"Is she dead, then?" "Not that I know of." 66 came in laughing. He had never known before, he thought, what wonderful eyes And you never lived with her in two she had. little rooms at a boarding-house?" "Not yet." They were not guarded to-day; they sported with him. He held out his hand, retaining hers a moment, as if to be "Nor were so devoted and good, and sure he touched it, then sat down in the all that?" "Alas! never yet." smoking-chair, and looked at her merrily. "So you thought me an old married "And she never had Deterioration of man all this while?" Any thing?" "Not that I ever heard of." "And she isn't insane, or an idiot?" "Decidedly not." "You mean, then," returned the lady, in some sense recovering her composure after this blow, "that you are not a married man?" "I certainly am not." "And never were?" "To the best of my knowledge and belief, never.' 66 'But we heard all about it," urged Mrs. Snowe, mournfully-"all the details-a great many times." "I don't doubt it," said the poet and lecturer. "I am always hearing my own biography in full, with variations according to the latitude and longitude. In Massachusetts, my wife is ill; in Maine, she is dead; in Texas, I am divorced; in California, I am engaged to an actress. I don't know whether the soul of man is immortal, but I know his gossip is. But really, I think this was funny.” "You knew I did!” "With an invalid wife, whom I—” "Never mind her, Sir." 66 Whom I was tired of?" "Naturally, yes." "You must have thought I behaved pretty well, considering." "Well, perhaps so, on the whole. But you insulted me, Sir, once." "I? You? Tell me what you mean." "I shall never tell you," cried Mildred, shaking her head with a sweet obstinacy. "But you did. I was very angry; I am a little angry yet. But never mind: I am glad to see you back. You look tired, though!" She turned toward him with a familiar affectionateness, like that of a very old friend. "I was in a hurry to get here," murmured Hogarth. She did not answer this. The windows were open, for the afternoon was warm, and the sounds of the approaching spring were in the air. The melting snow trickled somewhere unseen, like a brook beneath leaves. The first robin of the year sang as they sat listening. "Summer is coming," said Mildred. "You are happier in the summer? you are better?" he asked, with unconcealed tenderness. "Oh, so much better! Mrs. Hobson rolls me out upon the piazza roof. I mean to be taken down stairs this year. When I can touch grass with my foot, I shall be so grateful-so glad!" But Mrs. Snowe could not be reconciled. | Now she should never know what it was Deterioration of. She felt that she had been defrauded of a rare experience, and at first quite inclined to let Mr. Hogarth go to the Jessops' or the Hallowells' if he returned for the Parlor Course. She was much depressed the rest of the day; talked a good deal about her boy who was drown-ily, ed; thought if he had not had scarlatina so recently, he would have resisted the cramp; and said that if Jamie Lenna had not called so loud that day of the picnic, she should never have started and slipped, and poor Mildred would have been like other girls. They met next time like children. A beautiful joyousness seemed to be in the air that they might breathe it. Hogarth "You look glad," said Hogarth, dream"already. And you haven't touched the grass yet." An indefinable expression flitted over Mildred's forehead. She pushed her hair back as if to push it away. “Why are you so glad?" pursued the man, inexorably. "Why are you?" flashed the woman, turning upon him. She looked young and well, brimming with mischief. "I don't know," answered Hogarth, honestly enough. He really did not see He what they had to be glad about. thought he knew her too well for that. Perhaps, alas! perhaps he knew himself too well, besides. "But one thing; yes." 66 "And he might ask-that--to the day of doom; you would not yield.” "I hope not. I hope he would not "I know," said Mildred, more quietly. ask it." "I am glad, because-" "Well!" for she hesitated. "Because I really believe that you are my friend," continued she, simply. "I wish I were worthy!" "And would contribute to my happiness, would make my life easier, if you could." "God knows! Yes, if I could." "I thought so," said Mildred, contentedly; and then fell silent, as if there were nothing more to be said. Hogarth heard the robin plainly as they sat there, singing as if its heart would break with joy. But Mildred listened chiefly to the melting snow. "Why should it make you so glad," asked he, breaking the silence, "to know that we were friends-only friends? You have many such." No, not many such. But she did not tell him that. She said, in her sweet voice, with its minor ring: "If you had lain here for three years-perhaps you would understand. I can not explain." The man of the world looked down at her, perplexed; he did not understand this invalid girl. Many women would feel that he was playing a cruel, perhaps an unmanly, part; would withdraw, wounded, from his half assertions and his hints. Mildred did not withdraw. She advanced. Yet the child was as sensitive as the snow-drop that lay hidden yonder beneath the drift beside that happy brook they could not see. He wished he were sure that he understood her. He felt the extreme helplessness of a man in such a position, which is beyond the helplessness of the woman, inasmuch as it carries the responsibilities of both. A moment since, perhaps, he wished he could be sure that he