He would leave | from me, and I was no longer my own, but an

I

robes. The short days were busy and cheerful; the long evenings I passed in writing to him, trying to show him my nature as it was-no worse, no better-transcribing for him favorite passages from my readings, and confiding my wildest speculations to him with as little fear as I acknowledged them to my own heart.

ent I should see him no more. Woodstock early on the morrow, and I should other's. be more utterly alone than I had ever been as Still the winter days were not too many. yet. Still I was not wretched. A fine, vague was satisfied to do as he had told me to think happiness, whose presence I hardly acknowl- of him, and of what the future held for me. I edged, thrilled every pulse, and though as yet loved to watch the white, still reign of snow I made no plans for the future, knew not wheth- and ice. It did not seem, as it had seemed in er I should ever be ready to pledge him the faith other days, chill and terrible. The snow foldof a wife, I felt a new glow of pride and heart-ed the earth softly, and I thought it like bridal warmth as I said again and again to myself, half unconsciously, "He is good, and he loves me." The next Monday Mary Ann Willis came. She was, in truth, as Dr. Bartholemew and common rumor agreed in styling her, the best woman in Woodstock. Without any remarkable powers of intellect or attraction, she had made every one love her by force of the pure goodness of her heart. In her own person she furnished a refutation of all the calumnies ever invented against old maids. She abounded in good works. She never condemned any, but had always an excuse where excuse was possible; where it was not, silence and a tear. The most tempting social mystery was safe from any curiosity of hers. Though no one had ever known of her having a lover, no true lovers wooed or wedded without her best wishes-her tenderest sympathy. In short, her life came nearer to the perfect fulfillment of the law of love than any woman's whom I have ever known.

And so the winter wore away, and the spring stole noiselessly over the hills. Her deft fingers unlocked the streams, and sent them dashing and leaping over hill-top and valley. Where she trailed her robe along the meadows, violets, and crocuses, and shy, pale anemones sprang into life. Busy all the night through, every morning revealed some new miracle of resurrection. The forest trees shook forth their leaves, and the apple-trees hung out their blossoms, until the day of May came-white with starry flowers and musical with wooing songs of robins and thrushes-when he had promised to come to me. My heart was not less tuneful than the birds, less jubilant than the spring. I I welcomed her under my roof with pleasure. made ready my home, and garnished it with In goodness, I was not worthy to sit at her feet; flowers. I put on a thin summer robe-black, but we suited each other. We had both one but not sombre. My heart needed no preparagift which masculine criticisms rarely accord to tion. It was a woman's heart-true, strong, woman-that of silence. We used to sit some-loving for the first time-ready to welcome its times for hours together, busy with book or work, without the interchange of a word. So far as I could, I strove to follow Dr. Bartholemew's suggestions. I read a great many volumes of solid, useful reading. I forced myself to observe certain regular hours for study, and I tried to show kindness to every one within my reach who was poor or in trouble. And so doing, the wound in my heart began gradually to heal. I could not forget my father, or cease to mourn him; but I learned to say, with heart as well as voice, "The Lord gave, and the Lord hath taken away; blessed be the name of the Lord."

king.

I heard the train come in, and I knew he would walk quietly up to the house, so I went out into the lane to meet him. I knew his quick, eager step. I saw his beaming face. I heard his voice:

"Do I meet my Kathie ?"

And I faltered-"Your Kathie, yours forever!"

"Kathie, before God, and before the dead who loved you so fondly once, and I do believe look down on you and love you now, I promise to be true and faithful to you, the dearer half of myself. I will love you well, cherish you tenderly, and struggle manfully with the world for your sake. Does my child trust me?" "She trusts you."

Then, underneath the apple-trees, shaking down over us their white, sweet blossoms, I felt strong arms draw me close to a true heart. His first kiss was upon my mouth; and he said, beAll this time Dr. Bartholemew's weekly letters neath that solemn, overlooking blue sky, breakwere a great help to me. They were not love-ing the silence after our meeting lips: letters. I doubt if they would have satisfied a girl accustomed to adulation, or familiar with the grand passion as it is portrayed in novels and romances. They said very little about his regard for me; and yet I could read in every line his anxiety for my happiness-for my best good. He told me a great deal about himself: of his pursuits; his home; his mother, who had been for several years his housekeeper; his profession-in short, every thing that made up his daily life was put upon paper for me; so that weekly I grew into deeper and more intimate knowledge of him. And weekly my soul did him deeper and more tender reverence, until, by-and-by, I felt that my heart had gone forth

We went in happy, betrothed lovers; and standing before Mary Ann Willis, the only friend I had near enough to apprise, told her of the vows we had pledged. Did she remember a lost dream or a lost reality of her own vanished youth? Tears came into her kind blue eyes-I do not think they were sad ones,

though-and her hands trembled, but her voice | myself, for she had become warmly attached to was clear and fervent as she uttered the blessing I had no one else left to bestow.

