Colonel TIappi.kr was not, seriously 
wounded. The ball that knocked him horn 
dii combat only struck a rib and glanced oft, 
ploughing an ugly hole in his side, and tear¬ 
ing up an artery so that he lost much blood, 
Having discovered the extent, of his injuries, 
he bethought him of the poor fellow opposite, 
Andrew Point was lying very quietly on 
his cot. A little of the doggedness was gone 
out of his face; he wore a look that no one 
knowing him these few years past would 
have recognized. It was a strange blending 
of sullen despair and something bet ter. The 
something better shone out clearer when the 
Colonel spoke. 
“ Well, my man, you earned a commis¬ 
sion before you got, winged, anyway. Did 
they hit you hard ?” 
“ Broke a leg, sir; licit'; all.” 
My man answered rather carelessly, as 
though breaking a leg was a very small 
matter. 
“ Well, that’s a long ways better than 
being killed," the Colonel said. 
My man’s new look nearly disappeared, 
at, this. His intention’and disappointment 
seemed km wn to his commander, from the 
chance remark*, and he took if us almost 
a taunt upon his last ill fortune. The hor- 
rors of de *th all around him bad not yet 
reconciled tiini to life. A surly reply was on 
his lips; tut he cheeked it, and was silent 
A long ways better than being killed,” 
the Colonel resumed, meditatively, thinking 
of his own near approach to death. " Kill 
ing a man V- the worst, possible use you can 
put him to, 1 take it. It utterly knocks in 
the head ad hi.s possibilities.” 
“ What ii his possibilities are all for hud?” 
Flint inquired, pettishly. “ Ain’t you doing 
him good service by di-patcbiii" him and 
putting him beyond their reach?” 
“ By do means. Let him meet them like 
a man, and conquer them in a manlike way.” 
“ Easier said than done, Colonel, when the 
fates are all against him," and the speaker 
closed his eyes with a sigh, more in weari¬ 
ness of spirit than of body. 
“There is no such thing against a man 
as fate dr tales,’’ answered bis commander, 
earnestly. “Circumstances may embarrass 
film and combine to bis barm ; lml be is in a 
large degree responsible for those circum¬ 
stances, and if they control him it is through 
his own weakness." 
“ Any man is weak enough, God knows,” 
Hunt said, lightly, yet bitterly. 
“ Yen,” was the reverent, reply; “and 
knowing man’s weakness Goo will strength¬ 
en Him, if he ha VO the heart to seek strength.” 
No more, was said by either, at this time, 
Colonel Happi.er may have been wonder 
ing why this man, young, and till now strong 
enough to overcome whatever might beset, 
with his Maker’s help, should be reasoning 
of fate, and looking to death as a deliverer 
from dire possibilities, Andrew Flint win 
thinking what that man ould know of hard 
luck,—-he, in high position, with everything 
to help bun on, with nothing to crush him 
down, —he, favored always by fortune, of 
course, bis path in life ever easy and pleas¬ 
ant “If lie bad met a kick at every turn, 
as J have,” thought Flint, “he wouldn’t 
talk r.o hopefully.” 
Bo little do we know of each other’s 
experience._ 
CHAPTER IV. 
Colonel IIappler recovered bodily vigor 
rapidly. Ip a few days be was about, though 
scarcely able to resume eommaud of Ids 
regiment, lie did not lose, interest in the 
unsocial man near him. On the contrary 
his interest, ill him increased, from day to 
day. That the man’s history had been one 
of hard knocks, lie rightly divined; that 
good healthy mental pabulum was a necessity 
for him, he fully believed. Hard knocks 
alone would not take all the elasticity out "I 
one, so long as the mind was properly upheld. 
Flint’s cold reserve melted a little, before 
the Colonel’s warm efforts to do him good. 
A little; but not much. He might have re¬ 
mained nearly as hardened as ever, but for a 
dainty note he read one morning. 
