race of those who may hold another race in bondage ?" Firmly rang her voice now as she concluded, and her face wore the look of one who has passed 66 'near to danger." In the pause that followed he did not attempt answer. Her noble earnestness had touched him with a momentary despair of his power. But when again she spoke his heart leaped. He little imagined that that sudden softness was the last expression of her love, and the final seal of her renunciation. “Ah, if I had but known it would have come to this I would have guarded my heart and yours; but I was proud or blind. I had never loved before, and I did not recognize love's signs. I had had so many friends, and I thought you only another. If I had but known-if I had but known! But no, it was Fate, it was Fate! or God's providence. Heaven forgive me! perhaps I needed this sore trial," she broke in upon herself with sudden passion. And then all the impassioned tenderness of her heart overflowed in glance, and word, and tone, as she said: 66 And you, Madison—ah, I have made you suffer! But I loved you, I loved you: remember this. And remember always in the days that are to come, when we shall be no more together, that there must be God's truth in a principle that could give me strength to sacrifice what I have done to it. Think of this for my sake; and think I loved you, Madison, I loved you all the time." And then, as one in a dream, he felt her breath passing down his cheek, and the soft swift pressure of her lips upon his own. Touched, thrilled beyond words, at this seal of her confession he held her for a moment to his heart. And as she clung there, silent, breathless, what dim presentiment of her meaning struck darkly athwart his soul! What vague uncertainty of his own success!-what "Never, never, whispered by The phantom years" rung its warning knell there! But the next moment all this passed away in the clear certainty of the present. She loved him. His presence was dear to her. From this sprang the vision of success; and again the belief in his own power rose triumphant. Yes, he would win her; not by relinquishment of his ground, but by constant, unwavering persistence in a devotion that was unexacting and generous. His presence was dear; it should become necessary. He would subtly, but surely, in some imperceptible ways, overcome her thought by his own. This was his vision of success; this his plan of conquest. "To-morrow! Ah, proud and passionate heart, gather up all your sweetest memories, all your strength of love and endurance, for the to-morrow that is to come will find your will thwarted, your power defied, and your pride laid low! For while, a few hours after, you pace the beach in the trembling starlight, and fancy that to-morrow will find you in HER presence, upon the deck of a steamer, watching the same stars, and perhaps fathoming your thoughts at this very hour, Margaret is speeding away from you. Ay, go to that cottage door on tomorrow's night. Those left behind can give you little clew to her destination. And if they could, of what avail? You are much too proud to follow where she has voluntarily fled from you. Ay, fled from you. In all your far-reaching thought, you had not thought of this alternative. "O! sweet, pale Margaret, O! rare, pale Margaret, What lit your eyes with tearful power," that through all this fair temptation you did see so clearly? What inward ken revealed to you the danger that beset your path in that fine and fascinating presence? "O! rare, pale Margaret," very wisely you interpreted that daring spirit. Very surely you read the meaning of the "velvet glove." That deep underlying will, that would yield nothing of its own decisions, yet with soft and subtle power seek to overcome whatever resisted it. Very wisely you saw that your only hope of peace was out of the sight of those eyes whose alluring glances must follow you in vain; out of the hearing of tones in whose sweetness lurked a charm that you must ever resist. "O! rare, pale Margaret," for conscience' sake have you chosen a heavy cross; but you shall wear a golden crown! IV. Mrs. Dillon held high festival in honor of her son's return; only a seven-days' furlough, and Captain Dillon would gladly have evaded the compliment intended him. But Mrs. Dillon was not unlike the rest of her country-people, who, upon the least provocation, run madly to serenades, and dinner-parties, and all manner of feasting. So it happened upon this night that the old Dillon mansion was resplendent with the blaze of chandeliers and the "gloss of satin and glimmer of pearls." All Matt's old friends were bidden to the feast, and most of them obeyed the bidding: all the old friends. But who is