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"LET US HAVE PEACE."
ALLEXANI)RIA, PARISH OF RAPID)ES, LA. , %icellaneous Selections. THE UNBOLTED DOOR. an aged widow sat alone Bamde her fading hearth, lr stlent oottage never heard Tke ringing laugh of mirth. '.ix *JLdrenonce had s"prted there-but now the churchyard snow edll softly on dve little graves that were not long ago. She mourned them all with patient love But since, her eyes had shed Ir" bitterer tears that those which dewed The Siees of the dead. The child which had been spared t) her: her darling of her pride The woeful mother lived to wishtat she had also died. Those little ones be'aeth the snow, She well knew W'aere they are tlo~e ted ' the throne of Got, Ati whah WS better far. " Iut when she t wonght where Katie was, she saw The pin~t'd mast of Litter joy that Need gives iuln to wear. Without, the snow lay thick and white, No step had fallen there: Within, she sat beside her fire, Kash thought a silent prayer: When suddenly behind her seat, unwonted noise she heard, As though a hesitating hand the rustic latch had stirred. She turned-and there the wanderer stood With snow-ilakes on her hair: A faded woman, wild and worn, The ghost of something fair. And then upon the mother's breast the withered brow was laid "ca God antd you forgire me all, for I have sinned," she said. he widow dropped upon her Knees, Before the fading fire, And thanked the Lord whose love at last Had granted her desire. The daughter kneeled beside her, too-tears streaming from her eyes And prayed, ' 'God help me to be good to moth er, ere she diee.' They did not talk about the sin, The shame, the bitter woe: They spoke about thoee little graves And Ihings of long ago. And thea the dauQhter raised her eyes and asked 'a tender tone, "W did yon keep yoor door unbarred, when you were all alone?"' "My child," the widow said, and smiled, A smile of love and pain ''I kept It so, lest you should come And tnrn away again! I've waited for you all the while--amother's love is true: Yet It is but the shadowy type of His who died for you!' -Newe York Observer. OF LITTLE FAITH. I[ARntR ALLI.oN leaned upon the little wooden gate and dreamed. It was such a lovely morning. The sun was shining so warm and bright, as If it took comfort in shining, the roses were in blossom, and the trees were wearing the green, as though conscious that it was becoming. She was wondering how any one could fail to be glad and content on such a morn ing. The sunshine was entering her soul, arid she forgot the thousand little annoy ances that every day brought to her, the vexations of life were far away, and she felt that It was truly very sweet to live. The horrid, little half broken down gate was anyway, strong enough to support her as she leaned, and that was saying something, for it had hardly seemed able to bear its own weight for a long time; and the house, though it held discomfort beyond telling, this morning was looking better and brighter, for the Virgihia creep er was clothing it with freshness, and the glorious sunshine brightening it all. She was thinking If she could only be allowed to have a verbena bed in the little front yard, and could tear away the holly-hocks, and one or two mammoth lilac bushes, she would be quite happy, when a voice that was evidently the echo of a soul very much out of tune, broke upon her with "Harriet Jane! Harriet Jane! what on earth are you hangingon that gate so long for, and how on earth do you expect the work will get done if you spend your time that way ? How little time it takes to put to flight happy, pleasant thoughts, and send a host of disagreeable ones in their place. Away went Harrie's dellghtfll dreams; away went sundry resolutions she had made as she leaned upon the gate. One was, that she'd try and keep herself all day above the vexations that were wait ing for her, whatever they might be. She would try and keep the sunshine in her heart all day, but alas! for good resolu tionm. She picked up the broom that had fallen down-for she had been sweeping, and had swept her way to the gate, went slow ly into the house, and said, " It was so bright and pleasant, I couldn't help stay ing out a little." "No, I s'pose not, but the morning was made to work in; and this one Is the best we've had for washing in a long time, and I've a great mind, Harriet Jane, to get the tubs out, andjust go right at it. I should really enjoy it, clothes always look better, too, when the sun shines on 'em." "If that's your idea of enjoyment, I'm sorry for you. For my part, I don't want to do any more house work on such a day than I'm obliged to do, and, besides that, the week's