gree which, to a person as old and worn and disillusionized as I am, seems absolutely Quixotic."

I was well aware of it. And it was an endless riddle to me how a character so gentle, so trustful, so affectionate as Carrie's, and one so frank, careless and buoyant as Rick's, could have sprung from the dark and tortuous windings of Mrs. Thorne's nature. Neither, it was certain, could be in her confidence, nor aid directly in her projects. Still, I would promise nothing, on Carrie's behalf; though I foresaw, clearly enough, that if she chose to seek me out, and cling to me, I should not have the heart to cast her off. The worst of it would be that I should suspect that the seeking was partly, if not mainly, the result of the mother's promptings; and I should be sure that it was entirely in accordance with the mother's aims.

But why did Mrs. Thorne desire the continuance of the acquaintance? Wonderingly I asked the question. Mala furnished me with an answer-conjectural, of course. Mrs. Thorne's cold egotism quietly swallows or rejects whatever comes in its way,-men, women, events, possibilities,—according as they can, or cannot, be made instrumental to the attainment of her own ends. With her, feelings, sensibilities, principles, prejudices, affections, go for nothing, except as they count for or against her own game. My rejection of Rick weighed not the value of a grain of dust against the possibility of my being of future use to her. Through me, Rick might yet be presented to the young heiress with whom she had, at first, confounded me. Through me, Carrie might be brought into contact with a sphere of society that she had no other present means of reaching unto. Mrs. Thorne would put no card out of her hand which might ultimately win her a trick. So I rea soned,-with what disgust, both at her and myself, it is im possible to say!

Rick's voice now sounded from the porch, low, listless, dispirited. With it Carrie's gentle, loving tones went

twisting in and out, in silken threads of regret, explanation, and sympathy. Evidently she believed that his mood was due to that recent running away from him, of which she fancied herself to be guilty-never once imagining, guileless little soul! that it was he who had fled from her, blindly, recklessly. His replies were vague and preoccu pied. He was glad enough, doubtless, to find that he was supposed to be the victim rather than the culprit ; and that explanation was to be received instead of given; but his mood did not clear up, and Carrie was disconsolate and remorseful. Seldom is mortal blessed with such entire devotion and unlimited faith as she gave to this brother. In her eyes, he could have no fault. That was the one principle at the centre of all things. So secure was she of his right, that she took it for granted that she, and everybody else, was wrong.

Mrs. Thorne offered no further opposition-except such as the merest courtesy required-to my departure. The whole household, with the notable exceptions of Dr. Bryer and the saturnine bachelor, Mortimer, assembled in the porch for the ceremony of leave-taking. Mrs. Thorne, with her most gracious air of the courteous hostess; Miss Bryer, with real kindliness of heart under her formal manners; Rick, leaning with folded arms against the dilapidated pillar, and looking after me moodily; Carrie, hanging round me affectionately to the last moment, promising to come and see me soon; and, finally, the idiots, catching up every farewell word and courteous phrase, and repeating it over and over, like a couple of parrots.

I went slowly down the hill, and wondered if it were true that only a day and night had passed since I climbed it! A day and night of quick-flowing events-of interest approaching to excitement-of something which, if it were not pleasure, went far to fill its place, in a monotonous life. I felt a strange dislike to go back to the old, quiet routine. Doubt and discouragement took possession of me. Would

not my life have been richer, at least, if not happier, if I ha‍l admitted into it that prospect opened to me by Frederick Thorne? Had I really done well in refusing so decisively his love-his friendship-the opportunity for doing him good? I declare to you, Francesca, that, as I went moodily down the hill that day, I could not tell!

Of one thing only was I tolerably certain-that I thor oughly despised myself. After taking so high a tone with Rick, it was humiliating to have descended into the depths of meanness with his mother. Yet, as human beings are prone to do, I excused myself by blaming her. There are some natures (I argued) that inevitably soil and degrade whatever comes in contact with them. There are certain moral atmospheres, through which we are quick to detect evil and slow to recognize good, or they hopelessly confuse and confound the two. It must be a mind of steady poise or of very little susceptibility to influence, that can maintain such intercourse without harm. I felt that I detested Mrs. Thorne, and all the more because some perverse part of my nature had shown itself so unexpectedly amenable to her influence.

