ChLoe locked her hands and looked into 
the distance: . 
“ ] get so tired fighting the wolf, she said. 
“ Fighting the wolf,” meditated Joe, who 
was not given to figurative language, return¬ 
ing in some perplexity to his grass. 
“Yes; poverty, hunger, want. Things 
which you have never known Joe Arnold, 
and which 1 hope you never may know 
bitterly,” 
“Might make a man of me, I’m a lazy 
dog," Joe confessed with shame-facedness. 
“ But 1 can’t hear to see people sutler, I 
can’t, truly, Chloe," he cried as if searching 
among the. rubbish of his character for some¬ 
thing worthy. “ 1 would do you any service 
in the world, whatever would make your 
life easier.” 
“ 1 know it, Joe,” replied Cm .ok grate¬ 
fully,” you have been my good friend ever 
since we learned the alphabet together. But 
you cannot help me anymore than you have 
done.” 
Joe moved and muttered uneasily, Chloe s 
feelings had found rest in a way peculiar to 
her sex ; Joe claimed the same right. 
“ It makes one angry, Chloe Ward,” he 
burst out, “ to think your father will sit play¬ 
ing among test-tubes and blow-pipes liko a 
child, and let you support him !” 
“ You shall not sjKiak so of my father,” 
flashed Check, in high dignity. “ He has a 
noble object in view, lie is the most 
humane of men, and works not for his own 
grat ification,but for the good of his race, 1 
will tell you in confidence, and that you may 
appreciate him, that, he has been trying ever 
since my mother died to discover the elixir 
of life, which alchemists so often sought. 
He says he feels sure there is such a thing, 
that it will in time turn up, and that God 
means some man to give it to the race. He 
will fail, 1 know, and die, and people will 
laugh at the aim of his generous heart!” 
Joe rolled over on the sward and shook. 
A parting patter fell from Ciilok’s indignant 
eyes. She had heard her father’s scheme so 
often, that, though unbelieving, she half en¬ 
dorsed it. She was vexed at her rashness 
in exposing it to a man who could only ridi¬ 
cule. 
“ I can’t help it ” quivered Joe, “ I Can’t 
wait for the denouement, to laugh. Not at 
your trial, Chloe, nor at your poor father’s 
mania. But it’» all so quaint. 1 don’t really 
know why I am laughing.” 
“ Don’t laugh, then, Mr. Arnold. Also 
let me suggest that you stop groveling on 
the ground and eating grass like Nebuchad¬ 
nezzar,” cried a third voice. 
Joe straightened himself suddenly, and 
turned in admiration. Chaulamine Gray 
drank a deep and accustomed cup of pleasure 
while she approached the two pairs of laud¬ 
ing eyes bent on her. She rejoiced in loveli¬ 
ness. She tossed back her fleece of floating- 
hair, dropped her hat by a ribbon over one 
shoulder, and skimmed along the path as if 
she had been winged. 
“Are you both chewing the cud ? Dear 
me, Ciiloe, what does make your eyes and 
nose so red? I saw you coming down here 
and followed. Not you, Mr. Joe. Don’t 
imagine I include you.” 
“Alas!” groaned Joe, catching at once 
her coquettish bail. 
“ I came to tell you, Chlo, that a man lias 
arrived in this village. A friend of pa’s. He 
came here to recover his health. He is a sea 
captain. Just think of having a great rude 
sailor about one all the tim<5!” 
“ That doesn’t necessarily follow,” ob¬ 
served Joe, “he need not trouble you, Miss 
Charlie.” 
“O, but I know be will trouble me,” re¬ 
plied Charlie innocently. She curved her 
rich lips, then lifted a glance to Joe. 
“I’ll hang him if he does 1” vowed that 
chivalrous youth. 
Charlamink turned to Ciiloe. “ Why do 
you hurry, CiiLO?" 
“ Father will want me. I have work to do.” 
“ You always have work to do. Why 
don’t you play some, child? You will be 
decrepit before you are as old as I am.” 