ironing Is not yet done." "Of course you won't wash, no one need expect you too. Oh, no, but you wouldn't care if I spent every one of these betiful days over the wash-tub, with no chmnes to enjoy myself, when I need rest lo much, I must say, Harriet Jane." "You are as logical as usual, and as cotlastent, but I wish you wouldn't call me larlet Jane. You know I hate the nt,5 and never want to hear it," said uHar, bAt losing her temper. " Your name is Harriet Jane," said her Aunt, who must be introduced as Mrs. rly, nd it's a good name, and you was a_5fter a good woman. Your Aunt ,rs loving a creetur as ever lived, Prudent and economical, and a master and at house work. She never hung on the gate o'mornins', no indeed, she was up before light, would have thought it a sin and shame to ha' spent the time you dt over books, and poetry, and such non sense. Wish you was more like her." "I'm extremely thankful that I'm not like her, and am not in the least ambitious to beco'ae like her. I am sorry that even her lme should have descended to me." said Harie. " Well," said Aunt Susan, "its your name, and I don't propose callinn you anything else. If you was a boy, Id call you by a boy's name, but seeing you are htrt, Ishal not amn you Htrtle, nor any other such name, that never was Intended for no girl." "Very well. I really don't suppoe it can make much difference what you call me," said Harrle. " No, I suppose you think I'm of no consequence, but there's a few little things more to do, and if you intend to go to that party to-night. you'd better be stirring 'round. There's the bread to mold out, the beds to make, the sittin' room to dust, and a couple of pies to make for dinner, and Dan's coat to mend, so he can have it at noon, besides that basketof clothes to Iron." Poor Harrie! She did hate house-work, she did hate her uncomfortable surround ings. She could not help it, that she was not like her Illustrious ancestor, who was a master-hand at work; she could not help it, that she did her work with no heart in it. However, she gave herself a mental scolding, and flew up stairs, and attacked the beds with a sort of atoning zeal; she was ready and willing to do work that she hated, when it was necessary that she should, but she knew that there was an abundance of means to hire the work done, and save many a back-ache and much wear and tear of temper. There was no need that the house should be so plain and mean, nor that her Aunt should work so like a slave. It was an economy that she could find no admi ration for. She had been in the family since a lit tle girl; had been cared for like the rest of the children. She had been scrupulously washed, and dressed, and fed, sent to day school and-an extra indulgence, sent to the city for a year's schooling. Now, what more could any girl ask. Why on earth couldn't she turn out like the rest of the children, and take to the house work. to making bed-quilts, and rag carpets, and be content with reading the weekly pa per, which afforded the mental pabulum for the rest of the family. But she couldn't; she was like her own mother, and it was an ever-increasing mystery to her, how two sisters could be so unlike, as her mother and this aunt. But we see this strange diversity of taste and tem perament in families, and wonder over John's bging so odd, or Mary so peculiar. There Was nothing remarkable about this little Harrie. She had a fine, sensi tive nature, a love of books, that amounted almost to a passion, a keen sense of hu mor, that made her Aunt's inconsisten cies often very comical to her, a warmn. impulsive heart, and a good deal of tem per, which, however, only needed the right management to be easily kept in check. Site hated the monotony of her dull every-day life, and occasionally rebelled against it, but again bravely made up her mind to do her best, and that, after all, there was a good deal of sunshine in life, if you could manage to get into it. Her Aunt was certainly a most aggrava ting person. She had a real fondness for Harrie, and would work for her till she was ready to drop down-to use her own words-but in so simple a matter as call ing her Harrie, instead of Harriet Jane, she would not indulge her. She had a great pride in her looks, but would never have thought it possible to have paid her a compliment. She was proud of her at tainments, and secretly considered her a prodigy of learning, but would fret with out ceasing over what she called her waste of time In reading. It was not easy for Harrie to keep her temper under these circumstances, and in spite of her own good judgment, they had many a war of words. It was no use arguing any point with her Aunt, for she took all sides of a question at once, and had not the slightest idea of her own in consistencies. 