commonplace to those who know them. But they fail to interest strangers.

The house in which Miss Fanny (I suppress her name) had taken lodgings, plainly indicated that she consulted economy. It was of the most humble. But the good woman to whom it belonged was of the salt of the earth. The moderate price which she would receive from her boarders was to her a great matter; and thus all parties were suited. For I was sure there was nothing that a kind heart could suggest which the hostess would leave undone.

me would have seemed like gross flattery. Artists like to draw old subjects. The strong lines in their faces tell. A pretty young creature is apt to look insipid in a portrait, do the best you can with her. But the deep wrinkles, the scanty hair, the cap and the quaint ribbons, give a face like mine expression whether the artist understands it or not. The tendency is to caricature, undesigned, but still caricature. One-half the pictures of old faces that I have seen would have been burned had they been pretences at portraits of any kin of mine. But Frank made me an ideal of heaven-born charity,

not very handsome when I was young? I was told so more than once, and by more than one person. But all my flatterers are dead long ago!

I did not see the young man at my first call. I will state here in brief what I learned respecting these young people. I did not learn all at once. There was no set and formal narrative. Fanny did not lay siege to my sympathies by any pathetic relation. Indeed, she rather shrank from speaking of themselves. She made no allusion to the past before her brother, whose weak state forbade excitement. And he, content in his sister's love and in the kindness of everybody he saw, never referred to the past at all.

What, then, did we talk about? We had abundance of subjects; and that is one thing in which they were not commonplace. Their story came to me, as knowledge of anybody might, by facts and circumstances naturally mentioned in conversation. Their hostess, who was not so delicate as I, and who saw no reason to suppress the appearance of a kind curiosity, learned much more from Fanny direct than I did. And I had the benefit of all that she discovered.

The father of these orphans was a physician in excellent practice. I have since ascertained more respecting him than I could ever have done from them, either directly or indirectly. For the memory of their parents was shrined in their hearts; and they never accounted for their poverty by the remotest reflection upon those who were really the cause of it; who had fitted them for luxury, by the culture of elegant tastes, and had deprived them of the means of procuring the gratifications which to such refined natures were necessities.

A drawing in crayon by poor Frank, the brother, hangs before me as I write. It is a portrait of himself which I begged him to make, and into which he introduced my own face, which was more than I asked for. From anybody else the expression which he has given

Fanny can play exquisitely. I had my piano tuned for her. It had not been touched for many a year before she came. I tried it after the man had done his best to restore it. Certainly to me it seemed to jingle awfully, and its tone was thin and wiry. I half regretted the trouble I had taken with it. But I left it open, and when Fanny came in she sat down to it in the twilight. Her performance made me perceive that the jingle was, in no small degree, in my old joints, and the wiryness and thinness in my stiff fingers. Is there anything in the world prettier than the toying of delicate fingers with the keys, the brooding of a fair hand over them? I don't care about dash and rapid execution and all that. But it always seemed as if Fanny's hand rested on the keyboard like a cloud, or floated over it, and that the notes came forth at a hint. I said, "Fanny, why don't you teach music?"

"My poor brother," she answered, "could not be left alone. I did think of it, but found it would not do. I hired a piano to give lessons at my lodgings, and it crazed him so."

And thus, poor child, she was not only obliged to take charge of her invalid brother, but forced to forego the only means that would enable her to do it with any degree of comfort. On every hand she met the unmitigated hardships of her condition. She could not complain; she dare not even look sad. For the terrible disappointment of his life crushed poor Frank, and added to the grief of his disease. He had taken high rank in college, had selected his profession, and made no small advance in the preparation for it. For he was a most diligent and ambitious student. He rebelled, almost insanely, against the conviction that his feebleness of body would prevent his success, even if it did not abridge his life. His father exhausted all a physician's skill in the effort to arrest his malady. And while he lived he never intermitted, that better than any leech's science, the tender love of a father. His mother seemed to live only for him; and his sister was devoted to Frank, bright, intelligent Frank, even from

his cradle.

Anxiety for him and thought for him, and hope against hope for him was the one domestic care which hid the greater danger which everybody else could see was impending over the household.

