the bewitching girl! I would not trust you 
in her company, Osborne, lest your heart 
should be caught in the rebound! This 
very evening she is to be at the Springs, to 
meet some friends and arrange about a pic¬ 
nic. Ha! yonder is aunt Lyon, coming this 
way! Now, Osborne, stand my friend, like 
a fine fellow, and I will lay down my life for 
you! ” 
Young Lyon darted away just as the lady 
came into full view. She was evidently 
looking far him. Presently she came up, 
greeted Osbokne and asked if he had seen 
her nephew. 
“He went that way,” replied Maitland; 
“but. you will not overtake him, Mrs. Lyon ; 
for, to tell the truth, be bad just charged me 
with a message to yourself.” 
“A message — to me!” faltered the lady, 
coloring. 
“ Yes, madam. He feared .you thought of 
shortening your visit here. He told me of 
your reasons, and sent me to entreat you to 
abandon the idea of leaving us.” 
“ Mr. Maitland,” said the lady, suddenly 
turning to him, “ yon are my nephew’s 
friend. May I beg it as a favor that you will 
prevent his seeing or speaking with Col. 
Harris ? ” 
‘ I will endeavor to do so, Madam.” 
“ If you will, 1 need not leave the place. 
But you must wateh Chauncey; you must 
see that he does not go out alone to-night.” 
“ A singular office! ” said Osborne, 
smiling. “ But it need only he for this even¬ 
ing, as I happen to know that Col. Harris 
leaves this neighborhood to-morrow.” 
“ 80 much the better!” said Mrs. Lyon, 
breathing deeply, as if relieved. “Your 
watch will be brief, then. I rely on you to 
sav« him from peril ” 
“And when the peril, as you think it, is 
over, you will permit me to enlighten my 
friend as to my reluctant agency.” 
“ As you please. Now you may go and 
toll him I have decided to stay.” 
The same evening, a little after dusk, 
Maitland received a message from Mrs. 
Lyon, requesting him to come immediately 
to her apartments. Bhe received him in the 
little parlor in manifest, agitation, having dis¬ 
covered that it was her nephew’s intention 
to go out, while he refused to say where he 
was going. She trembled with the fear that 
it, was to meet Col. Harris. Such was her 
distress that Osborne’s pity was moved, and 
lie yielded to her entreaty that, he would 
follow his rash Mend unseen, and save him 
from any imprudent altercation. 
Osborne had scarcely left the door when 
young Lyon came out, manifesting by a 
certain uneasiness of maimer that he was 
bent on some secret adventure. 
His friend followed him at a distance too 
great to let himself be seen, and t hey passed 
through a little village towards a retired 
.street running along the base of a low bill. 
Here were several houses, each standing 
apart from the others and surrounded by 
grounds and shade trees. 
The sky had been overcast, and the light¬ 
ning was ho vivid as to illuminate the scene 
every few momenta. Osborne kept his 
friend, in viww, and saw that ho was making 
for one of the houses, lie remembered that 
Col. Harris lodged i* that quarter, and the 
suspicion flashed on his mind that young 
Lyon was indeed hound on an expedition of 
vengeance. 
“ Then I did well to come after him,” he 
muttered. 
There was a vivid gleam of lightning and 
a simult aneous peal of thunder, succeeded by 
pitchy darkness. A storm was impending, 
and Mr. Maitland had neither cloak nor 
umbrella, 
Lyon had already gained one of the 
houses and entered the porch sheltered by a 
luxuriant vine. A gleam of lightning showed 
his hand on the hell, and some large warning 
drops began to fall. Osborne sprung under 
the shelter of a spreading tree close by. 
The bell was answered; Lyon asked for 
some one — his friend could not catch the 
name — and was admitted. “ No help but 
to wait ” muttered Osborne. “ They cannot 
fight a duel within doors, and 1 can stop 
him as he comes out. A pretty situation to 
be caught ini” he added, ns, after a violent 
thunderclap, the tempest burst on him in all 
its fury. 
With a bound lie gained the porch, where 
the via el eaves offered a partial shelter, and 
seated himself on the wooden bench. 
The windows of the parlor around which 
the vines and foliage clustered, appeared to 
be open, and he heard voices seemingly in 
pleasant conversation. “Not much like a 
hostile meeting." was his mental comment 
A rich musical laugh struck his ear, and a 
woman’s silvery voice. He heard it say, 
“ What a terrible storm ! ” 
“They would laugh to some purpose if 
they could see me!” exclaimed Osborne, 
who began to feel very much like a fool. 
