WHOL’LL BUY A HEART. 
[From the Spanish.] 
POOR heart of mine! tormenting heart! 
I.onuhast then teiuetl me: thou and I 
Jlny Justus well agree to part. 
Who’ll buy u heart? Who'll buy? Who’ll buy? 
They offered throe testoons but no! 
A faithful heart Is cheap at more; 
Tis not ol those that wandering go. 
Like mendicants, from doer to door. 
There’s prompt possession—I might tell 
A thousand merits; cotueand try. 
I have u heart—a heart to sell: 
Who'll buy a heart? Who'll buy? Who’ll buy? 
I low oft beneath Its folds lay hid 
Thu gnawing viper’s tooth of woe— 
Will no one buy? AVill no one bid? 
’Tin going now. Yes, it must go ! 
So little ottered ! It were well 
To keep it yet—but no! not 1; 
I have a heart—a heart to sell ; 
Who’ll buy a heart? Who’ll buy? Who’ll buy? 
I would ’twere gone! for 1 confess 
I’m tired, and longing to be freed ; 
Come bid, fair maiden ! more or less— 
So good—and very cheap. Indeed. 
Oace more—hut once—I cannot dwell 
So long—'tls going—going- fle! 
No offer ? I've a heart to sell: 
Who'll buy a hearty Who'll buy? Who’ll buy? 
Once, twice and thrice the money down; 
The hem t is now transferred to you. 
Fair lady : make it all your own, 
And may it ever bless you, too. 
Its broken and Its wounded part 
Your touch can lical—come, lady, try. 
Add I will give you all n heart 
You would not buy, you would not buy. 
•torics for muralists. 
THE LITTLE BLUE SHOE : 
OK, 
HOW IT CEMENTED TWO LIVES. 
BY BERTHA SIBLEY SCIIANTOM. 
[Concluded from page 351, last No.] 
To-night as lie walked the platform 
through die wind and sleet, a sense of fore¬ 
boding made him shiver. The little village 
which was Mary’s former home was not 
man}’ miles away. Ollen ho had paced in 
this restless way this very station platform; 
for ho was no stranger to Westeott, not even 
with its down train behind, and yet- He 
drew out his watch and saw that fifteen 
minutes yet remained. They seemed hours, 
every one, for there was ail eager, strong 
wish to see that same woman’s face, to draw 
it to his heart, and to say, “ Mary, wo have 
both made a mistake;” and then to tell her 
how his logic had failed; how die lesson he 
tried to teach her proved the wrong one! 
Ami yet it was but five days since that even¬ 
ing when he met her at the staircase foot, 
the child’s shoe in her hand. Five days! 
and yet they seemed the longest blank in all 
his life. 
And ho had never seeu Lauric Licbois 
since that evening; he hoped he never 
should again. She was to have left Boston 
several days ago. lint the one thing that 
made him more restless than the rest was 
tlnit, on account of his sudden leave, he had 
no chance of a word with Mary. 
The afternoon of the day following the 
parly, his partner entered the private count¬ 
ing-room with a telegram in his hand, an 
anxious look upon his face. 
“ Here’s a pretty state of affairs, War- 
ham," and in a low tone followed a hurried 
account of a supposed defalcation involving 
the loss of many thousands in their branch 
office at the West. 
“It must be kept a dead secret, even from 
your wife, for awhile, and one of us must go 
on at, once. I wish now it would suit you, | 
Wauha.m; my wife is ill-” 
“Of course 1 will go; and the first train 
leaves an hour hence,” and Waiutam was 
in his great coat and off toward home. 
Mary and the hoy were out driving in the 
clear, crisp air. He was sorry; he had 
never left Mary without a parting. Her 
desk stood open, and he left a hasty note 
for her. 
" Dkar M uir : — “ I am suddenly called West 
in private business, which T cannot now ex¬ 
plain. Shall return probably in a week. 1 shall 
’ ravel farther than I think to perhaps, so can 
Hive you no address.” - lie had paused here, 
thinking ho would write*, but every attempt to 
do s > bad been vain, nml finding' lie could linish 
his business aud ret urn sooner, he had hurried 
away; he had too much to say to trust it in 
tviitleu words; so he hud finished his note,—) 
“ take good care ol' yourself and of my heir. 
