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excited in his mind. Thought of herself was of small account at this moment. “You could not speak with more feeling if this man were your lover,” Colonel Archer said, with irritated significance in his tones, but drawing nearer to her as he spoke. She started from her listless gloom as if she had heard the hiss of a serpent. She drew back a step, and lifting her head, stood before him— transformed in an instant into an image of proud dignity. Her eyes flashed one withering look upon him; then she turned calmly away. ‘ I might have known that such as he would was so still that she could hear the fierce heating of her own heart. At last she heard his step in the passage outside. He was going on to another room, when she opened the door and called to him. He stopped, hesitated, and finally came in. He stood before her, with his hand upon the door, partially closing it behind him. “What is it you want with me. madam?” “Only that you should not think evil of me because of appearances, Aleck.” “Think evil of you?” he repeated, throwing scorn, snake back his head and laughing in bitterest sc “Surelv not. Would I think evil of a si her—upon her wan lamp and haggard face. She rang a summons for her maid, who appeared after some delay, yawning and rubbing her eyes. Melieent gave tlie letter into her hands and directed her to take it to the office at once, that it might be sent off in this morning's mail. When the girl was gone, Melieent threw her self upon the bed and buried her face in the cool pillows. But sleep would not visit her burning eyes. A maze of many images swam before her. She seemed whirling still in the dizziest of waltzes — whirling to the maddest music—round and round, as it seemed, on the put an evil construction upon what I have done that should crawl to my fireside, warm itself at verge of a frightful precipice—round and round to-niirht,” she said, with a sad scorn in her voice, mv hearth, and sting me? Would I thin! ” ' ’ ' ...... . r 3' T A. ..I * 4.: ii r u T .-X , ... ‘And what other construction, in the name of heaven, could you expect, Mrs. Avery?” “One befitting a being with a soul as well as senses; a reference to compassion, sympathy, duty,—a belief in some mystery that might have misfortune in it, but not guilt. But no—I am at fault. I expected nothing of the kind; I ex pect nothing of you, Colonel Archer. Our paths, that have met casually, separate now forever. I am going; I wish you good-night. Here, Mon soon,—come here.” The horse wheeled at her call and came up to her, where she stood on the low step at the cabin door. “Stay!” cried Colonel Archer impetuously, his better instincts rising dominant. “Listen to me, I entreat you. I do not doubt you; no sane man can that looks into your face. I believe in you, in spite of circumstances. I will not seek to pry into your motives or your feelings; I will respect them. No act of mine shall again add to your distress or annoyance. Forgive me. Think of me as a friend: I cannot bear that you should think of me only as a revengeful and a sensual man. Will you not look upon me as a friend ?” of it, or would I merely crush it and fling it from me with loathing?” He threw off the hand she had laid upon his, stepped back and folded his arms on his breast. “Very well,” said his wife, growing ashen-pale to her lips as her hand dropped at her side. “Yet I must still appeal to you, Aleck. I can bear anything better than your contempt Be lieve in my truth, if it is hard to do so. I am unfortunate, but not guilty. If you knew all, you might not love me any more, but I should have your sympathy, your respect. That would be much,—that would help me to bear up under my hard fate; but to have you think evil of me— to have you think of me as so base, so unworthy— that—oh ! that is bitter !” He looked at her, standing before him in her white dressing-gown—so pale, so sorrowful, but so earnest, so candid in look and voice. “ Believe you !—trust in you !” he cried. “ Dc you think me an idiot? You talk of trust and belief, and you offer no explanation of your un- . accountable conduct to-night! Will you tell me your object in putting forth a pretense of illness, that you might go home alone,—that you might ride off' at midnight and be away for hours—no think evil in her partner’s grasp; and suddenly the ground fails beneath her feet — a gulf yawns beneath her. She is falling, falling; no, she sways— | swings over the abyss—round and round still; and raising her eyes to pray for mercy, she sees i that it is a rope from which she swings—a rope knotted around the neck of the man that holds 1 her in a dying clutch. And his face! she sees it as she saw it once before—livid, contorted with death-struggles—the face of Neil Griffin! As she stares at it in numb horror, she sees the rope severed above his head. She feels herself falling—falling through awful space — nearing that black gulf below, where black waters roll and hissing serpents lift up their crested heads— nearing it; but as they touch the seething flood, the hand of Unconsciousness wipes the vision from her brain,—she knows no more. 