feel, yet so sadly yearns for; and in the 
strength of lier pure love she fears that she 
has wronged me, and would go from me 
lest it be a sin to be cared for by me. Poor 
little dove that has no resting place! It 
is I who have sinned in r.ot. seeking the 
better to understand the nature of your 
hungry heart that depends so much on 
another for its comfort and rest. I will keep 
this and it shall always remind me of my 
duty.” 
He folded the letter carefully and placed 
it in his poclcetbook. It had given him the 
first glimpse into the real depths of Mar¬ 
gery's heart, since he had met her t hat sun¬ 
ny morning, long ago in the kitchen. When 
he went back to the house he found the doc¬ 
tor had arrived. 
“ She must be kept very quiet. There is 
a tendency to fever. It it is baffled she 
will be well again in a few days.” 
After preparing an imposing array of cor¬ 
dials on the stand by the bedside of the pa¬ 
tient, and giving directions in regard to 
each, with a professional bow he departed. 
Margery was not couacious of anything, 
and soon sank into a quiet sleep. 
The neighbor had gone home to her own 
family, but promised to send some one to 
stay during the night in case assistance 
should be required. 
On the floor iu one corner of the room 
still lay Margery’s wet garments. Seth 
took them into the kitchen and hung them 
by the fire to dry. As lie spread out the 
dress across two chair backs something fell 
to the floor. It was a package rolled in a 
paper, and tied with a narrow bit of blue 
ribbon. Ho picked opeft the wet knot, 
stripped off the clinging wrapper that had 
been folded so many times about the pack¬ 
age, and found a number of yellow, faded 
letters. He seized and opened one eagerly, 
wondering what, new revelation was here. 
Some evil thing whispered in his mind a 
dark suspicion, which made his brow cloud 
into a frown. His first impulscwas to throw 
the whole of this wet trash into the fire, but 
curiosity stayed his band, lie would know 
who had so poisoned Margery’s mind and 
come between them that she had, perhaps, 
through self-reproach, sought to end the 
misery which in her farewell note she con¬ 
fessed had embittered her life. He ltad no 
doubt now that she was unfaithful. Here 
was the silent witness before him. The 
writing was coarse and heavy, a man's hand 
undoubtedly. And Margery bad dared 
tell him she did uot love him, and had cher¬ 
ished these to the last! 
He had saved her life that day. If she 
were false, had he not. belter have let her go 
down to the destruction and the rest she 
had probably sought?—Lhe only rest for her 
or him? 
He bad succeeded in unfolding one of the 
sheets without tearing it, but it was so blot¬ 
ted, and the water had so caused the writing 
to show through the paper, that it was diffi¬ 
cult to trace the words In those interlacing 
and tangled lines. He spread it out before 
the fire to dry, that lie might examine it the 
more carefully and preserve it if need he. 
As soon as it was dried he began to search 
for the hidden mystery. The date was not 
legible, nor the place from which it. was 
written; but plainly enough it was ad¬ 
dressed. “ Mv own dear Margery.” 
by the wild waters to appear at some other 
point further down, but she was saved and 
brought to shore at, last. 
The horses being left to themselves in the 
water, quite naturally made their way to the 
homeward shore, where Seth found them as 
lie crawled up the bank with his dripping, 
limp burden. 
Without once looking to see who he had 
rescued, he placed her in the wagon and 
spread a blanket over her, then drove home 
as fast, as possible. A boy whom he met was 
sent speedily for a doctor. As soon as his 
own gate was reached lie sprang from the 
wagon, took the motionless form in his arms, 
blanket and all, and hastened up the path 
to the door, calling out as lie entered,” Mar¬ 
gery ! Margery ! Come quick ! Here is 
a poor, drowned woman who fell into the 
Creek its I came up.” 
No Margery answered. No sound came 
from any part of the house save the tick, tick, 
tick, tick of the kitchen clock and the shrill 
chirping of a lonely cricket. 
“ {She must be fu the garden,” said Betid 
S he usually came to the door when he re¬ 
turned Irotn anywhere. But, something 
must be done at, once to restore life to this 
poor woman who had so nearly gone to a 
watery grave, if life was yet there. There 
would be pain for somebody if— 
“ Oh, my God ! Margery ! My own 
Margery ! Is it you, and I did not know 
you?” 
