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VOL. I. LINES. AKi’KCTIONATKLT INSCRIBBD TO UKV. H. V. BROWN, OF CHATTANOOGA. BY MOI NA . Weary Hearts! woarv hearts! by the cares of life oppressed, Ye are wand’ring in the shadows—ye are sighing for a rest; The# is darkness in the heavens, and the earth is bleak below. And the joys we taste to-day may to-morrow turn to woe. Weary Hearts! God is Rest. Lonely Hearts! lonely hearts! this is but a land of grief; Ye are pining for repose—ye are longing for relief; What the world hath never given—Kneel, and ask of God above, A.nd your grief shall turn to gladness—if you loan upon His love. Lonely Hearts ! God is Lotfe. Restless Hearts! restless hearts! ye are toiling night and day, And the flowers of life all withered, leave but thorns along your way; Ye are waiting—ye are waiting till your toilings all shall cease, And your ev'ry restless beating is sad—sau prayer for peace. Restless Hearts! God is Peace. Breaking Hearts! broken hearts ! ye are desolate and lone, And low voice* from the Past o’er your present ruins moan! In the sweetest of your pleasures there was bitterest alloy— And a starless night hath followed on the sunset of your joy. Broken Hearts ! God is Joy. Homeless Hearts! homeless hearts! through the dreary, dreary years. Ye are lonely, lonely wand’rers, and your way is wet with tears; In bright or blighted places, wheresoever you may roam, Ye look away from earth-land, and ye murmur’“vrhore is Home?” Homeless Hearts! God is Home. [Fom the Atlantic Monthly.] [concluded.] A sound of the trampling of many feet was presently heard, and it became evi dent that the boys had wearied of outdoor amusement, and sought the sitting-room. Beth mothers grew uneasy—Mrs. Gourlay in the dread of injuries indicted, Mrs. 'William in the fear that her tribe was indicting them. “Cecy, dear,” she said, “go into the other room, and try to keep some sort of order among those boys.” The young damsel departed on her mission, nothing loath ; clad in delegated authority, she felt herself an important character. John’s countenance tell as he saw the smart muslin and the neat gaiters in the door-way. ‘Can’t we have less noise here, chil dren ? asked Cecilia. “ Mamma and aunt can hardly hear themselves speak Ceurge ! let go that hook. You must* not snatch, sir! Now what is all this dispute about V’ “It s John’s fault,” said George, in loud complaint, “lie won’t let me look, lie said he’d show me the pictures, and now ho holds the book so high I can’t see.” “John,’ spake the austere Cecilia, “you d' >n t understand very well how you ought 10 treat your company. I wonder you aie not ashamed to tease a boy so much smaller than yourself.” John succumbed. He might defy Cecilia from the back stoop, but in her presence he was vanquished. They had always been opposing forces. When thev were smaller, her arm had often been black and blue from his vengeful pinches and his locks had suffered from her angry dutch. This was all past long ago ; such personal encounters were ages removed ' lom the present dignity of the individ ads. But they were still at swords’ P nits in a more quiet way, and there " as a chill of conscious virtue in the younger and weaker of the two that 11 •’ iawed her opponent. He sulkily sur rendered the book to George; and the other hoys, taking their stand on their sacred character of guests, lorded it over him without mercy. Tea caused an agreeable diversion. Mr. Gourlay and his brother had come in, Mrs. Gourlay had paid her superin tending visits to kitchen and table, Kitty and Emma had returned from the orchard with arms sentimentally entwined about each other’s waists, and six o’clock had arrived. Punctually, as the last stroke died on the air, the hostess marshalled her clan and led the way. There was a little bustle and delay in seating so large a party, and a casting down of eyes while grace was said ; then the whole wonder ful coup (Vasil hurst upon them—the firm, fine cloth with its satin gloss and even folds ; the glitter of china and silver ; the ruby and amber translucencies of sweet meats; the biscuits, each a snowy puff, surmounted by its delicate crust of brown ; the contrasts of plum and lady cake, melting white and luscious dark ness, piled together in the basket. From these goodly cakes what fine aroma rose ! what a sense had every guest of the polish, the perfection, to which the arrangements had been brought. Mrs. William was vexed