Chlok ran up the woody path. Looking 
back, she saw Charlamink and Job saunter¬ 
ing slowly together. He had drawn her 
hand on his arm. They made a pretty pic¬ 
ture, but Ciiloe, with her red eyes and nose, 
much as she loved the beautiful, ran on. 
She was not ready to go home, however. 
She leaned against a tree, and drew her hat 
over the side of her face. What was it? 
She had carried out one burden; was carry¬ 
ing two burdens back. Ciy.oE was, firstly, 
a i roubled little housewife; the wolf showed 
his fangs. Her visionary father in his high 
laboratory,—her dear, white-browed, watch¬ 
ing father,—must not want. Chlok was, 
secondly, a troubled little maiden. She 
wanted to please. She looked ai her needle- 
prioked fingers, she thought of her red, pug 
nose. O. she didn’t, want to grow decrepit: 
she was only eighteen, flow Joe had fol¬ 
lowed Chaulamine! Nobody would ever 
admire her. What was she talking about? 
Chlok ran on. It. is not a good plan to 
slop and weigh our burdens. As she hur¬ 
ried to duty they sat lighter upon her. God 
is good; that is always true. Whatever life 
brought her, she had certainly been created by 
Him for good, (“ To tight the wolf from poor 
lather after trouble bad shaken his reason,” 
parenthesized CnLOE.) These being her 
premises, she left the conclusion to work 
itself out. into symmetry through her fu¬ 
ture life. 
Dr. Ward lived in a largo old house, lie 
had been a physician of note, and a man of 
wealth and culture. Even now, when his 
dwelling was not more dilapidated than he, 
the intellectual struggled to the front, even 
as his high-bred face showed itself a moment 
at the. broken window. Ciiloe heard him 
walking in his laboratory up stairs. She 
entered the bare ball and passed through the 
bare dining-room to her own little laboratory. 
She kindled a fire and spread the round 
table. Daintily did CnLOE prepare the scan¬ 
ty food, though few embellishments can be 
given to bread and radishes and dry beef. 
Then she took from its place an old tea 
minister. She turned it, upside clown over 
the little silver urn. No shower of rolled 
leaves burst therefrom. She shook it; it was 
void. She set it down and shook her head, 
which also seemed void. 
“Father must, have his tea,” said Ciiloe, 
pressing her hands on ihc sides of her fore¬ 
head, as if that white, furrowed front could 
send forth green shoots and relieve her in 
the present emergency. She walked slowly 
to the door, but turned back — “I will not 
borrow.” She reached for her hat, but 
dropped the ribbon. “No more debt, no 
more debt.” 
The poor child stood in the middle of the 
room and covered her face. 
“O, father; poor, dear father, ivliat can 
I do!” 
Then she reproached herself. “ If I had 
sewed on and resisted running out to the 
woods to cry over imaginary troubles, 1 
might, have finished Chaulamine’ s skirts 
and been able to give him his tea,” 
She took a little bell and went with many 
hesitating steps to tinkle it through the 
door. Having done which, she sat down 
with her sowing and waited. Dr. Ward 
was in unusual excitement above stairs, and 
delayed; but his daughter was in unusual 
anxiety below stairs, and did not hood the 
delay. He came, however, clapping down 
the steps in his slippers, his dressing-gown 
sleeves pushed up. 
“ Dear father,” cried Ciiloe, flying to seat 
him, “you will not love your supper. There 
is no tea to-night; but, 1 will toast you some 
bread, and there is plenty of salt, if the but¬ 
ter is gone.” 
“ Eh ? Yes, yes, sis—yes, sis.” 
“ Shall I toast your bread, father?” 
“ No, no. Never mind, never mind. Just 
give me a cup of tea, and I’ll dip it in 
that.” 
“But father,” said Ciiloe, painfully, 
“ there is lie tea to-night.” 
“ Eli ? Well, never mind, never mind.” 
He took the glass of water she gave him 
and drained it, then reached it back to be 
refilled. 
“ IIo, water is a good thiug„a good thing. 
No wonder Ponce he Leon thought the 
secret of life lay in water.” 
