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hatred of Mr. Avery, she was equally capable of seizing any opportunity to inflict an injury upon him. On the day following the election, when it be came certain that Mr. Avery was the successful candidate, old Hagar was almost wild with rage. The boom of the town cannon and the united shouts of many voices huzzaing for “Alexander Avery ” could be heard in the stillness of the evening air by the group who stood on the porch of the Griffin cottage. Hagar, eagerly watching Melicent, could see a flash of pride and pleasure light up her face as the acclamations were borne to her ears. She colored as she met the keen eye fastened upon hers, and presently retired into her room. Hagar looked after her with a lowering brow, and, stalking up to Neil, said in a fierce whisper: “ She rejoices at his election. She loves him still. It is that holds her back from you. She will keep on loving and grieving after him. I told you he would have to be put out of the way. There is no help for it. If you are too weak- hearted, I will have to do it myself.” The third day after this was a fete day for nearly all the town. “ Welcome,” a picturesque village and railway station twenty miles east of Alluvia, was fixed upon as the scene of a con gratulatory assemblage and grand banquet in honor of Mr. Avery. News of it reached the Griffins, and one of Mancli's acquaintances, who came out early in the morning to borrow “four bits,” expressed a sociable wish that he should make one of the excursionists, as it was certain there would be plenty of barbecued beef, beer and ginger-bread, and, after dinner, “a man and his cat” would go up in a balloon. Old to-night, Neil felt as if her wanderings might have more design. From the look of her eye that day, she was not to be trusted. There had been insanity in its gleam. He went out at once, saying, in reply to Melicent’s remonstrance upon his imprudence, that he was only going a little way; his mother was probably around the yard or stable; he would get her to come in, for a storm seemed coming up. There had been, in deed, a change in the sky and in the air within the last few moments. There was a low sound of wind in the topmost branches of the trees, though the air below was still close and foggy. The cloud-pall that covered the sky had dark ened visibly, and but a faint glamour of moon light illumined Neil’s pathway. He did not once stop to think, but drawn by a fear that searcelv She had known much sorrow, and it had deep ened and purified her being. She had been, for the past eighteen months, a music-teacher in a female seminary in St. Louis. It was now her vacation, and she was spending the holiday with one of her pupils, whose home was a beautiful villa a short distance in the country. Manch had also his summer vacation, and the present of a gun and a set of fishing-tackle from his mother made him so much a denizen of the woods that Melicent began to fear lest with the revival of old habits there might be a recurrence of the deep melancholy that had possessed him for so long a time after his father's death. She knew the woods had sorrowful associations for the child—associations that would not soon he Hagar indignantlv flouted the idea of her grand- eral feet: and behind it stood Hagar-her eyes .0 « «e. «... £ - her «»pi« „ _ . v forgotten, for he had mourned the loss of his shaped itself into thought, he made his way to gentle, noble-hearted father with a passionate the railroad track. With every step he took, the persistence of grief. It was for his sake even darkness increased, and a misty rain began to fall. The point he aimed to reach was a broad ravine or gulch, across which the track was laid upon a steep embankment. It was a mile from the house, and his limbs were much weakened by the recent fever. Before he reached the place he was tottering with exhaustion, but he dragged himself along through the darkness, the rain and the wind, until at last he gained the ravine. He stepped upon the embankment, and staggered a few paces forward. A black mass rose before him, undefined" in the dark ness. He stood still, and at that instant a flash of light revealed what the obstacle was. and proved the justness of his fears. Bight across the rail road track was piled a heap composed of logs, rails, blocks and sticks of wood, dead limbs of trees, and other substances, to the height of sev- Alexander Avery. Manch which sent him to another part of the yard. Then she leaned over the fence and in quired of the boy at what time the excursion train would return. “Nine o’clock to-night,” was the reply. “And will Mr. Avery be on it?” “Sure,” said the boy, who was a printer’s devil. “I heard him tell the boss up at our office he would - be back to-night, and would come up in the morning and correct the proof of a letter or a speech of his’n they’re puttin’ into print.” Hagar gave a satisfied nod and turned away with a low, gurgling laugh. Neil had heard her question and noted her pe culiar manner. They made him vaguely un easy. As the day drew to a close, he became nervous and restless. At dusk, the sky was