for her; perhaps the slippers would re-
mind him of the past, and revive old feel
ings; she took up the velvet and com-
menced to trace the pattern; she counted
out the beads and threaded her needle
with growing interest in her work. Mem-
ory whispered soft and touching things in
ber ear,
and love seemed to grow anew in
her heart. An unutterable longing took
possession of her to be able to present
those slippers and have them received in
the same spirit which made the old ones so
precious.

Tears often started and hid the pattern from view, but she resolutely brushed them aside, and went on with her work. Hope began to sing in her heart, and she smiled even while her eyes were glittering with

tears.

the invited guests. Kittie had shown so much interest in the party, and had exerted herself so energetically, that she had imparted something of her feelings to all the family. The children were hilar cus, and even Mr. Hunter owned that Kittie's plan wasn't such a bad one after all. The feast was appreciated by all, and Kittie's wedding-cake was the crowning dish. But there was an after-piece upon which the little maiden had expended her utmost skill. Upon a side-table she had arrang ed the presents for the husband and wife, and she was delighted at their variety and beauty.

Each child had a present for father and mother, and every guest, in obedience to a considerate hint from the originator of the festivities, had brought a token of reKittie bad spent all her money in the purchase of two silver napkin rings, and in additiou to all these were the slippers and a handsome dress-pattern from Mr. Hunter to his wife,

Auntie, why don't you smile often-membrance. er?" cried Kittie. "I never saw you look so pretty before. I love you better when you smile!"

These words of Kittie's chimed in with Mrs. Hunter's musings, and gave them a new tone. "I love you better when you smile!" she did go about with a shaded brow, almost always, and smiles and cheerful words were best to win love, and to keep love, too. To keep love! The thought darted through her mind like a lightning flash. To keep love! bad she tried to keep the love of her husband? had she nurtured it as such a tender plant should be nurtured? had she indeed loved him as she ought?

"No, no," said reproving consc'ence. and Mrs. Hunter realized for the first time how great had been that treasure which she had so lightly treated.

Well, the slippers were completed, and their creation affected a beautiful moral work. In re-producing the old pattern, which, when a young wife she had wrought for her lover husband, there had been a corresponding revival of the love, the hope, and the sweet emotions which actuated her then; all tempered, it is true, by yearning regret and trembling fear for the future.

The slippers were finished. and very handsome they were, too. Kittie said they were fine enough for any maiden to present to her lover.

The wedding day arrived, and with it

Kittie led her uncle and aunt to this table, and displayed each gift with glad enthusiasm. The recipients were quite astonished and overcome. The presentation of the dress brought a gush of tears to Mrs. Hunter's eyes, and with a trembling voice she begged her husband to accept her gift.

Astonishment and incredulity were first depicted upon the good man's face; then as he noted that the slippers were the counterparts of those given on a similar occasion, so long ago. he cried, "My dear, dear wife! and you worked these for me ?"

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Yes. for you! "With all your cares and work! how can I thank you?"

Do you see what they are like? asked Kittie.

Indeed, I remember those old slip

pers."

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And do you remember what you said when I gave them to you ? you said you prized them more highly than though a queen had wrought them with jewels," said Mrs. Hunter.

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· And I say the same of these!" said Mr. Hunter, delighted, yet half ashamed to show how very much he was pleased

and touched. This was enough to brim the cup of his wife with joy, and through all that day she blessed in her heart the little maiden who had constituted herself mistress of ceremonies, and by virtue of that office flitted about, directing everything with the most engaging vivacity.

our sight, and we heard the pleasant murmur of waters, as we descended one of the hills that led to Deep Hollow, place rightly named, for it was a deep, smiling, verdant hollow, environed by hills, and all around our path was the trailing Christmas green, and soft, green mosses, and small, The influence of that wedding-party did delicate, graceful vines, intermingled with not die away with the departing hours. coral-hued berries. All over the hills were Kittie had only thought to make a happy green cedar trees, mingling with other time for all, but unconsciously to her, her trees of various hues of crisp leaves, and plan had wrought a far holier mission. we seemed in that sweet spot, apart from It hal warmed two cold hearts, rent the the rest of the universe- dwellers in the veil between them, and brought them near Happy Valley" of our finest and best to each other once more. Love was born ideals, surrounded by a delicious calm and anew and baptized with penitence and rest, partaking not of earth. Still, not hope. And is love less sweet and pre-long did we stay, even in this blest place, cious to the husband and wife of a score of years than to the groom and bride? Let us leave them, then, while they are in the sunshine.

DEEP HOLLOW.

