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2 He had scarcely completed the sentence when the door bell rang, and before he could give Mary the history of his ac quaintance with this young man, the card was presented, and the servant had orders to show him in. “Why, Herbert, I am delighted to see you again.” “Well, Mortie, old fellow, how are you? Let me introduce you to my sister, Miss McClellan, Mr. Lynne. Mary, this is the friend I was giving you a description of when he entered.” She acknowledged the introduction in her graceful, vivacious way, and was soon engaged in animated conversation with the young divine. She was a pretty, petite blonde, and was a favorite with the students at West Point. Truly, it seems that there are natures formed for each other, else why the invol untary start which is experienced by a sensitive person when suddenly coming face to face with one in whom your very thoughts and your purest and holiest feel ings are repeated ? Joyful hearts convey the news through the light of the eyes. Such was the experience of Mary and Mortimer. When their eyes met they re vealed mysterious truths of unfathomable depths. Who can sound the depths of a divinely gifted nature ? It is a part of God, and, like Him, must remain to the finite mind, incomprehensible. Surely angels must love to bear witness to earth ly demonstrations of so divine a nature, when eyes look into eyes and speak the language of the soul. Mortimer prolonged his stay at West Point at the urgent request of theMcClel lan family, with whom he became quite a favorite—with the exception of Mr. McClellan, who, being skeptical in his re ligious views, looked askant upon all theo logians, and was pained to see the ripening friendship between his daughter and Lynne. ******** “Darling, I must leave you to-morrow, but when I finish my course and am settled as pastor of some church, I shall come for jou, shall I not, sweet Mary? And we will be happy together.” She answered not, but their lips met in cling ing kisses, and his strong arms encircled her form, while her head rested against his bosom, hearing his heart-beats —so loudly they seemed trying to testify to the truthfulness of his words. “Mary, do you think there will ever come to you a regret that you have chosen for your life companion a minister? You know, my precious, we feel deeply the Bible Injunction, ‘Bear ye one another’s burdens,’ and to follow the footsteps of our Saviour must necessarily be accompanied by self-sacrifice.” “Oh, Mortie, how I long to know more and more of God’s great sacrifice for us. I have tried to live a Christian, but father ridicules religion so. Pray for him, Mortie. How gladly I will share your burdens, and feel, in so doing, that God has greatly honored me, and it may be, sometimes when you are over-weary, I shall rest you with sweet home comforts. My touch shall chase away your brain-throbs and my kisses make you forget your heart burdens.” She started at the noise of a loosened stone that suddenly fell over ledge after ledge of rock, until it splashed into the water two hundred feet below. They thought it must have been the result of some wandering footstep, but saw no one. They were standing underneath a ledge of rock, overlooking the Hudson River many feet below. In the distance a handsome steamer was seen approaching, and sweet strains of music floated to them over the water; the setting sun made the numerous cascades sparkle like millions of jewels against their gray, rocky back ground. Sweet wild roses pressed their pink cheeks against the cold rock, from the cleft of which peeped the fern, and the broad-leaved cactus rested like a crown upon the brow of the rugged cliff. In this charming spot stood Mortimer and Mary, not dreaming of a listener other than the feathered songsters seeking their nests. All nature seemed to be in sympathy with them, except (and Mary shuddered when she heard it) the moan of a dove calling for her lost mate. “Oh, Mortimer,” and she drew closer to him, “the moan of that bird seems to me a pre lude to coming sorrow.” “Qh, no, darling, do not indulge such sad fancies. But we must return; your mother will wonder at our prolonged ab sence. Good-bye, I shall not have the op portunity to say good-bye to-morrow.” Oh, the happiness that knew no shadow, save that occasioned by the little cloudlet of brief separation. On reaching the house, Mrs. McClellan asked Mary if she had seen her father in her walk. He had been absent sometime, and a friend had called to see him. Mary could not help thinking of the loosened rock, but she answered in the negative. • « ♦ • * « Six years later, in a neat looking cottage at Blowing Rock, North Carolina, with its white pine floor and old-fashioned fur niture, sat a pretty young woman with pensive face. She did not seem to be in a congenial atmosphere. Her manner be spoke the woman of culture and luxury. In the distance she saw a horseman ap proaching. How amazed she was when she saw it was a soldier, and a Confeder ate. He stopped before the gate and ques tioned a passing man. She supposed he must be making inquiries. He alighted, and on reaching the door she thought she heard him call her name—something in the voice made her shudder. Being in formed by opened-eyed, gaping-mouthed, good, plain Mrs. Brown that a “soljer had cum ter see her,” she requested that he be admitted. He entered, and Mrs. Fremont, with a cry, rushed to meet him, opening wide her arms as if for embrace ; and then she remembered, and with the remem brance came pain; the embrace was not given. A deadly pallor spread over her face, and she seemed about to fall, when Mortimer Lynne came to her support. “Mary, my darling,” he was about to exclaim, but bethought himself in time, and said: “I came to see Mrs. William Fremont, but never dreamed of finding this lady in the person of my old-time friend. I never thought to have the pleas ure of seeing you again.” He placed a chair for her, and arranged that she might be comfortable. Up to this time she had not been able to utter