He had removed the wet sunbonnet that 
had drooped clingingly about her face and 
prevented him from seeing it before. He 
might have thought sooner to remove it, or 
to look carefully at the figure before him, but 
he had been so excited himself and knew 
that he must hasten home with her before 
anything could be done, as his house was the 
nearest to the ford. 
He made haste to place her iu warm, dry 
flannels; to rub her with dry cloths and ap¬ 
ply every restorative of whicli he could 
think. 
“ Margery ! Oh my own Margery !” he 
cried, “ Will you never speak to me again ? 
Will your dear lips never open and your 
Warm heart never heat on my breast again ?” 
lie pressed one lingering, fervent, kiss upon 
those lips. They were warm! Yes, there 
was a slight beating of the heart, so he dili¬ 
gently renewed Iris efforts at, restoration. A 
warmth began to steal up through the veins, 
and presently a motion was visible to reward 
Ins labors. 
He went to the door to see if any person 
was in sight who could render assistance. 
As he passed the tea table spread ready for 
his supper he observed a letter lying beside 
his plate. It was directed in Maroery’s 
hand writing. What could it mean? His 
mind suggested an easy solution. The table 
was spread for but one. Doubtless some 
neighbor had been ill and sent for Margery 
to spend the night iu nursing. He thrust the 
letter into Ids pocket and returned to her 
side. Bhe was breathing with more ease, but 
did not appear to know him. A neighbor 
soon came in who had learned from the boy 
whom Seth had sent for the doctor, that 
somebody had been drowned. Leaving 
Margery to her attendance, Seth went out 
to care for bis hungry horses. When he 
readied the barn He thought, of the note in his 
pocket and opened it. It was a closely 
written, tear-blotted, sheet. That did not 
look like a mere visit of ministering mercy 
to any neighbor, surely. The letter was as 
follows: 
Seth:— 1 am very unhappy. I fear 1 did a 
great wrong in marrying you. You must know 
the truth at last, and I pray GOD it may not 
break your heart as it has been breaking mine 
for bo long I You have always been very good 
to me, but I have not deserved if. 1 know that 
you love me, but oh, Seth, do you know what a 
very iceberg my heart is? I try to love you but 
my heart is dead. I have tost the capability of 
loving anybody. I used to write you every 
little thought, uud it seemed that you was very 
near to me, and I loved you then, Seth, when 
you waft bo far from me, with a transport of 
feeling tlmt Oiled my life with gladness. When 
you came back from California, I could not 
make It appear a reality that it was you to 
whom I had given all the sweet springs of my life. 
1 was afraid, somehow, to tell you face to face, 
what I had so much enjoyed writing to you. 
You did not seem to me the same one 1 had 
loved so happily while absent, yet I knew it was 
you, and 1 thought that feeling of strangeness 
amt reserve would wear away; but it does not, 
and I feci more reserve toward you, and that I 
have no heart at all, thetonger 1 live. I know it 
is wrong to live with you and feel thus toward 
you. I do not hate you; but I do not love you; 
and I know you ought to be loved, you are so 
good and so generous. Oh, Seth, can you ever 
forgive me for having made this great mistake? 
I cannot, forgive myself, but I want, you to 
think kindly of me, though you must despise 
me. It is for your sake I go away, because I 
caunot give you such a wretched shell of a love 
as my hard, unthankful heart has. Pity me, 
Seth, rather than blame mo. I have grieved 
over this until I caunot bear to live. I am going 
had fashioned from the native ore, or a pret¬ 
ty stone he had foUDd embedded in the rock ; 
and again, perhaps there would be a tiny pa¬ 
per of seeds from some peculiar and beauti¬ 
ful flower. 
The fortune did not gather at the com¬ 
mand of the magician, as in wonderful East¬ 
ern tales. It was hard toil and a hard life. 
Sometimes he would get almost enough, 
when misfortune was sure to befall him; lie 
was robbed when asleep, by his fellow min¬ 
ers, or he would fall sick and somebody 
would think it necessary that all should be 
spent before his recovery, and then a new 
beginning would be made. 
