than through the woods, and so it occurred to them all; but Florence made room for her, and said:

"You look splendidly this morning, Agnes." "Thank you. Do you go on horseback, Mr. Ingraham ?"

"Yes. I feel like enjoying the air this morning, and I am quite sure I should not in the carriage."

She could say nothing, however chagrined she might feel at thus losing his company; so she leaned back, determined to enjoy herself at all events.

"This is real pleasure, Letty," said Ralph, as they rode along. "The air, the scenery, the lively state of Blucher, and your company, make me feel happier and more at liberty than I have felt since I came home. I dote or freedom."

"So do I. I cannot bear to be pampered or fettered in any way. Now, I could not live as Agnes does, although I know it is very ladylike and proper. But I can't bear to be 'fixed up.'"

"God grant that you may never like it, but still be the same free, happy girl that you are now! Take care; Bessie is full of pranks this morning."

Letty's horse seemed to feel the influence of the bracing morning air, and pranced and tossed her head, showing an unusual amount of spirit. Ralph noticed it, and so spoke, for Letty, fearless and skillful as she was, seemed very careless of her antics. All at once, something startled her, and with a bound she was off, leaving Ralph and the carriage far behind.

"Good heavens! she will be dashed to pieces!" And putting the whip to his animal, they clattered after her.

Letty was a brave little girl, and she pulled hard upon the reins, saying, " Be quiet, Bessie, good Bessie." But Bessie would not listen to the sweet voice, but kept on, until Ralph, on his powerful Blucher, reached her, and grasped her by the bridle, and drew her up with a jerk. Then springing to the ground, he fastened her to a tree near by, and turned to the white, trembling little Letty.

"Poor child! you are as weak as an infant," said he, as he lifted her from the saddle.

And Letty could only say, "O Mr. Ingraham!" and then her white lips quivered, and she sank half-fainting to the ground.

"Letty, Letty, my darling! are you hurt?" She had not lost consciousness; was only weak and exhausted, and those words sem the warm blood back to cheek and lip, and she struggled to release herself from his encircling arms.

"No, I am not hurt."

"Are you afraid of me, Letty?" "No."

"Then will you hear what I have to say ?" "Yes."

"Will you contradict Miss Calvert's wicked stories concerning me?"

"What do you mean? How can I?"

"By telling her that it is false; that I never profaned the sacred word love by uttering it in her presence, and that I love you, and you are to be my wife."

"Yes. Isn't it delightful ?"
"O yes, very," gasped Agnes.

"I am so happy. It all happened this morning, but I have been expecting it."

Wicked Florence! She was as much surprised as Agnes herself, but she knew she was tormenting that lady beyond measure.

Agnes, strange to say, received a letter that night summoning her home; at least, she said so, and of course no one doubted her. At any rate, Martin drove her to the depot the next morning.

Ralph and Letty are married, and receive yearly, at their splendid residence, crowds of friends, but among them they have never welcomed Agnes Calvert.

Down over the sea the sunset rays

Are tinging the breakers with purple and gold,

And I watch them to-night, as in other days,
Ere my heart to earth's beauty grew cold;
Down over the waves the seabirds flit,

Or hover with drooping wing,
Where out on the bay the white ships sit,
And light at their moorings swing.
And gazing out from my window low,
I can look over the sandy shore,
Whereon the gay crowds ever come and go,
To list to the breakers' roar.

Some gayly dance over the silvery sands,
While others walk slow from the crowd apart;
And the gentle pressure of clasping hands
Tells the tale of each loving heart.
One group-O, why should there partings be,
To wring our hearts with utterless woe?—
Look sadly out o'er the darkening sea,
Where the freighted ships so gayly go;
They are watching the one that left the land,
Just as the sun's last ray,
Sliding off from the silvery strand,
Gilded the waves of the beautiful bay.

Ah me! I have watched through these weary

years,

As those sad ones are watching to-night: Till my dark eyes' fire was quenched in tears,

And my cheek with long vigils grew white,For a loved one, tender, and true, and brave, Who went from me over the billowy main; The ocean's depth is his watery grave,

And I watch for his coming in vain.
But surely I know, on the other side

He is waiting to welcome me,
And claim me there as his spirit bride,
On the banks of the summer sea.