Kindly hands in kindly homes bad been 
busy with practical remembrances of the 
poor follows at. the front, and a large box 
full of generous gifts was the last, arrival at 
hospital quarters. It. was welcomed, opened, 
its contents distributed. A neat dressing 
gown fell to Andrew Flint. He got into 
it, aided by one 01 the niuvtes, and sal wonder¬ 
ing what fingers wrought, it—wondering if 
the maker would’nt. feel a trifle vexed to 
know wlutt a miserable fellow received her 
gift. Putting His hand idly into one of the 
pockets, ho drew forth a dainty envelope. 
It bore no direction, and was not sealed. 
Within it, on delicate paper delicately traced, 
he found and read: 
They who light for us deserve a word of cheer, 
even from stranger?; therefore! with my simple 
offering 1 send a (iod-speod. Whomsoever re¬ 
ceive* 1 this work of my hand, receives also the 
host wish of my heart. If there he lovingones 
who wait, his return, may Gou guard him ten¬ 
derly and restore lorn to them in safely. If no 
hotm- voices pray lor him, my prayer may make 
him to feel Ices lonely; and 1 breathe il now. as 
I shall morning and evening, asking for him 
sweet mercies that shall purify and gladden ids 
soul, holy Influences that shall keep him from 
all evil, and loving guidance that shall bring him, 
when “ mustered out " at. last. Into the presence 
of our common Father. She who thus wishes 
and prays is the sincere friend of all defenders 
of the dear old Flag, Alice Bkant. 
The tone of the words touched him. Be¬ 
fore his eyes caught the signature, he felt a 
thrill of tenderness that was new and strange. 
Unknown, unloved, somebody yet prayed for 
him. 
And that somebody was Alice Brant! 
Could il ho bis Alice of the days gone by,— 
the only being who had cared for him since his 
mother sank to sleep? It did not seem pos¬ 
able. .She lived in rugged New England; 
ibis came from St-Louis. But memory set 
aside the doubt. He recalled the handwrit¬ 
ing of Alice, as lie knew it in Hu* old school- 
house, and was certain that and this were 
identical. 
Thus assured that Alice was Alice 
Brant, still, lie forgot, all his surroundings, 
forgot the twinges of pain in his bandaged 
leg, and dreamed the hours away, lb* roused 
himself at. length, prevailed upon the nurse 
In bring Him writing materials, and penned 
a letter of thanks to bis well-wisher. In it 
he begged her to favor him with an occa¬ 
sional letter, saying frankly that he was 
utterly without, friends and hungered for 
friendly words. But he told nothing of Ills 
life, further. 
Colonel II apples got well enough to 
leave, and left. Andrew Flint’s leg, being 
badly fractured, knit slowly. He must make 
a long stay in hospital, the Colonel said, on 
leaving, adding, as an encouragement, that 
lie should wear a sword on return to duty. 
During those tedious weeks which fol¬ 
lowed, he would have been more despond¬ 
ent than ever, but for Alice's letters. She 
pul mere etiquette behind womanliness, and 
acceded to his request by writing such 
epistle.; as tact and sympathy prompted. 
They w ere characterized by a true, Christian 
woman’s spirit. They did him good. They 
influenced him more than lie realized. 
He did not put much of complaint into 
his letters to her. He couldn’t, somehow. 
Yet she intuitively divined his discontent, 
and wrote especially to set him at peace 
with himself. Of course, he was tempted 
to reveal himself to her. But with the 
temptation came an ambition to make a 
worthier identity to offer her; and the am¬ 
bition Avas full of promise. Of it was born 
the first healthy, hopeful resolve he bad 
made in months. By it was stilled his 
wicked desire to “ ah utile oil this mortal coil.” 
Andrew Flint was not wholly a new 
mail, when be returned to his regiment and 
buckled on a sword. But be was greatly 
changed. The something better in his face 
augured happily. He would do good service 
now for good service’s sake, because the man¬ 
hood newly awakened in him prompted to 
it. His Colonel noted the change and was 
glad. Knowing naught of the man’s experi¬ 
ence, he yet felt a strong personal sympathy 
for him, and was ready to help him oil in 
any way possible. 