a word, but she now extended her hand and addressed him in her old-time way. “Mortimer, this is such a surprise, but I am rejoiced to see you. Forgive my im pulsiveness. The years have been so full of changes and excitement, I am constant ly on the qui vine, but, as you are seeking me, you must be the bearer of news. I tremble lest it be evil. I have had no tid ings of my husband since the battle of Chickamauga, and the suspense has been almost unendurable.” Mortimer was growing more and more embarrassed. How strange it all seemed! He had not dream ed of this painful duty; painful under any circumstances, but to convey such news to the only woman he had ever loved, and to witness her sorrow, —could he be brave enough ? “Mary, we have so long been separated; we meet in such a strange manner, and the days are so full of bloodshed and peril, with your permission,! will read a portion of God’s word, and together we will sup plicate Him.” Opening a little pocket Bible, his constant companion, he read the 91st. Psalm, and then they knelt in prayer. Oh, such a prayer I Hearts were poured into it, broken hearts, but the Healer came, and they grew calm in His spiritual pres ence. After a few moments silence, Mortimer took Mary’s hand, saying, “I do not ask you now for an explanation, but do re quest that you give me a brother’s privi lege, let me be of any comfort and help to you that may be possible.” She said nothing, her heart was so full, but bowed her head in assent. “And now, my dear sister, I do indeed bring you sad tidings. I fought in the battle of Chickamauga. I was one of General Bragg’s men, while your husband was under General Rosecrans. After the battle, I gave what relief I could to the wounded and dying, and then withdrew within the secrecy of a copse-wood near by, that I might supplicate God for de parting souls, when I heard the groans of a dying man. Mary, he was your hus band. I did not know it then, but now I do.” Mortimer, with choked voice, told her everything. She did not cry aloud, but her head drooped and drooped until it rested on his shoulder. He held her hand. They sat thus in silence for about an hour, when Mortimer gently withdrew and sent good Mrs. Brown to her, who persuaded her to lie down, all the while trying to speak words of consolation. Mrs. Fremont, being greatly prostrated by her sudden sorrow, kept her bed the remainder of the day. Mrs. Brown went out to look after the wants of the soldier, and he was kindly cared for by this hos pitable woman. Next day he saw Mrs. Fremont again. Travelling at this time was difficult, and Mortimer tried to per suade her to remain where she was for a while, saying that he would try to see her again soon, but he must return to his post of duty. He hoped the war would soon cease. Mrs. Fremont could not endure the thought of such distance between herself and him who now seemed her only friend, and she insisted that he would take her to some point where she would be nearer to him. Mortimer, considering her health and sorrow, did not think it best to take her where she would catch every breath of the tidingsof war. He could only think of that picturesque place then known as Eseeola; but there she would have no congeniality. He told her of the lovely WOMAN’S WORK. place, and told her just what simple folk she must live among. She was anxious to go, and insisted that he take her there. So it was decided that she should go to Eseeola. Mortimer, knowing her love for rugged nature, believed that she would here find comfort in her pencil and brush, for here was everything to delight the eye of an artist. Next day a rude, but sub stantial conveyance, suited to the moun tain road, stopped at the door of Mrs. Brown. Mortimer was to do the driv ing, and the owner of the team was to ride his horse. The day was beautiful, and the autumn air was bracing. Mortimer was a careful, gentle driver, often stopping to rest, and because of his carefulness and thoughtfulness, Mary did not find the jour ney so fatiguing as she might otherwise have done. They rested over night at the house of a mountaineer, and reached Esee ola the next day about sunset. If the Green family had been astonished at the first appearance of Captain Lynne, their amazement now was beyond control, and elicited many ejaculations that sounded weird to the cultivated ear. Peter came to meet them, and after a few moments conversation with Captain Lynne, Mrs. Fremont was assisted gently from the conveyance by Mortimer, and led to the house. She was not surprised at the sur roundings, having been prepared for it be fore her arrival. Gentle-hearted, rough-handed Mrs. Green felt almost like taking her in her arms, “she was sich a delikat critter.’’ Her little hands and feet, her soft, white skin, were themes of pleasant conversation with Daphnie Ann and Mrs. Green for days af terwards. A very narrow, rough little room adjoining the one of all work was given to Mrs. Fremont, but the bed which it contained was clean and comfortable and was made of feathers which Mrs. Green had picked from geese of her own raising. Mortimer remained with the Green fam ily for several days, and in the meantime busied himself making little brackets to fasten against the wall in Mary’s room, for her toilet accessories. Mary covered them with dainty bits of white muslin, to match that with which she had draped the little window with its plain board shuttfer. Clusters of golden-rod and autumn leaves hid many a rough place in the wall, until the little room seemed to smile, clothed in rustic beauty. On one of the brackets, un derneath the picture of her husband, she kept a vase filled with sweet wild flowers, such flowers as she had never seen grow ing elsewhere. Mortimer had made her a rude table. On this she put her Bible and her writing desk. After time and again requesting the family to be careful for Mrs. Fremont’s comfort, he told her he must return to his post of duty. Noble, self-sacrificing Cap tain Lynne ! He had unexpectedly come ink, the presence of the only woman he had ever