daily and conscientious battle ground with 
ignorance and often stupidity, though not 
without, its pleasant ameliorations from the 
sunlight of childhood, in her inmost heart 
she longed for a home, a very home of her 
own. This orphan girl, homeless for years, 
save as kind relatives offered a substitute, 
such as they might, lacking nothing to her 
hut the one element of Home. They could 
not he such to her independent though af¬ 
fectionate nature, and she asserted her power 
as “bread winner” to the entire satisfaction 
of critical mammas, and gave her lull,earn¬ 
est life to the often monotonous routine of 
capes and promontories, enlivened by reci¬ 
tations on 6x7 and 9x12, with endless read¬ 
ings and spellings faithfully administered, 
Often her steps grew weary, and she faltered 
iu her plan to make this a life work, and 
then more strongly than ever the tide set 
toward the home where she was loyally 
held and sorely needed, to ebb as surely 
with the morning light and elasticity. She 
might not be rich in happiness, but even 
negative as it was, it was not unliappiness. 
AmiL Marcia met her visitor with almost 
a mother’s welcome,—its, weary from her 
long walk, the following Friday evening, she 
seated herself in her accustomed chair by 
the cheery little lire on the hearth, which 
the cool September evenings made accept¬ 
able. "Aunt Marcia, send everybody off 
to their quarters early to-night. 1 want a 
long talk with you; you know you are my 
mother confessor,” said Faith, archly, as the 
kind-hearted woman Hilled hither and 
thither in search of comforts for her pet 
niece, the only child of her lost brother. 
“ To be sure I will. Your uncle will take 
himself off at eight o’clock, without lieip, 
and I’ll see to it that the rest are not long 
behind.” 
As Faith sat and rested, she could not 
tell which to admire most, the energetic ad¬ 
ministration of internal affairs, or the quiet 
way in which every one was managed with¬ 
out knowing the fact. “ There’s the secret 
of Aunt Marcia’s power. I do believe if I 
had it 1 should not he afraid even of Robert 
Cameron.” 
One pair of feet after another sounded on 
the chamber stairs, and quiet and Aunt 
Marcia came in together to Faith's con¬ 
fessional. All the doubts and fears and 
needs came out to her sympathizing ear, and 
even the click of the never-failing knitting 
needles was silenced in the intentuess of the 
hour. 
“Now, what shall I do, Aunt Marcia?” 
was Faith’s closing appeal. 
“ I wish 1 knew what to say,” came after 
a long pause. “ I’ll tell you what I did. 
Your Uncle Simon bus a powerful will, as 
you ought to know by this lime, ami many’s 
the day I’ve had a lieatT-ache over it long 
ago. I had lull plenty myself, and they 
would come square across one another, I’m 
free to confess. 1 had sense enough to see, 
alter awhile, that 1 must manage somehow 
to get my way when I knew 1 was right, 
without, anybody’s being the wiser, and I 
studied to learn how, harder than you ever 
did your books in school; and if I thought 
you had that, sort of way, I'd say marry 
Robert Cameron next week, for he linsn’t 
another fault under the sun. I want to see 
you in your own home if 1 can’t see you in 
mine, and 1 hold that you’re right to have 
one of your own, some way.” 
“ Bui, Aunt Marcia, I haven’t your tact 
and I do not see how I can have it,” said 
Faith. “ I never cun go into the old home¬ 
stead without more sunshine and brightness 
than can find ils way there through the 
accumulations of outlandish furniture, which 
is only fit for kindlimr wood. I have seen 
only the parlor spare clmmher, but Hie glar¬ 
ing incongruity of colors and arrangement 
was ludicrous enough. Now Robert rever¬ 
ences every thing his mother lias touched, 
and he could never consent to see those 
things banished to the garret, their only 
proper place, and their place supplied with 
tasteful furniture; and certainly I could 
never endure a daily life after Bitch a fashion.” 
“ No, I don’t want to see you try it. 1 
have’nt your love for pretty things, hut 1 
think some of mother Cameron’s blue and 
yellow bed spreads and curtains, with tall, 
horseback riders with blue and yellow pea¬ 
cocks all over ’em, would he too much even 
for me, if it didn’t give me the jaundice. 
