speech-not to say anything about grammar. But it was in her heart that the angel dwelt, and made it just a heavenly home of love for the little mother - deserted children that she gathered into its almost boundless realm. And how they loved her! how they pulled her about and hugged her half to death, and nearly teased her out of the other half! And she hugged her chains this much- enslaved Aunt Dic-and comforted her heart with their abundant love. It was a sight when, surrounded by her family, she set out for the barn on a winter's day, in her homespun flannel gown, her thick, quilted hood shading her quaint, thin face, a bright shawl crossed upon her breast and tied behind, to look after a young lamb or calf, or to inspect the chicken-house and see that the hens were all snug and comfortable; for Aunt Dic's motherly care spread itself over and around every living thing that came within her dominion. In summer, she had her flower-garden, famed throughout the land for its rare, sweet bloom. She taught the children the gentle lore of these, God's lowly darlings of field and wood, and led them in the quiet ways of peace and love and sweet content. And David blessed her out of his sorrow-stricken heart. Poor David! he grew bent and old and silent; gentle and loving with his family, and at peace with all about him; but always with the gray shadow of grief upon his face-his heart always wandering out among the hills in search of the lost lamb.

So slipped the years away, with no more startling changes at the Homestead. Anna was a young lady—indeed, almost an old young lady-only that she was of the kind that "don't grow old, if they live to be a thousand," as Alviny White expressed it. She was the real housekeeper, though giving sweet deference to Aunt Dic, who still reigned supreme, though her office was but a sinecure. Her only work was in the garden, now superb in its perfected loveliness, under years of careful culture. James and Bessie and Tom had all come swiftly along the way of girlhood and boyhood to the earnest life awaiting them, just over the fairy borders; and all at once, as it seemed, the boys were young men and little Bess was a young lady. Grandpapa was dead, and Aunt Roxy lived alone with Ned, now almost a young gentleman, like his cousins; and next year he was to enter the university at Burlington. Ned had fairly spun through his studies; his strong, quick brain had made sport of it. It was good to see a student so strong and ruddy and full of gayety. Ned was a great favorite at the farm; his cousins were fond and proud of him, and Aunt Dic counted him in with her flock.

The farm, the "Homestead," as they called it, as if it were the only one, belonged to Roxy, though David had always lived upon it, paying but little rent. They were both "well off," with money at interest.

"David ought to have a little the best chance," Roxy used to say, "he has so many to provide for, while I have but one, and a boy at that. And David's children deserve all that can be done for them; they're good children, every one. Oh, poor little Ruby! Where on this great earth can the precious child be?" Alas, the silence had but deepened with the years, and no cry of their heart had been able to pierce its mystery.

Busy at their work, one summer morning, were the "good children" of the Homestead; Jamie and Sam were with their father in the field, Anna and Bess were brightening up the house. Bess, with her brown hair tucked under a dainty sweeping cap, had just finished "doing" the rooms, and was sitting in the porch with a feather-duster in her hand. Bessie was "good to look at," Aunt Dic said. Oh, such laughing, sweet, gray eyes, such deep dimples in her rosy cheeks, such merriment in voice and laughter! Golden-haired Anna, tall and graceful, with a faint, sweet rose-bloom on her cheeks, stood by the mantel, arranging some of Aunt Dic's flowers, just under a smiling, sweet Madonna. Anna, too, was smiling, with her head a little turned toward Bess, who was telling her some droll story. The ring of Bessie's merry laugh reached to the garden, where Aunt Dic, with her "shaker” pushed well back from her face, was stopping to rest her back—also, to get the effect of her trimming on a geranium. She had a fashion of talking to herself, or rather, to her flowers.

"Now did you ever hear anything like that Bess! forever a-laughing, and as bright as a buttercup. But who in the world is that, comin' up the lane so early? Looks suthin' like Roxy and Ned," she said, shading her eyes with her hand, as she looked down the elm-shaded lane. "But who in time have they got with 'em? I don't s'pose Ned is bringin' any more old bachelors to see Bessie," and the dear old soul laughed at the memory of some of Ned's pranks, and, wiping the mirthful tears that rose into her eyes, she left a smirch of earth on both cheeks-the geranium had its revenge.

