more she watched and waited as one waits and watches only for one

visitant.

The town clock struck twelve. She counted every stroke, and, when the last vibra ion died away upon the still and waiting night, he lay yet unconscious, but even through his sleep a calmer influence seemed visible. The fever seemed abating, his breathing was easier, and his few movements were more like those of sanity and health. Still, all these symptoms might be delusive only his waking could fully decide the question.

His hand, that had dropped from hers an hour ago, trembled at last with returning consciousness, and he threw it over his head as a child tired with play tosses his arms in sleep. Then the dark eyes opened, and into the waiting ones, that bent with tenderest solicitude above him, there flashed a weak, but still a soulful

ray.

"Eloise," he said, "can you give me a drink? I think I am better."

'Tears gushed from her eyes as she turned to grant his request, and she murmured, with a fervency of spirit which comes only with such crises:

“Oh! Richard, thank God.”

He took the glass from her hand, refreshed his parched lips, and then, with her tender help, and a fresh pillow from her ready hands, he placed himself in a more comfortable position, and fell into a tranquil repose.

She had played a fearful game, in which the thing at hazard was his life, and she had won it back from death. Whose was it now?

Three days later, worn and weary in flesh, but in the spirit strong with an immortal strength, she packed her trunk and returned to her city home. Going back to her accustomed quarters, she reviewed, solemnly and silently, all that had occurred since she had left. It seemed to her that it had been the voice of God, speak

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ing audibly in her soul, which had bidden her down to Brockendale in season to gain that experience and wisdom which were necessary to save the life of the man she loved. God, and of Him only, too, it seemed to her, had been that indwelling strength by which she had been able, firmly and steadily, through all weariness and all hindrances, to persevere in her arduous task till full and perfect success should have crowned her efforts. To God, then, belonged all the praise, all the glory: and, falling on her knees, in the dusk of her silent and solitary room, she poured forth her whole soul in prayer and thanksgiving.

But when she rose, instead of the peace she hoped for, she felt only a sadder and deeper sense of loneliness and desolation.

Her prospect was a cheerless one. Dependent entirely upon her own efforts, she had spent her last penny among the sick at Brockendale, reserving, simply, funds sufficient to defray the expenses of her journey home. The autumn was coming on, and she had to face all the needs which a change of seasons renders imperative. But to an empty purse Was added an empty brain, and physical energies so exhausted by her severe labors and watchings, that present exertion in the way of her profession seemed impossible. What, then, was to be done?

In this emergency she remembered a letter which had been received during the terrible weeks of her anxiety and suspense concerning Richard. It had been thrown, unopened, into her portfolio.

She searched it out now, and, lighting a lamp, sat down to read it.

It was from the solicitor who had drawn her uncle's will, and contained a copy of its provisions so far as they related to herself. Reading it, she found herself the richer by a few articles of little value except as keepsakes, most of them things which had

belonged to her own father, and had been given to her uncle when he had died, and fifty dollars in money, with which to buy herself a mourning gown.

She read the letter through carefully, and laid it upon the table. Then she leaned her head upon her hand and meditated.

"Well," she said to herself, "I loved Uncle Abner well, and I am glad he has provided for my mourning; I could not have bought it if he had not, and it would have gone to my heart to have worn colors when everybody else was in crape."

She had heard, incidentally, before leaving Brockendale, that Elsie was the recipient of a legacy of twenty thousand dollars. She did not envy her the money; but to-night, with her tired frame, her aching head, her desolate, bereaved estate weighing upon her spirits, like an intolerable burden, she did, somehow, feel that the blessings of this life were very unequally bestowed. It was not usual for her to murmur or complain. In ordinary circumstances her strong free spirit soared above the limitations of this life, and she felt that while all the wide realms of spirits were at one's command, one's future in this life was of small value. But to-night she was so weary, so faint-hearted; she ha such deep need of strength from without, of encouragement, of love, of the firm hand underneath, the strong arm round about her; and instead, came this chilling letter, with its depressing sense of withdrawal and estrangement, nay, worse, of that most hopeless of all disapproval-the disapproval of the dead.

She felt a longing to cry, but she could not cry; the grief was too deep even for tears. She wished herself back at Brockendale.

I need not have left him so soon," she said; "he is not yet beyond the possibility of relapse; I might have given myself one hour with him after he had grown strong enough to say

some comforting word of cheerful, trustful forecast, which, in this dread gloom and stillness, I could recall to build a hope upon. Oh! God; my brain is throbbing; my heart is breaking; give me rest! give me relief!"

