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scintillated in her eyes as she turned and looked at her companion. “ Do you permit such homage?" she asked, laughing. “Bomantic artists must be allowed some priv ileges, especially when they happen to he old admirers,” he whispered, so low that Marian was not sure she heard aright. But later that evening, as she passed a group promenading the hall, she caught the words: “old lover,” “fainted at sight of him," “can hardly take his eyes off her.” AVhile her heart was swelling with indignation to which she could give no vent, she came in juxtaposition to Mr. De Forest. He drew her to a seat be side him, and while the music and the beat of dancers’ feet drowned his voice, said: “Have I not proved it? Is there not frost under the fire ?" “ Will you tell me what under heaven is your motive for what you have done, Mr. De Forest?” “ Done ? What have I done?” “I can hardly tell coherently, so unaccount able seems the whole transaction; but it seems to me that you have deliberately and with some trouble to yourself arranged an unexpected meet ing between two persons, in order that a certain effect should be produced upon one of them, and to create a mischievous and false impres sion upon persons looking on.” “How do you know such impression would he false ?” “Because I know my sister.” “Or think that you do. No human being knows another. We do not know ourselves; we cannot answer for ourselves under given circum stances; often we are astonished, confounded ai our own actions, when ” “Spare me metaphysics just now; or if you will indulge in them, let it be to explain your motives in bringing to pass what you did to night.” “ Tell me, first, why a wretch who is suffering from toothache, or from an inward bruise, will set his teeth and press hard upon the quivering nerve, or the inward sore, and feel a grim satis faction in the pain that follows.” (For tfce Sunny Soutn.) Mercy is 31 ore than Justice. BY MBS. AMELIA V. PUEDY. A ranche thirty miles from San Antonio Hills to the southwest. Miles and miles of verdure, undulating as a sea, silent as sleep. Overhead, white clouds pure as a saint’s heart, fringed with blue stolen from violets hiding shyly, like nuns, in their leafy cloisters. The ranche is spacious and comfortable. It contains four large rooms and a wide hall in the centre—a long L on each side, forming a Spanish court yard, shaded with live oaks. The house is hand somely furnished, and books line the walls and cumber the what-nots and tables; Brussels car pets over the floors; there are costly bronzes upon the mantles, and a harp, piano and organ occupy the corners in the parlor. A smooth, velvet lawn stretches before the door, dotted with live oaks, but flower there is not about the place—nothing feminine, nothing tender and | sweet: no golden-throated canary pouring forth his rich oratorios, but out in the trees the mocking-birds hold high carnival, and red birds i circle and dart through the green tassels like , tongues of fire. In a hammock on the gallery swings a girl of twenty-five. She is not beautiful—beauty im plies softness, refinement, and delicacy of form I and feature. She is much above medium height, i with a dark, handsome, whole-souled face; eyes j of that rare blue that is indigo in the strong light, black in the shade of the long, sloe-black lashes; the mouth is stern to a fault; complex- [ ion rose-flushed; brows faultless, upon a mas- i sive, square forehead—a woman to govern na tions, you would say at a glance: stony and true | as steel, and tender as a brooding dove to the I weak and oppressed. She throws down her book and yawns, stretch ing lazily. “ Alta,” says a gray-haired man of sixty, “take j Selim and have a gallop; it will brighten you ] up. You look the personification of inertia.” known wealth will ensure me every social atten tion.” Mrs. Hudson’s impassive face did not change as she replied: “ Yon may dismiss the idea—it is impossible.” “I am not to marry—not to have a home of my own, as other girls have. Is insanity hered itary ? Of what are you afraid ? You surely are not selfish enough to sacrifice my happiness for a mere whim, and unless there be a great reason why I should live and die in the wilder- “I am glad that (rod raised up such a friend for her, and glad you lived; and I know you are the sunlight of her heart. Any mother in the land would be proud of you.” His face clouds darkly. The truth dawns upon Mrs. Hudson at last, and when Judge Ludlow asks her