'W hen Flora went to wake her mistress, hours after, she found her lying with scarlet cheeks and half-closed eyes, in the heavy stupor of fever. (TO BE CONTINUED.) [For The Sunny South.] Select a Profession and Stick to It. (For Th«' Sunny South J NONU. (From the German of If'ine.) BY CHARLES W. HrBNKR. Yonder a star in foiling— Flashing athwart my night! That is the Love-Star, falling Down from its gleaming height. From the apple-tree folleth Blossom and leaf away; Zephyrs, in frolicsome humor, Tease and toss them in play. On the lake the swan is singing. And rowing to and fro: Softer and softer singing. He dives to his grave below. Silence and darkness surround me! Blossom and leaf are gone,— The star into dust is shiver’d,— Hush'd is the song of the swan. [For The Sunny South.] TWO VIEWS OF LIFE. She stooped to gather the reins more closely one knows where? Will you tell me why and ’ ’ '■ ’ * ’ ’ where you went, and your reason for covering up your intention with secresy and falsehood ?” She was silent a moment. Her promise to her father, in answer to his solemn injunction that she should never betray the secret of her life— the creeping fear she had begun to entertain, that her father’s welfare was somehow darkly bound up with this secret—made her hesitate. She could not speak until she had heard from her father. The old habit of blind obedience to him, of reverence for him, asserted itself even in view of the alternative of sorrow and shame. “I cannot tell you, Aleck — not now. Bear with me a few days, and it may be I shall be permitted to explain all.” “'Miserable subterfuge !” he cried. “Madam, your hypocrisy sinks you even lower than your unfaithfulness. I put no faith in a mystery that a wife cannot explain to her husband. I will not listen to such trifling. Do not dare to speak to me again of your innocence.” BY ROSA V. RALSTON. in her little, white-gloved hands. “The time is passing,” she said. “We return by different roads; I shall take the foot-path on this side the bayou. “Once more—good-night, Colonel Archer.” She bent her head, stately as ever; she touched her horse, that, springing forward, disappeared behind the moss-hung trees. “ She would not accept my offered friendship,” muttered Colonel Archer. “Well, it is hers all the same. One can afford to be loyal to such a woman—proud and gentle as though princess- bom ! What a fool I was to think she could be easily won ! But such a woman’s love would be worth having. I wonder if it is possible she can love that pale, wild-eyed wretch we nabbed just now! Be it love or pity, or whatever else, that was the motive, she has shown herself de voted to him to-night. I’ll be hanged if it wasn’t heroic, all things considered; for scandal is' worse to a woman than a two-edged sword, and she has braved that and Avery’s anger, to-boot. If they find out about this midnight adventure, the wolves of gossip will be upon her, sure. It’s odds if Avery interposes. He’s more apt to side with them and cast her off in a fit of jealous madness. He ought to be shot if he does, and I’d like to call him out myself unless, indeed— but no, I’d stake my life on her honor. I’ve let my vanity blind me into construing things my own way; but I saw to the bottom of her soul in that look she gave me to-night. There’s some deuced mystery that I can’t see into; but, come what may, I’ll stand her friend, whether she wills it or not. I’ll serve her any way I can, except setting free that villain I have in my clutch at last. I wouldn’t forego giving him his dues—not if my father’s ghost should beg it.” While these thoughts ran through his mind, Coloribl Archer entered the cabin of Neil Griffin and surveyed its scanty contents. The mocking bird, awakened by the music and light, burst out into a wild carol; the squirrel, coiled up in his box, peeped out of his bed of moss; the “’TiOTmiv’ PeOTd.rrirt* stmw-fwfretf itFfra'p’fUcHU' cifix hung over the window, and beneath it bloomed a box of sweet violets. “Singular furniture for a murderer’s den,’ Whatever be your position in life, learn to rely