man, tho fire of the Irishman, will bo super- 
added, and then we shall have a man. In 
the meantime wo sec now and then one of 
these proportioned characters, given as if 
to keep the world’s heart up, and generally, 
nut always, they are of New England ori¬ 
gin. Hoi'K’b father wan one of these. Built 
on a large scale, what was meant in him for 
virtue, did not through a stunted growth 
become a vice. His pride and his strength 
were the bark-bone of his Jove, and not its 
tyrants. His heart was tho center of his 
moral circulation, and his brain was tin; cool 
business agent of the concern, under the 
heart's inspiration. Hope was her father’s 
own child, and between the two was the 
rare love born of true sympathy. Her 
mother had died when she was an infant, 
leaving two sons besides the baby daughter, 
and Hope had grown 1.r> womanhood, mould¬ 
ed, by her peculiar household relations, into 
a lovely combination of beauty and strength. 
Hhe was the companion and the child, the 
mother and the petted sister. 
Mr. A it not. n and bis eldest son were part¬ 
ners in a large mercantile house, the suc¬ 
cess of which had been unvarying for no 
many years, that its neighbors iooked'upon 
it as the personification of power and trust¬ 
worthiness, Like mauylarge houses in the 
North, the business extended its branches 
through the Southern States, and the threat 
of rupture between North and South was 
equally a threat against the prosperity of 
the Anxm.ni'i, and thousands like them. 
At this time Mr. Arnold’s house was a 
soft of a center for a certain phase of pa¬ 
triotism. The spirit which linds itself at 
homo in an atmosphere of ideal heroism, 
the enthusiasm which in common times is 
thought to be womanish and unworthy of 
item, but which in t imers of great ferment 
is known to belong to the atmosphere of the 
soul, found in this house a congenial home in 
which to collect itself arid radiate its power. 
Father and sons were ready for any sacri¬ 
fice, for they saw clearly and truly what 
was at stake, and to such visions sacrifice is 
not hard. They were enthusiastic, but their 
enthusiasm had a self-poise, in strange con¬ 
trast to the swaying waves of feeling in the 
Heatheustonk family—a self-poise always 
r-suiting from an Intelligent consciousness 
of a solid fouudaf ion of right. The Heath- 
krstoJi es, indeed, believed themselves to be 
right, but they could not demonst rate their 
proposition by the rules of (ion’s arithme¬ 
tic. as could the Arnolds, mid for this very 
reason si nod, even among themselves, upon 
various platforms, corresponding to the 
moral development Of the individuals. 
While Hope was absent in Virginia many 
changes had quietly taken place in the 
spiritual conditions of her home and circle; 
the great change in herown soul has already 
been recorded; she thus found herself, in a 
certain sense, another woman in another 
world. Him met her father and brothers 
With a new meaning in her face, and read 
new meanings in their faces. r L’ho step 
which Hope and Alfred had taken was. of 
course, at first. a great surprise in Hope's 
own home. II was, too, at first, a disap¬ 
point m ml . Mr. Arnold’s first thought 
wa>. “Is my daughter the betrothed of a 
rebel at the very opening of the conflict?’* 
His second thought, was that a man cannot 
be really a rebel, except in his heart, and he 
Knew (Inf truer heart never beat than 
Alfred Heath histone's. He knew that 
if there was alloy, t he gold tried in the lire 
of life's discipline would soon work itself 
clear, and so, after the first hesitation, lie 
took Alfred to his heart, as the future 
husband of his darling. Harmony comes 
quickly to natures pitched upon one key. 
Alfred was a Virginian, and had made no 
avowal of intention to take sides against 
the South, and the Arnolds were repre¬ 
sentative Northerners in their devotion to 
the central idea of this North, yet all were 
true-hearted gentlemen, and the short visit 
of the young lover was marred by no dis¬ 
cords. 
Hope did not weep long over Alfred's 
letter. With strong natures tears are a 
momentary relief, but never an indulgence, 
and Hope was rapidly gaining that strength 
which y ields to motion, only that it may re¬ 
fresh itself for greater efforts and greater 
endurance. Her first thought was to tell 
her father of the sad newa, and she sought 
him in the library, where ho was consulting 
with Philip, the eldest son, on some mat¬ 
ter evidently absorbing to both. In answer 
to Mr. Arnold's “ Come in,” Hope entered 
and seated herself languidly by the open 
fire, to wait till her father and brother had 
finished tho matter in hand. 
