even heard any one say that she was clever, that middle class term for amiable, indolent stupidity. "Handsome? Yes, sir; handsome and stylish; the men fell at her feet as before a Cleopatra; but the secret of her attraction remained a secret to the keenest."

GLIMPSE V.-A DIFFERENT GIRLHOOD.

BARBARA BELL, too, was fifteen to day, but, unlike Cyn Hathaway, was not a belle among the youthful beaux of their country circle. Barbara, or Baby, as she was always called at home and by her friends, had found her hands, head, and heart all too busy amid the multitude of home duties, to work mischief to herself or mates.

Mrs. Bell had been an invalid ever since Baby's remembrance, but with such fortitude as none but mothers possess. She had interfered very rarely with Baby's school-hours, though before and after, as well as Saturdays and vacations, Baby was almost her mother's "right hand."

The elder daughters were long ago settled with husbands and families of their own. Two brothers were now away,-one as clerk in a fancy-goods store, and one, for a wonder, had so far risen above the nambyism of the age as to enter a machineshop as an apprentice. So now there was at home only Mr. Bell, his wife, seventeen-year-old Fred, and our sweet, womanly Baby. Even Fred was anxious to leave the old farm and "do something or be somebody."

Mr. Bell grieved loudly that his boys had joined the march from the country city ward; he sadly contrasted the present period with his own youth, when each son looked proudly forward to the day when he, too, like his father, should till his own land; and proudest of all was that one who should inherit the old farm, and who in his own old age could hope to occupy the same warm corner that his father had rested in after his work was done.

Fred was not constrained to stay at home by his father's entreaties; but when Baby pleaded her loneliness if he should go, and pointed out to him that it clearly seemed intended that they two, the youngest, should care for their aged parents, he listened and staid.

Father Bell said, with a painful sneer, "It seems sad to think, soon's I'm gone, the old place'll go under the hammer;' the young folks nowadays are all trying to get rid of work; don't seem to have any backbone to 'em; they are all

Baby and Fred soon acquired many a secret of the "trade" that enabled them, in their leisure moments between her household and his farm duties, to earn not a few shillings which furnished for themselves and the family home, luxuries that the farm productions would have failed to secure for them.

When her "effeminate" brother was sent to Europe by his employers for flowers and ribbons and returned with Parisian knowledge of those things which promised for them as well as himself an assured income thrice any farmer's, yet farmer Bell was dissatisfied. Money to him was hardly money unless earned in his way.

George Bell now had long vacations between "seasons," and the two brothers and Baby studied together the gathered treasures,-fruits of his travels,-and gained much precious knowledge that gave them great pleasure and made them objects of awe to their simple-minded neighbors. A natural skill for cabinet-work was stimulated into activity by the necessity of some place of security for their treasures.

Cyn Hathaway always spoke of Baby Bell as a simpleton that never had a beau in her life, and "she's just as old as I am too," she would say. Baby was learning that men were not the only subjects worthy of study.

GLIMPSE VI.-ANOTHER LOVER OF CYN.

THE hills and valleys had been washed by spring deluges and dried by the sun's clear, spring-like rays of warmth and light, and now this lovely morning, late in May, they did honor to their

Hill and plain lovingly caressed their rollicking, frolicking relative, the talkative brook, as he, careless as a boy of consequences, rushed impetuously over the neutral ground between their estates, heedless of aught except his desire to reach yonder meadows; yet not quite heedless, for he would bestow a drop of gracious attention now and then upon the lilies of the valley, children of the hill side at his left, or banteringly glide out of his direct pathway to coquette with his country cousins, the Flagroot family, which were gathered. in their clannish manner upon the bank of the plain at his right. Though these were flattered with his sweet advances, to him they were joys that any one might gather upon the wayside of life; for himself the goal of love and satisfied ambition lay in the broad meadows beyond; there among the water-lilies, the vagrant, merry cowslips, lay the broad arena which would give scope to his ambitious desires to become something more than a mere babbling stream-there he should be happy and content!

