Year: 1859

The widow of Philip Bentley-the rich wild
/ ow now, but once little Martha Grant, the el-
der's daughter-had bought the old place and
was coming back to settle again! The family
in possession gave new title deeds, for which
they received handsome equivalent, for money
was but drug in the hands of the newcomer;
then wagon-loads Of city furniture came down,
! and was arranged in the chambers and the old
west room which had once been the Quaker's
parlor.


There was one room, however, which had
remained untouched, save to be restored TO its
olden appearance, in the farmhouse; and that
was the sitting-room, where we first introduced
the reader There were velvet carpets and
feecy curtains, delicate vases and carved chairs
elsewhere; but this old sitting-r room still held
the antique polished furniture the little ever
green-wreathed mirror, the tall eight-day clock
in the corner, and the set of bright brass fire
dogs on the hearth, while the white floor shone
spotlessly clean in the clear June sunlight fall.
ing through the little paned windows.


1t was strange fancy, people might have
thought, this Of the rich widow, and yet, who
ever has turned from gilded city saloons with
their sumptuous furnishings, to the dear old
farm house of his birth. will feel what posi-
tive refreshment to the weary heart is such a
vision Of the vanished years, when life was new,
and the cankering cares Of the world had not
worn away much Of the freshness and freedom,
leaving instead much Of the eRnui and weari-
ness of safety.


So felt Martha Bentley. As her foot crossed
the old threshold, aud she breathed again her
native air, it seemed that the old years had
rolled back and once more she stood, careless
girl underneath that old mossy roof.


Who creates an ideal future to find it real.
lied! Who places her faith in love, and goes
through life without tasting the bitter waters of
disappointment So had It been with Martha.
Her ardent imagination had colored the picture
too brightly She had known some happy years
with Philip Bentley but the man who grew
stern and naughty in his elegant city mansion,
and checked her girlish freedom and gayety, in
order to make her the dignifed mistress of his
house and the proud leader of fashion. was not
the ideal lover, who had won her with sweet
vows in her native Quaker village.


When he died, she shed bitter tears, alike
for the dead love and the dead husband; then
she fled from her splendid home to the olden
scenes for rest and healing to her bruised
heart.


Reuben Kane heard the story Of her return
with caImness She is not the simple Qua
ker maiden / knew he said to himself, "and
-
known how little changed, at heart, was Martha
Bentley. think his judgment might have been
different.


On the first Sunday of the rich windOw's re-
turn, she was seen in her old seat in the hum
bic Westinghouse On the hill and she went
not thither in her elegant carriage, but walked
slowly along the country road, clad in plain
mourning attire--pausing now to pluck wild
rose blooming by the path, now to look around
on the calm landscape, bathed in the blessed
Sabbath quiet, and to thank God that here, once
more, the white dove Of peace might enter her
heart aI


And that twilight, while Reuben Kane wan
dered slowly in the old village burial ground,
he once again stood face to face with Martha
beside the elders grave.


Friend Reuben, l am glad to see thee" she
said, turning from plucking white rose from
the bush the Quakers hands had planted there
| by the head-stone.


"And, Martha, am glad to learn that thou
hast come to take up thy abode with us again,
replied the Quaker, kindly reaching forth his
brown, toil-hardened hand to take the lady
fair, delicate, proffered one.