She was watching the glowing coals, aud 
yielding a little to the sense of physical 
comfort, when she heard tho worns from 
her father’s lips: 
“ There's no use in trying to fight against 
nature. If we insist on Ned's going back 
to Harvard, it will only result in his leaving 
college and going directly to the army with¬ 
out asking consent.” 
“O, father,” cried Hope, startiug up, her 
voice full of pain; “ Has it come to this ? Is 
Ned really not going back to college? Fath¬ 
er. father, heroism is grand, but it is hard, 
lie must not be hindered; but how shall 
we hear to see him go ? ” 
“ We mustn’t anticipate, Hope. Help 
will come at tho moment of need. Vouhave 
been weeping, already, my child. Our 
bright Hope must not veil herself in the 
clouds, or we shall mistake her for Grief.” 
“ l had forgotten, father; Ned has put 
all other thoughts out of mv mind. Here 
is a letter from Alfred. Pol. Heather- 
STOXE is dead! ” 
Absorbed as were the Arnolds with t he 
Complications of their own life ar tliis try¬ 
ing juncture, Hope s news fill on tlioir cars 
like a thunder clap. Bright, impulsive, 
electric. Col. Heatherstone was a man 
whose death is a fact hard to accept. To¬ 
tally unlike Mr. Arnold, except in the basis 
of generous honor that both possessed, the 
two were tender friends, bound together by 
the magnetic sympathy that opposite na¬ 
tures hold for each other. “ Dead! ” ratified 
the strong man, his voice broken with grief, 
‘‘dead! 1 can’t make it real. What, must 
the house be without him. And yet how 
much he is saved, lie will have no more 
conflict between the lesser and the greater 
patriotism. The question is solved with 
him, the struggle over; for, say what, we 
will. In all nohle hearts, there can be no de¬ 
fence of State Rights against the nation 
without inward struggle. The hand that is 
raised against the old flag will tremble, how¬ 
ever nerved, with love of home.” 
“ Yes father, he’s saved much,” said 
Hope; ‘‘but what will they <1<> without 
him? Poor little Maggie 1 her father dead, 
and her brothers m the army. Alfred 
writes me. in this very letter, that his 
course is taken. He will join some regiment 
as surgeon, the regiment that his brother 
enlists in, if possible. Thunk God that 
t here is a course for him to take that does 
not, involve fighting. In this way he can 
satisfy his heart and conscience.” 
“Bill,” said Philip, “if the cause is 
wrong, oughtn’t he to take sides openly 
against it?” 
” He doesn't yet see it go, dear Philip,” 
said Hope, gently. 
” And in the meantime we’ll not. sav what 
is his duty,” answered Mr. Arnold. “A 
man's duty is always that which, with hon¬ 
est. earnest, desire, lie decides to be his duty. 
To the man on the stair above hint he may 
be wrong. But the second man may be 
equally wrong to the third man above him. 
in this largo sense, at least, A lfhbD is right ; 
and to me it is a relief that his con¬ 
science does not force him to do that which 
would he such a blow to his family in this, 
their time of need.” 
As a matter of course HOPE was kept 
constantly informed of the Heatherstone 
affairs, smd tile news of Georgk' 8 enlist¬ 
ment, recorded in the last chapter, did not 
surprise her, aware as she was of his eager¬ 
ness to join the army, and to be in the midst, 
of whatever danger or triumph might be¬ 
fall it. 
VIII.-Brother and Lover. 
Margaret Heath ehatoxe's position was 
a very lonely one. Alfred had at last suc¬ 
cumbed t o the pressure of circumstances, 
and had joined the rebel army as surgeon. 
This was n terrible blow to the fond sister. 
For days, and even weeks, Hannibal’s tit¬ 
bits of philosophy fell upon deaf ears. That, 
clourl had no silver lining. Harry did all 
in his power to comfort her, but the girl 
seemed wholly changed, and Mr. Bratton, 
who had remained with the family, accord¬ 
ing to promise, until the Colonel's affairs 
were satisfactorily settled, looked upon his 
little friend with great anxiety. There were 
no out burst s of grief, no rep tilings, no b e 
ing back into the past—only a strange, 
dreadful peering into the future,—never, 
however, expressed byword or even action. 
