door of something unknow Somehow it does not seem possib One can believe it for others, not one's self. The idea is very strange

Mrs. Damerel was a good, religi woman; and her husband was clergyman. She did not feel that th was how he ought to speak at sch moment, and the thought wrung heart. "Dearest," she said, grot more tender in her grief and pity, is a thing we must all think of time or another; and to you, who ha served God faithfully, it must b something else than strange."

"What else?" he said, looking at her. "I might say confusing, wildering. To think that I am göt I know not where, with no certain of feeling that I shall ever know £ thing about it; that I am no long free agent, but helpless, like a blown into a corner by the windwho for very nearly fifty years had a voice in all that was done to My dear, I don't know that I ever ized before how strange it was." "But-you are happy, E bert?" she said, in a low, imple voice.

66

Happy, am I? I don't knowwhy should I be happy? I what I am leaving, but I don't k what I am going to. I don't k anything about it. Something is ing to happen to me, of which I ba not the least conception what t I am not afraid, my dear, if that what you mean," he said, after a mentary pause.

This conversation took place we after the departure of Edward W house and the end of that first f ery chapter of Rose's life. Her p ents had not thought very much

her feelings, being concerned with much weightier matters. It had been a very long, lingering illness, not so violent as some fevers, but less hopeful; the crisis was over, but the patient did not mend. He was dying, and his wife knew it; and, though no one as yet had made the solemn announcement to him, he had found it out. He was very weak; but his mind was not at all impaired, and he could talk, with only a pause now and then for breath, as calmly as ever. It was a curious spectacle. He was gathering his cloak round him like Cæsar, but with sensations less satisfied and consciously heroic. Mr. Damerel was not a man to be indifferent to the necessity of dying fitly, with dignity and grace, but he had confidence in himself that nothing would disturb the folds of his robes at that supreme moment; he knew that no spiritual dread or cowardice would impair his fortitude; it was not necessary for him to make any effort to meet with dignity the unknown which was approaching; and his mind was at leisure to survey the strange, unexpected situation in which he found himself. going to die, without knowing what dying was, or how it would affect him, or where it would place him. I do not know, though he was a clergyman, that there was anything religious in the organization of his mind, and he had never come under any of those vivid influences which make men religious — or, at least, which make them fervent religionists whatever may be the constitution of their mind. Mr. Damerel was no sceptic. He believed what he had been taught, and what he had taught in turn to others. His mind was not doctrinal or dogmatic, any more than it was devout; but he believed in the broad truths of Christianity, in some sort of a heaven, and some sort of a hell. These beliefs, however, had no effect upon his present state of feeling. He was not afraid of the hereafter; but his mind was bewildered and confounded by the contemplation of something close at hand which he did not know, and could not know so long as he retained consciousness of this only world with which he was acquainted. He was absorbed by the contemplation of this mystery. He was not thinking of his sins, nor of reward, nor of punishment, nor of rest from his labors (which had not been many). In short, he did not consider the great change that was about to take place upon him from a religious point of view at all, but rather from one which was at once natural and philosophical. I should not like to blame him for this, as, perhaps, some people will do. When we have lost much that made life sweet; when our friends, our children, have gone before us into the unseen country; then, indeed, the heart learns many longings for that world in which alone there can be reunion and explanation of life's sore and weary myste

Yes, yes, that is quite true; but that is not what I was thinking of. I ought to have thought of what would follow in case of this happening which is about to happen. I ought to have tried to save; but how could I have saved out of the little pittance we had?"

"Dear, don't think of such things now."

I

"But I must think upon them. have never had any extravagant tastes, and we have always lived very quietly; but I fear you will find a difference. What a blessed thing that you are the sort of woman you are! The struggle will not fall so heavily upon you as upon most people. Incledon, of course, will marry Rose".

"Oh, Herbert! what does all this matter? Do not think of it. I would so much rather hear you speak of yourself."

"There is nothing to say about myself; and, perhaps, the less one thinks, in the circumstances, the better; it is a curious position to be in that is all that one can say. Yes, Incledon will marry Rose; he will make her a very good husband. Do not let it be put off from any regard to me. He will be a great help to you; and you may trust him, I should think, to settle about the boys. Lay as much upon him as you can; he is quite able to bear it. If one had foreseen this, you know, there are many things that one might have done; but-curious!" said the rector, with a smile, "I can't believe in it, even now."