overcast, the moon faintly struggling through a vaporous vail, the air heavy, and occasional lightning flashes playing across a bank of lurid clouds in the east. There seemed to Neil to be storm and thunder lurking in the moral atmos phere as well as the physical. He felt strangely oppressed, and to drive off the feeling, he took down his old solace—the violin—and sitting out on the porch, played snatches of melancholy tunes and sang scraps of sweet old songs .to a soft accompaniment. Melicent came in with Harriet from the front yard, where she had been watering the flowers and the vines freshly planted around the new summer-house. Lean ing against the post, she listened to Neil’s music, that had a wild sweetness peculiar to it. Manch, sitting inside the room by the table with its lighted lamp, was absorbed in a sum. A moment before, the tall, gaunt figure of Hagar had been seen stalking across the yard in the direction of the stable, which she insisted on locking every on her swarthy forehead, the veins swollen on on her bare arms in the terrific exertion she had used to collect the heavy materials and rear the pile she designed as the instrument of death. The wild strength of insanity, added to her own great muscular power, had enabled her to do the work with astonishing rapidity. In the bright flash of lightning, Neil saw her form, her face, her terrible eyes, with vivid distinctness. She saw him also; her eyes glared like those of a tigress about to be deprived of its prey. “Back !” she cried. “Go back, wretched boy. You have no business here !” He did not answer. He paused for one instant, while his mind took in the emergency. In a few moments, he knew the train with the party of excursionists would be here. It would rush around the curve—a little distance beyond—and in the rain, the mist and darkness, the head light would fail to reveal the obstruction until too late; the cars would he thrown off the track and down the steep embankment, with all their freight of lives—with the one life that was so dear to her, so necessary to her happiness. It would be useless for him to try to attract the notice of the engineer; he was too exhausted to run forward and shout, even if his feeble shout ing could be heard above the roar and rush of the train, and he had no materials wherewith to strike a signal light. At oijce he formed his resolve, and exhausted as he was, began to lay hold of the obstructions and throw them from the track. She darted upon him and caught his arm. “Let it alone!” she shrieked. “Fool! what are you about? You can’t throw it all off’ in time. The train will be here in two minutes, and he is on it. Do you hear? He is on it—the man she loves ! He will be killed—crushed to pieces, as he deserves—and Melicent will be yours !” He did not speak; he had not" strength or persistence more than her own that Melicent had left Allu via— a spot burdened with sad reminiscences. She placed him at a school but a few doors from the institute where she taught, and where she had been permitted to keep Harriet. The girl’s gentle, affectionate ways and her unsel fish disposition made her a universal favorite in the seminary. She would never be of strong intellect, but her mind, had developed greatly, and she exhibited an extraordinary genius, or rather instinct, for music. It was a pure gift of nature, for she knew not a note of music, nor would she ever be able to comprehend it as a science; but she cquld play with marvelous sweetness any tune' she liked, and she sang with a pathos and purity that constantly re minded Melicent of Neil. She resembled him also in features, and her eyes, with their long lashes, had the same indescribable expression— a kind of wistful sadness, with sometimes a startled, upward glance, like that of a fright ened deer. She was the first to discover a horseman who came riding rapidly to the house, and when he saw the group under the tree, dismounted and came towards them with a letter in his hand. Approaching Melicent, whom he seemed to know, he held out the envelope, saying: “ Here is a telegram marked ‘haste.’ It came for you two days ago and was sent to the semi nary. I did not know of it until this afternoon, when I determined to ride out and bring it to you. ” Thanking him, and wondering what the tele gram could be, Melicent took it from the enclo sure and read: “Mr. Avery is very ill. He raves for you in- | cessantly. Come at once. Wilson.” The letters seemed to print themselves in fire upon her brain. Very ill! And the telegram was dated three days ago ! Oh ! most likely he was already dead ! Dead !