that lay quiet in her lap. He saw all this, and a flood of new passionate life swirled at his heart. The simple circle of his life was broken. His art, hitherto all-sufficient, would now be but a dark and shadowy blessing, unless Love's royal glance, like the sun, lit up and warmed this new-born day and all the days of his future life.

The foolish fellow, when he saw the tears, murmured "Angel!" Through the mist of those tears he beheld her surrounded by a halo. He was certain he was in heaven, and she an angel.

"Mary, we must go," said a dignified, elderly lady, coming up close to the angel.

"Oh the sweet, melodious name!" thought the artist. But the angel neither thought nor heard. She was absorbed in the picture.

ing.

"Mary!"-this time touching her shoulder. "Ah! dear mother!" said the girl, with wide eyes of wonderment. "I believe I was dreamOh, mother! what a pure, glorious soul guided the hand that painted this. One can almost see the woman's lips moving, and hear her love-murmurings over her babe. She is praying that God will keep her white dove without stain; that He will clothe her child's soul, through this life, in garments white as wool, and at last give him place in heaven."

Then she stopped, blushing deeply; her eyelids drooped, and her beautiful head bent like a flower, ashamed of so much unconventional enthusiasm; while the enchanted, spell-bound artist, thanked kind Heaven that he alone had lit up the blushing splendor in her face-he had charmed those loving tears out of her sweet eyes! The purest work of his heart and hand had beguiled her into self-forgetfulness, and careless who heard, she had lavished upon him rare words of praise in a voice of thrilling, rapturous sweetness, like the song of a lark.

She rose and went away, and the room was instantly filled with grim shadows. The sunlight faded out. It became dark to the soul of the artist. He wanted to draw a thick veil over his picture, so that other eyes might not profane it after the rich blessing of her glance.

The next day he got a note from Madame B-a:

"Come to-night and drink tea with me. Somebody will be here who admires your picture, and thinks you must be good."

The lady who had invited him thus was one of those women whom other women love, and men feel an affection for. Not a courtier, but winning all; with large gray, honest eyes, and a voice of such sweet, childlike intonations that women older than herself were moved as they listened with a motherly, loving desire to take her in their arms and kiss her; and men felt that they would protect and defend her, if needs be, with their lives.

An invitation from such a woman was not to be gainsayed. Our artist, after nursing his heartache at home the whole day, took it out to tea with him. He was the first arrival, and his

kind entertainer, observing his gloom, with gentle ruth comforted him.

She told him he looked pale, but his pallor was very becoming. Being his elder by some years, she laid her little white dimpled hand on his forehead, and coaxed him with her sweet voice and kind eyes to tell her his trouble. In short, she beguiled out of him the usual story of a fool and a woman. He poured his rhapsodies and raptures into her ear, and she listened, consoled, smiled, and never scolded him for twisting and tearing into bits the flowers on the table near him-when, lo! what to him seemed a sudden sunburst made the room all-glorious, and starting up, he heard himself presented to his "angel," and came near falling on his knees at her feet, instead of making the low bow which he ought to have made, and after all did make.

A pale flush lighted her marble cheek as she rose from her gracious courtesy, and she stood modest and silent, like a tinted statue, waiting for the great painter to speak. What he said, or she answered, neither of them ever knew. All he remembered was that they drank chocolate which had an almost divine aroma; that somebody told a remarkably comical story of a Philadelphia Quaker; that under the general laugh which ensued she had lifted her long eyelashes and given him a sweet, modest glance of approval, and murmured her praise of his painting, with a tremble in her musical voice which thrilled him; that at parting he had ventured to hold out his hand, and hers had fluttered into it for one second, and lay soft as velvet or a wee white-bird nestling; and that her mother had asked him to visit them.

And now summer bloomed for our artist-philosopher turned lover; rainbows chased the clouds; and before long he knew that he possessed an empire of priceless wealth—a leal true heart; for when he took a sudden courage, and said to his angel, "I love you! Be my wife!" her sweet eyes looked into his, and in their soft splendor he read the blessed answer.

They had a rare wedding. Her mother would have it so. Jewels flashed, and a veil of priceless lace fell soft and snowy from her hair. But all he cared for was the sunlight of love which beamed for him from her beautiful eyes, and which crowded his heart with such an intense happiness, so hushed and rapt that he was silent all through his wedding-day, as if he were asleep and dreaming.