The days of conllict sped apace. In the 
bivouac, on the march, and upon the liekl, 
brave hearts nerved bravo bands to manful 
duly. The complete history of those suc¬ 
ceeding years can never bo written, because 
so many unselfish souls are silent,—or speak 
to ns only in our dreams. 
Through a baptism of blood, and the 
blessing of a woman's tender sympathy, 
Andrew Flint's better, manlier nature de¬ 
veloped itself. Ills old, apathetic indiffer¬ 
ence vanished. Somewhat, of the spirit of 
earnest, individual warfare for noble inter¬ 
ests took possession of him. He was no 
longer a mere machine, to be stopped by an 
obstacle; but. a live, vital force, to overcome 
all opposing circumstances. The sweet in- 
llnonce of womanly piety that was borne in 
upon him from time to time, through the 
letters he prized so much, wrought out a 
slow but certain work in bis heart, before 
which bis ideas of fate tied away, leaving in 
their stead an implicit trust in Providence 
that is ever a sure anchor 
Alice Brant came to feel u warm interest 
in her unknown correspondent. Returning 
home from her long tarry with a friend in 
St. Louis, she wrote letters so full of New 
England life and freshness that, they stirred 
his own pen to graphic description, in re¬ 
sponse, and brought into play epistolary 
talents of a high order. She began to cherish 
a w oman’s curiosity concerning this friend¬ 
less soldier who wrote so entertainingly of 
army life, and took ft peculiar pleasure in 
noting bis advancement, lie must possess 
unusual ability, she, argued with herself, ami 
repeated promotions seemed to prove this, 
and the fact that such ability found recog¬ 
nition. And when, finally, after two years’ 
service, be wrote himself Colonel, saying 
< 'olonel 11 ypplf.r bad been made a Brigadier- 
General, she fell almost as much pleasure as 
though lie was, indeed, a very dear friend, 
Alice was grown older, and more wo¬ 
manly, yet she was a true-hearted girl still. 
When “ the ’Squire’s boy ” went, away so 
abruptly, years before, she grieved deeply, 
and when months passed by and no intelli¬ 
gence came from him, she feared her love 
was slighted, and grieved more. As the 
months multiplied she grieved less. lie was 
gone, beyond recall. Yet. she clung to the 
first genuine passion of her heart as to a 
tender, hallowed memory, and in her twi¬ 
light, momenta it was the sweetest fancy she 
knew, because a thing of the past. Just the 
right person might have veiled the memory; 
but. the right person didn’t appear.—[Con¬ 
cluded next week. 
-- 
MRS. EDSON’S EXPERIENCE. 
A HOlTIfS SBC ETCH. 
IlY SYLVIA I3ROAVN. 
Fifteen years! Ah, could it be possible, 
il hud been fifteen years that same May 
morning since she first came up the sunny 
path, bordered by hyacinths, crocuses, snow 
drops, and daffodils? They were blooming 
(Jiere now, just as in the old time. The old 
lime! She remembered it all,—hmv fragrant 
the apple blossoms were, and how she 
stopped to pick a sprig of the sweet-briar 
and said to him, “ Oh, IIarry, we ahall be 
so happy here I ” 
And so she bad been, for a time. It had 
been the next tiling to her visions of heaven. 
Then the cloud had fallen darkly over all 
her life’s sunshine. The call that, went up 
through the land, the cry of liberty for pro¬ 
tection and life, -had taken away her hus¬ 
band, She had borne his absence for two 
years with cheerfulness, deeming this her 
part of service for her country ; then a tele¬ 
gram brought her the terrible news that lie 
was killed. 