upon yourself. Make truth and honor the basis of all your actions. • Set your stakes high, and strive to reach them. Let none of the minor principles of your nature supersede that of self- dependence. Make for yourself a character which, in time of adversity, when poverty shall sweep around you, will be of more value than the richest legacy ever inherited. A vine which twines its tendrils around a tree upon which it depends for its upright position will, when a storm uproots its stay, fall to the ground for the want of a support. So it is with those young men who are accustomed to depend upon their fathers, wealthy relatives and rich heritages, for sustenance and positions in life. I am very much disposed to give credence to the time-honored adage, “Where there’s a will, there’s a way,” and think the young men of the present day can attain precisely the same profi- she cried, coming swiftly to his side and casting herself on her knees before him “I will swear it by the God above us. I cannot lose your es teem ; it is the only consolation I can have. A strange, a cruel fate has overtaken me. I am obliged by circumstances to keep it secret from you for the present. It will deprive me of your love, your protection, but let it spare me your sympathy and respect. Leave me that stay in the midst of my trials. Believe that I am' not guilty—that I am not untrue.” BY JOE COES. PART I.—THE OBSCURE VIEW. The village of Melton nestled in the centre of a small, bright little valley; a tiny bit of a town resembling a small bird’s-nest in the luxuriant foliage of a large tree. The scenery around was decidedly worthy of the painter’s gaze; the rocky’, splashing stream reflecting surrounding nature in its hurried passage and giving an air of vivacity and animation to the entire valley. Within the confines of this romantic village was the store of Mr. Alfred Langby, a gentleman who in early life had gained a livelihood from the tinner’s trade, but being in favor with fate and fortune, soon had the satisfaction of entering the business on his own individual account, and at the time we write, had become so successful that he was no longer compelled to tronble himself with the cares of business, the management of Congress and pierced the hearts of his eountry- »PART II THE BRIGHT VIEW. Melton was in the midst of one of those exciting occasions to which all towns are subject at stated occasions viz. a political campaign. A Con- gressman was to be elected, and while the office could be fiiled by hut one man, hundreds of pa triotic citizens were drifting around, all eager to assume the responsibilities of the position, not mentioning a neat little per diem. A meeting of the citizens was called, and it was this auspi cious occasion that found Gumming Hall pneked to excess by the citizens. A committee had been appointed whose duty it was to snbinit to the meeting the name of an eligible candidate. The cominitte retired for a few minutes, when it re turned amid a breathless silence. The chair man ascended the rostrum, and in a steady voice ! said: “ Gentlemen find Citizens, This committee, after mature deliberation and a careful examina tion of the merits of the various candidates, have determined to present for your approbation the name of a gentleman whose integrity and strict uprightness will, we have no doubt, guarantee a unanimous nomination, George Bryan.’ For a second yon could almost hear the wind whistling through the lea\es of the trees outside, when there arose such a shout of satisfaction as had never before emanated from Meltonian throats, and George Bryan was elected to the Con gress of the United States. I say elected, for when a nominee met the approval of Melton voters, his election was a foregone conclusion— merely a legal formality. Various and many were the hands that grasped those of “ Honest George” in a congratulatory manner; while he, great, honest, large-souled human that he was, could only weep. Tears coursed down his bronzed cheeks, from the heart. Congress was to meet in one week, and George had little time to spare. He was accompanied to the station by old Mr. Langby, whose last words were: “ God speed you, my boy. Fame and fortune await you, and its early and honest reception is my dearest hope;” and they shook hands and parted— the old man and the boy whom he had brought up. Then a few weeks after George’s departure, Alice Cumming inaugurated a series of frequent visits to Mr. Langby’s; and current gossip said— it always asks and answers its own questions— that her visits were always shortly after the re ception of letters from Washington by