Margery became accustomed to his ab¬ 
sence, or Ills constantly postponed return, 
and mingled in society with the same bright 
spirit of cheerful enjoyment which she had 
always possessed, until people forgot she had 
an absent lover, and wondered why she did 
not encourage some of the many admirers 
who flitted about her in the social light of 
these waiting years. 
One day Margery was making pies in 
the kitchen. She had pared a great pan full 
of luscious, tart apples, sliced them, mixed the 
crust, and was just rolling it out, singing us 
she worked, tlmt old song of the maiden, 
“ Wooing Heaven Itself to bring her 
Jamie from the stormy sea.” 
She heard a step at the kitchen door be¬ 
hind her, but supposing it to be her brother 
getting a drink of water at the pump, she 
neither looked up nor ceased her singing. 
“ Forth I sprang, my heart o’ercume me,” 
and a deep voice behind Her chimed in, 
“ Grieve no more, sweet, I am Jamie, 
Home returned, to love and thee.” 
Margery started back in surprise; but 
somebody’s arms were about her, somebody's 
bronzed face was before her, somebody kissed 
her, the rolling-pin fell from her hands and 
went spinning across the floor, while Mar¬ 
gery cried outright. 
Her reason told her it was Seth; who 
else could he so bold ? Yet she would never 
have guessed it was he, for the years had 
changed Him; ho had grown so dark, so 
much older, His hair was so long and he was 
so unlike the Beth who hud left, her at that 
very door so long ago. Margery looked 
into his face with a scrutinizing, wondering 
look, but it was really he, and she would see 
him now every day. 
Tiie old time letters, freighted with hope 
and tenderness, would be missed. She would 
miss the pleasure which she had so much 
enjoyed, of sitting at her little table in the 
attic chamber, after her work was done, jot¬ 
ting down the incidents of her homely life, 
telling all the household news, and relieving 
her heart of all its troubles and griefs, which 
were often of great magnitude to her, yet 
seemed loo small and foolish to tell to any 
one else; at least, she. would not dare to tell 
these trifles to any one hut Beth, lest she 
should he thought weak; but here she felt 
sure of sympathy, and the very telling of all 
that was in Her heart was a comfort. 
All, that joy was gone now. There were 
no more letters to write. ITow could she 
talk face to face with Beth or anybody else, 
with the same sweet., whole-souled confi¬ 
dence she had given to the one far away, as 
her imagination had floated her away to an 
ideal world ? Beth’s heart had seemed so 
near to her before; but now she feared she 
could never look right into his eyes and tell 
him all her thoughts so freely as she had 
done on paper. He was very different from 
the one she had imagined in Her lieart all 
these years. She had been worshipping at 
an ideal shrine whose divinity was afar off, 
and the reality, which her ever busy thought 
had crowned with the grandest of human 
perfections, as she approached, seemed 
farther away than the valleys of the Sacra¬ 
mento. She had expected his return would 
lie quite different. She had pictured it to 
herself many limes. Alas! nothing is ever 
so bright in this world as the pictures we 
create. 
A few months after Seth’s return they 
were married, and here began the unhappi¬ 
ness and trouble of Margery’s life. She 
could not bring back the same feeling of 
trust which she had sent to her lover across 
the miles of mountains and plains in the 
sunset land. She remembered that he had 
waited for her, had toiled aud suffered for 
her sake all these years. She loved no one 
else, but she wished that the anticipated joy 
of his return had come with him. Bhe 
wondered sometimes if the long waiting had 
not worn out the richest capabilities of her 
nature. She tried to do her duty faithfully, 
hoping that in the end she might find the re¬ 
ward of happiness. Did a doubting heart 
ever yet know the great peace and rest that 
God gives only to those who unreservedly 
trust Him—only to those whose souls rise as 
an exhalation of fragrant faith and mingle 
themselves in His perfect and infinite love ? 
It was not Setii, but herself, whom 
Margery doubled; and this doubt was a 
millstone draggiug her into the black gulf 
of despondency and unrest. Every day as 
the years wore by, it became a more bur¬ 
densome life to her. She believed she was 
doing a great wrong to allow all of life to 
UNDIVIDED. 