Willis Newell was about to graduate from the country school where he had gained the foundation for future education; firmly and soundly had each winter's work been laid upon that of the season before. Perhaps he was none the less thorough and sure of that which he had learned that each summer his books were placed aside, while he picked stones, plowed, planted, hoed, and "hayed it," and returned not unto his studies until the last vegetable and fruit was harvested and stored; until the last corn-butt had been cleared off and added to the autumn pyre of refuse and incinerated.

The Snyder family will doubtless here suggest that they burn their refuse in the spring. Don't doubt it, Messrs. Snyder; there are many who will agree with you, because they might die before spring, and in that case, if they had neglected it, some one else would have to perform the labor. The coat of arms of the numerous Snyder family should be,-one sleeping upon a bank of moss, with the motto, "Never do to-day that which you can put off till to-morrow."

This was not Willis's coat of arms, and he could think and plan for the future even while dropping corn; the blue sky, the scudding clouds, the pleasant sun-rays, the invigorating smell of

dreams of a future work whose results, unlike these, could not be garnered in the obscurity of the cellar or the crib.

He dreamed of guiding the unthinking plodding masses, of being a leader in the world. Thanks to our republican government, the poorest born, though barefoot and hatless in youth, can with hope, as well as faith, dream of Congressional and Cabinet honors, and for the moment forget the soiled realities of hickory shirts and patched, short-legged overalls.

Willis was none the less ambitious to succeed in life as he saw beautiful Cyn Hathaway growing daily more charming in face, more magnificently developed in form, more graceful in her general carriage, and most worthy, as he thought, of the fairest setting in life that wealth could give her. For her he would toil; for her he would succeed. To him it seemed desecration that Burton Meredith, Jr., the village rumseller's son, should aspire to the honor of being an accepted suitor to that fairest of all fair women, Cyn.

For himself he meant to carve a name and win a fortune that even royal Cyn need not disdain. For royal Cyn she always was to him, even though she was but a farmer's daughter. To him the signet of royalty was set upon her by God's hand, in her queenly figure, her superior grace of drapery, her loveliness of face, and smoothness of speech. (Do I reiterate her praises too often? Remember I am but the echo of her lovers, for the time being. She never ceased to charm, nor they to sing her praises). Was it not her own royal inheritance? Had it not, from the time of her first toddling about with the ordinary mud cake makers, set her apart from them by an invisible yet by all a well-understood line, across which they could not pass to come to her and which she would not pass to go to them? There was no precedent by which we might deem it an inheritance; it was as though for some purpose she was set apart from the ordinary classes. It was not that she was wiser or nobler, yet she was not of the common mould. It seemed fitting that the best should be hers: it fitted her so fitly, she became it so well.

How Willis Newell loved this queen of hearts! For her he would willingly leave home and all its ties, that he might some day come back and offer her such a home, such riches, such luxuries of

dress and jewels as she would become in a way no other woman could, even were she a real queen or a princess of royal blood of many years' deterioration.

O Cupid, how thou dost love to see thy devotees wasting a luxuriance of affection where it shall bring them least return! Couldst thou not, hard-hearted, wretched little imp, have whispered to him a word of caution, instead of aiding him in his self-deception? For thou knewest! I do not wonder that thou hidest thine elfish face; thou knowest the accusation is true; thou didst know, and thy friendly warning might have saved him, yet thou didst lure him on to his death! For shame, Cupid boy! Couldst thou not have opened his eyes to Baby Bell's good and true qualities and thus have saved him?

Be brave, Baby! Command thy heart in thy youth, and be thankful for his sake when God takes Willis from Cyn and anguish.

Willis said good-bye to Cyn, and for her sake left his home and kindred to seek his fortune in the outer world.

GLIMPSE VII.-MERRILY RING THE bells.

EVEN the sun seemed ever to shine upon all of Cyn's pet pleasures, and to day was no exception to the general rule.

To-day was Cyn's sixteenth birthday; and today Cyn, resplendent in a light silk and white satin bonnet, was to be married to Burton Meredith, Jr., who would be attired in a lovely suit of black broadcloth trimmed with gold buttons and thrown into artistic relief by an embroidered white satin vest and a much beruffled shirt-front.

