she was the same sensible Meg through it 
all. She never sewed long at a time, for 
she said she couldn’t afford to wear herself 
out if she never had any clothes; so she was 
always ready for a walk or drive whenever 
John came for her, whereat the good fellow 
marveled. 
“ Why," said he, “ Fiied Armstrong told 
me he never went to see Kate for weeks 
before they were married without fiudmg 
her either up to her ears in work, or so tired 
she could do nothing but yawn ; and he said 
he concluded that was a part of the pro¬ 
gramme.” 
“ Well, so it is,” answered Meg ; “ but you 
see, I've a programme of my own,” 
“ For which," quoth John, “ 1 trust I am 
duly thankful!" 
However, Meg stipulated at the first that 
he should come only twice a week, for fear 
of exciting remark; but, somehow, ho would 
keep forgetting what day it was, and then 
insist that It was three days since his last 
visit. For the same reason she would not 
wear her engagement ring, though it was 
just such an one as she liked—one large 
pearl, with enameled selling. 
We held a family caucus over the wedding 
dress; we were all in favor of' the conven¬ 
tional white; but as Mkg had decided to be 
married after morning service on Sunday, 
we didn't see how it could be managed; so, 
at last, it was reluetantly given up, and a 
delicate black and white striped silk sui t de¬ 
cided upon instead. “ Hut I must have a 
veil,” sighed Meg. “1 know it’s foolish, 
hut I should not feel half married without a 
veil." 
“Why not carry one to church in your 
pocket, and let some one throw it over you 
just before you leave the pew V” 1 suggested. 
“ That’s it exactly 1 You’re a jewel, Aunt 
Sophie I" cried Meg, and so that matter was 
settled. 
Besides this bridal dress she had a hand¬ 
some black silk, a white cambric, a buff 
traveling dress, and, oh, horrors! two 
chintzes. Six dresses for a bridal outfit! 
But site had already a green silk and white 
pique, almost as good as new, and sensible 
Meg declared she didn’t see why she should 
have more dresses than she needed just be¬ 
cause she was going to be married. 
About this time she let it be understood 
she was going to visit a cousin in Phila¬ 
delphia, and no one seemed to have the 
slightest suspicion for what she was really 
preparing. But one day Miss Martha 
Gaines was seen coming up the front walk. 
“ I'm in for it now !" exclaimed Meg, shrug¬ 
ging her shoulders as she went to the door. 
The weather was duly discussed, and the 
last piece of gossip retailed; but it was plain 
our visitor had 41 somewhat on her mind." 
She finally brought the conversation round 
to dressmaking, and, turning to Mkg, said : 
“ I hear you are getting ready to go away 't ” 
“ Yes,” answered Meg ; “to Philadelphia, 
to see Cousin Helen.” 
“ Are you going alone ?” 
“ No, I presume I shall find company at 
least as far as New York,” said Meg, her 
eyes beginning to dance, though her face 
was perfectly sober. 
Miss Martha hesitated, evidently not sat¬ 
isfied yet, but almost afraid to ask tlie ques¬ 
tion that was trembling on her lips. At last 
out it came—“ You’re going to get married, 
aren’t you ?" 
“Oh, 1 hope to some time; don’t you, 
Mias Martha?” laughed Meg, no longer 
able to restrain her mirth. 
I could scarcely help joining her as the 
offended lady drew herself up and departed 
with hardly a word of farewell. Consider¬ 
ing she was on the shady Bide of forty, and 
still in a “ slate of single blessedness,” the 
question was almost an insult, and I felt in 
duty bound to take naughty Meg to task, 
but she silenced me by declaring “she needn’t 
come prying into my affairs, then;” and no 
more she needn’t. 
After this, whatever people said wo heard 
nothing of it, and everything beiug in readi¬ 
ness, Meg named the third Sunday in July 
for her wedding. All this time she had not 
made a confidant of any one outside of the 
house, believing that “ if you want a secret 
. kept you must keep it yourself.” But on 
Saturday she called on all the relatives, ask¬ 
ing them to come on the morrow and see her 
married. Of course she had to encounter a 
running fire of comments on her oddity and 
reproaches for having keept it so close; hut 
she bore it bravely, and begged them to keep 
her secret one day more, which they prom¬ 
ised to do. 
