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MRS. T. (rather constrainedly). May I ask what else of mine you gave away?

MR. T. (pathetically). Do not speak in that way, my dear, or I shall wish there never was such a thing as a bonnet! I gave nothing else away, of course, nothing. Exeept-ah! yes, one of your veils,-I think it was the secondbest, this time. I remembered that you could not make veils so easily as bonnets, my dear.

MRS. T. Thank you for your consideration! (Then sinking into a chair and laughing hysterically). It is too good a joke! I haven't a bonnet to wear to church, except my sun-bonnet! Would you advise me to wear that, or stay at home?

MR. T. (seeming not to see the point of the joke, but, apparently, beginning to perceive something, more to the point). I declare! It is too bad! Strange that I should have forgotten it so entirely! I promise you, my dear, that I never will touch anything of yours again, without asking you first! Upon honor!

MRS. T. (wiping her eyes and choking down her laughter). Thank you, dear. That would be the better arrangement, I think. But never mind, this time. I will run up to Mrs. Prescott-" acrost lots "-and see if I cannot borrow a bonnet of her, for to-day.

FINALE. Mrs. Taylor appears at church in Mrs. Prescott's second-best bonnet, and looks as if she had donned her grandmother's head-gear, by mistake.

At present, however, "our little minister's wife," (which, in Shiloh parlance, is synonomous with "our minister's little wife,") cannot be expected to take any active, regular part in parish work ;—even the most exacting of the parishioners admit that. The absorbing and neverending business known, hereabout, as "doing your own work; " added to the care of a great, fat, roly-poly baby, nearly as large as herself; furnishes employment for most of Mrs. Taylor's energies within her own immediate

sphere. Yet scarcely the less is the influence of her bright, cheerful spirit, her active good-will, her warm interest and sympathy, her inherent tact, felt as a power in the parish. And the little she is able to do in Sunday School and Sewing Society, is doubly appreciated; because it is something more than is hoped for, instead of something less than is expected.

It would be unpardonable were I to omit to state, in this connection, that Mr. Taylor has already experienced the benefit of his introduction to Leo. Every morning, before breakfast, a scratch is heard at the kitchen door of the Gwynne Place. Being opened, Leo enters majestically, delivers a pail of new, warm milk to Mrs. Taylor, and graciously offers a paw to her husband. Then, he goes straight to the cradle and puts his nose in the baby's face. She catches hold of it with avidity, pokes her tiny fingers into his eyes, doubles up her fists and rains puny blows upon his great head, pulls his long ears, kicks up her chubby feet, and coos and crows at him in an ecstasy of infantine delight. Never is Leo so softly benign of aspect as in these moments. He lays aside his stateliness as a garment; his bushy tail swings gently from side to side; his eyes smile; there is something deeply tender, even to pathos, in his look. Plainly, that innocent baby-face stirs his large, loving heart to its depths.

He is loth to leave his small friend, when Mrs. Taylor comes with the empty pail; and his distress is augmented by the fact that she sets up a shrill scream of protest as he turns away. Nevertheless, obedient to the call of duty, he takes the pail in his mouth and trots briskly homeward.

Parish matters, in general, flow with tolerable smoothness, so far; though there are growing indications of a critical and unfriendly spirit in the Burcham quarter. Mr. Taylor's foibles—and they are numerous-get small consideration at their hands. Theirs are not the minds to discern

the true proportion of good in a character like his, nor to realize how very small a part of him it is that is heavy with the soil and the weakness of the flesh, and trails in the dust of the world. It is far easier to discern the spots in the sun's dise, than to estimate the good done by his light; less difficult to point out some spot where his rays do not penetrate than to number the myriads of animate and inanimate things that are cheered and vitalized by their influence. Still, I do not expect any worse trouble from this faction than a continual, irritating friction;-chiefly, it must be acknowledged, because its interest in Church affairs is not so strong, nor so sensitive, as to urge it into any violent quarrel in their behalf!