Mr. Langby. Then that great speech by the “Hon. George Bryan, ” of Melton, that had thrilled all ,, T “ii t - , . , „ ., ,, , ciency in their avocations, and accomplish just I will, I must speak to you of it, Aleck! ; what their forefathers did. The «rW seeret ef The great secret of success in life is to choose some occupation for which you have both taste and talent, and “stick" to it. The failure of most of our young men arises from their stumbling upon some profes sion for which they have no talent, and against which their whole natures are a living revolt, simply because they imagine such profession is more profitable or more popular than some of the lower avocations of life. I do not believe that all men are born equal, but that all are born for something. All have tal ents—whether one, five, or ten—for the improve- He looked at her as she knelt before him, with Si r Ul l 0f ftn g uish > bllt , cl « a 7 a “ d I rnentof which they are held responsible by the steadfast. His features were convulsed by the Great Giver ofall y ood . Ever m P aD bns hi / own twpon rfm rl nrmicc I , • ^ strong struggle within him between tenderness and suspicion. His mouth relaxed from its sternness and trembled as he tried to speak. “Melieent,” he said huskily, “rise. Do not kneel at my feet in that way.” He put out his hand as if to raise her, and touched the soft hair that fell in loose masses about her! He drew back quickly, as if he feared M -G.su.A.'d Autfi- JGy- -iters? He made an effort to regain his self-control. i a t i. , ,.£«■ , vi . „ , with mankind. Let a man who seems peculiarly “Since you have had recourse to oaths,” he i Q ^ OT1 f c ^ i * particular office to fill, just as every tree, every plant, and every animal, has its own peculiar functions. If any animal or insect, great or small, should deviate from its own path,—if any of these vast systems, or any part of them, which compose this mighty universe, should pursue a course contrary to that allotted by an Eternal his establishment devolving upon his foreman George Bryan. George was born and raised in Melton, and had learned his trade at the experi enced hands of his employer; and by his perse verance and uprightness, had not only earned the trust but the confidence of that gentleman. All had a good word for “Honest George,” a sobriquet in more general use among those who knew him than his own sir-name; in fact, when any one, a stranger, perhaps, addressed him as Mr. Bryan, the title sounded strange and harsh on his sensitive ears. Not that George was sen sitive in the literal construction of the term, but so accustomed was he to “ Honest George” that he began to consider it his full name. In the village also dwelt the wealthy John Cumming, whom fortune’s smiles had made dig nified, egotistic, even proud; and his family, consisting of his wife and one daughter, fully partook of this spirit. There was no denying it— Alice Cumming was a beautiful girl; and it is equally true that her dashing ways had sent many a pang of admiration and regret through the hearts of hapless swains. Medium-sized, full figure, even approaching stoutness, a thor ough brunette, large, bright eyes and pouting Godhead,- the effect would be an immediate lips. Oh !_there is no imagining what trouble ws J5T ini’ fiaturS! If is sit this lauTtless^befng fiad caused in ’ various sus- ; „ , r , • . , adapted, by nature and the bent of his inclina- said, “take one that I will accept as a test of : • ,, . r * ,—: tlon - to law, medicine, or agriculture, imagine commented Colonel Archer, as he closed the J° UT S ™ ar *? f e * hat 5™ have not seen he h ’ as a tal ’ nt for mu ’ ic or “ oet _ an ’ d he % iu • door, which had not even a lock, and mounting to Colond Archer mnee^you left the i mme diately realize the full import of the well- i ba !I' 1 - 0 ° m ^ night rf at y ° U haVe had i n ° Pri ' k “own Latin, “Poeta nascetur non fit.” vate interview with bun since you rode away --- - • •• - - - - J - from here at midnight.” She did not speak; she remembered that she could not do so in a way to command his belief, his horse, rotle rapidly away. CHAPTER XII. The night was nearly spent, the moon was paling in the sky, as Melieent rode back along the deserted streets. The ball was not yet over ; the sound of the merry dance-music reached her ear from afar. How strangely it sounded !