Coming home just before tea-time, the 
first thing that met her gaze was an elegant 
tea-set, standing on the table in the sitting- 
room, which she at onco divined must be 
from her mother, and she was rushing off to 
find this good mother, when Dick met her 
in the doorway, aud, handing her a folded 
paper, said, with a resigned air, " Here, 
Meg, I felt obliged to give you something, 
too.” 
Ju9t glancing at the paper, and seeing 
$500 in the biggest kind of figures, she 
threw her arms round his neck and sobbed. 
“ Come now, don’t take the starch all out 
of a fellow’s collar 1 Fd no idea you would 
take it.” 
“ Don’t you flatter yourself,” said Meg, 
rallying ; “ all I can get out of you is clear 
gain." 
I, being only her maiden aunt, and a 
“ poor relation” at that, had only a travel¬ 
ing case to offer her, but the dear child was 
kind enough to say it was just the thing she 
wanted. 
When John left that night he handed her 
a box, which, on being opened, proved to 
contain a beautiful watch and chain; and 
just as we were going to bed came a mes¬ 
senger bringing a pair of enameled bracelets 
from her Aunt Marla, aud a set of carved 
coral from Uncle John. So Meo did not 
lack for presents, after all. 
Sunday morning rose bright and clear, 
and if the old proverb be true, that “ Happy 
is the bride the Biin shines on,” surely, our 
darling is destined for a happy life. The 
sky was unclouded, and the air delightfully 
cool for a July day. We had our break hist 
and family prayers as usual. There was no 
hurrying to and fro of servants, pastry cooks, 
florists, and all the little world that a wed¬ 
ding usually sets revolving; nor fluttering 
and chattering of bridesmaids flying about 
with frizzing irons and hair pins, helping to 
dress the bride and hindering every one else 
thereby. Meg donned her pretty silk, her 
white hat trimmed with lavender velvet and 
white daisies, and her delicate lavender 
gloves, without help, save such as her mother 
lovingly offered, and then we left her alone 
for a while. 
When she joined us, it was with such a 
peaceful, “ uplifted” expression on her sweet, 
grave face, that it was evident site was not 
entering into matrimony lightly or unadvis¬ 
edly, but “ reverently, discreetly, advisedly, 
soberly, and in the fear of God,” as the 
Prayer Book enjoins. I couldn’t resist tak¬ 
ing her iu my arms (there were no laces and 
furbelows to muss, you know,) and giving 
her a good “ hug,” she so entirely answered 
to my ideal of what a bride ought to be. 
Then her mother took her and cried over 
her a little,—for it was very hard to give it]) 
this only daughter, whom she had hoped to 
keep as the stay and coinfort of her old age 
—and Dick went whistling out of the room, 
a thing he was never known to do of a Sun¬ 
day before. 
We found John waiting for us in the 
church porch, and Cousin Alice, who was 
the nearest approach to a bridesmaid, and 
was to arrange the veil at the proper time. 
These sat in the pew with Meo and her 
mother, while the rest of the relatives found 
seats as near as they could. 
Dr. Bdkdick sent word, as became in, for 
the organist to play the “ Wedding March ” 
after the benediction. The services pro¬ 
gressed as usual, and at the close of the last 
hymn Dr. Burdick requested the congrega¬ 
tion to he seated again after the benediction. 
As he came down from the pulpit the organ 
struck up the indispensable “ March,” and 
we began to form into procession. 
As 1 was the first to go up with Uncle 
JonN, I had ample time to observe the effect 
of this “ denouement” upon the congrega¬ 
tion, and it was perfectly comical to see the 
bewildered way in which they turned to each 
other with interrogation marks in their eyes, 
Next came Uncle IIakry and Aunt Ma¬ 
ria, Uncle Albert and his wife, Mr. and 
Mrs. Milton, Charley and Kate, Joe and 
Carrie, Fred and Alice, Dick aud his 
Mother, and lastly, JonN and Meg, the dear 
child looking very sweet and “ bride-y” un¬ 
der the shimmering folds of lacc which Alice 
had hastily tossed over her. We grouped 
ourselves carelessly about, and the good min¬ 
ister pronounced those ofWc pea ted yet ever- 
fresh words which make of “ twain one 
flesh.” Then we marched out again and 
proceeded directly home, the family friends 
accompanying us and remaining a short time 
for congratulations and explanations. As 
they were all going away Meg said— 
“ Won’t you stay to dinner, Mr. Ware?” 
