When the sweet June roses in worship bow'd, For my heart's own marriage-day." Slowly, she took in her wither'd hands, At the sunset's hour, in its holy hush, In the glorious home of rest. She has gone where the bridal robe of her soul THE TRYSTE. BY MRS. M. E. LIVERMORE. It was a lovely, quiet spot, nestled lovingly away among the grand old hills, where stood the little red school-house, the "Alma Mater" of my childhood days. How well do I remember its bare walls and wooden benches, sadly defaced with deep cuts and rudely carved namesnames of those who were wont to gather there long years agone. Where are they now? Alas! of the many bare feet that went pattering in and out over the well worn threshold, few there are that, with me, still tread the path of life, many of them having grown weary with the liferace and lain down by the wayside to rest. I received a letter from a friend, to-day, telling me carelessly, among other unimportant items, that "the old red school house was torn down." It seemed like the severing of the last link which bound me to the days of my childhood. At the touch of memory's wand, how vividly scenes enacted there come up before me; how many faces return, some long forgotten, and some which I can never forget. Among the latter are the faces of three young girls who, with myself, passed many a happy day under the low roof of the lit tle red school-house. From our earliest school days we pursued the same studies-always together, a four-fold sisterly band, which we said in later years, nothing but Death should sever, no earthly change should ever dim the brightness of our love for each other. I well remember our parting-when at last our paths diverged-to cross again we knew not when. We sat together under the old elm tree, close by the school-room door-a favorite seat with us. We built many an airy castle for the future, which then to us looked so bright. I can see them now, as we sat there a plain record of their hopes traced on each eager face. This was our last day of attendance at the little red school-house; and the morrow saw one of our number far on the way to a distant home, even across the "big waters." And a few weeks more only would pass before we should all be far away from our childhood home. We said then-we four girls-that fifteen years hence we would all come back. Yes, WE WOULD ALL COME! We said it over and over again, with no thought that Death or change would make us forgetful of our promise; or if such thoughts came to any, they were unexpressed. We sat there till the shadows of evening warned us we must part. The good-byes" were spoken-there were fond words and wishes, smiles mingling with tears which filled our eyes, then so little used to weeping. But the future was bright, and we fondly believed all our gay dreams would be realized. Thus our grief was neither deep nor lasting. Three years of the fifteen had passed, when a letter was given me, sealed with black, and bearing a foreign post-mark. I read with dim eyes, that the fairest, gayest of our number, had thus early bowed to the mandate, "Pass ye away.' She died before life had taught her one stern lesson. Better thus, than live to see every bright hope fade. Thus was one link broken in our golden chain of sisterhood. Years passed rapidly on, bringing joy and sorrow to every heart, for none are so fortunate that their life is all sunshine. I made arrangements to go back, for the fifteen years had expired. I knew not if the others would meet me there, for the letters which at first came so often, arrived at last at long intervals finally ceasing entirely. I knew not if I alone were living, or, if living, alone cared to keep the promise. I went at the appointed time, but oh! how changed were all the material and spiritual aspects of my world. I left a happy girl, with gay dreams of ambition flitting through my mind. I came back -a cold, proud, but saddened woman, for whom life had no longer any hopes or any illusions. I alone stood under the old elm tree, where fifteen years before "we four" had said "good-bye," and promised each other that where e'er on the broad earth our homes might be, that day should find us there. It was a dreary day, and as I sat waiting, with the vain expectation that some one of them would come, the wind rustled the dead leaves at my feet and sighed through the branches of the old elm, seeming to say-" They are goneall gone." And, woman of the world as I was, I put away my pride, leaning my face upon my hands, and let the tears flow quietly for the memory of "Auld Lang Syne." The next day I left that village forever. There were none to keep me there. Fa ther and mother at rest, on the boson of our common mother, strangers in the old homestead, and none to weep or care when I went from them. And now" the old red school-house is torn down!" Ah, well! and I suppose the village is otherwise greatly changed since I were there, and should I go back, the strangeness would affect me even more painfully than when last I stood in the old familiar places of my childhood. youth, how fond yet vain are thy dreams! but I have no wish to rouse thee from them, for all too soon the knowledge comes home to every heart-" There's nothing lasting, nothing true but Heaven!" MY FATHER'S WARD. BY MRS. CAROLINE A. SOULE. 