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height, size corresponded exactly with your own."

"It must have been poor Thompson. Everybody took him to be my brother. He was very much like me certainly. I was saved by a miracle, and was taken on board a ship bound for Australia. I" —

But, John, why did you not come home before?" said Elsie, loosening her hand from his clasp, and regarding him with reproachful dignity.

"Because I heard that Elsie Newell was married to Tom Rollins. I heard it from his brother, whom I saw often while in Melbourne. Tom has known that I was living all the time, the scoundrel! He left town as soon as he heard that I was on my way home. I hoped to find him here, for I have an account to settle with him."

"He is indeed a scoundrel," says Elsie; "but, John, this is New-Year's Eve, and we are so happy, let us forgive him. Let us forget everything that was painful in the past, now that we are to commence the New Year together. Surely, it cannot fail to be a happy one."

"Amen!" exclaims John.

But the squire says after a moment's meditation,

-

"New-Year's Eve or not, daughter, I believe if that man does n't keep out of my way, I shall throttle him."

SNOW.

BY ADDISON F. BROWNE.

WEET morning through the shining arches came,
And looked upon a scene of even white;

For all night long the silent-coming snow
Had fluttered to each dingy walk and street,
So that their varied blemishes were hid
Beneath the veil of winter's ermine robe.
But as the day advanced, and sober Care
Resumed the active functions of her sphere,
These virgin garments swiftly disappeared,
As by the rapid march of busy life

All semblance of the spotless morning scene
Was blotted out, while spreading in its place
A mixture foul of mud and trodden snow
Made all the outward failings of the town
Appear in shape more ugly than before.

So when a storm of thought, through noble speech
Or written music's force of language sweet,
Shall fall on common nature's sordid ways
Until it forms a coat of genius pure,
The narrow vision of our foolish pride
In this new garment views a lasting robe,
And seems to show us we are suddenly
Possessed to merit that shall lift us to
A level with the noblest of mankind.

From such soft dreams of bright estate, howe'er,
INVERNESS, MASS., 1880.

We soon awake to disappointment saa.
For, when we mingle in the rush and roar
Of human effort's earnest racing life,
Each subtile stream from nature's poison flood
Comes bursting through this brilliant tissue plate,
And, mixing up our thoughts of good and bad,
So clouds the soul with thrills of vague distress,
That all its ghastliness of native sin
Is magnified until it pains the eye
With hideous views that were unknown before.

And thus we learn impressions from without,
Although the very germs of beauty true,
Can never cleanse from inborn error's stain.
Such holy reformation must commence
Within the central chambers of a heart,
And brightest human genius ever fails
When trying to destroy the germs of sin.
But it we seek our Father's waiting aid,
With full reliance on its lonely worth,
Regeneration is the quick result.
And sacred inspirations of his love
Illuminate our every present walk
With perfect foregleams of the coming day,
And give a certain faith of future state
Where purity and bliss will be complete.

IT

ALL'S WELL THAT ENDS WELL.

BY AUGUST BELL.

was the day before Lent, and Bel Purcell declared her intention of having one more gay evening, anyhow, even if they did all stay at home.

"I'm willing to wear my camel's hair for forty days," she said lightly, "but tonight I shall put on my blue silk, and pick your tearose, Aunt Lucy, for my hair. Do you suppose I don't know Horace Maynard is coming to tea? You need n't blush, Alice. I heard you write him myself."

Now Horace Maynard was Alice's lover, or at least nearly so. They were not yet engaged, but were just on the verge of an engagement; and when Bel Purcell came to make her cousin a visit, it certainly was no part of the intended hospitalities, that she should count Horace among her victims slain. But so many little things had happened untowardly, as Alice thought when she had to stay at home with the toothache while the other two went off on a sleighride, and when politeness required her to let Bel use her season ticket to the precious symphony

concert.

Just so again on this Shrove Tuesday evening, for Horace came a full hour before tea, and Bel was all ready for him, and radiant in her blue silk. So she sat in the parlor, singing to him, and making him turn over the leaves of her music, while Alice, in all the heat, was down in the kitchen helping cook make pancakes.

"Do you think they will be light and nice, Katy ?" she asked for the seventh or eighth time, as she watched her dexterously turning the last one in the pan,

"Shure, an' they will!" said Katy re-assuringly. The 're as nice as any I iver seen in the ould counthry when I lived in the family of Lady Ballyhack. It's her own resate I have. And now ye may butter thim, Miss Alice, bless yer bonny eyes, an' spread on the sirup an' cin'mon, an' I'll tak thim from ye an' rowl thim up nately, fit for the king, let alone Mister Maynard!

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give ye the wink whin I bring in the platter, so ye 'll know which it is, an' tak it. Ye can give me back my gould ring tomorrow." "O Katy," exclaimed Alice, in laughing protestation, "you must n't do that!"

"Shure, an' I will for the gude luck's sake. Lady Ballyhack's young leddies always made merry over the ring in the pancake, an' three times it happened, the one that got it married first. I niver thowt to keep PancakeTuesday agin whin I came to this heritic land. But if there's aye a bit room in purgatory left, I belave Saint Pater will let the Episcopals in!"

