never been in one since. Now it rose up before her - the long ranges of clashing looms; the belts overhead, flying with lightning speed, a mass of inextricable confusion, which it made her dizzy to look at; the coarse faces of the women - foreigners most of them, she thought; the girls, combing their long hair at the little mirrors they had hung behind their looms; the floor trembling beneath her feet; the children, with their dull, hopeless faces, stooping under the looms, scrubbing the oil from the floor with their meagre, grimy little hands that had ceased to be childish, like their owners. And the little girl had threaded her way through the confusion, out under the quiet sky, with an aching head and a sorrowful heart for the poor people and the children who looked so unhappy. It was better now, she hoped; the children could tumble about in the sunshine many hours these long days, when the seasons of work were so curtailed.

Here a thought occurred to her: she was a good penman and a rapid accountant; possibly she might keep books at some of the mills. She acted upon it soon. This very day she had applied to all the different manufacturers in vain. Some were averse to employing 'a woman' as book-keeper; others were managing without a special book-keeper, throwing the extra burden upon the superintendent. These last were in hopes, if manufacturi grew profitable, of which there was some prospect, to be able to employ a book-keeper. They would be glad to oblige Miss Wilmerdings would remember her application.

And so, with cheeks burning painful ly, she started on the long hot walk homewards. With all the color bleached out of her face, and panting, she reached the house, went straight up the stairs to her chamber, and lay down upon her bed. She would sleep, she said, in a quiet kind of desperation; that at least was left to her she would 'sleep and forget.'

Strangely enough, she fell asleep, and a delicious dream came over her. In the late afternoon she awoke, soothed and refreshed, hearing Rose's sweet childish voice singing in the garden below. Something of the atmosphere of her dream surrounded her at first, and she felt strangely comforted. She went to the glass and braided carefully the long, wavy, chestnut hair of which her mother had been so proud. Another, too, had praised it long ago—her dream recalled that. She turned away from the glass and went slowly down-stairs. Her father had wanted to have his supper early. He must go into town,' he said. She suspected the object of his journey, but said nothing. She had one comforting thought—he knew nothing of the trial she had that day endured.

When the meal was over, she had walked awhile among the overgrown shrubs in the tangled garden. Two gi gantic lilacs-one on either side of the little gate nodded their purple plumes in unison, filling the air with a fragrance that was almost oppressive. The factory-bells pealed out from below; she could see some of the operatives wending their way homewards to houses outside of the town. Was she inferior to these women? They could work; their nerves did not shrink from the din of the factory. Was there no work in the world of God for her this beautiful world on which she was looking forth under the sky of June? Suddenly the memory of her dream came over her; events of past years crowded upon her as if she had never thought of them before. She seemed to behold herselfthe Mary Wilmerdings of six years before- -a young, smooth-browed girl, eager and earnest, walking back and forth under the pines; the sunset splendor falling around her. She has dropped a hint of her future as a teacher; she hopes for that some day, she murmurs half to herself. The strong, firm hand of a man, her companion, drops down upon hers, clasping it with a convulsive movement; she hears his muttered

'Never.' She knows which hand it was he touched; she lifts it up and looks at ita slender, delicately moulded hand, a trifle too thin, perhaps, but a lady's hand. It drops down despairingly. Who, who, on the wide earth cares for it now?' she says sharply, as in pain. She thinks of words that have been spoken in that room inside the parlor where, more than a year ago, her mother lay dead. Perfumes have a strange influence over us; with some organizations they seem to recall and bind to gether broken associations. The lilacclusters were scattering their sweetness over her; a bunch of lilacs stood in a pitcher on the hearth that night six years ago. Growing faint as she inhaled the perfume, she seemed to hear the voice, low, manly, yet strangely shaken: 'Mary, you are wronging yourself as well as me. I love you. You love me, Oh! I cannot be mistaken. You know I am no egotist; pity yourself, if you will not pity me. You need me, darling. You never will be the woman God intended you to be except as my wife, Mary. You will feel it one day, if you do not now.' And shivering in his grasp, longing for what seemed the heaven of his love in every fibre of her young heart, she had yet put it away from her, gathering all her strength for the effort, beliving all the while, poor child! what a few months after she knew to be false-too late!