"That Ned is such a mischief," she continued, "but Bessie's up to him, now, I tell ye!" By that time the visitors were well in sight. "Yes, that's Roxy and Ned, and I think it's likely that's the new minister. They say he's a nice man, and an awful smart preacher, but I know he can't come up to Father Parmalee

never. Well, I'll take off my big gloves, and go in and see 'em. I must take a nosegay to Roxy, though. There wouldn't nobody else git this rosy"-cutting a tea rose-"and here, she's so fond of mignonette; now, some of these sweetscented violets; now it needs some red-well, oh dear! yes, it's got to go," and she snapped off a carnation that was bursting with the weight of its sweetness. "There, I guess that'll suit her; now I'll go in." Aunt Dic moved as she spoke, with gentle deliberation.

"Why, what upon earth! everybody in highsterics! David droppin' into a chair, as white as a sheet, and starin' at the new minister, and the girls cryin' round Roxy's neck! Neddie, what on earth's it all about?"

"Oh, Aunt Dic! come in, come in! it's my father!"

when he met Parsons. How, at last, without a suspicion of the truth, Jerry had started to come home, only to see the old friends, and return again to California; how, upon reaching his sister's, he had learned the fact that his wife was living, that Parsons had come home very rich, and finally eloped with Angeline; and at last she told him that he had learned, on his way home, that Parsons and Angeline were in Virginia City. At that David cried out:

"Ruby! O my God! shall I find her?”

The fountain of that great deep, that unutterable sea of woe in David's heart, was broken up, and from it came such sobs as must have broken from old Jacob's heart when he knew that Joseph, his son, was yet alive.

Oh! to wrest a treasure from the very arms of death! Out of the silence of years, to hear

"Oh, Aunt Dic!" said smiling Roxy, "it's Jerry-it's my husband-don't you know him?" "For heaven's sake!" said bewildered Aunt Dic, faintly, as she dropped into a chair beside the door, and pushing back her “shaker," took a long look at that weather-beaten, smiling face, trying to find in it a trace of Jerry Wilson's bright, youthful looks.

"It does look suthin' like him; but ain't you dead?" she said, with the bewildered look still on her face.

"No, Aunt Dic, I ain't dead."

She arose, and strode across the floor, seizing him by the shoulders, and kissing him on both cheeks.

"You old scalawag!" she cried, all her wonder, surprise, and joy concentrated in those words; and, retiring to her seat by the door, she buried her face in her apron and wept.

Poor David sat mute, white, and trembling; an avalanche of emotions had fallen upon him and overwhelmed him. He was stunned beyond all wondering.

Roxy motioned them all from the room.

Ned, taking Aunt Dic's arm, led her out. "We'll tell you all about it, Aunty, only let me call the boys so that we can have it all together; there's more good news yet, Aunt Dic, most too good to believe. I expect every minute to wake up."

Roxy, alone with her brother, told him the wonderful story: how Jerry had been told, by Parsons, that they she and the baby-were dead, and he had letters from Angeline to prove it to him; how Parsons had left him dying, as he must have thought, and had probably robbed him of more than fifty thousand dollars, since he had found himself penniless on his recovery, and he had carried that much

come! To clasp the precious form, all warm and palpitating with joyous heart-beats! This was already given to the long-tried, faithful wife, and was waiting for the desolated heart of the father.

CHAPTER II.

Deep, deep in the soul of little Ruby, sank the mysterious horror of their flight from home. From the first wild drive to the train, on through the whole wretched journey to Buffalo, back to New York, and thence by ship to California, and, finally, to Virginia City—a weary, weary wandering for the little home-sick child, pining for her father, her brothers and sisters - for home. She had her mother, to be sure; but so strangely she appeared, such a fearful, glittering light was in her eyes, Ruby felt afraid of her sometimes. And there was always that man! she shrank from him. They tried to make her call him papa; she thought she would die rather than do it; but she obeyed at last, because of that look in her mother's eyes.

