‘NO NIGHT THERE.” 
BY A. n. I.JNTON. 
O nil caiuxess ciI earth ! 0 mocking pain ! 
O day to darkness going 1 
You bold but little in your empty Allowing; 
The end of all will bo my greatest gain. 
There is within my limited foreknowing 
For ull your want and woe a kindly bane. 
The ways of earth are dnrk; the sunset lies, 
Unrobed of all Its beauties, 
A shadow black and chill o'er all our duties. 
And shutting out the smiling of the skies. 
Our better nature in the shadow mute is. 
Or speaks but faintly through some quick surprise. 
At intervals, perhaps, may clearly shine 
The stars, in friendly gleaming. 
As If to woo forgetfulness In dreaming. 
And drown the earthly in the half divine: 
Yet memory sleeps only In our seeming. 
And consciousness breathes on, but. makes no sign. 
Our souls beneat h the darkness sit alone 
Jn solitary places. 
And keenly scan tlio few by-passing faees, 
In hope some newer light bus outward shone ; 
Hut find thereof no sweetly cheering traces. 
For yet Is the all-perfect day unknown. 
It waits somewhere beyond tho evening hills,— 
That day without an ending. 
Pray GDI) our step* are thither ever tending! 
Its glory on our vision bursts and thrills. 
The rarest radiance through the darkness sending. 
As dreams of dawn appear, when fancy wills. 
O endless day ! O triumph over night 1 
O radiant glory rarest 1 
Of earthly dreams thou urt the best and fairest. 
And I shall drink of thy supreme delight! 
I know that Gap for ull my being rarest; 
I know 11 ib sunshine yet shall bless my sight! 
“ No night there!" shall I ever sadly miss 
The Blurs above me glowing? 
Whnt answer has ray limited foreknowing? 
Some subtle presuiunce tells me only this : 
The stars within my crown, effulgence throwing, 
Will satisfy me t hrough an endless bliss ! 
tones for muniltsts. 
WINNING A WIFE, 
THE STORY OF AN OLD YOUNG MAN. 
Joseph IIannaford was an old young 
man. Care and responsibility had come to 
him early in life, for lie was not more than 
sixteen when his father died, and left his 
mother and his young sister to his keeping, 
There was property enough for them all, to 
he sifre, hut it was ehiutly in land and stock, 
and needed Joseph’s vigilant superintend¬ 
ence to make it profitable. This superin¬ 
tendence lie gave faithfully and willingly, 
and never once complained that, to do so 
forced him to resign sundry secretly cher¬ 
ished personal ambitions of his own. But 
all this responsibility wrought, its own work 
upon his nature — made him provident, 
thoughtful, calculating, thrifty—precisely an 
old young man. 
This slate of tilings continued for ton 
years. Then his sister married and removed 
to the next. town. Ilis mother desired to ac¬ 
company her, and was only prevented by 
the dilHeully which attended obtaining a 
suitable housekeeper for Joseph. 
You perceive, therefore, that at twenty-six 
Mr. Joseph IIannaford was just in a position 
where marriage became convenient and de¬ 
sirable. Otherwise, 1 rather think, he was 
quite too well disciplined to have cherished 
any idle fancies or importunate longings. 
Whether before this epoch he had ever 
suffered any truant thoughts to wander in 
the direction of Miss Carrie Fay, who had 
been growing toward her sweet womanhood 
not very far away from his door, I cannot 
conjecture. I only know that about this 
time he began to discover that her eyes were 
blue aud her hair golden, her cheeks were 
flower o' the peach, and her lips blossomed 
with a sweetness which he longed to taste. 
He told her these things in some discreet 
fashion of his own, and she—he was her 
first lover, and the right of discovery has 
gone for a good deal in all ages. 
Every one said he was making a great 
mistake. The neighbors thought they knew 
what lie wanted a great deal better than he 
himself did; and were sure that a good, 
strong, thrifty girl, used to working and 
saving, would he just the one for him. Car¬ 
rie was pretty, and fanciful, and daiuty. 
