poor Lady Ogilvie, through her long illness, never quitting her until she died."

"Ah," said David, looking very grave, "that was an awful story! I always said there was something not right about Lynedon. He wasn't a true soul;" and the energetic hand came down upon the table with a sound that quite startled Mrs. Pennythorne.

"I beg your pardon, ma'am," Drysdale went on, "but when I think of that poor Mrs. Ogilvie, it makes me hate him. Mrs. Lancaster would have told fine lies about them if Philip Wychnor had not stopped her mouth. But I never believed any thing against that beautiful, earnesthearted creature.

"Nor I-for her poor mother died speaking quite happily of the dear Katharine whom she was going to meet. And I do believe, Mr. Drysdale, that she knew all the story, though no one else did. I fancied, and Miss Eleanor too, that it was told in the letter which Mrs. Ogilvie wrote just before that strange wedding. We found it under the mother's pillow, and it was put in her coffin by her desire."

"Poor things! Well, it's better to give up the humanities altogether. One can make very tolerable children of one's books-quiet babies, too; always turn out well, and don't die before oneself. Perhaps, some of these days, our young friend here may envy such a ragged childless old philosopher as I."

However, Mrs. Pennythorne did not accept it. She never left her husband in an evening now, she said; and she had not far to go-only to her son's, where they were staying with Fred. "He rather likes to have us there, now Isabella is so much away; and we like it too, because of the baby. It is a great comfort to have a grandchild; and he is such a beauty!" said Mrs. Pennythorne. "I sometimes think he has my Leigh's eyes, but I would not let them call him so.'

And though she spoke contentedly, and even smiled, it was easy to see that the mother's thoughts were with her lost darling still.

Then she went away, and the husband and wife stood for the first time by their own hearth not quite calmly, perhaps, for Philip's voice trembled, and Eleanor's long lashes were cast down, glittering with a joyful tear. But the husband kissed it away, and then stretched himself out in the arm-chair, book in hand, to "act the lazy," as he said, while she made tea. He did not read much, apparently, for he held the volume upside down; and when his wife stood beside him with the tea, he drew her bright face down to his with a fondness that threw both cup and saucer into imminent peril.

Then they wandered together about the room and the house, admiring every thing, and talking of a thousand happy plans. Eleanor sat down to the piano and began to sing, but her But just then, as Drysdale looked on the tones faltered more than once; and Philip tried cheerful, smiling room, and thought of his own to read aloud, but it would not do—both their gloomy attic, the faintest shadow of a doubt hearts were full of happiness so tremulous crossed his mind. Mrs. Pennythorne sat gazing and deep. At last Eleanor made her huson the fire, the expression of her soft brown band lean back in his arm-chair, while she eyes deepened by a memory which his words had came and sat at his feet, laying her head on his awakened-a memory not sad now, but calm and knee. Thus they rested, listening to the wailing holy. If the newly-married pair could have of the stormy wind outside, which made more beheld her, and then regarded the quaint, rest-blessed the peace and stillness of their own dear less-eyed, lonely old man, they would have home. clasped each other's hands, and entered on life without fear, knowing that "it was not good for man to be alone."

David Drysdale staid a little while longer, and then departed. Mrs. Pennythorne's thoughtful mood might have ended in sadness, but that she found it necessary to bestir herself in erasing the marks of two muddy, clumsy boots from the pretty carpet. She had scarcely succeeded when the long-desired arrival was heard.

Who shall describe the blessed coming home -the greeting, all smiles and tears and broken words; the happy, admiring glances around; the fire-side corner, made ready for the bride; the bonnet-laden handmaid, rich in courtesies and curiosity; until the door closes upon the little group ?

"Now, my Eleanor," said the young husband, "welcome home!"

"Welcome home!" echoed Mrs. Pennythorne, almost ready to weep. But very soon Philip took her hand, and Eleanor fell on her neck and kissed her almost like a daughter. Then they both thanked her tenderly, and said how pleasant it was to have her kind face awaiting them on their arrival.

"You will stay with us and keep this NewYear's Eve, dear friend?" said Philip. It certainly cost him something to give the invitation, but he did it warmly and sincerely, feeling it was due.

They talked not wholly of joy, but of gone-by sorrow-even of death. They spoke with a solemn tenderness of Hugh-of Katharine-and then of him who, if still living, was to them like as one numbered with the dead. Paul Lynedon had passed away and was seen no more. Whether he wore out existence in anguished solitude, or sought oblivion in reckless pleasure-perhaps crime, no one then knew, and no one ever did know. The sole record of him lay in a little daisy-covered grave, on whose stone was the name "Katharine Lynedon.'

66

And, dearest," said Philip, "when I stood beside it last, in that peaceful, smiling church-yard where you and I will go to see it one day-I thought of the almost frenzied man who drove me from him, venting his sorrow in curses, not prayers. Perchance the poor heart beneath my feet might have lived to know a bitterer sorrow still. And I said to myself, 'So best! so best!'"

Eleanor kissed the hand on which her cheek rested, and both fell into a thoughtful silence. Then they spoke no more of the past. Hour by hour the old year waned, and the young husband and wife still sat talking, in happy yet grave confidence, of their coming future-of Philip's future, for hers was absorbed in his.

"It shall be a life good and great, and full of honor," said the wife, fondly; "I know it will!" "If I can make it so, Heaven helping me," answered Philip. "But Eleanor, darling, it is a

"And, my own husband, when after all our

hard life, too. We, who work at once with heart, soul, and brain, have many a temptation to strug-sorrows we rest here, heart to heart, looking back gle with, and many a sorrow to bear; and they on the past as on a troubled dream, wherein we who love us must bear much likewise for us, and remember only the love that shone through all, with us; sometimes, even, from us." let us think of those who still go on in darkness, loving, struggling, suffering. Let us pray that they may have strength to endure, waiting until the light come. Oh, Philip, God grant that all who love purely, truly, faithfully, may find at last, like us, a blessed home!"

"I fear not," whispered Eleanor; "I, too, will enter on my life saying, in my husbandd's words, 'Heaven helping me.' And Heaven will help us both; and we will walk together, handin-hand, each doing our appointed work until our lives' end."

"Be it even so, my true wife, the helpmeet God has given me !" was the low answer.

"Amen!" said Philip Wychnor.

And with that prayer the first hour of the New Year dawned.

THE END.