—how strongly it contrasted with the solemn silence of tures took their set, stony expression once more, the woods she had just left—with the mournful ! “Enough!” he cried. “Do not perjure your- cadence of Ishmael’s song, that still rung in her self. Do not speak again.” PUTS ! Til P SnilTl I* TYl CVM III nn f I A- TJ n a J wv 1, a*, I Macaulay gives it as his opinion that there is not so great disparity in the intellects of men as is generally supposed. True, there may not be unless she could explain everything; then, feel- Ttbe ^ ^ inu how her silence n,u K t he ’ rew of the hulu ? n ™e, taken as a whole; but there ing how her silence must be construed, she grew confused,—a shadow of distress passed over her are men whose native genius just as far sur- f»ee Ttmi iV hi il l u Vv- e passes that of others as the towering heights of face. It looked to his eyes like guilt. His fea- f he Himalav snrnass the Bine b the Himalay surpass the Blue Ridge. Says Macaulay: “If Luther had been born in the tenth century, he would have effected no reformation. If he had not been born at all, it The sounds of merriment increased vet He turned from her and flung open the door, [fcvhctth.tthc Tl n ee \ born ataI1 ’ “ more the confusion in Melicent’s brain. The On its threshold he paused and fixed his eyes h„vl V^hcnt *» th , tury could not nights adventure—was it not a terrible dream? upon her; a look of keen pain came into them „y,nrcb ” f i ,, • The brief, wild interview with Neil,—his looks, 1 i church. He evidently thinks tl his tones, when he staggered to her with out stretched arms, calling her by that name long dead,—his flight, his arrest,—were they not all a dizzy vision, caused by that whirling waltz, whose music seemed to be playing still—that and mingled with their fierce fire of indignation. “Melieent Avery,” he said, in the deep, low utterance of concentrated feeling, “I have loved you as dearly as ever man loved woman; I trusted you wholly. You have deceived me,—you have A „ 0 ruined me. You have turned my love into tor- waltz with Colonel Archer, when her husband i ture. l’ou have dashed my ambitious hopes to had watched her with stern eyes, and her part- the ground. You may make me a murderer and ner, bending down, had whispered in her ear: “Eureka! the murderer is found !” She was partially roused from this trance-like state by the stopping of her horse. He had en tered the stable-yard, and stood before the door of his stall. Mechanically Melieent dismounted and stood beside him. Her brain still reeled and wild images floated indistinctly before her. She leaned her arms upon Monsoon’s neck, and bending her head down upon them, tried to arouse and collect her numbed faculties. She started as a hand grasped her arm. She looked around with a faint cry, and saw her husband. an outcast, me 1 God forgive you—you have ruined _ schism . in the evidently thinks that if Shakspeare j had not been bom, or had died in his infancy, , “Hamlet” would have been written by some one i else, and the world would have felt no loss for the great dramatist; that if there had never been a John Milton, some other poet would have writ ten “Paradise Lost;” and that if Cabot and Co lumbus had not been born, the world would never have been any poorer, for America would have been discovered by some one else. He closed the door and left her to the anguish t JAl 8 J ght M be - tTUe ’ - f ° r - n ° °? 6 wiU - den ? i, oi mat ii tne of her own reflections. She remained kneeling moon and stars had not been placed in the heavens, God could have created some where he left her, overwhelmed by the tide of l‘ ( jr \\ aC T , bitter auj Wil Jeri™ feeling t„’ tLe other means to illumine this dark world of ours; bitter and bewildering feelings. In the chaos of her mind, one thought took definite shape. “I must go away. I have no right to stay here, to spoil a good man’s life, to soil his name, to blight his prospects, to torture his heart—it may be, as he said, to make him a murderer and an | outcast. I must go away. I must take my evil fortunes away from this house; I have no right “Give the horse to me,” he demanded, taking 1° bring a shadow upon it. I am not his wife. the bridle from her hand. She did not heed his hoarse, stem tones. She Oh ! if I were permitted to tell him this—to say to him: ‘ I am nothing to you. I have not dis- flung herself on his breast; the tension of her graced your name, for I do not bear it. I am overstrained nerves gave w r ay, and she clasped i on ly a cheat—an impostor. Let me go go away, him convulsively, while her frame shook with ft hd the reproach of my name will drop from tearless sobs. He lifted his arms as if to clasp or caress her; then dropped them quicklv to his side. “Go to the house,” he commanded. He un loosed her clinging arms and put her back from him sternly. “Go to your room at once, and make as little noise as you can—for your own sake. She sighed deeply and turned away. She en tered the house and found the lamp‘in the hall burning, but no one there. As she passed along the corridor she could hear the voices and soft laughter of the Stanley girls. They had but just returned trom the ball, and were chatting over the events of the night as they undressed “Hush! she heard one of them sav as she passed their door. “\ou will disturb poor Mrs Avery.” She felt like a guilty wretch as she stole to her room, and taking the key from her pocket, un locked the door, entered and undressed before you and your honorable house, and you will be once more free and happy.’ ” Then, as if in contrast with the words “free and happy,” came up the thought of Neil—Neil in prison, sick and desolate. What now could be done to help him ? She thought of her father. Might he not be able to save Neil, if he would? He was so strong of will, so powerful in his influ ence over others—and then lie could testify many .iiings in Neil’s favor. If only he could be in duced to acknowledge the relationship between them—to divulge that secret which was so fatal to her peace of mind. She rose from her knees, tossed back the blind ing waves of her hair, and bathed her burning forehead. When she had grown calmer, she sat down and wrote her father all that happened— all that she had done;—disclosed to him. for the first time, the fact that Neil Griffin still lived; that he was in prison, about to be prosecuted by the son of the murdered miner; that, in conse- anj one came in. Presently Flora rapped softlv quence of her efforts to warn him, she had excited at the door, turned the handle and peeped in. “You up, Miss Melieent?” she said, coming in. “Is your head any better? You look dread- lul pale. Mr. Avery wouldn’t let me knock at your door before, for fear of sturbin’ vou. He said you had come home sick. Whv didn’t you call me and let me help you undress?” To Melicent’s eye there seemed to be a suspi cious keenness in the look with which the girl regarded her. She answered coldly; “I did not need you—nor dol'now. There is nothing I want but to be quiet. You can go to bed.” 6 W hen the girl had gone, she threw on a dress- mg-gown and waited for her husband to come stairs—waited, while moments passed and noises all died into silence, and the house the distrust of Mr. Avery. She implored her father to help Neil Griffin, by means of money, or through his influence, or by enlisting in the ease services of talented lawyers that were his friends. She entreated him, also, to release her from her promise not to disclose to Mr. Avery the circumstance of her previous marriage. “If I could tell him all,” she wrote, “I might still hope to retain his esteem. In the general wreck of my life, I might have this one comfort to cling to. As it is, I have lost all. Write, then, at once, or send me one word by telegraph say ing that I may or may not reveal the secret that weighs upon me like guilt.” She sealed and addressed her letter in the same swift, eager manner in which she had writ ten it The day was now shining into her cham- but He evidently saw fit to adopt certain instru mentalities for the accomplishment of certain : ends. A little consideration and reflection on the j great workings of nature furnishes us with irre- ! fragible proofs that each individual has his or her own mission to fulfill. Let him not, there- I fore, estop his privileges of success with such remarks as: “ Because I am not capable of achiev ing such perfection in my profession as my next neighbor, I shall make no attempt;” or, “I can never become a first-class lawyer or doctor, and I rcill not be a second-class one.” Such an at tempt at excuses is a gross violation of the laws of their own natural propensities, and those who make them do not deserve that success shall crown their efforts. Y'ou cannot be too circumspect in choosing your profession, or abiding by the choice of oth ers. You are just as responsible for the talent committed to your charge as the most gifted of your ancestors, and a requisition will be made of you in proportion to your opportunities for improvement. The Beauty of the Family.