into the spirit of the evening and regretted that she had day-dreamed of go ing to the dusty city.

Caressed by gentle slumber early that night, she forgot for a time the dormant desire. She lived a consistent Christian life, surrounded by the calm, subduing influence of her rural home. She had adopted as her vocation the teaching in the district schools in adjoining towns, and always deemed it necessary to teach her pupils of a higher self and the way to attain it, lending the atmosphere of her own rearing until it was instilled in them, and in later years was made glad and happy as she saw the seed she had sown, bud and blossom along the varied pathways of life.

She anticipated that when the summer term ended she might be able to help at home, indoors and out. Having finished the term, the interests of household duties were already divided with her.

The months flew by so rapidly that she could hardly realize that the harvest season had come. She was now assisting her grandfather to "heap high the wintry hoard," after which the fall house-cleaning was begun. They had worked from "sun to sun," and grandmother had asked her to get the kindling wood for the morning fire.

As Marion was cheerily sawing the wood, a young man drove swiftly up, so she dropped her saw and hurried to the orchard where her grandmother was spreading out her clothes, and asked her to answer the young man's knock. "I think it may be the book agent," she said by way of explanation. Mrs. Hope had been expecting the agent for the book, "The Poets of Maine," in which her latest poem had appeared.

Marion felt quite positive that this gentleman had an atmosphere of Portland about him, and even the horse had a dashing city trot. Mrs. Hope urged Marion to open the door and not keep him waiting. Miss Douglas protested, declaring emphatically that she would not because he had seen her sawing wood. Grandmother responded, and soon returned, ejaculating, "Why, it isn't the book agent after all; it is Mr.

Allen's son, from Boston. I knew his father when we were children. Go in and entertain him while I get some fruit."

Reluctantly Marion obeyed the request and introduced herself to young Mr. Allen by saying, "Grandmother sent me in to talk with you while she gets some fruit and starts the fires. The evenings are very fall like."

Glancing about the room, Mr. Allen saw a high organ and asked Miss Douglas to play for him, saying that it would be quite a treat to hear an organ again. Seating herself at the organ, and to her own accompaniment, she sang:

"After years of life togetherAfter fair and stormy weatherAfter travel in far lands, After touch of wedded hands:Why thus joined-why ever metIf we must be strangers yet?" The gentleman listened attentively, little thinking that the sweet song just rendered had "touched a chord in his memory that would vibrate forevermore." At length the singer was excused to serve lunch. The biscuits, jam, cake and cheese was enjoyed greatly, and Mr. Allen thought Mr. and Mrs. Hope dear old people, "growing old gracefully, cheerfully and bright."

Marion said, "I sacrifice for them; it is not any favor, only doing as they have done for me. They cared for me when I was helpless-just a baby-and now in their declining years I should care for them."

In reply to a question of his, she said, "Yes, I do often wish to see the famous works of art, hear the wonderful musicians, and attend the splendid lectures in Boston, but since these pleasures are denied me, I choose duty, and in this remote part of the country I am contented with that duty."

Still Mr. Allen wondered how the charming little hostess could be contented "way down east," and pictured to her the delights of the Hub, its many points of interest. Its inner life among the narrow ways where poverty reigned supreme and made “even the little child complain," arriving later to a description of his own life.

He described the Boston fire department, of which he was a member, until she could almost see the proud horses with their foamy mouths-the long red ladders, the lurid skies, and hear the dull humming of the engines. She could hear the cries, "Water, there," and "Well done, boys," and see the alert firemen-brave laddies all! Mr. Allen's silver badge, gleaming in the firelight, glittered in her eyes as nothing had ever sparkled before.

The time came for him to go. He promised to come again when opportunity presented itself. As he went to his carriage he turned back and said to the young woman, "Miss Douglas, I appreciate your hospitality and would like to write to you when I return." Then, in a wondrously winning manner he said, softly, "I hope to meet you again."

His horse ran at will that evening, erossing the country. Its master was lost in thought, and meditated how much he would like a home of his own, with such a hostess presiding over it as had entertained him so royally. Marion seemed a poetess of verse and song, a good cook, painted some, and was a bright, merry little person. He thought he could never make a city girl his wife if it were possible to win this noble, talented girl. He admired her unassuming bearing; it was uppermost in his admiration.

When he reached home he entered the country episode in his diary and before long wrote his first letter to Clematis Creek. Marion didn't respond, as he had anticipated. She had apparently weighed every word carefully, and the entire letter had evidently been composed with great discretion. After a third perusal he decided that Miss Douglas was not to be so easily won, and he was all the more determined to win her. He wrote and told her that he cared a great deal for her. As those words were read by the recipient, she smiled satirically, for she doubted that it was love.