He laid held of the bell to ring for admis¬ 
sion ; but at that instant the door-handle was 
turned, and the door swung open. Some 
one came out, and Osborne involuntarily 
shrank back into a corner of the porch. 
It was a gentleman, though not Chauncey 
Lyon. He stepped out to reconnoiter the 
weather; but the storm raged too violently 
for any one to think of going out. As his 
side face became exposed, a faint gleam of 
lightning showed the features of Col. Harris. 
This, then, was his abode; and what did 
his young adversary within V Presently the 
Cblonel turned back, went in and closed the 
door. Osborne felt very much ashamed of 
his own situation. 
The storm began to abate, and again the 
door was opened. Mali land was outside 
the porch this time, and quite concealed by 
the ibliage. A young girl in a white dress, 
with a lamp in her hand, stood in the door¬ 
way, and close beside her the impetuous 
young man whom Osborne hud been, sent 
to rescue from his “deadly peril.” 
The two were laughing and talking 
merrily. Chacngky's look of admiring re¬ 
gard could he seen, and the young lady’s arch 
and coquettish one. They both agreed it 
was too stormy yet to venture out. In a few 
moments they went back, and closed the 
door. 
Osborne burst out laughing at bis own 
ridiculous position, and vowed never again 
to yield obedience against his own judgment, 
even for a lad}' in distress. A third time the 
door was flung open, and Col. Harris, in a 
cloak and with a lantern in his hand, came 
out, evidently resolved to brave the weather 
No longer disposed to play the unwilling 
eavesdropper to a love-scene, and hearing the 
voices of Lyon and the young girl in high 
merriment close at the window, Osborne 
dashed after Col. Harris, told him he had 
been caught in the storm and drenched to 
the akin, and asked the aid of his lantern to 
find his way back to the hotel. On the way 
he asked timidly if Mrs. Gray —he oould not, 
bring himself to inquire after Laura —lodged 
at the bouse just left, 
“ No,” the Colonel answered. “ Myra and 
my daughter are at Mr. Wingate’s. Ada 
and her father came here only for this even¬ 
ing and are in the house yonder.” 
The secret was out! It was Ada’s lively 
voice lie bad heard, chatting so gleefully 
with his rash friend. Then he ascertained 
that Col. Harris had not been in the parlor 
at all, and did not know of Lyon’s presence. 
He informed Osborne that lie was to return 
to Long Grove the next day, accompanied 
by liis sister, leaving Laura and the child to 
recruit their health. 
Having changed his wet clothes at the 
hotel, M ai tland hastened to set Mrs. Lyon’s 
mind at ease. As to th« young lady, the 
matron declared she would call upon her, if 
Ciiattncey wislu-d it. How strange that she 
should be an intimnte Mend of the daughter 
of Col. Harris! Osborne thought what a 
line looking woman Mrs. Lyon must have 
been, and what early trouble had caused her 
bloom to fade, it could not have been the 
death of her husband, who had left her a 
large fortune! 
Late in the evening CnAUNCEY came to 
him, to tell him of Miss Wingate’s visit, and 
what engagements be had made with her for 
drives and rides and dances, and of the 
grand pic-nic in contemplation. The young 
man had evidently forgot ton the late contre¬ 
temps, and Osborne thought of the part he 
had played as matter for a hearty laugh be¬ 
tween them, 
V. THE LEGAL PROCESS. 
Col. Harris hoped much from cheerful 
society for the restoration of Laura’s health, 
and left her in charge of Mr. and Miss Win¬ 
gate, at tlicir house, when he and Mrs. 
Gray took their departure. In a lew days 
she received by the post a letter in her hus¬ 
band’s handwriting. Without opening it she 
inclosed it to her father, who answered it 
kindly hut firmly, saving that his daughter 
could receive no letters, and that until he had 
ample grounds to believe in the thorough 
reformation of his son-in-law he had forbid¬ 
den all communication. A ny future advance 
must be made through him self; an indispens¬ 
able requisite must be the departure from the 
house of Mr. and Miss Thorne, as well as 
the Creole girl. 
Despite this injunction, more letters were 
sent to the wife; letters which Col. Harris 
did not answer. There was a strange inco¬ 
herence in t he language of some of them; 
and he heard what led him to the belief that 
the young man’s reason, as well as liis health, 
was beginning to be. undermined by liis mad 
dissipation. 