he looking for with that expectant face? and now and then he consults his watch, and again glances toward the door, restless, eager, watchWho is it he is looking for? In this preoccupied mood he suddenly starts: "Ah, Bertie Downes! How do you do, Miss Downes?" Thus he left her after this interview, confi-ful. dent of many interviews that would follow, where his suit should never be pressed, but where the patient persistence of his love should finally prevail. And as he went out of her presence her kiss yet thrilling his lips-that day, his soul was jubilant over his vision of victory. "I will see her again to-morrow," he said to himself. "That was three years ago, Captain Dillon. Mrs. Dupuy at your service;" and she sends him a curious smile as she drops him a courtesy. "How can one help forgetting the flight of time, and so fancy himself three years younger when he looks upon Mrs. Dupuy?" And Captain Matt bowed over his gallant speech in the most gracious manner. "So you fancied yourself three years younger, Captain Dillon? Three years ago? Where were we all then? Oh, I remember. It was at Newport. I haven't been there since-have you? Oh no, I forget you have been in Europe all this time, and come back to become a hero. I congratulate you. It seems to me every body went away very suddenly that season. Margaret set the fashion first, flashing off without a good-by to any body. Do you remember that night when Harry Smythe walked in and asked if we had heard the news about Margaret Freyer-how we all thought we were to hear of her engagement to Madison Wythe, and how amazed we were when Harry said she had gone away? And Wythe—did you meet Wythe in Paris, Captain Dillon? He left for Europe just before you did, I believe." "No, I didn't meet Mr. Wythe in Paris, Mrs. Dupuy. I met him nearer home a month ago, when he came over to our lines under a flag of truce. It was Captain Wythe then. Mrs. Dupuy" and he lowered his voice a little and looked straight into the lady's bright eyes-"you must allow that you were mistaken in your estimates of Miss Freyer's character. Sho did maintain her theory it seems." "Oh yes, I was mistaken there; but I am not always mistaken, Captain Dillon:" and the bright eyes had a triumphant glitter. The brave, honest Captain met these keen rays very steadily as he answered, quietly, "I am glad you are not, Mrs. Dupuy.' " Mrs. Dupuy colored, and looked a trifle disconcerted. What did he mean? That he was glad she knew him to be hopelessly in love with Margaret Freyer? It was like his cool audacity. But there came a clash of music here; it broke the current of talk. There was a movement of silk and the flutter of lace; and the next moment Mrs. Dupuy had another companion Helena Bell of the old days, now Mrs. Harry Smythe. They withdrew a little from the crowd; and overlooking it, Mrs. Dupuy watched her host saunter indifferently past the prettiest girls of the season-girls fresh and fair-with that preoccupied restless manner. "Did you know that Margaret Freyer is at home, Bertie? Going back next week, her Aunt Anne said." Mrs. Dupuy made no reply; she was too much absorbed, for just then she saw that restless expectant face change with the flash of a sudden swift smile, and then the handsome military figure was bending in greeting toward a lady entering. Margaret Freyer. If Mrs. Dupuy had expected to see Margaret looking worn and old, perforce of her hospital service and her twentyfive years, she was mistaken. To women of Mrs. Dupuy's temper and tone, these twenty-five years of maidenhood were suggestive of waning beauty, and exhausted wit, and womanly fascination; instead of which, to natures like Margaret Freyer's, at once deep and ardent, earnest and elastic, it was the prime of beauty, of wit, and of fascination. Mrs. Dupuy wondered at her secretly as she looked upon her there. She saw the slight but rounded figure of other days; the face full of eloquent meaning, with not an added line, a sharper curve. There was about her, too, a fair aspect of freshness, from the tint of her complexion to the motions of the supple form, clad in soft folding silk and floating lace. There was a little wonder too in the gaze with which Captain Dillon regarded Margaret. He did not wonder at her changeless aspect, because of added years and arduous occupation; but he knew how she had suffered sacrifice and loss in the past. He remembered a night when he had nearly risked his fate by outward confession; a confession that stayed his own, by words that dropped from quivering lips, like "slow wrung beads of agony." He had repaid her generosity by the most generous friendship, and buried all warmer hopes beneath that sacred