consent to his union with her daughter, there is a scene. Mr. Hudson is grieved to lose his pet, but accepts the situation with sorrowful yet unselfish grace. Don’t; you hurt me. I did not know my They are married and take their departure, Mrs. mother’s sad history till a few months ago. Let us never mention it again. I would rather for get that they who should have sheltered her cast her out, half mad and friendless, and I find _ it hard to forgive. Perhaps I should have less ness, afar "and apart from all Caucasians, in a sympathy if I belonged to a class that knew no upon the pale, stern lips, week’s time I will be in San Antonio.” " ' T ’ ’ A ~ Hudson refusing to witness the ceremony or see the bride afterwards; and when her weekly let ters arrive to brighten the lonely father’s heart, his wife makes no enquiry, and sits apart with disdainful face, the fifth commandment forever As a rule, it is not I flattered myself,” Mrs. Hudson speaks bit terly, “ that you were superior to such weakness, that you were deficient in sentiment; but since you are both weak and silly, I will give you my reasons for isolating you and withdrawing my self from the world. At sixteen, Lucille entered society and was the belle of Charleston. At seventeen she was disgraced, and her seducer fled across the sea. In one night my hair turned to snow. In a week we were on our way here. I cast her out of my heart forever, erased her social Pariahs. Perhaps the world treats such i the devoted, pains-taking, affectionate, unselfish criminals aright, but I feel like groveling in the j mother who is most exacting. In fact, the mother dust and mire when I think of the stigma that who has been most remiss in her duty will de lies upon me for life; that I shall never rise , mand what the higher and nobler mother nature above—never overcome—that will be forever | would not hesitate to declare a work of superer- whispered in society, with the half contempt- ogation It is such a. pity,’ which Christians feel called ppon to utter when I shall be discussed.” “You shall not cherish such feelings,” Alta says, decisively. “You will be peer with the best; aniu-yhen you ar^on the topmost round, men will be prflud tojntroffuce their daughters, name from the Bible, and for twenty years I I and good women will honor and love you. What i a i J A’— bn. ” /1a T-nn tlrinl* rnn will lto Siiilnpv Pain ! yes, there could be no doubt that he ! “ Only sleepy, papa. I don’t like Muhlbach; had suffered from the test he had strangely ap- sh ®, 18 s ? slow and msl P ld ’ strangely ap plied. “How singular that you should be jealous of a person that Adrienne never spoke a word to until this evening,” Marian said, slowly, with her eyes fixed on his. “ How do you know that she never spoke to him before? But you are wrong; I am not jeal ous of him— that blue-eyed, shallow boy. The little impromptu comedy to-night, interested me as showing how a woman can worship a man so madly that a mere resemblance to him by an other—his mere shadow—can make her heart cease to beat. ” He turned off, and left her as much in doubt as ever, especially wondering, indignantly, what could be his reason for making the “ comedy ” a public one. The evening had been a miserable one to more than one inmate of the shadowed house. Made- Ion Floris had been cordially invited by Adri enne to appear at the party, and Mr. De Forest had added his request, that had a subtle tone of command; but the evening had nearly passed, when Marian remembered her, and looked for her in vain. Putting some wine, fruit and cake on a little silver waiter, she took it up-stairs to her with her own hands. She found her sitting at the window, with the moonlight falling over her splendid figure, dressed in black velvet, with bare arms and neck gleaming like polished marble; her hands, clasped tightly together, rested on the window sill before her; lines of anguish were on her brow, and slow tears rolled down her cheeks as she listened to the music below. What were her thoughts at that moment ? Did she remember some night of triumph, when she had worn this splendid dress, with jewels blazing about her, and had heard the mu sic of the opera—now being played indifferently down stairs—hushing its glorious strains, while she bowed to the homage raining on her in flowers and gems, and glowing in the sea of faces stretching before her? Or did the memo ry of yet “happier things” come to set “a sorrow’s crown of sorrow”,on the dreary, lifeless present? She turned her worn face