"Mr. Snipeton is late to-day," said Mrs. Wilton, the mother housekeeper.

"He will come," replied Clarissa, in the tone of one resigned to a daily care. "He will come, mother."

Mrs. Wilton looked with appealing tenderness in her daughter's face; and in a low, calm voice, controlling her heart as she spoke, she said "This must not be: do not repeat that word—not even when we are alone. Some day it may betray me to your hus

band, and then

"What then?" asked Clarissa.

"We should be parted; for ever-for ever," cried the woman, and with the thought she burst into tears.

"Not so. Nothing parts us; nothing but the kindliness of death," said Clarissa. And death is kind, at least "

"At least, my child, the world with you is too young to think

it so.

66

· Old, old and faded," said Clarissa.

The spirit of youth is

departed. I look at all things with dim and weary eyes." "And yet, my child, there is a sanctity in suffering, when strongly, meekly borne. Our duty, though set about by thorns, may still be made a staff, supporting even while it tortures. Cast it away, and like the prophet's wand, it changes to a snake. God and my own heart know, I speak no idle thoughts, I speak a bitter truth, bitterly acknowledged."

"And duty shall support me on this weary pilgrimage," said Clarissa. Then taking her mother's hand, and feebly smiling, she added, "Surely, it can be no sin to wish such travel short or if it be, I still must wish-I cannot help it."

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Time, time, my child, is the sure conciliator. to wonder at and bless his goodness.'

You will live

"You say so-it may be," said Clarissa, with a lightened look, "at least, I'll hope it." And then both smiled gaily-wanly; for both felt the deceit they strove to act but could not carry through. Words, words of comforting, of hope were uttered, but they fell coldly, hollowly; for the spirit of truth was not in them. They were things of the tongue, passionless, mechanical; the voice without the soul. At this moment, old Dorothy Vale entered the room; and she was welcome: even though she announced the coming of the master of the house.

"Master 's coming up the garden," said Dorothy, each hand rubbing an arm crossed before her. "Somebody's with him."

"A stranger here! Who can it be?" cried Clarissa. "Don't say he's a stranger; don't say he isn't; can only see a somebody," answered Dorothy, in whom no show whatever of this world of shows could have awakened a momentary curiosity. Her inheritance, as one of Eve's daughters, was this beautiful earth, sky-roofed; yet was it no more to her than a huge deal box, pierced with air-holes. A place to eat, drink, sleep, and hang up her bonnet in.

Another minute, and Snipeton entered the room. The husband had returned to the haven of his hopes, and was resolved that the world-then comprised in the single person of Peter Crossbone, who followed close at the heels of his host-should bear witness to his exceeding happiness; to the robust delight that, as he crossed his threshold, instantly possessed him: for with an anxious look of joy, he strode up to his wife, and suddenly taking her cheeks between both his hands, pursed out her lips, and then vigorously kissed them. He was so happy, he could not, would not feel his wife shrink at his touch-could not, would not see her white face flush as with sudden resentment, and then subside into pale endurance. No: the husband was resolved upon displaying to the world his exceeding happiness, and would not be thwarted in his show of bliss, by trifles. He merely said, still dallying with his felicity-"Never mind Crossbone; he's nobody; a family man-has been married, and that's all the same." Now Crossbone in his wayward heart, felt tempted to dispute such position; it was not all the same-to him. Nevertheless, he would not be captious. It was a poor, an ignorant opinion, and therefore his host and customer should have the free enjoyment of it.

"Mrs. Snipeton," said the Apothecary, "though I do not feel it professional to hope that anybody is well, nevertheless in your case, I do hope that-well, well, I see; a little pale, but never fear it-we'll bring the roses out again. In a little while, and you'll bloom like a bough-pot."

"To be sure she will," said Snipeton. "I thought of buying her a pretty little horse; just a quiet thing "—

"Nothing could be better-perhaps. As I often say, horseflesh is the thing for weak stomachs. I may say as much to you as a friend, Mr. Snipeton; folks often go to the doctor's, when they should go to the stable. Yes, yes-horse exercise and change of air

"We'll talk of it after dinner," said Snipeton suddenly wincing; for his heart could not endure the thought of separation. Business and love were delightful when united; they gave a zest to each other; but certainly at least in the case of Snipeton-were not to be tasted alone. Granted that he sat in a golden shower in St. Mary Axe; how should he enjoy the luck falling direct from heaven upon him, if his wife-that flower of his existence-was transplanted to a distant soil? Would not certain bees and butterflies hum and flutter round that human blossom? Again, if he himself tended the pretty patient, would not ruin-taking certain advantage of the master's absence-post itself at his doorstep? Doating husband--devoted man of money! His heartstrings tore him one way-his purse-strings another. "We'll talk of it after dinner,' " he repeated. "And Master Crossbone,

we'll have a bottle of excellent wine." In some matters Crossbone was the most compliant of men and wine was one that, offered cost-free, never found him implacable. And, the truth is, Snipeton knowing this, hoped that the wine might contain arguments potent over the doctor's opinions. After one bottle, nay two, it was not impossible that Crossbone might reconsider his judgment. The air of Hampstead might be thought the best of airs for Clarissa. Wine does wonders!

The dinner was served. Crossbone was eloquent. "After your labours in town, Mr. Snipeton, you must find it particularly delightful," he said," particularly so, to come home to Mrs. Snipeton, "-the husband smiled at his wife-"and dine off your own greens. One's own vegetables is what I consider the purest and highest enjoyment of the country. Of course, too, you keep pigs?"

Snipeton had prepared himself for a compliment on his connubial happiness; and therefore suffered a wrenching of the spirit when called upon to speak to his cabbages. With a strong will he waived the subject; and merely answered, "We do not keep pigs."

That's a pity: but all in good time. For it's hardly possible to imagine a prettier place for pigs. Nothing like growing one's own bacon. But then I always like dumb things about me. And, Mr. Snipeton, after your work in town, you can't think how 'twould unbend your mind-how you might rest yourself, as I may say, on a few pigs. It's beautiful to watch 'em day by day; to see 'em growing and unfolding their fat like lilies; to make