bond. But now her bright, almost radiant face, her pleased and interested manner! She showed no scars of her wound! Perhaps, perhaps she may "Overlive it and be happy." Perhaps, if again he should risk his fate "What is that? You are not going back to the hospitals again, Margaret ?" and he stopped suddenly, arrested by her words, under the flying flags of the doorway. "Yes, certainly. Did you think I had offered my services from mere restlessness or curiosity, and had grown tired by experience? I have enlisted for the war, you know;" and she laughed a little, in a certain arch way that was peculiar to her. But Captain Matt didn't seem to see where the laugh came in; for his own mouth was drawn down into grim disapprobation, and A new light suddenly dawned upon Mrs. there was that ominous wrinkle between his Dupuy's mind. That preoccupied restless manner was explained now. It was clear for whom he waited. "How strange that she should like that horrid wearing life, don't you think so, Bertie ?" "Margaret was always doing odd things you know, Helena." "Yes, I know, but to become a hospital nurse. How could she? Then it must tell upon her, looks so. And Margaret isn't very young now. She must be twenty-five or six." brows which presaged opposition. So Margaret was prepared for what followed: "How absurd! You'll kill yourself or ruin your health, Margaret." She laughed again, glancing up into his face. "Do I look so much the worse for the wear, then, for this year's service? I certainly don't feel on the road to decay." But Matt was not easily soothed into complaisance. Still he carried an outward gruffness of friendly displeasure to hide the secret pain. And still she laughed and lightly answer- | would believe it if I told them this discovery? ed him, until he exclaimed, But you "But what is the use, Margaret? There is surely a sufficiency of nurses without you." Then a strange change came upon her. A look of pain and perplexity clouded over the brightness of her face, and, "Do not say that," she answered, quickly: “I should be sorry to think I was not specially needed by some natural fitness for this work. I have been glad to believe that it was so. Do not, I beseech you, by a single word, try to shake this belief; for I have found in it a contentment, a relief, from almost-" She broke off, agitated, in a still, breathless passion, which revealed her heart. Her listener was silent. His glowing fancy of the moment before-that bright, half-formed hope had suddenly become obscured. And this second pang of loss perhaps was bitterer than the first; for by its means he had caught a nearer glimpse of the fond and faithful nature, so womanly while so strong, whose wealth of love he could never hope to win. Silent, with his head dropped into his breast, he moved on through the rooms with her, until a sudden stillness, in place of the murmurous hum and the clang of music, aroused him. Unwittingly he had strayed aside into a vacant apartment, where the lights shone softer, and the atmosphere was full of the breath of flowers. As he lifted his head the shadow of bitterness passed. The brave and generous spirit was again triumphant. He was not a man to evince much emotion, to betray his sensibility; but when he broke the silence there, with the brief, vehemently-spoken words, Bah, what a blind, stupid world it is! So shrewd and worldly Bertha penetrated the truth, but stumbled in her final conclusion. Her shrewd and worldly instincts did not serve her in the summing up. Fretting? Did Matt Dillon think the glimpse he got of that sacred sorrow could be thus translated? V. The cool sweet wind of the early March morning blew up over wide ranges of field and meadow with faint suggestions of budding tree and flower in its wild frolic currents. It bent the branches, it swept the lawn, and sung its song of spring up the garden slopes and around the windows of the stately house upon the hill, and fluttering down, it wafted breaths of bulb and root and crocus scent away from their winter shrouds of straw through lifted sashes, where feverish patients, suffering "war's cruel curse," in mangled limbs, or slow disease, were lying, sleepless and restless, in the long and cleanlygarnished wards. But in the stately house upon the hill, which looked across to the hospital, there was one as sleepless as any under the roof of pain. She had awakened long before light, and lying there in the darkness, had listened to the wind, and thought of other times and more peaceful days perhaps. Perhaps as the wind sung its song of spring, she dreamed, in waking visions, of "God bless you, Margaret, in any work, in springs and summers when, listening, she had any