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For Woman's Work. SONG OF THE MOUNTAINEER. O, the gorgeous sight that greets my eyes From the mountain’s rugged crest; As the weary sun, when the day is done, Sinks low In the amber west. Like a mantle of peace, night’s curtain falls, And a shade in the vale is seen; But the mountains height in the dying light, Is wrapped in golden sheen. It fades away, and the afterglow Like a summer twilight comes; To hie the bear and the timid hare Away to their mountain homes. The “boys” come in from the timber lands, The guides and the muleteer: And the cabin rings as the leader sings A rollicking song of cheer. Then he sings of the “Isles of the sweet South west,” With their orange groves and palm: Where the air is tilled with the dews distilled, From mint, and myrrh, and balm, Where the dusky maid and her stalwart brave Hold tryst through the livelong day; And fondly dream, by the firefly’s gleam, The evening hours away. And my thoughts go back, at the tale of love, To my home in the distant East; And a happy time in youth’s glad prime, When I sat at love’s nectarea feast. And I long sot a glimpse of a spiritual face, With blue eyes true and clear, That looked into mine with a light divine, In a far-off happy year. I would hear once more that tender voice, That thrilled my heart tn its core, As she said, “good night, dear love, good night” At the old red farmhouse door. That face is hid ’neath the coffin-lid, The voice I shall nevermore hear ; But I know she'll wait at Heaven’s gate, Till my lingering steps draw near. She will be the first to welcome me home To that radiant shining shore, Where the loved who meet hold communion sweet Forever, ever more. I have wandered far from my native land In quest of that fabled stream, Whose waters quaffed, it is said, will waft Life’s sorrows away, like a dream. Ah, delusion fair, that Lethean Spring Flows not from mount or plain, Whose sparkling tide true grief can hide, To come not back again. I love my home on the mountains height, Yet my eyes are dim with tears, For my heart will yearn—to my old home turn, And the love of my early years. Essie M. Howell. For Woman’s Work. THE STORY OF A VOICE. DAISY RHODES CAMPBELL. OU cannot believe it, mother mine ! Just listen to my news I Prepare for a shock— listen! Herr Henschel Y has just told me something—so great it makes my brain whirl. Instead of teaching this fall and winter, he wants me to go as leading soprano, on a concert tour through the country. And oh mother, he promises me four thousand dollars and my expenses. Try to grasp what such a fortune will do! It will keep Herbert at college, and Erma can go on with her drawing, and the rent will be paid, and, and—Herr Henschel himself is to be pianist and conductor, and Miss Kearny contralto, and—what do you think ? Mari ni will be violinist. Herr Henschel says it is sure to succeed; but fancy my being soprano! I never dreamed that Herr Henschel thought my voice more than passable, and was clear down in the depths; when he poured out so much praise in the midst of the lesson to-day, I only stared, I was so surprised. Why mother, he thinks I can do it!'* The speaker Annis Dale stopped, quite breathless. And as the daughter’s eyes grew brighter,and her cheeks more rosy, her mothqr turned quite pale. “Don’t you like it? Are’nt you pleased?” asked the girl, in a disappointed voice. “It is a great honor, dear,” her mother answered, quickly, “but it is sudden, and it is only young people who like thunder claps.” She smiled as she looked into the glowing face before her. “When must you go ?” she asked. “In three weeks to the day,” said Annis. Mrs. Dale looked thoughtfully out of the window. “That is a short time to get two women ready,” she said, looking around. “Two!” Annis echoed; then, “Why mother Dale, you’re not going with me— you’re just a dear.” And Annis ran to ner mother and gave her an impulsive squeeze. “I don’t believe in young girls going about the country without their mothers,” said Mrs. Dale, “and Olive can keep house and see to the children.” And so to the quiet, ordinary American household in New York, came an unex pected change—which altered their plans and future. They were all greatly exercised about it. They had never thought Annis at all remarkable before; but now—why, she was going to be famous and they were all to have money. It was in this way that Annis Dale found herself, ten weeks later, in a small town in the West. It was unusual for the company to stop anywhere but the larger cities, but Camaen was on their way, and, it being a college town, had offered special inducements to secure such a