to Marian as she entered, rose hurriedly, and dashed the tears from her cheek. “I had dressed to go down, madamoiselle, but—I did not feel well enough. I hope I will be excused,” she said in her low, deep voice. “You are very kind to trouble yourself about me.” At last the company dispersed, the weary party was over. “It has been like a bad dream,” Adrienne said, putting her hand to her head and taking from her hair the withered lilies. She had ex erted herself to the last moment to appear the cheerful hostess, and had succeeded with her usual grace; but now the paleness and wear- I iness of her face made Marian say, as she drew I her to her and kissed her, “ Go now at once and j rest.” “Marian, there is reproach as well as kind ness in your eyes. You grieve that secresy keeps your sympathy from coming nearer to me. Bear with me. There is a secret I can never tell you. It could do no good; it might do harm. ” “Is this young artist connected with it?” “Hardly, You shall know what caused the sight of him to affect me so. I can tell you that at least. You shall see it yourself to-morrow— to-morrow in the room that Alice calls the secret chamber.” (TO BE CONTINUED.) The Atmosphere. The atmosphere is composed of one partoi gen and four parts nitrogen. The former sup ports life, the latter extinguishes it. The more oxygen there is, the livelier, the healthier, the more joyful we are; the more nitrogen, the more sleepy and stupid and dull do we become. But if all the air were oxygen, the first lighted match would wrap the world in instant flanre; if all were nitrogen, the next instant there would not be upon the populated globe a single living creature. When oxygen was discovered by Priestly, nearly a century ago, there was a uni versal jubilation among doctors and chemists. The argument was plausible and seemed per fectly convincing: “If oxygen is the life and health of the atmosphere, as we have found out how to make oxygen, we have only to increase the quantity in the air we breathe in order to wake up new life, to give health to the diseased and youth to the aged. But on trial it was found that it made a man a maniac or an idiot, and if continued, a corpse. Various other ex periments have been made to improve upon the handiwork of the all-wise Maker of the universe, but they have been successive failures; and thinking men have long since come to the con clusion that there can be no improvement upon the first creation. The Frince of Gluttons. —Fuller, in his “ Worthies,” states that one Nicholas Wood, of Harrison, in Kent, ate a whole sheep raw, cost ing sixteen shillings—a good sum in those days— and at another time thirty dozen of pigeons. At Sir Sidney’s, in the 6ame county, he ate as many victuals as would have served thirty men. At Lord Wootton’s mansion, in Kent, he devoured at one dinner eighty-four rabbits, which, by computation of half a rabbit each man, would have served one hundred add sixty-eight men. He once ate his breakfast eighteen yards of black , pudding, and once devoured a whole hog at one jsitting, with three pecks of damsons. She rises —a queen among worn en, the haughty head upheld with stag-like grace. “Even the excitement of a gallop has palled. Now, if I thought a wolf or Apache would chase me, I’d mount Selim at once. An insurrection among our servants—anything would be prefer able to this monotony. I wonder if the sailors in Southern seas do not go mad and die when the ship is locked in a dead calm for weeks. I would prefer cyclones to stagnation.” “Get your hat and habit, Alta, and I will go with you,” he returns gently, with a faint sigh. She floats away, discontented of face, and a woman her exact duplicate takes the vacated hammock. She is faultlessly attired, and her hair, snow white in hue, clusters in short locks around her face. Her eyes are brown, hard and repellant. She is haughty and thoroughbred—a lady every inch of her, but a beggar would cross the street to avoid her, and a child would not make friends with her in a year. “Alta is not looking happy,” Mr. Hudson ob serves. “This is a hard life for the young. Youth needs excitement, change, company. I feel sometimes that we have buried her alive, and doubt its wisdom.” “I have not heard her complain,” the lady answers; “ and besides, she is accustomed to it; you forget that. I doubt if she ever craves com pany or excitement. What is there in the rush and fever of the world that one can find attract ive? As a married woman, she would sit face to face with