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THE BEAUTIFUL Beautiful fares are those that wear It matters little if dark or fair— Whole souled honesty printed there. Beautiful eyes are those that show, Like crystal.panes where earth fires glow, Beautiful thoughts that burn below. Beautiful lips are those whose words Leap from the heart like songs of birds, Yet whose utterance prudence girds. Beautiful hands are those that do Work that is earnest and brave and true, Moment by moment the long day through. Beautiful feet are those that go • On kindly ministry to and fro, Down lowliest ways, if God wills it so. Beautiful > shoulders are those that bear ■ Ceaseless burdens of homely care, With patience, grace and daily prayer. Beautiful Kves are those that bless Silver rivers of happiness, Whose hidden fountains but few may guess. Beautiful twilight at set of sun, Beautiful goal with race well run, Beautiful rest with work well done. Beautiful grave where grasses creep, W here brown leaves fall, where drifts lie deep Over worn-out hands—oh, beautiful sleep! THE HEIRESS, BY EMMA A. OPPEI!. She was known as Aunt Lucinda by ••all.Boynton, Williams called because her, that is what Ph ebe and Boynton liked to do what Phcebe Williams did. When Aunt Lucinda and Phrebe had bought to Squire Branch’s house, and come live in Boynton, the general verdict had been that Aunt Lucinda’s niece was weeks an uncommonly of pretty girl. A few fact that she acquaintance had settled the bly was, moreover, a remarka¬ nice girl; and Boynton had never had occasion to alter its decision. AVhat, alas! had been a powerful con sideration . with a certain portion of the town was the well-grounded belief that Phcebe was Aunt J ucinda’s heiress. ' There was no proof of it, since nobody had mustered the courage to ask them; hut it was a self-evident fact. She was, confessedly, Aunt Lucinda’s .sole likely, living relative. AVhat was more more a matter of course, than that the fine old house and the rich furnish¬ ings bellished with which Aunt Lucinda had em¬ proceeding it, and the solid fortune which the bespoke, should, upon Aunt Lucinda’s demise, become the property of her niece. Nobody doubted it. Of course, the bright and' pretty heir¬ ess had to a delightfully mysterious fortune plenty of ardent admirers. Just which of them were admirers of the for¬ tune and which adorers of sweet Phcebe Williams herself was an ever fresh sub¬ ject of speculation and con educe in Boynton. Truth to tell, it was a puzzle to Ph rbe herself. | i* Nobody greatly would concerned have believed that she J was about that or any j thing else, however, who had seen her on a certain winter’s eveningwhen all | the youth of the town had swarmed to j I Aunt The Lucinda’s heiress’s entertainments for a candy pull. fre were 1 quentand always lively, and nobody who was invited ever had a previous engage¬ ment. satin Aunt and Lucinda, white in a shining black a lace cap—and a very impressive old lady—roamed figure she was, being a hand¬ some about from room to room, smiling on this one, conversing for a moment with that, and patting a third on the head or shoulder. She was a very cordial old person, and very popular in Boynton, being second in the hearts of Boyntonians only to her niece. Pha be was in her element. She wore a red dress with profuse colored head¬ ings, which shimmered and sparkled as she flitted up and down, and in and out, like a moving flame. Her costumes were a perpetual wonder to Boynton girls, and indeed she would have excited admiration anywhere, as would also her pink and-white complex¬ ion, her long-lashed eyes and her fresh lips. The candy had been boiled the point, and had been to precisely proper set out on the snow in pans to cool just enough for pulling, time the with waiting lively company filling in the a quadrille or two. And now the front yard was comforta¬ bly filled with giggling girls, in care¬ lessly-adjusted with wraps, hastily and young men, hats stuck on the backs of their heads, somebody