with herself that even she could not escape it. The china was no better than her own, the spoons not half as handsome. She had a silver-plated tea tray and service, of neat and tasteful pat tern, for her own great occasions ; yet somehow the britannia-metal teapot and the japanned salver impressed her with a feeling of their excellence, of the splen did festivity of any occasion which they graced, beyond what her own were ever able to convey. It must have been be cause they were so highly prized, so sedulously guarded. No hands but Mrs. Gourlay’s own would be permitted to wash the precious china ; every piece must be rinsed in the fairest of water, wiped on the softest of towels. The waiter demanded not less care; hot water must not come near it, for fear of cracking the japan ; nor soap, lest the brightness of the coloring should be im paired. Tender wiping with a damp cloth, soft polishing with a dry one, then a little sweet oil, and a retirement to the loftiest shelf of the pantry —this was the ceremony which it underwent after every occasion of use and exposure. Similar cares awaited the britannia-metal teapot. People take you very much at your own valuation, it is said; and there is no doubt that Mrs. Gourlay considered these articles, dating back to that era in the world’s history when she began to “keep house,” as immeasurably superior to her sister-in-law’s possessions. As to the dainties themselves, there could be no question of their unapproach able excellence. To do Jane Maria justice, she was willing enough to ac knowledge Mrs. Gourlay’s claims, and would have been content, on most occa sions, to defer to her authority. But when this homage was exacted, and her own deficiencies were treated as a matter of course, her spirit rose in rebellion. Housekeeping was a department wherein Mrs. Gourlay considered.that the merely “tolerable” was “not to be endured,” and her demeanor accorded with this convic tion. She sat now behind her teapot, dis pensing the richest cream and the most fragrant Hyson ; eating little herself, that the more watchful care might be given to her guests. She was a bountiful “pro vider” ; if her beef were shadowy thin, the plates were heaped, nor could she be content till every niece and nephew was liberally supplied with all the niceties be fore them. Only one thing on the table did she begrudge them—the cloth. She had been sorely tempted to use some of the every-day damask on this occasion, but die high sense of duty prevailed. The best things belonged, of right, to “corn pany and they must go on, though, of course, they could only serve, for the ore AUGUSTA, GLA., JUNE 20, 1868. time. Her brightest hope was that no holes would be cut by careless knife blades. and no permanent stains result from the visit. Jane Maria had not intended to gratify her hostess by any comment on the char acter of the entertainment, hut the exqui siteness of the sweetmeats was too much, too much for her resolution. It was be fore the days of canning, and the point of honor among housewives was to have preserves of a light color. Mrs. Gourlay’s were hardly darker than the uncooked fruit, the flavor was delicious, the syrup rich and crystal-clear. “I never saw anything like it,” ex claimed Jane Maria, impulsively. “How do you manage to have them so nice?” Mrs. Gourlay smiled her calm, supe rior smile, hopeless of imparting her method to such an aspirant. Jane Maria’s plums always broke, she knew ; and, if she did her peaches whole, they were sure to diy on the pit. “I don’t know that there is anything I could tell you about it,” she said. “They are done just as we always do our sweet meats.” “Pound for pound?” suggested the querist. “Os course—the best white sugar. I don’t believe in having to heat them up every month or two.” “Strange !” said Mrs. William. “ I always make them just that way, but mine never look like these.” “The always clean a brass kettle every time we use it,” said Mrs. Gourlay.” Jane Maria flushed at this implication. “I don’t think the habit is peculiar to you,” she answered. “I never knew any one that didn’t.” “ ‘Cleanliness is the virtue next to god liness,” quoted her husband, not that it was particularly apposite, but just by way of saying something. “Next in advance of it, Martha thinks,” observed Mr. Gourlay, jocosely. “It is not my habit to jest about serious things,” said that lady, with severe visage. “Well, Martha,” persisted her husband, with ill-timed