him in silent rebellion, amid tears and murmurs; his tyranny had overcome the long habit of submissiveness, and poisoned the very source whence her former cheerful, loving reverence had flowed. But those last blessed words had won her heart once more to him, and filled it with grief for that sad estrangement.

She resisted all the entreaties of her sons, that she should go down stairs and see the kind neighbors, who dropped in, one after another, on their way home from church, to offer sympathy and consolation. No! she must remain beside the corpse of her husband, who had at last spoken such precious words, after three long years' delay; how could she know whether, if she had been more patient, if she had not closed her heart against him in bitterness, he might have yielded sooner, and not just now, when it was, alas! too late.

She sat by the bedside, swaying restlessly to and fro in her distress, while the footsteps of those, who were passing in and out below, sounded in her ears, heard, yet unheeded. She had borne grief and care too long to give way to any passionate outburst; but the furrows on her pale cheeks were deep-sunken, and her tears flowed, silent and constant, the livelong day.

But the early winter twilight approached; the neighbors had all gone to their homes, when she rose and went to the window, and gazed out with a longing look, far out over the dark and dreary plain. She did not hear her son, when he spoke to her at the door, nor his footsteps as he crossed the room-she started, when he laid his hand lightly on hers.

"Mother, come down to us! No one is there now, but Wilhelm and I. Dear mother, we want you so much!" The poor boy's voice trembled, and he wept.

It cost Frau Lenz an effort to turn away from the window; she sighed deeply, but granted her son's request.

The two sons had done their best to make the house pleasant and cheerful for her. She, herself, when awaiting her husband's return from work, had never kindled a brighter fire upon a cleaner hearth than her boys had prepared for her. The tea-service was on the table, the kettle sang merrily, and the two sons had subdued their grief to a quiet, almost cheerful aspect. They were assiduous in their attentions to their mother, yet she seemed scarcely to notice anything, but received all with an absorbed air, apparently almost unconscious.

After tea, Wilhelm replaced the dishes in the cupboard; his mother leaned wearily back in her chair.

Mother, may Thomas read a chapter from the Bible to you? He can read better than I."

"Yes, my child!" she answered quickly, showing, at last, some

interest, "read me the story of the prodigal son! That is what I need-thank you!"

Thomas turned to the chapter, and read it out in the high key, so common in the village schools. His mother leaned forward, her lips parted, her eyes eagerly opened, her whole attitude one of the most earnest attention; but Wilhelm sat lost in thought, with bowed head. He knew well why this chapter had been his mother's choice; it recalled, but too forcibly, the shame and sorrow of the household. The reading was ended, and still he sat moodily silent, gazing on the floor. The mother's face, on the contrary, was more cheerful than it had been during the whole day. Her eyes looked as dreamy as if she beheld some face unseen by others; slowly she drew the Bible towards her, and following the words with her finger, began to read the precious history for herself. She repeated the words of the humbled, penitent son, but dwelt with deeper delight, and with a still brightening eye upon the father's loving welcome.

Thus passed the Christmas festival at the Meadow Farm. On the day before the father's burial, the snow fell thick and heavy. Silent and dark hung the threatening sky over the white earth, when they bore forth from the house, the body of him, who had so long been its master. The mourners followed, two by two; they formed a long black line, curving and winding across the snow toward the church, now lost in some hollow upon the moor, now slowly ascending a hill-side. There was but few minutes' delay after the burial; for the winter days were short, and many among those who had assembled to pay this last tribute to the departed, had come from a distance; besides, the heavy flakes which were beginning to fall slowly around, foretold an approaching storm. One aged friend alone, accompanied the widow and her two sons to their home.

The "Meadow Farm" had been for many years the property of the Lenz family; but the possession of it placed them scarcely beyond the condition of day-laborers. The dwelling and outbuildings were very old, and the farm consisted of about seven acres of barren land, which the family had always lacked the means of rendering profitable. They could scarcely, indeed, obtain from it the necessaries of life, and for this reason, their sons had always been apprenticed to trades.

Jacob Lenz had made a will, which was left in the care of the aged man, who accompanied the widow home from the funeral. He now prepared to read it aloud. Jacob had left his little farm to his faithful wife, Anna Lenz, to be hers as long as she should live, and at her death, to pass to their son Wilhelm. A little over a hundred thalers, laid up in a savings bank, were to be left there to accumulate for Thomas.

After the reading was finished, Anna Lenz sat for a little while in silence; then she desired to speak alone to old Samuel Knapp. The boys went into the back kitchen, and then out into the open fields, regardless of the heavy flakes of snow that were falling. The brothers clung affectionately to each other, although--perhaps because their dispositions were entirely different. Wilhelm, the elder, resembled his father; like him, he was stubborn, resolute, and conscientiously upright; Thomas, ten years younger than his brother, was tender and gentle as a girl, in his manners as well as in his character. He had always been fond of his mother, and feared his father. The youths did not converse as they walked out together; they were not accustomed to speak of anything but external affairs, and it never occurred to them to exchange their sentiments, indeed, they could scarcely have known how to clothe those sentiments in words.

After they had left the room, their mother caught Samuel Knapp's arm eagerly, with trembling hand, saying: "Samuel, I must let the farm-I must!"

