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Castle and Cabin; -OR- Lord Edwin’s Vow. A TALE OF ENGLAND AND THE GREAT WEST BY C. H. WEBSTER. CHAPTER X. TH* PAWNEE TILLAGE. Two weeks later, the young Lord Edwtn Stan hope awoke to consciousness from the fever which had followed his injuries; and was sur prised to find himself lying, weak and emaciat ed, upon a bed of skins in a wigwam built of forest sapplings; while a young girl, of appar ently not more than fifteen summers, and well- dressed in Indian costume was sitting near him, weaving some curious wampum embroidery. For a few moments—too faint yet to even think contentedly—he lay, and surveyed the beautiful picture through his half-shut eyelids the dark girlish face, the rich crimson of the rounded cheek, the dusky eyes, the jetty braids, ornamented with a cluster of vivid scarlet blos soms, the bright boddice 'brdidered with gay wampum, and the broad bracelets that spanned her slender, graceful wrists. Then, in almost childlike wonder, he turned his eyes to the riohly wrought skins that hung upon the walls of the wigwam, and to his own bed of the soft est otter fur, and the small cloth pillow beneath his head. , , ,, , And then he looked up to behold his own hunting coat hung from a pair of deer-antlers; while he perceived, for the first time, that he had on a loose blouse of Indian manufacture. As he turned upon his couch, his movements startled the young girl; and, rising, and fling ing down her embroidery, she darted from the lodge. In a few minutes, his cousin Sir Hugh lifted the skin from the entrance, and came and took his hand, saying : •Well, my boy, I’m glad to see a glimpse of re turning consciousness in your eyes once more. It looks as though we should get out of these wilds again. You’ve had a hard siege of it, my poor fellow!’ ‘Where am I ?—and what vision of beauty just left me?’ asked the youth, faintly, gazingaround in wonder. ‘I don’t understand this, Hugh.’ ‘You are in a Pawnee Indian’s wigwam; and it was Wind-Flower— the old chief's daughter, and the young chief Eagle Plume’s sister who just went out,’ said Sir Hugh; and he went on to relate to Lord Edwin the accident which had laid him upon this bed of pain and illness. Slowly—for his brain was yet weak—the youth began to remember the events of that morning wnen the buffalo herd had swept down upon them like a mountain avalanche; and then he lifted his arm, from whose shoulder the banda ges were not yet removed, and recalled the thought of that moment’s sharp agony when the cruel horns had pierced him through and pin ioned him to the earth, ere the mad beast had bounded away, with a fierce bellow, on his flight over the prairie. Then his mind camo back to the present, and he fell to wishing that his lovely young nurse would again enter the wigwam. Perhaps Sir Hugh divined his thoughts; for he smiled archly, and said : ‘I scarcely know to which we most owe your life—the kind, protecting hospitality of young Eagle Plume, and his aged father, or to the care of the pretty little maid, they so poetically called ‘Wind-Flower’—the sweetest little blossom that ever bloomed in these far, western wild3. We must recompense them most handsomely for their kindness, before we leave, provided we can overcome their strange Indian pride and independence. Their conduct has proved, to my mind, the truth of what the poets have sung, but too few to believe—that these Western abo rigines do possess most noble traits of charac ter. But I must not forget that you are too weak to talk now, or even to listen—bo I will leave you to rest, and summon your kind little nr’-se again to watch over you.’ ‘Stay ! One question, cousin Hugh,’ said the youth, feebly, passing his thin white hand over his forehead like one striving to recall a memory. ‘I seem to have a dim remembrance of some dark cloud hanging over me, and of its sudden scattering. Was it all a dream—that some wo man tcld me they died, and I am rightful Lord of Stanhope? My head is weak, and I cannot remember.’ ‘ It is as you have dreamed —or rather it is no dream, but actual fact, dear Edwin. The dark cloud has passed; and none may stand between you and your own honored title and inheritance. But that occurred full three months ago, Edwin; and when you are stronger,it will all come back— I mean the remembrance of our pleasant summer wanderings through the great West of the New World. And I hope that you will soon be able to resume them again with returning strength and vigor, my dear cousin,’ said Sir Hugh.’ •Oiie question more! Have you heard from home since I have been lying here ?’ whispered Edwin ‘Yes, a letter from the Lady Amelia reached me only a few days since; and they are all in good health,’ was the reply. ‘And impatient for your return?’ asked the youth ‘She did not say so, because she knew that 'tis my pleasure to obey her slightest wish,’ replied Sir Huqh’ fondly smiling at the vision of his highbred, beautiful affianced, ‘but I will flat ter myBelf that we shall be very welcome when we do set foot in old England again. But this will never do! I positively forbid another word; and will send in that young Indian maid who knows how to be taciturn as the oldest brave of her tribe to enforce my orders!’ and, turning from the couch, Sir Hugh left the wigwam. The youth lay quiet after his cousin left him; his eyes were fixed upon the door of the lodge, awaiting the appearance of the lovely vision who had vanished so hastily. ‘Wild-Flower,’ he murmured, with a smile. 'What a sweet name! The children.of the forest are poetioal in the appellations they assume. But there she comes ! -no, that is no light, girl ish figure,’ and he lay very still, gazing at the tall form that appeared in the entrance. It was Eagle Flume, the young Indian ohief, whom Sir Hugh had met as he emerged from the lodge; and he now apprpached the couoh where lay the youth whom he had reoeived as his guest, and for whose wounds he had mixed the healing balsams and medioaments of the forest— for Eagle Plume was humane and skillful as he was brave. ‘Ah, white brother better—will soon be well again,’ he said, in a gratified voice. ‘Buffalo hurt bad to heal; but Wind-Flower good medi cine squaw, and make you well. Muoh fever— head like hot fire, and talk wild; but all cool and right now. Pawnee lodge not bad place to stay in when sick. But hark! no talk now. Muoh talk bring fever back. Drink cool draught, Wine-Flower brings—then sleep.’ and the young chief stepped aside from the couch to make room for the girl, who had just entered. Kneeling beside the patient, Wind-Flower held to his lips a small cup fashioned from the shell of a gourd; and he drained the draught fftqf seemed more delicious than nectar to his fevered .taste. Lord Edwin, gazing upon her not express the thoughts that came trooping his mind; I doubt muoh if that lovely maid en would have understood them if he had; for she was but an untaught child of the wilderness, and had never read or heard the mythical leg ends of a beautiful Ganymede, who. of old, pre sented nectared draughts to the Grecian gods. Yet they two—the youth lyiDg there, and the maiden coring for him so tenderly, though sep arated wide as the antipodes in station, were both possessors of youth and all the graces that follow in her train; and mayhap, the thread is even now weaving, over which shall, some day slip their hearts into one. When Wind-Flower had administered the cool ing drink, she made an impressive gesture, as if to command him to seek sleep, and then turned away and glided from the tent, followed by the tall young chief, leaving the youth to silence and repose. Outside the wigwam, the pair were joined by Sir Hugh Raleigh, who was waiting there to gain Eagle Plume’s opinion fo his patient; and, inter preting the inquiry on the Englishman’s fea tures, the Pawnee said: ‘Y'oung white brother soon get strong—and able to go on big journey again. Fever gOBe — head cool—wound healing fast. Only little weak; but that all go soon too.’ ‘Thanks, Eagle Plume, I thought this would be your decision, he seemed so like himself just now when I saw him. I am still impatient to be going; for we had planned a trip down to Texas, when the accident laid us up here. But you have proved such skillful a doctor and nurse- both you and your sister—ah ! where has Wind- Flower vanished ? she would not stay to receive my thanks,’ for the maiden had darted away just before the Englishman pronounced her name. And Sir Hugh and the tall, handsome brave, who wore so gracefully his suit of fawn skin with scarlet leggins, his belt of richly wrought wam pum, and the tuft of dyed feathers on his scalp- lock, token of his rank—they two, walking slow ly together across the circular inclosure that lay in the center of the Pawnee village, had no knowledge of the young girl, who with paling face, disappointed mien, and rapidly beating heart, had darted away from them in terror of the Englishman's disclosure—and now lay, pant ing and tearful, prone upon a bed of moss in the forest, sobbing out passionately: ‘My medioine.drinks have made him well,and my fiDgers have bound up his wounds and cool ed the fever-fire when it burned his white brow —and now he will go away to his own pale-face friends and Wind-Flower will be forgotten.’ CHAPTER XI. A CONVERSATION. The chill November, with its mourning skies and leafless trees, had come again; and the young English nobleman, though fully restored to health, still lingered at the Pawnee village. His oousin, Sir Hugh, was constantly urging their departure;but Lord Edwin seemed strange ly loth to leave their rude wilderness-home which seemed to hold him there like enchanted ground. And, sooth to say, it was indeed enchanted ground for him; the gray skies of the chill au tumn were as blue summer ones bending above; the leafless oaks and poplars were like pnradi- sal shades; and his whole being was transfigur ed by the golden sheen of that warm summer of the heart which engirth him in its glowing embrace. It was the old drama—old, yet ever new— whose first scene was being enacted there, in the Pawnee village of the western wilderness. One day, Sir Hugh resolved to speak to his young cousin; for the aspect affairs had assum ed was beginning to create muoh anxiety in his heart, and he decided that it was quite time they had left that locality. And when, that after noon, he beheld Lord E lwin returning from a walk in the forest with Wind-Flower, whose eyes burned with a starry glow and whose cheeks held a mor6 vivid rtjd than the heart of the most brilliant piairie rose,' he watched his opportu nity after they had separated and sought the desired conversation. Linking his arm in his cousin's, he drew him away to a secluded nook among the trees and opened the subjeot. ‘My dear Edwin, lhave long desired to say to you what has been in my thoughts. We are lingering too long in these frontier wilds, and it is high time that we continue our travels. In the spring, you know, we propose returning home to England; and we had planned to visit the more tropical south-west before leaving America. Shall we not set out immediately ?’ The youth did not hail this proposition with pleasure, but a look of annoyance crossed his faoe. ‘I am sure, Sir Hugh, we are enjoying our selves very well here, then why hurry away ?' he said, with a boyish petulance, quite unusual to his customary high-bred courtesy and defer ence to the desires of others. ‘That is why I have spoken,’ replied his com panion. ‘I am afraid you are enjoying your self too tcell, Edwin.’ ‘Why, Sir Hugh! explain your somewhat enig matical words, if you please!' was Edwin’s ex clamation, a touch of surprise in his tones, though he flushed a little under his compan ion's gaze. ‘My dear cousin, you must know that I, as your nearest relative, have only your best in terest at heart; therefore listen and do not be lieve that I mean to be harsh with you,’ said Sir Hugh, gravely, yet kindly. ‘Edwin, I have be held with pain your growing attachment for this young Indian girl, Wind-Flower. To what will it lead ? is the question I would fain have you ask yourself, as I have asked myself many times.’ ‘Why should I not like Wind-Flower ?’ broke forth the youth, impetuously. ‘She saved my life—she is beautiful—and I—I love her!’ ‘My question is only partially answered. You love her; I have seen that for some time. I can appreciate your gratitude, but am sorry that your feelings have assumed a stronger regard. You confess that you love her, and I know that you are honorable, as a true English gentleman always is; but did it never strike you, that this girl, beautiful and graoeful though she is, is not the one you ought to ohoose as your future wife. The lady of Stanhope, both by birth and educa tion, should be widely different from an Indian maiden taken from the western wilds of America. You are young and under the influence of a spell, whioh travel, experience, and years will conquer. And you will now see my motive in desiring to remove you from these influences. Shall we not set out to-morrow, Oousin Edwin ?’ The youth was silent for a moment, then he said passionately: •I cannot leave Wind-Flower, with the thought of never seeing her again. I know I am young, but I am old enough to know that I love her truly and I have sworn that no other shall ever supplant her in the future. What care I for the rank and wealth that would operate to part me from her ? I almost wish I had found new heirs to Stanhope castle, so I could remain and pass my life at the side of the beautiful Wind-Flower!’ ‘Edwin, I did not think it had gone so far. You have not spoken to this maiden ?’ asked his companion, in alarm. No—if you mean by words: but yes, if looks and heart language signify anything !’ replied the youth frankly. . . Sir Hugh could not help smiling at his im petuous avowal, or saying, ‘Upon my word. Lady Amelia and myself will have to come and take lessons of you in the art of wooing ! Then he continued more gravely, ‘I am glad you have not expressed your feelings to Wind-Flower. If you do love her thus truly and entirely, and feel confident that you will never change, you are both young, and there is time enough yet to wait.’ ‘What 1 wait and have some Pawnee brave car ry her off before me !’ exclaimed Lord Edwin hotly. ‘Ha ! then the young girl has other lovers ?’ and this thought brought relief to the anxious Englishman. How do you know ? Some one must have imparted this information.’ ‘There are enough old squaws here who like to gossip; and I have heard it hinted that the old chief loves her too well to part with her. Perhaps they saw that I liked her, and meant to frighten me away. But I have made up my mind to confess my love to her old father; and I hope that he will be sensible of the advantages it offers, for you know these Indians are giving up their old prejudices, and in many cases, are proud of alliances with the pale faces. Didn’t Pocahontas marry an Englishman, Cousin Hugh ? and wasn’t she received at our royal court? And I don’t believe she was half she as lovely as Wind-Flower; for all the pictures of her represent her as a dark princess, while Wind-Flower is no more brunette than many ladies whom we have seen in society at home.’ ‘It is not the question of Wind-Flower’s beau ty, for I confess myself, that she’s no darker than many a French or Spanish girl I have met in Europe; but I am thinking of the suitability ot the match replied Sir Hugh. ‘My dear cousin, you are so young yet.’ ‘Seventeen last summer, Cousia Hugh, was the interruption. ‘I know, seventeen; and not to arrive at man’s estate—in the e^e of the world, I mean begging your pardon, Edwin—for four years more! ’ went on Sir Hugh, bluntly, yet with that kind ness of manner which his relative could not take offence at. ‘And perhaps by that time you will see things differently; not that I would accuse you of fickleness, Edwin, but this comes natur ally to impulsive youth, shedding the experi ences of the past as the crysalis its covering.’ ‘But I know that I shall not change. I tell you this is no common love 1 bear for Wind flower. It is not for her beauty, but for her own self,’ said the youth, proudly. ‘I shall not forget her! ’ and truly, looking on him then, his clear blue eye so full of the frank truthful ness of a noble nature all unsoiled by the influ ence of the heartless world—his elder compan ion was forced to admit this conviction to his own heart. For some moments Lord Hugh was silent. He knew not what course to pursue. His young cousin was chivalrously honorable, and possess ed not a particle of that worldly pride which would have so appealed to the prudence of many no younger in years than he. Suddenly an idea presented itself. He would compromise the matter by requesting his cousin not to bind himself until the lapse of a given period had tested the strength of his attachment; and in his dilemma this desired means present ed itself. ‘Edwin,’ he said, ‘I know I have no absolute right to extort any promise from you; but the fact that I have your welfare at my heart prompts me to ask you to make one. Time and absence are said to be the best rivals of love therefore I am going to beg you to put yourself to a test—no lengthy one, I assure you, for I am disposed to be very reasonable. Let us now take up our journey again; and if, by next spring, ) you have not overcome your feelings for Wind flower but then cherish as strong an attachment as now, we will return hither, and I will no longer oppose your speaking to her and asking the old chief’s consent. There is a young fur- dealer here, from a settlement a hundred miles below on tho Platte river, a fine, intelligent young fellow, who has invited me to visit him; and I propose accompanying him home, if you will bear me company. How do you decide, Edwin ? ’ ‘I will go with you—I think I should enjoy the trip; but mind you Cousin Hugh.jl shall bring yen-back her?