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For Woman’s Work. LOVE’S TRINITY. The crushed strawberry’s delicate stain In a tide of creamy white, When the flesh of the luscious fruit is slain And plunged in the depths of a milky main, The daintiest tongue’s delight; This is the hue of her cheek so fair, The roses and lilies mingled there. The radiant stars in the laughing stream, Tossed into sclntillant soray; Sweet silvery notes that throb in a dream, And spangles of dew that shimmer and gleam In the lair tiara of May; These are rhe.type of her gentle mind, The golden thoughts by the heart refined. The aroma faint which the rose exhales, I'nseen, unfelt though it be; Lading the wings of the amorous gales, That wanton in shadows of dusky vales, Or frolic o’er sunny lea; ’Tis perfume hidden, this exquisite joy, Symbols her dainty spirit coy. Frank H. Rhea. For Woman’s Work. THE PIECE OF STRING. ’HE Armands were a weatlhy fam ily and had a town residence in one of the most important manu facturing centers of Ohio. They spent their winters there, but passed the summers at their country home a hundred miles or more from the city. It was here that young Dr. Wilton met Felicia Armand, the only daughter and child of the family. Jerome Wilton, al though only thirty years of age, was well up in his profession. Being recommended to the Armands, he was called in to at tend their daughter, who seemed to be suffering from nervous prostration accom panied by great depression of spirits. In reply to his professional inquiries she said that she had received no mental or physical shock, nor overworked herself in any way. Her mother, who looked much distressed, confirmed her statements. Doctor Wilton was surprised and rather i ncredulous at first,but set to work to restdre his patient to a normal condition. In the course of a few days his surprise and all other emotions were eclipsed by a far stronger feeling, for he fell desperately in love with Miss Felicia. She was a graceful girl and beautiful, with clear cut, regular features and charm ing, unaffected manners. At times was gay and sparkling, at other times she ap peared quiet and sad without any apparent reason. It was this changeableness, strangely enough, as much as her beauty, that first attracted the young physician’s fancy. Jerome Wilton was doing well in his profession, but was still far from being in affluent circumstances. When he realized how completely Felicia’s image filled his breast he despaired, for he felt he cculd never have courage to ask for her hand. At times he thought she cared for him, but he did not doubt that his suit would be repulsed by her parents, if not by Felicia herself, and he would be called a fortune hunter. Nevertheless, he continued to visit the family almost daily, even after his patient had recovered. Felicia seemed unaffect edly glad to see him, and Mr. and Mrs. Armand always greeted him pleasantly. The idea of asking for the hand of their daughter in marriage had never entered his sober thoughts, yet in his day dreams Felicia often appeared as his wife. A month after his first call on the family, Doctor Wilton was invited to dine with tharn. There was an early dinner, after wllwj all adjourned to the piazza where books and papers were scattered around. Mr. Armand wandered off with a cigar, and his wife seated herself in a low loung ing chair a?d cut the pages of a new magazine. Felicia and Jerome were quietly talking near her. The girl was in her brightest mood, and was dressed in a becoming gown of some soft, creamy stuff' that brought out the delicate color of her cheeks, and contrasted strikingly with the blue black ofher wavy hair. The more Jerome looked at her, the more hopelessly he felt that this child of fortune, so beautiful and lovable, could never be his. Their desultory talk was interrupted by a slight exclamation of indignation from Mrs. Armand. ‘ What is it, Mamma?” asked Felicia. “Oh, nothing, I was only annoyed by the conduct of the hero of this tale,” replied her mother. “What has the poor man done that ruffles temper, Mamma dear? Do tell us,” said Felicia laughingly. “The hero is poor and loves a wealthy girl, and although he adores her, he deter mines to leave her forever, merely because she is rich and he poor, and people might say he had married her for her money. What kind of love is it that would allow such an obstacle to keep it from declaring itself? I say it is a false, cruel love that will let riches stand between it and the happiness of two human beings.” Mrs. Armand finished talking and rose with a little sharp laugh. “I’m going to cool off,” she said. She threw her book aside and took up a fan, Jerome meanwhile watching her movements as if spellbound. As she pass ed him, she gave him a look that made his pulses throb with a wild hope. The look seemed to say: “If you cannot un derstand my meaning and seize your op portunity, you are a coward, and your love is as cruel and false as that of the man I have just read to you about.” Mrs. Armand disappeared in the gar den, where the flowers were sending up their sweetest odors. For the first time in their acquaintance Felicia and Jerome were alone together. He looked at her; her eyes were cast down, her bosom rose and fell with short irregular breaths and a soft, rosy flush dyed her cheeks. He felt almost paralyzed by the strength of his passion. The blood coursed madly through his veins as he realized that Mrs. Armand had divined his love and approved it. For a moment he could not speak; then, mastering his emotions with a powerful effort that he might not frighten the girl he loved by their intensity, he went nearer to her. “Felicia,” he said tenderly, “I would not have dared to hope—is it possible—can you love me, a poor physician ?” She looked at him, her eyes shining with joy. Then a little reproach came into her face and voice as she asked : “Would you have really let my fortune stand between us, and wreck our lives ?” In