'I hen there were three younger chil dren, Louie, and Dan and Susy. They adored Harrie. notwithstanding they made her wretched by their ceaseless de mands. We left our Harrie making the beds, now we will go back and see how it has fared with her during our explanation. She finished her work and went down, and dusted the sitting room. Then she went resolutely at the basket of clothes. She didn't want to do that, because there was to be a party at the Blake's that night, and she knew that ironing didn't Improve one's hands any, but she con quered herself and went to her work. She knew that in the afternoon she had a few little preparations to make; her Swiss muslin dress must be ironed out, and the blue bows made over, so as to look fresh and new. She did so wish she could have a few flowers. A little mignonette or candytuft, or a purple pansy. But she remenbered gratefully, that there were some half-opened rose-buds in the yard, and these would have to do with a little sprig of sweet-brier. She felt pretty sure she could make her great mass of hair look pretty-it always did, but a cluster of pansies against her yellow locks, she knew would be vastly more becoming than pink rose-buds, beautitful as they are. But she knew also she couldn't have them. To be sure, the Blake girls had plenty, but she would not ask for them. In fact, they seemed to have everything, and she wondered why, while she ironed Dan's shirts and Louis' linen coat, and Susan's aprons, that some lives were so full-and others so empty. She was too young, however, to be deeply troubled by these questions-for, was not the world before her, and hope was strong in her little heart, and who knows, she said over and over to herself, what blessings there may be in the years that lie before me. My duty demands that I tell my readers that in her hopes and dreams f'r the fu ture, a tall handsome young fellow named Will Wallace figured conspicuously. She was wishing that he could be down to the party that night; but his letter last week said that it was uncertain how soon he could come. So, of course. he could not be there. But in the little country village. in the summer evenings, two or three girls could go together to any little gathering so an escort was not indispensable. She thought she would run up the street by and by and see Kitty Harris, and ask her to call for her, and in the meantime see wtat she was going to wear. Presently her aunt exclaimed, "Sakes alive! if theme ain't Mrs. Gilman coming through the gate; and she has that ever lasting work-bag! Come to stay, of course !" " Oh, dear! ' said Harrie, "what sent her here? I really wish she'd favor us with fewer visits. She has some gossip or we should not see her to-day; I abominate such a woman." "" Harriet Jane," said her aunt with her usual contempt for her own previously expressed opinions. " I'm surl,rised that a girl brwought up as you have been should speak so disrespectful of such a s woman." t " And my wonder is," answered liar- I rie. " that I speak so well of her." t By this time Mrs. Gilman had rapped i vigorousl\ several times, and was finally t admitted and taken into the little sitting room, Mrs. Hanly excused herself for a a moment, and before she could get back she was followed into the kitchen by her visitor. d " Now, Mrs. Hanly," said she, " I don't c want to be made company ot; just let me I sit right down where you are at work, I that'll suit me best. I ain't one oa the kind that can't be happy nowhere but in 3 the parlor." t But Mrs. Hanly had no idea of keeping r her company in the kitchen ' so she took s Dan's coat to mend, and led the way back. a It lacked an hour of time to get dinner, 1 so in a fw minutes after, IIarrie drew a I little rocking chair up by a window in s the kitchen, and thought she would rest a a little. She very much preferred her own company to Mrs. Gilman's. But a she was not to escape that way. Pre- s sently that worthy lady spied a little mat on the table, and was seized with a de- t sire to understand how it was made. 1 So Harrie was called upon to enlighten her. t " I declare, Harrie. you do work won- a derful fast," for Harrie gave the crochet t needle an extra motion now and then, r which mystified the anxious seeker after r knowledge. I " Going to the party to-night, I sup pose, ain't you?" she said, her interest in I crochet work slightly abating. ' Yes'm," said Harrie. a " Going to be wonderful fine; they say t they've sent to the city for some curious kind of lantern, I disremember the name, to hang up in the trees, and a lot of per