-in the spring, 1 ’ said the youth, with a smiling firmness of tone in his reply. (TO BE CONTINUED.') OUT OF THE SHADOW. A SKETCH FROM LIFE. BY NETTIE LOVELESS KIERULFF. The sunlight fell in golden glory around me, as I started for a walk in the fresh morning air through the grounds of my childhood’s home to contemplate, and probably for the last time, its dear and almost sacred beauties. My heart was heavy with loneliness and distress, and passing under a favorite oak that had sheltered my head from the midday sun, I gazed around at many beloved objects that were now the property of another. There was the tall, old house where I was born, with its long verandas and snowy columns; there, the clinging ivy planted by the fair hands of my beautiful sister who sleeps so quietly in the shadow of the lilacs while their blossoms fall softly on her nnkept grave. There were the waving poplars, the odor-breathing rose tree, the winding path, the crystal spring, all so dear to my heart, but from which I muBt part forever! I was now very poor. The beloved old home stead had passed into other hands, and I a girl of eighteen, must go out into the world orphan ed, houseless, alone and almost penniless. I had always loved art, and in palmier days had studied it assiduously, and now thrown on my own resources .„r my daily sustenance, I re solved to win a name and fortune by the gift God had given me. I bade a tearful farewell to the loved spot where I had passed my happy youth, and sum moning up all my ambitious hopes for the fu ture, took the noonday train that bore me and my precious portfolio to the city of A— My slender purse warned me to select simple and unpretentious lodgings, where I spent the night thinking of the brilliant life I would event ually lead in the great city. I had never known poverty, was young, ambitious and imaginative, and believed fimly that the most complete suc cess would crown my efforts in the artistio world. Morning however found me somewhat confused and uncertain how to begin my business. Glanoing over the paper I noticed the striking advertisment of a portrait painter, and feeling that no acquaintance would be so valuable to me as one of my own profession, I made careful selections from my portfolio, and with high hopes started for the studio of the popular artist. I entered the elegantly furnished apartment timidly, and although the gentleman met me with much courtesy, I felt completely crushed by the impressiveness of my surroundings. Portraits in massive gilt frames stood on all sides of the room, reaching almost to the oeiling. They represented noble looking men, and ele gantly dressed though rather insipid looking ladies. I was only a simple-hearted country girl, and so ashamed did I feel of the little 18 X 20 studies I had taken from my collections, that I could at tnat moment have dropped them into oblivion. But this emotion, passed. I had studied art because it was a passion of my soul, and I felt that an excellent course of instruction had imparted to my taste just powers of discrimina tion. Controlling my feeling of reverence for the looks of the studio, I examined the portraits carefully, and saw at once that as paintings they were far from perfect I felt that I could take the brush and with my own hand add exactness, truth, delioacy and beauty to the faces that gazed at me from every side* The artist gave me all the information I could desire about his paintings, his evident wish being to impress me with the idea that they were the most wonderful productions of the age. With some degree of pride I at length present ed my little studies for his inspection and crit icism, asking at the same time if he thought I could make it profitable by establishing a stu dio in the city. He looked up in astonishment from the pic tures he was turning carelessly about, transfix ed me with his keen, little eyes, and then run ning his -white fingers through his dark hair, informed me coolly that he thought it utter fol ly for me to think of such a thing. That artists of the highest ability could scarcely keep from starving, and that while my specimens evinced some little degree of talent, I had been educat ed in a false school of art—my coloring was all wrong. He would be glad to have me as a pu pil, but as to making a living by my art, I had best take his advice and give up the idea at once. ‘I cannot take your advice,’ I answered a lit tle curtly, ‘I shall establish my studio at once,’ and taking my bits of oanvass from the man who seemed determined to obliterate me from the art-world, I bowed him good-morning, and went out into the bright sunlit streets ready to cry with indignation and disappointment. I had been told by connoisseurs that my pictures were creditable studies in art, and now the popular artist, the