And now, for nearly a year, the moons were all of honey, and our artist had the truest, tenderest wife man was ever blessed with. When he thought of her it was to thank God for so rich a gift, and the earth's winter was made mid-summer heaven by her love.

Then a little worm came into the heart of all this happiness. It fed and grew secretly; but at last could no longer be hidden. Of course the cause was utterly unreasonable-but who ever heard of a woman stopping to reason, or being unhappy mathematically?

So without either she grew horribly jealous

oh, so jealous! of a woman with long golden hair-the woman in her husband's picture, which was safe back again in his studio; for though many times tempted by large offers of gold, the artist would not part with his ideal love.

And thus it came to pass, as one day he was sitting half dreaming before the painting, his wife came to him with a tragic glance of woe in her sweet eyes, and piteously entreated him to put away this woman.

"I can't help my hair being black," sobbed the foolish heart, with quivering lips; and then a soft, white arm went round his neck, and her beautiful face, all tears and jealous flame, was hidden on his breast.

CAPTAIN CHARLEY. 5

"To think how in yon sleeping town
Such happy mothers be,

Who keep their many sons at home,
While I-I had but thee."

HERE was sunshine in the room, and the

trilled notes of gushing, musical joy to the roses and heliotropes in the window below him. It did not sound like the song of a caged bird. Perhaps the sweet odor stealing up to him from the blossoms, the sunshine on his golden wings, stirred some slumbering bird-memory of his, and made him think he was at home again in the summer-isle round which the purple sea breaks

year. The furniture was light and graceful. The carpet was gay. Nothing was sad there but the two faces-mother and son.

They had been talking long and earnestly. Then for a while they had sat in silence, which the son, Charley Wayne, was the first to break. "If you were poor, mother, and really need

"If you dare, Sir!" she threatened, starting up; then leaning over him she pressed a velvet kiss upon his brow, and whispered in his ear that which made her brows a fine crimson, and caused him to catch her with a glad cry in his arms. A great joy lit up his eyes, and after this a rainbow came out of the cloud as it vanished, leaving the sunshine of their lives more radiant than before.

It was not long when a little child-angel from God's hand-lay like a small white lily on the mother's bosom; and husband and wife folded their baby-bud about with their great love, and all the days were golden and glorious with this crown to their happiness.

Then a certain rich man, who fosters art, and, what is still more noble, who does splendid acts of charity, and with his treasures upon earth is making for himself treasures in heaven-for his heart and hand are ever open when "one of the least of these," in other lands as well as our own, "hunger and thirst"—this man bought the picture; he had long wanted it.

Sooth to say, an unuttered sigh swelled in the artist's heart as his shadow-love was taken away. It was very sentimental in him to feel so; but as this is a true story, I have to confess that the philosopher chuckled a little as a round sum of money swelled immediately after in his left breast pocket and quite crushed out the sigh; while a smile brightened in the lover-husband's face, as he sat down before a new canvas upon his easel to sketch in a life-scene very like the other, and which was offered to him with the velvet kiss in that mysterious whisper.

For see. In his studio is a cradle; and lying within, asleep, is a lily-bud of an infant, his own and hers; and leaning over it, with the same wondrous expression of eternal love in her violet eyes, his own dear wife is sitting, dove-like, brooding over the child.

"My heart is poor-my heart needs you. You are my all. For the rest, if it will keep you, I will sell all I have and give to the poor, and you shall stay and work for me."

Charley looked up at her with eyes whose meaning always stirred her soul, for they were the eyes of her youth's love. Over such eyes grew the roses and violets of that same June of 1862.

"What would father have said, mother?"

The question found its mark. She well knew whence came her son's quick courage, his eyes of earnest meaning, his heart true as steel, warm as summer. If "father" were living he would not have been last to follow the bugle-call. Yet she did not want to utter her own sentence of doom.

She did not speak for a little while. She seemed to see again the face of her lost loveto hear his voice, which had, through the years of their life together, been guide at once and comfort. She almost seemed to hear in the still summer air the downward swoop of wings, and to feel upon her brow a touch of peace and healing. She looked up again at Charley. How strong he was!-handsome, noble, brave, just the stuff of which heroes are made. Had she any right to deprive the good cause of the blows that stout right arm could strike? After all, what were peace and security, which only the sacrifice of the right could purchase? If this life were all-but when the words spoken here must echo through the everlasting spaces, when the deeds done here must make or mar the life that never ends, could even love and loneliness make her so weak as to purchase the present with the future? She looked at Charley still, but she could not see him for the tears gathering in her soft, motherly blue eyes.