treat; so Herr Henschel had decided that they might condescend this time; remarking, in answer to Miss Kearny’s scornful shrug of the shoulders’, “Even Jupiter, he nods sometimes.” “What a bore—to stop over night in such a place,” said Adeline Kearny to Annis. She tried to look cross, but her fat, good-humored face would not wrinkle with all her efforts. “I’m not sorry,” said Annis, gayly. “I like to think that we can give them a treat for once,” and she waltzed about the room, singing. “I don’t believe anything makes you blue, or cross, or sad,” said Miss Kearny, looking admiringly at her friend, yet with a half wistful expression. “Why should I? think how much I have I” said Annis, stopping a moment in her waltz, and glancing out the window as. she did so. They were at the Camden hotel, and it was afternoon. “Here comes a boy—into this very place, too. It seems so sleepy and still, I’m glad to see a pair of such brisk legs,” Annis announced with interest. A moment later, there was a knock at the door. “A note for Miss Dale,” said the bell-boy. Wondering greatly, Annis opened the missive and read as follows: “Miss Annis Dale: I am a perfect stranger to you, but my patient is a young German girl who is dying of consumption. She has heard of you, and thinks if she could but hear you sing she would die content. She is passion ately fond of music. If you see fit to ig nore this; 1, of course cannot blame you; but I shall come to the cross street, one square from the hotel, east, and will, if you are there, conduct you to the house two squares north, where the girl—Alberta Karl—lives, and you will receive the bless ing and thanks of poor but grateful hearts. Respectfully yours, Paul Gerhardt, M. D.” Annis read it aloud to her friend. As soon as she finished, Miss Kearny burst forth: “Oh you must not go, Annis. It may be nothing but some dreadful plot. And besides, it looks as if it might rain any moment, and the dampness will ruin your voice, and Herr Henschel will”—but Annis was already on the way to her room. Always impulsive, she felt that she could hardly wait to give this girl the treat she longecl for. She would not consult her mother, for she was' lying down, with a severe headache. She put on her overshoes, jacket and turban, caught up a gossamer and umbrella, and, to avoid answering awkward questions from any of the troupe she might run across, she went out of the side entrance. Her whole mind was set on giving this girl the desire of her heart, and she felt a throb of pleasure to think that she had so much to give. As she came to the place indicated by the note, Annis paused, and looked up and down the streets, but no one was in sight. She pictured the M. D., an elderly, fatherly man, with a direct, simple manner. ‘■l can find the house myself, it is north,” she said to herself, and walked swiftly on. She was so absorbed in her thoughts that she did not notice a young gentleman ap pear on the scene, until he stopped beside her and said, at once with a respectful yet Serfectly self-possessed manner, “Is this liss Dale?” Annis bowed, gravely, though with inward amusement over her fatherly doctor; for this was a young man, with no hint of venerable protection in his aspect. “I am Dr. Gerhardt, at your service,” the gentleman went on. “It is so kind of you to come, Miss Dale. I felt that it was asking a great deal of a total stranger; but Alberta has had so little to brighten her short, sad life, that I wanted her to have this pleasure, if possible.” “Indeed it is a pleasure to me,” Annis said, with so much cordiality in her voice that it was impossible to doubt her sincer ity Dr. Gerhardt stopped before a low gate which opened the way to a shabby brown cottage. A moment later, Annis found herself in a bare but spotlessly neat room, by the bedside of a young girl, probably three years her junior. Her fair hair was unbound and tied with a blue ribbon. Her flushed cheeks, delicate transparent skin, and great deep blue eyes, made such a lovely and pathetic picture to Annis in her strength and health, that she bent over her and kissed her. “It is too good you are to my Alberta,” said the sensible-looking German woman, standing near the bed. “So grateful are we.” Alberta echoed “so grateful” in her faint voice, and after a few cheerful words, Annis, in the simplest possible manner, sang. The first was “The flower of the heath” in German; then “There is a green hill far away,” Robin Adair, Auld Robin Gray and Annie Laurie. t She chose her simplest songs, and, with a few earnest words hurried away. It had grown suddenly dark, and Dr. Gerhardt attended her to the hotel. On the way, Paul Gerhardt told her