—without her having seen him —without having obtained his forgive ness for her coldness, her unkindness in refus ing to see him before she left Alluvia, or to reply to the letters he sent, breathing the tenderest devotion. With Neil’s dead face fresh in her mind: with the vision of his lonely, patient, 1 mournful life ever before her; with her heart filled with remorseful grief for him, it had seemed a sacrilege to think of love and happiness—to see I or communicate with the man who had sup planted him in her heart. And so she had gone away from Alluvia, and, j in all this time, she had sent no token of remem brance to Mr. Avery; and she had returned, without a word, an enclosure of money that, though contained in a blank envelope, she knew had been sent by him. So unkind had she been to him in her morbid, remorseful regret for Neil. Yet she had loved him all the while; she had pined [For The Sunny South.] TO MISS L. ******* BY SANS SOrCI. She’s sweet as breath of dewy eve. She's fair as flowers of spring. And her voice it has the warbling tones Of a bird upon the wing; For joy. like love, beams in her eye, Her heart is kind and free,— ’Tis sweet, indeed, to look upon Miss Marie somebod-iV. She scarcely knows her loveliness, And little dreams the while How the very earth grows beautiful In the beauty of her smile. As sings within the blushing rose The honey-gathering bee, So mnrmureth laughter o'er the lips Of Marie somebod-ie. [For The Sunuy South.] SWEET AND BITTER MEMORIES. BY HAWOTE. About six years ago, there walked into my law office in the city of C——, an old, old man, who stumbled and tottered to a chair when asked to seat himself. His hair had whitened for the grave, and fell in wavy locks over his bending shoulders. His eyes were dim, and shot forth no bright flame of intelligence. I was writing when he came in, and told him to seat himself; when I finished, I would talk with him. I was I troubled. A favorite sister was sinking gradu- | ally every day to rest in the grave of her fathers. I was writing to an absent brother at school: “Come, for sister is dying. In the coming ten days, she will sweetly sleep in Jesus, and the birds will sing over her grave.” Tears dropped on the page as these words were written. When the sad letter was finished and folded and envel oped, I said to my old friend: “Excuse me for detaining you so long. I was writing an important letter. What can be done for you ?” The old man sat silently gazing at the law books on the shelves in the room, heedless as if he heard not my words. I watched his face anx iously, attracted by the evidences of emotion which fitfully played over his countenance. I had no heart then to talk to clients. The words of sister: “Brother, do you hear the little children sing ing over at the school-house of Miss H. ?” “Yes, sister.” “Well, they are singing those sweet lines of Miss Carey we used to sing in the choir, to “Dennis:” “ ‘One sweetly solemn thought Comes o’er me o’er and o’er— Nearer my heavenly Father’s house Than e’er I was before.’ And O my soul is singing these lines as its mo ments of life in this beautiful world are passing away; and its song will be heard in a brighter world than this in a few short days. Write to Willie; tell him to come, for I am dying.” Oh ! who could attend to business with these words and these thoughts uppermost in his mind ? But there sat this poor old fellow, with the grand court of heaven by the spirit of that man who cried out before me for the bread of life ? Reader, don’t let such an opportunity pass you. Do good whenever you can. I went back to my widowed mother’s home— sat down beside the bed of my much-loved dying sister. Oh ! how strange I felt when my eyes met the deep and loving glance of eyes fixed on me! A little later, and I had been too late, for sister was dying then. I had not expected to part with her under ten days, but she was going. Mother whispered to her that she was going to a land where there was no more pain nor sorrow nor death. She smiled, and again fixed her bril liant eyes on me. In a whisper,—“Tommie, make the Bible your guide in this world; read it—read it,” she gasped. I raised her head gen tly; she smiled, sweetly closed her eyes, and went to sleep. I had not been in the room five minutes when before me lay a sister’s corpse—a sister’s spirit had gone to its father. In due time I stood at the grave opened to receive a sis ter’s ashes. Ten days passed. My old friend came again; I gave him the money; he went away and bought his Bible. He came back to the office with the book in his hand. Said he: "Mister, please put your name in it. I want it there, so that I may remember it, though I’ll never forget you.” I took the book, and with trembling hand wrote my name in full on the fly-leaf, and then his own, and handed it back to him. He took it from my hand. Laying his right hand on my head, and in a sweeter voice to me than I have ever heard, though it almost squeaked, he said: “May God bless you. my young man, and make you great and good on this earth, and take you to him when you die.” His tears were glistening in his eyes; I saw them through my tears. Oh ! this sweet mem ory ! May it haunt me still! Did angels look down upon that old man when he blessed the giver? Did angels bear his message to Him who sitteth upon the great white throne? Did his daughter read that book to him ? I have never heard from him since. He lived at the time some twenty miles away in the mountains. He may be—no doubt is—now sleeping his long sleep. His spirit has no doubt met its fate in eternity. If he heard that book read daily, I have no doubt about his happiness now. And I have often