Year: 1878

heer lovers They had waited for his
leI11rn. and then Horace had no home to
which he might bring a wife. And now
there must be farther delay, perhaps
separation only to be ended in another
sphere of existence. 1t was a dreadful
trial to both those young hearts How
great trial they, even now, could hardly
estimate. But Horace was comforted by
the thonght that thus he purchased home
and peace for his parents, and surely no
sacrifice was too great if made for them


After he was gone, those he left be-


.ind were as peaceful as human beings
ran be, encumbered with anxiety and
sad expectation. Battle after battle, dire
and dread, was fought. Horace was in
most of them Horace was exposed to
the horrors of wounds, Imprisonment,
and sudden death. No one Gould pre-
dict the tidings of the coming day; Dut
a great hush of dread and expectation
was over all the land.


At last the blow fell. A great terrible
battle had been fought. The wounded
and the dead counted by thousands
There were hundreds of prisoners
Horace's own regiment had been more
than decimated. The smoke of battle
must clear away before the losses can be
counted. 1t cleared. The nag ss-long
lists of slain-were published, and col
umns of wounded. His name was not
among those. Stay! here it is. But
opposite to it is written, Missing"


Many months-weary months-passed
away, and no tidings came of the lost
one.


And then old Simon suggs appears
once more upon the scene. He has
bided his time. He does not mean to
wait till the deadneSs of despair is quite
over-unti1 energy and power of resist
ance are re-awakened.


He has known the. mother of Mary
Lord all her life. In her youth he had
sneaking fondneSs for her, long sacri-
feed to his passion for gain. Now he
visits her in her trouble, modulates the
sharp whine of his voice to softness. and
eondoles with her in the loss she has
met. She cannot see his pinched and
meagre face, and she has not that sensi-
tive gift whereby she can detect the
falseness of his voice, or, with sure In
stinct, shrink from the besotted selfish
ness Of his nature.


They are very poor, now, for Mary has
had neither heart nor strength for her
accustomed tasks. She has done her best,
poor girl, and sacrificed much for her
| mothers comfort For no more dutiful
child existed than this sadly-tried girl.
But in her grief she has made mistakes,
and seemed to neglect her employers
work, and they no longer trust her as
they did. She has become languid and
nerveless, and could not, all at once,
muster the forces of her nature that had
been worsted in her sore conflict with
| grief and suspense.


1t was while she was in this state
that Simon Suggs commenced his siege.
| He was wise and careful man, for, first
of all, he undermined the mothers
canton. In a little time he had her all
upon his side, and then by degrees he
ventured to speak plainly First, he said
sighting words about Horace. He had
been cowardly, he hinted. It was known
that he tried to stink away from the field
| during this very action. He had been
fired at. He was undoubtedly either
dead or deserter-in the last case hid
ing from the inevitable doom of his
crime, and would never dare to return,
thus leaving Mary as free as if he were
really dead.


Then old Simon would boast of his
wealth, and utter such magnificent
promises for the future, that the poor,
weak and sightless woman was ever
more and more persuaded that he was
the best friend and protector two.help-
less women ever had-that Mary could
not do better than to marry him-that
she must accept his offer-that it was
her duty not to slight this gleam of
fortune, but to provide thus for her own
comfort and the helpless old age Of her
mother.


Mary did not yield easily. She re-
sisted with all her feeble powers. But
she had great deal to contend with.
She loved and respected her mother. The
habit of obedience was strong, and so
was that of selfsacrifce. For herself,
she reflected, it mattered little-she
should not live long. She had not the
faintest shadow of love for Simon Suggs,
no respect, not even tClerance. He was
totally, utterly repulsivt to her-in mind,
in person, in character. If she had any
positive feeling towards him, it was that
of hate. But convinced at last that
Horace was gone, she resolved to think
only of her mother. With heart numb
with despair, she gave her consent to
| the proposed match.


The wedding morning came. The poor,
pale, hopeless bride awaited the coming





dreadful to behold than the liveliest
paroxysms of hate or disgust. It was
| well that her mother, who loved her
dearly even while practicing this cruelty,
was blind and unsensitive.


She thought Mary had shown great
good sense, and that she was securing
for both of them an excellent home.
She was pleased, for she was weary OF
privation and poverty.


And then the bridegroom, looking
older and meaner than ever in his
unwonted fnery, came, and the party
set out for the village church. And as
they entered, Simon Suggs started, for
his eye fell, for one moment, upon
soldier, in worn and faded uniform,
sauntering up the opposite street.


Only a moment, and the man was
gone. Surely soldiers were common
enough in those days, and he smiled at
his sudden apprehension. Another
moment, and the pair stood before the
altar, and the service began.
Quietly up the aisle came the soldier;
worn and faded his clothes, thin and
brown his face-a contrast to the gay
bright crowd. His shadow fell across
the kneeling pair. There was start
and cry. .A


The bride had risen; her wan face is
all alive with Joy and color, as for an in
slant it is turned toward the audience.
The next, it is hidden on the shoulder
of that worn and faded coat of blue.
Horace is returned.


"The bullet you hired did not kill me,
you see," he shouts after Simon Suggs,
stealing out of the church. "Tve got
well, and come home. The war is
over, and I shall enjoy my own again"


And then he lifts up the pale face, and
presses kiss upon the white lips, and
bears, not without glance around of
triumph, halffainting form to the
vestry.


There was no wedding that day, but
there was on the next. 1t was but natu-
raj to expect that result, since the dead
was alive, and the missing" had been
found.


CHANGING AATs.-Barry, the painter,
was with Nollekens, at Rome, in 1870,
and they were extremely intimate.
Barry took the liberty one night, when
they were about to leave the English.
cofee-house, to exchange hats with him.
Barry's was edged with lace. and Nolle-
kens' was very shabby, plain one. Upon
his returning the hat the next morning
he was asked by Nollekens why ne left
him his gold-laced hat "Why, to tell