"Father would say 'go,'" she whispered, "and I must say what father would, must I

not? I must prove myself worthy to have been his wife. But he is dead, and if I should lose you also, oh! whom have I left ?"

"God!"

Did Charley speak, or was it the voice of a strong angel calling down from the eternal heights?

Mrs. Wayne bowed her head reverently, silenced by that word, by the thought of the love beyond hope or longing which might be hers if she would. She dared not again call herself alone in the universe. She only put out her hand silently, and Charley took it.

"Never fear, mother. All who fight do not fall. I shall come back to you, and you shall sit, when you are old, under my vine and figtree, and tell your grandchildren stories of how their father helped to save the country."

"Heaven grant it!" she whispered, trying to be brave, and smile, as he left her to tell the boys of the Twenty-first that he was ready to accept the lieutenant's commission that had been offered him.

It was a proud day when he marched away with his men. Even his mother, as she watch ed him from the window, and met the fearless eyes which softened into a glance of love as they saw her face, felt a thrill of exultation, a pride in her brave son, which for the time kept her tears back. But the tears came when she heard no longer the martial music that cheered him on-when the noonday silence fell around her, and the noonday light, gay, glaring, pitiless, looked in upon her woe. She shut her windowblinds and drew down her curtains; for the bright day seemed mocking her. Mute with sorrow, she sank upon her knees, as if there were prayer in the very attitude, and then, I think, Heaven comforted her.

To her soul, at last, came a great peace. She seemed to draw near the eternal life, and breathe its air of secure rest. She felt close, as she had never felt before since the summer day he died, to Charley's father. She knew that she had done what he would have counseled; and she strengthened herself with his approval, as she had done so many times during their short life together. So she grew strong, having tasted the air of heaven, to let in again the joy and light of earth.

But the hardest trial came afterward. For the extreme moments of life there is vouchsafed to our need heavenly manna: it is our daily bread that we have to toil and pray for. As the slow days went on, and she could not hear her boy's gay voice making the great house cheery-could catch no echo of his laughter, no gleam of sunshine from his face-all her faith in Heaven, all her belief that she had done right, could not ease her longing and heartache. You know how it is when a friend dies, and you believe they have gone home to a happiness beside which the brightest hours of earth fade into nothing. If you could, you would not take the responsibility of calling them back to the sphere of doubt and waiting; and yet

"The least touch of their hands in the morning you keep day and night;

Their least step on the stairs still throbs through you, if ever so light;

Their least gift, which they left to your childhood in long ago years,

Is now turned from a toy to a relic, and gazed at through tears."

And if Charley Wayne had been dead his mother would hardly have felt her solitude deeper than she felt it for the first few weeks after he went away. But as time passed on she grew more accustomed to her loneliness, and his letters began to give her comfort. He was in an engagement now and then, and came through safely. She began to hope she should see him again.

Before 1862 was over she heard of his promotion-Captain Charley now: she had grown strong enough to feel glad and proud when she heard of it. She wrote him a cheerful letter of praise and congratulation, which he put next his heart and wore more proudly than his new honors. He had never known-would he ever know?-a dearer love: his mother was still for him first among women.

One day, early in March, he wrote her how beautiful the Virginian spring was; how the wild, bright blossoms were opening soft eyes to a softer sky, and the birds were singing a song of peace, peace, when for man there was no peace.

While she was reading his letter other tidings came; a long dispatch from one who knew and loved her boy; the story of an action, such as in these days of great battles we scarcely think of, where only a few companies were engaged, but in which Charley had fallen, severely wounded-fallen, as she would be proud to hear, bravely cheering on his men. He was wounded in arm and leg, but was safely in the hospital, and, they hoped, would do well.

It is strange how much strength is in the weakest and most loving type of women in the hours which try men's souls. I do not think good Dr. Holmes, used to the horrors of the dissecting room, made ready one whit more coolly to start on his "search for the Captain" than she on hers for Captain Charley. I think she forgot nothing which he could need, and I do not believe a tear fell till all her preparations were over, and she sat in the cars on her way to him. What if her tears did fall then, silent but bitter, behind her thick veil? There would be no stain of them when he saw the face which must be cheerful for his sake.

