a short time afterward. Mrs. Payne looked up expectantly as she entered, but her countenance instantly changed when she saw the despairing look on her daughter's face. "She could not pay you?" said the widow halfinquiringly, half-hopelessly, for although she almost knew that her daughter had met with no success, still she hoped otherwise. "She could not," returned the girl with a wearied sigh of disappointment, as she sank exhausted into a chair, and commenced to remove her outer garments. Her mother did not reply, but glanced at the little clock that stood on the mantel, whose hourhand pointed at the figure eight, and thought despairingly that at nine the landlord would be there. Suddenly Olive arose, as the thought of the cross occurred to her, and she began to replace her hat and shawl. "How much did the pawnbroker offer you for it ?" "Three dollars." "And why didn't you let him have it for that amount?" asked the maiden in surprise. "I couldn't Olive, dear, for it was worth twice that sum," and Mrs. Payne, after removing her bonnet and shawl seated herself at the side of the table opposite of her daughter and began to talk about the expected visit of the landlord. "I dread this visit," she sighed, "I do not like the idea of receiving favors at his hands." "We will not," said Olive, determinedly, "I will ask him to take my cross for what he thinks it is worth, before I will ask a great favor of him. Mother," she added thoughtfully, "I wish that you would let me see him alone." "I will be glad to," responded the widow. "Hush! that is his knock at the door," and she hastily gathered up her work, and glided into an "I forgot about my cross," she said in reply to adjoining apartment, just as her daughter admitted her mother's look of inquiry. "Oh, yes," said Mrs. Payne, starting up. "Give it to me, and I will go to the pawnbroker's with it," and she went into a small apartment adjoining to prepare herself. In a moment she returned, and her daughter, after much reluctance, gave her the cross. Mrs. Payne immediately left the house, and started for the pawnbroker's shop, determined not to part with the cherished jewel, unless she could obtain nearly its full value. It was thus she entered the shop, and went up to the counter, behind which stood the pompous own er. She handed him the cross, acquainting him with the circumstances that forced her to pawn it, and ended by asking him to take it for five dollars. "I cannot do as you desire me to," he replied, with a low, business-like laugh. "It is really worth no more than two dollars and a half to me," he added, indifferently. Mr. Bradford. He was a young man, scarcely twenty-five, with a pleasing gray eye, a frank, open countenance, and a profusion of short brown curls. "Good morning, Miss Payne," he said, pleasantly. "I have come about the rent." "Ah, yes," said he girl stammeringly, as she led him into the sitting-room. Mr. Bradford seated himself with the familiarity characteristic of landlords, and commenced the conversation with a remark concerning the weath er. For a long while Olive was silent, but at length she summoned courage to tell him of the situation in which her mother was placed, and ended by asking him to take the gold cross for whatever he thought it was worth, in payment for the rest. "Perhaps we can pay you the remainder, during the month," she said, but Mr. Bradford interrupted her. "Olive," he said, low and earnestly, taking both "Two dollars and a half?" and the widow look- her hands, and looking into her brown eyes, "do ed appealingly at the pawnbroker. "That is the most that I can afford to pay you," he returned, idly tapping his fingers upon the coun ter. you think I could take that ornament? You can cancel the debt in another way, if you choose," and he smiled a little, as he noticed the quick blushes that came and went upon her cheek, know "But my husband paid six dollars for it," said ing by them that she understood his meaning. Mrs. Payne earnestly. "I'll give three dollars," said the pawnbroker with a crafty gleam in his cold dark eye, for the widow had taken the jewel, and was about to place it in her purse. She hesitated for a moment, then the thought of her deceased husband flashed across her mind, and closing the purse she turned from the shop, resolved to ask the landlord to wait until the following month for the remainder of the money now due. After her mother had left the house, Olive seated herself at a table, and busied herself with some sewing, work which was her daily occupation. The minutes passed slowly, and Olive was expecting the arrival of Mr. Bradford each moment, when her mother entered the room. The girl took the cross with a scarcely suppressed sigh, and said: Dearest," he continued, leading her to a sofa, "I have loved you ever since I first saw you, but you always seemed so cold that I hardly dared to address you, otherwise than as an acquaintance. Tell me, do you love me?" "Fie, Lewis-Mr. Bradford," she said falteringly. "Is it Lewis?" he whispered joyously, and he drew the unresisting form of the maiden close to his breast, and kissed her white brow tenderly. Of course good Mrs. Payne was greatly surprised when a few moments later she came into the room, and found her daughter's face hid on the landlord's shoulder; but her delight knew no bounds when the next moment the latter acquainted her with the change that affairs had taken. Some women were evidently born to blush unseen; at least they are never seen to blush. THE TWO GLASSES. There set two glasses filled to the brim, Said the glass of wine to the paler brother; I have tempted the youth with a sip, a taste, I have made the arm of the driver fail, By my crystal drops made light and glad ;- "Well, what was the numskull crying for?