life you may choose to lead!" Margaret, looking up, saw all he meant, knew that again he suffered and lost, yet was ready again to give her the loyal service of friendship. She did not speak, but her face was eloquent. They understood each other. Bertha Dupuy, talking gayly with Harry Smythe, saw the two re-enter the rooms. "Margaret Freyer looks remarkably well to night," she commented to her companion. "Yes, I was thinking so myself. Remarkably well; but I always admired Margaret." heard far sweeter songs, wherein no under-note of funeral wailing went over the land. Perhaps, as the gray dawn came creeping on, she remembered dawns when to some soft goodnight, spoken while the sweet clash of music was yet lingering in her ear, she had gone home to dream of some bewildering waltz or moonlight tête-à-tête. All of these memories might have kept her company as she lay there listening to the wind, but none of them brought her sleep again. No morning slumber with its tender train of fancies blessed her. Still she, waking, watched the coming of the dawn. It came at last white and clear, and showed a fair womanly face, whose dark eyes looked wistfully out toward the waving flag that flung forth its stars and stripes across the hill. Lying there, "Ah," she thought, as her quick vision con- the wistful look grew deeper, and the wind trasted these two men's faces, "we blundered seemed to bring newer and nearer thoughts and at more than one guess there at Newport that fancies as she listened. Into its wild frolic cursummer, when we put Harry Smythe and Gar- rents had stolen another tone-a plaintive tone ruth into the lists before Matt Dillon. Harry of entreaty, which whispered and moaned with Smythe has contented himself with Helena Bell's sobbing insistence. And somewhere out of the pretty amiability, and Mark Garruth is desper- lonely garden thickets, all bleak and bare, a bird ately in love with Harry's sister. But Matt Dil- began piping a faint, shrill, melancholy strain. lon alone, that unsentimental Matt Dillon, has | It mingled with the insisting wind like a cry or persisted in his constancy. He has actually had call for companionship. Now near, now far, it a grand passion for her all this time. And who swept with the sweeping breezes from hill to hill. Bertha glanced from Harry Smythe's face, with its "admiration," to that of Captain Dillon's. Her subtle keenness of insight penetrated much of the truth. As she had said, she was not always mistaken. It seemed to stir strange depths of emotion in the soul of her who lay there listening. Her face put on a restless expression. Her eyes strained eagerly beyond the flying flag, as if otherwheres her vision would fain have pierced. Still the wind kept on its insisting tone; still the little bird piped its urgent cry; until a bar of gold struck suddenly athwart the sky. The sun had risen. She, too, rose now, dressed herself hastily, and, without disturbing the sleeping inmates of the house, descended the stairs and went out into the "wild March morning." Into the "wild March morning!" She shivered a little as the willows sighed and brushed her cloak in passing, and half under her breath murmured out: "The trees began to whisper and the wind began to roll, And in the wild March morning I heard them call my soul." Mechanically she stooped as she saw a clump of frail anemones and the bright blooms of the erocus, and gathered bud and blossom into a hasty bouquet before she proceeded down the avenue. And inhaling their dewy freshness she went on, singing in the same half-absent way the same sweet mournful verse. The sentry touched his cap, with a little look of surprise, as he let her pass. The Doctor smiled a welcome smile, but, "You are early; Miss Freyer," he said. "Yes; not too early, I hope." "No; I am glad you have come. There has been a fresh arrival. The beds are all occupied now." He gave her some directions in a lower tone, and she went in. She knelt beside him; she put her arms about him, and laid her cheek to his. No need for her to speak; but he kept on: "So I find you at last, Margaret. I thought it would be so. The bond was vital. I knew you must feel when my life was going out. I knew you would come. Kiss me, Margaret. Ah, my love, my love, I have waited for this!" Once more he gathered her to his breast, folding her fervently with strength that seemed garnered up for this last embrace. Once more. Then the old soft smile, the old sweet gay voice faintly falling, as he wandered back to other scenes: "How the wind rises, Margaret! Will you go down to the beach? The wind and the rain will never harm my mermaid. And the seafoam drapery-where are the fairy bells? Oh! you have