another moment she was in his arms, and Jerome Wilton felt that life thence forth held nothing but sunshine for him. When a short half hour passed, Mr. and Mrs. Armand joined them and gave them their blessing, and the happy lover’s cup of joy was filled to overflowing. He urged an early marriage so strongly that the wedding took place six weeks after the betrothal. Felicia was as delighted as a child with a new doll with the pretty little home which her father bought and furnished for them in the village where Dr. Wilton practiced. The Armands returned to their city home, but the young wife was too happy and wrapped up in her husband to mourn their departure. She was so gay and light-hearted that her husband beganjto think the change of moods—from gaiety to sadness—had left her. But, returning from his round of visits a few weeks after their marriage, he found her in low spirits. Questioning her anxiously he could find no clue to her condition; she could not tell why she felt so, and continued to feel gloomy until she fell asleep. The depres sion lasted for three days, Jerome vainly endeavoring to cheer her up. The fourth day she was again bright and happy, but a similar attack followed the next week. In a few weeks she had another spell, worse than before; she felt that she had no friends, that even her husband did not love her, and passed hours in hysterical tears. Before long Jerome Wilton awoke to the terrible fact that his beautiful and adored wife was succumbing to the insidu ous advances of melancholia. When he recovered from the shock he wrote to her mother, and she replied that a sister of hers had suffered with that disease, and as Felicia was much like her she had always watched carefully to detect any symptoms of melancholia in her. When she discovered that she had such a tendency, she earnestly desired a marriage between her and Doctor Wilton, hoping that even if she should be affected, his tender care would restore her to a healthy state of mind. She ended her letter by begging Jerome to forgive her for further ing the marriage. This he did willingly, for he was de voted, heart and soul to Felicia. He be gan to plan diversions for her; company, pleasant excursions and little surprises. He gave all his energies to this, hoping that he might balk the disease of its vic tory. But it was too late to effect a cure; melancholia seemed to possess her, and Doctor Wilton soon found that during the attacks the thought of self destruction crept into her mind. By carefully watching her he was able to defeat any plans she might form, and he removed every object that might be used to injure her. He gave up his prac tice to a great extent, and watched over her as carefully as though she was an infant. For days at a time she would be her own natural self, only to lapse again into the painful state of depression. One day there came a call that Wilton could not refuse to attend; an old man who had assisted him in his practice. It was one of Felicia’s good days and she insisted upon him going. He therefore removed everything that he thought she could harm herself with, should an attack seize WOMAN’S WORK. —■■■■ - -- „ —a her in his absence. He was almost con fident that no ill would happen, as she had been in good spirits all morning; still he dreaded leaving her alone, and ran across to a neighbors’s and begged to have a little child of whom Felicia was quite fond, come to keep her company during the time he would be absent. The little one came gleefully, and Felicia began to entertain him. They were both laughing heartily when Jerome came in to say good bye. As he kissed his wife, he noticed that her hand was tightly closed over some object. “What have you in your hand, darling?” he asked. “Only a little piece of string, Jerome. Please don't take take it, we are going to play horse and this is my bridle.” The doctor rode rapidly away with her kisses warm upon his lips. She sat quietly for a while after he left, thinking deeply. “Play horse, ‘Licia, play horse!” shout ed the little lad, tired of waiting. “Not now, dear. Harry, run home,” Fe licia said to the child. His eyes were filled with tears and his lips quivered with his disappointment. “Here, take this and buy something nice,” Mrs. Wilton said, giving him a coin. Smiles chased away his tears, and hugging her gratefully, the boy ran off and Felicia was alone. Dr. Wilton had not gone more than a mile when some mysterious feeling impel led him to return home. Half ashamed of yielding to such an impulse, he neverthe less turned his horse’s head and galloped rapidly homeward. He ran into the house and looked for Felicia. She was not in her room. He called, but received no answer. Then, thorough ly alarmed, he rushed upstairs into the spare room. There, suspended from the bedpost, the little piece of string about her neck, hung the body of his wife. He bounded forward, took her body in his arms, cut the string and placed her upon the bed. The body was still warm. Applying restoratives one after another, with the energy of despair, the doctor was at last rewarded by a fluttering ofher eye lids. Soon her eyes opened, and in half an hour Felicia, saved from a cruel death, lay safe in her husband’s arms. Whether it was the great shock subse quent to her mad attempt at suicide, or some other reason that they could not fathom, neither the doctor nor any of his confreres ever discovered; but the curse of melancholia was forever removed from Felicia Wilton, and she lived for many years a happy, cheerful woman, the wife of a happy husband. Caroline Stratton Valentine. For Woman’s Work. A MISTAKE. I consider it a great mistake for a mother not to know what her children are doing. By this I mean, not what they tell her they are doing, but what she actually knows them to be about. There is no station on earth so holy as that of motherhood; at the same time, there is nothing that brings with it so much of care, of responsibility. The best of mothers