Year: 1879

By what strange freak of heredity. the
humble home of sturdy Deacon Gray
and his meek wife, among the Berkshire
hills, should have held such nesting
as Margery, it might have puzzled our
modern philosophers to discover, unless,
perhaps, the spirit of some beautiful an
cestress, burned for whichcraft in old
colonial days, disdaining successive
plodding generations. had reappeared
in her to vex the somewhat less rigid
proprieties of the nineteenth century.


"She don't seem to favor the Grays,
nor yet the Percivals." one gossip had
handsomer baby haven't set my eyes
ON for these thirty years."


Margery's growing maidenhood had
falfilled the fair promise of face and
FORM 1t was but faint praise to call her
the prettiest girl of all the country side.
The quick smiles that dimpled In her
dainty cheeks or broke the delicate
curves of her mobile, scarlet lips-the
swift glances of her dark eyes, full of
slumbering fire, made of her fresh,
young face perpetual "sCng without
wordsn Who should translate the me-
lody? Not the father. whose stern no.
tions Of filal submission, v0iceless and
absolute, had received a hundred shocks
from her self asserting individuality !;
nor the the mother, whose gentle SOU!
was grIeved by her distaste for the mono
tony Of house wifely duties; nor the
teacher, whose patient hand had closed
so often the open Tennyson or Victor
Hugo above the unlearned algebra upon
her desk nor yet the country lads, who
though boasting Of her beauty, were,
after all. more at their ease with plain,
Mi oo fHoy, M


John Butler, looking up at her in the
singers seats, on the Sunday of her sew
enteeth birthday, as he had done ever
since she was old enough to take her
place there, saw, as in dream, the
beautiful world of passion and romance
asleep in her heart. waiting for the
kiss Of the PrinceW he thought, with
an unconscious sigh.


Years ago, in his college vacation
davs. he had made friendship with the
bright little hoyden it was he who had
fashioned the kites and balls and other
like boyish toys, for which her doll
house was disdained and deserted he,
who had beaten for her the chestnut
boughs on the hillside, or initiated her
into the steaithy arts of trout fishing in
the mountain brock.


She had grown away from him now
nay, rather. he confessed TO himself with
dull pain at his heart-he Lad grown
away from her! He was thirty years
old, and his daily employment of ia
structing the half dozen boys, whom he
was accustomed to receive for college
preparation, made him feel still older.
| A very quiet and humble life work. but
he had chosen it both from a certain felt
aptitude for teaching and because he
could not leave his widowed mother
quite alone in the old home to which
she clung SO fondly. Once chosen, how
ever. he was sure to put into it his best
of heart as well as brain. One may
measure the pressure of steam, or the
weight of falling water. but not the pow
er of conscience in one noble human
soul. Seeing in turn the wheel OF small
and seemingly monotonous daily duties,


we scarcely guess at the immense re-
serve force, which, if need were, would
impel to martyrdoms.


There was stranger at church that
day who, in his turn. gazed at Marger-
ry. She had met him already at some


village merrymaking, and knew hlm
to be Allan Wilde, an attache OF the sur
veying party which was Just then lay
ing the route for the new railway through
the neighboring hill passes.-As IL
chanced, he had been shown seat IN
John Buffers own pew, and striking
contrast was presented by the men
standing side by side, and sharing the


book of hymns, while Margery's clear
soprano rang through the little church.