Now, I’ll tell you what I’d do. I would 
work very quietly iu some things that 1 
couldn’t hear. J would change, without any 
remarks, the heel spreads and such like, but 
a little nt a time, for Robert is a Cameron 
all over; they are dreadful set iu their way; 
you can’t change them all at once, but he’ll 
bear for your sake what will surprise you if 
you don’t rouse his opposition, and every 
other way lie is perfect us near as people 
come. Good providers the Camerons 
always were; fore handed, too, for his far¬ 
min’ can’t, he heat; and you’ll never lie ex¬ 
pected to slave yourself to death, for lie’s got 
Vetii Darwin’s folks in the lower house to 
board the men—so that will take a heavy 
load off from your shoulders. Only work 
slowly and quietly and you’ll have a pleasant 
home before you know it. Your term is out 
k 
next week, you say. Now, if your mind sets 
that way, come here and make up your out¬ 
fit, as many ruffles as you please; you’ll need 
them all to keep you in mind of pleasanter 
things than that variegated table ware you’ll 
have to use for a while—I’m afraid you can’t 
get around that. Her pink, and blue, and 
chocolate dishes the old lady set great store 
by, ami some of ’em are a sight older than 
you are.” 
Aunt Marcia’s counsels prevailed, and 
Robert Cameron thought it was his strong 
reasons which had won for him the violet 
eyes, so provokingly shaded by their brown 
lashes,—Init we nor himself need quarrel as 
to the means which blessed his cheerless 
home with a spirit of sunshine. His o .vn 
heart was full of gratitude to God as he 
watched her Hilling here and there so 
cheerily, for he had dreaded that homecom¬ 
ing to what lie knew to he an old-fashioned 
and not over-tasteful house—hut it was his 
mother’s; he saw her in every fold of the 
ancient curtains, in the quaint homeliness 
of the straight-back chair. lie knew 
Faith’s esthetic tastes, almost morbid lie 
feared, and it pained him to think lie could 
not gratify them without, to him, the com¬ 
mittal of desecration, and lie expected pain¬ 
ful scenes in consequence. To his surprise, 
however, Faith made no sign, and sang 
about her work as cheerily as if the house 
were filled with tapestry carpets and Parian 
marbles. A large upper room facing the 
South had been used only as store room for 
years; this she selected as her own room, 
when Robert asked her to choose, and 
from her room at Aunt. Marcia’s quietly 
furnished it as desired—a dainty combina¬ 
tion of white and creamy buff in the faded 
furniture, a drooping crimson fuchsia reliev¬ 
ing each piece of delicately covered wood, 
and window shades had been made to order, 
ft perfect match in color and relief. Rob¬ 
ert had nothing to say. How could he? 
Nothing had been displaced, save seed 
corn and dried fruit, for which the gar¬ 
ret furnished ns appropriate quarters; 
neither was he proof against the charm of 
that beau lift tl room, or the contrast of that 
simple matting against the ugly stripe which 
adorned the hall floor when the door was 
ajar. In his first amazement, 1 verily be¬ 
lieve Faith might Jmvc metamorphosed the 
whole house, hut she was wise enough to 
wait. One advantage she pursued, how¬ 
ever. The sitting room carpel was hope¬ 
lessly worn, and its years and use warranted 
a change. She quietly suggested that as 
■she had retained from her own home a nice 
three-ply carpet, “ Would lie like to see it 
there? it. would seem home-like to her from 
association.” 
“ Certainly,” he said, tenderly; “ you have 
ft right as strong as mine to old associations.” 