— quick, let me know!" "Well, poor fellow, he said he doted on his grandmother fairly doted on her. She nursed him, you know, because his mother was feeble, and so well, he came to this country fifteen years ago, and first he set up in the vegetable line, and got along pretty well, and was about to send for the old lady, when hard times came, and he broke. He went into fruit then, and after that into milkinto all sorts of things, you know; but he got disappointed every time, till his business fetched him out at last, and he sent right off for the old woman. She landed four weeks ago, but died the very same night. It was hard, very hard, after all his toiling for fifteen years, to get her over at last, and have her die on his hands. He-hewell, he was disgusted. However, he laid her out, and he and his friends sat up with her, and byand-by the memory of her virtues softened his bitterness and turned it to a tender grief, a settled melancholy, that hung about his spirits for many days. However, by striving to keep his thoughts employed on other subjects, he was finally beginning to regain some of his old-time cheerfulness, when your shoe reminded him so painfully of his grandmother's coffin A slap in the face, accompanied by "Take that, you degraded old ruffian!" put a sharp end to the feet story. A Bachelor's Defence. Who is petted to death with marriageable daughters-The Bachelor. Who is invited to tea and evening parties, and told to drop in just when it is convenient?—The I've leaped through the valleys, dashed down the Bachelor. mountain, Flowed in the river, and played in the fountain, I can tell of the powerful wheel of the mill, Feet. "Maybe," said a husband to his loving spouse, "you wouldn't be so handy displaying those big feet of yours if you knew what occurred when I took your shoe to be mended." "What was it-let me know instantly." "Well, the shoemaker took it in his hand, gazed upon it in silence, and then burst into tears, and wept as if his heart would break." Who lives in clover all his days, and when he dies has flowers strewn on his grave by the girls that could not entrap him ?-The Bachelor. Who goes to bed early because time drags heavily with him?-The married man. Who has wood to split and marketing to do, the young ones to wash, and the lazy servants to look after?-The married man. Who gets a scolding for picking out the softest part of the bed, and for waking up the baby in the morning?-The married man. Who is taken up for whipping his wife?-The married man. Who gets divorces?—The married man. An Anecdote of Spurgeon. On one occasion, when Mr. Spurgeon ascended the pulpit, the first sentence he uttered was: "I hear that some one here has lost a watch, another a pocket-book. All that I can say in the matter is, I think it serves them right-why, did they not leave them at home? But I have a word or two more to say on the subject, which is thisthat if my friends, the pickpockets, are still in the chapel, I have to request that they will not attempt to pick any more pockets till I have made my collection, as I want all the money I can get." Oysters have a language of their own, and clams stew. wooed the soft gold to the willow-wand. It loitered in marsh and meadow, coaxing the loath yellow to the cowslip, and the tender green to the pale grasses. It breathed through the leafless trees, and the sweet electric thrill reached a thousand tiny rootlets, buried in the dark and damp, awaking them again to labor. It burrowed in the dank moist ground, and touched the slumbering pulse of Nature, and sounded the call to action, through all her mighty laboratories. Over the broad roofs and gables of the farmhouses it improvised misty wreaths, hanging them lightly in mid-air, and shooting its golden arrows through and through them. It crept tremulously through the little diamond-paned windows of Eben Hadley's kitchen, and touched with soft fingers the iron-gray hair of Farmer Hadley, standing whip in hand, by the table where his wife was busy making pies. A clear, bright fire was blazing and crackling in the capacious brick oven, and two iron basins, with smoothly-rounded loaves of brown bread, stood waiting on the little fire-frame, under which a few pale coals winked and blinked at the fold of sunshine that fell across the brightly polished globes of the andirons. "You're more to blame than the poor boy, Ruth. You make a fool of the lad. But it's no use, for my mind is made up. I've seen enough of boys going to sea, and leaving good farms