« “ Kobrrt Wariiam.” 
Then, in passing her door, he saw a child’s 
shoe lying on the dressing table. Thinking 
suddenly of Mary and of her smile the night 
before, and of the noisy little feet Unit pat¬ 
tered within that blue hollow, he caught it 
up and slowed it away in his breast pocket, 
an amulet to shield him from harm. 
So twice a little shoe had preached a ser¬ 
mon mightier than words. 
To-night, in the driving storm, he took it 
out, and suddenly all the cynical look melt ed 
from his face, warm sweet tenderness came 
instead. Oh! he would have the blue shoe 
and its owner, and Mary in his arms before 
this time to-morrow night, please God, lie 
thought. 
Twenty minutes gone! 
The station light blazed and winked; the 
noisy laughter from within came to his ears; 
the children and the woman still slept 
within the cheerless waiting room, and look¬ 
ing in with a pitying feeling for the poor 
wretch in the corner—a woman who knew as 
little of such a soul as Mary’s, as Mary in her 
childlike whiteness knew of this sin-fouled 
thing of sin—suddenly he saw two eyes star¬ 
ing from the window, fierce, haughty black 
eyes, shaded by u hand whose shape ho 
knew—and then with a start the woman 
saw him and came out to him, the sleet 
beating on her hair and freezing upon the 
rich seal akin cloak she wore. 
“You of all things, Mr. Warham,” said 
Miss LebOIS, shivering already. 
“ But to find you here, and up«n such a 
night! Come, you will perish; go in, for it 
is hitter outside,” he said. 
“Go in and have the horrors again? 
Never ! I’ll perish here first. Besides, I’ve 
too much to say to you. Give me your ear 
and listen. Only for saying a few plain 
words to set, -things right, I would have 
been safely on myjourney West to-night. I 
deferred my departure till to-day. You 
shall hear why soon. To-night I waited in 
those stilling cars while they delayed for the 
down train, and leaving my scat, here I am, 
and the down train is the cause of it all.” 
He had never seen her clear-cut profile 
against such a background of wind and 
storm. 
“ Now that I have met you,” she went on, 
holding while she spoke, a letter in her palm, 
“ I may as well tell you, as another. 
Three months ago I saw the fire of jealousy 
kindled in your house. Whether you as 
well as 1 were guilty of feeding the flame 
you know best. It, served me for amuse¬ 
ment. I always need it. And 1 came to 
Boston more to see your wife than anything. 
Trust me, it will not do to let these white 
faced, little mild women loose after an idea. 
I did not think matters were so talked over, 
for you bad not left a day before I heard the 
pretty scandal that wc were to meet in 
Chicago.” 
Her face grew flushed and her mellow 
voice a little sharp, as she went on. 
“ Your sudden and unadvised departure 
created comment, and you can see how 1 
watched one miserably while little face, on 
the drive, after I heard the gossip. It was 
the sight of the pain in her eyes that moved 
me to slay on in Boston. J don’t know why. 
I never was magnanimous. Otherwise, I 
should have refuted the petty gossip, because 
within ten days after my return home my 
marriage will he in your city papers, lie is 
a Chicago banker; 1 think mamma is tired 
of traveling, and with the slight exception 
that he is as old as papa would have been, 
he is very eligible.” 
“ Your filial love is remarkable,” the man 
said with a sneer; he began in his instinctive 
way to feel anything hut admiration for Miss 
Lebois now. 
She waved her hand carelessly, and with¬ 
out remarking his interruption farther, Avent 
on. 
“ Still I received a letter from mamma; the 
wedding preparations needed my personal 
surveillance. I could not think of asking 
him—his name is Lapiiatte —to escort me 
in such severe weather; so I decided to 
start, alone to-night. This morning I went 
to your home to announce the finale of the 
little game, to bring a repentant little woman 
to your feet, and to tell her 1 would make as 
model it .wife as she”— 
“ Hush,” he said, almost angrily; it seemed 
like sacrilege to hear Mary thus spoken of. 
