He with eyes like demon's glowing, Stood before her in his shame; Maniac words from white lips flowing, Breathing doubts upon her name. Flowing in a cruel torrent; Face as dark as an eclipse, Till he saw a crimson current ROUGH WATERS. Oozing, oozing from her lips; Till he saw the wild light languish From her eye, and then depart; Till he heard the cry of anguish Bursting from her breaking heart; Till he saw her sinking slowly, Crushed and blighted to the ground; While the cry of anguish wholly In the crimson tide was drowned. Then too late was his awaking, All too late he vowed and prayed, For the weary heart was taking Leave of sorrow and of shade. Oh! the heart's wild wailings for her! Oh! the thoughts of bygone years! Welling up from depths of horror, Finding vent in scorching tears! But she murmured, "I believe thee," To the mourner at her side; Hoarsely whispered, "I forgive thee," Ere she closed her eyes and died. MABEL DRAKE. Rough Waters. CHAPTER XVIII. THE DAY OF COMFORT DAWNS. THE anxiety about her child was leaving visible traces on Mrs. Letstieg. She remained at Mr. Gilby's, while her husband went home for a few days to transact some business which required his presence. Adelaide Singleton spent the greater part of every day with her, and fed hopes which, if removed, would be succeeded by a state worse than death. That listless apathy which is dead to the things of the world is a terrible condition; better to struggle against evils and perish in the encounter, than let despair remove "Fire from the mind, and vigour from the limb." a Mr. Gilby, who seemed well fitted to minister to mind diseased," helped to cherish her hopes, while he set every engine in motion in search of one who had long been given up for dead. Richard Singleton pursued his search night after night with such intensity of purpose that Mr. Gilby remarked his pale face and sunken eye; not being aware of the cause, for it was kept a secret by his family even from Mrs. Letstieg, he said to him, "Richard, you should not give way to grief for the past, let it be forgotten," and he held his hand kindly out to him. Richard Singleton got a deeper insight into his master's character within the last few days than he ever had 165 before; he was no longer the selfish, unfeeling man he had thought him. A week had passed by and they heard nothing of Mr. Catchwell, although he had promised to return in a day or two. On a Sunday evening Mr. and Mrs. Letstieg, who had now taken up their abode at Mr. Gilby's, were waiting for the Singletons, whom Mr. Gilby had invited to come over and spend the evening at his house. They went after tea to hear Mr. Blackham preach. An inexperienced person, looking at the melancholy face of Mr. Blackham as he ascended to pulpit, would most certainly think that there would be more of the sad plaintive tone of the prophet Jeremiah in the discourse, than the bold and lofty flights of Ezekiel. Is it not your experience, reader, that young ministers, who have no practical knowledge of life, who are as ignorant of its cares and sorrows as they are of the domestic life of "the man in the moon," delight, in their public addresses, to draw such sad pictures that they would send you to your bed weeping; whereas they who have felt the iron enter their soul-whose tears have been their meat day and night, keep back their own sorrows, and, as a general rule, show you the happy paths of life; like kind friends they show you how and where true pleasures may be found, and affectionately warn against the steps which lead to misery? True champions these; and Mr. Blackham was one of them. His text was, "Comfort ye my people, saith your God." Every single word of that sermon fell like dew on the hearts of Mr. Gilby and Mrs. Letstieg; it won them from themselves, and they felt that God's love and kindness ordered all their ways. They waited until the congregation was gone, and Mr. Gilby went into the vestry, and having first said, "God bless you for the comfort you have given me,' asked Mr. Blackham to come and have tea with them. Mr. Gilby was never without visitors on Sunday evening; aunts, cousins, nieces, he had in abundance, and the house was seldom without some of them; but of all his visitors Mrs. Letstieg was the most welcome. She was passionately fond of music, and the "melody of sweet sound" was to him like a comforting messenger from heaven. For the last week, ever since Mrs. Letstieg came, the piano was never silent in the evening. Mr. Gilby, whose knowledge of the human heart was learnt in the school of tribulation, strove thus to soothe the anxious heart of Mrs. Letstieg. The very moment they entered the drawing-room, "Louisa, you must play that favourite of mine for Mr. Blackham." "Won't you give me time to take off my cloak." "Take it off here; you know I let you off yesterday evening, under the pretext of getting some sewing to do, and you did not come back for hours. I have you now, and I'll keep you." "Miss Singleton will play this evening, William." "Oh! certainly, when