BY MRS. E. LOUISA MATHER.

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for we heard the sound of the brook, and on we sped through bush and through briar, up hill and down, through the wither ed leaves, till, at last, we came to the brook, with its miniature waterfalls, rolling peacefully along with voice of song, to the bosom of the river. On both sides of the brook were numerous trees lining the gentle acclivities, and several large, isolated ones, seemed to be sertinels, as it were, to this enchanted ground. We found a very large, mossy rock overhanging the waters, while the branches of the trees met

There are Edens still upon our earthshore, guarded by no flaming swords of angels-but where angels might delight to come, yea, where they do come and commune with mortals, and help them on in their thorn-lined path, as they are jour-overhead, and formed an arbor, and the neying onwards to the celestial city of our earnest hope and love. It was on a bright, pleasant, November day, that mine own "familiar friend" and myself started for Deep Hollow, our Eden of rest and communion. Our way, at first, was over an old, almost disused road, and as we climbed its hils, we looked back upon the Connecticut in its calm beauty, had a view of the hills on the other side, and of the Congregational and Episcopal churches, located on our side. The latter, with its ancient bell, recalled many recollections and hallowed associations of my vanished childhood, when I was baptized therein, and became a "member of Christ, a child of God, and an inheritor of the kingdom of heaven."

On we went, plucking some late blue flowers, purposely left for us, I believe, by Flora, herself, on the road-side, and then our path lay across the fields, and the mingled forest-hues presented themselves to

trunk of a fallen tree served as a seat, while we looked at the mimic falls and listened to their music. There was a deep place in the brook, where the clear waters gurgled down, giving such a bass, while our hearts kept up a chiming with the har mony of the winds and waters, and we sang the refrain of the familiar hymn, "We are going home to die no more,' until we indeed felt, that Death was vanquished, and Life undying, clear and beautiful, was evolved therefrom.

How many a mount of transfiguration lies off in the coolness and serenity of the forest, where our souls, child-like, bounds upward, to the Source of all-embracing Love, and we exclaim from the inmost depths of beatific calmness and joy, "Oh! our Father, it is good for us to be herehere, where life's turmoil enters not, where its cares are hugged to rest on the bosom of mother-earth-even as the infant lies in the parent-arins, shielded from all

and animating hope. Is there nothing among this dissolving mass of decay, on which we may rely? Is there no haven when the tempests threaten, and the sky grows black? Yes, there is. Goodness can never die! Amidst the shadows that are flitting around us, and the things that are "passing away,' there is one Being in whom we may trust, and not be confounded; there is one principle that mocks

and disappointments. We look on the as a leaf," admonishes us of the truth, we ruddy youth, with sparkling eyes, and are passing away." are passing away." There is a sensaruddy cheek; but a few suns roll over our tion of instability which steals over the heads, and he has become a man in the soul, whether we contemplate the ruins of vigor and glory of his being. A few more the old world, or the things of the new; years sweep along, and old age, with its whether we meditate on ourselves, or the infirmities and sorrows, has come, and soon breathing forms around us. But let us the young, the joyful, the accomplished turn, for a moment, from this consideraman has passed away and gone. "Pass-tion to another truth, fraught with comfort ing away is written on the monumental piles of human skill and wisdom. The wild foliage runs along the crumbling tower, the ivy is creeping along the shattered walls and among the crevices of the falling bricks and stones. Where is the mighty forum of ancient Rome? her pedestals, her towers, and her altars? In the place which they once occupied, the wild bird screams and the serpent hisses; the proud turrets that once kissed the clouds, lie in mouldering ruins beneath the feet of the traveller; the halls which once rang with song, and resounded with eloquence, are buried in their own fragments, and desolations have stalked amid the courts of science, and laid low the altars of religion. Where once the voice of beauty and loveliness was heard, and the strains of music entrance the car- -the tall weeds sigh in the rustling breeze; the pathway to the rostrum is choked up with broken fragments, and the hearth-stone is the adder's den. What is said of this once gorgeous city may be said of hundreds of others, that have passed away:

"Earthly things

Are but the transient pageants of an hour,
And earthly pride is like the pas ing flower,
That springs to fill, and blossoms but to die."