Indeed, as Cyn lay upon her pillow this morning, dreamily remembering that it was her birthmorning and indolently enjoying the morning's sunlight that was lovingly embracing her, and dreamily thinking of her future prospects and enumerating her blessings, she mentally decided that first among these would rank her trousseau; secondly, his well-chosen wardrobe; thirdly, her prettily furnished rooms at Mr. Meredith, Sr.'s, and lastly, the fact that her board would be paid at her father-in-law's, and she would have nothing to do but to dress prettily and look as bewitching as possible.

When she tried on her wedding silk and realized how her rich complexion became the delicate pearl tints of her dress, and bitterly appreciated

how sad it was that the skimp of a glass was able to reflect only a small portion of her beauty, she resolved determinedly that there were two things in this world that she would have. First, Burton should buy her a large gilt-framed mirror, one that, by hanging it tipping, would reveal her to herself from head to foot. This bridal morning she is thinking with pleasure that that mirror is awaiting the bride's arrival.

Her second resolve was none the less wise nor important; she wildly-as the village seamstress thought-announced that after she was Mrs. Meredith, Jr., she should never buy any dress material except light silk.

"Why, ye don't s'pose Burt can afford to keep ye in silks all the time, do ye?" said Scissors-andNeedles.

"He'll have to; for I will have them. His father's bar does a good round business, to say nothing of the farm. And now Burton is going to tend altogether, and he will make good pay. I told Burton I wouldn't marry him unless he stopped working on the farm; 'twas making his hands so rough and dark." And Cyn looked admiringly at her own baby-like fingers.

"Wal, I d'now; but if 'twas me, I'd ruther he'd work on the farm than tend bar," ventured the ancient maiden dressmaker.

"Oh! I hadn't; I'd live single till I was as old as you are before I'd marry anybody but a gentleman! Burton will now dress up every day, and his hands will grow as white and soft as they ought to be in a little while."

"Wal, I d'know but ye're right; anyway, I wish ye well; ye ain't much but a baby, anyway, and to think ye're going to be married!" the withered face looked tenderly sad and tearful.

"Yes; isn't it splendid? Mother says there hasn't been a girl married in either town for years as young as I am, and it isn't my only offer, not by a good deal." And she tossed her head proudly. "I guess if I should tell you just whom I might have had, you'd open your eyes some; but then I didn't want them, for they were all poorer than Burton and his folks, and not half so genteel. Farmers! Bah! I've seen enough of farming; and then there's my setting-out; I wouldn't go to housekeeping, so I can have it all for clothes! Wasn't I a wise girl? After father had got me what he thought was enough, I teased and teased till he bought me that changeable silk, the pink

and green one; and say, you must tell mother that it must be trimmed with white lace."

"I d'know ez I re'lly want to; s'pose they don't feel ez though they could afford it? I heerd that yer pa had to sell a cow and a calf to get that silk for ye, and I hate to ding him for what ain't re'lly needed. We can trim it very well with shirrings of the silk; thar's enuff."

"You'll ask them for that white lace, or you'll never sew for me again; and mind that you don't help spread the yarn about selling that stock."

Meekly the poor woman promised; her customers were few in this self-supporting, self-helping community, and well she realized that she could not afford to offend a good customer, and Cyn, be she married or single, would always need help, and have it.

After a fashion, as usual, Cyn had gained her desires for the present; how long she would be satisfied none could prophesy, for new possessions would only lead to greater longings for those luxuries which had hitherto been beyond her vision.

GLIMPSE VIII.-THE HEIR AND THE HERITAGE.

Two years have passed, and Burton the Second is celebrating his first birthday with innocent baby cooings that almost touch his proud mother's heart.

Cyn has changed during these two years, only as she has grown more beautiful; hers is a face that will long be fresh, for she never worries, never works, and takes the most delicate care of herself, and allows neither persons nor things to cause her discomfort.

Not even the fact that her boy-husband is getting too stout and flushed of face for his growing habits to be longer concealed can for an instant make her pulse throb with anxiety. Yet she loves Burton as well as she is capable of loving; she loves him for his beauty, his money, for his indulgence of her whims, and loves him for his good judgment in loving and admiring her beautiful self.