one is tired, I'll call upon the other." "Mr. Gilby, I declare you are a regular tyrant," said Mr. Blackham. That moment the servant knocked at the door to tell Mr. Letstieg that a gentleman wanted to see him. Every knock at the door, every whisper, every letter, sent the blood from Mrs. Letstieg's face, and, notwithstanding every effort to control herself, her friends saw plainly enough the intensity of the struggle. "You will oblige me very much, Louisa, if you let Mr. Blackham hear those beautiful lines which you set to music for me yesterday." Placing her music book, and taking out a loose leaf, she sang the following lines 166 "I had a message to send her, To her whom my soul loved best; And she had gone home to rest- "I had a message to send her, So tender, so true, and so sweet; On a little white cloud's breast; "To the heart of a rose I told it, And the perfume sweet and rare Grandly faint on the blue bright ether, Was lost in the balmy air. "I laid it upon a censer, And I saw the incense rise; 'Has the earth no angel friend Of mingled voices and strings, In sounds more perfect than speech; "And I knew, at last, that my message She looked round, Mr. Gilby was gone. CHAPTER XIX. ROUGH WATERS. THE ROUGH WATERS ARE SUBSIDING. Mr. Catchwell, better known in London as Detective Catchwell, asked Mr. Letstieg to call Mr. Gilby before he told his success or failure; so the latter gentleman, obedient to a silent motion of the finger placed upon the lips, stept out of the room while Mrs. Letstieg was singing. The Singletons and Mr. Blackham saw him go, and, divining the cause, engaged her in conversation, needlessly, for she, too, guessed that some intelligence, either good or bad, about her lost child had been gained; leaving the piano, she went over to the sofa where Adelaide Singleton and her mother sat, repeating the last line, "I'm content to wait," with the trembling nervousness of one who struggles to be calm. "Catchwell, tell me at once, have you been successful ?" "Just stop a minute, sir, and I'll tell you all." "For God's sake say yes or no; have you found my child?" and Mr. Letstieg held the lamp to his face, if possible to read the answer in that impenetrable countenance, even before his tongue could utter it. "I have." "Thank God!" and Mr. Letstieg turned aside to hide his emotion. "Where is he ?" "Safe." "Is he with you ?" "No; but dear me, sir, just let me tell you all, for I have a good deal to tell that interests Mr. Gilby." "Nothing," said Mr. Gilby, "that can interest me more than the recovery of that child." "Except that I have unearthed an old fox." "Just pull up a bit, sir, and let me begin where every story begins-at the beginning." "We must give you your own way, Catchwell, else we'll never make anything of you; but I can't help saying you are giving my friend here needless torture." "It was two days before I got on the scent of that young pickpocket-beg pardon, gentlemen, Master Letstieg. At last I got the greatest thief in all London to help me, by promising to let him hoff with a small misdemeanour I had hagainst him. The next night he told me his whereabouts. It would let you into too much of our ways to tell you how he found him; but he told me that a pal of his was employed by old Wriggle to find out this chap too, and perticularly to let him know where was the old woman who had care of him. I kept in the back ground, and told my Mercury to be on the watch, and let Wriggle go on with his schemes. So last night I saw him go hinto the house where Gipsy Moll died. I saw him searching a hole in the corner in which some old papers and rags were stuck, and then I pounced upon him. Ha! ha! gentlemen, if you saw how he looked; he pretended he was sister to the deceased, as he called her, and came to claim ber heffects. I playfully remarked he had rags enough, pointing to the old coat in which he was disguised, without claiming any more; and I took the bundle out of his hand. I knew at once, from the look of astonishment on his face, that the bundle contained some document of himportance. He then offered me five pounds to give it back; then ten; then twenty; and I quietly let him go up to a hundred before he stopt. 'Perhaps,' said I, Mr. Letstieg or Mr. Gilby might give me more for this bundle. 'Stay, I'll give you two hundred.' 'Two hundred,' I exclaimed; 'why, that is a great sum of money for a poor man like you to have.' 'Oh, there is a secret contained in them which compromises a respectable person.' The look of agony on his face was awful; still I loved to play on a little longer. 'Perhaps you could tell me something about a child which the old woman, your sister (and I winked), bad under her pious care. It was taken from its parents ten years ago; and if you were in the country then you may remember a great trial in which a highly-respectable solicitor, Mr. Wriggle, was accused of complicity in the haffair.' 'I knew nothing of the child.' 'Well, may be so, but you have been searching very diligently for him this week past.' 