She was an orphan; hut an uncle, who had 
no children of his own, had kept her from 
feeling any sense of loneliness or desolation 
by his constant and fa Uierly kindness. Under 
his roof she had grown up to seventeen 
years, and at that period the old young man 
came along, and wooed and won her. 
Her uncle felt secretly uncomfortable, for 
he understood just wliat Carrie was hotter 
than any one else did; and he knew that it 
would be no easy matter to make a working 
bee out of a golden-winged butterfly. But, 
on the other hand, Carrie was evidently in 
love with her suitor; and Mi-. Hannaford 
was certainly well-to-do—quite able to marry 
to please himself, and make liis wife comfort¬ 
able in her own way afterward. 
So, in due time, the wedding took place, 
and Carrie Hannaford went away to her 
new home, where, before very long, a change 
came over the spirit of her dream. 
She had begun by first idealizing, and 
then adoring her lord and master. He was 
certainly well-looking, in a kind of regular, 
massive way. His face had in it not much 
suggestion of sentiment. Ilis eyes were 
clear and shrewd, though kind, and his lips 
were firm and rather thin. He knew beauty 
when he saw it, but he would never be ruled 
through his senses His feature# were well 
shaped. There was power in his luce. Ho 
was a man who knew how to say “ no ” to 
himself aud to others. There was a manly 
vigor and symmetry in his well-knit frame; 
and, in short, he possessed a good many of 
the attribute# which go to the making up of 
a girl’s hero. But Mistress Carrie reckoned 
without her host when she proposed to make 
a post-matrimonial lover of him. 
He evidently did not believe in connubial 
love-making. Philandering, as htt called it, 
was not to Ills taste, Courling was very 
well in its way. It had not been without its 
shy delights even for him. But they were 
married now, and it was time to settle down 
and begin life a# they could hold out. Their 
wedding-day was in September; and when 
the late October winds blew away the sap¬ 
less, withered leaves, Carrie felt as if her 
hopes which had blossomed so fairly, were 
blowing with the leaves, and withered as 
they, down the wind. 
She was a conscientious, well-intentioned 
littIti creature, and she tried her best to put 
aside all those feelings which she taught her¬ 
self to believe were morbid and ungrateful. 
She was constantly striving to justify Joseph, 
making little pleas for him at the bar of her 
heart. He was nine years older than she; 
it would not lie natural for him. to have so 
much romance. Of course he loved her; 
why else would he have married her? What 
a goose she was to expect of a liig, strong, 
busy man the little softnesses which belong 
to and delight women. Then she would try 
to he brave; make a pretty little toilet, per¬ 
haps ; wear the dross and the ribbons lie had 
praised six months ago; and meet 1dm, her 
eyes bright with hope, her cheeks pink with 
expectation. Was he blind to all this—such 
an old young man, that the sweet devices of 
youth had no longer for him any language ? 
At any rate, he made no sign. 
How dull and prosy and commonplace 
were tho long winter evenings which they 
passed together! They get through supper 
and were seated before the Franklin stove in 
their little sitting-room, at six o'clock, punc¬ 
tually ; and there for three mortal hours they 
sat in unbroken quiet, he reading his news¬ 
papers through and through, and she watch¬ 
ing him, and wondering, wondering, won¬ 
dering whether life was to go on at this dead 
level forever. Punctually, as the dock struck 
nine, he would get up, light his lantern, go 
liis 'nightly rounds among cows, and oxen 
and horses. Then he would come iu, take 
off liis boots, leisurely warm his feet at the 
open fire, and go to bed. She grew to bate 
the precise epoch at which lie pulled oft' liis 
hoots. It seemed to liur that, just up to that 
pass she could hear on silently, but as if then 
she must utlur some outcry, or silence aud 
constraint would choke her. 
Once or twice she made some few forlorn 
attempts to better the condition of things — 
brightening them up if possible. Once she 
planned tho beguilemont of a little supper. 