thought, since the day he left, how much good that one Bible may do in this world ! That good though ignorant woman may raise up these three orphans to know and live for Jesus; and what good may they do in the world before they die! This is a sweet memory. I thank God that the blessing of giving in this instance was bestowed on me. But, good reader, in telling you this pleasing incident in life, I have been led back to the death-bed of a sister who claimed all the love that a brother could give, and who received it. I have been reminded that one treasure, a tie, binds me—my mind, heart and soul—to heaven. She told me to “make the Bible your guide in this world; read it—read it!” and with these words on her lips, she died. ’Tis a bitter thought, that I have not done as she requested me to do with the last words of her life; but I will. I had not intended to preach a sermon, good reader; only wanted to tell you of an incident in my life—of memories sweet and bitter. [For The Sunny South.] THE MIGHT-HAVE-BEEN. fanning herself with a broad leaf of the palm of beyond,the rails. She quitted her hold of him, ' Christian’s. All at once, there rose from tile sprung-after tlid pieces he had thrown off." and cottonwood tree near at hand, the mournful cry began to hurl them back upon the pile. Then i -- “ 1 A — he turned upon her, and panting, gasped out: “Stop, I charge you, or by the God above, I will denounce you as the one who did this. Y’ou will hang upon the gallows.” At that threat, she stopped. She had seen her husband hung; her son with the rope around his neck, struggling in agony. The gallows had a terror even for her. She stopped and stepped of the screech-owl, or death-owl, as it is super- stitiously called. Harriet started up in affright, and ran trembling to Melicent. “It’s a bad sign !” she cried! “Something’s going to happen.” “Something is always happening,” Melicent said cheerfully; but that quivering wail struck a chill to her heart. ‘There, Pretty Lady!” cried Harriet; “I have i»back a pace, but still called upon him to hold, night with her own hands, after she had first in- | breath to spare; he needed all his feeble power for one look from the blue eyes that, so cold to his eyes still fixed upon the books in the shelves, spected the horses. Harriet sat on the door-step, to lift the obstacles, one by one, and throw them others, were so tender to her. Weary and lonely, and his face seemed to speak, while his tongue 5 ’ “ * 1 J 1 * 1 ~ e ’ ’’ “ ' ' ' “' L * ^ ’ “ 1 ’ * ’’ ’ ' was still silent. j “Well, what do you want, my friend?” “Mister,” said he, “have you read all these ; books?” “No, sir; but in time I expect to do so.” “Well, well,” said the old man, in a voice which was cracked and low, and which seemed burdened by some sentiment or something which weighed upon his heart —something which strug gled for utterance, for he paused, then spoke again: “Well, I was going to say, you don’t know how glad I’d be if I could read a book so as to read it all the way through. Seventy win ters have passed, and still I am here to see the blossoms of this spring, and never a line did I read in all my life. ” “ Yes, one who can read and enjoy the thoughts of others —the brightest minds of this world— ought to know how to appreciate the gloom and darkness around and about one who never read anything in life, and seventy years of age.” These words seemed to. strike the inmost depths of the old man's heart, for his eyes kin dled and his voice grew stronger and more ani mated as he replied: “Darkness did yon say? Night—just before day, when ’tis said it’s darkest—you had better say. Why, sir, darkness is no word for it at all! I can’t read, and precious little have I ever heard read out of books or papers. Sir, I have raised a family of six children; saw them all go out into the wide world without any learning at all, except my last, a daughter, who learned to read while a little girl at Sunday school. My boys, four of them all raised families, and my daugh ters, one of them married long ago and died; her children, three of them are at my house; their father was killed in the war. These little fellows can’t read; I am too poor to send them to school. My daughter who learned at the Sun day school is still with me; she takes care of these little orphan children. I hear her tell j them some mighty sweet and tender words sometimes about the man named Jesus, who the preachers have been preaching about for years and years. She can talk sweeter to them of him than any preacher I ever heard. ” Here the old man’s face clouded with shad ows; he seemed to feel too deeply to talk of Jesus. Bringing his long staff heavily upon the floor, he continued: “She tells me that she wants the book called the Bible; I came here to get one for her. She said she would read it to me,—that it would make me a Christian man; and oh ! mister, if one of them books up there is the Bible, won't you give it to me? I will take it home and give it to her, and then ” Here the old man bent his face over and wept, j Reader, when you see this sight and hear these words as they were spoken to me by this poor old sinful