'Yes, there's a great reward offered.' 'Come, Mr. Wriggle, the child is at your house since yesterday morning.' It was has good as a play. 'I'll give you one thousand pounds, and say nothing about this.' I took off the wig and a few other embellishments I had, and, looking into his face, 'You can't bribe Detective Catchwell.' I then harrested him, though he declared I had no power, that it was illegal." "And is my child at his house now? Hasten, for God sake, and let us go to him. That man would murder my child." "No fear of that, Mr. Letstieg; he, the old cove, is committed for trial, and the clerk that Wriggles employed on Friday last is one of our shrewdest hands, WEEP NOT, BUT WORK.-HEALTH. and as he is living in the house, the young chap is safe." "You shall be rewarded for this; the reward will be doubled. God bless you; but, oh! come at once; I'll go up and tell Louisa. But are you sure he's there ?" "Aye, quite sartain, sir; no mistake about it." While Mr. Letstieg was absent, Catchwell took a paper out of his breast-pocket-a greasy, smoked bit of paper which he could not hold together, so worn was it in the folds. Spreading it out on the table, he asked Mr. Gilby to look at it, running his finger along the lines as he read with much the same sensation as Mr. Layard or Colonel Rawlinson would examine any Nineveh inscriptions. "He won't escape this time, I'm thinking, sir." "A striking comment on the text I heard this morning. 'Be sure your sins will find you out," said Mr. Gilby, adding, "To morrow we can see about this; now let us go for the child. I do not wish to see Mrs. Letstieg until she has her child to look upon. I hear Letstieg coming down; I don't envy them their happiness. God alone knows all they have suffered; but, somehow, at times, I cannot expel the feeling of melancholy which steals over me." This was said in a low voice, as if speaking to himself; however, Catchwell thought it his duty to make a reply. "Damp season, sir; the fog's coming on. Take a run to France, or South of Italy. Go very hoften myself on a professional tour." To those who combat sin and wrong- They with the foe have striven! Dash down the wine-cup, shun delight, Be firm, be strong-improve the time, Strive on, strive on-nor ever deem The many to the few. Forget thyself, but bear in mind 167 R. A. P. "Let you and Catchwell go for the child, there's Health: How to Secure and Retain it. no occasion for me to go; I'll remain here in the office until you come back." While they are absent, and while Mr. Gilby is sitting in the dark in his office, with his head leant upon his hand, thinking of the past-thinking of those early dreams of happiness which had fled in one brief hour, let us look in on the company in the drawing room. Richard Singleton promised to call for his mother and sister at eleven o'clock. As it was near that time now, Mrs. Letstieg said, "Adelaide, dear, don't go when Richard comes; stay with me.' The reply was a loving arm put round her neck, and a tear of sympathy which, lying like a pearl on her eyelashes, told plainly enough how deeply Adelaide Singleton felt the sorrows of her kind, good friend. Truly "There is a bond of sorrow, as of blood, And those that mourn are everywhere akin." Mr. Blackham did not indulge in those platitudes of consolation which so many would unwisely give at such a time. He turned over the leaves of a scrap-book, reading aloud now and then, whatever he thought might soothe the heart of that anxious mother, whose pale, lovely face, overcast with sorrow, would touch even a heart of stone. (To be continued.) Weep not, but Work. WEEP not, but work! Be bold, be brave! Let not a coward spirit crave Escape from tasks allotted! Thankful for toil and danger be, Duty's high call will make thee flee The vicious-the besotted! Think not thy share of strife too greatSpeed to thy post, erect, elate— Strength from above is given By S. B. LOUDON, Liverpool. SECTION 3.-drink. DIETETIC and Social Reformers have much more to contend with in their efforts to promote health and morals than the power of a false appetite. The habits of society step in and say-" Hitherto shalt thou come, and no further." It is questionable whether it is wise to spend one's strength in attempting the hopeless task of sweeping away the cherished customs of society, with the view of abolishing the sins of which they are more or less the cause. It would appear to me to be at once a more rational and a more hopeful course to make use of these very customs for helping on the reform which is so much needed. I have heard many good and earnest men cry out with a vehemence almost unparalleled against "drinking healths," "offering cake and wine to visitors," and other customs to which the majority of the British people have become attached. Drinking a friend's health certainly does seem a little absurd on the face of it; but then everybody understands that it is only an expression of kindness and good-will. Well, then, why not, instead of "beating the air" by endeavouring