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For Woman's Work. PANSIES. A wee sweet maiden full of love, Ran swiftlv to her home one day Laden with velvet pansies bright— A gift— to give away. “I love them, oh I love them so, Os all the flowers, I love them best, I wonder why God made them grow, The best of all the rest! O mother look! my pretty flowers, That 1 did ask, and beg for so.” The sweet blue eyes were full of tears The sobbing voice was low. The tiny hand had clasped too tight The fragile blossoms that it held. The loving little palm had proved The favorite flowers’ death knell. The tender heart was sorely hurt, The brimming eyes flowed o’er And mother’s love was none too much To sooth the heart so sore. ♦ ♦♦♦♦♦ About that lovely form one day They scattered pansies sweet, Not crushed this time by tiny palms Or faded by the heat. Cool and glowing and fresh They lay on the folded hands But the blue eyes now were closed in death— She had gone to fairer lands. For Woman’s Work. THE COUNTESS NAIDA. BY EIGGAM RENMAH. Chapter I. “THE SONG OF THE SIREN.” Os all the stately houses that surrounded imperial Rome, like a jeweled girdle, that of Count Vichrotf was perhaps the most magnificent. Built of white marble, with its grounds stretching away to right and left, its great iron gates and marble terraces, it struck a chill 01 awe to the cha.ice way farer. This awe was not lessened by the equipage of the owner as it dashed out, be tween the rampant Honson the gates; with the silver harness shining on the sleek black horses, and the Russian coat of arms on its panel,glittering in the afternoon sun. The owner of both palace and eqtrpage was a Russian noble with an ancestry reaching back to Paul, Peter and Ivan ; whose word was law on bis estates in Russia and to whom thousands of serfs bowed as bows the palm to the sirocco. But the haughty Count Viehroff a second Agamemnon, had conquered but to be conquered, and had become powerless in the soft white hands ol a woman. One spring three years before, on a visit to one of his summer palaces, he had met Naida Zeglarofi, Princess Strom brech, and, while in the heat of one of those fierce passions which break through restrictions and reserve, as a spring flood through ice,carryingdesolation and destruc tion in its track, he had made her his wile. The fervid summer of his love was over; so entirely over that Naida Viehroff could' almost have believed it a dream, but for the fact that the dainty note paper in her desk bore the Vichroff crest and mon ogram, and the bowing Lackeys saluted her as Aladam la Countess; and well, ver sometimes the fetters would gall just a lit tle bit for all they were golden, and she had helped to forge them. It was late in a day which had been bright with that radiance which the sun flings only over Italy. But it was cool, ar it generally is toward evening; and hence a fire of fir logs burned on the great marble hearth of the room, in the Villa Vichrofl.- where sat the Countess Naida. The air was fragrant with the scent of roses in great bowls and the faint aromatic odor o' the burning fir. In the depths of a gilded leather chair lay the countess Naida. Her figure was very slight and in the midst ot the great room it looked almost childish Her hair was black and her face color less, save for the rich red of the lips. Un der straight, narrow, b'ack brows were set eyes almost amber in color. The contrast ot hair and eyes was striking, and lent a piq uant charm to the small, dark, oval face. She was gowned in a loose robe of green, embroidered in silver, and confined at the waist by a wrought silver girdle; the shape ly feet upon the footstool had great silver buckles on their high hee>ed slippers; the hands that lay in her lap were shapely, and the loose sleeve of her gown revealed a smooth round arm ; forthough so slight and fragile looking, all her limbs were turned and rounded, with that fineness which peo ple, for want of a better name, call “ race.” Upon her lips there hovered a pen sive smile, a kind of “ vae victis ” expres sion, which boded no good to the subject of her thoughts, doubtless, for it was nota bly true that the musings of the Countess Naida were by no means conducive to the peace of mankind in general. While she sat thus, the door opened and a young man entered with a quick, elastic step—a tall, broad-shouldered, blond Eng lishman. He was young, not perhaps quite so young as the Countess Naida, by a year or two; but his face wore an eager, expectai t look, that happy anticipant expression, which is peculiar to youth; and which, in all her life, had never rested on the Coun tess Naida’sfac*-; forshe had read