“ As you will! Well she was out, had 
gone home for a day; your hoy whs crow¬ 
ing in the nursery. 1 begged to go up, for I 
am fond of the little tyrant, and he displaced 
my laces, and pulled my hair, and we had a 
lively time of il. 1 was going to leave a 
note, and finding Mrs. Warham’s desk open 
and two notes upon it, one to myself; of 
course I read the one which was mine. The 
other is there yet, 1 dare say. An unsafe 
plan with servants, 1 have observed. This 
note changed my plans, by bringing me to 
Westcotl to-night. I only insist upon your 
reading it. Then T shall leave my utter vin¬ 
dication to yon, and the amicable adjustment, 
of affairs generally. I am tired of being 
peace-maker, and I am positive another 
evening in this fearfully cold place would he 
the ruination of me.” 
She held her hand with the letter in it to¬ 
wards him. Robert Warham drew back, 
bill she said, imperiously: 
" You must read it I It involves your 
honor; there is no other way!” 
She turned then, and stood under the 
shelter of the door, above which a single 
lantern flared and flickered, and watched 
him as he read. 
It was not a long letter; but lie read it 
through, and then, when he had finished, 
deliberately turned the pages and read it 
through again. 
"Just one week ago to-night, I heard the 
crudest words spoken that one woman can 
speak about another. They were, that you still 
hold your old influence over my husband, and 
that he still lovod you. Farther, that when you 
Went west, he would follow you. To one who 
has seeu and known, during every moment of 
the past three mont hs, all he lost in losing you; 
to one who has gone from doubt to fear, aud 
finally, to a dull stupid ache that must be des¬ 
pair, you can know how these words and their 
verification have come. 
“I do not say, ‘Give me back my husband.’ 
I do not, fur I would not ask that of any woman. 
I do not say that what I shall do is right. No; I 
do not justify myself. He loved me once—be 
loves our baby. 
“It is three o'clock In the morning now. 
When it is eight, I am going to my old homo at 
the farm house for u day, and in that day I shall 
take leave of them lor good. For to-morrow I 
shall not be in your way. My little boy and I 
are going; and I only take what things I cannot 
do without. This is ail 1 have to Bay, only that 
I could not stay after knowing that 1 had lost 
my place. 
“To-morrow, when you leave for the West, (if 
you go us they say you are going lo do,) you 
will pass me coming back for my child. You 
will get tills note after I am gone, some day. 
Our trains will pass at Westeott. I shall come 
back t,o my lost,dead home, on the down train. 
“Mary Wakham.’’ 
“ Melodramatic!” said Miss Lebois, shiv¬ 
ering under her seal skin cloak. He never 
spoke to her. She had fancied it would 
seem as much like child’s play to Him as it 
did to her, shallow soul as her’s was. 
Still,and tall, and dark the man stood; 
then lie drew out his watch. The time was 
up. lie held the letter close under her eyes, 
his finger on the line she was lo read. She 
read it. 
“ I shall come back to my lost, dead home 
on the down train.” 
“Yes, I see,” she said, wonderingiy; and 
in a gentler way, as she saw that the paper 
never trembled in his hand, but that an ashen 
look was creeping over his face; “yes, and 
tliis is why I slopped here to see her. She 
will surely be here yet.” 
Through the ghostly sleet and rain a fig¬ 
ure iu an oil skin cloak, with a lantern in Us 
hand, came toward them. Robert War- 
ham knew what the man would say, and he 
shivered, not from the cold. 
“ Tile down train an’ the ’spress have 
smashed three miles this side the Junction. 
They’ve telegraphed for spare cars to bring 
the wounded here. The Junction’s no place 
for ’em. ’Twns all the fault uv the new 
op’rator; he missed a word in the return 
message. 1 told Pierson so. lie killed, 
you know; well, lie’s dead now. lie was a 
good, steady feller.” 
The man with the grtiir jar in his voice, 
lived in Robert WArham’s dreams long af¬ 
ter; though he did not hear one half he said. 