to overthrow this custom, provide the people with some pure, simple, and yet delicious beverage to use instead of that "liquid fire" which inflicts untold injuries on both the mental and physical powers? And rather than attempt a crusade against hospitality by declaiming against offering "cake and wine to visitors," I should rather seek to put into the hands of mistresses such a beverage as would revive the spirit, and refresh the body, and be vastly more agreeable to the stomach than any alcoholic stimulant. One of the most estimable ladies I have ever known, and whose friendship I value more than I care to express, was among the first to add her name to my temperance roll; but she did so on the express understanding that signing the pledge should not prevent her from offering wine to her guests. Many sincere well-wishers to the Temperance move 168 HEALTH.-"TO THE RESCUE!" It is ment have repeatedly said, to me that they felt deeply being under the necessity of giving to others a beverage which they could not use themselves. nothing to the purpose to say that such people are moral cowards, and that they should rise above mawkish sentimentalism. Cowards or no, temperance men should see to it that the stumbling-block is removed out of their way; and I cannot help thinking that a far greater effort should long since have been made to introduce unintoxicating wine at our festive boards. And why should not greater attention be given to improving the quality of it? I feel deeply in regard to this matter, and my temperance friends must bear with me if I speak strongly. It is deplorable that so much valuable time should be spent in ridiculing mere customs which, apart from the drink, are harmless. Let us rather devote our energies to the introduction of a pure, unadulterated wine, which will cheer without intoxicating, and strengthen without brutalising. Such a beverage has been prepared by (I believe) Dr. F. R. Lees; but from what I have heard (for I have not tasted it), the flavour of it might be improved, without any detriment to its invigorating properties. No one who has deeply and impartially studied the subject will deny that the use of strong drink as a beverage is founded on error; and, as I have often said before, I am perfectly convinced that, if we would effectually serve the cause of sobriety, we must be prepared to prove that alcoholic drinks are ruinous to both the mental and physical powers; and we must be able to offer a substitute which, in point of taste and flavour, will be much preferred by those over whom a false appetite has not obtained the ascendancy. There is in some quarters considerable hostility to the daily use of tea and coffee. It has been asserted -perhaps with more haste than judgment-that these beverages are poisonous and injurious in the last degree. I think it may well be said, in the words of an old toper, that if they are poisonous they are very slow poisons. I feel little hesitation in saying that the disuse of tea has shortened more lives than the use of it. The principal objection to tea and coffee seems to be that they are stimulants. But surely this is a very futile objection. "Stimulation, instead of being inherently wrong, is a law of our being. We are all subjected every day and every hour of our lives to the action of stimuli, which legitimately animate, but in excess might destroy, our organism" (Jacques.) The value of tea and coffee consists in their possessing a great quantity of what, for want of a more learned name, I will call nerve food. I have repeatedly heard persons object to tea because, said they, "it makes people nervous." But this is always the way fallen humanity speaks of the Almighty's gifts. He bestows a particular kind of food, it is misappropriated, and evil effects follow-ergo it is bad and unsuitable. He gives tea, people misunderstand the nature of it, drink it too strong, and drink it at improper hours; their nervous system gets out of order-ergo tea is a bad thing. It is so pleasant to cast the blame off ourselves. But it won't do. All the Almighty's gifts are appropriate, suitable, and of unspeakable value. It is only when they are abused that they injure the recipient. Tea is a good thing, and when used as it ought to be, does great service in preventing waste of tissue. Those who are everlastingly crying out about the use of alcohol in preventing this waste of tissue seem to be in woful ignorance of the fact that tea will do this far more effectually than their "distilled damnation," as it has been bluntly but truthfully termed. Yes, shrug your shoulders if you please, and say "You don't believe it;" but your "not believing it" won't make it a whit less true. The proof of the pudding is in the eating, and I can only say to those who are doubtful, in the words of a certain Paterfamilias, " Try it, my boy; try it." Yes, use good black tea (avoid green, for it is coloured chiefly by means of chemicals, and is highly objectionable); don't drink it strong; take it several hours before