BY KATE CAMERON. 
The lonely house is vocal yet 
With memories of thee; 
The eresonce that I ne'er forget 
AksIm l almost see. 
I hear thy foot-fall on the stair, 
Thy step within the room; 
I start, to see the vacant chair. 
With a new sense of gloom. 
An<1 when the twilight falls, as now, 
And peace 1* on the land, 
I feel upon my throbbing brow 
The soft touch of thy hand. 
Thy gentle voice is in my ear. 
Thy smile is in my heart, 
And thy sweet tones of hope and cheer 
Bid every doubt depart. 
The air Is fragrant with the breath 
Of rose and mignonette: 
Tliotr odor to my spirit saith 
•• Dear Dove, do not forgot.” 
was unworthy of him. He was good, noble 
and faithful—the bes|, man in the world. He 
had unbounded confidence in her, but she j 
was incapable of feeling the value and great¬ 
ness of all this. 
Bo Margery reasoned iu the bitterness of 
her grief. It must be ended. Bhe could uot 
endure it, and was only adding to what was 
bad enough already. Sometime Seth would 
know what an unfeeling heart she had, and 
would hate her. Bhe would sooner die than 
that should ever happen. 
As the golden stores of tHe miners’ har¬ 
vest had been small, Seth had purchased a 
little farm not far away from Lyndon. It 
may have been that this more secluded life 
caused Marokuy to feel lonely, and to en¬ 
large her sorrows by brooding thoughts in 
the long days which she spent, so much 
alone. Bhe determined it, should lie ended ; 
the burden of her life should lie cast away. 
Seth had gone over to the Elm Greek 
mill, and might not come home before even¬ 
ing. Margery had been pondering for 
weeks about the step she would take, and 
to-day she determined it should be settled. 
Bhe had put everything in the nicest order, 
had laid the supper table, and prepared 
some of Beth’s favorite pastries. Bhe had 
lingered over her work in a sad, yearning 
way, wishing, with a vague fear and longing, 
for some happiness to quid the crying of 
her heart, and save the great pain. 
There were so many things she found to 
do—trifles which, perhaps, he would notice, 
and It might be, seeing them, he would 
think of her kindly. Bhe had written a let¬ 
ter, telling him why she had gone, ll lav 
by his plate, on the table. Bhe felt it would 
hardly he right not to leave some word for 
Him; and then slic wondered if he would 
care much. 
Bhe went out of the house shivering with 
cold and an indefinable fear, not daring to 
look behind her. She walked rapidly until 
she had passed the garden and the orchard ; 
then she stopped, and looked for the last 
farewell view, she would permit herself, of 
the. house which had been her home. Bhe 
thought of tin: time when she had first come 
there; then her memory went hack to the 
years of glad hope and awaiting. It seemed 
that she was still waiting, that her heart 
still yearned for one who was ali of life to 
her. If she could only find the rest from 
all this yearning! If she could only sit by 
the attic table and write out to Seth all the 
burden of her sorrow, to the Beth far away 
in California, to whom her heart had been 
reaching out in vain for so long—and get 
one of his tender comforting letters, the 
burden would be gone! She had brought 
these old letters with her; she could never 
part from them. They were the words of 
one she had loved as no woman’s heart bad 
ever loved before. She wanted, just, now, 
to read them over again, but she must not 
stop. She walked on, thinking of the great 
comfort they had given her so many limes 
in the years before. She turned al the cor¬ 
ner, taking the road that led to her mother’s. 
She had to cross Elm Creek to "each there. 
The bridge had been swept away by a freshet 
in the spring, and only one of the long 
stringers remained, which served as a foot¬ 
bridge. Seth bad gone in the opposite di¬ 
rection, in the morning, to the mills, some 
ten miles below this point. 
As Margery reached nearly the middle 
of the narrow path across the stream, she 
heard a wagon coming down the graveled, 
sloping bank before her. She had been so 
deeply absorbed in her own thoughts that 
she had not heard it approaching, and now, 
as she looked forward, she saw it was Beth. 