to grow up to thistles and brier-bushes, and I tell you I'll have no such nonsense!" And Eben Hadley brought his stout fist down on the table with a force that made the plates ring. "Eben," said the tearful voice of his wife, "God knows I feel as bad as you about his going. He is all I have, and oh! Eben, it seems like taking my life, to have him go from me, but the lad's heart is so set upon it, that I don't think he will be good for anything, if you force him to stay at home against his inclination." "There it is-just as I said? Instead of telling him he shall not go, you encourage him to work against me, by such sentimental nonsense as that. Inclination, indeed! Well, I've an inclination that he shall stay at home, and we'll see who is master. He isn't twenty-one yet-not these two years, and I can control him, and by the Lord's Harry, I will!" Mrs. Hadley left her baking, and went and stood by the window. The sunshine fell about her, soft and warm, kissing the tears from her cheek, and brightening the soft brown braids, and turning the chance threads of silver to gold in its yellow light. Under the window, a little clump of crocuses looked up at her with bright faces, and just beyond, a little flock of soft, downy chickens ran awkwardly to and fro at the excited call of their proud mother. Down in the lower field, the oxen were standing patiently in the furrow, the plough half buried in the black, heavy soil. It was a peaceful picture, and with a sigh, Ruth Hadley turned from it to the stern face of her husband. "I hope Arthur will not persist in this thing, Eben," she said, gently; "for it will bring trouble to us all if he does. He has got your firmness, Eben; and you boast that you never yield." "And you'll find it so. So you needn't go to coddling the boy up. You just let him alone, and I'll bend him—or break him!" he muttered, as he went back to his ploughing. bright eyes were dim now, and the long lashes were heavy with tears. Oh, Mrs. Hadley!" with a great sob. "Rob is going to sail next week?" Mrs. Hadley laid down her shovel, and went to the pail and drank some water. Then she came and sat down before the fire, shivering like one with the ague, although a moment before she was burning up with the heat. "And Arthur?" she said, in a tone of painful inquiry. "Rob says Arthur is bound to go with him," said the girl, her sobs breaking out afresh. "Girl," and the voice sounded sharp in its great agony, "what are you weeping for? It is I who should weep, and see! my eyes are like balls of fire." Constance looked in affright at the dumb agony in the dry, lurid orbs. In her terror she ran to the door, calling, "Arthur! Arthur!" at the top of her voice. Arthur, who was just coming up the street, heard the call, and answered it almost instantly by standing beside her. "What is it, Constance-what is the matter?" he asked, in an alarmed voice. "Your mother, Arthur; look at her!" But at sight of him, her pent-up feelings relieved themselves in a flood of tears. She arose and reached out her arms to him. He folded her to his breast, saying: "Dear mother, what is it? Who has harmed you?" "God help me, then!" she said, with a pitiful cry; "for I must stand between you and your father." She did not think of pleading with him; she knew from that look and tone, there was no appeal. She had seen it too often on his father's face to be ignorant of its meaning. Eben Hadley was a "dreadful set man," the neighbors said. But fortunately-or perhaps unfortunately-for I have often thought if these set, tyrannical sort of men should chance to get mated with women as set, and firm, and unyielding as themselves, they might, by constant friction, wear each other's sharp corners off, and make really amiable people of them; but as I was saying, either fortunately or otherwise, Eben Hadley's wife was one of those gentle, sweet-tem Lered women, who, if you ever noticed it, are almost invariably the wives of just such lordly, overbearing men, and vice versa. I suppose, however, it is a wise arrangement of Providence, and verifies the proverb that "matches are made in heaven." Mrs. Hadley went on with her baking, stopping now and then to wipe away a tear with the corner of her apron. The oven was all ready for clearing, when a light step sounded under the window, and Constance Fielding, a bright-eyed, pretty little thing, threw open the door and bounded in. Her bright chestnut hair rippled in loose, soft curls, almost to her waist. Her eyes matched them exactly-a sort of bronze-brown, and a beautiful, | Living, as he did, in one of our Atlantic coast wild-rose pink burned in her soft cheek. But the They had but one child-Arthur, a brave, handsome, daring young fellow, the apple of his mother's eye; and despite his sternness, the pride and hope of his father's heart. Ever since he was a dozen years old, he had been wild to go to sea. towns, where " going down to the sea in ships" was the probable destiny of a large majority of the boys who grew up there, he early imbibed the common spirit, and came to the common resolveviz., to go to sea as soon as he was old enough. But he did not come