the book of her generati-m. from preface to finis, before she- had made her presentation courtesy and there was nothing left for her to anticipate. I hardly hoped to find you at home” he said as he took the low stool at her feet. Yes. Fedor, has gone to Russia to see about some of his people who are in trouble —they always are. He wanted me to go with him, but I declined. Traveling over slushy roads, with the chances about equally balanced between reaching your destina tion and being frozen, or eaten by wolves, is not to my taste. I like this better.” So saying, the Countess nestled down in her chair, and waved the huge feather screen she held toward the blazing logs, and with an almost imperceptible motion, let it slowly rest on the arm of the man by her side. It was a little thing, a mere nothing, save for the glance that accom panied it; but it was fraught to Lord Chas taine wiih a subtle significance, which sent the blood mounting in a flush of pleasure up to his close-cropped, blond hair. “Ring for some tea, Algy; I was just going to when you came.” Lord Cbastaine did as she bade him. He had been doing her will ever since he met her two years ago. Since that time his home has known him no more. He had followed the Countess Naida to and fro on the continent, as it pleased the whim of her lord to go, always finding some excuse, for leaving brilliant courts or crowded cities when she did. And sh» treated him by turns half playfully, half contemptuously, and wholly as a boy, de spite his six feet and two years seniority to herself. When Mrs. Grundy said anything about Lord Chastaine, the Countess Naida would answer “Oh! yes, Algy’s a nice boy, I’ve known him ages. I told him the other day it was time he married, but he’s been so long on the continent, that he knows very few Ei glish women, and its partofan En glishman’s religion tomarryone of his own country women, if he can.” As they sipped their tea Lord Algy look ed up and said, “Go to drive with me to morrow. I’ve got the new ponies and we can lunch at a charming lit le cafe', that reminds one of the days of the Borgias; its so quiet and mysterious-looking, and the old proprietor is so quiet and obsequious Will you come Naida? The ponies are splendid,and the weather’s too fine to waste indoors.” “ Yes, I’ll go foolish boy I You needn’t bring forward so many inducements.” ARCADIA. Next day as they bowled along through the soft, sunny afternoon air, Countess Nai da looked up from under the lace of her parasol at the handsome, eager face beside 1 her, and across her lips there flitted a smile, halt of amusement, half of contentment. If a man who had traveled a certain road, and knew all its piVal s, saw another pil grim journeying toward a precipice which he knew not ot, and raised no warning voice, but simply stepped aside and let him plunge headlong to his doom, the law would perhaps hold him guiltless--but in the exes of a Higher Judge there is blood upon his hands, just as surely as though he had pressed home a dagger to the heart ot his victim. By this unwritten law of passive acqui escence, there is blood-guiltiness at ihe door of many a fair dame whom the very whisper ot murder, w*uid cause to shudder under the dainty satin coverlid. The cafe' wa» a relic of a by-gone day Quaint, picturesque, ruinous, but beautiful m its decay. Great open fire-places, fres coes so darkened by time, that a perpetual night seemed to have fallen on the scenes, and the figures appeared as though grop ing in a mist. It was a lonely quiet spot, out in the green campanna country, with a rolling, flower-dotted expanse, seen from the win dows on the left; while on the right was a shady old garden, with here and there, the remnant ot a marble statue gleaming out of the shadows; for the garden had once belonged to a grand old chateau, and many a night had rung with music and laughter. The chateau, the music, and the laughter bad long since passed away, and all that remained to tell the story of perished splen dor, was a ruined fountain, and here and there a wingless Cupid or a headless Baccheus. And it was small wonder that Cupid lost his wings and Baccheus his head in this degenerate age. They had lunched and gone out into the cool quiet of the garden. Lord Algy walked beside the Countess as she trailed the white cashmere of her robe over the soft turf, and thought bitter things of the man in Russia. His meditations were interrupted by the waiter with a tray,two camp chairs and oth er paraphernalia of a garden tea; for Lord Algy had ordered tea and fruit to be sent to them there. These he set forth or. a little rustic table, and took his leave in ob sequious silence. As