He had come home by the long road. In 
the suddenness of her surprise, a faintness 
came over her; she did not see the log on 
which she was crossing, and stepped forward 
upon—nothing. 
There was a splash in the swift current 
beneath which attracted Beth’s attention, 
and he caught a glimmering of something 
like a woman’s dress being swallowed by the 
waves. He dropped the reins instantly and 
sprang into the stream. Elm Creek was not 
a mere brook but a very river at some sea¬ 
sons of the year. The late rains had come 
sweeping down from the hills and were 
hastening on their mad way to the great 
river beyond. 
It was a fierce struggle to reach the figure 
that was one instunt visible, then swept on 
Forgot; it needs no uttered words 
Our talisman to be,— 
When all my thoughts, like uncaged birds. 
Are flying home to tbee! 
And thou, amid the saints of God, 
Wilt never lose from mind 
The paths that we together trod, 
The true heart left behind ! 
torirs for llaralists 
MAEGEEY 
BY SYLVIA BROWN, 
A great, great fear haunted Margery’s 
life. It followed her through the house by 
day, and crept into her dreams by night. 
It had worn wrinkles into her face and a 
sore place in her heart. It seemed to her LhaL 
her heart had become ossified; that she was 
cold and dead, and that her life was a con¬ 
stant falsehood. There was a sad, weary 
look iu her face and eyes, as if a burden of 
unhappiness had been dragging at her 
heart, and she could never find rest. 
Ten years before there had not been a 
more happy or contented girl in Lyndon 
than Margery King. 
Seth Ransom was away in California, 
then, which was farther from Lyndon twenty 
years ago than the antipodes seem to-day. 
He had gone for gold, and the visions which 
appeared to him in his ambitious dreamings 
told him that he should come back and 
build a palace for Ins queen Margery some 
golden time, and deck her with jewels and 
ornaments filling her worth. Margery 
had girlish faith in all these Arabian dreams, 
and promised to wait for him until he 
should bring the treasures of this Ophir to 
her feet. 
Oh! the dreams of young men’s hearts 
when, in the first thrill of life's battle, they 
look glory-ward as well as to the bright love 
star that holds them by its light! It is well 
for their untried energies that all Lhe world 
glows in the splendor of morning light. 
It was a long, long time before Beth 
reached the golden land, and Margery was 
almost ready to believe him dead when his 
first letter came back to her. She took it 
eagerly and shied away into the garden be¬ 
hind the grape vine, and blushed and trem¬ 
bled as if Seth’s own eyes were reading 
her glad heart. Bhe remembered a spot 
that had burned upon her lips for days after 
lie had gone, and she kissed the letter and 
cried over it before she could break the 
seal. 
That letter! Oh, it was wonderful! Seth 
was thousands of miles away, yet that square 
folded sheet with its seals of red wax 
brought him back to her. She had pressed 
it to her heart and with tears of joy in her 
eyes had murmured a little prayer of thanks¬ 
giving and blessing, which the good angels 
must surely have wafted to his lieart and 
shed about him as a holy fragrance of hope 
and content. That little moment of Mar¬ 
gery’s life was sweet as heaven, and she 
believed that her joy, her great loving, her 
rapture of thanksgiving and of prayer 
reached him and was about him at that mo¬ 
ment as a comforting presence, a shield 
against evil and all temptations, and as a 
hope to insure his success. 
And so, too, we would fain believe that 
all the infinite loving of a woman’s heart 
and the strength of her holy, outreaching 
prayers must go with an unerring magnet¬ 
ism straight where they are sent, and hover 
like the gentle wings of guardian angels, to 
protect the beloved object from unseen dan¬ 
ger. 
Margery's letter lasted her for a long 
time, for it was not a letter writing age in 
those days, as now, and California was very 
far away; besides, there were many mishaps 
to homeward bound letters before the mail- 
bags passed from the wild mining regions to 
the Golden Gate, and sometimes they never 
reached their destinations at all, and people 
waited months, and months, with heavy 
hearts, fearing death had gathered their be¬ 
loved among his own. 
Year after year went by to Margery, 
bringing a letter every three or four months, 
with sometimes a trinket of gold which Seth 