The carpet came, and somehow slipped in 
a round table and two or three pretty chairs 
with needlework covers, and a pair of taste¬ 
ful oil shades of her own adorning. This 
room fortunately had never been papered, 
and in its fresh coat of whitewash, with an 
array of nicely framed engravings and corner 
brackets of Faith’s handiwork, was a la 
mode, to Robert’s dismay, and yet, his moth¬ 
er’s chair and some others were there, only 
draped in a Covering of chintz. Faith in- 
nocently asked him if they were not greatly 
improved. How could he tell her of the 
pang it cost him; lie could not see his moth¬ 
er iu that chair at all, but Faith saw liers, 
and Robert was a just man and felt her 
right to do so. But he could stand no more 
innovation at present. Faith saw it. and 
quietly went her way, happy in the main, 
i hough longing for a pot,of paint and a brush 
to cover the many shades of blue ami gray 
the house contained—an eyesore to her, turn 
which way she would. The guest room in 
blue ami yellow peacocks and equestrians, 
site only entered when necessity commanded, 
but with a plan for its rescue when spring 
house cleaning should come. Snowy cur¬ 
tains and counterpanes for its use rested in 
her linen closet, as demurely as their mistress 
planned her strategies. Something else must 
come first, and that a china closet of pure 
white for daily use. She spent hours of con¬ 
scientious thought upon it us she handled 
the checked and mutilated ware, into the 
crevices of which had soaked the remains of 
a “ thousand feasts,” unlike the stony surface 
of modern ware, and to her fastidious taste 
it seemed not wholesome, and a most unin¬ 
viting receptacle lor the nicely prepared 
dishes of her ambitions housekeeping. One 
little maid of all work, awkward and untu¬ 
tored, was likely in time to make inroads 
upon it, but it was hopelessly numerous, 
suited to the demands bl an army of harvesters 
in the olden time, Jenny’s mishaps were 
hardly perceptible, and Faith grew more 
and more desperate; her appetite and her 
sense of fitness both suffered, hut ill silence. 
She had no mind to expose herself to her 
husband’s Criticism or rouse any feeling on 
the subject. She would hide her time, and 
it came.—[To he continued. 
-- 
Cure for a Fit of Despondency.—L ook 
on the good things which God has given 
you in this world, and promised in the next. 
A GERMAN LEGEND. 
The vanity of the fair sex, it is said, is of 
the same age as the sex itself. A clever 
writer, in defending this trait of the feminine 
character, has said that it constitutes its 
greatest charm ; t hat without it thesex would 
lose half its attraction; and in support of 
this theory there is the old quaint story of 
the German maiden; a history which is so 
tender and pretty that it is worth rescuing 
from the forgotten legendsof the Fatherland. 
A maiden lived on the banks of the Rhine 
with her father, the miller. Now the maid¬ 
en, whose name was Elbe, was not pretty; 
and she was cross and fretful, for she grieved 
lor her own lack of beauty, and thought 
that none would ever care for her on account 
of the few graces nature had given to her; 
so she did not even try to please, and yet 
her heart was very large and very kind¬ 
ly. She spent half her time in front of her 
looking-glass, lamenting her plainness, and 
thinking how impossible it was that Carl 
would ever learn to love her, while Gretcheu, 
who was so fair and pretty that she was 
called “ The Daughter of Spring,” dwelt 
near her. Elise was not loved, for she had 
never tried to gain love. She always fancied 
that it would he in vain to endeavor to 
please, in vain to he kind, and thoughtful, 
and loving. When Nature had so slighted 
her, who could care for her, or think of her, 
or lie interested in her? “ All!” site sighed 
one day, “ if I could hut have Gretchen’s 
beauty, I should he the happiest girl in the 
Fatherland, for then I should not fear any 
rival; and Carl—sunny-haired Carl—might 
love me." But Carl never came near her 
now, and only thought of her ns cross and 
fretful Elise, and wished Grctcheit had had 
less vanity with her pretty face, and a rather 
larger heart iir her slim body. 
One day—it was in the time of the vintage 
—Elise went down to the Rhine to bring in 
water, and, as she dipped her pails In the 
clear ripples, she saw her own face reflected, 
and turned away, wretched and discontent¬ 
ed. She sat down on a rocky stone, and 
watched the sunlight playing on the castle- 
crowned hills, and listened to the far off 
song of the workers in the vineyards; and 
she thought of Curl, who was there also. 
“ Ah me,” she sighed, “ what a gift is 
beauty!" 