"Good-by, Kathie, best treasure! God keep to-night. That fluttering robe makes her look safely my promised wife till I come!"

"I know it, love. Were it not that my mo"God bless you, Kathie! You have been a ther is waiting to see you, you should have your good child to me, and I would give more than tea up here, and retire at once. As it is, you one year of my remnant of life to insure your would not mind the trouble of changing your happiness." dress if you knew how anxious I am that she "Don't you think that it is sure? Am I not should admire you at first sight as much as I a good man's wife ?"

fore, I was very hungry; but though the dinner was more elegant, the viands more delicious than any that had ever before greeted my eyes or my palate, I found it impossible to eat. Something seemed to choke me. I am afraid that one or two tears dropped into the wine in which I drank my own health.

After dinner was over we went back into the drawing-room. What would I not have given to steal away a while by myself; but I knew by my husband's look that this was not to be permitted in the order of exercises, so I sat and tried to make conversation. Did I not pity the Israelites in that hour? They were not the only ones who have been sent forth to make bricks without straw.

After a while Madame Bartholemew remarked, in a pause of the talk,

"Perhaps you will sing for me, my dear? If you are not too tired, it would give me great pleasure. I am very fond of music, and I have looked forward with much anticipation to the presence of a younger lady than myself, who would make the house a little livelier."

"I do not sing." I am afraid I answered stiffly.

"Will you play for me, then?"

"I do not play. I am not musical. I have no accomplishments. Did not Dr. Bartholemew tell you that his choice was an unformed country girl?"

I saw her cast a glance at him-partly, I thought, of inquiry; partly of vexation. He came to my relief instantly:

"Kathie underrates herself, dear mother. At least you will find that she is thoroughly educated, and possesses many acquirements of more value than music or dancing to the happiness of our home."

I wrote now and then to Mary Ann Willis, and I know my letters must have saddened her, for I wrote of any thing rather than my own life. I was too proud to complain, too honest to feign a satisfaction and happiness which I did not feel. Sometimes I thought of her words, and wondered whether I might not be to blame for the existing state of affairs. I could not, however, bring myself to feel that I was. I said to myself that it was all the fault of that cold, proud, domineering woman. If she were but out of the way, Owen and I might be so happy. I believe my thoughts of her were almost murderous. I longed, I fear, for her to die, to remove forever the black shadow that stood betwixt me and the sunlight.

If I had only told my husband it would have been better. But I shut myself up in solemn silence. I was not going to complain to him of his own mother, I said, proudly. If he could not see, if our life was happy enough, as it seemed to be, for him, then let all rest. I forgot that in giving him myself I had given him a right to every thought of my heart. What is marriage if in the inner and most sacred lifethe life of the soul-one is single still?

If I had been with him more constantly it might have been different; but his practice was a large one, and that Fall a very sickly season. Fever was in the air. Malignant typhus was seizing unwilling victims, parching their throats, maddening their brains, draining the springs of their lives. But the pestilence came not near our house, whence, I used to think, he would have been welcome to take one victim-her or me-I felt, in my despair, as if it mattered little which. Owen worked incessantly. He would come home, not feverish—I could not have borne to see the fever-taint on him-but I do not think it was an agreeable evening to pale and worn; needing repose too much for any of us. How different it was from my fond me to disturb him with any petty vexations of maiden dreamings of my home-coming! I be- my own. Sometimes he would say, as I sat believe we were all glad when the tea was brought side him while he tried to snatch a few moments in, and my fatigue gave us a fit excuse for sep- of rest, arating. That night the pale, proud face of Owen's mother, with the black hair oversweeping the passionless brow, haunted my very dreams. Time went on, and where was the happiness I had pictured so fondly through months of hoping and waiting? It was there, perhaps, anchored in Owen's heart, sheltered by his love. But I could not realize it-my life had so many petty vexations. I did not like Madame Bartholemew. That is phrasing it too weakly. I believe in my heart I hated her. At first I made some slight attempts to please her. I had suspected that she desired still to remain mistress of her son's household; so I had quietly given up to her the place of honor at the table, and sedulously avoided interfering with any of her former prerogatives. For this I had expected at least silent gratitude-I was not prepared to have her assume that she was doing me a favor-relieving me from a charge for which natural incapacity, no less than youth and inexperience, rendered me unfit.

"This is but a dismal honey-moon for you, poor child! By-and-by I shall have more leisure to procure for you some of the pleasures I had planned; but you must have patience. It is a comfort, at least, that I can see your face when I come home, and have you to sit beside me as now."