man whom it was the fashion to pat ronize and applaud, had failed to see anything in them save some very slight indications of tal ent. I felt his criticism was not just, and re solved at least to make an effort to share his very gratifying popularity. It was quite puzzling to know how to begin, but at last I settled upon the plan of painting the portrait of some distinguished man of the city, intending to put it on exhibition, and in this way attract the attention of the publio, feel ing assured if the capricious spirit of favor should smile upon me, I might secure as much work as I could wish. So absorbed was I by this idea that I aid not discover until I reached my lodgings that I had lost my most valuable painting. I retraced my steps at once, search ing and enquiring for it, but to no purpose. It was only marked in one corner by my simple name, Genevra. So distressed did I feel for its loss that I forthwith proceeded to advertise it, describing my Madonna head, and offering a reasonable reward for its recovery. This some what reassured me, and ordering a piece of can vass, I commenced work on the picture that was to bring me fame and fortune. I worked carefully and patiently, copying and enlarging with scrupulous exactness the photo graph of Gen. H— conscious that the realiza tion of my bright hopes depended on the suc cess of my work. My means grew very small, forcing me to economize in every expenditure. But I determined to succeed. One fear assailed me, and though I often put it aside, it came to me sometimes, bringing a quick pang. It was the fear lest my eyes should fail. Often while I worked, a sudden momentary mist came be tween me and my canvass, and a lance-like pain darted through the delicate centres of sight. But I disregarded the warning. I could not af ford to be thus admonished to lay aside my precious project and rest my over taxed visual organs, still I worked on, correcting, elabora ting, and retouching. A month passed, and I still had not added the finishing touches. I la bored under one disadvantge, I had never seen Gen. H— and had to depend entirely on the correctness of the photograph I had purchased, and the newspaper description of him that I kept constantly by me. There was a very exciting political meeting going on in the City Hall, I learned one morn ing about eleven o'clock, and that the original of my picture was one of the principal orators. We were in the midst of one of our almost trop ical summers, and at that time of day the sun was blazing down unmercifully, but I determ ined that I would 3P6 Gen. H— and judge my self of the correctness of my work before offer ing it for public criticism. I walked hurriedly along the hot and dusty streets until I reached the Hall which I entered in a tremor of anxiety. I refrained from look ing at the speaker's stand for a time, and as I raised my eyes, the orator poised himself in his favorite position, and as it was the exact one I had copied, I was overwhelmed with joy at the triumph I had achieved. I gazed with delight upon the animated counterpart of the image I had worked out so patiently. My happy tears could hardly be restrained, and I hastened out into the open air. Then a fervent ‘thank Heav en !' fell from my lips. With elated steps, I hurried along I knew not whither, until all of a sudden it Beemed to grow strangely dark. I gazed up at the sky, the sunlight fell warmly on my face, but still I could see but a faint gleam of light. I gazed down at the pavement, but my world was enveloped in utter darkness and I could not distinguish my way. Suddenly the truth pierced my brain like lightning. The ca lamity I had refused to be warned of had over taken me. My over-taxed sight had given way. I was blind ! Blind and helpless! Great God eould this be true? Overwhelmed by the enor mity of my misfortune, I stood there in the al most deserted streets and prayed, oh ! so earn estly that if God had taken my sight from me to let me die. Realizing at length that I must get home, I asked a passerby to call a hack, and was soon in my own room. I hoped that the cool shade of my lodgings, quiet and rest, would re store my sight, but hour after hour I waited to no purpose. Evening came on, the lamps were brought in, but still all was darkness with me. The maid informed me that a gentleman had called while I was out, and said he would come again in the evening as he wished to see me on particular business. He came. Dismissing my guide at the parlor door, I entered the room alone, but realizing how helpless I had become, I stretched out my hand, whioh was clasped be tween two cool palms, and a manly, though ten der voice said sympathetically, ‘Let me lead you to the sofa. The landlady has j ust told me of the great misfortune that befell you this morn ing. I earnestly regret it and hope your sight may be restored.’ There was something in the touoh of his soft hand, and the pleasant, sympathetic ring of his voice that made me trust him, and before I knew it I was talking quite freely to this stran ger, whom I might never see, and talking of my self, of the hopes I had entertained and of my present helpless condition. ‘I found your picture—the lovely little Ma donna head,’ he said when I had finished, ‘and came around mainly to see if I could purchase it from you. I love art, I have studied for years in Paris, and paint still occasionally for my own pleasure and gratification. I consider that lit tle picture a true gem. I will pay you a hun dred dollars for it. Will you part with it ?’ A hundred dollars! If I was blind, I would be independent still with that for a time. I told him how I felt, accepted his offer and thanked him earnestly for the purchase. When leaving, lie asked me if he could come next morning and examine my portrait of Gen. H—. Of course I consented-gladly. He oame and he extolled my pioture until 1 felt almost repaid for the loss of my eyes. The picture was put on exhibition and attracted universal admiration. News reporters, appreciating this, besieged my humble lodgings and ere long had worked up a very touching little romance of my youth, pov erty and misfortune. Kindness and oompli- ments were bestowed on me by many distin guished persons, but Prof. Woodville, the pur chaser of my lost study, became my one dearly loved and devoted friend. He visited me often and somehow I always forgot my misfortune in his presence. He described soenes, faces, and circumstances so truly to me that I almost be m 3 lieved I saw the animated pictures his sweet voice presented to my mind's eye. He came one morning to read for me as usual, and when about leaving, mentioned that he would start for Paris next day. Business called him there; so he must part from his sweet little friend. I felt as if some one had asked me to give up my life, and 1 clasped my trembling hands over my poor blind eyes ! He sat down by me; he took my hands in his; he asked me to go to Paris with him; to be his wife! He loved me and me only. I was alone; I was helpless; I was blind; I loved him as my life; I married him; I was hap py. On reaching Paris a celebrated oculist at tended me; I began to improve rapidly and one day my sight was suddenly restored. It was my expressed wish that my husband’s face should be the first my sight rested upon, and the physician, telling me to remove the screen after he had gone out, went and sent up my husband. The room was darkened, I saw dimly at first, then clearly. The door opened and I stood face to lace with a middle aged, though well-pre served gentleman. I was irresolute for a mo ment, but as I gazed up into the brilliant, though tender dark eyes, I felt that 1 at last looked upon the loved face and form of my idol ized husband! Tilings We Cannot Do Without. BY AUNT MARJORY. Everybody knows that there come certain pe riods in the year when we begin to reckon up the things we must have, and the things we can not do without. It depends a good deal on the way we look at life what these things are. If we are in the habit of setting moral responsibilities of mental culture in the foreground, then the things which we must have will be those which will help us toward our aims. If we care most for outward show, our necessities will be grati fied in that direction. I often think, when I look at the young ladies of a house, that I can tell pretty nearly what has been the central idea of their home, from their manner of meeting the world. Amy’s mother and aunts were notable housekeepers. Their pantries were always full. Their canned fruits and pickles and blanc-mange were famous, and nobody gave such dinner-parties. Amy will not allow that there is anything more im portant than the making of good pies and cake. The husband who gets her will always be sure of a well-set dinner table when he brings home a friend. Lilian was brought up to think dress the main object of existence. Her father was a hard working doctor, who generally had a host of poor patients who never paid their bills; but her mother was a good manager, and she and the girls always contrived to be seen at church in the latest style, with