“ Elise,” said a voice, and, looking up, 
she saw an old woman, a very old, deform¬ 
ed woman,standing near to her—“Elise," 
she said, “ 1 will tell you the secret of 
beauty, and ymo«Nijpill obtain nil that you 
long for so much.. Go home, and never look 
in a glnss, never see the reflection of your 
face iu the water, never once again gaze on 
your own features, and you will grow pretty; 
so pretty that all will wonder at the change; 
and Carl—Carl will learn to love you.” 
“ Oh, I will never see my face, again as 
long as I live—never, never!" said Elise. 
“ But are you sure, quite sure?” 
“ Quite sure," replied the dame; “ hut. 
remember, if yon once see your own face 
your ugliness will return. Now go home, 
and he light of heart ; and every day your 
lack of beauty will grow leas, and everyday 
more love will hover round you.” 
“But how shall I know that it is true,if I 
may not see my face?" asked Elise. 
“Can you not tell by the altered manner 
of those around you ?” said the dame. 
“Oil, yes,” said Elise; “how 1 will watch 
them 1" * 
0 
Elise went home with a new and strange 
happiness at her heart,—a happiness that 
changed her nature and influenced every day 
of her life, and made her amiable, and soft, 
and loving, and kind, and considerate, and 
anxious to please, and ready to serve and 
help others. 
Presently people began to remark the al- 
leruiion in the miller’s daughter, and to tell 
her how different she was from formerly, and 
ilie maidens sought her out and bilked to her 
about, her lovers, and the youths declared 
that Elise, the miller’s daughter, was the 
nicest girl that side of the Rhine, and Carl 
began to think how different she was from 
Gretchen, and lie learned to love her, and 
through the Fatherland there was not so 
happy a girl as Elise. And all this timeshe 
never once saw her own face, hut turned 
away her bend when she dipped her pails in 
the stream,and through all the miller’s house 
there was not to he found a looking-glass. 
She longed (ah, how much !) to see herself in 
her new garb of beauty; hut she remem¬ 
bered the old woman’s warning, and con¬ 
quered her desire. 
In the spring-time came her wedding-day, 
and earlv iu the sweet fresh morning she 
was married to Carl, and the young flowers 
peeped out to sis' her face as she passed liy, 
and the tender grass kissed her feet as she 
went along, and the birds sang out a greet¬ 
ing, and even the light feathery clouds seem¬ 
ed to stoop over her head, as if with their 
feathery hands they blessed her bridal day. 
Ah. happy Elise! 
“ Thou art so changed !’’ said Carl. “ Thy 
face is so different from what it formerly 
was. It does not seem to me that it is pos¬ 
sible thou art the same Elise. I used to pass 
without even looking back to gaze on thee; 
but to-day in tli j t bridal veil thou art a sweet 
picture, which memory will paint on my 
heart forever.” 
Elise felt herself thrilled with happiness, 
but never once told the secret of that change, 
though she lierseif did not. know that the 
real secret lay in her own changed nature. 
Now, presently, they were all feasting; 
and Elise, longing to he alone fora few min¬ 
utes with her wonderful happiness, crept 
down to tlie side of the Rhine, and thought 
over the past. 
“All, and lie said I am so altered, too! 
Happy Elise, thou art indeed altered ! And 
lie said how pretty I looked in my bridal 
veil. Dol, I wonder? Wlmt would I not 
give to see myself?” 
Elise was forgetting, as she longed to see 
herself, how strict had been the old woman’s 
warning. She stood on the edge of the water 
with her face turned away, but her vanity 
kept saying to her, “ Look once for a single 
moment, Elise, and see thyself on thy bridal 
day;’’ hut she hesitated and longed, and 
wondered if punishment would really fol¬ 
low if she looked. “It cannot make any 
difference," she thought, and she moved her 
head a little way—a very little way round— 
till she could just sec the shape of her head 
reflected in the water, and it seemed quite . 
strange to her, for she had not seen it for so J 
long. 
“ I must, oh I must see the face my Carl ! 
loves,” she said ; and forgetting the happi¬ 
ness she might lose in this offering to her 
vanity, she turned and looked at her reflec¬ 
tion in the water, and she saw—what ? the 
same plain face she remembered long ago; 
the same, the very same, without one feature 
altered! 