having suggested change. pulling the candy out of doors, for Everybody clutched a generous bunch of it in greased or floury hands; shoul¬ ders bent to the task; elbows worked in in and out, and tongues chattered. Phoebe Williams stood by a snowy evergreen tree, with Harrison Holding at her side. He was tail, good-looking and thought. altogether quite distingue, so Boynton He was Colonel Belding’s son,and pros¬ pective heir to a property of no mean proportions. Boynton girls admired and coveted him, but he had hardly looked at one of them since Phoebe Williams had come to town. said, “Charming night, Miss Williams,” he from shoving the a cuff to a safe distance sticky substance in bis bands. “Yes, delightful,” Phrebe assented, lifting “Wasn't her bright eves * to the starry sky. I lucky?” “You’re always lucky,” Harrison re¬ joined, her. bending his own fine orbs upon “Iwishlwasl” he added, enig¬ matically. “Why, aren’t you, Mr. Bolding?” said Phoebe, in pretty concern. “I don’t know!” Harrison burst forth, boldly. “It’s for you to decide.” “Why, what can you mean?” Phcebe murmured. “Well, I mean this,” Harrison re¬ joined, determinedly—“that I shall con¬ sider whatever luck I’ve had so far in life as nothing—worse than nothing—if, to crown it, I can’t have you. Miss Will¬ iams—Phoebe—you this. must have known Come; give me one word of hope. I can’t live without it!” He came closer to her, with a frantic but unsuccessful effort to free his lumds from their sticky bonds. Phtebe moved back gently, with a timid, upward glance. “Oh, Mr. Belding—” she began, de precatingly. “Don’t say no—don’t, Miss Williams —Phoebe!” Harrison implored. “But I can’t say yes,” said Phoebe, softly. “I don’t know, Mr. Belding, whether I—care for you or not.” “But you don’t know that you don’t,” cried her lover, tearing frenziedly at his sugary shackles. “N-no,” Phoebe admitted, with her eyes cast downward. “Then I can hope!” cried Harrison, triumphantly ; “and I’m confident, Miss Williams—Phoebe—that you’ll decide favorably. Nobody loves you so deeply: nobody could make you happier. I may hope for a speedy answer, may I not? 1 may call for it soon?” He “Yes,” did Phoebe look responded, handsome sweetly. standing there, very tall and manly, under the stars. Ph.ebe bestowed a faint smile upon him as she slipped timorously away. Eben Lake stood leaning against the fence. He interposed himself in Phoebe’s ship, path, and with a calm smile of proprietor¬ willingly. Phcebe stopped, not quite un¬ Eben Lake was, in a sense, the pride of Boynton. He had been uncommonly bright at school, and an admiring uncle had sent him to a law-school, whence he had emerged with high honors. Now he had a lucrative practice in the largest town in the county, and was known among his fellow-practitioners as a sharp fellow; and he wa3 not yet twenty-five. Boynton was justly proud of him. “Stop here, Miss Williams!’’ he com¬ manded. “I haven’t seen anything of you all the evening.” with “Oh, Mr. said Lake, Phoebe, I danced a quadrille you!” reprovingly. “Oh, I don’t count that!” Eben de¬ clared. “To tell the truth, Miss Will¬ iam’s, I don’t count anything, unless- unless it has a meaning, and you under¬ stand it so. There! do you understand that?” “I don’t know,” said Phoebe, some¬ what unsteadily. Another! AVhat was she to do? with “Well, professional I’ll explain,” calmness. Eben proceeded, “I mean, Miss Williams, that I want you to marry me. I have had this in my mind for some time—in fact, since I first saw you; and it has lately occurred to me to settle matters. I don’t need to tell you of my esteem for you— of my love; you must be aware of that. May I not hope that you return it?” He was arid pulling his candy with strong Miss hands perfect self-possession. Phoebe glancing up at him from beneath the pink scarf on her soft hair, felt a thrill of admiration for his strength and his cleverness. She hesitated, prettily. “If you want time to consider it,” said Eben, reassuringly, “you shall have it. I know this may seem sudden