But, oh! who can tell all the long-continued misery of her life?-the ever-increasing horror of it?-the hatefulness of that man's presence, and that of the companions that he forced upon them? There were wild scenes of discord between him and her mother, who at times became a fury fearful to behold. At last, they knew that she was insane. Sometimes she was filled with deepest melancholy, murmuring over and over again: "Forgive!-forgive!"

She would cling to Ruby, imploring her piteously to save her from the evil spirits that possessed her.

She came to Ruby's room one night, her long black hair hanging in disorder about her

shoulders, her eyes gleaming wildly. Ruby, then in her fifteenth year, had all the dark beauty of her mother's youth, enhanced a hundred fold by the gentle spirit she had received from her father. Her little room was her place of refuge. Brightly curtained and quaintly furnished, it shut out all hateful sounds and sights; and there she nursed her vague memories of home-that is, of that other life that she had lived somewhere-the father who had borne her upon his breast, where she lay in happy rest. There had been brothers and sisters, too; she dimly remembered them. Oh, how hard she tried to recall it all! She was sitting before the open fire thus, thinking and thinking, when her mother entered, came slowly toward her, and seated herself beside the fire, gazing into it without a word. Little lurid jets of flame leaped up from the pine wood; shadows flickered on the hearth. Suddenly, the mother bent forward and gently touched Ruby's hand.

"Child!" she said, slowly, solemnly, "I have something to tell you. I have wanted to tell you for so long; but they wouldn't let me. They-you know who I mean," glancing with terrified eyes over her shoulder. "I've got away from them for a little while; I don't think they can get in here; there's an angel guarding the door, you know; he wouldn't have let me come in, only he knew I wouldn't hurt my baby," and a glimpse of the mother-soul flitted in a smile across her face and faded, leaving the same terrible, soulless look.

"You know I am naturally-but don't look at me when I say it-a viper. It's awful, isn't it? You know the one that sprang out of the fire and fastened on St. Paul's hand?-don't look at me that was I-a venomous thing! I tried to be good after that touch; child, for hundreds of years I tried to be good; and I did get to be almost human; people thought I was. Then I married your father-not him!" she whispered, pointing downward, "he's a devil!-curse him! Your father was pure and good, and my little children were like him-you, too—just angels, all of you. I thought you would save me; but I got careless, and one by one, they all slipped back into my heart. You know what they are, don't you? But you can't see them; I'm so glad you can't. They're awful, child!—they're terrible! They led me on and on. First, I hated Roxy Wilson, because she was an angel. I sent her husband away, then I tried to kill him; but the devil I sent"-pointing downward again-"didn't do it. He lied to me," and, arising, she went close to Ruby, and whispered in her ear: "He's alive, and he may come at any minute and take you from me, and then I shall be lost!" She sat down, with terrified eyes.

"But don't you be afraid, child; they can't make me hurt you; not the whole legion of accursed things; only you mustn't come too near me; I'm too vile. You know I have no soul," she added, looking intently at the poor, terrorstricken child. "No-no soul, child! I lost it ages ago; and now they've worn away my heart. You think people can't live without a heart, and they can't; but I'm a devil, you know. It's fearful-you burn so; your brain burns, your eyes burn, and yet you are like ice-see!" and she touched Ruby's hand with her cold fingers. "But don't you be afraid of me, child; they can't make me harm you. I should like to stay here;" she looked wistfully about the little room; "it seems like heaven here; but they're calling me. I don't want to go, but I must. I should shriek, only it would frighten you. I must go quick, or I shall shriek," and she almost ran from the room-turning at the door and looking back with piteous yearning in her eyes.

"Oh, mother darling, come back!" burst from the child's breaking heart. “Stay with me and let me comfort you. Oh, mamma, if you'd pray!”

"Pray-I pray!" and with a laugh that almost chilled the life out of Ruby's heart, she closed the door. Down the passage rang the soulless laugh; and from the rooms below came sounds of revelry that were almost as terrible. Presently Angeline returned, smiling, radiant.