tragedy, agony and endless care—per haps have her hair prematurely whitened, as mine has been. Here, life glides away. For companions, she has the royal minds of the world, ancient and modern—Surely more inter esting than giggling, commonplace girls.” “But we will not live always," he remon strates; “and friendless, she will have to make her way in the world.” “The rich are never friendless,” Mrs. Hudson returns placidly. “ And I flatter myself that my daughter—she is just what I was as a girl- can make her way anywhere, and with eclat. She is a Grafton, every inch of her.” “ But I have papa’s heart, ” interrupts a cheery voice; “ and with your head and papa’s heart, when I make my debut I will create a sensation, and so far as the sterner sex is concerned, be a feminine Alexander. Come, papa; as we rush through the air waves, they have all the hollow murmur of the sea, and recall baby days; and some of these days the prince will come, and we’ll cross the sea together.” Mr. Hudson laughs; the elder lady frowns darkly. Alta makes a queer grimace and vaults upon Selim with all the grace of a circus queen, and calls back cheerily: “You hear it mother; even out herein these Texan solitudes the prince will find me and take me away.” “Never!” says Mrs. Hudson with decision. “ I will have one child to take care of me in my lonely old age. Prince indeed !—she is twenty- five now.” Says Alta presently: “Papa, are we geing to New York this sum mer?” He hesitates and colors. “No, pet; your mother was so violently op posed to it that I have given it out.” “ Does she assign no reason ?” “ Don’t ask me, Alta. Your mother has idio- syncracies that we must make the best of. She has never been the same since Lucille (a long pause) died.” “ Was she like me ?” The girl’s mobile face clouds. “You?—oh! no. She was a little delicate, fairy-like creature, with the beauty of a wax doll—so gentle and amiable and soft-spoken that we nick-named her Peace. She was like my sister Lucille, who died in her early teens, and called for her. Tour mother idolized her— she was so utterly guileless and innocent.” His eyes fill with tears, which gather and drop one by one. “I will try to take her place,” Alta says gen tly. “But, papa, I will not stand this life any longer. I don’t suppose San Antonio offers much in the way of excitement, but I mean to go there and spend the summer. May I ?” “ Certainly, if you can gain your mother’s consent. It is dreary for you, poor child.” have not heard from her. Alta rises, her splendid tropical face white as a pearl, her lips curled with scorn, that the great, starry, unfathomable eyes caught up and repeated. “Ah, I see; it was to guard against a repeti tion of the disgrace that you have isolated me and fled to the wilderness. Bather than subject me to the perils of society, you gave up the world. Surely, the sacrifice is without prece dent, and I am deeply indebted; but did it ever occur to you that you could not disown your own child—you, who gave to her the bitter gift of life ? And I wonder that my father, tender and good as he is, ever permitted his first-born, who must he a child, should she live to be eighty, to be cast out like a dog. Ordinarily, I declare war for women; but there are instances when my sympathies go out strongly for men, ruled and ruined by mean women. Mother, your reason is not a good reason, and your course toward the unfortunate, though natural, is repre hensible.” “ You have found life bitter?” Mrs. Hudson remarks,{ignoring her uncomplimentary words. “ Bitter ? Aye, as bitter as gall,” Alta answers sternly. “ A birth-day has never come around that I did not regret I was born.” Mrs. Hudson’s face flushes redly. “That, of course, ends all discussion. If I were to talk all day, there is so much of your father in you that you could not comprehend. He was weak enough to plead for her, and to pro pose to bring her here. Disgraced, the world had no more attractions for me, and I keep you out of the world, so that we may have one child in our lonely old age.” “Did the child live?” asked Alta, coolly. Mrs. Hudson shivers and recoils. “I neither know nor care. Child! I could not breathe the same atmosphere with it and live. I grow faint and sick at the mention of its existence.” “I remember Lucille a little,” Alta observes, “ and will try to find her some day. Christ did not spurn the foulest penitent sinner, but we, fearing contagion, shower stones upon them. And now that you have avowed that selfishness is at the bottom of your