Boon the platform was crowded; voices 
shouted through the dusk; great, hoarse 
cries were going up toward the village ; lan¬ 
terns gleaming through the streets; the tele¬ 
graph going up tuJioslon ; the work of reo- 
cue begun. 
Miss Lebois looked like a woman roused 
from a dream. Her face, to her lips, was 
colorless; her heavy brows knitted fiercely; 
she felt the chill of horror rising to her heart. 
“ Mary is on the down train!” was all 
Robert Waruam said. 
“ It is not my fault. But for chance—Goo, 
rather—I had been ir the other train as well. 
It is not my fault,” si e said, piteously. 
lie led her in from lie storm; the children 
had wakened, mid were crying forlornly in 
the confusion. Moved by some human im¬ 
pulse, the girl in the corner apart, came to 
comfort them. Miss Lebois shrunk as her 
draggled skirts passed her; then, suddenly 
she, too, stooped forward and took one blue, 
pinched little being to her la]), and cold and 
sick and wretched as the child was, he smiled 
into her lacc and grew still. 
There were men enough logo to the wreck. 
Robert Warham had gone when the first 
car was ordered. 
Only one sentence was in his brain as lie 
stopped horrified, sickened, chilled, at last, 
lie knew not how lie had worked, through 
the hours of that fearful night. In all the 
sleet, the piercing rain, the cries, the help¬ 
less groans, the glare of the lanterns. And 
slowly, one by one, the dead were carried to 
the forward car. 
“ Your lantern here,” a voice said at his 
back; “there’s some one under these lim¬ 
bers, wedged in. I see an arm, and the 
hand is warm.” 
Robert Wakham turned, hopelessly. He 
had seen them, every one, found so far; 
wounded, dying, and those with covered 
faces lying in the forward car. Sickening, 
as lie fancied an outlined form like Mary's, 
turning from them, row upon row, men, 
women, little ones like the child whose little 
blue shoe lay in his breast pocket. And 
Mary was not among them. He hoped 
that she might have been delayed—any¬ 
thing, rather than now, when life began to 
tug at his heart strings, to find her again. 
He followed the voice, and bending, look¬ 
ed down in the dark among the broken tim¬ 
bers, where a Land showed faintly; a hand 
with a wedding ring upon it, over which a 
stream of blood was trickling. 
Robert Wariiam felt for his brandy flask 
as lie staggered against the man who had 
called him. 
“Why, maul does blood tell on you like 
that ?” asked the stranger; “ one must face 
anything to-night J” 
“Yes, yes, I know,” he answered, down 
on ids knees, tugging at the debris where 
the form lay prisoned, “ but, good man ! it’s 
my wife /” 
His voice had a desperate ring in it. All 
the easy, graceful indolence was gone; few 
that had known Robert Wariiam would 
know him now. 
And thus they worked, till the sleet that 
had crept to a thin mist drove the night 
from the stars, and a pallid, gray morning 
gleamed over against the earth. A shudder¬ 
ing dawn, to light the ghastly holocaust! 
Her face, when they came to it, showed 
pale and bloodstained, with the lips apart. 
AL the sight, one of the two men turned 
aside; it was not Robert Wariiam now. 
| In another half hour he had her in his arms, 
sitting in the corner of the car, trying to 
force a drop of brandy between her set lips. 
Rough men turned from the piteous sight. 
One man said to another, “Poor devil! lie 
sits there trying to bring his dead to life. A 
sweetheart, I think.” 
They were coarse men, but there was a 
quiver in their voices. 
“ It’s a wife, more like,” said his compan¬ 
ion ; “ a man doesn’t look so cut up over any 
woman but a wife.” 
Tints the ghastly cortege came to the little 
station at Westeott. The gray morning 
showed fearfully on the horror-stricken faces 
there. Among them was Miss Lebois, with 
the gray pallor that the night before hud set¬ 
tled over her face. 
On the conch where the children had been 
sleeping, lie laid Mary. 
“ She 7«wt come back,” lie said, as the wo¬ 
man bent down with the surgeon, listening 
at her lips and heart. The loft arm was 
crushed and bleeding. Miss Lebois lifted 
the hand in her own reverently, (noting the 
weddingring,but missing the diamonds,) and 
tried to warm it, albeit the blood dripped 
over her dress. And the still little face was 
paler than ever. The surgeon raised ids head 
at last, after that fearful pause of life aud 
death. 