loved, yet whom he believed had been false to him, but he forgave her all, and did not even ask an explanation. Mary walked with him to the spring, he leading his horse. They sat down on a large moss-grown rock, for their parting words. Mortimer promised to return so soon as possible, and, kneeling there, he committed hei to the keeping of a merci ful, tender, loving God; after this he lin gered not for words, but, quickly kissing her unsuspecting lips, mounted his horse and rode rapildly away. Ought he to have kissed her ? With it came the remembrance of that sweet June evening seven years before, and the same emotions shook his being. He tried to crush the feeling, because he thought, ‘‘she is my sister now.” Had he not a right to kiss her ? Did not their strange environ ments justify it ? And they might never meet again, and he loved her so ! Mary watched him until he was out of the for est, and then she wept bitterly. Poor, lonely Mary! I almost weep at the thought of her. She sat where he had left her, until the morning was nearing noonday, and Daphnie Ann came in search of her and insisted that she return to the house. [The remainder of this interesting story will be given in our next issue. Subscribe at once and do not miss the many good things in store for our readers.] There may be conduct on the part of a parent which should exonerate his child from further obligation to him ; but there cannot be action conceivable which should absolve the parent from obligation to serve his child, seeing that for that child’s exis tence he is himself responsible. —George Eliot. I beseech you, gentlemen, to put your trust and your faith in work. * * • * * ♦ I, who have been nothing but a worker, am a witness to its marvellously soothing effects upon the soul. The work 1 allude to is daily work; the duty of moving one step forward in one’s allotted task every day. —Zola. For Woman’s Work. IN A HAMMOCK. H AHAT did our great-grand-moth- TcJyVZ ers do without hammocks ? Did c) they have to sit primly in those severely high-backed chairs on August afternoons, I wonder. Alas for them, that they knew not the restfulness and sweet indolence of reclining in a ham mock ! Still they lived to a good old age; perhaps, though they did not understand the “technique of rest” as well as we do, they knew better how to live leisurely and methodically. They did not suffer physi cal exhaustion,they cultivated repose and healthful exercise, and were not afflicted with that modern fraility—nerves. How serene of countenance was that old lady in the wonderful cap—my great-grand-moth er—whose portrait used to hang in our parlor! The world did not move by steam and electricity in her day I Life was peaceful and slow. She spun and wove with her maidens, like a noble Roman ma tron of old. But there must have come times of lassitude and leisure; when the cedar chest was full of homespun, the old “press” stocked with linen, the patchwork pieced during the long winter evenings, quilted and folded away, the year’s sup ply of candles molded, the vinegar, cider and wines, safe in the cellar, the broad shelves of the pantry laden with quaint earthen jars of preserves, marmalades and sweet pickles, when plenty reigned in larder and store-house:—surely then there was a laxity of house-wifely vigilance. What could have been lacking but a ham mock to make idleness a joy I Surely those thrifty dames would have felt a strange thrill of luxury if they could have spent one such August afternoon as this—lazily, gently, dreamily swinging in a hammock! When the world around you lies hushed beneath the Southern sun; when the birds only trill a drowsy note now and then, and no other sound breaks the stillness, ex cept the whispering of the breeze among the foliage of the orange grove or the tin kle of a distant cow bell, or the cackling of an industrious hen; indolence seems to bind creation as with a spell. The en chantment is not broken, as a negro on a mule plods slowly, contentedly along the road; they are a fitting part of the sleepy, semi-tropical landscape. The golden sun light steals softly to the piazza’s edge and lingers there; it does not reach the cool corner, where swings the hammock. Orange trees, heavy with the green fruit that sun-rays will kiss until it is golden, screen our little nook from warmth and brightness. A red bird shows a flash of brilliant color on the green back-ground, pipes its clear, sweet note, and flits away.’ The senses are lulled by peace and beauty; the Past burdens not memory—the Future intrudes not its doubts and mysteries* thought is but an airy tissue of dreams;’ contentment is made perfect by the com panionship which is dearest. There is the odor of the cigar on the air; somebody in a great willow chair says something low and pleasant to hear—that is in keeping with the loveliness of the day—a tender word or two, a smile that we know and love. After awhile, something—perhaps the fresh breeze—stirs a bit of latent ener gy ; a needle and thimble are found, and there is at least a pretense of sewing. The somebody in the willow chair begins to read aloud. It is a bright “summer” story, full of life and what our critics call ment”—just the kind we like to hear when bodily and mentally averse to exer tion ! It is purely, delightfully amusing: blessings on the writer’s head who in this day of theological, socialistic and profound ly discoursive fiction, will lend his pen to what makes us simply, childishly merry I Full of harmless persiflage and the gayest good-humor that brings only wholesome, refreshing laughter. The deep masculine voice grows animated with interest in the story ; we exchange glances, and a smile, and we are happy. And so the hours melt away; as day vanishes there comes the sure conviction that few things in life are more sweetly idyllic and restful than such an afternoon in a hammock. Howard Meriwether Lovett. Let every man be occupied, and occu pied in the highest employment of which his nature is capable, and die with the consciousness that he has done his best.