understood himself. But he had forgotten that now. "A man who could be a friend, a real friend, to a woman situated as I am-" began Mildred, but paused. "What would you do," cried Hogarth, with rebellious eagerness, "for such a man? Say! tell me!" But she turned her face away from him. "You would do any thing for him-but one thing!" said he, savagely. "Would you not ask it if you were a man ?" "No, Sir!" Her voice rang through the sad blue room, strong and sweet and assured. Hogarth looked at her-blindly. "But sick people have ma- have felt differently. All do not judge so." "No; all do not judge so." "And people have been-have risked it-have been very happy," urged the Really he had not meant to go man. so far. He was stung by being baffled. She knew that better than himself. She turned to him; a certain haggardness came about her mouth and chin. "Mr. Hogarth! I thought you were to be my friend!” He felt the appeal. He got up abruptly and walked to the window, talking no more to her. Pretty soon he said: "It is time for me to go and look over my lecture," and so went away. After lecture he seemed tired, and Mrs. Snowe was interested in an account of a female electrician who had come to town. Did Mr. Hogarth think it would be wise for Mildred to try her? "How can I tell?" cried Hogarth, rudely enough, but there was distress in his voice. Mildred looked on mildly; she was sorry for him-sorrier for him than for herself. "I wish," pleaded Hogarth, more gently, "if you feel able, that you would sing to me to-night, Miss Mildred-pardon the consummate conceit of it-that song of my own you were so kind as to like." "Very well," said Mildred, in a motherly way, as if he had the headache and needed petting. Mrs. Snowe went to the piano. She had a lady-like touch, and Mildred sang, "When the tide comes in," from beginning to end. It was a passionate song, and not without power. It was the best he had ever done, better than he would ever do again; he knew that. The girl's controlled, sweet voice gave a soul to the fair body of the rhythm, which it seemed to him had waited for one always until now. But as he sat with his hand above his eyes to listen, he thought, "It is a | elm branch that overhung the piazza was lost soul." The lecturer on Antiquities, in the Citizens' Star List, did not give the Parlor Course in the town of Hamlet. He and Mrs. Martin B. Hallowell compromised upon a single lecture, his famous "Legends of the Sphinx," to be read in Mrs. Hallowell's drawing-room upon a day in April-a severely selected day, when Hamlet had no Church festivals, Shakspeare Club, sewing circles, private theatricals, prayer-meeting, or rival lecturer upon its mind, and Mr. Hogarth was not pre-engaged to enlighten the rural New England intellect upon the matter of Antiquities in any other direction. In the interval between Antiquities and the Sphinx he wrote to Mildred thus: "DEAR MISS MILDRED,-I have decided against the course on Egyptology, very reluctantly; but shall visit Hamlet once more by a special business arrangement with the committee of ladies who were interested in the matter. I thought I should like you to be the first to know of my decision. It seems, on the whole, to be the wisest and best thing. I wish to do the wise and right thing if I can. "I hope you are suffering no more than usual. "I shall be your mother's guest again for this last time. "I am, most sincerely, yours, HENRY HOGARTH." But when he came, all that broke down. The man meant to be prudent-cruelly prudent, perhaps. But he had not seen her for two weeks. She was out on the piazza roof when he came, in her invalid's chair, looking very sweet and calm and happy, trustfully gazing over the railing at the thin and pale grass that sprang below-the grass she could not yet set her poor feet upon. A mad impulse came to him to snatch her in his arms and carry her down into the throbbing spring, and say, "I'll hold you here till you, too, live again!" For it might be-who knew? Love had raised the dying. Mildred was not dying. Joy was God's great healer. What if joy were all she needed! If happiness could cure tender and tremulous with buds; the soft air stole by; it was growing green in between the irregular stones of the old flagged walk. What do you expect," he cried at length, impatiently-"what do you expect of a man in just my place?" "I expect nothing," replied the woman, quietly. "But what would you do if you were I?" A superb light shot through and through her face. "Never mind what I would do if I were a man. I am not." "Such acquaintances, such friendships, ending nowhere, meaning nothing”— he began. But at this, for the first time, Mildred winced. He cried out then, hating himself, angry, tender, wise, and mad at once-a man! "Oh, forgive me! I meant, nothing to the world-nothing to other people." She was silent. tween his teeth. "You despise me!" said Hogarth, be "Oh no. Heaven knows, no!" "You think me a coward, then?" But she was silent still. "I have to think, to judge, for two," urged the man, hotly and justly enough. "It is not that," she said. "I wish I'd never written you that accursed note!" he began. But Mildred said, "Mother is coming." She had grown a little pale. Mrs. Hobson came out and offered her some of the Life Food. He came to bid her good-by when the lecture on the legends of the Sphinx was over. It was late, for Mrs. Martin B. Hallowell had invited some of our best people to meet him. And in the morning he took an early train for-Omaha, Mildred