fections and things; but then the Blakes r always do things up real nice, though law, I knew Sallie Blake when she was a Sallie Gates, and sewed for a living, or I teached school, or did most anything re- I spectable. You can't tell, the luck of I some folks is wonderful." " At any rate," said Harrie, "you I must admit that Mrs. Blake deserves her t good fortune. She is a lady, and would a be, whatever her surroundings." f " Well, well, may be, but money makes I a mighty sight of difference." t " Yes, but not all the difference," said Harrie firmly. " Who dioyou suppose I met as I was a 1 coming up here,' said Mrs. Gilman, a "along with Miss Mollie Blake? no one but Mr. Will Wallace, looking as fine as a judge. They was langhin' and chattin' 3 as gay as could be, and he had the beau- 3 titulest basket of flowers in his hand I ever see. I always liked Will Wallace, and so I stopped and shook hands with him, and he seemed real glad to see me, I too. I said, I spose you've come down to the party, and he said, yes, of 4 course, he could not help responding to a such an invitation, and Miss Blake looked pleased as could be." I Then I said, " I spose these beautiful a flowers is designed for the same place," and he said, "I devoutly hope that they I will have that happy destiny," and he a looked so smilin' at Mollie, that she t blushed, and said, "he need not have much tear, such lovely flowers were al- a ways welcome." " I think Mollie Blake 's kind o' silly, but I guess Will Wallace is in earnest this time. He's a kind o' flirtin fellow, don't you think so?" Harrie answered, "I don't know." but I was only conscious of a fierce desire to get out of the room, away from Mrs. Gil man and her horrid tongue, and it she could, away from herself. She felt her- 1 self growing pale and faint. but feigned I an amiable wish to initiate Mrs. Gilman I fully into the mystery of daisy mats. If 4 she only could escape betraying any emo- I tion! But Mrs. Gilman had watched her too closely for that, and presently said : " Don't you think, Mrs. Hanly, that 1 Harrie looks just a leetle paler 'n usual this summer. Seems to me she looks 1 kind o' peeked." Mrs. Ilanly, on principle, never thought as anybody else did, so she answered that I "she hadn't noticed it. Most w iris wanted, now-a-days, was more exercise." "Thank you, said Harrie, "Iam re markably well, this summer, and as for being pale, I never have much color, you I know." ' "That's so; but it seems to me you I have a kind o' tired look, and ma'be you're nervous; some girls be." " "Thank you, I'm never nervous." "Idon't know now you look sort o' tremblin' like, and I shouldn't wonder but what a tonic would do you good. Boneset tea is 'mazin' strengthenin', and quietin', too." " I don't think I need anything of the kind," said Harrie. " Maybe not; ut thlere was my cousin who died of consumption last year, and she looked a good deal as you do, only she was tall and stout and dark compleo ted; but then she had a disappointment; that kind o' broke her down, like." "The resemblance must certainly be very striking," said HIarrie. It would have been an intense satisfaction to her to have said something that would have sent the woman out of the house; but that be ing inconsistent with good manners and hospitality, she did the next best thing. For once in her life she was glad to get out into the kitchen and go to work, though it hurt her feelings to think she must get dinner for any one who had hurt her peace so cruelly. The children came in in their usual tu multuous fashion, hungry and impatient, as only school children know how to be. " Is my coat mended ?" said Dan. "I'm going hunting this afternoon 'long with the other boys. and I want my dinner, quick." And Tom wanted something else, and, oh, dear! so many things to do, and back of them all that dreadful bitter feeling, that pain that was so sick ening and so strange. Would she ever find time to sit down and think about it; and was it alltrue? Waseverything go ing out of her life ? I think the dinner was a success, though the cook had a heart-ache. The coffee was just right, and the cream-pie perfection. Mrs. Gilman did justiceto all without a particle of remorse of con science. Then after a short time, uffli cient for manners, and more too, Harrttie thought, she took a reluctant departure. 