are never too careful of their children’s good, never’ too watchful over their ways. And I want especially to preach against a mother going away from home too much ; that is, going away when she ought to be at home. Many mothers are too apt to think the children do not need their close attention after they are large enough to attend to their own physical wants; but what a false idea it is ! Some women are given to “jinin’; ” they belong to this order and that, they get in terested in the work and give so much time to it that they have little for any thing else. Their minds are often so en grossed with the affairs of lodges as to give them little time for thought of the things of home. Some women like church societies, and give all surplus time and energy to them. Others take up some money-making work and give too much of the time needed at home. Os course there are many women who must go out into the world and earn bread for themselves and children, and of necessity they must neglect some duties, for no one can do everything. I know of a woman who is so interested in the sewing society, the Sunday school, the mother’s meetings, and all church work, that she gives most of her time and strength to it. She is very earnest in the temperance cause; but while she is off at tending to all these meetings, she often forgets, or neglects to go home in tithe to get supper for a hard-working husband. He goes home; no supper, no one at home, no knowing when there will be. What does he do ? Goes oft to the saloon. Wrong! Os course it is; but then, had his wife been there, with a cheery home and a nice, warm supper, he would have been glad to stay at. home. People who have known them for years, tell me that she has made him the drunkard that he is, by her shiftless neglect. Did she stay at home and take care of her sons? Not a bit of it. She ranted to them of temper ance and their religious duties, and left them a neglected home, a fireless stove, and a supperless table. The husband is a sot, the boys are toughs; they all hate the word temper ance and the sound of anything that be longs to church. Is it really any wonder? It is often remarKed that the men of a family where there are very earnest tem peranceworkers are drunkards; and often it is remarked that the drunkards make the earnest workers. That is frequently tru“, and not to be wondered at; and very often too, it is the earnest workers that make the drunkards, and when one considers their methods, this is not at all to be won dered at. Some one needs to do such work. But the mother, the wife, should not neglect her home to do it. Work with moderation, with reason, according to the amount of time and strength to spare. 1 know of a woman who has for many years done work away from home. She had children, and she might at least in the latex years have lived in comfort with out the work; but she was strong and well; she liked the work; the children were well grown ; and she kept on. The years passed, the children grew up, and those that merciful Death left her, grew up to give her sorrow. To-day the only surviving daughter is far from home, trying to hide the shame of her life in the crowd of a large city. Who can tell of the sorrow, the awful anguish that burns in the depths of the heart of that poor fallen girl’s mother! She might not have been a fallen girl if her mother had given up her outside work and beer< at home with her; but perhaps she might not; the possibilities are on the side of home life. lam inclined to think that the mother did not know what the daughter was about when left alone. Oh the poor mother 1 One of the best of women, too! Then there is another way of leaving children unlooked after, quite the reverse of this, but just as bad. That is when mothers are too much given up to their work, and allow their children to go about with no one older with them who has any authority over them. Children left to themselves are apt to grow pert, and even very impudent, if nothing more. I believe in a mother go ing out with her children enough to train them to act in a proper way. Go with them that you may know what sort of companions they have, and that you may know how they behave in company. I know of several little girls whose mothers allow them to go about alone a great deal; they have good training, in good homes, but when out they are for ward, often impertinent, and often a per fect nuisance. I know a girl of sixteen who tries to be ladylike; still she knows no better than to interrupt people when talking, and to force herself upon people who are engaged in conversation. 1 saw a party of young girls, from 12 to 1G years of age, go off into the woods pic nicking with a lot of boys of their own age, without any older person with them ; and I thought if I were mother to those girls they should not go. They were all daughters of good mothers, but careless ones. I thought that the mothers could not have paid much attention to the pic nic, for some of the boys were of the hoodlum class,and not at all proper compan ions for girls. What did the mothers know about what ideas those girls might get into their silly heads that day ? I could fill a volume with the question able things that I have seen young girls do ; things that they would not do if they were told how badly they looked ; things that they will blush to remember when they are older—things that they will blame their mothers for when they think it over in the future. Give a little more time to your growing boys and girls ; take them out with you and teach them how to act. Teach your boys to be gentlemen, and your girls to be ladies. Put less ruffles on the girls’ skirts, and give the time to their morals and behav ior ; give up some extra fussing and at tend to the boys. It will repay you in the end, and they will thank you in the days to come. Imogene E. Johnson. Love those who humble and contradict, tor they are more useful to your perfection than those who flatter you. 7