Year: 1877

1t was a beautiful day in gentle,
dreamy September, and the sun shone
softly down on Pleasant Beach; it fell
upon two figures, man and maiden,
who were slowly walking up the path
that led to one of the prettiest little
cottages on the shore.


Pleasant Beach is one of the loveliest
places of summer resort OH the Atlantic
coast; not strictly fashionable, tits true,
and doubt if it had ever been patron
lied by Mrs. Grundy or any of her tea
drinking friends and scandal-lovers.
Here people acted themselves indepcn-
dent OF "Dame rasnIUu,- iaua Id,
chattcd, danced and sang whenever the
mood to do so seized them, and were
as happy a set of people as one often
secs.


The beach was Il marvel of beauty,
and the majestic, glorious old ocean
greeted its visitors with burst of Joy,
and welcomed back the twilight ram
bles, the gentle vows, and whispered
the same tale of love and hope, of
doubts and fears, that had been listened
to by the bashful country swain and
rustic maiden of ye olden times as they
walked the same shore.


But to the man and maiden of this
day: she was young, not more than
eighteen, with countenance unusually
attractive; not beautiful nor handsome,
but face which one would love to
gaze upon. The features were trihe
Irregular, and the mouth too large, per-
haps, but the forehead broad and proud
ly intellectual; and the eyes, how can |
describe them,-large and beautifully
f.ft tI,o lot Il, l. II.
so seldom seen, they lent an indescrib-
able charm to her face and eXerted n
very fascinating influence over one
who watched their ever-varying moods.


The man was of goodly stature, full
fifteen years her senior, and possessed
of an address which at once marked
him well acquainted with the world
and its ways. l think even the most
acute observer of physiognomy could
find no severe fault with John Gray.
He was well known in the city of New
York as gentleman of wealth and re-
finement, and respected as man of
undoubted honesty. So much for the
outer man; the inner man we cannot so
we'll know, and there are two lives TO
every one-the seen and the unseen.
He had come to Pleasant Beach be-
cause he wanted solitude and time for
thought, for John Gray was that rare
individual-a thinking man. Not
many people really think; they prefer
to glide carelessly along through life,
accepting the thoughts of others with
out question, and without originating
the least idea themselves. Success
may be averse to thought, for if mind
not unusually searching be permitted
to glide smoothly along, seemingly
sheltered from life's storm and wreck
it meets no obstacle to check the even
current and furnish stimulus for
thought.


John Gray's experience had been
better, and the discipline thcrefrom had
the effect of making him perfectly indie
pendent in his thoughts and practices.
lie had been at Pleasant Beach nearly
four weeks, stopping at the only hotel
the beach afforded-the Atlantic House
and during the first few days of his Wis
il had obtained an introduction to Faith
Leslie.


Faith was Quakcress and an orphan
and was spending the summer with
her married sister, who lived in one of
the cottages by the beach. The trim
little Quakeress possessed rare fascina-
ton for this man of the world. He
was charmed by her chidlike artless-
ness, and hardly day had passed but
he had visited the little cottage: some
times they rode, sometimes walked and
gathered shells; frequently he read TO
her, and oftener still they sang togeth-
er. Both possessed rare voices, and
usually the twilight hour at Woodbine
Cottage was made charming by their
melody. This afternoon of which we
write, John Gray was very thoughtful.
They had reached the piazza of the cot
tage and sat for some time admiring the
restless waves, when he said:


"Faith, am an odd genius, and per-
haps never will be fitted to become the
husband of a true and noble woman,
but il womanly purity and lovelness
ever had devoted worshipper, they
have it in me-" He paused as if for an
answer, but none came. "Is il not
sad," he continued, "that so. many
married people are simply tied for life
between the upper and netheD mill
stones, with no hope OF happiness this
side of death, for they find too late
they have no sympathies in common
What is to become of these accursed