'The quiet summer afternoon wore on, Harrie had found time to go to her own room and think it all over. She firmly male til her mind that she would not go to the party. She wouldn't let any one see her discomiture, nor would she add b to Mollie Blakel triumph. Everybody ' knew that Will Yallace had been devoted Ii to her ever since they were children, and e had cared for noone else. To be sure, I they were not enaged, thatis, in so many a words; but were words needed? Had a not every look and act of his spoken plainer than asy words could speak? F Poor Harrie! tie d mon of doubt and C distrust had drivn away the sweet spirit I of peace and convent that brightened her Ii heart in the moning, and had taken full possession. ii Allowing she ;hought that that horrid a Mrs. Gilman hal been purposely mis taken, why didn't he come up, the after- V noon was wearing away, and no word or sign to let her know that he had come, g and when before lad he failed to present p himself in the dui little house at the ear liest possible monent ? No, there was a something wrong and she made herself I as miserable as a girl well could, in con- h juring up all sorts of possible and impos sible things that night be the cause. No, ii she would not go to that party, but there I was her Aunt, who knew that she hadin- v tended going; what would she say to a her. She expected slh would say all sorts of tantalizing things, and she went down I stairs, with a determination to be very e brave and cheerful, and patient, under the most exasperating circumstances, and she needed all her cau'ion, for her aunt com- f menced : c ".Well, if you've got through moping, I guess you'd better iron out your dress, unless you expect me to keep the fiats hot e all the afternoon. That is, if you intend to go to that patty I wouldn't go if I was you, though, to let blks see I'd lest my beau." Harrie brought out the pretty Swiss i muslin and commenced ironing, without I saying a word. It was very pretty, and she looked especially well in it, and now it seemed nothing tut a reminder of how happy she had beer, and how suddenly her great sorrow had come upon her. She remembered the first time she wore it-when Will was down, a month or two I before; then he told her she looked like c a white clou'l; then an angel-then a fairy, till she laughed at the variety of his epithets, and the fertility of his imagi- 1 nation. "Now, to-night," she thought, "he will probably say the same things to Mol lie Blake, and she will believe them, just I as I did." Said Aunt Susan, "I1 s'pose you thought Will Wallace would be satisfied with 1 you, after livin' in the city, but I hope you see now that he's Just like the rest of ! tolks, Mollie Blake's line feathers have done it." Harrie answered, "I know better. It t isn't Mollie's fine feathers, as you say, but it may be something else, and with good reason. His life is growing broader and wider every day, and mine is narrow, 1 with no prospect of being any other way. I suppose he's just outgrowing me, that's all.' "II'm, well, maybe that satisfies you; but if that's wha t larning and books, and going to the city does, I :don't want to go." 'It might not have that effect upon you, aunt." said Harrie, smiling. "Well, I knew just how 'twould be! You always thought yourself better and smarter than the rest of us, and nobody was good enough for you; and you see how 'tis. Pride is pretty sure to have a fall." How unjust all that was, and Harrie knew it, too ! Couldn't her aunt see that Tere was no need of making her feel tor tured beyond what she could bear? The angry spirit was rising rapidly within her; but she wouldn't allow herself the luxury of talking back. She would not show her hurt to this cruel woman more than she could help. She took a hot fiat-iron, and not stopping to examine its fitness for muslin, she threw it down with an energy born of her desperation upon the frail fabric. Lo! It left its shape done in brown upon the goods, right on the front breadth of the dainty dress, and the smoke that arose from it was a witness of her rashness and the harm. Quick a thought flashed upon her, "Now I can't go, now I can't go; and I'm glad, I'm glad !" She had been wondering what reasonable excuse she could invent, and here was a good one at her hand. To be sure her aching head would have been sufficient; but that she mnst not own to. Her heavy heart was excuse enough, but what woman can make such a trifle as that weigh against her pride. Aunt Su san's scolding over the burnt breadth was lika music. It could not repair the damage and make it presentable, so she might scold. Now it must be confessed that one party dress was all our Har rie owned and that being new was to do service, with sundry changes in trim mings, &c., through all the summer. As she looked at the ugly disfigurement she realized that it meant the expense of a new breadth, and a day's work at least; and she felt that more than that it was a sort of witness against her. Of course she could have helped