In such a mood, I reached the gate of the Divine homestead. As usual, Uncle True was at the woodpile, chop ping wood. Mrs. Prescott was also there, picking up chips in her apron. Both watched me as I came up the road, and Uncle True laid down his axe.

"Good mornin', Miss Frost. Had a good time?”

"I don't know-yes-I believe so."

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"Sorry you ain't sure on't," returned he, wiping his brow. Howsomever, it's a door that's got more'n one hinge to swing on,-a good un, a bad un, and another be tween 'em that's neither one nor t'other, but passable. And that's the hinge that things swing on the most,thank the Lord!"

"I don't see what there is to thank the Lord for in that," said Mrs. Prescott, shortly.

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Wall," replied Uncle True, "Agur, the son of Jakeh, did. He said, 'Lord, give me neither poverty nor riches'; and I kinder think he meant suthin' more'n the sort of poverty and riches you carry in your pocket. I reckon most on us might pray, 'Lord, give me neither a good time nor a bad 'un, but jest kinder passable,' with good reason. For, you see, in a good time we're apt to forget the Lord that sent it; and though a bad 'un may drive us to think of Him a leetle more, still-wall, we don't any of us exactly hanker arter trouble, you know!

"Children don't cry after picry, as a general thing," responded Mrs. Prescott, drily. Then she turned to me. "Well, what do you think of Mrs. Thorne?" she asked, abruptly.

"Mrs. Prescott, I don't think of her-at least, not now."

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'Umph!" said Mrs. Prescott, "any one who can't translate that into, 'Least said is soonest mended,' had better go and sell his head for a soap dish!" And, putting a final chip into her apron, she marched into the house.

Uncle True gave no heed to this little episode, but went on with his own train of thought, not stopping to supply the missing links. "There's that bird, yonder, in the maple; there's no doubt about his havin' a good time, is there now? Jest hear him sing!"

There was no question about it, whatever. His song was the distilled essence of a spirit jubilant within.

"As long as he gits any sort o' stuff to peck at, and ain't actooally gobbled up and carried off and made a meal on, he seems to think his time's good 'nough. But we human critturs is more onreasonable. Some on us want fine clothes, and some on us want fine victuals, and some on us want larnin', and most on us want our own way. Now, that bird is satisfied with the Lord's way. He builds his nest of what comes nighest to hand, and

ain't partic'ler what sort o' feathers he lines it with. He don't growl, nor grumble, nor fret, nor swear, if he has to take up with a caterpillar instead of a ground worm for breakfast,-nary one on 'em sticks in his crop to spile his song. He'd abeout as soon have rye as wheat for dinner; and he's willin' to sing the same hymns his forefathers did, way back to Noah's ark, and to larn 'em to his children. I wish more of us had his sense, or his religion, or his instinct, if that's what you'd ruther call it. I think t'would pass for either on 'em pooty well."

And Uncle True set up a stick on end, and sent the halves flying in different directions with one swing of his axe, by way of climax to his speech.

"Still," said I, after a moment, "a bird's life is not quite like a human life. The latter has so many more outs and ins, responsibilities and duties, and takes so many unexpected shapes, and has to be looked at from so many dif ferent points of view."

"Um!" said Uncle True.

"You see that little cloud

up yonder. What does it look like to you, now?"

"A little like a dipper."

"I was thinkin' t'was suthin' like a shovel. Wall, now the wind has jammed in the handle, and puffed out the body, what is't like?"

"Like a shield."

"I was agoin' to say the ace of spades. But it don't matter what shape it takes, nor what it looks like to you nor me, so long as it keeps-like its Lord-about the Father's business. Which I take to be-for a cloud-to gather up all the damp it finds floatin' around loose, and to go where it's sent,-never doubtin' that it's the Lord that blows it, and not a senseless wind (for the wind's the breath of His mouth!); and then, to drop down wherever he wants it to, and refresh the earth."

I went thoughtfully into the house. I suspect it was greatly due to Uncle True that I found Bona there—in my closet, “the door being shut."