about Alberta—the simple story of not a few village girls;—of her working so hard to help her widowed mother, of her health failing suddenly from the desertion of a lover, far her inferior in every way; of the girl’s patience and efforts to get well. When Annis reached her room, so full was her heart of the scene she had left, that, much to her mother’s dismay, she threw herself down on the little horsehair sofa, and cried as she had not done for years. “Oh, the pity of it all—why should one girl have everything and another nothing? Why do I have so much before me, and that poor Alberta have to leave it all ?” she sobbed. And when she became calm, she told her mother of Alberta Karl. “You foolish girl,” whispered Adeline to her, at the tea-table, “I do believe you went after all, and have cried”— looking at her closely—“oh, well, I ought to be glad, for I shall sing better than you this night; just because it is a mean little town where I don’t care a straw.” But Annis sang very well. She always tried her best, which Herr Henschel said he liked about her—“ Such a conscientious, true artist is Miss Dale,” he observed severely to Adeline, who, with her fine, powerful will, was neither hardworking nor conscientious. Wherever Annis appeared, people de clared she was “refreshing.” She certain ly had the charm of modesty, and a lovely, youthful beauty, besides her voice. She seemed so young and slight, that people were always surprised at the latter. • It was not so powerful as it was fine and clear. Her expression was good, and her high notes wonderfully true. She sang from the heart, and yet with unusual technique—the result of her careful training. Herr Henschel was delighted with his favorite pupil’s success, yet he often scold ed her, for fear she might “backslide and grow careless,” he said. To-night, as Annis was singing Pre aux clercs with Herr Henschel at the piano, and Marini, with his exquisite violin obliga to, she saw among the audience, the young physician. “Germans are always so fond of music,” thought Annis, yet the young man’s ex pression was such that she did not look that way again. Later, when she was preparing to go home, a card was handed her—-Dr. Paul Gerhardt’s. She met him eagerly : “How is Alber ta?” she asked. “Better, and I thought you might like to know, you seemed so interested. She seems to think of nothing but your visit.” “I never shall forget her,” said Annis eagerly. “Is there no hope of her re covery ?” “None at all,” said the young physician, gravely. He was looking at Annis with a restrained eagerness. “I came to tell you of Alberta Karl, Miss Dale, and also I felt that I must thank you for the music of to-night. I have been hard at work for years, and I have not had such a treat since I was a young fellow in Germany. Music is food and drink to us Germans. This will help me a long time.” Before Annis could reply, a thunderous bass voice called out, “Paul Gerhardt I is it possible that you I see pefore mine eyes ?” And to Annis’ amazement, the young doctor and Herr Henschel embraced with the ardor of lovers. And then in the ex citement of the moment, the two spoke rapidly in their native tongue, with many gestures and excited exclamations, until—at last—Paul turned quickly to Annis: “Par don me, Miss Dale, but Herr Henschel was my elder brother’s dearest friend, and the families are very intimate in Stuttgart. We forgot all else in seeing each other.” When Dr. Gerhardt left—after meeting Mrs. Dale, and the rest of the little group —Herr Henschel accompanied him to his rooms. “How delightful!” Annis exclaimed, to her mother, after the gentlemen’s de parture. “How- much they will have to talk about! Men are not so different from women as they pretend to be!” When Herr Henschel again saw Annis, he could talk of nothing but Paul, and the Gerhardts in the fatherland. He poured it all out in his vehement, hind side-before style. And Annis listened with an interest that surprised herself. “Poor fellow I” said the professor, shak ing his head, “himself did make von peeg fool about a girl at home—she so— vat you say?