—We leave it to you, if the “beauty of the family” don’t invaria bly ‘Gum out” the worst of the lot? If she don’t cultivate the outside of her head to the total forgetfulness of the inside ? If she is not petted, and fondled, and flattered, and shown off ’til selfishness is written all over her ? If she is not sure to marry some lazy fellow, or drunken brute who will bruise her body—or—heart to a jelly, and be glad to come with her forlorn chil dren for a morsel of bread to the comfortable home of that snubbed member of the family who was only “our John” or “Martha,” and who never, by any possibility, was supposed by them capable of doing or being anything ? We leave ceptible bosoms, but it availed nothing; she seemed utterly indifferent to the attentions of one and all. Honest George had admired her too; nay, more—he felt more than admiration for her—he loved her; but manly fellow that he was, he reasoned with himself something in this manner: “Well, I’m poor George Bryan; she is rich Miss Cumming; and then she never notices me—if she did it would be the same, only it would cre ate a year’s gossip. The idea of ‘ that poor tin ner’aspiring to the wealthy Alice Cumming.” The thought was ridiculous even to George himself, yet he sighed and grew despondent and morose. One sunny morning a few months after George’s mournful soliloquy, Mr. Langby came’ into the store. “Good morning, George, good morning. All well ? Glad to hear it.” George thanked him, when the old gentleman rattling on, continued: “By the way, George, old Cumming was men—a volume of burning eloquence—the mas ter oration of the session. Fame ? His position was sublimity itself. But George did not think himself any better than his fellow-men. True, he felt a little more dignity, but there was not an iota’s difference perceptible between the “Hon, George "and plain George, the tinner— not the least. Then George got home on leave of absence for a few days. His first visit, and a long one at that, was of course devoted to his old friend, employer and partner. His numer ous other acquaintances were not forgotten, and last of all, he ventured to give his card to the ' pompous servant who answered the ring at Mr. Cumming’s door. He was shown into the par lor, where he was most graciously, even famil iarly received by Alice—the same Alice who a few short years before had superciliously re marked: “Oh ! you are the man to see about the roof. ” What a change now! All smiles and kindness. “ So glad, Mr. Bryan, that yon called. Do you not know that I have almost envied your prominence ?” and a score of other pretty things did this young lady say to George; but they were wasted—he had no admiration even for her now. He knew that she entertained the “ Hon orable,” not George Bryan. His visit was brought to a close, but not with out being persuaded that “he must call again, and so sorry that papa is out of town, for I know that he would be glad to see you.” 'Off to Wasfhiigtdri again] weeks of lohg mid persistent labor, and the session was completed. But George’s return this time was not alone—he had company; of his companion more will be said. Reaching Melton, he hastened with his charge to Mr. Langby’s residence (the only home he knew), and was admitted by that gentleman in person. “ Why—why—George ! That you, old fellow ? And who have we here ?” “ Mr. Langby, my wife,” and a vail was raised from as lovely a face as the sun had ever shone on. But why need I describe George’s wife? H' - individuality interests none but George. 2. I will not. George called at the Cumming’s next day and handed the servant a card, “Hon. and Mrs. George Bryan.” The man returned with the announcement that indisposition confined Miss Alice to her room, and a call would be appre ciated some other time. George understood the matter at once, and back home they went, as happy as two faithful, loving hearts could make them. They never called at the Cumming’s speaking to me this morning about covering the mansion again. George is still living, hale and roof of his house, and I promised to have you walk up and see him and give an estimate. Stick it on well, George; he is able to stand it; plenty of money—plenty. And by the by, George,’ I wanted to see you privately this morning, any way; just walk into the office here a minute, please.” Wonderingly George followed. • “I’m getting old now, George,” began Mr. Langby, “and am not able to give much atten tion to the business,” (here George’s heart sank, thinking that Mr. Langby contemplated retiring from business). “I find that some younger head is necessary' to the successful management of the store, and- to the point, I propose to give you a half interest in the business, leaving it entirely in your care.” With tears of gratitude and surprise, George thanked him and assured him that he would do his duty' by' him. “I had better go up to Mr. Cumming’s at once?” interrogated George, a blush rising to his cheek. “Yes—yes,” said Mr. Langby, “you’d better go right up.” George put on his coat, and stopping only a moment