How the time went she never knew till she stood beside his bed-saw him white and weak, with the impress of terrible pain on his face— but saw him alive, in this world!

"How you must have hurried, mother, to get here so soon! I did not expect you yet, but I am glad you are here. They will cut my arm off to-morrow. They can't save it. Sometimes such an operation proves fatal. I don't think it will in my case. I keep up a good heart; birt if I should die, I should like to touch your hand

All that night she sat by him. If she was tired with her journey she did not know it. only knew that to-night he was with her-tomorrow might be flowing between them the waters of that river from whose farther shore comes back no echo.

As for him, secretly he expected to die; but a great content shone from his eyes. He rejoiced in her presence, like a child lonely and tired who finds rest in its mother's bosom. He did not fear what the morrow would bring—if death, there had never been a moment when he shrank from it since he offered his life to the need of his country.

The morning came at length, and with it the hour which was to decide his fate. Firmly he insisted upon sending his mother away. The moment there was any fear of death he told her she should be called; in the mean time he was resolute to spare her the sight of his suffering. She resisted for a while, then yielded to the force of his will. She never could have known worse torture, however, than her waiting. Was it for hours or moments-she could never tell-that she sat there with shut eyes and clasped hands waiting for her summons.

At last the assistant surgeon touched her arm. "He has borne the operation, Madam, much better than we feared. We shall save his leg, though he may always be a little lame. His arm is off, and, according to present appearances, we think he will get well. His courage will go a great way-never groaned through the whole of it."

She heard the words as one in a dream, clutching at one thought. Her boy was alive-likely to live. She tried to stand and could not. She began to guess then what the extent of the fear had been whose reaction was so powerful and exhausting. Soon she gathered again strength and composure with the thought that he was waiting for her, and then she went to him.

Then she knelt by his bedside and felt his left arm, all he had now, touch her neck. The utmost exertion of her self-control could not keep back sobs and tears. Maimed and halt, her brave boy, of whose symmetry and strength | she had been so proud!

She little knew what bitter, despairing thoughts were struggling just then in his heart. When it was all over he had just begun to realize how strong had been his unconscious hope to die. It would have been so much better, he thought, than to live this helpless, disfigured hulk, shut out by fate from manhood's work and woman's love. Her passion of tears did him good. Remembering how she loved him, he grew strong to live for her sake. Very gently he touched her hair as he said,

"Mother, you would rather have me as I am than not to have me at all?"

How that question stilled her repinings! How many mothers had given to the good cause their all-how many were weeping at that hour mad,

"Charley, God is good. I think how desolate I must have been without you, and even as it is I am content."

Never had Captain Charley been so true a hero as when he put aside his own sorrow, the downfall of his hopes, the wound to his pride, and resolved to strive to live not only, but to be contented with life for her sake.

In the days that followed she nursed him back to health again. Never, after that first hour, did either of them breathe a single regret. They accepted life with thankfulness, not protests; and I think at last Captain Charley grew even to be glad that he had been allowed to make his sacrifice for his country so costly.

The last week of May she brought him home. The apple-trees were in flower, full of a pink whiteness of glorious bloom. The fields about their country-house were green; and again, as when he went away, roses and heliotrope nodded in the open windows, and the bird, thrilling to old memories of summer isles, trilled over them a mutinous jubilee of sweet sounds, which the wild robins and gay orioles outside strove longingly to emulate.

And so, amidst birds and flowers and sunshine, Captain Charley sat down again at home.

"My work is over now," he said, glancing patiently, not sadly, at the empty sleeve at his side. "Perhaps God thought you were the one, mother, after all, who needed me the most, and this was His way of sending me back."

THE EMPRESS EUGÉNIE.

APOLEON THE THIRD espoused the

matter of profound policy. When he was first attracted by her beauty and grace he endeavored vainly to make her his mistress. To all his inducements and promises she turned a deaf ear. Her obstinacy inflamed into a deeper feeling that which had been but a caprice; and at last Napoleon began seriously to consider the advantages and disadvantages of a union with the Spanish demoiselle.

He reviewed the career of the Great Napoleon, and marked the success which had attended his spouse Josephine; how she had won adherents to her husband's cause by her grace and beauty; how those haughty and noble families which had obstinately held aloof from the splendid Adventurer gave way before the fascinations of the lovely, accomplished Josephine, and finally ranged themselves among the supporters of the Emperor. He reflected upon the fact that all his endeavors to obtain a consort among the