believed. Mrs. Snowe was present. They talked of Egyptology and the Jessops, Mrs. Hallowell, and the Swedish Movement Cure. Then they shook hands, and he closed the door softly-he had always closed it 'Good God!" he said, brokenly; "I more softly and thoughtfully than any believe I could make you happy." But Mildred answered, "Hush!" They sat together for a little, quite silent. Mrs. Snowe and Mrs. Hallowell were chattering down stairs about the Sphinx. Mrs. Hobson, in the blue room behind them, trundled to and fro. The one in the house. And then Mrs. Hobson came in, and rolled up the round stand, brought the ice-water, wrung out the wet towel, set the milk behind the Cologne bottle, and the crackers on the chair, measured off the Life Food, put the chamomilla within reach, and fixed the fire. LL out for which excites the envy of the less fortunate neighboring resorts. Husbands and fathers flee from the hot and crowded city for a Sunday of quiet and content with their happy families, who year VOL LIX.-No. 351.-25 after year find a refuge of peace and com- | ye jest highst into my team." So saying, fort in this charming New England town. Where is it? Ask almost any one familiar with the picturesque boroughs of the Housatonic, and this village will be among the first to be described. From the platform of the car we step into the midst of a motley assemblage. rustic peasantry and fashionable aristocracy intermingled. Anxious faces and eager gazes meet you at every turn. For a few minutes the air fairly rings with kisses, as children welcome fathers, and fathers children. Strange vehicles crowd the dépôt-vehicles of all sizes and descriptions, from the veritable onehoss shay" to the dainty basket-phaeton of fashion. One by one the merry loads depart, while I, a pilgrim to my old home, stand almost unrecognized by the familiar faces around me. Leaning up against the porch near by, stands a character which, once seen, could never be forgotten. His face is turned from me, but the old straw hat I recognize as the hat of ten years ago, with brim pulled down to a slope in front, and pushed up vertically behind, and the identical hole in the side with the long hair sticking through. Yes, there he stands-Amos Shoopegg. I step up to him and lay my hand upon his shoulder. With creditable skill he unwinds the twist of his intricate legs, and with an inquiring gaze turns his good-natured face,toward me. "Is it possible that you don't remember me, Shoop?" I With an expression of surprise he raises both his arms. "Wa'al, thar! swaiou! I didn't cal'late on runnin' agin yeu. I was jes drivin' hum from taownmeetin', an' thought as haow I'd take a turn in, jest out o' cur'osity. Wa'al, naow, it's pesky good to see yeu agin arter sech a long spell. I didn't recognize ye at fust, but I swan when ye began a-talkin', that was enuff fer me. Hello! fetched yer woman long tew, hey? Haow air yeu, ma'am? hope ye'er perty tol'ble. Don't see but what yeu look's nateral's ever; but yer man here, I declar for't, he got the best on me at fust:" and after having thus delivered himself, he swallowed up our hands in his ample fists. "Yes, Shoop, I thought I'd just run up to the old home for a few days." "Wa'al, I swar! I'm tarnal glad to see ye, and that's a fact. Any body cum up arter ye? No? Well, then, s'posin' he unhitched a corrugated shackle-jointed steed, and backed around his indescribable impromptu covered wagon—a sort of a hybrid between a "one-hoss shay" and a truck. Tain't much of a kerridge fer city folks to ride in, that's a fact," he continued, "but I cal'late it's a little better'n shinnin' it." After some little manœuvring in the way of climbing over the front seat, we were soon wedged in the narrow compass, and, with an unfragrant horse-blanket over our knees, we went rattling down the hill toward the village and home of my boyhood. Years have passed since those days when as a united family we dwelt under that old roof; but those who once were children are now men and women, with divided interests and individual homes. The old New England mansion is now a homestead only in name, known so only in recollections of the past and the possibilities of the future. "Wa'al, thar's the old house," presently exclaimed Amos, as we neared the brow of a declivity looking down into the valley below. "Don't look quite so spruce as't did in the old times, but Merchant's a good keerful tenant, 'tain't no use talkin'. I cal'late yeu might dig a pleggy long spell afore yeu could git another feller like him in this 'ere patch." 66 In the vale below, in its nest of old maples and elms, almost screened from view by the foliage, we look upon the familiar outlines of the old mansion, its diamond window in the gable peering through the branches at us. Skedup!" cried Amos, as he urged his pet nag into a jog-trot down the hill, through the main street of the town. The long fence in front of the homestead is soon reached, a sharp turn into the drive, a "Whoa, January!" and we are extricated from the wagon. "Wa'al, I'll leave ye naow. I guess ye kin find yer way around," said Shoop, as with one outlandish geometrical stride he lifted himself into the wagon. Cordially greeted by our hostess, with repeated urgings to "make ourselves at home," we were shown to our room. The house, though clad in a new dress, still retained the same hospitable and cozy look as of old. Hometown, owing to some early local faction, is divided into two sections, forming two distinct towns. One, Newbor |