'I know I shall hate him!” I spoke quickly, almost passionately, scarcely waiting for the door to close upon my father. "You don't know any such thing, Annie," said my sister Mabel, in her usual low, sweet tones. "But I do, though;-just think of having a boy, a great, overgrown, awkward, rude, mischievous, yelling, hooting, tearing boy, turned in upon our quiet household -a colt in a flower-bed." Mabel laughed, and her laugh filled the room with music, such music as you hear at eventide, when the notes of a flute skilfully played, steal over the waves of a river. Usually, that laugh was like harmony to me, soothing and quieting my somewhat Now, it irritated me, excitable nerves. and Isaid, hotly, "I don't see anything to laugh about." Mabel laid her little hands caressingly upon my flushed cheeks and answered, I could not help it, Annie; such a string of adjectives; one would have thought you had swallowed Webster. Hush a minute, darling," placing a finger on my quivering lips, "hush and listen. Arthur Gerritt is no boy, but a young man, lacking only a few months of his majority-" "How do you know?-I am sure the letter says boy." draw him out of his grief, to show him the "I'll do my part towards making his We were very busy the next day, and "Yes; but remember it was his father's letter to an old friend, and it was natural he should write so of the child whom he ed." I don't believe I shall," petuous assertion. was my 'You don't know, Annie. At ser im any rate, don't hate him until you have seen him. Think of it, sister; he is not only motherless, as we are, but fatherless, probably, by this time. He will come to us sad and lonely. Let us strive to cheer him, to It was a cold, dreary November night on which they came. "This looks pleasant-this seems like having a home again," he said, and as the warm firelight flashed over him, I noted he was a tall, handsome man, with dark hair curling all about his ample forehead. "I must thank the daughters of the Hall for this it is very comforting to know I have such thoughtful friends." I withdrew hastily. To tell the truth, there were tears in my eyes and a sob in my throat. Mabel and I glanced at each other as he entered the drawing-room. He wore our gifts, and the rich, dark colors and graceful fit of the dressing-gown set off his fine face and splendid figure. He did not converse much that evening, but he seemed happy. After supper, we had music. Mabel played the piano and sung, and afterward I took my harp and improvised a welcome to my father and his ward. As he took our hands at parting, he said, in low, touching tones, "God has not utterly bereft me- -I thank you both." "You will not hate him, Annie.' Mabel whispered the words, as we lay nestled together in our bed, her arm about my neck, my head pillowed on her bosom. 'No. Only the monosyllable. 66 "Isn't he handsome?", u "Yes." "And intellectual?" "Yes." 46 Such a splendid voice." It was a happy winter, that. We did not see much company, for father was naturally reserved, and we girls were too young to go out much, and our guest was in deep mourning. But we were happy in ourselves. We took long walks over the frozen ground, starting sometimes by sunrise and tarrying till a late breakfast hour. We skated at noon on the little gem of a lake that lay just beyond the village. We took sleigh-rides on moonlight nights. We got up a huge tree for the children of the tenantry at Christmas time, and had a merry time in the old kitchen with the servants on New Year's Eve. We interested ourselves in the parish, teaching in the school, visiting the sick and feeble, and spending many quiet hours in sewing for the poor. Stormy days never brought ennui. Father and Arthur read to us by turns, and Mabel and I played and sung for them. Yes, it was a happy winter. Early in the spring-time, before a flower had blossomed or a bird sang, father and Arthur went away-went back to Arthur's home, to settle up his business and properly instruct him into the onerous duties as master of a large landed estate, for the middle of April would make him twentyone. I do not know what he said to Mabel when he parted from her, for I had hurried from the breakfast room and ran into the garden, the flowerless garden. Cold, damp and dreary it was in the gray of the early dawn, but it suited me, for I felt cold, and I knew my cheeks were damp, and my heart dreary. I heard footsteps soon, and then a voice, a deep-toned, rich voice calling. I stopped my reckless pace and leaned against a tree, I could not see, I did not answer. She waited a few but I felt a hand take mine and hold it