Father Meredith had imbibed behind the bar until he was no longer able nor fit to have charge of the fiery demons embottled upon the shelves along the wall. Nearly a year ago he had retired, and Burton had asssumed the whole charge of the vile but lucrative business; since which the revenue therefrom had been greater

than at any period during his father's regency, and he had acquired wealth. Many a neighbor's farm had he chuckingly absorbed at his bar, giving in exchange for lands and bank-stock eternal misery for themselves and families. "As ye sow, so shall ye reap."

Even so; and to-day father Meredith is expiating the sin of taking a friendly glass or two with a neighbor at his own bar and at his own expense, for the unworthy purpose of enticing people there to pass their evenings and to spend their money for his liquors and their own ruin.

Many a man after being "treated" by Mr. Meredith once or twice, in the exuberance of his gratitude for the condescension, added to the exhilaration of the stimulants, would insist upon treating the crowd (never missing at such haunts) for the benefit of his host; after that he would need a parting glass, and by the time this was drunk he would be oblivious of home and its attractions, and would be fully determined to make a night of it, now that he was with such good friends. "Change? No, sir; keep it, sir; keep it, sir. I've money enough; don't have to count the pennies quite so close as that yet; give us another glass, and all around too; don't never mean to be small about these things; here's an 'X,' and if that isn't enough, just say so, for there's more where that came from, sir."

So the glass or two given does its work thoroughly and quickly, and the morning finds such men as "neighbor Meredith" large sums of money in and some hard-working neighbor the same amount out.

A heavy interest? Yes, a very heavy interest, testified to by the fact that at sixty Meredith finds himself a besotted toper, unable to do business, unable either to drink or deny himself without suffering untold agonies. A fine sermon upon his life-work is his imbecile countenance.

The best temperance lecture is the exhibition that a drunken man unwittingly makes of himself, and he or she who is not converted thereby will never heed shouting from the rostrum, be it ever so loud. God's pity upon the person who fails to read the lesson correctly.

The tell-tale spots are now burning fiercely upon young Burton's face, and liquor is more poisonous now than in his father's youth! Hark to the voice, "As ye sow”

(To be continued.)

greatness consisted. She was a philanthropist,

but we have philanthropists not a few. She was not a writer, and we have numberless women deft wielders of the pen; we have women speakers upon all themes; we have professional women, physicians and lawyers and merchants, and yet amid this superabundance of female intellect, aptly utilized, Lucretia Mott stands by herself, individual and alone in the supreme completeness of character. She wrote no poem, and yet in thinking of her we instinctively think of Milton.

We compare her as a whole with no less a personage than the sublime poet, for Lucretia Mott realized to the

nor uninspiring? Milton's beautiful language would seem not only to apply to his own marvel

mind his requirement for a poet; and though she wrote no poetry, she was in the absolute of being what is far better. She was herself a poem. I know of nothing more complete. She realized in herself the sweetest of idyls; solemn didactic measures imparted their consecration; Te Deums and religious ascriptions lifted her beyond the pettiness of the commonplace, while the limitations of sex and the wail of the slave inspired in her the greatness of the tragic muse and the grandeur of the epic.

It is not merely what Lucretia Mott did that demands our attention. It is what she was. She stands forth in the beautiful relief of a piece of statuary. What need of the pen where the tongue was all eloquence, and the life all perfect in its

ous requirements for himself as the ideal of what a poet should be, but to have prefigured the advent of a Lucretia Mott in an age where the personal poem is more significant to woman than the sweetest rhythmic utterance! Milton says:

"He who would not be frustrate of his hope to write well hereafter in laudable things, ought himself to be a true poem; that is, a composition and pattern of the best and honorablest things, not presuming of high praises of heroic men or famous cities, unless he have in himself the experience and the practice of all that which is praiseworthy." I shall use largely a reminiscent manner portraying the character of Lucretia Mott, for it was my privilege to know her, and to work somewhat in the field consecrated by her labors. In 1852 I lectured several times in Nantucket, where I was hospitably entertained by those holding family relations to her. This island is a wild, barren, sandy waste, and yet here may be found grand specimens of men and women distinguished for all the more austere and nobler virtues. Wealth was not wanting, and their generous boards were covered with silver and with porcelain from China when intercourse with that country was limited to the hardy mariners whose intelligent commanders carried our commerce to every clime.

I was struck by the self-poise of these people,