Oh! lie- depth and weariness of those sad 
eyes, that seemed trying to fathom the mys¬ 
teries of the far off somewhere—when war 
should cease, and—and—but Ma RGAUET nev¬ 
er went further than this, even in i magma- 
1 ion. She knew that her home never would 
he the same; no one realized more vividly 
than she the desolat ion in st ore for her; and 
so t he dear eyes looked over aud beyond— 
and Margaret wept and prayed, and hoped 
only for her country,—she had no hope for 
herself. IlARRY remained with tier most of 
the time, and never was lover more thought¬ 
ful and tender; but. as the weeks rolled by, 
and tho demand for men became urgent, bo 
grew restless and nervous, and finally de¬ 
cided that, come what might, lie would no 
longer sacriHoc patriotism to loro. This 
quest ion the bravo follow would have set lied 
at first, but for Margaret's unprotected 
position. The thought of leaving tier was a 
thousand times more than death ; but. duty 
called, and ho fully realized that a longer 
delay would he construed into nothing less 
than cowardice. JI arry’s father and brot ti¬ 
er were already in active service, and he 
must follow. 
** Bad news, dear?” said Margaret, ten¬ 
derly, ns early one bright, morning her lover 
presented himself. Poor H arry ! He had 
never been quite sure that Margaret fully 
reciprocated his passion; but now he knew 
that the truth must certainly come to the 
surface. The graceful badinage with which 
she had always met his earnest protesta¬ 
tions would not. avail her at this trying mo¬ 
ment. More than all else did Harry - trem¬ 
ble for his love. That secured, he could 
fight and conquer; that in doubt, lie could 
fight, to be sure, but Yvhat would be victory 
under such circumstances ? 
“Here is a letter from Alfred, and I 
have just received this from father," re¬ 
plied Harry - , passing over both documents. 
“Tell ine, please, what you think of father's 
communication, and the young man 
watched the face, by his side redden and 
pale, and the nerves twitch convulsively, as 
she heroically read it through. 
“ Your father says you must delay no 
longer,” she whispered, clasping her hands 
for a moment in agony. “That love has no 
right to keep a man chained at such a crisis 
as this,” she continued, slowly. 
“ Yes, those aro his words,” replied 
Harry. 
“And you, Harry - Traverse, what do 
you say?” and Margaret arose, took her 
lover's head between her trembling hands 
and looked down into his et’es with an ex¬ 
pression which Harry never could forget— 
an expression which Confronted him in bat¬ 
tle and in hospital, the acme of renuncia¬ 
tion, the giving up of the last hope. “ You 
need not reply to me," she said, in a whis¬ 
per; “you are going; I know it. You think 
it will be cowardly to remain with your 
poor little Maggie any longer?- Oh, Father 
in Heaven, be merciful, and strike me. dead 
this instant!” 
“Then you love me, Margaret?” said 
Harry, in a voice so firm and deep that 
Margaret, crushed as she was, could not 
help wondering at the strange vitality of 
the tones, 
“ l,uvc you?” answered Margaret. 
“Love you? What a strange question to 
ask at such a time as this. Have you not 
always known that 1 loved you?” 
‘‘No, MARGARET, no! As 1 hope for sal¬ 
vation. no. I have dared to trust that, at 
some time 1 might, by patience and devo¬ 
tion, earn a full return of the heart so long 
in your keeping. Maggie, darling, this is 
too much! Yon love me? Love me as I 
love you—deeply, devotedly, unalterably. I 
can bear anything now—separation, dis¬ 
aster, death even! Ah. llttIc one, I am 
inclined to believe that God, in His mercy, 
kept this knowledge from me. in order to 
make this parting endurable ! But why 
don't you speak to me? Lift your head 
aud let me look into those dear eyes, and 
tell you till I I'-el! No answer? I shall come 
back to you, Maggie; we shall yet be hap¬ 
py together—oh, so happy! This parting 
is* only for a short time." 