She went at last to her dreary couch, but it was no better there; her eyes stood wide open instead of closing, and great black shadows, like evil, vengeful spirits, hovered and flickered about her till she dared not sleep.

"I am nervous," she said, "I fear I shall be sick but I must not be sick; who would take care of me? There would be only the hospital for me, and there I should go mad."

She rose and bathed her brow with camphor, and tried again to sleep, but the grey light of dawn was visible through her windows, and the rattle of occasional wheels had begun in the streets before she closed her eyes.

Late in the morning she rose, with a feeling that she must go to the bank with the check which had been enclosed in her letter, and then provide herself with mourning. She did not feel that she ought to be seen much upon the streets till it was ready for wear. Beyond that, lay the dreadful necessity of painting. How could she ever paint again, with this dead weight upon all her energies?

Still, she must go out and make her purchases of black, and, after repeated trials, she did get on a bonnet and shawl, and started upon her weary round. At night-fall she came back with an empty purse and three or four packages. Next day she began to sew. She was glad it was not necessary to go out of doors again, the streets had all worn so strange an aspect to her, and sometimes the effort to cross a thronged avenue had given her such a feeling of exhaustion. She would just sit still and finish her mourning, and then- then she must get out her easel.

But the work seemed heavy; and the black stuff made her flesh crawl.

She dreaded it with an almost insane terror.

"I believe I am going mad," she said; "and, oh! if anything should happen to me now, what should I do -what should I do?"

At last there came a morning when she could not rise out of her bed. Towards noon her landlady came in to see her. She was shocked at the pale face and sunken eyes that looked up to her from the pillow. She was a woman of low, broad stature, with a face that expressed a certain rude strength of character, the result, main ly, of a strong physique; but in her eyes there was a shrewdness, and withal, a hard, incisive look, which made it certain that she would not long keep an unprofitable boarder upon her hands.

Why, Miss Vaughan," she exclaimed, "You're dreadfully sick. What ails you?"

"I have a headache," said Eloise, "and am a little sick besides. But I

shall be well soon. Don't make any

trouble about me."

"Ain't you going to have a doctor?" said the woman, with a determined interest.

No, I think not," said Eloise; "I am out of funds just now, and couldn't pay a doctor."

The face was pitiful in its earnest struggle for coolness and composure. She could get on well enough when she was left alone; she wanted nothing, but this woman goaded her fearfully.

"But what is to be done if you get sicker?"

"I don't know," said Eloise, faintly, "there is the the-' "The hospital," said the woman, bluntly; "that is what you mean, I suppose."

"Yes," said Eloise, in a voice that would have drawn pity from a stone. The woman sat still for a minute, pondering. Eloise made a great

effort:

"You must send me away from here to-day. Will you?" she asked.

No," said the woman, at length, "not to-day; you be still, and I'll do what I can for you; but I can't have all this responsibility on my hands always."

She rose with a resolute air and left the room.

C. F. CORBIN.

THE revivalists continue the farce of prayermeetings and conversions at the house of John Allen, "the wickedest man in New York." John is reported to have got rid of all his sins, but that of intemperance. It is stated that his recently advertised lecture on religion, at Stamford, Conn., (tickets, fifty cents,) was prevented by an attack of delirium tremens, but we would not like to vouch for the truth of the report. It is not pleasant to be almost compelled to ridicule a movement in which so noble a man as Rev. S. H. Tyng, jr., is engaged; neither is it pleasant to contemplate such a spectacle of religion as has been made of the conversion of John Allen, and the transformation of his domicile from a dance house to a house of prayer. minder of the Tribune, that the only effective method of reaching the souls of the degraded class in the neighborhood of John Allen's

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den is by first ministering to their bodily necessities, is timely. So many are kept in ways of wickedness by physical necessities, that it seems the most cruel tantalizing to offer them spiritual food, when the starving body is dragging the hungering spirit with it down to perdition. We do not doubt the sincerity of those who are working in this cause, but we can only regret the methods of work. It seems to our benighted understanding that instruction in the art of living would be a more effective means of grace than prayer meetings, or at least a most necessary preparation for the reception of spiritual truth.

SIDNEY SMITH, in a sermon, said that "the sin against the Holy Ghost is dullness." This genial wit threw the blame of sleeping hearers upon the parsons.