moments. So am I. We will go to sleep, and discuss him to-morrow.' I heard a whispered prayer, and soon a low, measured breathing. Sleep! How could she? I was wide awake as at noon. Talk! Ah, I knew then I should never talk to Mabel as I once had, turning my young heart inside out each night. It had a secret now. er. several minutes. I felt-ah! it thrills me yet a kiss upon my lips; I heard these words faltered, rather than spoken, "Good bye; God keep you, my darling." "My darling." I whispered the words to myself over and over again, as I walked back and forth in that old garden. I had not, then, given my heart unsought. He, Arthur Gerritt, loved me. My sister was weeping when I went inNev-to the house. "What is the matter, I said, tenderly." "O, it is so lonely, Annie. Two months is such a long, long time." We will shorten it by making our selves useful, Mabel." storm, and before I could reach even the gate of the avenue, was drenched to my skin. A servant who had gone to meet me, carried me into the house, for I was so chilled I had no strength to walk. All night I suffered, and the morning found me but little better. I was not patient with either fever or chill, for I wanted to be up and about. Father and Arthur would be at home by sunset. Could I rest contented in my chamber? We did so. I was even happier. My voice rung out all day like a spring bird's. The servants said I never walked any more, but danced-never talked, but sung. Our birthdays would come the middle of June. We should be eighteen, we, for we were twins. Father had given us a carte blanche on the furniture shops of the next I grew worse as the afternoon wore on. town, and while he was away we were to. But I persisted in sitting up, and would renovate the old Hall, all but his own. be dressed, too. Not in the new, white rooms. Everything in them had associa- robe, though, which had been finished the tions for him, and nothing must be trou- day before. No; I shook so with ague bled there. How we did work. Draw that I dared not put that on with its short ing-room, parlor, dining-room, library, sleeves and low neck; and my black silk, chambers, all were re-papered, re-painted, made close to the throat, with coat sleeves re-furnished. But it was on Arthur's too, was the one I chose; but my collar rooms that we were most lavish. We had and cuffs were of Honiton; my hair, too, the ceilings frescoed in imitation of the sky I would have curled, and it hung to my in June; the walls were hung with pearl-waist; my mother's cashmere shawl, a littinted paper; the carpets were of white grounds, with sprays of blue bells, and clusters of meadow violets; the windows were draped with curtains of lace, lined with soft azure silk; the chairs and sofas were of rosewood, cushioned with satin to mate the hue of the ceiling; delicate China roses lined the mantel, while silver baskets for fruits and flowers lined the stands and tables. We did not confine ourselves to the house alone. The garden, conservatory and grounds were carefully renewed. Choice exotics and flowering shrubs were purchased, and beautiful annuals and ornamental grasses sown. The village, too, received our attention. Cottages were whitewashed; trees set out; vines trained over lattices, and grass plots re-turfed. The children of the tenantry had all new clothes, with blue sashes and bows; the mothers had new caps and dresses, and the fathers new hats and linen. Everything went right, too. Perhaps because our hearts were in our labors. The servants blessed us at home, and the villagers when we went abroad. They were two months of happiness. I was returning home from a cottage to which I had been to carry a baby's dress, when I was overtaken by a violent thunder tle fortune in itself, I threw about me with a studied grace, and then tottered to the mirror. I sank upon the sofa, well satisfied with myself, for my dress became me, while the fever-flush upon my cheeks made my beauty almost bewildering. I insisted that Mabel should dress in white, the same as agreed upon before, and I made her twine a wreath of June rosebuds about her brow, fasten a knot of them to her bosom, and loop up the lace about the sleeves with the same. "Like an an "How do I look?" she exclaimed, as she turned from the mirror. I surveyed her an instant. "Like an angel!" I spoke emphatically, for I felt all I said. She did look like an angel, with her delicate complexion, only the faintest peach-blossom upon her cheeks, with her May-blue eyes and her golden hair, that encircled her brow like a June halo. gel," I repeated, and involuntary I glanc ed towards the portrait that hung above the mantel. It was of our mother, the gentle being who had lived only long enough to give our father his twin babes, and then passed away. Mabel was strikingly like her and inherited, too, all her delicacy of constitution, and-would die young, So every one had told me, from the family physician to the poor old pau |