decked yourself with flowers instead. They are wet, wet. Is it the spray, sweet?" A moment more-then all He looked up, clear, conscious, and irradiated by the passing spirit. His eyes closed. fancies left him. "My darling, do not weep. This is better than all the world for us. Yes-I see-I see it now- -you were right, Margaret-you were true!" And Madison Wythe lay dead. IT EASTER FLOWERS. T is one of the obvious marks of our American religion, that we are noticing more habitually and affectionately the ancient days and seasons of the Christian Church. This tendency does not seem to us to come so much from any change of doctrine or discipline as from domestic and friendly and devout dispositions, and often shows itself unequivocally in quarters where the Stopping here and there for kind soothing word or tender office, she came to the last in her round, a bed divided by curtaining from the others. Some unaccountable tremor arrested her steps most independent thinking prevails, and even here. Her heart beat; her breath came quicker. What did she dread, who had faced for months all woeful spectacles of sabre-cut or gun-shot wound? She did not know; but her mind was in a whirl of confusion. where the straitest Puritan theology is professed. That Christmas should be every where gaining ground, and that Saint Nicholas should be held in honor where all other saints are discarded, is not to be wondered at, so far as the attraction of Christmas festivities is concerned; for children will be children, and parents will be parents, and whatever brings the two parties lovingly together is in the line of Nature, and is sure to prosper. Yet we believe that with the natural glee of that great holiday a great deal of A low groan, proceeding from within the curtained space, broke the spell, and gave her resolution to penetrate the seclusion. What did she see? No fearful sight, surely. A tall, straight figure, lying all its comely length along the low white cot. A head of dark, dark hair, a face pal-devout faith and affection mingles, and the gaylid but dusky with natural tint of climate and added bronze of marches and camp exposures. A face stained with clay and gore, sharpened with pain, but lit into life and courage by the unfading fire that beamed forth from the burning splendor of the deep black eyes. These were the eyes that met Margaret Freyer as she entered, with a glance that thrilled every pulse. And beneath the slender line of dark silk beard that fringed his lip the pale mouth smiled with rapturous greeting, and the faint sweet voice articulated, "Margaret! Margaret! I knew you would come." VOL. XXVII.-No. 158.-N est carols and the wildest sports have something about them that does not end with flesh and blood, but which partakes more or less of the higher spirit. Humanity, too, mingles with every true Christmas feast, and the poor are every where remembered, not only for their own sake, but for the Holy Child who became poor that we might become rich. For our own part, we confess to having a great liking to a religion that is not afraid of a little laugh and fun-not fearful that the church windows will break, or its walls shake at the explosion of any amount of innocent natural spirits. We believe that young and old are never in so good a way for enjoying themselves as when they are upon solid ground, and can sing and dance a little without fearing that the earth will cave in under their feet. On this account we can commend a good sound platform of faith and fellowship as giving a safe footing for mirth as well as worship, and are quite sure that we can move more merrily as well as more effectively there than when on doubtful ground; as skaters glide on more boldly and play off their most antic evolutions when perfectly sure that the ice will not give way beneath them. Whatever may be the cause or the effect we are quite sure that Saint Nicholas is making his way into universal regard, and is likely to stand as high upon the Puritan as the Catholic Calendar, at least so far as home observances are concerned. Less attention has been called to the second great festival of the ancient Church, Easter; yet there are unmistakable signs that it is fast gaining upon the religious affection and public regard of our people. Like Christmas, it is winning our household feeling as well as our religious respect, and is sacred to the memory of departed kindred and friends as well as to the rising of our Lord from the grave. We have carefully noted the gradual increase of observance of the day, and can remember when it was a somewhat memorable thing for a minister, not Catholic or Episcopal, to preach an Easter serNow Easter sermons are very