It was a terrible shock when the father suddenly died. And it was a greater when the unfeeling processes of law laid bare to all their little world the fact that they were beggars. It was not the mere burden of poverty which was intolerable, but the cause of the insolvency of the estate was freely canvassed, and the fault of the father, to which the household were so accustomed that they apologized for and scarcely heeded it, bceame patent to everybody. The wretched indulgence which ruins so many men, had not only defrauded the doctor of his own earnings, but had wasted a competence which his wife brought him. She soon followed her husband to the grave, dying of disappointment, mortification, and a broken heart. All this weighed heavily upon the sick boy, and his sister had to bear his burthen and her own beside. Not till a kind Providence directed her to our village did she find the comfort of a really hearty and bracing sympathy in her sorrows. The good creature with whom she lodged did everything that she could, in her homely way. And, as for myself, I am sure that the gratitude which the two orphans felt for me was not undeserved.

Still another trial awaited Fanny. The young man who had many a time protested his willingness to share a cottage with her while such talk was mere poetry, cooled sensibly when the reality of a penniless bride and a dependent brother was presented to him. His friends said that such a thing as marriage under such circumstances was out of the question. His love was not of that enduring kind which clings the closer to the loved object in affliction; and it was not difficult for him to release himself from a high-spirited and noble creature like Fanny, who saw her work and duty before her, and would perform it at whatever cost to herself. It was a happy escape for her; but what young woman ever found comfort in such a thought as that? I might never have known this episode in her life but for an accident.

I am about the only person in our hamlet who reads a daily paper, and it is the pride of my only man-servant, a boy of twelve, to watch the coming in of the mail, and demand my paper before the postmaster has taken it out of the wrapper, read the telegrams aloud, and pushed it back, all creased and tumbled, into the cover again. I don't care anything about it, but my little man Friday stands stiffly upon my dignity in this and many other particulars.

Fanny was sitting with me one morning. It was rarely that she could permit herself that recreation; but Frank felt so well that he had insisted upon her giving herself an hour's release from the tiresomeness of the sick cham

ber. She was in unwonted spirits, for both he and she dared to hope that the coming spring would give him a new lease of life. It is a blessing that hope can thus comfort those who are most nearly concerned, while others whose affection or whose love of life does not impair their judgment can see the truth in its naked certainty.

The daily paper, untouched and sound, was that morning brought to us by my little Mercury. Fanny was vastly amused at the air of triumph with which he announced that he had secured it before any one else had the opportunity to rifle it of its fresh news. I passed the paper to my visitor, and requested her to read aloud anything which she might think important, while I finished my seam.

Surprised at her silence, I looked up from my work, and saw her sitting the picture of shocked surprise and grief. The paper had fallen to the floor, and, but for timely assistance, Fanny would have fallen, too. Air was admitted to the apartment, and restoratives were promptly administered. We placed her on the sofa, and she lay shivering in silence till tears came to her relief.

I asked no questions, but took up the paper and looked in vain for the cause of her distress. I could see nothing which could so move her. She perceived my perplexity, and, beckoning me to her side, pointed out a brief telegram, which stated that "

―, a notorious gambler and desperado, was yesterday killed in a street fray" in one of the Southern cities. I could have guessed the rest, but Fanny simply said, "That man was once everything in the world to me." He had discarded her, to become a vagabond upon the earth, and had found his recompense even in this world.

"You will not tell Frank of this?" I said. "Certainly not," she answered; and we said little more of the outcast, nor has his name ever been mentioned since between us.

Fanny rose to go. She had forced herself into composure, and would dismiss, so far as she could, the memory of the dead, in her thoughtful, affectionate care of the living.

"Wait," I said, "and rest, after your excitement. Your brother can spare you yet a little longer, and you must not go back to him with that grieved look."

"I will try to look cheerful," she said; “but, oh, it is an awful trial! I thought I had ceased to care for him forever. But I should grieve at such a death even of my enemy."