“After all, Mr. Warham,” lie said, “I 
think this is a deathly swoon from pain. The 
heart is beating now, steadily ; to be sure 
this arm is bad, very had; but if we could 
carry her to a quiet place now I think” — 
Laure Lebois burst into tears. Robert 
Wariiam never moved, hut his lips against 
Mary’s cheek stirred to a prayer. 
They found a quiet house near by, and 
Mahy was taken there. And when, an hour 
later, Miss Leboib went in after the sur¬ 
geon, the arm was bandaged, the blood¬ 
stained face was washed, and the two gray 
eyes looked up and smiled, feebly it is true, 
but still very tenderly. 
She knew then that peace was between 
them, as Mary’s face lay against her hus¬ 
band’s arm. 
What words were said, she never knew— 
only God. 
There was a quiver at Mary’s lips. 
The most graceful tiling Miss Lebois ere.’ 
did, was when she leaned down and kissed 
the girl’s pule lips, with reai womanly tears 
in her eyes. 
“ May I see Mary alone ?” she asked. 
And Robert Wariiam went into the 
clear winter morning and bared his head. 
He was a different man from the elegant, 
listless idler who paced the station in the 
cheerless sleet the night before. lie should 
never see that little station again without a 
shudder. 
Presently Miss Lebois came out to him. 
"I am going now,” she said; “this has 
been a fearful night’s lesson.” Her face in 
the morning light looked old with the drawn 
lines about her lips, “lean never wholly 
wash away this blood stain,” looking at her 
dress and meaning infinitely more. “ If she 
had died, I should have felt her murderess, 
liush—don’t speak; I know what 1 have 
done. You will he very happy now, Mary 
and you ! God bless you !” 
Then she went down the path to the car¬ 
riage, turning from the window to wave her 
hand back to him. 
There was, after all, a nobility of soul 
that ought lo have blossomed into glorious 
fruit in her life. I don’t know that il ever did. 
In that winter morning there was another 
arrival at the little white house. When 
Mary saw her husband with their rosy hoy 
in liis arms, something more than the old 
glad light came lo her eyes. She tried to 
say, “ How good in you! I wanted our 
habv so much, Robert!” But the whisper 
died away. 
lie stooped over her and laid the hoy on 
her right arm. As his chubby little fitigers 
caressed her pale cheek, and his little lips 
kissed her willi joy, lie saw a look in the 
wide, gray eyes llmt, with all their beauty, 
lie had never seeu before. He laid his cheek 
down upon the pillow, where he would have 
fallen on his knees in contrite thanksgiving. 
He had his picture again, for future twi¬ 
light times, in the east-looking window, 
thank God ! All the remnants or bis selfish, 
old pride died out forever. 
She drew his hand from his eyes to find 
them wet, and in the next instant his head 
was on her heart with baby’s flaxen curls. 
“ 1 need you ns much ns he. Teach us 
both, Mary,” he said. 
And Mary’s fingers crept along his cheek 
as 9he laid little baby's hand, with its warm, 
rosy palm over his lips. 
lie understood her, and was content to 
watch the happiness that grew and deepened 
in her eyes, till the sweet, old tenderness 
came back into them, never, never to leave 
them again. 
iibkitb Jifabing. 
I PUT.MY HAND IN THINE 
BY A. ZAL.1A. 
I put iuy hand in Thine; the storm rough beating— 
The dead leaves falling round my pathway, brown 
and sere, 
Shall move me not; content am I if meeting 
Thy loving smile, and knowing Thou art near; 
I put my hand in thine, and have no fear. 
1 put my hand in Thina; the sunbeams dancing— 
The sweet flowers springing up where dead leaves 
fell before— 
Shall fill my heart with praise. Thy love enhancing 
Each gift, shall bring me nearer to thee, evermore: 
I put my hand in Thine—Thy grace implore. 
-- 
THOUGHTS BY THINKERS. 
About Those who avis Aslrop. 