Now the twilight softly gathers her veil
Alike over the grave and gay;
The moon sheds forth her radiance pale,
And lights up the silvery spray;
While softly down through the purple skies
The holy starlight falls,

Until we deem they are angels' eyes,

Looking out over the crystal walls.
Night foldeth her dusky mantle down,
And reigneth o'er land and lea;
The laughing crowds flit back to the town,
And all is hushed by the sea.

"THREE trunks and a band-box, as sure as I'm alive! Why, Maggie Westmore, what on earth are you coming to?"

"I hope you are not going to scold me so soon, mamma," said Maggie, with a deprecating laugh. "I shouldn't like to have you. You have no idea how glad I am to be at home once more."

She paused upon the steps, looking rather grave, and absently began to trace a profile with the tip of her parasol, in the dust that had been allowed to collect there.

"What can sister Helen be thinking of," she said to herself, "to suffer the front stoop to get in such a condition ?"

"I suppose you enjoyed living in the city, Maggie ?" broke in this same sister Helen, a little shortly. "You used to speak of gay times, in some of your letters. It is a real sin to waste so much money on amusements as some of those city people do."

"Yes, I enjoyed it," returned Maggie, sup

pressing a sigh. "But really, Helen, I do not think there is so much money spent foolishly as you seem to imagine. Of course there is something squandered, but I believe you will find that the same is also true of people living in the country."

'Well, we will not argue that point. Only I am rather glad, after all, that Uncle Lester took it into his head to adopt you, instead of me."

Maggie wanted to say that she was glad, too, but restrained herself. This was the first time she had been home on a visit for more than two years, and so of course she did not wish anything to occur to mar her pleasure.

"Come in, my child," said her mother, bustling up the steps. 66 "Your father is in the store yet, but will be home to tea. He is very busy to-day, or he would have stayed at home to meet you."

Maggie entered the house, concealing her

disappointment as well as she was able. She had hardly reached the family sitting-room before her two brothers, Willie and Ned, bounded in. greeting her most boisterously. "You dear fellow! How glad I am to see you!" she exclaimed, drawing little Ned to her, and trying to kiss him.

"Quit that!" and the boy pulled rudely away. "Don't try to come the soft over me. I am too old to be babied any longer."

He looked very dignified with his eleven years' experience in this vale of sorrows. Maggie laughed, though there were tears in her eyes. She expected to see her mother rebuke the lad, but Mrs. Westmore only said:

"Neddie has an exalted idea of his own consequence, you perceive. Well, I don't know why he should be discouraged in it. If he don't assert his own independence in the world, no one will ever do it for him."

"That is so, ma," assented the young hopeful.

"Yes," said the matter-of-fact Helen. "Of course you are very glad to meet with Willie and Neddie once more, but it isn't best to be too demonstrative. It looks silly and weak." Helen seated herself primly in a chair beside a window, and took up her sewing.

"You can take off your things and leave them on the hall table, Maggie," she said, never offering to assist her.

Mrs. Westmore had gone on some mission to the kitchen, and so Maggie quietly obeyed, and removed her wrappings, though it was with quivering lips. This was so different from the welcome that she had fondly pictured to herself. "Either they are not glad to see me, or are wofully deficient in politeness," she thought.

"You wont find us much like your city friends," said Helen, pushing forward a chair for her to sit down. "Our little village was never noted for aping any new-fangled ideas."

"And yet there are some fine people here, if I remember correctly."

"Of course. It would be strange indeed if there were not."

Maggie had declined the chair, and was now standing beside the window, opposite her sister, looking rather wearily out into the street. Suddenly a strong hand was laid upon her arm.

"Haven't you no greeting for me, Maggie ?" "O, is it you, Harry? Of course I have-a thousand of them;" and she grasped the

young man's hand very warmly, a bright glow breaking suddenly into the cheeks.

"You have come to quite a young lady since I saw you last," he said, looking at her keenly.

Her eyelids drooped a moment. She was wondering if he remembered those happy days so long ago, when they used to go to school together, he a great strong boy, almost a man, then—and she a wee girl, and how she had often promised to be his wife, some day, when they were both grown up! What folly children are sometimes guilty of!

Harry Henderson was a third cousin of the family, or about as nearly connected to them as that would be. He had been brought up among them, though possessing considerable property-thousands enough to have at least admitted of his keeping up a good style anywhere. He was a lawyer, just coming into practice, and seemingly undesirous of a wider field of influence than that country village.