He was little else, I thought. I said: "I am grieved for you, Fanny; but now you must try and sympathize with me;" and I read to her another item of intelligence, to thousands indifferent, but to many hearts like mine as full of pleasure as Fanny's telegram was of grief. My son's vessel was ordered home. The list of officers was published, and his dear name was among them. God willing, in a few

months I should see him once more. I told her how dear a son he was; and, though she forced herself to listen, yet I do believe that all I said in his praise made her grief the deeper, for her mind, while I spoke, ran a contrast between his excellence and the worthlessness of the man for whose death she grieved; between his manly health and high hopes, and the crushed life and disappointment of her only brother.

It was an eventful day. While we were talking, there came a hurried messenger for Fanny. I caught up my shawl and hood, and went with her. The village street struck me strangely as we entered it. In great cities children are born and men die, and nobody heeds either event, except those who are immediately concerned. But our little town was all alive with sympathy. Everybody seemed to understand that the even current of events was disturbed, and that the grim messenger who spares neither palace nor cottage had intruded into our secluded hamlet. Frank had barely life left to bless his devoted sister and to look his thanks to me, and his eyes peacefully closed on earth forever.

I took her away from that house, and brought her home at once with me. I told her I must insist now on taking charge of whatever duties remained. She yielded without a word, for she felt now that her work of direction and assistance was over. She was alone! It was a desolate thought that, but not without its compensations. Fanny could rest now on whatever charitable bosom was ready to receive her, for she felt that her brother was in that blessed repose which belong to those who fall on sleep in the comfort of a reasonable, religious, and holy hope.

We laid Frank's body down among our other treasures. No, our treasures are in heaven; it is only the seed for the resurrection which we place in the earth. He had often admired the holy stillness of the place where his remains now lie, and had said more than once that he came here to find his last resting place.

Fanny began at once to think of new walks of usefulness; but I told her she owed it to herself to wait until she had recovered from the long and terrible strain upon her mind and body. That argument might not have prevailed with her, so sturdy can a tender woman be in her purposes; but I convinced her that she was necessary to me, and made the compromise with her that she should spend the summer at least with us. Her time was divided between my house and the cottage where her brother died. She said she owed so much to the kind old woman there that she must remain at least her nominal lodger, but I had far the greater share of her company.

One day in June, now three years ago, Fanny was sitting with me as usual. In rushed my

little man, in dreadful dudgeon, the newspaper open in his hand like a banner.

"Doctor Harry's ship has got in!" he said, almost in a fury, "and all the town knew it before his mother and me. I would not stop to let old Paper & Twine cram the paper back into the cover!"

"Never mind, my boy," I answered. "Be lively, slaughter a pair of chickens and a duck, for he will be sure to be here in the next train."

Af

So he was. Fanny had withdrawn, though I tried to persuade her she could be of great assistance. She knew that a mother needed no help in welcoming a long absent son. ter dinner I brought out his letters, that he might see whether all that he had written had reached me. The letter announcing Fanny's coming happened to be among them. It was the only letter I had received during his absence, except those from him.

"Sail ho!" he shouted, as he opened and glanced at the signature. "What in the world is she writing to you about?"

"She!" said I. "Who?"

"Why, that boy-love of mine, or girl-love, when I was a boy. She jilted me long ago and married somebody older. Don't you remember?"

"Yes, now; but I did not keep the name of her husband."

"Of course not. You were rather pleased than otherwise at the turn the thing took. You were not heart-wounded, and desperate, and all the rest of it, as I was," said my dear scapegrace, pretending to tear his hair and to beat his breast. "Oh, no, we never mention her,' but you needn't think that I forget. I don't know that those are the exact words of the song, but they will do for a sailor."

"Stop, you rattle-brain !" said I, laughing. "I ought not to laugh either, for that letter was the prelude to a very sad story;" and I told him all about Fanny and her brother, and showed him the crayons of Frank, of myself, and of Fanny.

"Where is she now?" he asked.

"She was here to-day, and will be again tomorrow, for she comes every day."

"My! But she is pretty, mother. Who knows now but my old love has sent me a substitute better than herself, if that can be? Oh, my heart, my heart is breaking!"

"Nonsense, Harry! Will you ever come to years of discretion? Seriously, you must not think to trifle with Fanny, for she is one of the best and dearest girls that ever lived."