She had sacrificed all for what she then believed to be right. When she discovered her error, Richard Hermance was gone, she knew not where, and Mary Wilmerdings was proud. She wondered, now that the woman was uppermost in her nature, how she found the strength, even with the evidence she had, to doubt, to refuse him. She could not do it now, she thought; but then she was longing for action, now all she seemed to hope for was rest. She felt sufficient to herself then, now she craved the support of a stronger nature. The sun had set to the dwellers in the town, here he was still above the horizon. On a hill to

wards the west, clearly defined against the bright sky, lingered two figures on horseback. Mary noted them carelessly. Glancing eastward towards the town, she saw her father toiling slowly up the ascent. He was more depressed than usual, one could see that in his very form; he stopped, out of breath, at the gate, paused a moment or two, then spoke: 'Mary, child, it's no use. I've got to give up the old place where I was born; where, thirty years ago, I brought your mother! She was a little thing then, only sixteen; she grew taller after she was married. These laylocs was little bushes, when she come in between 'um that day.' And he took one of the purple blooms tenderly in his rough hand. The old man's eyes grew dreamy, he looked around on the circling hills, and went on: 'I planted 'em, thinkin' 't would please her, and had 'em growin' when she come. The pines wasn't so big then either; my old father wanted 'em cut down; the wind sung an' roared in 'em so he could n't sleep, he said; but she loved 'em at the fust, and I see the tears come in her blue eyes when she heerd father, and I so begged 'em off with the old man. When I heerd the wind singin' in 'em nights last winter, I could n't sleep, thinkin' she was lyin' cold out there. I believe I could bear to leave the old house if 't wasn't for leavin' her there alone.'

He buried his face in his trembling hands, while his daughter tried to comfort him; lifting his head at length, he noticed the figures we have mentioned riding down a slight descent. 'I heerd news to-night, Mary,' he said; 'Dick Hermance is in town. He listed as a private, but he's a colonel now; he's been wounded, and been to Boston to have his wound seen to. He's stayin' now to 'Squire Archer's, where he used to study, you know; folks say he'll have 'Squire Archer's daughter.' He paused, glancing up furtively into his daughter's face; 'I thought you'd have him once, Mary; we'd ha' been better off now, p'r'aps,' he added, with a sigh.

'That's them ridin' down the hill-Hermance and Squire Archer's girl.'

The earth seemed to move under her. Her father went on into the house; she had no strength, if she had the will, to follow him. They were pretty near now; they could not see her among the lilacs; that was a comfort. Eagerly she scanned their faces, first Belle Archer's, the lawyer's high-bred daughter, resplendent in the circle of her seventeen years. A magnificent figure, the perfection of grace, as she sat upon her slow-steping horse, dark, brilliant beauty she had; her white plume floating over her black curls. 'Six years ago I was as young; but I was never like her, never! He loved me though,' thought the trèm-, bling, sorely-tried woman, shrinking among the leaves. For the man-she saw him-scarce a line changed in his face; the same resolute bearing. His arm was in a sling; a practised horseman, he could do all with his left. Miss Archer suddenly stooped towards her companion, hiding his face from Mary's gaze, the horses sprang forward, a cloud of dust remained, that was all.

The clatter of hoofs died away in the distance; it was well, she thought; they trod on her heart. In one breath she gasped a feeble wish to die; she was so weak to combat with this terrible pain; then prayed God to forgive her. Her head had sunk upon her hands; lifting it at last, she grasped the rough trunk of the lilac for support; she heard Rose calling her, but had no strength to answer. The child did not come out; it was growing dark, and she was afraid; she went back, shutting the door behind her; the latch fell with a sharp clang. Shut out! she shuddered, breathing an inarticulate prayer. The moon came up, round and red, over the distant lake. Higher and higher, its beams poured into her covert at last.