man, then may you appreciate my feelings. “My dear sir, I am ashamed to say I have not the Bible in my library. These are law books, and my Bible is at home; but I will give you the money, and you may buy you one.” Here the thought came to me, the old fellow may be deceiving me; he may take the money I give him and get whisky with it. So I said: “Will you come to see me again in about ten days? I will then give you a Bible.” He showered his thanks upon me—said he would call at the time and get it. He seemed exceedingly happy. In smiles and tears he arose to take his leave. turned your glove wrong side out. I will shake it at him and he will fly away.” She did so; there was a rustle in the foliage, and the owl flew away with a soft whirr. “There!” said the girl, relieved. But as she uttered the exclamation, the cry rang from the tree close beside the porch where they sat. It was followed by the peculiar shuddering moan that sometimes closes the note of the bird. “Oh •” exclaimed Harriet; “that’s the death- trembles ! The sign means death!—it means death!” She ran into the house and closed the door behind her. Neil rose and drove the owl away, but the circumstance had affected him. The feeling of impending calamity—the premonition that something strange and awful was about to occur, came over him more strongly. To dispel it, he began to play again; but it seemed that only melancholy notes would come from the strings of his violin. Moved by some undefina- ble impulse, he sang the song so associated in his mind with Melicent—the old, simple ballad of love and despair,—“Beneath the Willow Tree.” His timidity seemed to vanish, and on the last verse he dwelt with all the pathos of his low, sweet voice: “She hears me not, she cares not, Nor will she list to me; While here I lie, alone to die, Beneath the willow tree.” In the heavy hush of the perfumed air, the leaves of the cottonwood did not stir, and the perfume of the wild jessamine floated up intoxi- catingly sweet and penetrating. Neil could hear Melicent's deep, agitated breathing, as she leaned so near him. A strange feeling came over him. His soul seemed to expand—to claim shaking her bony arm at him in rage and dis traction. “Let it be !” she cried. “ It is no business of yours what happens. It is not your doing. Go back home; get into your bed. To-morrow, Mel icent will be yours. He lifted a long, heavy rail and turned it from tlie road. “Melicent pities you, but she loves him—she loves him; she will go to him yet!” shrieked the mad woman. He uttered no word of reply. All the slender power of his enfeebled frame was needed for the task before him. His brain reeled—his breath came in short gasps—fierce pains darted through his body—his limbs shook, as though they would sink under him. The weakness was overpower ing, but he struggled desperately against it. “ O God, give me strength !” he prayed, as his fingers closed upon the objects composing the pile, now lessening under liis exertions. Suddenly a whirring, roaring noise was heard. It came nearer. “It is the train!” shouted Hagar. “Come away ! They will find us here; we will be taken up. Come, I am going!” She grasped his arm, but he shook her off and went on with his work. The roaring increased; the heavy panting of the engine could be heard directly around the curve. It was rushing on at full speed. “Come!” again shouted Hagar. “I tell you they will find us here and arrest us.” She ran a few' steps along the track, calling to him in a voice of alarm and agony. He did not heed her. There were now a few small obstacles upon the track and one large piece of split tim ber. A strong, well man could have raised it she had often stifled m her breast the longing to rest w ithin the dii ***«•' oFTrt3*strong‘arms. Was it too late ?—too late for love or even for forgiveness? As th< f ^train whirled her away across the night-darkened country, she chided its slowness, and gazed out in blank wretched ness at the starlit pictures of hill and plain, of town and river, that went flying past her as the train rushed on. At last the goal w r as reached; her journey was at an end. The cab set her down at the door of the well-remembered house. She rang the bell with a trembling hand. In the hall, she came face to face with Dr. Wilson. He extended his hand with a smile. Oh ! the rapture of assu rance there was in that smile ! “He is better; he passed the crisis four days ago,” he said, in answer to the inquiry in her haggard eyes. “ He expects you. Come to him at once; your presence will be a better restora tive than my medicine.” Leaving Manch and Harriet below, she went with Dr. Wilson up-stairs. At the door of the sick room, he signed to her to remain without while he entered alone. She could hear him say to his patient: “Be calm, my friend. Do Dot get excited. She has come; she is here, but you must be quiet.” “Yes, yes, Doctor; only let me see her at once,” returned the low, eager voice that thrilled her like music. Dr. Wilson reappeared outside, with smiling tears in his kind eyes. “Go in,” he said. “God bless you;” and he shook hands with Melicent in pure sympathy. He was