Rev. Theo. L. Cuyler says: — “ Every 
unconverted man is asleep toward God. He 
is under an illusion, fle is totally inactive 
in God's service. He is blind to his own 
danger of eternal perdition. These are all 
conditions of spiritual sleep. The sources of 
this insensibility are very various. One is in 
the light of slumber of youth — tlic insensi¬ 
bility of sheer thoughtlessness. Another is 
so wearied and overtaxed with his schemes 
of self-seeking that his conscience lias be¬ 
come torpid. Fashion has drugged another 
into insensibility; for ’she who liveth in 
plea ure is dead while she liveth.’ Others 
are drugged with error, as with overdoses of 
opium. Others are secretly skeptical, with 
their hearts thoroughly hardened, ami with 
that pistol of the suicide, infidelity , tucked 
under t heir pillow. This sleep of skepticism 
generally overtakes those who have lived 
long enough to distrust all religious emotions, 
and have outlived their own early sacred 
impressions.” 
Howto Fill Emptv IVwii 
Spurgeon gave this advice in Edinburgh 
once:—“If you, any of you, are mourning 
over empty pews in your place of worship, I 
would advise you to praise up your minister. 
There can be no difficulty in discovering 
some points iu which your pastor excels; 
dwell upon these excellencies, and not upon 
his failures; talk of the spiritual benefit 
which you derive from his sermons, nml lints 
you will induce the people to come aud listen 
to him, and at the same time you will do li ini 
good, for the full house will warm him tip and 
make him a better preacher, and you your¬ 
self will enjoy him the more because you 
have thought and spoken kindly of him. Be¬ 
lieve, then, that the filling up of the church 
is not alone the pastor's work.” 
Patience Iu tlic Heart. 
Let but patience be in the heart, and 
neither anger, nor discord, nor hatred will 
be able to find a dwelling within it; if they 
attempt an entrance, how soon will they he 
expelled and depart from thee, that the 
home of peace may have continued abiding 
in that heart where it rejoiceth the Gocl of 
peace to dwell? Yea, if the Christian has 
come forth from fleshly rage and strife, and 
has entered meek and tranquil, as From 
amongst the tempests of the sea, within the 
haven where is Christ, how can his heart 
give admittance to auger or discord, know¬ 
ing llmt it is forbidden lilm to render evil 
for evil, or bear hatred unto his brother ?— St. 
Augustine. 
The Test ol' Prayer. 
Prof. J. A. Reubelt says :—“ Prayer is 
not only a test of the existence of a personal 
God, but also a test of God’s relation to the 
world,—whether lie stands outside of the 
world, and lets the world move on by its 
fixed, unalterable laws, ns the watchmaker 
leaves a wound clock or watch to itself, to 
run by its own mechanism, or whether he 
is an everywhere present and everywhere 
aclive, all-controlling God, who holds the 
universe, as it were, in the hollow of his 
hands, and carries out his own purposes, 
notwithstanding the perverseness of many 
of his created intelligences.” 
How to Keep the Soul Healthy. 
Dr. Reid says: —“ The health of the soul 
depends upon its fidelity to closet duties. 
Fault here, like disease within, will soon 
show itself outwardly. Backsliding inva¬ 
riably begins by neglect of this duty. The 
loving soul will not be content without this 
hour between God and itself alone, where it 
can pour out all the gushing fullness of its 
love into the Divine ear, and where it may 
indulge itself with a nearness of embrace 
that might lie unseemly to Other C 3 r es. 
Strange it is that we should make these 
hours so few aud so hurried.” 
Beecher’s Wuruiiisr to Ills C'oiurrejmtion. 
Beware of refined selfishness. Beware 
of ffislhelie selfishness. Beware of aristo¬ 
cratic selfishness. Beware of the selfishness 
of prosperity and of respectability. Beware 
of the temptation of the devil. Beware of 
anything that shall make you indifferent to 
the sufferings and to the condition of those 
who are cast down by reason of their sins— 
for you, in your estate, are sinners, depend¬ 
ent, every hour and every moment, on the 
goodness of a pitying God. Be you to your 
fellows what God is to you. 