To which John replied, politely— 
“Thank you, Mrs. Ware, I think I will.” 
Bo we settled down for a long, quiet day, 
every moment of which we begrudged as it 
passed, lor, though John had promised to 
bring his wife back to us for a while, we all 
felt shu would never he quite the same. 
Meo aud her mother stole away for an 
hour or two after tea, and when they re-ap¬ 
peared their red eyes and flushed cheeks 
were tell-tale witnesses of what that last 
“ Sunday talk” must have been. Then Ave 
sang some of the old, familiar hymn9, and 
Meg’s wedding-day was over. 
-- 
Idleness is the badge of gentry, the bane 
of body and mind, the nurse of naughtiness, 
the step-mother of discipline, the chief author 
of all mischief, one of the deadly sins, the 
cushion upon which the Devil chiefly re¬ 
poses, and a great cause not only of melan¬ 
choly, but of many other diseases; for the 
mind is naturally active; and ifit be not oc¬ 
cupied about some honest business, it rushes 
into mischief or sinks into melancholy.— 
Burton'» Anatomy of Melancholy. 
fd no idea you would THE MISEK’S BEQUEST, 
The hour-hand of Philip Acre’s old- 
fashioned silver watch was pointing to the 
figure eight; the snug red curtains shut out 
the rain and darkness of the March night, 
and the fire snapped and cracked behind the 
red-hot liars of the little grate, iu a most 
cosy aud comfortable sort of way, casting a 
rosy shine into the thoughtful brown eyes 
that were tracing castles aud coronets iu the 
brightly burning coals. 
For Philip Acre was, for once, indulging 
himself in the dangerous fascination of a 
day-dream. 
“ If I were only rich!” he pondered to 
himself. “Ah, if. Then good-by to all 
these musty old law-books; good-by to 
mended boots, and turned coals, and all the 
ways and means that turn a man’s life into 
wretched bondage. Wouldn’t I revel in new 
hooks, and delicious paintings, and high- 
stepping horses? Wouldn't I buy a set of 
jewels for Edith—not pale pearls, or sickly 
emeralds, but diamonds, to blaze like links 
of fire upon her royal throat? Wouldn’t I 
—what nonsense I'm talking, though!” he 
cried, suddenly, to himself. “Phil Acre 
hold your tongue. 1 did suppose you were 
a fellow of more sense. Here you are, neither 
rich nor distinguished, but a simple law 
student; while Edith Wyllis is as far above 
your moon-strnck aspirations as the Queen 
of Night herself! She loves me, though— 
she will wail—and the time may one day 
come. If only Dr. Wyllis were not so dis¬ 
trustful of a follow! However, I must learn 
to prove myself worthy of the sweetest prize 
that ever-Hallo! come iu there, who¬ 
over you are 1" 
It was only the serving-maid of the lodg¬ 
ing house, carrying a letter in the corner of 
her apron, between her finger and thumb. 
“ Please, sir, the postman has just lell it.” 
“ All right, Kaly. Now, then,” he added, 
as the door closed behind Katy’s substantial 
back, “let’s see what my unknown corre¬ 
spondent has to say. A black seal, eh? 
Not having any relations to lose, I am not 
alarmed at the prognostic.” 
He broke the seal, and glanced leisurely 
over the short, business-like communication 
contained within, with a face varied from 
incredulous surprise to sudden gladness. 
“Am I dreaming?" he murmured, rub¬ 
bing his eyes, and shaking himself, as if to 
insure complete possession of his senses. 