Still no answer. IlARRY' lifted the head 
from its resting place on his shoulder, only 
to find his companion unconscious. This 
last blow was mon- than tho loving heart 
could bear, and nature bad at last suc¬ 
cumbed. Susan came in with restoratives, 
and Harry - lingered by the Ride of his dar¬ 
ling, coaxing, pleading, imploring her to 
speak to him. 
‘‘This means that, you are going away. 
Master Harry,” said the octoroon, in her 
usual monotone. 
“Yes, Si’s AN — going away. But, for 
Heaven’s sake, restore her quickly; I am 
afraid she will die.” 
"Do not fear. Muster Harry; the heart 
does not break so easily. She will wake 
Soon enough to life and suffering.” 
Margaret gasped helplessly, and caught, 
at t he last, words with her returning con¬ 
sciousness. 
“Life mid suffering,” she repeated, “ life 
and suffering. They mean the same thing, 
don't i h< i Susan v 
“They have meant the same thing to me 
for a groat many years, Mies Maggie.” 
“ Don’t speak in that despairing way, 
Maggie darling. I shall come back to you. 
The war can’t last, more t han a few mont hs 
at most, and then wc shall all be happy 
again.” 
“ We shall never be as Yvehave been, Har¬ 
ry. The past is past forever. 1 trust that 
you will return, darling; but forebodings 
t hat amount to prophecies assure me that 
there is a long and desperate struggle before 
us, Wlial, I cannot toll. It is all BO vague, 
that. I get uo distinct conception of any¬ 
thing but clouds and darkness. Kiss me 
now, Harry, anil leave me. We will talk 
this all over by-aud-by, when I feel a little 
better. F’nt you? arms round me, Susan. 
You rest me. You have suffered too. Dear 
Susan, {.<11 me. i- all this a punishment for 
keeping you, and such as you in slavery.” 
“Yon have not kept mo in .slavery, Miss 
Maggie. Better not think about the why." 
“But lean t help thinking. Last night, 
Susan, 1 read this in my little Testament: 
“ if one member suffer, all the members 
suffer with it. 1 suddenly saw what that 
meant, dear Susan. Wo arc all one great 
body5 and though i am only a little linger, 
and have had nothing 1 o do with beginning 
slavery, yet 1 must suffer because I am a 
member ol the body." 
At this moment a little bundle of wool 
and ivory was thrust through the door, and 
conveyed the intelligence that 
“Missus done got the headache drefful, 
and want SUSAN dis minute." 
“ Go to Mamma, Susan." said Margaret, 
“and send IlARRY to me in half an hour.” 
How Margaret spent the half hour is 
known only to God and herself; but when 
Harry - was called back to her presence, 
another face than Makgaket‘ 8 seemed to 
look into his. It Was pale and sad, and 
bore the traces of tears, but the light iff 
resignation shone in the woudrously beauti¬ 
ful eyes, and the firm mouth was firmer 
I liau ever. A few moments had changed 
the timorous, shrinking girl into (he calm, 
resolute woman, and Harry looked and 
wondered. 
“ When do you go, dear? ” were the first 
words tiuit greeted him. 
“To-morrow morning, Maggie.” And 
the man s lips quivered as lie looked into 
the eyes of his best beloved, and thought of 
the terrible future that might be iu store 
for her. 
“ Then please go now, darling,” she whis¬ 
pered. leauing her head on his shoulder. 
“ Y<>u need all the time to make your prep¬ 
arations, and I am strong ndw. Kiss me, 
and ask God to hold me dose to his heart; 
and remember all the time that your little 
Maggie loves you as she never loved before 
—loves you with her whole soul! Good-by, 
love, and God bless you!” 
One sob, one wail of agony, and Harry 
Traverse was alone. [To be continued. 
A loving heart and pleasant count enance 
are commodities Yvhich a man should never 
fail to take home with him. They will best 
season his food and soften bis pillow. It 
were a great thing for a man that his wife 
and children could truly say to him, “Ho 
never brought a frown of unhappiness across 
his threshhold.” 
-- 
Keep your store of smiles and your kind 
thoughts for home, give to the world only 
those Yvhich are to spare, and, thus you will 
always hare some to spare. 
Sabbath JJcadiitii 
WHERE? 
BY JCARIX S. LADD. 
