"I

rain was falling softly against the window-
pane; but the dream had faded away.
think I will go home now;" and she rose
and wrapped her cloak about her.
It had a
little hood which she drew over her head, and
when she turned her white face, framed in the
dark frill, to Mrs. Esterly, her friend was
smitten with remorse. "It is not true. I
know it can't be true," the little woman said,
drawing Elinor's face down and kissing her
remorsefully.

"But why should it not be true?" Elinor
answered coldly, putting her aside. Poor
Elinor! who was trying thus to hide her
hurt. "If you think he has wronged me,
you are mistaken. There was never any
promise between us." And then she went
away, home.
How could she own that she
had urged him to make himself noble for her
sake, when he had not cared to return and
claim the reward?

V.

THE Cordises were to give a party upon the evening of the day which marked Deck's entrance into the great firm of Cordis, Cordis & Co. An additional flutter of excitement followed the invitations, since it was rumored that it was also to announce the engagement between the eldest Miss Cordis and the new junior partner. It was in truth a kind of feast of the Prodigal Son, over which Deck groaned and chafed in secret. Few of us like to confess our misdeeds to the sound of a trumpet.

"Have you accepted?" Mrs. Esterly asked Elinor. She hardly knew how to approach the subject, which had never been entered upon between them since that day when they sat together over the fire in the morning-room a month before.

fast any more. The taste of ashes was in her mouth.

"And then," Mrs. Esterly went on, too much engrossed with her own thoughts to heed the words, "they have been kind to Deck; I could almost love them for that." And real tears shone in her eyes. There was a little stab in the words with all their feeling for had not Elinor turned from him in that summer which seemed now so long gone by? Mrs. Esterly was not sure, she had never known the truth of it, but a little soreness had lingered in her heart towards the girl, believing this. But when one has had a heavy blow a lesser one is unheeded; and the stab was nothing to Elinor.

"Make yourself pretty to-night," was Mrs. Esterly's parting injunction. The soreness had passed away for the time, and love for Elinor predominated. It was a pity, after all, that Deck should be carried off by those Cordis girls, with their sharp black eyes and dusky faces that looked for all the world as though the smoke from the iron-works had drifted into their blood. She would make one effort at least to save him. Elinor smiled at the words a little sadly. So it had come to that! Only a few short months since the prettiness—if there had been any— had come of itself—a shining out of the inner warmth and joy. Now she was to make herself pretty. She remembered it again when she took up the delicate white robe laid out for her to wear. It brought back the night when

she last met Diedrich Lisle-when she stood in the door, faint and frightened-then Mrs. Esterly's words came back to her: "Make yourself pretty to-night." Like a snare? Ah! no, no, she could not do that. The dress fell from her hands-a heap of soft, yellow lace, of lilies and shining silk-as the tears gathered in her eyes. God forgive her! For a moment she almost wished Diedrich Lisle were what he had been a year before, so that he still were hers! Had she urged him to a better life only to see it offered elsewhere! Would another wear her crown? And must she join in the triumphal procession and sing pans over his return? Ah, it is like life! it is like God-she had almost said. Our desires, strong as prayers, are turned back upon us like daggers--to wound our hearts in the answering. Then she stood up frightened, aghast. What had she Poor Elinor's voice sounded sharp and said? What had she thought? O! how selfish strange, even to herself. But everything had had been all her efforts after all. She had changed to her. The lights had all gone out. thought only of blessing her own life through The beautiful world was shrunken and his. She had urged him to be everything shriveled. There was nothing true or stead-good and noble and true; but it was to be

"Yes," she replied. O! yes; she should go, of course, she thought, sighing. People always went; they dressed and danced, and laughed and sang, though the earth crumbled to atoms beneath their feet-as it would one day, perhaps, while the play went on. "They are not exactly our set," Mrs. Esterly said, meditatively. "But then one should not despise the bone and muscle of society." And she patted her silken knee while an expression of benevolence crossed her face.

"Especially where it is gilded," Elinor

said.

for her-O, for her. If she could forget herself! If she could rejoice in the happiness in which she held no part! Ah, if we could all do that, heaven would have come to us here!

"At least, I can bear it," she said; and maybe if she tried to make her heart strong under the burden the rejoicing would come by and by-who knew? Even with this thought came the divine lightening of the load, as though a hand mighty but unseen had touched it.

She laid away the pretty white robe, and chose in its place something heavy and dark and crimson. "How unseasonable!" Mrs. Esterly exclaimed, when Elinor came down to her at last. "And no ornaments! Why, Elinor, you have forgotten!"

"I have forgotten nothing," she answered; "except that you were to come so early. I am afraid I have kept you waiting."

"It is very odd," Mrs. Esterly said, critically, still examining Elinor's dress, "but, after all, exceedingly becoming, and so distinguished!" and she pulled with a dissatisfied air at the countless pale green bows upon her own gown, which seemed all at once overtrimmed.

jangle of joy, and a sudden gladness filled her heart-almost like the rejoicing which was to have come by and by.

They passed on down the rooms-Mrs. Esterly with a graceful word for the people it was safe to know, and a polite obliviousness to every one else.

"Mr. Jocelyn! A mercy, I am sure;" as Jack Jocelyn's countenance beamed upon them. "If you could take us out of this! I suppose there must be a place somewhere for one to breathe. Horrible is it not? There, that will do, thank you," when they had gained a wide corridor, comparatively empty, which led to the ball-room. "A galop, is it? Certainly, Elinor, I see Major Spence is trying to reach us; but it seems likely to be a work of time don't wait, I shall do nicely now, and you can find me here when you return." So Elinor, leaning upon Jack Jocelyn's arm, followed the crowd to the ball-room.

