Year: 1865

ed the pretty, cheerful homestead where
/ was born, where my Mary smiled, a
happy bride, and from which had seen
her borne, the bride of death, to her last
home in the quiet graveyard.


But years passed on and as l saw my
boys and girls growing up around us.
cheerful, contented and apparently forget
full Of any other home than this, /, too,
began 10 look upon the past as dream
IA vague remembrance Of something
too far and frail to last.


But although had long since made
up my mind to live and die in this peace
full obscurity, / could not help laying
many ambitious plans for the future ad-
vancement of my children my eldest
son, especially, who was now near twenty
one--a tall, handsome, manly fellow, with
an eye like a hawk, while the glossy
brown hair that curled above his broad,
open forehead always reminded me Of
his mother.


had written to friends in Portland
and secured an unusually good situation
for him there, and then, | thought, in
few years he will marry rich wife, 60
into business for himself, get rich, and,
perhaps,-who knows, but be may buy
the old homestead back again, and | may
after all my wauderi0gs, sleep my last
sleep by Mary's side


had though; all these things over SO
often that they were beginning to seem
more like realities than hopes to me,
when, one evening in June, | chauced to
make a discovery that surprised and
aUgered me more than / can tell.


1t had been an unusually hot day, and
Joseph and | had been hard at work in
the field from early dawn until near sun
set, and after | had eaten my supper I
was glad to sit down upon the piazza,
with only my pipe for company, and take
a comfortable rest. ! saw Joseph walk
ing down the road, with bis free manly
tread, and remember repeating to my
self as watched his tall, well-knit figure,
as it passed from sight, that verse in the
Bible, where ii says, "That there were
giants in those days"


Well, / sat there long time, smoking
and dreaming, sometimes listening TO
the merry voices of my girls as they fit
ted about within, or to the evening song
of whippoorwill that was sending forth
from the forest not far away, his strange,
melancholy cry. Suddenly | heard one
OF the girls say, anxiously;


II don't see what keeps Miriam so late
It's long past sunset"


"Oh, can tell you !" chirruped the
merry voice of my little Ruth. | saw
Joe going down the road to meet her
more than an hour ago"


"Ah, that accounts for it y and peal
of girlish laughter followed that was to
me, perfectly unintelligible. Slowly a
vague suspicion crept into my mind
Could it be possible No it could not be
Joseph and Miriam had grown up to-
gether as brother and sister-no!hing
more and l remembered, with secret
satisfaction, that, for twelve-montb past
they had had less to say to each other
than ever before "Mriam is a good
GIRL l said TO myself, "but no mate for
the man that Joseph is to be-"


But in spite of all my reasoning, was
uneasy and dissatisfied. AS the girls
had said, it was getting late, and | walk
ed down the lane, and stood leaning
against the fence, while the low boughs
of an old apple tree falling over me fairly
screened me from sight. | had stood
there but few moments, when | heard
the sound OF voices, and in moment
more l saw the young folks coming
towards the gate.


had never thought of Miriam as
beautiful, but as she stood there in the
uncertain light, her brown hair crowned
with wreath of wild choke-cherry bios
SONS, and glow on her fair cheek that
reminded me of the pink buds just open
ing on the apple tree above me, while
the light of some great joy illumined her
sweet face, could not help feeling that
she was really very beautiful.


| set my teeth hard, for was begin
ming to get my eyes open to the true
state of affairs, when Joseph, who had
unlatched the gate, and was holding It
partially open, bent down bis head until
his dark curls mingled with the white
cherry blossoms, and whispered softly,
but SO that could hear bim:


"Say it once more, Miriam, darling.
Say again that you will, one day, be my