"Oh, Herbert, it is never too late for God! Perhaps your feeling is the right one. If He would but give you back to us now!"

66

'No, no; don't think there is anything prophetic in my feelings, my dear. You may be sure every man is like me, more or less," said Mr. Damerel. "I know we must all die; only it is impossible in respect to one's self; I am myself, you perceive, just as much as ever; and yet to-morrow, perhaps, or next day-there's the wonder. It makes one feel giddy now and then. About the boys; I have always felt that one time or other we should have

to decide something for the boys. Leave it to Incledon; he is a practical man, and will know what to advise."

"Dear Herbert, if you can talk of it-oh, how much better it would be to tell me what you wish, that I might be guided by your own feeling, than to refer me to any one else!" said Mrs. Damerel, crying, kissing his hand, and gazing with wet eyes into his calm face.

"Oh, talk; yes, I can talk, but for a little catching of the breath, the same as ever, I think; but the boys are a troublesome subject. Leave it to Incledon; he knows all about that sort of thing. I think now, perhaps, that I might sleep."

And then the curtains were dropped, the watcher retired a little out of sight, and everything was subdued into absolute stillness. Mrs. Damerel sat down noiselessly in the background, and covered her face with her hands, and wept silent tears, few and bitter. She had felt him to be hard upon her many a day; she had seen what was wanting in him; but he was her husband, the first love of her youth, and her heart was rent asunder by this separation. She had enough to think of besides, had she been able; she had poverty to face, and to bring up her children as best she could in a world which henceforward would not be kind and soft to them as it had been hitherto. Her soul was heavy with a consciousness of all that was before her; but, in the mean time, she had room for no distinct feeling except one - that her husband, her love, was going to be taken from her. This tremendous parting, rending asunder of two lives that had been one, was more than enough to fill all her mind; she had room for nothing

more.

And he slept, or thought he slept, floating out of the vague pain and wonder of his waking thoughts into strange, vague visions, dimmer still, and then back again to the fancies which were waking and not sleeping. There was a dim impression of painfulness in them, rather than pain itself; wonder, curiosity, and that strange sense of an absolute blank which makes the soul giddy and the brain swim. Sometimes his mind seemed to himself to wander, and he got astray somehow, and felt himself sinking in an unfathomable sea, or striving to make his way through some blackness of night, some thorny wood in which there was no path. I suppose he was asleep then; but even he himself scarcely knew.

He

When he woke it was evening, and the lamp, carefully shaded, had been lit at the other end of the room. liked the light; and, when he stirred and spoke, the watchers made haste to draw back the curtains. The serene evening sky, full of soft tints of reflection from the sunset, with breaks of daffodil light melting into ineffable soft greenness and blueness, shone in

through the uncurtained window, which he liked to have left so, that he might see the sky. Rose and her mother were close by the bright circle made by the lamp, one of them preparing some drink for him, the other opening a new bottle of medicine which had just been sent. Though it was all so familiar to him, the fact that he was to go away so soon seemed to throw a strangeness over everything, and gave a bewildering novelty even to the figures he knew so well.

see

'More of Marsden's stuff," he said, with a low laugh; and his own voice sounded far off to him, as he lay looking at that strange little picture - a distant view of the two women against the light, with the sky and the window behind; somebody's wife and daughter -his own his very Rose, and she who had been his companion since his youth. Strange that he should look at them so quietly, almost with an amused sense of novelty, without any tragic feeling or even pain to speak of, in the thought that he was going away shortly and would them no more. He fell to thinking of a thousand things as he lay there watching them, yet not watching them. Not the things, perhaps, that a dying man ought to think of; little nothings, chance words that he had forgotten for years, lines of poetry, somehow connected with his present condition, though he did not remember the links of connection. "The casement slowly grows, a glittering square," he said to himself, and made an effort to think whence the line came, and why it should have at this moment thrust itself into his mind. Then he fell altogether into a poetic mood, and one disconnected line followed another into his mind, giving him a vague sense of melancholy pleasure. He said one or two of them aloud, calling the attention of his nurses - but it was not to them he was speaking. Finally, his mind centred on one which first of all seemed to strike him for its melody alone: For who, to dumb forgetfulness a prey, This pleasing, anxious being e'er resigned,

Left the warm precincts of the cheerful day,

Nor cast one longing lingering look behind?"

