Year: 1876

Mary Goldthwait was sitting by the
well-filled crate in her fathers drawing
room. II was on cold evening in
winter, and the wind howled mournfully
around the street corners and through
the narrow lanes and alleys. Mary was
apale slim girl, but possessing a beauty
which even the most fastidious could
not have questioned. Her hair, which
was of deep, golden brown, lay neat
ly waving upon brow as pure as snow,
and the soft, lustrous eyes, which seemed
to have the same deep golden hue, shed
light from the soul which could only
have emanated from a source OF purity
and worth. She had seen eight and
twenty years OF life, and vet she re-
NAMED a maiden, beneath her fathers
roof. A close calculator of phy>iogno-
my would have said that Mary had
some heart-grief that made her look so
pale. So she had, though perhaps no
one save herself, on earth, knew all her
heart-secrets. She had lost beloved
mother when she was twenty, and since
that she had seen one brother and one
elder sister laid away in the tomb. She
sat now with her small hands clasped
over her bosom, and her eyes turned
downward till the long lashes lay like
golden pencilings upon her cheek.


Near her in, his great armchair, sat
her father. He was tall, slim man.
whose head was white and whose face
was deeply furrowed by the hand of
time. There were some kind marks
upon his features. some hard, cold ones.
but now he looked troubled and very
unhappy.


Mary" he said, in continuation of a
conversation already commenced, for
eight-and-twenty years have found
home for you, and your every wish has
been promptly met and answered.
Your good has been my highest aim, and
your peace and happiness my only JOY.
You are advancing in years, and soon
your father must leave YOU alone. But
l-l-cannot leave you at the mercy
of the cold world. Now a good home
is open tc you. ard you must accept it.
Men might call me selfish could they
know all my motives; but am sure YOU
will not. A crisis has come: a volcano
has grown up beneath my feet. In
few more short days IL must whelm me in
utter ruin, If be not saved. Mr.. Smith
has asked me for your hand, tie has
seen you at church. and he has watched
YOU narrowly. He loves YOU. He is
wealthy-more wealthy than your faith
er was. And he holds notes of mine
-notes to the amount of a hundred
thousand dollars


But your name is not alone on these
notes." gasped Mary.


''No-only the first of four: but | am
holden for the whole. Yet the quarter
part OF that is more than sufficient to ruin
me-"


And Mr.. Smith makes my hand the
equivalent:'


Yes. Or-I must say. he has not
said so. But he knows nv situation.
and knowing it, he has asked for the
hand of my child. All, Mary, it does
seem TO me that God has kept YOUR
hand till now that it might be the means
OF lifting your old father up from ruin.
You have even rejected suitors whom
have favored; but do not think YOU
have rejected a better man than Mr..
Smith"


All, that old man had forgotten one
He had forgotten bright haired youth
who once laid his heart at Marys feet.
But that was long years agone, and his
mind went not back 80 far.


Now what shall | tell Mr.. Smith:


My heart is all broken and torn"
she said gazing sadly into her fathers
face, but my hand is free. Tell MIR.
Smith this. Tell him will give nv
hand to save my father and forget not
TO tell him that my heart Is not in the
trade. for | would not deceive him."


''Oh, you will love him, Mary. He
has promised that YOU shall have all you
can ask for, and know he will be kind"


II have said that will marry him."
the tair maiden returned, "and 50 YOU
may tell him. But you will only cruel
ly deceive him did you tell him no more.
Tell him my father has cared for me
and protected me through a weary life,
and that now ! am ready to save that
father from rum. Tell him this, and
then he shall Epou al -