it; but she would not admit yet but that she was heartily glad. There was no denying that Harrie was In a bad humor, and the beautiful trait of trust was in no wise developing under this little test. NoW it might have been so different. She was very young, and her aunt was so far away from her in thought and feeling, that she felt obliged to hidle her own. A little judicions advice, a little insight into Harrie's nature, and Aunt Susan could have smoothed out many of the rough places, and in place of doubt and distrust, and impatience, brought to life kith, and confidence and calmness. Women know so well how to torture each other, they have such qulekness to find out the tender spot, I wonder they do I not study more the way to help. Since through their own natures they know much of every other woman's, I wonder they do not love to pour the balm they are one day pretty sure to need them selves. The day went by, the evening came on e soft and cool. The day had clo.ed so dif ferently from what Hrrie had intended that morning as she leaned on the gate. What a long day it had been, and how full of vexations; and was there any one e else in the little town who had such a heavy heart as hers. She knew the Blakes were expecting their gusts now; that all Sthe girls were arraying themselves in their Sprettiest dresses, and brightest smiles, and Sshe sat all forlorn, waiting to putthe chil e dren to bed, after which she proposed I having a good time by indulging in a cry. ah The children were rather more exasperat- mi I ing than usual; Susy wanted to hemr sev- an I eral stories, and Loule begged for a little th more play. Finally she compromised the fir matter, by promising a double portion to- w( I morrow night. and they succumbed. th Dan hal not yet made his appearance. ye Pretty soon he came, and wanted to see lai 1 Cousin Harrie, and tell her something. pa He commenced in a roundabout fashion, co in this wise: co I "I say, Harrie, would you be awful mad, IH if a fellow'd done a mean thing and was re I sorry for it?"' th " I don't know, Dan, maybe I wouldn't. sa Whose been doing an awful mean thing?" th r "I have, but I didn't mean to, and I'd ab ,give anything if I could undo it," said the y< t penitent Dan. id - "Well, I wouldn't feel so bad then," yc B said Harrie, not intensely interested in th f Dan's delinquencies. She concluded he uj had fibbed, or ran away from school, or th "licked" some smaller boy which, accord- ia. Ing to his code of honor was mean, or e borrowed some boy's fish line or gun th without asking, or some such heinous w Soffense; and so she was not just In the nr mood for playing confessor. til 'f "I say, Harrie, would you forgive a fel- ar n ler? I was awful mean but I forgot to lo V give it to you, and then' went a gunning, al e and since that I'd forgot it. I thought e 'twas too late, any way. And 1 used it to for waddin', and bh, dear, I tell you I'm tth dreadful sorry and I couldn't say my tt prayers till I told you." bi , "What in the world do you mean ?" t said Barrie, "please tell me all about it? I to d don't understand a thing you say." fs a "Well, now, 'twas just this way. y When I was coming home from school I b this noon. Will Wallace, that feller that's di a always a comin' up here to see you, you it know, was standin' on the tavern steps, I d when he see me, he said, ' Oh, Dan, wait v a minute, I wish you'd Rive this little ja a note to your cousin. Miss Harrie, 'and I d y said I wouldn't forget it, but I did." n " Oh ! Dan," said HBarrie. e " Just wait a minute," said the boy, who a a by this time began to be Interested in his m e own story, "you see I met the other boys, w a and they coaxed me to go off with 'em, tU f and that old Mrs. Gilman was here to din- t I- ner, and I was in a hurry 'cause the boys b6 was waitin', and I forgot all about it. e You don't care much, do you, Harrie? I- 'Taint much matter, is it? 'Twas such a v it little mite of a note, couldn't ha' been much in it." It Ah ! Dan had yet to learn what a lit- a h tle mite of a note could hold. a i " What did you do with it, any way ?" h )f said Harrie. a] "e "Well, I told you. I thought 'twarnt o' no account, so we wanted a little wad- p It din', and, and, I'm dreadful sorry, Harrie, r, I am sure, and I'll never do so again. n h Please forgive me, will your' I There were tears on the boy's face, and r, he did not feign his sorrow, and Harrie a F. leaned over him and gave a forgiving kiss, b 's conscious that there was more to forgive than he could realise. I If she could only have known what the tr s, note contained. Perhaps it gave some f, it reason for the change in hint. Perhaps it was some fault in