"You must have been very busy with your thoughts, not to have heard me when I came in," he went on, his strong eyes yet upon her face. "I made noise enough, Helen will tell you that," and he laughed.

"Yes," said Helen, speaking quickly, "you might have heard the clump of his boot heels half way to the street."

"It was all my heedlessness," returned the young girl. "I was thinking what a nice, quiet place this is. To be sure it could be improved, if one had only the time and means. I wish it might be done."

She glanced about the room with a sigh. The arrangement was certainly not a pleasing one to a person of delicate taste. The furniture was expensive enough, but sadly out of order. The carpet was not over clean, and the only picture on the walls was a faded-out print of Napoleon crossing the Alps, of which the only merit was its unlikeness to anything under heaven or on earth. It is a wonder that the shade of the little corporal did not haunt the room, to avenge himself that such a caricature should be suffered to hang there. On the mantel were two bouquets of dried grasses, from which the beauty had faded forever. At one end was a little earthen bird, perched upon the edge of its nest, and opposite it a plaster of Paris parrot, gorgeously dyed in green, yellow and crimson. On a stand by one of the windows were a few sickly plants, that looked as if they had been trying to grow, but only made out to spindle. "It is well enough for us, as it is," said

Helen, rather curtly. "We cannot afford to purchase every new improvement for our convenience. We are not city people, you will remember."

For some reason, the elder sister seemed to like to throw out remarks like this last, whenever she could make a place for them. One might have thought that she was possibly a trifle jealous of Maggie's training in city life, despite the contempt with which she pretended to regard it.

"Yes, it will do very well," repeated Harry. "We are certainly just as happy without them."

Maggie opened her eyes in wonder. "Has he, too, become a part of this hum-drum, slip-shod life?" she asked herself, with sudden pain.

She longed to say something more, to speak out and explain her real sentiments, but the time did not seem propitious, and she was wise enough to remain silent.

At tea time her father came home. His greeting was a little formal, but she knew by his manner that he was very glad to see her, and that satisfied her. She soon began to feel the most at ease with him of any member of the family. Somehow his blunt, gruff ways did not distress her as much.

With a great rattling and clattering of chairs and dishes, they seated themselves at the supper table. The repast was bountiful, but without any attempt at taste or neatness in the arrangement. The table-cloth was soiled; the silver needed polishing; the food was heaped together in the middle of the table. Everybody helped himself without any regard to his neighbor. Maggie could not help but contrast it with the system and order that regulated her uncle's table.

Mrs. Westmore sat at the head, looking anxious and worried; Mr. Westmore was silent and taciturn, and seemed only bent on despatching the meal as soon as possible; Helen, who sat opposite Harry, had no appetite, and divided her time between nibbling at her bread and butter, and stolen glances, first at Maggie, then at Harry, as if afraid the two would interchange a single glance of which she was not aware. Willie and Ned sat further down, eating as for a wager.

No one offered to wait upon Maggie. Harry seemed a little absent-minded, and probably did not know that she was uncared for.

"Can I trouble you for the bread, Willie ?" she asked, at last, addressing her elder brother who sat near her.

"I suppose you might," and Willie went on eating.

Mr. Westmore frowned, and darted an angry glance at the boy. Maggie saw it, and hiding her own wounded feelings, hastened to ask:

"Well, will you please pass it to me, Willie, dear?"

"Why didn't you ask like that in the first place? Only my name isn't Willie dear!"

"Aren't you ashamed of such conduct, Willie ?" began his mother, reprovingly, looking more anxious and troubled than ever, while Maggie thought:

"What a young heathen he is, to be sure! I wonder if something can't be done to tame him a little, before I go away?"

She had no relish for the meal, after that. Pretty soon she heard the two boys laughing shyly between themselves, and by-and-by Ned said in a loud whisper:

"I wonder if it makes everybody so dainty living among grand people? I am going to ask ma, to-night, now see if I don't!"

Do," returned Willie. "And you'd better ask if she thinks Sister Maggie pares her beans when she eats them. I shouldn't be surprised if she did."

Even Harry Henderson heard these remarks, and they seemed to recall him to himself. He glanced keenly at the girl's face, and shrewdly suspected the emotion that she was brave enough to try to conceal. He was too well used to the family ways to have minded them much, under ordinary circumstances, but now he could not help but pity the poor girl, and during the remainder of the meal manifested this compassion by a close attention to her wants-indeed too close to suit the elder sister.