Having made ail ready beforehand, while lie 
was out upon his evening round, she stowed 
some oysters and brewed some coffee, fondly 
fancying her small feast would be a success; 
but the wise old young man would not see 
the fun. lie did not believe iu oysters at bed¬ 
time; they would disagree with him, he 
knew. As for coffee, he was sure a single 
cup would keep him awake all night; hut if 
Carrie could take such things at nine o’clock, 
and not have them hurt her, lie had not tho 
slightest objection. So, with no heart to 
taste it herself, she carried away her little 
treat; and if a few tears cooled the coffee 
she had poured for him in vain he, at least, 
was none the wiser. 
Slowly the winter wore away. Birds came 
back from over seas and began t© sing. Vio¬ 
lets opeuod shy blossoms. Grass blades 
sprang up greenly; and even Carrie Hanua- 
ford brightened with the brightening of 
Nature, and began to remember that she 
herself was young. 
One day in May her husband came to her 
with the proposal that they should take a 
summer boarder. lie put the matter iu the 
most uugracious way, as is the matrimonial 
wont of precisely this class of men. As 
she would be having a hired girl any way, 
he said—aud he used, in saying it, a tone 
which made her feel herself a monster of 
extravagance—they might just as well have 
something to keep her busy; and this boarder 
who wanted to come—this Mr. Hugh Waring 
—would pay well and make very little trou¬ 
ble. He knew this, because three years ago, 
in his mother’s lime, Waring had boarded 
with them for some months. 
Of course Mistress Carrie consented—for 
what else could she do ?—and kept secret 
her own dissatisfaction with the prospect 
before her. 
It only took Mr. Waring’s arrival, how¬ 
ever, to reconcile her to his presence. With 
his first deferential bow over her hand, she be¬ 
came his willing hostess. He was a person 
of such type as the young wife had never 
before, in her sh#rt, quiet life, encountered— 
a man of wealth and of leisure, high-bred, 
scholarly, and belonging to the ancient order 
of gentlemen. He was a handsomer man, 
too, than one often meets, with his clearly 
cut features, liis warm coloring, and the 
chestnut hair and flowing heard, which the 
eye matched. 
He was not an old young man. Impulse 
was strong within him; discipline had not. 
yet taught him discretion. When he felt 
strongly he would speak strongly, and, per¬ 
haps, act recklessly; but, under ordinary 
circumstances, be had the aplomb and the 
cool self-possession of a man of the world. 
Very soon ho began to perceive that to 
hoard with the Hannafords now was a 
slightly different thing from what it lmd 
been in Hie administration of Joseph nan- 
uaford’s self-contained mother and staid sis¬ 
ter. Joseph Hanuaford’s wife was altogether 
another order of woman. It may be ques¬ 
tioned whether she would have made any 
serious impression on liim had he met her as 
Miss Carrie Fay. But, since her marriage, a 
soul-subduing pathos had grown into her 
look, which somehow went to his heart. 
Perhaps, too, the strongest appeal which can 
be made to a man’s chivalry is the sight of a 
sad and disappointed woman, who neither 
parades nor confesses her misery. 
Hugh Waring was not a bad man. In 
some respects, indeed, bis heart and his life 
were purer and fresher than those of most 
men. He certainly meant no harm to his 
fair young hostess. He would not have add¬ 
ed a feather’s weight to the burden which 
had already borne so hardly on her life. But 
he commenced by pitying her; and love has 
been pity’s neighbor ever since the world 
began. 
lie was tender and gentle toiler as no one 
had ever been before. lie was not too busy 
to notice Hie blash roses in her hair, or the 
blushes on her cheeks. If she liked a wild 
(lower he had brought home, he made light 
of a long tramp to fetch her its kindred. 
While she sewed he read to her, aud taught 
her to love Keats, aud Shelley, and Brown¬ 
ing. At nightfall lie used to sing to her, 
while her husband was busy about the late 
“chores” with which a New England 
farmer fills up the summer twilights—sweet, 
suggestive love-songs, and old ballads which 
have faltered down through the centuries 
their tearful music. 