The morrow came, but Fanny did not. The house did not seem like itself without her, though my dear son was at home. "Foolish child!" I said to myself, and despatched to her a formal invitation to dinner.

Weeks passed, and Harry's furlough was

nearly over. I missed him one afternoon, and bethought myself that I had missed him a great deal lately.

GOOD MANNERS.

IT is a rule of good manners to avoid exag

"Down to Ma'am Bruce's, after-strawberries, I guess. She has fine ones, and he goes there almost every day."

There is no mother who is not a little jealous when she discovers that her only son has found out that there is another woman in the world besides herself, no matter how well she herself may like that other woman. But I have got over all that now. And Fanny made the doctor promise before he sailed that he will resign his commission on his return and practice at home. It is time he was here. I know a child whose gums need lancing now. He is trying, with indifferent success, to make an impression on an ivory ring which defied his grandmother's teeth ever so many years.

A TIRED CHILD.

BY MARY W. M'VICAR.

TIRED, my child? what have you done This summer day,

But dance down fragrant garden paths
In happy play?

And now into your mother's arms
You come for rest,

Secure of tender shelter there

Upon her breast.

If down the lengthening slope of years Your feet must go,

Shelter and rest so safe and sweet

You scarce can know.

Instead of sunny garden paths

Life's rugged way,

When you will have grown tired, but not As now of play.

So tired, waiting for buds of hope

To open out,

So tired of disappointments blight,
Distrust and doubt.

When you will long to put your woman's lot
Away from you,

And lie within your mother's arms
As now you do,

To watch the solemn twilight shades
So slowly creep,

Near and more near, with drowsy eyes
Half closed in sleep,

And almost wish, as your head is laid
On her gentle breast,

To pass from those arms to the last long sleep,
The last long rest.

THE man who will stab at another's reputation by insinuation and innuendo is far worse than a thief. Property may be replaced, but character, once lost, is all but irredeemable, and, as a great writer has said, a word is enough to ruin a fan.

VOL. XCIII.-18

too easily and too much. In man or woman, the face and person lose power when they are on the strain to express admiration. A man makes his superiors his inferiors by heat. Why need you, who are not a gossip, talk as a' gossip, and tell eagerly what the neighbors or the journals say? State your opinion without apology. The attitude is the main point, assuring your companion that, come good news or come bad, you remain in good heart and good mind, which is the best news you can possibly communicate. Self-control is the rule. You have in you there a noisy, sensual savage, which you are to keep down, and turn all his strength to beauty. For example, what a seneschal and detective is laughter! It seems to require several generations of education to train a squeaking or a shouting habit out of man. Sometimes, when in almost all expressions the Choctaw and the slave have been worked out of him, a coarse nature still betrays itself in his contemptible squeals of joy. The great gain is not to shine, not to conquer your companion-then you learn nothing but deceit; but to find a companion who knows what you do not; to tilt with him and be overthrown, horse and foot, with utter destruction of all your logic and learning. There is a defeat that is useful. Then you can see the real and the counterfeit, and you will never accept the counterfeit again. You will adopt the art of war that defeated you. You will ride to battle horsed on the very logic that you found irresistible. You will accept the fertile truth instead of the solemn customary lie.

When people come to see us, we foolishly prattle, lest we be inhospitable. But things said for conversation are chalk eggs. Don't say things. What you are stands over you the while, and thunders so that I cannot hear what you say to the contrary. A lady of my acquaintance said, "I don't care so much for what they say as I do for what makes them say it." The law of the table is beauty-a respect to the common soul of all the guests. Everything is unseasonable which is private to two or three, or to any portion of the company. Tact never violates for a moment this law; never intrudes the orders of the house, the vices of the absent, or a tariff of expenses, or professional privacies. As we say, we never, "talk shop" before company. Lovers abstain from caresses, and haters from insults, while they sit in one parlor with common friends. Would we codify the laws that should reign in households, and whose daily transgression annoys and mortifies us, and degrades our household life, we must learn to adorn every day with sacrifices. Good manners are made up of petty sacrifices. -Ralph Waldo Emerson.