One afternoon Laura had walked alone 
into a picturesque wood, nearly two miles 
from Mr. Wing ate’s house. She had gained 
an eminence from which the road bordering 
a stream, could be seen, and watched the 
progress of a man on horseback. He turned 
off, she noticed, into the wood path, came to 
the loot of the hill, looked up at her. and im¬ 
mediately sprang from his horse, leading him 
by the bridle as he approached her. She 
recognised Mr. James Mitchell. 
In reply to his salutation, she said that Mr. 
Wingate was not at home, supposing he in¬ 
tended to call on him. 
“ Pardon me,” he replied. “ My business, 
or visit was to yourself. I see,” be added, 
noticing her distress, “ you suppose me an 
ambassador from Mr. Vincent. He did, in¬ 
deed, request my interference; but I come as 
your friend.” 
“ I do not. wish you to act as such, Mr. 
Mitchell,” said tho lady, with a curl of 
scorn on lier lip. “ I beg you will excuse 
me;” and she turned to pursue the patli 
homewards. 
“ Stay madam; you are not aware of the 
legal proceedings your husband is about to 
enter for the recovery of bis child. My busi¬ 
ness was to serve you with notice.” Draw¬ 
ing a paper from his pocket, be formally read 
over the contents, couched iu legal phrase, 
which summoned her to appear and show 
cause, &c., &e. 
The young mother became pale as death. 
“ This is strange” she said. “ My father 
holds the voluntary relinquishment of all 
rights—” 
“I am aware of that; but yon must also 
be aware, my dear madam, that in law a 
father cannot deprive himself of supreme 
authority over liis child. No agreement is 
binding—” 
“ But the pledged word of a gentleman—" 
“ My dear lady, you do not thoroughly un¬ 
derstand matters.” 
“ I understand,” said Laura, with spirit, 
“thatyou arc threatening me, to compel my 
return! I have forwarded to my lather all 
the letters sent to me. I have placed myself 
entirely in liia hands; and I am not to be 
frightened into disobedience to him.” 
“ It is far from my wish to do so,” said the 
lawyer. “ 1 wish but to point out your 
means of safety. A n appeal to the law must 
result in a decision against you.” 
With blanched facs, Laura kept her eyes 
fixed on the man before her. 
“ It must, 1 say, result in your defeat; but 
there is a means of safety.” 
“ And what is that ?” 
The lawyer flung his bridle over a sapling 
and came nearer, speaking in a confidential 
tone:—“ There is a way, madam, by which 
you may vindicate your right, even if legally 
contested; that is, if your cause be placed in 
the proper hal/ds. But there is a difficulty—” 
“ If it be of a pecuniary nature,” said the 
lady, drawing out her puree, “ it may he re¬ 
moved.” 
Mitchell’s eyes were greedily fixed on 
the purse of delicately wrought silk that 
dangled from her white finger. She emptied 
its contents and offered them to him. “Here 
are twenty-five dollars,” she said. “It can¬ 
not he wrong to ask what is the way you 
mentioned to avert the danger.” 
The lawyer received the money and placed 
it in liis wallet, while he said:-—“You can 
dispute Mr. Vincent’s claim, both to the 
child and his property, by disclosing the fact 
thAt lie is insane.” ^ 
“ Insane!” repeated Laura, retreating in 
sudden horror. 
“ I should say that he is subject to par¬ 
oxysms of insanity. You have heard of his 
late accident and illness.” 
“ No! i have hoard nothing! Poor Henry ! 
Tell me all!” 
“ His head was injured by a Call from his 
horse; a brain fever was the consequence, 
and the physician said the outbreaks of mad¬ 
ness— delirium they called it.— might recur 
on slight causes; nt least there is danger till 
his health is fully established. Commissions 
of lunacy, madam, have been taken out for 
less causes.” 
“ Poor, poor Henry 1” sobbed Laura. “Is 
be in Mapleton now?” 
“ No, he is traveling; I do not know where 
he is just now.” 
“ If it be true,” said the lady after a pause, 
“ that my husband is in the condition you 
describe, it may be my duty to return to bun 
If the attack wa# but temporary it. would 
form no sufficient plea for what you propose.” 
“ It would—in law. A power is placed in 
your hands, madam, which may be wielded 
with effect, if properly managed.” 