All this time 1 doubt if he had thought, of 
danger to himself or her. Bhe certainly never 
bad. Her delight was pure and sweet. She 
would have said, if any one had questioned 
her, that M :,. U was her friend, the 
best friend she had < \T. had; but, unques¬ 
tioned, she did not say even so much as that 
to herself. She scarcely knew that it was 
summer with her heart, as well as with the 
year; or that the summer days were flying 
fast. 
Nor did anything in the aspect of affairs 
make her husband uneasy. To do this 
young man—whom, perhaps, circumstances, 
rather than nature, had made old—justice, 
he was neither mean nor ungenerous. His 
confidence in this young wife of his was per¬ 
fect. She loved him; she was his to have 
aud to bold; why should he grudge her a 
few hours which some one else made pleas¬ 
ant after a fashion not his own? I do not 
flunk he was likely to lose anything by this 
generosity, or that any amount of suspicious 
espionage on his part, would have served liis 
own cause better. 
There came, at last, an evening of revela¬ 
tion to the two who were going on so blind¬ 
ly ; or perhaps it had come to Waring before, 
lie had been sitting silently through the 
sunset, watching the play of the warm light 
on Mrs. Hannaford’# fair face and golden 
hair. She looked wonderfully young and 
lielples9, with her extreme delicacy, her ap¬ 
pealing eyes, and her soft, white dress, made 
as simple as a babe's, and girded with a blue 
ribbon. A languor, born perhaps of the 
summer beats, oppressed her. She drooped 
toward him, leaning her head upon her hand, 
and looking frail as a snow-wreath which a 
w lnd might blow away Waring sat silently, 
as I said, and watched her, until the sunset, 
lights had gone out of her hair, and a curi¬ 
ous awe began to steal over him, as he saw 
her through the gathering shadows, white, 
and still, and unearthly as a spirit. Then, 
out of the semi-darkness, his voice came to 
her in a sort of chant, too low aud even to 
be a song: 
'* Sweet Is true love, though given in vain, In vain ; 
Aud swoet Is Ueuth that puts an end to pain ; 
I know not wbloh Is sweeter—no, not I. 
Love, art thou sweet? thc-n bitter death must be; 
Love, nw thou biller ? sweet is death to me. 
Oh, love! if death be sweeter, let me die. 
Sweet love tbnt seems not made to fade away— 
Sweet death, that seems to make ns loveless clay, 
I know not- which is sweeter—no, not I." 
Her tears were falling fast before he had 
finished. A spell tvas upon her which she 
did not understand, and could not evade. 
Still she kept silent, and waited for his words 
—words which, when they came, pierced her 
like a sword. 
“ Mrs. Hannaford, I think I must go away 
to-morrow. It is midsummer now, and all 
the hay is down,” 
“ But I thought,” she faltered timidly, “ you 
were to stay the summer through?” 
“ So I should, if all things had been as of 
old. It is not good for me to be here under 
the new regime.” 
“ I have tried,” she began; and then sbe 
stopped. Her tears choked her. She could 
not go on, and tell him, in simple common¬ 
places, that she had tried to make him com¬ 
fortable. 
“ If you had done no more than you tried 
to do, all would have been well,” he cried, 
his tones fervent with sudden passion. “ I 
saw you just what you were, and your hus¬ 
band just what he was. I saw liow much it 
was in you to give to some man; how little yon 
were evon asked to give to him. God help 
us both, for I have learned to love you. I 
covet my neighbor’s wife—I dare not stay 
here.” 
She said nothing; but he beard through 
the stillness the bitter sobbing which she 
strove to smother. It was more than he 
could bear. He crossed over to her, but lie 
did not take her in his arms. Some shield 
of purity was about her which still held him 
away from her, though he was close at her 
side. 
“ Carrie,” he said, calling her for the first 
time by her name, “ I must go away to¬ 
morrow; but you shall go, too, if }mu will. 