—so airy and so vain, she tink de whole world to her pelongs. He Lives her yet—poor silly fellow!” Then Herr rushed oil abruptly to see the new tenor —Mr. Elsinore. They were on the train bound for St Louis. Annis’ eyes saw the stretch of flat country spread out before her, but her mind pictured the quaint German city, and a pretty, coquettish German girl ? with her round doll-like face, and china-t>lue eyes, raised to the fine face before her. “ What a pity that such men spoil their lives over just such silly girls!” she thought, with all the wisdom of her twenty one years. And then she speculated about the young German—his past, his future; how well he spoke English, how intelligent he seemed I And so kind-hearted—she could not forget his skill and sympathy for the young sick girl. What a shame that he must be a poor country doctor! She be lieved he might do anything, with that head and mouth. And here Annis reined in her thoughts suddenly, took out Marion Crawford’s latest novel from her pocket, and was soon deep in its pages. The time went on, as time does go on— so swiftly and relentlessly—and, as far as Annis was concerned, happily. • Herr Henschel’s face beamed with the growing success of his venture. Mrs. Dale, mother like, gave up the congenial home-life, and was knocked about at hotels and on sleepers—with none of the glory that fell to the lot of the others, as recompense. Staid and practical Olive, kept house ’in a far prettier home than of old, and, thanks to Annis’ earnings, the Dales’ prospects were very bright. Mrs. Dale watched her daughter anxious ly, for any suspicion of vanity or conceit. She was a plain, sensible woman, with old fashioned ideas about the ways of young people. But she had to confess that Annis bore her success remarkably well. It seemed -natural to the girl to think of others. Thus three years passed. The last year had been unusually brilliant, and Herr Henschel, with triumph in his voice, said to Annis: “We must go abroad next year —Marini is full of the idea.” For it was Marini who had declared that the concert plan would prove a failure. Annis had seen Paul Gerhardt twice in all this time. She couldmot but think that he bore his trouble remarkably well, al though, at their last meeting, there was a tinge of—you could not call it melancholy or even sadness, but—something undefina ble in unguarded moments, that struck Annis, although the next moment it was gone; and Paul Gerhardt was an unusu ally good talker. Mr. Elsinore, the tenor, was madly in love with Annis. Miss Kearny laughed, in a not too delicate fashion, over the love sick tenor, and called Annis a “bold trifler.” It was just before they were to appear before a large and unusually criti cal audience. Annis did not like the re marks—some of Adeline’s little slips grated upon her—but she always forgot all vexa tions when she sang. She was looking unusually well in a new and very beauti ful white silk, with the only jewelry she ever allowed herself—a diamond star to fasten the lace in the heart-shaped neck of her dress. Never had she forgotten her self so entirely as she did in her song. She stirred even this coldly critical mass of heads and opera-glasses, and they encored her with enthusiasm. The next and last on the program was the quintette— Souvenir de Strauss. As Annis began the second solo, she thought that she was losing her senses. She could not hear herself at all, and, when Miss Kearny sang by her side, she could not hear her. And yet she could see that she was singing; and with the bass it was the same. She looked at Marini in silent agony : Could it be that he too was play ing? ■ The bow was moving in the hands of the magic player, but for the first time, Annis could not hear the wonderful strains. How she finished her part, and reached the dressing-room, she did not know. The faithful mother sat there waiting. The girl flung herself down beside her. “Oh mother, mother, I cannot hear. What does it mean ?” she cried. It would take pages to tell in detail the mother’s sorrow, Herr Henschel’s horror, and the keen sympathy of the entire troupe. The little tenor urged his suit with a manliness which made Annis come nearer to returning his ardor, than she ever dreamed possible. Annis was quite deaf. The finest aurists in the country were consulted. They all said that there had been a few similar cases on record, but they were uncommon. But one gave Annis hope, that in time, and with great care, her hearing might be restored to her. As for Annis herself, she felt, for a time, as if she were to be buried alive, henceforth. She was to live, and yet not be one of the people about her. Worst of all, it de stroyed all hopes of her brilliant career. She loved her profession with unusual and single-hearted devotion. The mainspring of her life seemed destroyed. But as Time, that wonderful healer, passed, the girl’s naturally happy and brave nature, arose within her. She would not be crushed, even by this terrible affliction. Many others lived through similar trials, and had far less blessings than she had. But she must certainly get to work at something. Fortuna’ely, Herbert would graduate in June. So it was, that Annis decided to accept her cousin Kate titanton’*