“And who would be the best person to 
manage it?" 
“ Why, you might appoint for your counsel 
a gentleman whose name I will give you. 
Tlu might act under my directions; for you 
see I oould not act openly, while—” 
“ While employed ou the other side.” 
“ Why, that is about it. But I could serve 
you the better for having the cards all round 
under my own eye.” 
“ Mr. Mitchell, I know nothing, as you 
say, of law; but I cannot believe in the good 
faith and honor of a man who would make 
such a proposition. Good evening, sir.” 
“ One moment, madam. Let. us come to 
terms. Give tne three thousand dollars to 
close the bargain, and 1 will break with the 
others, and become your sole counsel ” 
“ I should expect no blessing on a cause 
that had such an advocate!” cried Laura, 
indignantly. “Let mo go, sir. Do you dare 
to detain me ?” And breaking from his hold 
she ran quickly down the path among the 
bushes, calling to one of the field hands 
whom she saw at a little distance, to come 
and escort her home. 
The disconcerted villain vowed a deep re¬ 
venge as he rode away. 
Laura was writing to her father that 
night; but, on reflection, she decided to say 
nothing of what had passed. — [To be con¬ 
tinued. 
•'octal ® 
MEN AS HELPMEETS. 
As Fathers. 
Being a woman, I know quite well wlint 
I am writing about, and fully appreciate just 
what men should be in their rarions relations 
to women. The simple fact that they are 
not what they should be, neither what they 
might and might to be, and that they lose 
more in failing so to be than they have any 
conception of, is evidence enough that they 
are sadly ignorant of their duties, their pre¬ 
rogatives and consequent enjoyments. And 
if women are to blame for their being left in 
ignorance, I hope these papers, feeble as they 
may be, will be the means of making such 
ignorance unpardonable. 
Half a year ago, a pare soul wandered 
back to elysium, and among her papers was 
found, in manuscript, a paper, labeled “ My 
Father and L” It. serves my purpose better 
than anything I can now write, and so 1 use 
it, although painfully conscious that in so 
doing I shall make many a girl’s heart sad 
and hungry, and many a boy’s soul bitter and 
dissatisfied. But more. Perhaps some father 
may he led to see the terrible mistake he is 
making before it. is too iate. 
“My Father ami I.” 
“ My father was never an old man, — never so 
old that he failed t© sympathize with me in 
everything*. 1 cannot remember when I did not 
know tho way to his heart, and how sure I was 
of a welcome in It. I used to think wliuf a sweet 
thing It. was to be a girl and have a father. A 
woman never Idolized a lover more than 1 did 
the man who kissed me every morning' and said, 
‘ Good-by, my child,’ and at night, putting his 
anna about mo, and bending bis blue eyes upon 
me, said, ‘ What has my child been doing and 
thinking of to-day?’ 
“ I never thought of deceiving him more than 
I could have thought Of hiding a sin from the 
Lord. It was neither fear nor duty that prompt¬ 
ed such full confession. I* was the complete 
and perfect sympathy between us. A thought 
unshared with him was a meager and vapid tiling. 
An ambition was unworthy without his blessing. 
An idea was weak and narrow without the aid of 
his stronger methods ol' development. I once 
overheard him say to a gentleman: 
“Ml' ever the time shall come when my little 
daughter cannot come to me and toll me all she 
has in her heart to say, 1 pray I may die and be 
buried in ignominy.' 
“ It impressed rnd deeply,—it seemed such an 
improbable thing. 
“ I think I never saw another such pair of eyes 
in any man’s face as those of my father's. It- 
was a life-time passion with him, if standing on 
the curb-stones, or riding in public conveyances, 
to study faces, and especially those of women. 
He often said the story ©f one’s life was revealed 
soonest in the eyes. Ho always had faith in u 
steady, straightforward look. When he talked 
with mo Ills eyes looked straight into mine, and 
I am sure if 1 had ever been guilty of any mean 
or wicked thing, his steady gaze would have 
resurrected it, and it would have taken visible 
shape, hanging like an ugly curtain between us. 
“ ] was a faulty child, and to punish tne it. was 
his custom to let me choose between two or three 
different modes. One of these was not to be 
recognized as Ills little girl, nor to be kissed by 
him for a dny. I never chose that but once. 
