Year: 1863

Absalom Wilbur and his son. Absalom Will bur had seen much trouble in life-much o that trouble which bears heavily upon the hea1t and brings mourning upon the spirit. Ofeight children that had been born to him, only two remained and only few years previous te the time in which we write, his wife had been called from him to join her sainted offspring 1 Still Mir. W. mourned not as do those without hope His faith in the eternal Fatherhood ot God was strong and abiding and, leaving those who had gone before into the spirit world to the care of the angels, he turned his atten tion to the improving of what remained.

 Of worldly wealth Absalom had an abun dance. He had inherited much from his par ents and during the long years of his life he had added to it-not with the hoarding spirit of the miser, but with the ceaseless energy of the thrifty worker, beneath whose touch things grow and multiply

 1 John Wilbur was three and twenty years o1 age tall, well-formed youth, with golden hair and light gray eyes and possessing face of more than ordinary beauty. Yet that face had one great lack, it lacked health, it lacked the fire and vigor of well-directed manhood He had graduated from college over year ago. and at present his only companions were books and papers. He bored over Greek and He brew dove into the mists and mysteries of German philosophy studied and criticised the philosophers of Greece and at the present time he was engaged in reading the Zend- Ayes ta of Zoroaster in the original Sanscrit. One afternoon, as John sat in his study busiy engaged over the mystic pages of the Hindoo scriptures, his father came in and took a seat. A shudder passed through the old mans frame as he saw the pale, careworn look upon the face of his son, and he shook his head in sadness and doubt.

 Come, John, he said. shut up your book and listen to me awhile. I have something that l wish to say to you.'

 The student pushed his book from him and looked up into his fathers face.

 'M My dear boy, I am going to be serious and earnest with you; and l suppose you already imagine what have come to say, but I must say it, and you must give your attention

 The young man was impatient and uneasy and his thin, white hands worked neryously in the folds of his dressing gown.

 John,' pursued the white haired parent, of all my klth and kin you are all that :s loft. What shall become of Elmwood when I am gone? Stop, don't interrupt me. If you go on as you are going now, shall out live you o, I wish you would listen to reason and con- mon sense. You have life enough in you. Of all my children you were blessed with stoutest frame, and the farest proportion of form. Come, come. my boy I must see that chest fill ed out once more those arms brought back to their place, and those cheeks flushed with the tint of health Leave your books and take my horses. When you tire of the horses, take the gun or the fishing rod. And furthermore, it is high time that you began to take some charge of the place. You must learn to direct the workmen and superintend the estate'

 You have something more to say,' remark ed John, after short pause.

 Yes continusd the old man energetically ; I have something more to say; and, nay son if you have any sense or reason left. you will give me attention. You know that I.wish you to marry -

 With Mary Howard,' interrupted the boy with shrug of the shoulders.

 Yes, with Mary Howard. Her father was the nearest and dearest friend of my childhood of my youth, and of my early manhood, the nearest and dearest outside of my own family. It was his dying wish that his daughter Mary might be your wife, and such has been and such still is my wish. But, mind you, would not wish this if were not satisfied that she is al that good man can need for companion'

 My dear father, replied John, am sorry that you have brought this thing up again Let Mary Howard find husband somewhere else. As for me, I do not want a wife at pres ent. You know what my feelings are in thi respect

 But, my son, if you would see Mary you would cultivate her acquaintance-Ik know you would like her.

 I don't wish to see her. I saw her onc [ and she ran away from sne.'

 That was eight years ago, John. Mary Ina improved since them

 I care not for her improvement. I wan nothing to do with her. If 1 wanted wife might consent to see her, but don wan one.'

 Absalom Wilbur labored longer with hi son, but to no avail. The youth was bound : his enervating studies his life energies wer dull and aimless and he wanted no surging c : the waters upon which he launched the bark c his being.

 One day the chambermaid, who had been i

 Absalom Wilbur's employ since the death e his wife, took it into her head to get married - and new servant was wanted at ElmwooC An advertisement was inserted Tn the pape

 and several females applied for the place !; br

 they did not suit. One morning while tf