to smooth his hair before the glass, went out. Walking slowly along the road which led to Mr. Cumming’s, pondering on the thoughts uppermost in his mind, he found himself in front of the house without a consciousness of how he got there. Aroused from his stupor, he went up the steps timidly and rang the bell. The ring was answered bv Alice herself, who, in poorly-feigned disinterestedness, asked his busi ness. George was sorely embarrassed, but man- aged to splutter out: “Is Mr. Cumming in?” “Oh ! you are the man to see about the roof,” answered the wilful beauty. “I’ll call papa di rectly,” and off she went, leaving George rather | astounded. “That ends it,” was his mental conclusion. “ She cares less about me than she does for her poodle.” “ Mr. Cumming’s appearance put a stop to his thoughts, and the business of the visit was en tered into, resulting in an award of the contract to messrs. Langby A Co., work to be commenced hearty, and delights in telling the wee ones “of the time when papa was a Congressman. ” To Yoxjnc. Men on Marriage.—The true girl has to be sought for. She does not parade her- | self as show-goods. She is not fashionable. ' Generally she is not rich. But oh ! what a heart ] she has when you find her!—so large, and pure, i and womanly. When you see it, you wonder if those showy things outside were really women. | If you gain her love, your two thousand are a ' million. She’ll not ask you for a carriage or a first-class house. She’ll wear simple dresses, and turn them when necessary, with no vulgar magnificat to frown upon her economy. She’ll keep everything neat and nice in your sky-par lor, and give you such a welcome when you return home that you’ll think your parlor higher than ever. She’ll entertain true friends on a dol lar, and will astonish you with the new thought, how very little happiness depends on money! She’ll make you love home (if you don’t, you’re a brute), and teach you how to pity, while you scorn, a poor fashionable society that thinks itself rich and vainly tries to think itself happy. Now, do not, I pray you, say any more, ‘I can’t afford to marry.’ Go, find the true woman, and you can ! Throw away that cigar, bum up that switch cane; be sensible yourself, and seek your wife in a sensible way. ”—Dr. Crosby. Emblems of Purity.—We have always noticed that wherever you find flowers, no matter whether in a garret or in a palace, it is a pretty sure sign that there is an inner refinement of which the ■world is not cognizant. We have seen flowers cultivated and cherished by some of the lowest and most degraded of our people; even in the dens of vice you will sometimes find them. Where these emblems of purity are found, you may rest assured that they represent a hope and speak of a goodness of "heart not to be found where they are absent. it to you, if the “beauty of the family" be a boy, | as early as practicable. He went back to the he don’t grow up an ass ? If he is not sure to disgust everybody with his conceit and affecta tion, while he fancies he is the admired of all eyes—even if he don’t squander all the money he can lay his hands on, and die in the gutter"? We never see a very handsome child of either sex, upon the family pedestal to be admired by that family and its friends, to the exclusion of the other children, that we do not feel like pat ting these children on the head and saying: “Thank providence, my dears, that yon were not bom * beauties. ’ ” store in a very perplexed mood, crosfc with him self and humanity in general, though he never allowed his own petty annoyances to intrude on the harmony and good feeling ever existing be tween himself and employees. George superintended the work on Mr.’ Cum- ming's residence, and succeeded in obtaining several stolen glances at Alice, but when she did catch his intense gaze, she gave no sign that it interested her. And thus wore along the first two weeks of poor George Bryan's proprietary experience. Opposition.—A certain amount of opposition is a great help to man. Kites rise against the wind, and not with the wind; even a head-wind is better than none. No man ever worked his passage anywhere in a dea i .• u u. L -t no man wax pale, therefore, because of opposition: oppo sition is what he wants and must have, to be good for anything. Hardship is the native soil of manhood and self-reliance. He who cannot abide the storm without flinching, lies down by the wavside to be overlooked or forgotten. In an aristocratic country, labor is the badge of caste. In a democratic country, it is con temptible snobbishness which frowns on thej honest earning of money.