of a seafaring race. His ancestors were all farmers. Clear back as early as 1700, the Hadleys had owned farms in this township. One generation after another had married and settled on the " old homestead," until it came at last to Eben; and he, having but one child, very reasonably desired that he should follow in the lead of his worthy progenitors. But young Hadley had, unfortunately, a very decided will of his own, and still more unfortunately, it ran squarely against his father's. Of course there was a collision. "When Greek meets Greek," etc. feeling them grow less-but there was no end to "forever." She had heard from him twice through Constance, who, grown suddenly grave and womanly, came and sat with her in the long summer afternoons. They two never tired of one subject, and Constance who was of a very hopeful nature, comforted her with bright prophecies. They had never heard from Robert often-the opportunities were none of the best; and so, when weeks, and even months went by, and no word came from him, neither Mrs. Fielding nor Constance felt much cause for alarm. If Eben Hadley felt either remorse or regret, no one ever knew it. His son's name was never mentioned in his presence. He had forbidden it long ago; and once, when an incautious nature chanced to mention the arrival of the Anna in some port, the sudden anger he exhibited effectually silenced its future mention. He grew old and gray that summer. People said it wore on him, but he was too proud to acknowledge it. It chanced that Mrs. Fielding, the widow of a sea-captain, lived in the neighborhood. She had two children, Robert and Constance. Robert had been to sea ever since he was a little, pale, slight boy of thirteen, and now he was a bronzed and bearded man of six-and-twenty, and the captain of the "Anna," a merchant vessel, trading between the port of New York and the South American States. Robert was at home now, from an unusually successful voyage. Arthur had formed the sudden resolution of going with him on his next trip; and the threats of his father, the tears of his mother, and the pretty coaxings of his little Constance, were alike powerless to shake that resolu--Oh, so plainly!—a dark, bright face bending tion. No wonder the poor mother sat bewildered, letting the fire in her oven burn black and go out, while her baking sat uncooked on the long table. She could not let him go, loving him as she did; she could bear that, but her soul shrank in terrible fear from the storm of anger that it would evoke from her husband. Poor mother! it was even worse than she had feared; for two days before the sailing of the Anna, she saw her boy driven from his home, disowned and disinherited, and forbidden ever to cross their threshold again. One day he was in the field, gathering in his corn. Somehow, fight against it as he might, the memory of the last October would return to haunt him. He was vexed and angry with himself; and yet there was a pleasant pain in the spell that held him. He saw again the soft golden haze lying across the dim hills, and the distant bay. He saw the oxen cropping at the brown stubble, and saw over the loose sheafs of corn, and a pair of young strong arms, tossing them up to him faster than he could stow them. He remembered how proad he felt of him that day, thinking how soon he would be able to take the hard work from his own shoulders. And this was the end of it all! A lonely, desolate old age, with stranger hands to till the old farm, and strangers at last to inherit it. But he had no thought of relenting. The boy had chosen his own way, and now he must walk in it to the end. "Mr. Hadley," called a low, grave voice from the orchard wall, “I have something to say to you; will you come up here and hear it ?" He looked up, and saw Constance Fielding leaning over the wall. He was surprised. The voice had not sounded at all like her, and as he drew nearer, the colorless face and ashy lips looked little like the blooming maiden he had met that morning, going to town with her mother. It was a lonely house; every room in it seemed like a tomb to the poor, desolate mother. No gay songs sounded through the old house, no boyish laughter greeted her yearning ears, no light steps ran up and down the stairs, calling "Mother," twenty times a day; no boots, and caps and neckties littered the "south room;" and more than all, no loving lips kissed her good-night now. Sometimes, in the twilight she would fancy she felt their soft touch on her forehead, and she would start, half fancying she heard his whistle down by the meadow bars. But alas! it was only fancy; and the long days of the weary summer dragged on, every one of them growing darker and sadder. It is true she made butter and cheese, washed and ironed-missing so sadly the hem-stitched hand-morning," she went on, without once removing "Is anything the matter, Constance? Are you ill?" he asked, shocked at the strange look in the girl's face. "No, I am not ill-at least I do not think I am." she said, in a hard, strained voice. "But I have something to say to you-something to which you must listen. I had a letter from my brother this |