It. seemed for a time afterward that life 
itself was a torture to her. She did not care 
to live ; existence was shorn of its glory and 
joy. Not till little Nellie, her first born, 
sobbed upon her breast, “ Oh, mamma, you 
won’t forget vs because papa will never 
come back! Mamma, brother and I will 
love you for always. Don’t, look so and cry 
so, mamma, dear. Papa will watch us and 
wait for us up in the sky 1" did the mother 
comeback to her children and feel that now, 
if ever, she had an object to live for. 
There was no other to care for these child¬ 
ren, who had tried so to comfort her. She 
clasped them to her heart, thanked God 
that they were left to remind her of the dear 
one avIio had been given up to the battle¬ 
field, to victory and truth, and prayed for 
strength to live henceforth for them. 
Mrs. Edson imagined that, because she 
bad not let “ sorrow lend her weeping by 
the hand ” nor given up her life to grief, 
but. bad acknowledged the stern mandates 
of duly, she bad been tried in tho crucible of 
affliction and been found unflinching. She 
comforted herself that she had suffered 
much, and that because she had been heroic 
enough to bear the burdens for tier child¬ 
rens’ sake, she was worthy of commendation. 
Afterwards her comforter, the Nellie 
who had been her sunshine and hope, was 
taken to the fold. The burdensome cross 
Avas dragged more wearily through the dark 
years. The world became narrow and cold 
to her, and she could see nothing beyond the 
dreary line that bordered her own horizon. 
She was not living but repining. 
Since Nellie died a feeling of bitterness 
at her lot had been growing into her heart, 
a peevishness into her maimer, so that one 
could scarcely believe this unlovable woman 
the same as the happy, buoyant, gentle and 
loving bride of fifteen years ago. 
There were two children left,— Gene and 
Ihe baby, the latter now about, seven years 
old and named PERCY. Raid the former: 
“ Mother may 1 go down to the branch 
with the. boys this afternoon?” 
“ No, Gene, yon need not ask to go any¬ 
where to-day. You arc always thinking of 
something you ought not.. There is some 
work in the garden for you to do, then you 
can play in the yard with your brother. 
Boys- are such a trouble!” and Mrs. Edson 
sighed as though she were a veritable martyr. 
Presently the boys came in from the 
garden. 
“Oil, mother! May 1 go down to Mr. 
Clark’s store and buy a Dancing Jack ? He’s 
got some just the nicest; and they only cost 
ten cents, and I earned ten cents this morning 
turning grindstone for a man down town!’’ 
“Gene Edson! You couldn’t think of 
anything else to say, could you ? And you 
must say something I suppose! I wish you 
could ever know something and behave 
yourself!” 
The boys silently retreated to the garden. 
“I say, Gene, 1 wish mother wasn’t al¬ 
ways so cross! If boys don’t have any 
fee)ins’ like most folks, they don’t want to 
be always hollered at as if they hadn’t any 
ears or senses." 
“She wasn’t always so, Percy,” said 
Gene. “ Bhe’s grown so mostly since papa 
and Nellie died. She was always kind and 
pleasant to everybody before that.” 
“ Well, I wish papa and Nellie hadn’t 
a-diod, and then she wouldn’t have forgotten 
us, and then”— 
Mrs. Edson, sitting there by the window, 
gave a little start of surprise a9 she heard 
this conversation. She could not work. A 
mirror of herself had been cast before ber. 
She leaned her head upon her hand and 
looked out of the open window, beyond the 
flowers and trees, while thought came and 
whispered many things in her heart. 
It took her back through the last five 
years, looking carefully over many things 
she had not heeded, and they were, oh, so 
very many ! Yes, Percy was right. She had, 
indeed, in one and the most important sense, 
forgotten her boys. Her mother heart had 
looked away from them and been mourning 
for her Nellie. 
Thought and memory were faithful. They 
led her back year by year; and she presently 
remembered that it Avas the anniversary of 
her wedding-day, when she had first come 
to tlds home. It seemed so lonely and dreary 
now! But thought uslted what it. must be to 
the hungry-hearted children, who bad known 
no home but such as she had made for them, 
who could just remember the ones who 
were gone, and who, living by her side day 
by day, believed lier heart buried in the 
grave with the dead, and lhat she had for¬ 
gotten them. 