Your love would be worth to me any sacri¬ 
fice. Wliat would mine be worth to you? 
You know just how much your husband 
cares for you. You have seen what life with 
him is. Do you think it would break bis 
heart to lose you ? 1 tell you no. lie would 
very composedly get a divorce from you, 
and marry more wisely next time. You 
would be free in a few months, and the 
moment you were free you should be my 
wife. So help me God, I would deal hon¬ 
orably with you. Don’t you believe me ?” 
He caught a low “ Yes,” murmured under 
her breath. 
“Then, will you come? I think I can 
make life a different tiling for you from what 
it has ever been. You shall know what it is 
to be loved by a man with a man’s heart In 
him. Will you come, or will you settle back 
on the old life, and send me away alone to 
curse the fate that ever brought me to a 
knowledge of you ?” 
He stopped, and then she could hear his 
heart beat in the silence. Temptation beset 
her sorely. How sweet this love would lie 
of which he spoke—this love for which she 
had so hungered — this passionate lover’s 
love, which Joseph IIannaford would never 
give her! She had a temperament to which 
love was the supreme thing. It was her one 
idea of Heaven. But she had not gouo for 
enough away from tho innocence of child¬ 
hood for lier guardian angel to have for¬ 
saken her. Clearly as if some human voice 
had spoken it, she heard a whisper, which 
came again and again, and would be obeyed 
—“ Pray!” 8he got up at last, and, saying 
to Hugh Waring nothing but “ Wait,” went 
away to her own room.—[Concluded next 
week. 
IN A STREET CAR. 
BY LESLIE RETLAS. 
It is early in the morning, before the gay 
and fashionable people of the great city are 
astir, so there are strange, odd faces that 
crowd into the car. We watch them, with 
a sad, wondering curiosity. It is hard to be¬ 
lieve that they and we are companions on 
the same journey — children of the one 
Father, daily drawing nearer the same silent 
land, where we shall ull meet together at the 
last. 
That man in the corner,—can it be there 
are possibilities of good yet hidden in the 
depths of his soul? A miserable, sullen 
face; not dejected, but stupid and mean— 
bloated by the bad stuff whose sickeniug 
odor every now and then is wafted towards 
us, defiling Hie sweet fragrance of morning. 
And that boy next,—can we ever bring 
ourselves to think of him as a little, pure in¬ 
fant, over whom prayers were breathed and 
mothor-love watched untiringly ? All traces 
of glad boyhood have faded out of his face, 
grown old and hardened, as it were, by petty 
crimes:—red and repulsive, its stolidity seems 
to say, “ I am my own master, and will go 
on in my own way—nothing can turn me.” 
nis ceaseless rolling from side to side of the 
black morsel that gives him a sort of grim 
pleasure fills us with amazement, and we 
start back in disgust as he spits it out, care¬ 
less whom it reaches. 
Then that woman by his side, with her 
hard, unwomauly face, coarse-featured and 
ugty, without a glimpse of soul-light, shining- 
out of her eyesf Can she ever be kind and 
gentle, loving even in roughness ? We think 
not. There is no. sweet ministration about 
her, no promise of help; only the added 
harshness of a soured nature — a woman na¬ 
ture, turned aside from its rightful channels. 
Perhaps tho boy had such a mother, who 
left him alone, to grow up at the rude mercy 
of the world, untaught and unloved. 
There is more in that than we dream of; 
and surely the merciful Father, who judges 
ever}' man according to the light that he has 
to guide him through this lower darkness, 
looks upon the boy with pity, and will one 
day raise him up by the eternal law of com¬ 
pensation, to a higher place than he can 
find here. 