“ I’m glad you like it, lather,” said Culoe 
in delight. “ It’s very cold. I iusl drew it 
from the well.” 
“ I tell you, sis," exclaimed the feverish 
man, grinding his l’oocl hurriedly, “ some- 
thing is about to turn up. It stands just so,” 
crossing his fore-lingers and looking around 
with an air of seeresy. “ Only one more 
element, and the thing is complete. Just 
wait-just wait. People won’t accept it at 
once, sis. 0, no. But it will reign by the 
tinn: the mlllenium begins Political econo¬ 
mists may say people ought to die—that the 
world’s population will overflow it. No 
need of that. Look, at barren Africa—at 
the unexplored northern and southern con 
tinenls--at our own country, even T he 
world ought- to be full of people praising 
God. That's the inUIemum. Death and 
sin go together. Life and good will come 
together. It’s cruel to say people ought to 
die. I don’t want to lose you; you don’t 
want to lose me, do you, sis ?’’ 
“ No, no, oh, no !” cried Ciiloe, 
“Just so," nodded the doctor, taking up 
his fork. This he dropped to cross his fin¬ 
gers again. “Now mark my word, sis. 
Something k going to turn up, soon.” 
Ciiloe left her seat and went to put her 
head against his knee. She sat looking up 
into the lace Of this crazy enthusiast, see¬ 
ing in him only “ precious father.” But she 
shuddered at his rapt brow. 
“ You are feverish, father.” 
“Feverish! Yes, sis. Columbus was 
feverish too, when lie heard the cry ‘ laud 
ho!’” 
“But, father dear,” asked Chloe with a 
troubled look, “ what if the wolf of hunger 
catches us ?’’ 
He laid down his fork and patted her head. 
“ Don’t fret about wolves, CnLOE, don’t 
fret about wolves. It will cure mad dog 
bites, too,” he added, triumphantly. 
Chi.oe turned her clouded eyes to the wall. 
She could uot smile at his childish simplicity. 
The rusty bell wire had a spasm while she 
gazed, and the bell tried to find voice, but 
the effort was futile and left it only trembling. 
She sprang up to go to the door. 
“ Yes, yes! concluded Dr. Ward, return¬ 
ing to Ins supper, “ something will turn up. 
“ Oil,” thought Chloe, “ the wolf’s snarl¬ 
ing teeth turn up; taxes neglected, and that 
last new set. of test tubes unpaid for. Needle¬ 
work will not support us. My poor father, 
what.shall I do?” 
A sunburnt man in the early prime of life, 
stood at. the door, who in citizen’s dress yet 
looked like a seaman. 
“ Good day, madam. Is Dr, Ward at 
home?” 
“ lie is, sir, he is at the supper-table.” 
“ Then do not disturb him ; I will, if you 
allow me, wait here till he is at leisure. .My 
card.” 
Ciiloe took the white slip, and found a 
seat for her guest ill the dismal hall. But 
tlieir voices had reached Dr. Ward, lie 
came clattering through the dining-room, 
swung the door hack, and threw his arms 
about the stranger. 
“ Ryder, my dear old fellow ! This makes 
me a new man. Ryder, I’m glad to see 
you!” 
Ciiloe left them shaking hands, and look¬ 
ing with sensitive, women’s eyes into each 
other’s faces, She went, to re-arrange the 
scanty board, and wish for an Elisha to set 
all her platters overflowing. The guest, 
however, declined refresh men Is. 1‘Ie had 
just let! his hoarding-place. So Chloe flew 
to her own room, and sewed by the failing 
light, glad that her father was going back to 
youth with a college chum, and that they sat 
on the verandah where no candles were 
needed. Finally with rapid fingers she made 
up a bundle and went, to curry it home. 
As she passed over the sill, her father re¬ 
membered lie had uot presented her to his 
friend. 
“ Wait a moment, sis. Ryder, this is my 
daughter Ciiloe. She was horn about the 
time you were married. Bless me, some 
years have passed since then, you’re past 
twelve, aren’t you, sis?” 