Alice laughed, and ran off to snatch a peep in the mirror, and put on her prettiest ruff. She was down-stairs again, looking like a little pink mountain daisy, and had just greeted Horace when the tea-bell rang.

To the table they all went, and Bel was very fascinating, what with her pretty costume, the tea-rose in her hair, and the dainty way she had of fluttering her napkin in her small white hand. She chatted away gayly, Horace Maynard made himself agreeable, of course, and Alice was rather more silent than usual. Mrs. Graves poured out the tea, passed the bread and butter, and then rang for Katy.

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Pancake-Tuesday, you know!" she said smiling to Horace.

Up came Katy, flushed and important, and as she brought in her well-Haden platter, she nodded vigorously at Alice, and with a fork designated one particular pancake. Alice crimsoned.

"Fun ahead!" though mischievous Bel Purcell, and when Mrs. Graves began to help each one, and was really about to give that identical one to Alice, Bel interposed as quick as a flash, and reached up her plate.

"I'm so hungry, auntie!" she said deprecatingly. "I really must have two, and that one on your fork looks so brown and tempting, I can't help wanting it. Alice may have all the rest, but I want that!"

So of course her aunt gave it to her, and laid another on Alice's plate. Horace looked on in amused surprise.

Alice blushed rosy red as she spread the sirup and sprinkled the cinnamon according to order, while Katy rolled up each pancake separately and laid it on the hot platter. Over one pancake she delayed mysteriously," wisely nodding her head.

"What are you doing, Katy?" asked Alice with involuntary curiosity.

"Whist, Miss Alice! Shure, I've put me own gould ring in it, an' the one that gets it'll be first married of all in the room! I'll

"There's a spell about it!" cried Bel. Katy did n't make all those signs for nothing. Now, own up, Alice, what is it?"

So foolish!" said Alice awkwardly. "One of her old-country notions; there's a ring in one of the pancakes, and whoever gets it will be married first."

"And she meant you to be the bride?"

I have changed all her nice little plan, and
I'm going to be bride myself! "

laughed Bel saucily. "Well, you see, petite, | but since they had, she now wished she had gone with them. O dear, everything had been going along so smoothly and happily before Bel came, and how twisted and tangled life had become now!

And she gayly explored the hot, savory pancake to find the ring, which, when found, she at once put on her finger. Horace laughed and offered congratulations; Aunt Lucy, too, smiled; and Alice-well, Alice smiled also, but with a suddenly heavy heart behind it all. Was it an ill omen? Was Bel really going to snatch anything precious away from her?

Bel was very merry all supper-time, and her good spirits seemed contagious, for Hor ace Maynard, too, was unusually brilliant, and quiet Mrs. Graves laughed more in that hour than was her wont in a month. And Alice perforce must seem in good spirits, too, and must be gay with the rest.

But when tea was over, and she lingered behind in the dining-room a moment while the rest proceeded to the parlor, Katy came in to remove the dishes with a gloomy face. "An' shure," she said reproachfully, "ye should n't have let the dochter of mischief | know of it. Of course she went speerin' for hersel'!"

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Then the ring! That was so provoking. Of course it was all a joke, and Alice herself had laughed at the notion of the sign, and yet - somehow it did make her feel as if maybe she would have been a bride if Bel had not seized upon the pancake! Now Bel would be bride instead, Horace's bride, and here Alce shivered a little, and felt that she should cry in another minute if she went on torturing herself with such thoughts.

Mrs. Graves folded away her work and went up-stairs. Then Alice was left alone; it was half-past eight, and they had not come home.

Been gone an hour! Where were they? what was Bel doing? Alice went to the window and stepped behind the heavy damask curtain to look out. Nothing but the stars and the silent street! She crouched down on a little footstool there, drew the curittain round her, and pressed her face to the pane. Still they came not!

"Oh, nonsense!" said Alice lightly. "It was only in fun, you know, Katy."

"At laste, I hope ye 'll see that I gets back me gould ring!" was Katy's rejoinder as she flounced the napkins off the table.

Alice went slowly into the parlor, and Bel exclaimed at once,

"O Ally, put on your things, and we'll go and take a walk. It's lovely starlight." "I don't think I want to take a walk, this evening, Bel. It seems pleasanter indoors." "Well, never mind, then. Mr. Maynard was the one who proposed it, and I told him I would go. So I'll run and get my hat and cloak, and we won't be long gone."

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So she tripped gayly up-stairs, leaving Horace to make the best of the situation.

"O Ally!" he said impusively. "I want you to go too?"

"You won't miss me," she replied coldly. Ah, how cold and proud young girls can be sometimes, when within their hearts are breaking.

Down came Bel again, looking very pretty and saucy, and beckoned to Horace with quite an air of appropriation.