her, that he took that a 4, way to tell her of. Perhaps it was a good bye, and he trusted it to pen and ink, b '! rather than his own lip. She could never Ii id know. Oh l careless Dan, your repent- a ly ance has won forgiveness, but what can ee undo the mischief. d a She thought, how close and oppressive t1 the night is growing. She took off the p ie pretty blue percale that she had put on at that afternoon with a faint hope at her c r- heart, and put on an ancient pink wrap- o ie per; she took off the blue ribbons and let a r; down the mass of heavy soft hair that t 7 washer greatest pride and beauty. Then er she went out on to the little veranda, and t re though she was as miserable as a doubt- a id Ing, distrustful and slightly fretful young Dr woman could be, there was grain of comfort in the thought that nobody knew a l it. I In If she only could know what was in the . nt note--if she only could. ie Of course he was down there at the of party, and of course be would go beck to I a the city on the one o'clock train, he al i't ways did, and equally, of course, she t m would never see him again. I at It was nine o'clock. Still she sat on id the porch, and from down the street she I be could hear the music, and almost hear the t in pat of the dancers' feet. She could see o. them all there; girls in bright gay 1 ut dresses, and with gayer, brighter hearts. I as Plainer than all the rest she could see u- Mollie Black, and In her hair and on her as bosom, were the flowers that had come a he down from the city that day the flowers he Will Wallace had brought. hen she saw ed herself in her loneliness and vexation, Ln- and sorrow; and up stairs she saw the Jo white dress and the fat-lron shaped burnI 1 n- that ruined it. She could not help smll a inlg at the contrast in the pietures; and he then was amazed to think she could 'a smile. It; Pretty soon a sound that was wonder a fully familar fell upon her ears. "Belle e Mahone" whistled as only Will could lid whistle it, was coming nearer every min ty ute, and in another the little wooden gate swang as wide open as the state of its as hinges would admit, and Will Wallace of spran upon the porch beside her. a Wellb, Harri, most ready for the party ?" was his first salutation. t. "I don't understand you. rm not go. so Ing. You needn't walt," and Hrrf 's Svolice began to choke a little with all her efort tokeep it steady. "to "Needn't wait? What nonauaIs ld What is it little girl ? Tell us all about it; gh first let me get a look at you," sad he at, drew her info the moonlight much agiast ad her will. "Dear me " he exclaimed, "you look like something between a mm re maid and a washer-woman-hair adoat, to arms bare, and the pink gown on tau do you wore five years ago. Oh Harrle! ce something dreadl has ppedI know ow to bring you to this," and he lauged er merrily. But headded tenderly n a mo e ment, "Come, let's divide the troaubles. u- Tell me all about it. Of course you got o No I didn't," said our brave Harries 1f- breaking down. Now abshe had said led to herself over and over, that when te. Mr. Wallace did come, if he ever owdid she would be very cool and calm, e and let him see tha she could be as ha Indiferent as he could; all of which kes she proceeded to do by crying like a little all girl. "I didn't get your note, and I knew jeir you were in town for Mrs. Gilman met md you, and came right here and told me." hil- "Shedideb! The meddlesome creature erl did stop me, I rememaber, and I remember also sayting several on purpoeto ,vst'y hor never thinkin8 It .. d°d O ny harm. I wrote you anote telling you that I had come down on business for the irm; that I had not an hour to spare or I would come up-you ought to have known that-and that I would be up to go with you to the party, even f I came a little late, and here I am; but where s your party attire? You look pretty to me, of course, but your dress would hardly be considered the thing at the Blake mansion, Hiow does it happen that my note did not reach you? Dan assured me with fervor that he never forgot anything, and you should have It. However, I brought down the loveliest flowers for you,and meant you should wear them to-night. I remembered your passion for pansie; and truly, Har rie, I couldn't bear to send them up to you for I wanted to see your delight over them myself. See, Harrie," andbe took up the little basket, where a boquet for the hand and flowers for the hair and neck, lay among moss and leaves. SOh, dear!" sighed Harrie, "Dan took the note off gunning and used it up for wadding and other things, he says, and I never knew of it till he confesed at bed time. I have tormented myself all day, and just