Her own soul had been yearning for the 
old life, and the loA r e of her lost ones. 
Thought asked, how was it with those who 
were left to her? Might they not be silent¬ 
ly, eagerly watching her for some token of 
sympathy in their lives,—for some sign from 
her that they were beloved ? Had she not 
said many times that they were a great 
trouble to her? What if she had not even 
these to comfort her? 
A sharp pang darted through her heart, at 
the very thought. Had she rightly under¬ 
stood the natures of these impulsive, active 
boys? They were not bad; no, they bad 
many noble, generous traits, so very like her 
lost husband. Now that she thought of 
them, they no longer seemed troublesome, 
but just such sons as any mother might feel 
proud to look upon as her own. 
And she had kept them so far away from 
her mot her heart all these years! They had 
been straying away from her ever since she 
had put them down from her arms as no 
longer little cldldren. Had she thrust them 
so far from her that they would imxr come 
back ? 
That day Mrs. Edson began to live. Slic 
took her children to her heart, and found 
such joy and happiness as she had hardly 
known since that bright morning fifteen 
years before. 
higher power —a displeasure Avith which 
there is no trifling. Dependence is the great 
law of our nature, and, in the indissoluble 
union of humanity, one individual cannot £ 
secede from the grand fraternity without 
violating important principles ot society. So 
that, the world, after all, is not. always a 
heartless judge, but a competent tribunal in 
matters of custom; and, as long as morality 
and common sense are not disregarded, its 
decisions should be held in respect. 
How often avc entertain this wish of 
Burns, when avc look back upon what we 
have done, and see it, perchance, in a truer 
light! Every one has felt that stinging 
regret. Avhcn remembering an unbecoming 
act, or expression, however trifling. Y et 
there arc few who ever seem to have derived 
any lessons of profit from such retrospects. 
They still continue in the old way, until 
Avhat before was an exception in their 
1 aha viol* becomes a habit, and they are at 
heft disagreeable to themselves and to every 
one else. 
Certain it is that the good will and respect 
of our neighbors is essential to success in 
life. If, then, they have cause to criticise 
the slovenly and outlandish appearance of 
our dress, or the vulgarity of our manners 
and language, Ave cannot expect them to 
look up to us, or even to regard us on a 
footing of equality. So it is to be remem¬ 
bered that the tastes and habits of society 
are not, to be held too lightly, unless, by 
complying with them, we A'iolate a higher 
code of right. 
-- - 
GIFT OF THE GAB. 
G> 
mut 
» 0 
•fViisrfSI 
ami. 
SOCIAL JUDGMENT. 
BY R. B. D.WENPORT, 
“ O, WAn some power tThe gif Ho Kie ua 
To see ourauJa as Uhors see us; 
It wad frai'. niuiiy u blunder lroo us, 
Au’ foolish notion !*’ 
The Scottish poet never spoke more truly 
or naturally than in these lines, — so often 
quoted and admired. If wo but saw our¬ 
selves and our actions from the same critical 
and matter-of-fact position from Avliicli they 
arc viewed by our fellows, how much of the 
petty unhappiness of life might be averted! 
But it. is often impossible for men, guided 
by impulse, or even aa Hen acting with com¬ 
parative deliberation, to know exactly Avliat 
appearance their behavior lias in the eyes ot 
others; and were such the case, even though 
life might thus be relieved of much of its 
unpleasantness, our actions would lose a 
great deal of that freshness which now in¬ 
vests them Avith such a charm. It. is not 
natural, when we are wholly absorbed in the 
motives which wc are carrying out, that our 
internal consciousness should be a mirror ot 
the impressions made upon our companions; 
but it is more natural that, with a firm reli¬ 
ance upon our just individuality, we should 
press onward in the path that our instinct, 
rather than our reason, points out to us, and 
leave the consideration of appearances to 
some after moment. 