determination to bury me, I will tell you that I don’t believe in one sided duty, and prepare for my summer so journ.” “If you leave this Banche you will never re turn here,” Mrs. Hudson says frigidly. “If you loved your parents you would willingly de vote your life to them.” “As you please,” answered Alta gravely. “I can support myself if you prefer my absence to be permanent. If I cannot teach, I can get washing to do. I hgtvemhysical .strength even to dig, if it comes to th^T” r Sh9 rose and went away,-«.nd in tb>3 solitude of her own rooih Fept bitterly o ,r er the fair, sweet sister, who was one of the cherished im ages of early years. She glanced out of the win dow; there sat her mother, trith her white, stony face, beautiful still, though sixty summers had blossomed and died. Cold, hard and tyrannical, she had known her all her life. Self-paramount, ruling husband and servants with a rod of iron. A woman who could not say “They know not what they do,” “ They could not help it,” but who believed that sinners sinned from choice and loving sin. Mr. Hudson lived out-doors, and by never opposing her will, kept perpetual peace. Alta opposed to hers a will as strong, sarcasm as cutting, temper as furious, and Mrs. Hudson showed her generalship by admitting no trial of strength; the child grew up scarcely aware of the obstinacy which is but a bull-dog attribute, after all, and the lowest form of firm ness, and generally united with feeble, con tracted mentality. Of course, if Alta persevered in going to San Antonio, the threat of expulsion was but idle, and she sorely regretted that tem per had made her issue a command she could not possibly enfore, for lately Mr. Hudson had shown a spirit of insubordination which she found herself powerless to quell. The sceptre was departing, and the miserable woman ac knowledged in her heart that she had worn a crown of thorns through life, though its fairest roses bloomed about her feet. In a week Mr. Hudson returned, and Alta bounded down the steps and went out swiftly to meet him, pausing in astonishment as a strik ingly handsome youth of perhaps twenty, doffed his cap and bowed. For a moment her eyes rested upon the dark, classic face, the sorrowful blue eyes bright with intellect, the delicate, sensitive mouth, sweet as a baby’s and coral red; then passed swiftly to her father’s high-bred, refined face; and with wildly-palpitating heart, and stepping closer to the rockaway: “ Papa, why don’t you introduce me ? Who is this gentleman ?” “I beg your pardon, my dear,” Mr. Hudson said, laughingly. “Mr. Sidney Glenwood, from New Y’ork, and recommended to me by Dr. Bethel. He is health-seeking, daughter, so I commend him to your mercy.” “I believe I would like a stroll over the prairie now, if Miss Alta will consent,” the stranger said, smilingly flashing her a glance, which she readily interpreted, her eyes taking on new beauty and brilliance, her cheeks flushing a vivid scarlet. Seeing this, his eyes filled with elation, and “It is worse than that. I loathe it, and if j he sprang out and walked on by her side. Out of hearing, she faced him and said: “I know you; you are Lucille’s son. You have her features and papa’s eyes; her eyes were brown. Don’t tell me it isn’t so, for I will not believe you.” “It is true,” he said, sadly, “and mother sent me out here to win your affections and pave the way to a reconciliation. I can win grandfather; I he is so noble and true, and kind-hearted to a | fault. How is it with grandmother?” I She shook her head soberly; her face gave ! him no hope. Then, after a pause: “Well, lean but make the experiment, and you will keep my secret. If you only could see my mother. Her walk is saintly; she is much I werthier canonization than many a canonized mother adheres to her determination to keep me on this ranche, I shall take my future in my own hands. Just think—for twenty years I have been on this ranche, and without companions, and yon are the only gentleman I have ever seen. “It is not my fault,” he interrupts; “and I often try to soften your mother, but she is as in flexible as death.” “And so am I.” She throws back her regal head, her face growing resolute and determined. “And unless she gives a valid reason for immo lating me—my you;h is even now quite gone—I will enter the world at once. To the rich, at least, it is bright and beautiful.” The next day Mr. Hudson goes to San Anto nio for supplies, and Alta, book in hand, swings lazily (in the hammock. Close by, intent upon