because I've been doubting, I've lost my evening's pleasure, and more than all, made you lose yours too." "By no means," said Will. "I expect to enjoy the evening yet-what is left though perhaps not Just s plned. I think you did not do me quite justice but I am going to blame your aunt and(i Mrs. Gilman for it, for I can imagin that their remarks would tend to shake one's faith atrle, eh r' " Will," said Harrie, solemnly, "I have been miserable, and cross, and hateful all day." "*Haven't you stated that backward," asked Will. " No, I haven't, but I haven't stated It just right, either for I did commence the day with good intentions. Indeed, even my little corner of the world looked bet her and brighter than usual this morning and my heart was full of sunshine, that I mont to keep all day. But everything went wrong. Aunt was a trifle more irrl tating than usual. Mrs. Gilman came and told me you had come, and brought the beautifulLest flowers to Mollie Blake." "You ought to have known better." " Then she told me I was not looking well-looked peaked." " She shall be arrested for slander." "And you did not come, nor send me any word, and the children were cross, and Susy made me tell stories till I was hoarse, till finally, I gave her a good shakiug." "Oh! you dreadful girl! shake the poor little thing," said Will, mokingly. "And I burnt a big hole in my white muslin dress, because I was so cross and reckless." "Oh, dire confessions, when will they end? Burnt a big hole in her best dress, because I didn't-" "Stop! I haven't finished. Then whe Dan went to bed, he told me that he had taken your note gunniV, and ued I up for wadding and And, and-" "Well, Harrie, what did you do th '?" asked Will, curiousl. "I kissed him, and told him I'd forgive him, for he was so sorry, I oouldn't help it, and I felt too bd ba that time, for anger or resentment," said Hattirre. ,,Not so bad a record, after all. You did get cross. I'm afraid, but you carried the day by forgiving what might have proved an njury," id Will. "I do not think your Aunt's seity conducive to amiability. I would reocr mend a good deal of patiene, sad above ad, a cheerul looking forward to a day that s near. Ihope. Iam golttake you away from dl these t wll try to ma your life a good deal t and you willget cross and u , miserable at your peril. I want you to promise me, however, that the next time any old gossip comes to you with uncom fortable stories about your best friends, you'll have more conaldence than you're had today, will you'?" ., s "Yes, Will, I know I was foollh," mid Harrie. "And, Harrie, you'll be ready one of these days and give up the delights of this home for another' Barrie's answer s not on record, but It was probably satlsfa&to. They talked tll up the street they bead the voices of the returning party , when Will asked, "Are the o all gone Harrie ?" " Yes, every one." "You don't feel miserable, and cross, and hateful any more?" "Not a bit. Thedayls edingas t b gan. in peace and sweet contest." "It's easy enough, Harrie," aid Will, "to be amiable when there is nothing to try the temper; it's easy enough to trust our friends when nothing comes to bte our condence. It's easy enough to oat with the current; It's rowing agslat the tide that tests our strength, our patlence, and our couramge." SUp in her room that night Harie took I the flowers, which, thogh fded, now held a heart-full of omfort to her, and Sput them into watet, maying softly to her I self, and the words were a prsyer,-"It's row aglaist the tide teat tests our steth, our patience. nd our_ ooua ." S--arotta Perry, in Miiwaukee M /Ay. - AloxnD BLuwc-xAxsO.--On glle. of I ream. Soften in a small portion of this cream (eold) two ounces of lariglass. Have rdy blanched two poundsof sweeat i almods, with two dozen and a half peach kstrels or bitter almonds. Beat these 5I e in a mortar, with a little rose-water t to prevent their oling. Putthegall ofe ream with the melting isnlas into a preserving kettle ever the Ie, md stir antil peretly dissolved, adding mea while onoed and a quarter of white su gar. the cram come toaboa. Stir in te almonds smoothl just as ys take the blan-mnge from the re st aside in s bowl to cool, srrlngoa ll ua Stb lukewarm, when pour into mould pro t viousnly dipped in cold water. Islt not a Httle slolt u r thast while thee is o mueh traoube mong the beor drink n ers in Gerumny ther should at the ase t time be sueh a eommetlhm among the 81 i, wives in Mlassachuetts watet h Iunirms DuLoxo was esP @ed te 5 Japan beauPs he wam too "e"' at par r ent for the Mikado. The settlement of our Indian difmoultles a in Arizona was accomplished not by "hook," but by Crook.