to you, but my feelings would not endure a longer repression. I shall return to the city in three days. You will give > me mv answer before I so. will vou not? You will never meet with one more de¬ voted to your best happiness, Miss Will¬ iams!” Phoebe “1 appreciate the honor you do me,” three murmured; “but I will take the days, please, to think it over.” Eben waved a courteous hand. “In three days I confidently expect to be engaged to the piettiest girl in the State!” He smiled, tenderly and triumphantly, as Phoebe fluttered past him, her color heightened and her lips parted tremu¬ lously. .John Wells was standing in the mid¬ dle of the snow-piled flower-bed, in solitary edge. state. Phcebe paused at its “You look like patience on a monu nient!” she declared, w r ith a half hyster ical laugh. I d ou’t feel unlike it.” said John, . . her with long stride. joining a “Why?” Phoebe demanded, calming dow'n under the friendly glance of John’s pleasant gray eyes, and taking a bite from her candy, which was getting hard, “Well,'’ said John, slowly, “when I have to stand still and see you talking to Belding or Lake, or anybody else, for that matter, patience is all that keeps mo —well, sane!” He laughed apqlogetically _ as he said _ it; and lie said no more. Phoebe found herself wondering if lie never would say any more. Not that she wanted him to. Two proposals in an evening, and those unanswered, were quite enough! But John had said things of the same kind before, and always stopped short at the most incomplete point. Not that John Wells flirted. _ No; Phcebe knew better than that. But he was a clerk in a hardware-store, and the sole support of his mother and two younger sisters; and Phcebe was an heir¬ ess! No; silence had been John’s role hi th errand he had told himself, sternly, that so far as Phcebe Williams was con cerned it would continue to be. “Don’t you think it's pulled enough?" said Phcebe. for want of something bet twist. ter to say, “I’m holding out her stiffening everybody is. going Why to eat don’t mine. See— you eat yours?” “f don’t feel hungry,’’said John, so berly. ’ But he looked hungrily at Phoebe, nevertheless. “You can have mine _ then. AVill you eat that?” said Phcebe, breathless at her own And daring. she thrust into it his hand, and saucily suatched his own, and ran away, bling leaving the young man red and from with a pleasure that was half pain. * * * Three days afterward, Boynton „ was shocked and sympathetically grieved by the news’of Aunt Lucinda s very sudden death. Shocked and grieved, but—alas, for , human nature , !-far , _ beyond , these ,, emo turns in depth and intensity was the as tomshment and horror which greeted a second Mid complementary piece of in telligence. had - Aunt Lucinda _ not possessed a for Phoebe *£&,.“ AA ilhams a was uatural not an c ° heiress 11SeqU< ; UCe ’ The report was well founded Phoebe herself had told Judge Campbell so her own bps, when he had called to as sist in the funerall arrangements, and had put a delicately-framed inquiry on the subject. Aunt Lucinda had had no money! That was the news which set all Boyn ton agog. Where had the fine house and the finer furnishings come from? AVhat had they lived on? AVhat would Pliu'be do now? Boyton well-nigh discussion lost its reason in the breathless of these Phoebe sphinx-like AVilliams riddles. in the richly-fur sat nishedparlor, late on that exciting day. Her sweet face, sad and subdued, was sweeter than ever in its black rushiugs, Possibly Harrison Belding, who stood before her, thought so. If he did, how ever, he gave no sign of it. “I was dreadfully shocked to hear of your aunt’s death, Miss AVilliams,” he was saying, in properly-modulated condolence!” tones. “Accept mv heartfelt “She was all 1 had,” said Pbmbe gently. ‘I d °n t know how I shall get on without her—dear Aunt Lucinda. Harrison cleared lus throat nervously. “I—you will excuse me, Miss AYill iams, ‘if I intrude upon your with an apparently inappropriate matter, but—pray excuse me—but is the