Countess Naida poured the tea into the dainty cups, she looked across the table and said with a smile “ How delightful this is. I think in remote ages there must have been gipsy blood in my family and that it has all come out in me ; I love the woods so. I remember when a child seeing a gipsy camp, and becoming so fascinated with the supreme beatitude of a pot hung above the fire on three sticks, that on reach ing home, nothing would content me until I tried the experiment of cooking in a like manner. The smoke blew in my face; one of the sticks on which the pot was hung burned in two, turning over the pot and thereby scalding my foot. But, even these mishaps did not serve to entirely eradicate my love of the Bohemian. Lateron I found, however, that Bohemianism and Barbarity were not by any means synonymous terms, as I had once thought; and that it was pos sible to enjoy the pleasures of the one with out being troubled with the inconveniences of the other. As for instance just now.” She ended with a laugh, as she pushed her cup from her and leaned back in her garden chair. The lonely garden, the sun-set hour, the presence of the one woman he loved, had silenced Lord Algy’s usually ready tongue, and instead of replying, he sat gazing moodily into her face. Seeing there was no reply forthcoming, she continued: “I like to get away from the world and society sometimes. Not that I’ve anythingagainst society; on general principles, I think it’s a very fine institution, for the preservation of law and order.” “Youthink then society tends to that end ?” Asked Lord Algy. They had left the table and strolled deeper into the wood. The Countess Nai da was seated on the ground,leaning against a tree. She was gowned in white cash mere, with soft falls of lace; her large white hat with its drooping feathers was pushed back from her face, which was slightly flushed The hair round her temples lay in soft dark rings; in the lace at her breast nestled a crimson rose, which stirred with her breathing. Her hands lay in her lap, and she was looking dreamily down the vistas of the trees. Her face had for the moment a half-sad, half-tender expression. She rested lightly against the trunk of a great oak, which had doubtless looked down on many a fair, frail dame, in quilted petti coat and high-heeled buckled shoes ; and on many a gallant knight with his §word upon his thigh and his falcon on his wrist. The wind stirred the boughs, and the young leaves whispered to one another the cry ot many atime-stained cynic. “How like the world is! Always the same old story!” Seeing that she had not heard his ques tion, Lord Algy repeated it; wondering how long he wou d be able to hold in check the fierce hot tumult of his heart. “So you think society and fashion con ducive to law and order?”. Well, yes,” she answered slowly, bring ing her eyes back to his and watching the dark red flush as it mounted slowly to’his forehead “ More especially as regards wo men; and we are generally considered the disturbing element, 1 believe. The law is to a woman, a great intangible, incompre hensible object sometimes useful to protect, but never to punish her. Tell a woman that a thing is against the law. and ten to one. she is deaf to you; but tell her that it is against ti e decrees of fashion or society, and you have implicit obedience. Y<u see we’ve made society a Juggernaut and it’s a point of honor to punish the victims, even when it involves a personal sacrifice.” Lord Algy laughed, and throwing the stem of a bunch of grapes he had been eat ing. at a vagrant butterfly, stretched him self out on the turf at her feet, resting his head on the folds of her gown that lay beside her on the grass. “ You are very idle now-a-days. it seems to me,” said the Uountess. “you have shown me nothing that you’ve done, not even a sketch, all the summer.” “ What I care to paint I dare not. and I have before my eyes one vision to the ex clusion of all else. Have you ever been in the wood and seen a tree struck by light ning? It may stand foryears, in all respects a perfect tree, save for the one little black streak, only when the spring comes it buds out no more. lam like the blasted tree, 1 will never paint another picture. Do you see that level space of ground to the left, where there are no trees? Some of the best blood of two continents has been spilled there. It is a famous duelling ground.” “Is it? Well it dispels another one of my illusions. I always had an idea that a duelling ground was a barren strip of some storm-swept shore, or the depths of some gloomy, lonely wood. And behold! here it is more like a croquet ground, and within twenty rods of a