rose-tatting, Mrs. Hudson is seated, thoroughly enjoying the tranquility. Presently Alta arose and sat down directly opposite her mother, and with level eyes, cool and uncompromising as ^ fate, fastened on her mother’s hard, cold face, i come reconciled and forgive* her. She often how few gentlemen there are? No man is a gen- do you think you will be, Sidney ? “I have been admitted to practice at the bar lately,” he replies, still gloomy of face, eyes and lips redolent of pain. “And not yet twenty-one,” she says, gleefully. “Oh, Sidney, you will be in the White House yet. I am so proud of you.” At this he laughs, and his face becomes radi ant. Obeying an impulse, she throws her arms about his neck and kisses him; takes his hand and leads him around to the front of the house; marches up to Mrs. Hudson, who is rocking, book in hand, and calls oat: “ Mother, this is Mr. Sidney Glenwood, of New York, an intimate friend of Dr. Bethel’s. Tell him at least that anybody will be company in these dreary wilds.” She greets him with icy courtesy, and her manner is constrained and repellant. She is offended; her husband has dared to bring a guest without previously consulting her, and a a man, it is more than probable, that Alta will fall in love with, she adds mentally, as she scru tinizes him through her spectacles. But Mr. Hudson returns, and after supper they repair to the parlor. Mr. Glenwood plays well on the organ and piano, and has a splendid tenor voice. He is witty and interesting, and several times the frozen woman finds herself smiling at his droll conceits. “I hope you will not fall in love with him,” she says, gravely, to Alta when he has retired. “He is at least five years your junior. He re minds me just a little of that villain Horton; but he was a commonplace man; this Glenwood has a splendid head; I never saw a face with more intellect and strength. It would not sur prise me if you fell in love with him. I haven’t the faith in you I once had. Bemember, you are a mature woman.” “I’ll remember,” with a sardonic smile; “but women of mature years are often happy with boys. There was Mrs. Johnson, for instance, the great essayist, was nineteen years her j unior; and later, there’s Mrs. DYsraeli.” She went away laughing at her mother's look of disgust, and abandoned all thought of San Antonio for the present. Sidney became a favorite with Mr. Hudson, and every one on the place had but smiles for the young stranger; but Mrs. Hudson’s dislike increased. Had Alta and Mr. Hudson disliked him, she was so constituted that she would have found much to commend. As it was, she made herself so disagreeable, and expressed herself with so much bitterness, that Sidney abandoned all hope of winning her with despair. Two months later he observes: “I hate to leave you, Alta; but I can stay no I have learned that grandmother is still t^itteriy incensed towards poor mother, and if I let her know who I am, she would curse me from the place. May God soften her heart be fore she goes to ask forgiveness after death.” “I don't know what I will do without you,” Alta answers, drearily. “Ishallbesolontsome.” “ Perhaps the Prince will come to keep you company,” he says, soberly; “for I am a fatal ist, so far as marriage is concerned, and believe that the right one will find you if you take up your abode in the catacombs of Egypt.” A horseman comes up slowly through the ver dure, erect and graceful, with eagle eyes and clustering golden hair. Sidney laughs and Alta starts with surprise. “There he is now,” Sidney declares, with ludicrous solemnity. “The prince you have been watching for for years, so put on your most captivating smile, fair auntie.” “What a goose,” says Alta, coloring redly. I expect the man has a wife and nine children.” The stranger reins up and hows. “ Will you be kind enough to direct me to Mr. Hudson’s ranche.” His eyes rest admiringly and wonderingly on Alta, who replies briefly. He thanks her and rides on. “I know him,” says Sidney; “have seen him in New York. He is Judge Ludlow, of Chicago, and the catch of that city. Alta, marshal your forces at once; he is worth it.” Alta laughs at his nonsense and tries to per suade him to stay another week. They go home together, and find the stranger conversing with Mrs. Hudson, who is almost gracious as she presents him to her daughter and Mr. Glen wood. He is acquainted with several families whom she knew abroad, and it recalls her happy girlhood, and the grim face relaxes. Sidney leaves in the morning, deeply regretted by