He said this aloud once or twice over. "To dumb forgetfulness a prey!' that is not my feeling not my feeling; the rest is very true. Gray does not get half justice nowadays. How it satisfies the ear, flowing round and soft! To dumb forgetfulness!' now I wonder what he meant by that?"

"You are better, papa,' said Rose, softly. Her mother stayed behind, not able to speak; but the girl, in her simplicity, thought the poetry "a good sign."

66

No, Rose. 'Dumb forgetfulness,'

it is not that, child; that is not what one fears; to be sure there is a coldness and blackness that might

Nay, I don't want to make an unnecessary fuss," he said; "it is only a curiosity I have. Cold creeping up

it is disagreeable to think of it. What I have I more medicine to take? What does Marsden mean by sending me his detestable compounds still? It will only make your bill the larger, and me the less comfortable. I will not have it; take it away."

"It is something different," said Mrs. Damerel. "The doctor thought perhaps it might be worth trying."

"Is it the elixir of life?" said the patient, smiling; "nothing short of that would be worth trying; even that would be too much trouble for the good. It would be folly to come back now, when one has got over all the worst of the way."

"You do not feel worse, Herbert? "Oh, no; when I tell you the worst is over, my anxious Martha! I am curious curious - nothing more. I wish I could but tell you, after, what sort of a thing it was. Sit down by

me, and give me your hand. Rose, you will be good; you will do everything your mother says?"

"Oh, Herbert!" said his wife, "do not think of us—if it has come to this

66

Is it so?" he said, still smiling. "I don't know where I am going, my dear, and that is the only thing that gives me a little trouble. I should like to know. I am not afraid of God, who has always been far better to me than I deserved; and I hope I know the way of life." This he said with a momentary seriousness which was quite exceptional. Then he added, in the musing tone which to his anxious watchers seemed almost a gentle delirium, "But think, my dear! to be sent even into a new place, a strange town, in the dark, without any direction without knowing where to go, right hand or left." He gave a little, soft, broken laugh. "It is the strangest way of dealing with curious, inquisitive creatures like men. I never realized it before."

Here some one appeared, beckoning behind the curtains, to say that Mr.

The good curate put her in a chair and soothed her, smoothing her pret ty hair, with unconscious tenderness as if she had been a child.

"Don't cry, dear," he said: "@ rather, do cry, poor child, it will you good; and stay quiet till I come back."

Rose did what she was told with the docility of helplessness. She lay bari in the chair, and cried softly. Ín the new strait she was as a child, and a the child's overwhelming sense of des olation, and half-superstitious awe d the terrible event which was coming weighed down her heart. Pity, a terror, and grief mingled in her mind till it seemed unable to contain so much emotion. She sat and listened to the low voices in the next room, and watched the side gleam of light whit came from the half-open door. T very world seemed hushed while this drama came to its conclusion, and there was not a sound without or with in but the soft movements in the sickroom, and the low voices. How m new experiences had come into be simple life in so short a time! Darkness overshadowed the earth already so that her pleasant pathway in seemed lost; and now here was Death that visitor who is always so doolly appalling the first time he enters i peaceful house.

"Well, Nolan, you have come in time, for I am just setting out,” să. the rector, in a voice stronger than had been, his anxious wife though "Why, man, don't look so grave: an you, my dear, don't cry, to discourage me. Set me out on my journey! little more cheerily! I never though much about dying people before; at mind what I say, Ñolan, because it your work. Of course, to those w have never thought about such mates before, religion is all-important; b there's more in it than that. Wh a man's dying he wants humoring Such strange fancies come into on head. I am not at all troubled t serious to speak of; but it is a very odd thing, if you think of it, to set on such a journey without the least notion where you are to go!

And he laughed again. It was D. harsh nor profane, but a soft laugh easy as a child's. I do not know w it should have horrified the attendars so, or what there is wrong in a laz so gentle from a death bed; but th hearers both shivered with nar

pain and almost terror. They tried! lead him to more serious thoughts a