“ No, I'm wide awake, and in my right 
mind ; it is no delusion—no part of my 
waking vision* JLh who would ever sup¬ 
pose that old Thomas Mortimer, whom I 
haven’t seen since I was a boy of sixteen, 
and picked him out of the river half dead 
between cramp and fright, would die and 
leave me all his money? Why, I’m not the 
shadow of a relation ; lint then I never heard 
that the old man had any kith or kin, so I 
can’t imagine any harm in taking advantage 
of his odd freak. Ricli—am I really to be 
rich? Is my Aladdin vision to be an actual 
fact ? Oh, Edith, Edith !’’ 
He clasped both his hands over his eyes, 
sick and giddy with the thought that the 
lovely far-off star of his adoration would lie 
brought near to him at last by the magnet 
gold. All those yetirs of patient waiting 
were to be bridged over by the strange old 
miser’s bequest; he might claim Edith now. 
How full of heart-sunshine were the weeks 
that flitted over the head of the accepted 
lover—brightened by Edith’s smile—made 
beautiful by the soli radiance of Edith’s love. 
There was only one alloying shadow—the 
almost imperceptible touch of distrust and 
suspicion with which stern old Dr. Wyllis 
regarded his future son-in-law. Ah 1 lie 
feared to trust his only child to the keeping 
of any man who had not been proved in the 
fiery furnace of trial. 
It was precisely a week before the day ap¬ 
pointed for the wedding, aud the soft lights, 
vailed by shades of ground glass, were just 
lighted in Dr. Wyllis’s drawing-room, where 
Editli sat among her white roses and helio¬ 
trope, working a bit of cambric ruffling, and 
singing to herself. She was a slender, beau¬ 
tiful girl, with violet eyes, a blue-veined fore¬ 
head, and glossy, abundant curls of that pale 
gold that old painters love to portray. 
“ I wonder if Mortimer Place is so very 
lovely ?’’ she said to a silver-haired lady who 
sat opposite. “ Philip is going to take me 
there, when we return from our wedding 
tour, aunty; he says it is the sweetest place 
a poet's fancy can devise, with fountains, and 
shrubberies, and delicious copses. Oh, shall 
we not be happy there!" 
She started up, with a bright, sudden 
blush ; for even while the words were trem¬ 
bling on her lips, Philip Acre came into the 
room, liis handsome face looking a little 
troubled, yet cheerful withal. Mrs. Wyllis, 
with an arch nod at her niece, disappeared 
into the perfumed perspective of the con¬ 
servatory, leaving the lovers to themselves. 
“ Yon are looking grave, Philip,” said 
Edith, as he bent over aud kissed her cheek. 
“ And I am feeling so, darling. 1 have a 
very unpleasant disclosure to make to-night 
—our marriage must be postponed indefi¬ 
nitely.” 
“ Philip, for what reason ?" 
“ To enable me, by diligent labor at my 
profession, to realize sufficient means to sup¬ 
port you, dearest, in a maimer satisfactory to 
your father’s expectations and my wishes.” 
“ But, Philip, I thought-” 
“You thought me the heir of Thomas 
Mortimer’s wealth ? So I was, Edith, a few 
hours since, hut I have relinquished all 
claims to it now. When I accepted the be¬ 
quest I was under the impression that no> 
living heir existed. I learned to-day that a 
distant cousin (a woman) is alive, although, 
my lawyer tells me, in ignorance of her re¬ 
lationship to Thomas Mortimer. Of course, 
I shall transfer the property to her immedi¬ 
ately.” 
“ But, Philip, the will has made it legally 
yours.” 
“Legally, it has; but, Edith, could I re¬ 
concile it to my ideas of truth and honor to 
avail myself of old Mortimer’s fanciful 
freak, at this woman’s expense? 1 might 
take the hoarded wealth, but I should never 
respect myself again could I dream oflegally 
defrauding the rightful heir. Nay, dearest, 
I may lose name and wealth, but I would 
rather die than suffer a single stain on my 
honor its a Christian gentleman.” 
You have done right, Philip,” said Edith, 
with sparkling eyes. “ We will wait, and 
hope on, happy in loving one another more 
dearly than ever. But who is she? What is 
her name? ” 
“ That’s just what I didn’t stop to inquire. 