With a scream of despair she tottered for¬ 
ward a step too far, and before she could 
recover herself she fell into the water which 
had shown Iter the dreadful truth. The tide 
bore her away, and never again was seen 
the miller’s daughter—Carl’s young bride. 
Alas, for Vanity! 
-- 
THE CURFEW BELL. 
Many have hoard of the “curfew hell,” 
hut not all know its origin. Its history in 
England runs hack to the time of William 
I he Conqueror, who ordered a hell to he rung 
about sundown in summer, and eight o’clock 
in the evening in winter, at which time fire 
lights wcrFto lie put. out and the people to 
remain within doors, and penalties were im¬ 
posed upon those who neglected or refused 
to comply willi the law. This was called 
the “curfew,” a word derived from the 
French couvrefeu, cover lire, and so the ap¬ 
propriateness of the name is readily seen. 
The old King has been generally charged with 
instituting this custom in order to impress 
upon his subjects a sense of their abject con¬ 
dition ; but as the “ curfew hell,” was rung 
in France long before William’s time, ns a 
safeguard against fires, it is not improbable 
that, lie brought the custom with him into 
England from the continent, and that helms 
been slandered as to his motives. At any 
rate, lie 1 ms sins enough to answer for with¬ 
out this. 
In the sixteenth century “ bellmen ” were 
added to the night watch in Loudon. They 
went through the streets ringing their hells, 
and crying. “ Take care of fire and candle; 
lie kind to the poor, and pray tor the dead.” 
It was I he bellman’s duty, also, to bless the 
sleepers as lie passed their doors. In “11 
Penseroso” Milton refers to this custom: 
“ The bellman’s drowsy nhnnu, 
To bless the doors from nightly harm.” 
Poets have often referred to the curfew 
or cover-fire hell. Gray begins his beautiful 
“ Elegy ” with 
“ The curfow tolls the knell of parting day." 
Longfellow, too, Ims a pretty little poem 
telling the story of Ibis hell wilh charming 
simplicity: 
•• Solemnly, mournfully dentine its dole. 
The curfew bell is beginning to loll. 
Cover itio ember, put out the light. 
Toll comes wilh the morning, aim rest with the night. 
“ Dark crow the windows, nnd quenched Is the Are, 
Sound fades into silence, all footsteps retire. 
" No voice In i he Chambers, no sound In the hall, 
Sleep and oblivion reign overall.” 
King William died, and the original obli¬ 
gations of the curfew were nt lust removed 
about the time of Henry I., in 1100 ; hut 
the custom of ringing an evening hell is still 
kepi up in England, with variations as to 
the hour. The “nine o’clock hell” — 
familiar to most New England people — 
which sends so many young people home 
and to bed, and which, in tiic early history 
of our country, was almost as rigidly obeyed 
by all, both old and young, ns the old cur¬ 
few, traces ils origin almost directly to the 
cover-fire hell. Iu Longfellow’s “Evange¬ 
line” the custom is well defined : 
" Anon the bell from the belfry 
Rang out the hour of nine—the village curfew—and 
straightway 
Rose the guests and departed; and silence reigned 
In the household.” 
But. now the customs have changed ; and 
though the hell still rings out on the even¬ 
ing air, in country village and city street, it 
lias lost its power, save as a tell tale of pass¬ 
ing time. Let the old hells ring on; we 
love the sound ; or, in the words of Moore : 
“ Those evening hells! those evening bells ! 
How ninny a tale their music tells. 
Of youth, and home, and that sweet time 
When last 1 heard their soothing chime!” 
Habbatb |l«abtng. 
“NOW I LAY ME DOWN TO SLEEP.” 
[It is said of the Into John Quincy Adams that lie 
never went to bed without repenting this little pray¬ 
er, the first taught him hy t lie mother whose memo¬ 
ry was so dear to him to the last. There are two lit¬ 
tle poems, descriptive of a child Raying this prayer 
that, are among the tenderesr. In our language. We 
combine into one the best of botb.J 
Golden head, so lowly bending. 
Little foot, so white and bare. 
Dewy eyes, half shut, half opened, 
Lisping out her evening prayer. 
"Now 1 lay,”—repeat, it. darling— 
“ Lay me,” lisped the tiny lips 
Of my daughter, kneeling, bending 
O’er the folded linger tips. 