"Darling," she said, "I have such a wonderful thing to tell you! The angel at your door called me back again, and told me this wonderful thing. Listen, now: at the last, when I seem to be dying—and I think it will not be so very long till then-there will be a moment, child, just one moment, when, if you call on Him -you know Whom I mean, don't you? I can not utter His name."

"Yes," murmured Ruby, "I know.”

"Then watch for that moment, and call upon Him, and He will give me back my soul; then I can pray, and die forgiven. But if you miss that moment, I am lost. Child, watch!"

And again she left the room, with her hand raised in solemn injunction.

Poor little, terrified, heart-broken Ruby !—she fell upon her knees and prayed. Such prayers are wrung only from despair, such faith lives seldom but in childhood; and surely God is very near to such souls. Her father, her brothers and sisters, and Roxy Wilson, all these the mother had spoken of, that night, for the first time. Roxy-Aunt Roxy-surely she had heard that somewhere. Oh, how maddening it was, to almost remember! would it ever come clearly back to her memory? Should she ever fathom the mystery of her life?

The days dragged by, but not so terrible as before; there was a new sympathy between her and her mother, a new hope in their hearts, and Ruby could always soothe her mother by whispering it to her. Parsons avoided them; he was afraid of Angeline, and Ruby was thankful for it.

"I always hated him," her mother said to her "I hated him like poison, but I didn't dare to lose sight of him; and I couldn't stay there any longer, I was in torment. But it's been worse here, until the angel spoke to me- -you know, darling."

For an instant such a smile illumined her face that Ruby thrilled at her mother's beauty. The time came at last when the worn tenement of her tortured spirit failed, and, as she had said, she seemed to be dying, slowly, quietly just wasting away. Day and night Ruby watched beside her, scarce ever leaving her, sleeping with her mother's hand clasped in hers, that she might waken at the least movement; but the heavy sleep of the invalid was unbroken. Ruby, remembering her mother's longing, had caused her to be removed to the little angel-kept room. "She will be calm if she awakens here," she said.

"Keep close watch of your mother to-night," said the physician, one evening, "I will return about midnight."

"Now," thought Ruby, "the time has come." Seating herself beside the bed, with a calmness pitiable to see in such a young creature, since it can come only through suffering experience, she took up her vigil. How she watched! how she prayed! Around and around slipped the long, gleaming fingers of the clock; nearer and nearer came the hand to the mystic hour; the fire glowed red upon the hearth, now and then sending up a fitful, quivering tongue of flame; the hired nurse slept heavily in her chair; but love kept faithful watch. From a distant room below, at times, came sounds of wild debauch, at which Ruby shuddered-surely the little room needed to be angel-guarded.

Midnight at last-and He had come : His name was on the young girl's lips. With a soft sigh, like that of a child turning in its slumber, the mother turned her head upon the pillow and unclosed her eyes; they looked wonderingly upon Ruby.

"How it rests one to pray," said the mother, scarce above her breath. "Sweetheart, how lovely you are,” she said, after looking at Ruby a little while, "I didn't realize that you were growing so; but why are you watching with me -am I ?"

"Just a little, mamma darling, but you will be better now."

"Yes, I hope so; I have had such bad dreams, oh, terrible! I am glad to be awake. David, is that you?" she called sweetly, hearing the heavy breathing of the nurse; but seeing no one she said:

"I thought it was your father, sleeping in his chair. Why don't he come? I suppose he is with the other children. Darling children! it seems as if I hadn't seen them for years; I feel impatient for the morning. My thoughtful Anna will be sure to come to me early; and Bessie, with her dimples, bless her! and Jamie and Tommy, my two young bears, will be bounding in to hug their mother!" She said it slowly, tenderly, with a blissful smile on her face, her great eyes moist the while with happy tears. "I dreamed that I was going away from you; wasn't that absurd? What could make me leave my treasures? I love you all so dearly, so dearly! Come here, my little, faithful dar

At that her mother smiled, and murmured: "What are you saying, darling?"