“ Eighteen, hither,” replied Chloe, giving 
t lie gentleman her hand. 
“Eighteen years!” exclaimed Dr. Ward 
pitifully, astounded. “ But they sit lightly 
on you. Ryder, they sit lightly on you. 
You can’t say the same of me.” lie turned 
his sad, bewildered face away and sighed. 
“ You had better let me carry your bundle 
and accompany you, Miss Chloe,” said 
Captain -Ryder Aqixlly. “ 1 have detained 
the doctor long enough to-night. But we 
shall have some famous talks, Ward.” 
“ Yes, yes,” cried the chemist, starting up 
as if duty had pricked him. “I’m busy, 
I'm very busy. But you’ll come and see 
me.” 
He darted into the hall, but turned back 
wistfully to repeat, “ You’ll come and see me 
often, old fellow.” 
“ Aye, aye, shipmate,” replied the captain ■ 
heartily. 
Then he and Ciiloe went through the 
pleasant, air down street, while the mono¬ 
maniac hurried up to his dark laboratory, to 
set the windows and his own pour brain 
agiowing. 
“ Why, we were bound for the same port,” 
laughed Captain Ryder, as he opened Mrs. 
Gray’s gate and delivered to Ciiloe her 
bundle. “ Now, wait a moment, little one. 
Can you trust your father’s old friend ? 
Hasn’t he been shattered here?" touching 
his forehead. “ What storm—I mean, what 
trouble did it ?” 
“ My mother’s death,” answered Chloe, 
steadily, “ and a fever which seized him im¬ 
mediately after.” 
“And he lias quit practising as a physi¬ 
cian, 1,o follow some odd fancy?” 
“ Yes, sir." 
“ Poor fellow ! Poor, dear hoy!” 
Ciii.ok’s heart leaped up with unspeak¬ 
able feeling toward the generous man, who 
neither ridiculed nor condemned her father. 
Ho said nothing more, but leaned thought¬ 
fully against ihc gate. Chloe hastened on 
her errand. 
Chaulamine was in her room. “ Entrcz, 
Chloe,” she cried to Chloe’s tap. “ I’m so 
glad you’ve finished those skirls; and you’ve 
clone them nicely, loo,” she added, tossing 
the bundle aside. “ Now sit down and tell 
me what you think of that polar bear lean¬ 
ing against our gate." 
Chaulamine began to comb her golden 
glory before the glass, and enjoy the admi¬ 
ration of two persons, Ciiloe and herself. 
Chaulamine was not refined and ill-natural 
enough to treat with condescension the play¬ 
mate whom fortune had made her seamstress. 
It takes your sensitive, sour woman, the 
woman that Uko vinegar you may purify in¬ 
finitely and strengthen the acid, to patronize 
a fallen friend. 
“I think,” said Chloe, maturely, “that 
he is a good and noble man.” 
“ A good and noble beast! He hasn’t the 
breeding to notice one.” 
“ Why, Charlie,” exclaimed Chloe, in¬ 
nocently entering on the Captain’s exculpa¬ 
tion, “ he was very kind to me. He carried 
my bundle all the way down street for me.” 
“ In-deed !’’ pronounced Charlie, raising 
her eyes and hands in astonishment and 
secret pique. “ Well; it must have been 
because he thought you were somebody’s 
little grandmother on a ramble. For the 
man has certainly no gallantry for girls." 
Chloe was sore on the subject of her 
apparent antiquity; but giddy Chaulamine 
never counted wounds. The little seams¬ 
tress swallowed a lump of resentment that 
had nearly tinct ured the blood spreading over 
her plain, sweet face, aud concluded ingenu¬ 
ously, watching her grateful friend,— 
“ I am sure you will like him by-and-by. 
And be will like you. Everybody likes 
you.” 
“The dear little goose!” cried Charlie, 
dimpling. “It shall be kissed for that 
speech. There, have I frightened the little 
mother-wren off? You are always on the 
wing, Chloe.” 
“ 1 am obliged to be; I have work to do.” 