“ Down to sleep." " To sleep,” she murmured, 
And the curly head bent low; 
“I pray the Lord,"—I gamly added, 
“ You can say it all, I know.” 
“ Fray the Lord,”—The sound came faintly, 
Fainter still—" My soul to keep; ” 
Then the tired head fairly nodded, 
And tho Child was fast asleep. 
But the dewy eyes half opened 
When I clasped her to my breast. 
And the dear voice softly whispered, 
“ Mamma, God knows all tho rest.” 
O, the rapture, sweet, unbroken, 
Of tho soul wllo wrole that, prayer 1 
Children’s myriad voices floating 
Up to Ilcaveu, record it there. 
If, of all that has been written, 
I could choose what might be mine. 
It should he that child’s petition, 
Rising to the throne divine. 
-♦♦♦■ . ■■■■- 
A GEM. 
IP a pilgrim has boon shadowed 
By u tree that I have nursed; 
If a cup of clear cold water 
I have raised to lips athirst; 
If I’ve planted one sweet flower 
By an else too barren way ; 
If I’ve whispered In the midnight 
Only one sweet word of day; 
If. in one poor blooding liosom, 
I a woe-swept chord have stilled ; 
If a dark and restless spirit 
I with hope of heaven have filled; 
If I’ve made for life’s hurd battle 
One faint heart grow warm and strong— 
Then my God | I thank Thee—'bless Thee 
For the precious gift of song. 
-- 
“THOU SHALT KNOW HEREAFTER; 
BY LINA LEE. 
How often God’s children wonder at the 
way which lie leads them while in this vale 
of tears. How mysterious seem IIis dis¬ 
pensations. Hopes are blighted, hearts 
broken, plans of usefulness frustrated, until 
it seems almost impossible to feel Mint 1 1 is 
hand appoints it all, ami Inis their highest 
good in view. Yet when, in the light ol' 
eternity’s revert! ings, they shall retrace the 
way hy which God lias led them, and sec 
His designs of love and mercy toward them 
in their trials, it may he those which were 
hardest, to hear will he those lor which they 
will praise Him most. 
“For wlmt I do thou knowest not now, 
hut thou shaft know hereafter.” Not now 
can the afflicted disciple know the reason 
for God's dealings with him. Now he may 
he ready to exclaim, “ Why is IIis hand so 
heavy upon me?—hut hereafter Jie will look 
hack with adoring gratitude upon his chas¬ 
tisements, and wonder that he ever doubted 
the love and goodness of his divine .Master. 
Now, his “ Sorrows may seem as if graven 
with a pen of iron, and .lead in the rock for¬ 
ever; hut one wave of the ocean of love 
which flows on that better shore will efface 
them all.” For, however dark tho way 
here, light and gladness are sure at last to 
all C’liRisT-mleemcd. However mysterious 
Ids appointments, all will be made clear 
when they shall dwell forever in the light 
of His countenance. Precious is the faith 
Unit, while reason cannot see, can still 
confide. 
Sherburne, N. Y., 1871. 
-- 
GOLDEN THOUGHTS. 
Joys are the flowers dropped in our path, 
by the hand of Providence. 
He that is too good for good advice is too 
good for his neighbor’s company. 
A pi 'be character is like polished steel— 
if dimmed hy breath, it almost instantly re¬ 
covers its brightness. 
Value, the friendship of him who stands 
hy you in the storm ; swarms of insects will 
surround you in the sunshine. 
If truth lie established, objections are 
nothing. The one is founded on our knowl¬ 
edge, the other in our ignorance. 
APATnyis one of the worst moral diseases, 
as it not only incapacitates us from combat¬ 
ing the encroachments of vice, but closes 
every avenue of our souls to the approach of 
virtue. 
Make a point never so clear, it is great 
odds that a man whose habits and the bent 
of whose mind lie a contrary way, shall he 
unable to comprehend it, so weak a thing is 
competition with inclination. 
When men are most sure and arrogant, 
they are commonly the most mistaken, and 
have then given views to passion, without 
the proper deliberation and suspense which 
can alone secure them from the grossest ab¬ 
surdities. 