At large, the little stir of life and interest caused by Mr. Taylor's advent, newness, and energy, is fast settling back into the old, sluggish quietude. Mrs. Prescott, to be sure, works on with unflagging zeal, and is, unquestionably, the salt of the parish; without whom, there would be a dire dearth of that active and preservative substance. At present, she is going about armed with a subscription paper designed to raise funds for painting, papering, and otherwise improving the little church on the hill; which seems to have so thoroughly engrossed the major part of her thoughts and affections. She has even pressed me into the service, averring that there are hearts (or pockets) hereabouts, which will open more readily to the knock of a comparative stranger, with the indefinable, but easily recognized air of the city about her, than to her own sharp, well-known rap. So, in the rattling and rusty, but still strong and hearty, Divine wagon,--upon an odd, cumbrous, movable seat, denominated a "chair,"-drawn by the fat, sleek, staid horse accounted safe for "woman-driving," and which Mrs. Prescott complains of as much too safe, even to the point of intolerable laziness ;-we drive round the country, stopping here and there to tell over again the story that we have told so many times before, as to have exhausted invention

in trying to vary it; and receiving fifty cents, or it may be a dollar, by way of liberal response. In some places, we get, in addition, much good will, pressing invitations to take refreshment, and whatever amount of gossip we have time to listen to; in others, the understood fare of beggars -few words, cold looks, and scant courtesy.

But now, I really have something to tell you! To think that here-of all places in the world!—when I thought I had left the little, blind god, with all his belongings, forever behind !—But I will not, as the Shilohites say, "get ahead of my story."

One bright morning, a week ago, Mrs. Divine's voice came up the staircase,

"Some one to see you, Miss Frost."

I descended to the kitchen, and at the farther endwhich serves as a sort of reception room-I found a slight, pale, gentle-looking girl, awaiting me.

"Miss Carrie Thorne-a niece of Miss Caroline Bryer's," said Mrs. Divine, seeing me look inquiringly at my visitor, who was quite unknown to me.

"Ah! I am glad to meet her. Is your aunt well, Miss

Thorne ?"

"Quite well, thank you." And, after a moment's pause, she added; "Mother sends her.compliments to you, Miss Frost, and would like the pleasure of your company to tea this afternoon."

I was so taken by surprise that I had said, "Yes, certainly,--thank you," before I was at all conscious what I was about. The invitation was so unexpected, the "mother" such a very unknown quantity, the messenger so quietly prepossessing, the whole thing so unprecedented! If I had happened to have noticed the expression of Mrs. Divine's face, I should probably have given a different answer. She now asked, in a tone that instantly drew my attention;

"Is your mother expecting other company, Carrie ?”

“Oh, no, ma'am. Only" (and she spoke as if from the fulness of delight) "Rick is coming up."

"O-h!" said Mrs. Divine, prolongedly. "Is he going to stay long?"

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Only until to-morrow. He will drive up from Haventon to-day, and back to-morrow morning. I will tell mother you are coming, Miss Frost-thank you." And Carrie Thorne departed.

Mrs. Divine and I remained looking at each other in silence, until the sound of her light footsteps died away. Then she burst into a laugh-a laugh with something more than merriment in it.

"I wish you joy of your invitation, Miss Frost! I hope you'll spend a very pleasant afternoon!"

"Mrs. Divine, what does it all mean? Who is this 'mother'?"

"Who?

sister."

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Mrs. Thorne ? She is Caroline Bryer's

Well, what else? I see there is something behind.” But Mrs. Divine's tongue-which generally runs over the catalogue of her neighbors' virtues and foibles readily enough, and deals out their family history with most unreserved, yet not unkindly, veracity-now seemed glued to her mouth.

"Well!" said she, at last, "I can talk fast enough about my neighbors, when I know them well, and am sure I shan't make mistakes. But I don't know Mrs. Thorne well, and I might give you wrong impressions. To tell the truth, the Bryers are a queer family, take them all in all-though Caroline is as nice a person as you'll find anywhere; and any one can see that there's no harm in that little Carrie, that's just gone from here. Her mother's a widow, and has lately come home to live. She isn't one of our sort, nor one of your sort, either, Miss Frost."

"What sort is she, then?"

"I can't say. If you go up there, you can find out for

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