bed-time, and it will do you positive good. As to coffee, every one must determine for himself whether he should use it, for it does not agree with everybody. I am quite unable to use it, but I know many who relish it greatly, and whose health would suffer by giving it up. (To be continued.) "To the Rescue!” HENRY ALTON had been admitted to the bar, and gave promise of rising to eminence in the legal profession. He was an only child, and lived with his widowed mother. His father had been a lawyer of much distinction, enjoying a lucrative practice, and held in high esteem by a wide circle of influential friends; while circumstances served to admit Henry, at an early age, to a social sphere which he might not otherwise have gained. The young man had brought home some of his books, and, after tea, he sat with his mother in their quiet home, studying the legal points bearing upon a case he had in hand. While thus engaged, the postman brought a letter. It was for Henry, and as soon as the bearer had gone, he broke the seal and read the contents. The missive was short, and yet he gazed upon it a long time, his face growing pale, his lip quivering, and his whole frame trembling. "What is it ?" asked his mother, who was really alarmed by his behaviour. He read the note again, but made no answer. "Henry, what has happened? Something has gone against you." "This cannot be real!" he murmured, half to himself. "I cannot believe it. There must be some mistake!" and as he spoke, he handed the letter to his mother. The message was from Mary Worth, and it was to the effect that she could not be his wife. "This is her own writing," said Mrs. Alton, slowly and thoughtfully, and with troubled look. "It is her own hand, Henry, and she certainly means what she says." 66 Ay," cried the youth, with a burst of passionate emotion, "I know she means that; but why has she thus made up her mind? What can be its cause ?" The mother reflected awhile, with the letter still in her hand; and, finally, she said, from the natural impulse of a mother's pride "There is one thing certain, my son: if Mary Worth can thus easily cast 'you off, she is not worth seeking. If she can find a better husband than Henry Alton, she is welcome to the choice. She has not the heart I have given her credit for. Still, I know she has much decision of character: and if she has made up her mind to this effect, she will probably adhere to it. So, Henry, forget her as soon as you can, and find some one who can be more true and worthy." That was a very easy remark for the mother to make -very simple advice to give-but not so easy for the youth to follow. He had known Mary Worth long enough, and well enough, to be assured that she could not be false or unworthy. She had never directly promised to be his wife, though he had been led to suppose that she anticipated such a result from their "TO THE RESCUE!" long and ardent friendship. Only a week before he had asked the question, if she would be his companion for life, and this was her answer. And such an answer he had not expected. He was not prepared for it. He could not fathom its meaning. His heart was shocked; his brain grew dizzy; and without replying to his parent, he sought the street. He went out to gain fresh air, and to compose himself to thought. One of Henry Alton's first impulses was to tear up Mary Worth's letter, and turn the steps of his life from her; but, upon reflection, he found himself unable to do this. He might turn away from the love-path, but it would be like tearing out his own heart, and casting it from him. He was forced to the conviction that he loved the maiden too well. Instinctively, in the dim starlight, he wandered towards her dwelling, and when he found himself before the door, and saw a light in the room where he had spent so many happy moments, he resolved to go in. He had not taken this step designedly. His feet had turned to this spot without any will of his own; but now that he found himself so near to the maiden, the temptation was strong upon him to see her at once, and learn what meant her strange decision. He knocked at the door and Mary answered his summons. He asked her if he should walk in; and she told him yes. Mary Worth was most truly a beautiful girl, and it is no wonder that a man of soul and sense should have loved her. She gave token of inward as well as of outward beauty. The light of a rich intellect gleamed in her eyes, and the wealth of a true and noble heart was apparent in the calm trustfulness that softened with its influence the expression of her fair face. As she gazed upon her visitor, it was very plainly to be seen that she loved him still. Her heart had not given him up. But she was composed, and received him with that grace of friendship which pure refinement enables its possessor to extend to all worthy objects. There was certainly a conflict within; but she conquered the emotion, and was at length calm and dignified. Ay, and within the soul of Henry Alton, too, there was conflict; and it took him longer