Such a wearisome dance as it was! with Jack Jocelyn radiant and happy, whispering she knew not what in her ear, while the music that tried to be gay but held ever a minor refrain, like a sad recollection, bore them on and on. "You are tired," he said at last, tenderly. "Why did you not tell me?" for Elinor's feet had suddenly lagged in the measure, while a strange faintness crept over her as, after one breathless pause, while her heart stood still and the blazing lights blurred and dimmed before her eyes, there came slowly borne to her down the length of the room the song which Deck had chanted upon the rocks the song which needed no words. It was nothing, he had said, without the twinkle of dancing feet.

"Take me away," she whispered; "O! Jack, please take me away."

It was late when they reached Merrivale Square and the Cordis mansion, every window of which was like a flame. "But one cannot be too late at such houses," Mrs. Esterly whispered, when they had gained the dressing-room. "It is something to escape one hour at least of martyrdom, and nobody knows how many awkward introductions to people one really cannot recognize again." Then she led the way to the rooms below. "A crush of course-such people always think there is strength in numbers." But the remark was lost upon Elinor, who was mak- It was a pretty little nest under the winding her stately courtesies and saying the words ing stairs where he led her; half hidden by a which one always says as in a dream, hardly curtain of trailing vines, softly lighted; a bower conscious of the flaring lights and gayly-dress- from an old song, all fragrant with heliotropes, ed throng about her, knowing only that all silver and pink-even to the rosebuds unDiedrich Lisle stood near. Her dress brush-der the slippered feet. She lay back in one of ed him as she passed, but his head was bent to the dark girl whose hand he had just released from his arm-Za Cordis, it was, who shook out her scarlet and gold plumage, and flashed a smile from her dusky eyes as the crimson gown swept by. With the passionate sweet strains of the waltz dying away upon her ear came a thrill of pain to Elinor. "But

I can bear it," she was saying to herself bravely. "O! I can bear it." For had she not caught a glimpse of his face-the handsome face made strong by a new purpose! The music changed into a wild cla

and

the delicate gothic chairs, her eyes closed, her hands fallen upon her knee--like a pictured queen who had found her crown heavy for the moment and so had laid it aside; like some poor young queen who carried a queen's heart-heavy and sad--Jack Jocelyn thought, and yet never guessing the truth; thinking only of her beauty and her weariness, and reproaching himself.

Suddenly the vines swayed and parted. It was Diedrich Lisle who flung the pretty green curtain aside, tearing it in his haste. "Eliimed. with a great gladness in

nor!"

THE SONG-SPARROW.

GLIMMERS gray the leafless thicket,
There, beside the garden gate,
Where so light from post to picket
Hops the sparrow, blithe, sedate,
Who, with meekly folded wing,
Comes to sun himself and sing.

It was there, perhaps, last year,
That his little house he built;
For he seems to perk and peer,
And to twitter, too, and tilt

The bare branches in between,
With a fond, familiar mien.

Once, I know, there was a nest,
Held there by the sideward thrust
Of those twigs that touch his breast;
Though 'tis gone now. Some rude gust

Caught it, over-full of snow,—
Bent the bush ;-and stole it so.

So too our own nests are tossed,
Ruthless, by the wreaking wind,
When, with stiffening winter's frost,
Woods we dwelt in, green, are thinn'd
Of leafage all, and grown too cold
For wing'd hopes purely summer-souled.

But if we, with spring-days mellow,
Wake to woful wrecks of change,
And the sparrow's ritornello
Scaling still its old sweet range;
Can we do a better thing

Than, with him, still build and sing?

O, my sparrow, thou dost breed
Thought in me beyond all telling;
Shootest through me sunlight, seed,
And fruitful blessing, with that welling
Ripple of ecstatic rest,

Gurgling ever from thy breast!

And thy breathing, breeze-like, stirs
In my veins a genial flood,
Such as through the sapwood spurs,
Swells and shapes the pointed bud
Of the lilac; and besets

The hollows thick with violets.

Yet I know not any charm

That can make the fleeting time

Of thy sylvan, faint alarm
Suit itself to this rough rhyme :
Still my ruder rhythmic word
Stifles thy rare strain, dear bird.

And, however thou hast wrought
This wild joy on heart and brain,
It is better left untaught.
Take thou up the song again:
There is nothing sad afloat

On the tide that swells thy throat.

THE LATER LIFE AND RELIGIOUS SENTIMENTS OF ABRAHAM

LINCOLN.*

WHILE the fate and future of the Christian | made to impute to him the vilest sentiments, religion in no wise depends upon the sentiments of Abraham Lincoln, yet the life and character of this remarkable man belong to the public, to tell for evil or for good on coming generations; and as the attempt has been

*The accompanying article was originally prepared by its author (the pastor of the First Presbyterian Church, in Springfield, Illinois), as a lecture, and has been repeatedly given in that form to various audiences. At the request of the Editor of SCRIBNER'S MONTHLy, to whom it seemed that the testimony contained in the lecture was of permanent value, it is here presented with slight alterations, and with no departure from the rhetorical style which was determined by its original purpose.

even to his dying day, it is fitting and just that the weakness and infidelity charged upon his later life should not go down unchallenged to posterity. The latest biography of Mr. Lincoln, published under the name of Col. W. H. Lamon, but with the large co-operation of Mr. W. H. Herndon, concerns itself with the endeavor to establish certain allegations injurious to the good name of that illustrious man, whose tragic and untimely death has consecrated his memory in the hearts of a grateful nation. Two charges in this biography are worthy of especial notice and disproof,-the charge that he was born a bastard, and the charge that he died an infidel. Mr. Lamon