levity, “I knew you thought a great deal of yonr brass kettle, but I didn’t suppose you regarded it in that light.” Everybody smiled but Mrs. Gourlay, whose features preserved the sternest gravity. “Will you have another cup of tea ?” she said to Mrs. William. “James, your brother is out of butter.” Her tone recalled people to their senses. The husband hastened to expiate his of fence by pressing every one to take a little more of everything, while Jane Maria endeavored to remove the cloud by amiable chattiness. On the other hand, Cecilia, jealous of the family honor, left her sweetmeats untouched for the re mainder of the meal—a circumstance which she was assured would not escape the keen vision of her aunt—and partook but lightly of the other dainties. “Have some plum-cake, child ?” said Mrs. Gourlay, as the young heroine broke off the merest fragment from a white slice. “Thank you, aunt,” she responded coolly, “I don’t care for any.” “Not care for plum-cake ! What ails you ? - Don’t you feel well V’ “0 yes, I’m perfectly well,” said the resolute voice ; “but I don't wish for any, thank you.” And she persisted, though the appealing rfehness of the seductive compound almost brought tears to her eyes. Mrs. Gourlay wondered and pon dered within her own breast. Gould that girl be so dead to merit as not to like her cake, her sweetmeats ?—which was just the effect “that girl” intended to produce. “Cecy is getting on finely with her music, I hear,” said her uncle, presently. “Yes,” replied the pleased mother. “Her teacher says she is making good progress.” “Does her voice get any stronger, do you think ?” asked Mrs. G. “Stronger ?” said Jane Maria, doubt fully. “I don’t know—perhaps so—l haven’t observed.” Mr. Gourlay, having often been made the confidant of his wife’s views as to the folly of “your brother’s people” in wasting their money on Cecilia, who had no more voice than a wren, un derstood the question better. He hastened to prevent any awkwardness by saying— “l must come over and hear her, my self, and then I can judge. You’ll play for me some day—won’t you, Cecy ?” “Yes, uncle, any time you like,” replied the youug lady, with the gracious air of one conferring an undoubted favor. “What a child that is ?” thought Mrs. Gourlay, with inward sarcasm. “I should like to have the training of her awhile.” And indeed she would have done credit to such training. She was much more like her aunt than little Emma would ever he. Her decision, sharpness, and esprit du corps were quite foreign to the generous and easy temperament of her mother. Had she been condemned to calico pantalets and patched aprons, she would have looked with virtuous disdain on any other style of garment, and felt sure that there was exalted merit in the wear ing of her own ; whereas poor Emma was always oppressed by a sense of their ugliness and inferiority. After tea there was an adjournment to the parlor, but only a brief tarry there. Mrs. William wished to be at home by the younger children’s bedtime ; she knew, besides, that her sister-in-law must be getting anxious to begin her labors upon the china and silver. There were the usual excuses for leaving, the usual civil pressing to stay longer, and then the little procession set out through the twi light. It was a rather quiet walk, aud once or twice Mrs. William sighed. “What’s the matter, Jenny ?” said her husband. “Nothing, that I know of,” she answer ed, brightening ; only a visit at Martha’s always makes me discouraged, somehow. Ordinarily, 1 feel as if I did pretty well, considering the children and all my cares.” “And so you do,” said her husband, heartily—“so you do. I should like to see the woman that would manage better.” “But when I go there,” she continued, “everything looks so fresh and new, there is such order and neatness every where, that I feel as if my housekeeping was a miserable failure. It seems as if I ought to do better, and as if I mud, and yet 1 don’t know where to begin.” And she sighe l again. “I don’t see any occasion ” said her husband. “I don’t know why you havn’t things every whit as nice.” “0 William! Why, did you observe that lounge ? She had it ages before we bought ours, and yet how bright it looks, while ours is quite shabby, already.” “Reason, enough. She hasn’t five children and a baby to tumble on it.” “And then her table—everything the best of the kind. However, it isn’t that I mean ; it isn’t any one matter, particu larly. But you feel that