“ Work again. Always work, work. One 
would think you were Mrs. Atlas. How 
many centuries do you call yourself?” 
“ I am eighteen years old,” replied Chloe, 
gravely. 
“ You are eighteen yearn old, and I am 
twenty years young. Dear me, Chloe,” 
added Chaulamine, doubtfully, “ wliat 
should 1 do if 1 had to earn my own pin- 
money ? ” 
She puckered her pretty, straight brows, 
and looked so puzzled that Chloe laughed, 
and then Charlie laughed. Then they 
laughed together, with such heartiness that 
the phantom of Care was chased from little 
Martha’s heart, and she went home quite 
cheerful.—[Concluded next week. 
octal 
OjJICS. 
LIST TO THE STORM. 
BY MRS. WILKINSON. 
Oh list to the storm, 
For the cold drops fall 
Like clods of earth 
On a funeral pall. 
List, list to the blowing. 
For over the soul 
A storm may roll 
Of no man’s knowing-. 
Til) the mad waves, tost, 
In their wildness groan, 
Aud they surge and moan 
Like a spirit lost. 
Then list to the storm, 
For OTer some souls 
A inad wave rolls 
Of no man's knowing. 
- *-*■* - 
WORK vs. WORRY. 
TnE late sudden death of Mr. Henry J. 
Raymond baa afforded many writers a text 
for homilies on overwork, lie was a young 
man, comparatively, at least yet in his prime, 
and he was known to be a hard worker. He 
dropped oil'in a strange, almost unaccount¬ 
able manner; ergo :—he died of overwork. 
Bo men reason; and perhaps in the present 
instance they reason correctly. And they 
hold this startling decease up as a warning to 
all busy bodies, and preach idleness as tem¬ 
poral salvation,—or idleness to a certain 
degree. 
Rut though hero and there a man works 
himself to death, we venture the assertion 
that more men are killed bv worry than by 
labor. Those petty annoyances which one 
permits to fret him from day to day,—which 
keep his nerves constantly on the strain,— 
are a hundred fold worse than downright, 
severe toil. They chafe the man in every 
way. They are a daily excitement, a daily 
wear. After a time they take all the healthy 
life out. of him, and leave him irritated and 
weak, and in such a physical and mental 
condition that the least burden is a fearful 
weight , under which the whole system sinks. 
Work is very good; but worry is very 
foolish. Whatever its seeming cause, it is 
still without adequate reason. As we have 
hinted, it is usually the result of petty annoy¬ 
ances, to which one gives heed ; it also arises 
from a waul iff laith. Large enterprises arc 
ou foot, deep interests are at stake, the man 
does all in bis power to render them secure 
and prosperous, and then, instead of trusting 
as he ought, that they will come out all 
right, he works himself into a positive fever 
over them,—thinks of them when he should 
be asleep,—troubles his brain continually 
with questions which he cannot answer,— 
conjures up terrible fancies which drive him 
nearly wild. 
This almost endless worry is the bane of 
individual aud social life It saps the hap¬ 
piness of the mothers ; it sends the fathers to 
the lunatic asylums; it interferes with the 
comfort of the children. It is making hun¬ 
dreds whom we know prematurely old. It, 
more than work, or real care, or sorrow, is 
the cause of wrinkles, and gray hairs, and 
obituaries. Let. men and women have work 
without worry, and they will live, to die ol 
disease or old age, in nine cases out of ten. 
Work is beneficial. It does kindly things 
for us. It is seldom a murderer. Often as 
it is charged with some sudden taking off 
the charge is nearly always a libeL Back of 
the att ributed cause lurks some one of a half 
dozen reasonable causes for the man’s death. 
Either lie burned his life out with tobacco, 
or strangled it in strong drink, or choked it 
with lute suppers, or, through lack of exer¬ 
cise, smothered it in fat. This is the plain 
English of the matter; and we have no 
business to slander a man’s best blessing by 
declaring it a curse, an assassin, and decrying 
it so eloquently as to make idlers of all our 
kind by giving them a positive fear of hard 
work. 
-- 
HOW THE TURKS WORK. 