There was a quick step outside, the gate was opening, she made a sudden movement to escape, it only revealed her hiding-place. A hand touched her shoulder, she turned away her face,

feeling how white and miserable it looked. Some one of the neighbors; why must she be intruded upon? With face still averted, she strove to speak.

'Mary Mary Wilmerdings, my darling! is this the way you meet me after all these years? But you are shivering, sick! you cannot be cold this breathless summer night; there was a seat hereabouts once.' And with the one arm he drew her to it, and sat down.

'O Richard! Richard!' was all she said, and he drew the weary head where it felt the strong beatings of his heart.

'Shall I again plead in vain, Mary?'. as he bent down his face to the one that flushed to crimson beneath his gaze; she, for the first time in their two lives, turned her lips to his, as naturally as the flower turns to the sun.

'I have suffered so much while you have been gone, Richard.'

The man's heart gave a sudden bound; even by the moonlight he read her altered face-altered from what he remembered, though a sudden brightness was shed over it now. The soldier, whose masterful eye had never shrunk from looking danger-death-firmly in the face; whose calm, deep voice on the battle-field was the inspiration of his men, giving them strength to rush forward where he led, even though his orders seemed to point to certain death-this man struggled to regain his self-control, shaken at the sight of this self-reliant woman, the dearest thing in life to him, whom others deemed so strong, weak as a child, while the tide of love for him flowed over her soul; this love for which he had so striven, which he felt now was his, would be his for evermore. She put out her hand, touching tenderly his wounded arm. Soft as the touch was, he winced in spite of himself.

'Wounded, Richard! to think you have been in such danger.

'You saved me, Mary! though unwittingly; did you never miss this?' He drew from his bosom a large oldfashioned locket, oval in shape, containing a picture of Mary at sixteen. She

Colonel Hermance continued: 'It was little Rose's gift. I dare to acknowledge its acceptance now, Mary, being certain of your pardon.'

ed, thinking that, but for that slight shield, the brave heart beating under her cheek might now be still. He was watching her closely; he felt he had done wrong to tell her then, she was suffering; he should have won her to lighter thoughts.

'I must institute comparisons,' he said, gayly, his dark eyes smiling down upon hers, as he turned the locket. "This is what I left. Miss Wilmerdings had

'My regiment had been ordered to storm a certain position. I was riding along the front, bullets whistled around me; but I had always seemed to bear a charmed life, and I was anxious to ascertain, by personal observation, whether the manœuvre I had planned was likely to be successful. My men's eyes looked pleadingly into mine, I saw that; rapidly as I passed the line, they dreaded to have me thus exposed. I can see them now-those resolute faces, some pale, others flushed to the very brows, all with that fearful look which men wear when on the eve of a dangerous movement. I cannot describe to you the sense of power that came to me as I gave the order to advance. I seemed to glide through the air; a feeling of perfect mastery over myself, over my surroundings, possessed me. The word had scarcely passed my lips, when a sudden flash, for an instant, blinded me, a sharp, quick pain, and my arm fell powerless; my horse, with a few rapid bounds, leaped into the air and fell dead, throwing me beyond him. He had carried me almost to the enemy's line. A shout from my men seemed to rend the very heavens. One moment I lay helpless upon the ground, the sword of a rebel captain flashing over me; the next, my men were around, beyond me; there were five minutes of desperate fighting; the position was taken, and I was carried to the rear. The rebel sword-point stopped here.'

Her eyes dwelt upon the indentation

least in the moonlight,' and his hand wandered tenderly over the thick, soft braids. 'And she had gray eyes, whose lashes have not yet forgotten to rest upon her cheeks, whenever I essay to look into their deeps; and her mouth, that has grown very grave, it must smile more in the future; and when the lips shape themselves into that terrible expression of firmness, which I saw just now, I shall have to kiss them, as thus. We will be married in a week, Mary; why should we wait, we who have been apart so long? Since I was wounded, I have thought constantly of you; I accepted the interference of your picture as a good omen, and came here to find you. The Archers believed you to be away, they knew not where. I was coming here this evening to inquire, but I caught a glimpse of you as I rode past; I made my excuses, and hurried back.'.