Mr. Hudson, who accompanies him several miles and insists upon his early return. Very reluctantly Mrs. Hudson consents to re ceive judge Ludlow as a summer boarder. He had tried to obtain board at Boerne and had failed, and was suffering from overwork and de bility. It would hardly be humane to refuse to take him, and he was a grave, handsome gentle man of forty-five, an old bachelor, and not at all the kind of a man Alta would fancy, or who would admire her. So mothers judge and plan, and yet in a month the twain were lovers. Out in the picturesque hills of Western Texas, Judge Ludlow found a woman who ranked in culture and general information the women of the Na tional metropolis, conversant in French and German, with the self-possession and grace of a princess born in the Tuileries, and wh* had not been in the streets of a town for twenty years. But he ceases to wonder as acquaintance devel ops the fact that both parents have had brilliant advantages, and that Mrs. Hudson is as familiar with high life in Europe as she is with the dells around her, having been educated abroad and Mr. Hudson at Cambridge, her parents being princely planters in South Carolina, who num bered their slaves at five hundred. A weak woman is won—kneeling; the woman of brain must be won in tyranny. You remember Sto ry’s unique idea of Cleopatra, symboled in verse, and marble, if my memory is not at fault: “ Come not cringing to sue me— Take me with triumph and power; As a warrior storming a fortress, I will not tremble nor lower.” And so Judge Ludlow won her; and had her Mr. Hudson says seriously: “It is as much the duty of a parent to pro vide amusement and company for his daughter as it is to provide food. We may thank our stars that she did not fall in love with a Mexican cow-driver; we deserved even that.” She makes no reply. It is summer once more. Mrs. Hudson is much given to solitary rides over the prairie, always selecting with a grim smile the wildest horse in the stable. She works off her repressed excitement in this way, and returns composed and frigid as usual. One day Mr. Hudson calls from the window: “Alta, don’t take Saladdin, there isn’t a man on the place can hold him.” “Nonsense!” she calls back. “I can manage any horse, and he has been ploughing for a week. You know I have almost Earey power over refractory horses.” lie is quite busy and forgets her. Two hours later, Sidney Glenwood comes across the plain carrying the insensible woman, silently, with all the tender pity of his youth surging in his heart. Mr. Hudson, with an agonized sob, gath ers her to his heart. “I think her brain is injured,” Sidney ex plains; “ she was thrown against a stone. I was on my way here, and found her lying in the road.” A physician is hastily summoned, but the death-like lethargy continues for days, and he urges her removal to San Antonio and a consult ation of the best medical talent. The journey was made and her injuries were not considered serious, but she lay lifeless and speechlesss, with wide-open eyes, recognizing no one about her. In a month she began to improve, and Mr. Hudson returned to the ranche, leaving her in charge of a tried nurse. In his sorrow and loneliness, his heart had gone out to the grave young friend who shared his vigils. Said Sidney one day: “My mother is in the city, Mrs. Hudson; may I bring her to see you? I think you would like her.” The dull eyes brightened. “If she’s like you, yes. I wish I had a son. Sons are better to their mothers than daughters are.” In the evening, a little, fragile, snow-drop of a woman, with coal-black hair and sweet, pure face, perfect as to feature, but pale and attenu ated, came in with Sidney. “I am glad to know you, Mrs. Glenwood,” the sick woman said, feebly. “ You remind me a little of my first daughter, but her face was round as an apple.” “ She died ?” The visitor’s large, brown eyes fell to the car pet. “Died? No; I cast her out, like a dog, when she most needed to be taken to my heart,” was the unexpected answer. “And if God spares me, I will try to find her and ask her to forgive me. I sowed the wind, and am reaping the whirlwind. From a child, Alta cared nothing forme. I was austere and harsh; I made her life one long rainy day; I allowed her no pets, and she had no companions; I interdicted flow ers, I detested the effeminate; I kept poetry and novels out of the house, only to have them smuggled in by the bag-full. Tell me, was it natural or unnatural to forsake my heart-broken child ?” Her eyes fastened