sitting in an easy chair, with his dressing-gown wrapped around him as he en tered. He stretched out his arms and attempted to rise, but the effort was too much for him, and he fell back upon the seat. She came to him; she knelt down beside him and put her arms around him. Both were silent as their hearts throbbed together after the long, weary separation. “My darling,” he said at length, “you have come to me at last. You kept away from me so long, Melicent. I have been so desolate, so mis erable without you.” “My heart has been with you all the while,” BY l. l. v. for the first time affinity and equality with that " Hh ease, but Neil’s feeble strength was nearly she replied, looking up at him with eyes that of the woman by his side. At the same time, a profound sadness, deep as despair, but gentle and quiet, weighed upon him. Involuntarily, a heavy sigh escaped him. Melicent broke the silence. “ I do not think it. is right for you to be ex posed to the night air. Remember, you are not yet well.” “ The air feels cool to my forehead,” he said. “My head aches and feels heavy.” “Iam afraid you have fever again,” Melicent said anxiously. Then she laid her hand lightly against his forehead. He was bolder than he had ever been since their meeting. He put his own hand over hers and drew her fingers to his lips in a long, fervent kiss. Tears gushed from his eyes and fell upon Melicent's hand. Impelled by a swift rush of pity and tenderness, she bent down and kissed liis forehead, when suddenlv she felt herself clasped in his arms and pressed to his breast. Did he notice her involuntary shrinking from his embrace? He withdrew his arms from around her. “Forgive me,” he murmured sadly. “It seemed to me that you were Milly again, and that I was dying—parting from you forever.” It seemed strange and morbid, but such was his feeling at the moment, and when it passed, the shadowy presentiment lingered and weighed upon him. Harriet came out upon the porch. “I wonder where mother is?” she said. “She went out and has never come back. ” Neil rose hastily, his vague uneasiness at once taking shape. It was nothing unusual for Hagar to be abroad at night. When there was moon light especially, she often wandered about for hours alone, in a restless, purposeless way. But spent. The head-light of the train, glaring : beamed with love and happiness. dimly through rain and mist, burst into sight mL ‘ “ around the curve, as Neil, concentrating all his remaining vitality in one desperate effort, lifted the timber and threw it outside the rails. As he did so, he staggered and fell heavily across the track. i\ ith a wild scream, his mother darted to him and bent to lift him in her arms. It was too late. The panting, fire-breathing engine rushed upon them like a living demon. A cry from the engineer, a jolt, a shrill whistle, a shriller, blood-curling shriek from Hagar, and the train thundered on. The engine was speedily reversed; men leaped from the cars while the train was yet in motion, and hurried back to the scene of the catastrophe. There lay the victims—one dead, with his calm face upturned to the sky; the other fearfully crushed, mortally wounded, but still alive—still able to glare at them with the wild eyes of a dying tigress. “Go away!” she cried, as Mr. Avery pressed nearer. “Don't come here to gloat over mv pain. Y'ou, you are the cause of this. If I could have killed you, I would die satisfied. Now, you have your wish; he is dead, and you have her for your own ! Curse you,—curse you forever!” CHAPTER XXIII. Nearly two years had passed since the death of Neil and Hagar. Melicent was standing one summer evening with Harriet and two young girls under the shade of a great oak in front of a pleasant country house a few miles from St. Louis. She was graver and paler than when we saw her first as Mr. Avery’s bride; but there was a rich depth of feeling in her eye and in the tones of her voice, and there was the sweetness of charity and gentle sympathy in her smile, i That evening, there was a marriage ceremony in the sick room. Once more were those whom a strange fate had severed united in a bond that only death should now sever. There were no wit nesses save the officiating minister, Manch, Har riet, and good Dr. Wilson. Two Sabbaths afterwards, they attended church together, and many came forward after service with outstretched hands of welcome and con gratulation. Melicent acknowledged their atten tions with gentle courtesy. Not once did her lip curl at the memory of past unkindness and the suspicion of present hypocrisy and hollow ness. We have seen that sorrow had taught her deep charity, and from the lesson of Neil’s life she had learned patience and gentleness. When the congregation had dispersed, Mr. Avery led her out into the church-yard, lying with all its peaceful graves in the still shade and sunshine of the summer afternoon. He stopped beneath a great live-oak tree hung with wreaths of mournful moss. Underneath it was a new and beautiful monument. The design was peculiar. A cross of plain black marble resting lengthwise upon a large heart, carved of the purest white Parian