“ I cannot remember when I did not know that 
my father loved me, and that, his love for me whs 
so groat I could not estimate it. He never failed 
for a day to show roc, in some way, that ho did 
love me. Ho never left mo u> infer or imagine 
now dour T might be to him. It was a plain, un¬ 
doubted fact, so that with me it was my constant 
effort to make myself worthy of such a father. 
The knowledge that all fathom were not like 
mine came to me one day at school. A timid 
litt le creat ure having met with an accident, cried 
out, • Ob, wliat If father should tied this out!' 
Yes; but you can tell him just how it hap¬ 
pened, nil about it, and he will bo sorry with you 
and help you to repair it,’ I said. 
“ * No, but bo ain't that way,’ she cried bitterly. 
‘ He won’t listen to mo about It, but he will caU 
me careless and stupid, and punish me, too. I 
don’t want him to know.’ 
“ And yet this fat her was an ‘ exemplary’ Chris¬ 
tian. Ho had family prayer, went to church 
regularly, was honest ami upright lu Ills dealings 
wiih men. and believed he inculcated true prin¬ 
ciples in liis children. Hut psalm singing, and 
catechisms, and good examples, simply, do not 
weave rite precious bands that keep daughters 
from disgrace and sons from ruin. His children 
were hi-. legally. lie had a claim on their bodies, 
but before they had reached their teens, they 
were distinct and separate souls from his. Ills 
sons never felt that, their interests wore one and 
the same. Me never made his business theirs. 
He was their Judge and overseer. When the war 
broke out, the eldest son volunteered. He had a 
brilliant mind, and liis father was secretly proud 
of him. But he never showed his affection for 
his children; never met them with that look that 
implies so infinitely more than welcome, when 
they returned after an absence, or expressed 
positive sadness when they went away. After a 
t Sme, the son came home, unexpectedly, on fur¬ 
lough, and surprised the father into an actual 
demonstration of delight at. seeing him. The 
young soldier looked at him in surprise, and said: 
“ ‘ l never met you before when I thought you 
were really glad to see me.' 
“A few months later, the young man was 
brought home wi th the dear flag wrapped around 
him. The old father mourned his own life away, 
and his daily refrain was that he feared George 
never knew how much his father had loved him. 
I cannot help feeling that if fathers and mothers 
are uot loved as they ought to be, the fault is 
theirs, and theirs alone. 
*• tv hen I arrived at womanhood, and my out¬ 
look upon life assumed new transparencies, my 
father took me into still greater confidences. 
Those mysteries of life that are commonly left 
for children to find out as beat they can, and 
which oftenest come from vulgar and Impure 
sources, he explained to me, and their saerod 
offices. He told mo enough of viloness and im¬ 
purity to show me how loathsome and ruinous 
anything save purity and honesty is, but always 
reminding me the vice and sin and crime in 
which so many are conceived, born and reared, 
and that I must give sweet chanty room in my 
heart. 
“We always read together, which suggested 
frank discussions ol various topics. I remember 
one night of reading of the corruption of public 
men, and of saying: * r cannot understand how 
a man can be so tempted. You know I judge 
men by you, my fathor. It scorns to me, were 1 
a man. I should Jove to be a Senator, to be strong 
and brave, and as impervious to foulness or taint 
•f sin as a granite column Is to a dash of rain. I 
cannot understand how a man or woman ena 
yield to any temptation to sin, when they know 
the consequences are so terrible. For loss of 
faith In one’s self is the severest retribution.' 
“ ‘ My child.’ he would say, in his grave, earnest 
way, ‘men and women do not think. It is one’s 
surroundings, largely, that constitute one’s 
strength. We never know our weakness until 
we are tempted. One thing you must always 
remember, people are not constituted alike. I 
believe, my child, what would tempt many 
women to ruin would be no temptation to you 
whatever. And T know, susceptible as I arn to 
influences, that the presence of a pure soul in 
my heart. nsT hold yours, would shield mo against 
a vast deni more of temptation than that in which 
scores of men would go down.' 
“ 1 Hut, my fathor, rirc men so vile and weak ns 
T hear some women affirm? Mrs. Kay says 
men arc not to bo trusted; that they are all base, 
governed by selfishness and passions, and al¬ 
though gallant and courteous to us, they laugh 
among themselves and speak insultingly of what 
you have told me I should hold most sacredly.' 