"Let the farm? Are you beside yourself?"

"Oh Samuel," she answered, her eyes swimming in tears, "I can have no peace here. I must go to M. I must let the farm." The old man looked thoughtfully at her; it was some time before he answered her, but at last he said:

"If you are determined to go, I can say nothing against it. But it will be very hard for you to live in that smoky town, and to learn the different ways there; then you will have to buy your potatoes, which you have never done in your life; still it is not my affair. And now I think of it, our Jenny is going to be married to Thomas Hilmer, and he says that he must have a piece of land for a beginning. When his father dies, the Birch Farm will be his, but until then-"

"And will he take the farm?"

"Yes, yes, I believe he will be glad to get it. no bargain with you now. It would not be right. a while, and think over the matter."

But I will make

"No, no! I cannot wait; let us finish it at once!"

66

We will wait

Well, well, then-I will talk to Wilhelm about it. I see him out there. I will go and speak to him at once."

Samuel Knapp went out and joined the two boys, and without delay, broke the matter to them in these words:

"Wilhelm, your mother wants to go and live in M., and to let the farm. I should like to take it for Thomas Hilmer; but I am a very close hand at a bargain, and it would not do to be higgling with your mother just now. You and I, my lad, are rather better acquainted, and so we can try the thing together, and see which

can best over-reach the other. It will keep us warm, this cold night."

"Let the farm ?" exclaimed the brothers, in a breath. "Live in M.(?)"

When Samuel found that the plan had never been mentioned either to Wilhelm or to Thomas, he said he would have nothing to do with it, until they had talked with their mother about it. Perhaps grief for the loss of her husband had affected her judgment; he would wait some days, and not mention the business to any one, not even to Thomas Hilmer, lest he should set his heart upon getting the farm. He advised the boys to go in and talk to their mother, and so bade them farewell, and left them.

Wilhelm looked gloomy, but uttered not a word until they had almost reached the house. Then he said:

"Thomas, go to the barn, and give the cows their fodder; I must speak with mother alone."

When he entered, he found her standing on the hearth, gazing into the coals. She did not hear him enter.

"Mother," he asked, "what is this about going to M. ?"

"Oh, Willy," she cried beseechingly, turning quickly toward him, "I must go and seek our Lina! I can have no rest, no peace here. I am always thinking of her. How often I have crept away from your father while he was asleep, and gone to the window, and looked and looked towards M., until my eyes ached, and until I felt as if I must go away, and run over moor and meadow until I should be there, and raise every bowed head, and look into the face, until I should find our Lina! And often, when the south wind blew gently over the fields, I have fancied I heard her weeping, and calling to me, and that her voice came nearer and nearer, until just at the door, she sobbed out, Mother!' Then I have gone down softly, and unlocked the door and looked out into the still, dark, dark night, to see her, if I could! and then I have gone back, sad and heavy-hearted; for I could hear no breath of life, nothing but the sigh of the wind, dying away over the barren heath. Oh, don't ask me to stay here! My whole soul is drawing me to M. Perhaps she is perishing of hunger there, like the poor boy in the parable!" And the mother wept aloud.

Wilhelm was much troubled. He had been old enough to understand the disgrace of the family, when, a little more than two years before, the father's letter to his daughter, at service in M., had been returned with the news, that Lina had left her place, and for such a reason. His father's sullen anger had met with a response in his own bosom, though, indeed, he could not but think it hard, that the poor sorrowing mother should be forbidden to go in search of her poor fallen child, to try to reclaim her from the

error of her ways; hard when his father declared that he no more had a daughter, that henceforth she should be as one dead; that her name should no more be mentioned at the table, or on a holy day, in prayer or in blessing. Wilhelm had listened in silence, with lips compressed, when the neighbors would remark before him, how much older his parents seemed since Lina's death, and how it was to be feared, that they would never recover from the loss of their dear and only daughter. (To be continued).

A DAY IN FAIRMOUNT PARK.

BY THE EDITOR.

"Champing his foam, and bounding o'er the plain,
Arch his high neck, and graceful spread his mane."

There was great commotion in many a kitchen the day before. And great rummaging through well-stored pantries to get the best therein contained. Baskets were well packed, their contents considerately selected, to suit the tastes of the guests. The next morning, a June morning, hung a cloud-vail over its dawning face. Will it rain to-day? That is the question. No, say the weather prophets. The wish is father to the thought. With the morning train hundreds hie away to Fairmount Park, Philadelphia; hie away to the beat of the drum and the sound of merry

music.

A charming part of the Park was selected as the rendezvous for the day. The soft green grass was without a stain or blemish. The trees looked as staid, simple and tidy as a Quaker matron, and with tireless courtesy held their leafy parasols over us all the day long. The birds and the band blended their music. Parents with innocent pride watched their infant offspring chirping and rambling about on the green grass. Others sailed up the Schuylkill to Laurel Hill Cemetery, rode down to the city, or through the Park. Many had invited their city friends to spend the day with them under the trees in the Park. Half a dozen of the city clergy, bringing their families with them, and many of their members too, met and socially mingled with the merry crowd.

As the cars stopped, I saw the tall, familiar form of a friend among the expectant people at the station. "Yonder is my coach and horses," he remarked, as he warmly grasped my hand. "The