marble, without flaw or blemish. This in turn rested upon a slab, bordered by a wreath of beautifully-carved ivy leaves and supported by four marble pedvst .Is. L'pon the slab, Meli cent read through her tears the inscription: SACRED TO THE MEMORY OF NEIL GRIFFIN, Who bore through life the cross of strange trials with a brave, pure and seif-denying heart, and who died at last the death of a martyr— saving the lives of many by the gen erous sacrifice of his own. The door was closed,—there was no one to hear what the writer of these lines said in his petition to a throne of grace. Oh! it seemed that a new life was opened before me ! Would Retrospection is to most persons not a very pleasant task. The web of life is a mingled yarn, in which the evil usually exceeds the good. Even in those passages in which there is no sin to condemn, there is folly to regret. Looking back over it now, we can see that much of the path over which we have trod was a succession of mistakes and blunders. We can see plainly now those turning points where, had we pursued a course different from that which we took, the whole of our after-lives would have been so dif ferent. At very many of these, our later sense says that we took the wrong road—that the other would have led us to a higher or better destiny. It may not be sound sense or good reason which gives this utterance. It may be but the groan- ings of that spirit of discontent which enters man at his cradle and follows him to his grave. But whatever it may be, it is true that most per- J sons in their reveries consider the history which [ they might have lived far more agreeable to con template. The politician who, despite the op position of a hundred rivals, has steadily made his way upward until he has attained almost the highest pinnacle of his ambition, perhaps regrets that instead of choosing this career, he did not j choose the noble mission of enticing men to goodness and pointing them to the way of life, i The general who, amid fields of carnage and the ruins of burning cities, has encircled his brow j with the garland of military glory, sighs when j he thinks that he might have been a peaceful farmer, producing by patient labor the means of human sustenance. The brilliant actress who, amid the glare of foot-lights, gracefully acknowl edges the plaudits of the audience, over whom she has thrown the enchantment of her genius, may feel for the moment that of all lives hers is the most triumphant. But when she has retired from these scenes, and sits silently communing with her own heart, she envies the plain, hard working, dutiful life of the wife and mother which she might have been. Not alone, how ever, where the decision of the hour has made such an utter change in all that follows do peo ple sigh over what might have been. People often find themselves dreaming over what might have been the consequences had they acted oth erwise at points which did not seem at the time critical. Thus the bachelor in his lonely rev eries speculates about the home presided over by a loving wife and lightened by half a dozen cherubs which might have been his had he listened to the promptings of love. The hus band who has learned patience and reticence under the discipline of an exacting wife, thinks sometimes how much happier his lot would have been had he married the pretty and pen niless lass whom he loved instead of the one he elected for her pelf, despite her pride. Glitter ing in jewels and rustling in silks though she moves, yon youthful bride of a purse-proud do tard sometimes sheds a tear of regret that she did not, in his stead, accept the young lover who had nothing with which to dower her save the devotion of a loyal heart. Oh ! had we a tongue of brass and lungs of iron, we could not name all those who sigh over “ the might-have- been.” They are everywhere—the old and the young, the rich and the poor, pouring forth the sadness of soul over those words. They speak whole volumes of life’s possibilities and life’s failures. They mingle with and impart some times a tone of sadness, sometimes a strain of thanks in all our thoughts of the long time ago. Thanks, we say, it often calls up; for though in reviewing the past, we can discern many places where we might have done better, we can see quite as many where we might have done worse. During the battle of Bull Run, a brigadier general discovered a soldier concealed in a hole the old man come back and get the “Book of.- in the ground, and ordered him to join his regi- Books?” I feared he would not, and then my opportunity of sending the words of him who spake as never man spake, into the house of a man who might soon sleep with his fathers— going without hope of life eternal! But he was gone, and the opportunity had flitted away at a bare suggestion called forth by a want of faith in man ! How would I feel when confronted at ment. The man, looking him full in the face, placed his thumb upon his nose and replied: “No you don’t, old fellow; you want this hole vourself.” Fashionable young lady, detaching her hair before retiring,—“ What dreams may come when we have shuffled off this mortal coil!”