The methods of labor are peculiar. The 
Turk will invariably sit at bis occupa¬ 
tion, if possible. The trader, in liis little 
store, all exposed to the street, may thus be 
seen, cross-legged, tailor-like, drawing in 
the smoke of liis margliilt), through its long 
flexible tube, seemingly lost to all sublunary 
affairs, and indifferent whether customers 
come or go. If a mechanic, he always sits 
if possible, aud i thus see them, pressing the 
block of wood which they are fashioning 
between the soles of their feet. The black¬ 
smith in his little sevcn-by-uinc shop, digs 
a hole to stand in, bringing thus the anvil 
nearer his arms. 
li' a log of timber, forty or fifty feet in 
length, is to he converted into planks, it is 
first raised by main force on wooden horses 
six or seven feet, and then one man above 
and another below pull Hie saw' — requiring 
a good day’s work for the two to do what a 
Maine saw-mill would accomplish in five or 
ten minutes. And so through all the walks 
of life. The ancient scribe is also a Turkish 
institution. You find him cross-legged in 
Ids shop, with writing materials before him, 
ready to write a letter for you, draw an in¬ 
strument, or sell you the materials for your¬ 
self. Perhaps yonder self-satisfied Turk, 
entering the mosque for his devotions, at 
this fast of Ramazan, forms not a bad coun¬ 
terpart to the Pharisee, and so w r e have the 
Scribes and Pharisees together. 
-- 
HINTS FOR HUSBANDS. 
When a man has established a home, lias 
a wife aud children, the most important 
duties of his life have fairly begun. The 
errors of his youth may he obliterated, the 
faults of Ills early days may be overlooked; 
but from the moment of his marriage he 
commences to write an ineffable history; not 
by pen and ink, but by deeds, by which he 
must ever afterwards he reported and 
judged. 
liis conduct at home, his care for his family, 
the training ol Lis children, liis attentions to 
his wife, his devotions to the great interests 
of eternity; these are the tests by which his 
character will ever afterwards bo estimated 
by all who think or care about him. These 
will determine bis position while living, and 
influence his memory when the grave has 
closed over him. And as he uses well or ill 
the brief space allotted to him, -out of all 
eternity, to establish a fame founded upon 
the most solid of foundations- -private worth 
—so will God and man judge of him. He 
holds in his hands the private weal and woe 
of wife and children; and if he abuses this 
most holy, God-given trust, he cannot hope 
for mercy hereafter. Many a child goes 
astray, simply because home lacks sunshine. 
Many a wife esteems death her best friend, 
because lie who swore before God to “ love 
houor and cherish” has forgotten his vows. 
■- *-■*-*■ - 
TABLE TALK. 
You will find that a great deal of charac¬ 
ter is imparted and received at the table. 
Parents too often forget this; and therefore 
instead of swallowing your food in sullen 
silence, instead of brooding over your busi¬ 
ness, instead of severely talking about others, 
let the conversation at the table be genial, 
kind, social and cheering. Don’t bring dis¬ 
agreeable things to tlie table in your conver¬ 
sation any more than, you would in your 
dishes. For this reason, too, the more good 
company you have at your table, the better 
lor v our children. Every conversation with 
company at your table is an educator of the 
family. Hence the intelligence and the re¬ 
finement, and the appropriate behavior of a 
family which is given Lo hospitality. Never 
feel that intelligent visitors can he anything 
but a blessing to you aud yours. How few 
have fully gotten hold of the fact that com¬ 
pany and conversation at the table are no 
small part ol education ? 
-- 
Luxuries. —Oliver Goldsmith’s dedication 
of “The Deserted Village” to Sir Joshua 
Reynolds contains the following striking 
passage“ For twenty or thirty years past 
it has been the fashion to consider luxury us 
one of the greatest national advantages and 
all the wisdom of antiquity, in that particu¬ 
lar, as erroneous. Still, however, I must re¬ 
main a professed ancient on that head, 
and continue to think those luxuries preju¬ 
dicial to States by which so many vices are 
introduced and so many kingdoms have been 