The moments slipped by, the clock struck nine. Then there were steps on the pavement, and Alice saw the truants coming. She did not feel like going to meet them, so she staid where she was. They came into the parlor, and not seeing her, Mr. Maynard sat down by the fire, while Bel ran up-stairs to call her cousin.

When she had fairly gone, Horace rose and walked up and down uneasily. Alice saw him stop before a picture of herself, and she wondered what he was thinking of. Then he came over to the window, and she trembled. He parted the curtain and looked out with a deep sigh, then suddenly becoming conscious that there was something at his feet, he bent down and found - Alice!

"My darling!" he exclaimed softly, "is this you?"

"I'm Alice!" she replied willfully, but with a glad heart-beat at his tone.

"I never get a moment now to see you," he said. "I long for your company, and your smile, Ally, darling!

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"What made you gone so long!" she asked with a charming inconsequence. "Your cousin wanted ice cream," he an"And she wanted it at a particular place, over the other side of the town. We had quite a long walk. I was sorry it took so long".

"Au revoir, Ally!" she called back, as they passed out the door. "Don't be lone-swered. some. We'll be back by and by."

So Alice was left alone to content herself as she might. Her mother sat by the round table sewing, but Alice did not feel inclined to conversation. She was brooding over her troubles. She wished Bel had not come to visit her; she wished she would not talk to Horace so much, and make him talk to her, and laugh, and turn her music. She wished they had not gone out walking;

Here Bel's gay voice was heard caroling on the stairs.

"Tell me quick!" he said. “Do you love me, Ally?"

"Maybe."

"I have had a ring ready for you for a month, in my vest-pocket, waiting for a

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"I can't find Alice anywhere," said Bel, entering the room, and then she caught sight of the twain.

"O you pussy kitten!" she exclaimed. "Are you there? Were you there? Were you lonesome? Did you feel vexed? We had a lovely time, did n't we, Mr. Maynard?" "I am satisfied," he said pleasantly. "I've had a real nice time all the evening," Bel went on. "I said I would and I did. And I have a fine gold ring, too!" Don't you wish you had a ring, Ally?"

"She has one!" said Horace Maynard quietly, raising Alice's white hand to the light as he spoke. The diamond glistened. Bel saw it all in an instant.

"Ah well!" she said, laughing carelessly. "Let me congratulate, and so forth, and so forth. All's well that ends well, Ally. I tried to tease you a little just for fun, but you can easily forgive me with a diamond on your engagement finger."

And Ally did forgive her: she was now too happy to care for the wiles of a thousand Bel Purcels.

And Shrove Tuesday ended very brightly and sweetly, after all.

MAKING A KING SING.

AN Englishman arrived at Paris some before the prince, surrounded by his family

days before the revolution of July, 1830. He very eagerly sought to inspect the court of the Palais Royal, where the prince, Louis Philippe of Orleans, was receiving deputations that came to him from all parts of the country, villagers with the mayor and drummer at their head, brave fellows well furnished with addresses and often excited by the fatigues of the road and the heat of day.

The Englishman, on arriving, asked if Louis Philippe had made his appearance. "Certainly," they answered him, "he has just retired."

"Ah! I am very sorry for that," he said. "I am come to Paris to see him."

"Never mind," said one near him; "I will show him to you." So he shouted out, "Vive Louis Philippe! Vive la Charte!" And the multitude cried out the same. A window opened over the balcony, the prince appeared, humbly saluted the crowd, and retired.

"Ah! I am very glad indeed," said the Englishman; "but I have heard some say that one might see him with the tricolored flag, and surrounded by his family."

"That is very easy," said the other; "give me some sous, and he will come forth."

"Indeed! Here are some, with great pleasure," said the Englishman, handing a franc to his neighbor.

Immediately a voice raised the couplet, which a thousand voices immediately repeated,

"Soldier with the tricolor flag,

Who from Orleans bearest it," and so forth.

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and holding the three-colored flag, came forth to salute the crowd.

There was a silence for a short time. Then the complaisant neighbor, turning toward the ear of the Englishman, said,

"Now shall I make him sing? As it is rather a difficult matter, you will have to give me ten francs."

"I will do so willingly," said the Englishman, assured by the success of the former engagements.

Then the man, with his ten francs, exerted himself and shouted with the others around him so eagerly and lustily," Vive le roi! Vive le Charte! la Marseillaise!" that at the end of twenty minutes Louis Philippe presented himself again before a large crowd exulting with impatience and joy.

The Marseillaise was lustily raised by the crowd. The new king was about to retire from the balcony, but stopped in the midst of the applause, and sang with the people, marking time with his feet.

The story relates that the king-exhibitor, addressing the Englishman, said to him, — "Now if you will give me one hundred francs he shall dance."

But the other, thinking that the show had gone far enough, went away.

Some may think this anecdote comes from a suspicious source. It is taken word for word from the contemporary history of C. A. Daubin, a work in use among students of philosophy. It appeared to the learned professor to be so characteristic that he thought it worth relating, although at first sight it appeared to him unworthy of the

And the couplet did not cease to be heard gravity of history.

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