report that your Aunt Lucinda was penniless a correct one?” “Aunt Lucinda?” Phcebe repeated. Oh, yes, quite correct, Mr. Belding! Aunt Lucinda had nothing.” Harrison paled, reddened, and moved uneasily from one foot to the other and back -‘I again. hardly know how to put it, Miss Williams,” he stammered; “but this— plans ah—intelligence regards naturally affects my .Miss Williams—naturally, as yourself. Naturally, you must ad¬ mit—” Phoebe rose. “You mean, Mr. Belding," she said, pleasantly, “that you wish to withdraw the proposal with which you honored me the other evening?” “ —I—well, but you must see. Miss Williams,” Harrison faltered, with his eyes on the floor, “that a fellow—that a man—” “I see, certainly. Mr. Belding,” said pho.-bc, quite collectedly. “I am glad to he able to release you. Be assured that I do it freely!” Mr. Bolden, passing down the front steps, met Eben Lake coming up. He carried a .satchel, and a cane and um brella strapped together, and he bowed ried before Pkcebe, iu the parlor, in a hur way. “I am on my way to the station, Mi 33 Williams,” he informed her: “but I wished to assure you of my deep sym pathy “Thank in your bereavement.” you!” said Phcebe, raising her candid eyes to his. But Eben avoided them, thing “Forgive me for mentioning such a at such a time. Miss Williams,” he continued, hastily, “but as this is my only chance—is it true that your Aunt Lucinda was not possessed of the for tune she was generally believed to have?” mild ‘ ‘Perfectly true,” Phcebe rejoined, in tones, Eben took out his watch. “I have not a moment to spare, Miss Williams,” he said. “You must over look my that abruptness; but I mentioned am forced to tell you the matter I to you the other ever ing, is—or—at least, that I no longer desire to proceed in it, if you will consent to my withdrawal. I am exceedingly sorry at being obliged to say this, you know, but—” He was already half way to the door, Phcebe followed him with calm eyes. “Certainly, Mr. Lake,” she said, quite cordially; and the door closed behind him. Five minutes later the waitress won deringly admitted a third gentleman, longer,” “I couldn't stay away any said Phcebe, John with AVells, both her standing hands iu close his. “I to am so sorry for you, dear! May I call you that? AYill you let me take care of you now as well as I can? I can’t be sorry Aunt Lucindi was poor, because if she "hadn’t been—well, you knew how it was, didn’t you? Perhaps it was foolish ia m e _f a lse pride-but I couldn’t help it _ If j had known, though, rd that risked vou (M care for me> : gucss have it in spite of your thousands!” For there was no longer “ a doubt in his boundi heart . th tenderness in her soft eyes settled that. Still, there was an expression £taud. in them which he did not uudei He started back sud deil i Y “Have I made a mistake?” he said, in confusion. “Has everybody made a mistake? Was Aunt Lucinda rich-and J an heiress after all }» noI „ cried Pha , be following hands him „ he retr eated, with both round his arm . * > Xo she hadn’t a cent, but I’ve never let her feel it. I’ve taken C are of her for a long time, and gladly. The money’s mine, don’t vou see? I’ve b een an heiress for years." for And I know- don’t ,hink much of Boynton not l n g it.” “But—” said her lover, slowly. “But what? but nothing!” cried ph ibe, tenderly. “You’ve asked me to murrv vou, and I’m going to do it, and f shan’t let you off. 1 think it’s you I've bked a p the time, dear!” Everybody in Bovnton knew the facts 0 f t h e case within” twenty-four hours. How ever it leaked out concerning Ilar r json Belding and Eben Lake wasamys tery: but those enterprising last, the subject young for men did not hear the of a i, )n g and heart rending time .—Saturday Jsijt,t. * - ■■■ - The parking fowls, the oldest of all tbe val .;eties, j s UO w beginning to and be popular ! again both iu this country “ l Mig3 Glass has been marr i e d to Mr. Br - ttle iu p rtts burg. It is said that a gallon of ink is used, daily in the United States Senate.