in that house all is as it should be—no disorder, no con fusion, the right time and the right place always remembered. And, if you didn’t feel it, Martha would be sure to remind you.” “That she would ! And as for your »elf, Jenny, don’t worry a bit. Your housekeeping is all right. I'm always sure of every comfort I care for in my own home, and of being allowed to en joy it in peace. I believe houses were made for people, and not people for houses, for iny part.” “Thank you, William,” said Jane Maria, gratefully. Mrs. Gourlay meanwhile cleared away with busy hands the remnants of the feast. “This cut cake, Emma,” she said, “I shall leave out for you and John. The smoked beef you may have, too— what’s left of it. One, two, three, four spots on the table-cloth; Melinda must put it in sweet milk to-night ; it has got off pretty well. Do you think I can trust you to carry these saucers to the pantry ?” 80 the work went on ; in a brief space the table was cleared, and the crumb-cloth was shaken ; then the lounge cover was put on, and everything re stored to pristine neatness. “There’s one good job accomplished,” thought Mrs. Gourlay. “It is a weight off my mind when these visits are over.” Eight years passed more or less pleasantly away. Little Harry, the “baby” of the visit, was now a stout and noisy lad of ten ; Kitty and Emma were crowned with the roses of sixteen ; the “boys” had shot up into tall youths who came in to dinner with a great shuffling of feet in the entry, who laughed loudly and delighted in practical jokes. Mrs. Gourlay declared that it would drive her crazy to live in the same house with them, and she wondered Jane Maria could survive it. But Jane Maria happily had good health ; she was equally a stranger to the fiend Neuralgia and the archfiend Dyspepsia; her nerves were firm, and she looked indulgently on the stir and mirthfulness of the young life about her. John Gourlay, having stored his brain at the Academy with such erudition as was considered needful for him, was now “clerking it” in a neighboring city, with great credit to himself and satisfaction to his employers. It was the opinion of both father and uncle that John would make a first-rate man of business, and achieve a fortune at an early age. Our friend Cecilia had become a tall girl of nineteen; prettty, though in a light and slender way that might degen erate into angularity as she grew older. She, too, had been endowed with all the graces and accomplishments that the Academy could bestow, with an addi tional year at a well-reputed seminary. She was considered by all the village circle a very highly educated young lady and au authority in music. Those were the dark ages of harmony among country amateurs ; and her facile rendering of Quicksteps and Polkas, her singing at sight all the ballads and “set pieces” that came in her way, were quite sufficient to establish her superiority among her young compeers. Cecilia’s education, technically so call ed, was, however, the smallest part other merits. On her had been bestowed, and in no stinted measure, that higher gift than genius—“faculty.” No household mystery so deep, no achievement so lofty, that she would not dare it; and her ef forts were always rewarded with success. In her own home such a daughter was an invaluable boon ; she took up the dropped stitches of life, and repaired its waste places. Aunt Gourlay might slight her niece’s music, but she could not scorn her cake and pastry; she was candid, though prejudiced, and admitted the girl’s skill, only qualifying the admission with a wonder as to where on earth she could have picked it up. Increased respect did not increase her affection for the youthful rival; she felt that her sceptre was in some sort departing from her. Jane Maria’s husband continued prosperous, and every year adorned their dwelling with new and handsome articles, beyond her own means of purchasing, while Cecilia’s energy left her no prextext for the fulness of her old contempt. Lack of self-appreciation was not among the niece’s faults; she never deferred, as her mother had been wont to do, to Mrs. Gourlay’s wisdom, but maintained her own entire ability to accomplish anything she undertook. Mrs. Gourlay stared a little when she first began to say ‘‘ice,’ and to explain that such and such wa u our way”; but Cecilia did not mind the stare, and even went on to offer her aunt two or three of her receipts. Mrs. Gourlay was obliged to take her No. 14.