to conquer the rising spirit; but he finally succeeded, and was then prepared to ask the question that lay deepest in his anxious thoughts. He knew enough of the maiden to know that an open, frank, straightforward course would most surely answer his purpose, and he proceeded with that understanding. "Mary," he said, "I received a note from you this evening." "Yes," she replied, as he regarded her as though he would be assured from her own lips that she really sent it; "I directed one to you." 66 Mary," he spoke tremulously and with deep feeling "I was not prepared for such a message. I had expected something far different. I cannot understand it. If you meant that answer as your final decision, you cannot truly understand the love I bear you. You cannot realise how entirely my heart has been given up to you." She stopped him with a beseeching wave of the hand, and after a few moments of thought, she said -her beautiful face assuming a holy serenity as she proceeded "Henry, I know all that you would tell me -I know how good and true your nature is-and I think I know how well you love me. In the steps which I have taken I may have done wrong; but that wrong has been in a deed omitted, and not in a deed done. If I have sinned, it has been in that I shrank from assuming what might be deemed the office of mentor and guide. I knew your nature-I knew how confident you were of your own strength-how tenacious 169 of your own opinions-how unwilling to be checked --and how restive under restraint: and hence, I shrank from that which would have been sure to of fend. I knew you well, Henry, and I think I did wisely. Still I may have erred." "And yet," said the young man, "I do not under. stand you." "But you shall understand me, Henry; and in opening the truth to your mind, I must tell you a story which I had hoped should never pass my lips. However, I trust it to you, believing that it may still be under the sacred seal; and when you have heard it, you will know why I have answered you so strangely." The maiden wiped a tear from her cheek, and after a few moments of self-communion she spoke as follows: "During the three years that my mother and my. self have lived here, our life has been calm and peaceful, for we have prayed earnestly, and have sought the spirit of trust and resignation. But, in the other years, storm and gloom have been ours: I was not an only child. I had a brother once. He was older than I, and he was my idol for many reasons. His name was Charles; and he was the prop upon which rested the highest hopes of our father and our mother. He was noble, and generous, and brave; and he was only known to be cherished. The wealth of my father gave him every advantage, and at an age of early youth he had reached a manhood of intellect and experience. Oh, how we loved and idolised him! "It is not strange that a youth of such loveable qualities as Charles possessed should be early received into society, nor is it strange that his social nature should keep pace in its development with the blossoming of his intellect. Among the evils to which he was exposed, his warm, ardent nature was open to the influence of only one. He became fond of wine, and the effect was ere long apparent. His mother was the first to notice the danger, and she spoke to him words of warning, but he laughed at her fears. He was astonished that she could fear any danger-that he, who was so brave and strong, could be shaken from his manhood by the power of the cup. In time his father saw his danger, and spoke to him of it, but Charles would not listen. He was offended that his power of resistance should be questioned. By-and-by I pleaded with him, claiming a sister's right, in a sister's love, to give him counsel. He was not offended with me, but he laughed at my fears, as he had done at our mother's, and assured me that there was no danger. I tried to make him understand that what had at first been only a source of temporary excitement, was becoming the object of a growing appetite. He would not believe it. He assured me that he had the power of control, and was his own master, and he seemed really pained that I should cast so derogatory a doubt upon his manhood. I shook my head, and wound my arms about his neck, and then I tried to make him see what I saw; I tried to make him understand that this very principle of manhood-this power of resistance upon which he prided himself-was being gradually undermined and weakened. I tried to convince him that appetite was taking the place of reason, and that as appetite grew stronger, his power of self-control grew weaker. But he would not see it. He grew impatient of my anxious counsel, and broke from me. "I cannot paint to you the gradual fall of that noble intellect, and the sure debasement of that generous soul. Wine became. his master, and the whole current of his life ran with the turbid, delirious stream. When he was strong and manful he would not listen; and when he became weak and broken, he could not. Step by step he fell, dragging down |