O where beneath the skies, 
The blue and beaming skies, 
So rife with change and death 
That half the weary breath 
Must spend itself In sighs; 
O where can mortals find 
Ease for the troubled mind ; 
The pence that brings sweet rest 
Unto the weary breast; 
Tho sight that helps the blind ? 
It surely lg not here,— 
YVe only have a tear 
To wush away our pain, 
And yet, there still remain 
The struggles and the fear. 
O then, beneath the skies 
There can no good arise, 
That comes not from on high, 
It walla tig ever nigh 
This good that never dies. 
WHAT THOU DOEST, DO QUICKLY. 
As I sit here in this quiet evening. I seem 
to hear over and over again :—“ What thou 
doest, do quickly.” Do what I may, think 
what T will to think, still I hear the voice, 
ns softly quiet as the room, “What thou 
doest, do quickly.” 
Why ia it I cannot read ? Why is it I can¬ 
not, think Yvhat I will to think, without 
these words over following me? And what 
do they mean ? What have I to do ? I have 
no talent , no gift of speech, no pen of a ready 
writer, no beauty of face, no sweetness of 
voice. 1 have nothing to do. Surely tho 
voice is not for me. I fuliy believe in the 
law of compensation, but my case is the ex¬ 
ception that proves the rule. I am here, 
and here I expect to remain until I die. 
“Ah I” you say, “it seems sad to make 
no progress in life, and to find one’s self no 
further on at the day of one’s death, than at 
the day of one’s birth.” It is sad. How 
t rue that we cannot stand still as regards 
our physical development ; we can grow as 
tho trees and shrubs grow, because it is our 
nature to. But as to any real development 
of the inner life, year after year may roll 
around and find us on the same plane as tho 
year before, or eY - cn lower down. How use¬ 
less to spend a lifetime in fruitless experi¬ 
ments, to find out for what wc are best 
fitted. 
What splendidly-built castles Yvere top¬ 
pled over, when wo found each experiment 
a failure, and the question still unsolved. 
Hoyv many times the vision glowed, and 
brightened, and shaped itself into many- 
colored clouds of beauty, and we watched 
the tints, so carefully and closely, and 
thought wc caught glimpses of the dawning 
of a new life* when the gay clouds grew to 
somber hue, first, gray, then black, and the 
vision faded. And as we sat motionless in 
the darkness, we only said;—“Well; it 
might baY'e been,” and thinking it only the 
explosion of a hitherto untried bubble of a 
new experiment. 
Another test of lack of talent; if I had 
talent, then 1 should see the fruit of what I 
do, for “every tree is known by its fruits.” 
And, after sowing a few seeds by the way¬ 
side of this experimental life of ours, yvo sit 
with folded hands to watch if haply they 
might spring up. The seeds were sown with 
little, faith, little trust and little Yvatchiug 
as to where they fell. But they sprang up 
and brought forth fruit abundantly. What 
doj'ousuy; can seed like that bear fruit? 
Yes it can, and will, and did. But what 
kind of fruit was it? Can you expect “figs 
of thistles,’’ or of “ brambles gather they 
grapes?” 
What was our consternation at beholding 
great weeds of error grown up strong and 
high, and shutting out the sunshine from 
the few sickly plants of truth that came up, 
and at last we could see no truth at all. 
But we have no excuse; there is no one who, 
if he sets to Yvork to do “whatsoever his 
hand findeth to do, with all his might,” but 
that will find he had one talent {be it ever 
so small) that ho has kept buried in a nap¬ 
kin. If you have been lamenting over your 
unlit ness, stop no longer ; “ What thou 
doest, do quickly, for the night cometli 
when no man can work.” If you work well, 
you will say wit h the soldier who had fought 
his last battle— 
“ I lay ine down and sleep, 
With little thought or care 
Whethctr my waking find rue 
litre or there.” 
But if the battle of life has not been 
fought, you have need to foci alarmed. We 
are not ready “ not to do" until our half 
day’s work is all done and our Father calls 
us to come up higher. Work, and work 
quicklj - ; and, though often weary, 
“ We’ll grasp 11 is banner still, 
Though nil itt*. sit r bedim; 
These stripes, no less than stars, 
Lead after Him,” 8. 