“ 1 My child, any woman who tells you she has 
faith in no man, has lost all faith in herself and 
is necessarily demoralized. So far as the com¬ 
parative goodness of men and women'aro con¬ 
cerned. there is not much difference. During 
three years in which J hove been in daily busi¬ 
ness contact with a dozen men, frequently chang¬ 
ing, I have not heard a single gross remark about 
a good woman. It is not ho with all men. how- 
over, nor with all women. Before I married 
your mother, my child, but not before T loved 
her so well that tiro thought, of having her next 
to my heart forever was the most precious bliss 
out of Heaven, a man passed some coarse remar k 
about our relations to each other. If he had 
pitched me headlong into a pool of slime, I had 
in»t been so insulted. 1 was young and rull of 
fire then, and left tho follow sprawled at full 
length upon Iho ground. Rut I fear, my child, 
as n general thing, one-half the cause of base 
insinuations among men is owing to the implied, 
if not positive. Impurity among women; not 
actual sinfulness, but Impure thoughts. Y«»u 
women little appreciate your power. You scarce¬ 
ly comprehend how you may, at least tor the time 
being, ennoble and purify the men in your pres¬ 
ence. But you must be pure to do this. There 
isan atmosphere about snob a woman t hat makes 
a man involuntar ily call himself a brute, If he 
thinks of her save in a high and manly way.' 
“ 1 But have men no part In remedying what we 
call the sociui evil ? It is Impossible to separate 
the soxes. God never - meant Jt so. If all men 
were like you-' 
“ - Lf all women were like my child, there would 
be better men,’ be would interrupt smilingly. 
‘ But, seriously, men should be mare thought¬ 
ful. No man should close hfeeyesat. night with¬ 
out seir analysis- Ho should ask himself the 
why and wherefore of not only his acts, but his 
fjimights, and how they refloat upon the happi¬ 
ness !i<), 1 welfare of those about him. My child, 
so few people know how to live, and yet it is so 
simple! There is enough of human happiness 
lying undeveloped in hearts about us to make 
this world a paradise. The vast and comprehen¬ 
sive range of feeling between parents and chil¬ 
dren is rarely ever fully appreciated.’ 
“ ‘ Is there any feeling sweeter and richer than 
ours, dear father? Life would be shallow and 
meaningless without you. 1 weep when I think 
how much you are to me.' 
“‘But what will you do, ray daughter, when 
the coming man shell touch the key-note of 
your heart, ami win you to rest upon his and 
make it better? Yes, there is a depth of emo¬ 
tions and feelings in your life that only the love 
that suffers and has compensation through suf¬ 
fering, cau arouse—a love that will make for 
you a new existence, make you think yourself a 
contradiction, to find yourself only at last a har¬ 
mony. Hut Jive your ow a sweet, undivided life, 
save with mine, rather than yield it to any 
strength save only that whose foundation is Jove. 
I would trust you only to a heart in which a tear 
would sink, and to a Strength strong only iu its 
tonderne* 3 and sympathy. I wish you some day 
to know the fullest bins of existence; but now, 
my child, good night.’ And with his kiss upon 
tmy lips I lay down to pleasant dreams. 
That was so long ago—1 hat last kies of his; 
for in the morning he had passed away to the 
Summer land where my mother was robed in 
her saintliness. I remembered he had said: 
“ ‘ My child. If 1 should die, do not feel sad. I 
have no dread of death, only to be separated 
from you. I {(/tie you—love to feel you, for you 
are ©f my flesh; but no death can separate our 
hearts.’ ” 
That was all, only some stains of tear¬ 
drops. 
Does any one think a child «f such a 
father liable to fall a victim to any tempta¬ 
tion whatever, involving crime, or sin, or 
taint of soul? Not all Hie preaching since 
Adam; not all the various philanthropic 
efforts; not all the law-making or public 
moral influence that can, or does, find ex¬ 
pression in the world, can equal the strength 
that, can, and ought to lie in the bond that 
binds parents to children. The next gene¬ 
ration of men and women might be a little 
above the angels, if they could be even only 
rightly fathered. Oh! for some power to 
thrill every father’s heart with a sense of its 
responsibility, as well as a sense of the un¬ 
fathomable and precious compensation in 
possible store for it. There is so much need 
of active love in the world. I can see how 
Christ could diu for it; but I cannot un¬ 
derstand how people will so wilfully throw 
away the best of themselves, and fling down 
with criminal hands the means that should 
raise them to heaven. 
We want goed fathers; then we shall 
have a race of men and women indeed. 
Mary A. E. Wager. 