The truth of these words, "passing away," is not simply seen in the mouldering ruins of the past; not alone found in old dilapidated castles, ruined cities, and moss-covered abbeys - but we feel its power in ourselves, by our cheerful firesides. In our happy homes. Our friends are passing away.' We hardly have time to trace all their virtues, to know their excellencies, before we must give them the reluctant adieu. Change and death regard not the tenderness of affection's ties; tears cannot move them to spare the bands that bind us to those we love. Our experience, bitter as it is, is the voice of inspiration, "we all do fade

the tooth of time, and the rasure of ohlivion." Though all earthly forms vanish and elude our grasp. though the loftiest domes crumble and fall, though friend af ter friend is sent away, and the clods of the valley cover all that was most dear, we may confide with safety in God.

While, then, the thoughts of the world's changes and its vanities, and its instabili ty, may, for the moment, depress the heart and sadden the feelings, let us look through the dim twilight of earth, to the ever-radiant light of heaven. Let us prac tice goodness and trust in it,

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Though earth were from her centre toss'd,

And mountains in the ocean lost."

I DARE NOT WALK ALONE.

BY MRS. E. M. BRUCE.

"Preserve me, O, God, for in Thee do I put my trust.

I dare not walk lone;
Although I ponder well

The path my feet shall tread,
I dare not walk this thorny path,
This valley of the dead,

Unless I trust His mighty arm,
Which safely keepeth me from harm,
And through life's deep and dreary ses,
Still leadeth me.

I dare not walk alone;
Wi ere falsehood and deceit
Besiege my yielding soul.

I dare not bear life's trying test.
When I cannot control
My daily moods, unless I trust
His arm, who is, and ever must
Through life's dark, and dreary sea,
My Guardian be.

Editor's Table.

"I have looked over land, I have looked over
ser,"

penetrating the oll forests,---diving down into
the ocean depths, and invoking the spirit of in-
spiration to lend me its divine aid, but all in
vain. The Dryads of the woods and the Nai-
ads of the waves even the gods of Olympus
maliciously wag their heads and nothing do re-
ply. In this extremity, what shall I do? shall
I invoke the grim monarch who now reigns
despotic alike over the land and all that is
beautiful and fair in nature? Nay, it is he
that has touched the fountains of thought with
his congealing hand, until, like the waters of
the stream that all the summer rippled merri-
ly along through the green meadow, they have
apparently ceased to flow, but have they ceased
to flow? Bend down your ear to the thick rib-
bed ice, and hear how, under its cold and un
yielding surface, the merry waters gurgle and
sing and make delicious melody, still dancing
along, far down out of sight, as unceasingly and
joyously as in the gayest spring-time.
not the thoughts, too, that have seemed frozen
and dead under the ice of wintry care, per-
chance, still make melody and flow on, albeit
hidden from the sunshine and in the dark? ́

May

But what of winter? Only an hour ago and winter seemed beautiful and grand. Far off in the distance, the long, undulating line of hills lay blue in the sunshine, their hoary crowns tinted and glowing with gold and purple. The dim, receding valleys that stretch between, smiled a soft and dreamy smile, glorified by the yellow, transparent haze, that like an Indian summer, has for days enwrapped them. The elms in the foreground, like grand old soldiers, slowly waved their graceful arms in the wintry

breeze, bowing superbly to one another. The distant village spire stood out clear against the azure sky, ever pointing up to heaven, and through the vistas opened by winter's busy pioneer, Jack Frost, I could see many a snug and home-like cottage sending up into the clear atmosphere its spiral column of smoke, indicative of warmth and cheer within.

But an hour has gone by, and a change has passed over the landscape. The sky is saddened with the gathered storm. The air thick with snow-flakes, and the wide vist narrowed to a brief circumference, marked by a circle of dim and naked trees looming spectral in the uncertain day light. The village spire has disappeared behind the white veil now drooping from heaven to earth. But the tall elms stand up, motionless and dark, against the fleecy background, each pendant bough gradually assuming a rounded and delicate beauty as the soft flakes one after another lovingly wrap them about. By to-morrow morning every shrub and tree will be lovelier than those "phantom bouquets" whose snow-white, exquisite traceries, trembling against a back ground of purple velvet, now constitute the most royal gems of so many a lady's drawingroom. The tall old hemlocks will bend their green and heavy branches under the weight of their snowy garniture. The snow-birds will come around the door to pick up the scattered crumb, and frolic in the wintry element they seem to love so well.

Winter indeed has its charms- but it has its terrors too. The merry skater loves it, but the thin-clad beggar hugs himself in the sharp cold and goes shivering on his way. The youthful sleighing party, enveloped in warm furs and brilliant with youth and health, exhilarated by the swift motion, the noise of the merry bells, and the champing of the silver bits, exclaims, There is no season like win ter!" But the dreary-faced, poverty-stricken child that looks on in the cold, and whines for

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