'Caught a glimpse of her!' It seemed to Mary that she, growing already strong in her happiness, could not be the suffering woman who crouched an hour or two before under the lilacs. Colonel Hermance again spoke.

'I must join my regiment as soon as my wound is healed!' His voice grew stern as he added: 'I fear the sharpness of the struggle has not come upon our country yet; disappointment and trial are before us still. Knowing me, you know that I must bear my part in the events of these days, unimportant as that part may be.'

It was a bitter thought, but she put

down her feeling as unworthy. How many times, when the news of a defeat had come, had she longed to cast her life into the balance, if only it might turn. Should she by word or thought hold him back? And the old Wilmerdings blood in her veins answered, 'No,' though she thought of Charley. She told him of the boy's fate-how the curly head was laid low; this very moon, perhaps, was shining upon his unknown grave. 'Oh! I think sometimes,' she added, 'that may be he lies unburied in those terrible woodlands, in some secret hollow, where he crept away to die. Father is quite broken down; you will come in now and see my father.'

He rose and followed her in silence. She realized the power of this man, her chosen husband, when she saw her father arouse himself, in the magic of his presence, from the lethargy of sorrow into which he had fallen. There was something of the old ring in his voice, as he bade Colonel Hermance goodnight, but then while she had stolen up to her chamber, to sit in the moonlight, alone with her happiness, she knew her father had given Colonel Hermance his daughter. A part, then, of the burden was lifted from his heart, he no longer dreaded leaving his home. A week after, it was the morning of her wedding-day, the twentieth of June, whose advent father and daughter had so dreaded in connection with the mortgage, the old man sat in the doorway of the low porch; Mary, busying herself with some domestic work, stole a glance at him now and then, noting with the rare perception of the artist, how the early sunbeams, stealing through the vines, flickered about him, touching with brightness the faded curls that still clustered about his bald crown. His eye wandered over cultivated field and grassy knoll. He had tilled those fields and his father before him; every little inequality of ground was dear to him as the face of an old friend; he had hoped once to have given them to Charley, 'to

keep the old place in the Wilmerdings' name,' he had said. Something had swelled up in his throat, and a hot flush had burned on his cheek, when Mary, a day or two before, had told him that the mortgage was paid, principal and interest, to the last cent. It was a greater favor than the independent old farmer had wanted to accept from any man.

'But I've been unfort'nate,' he said, 'I've struggled hard; an' I'm an old man; I'd rather be beholden to Richard Hermance for 't than any other man, if it must be. Mary,' he said suddenly, from his low seat in the doorway, 'you never see the old mansion-house did you?' 'I know,' he said, 'come to think, 'twas burnt down afore you was borntwas on that knoll there where you see the poplar trees. The first Wilmerdings built it, that came from the old country, an' he owned all the land from here to the lake. My grandfather said old Ralph Wilmerdings come of as good blood as there was in England. My father named me for him; he said we'd hold to the old name, for this farm was all there was left of the land.'

Mr. Wilmerdings relapsed into silence. A bobolink strayed out of the meadow, singing as he soared. Perching himself upon a branch that swung with his weight, close by the doorway, and turning his head daintily to one side, he poured a gush of music directly into the room. Rose came creeping round the corner, listening, her finger on her lip; kneeling down upon the step before her father, she laid her bright head upon his knee. 'He's sing

in' for Mary's weddin', Rose; it's a good sign.' He lifted the childish face between his hands-a rough frame for so delicate a picture-his eyes searched her features hungrily for the likeness he so longed for, it was not there; removing his hands, he laid three or four of the soft, light ringlets across his palm-he found a gleam of comfort. 'It's like Charley's hair, when he was a little fellow; you remember it, Mary!' She