general in all pulpits, and Easter flowers are making their way into churches of all persuasions. One of our chief Presbyterian churches near by decked its communion-table and pulpit with flowers for the third time this Easter season; and we, who have some ways of thinking and acting quite our own, made our church beautiful with lilies, roses, geraniums, camelias, etc., for the seventh time. We were considerably among the florists at this time, and they uniformly reported that such a demand had never before been known for the mon. products of their conservatories. The resources of the city and neighborhood were exhausted, and appeals were made to Philadelphia and Boston to supply the deficiency, and in some cases great prices were offered in vain, a dollar being the price for single lilies. The cause of this new love for Easter is to be found partly in the unquestionable growth of church feeling in our people; but this feeling is greatly enhanced, and, in some cases, almost wholly created by family affections. Easter is becoming rapidly the festival of sacred remembrance of departed friends, and the remembrance is all the more sacred by remembering them in God and the Beloved Son. It is interesting and impressive to observe how powerfully our congregations are affected, when this use is made of the day, and the great sentiment of home love is brought into keeping with devout faith. It is quite a revelation to note the response that is made by the people when asked to bring to the altar some memorial of departed kindred and friends. At first we asked for flowers to make the church bright and beau tiful for the afternoon festival of Sunday-school children. The gifts came in great abundance, but even then the flowers often had a memorial character; and no parents who had lost a dear child could fail to think of him or her more tenderly in the midst of that cheerful flock, and the flowers themselves, as they sent up their incense to the mercy-seat, seemed a message to the lost ones as well as our offering to heaven. The good effect is not lost but rather helped by making part of the service decidedly genial and festive, and quite in keeping with the cheerful temper of children. An Easter carol or two, a distribution of little gifts, with pleasant remarks from the pastor, and other like features, may give the day greater compass and attractiveness, and do much to enlarge the often too sombre and restricted character of our ministrations. It is well to take a hint from good Mother Nature as she speaks to us in these charming pets of her bosom, the blossoms of spring. The blossoms are the pictured cradle of the fruit; and if we would have the fruit we must first have the blossoms. We have too often forgotten this stubborn fact, and expected a harvest of substantial fruit without a childhood of blossoms. We do not believe that the Creator has put forth so much of his wisdom and power to make the earth beautiful with fragrant blooms, merely to amuse our idle hours; and we regard the beautiful in nature, as in art, as the ally and handmaid of all that is good and true. In the economy of creation it is evident that the exquisite tints and odors that attend all vegetation in its fecundating and fructifying seasons are intimately connected with the welfare of the future fruit and seed. It is true, also, that in the germinating seasons of human thought and feeling and purpose, the element of beauty is very powerful, and society and religion are stronger as well as purer by the graces of art and beauties of nature that are enlisted in their behalf. Children very readily fall in with all usages that combine cheerfulness with reverence, and do it all the better if treated as if they were expected to acquiesce in church ways as a matter of course and affectionately, instead of being everlastingly argued with or scolded into obedience. It is really touching as well as amusing to see how earnestly very little ones will do whatever is required of them when asked to help out a sacred festival. Three little girls distributed our baskets of nosegays to the scholars with charming grace, and the smallest of thema four-yearling, who can usually hardly keep still for a moment-did her part famously, and dealt out the bunches of flowers with an odd sobriety, as if she were one of the pillars of the church or shepherds of the fold. The art that is most characteristic of our modern ages is undoubtedly music, and antiquity is searched in vain for any instrument that can be compared with the organ or piano, or any compositions that can be named in the same breath with our great oratorios, symphonies, and operas. Vast sums of money are every year spent |