gowns fully trimmed, and plumes waving grandly from their stately heads. The doctor grew old fast, was early bald and grizzled, and his boys went all astray; but tLe table was a miracle of frugality. Visitors were seldom asked to the house. There was no mar gin for the easy grace of hospitality in the scheme of life which Lilian’s mother had made her own, no space for reading, for comfort, or for anything but a desire to make a good ap pearance in public. So Lilian wears fine clothes, and will continue to do so while she can com pass the use of a dollar, and get near a sewing- machine. Everything in Clara's house was subordinate to music and the arts. The mother played, ^nd the children were taught to look upon singing, drawing, and musical training as the supreme- ly-4Riiportant ot#|4a of existeuce. Now, wherever Clara goes, herunusic goes too, and her friends are charmed with her sweet playing and her amiable willingness to oblige them with it. Unfortunately she has nothing to say, and is very dull company away from the piano. Her education has been one-sided. Not to prolong illustrations, you can easily see that the home in which, from the first, piety and charity are held to be most excellent will produce young people who will know that the life is more than meat, and the body than rai ment. We get the things, sooner or later, which we cannot do without. If friendship, if litera ture, if society, if Christian influence, seem to us respectively the greatest attainable good, we will strain every point and incur severe self-de nial, but we will have the things we find that our natures, more than all else, solioit. Boast as we may of our consistency, our economy, or our faculty for superintendence, most of us so arrange our days that the things we care for su premely come into them, and give what satisfac tion they can. Let us care for the best things. Power of a Sweet Voice. There is no power of love so hard to get and keep as a kind voice. A kind hand is deaf and dumb. It may be rough in flesh and blood, yet do the work of a soft heart, and do it with a soft touch. But there is no one thing that love so much needs as a sweet voice to tell what it means and feels ; and it is hard to get and keep it in the right tone. One must start in youth, and be on the watch night and day, at work and at play, to get and keep a voice that shall speak at all times the thoughts of a kind heart But this is the time when a sharp voice is most apt to be got. You often hear boys and girls say words at play with a quick, sharp tone, as if it were the snap of a whip. When one of them gets vexed you will hear a voice that sounds as if it were made up of a snarl, a whine, and a bark. Such a voice often speaks worse than the heart feels. It shows more ill-will in the tone than in the words. It is often in mirth that one gets a voice or a tone that is sharp, and sticks to him through life, and stirs up ill-will and grief, and falls like a drop of gall on the sweet joys at home. Such as these get a sharp home voice, for use, and keep their best voioe for those they meet elsewhere, just as they would save their best cakes and pies for guests, and all their sour food for their own board. I would say to all boys and girls, ‘Use your guest voioe at home. Watch it day by day, as a pearl of great price, for it will be worth more to yon in days to oome than the best pearl hid in the sea. A kind voice is a joy like a lark’s song to a hearth and home. It is to the heart what light is to the eye. It is a light that sings as well as shines. Train it to sweet tones now, and it will keep in tune through life.’ The Hill of hlfe. The roads leading over the hill of life are numerous; some people take the road whioh is bright and gay—on which flowers of the richest hue are blooming—but they find, that before they are half way, the flowers are faded, all is bleak, they are wearied, and are glad to lie down and die; others strive to go over the steep banks whioh lead to fortune and to fame, but the paths on whioh they walk are bleak and rug ged; some stop at a deep preoipioe over which they are nnable to pass; the foothold of others gives away, and they are hurled to the bottom, while only a few reaoh the coveted goal; but the wise man chooses the road whioh goes over the hill with a gradual slope, on which here and there are sweet flowers which cheer him on his way nntil he arrives at his jonrney’s end, where dwell Peace, Happiness and Contentment, The bright black-eye, the melting blue ; I oannot ohoose between the two. '