With December came settled weather, clear and cold, and there were few new cases of fever. Owen had more time to bestow on me; and now, had it not been for the presence of Madame Bartholemew, I might indeed have enjoyed the life which opened before me. Picture galleries, concerts, lectures, and, to crown all, the opera. I remember the magical fascination of my first night. The opera was "Norma," and the prima donna was Grisi. Will music ever again so thrill me? Will the lights ever be so brilliant? Will the faces ever look so fair? For the time I forgot the black shadow that gloomed between me and my happiness; I enjoyed with the fullness and freshness of a child.

The next day Owen came in while I was dressing for dinner. Unconsciously to myself, I was humming over, as I braided my hair, an air from the opera, which had haunted me all day.

"So you can sing, Kathie ?" my husband said, with a puzzled look, as the last chord died on my lips.

I warbled "Auld Lang Syne." It was the first time in my life I had ever attempted to sing to any one save myself or my father; but my voice did not tremble-I was too full of interest in my project. She smiled again when I concluded.

"Bien, tres bien! In six weeks you shall learn six songs. Can you come here and prac"Not I. I do not know a note-never took tice four hours each day, or do I ask too much a lesson in my life."

time?"

"Not at all too much. I can come very well."

"Then every day for the first hour I shall be at home and give you a lesson. The rest you

I assented. Those were the very hours my husband was sure to be absent. She could not have chosen better for my convenience.

I sat down on his knee, and taking his face shall practice by yourself. From ten till two, between my hands, turned it toward me. shall it be?" "Are you dissatisfied with me, Owen ?" "Dissatisfied with you, Kathie? Surely not. I did not ask you to be my wife without knowing you well. I had seen you at your father's bedside through weeks of wearing illness. knew what you were as a daughter-I could trust my happiness without fear in your hands. If I had been solicitous on the question of accomplishments I should not have waited for my mother to make the discovery that you could neither sing nor play. My Kathie will never know how well I loved her from the first."

There was no more said about my learning music. We sat there till the dinner-bell rang, dreaming over the old, beloved days of the bygone time—a conversation, I take it, with which the reader has little to do.

The next day I went to her punctually. DurIing the six weeks before Owen's birthday I did not miss a single day. After a little while I knew Madame Bartholemew's suspicion was excited. She managed, usually, to be in the way when I went, and looked at me curiously. Once she said:

The next morning, after Owen had gone away, I took the daily paper and looked over the column of advertisements carefully. I found the one which I desired. It was that of a lady, a music-teacher, whom I had often heard mentioned in society as very successful. I had my own little plan, about which I was resolved to keep silence.

I put on my bonnet and went out. Soon I rang at the door of Mademoiselle Pierrot. I was fortunate enough to find her at home and disengaged. Her appearance pleased me. She was young, pretty, sweet of voice and manner. I opened my business at once. I explained that I desired no brilliant perfection-only to acquire, in the least possible time, knowledge enough of singing to be able to entertain my own home circle with simple melodies. If I succeeded well in this, I might go on to higher achievements. At all events, I desired to make the attempt. My husband's birthday would be in six weeks. Did she think it possible for me to learn in that time to sing one or two simple ballads, and accompany myself? She smiled.

"You go out a good deal of late."

"Yes," I answered, carelessly, "I enjoy it." Beyond this she asked me no questions, and I volunteered no explanations. I was contented that she should regard my movements with distrust for a time. I was happier than I had been before since I came to Philadelphia. This was owing in part, doubtless, to the regularity of my occupation; but I took, moreover, a real, girlish delight in the surprise I was preparing for my husband.

I had no means of knowing whether his mother had mentioned my regular absences to him. If she had, he never questioned me on the subject, or varied in the least from his usual fond and trusting manner. I think his faith in me was of too firm a growth to be easily shaken.

So affairs went on until the evening before my little plot was to reach its dénouement. I had practiced my songs that day, for the last time, with the full approbation of Mademoiselle Pierrot, and my heart beat high with glad anticipation of the morrow. I went down stairs with light footsteps to join my husband in the drawing-room. The door was ajar, and as I approached it I heard Madame Bartholemew say, in a voice slightly raised by excitement:

"This has gone on six weeks now, and I think it is your duty to see to it. What secret errand can she have to take four hours out of every day ?"

"It is not exactly en règle, Madame. We I stood still. The impulse was irresistible to do not usually give songs until quite a course of see whether my husband's trust in me could instruction has been gone through with. But I waver. I heard his voice, clear and firm: could make you an exception. You wish to sing "It is singular, mother; but I think Kathie rather than to play. We shall try what we can will explain it in her own time and her own do. I suppose you sing now from memory-way. I had rather await her time." what you call by rote. Let me hear you chant What evil spirit possessed me that I could not any little melody, just to try the quality of your wait yet one more day for the hour of triumph voice." and vindication I had planned? Are there mo