But, Avhiie such procedure is in general 
commendable, and even impossible to inodi- 
fy without disturbing some of the most, pleas¬ 
ing attributes of social life, there are cases 
where the happiness of tlic Avorkl depends 
upon a certain regard for public opinion. I 
am far from meaning a slavish deference to 
the sentiments of others, or a still more 
slavish following of outrageous iashion; for 
there are, in every life, many affairs which 
demand an implicit and faithful dependence 
upon an internal sense of right; but in those 
matters, however small, Avliich relate to the 
every-day practice of our existence, it is due 
to society that its wishes and customs be 
consulted. 
To make life agreeable to those around us, 
is one of the most beautiful of Christian 
duties; anil this can only be accomplished 
by liberality of mind and charity of heart. 
Those who boast of their independence and 
of their determination to think and act as 
they please, are simply showing their own 
selfishness and conceit; and, if they carry 
out this principle, they not only incur the 
derision and ridicule of the world, Avhich 
they justly deserve, but the displeasure of a 
The following anecdote well illustrates 
what many have doubtless often felt,—that 
words are of no small account., and that a 
fluent tongue is a happy gift—to its possessor, 
at least: 
Sir Robert Feet., on more than one occa¬ 
sion, invited Mr. Stephenson to Drayten. 
He refused at first, from indisposition to “ mix 
in flue company,” but ultimately went. On 
one occasion an animated discussion took 
place between himself and Dr. Buckland, 
on one of his favorite theories as to the for¬ 
mation of coal. But the result was, that Dr. 
Buoki.and, a much greater master ot tongue 
fence than Stephenson, completely silenced 
him. Next morning before breakfast, when 
lie ivas walking in the grounds, deeply pon¬ 
dering, Sir William Foi.i.et came up and 
asked hitn what he was thinking about. 
“ Why, Sir William, I am thinking over 
that argument 1 bad with Buckland last 
night. I know I am right, and that if I had 
only the command of words which he has, 
I’d have beaten him.” 
“ Let me know all about it,” said Sir W il- 
uam, “ and I’ll see what 1 can do for you.” 
The two sat down in an arbor, when the 
astute iuAver made himself thoroughly ac¬ 
quainted with the points of the case, enter¬ 
ing into it Avith the zeal of an advocate about 
to pledge the dearest interests of bis client. 
After he had mastered the subject, Sir Wil¬ 
liam rose up, rubbing liis bands with glee. 
“ Noay T am ready for him.” 
Sir Robert Peel was made acquainted 
with the plot, and adroitly introduced the 
subject of’ the controversy after dinner. The 
result was, that, in the argument that follow¬ 
ed, the man of science Avas overcome by the 
man of law, and Sir William Follet had 
at all points the mastery over Dr. Buckland. 
“ What do you say. Mr. Stephenson ?” said 
Sir Robert, laughingly. 
“ Why," said ho, “ 1 will only say this :— 
that of all the powers above and under the 
earth, there seems to be no power so great as 
the gift of gab.” 
--- 
SANDWICHES. 
Better go around than fall into the ditch. 
A man may say his prayers even out of 
time. 
A friend of everybody is a friend to 
nobody. 
IIe who foresees calamities, suffers them 
twice over. 
Bigotry murders religion to trighten fools 
with her ghost. 
Poetry and consumption are the most 
flattering diseases. 
It is a miserable thing to live in suspense; 
it is the life of a spider. 
Let the object of love be careful to lose 
nothing ofits loveliness. 
Happiness is like the statue of Isis, whose 
veil no mortal ever raised. 
The way to fame is like the way to heaven, 
—through much tribulation. 
Be certain that he who lias betrayed thee 
once, Avill not betray thee again. 
It is not until the flower lias fallen off' that 
the fruit begins to ripen. So in life it is when 
the romance is past that, the practical useful¬ 
ness begins. 
We all grieve for our friends as if there 
were no better yonder, and for ourselves as it 
there were no better here, for all our passions 
are, by birth, atheists and unbelievers. 