"Have you been reading Lord Chesterfield of late, Harry?" she asked, curtly, as he passed the cake to Maggie, with an unusual show of politeness.

It was a rude speech, and he colored under it.

"It wouldn't hurt any of us to learn a little courtesy," he returned, resentfully.

"Ah, I see. Maggie is converting you to her way of thinking. Well, I am sure you are a promising pupil."

Maggie felt very much hurt at these remarks of her sister, though she tried not to let them trouble her. Mrs. Westmore heard them, growing more and more anxious and restless, and very soon gave the signal for withdrawing from the table.

"Don't mind the boys, my child," she said, apologetically, drawing near to Maggie, as they crowded from the room. "It isn't often that they are as rude as you saw them tonight."

Before Maggie could reply, Mrs. Westmore hurriedly added:

"I hope you will be very careful when you are with Helen and Harry Henderson. It will never do for them to quarrel. It might break up the match, and he is a rich man, you know. Your sister could not find a more eligible man."

"Is Mr. Henderson going to marry Helen ?" she asked, with a start of surprise.

"Hush. They will hear you! Nothing has ever been said directly, I believe, but then it is an understood thing in the family. Helen couldn't do better."

Maggie turned away with a keen pain at her heart; but she was a brave little woman, and laughed and talked so glibly that no one ever suspected it-not even Harry himself, who seemed to watch her movements with considerable interest.

This young girl was not one to sit down quietly and fold her hands, when everything was at "sixes and sevens about her. Therefore she could not behold the barbarous customs and ways into which the family were falling without an attempt to rectify them. At her uncle's, she had been used to seeing everybody treated with deference and politeness, and all the household arrangements made with good taste and order, and a different state of affairs annoyed and troubled her excessively.

She meant to inaugurate a new era. Accordingly, she was up at an early hour the next morning, and commenced her labors by carefully sweeping and dusting the front porch. As she ceased from her work, her face all aglow with exercise, Harry came out. "Good-morning," she said, looking up at him with a bright, frank smile.

"It seems that our city lady has taken up a new role," and he glanced at her duster and broom.

"It may be with you."

"And is it not with you, Harry?"

"We are getting sternly practical in this house," he said, lightly, yet with a deep glow in his eyes. "I'm afraid it will be hard for you to become used to us again."

Maggie was fearful that he was about to allude to the past. She could not endure to have him do that.

"Have I not made an improvement here— in the looks of the stoop?" she asked, quickly. "It don't look quite so outlandish, that is a fact," he assented.

"Thanks; that is more of a concession than I had hoped to get from you."

He laughed, and they went slowly into the parlor together. The very sight of that room was an agony to the young girl.

"Here is an abundant field for labor," she said, seriously. "I am really aching to make a habitable room of this. First of all, Napoleon the mighty must come down from his high perch."

"That picture belongs to Helen," returned Harry, with a queer look. “It has hung there ever since she was a baby, you know. It is as sacred in her eyes, as a piece of the cross, or St. Peter's sandals!"

Maggie had forgotten that. It was hardly likely that the prejudiced Helen could be made to look upon the matter as she did. Napoleon the mighty seemed destined to keep his position.

"At any rate I will have a different arrangement of the mantel ornaments," she said, with a sigh.

The breakfast bell rung, and they hurried in. Helen only laughed at Maggie's cordial "good-morning," at which Harry gave the girl another of his queer glances.

"He has become used to this want of courtesy," she said to herself; "but at least I believe he don't like it any better than I do."

The meal passed very much as the supper of the night before had done, only Mr. Henderson was a trifle more civil and attentive, for his part. After breakfast was over, Maggie

"So you did," with a laugh. "But we are not used to so much ceremony in this house. We take all such things for granted. Say it to Helen, and see what reply you will get."

"I am going to when I see her. It is so much pleasanter to begin the day with a civil word."

were dusted and opened, letting a whole flood of sunshine into the room. The faded grasses gave place to some fresh flowers, and the earthen bird and the gaudy parrot were consigned to the oblivion of the closet, not soon to be resurrected. The room was carefully swept, and the sofa and chairs arranged more gracefully and easily. Her own portfolio of