cafe'. Truly this is the phrase about coffee and pistols illus trated. Well, as we are the only two about, and piobably wont need the pistols,we had better drive home and get the coffee. I don’t want to stay here for any, I couldn’t stand those dim frescoes after the duelling story.” She had risen as she spoke, and as she did so, one of her gloves, which she had taken ofl, fell to the ground. Lord AJgy stooped fnd raised it, saying as he did so: “1 shall keep this—a souvenir of my hours in paradise. And if I ever have to give and take fire at six paces, I will have a talisman, ot which 1 can say, as did the ancient warriors of the cross upon their banners; “ In hoc signo vinces.” •‘You absurd boy! One would think you were going to fight a duel to morrow, and I doubt if you ever had a worse griev ance than to have a pet pointer killed, or a greater insult than to be taken for a poet.” “Yes, I’ve a greater grievance than the pet pointer, but you won’t believe it,” an swered Lord Algy. His voice was low, and his eyes gazed into hers with a sombre bril liancy. [concluded next month] For Woman’s W’ork. HANDY-HANDINESS. American boys who are brought up to labor, are usually distinguished for the knack of turning their hand to anything. Handiness expresses a peculiar aptness in small matters, versatility, and tact. The children of wealthy parents, and boys who are set apart for some learned profession, are seldom expected to deal with anything but ideas. When they grow up if they fail in the particular calling to which they belong, they become helpless, and feebly strive to get along, with poor success, until kindly death has compassion on them. Every boy, no matter to what he aspires, should be taught while young to use im plements of the farm, tools of the shop, the management of animals, etc. Nothing is more piteous than the too often seen helplessness of educated and refined people brought suddenly to poverty! Education should beget practical facility. Too often it is a mere exercise of the brain in which the hands have no participation. When thrown out of their regular callings, hundreds of people are as helpless as a ship on the dry ground. The worst of it is, that no body can help anyone who cannot help himself. Imbecility in practical affairs leave one to bang like a dead weight around the neck of those who would help him. It is foolish for one to say, “My children will never need manual craft.” In the ever rolling flood of society in America, no body’s children are secure against going in their turn to the bottom.. It they can neither swim nor wade they must drown. Boys should be educated to use their eyes and hands in the expectation that at some day they may depend wholly on them for support. WOMAN. The woman who does not please is a false note in the harmony of nature. She may not have youth or beauty or even manner; but she must have something in her voice or expressior, or both, which it makes you feel better disposed toward your race to look at or listen to. She knows that as well as we do; and her first question, after you have been taking your soul into her consciousness, is, “Did I please?” A woman never forgets her sex. She would rather talk with a man than an angel any day. Womanly women are very ki dly critics, except to themselves, and now and then to their own sex. The less there is of sex about a woman the more she is to be dreaded. But take a real woman at her best moment- well-dressed enough to be pleased with herself, not so resplendent as to be a show and a sensation, with the varied outside influences that set vibrating the harmonic notes of her nature stirring in the air above her, and what is social life to compare with one of those vital in ter-changes of thought and feeling with her that make an hour memorable? What can equal her tact, her delicacy, her subtlety of expression, her quickness to feel the changes of temperature, as the warm and cool currents of thoughts blow by turns? At one moment she is micro scopically intellectual, critical, scrupulous in judgement as an analyst’s balance; and the next as sympathetic as the open rose, that sweetens the wind from whatever quar ter it finds its way to her bosom. It is in the hospitable soul of woman that a man forgets he is a stranger, and so becomes natural and truthful, at the same time that he is mesmerized by all those divine differ ences which make her a mystery and be wilderment.—Oliver Wendell Holmes. As well, almost, kill a man, as kill a good book. Many a man lives a burden to the earth, but a good book is the precious life blood of a master-spirit, embalmed and treasured upon purpose, to a life beyond a life.—AfiZton.