But, alasl what can we say for this man, 
whose bold, unblushing wickedness quails 
not, even before tho most high God ? He is 
eminently respectable in bis dress. There is 
not the tawdry finely of an inexperienced, 
common villain about him; but. a sleek se- 
datencssthat makes us alludder and instinct¬ 
ively turn away, as bis hard, glittering eye 
rests upon us in its wanderings. There is a 
life of success—evil that has prospered and 
led him on to deeper depths—written in his 
face. We are strangely troubled. Why is 
sin so strong ? TV hy does not God overrule 
the weaker will of the creature, holding him 
back from ruin? Are there some doomed 
to perish from the beginning? For what, 
then, were they born? Ik only knows! 
and we close our eyes and cry, “ Kyrie 
Elelson 1” 
There is a poor Jew peddler, with his 
basket choicely guarded on his knees, his 
coat torn and ragged; his shirt rivaling it 
in its dinginess; his long hair unkempt; his 
hands so black we long to ask him if he has 
no time to rest by the brook and fulfill the 
command of the fathers. Ilis keen eye and 
insinuating smile tell us he is already pre¬ 
paring his maiden speech for the day; and 
with a half smile we wonder why money is 
so precious to him as to need this bewilder¬ 
ing tissue of lies to gain it; for he has had 
uo homo, no friends, none to whom he would 
be glad to give it. 
Now it is later. The old faces are going 
and new ones coining. The workers of the 
world are hurrying on to their toil. Men of 
business, who traverse the same route every 
day, now with earnest., intent eyes fixed on 
the paper, cull tho news, husbanding their 
time, in utter forgetfulness of those around 
them ; eager faces and sad ones; hearty, com¬ 
fortable looking people, who have enough 
and to spare; thin, visionary, tired people, 
who work hard and eat too little. It is an 
epitome of the world. 
Hero are ull sorts of faces. Some tell their 
own story ; others are sealed, inscrutable, and 
all our wondering tells us nothing. We 
make mistakes, too, in our studies, just as 
we make our great mistakes in life. We 
turn with loaHiing away, w hen often, if the 
veil were lifted, we should kindle into divine 
compassion towards those we deemed so un¬ 
lovely. lie who loves us best “knows all, 
yet loves us better than he knows;” and one 
day, when sin shall be separate from us, and 
all unsightliness shall be no more, we shall 
understand, in part, that perfect heavenly 
love which scorns no created thing. 
-- 
FOOLISH EXPENSES. 
Once in a while a pensive man may be 
heard to say “ I wish 1 had all the money 
back that 1 have spent in drinks for the past 
ten years.” Not one man in twenty who, 
retrospectively gazing, gives utterance to 
that wish, has in liis mind an approximating 
estimate of the amount which a person of 
even moderate bibulous propensities may 
spend upon drink in the space of ten years. 
Leaving wines and expensive liquors quite 
out of the question, let us see what a plain 
cocktailiat or modest Imbiber of old rye is 
likely to disburse on his favorite refreshments 
in the course of a year. Take a very moderate 
man as a sample; 
Assume that he drinks every day one glass 
of beer at ten cents and four glasses at fifteen. 
That amounts to seventy cents a day, which 
makes four dollars and ninety cents a week. 
Multiply by four, and you have nineteen 
dollars and sixty cents a month, which comes, 
you know-, to one hundred and thirty-five 
dollars and twenty cents a year. Thus, if 
the man who had carried on at this rate for 
ten years had all his liquor money back, his 
pocket would be inflated to the tune of thir¬ 
teen hundred and fifty-two dollars. This is 
only a small beer calculation ; but think of 
the men who spend five times this amount 
on liquors, and remember that their name is 
legion. 
-♦♦♦- 
Not All Roughness. —Many rough per¬ 
sons as well as animals have usually some 
tender spot in their feelings. A man once 
had a very fierce house clog, within the 
length of whose chain it would have been 
dangerous for a stranger to have ventured; 
but notwithstanding Ills apparently savage 
disposition, a brood of duckling's, reared in 
the yard in which he was kept, became so 
fond of him that whenever, from his barking, 
they apprehended danger, they would rush 
towards him for protection, and seek shelter 
in his kennel. 
-•-*-*■--- 
Don’t cherish your sorrows; when God 
breaks our idols in pieces, it is not for us to 
put the broken bits together again. 