hungrily upon the lady’s face, which whitened to the hue of the pearls she wore on her breast. “If she came back, would you be glad to see her?" Mrs. Glenwood asked, her tiny white hands trembling with excitement. “Glad? Ch God ! I never loved anything on earth as I loved her. Her curls were like burn ished gold, her face like a flower. She crowed and laughed from daylight till dark. Ever since my sickness, in fancy, I hear her silver gurgles and coos, and I am young and fair again, and it is rapture to live. Why, if she could come back to me, my babe, my sunbeam ! I would get well right away.” Mrs. Glenwood loosened the strings that fas tened the black tresses to her head, revealing the short, golden curls of her infancy, and dropped down on her knees with a simple, “Oh mother, mother !” and rested in the arms that opened, with a glad cry, to receive her. And so Sidney found them, and stood apart, with wet eyes. Presently, the old lady saw him, and beckoned him to approach. Drawing near, her hands fell upon his head. “An old woman’s blessing is not much, Sid ney, but it is yours. May God keep you for ever; and when you are famous, occupying positions of honor and trust, remember that mercy is Christ-like, and more than justice.” Upon Hudson’s return, she was sitting up, with the bright smile of her girlhood irradi ating her face. “Lucille is here.” she cried, joyously, “and Sidney is her son !” He stood still, doubting her sanity, when Lu cille entered, followed by Sidney. It was a happy meeting, and in a week the party were en route to Chicago, and soon domiciled under J udge Ludlow’s roof. That gentleman welcomed Sidney with cor diality, overlooking the bar sinister so far as to introduce him to his sister, a hlack-eyed beauty and belle, with gorgeous Titian hair, and the sparkle and dash of Diana, whom Sidney mar ried a year later. “What a lovely old lady Mrs. Hudson is,” said a visitor lately; “ so stately and gentle and sweet, so tender with the troubled and with little children; and how her husband idolizes her.” And she was all that. Christ had struck the rock, that the living waters might flow; angels had ministered to her in her sickness, and the hard nature had blossomed out like a rose. Ile- morse, too, had assisted to perfect the work, and an accusing conscience, dormant for years, had stung through the long days, and the solitudes of the night, when ail others slept; and the haughty spirit groveled in the dust before the ghosts of the wasted years, a la Banquo, ever before her; how she had demanded so much, and accorded so little, and the few years that were left to repair the misconduct of a life. It ! was repentance, reformation at the eleventh i hour, but it was permanent, j At seventy, Mrs. Hudson is the merriest and i happiest of grandmothers, and her sons-in-law ; love her. Sidney is United States Senator, and saint. Her husband idolizes her, and he has I gentlemen acquaintances been legion, I will pay ° n e of the brilliant men of the country; but been a tender, devoted father to me for eighteen ! him the compliment that he would have still 1 the shadow lies across his brows that will never years; I am his adopted son and bear his name, j been her choice. Generally, an isolated girl \ lift till overcast by the radiance of the crown He is a man of distinguished presence, judge of marries the first man who makes love to her, i—j -- .l . the Supreme Court, and very wealthy. Mother and the girl whose advantages are superior rarely would be quite happy if her parents would be- marries in her teens. Have you ever thought Christ shall place upon his head, in the not made ny hands.” said carelessly: j speaks of baby Alta, and jongs to see you. I “As we cannot go to New York, I will endeavor > shall have sweet news to carry her of you. You to put up with San Antonio this summer, and j have more than fulfilled expectation. Y’ou look will make immediate preparation. The Menger | like an empress, Aunt Alta.” has an unexceptionable reputation, and papa’s j Alta’s happy eyes overflow. tleman who i3 not truthfully honorable, gentle and polite, at all hours and in all places—pitiful to women and little children, ever remembering that the august eyes of the Eternal God are upon him every hour that he lives. “ Handsome is that handsome does,” quoted a Chicago man to his wife the other day. “Yes,” replied she in a winning tone, as she held out her hand. “For instance, a husband who is always ready to hand some money to his. wife.” INSTINCT PRINT