I will write again to my lawyer to ask these 
questions, and to direct that a deed of con¬ 
veyance be instantly made out; and then, 
darling-” 
His lips quivered a moment, yet he man¬ 
fully completed the sentence, "Then I will 
begin the bat tle of life over again.” 
And Edith’s loving eyes told him what she 
thought of his noble self-abnegation—a sweet 
testimonial. 
“ Hem,” said Dr. Wyllis, polishing his eye¬ 
glasses magisterially, with a silk crimson 
pocket handkerchief, “ I didn’t suppose the 
young fellow had so much stamina about 
him—a very honorable thing to do. Edith, 
I have never felt exactly sore about Phil. 
Aere’s being worthy of you before-” 
••Papa!” 
“ But my mind is made up now. When is 
he coming again ?” 
“This evening,” faltered Edith, the violet 
eyes softly drooping. 
“Tell him, Edith, that ho may have y«u 
next Wednesday, just the same as ever! 
And as for the law-practising, why there's 
time enough for that afterward. Child don’t 
strangle me with your kissess—keep ’em for 
Phil” 
He looked at his daughter with eyes 
strangely dim. 
“ Tried, and not found wanting 1” he mut¬ 
tered, distinctly. 
* " * * * 
The perfume of the orange blossoms had 
died away, the glimmer of the pearls and sat¬ 
in were hidden in velvet caskets and travel¬ 
ing trunks, and Mr. and Mrs. Acre, old mar¬ 
ried people of lull a month’s duration, were 
driven along a country road, in the amber 
of a glorious June suuset. 
"HallooI which way is Thomas going?” 
said Phillip, leaning from the window, as 
the carriage turned out of the main road. 
“I told him the direction to take,” said 
Edith, with bright, sparkling eyes. “ Let 
me have my own way, for once. We are 
going to our new home.” 
"Are we?” said Phil., with a comical 
grimace. " It is to be love in a cottage, I 
suppose ?” 
“ Wait until you see, sir,” said Mrs. Acre, 
pursing her litile rose-bud of a mouth ; and 
Philip Availed patiently. 
“ Where are Ave ?” he asked, in astonish¬ 
ment, Avlieu the carriage drew up in front of 
a stately pillared portico, Avhich seemed not 
to be unfamiliar to him. “ Surely, this must 
be Mortimer Place l” 
“ Shouldn't be surprised if it Avas,” said 
Dr. Wyllis, emerging from the doorway. 
“ Walk iu, my boy ; come,Edith. Well, how 
do you like your new home ?” 
“ Our new homerepeated Phillip. “ I do 
not understand you, sir.” 
“Why, I mean your little wife yonder is 
the sole surviving relative of Thomas Morti¬ 
mer, although she never knew it until this 
morning. Her mother was old Mortimer’s 
cousin, and some absurd quarrel had caused 
a total cessation of intercourse between the 
two branches of the family. I was aware of 
the facts all along; bull wasn’t sorry to avail 
myself of the opportunity to see what kind 
of stuff you were made of, Phil. Acre. And 
now, as the deed of conveyance isn’t made 
out yet, I don’t suppose your latvyer need to 
trouble himself about it. The heiress won’t 
quarrel with you, I’ll be bound." 
Philip Acre’s cheek flushed, and then grcAV 
pale with strong, hidden emotion, as he 
looked at his fair Avife, standing beside him, 
when the sunset turned her bright hair tocoils 
of shining gold, aud thought hoAV unerringly 
the hand of Providence had straightened out 
the tangled Aveb of his destiny. 
Out of darkness had come light. 
'ona 
A SUNBEAM. 
The greatest of physical paradoxes is tlia 
sunbeam. It is the most potent and versatile 
force we have, and yet it behaves itself like 
the gentlest and most accommodating. 
Nothing can fall more softly or more silent¬ 
ly upon the earth than the rays of our great 
luminary—not even the feathery flakes of 
snow, which thread their way through the 
atmosphere as if they were too filmy to yield 
to the demands of gravity, like grosser things. 