"I was praying, mamma," she answered, making an almost superhuman effort to control herself. "Pray with me, won't you, mother dear? Let us say 'Our Father' together."

used to having you here, and the light is dim, I can't see you plainly. There, my precious, mother's own blessed baby," she murmured, pressing her lips to Ruby's tear-wet cheeks; "we cry just for happiness, don't we, darling?" And again she murmured sweet words of mother's love. "Now we will sleep; I should

like to die just so, with my baby in my arms— 'I pray the Lord my soul to take."

The physician drew Ruby from her mother's unresisting arms. "Child," he said, tenderly, "your mother is in heaven."

Jerry Wilson and family had moved to California. They had established themselves on Mount Pisgah, a name Jerry had given the hill where he had lived with the Stevenses, of Humming-bird Hill, the adjoining ranch. Mount Pisgah commanded a glorious view; it had a fine climate; it was endeared to Jerry by many an association, and it was near the Stevenses, as I have said. They didn't expect to make their living from the soil; Jerry's days of hard work were over. They had money enough for their modest way of living, and something over for Ned, even if Jerry failed to recover his fortune, of which he firmly believed Bill Parsons had robbed him.

Leaving Roxy and Ned to oversee the building of the house, Jerry and David pushed on to Virginia City, to look after Parsons-or, as he was called there, Peterson. To their dismay, they found the family broken up.

"The woman died a couple o' years back," said one, "and Peterson took the gal East, to a boardin' school; prettiest little gal you ever sot eyes on; the mother was hansum, too, but kind o' queer-wrong, you know; too bad. Peterson didn't use her none too well, mean critter he is! He sold out his saloon business a spell back, and invested in mines; but he run short buyin' mills, and one thing and another, and he's gone to 'Frisco, or mebby East, to raise capital; guess he's tryin' to get up a mining company. I reck'n he's got a good thing in them mines." David's heart sank within him; but of one thing he had assured himself—Ruby yet lived, and he should find her. As for her-ah, yes! there was her grave, that little, neglected heap of earth. Neglected? No tears fell there, but in winter weather the soft rains fell upon it, and sank into the brown sod, and nourished into life the green and blossoming grass; all day the summer sun shone there; the wild flowers budded and bloomed, and dropped their petals gently on the sacred earth; there, the long grasses waved in the sighing wind, and at their feet, against the marble slab, a meadowlark made her nest and reared her young, with none to disturb; in the dewy morn, she sat

upon the gray stone, and sang her song of love; and through the darkening night the stars shone down upon the grave where no one came to weep.

But there, at last, came David, the betrayed, forsaken husband. On the stone he read her name one only: "Angeline," with the date of her death. Alas! there was no other name for

her-no sweet, "beloved wife," nor sacred text, nor fond word of praise from tender hearts. No! a false wife slept there-an unnatural mother. But, oh, the pleading silence of the grave! David's gentle heart was struggling with memories, like the heart of Arthur over Guinevere, when he cried:

"I did not come to curse thee, GuinevereI, whose vast pity almost makes me die To see thee laying there thy golden headMy pride in happier summers-at my feet." Before him rose the sweet days of her young love, of wifehood, and of motherhood, when her beauty was in its perfect flower, and their life had never a cloud across its summer sky. Oh! what was it that so drew him on to bless her? Could it be that her spirit was beside him, pleading? If she could but utter that one word -forgive; if he could even know that she had repented, and longed for his love and for the touch of her children's lips, he could forgive her.

Seeking out the physician who attended in the last illness, David eagerly besought particulars, and the good old doctor gave him the whole sad story of the erring wife's last years, and of her gentle, happy death. As he ended, David sobbed aloud.

"Oh, my poor wife!" he cried, "thank God, who set her free!"

"Your wife!" said the doctor. "I suspected as much. We physicians have strange experiences, sir."

When Jerry and David left the town to pursue their search-one for his fortune, the other for his child-there was a new stone at the grave, and it read:

SACRED TO THE MEMORY OF

ANGELINE,

BELOVED WIFE OF DAVID DAVIS.

J. H. S. BUGEIA.