It might only be fancy-a fascination for the time being. It might take its flight as it had come-leaving not one bright spot in his busy life, so she would not offer the slightest suggestion of her

regard for him. Her proud spirit, inborn, seemed to check her, although she often repeated to her heart

"I shall know when my King I meet, My soul shall rise and his coming greet." She knew that she had met her king. She dwelt in a new atmosphere and it was almost as though she had never breathed before.

There was another star in her sky. How she wrestled to conquer it. She was not blind to the new light in her sombre sky, and although she lost no ray of interest in her home life, her heart awaited eagerly the letters from her king among men. She did not weary of the correspondence, and Alton Allen was not in danger of being dethroned from the pedestal in her heart.

The harvest moon rose again over beautiful Clematis Creek as it lay embowered among the hills. Again she greeted Alton Allen, not as a stranger, but as a friend. He went gunning, fishing and rowing during the vacation days, and just before they expired he asked Marion to promise to be his wife. In the sweet old story he omitted the cloud, and she, now all eager to tell him how much she did care for him, accepted the ring that sealed her marriage promise.

She forgot her obligation to the dear home circle, nor did she realize that until in the birthday of the spring came a letter bearing these words:

"My vacation is earlier this yearconsequently I shall come for you in the month of August, and bring you back to Boston, dear Marion, as my wife. You are to have some of your brightest daydreams realized."

How vividly she saw the home leaving. She wished to "bide a wee," but she had promised and held that vow sacred. Something whispered within her that he cared for her people and would doubtless arrange matters so that she might visit them at the old homestead every year. She could write them weekly letters, and rest in the belief and knowledge that they were in the care of Him "who careth for all." So, in the month of August, Alton Allen and Marion Douglas were united in marriage

by the pastor who had baptized her many years before. She visited her old haunts, favorite nooks and meadows, feeling their silent farewells. She appeared quite equal to the trying ordeal of saying good-bye to her old home, leaving love that was tender and had proven true for a home and a love that was as yet all untried. "She kissed the lips of kith and kin," and received their solemn blessings. She walked bravely down the path to the stage, for

"Waiting her coming was one true heart,
Who had vowed to be true till death do us part,
Down in her hillside home.

And that thought bore aloft her soul,
Until her feelings she could control,

When she left her hillside home."

In the seat on the train she found a paper and as she picked it up her eyes met, first of all, these words: "Look through Paul's mighty telescope to the Heavens, and you will see all things work together for good to them that love the Lord." Comforted by these words, she composed a poem, "Goodbye, Old Home." She was wakened from her musing by the trainman's loud call: "Boston, Boston; don't leave any baggage in the car." Leaning on the stalwart arm of her husband she entered the city home.

What a sweet home it proved to be. The years flew by as though winged, until three years were linked on memory's golden chain. Marion sat in the dim light of a departing day, counting over the many pleasant trips since her marriage, to the homeland.

She treasured memories of entertainments, concerts, excursions, lectures, and above all, the peace of their little haven at this eventide. Her girlhood's home was now in the hands of strangers, and she fully adored her new home. It had a double portion of her love as she knelt and prayed there alone, as the golden sun gilded her kitchen windows, throwing a halo of light about the little form of the sweet woman communing with her Maker.

How little she knew of the shadow that hovered near threateningly, or of how soon she was to be thrown on the world. On a bright July morning when

all nature seemed exultant and every. thing was at its gayest, a cloud came in that clear, blue sky, and cast its dark shadow over that home. It was not a false mirage. It was cruelly real and destroyed the little haven. The cloud was the cunning of a designing woman, who, in her artful, practiced manner led Marion's husband from his own as he slept-asleep to the pure and true, to the home he had been building, to the faithful wife, to his duty, to the rich fullness of tight living and the reward in Heaven.

The awakening was sure, and he must awaken from that restiye sleep to a lifetime of regret.

"For sins indulged while conscience slept,
O'er vows and promises unkept,
And reap from years of strife.

Nothing but leaves, nothing but leaves.”

He had gone. A few pencilled lines informed the waiting wife, "Never to return." She was alone, outside of the comforts which had been her environment; alone, at the mercy of busy Boston.

Now the sterner realities of life cast their mantle over her, and, although sick with weeping, she determined to seek a little room and see if work and time would not efface her grief and sorrow. She succeeded in finding a room, which she shared with her landlady's young daughter, Leslie Linwood. She was able to economize by doing so, and felt pleased to have the friendly girl, rather than be alone with her thoughts, memories and hopes.

One day as she was returning from lunch, when from an open church door she heard the choir singing at the Sabbath service, "I'll live for Him, who died for me, How happy, then, my life should be." Guided by unseen power she entered the church, and it proved to be the beginning of a new life for her. At the close of the sermon the minister announced that owing to the vacation season teachers were needed in the Sabbath school. Mrs. Allen went up after the service and offered to take a class, resolving to "live for Him." A class of ten little girls was given her in the primary department. She looked in those little upturned faces and thought