The most delicate slip of gold-leaf, exposed 
as a target to the sun’s shafts, is not stirred 
to the extent of a hair, though an infant’s 
faintest breath would 9et it into tremulous 
motion. The tenderest of human organs— 
the apple of the eye—though pierced and 
buffeted each day by thousands of sunbeams, 
suffers no pain during the process, but re¬ 
joices in their sweetness, and blesses the use¬ 
ful light. Yet. a few of those rays, insinua¬ 
ting themselves into a mass of iron, like the 
Britannia Tubular Bridge, Avill compel the 
closely-knit particles to separate, and will 
move the Avhole enormous fabric with as 
much ease as a giant would stir a stratv. 
The play of those beams upon our sheets of 
water lifts up layer after layer into the at¬ 
mosphere, and hoists whole rivers from their 
beds, Only to drop them again in snows upon 
the hills, or in fattening showers upon the 
plains. Let but the air drink in a little more 
sunshine at one place than another, and out 
of it springs the tempest or the hurricane, 
which desolates a whole region in its lunatic 
Avrath. The marvel is that a power which 
is capable of assuming such a diversity of 
forms, and of producing such stupendous re¬ 
sults, should come to us in so gentle, so peace¬ 
ful and so unpretentious a guise,— British 
Quarterly Bevieio. 
THE PRESS-TWO OPINIONS. 
Tile press is forfeiting its influence by its 
falsity. At bottom, men and women love 
the truth. And if they have no intellectual 
instinct to tell them what is truth, they 
have a moral instinct that tells them AVhether 
or no there is a purpose to give the truth. 
They cannot decide on what is true or other¬ 
wise in fact.. They can decide on what is 
true or Otherwise ill feeling. They cannot 
detect ignorance. They can detect insin¬ 
cerity. An insincere press will he dis¬ 
credited. Even great ability Avill not sustain 
it long. The press, with half the wealth it 
now has, and twice the sincerity, would 
more than double its influence. We mean 
to add, if we can, something of this element 
as our contribution to the improved journal¬ 
ism of the future.— Theodore Tilton. 
The press is a mill which grinds all that is 
put into its hopper. Fill the hopper with 
poisoned grain, and it will grind it to meal, 
but there is death in the bread. How shall 
we he sure to feed these massive and ever- 
humming millstones with only the product 
of wholesome harvests, the purest and finest 
Avhoat, unmingled Avith the seeds of any nox¬ 
ious weed ? We must claim the aid of insti¬ 
tutions of education like Harvard, whose 
glories we this evening celebrate, to diffuse 
among the community — both those who 
write for the press and those who read—the 
exact knowledge, the habits of careful 
thought, the high aims, the generous mo¬ 
tives, the principles of justice and benevo¬ 
lence, which alone can give dignity and 
usefulness to the newspaper press, and make 
it a benefit and blessing to the world.— Wm. 
Cullen Bryant. 
- 
A REMARKABLE SPRING. 
Silver Spring, Florida, is one of the 
greatest curiosities in the South. It bursts 
forth in the midst of the most fertile country 
in the State. It bubbles up in a basin near 
one hundred feet deep, and about an acre in 
extent, and sending from it a deep stream 
sixty to one hundred feet wide, and extend¬ 
ing six to eight miles to the Ocklawaha 
river. In the spring itself fifty boats may 
lie at anchor—quite a fleet. The spring thus 
forms a natural inland port, to which three 
steamers now run regularly from the St. 
Johns, making close connections with the 
ocean steamers at Palatka. The clearness 
of the water is truly wonderful. It seems 
even more transparent than air; you see 
the bottom, eighty feet below the bottom of 
your boat, the exact form of the smallest 
pebble, the outline and color of the leaf that 
lias sunk, and all the prismatic colors of the 
rainbow are reflected. Large fish swim in 
it, every scale visible and every movement 
distinctly seen. If you go to the spring in a 
boat, you will see the fissures in the rocks 
from which the river pours upward like an 
inverted cataract. 
A Good Example.— A gentleman Avas 
one day asked by a friend how he kept him¬ 
self from being invo' ed in quarrels. He 
answered, “ by lettir die angry person have 
all the quarrel to h-uself.” 
