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being found in the Library. Finally, there is half a page devoted to "Cremation as a Mode of Interment, and Related Subjects," in which a seemingly comprehensive résumé of accessible works is given; in this case reference is made also to books not in the Public Library, but in other libraries.

The great Dining Hall of the new Memorial building of Harvard is opened to visitors for two hours in the afternoon daily, and the number of those who take advan tage of the opportunity to see the hall indicates the public interest. The college pictures are hung there, but they should be supplied with labels indicating who are repre

-Bishop Whipple said the other day, at the Com-sented, and what office they held in the college. We mencement of Minnesota University :

"When I visited England I found that England, with

30,000,000 of souls, had but four universities — Oxford, Cambridge, Durham, and London. Minnesota, with 200,000 souls, had half a score. But then it took England 500 years to build an Oxford, and Minnesota has killed five in as many years. I visited such schools as Rugby

and Eton, and asked the counsel of men who had made education a life-long work. They told me that even to build a school I must begin with a score of boys; that a hundred boys would ruin me. A school, was a living being; it had organized life. It grew. Its character was made up of the discipline, scholarship, morals, and traditions of all who became its pupils. I came home a wiser man, and resolved that if it took twenty men like me to lay the foundation, we would have one good English school."

If English in the sense of thorough, well enough, but however much Western people, and Eastern ones too, for that matter, may juggle with the name of college and university, it would be foolish enough to model our schools and colleges upon the English system; or if we do, let us pay some heed to the growls of Englishmen at the petty results of their magnificent school endowments.

The Philadelphia Age reports as follows upon the work thus far done on the Centennial building:

The excavation for the Memorial Hall or permanent building has been completed, and the workmen are now busily engaged in preparing the cellar for the foundations. In a short time the stone masons will commence operations, and then more interest will be taken by visitors in viewing the progress of the work. A large frame building

should think also they might well be arranged chronolog ically. At present they seem to be arranged with refer

ence to proportionate size.

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Henry Holt & Co. are about to add to their Leisure Hour Series a translation of Edmond About's "The Notary's Nose," made by Mr. Holt, who has also translated the same author's "The Man with the Broken Ear," contained in the same series. The book was translated sev eral years ago and an edition published by Loring, Boston, but a comparison of the two translations shows the justification of the new rendering, which retains the air of About's just where the other translator failed to catch it. For instance, the mushy pronunciation of the Auvergnat is given by Mr. Holt in a style close enough to the orig inal to answer every purpose of the story, while it is not pedantically exact. In the other translation there is no attempt whatever to imitate the pronunciation, so that when the amusing incident of L'Ambert's unconsciously using it occurs, the translator has to append a lame footnote, and leave it to the reader's imagination to conceive the scene. What is quite as much to the point, in the earlier translation the peasant frames his sentences like the notary himself, while Mr. Holt has kept the sharp dis tinction between a literate and an illiterate person. The wit of the book, its jaunty style and sangfroid, are admirably repeated in this translation. In fact, the reader continues amused to the end, in spite of his protest against so barefaced an imposition on his good nature.

In the opening chapter of "Felix Holt," George Eliot looks forward to the time when posterity may travel with even greater rapidity than we of the present day, and be "shot, like a bullet, through a tube, by atmos

has been erected near the offices of the Centennial Board of Finance, which is to be devoted to the modelling of all ornamentations for the permanent structure. There will be very many required, such as representations of Europe, Asia, Africa, and Australia, and for the dome a large figure representing America. Allegorical representations of art and science, and the coats-of-arms of the city, State, and nation will also be prepared, as well as many other designs. From the above some idea may be had of the character of the ornamentation, and it was thought advis-pheric pressure." To those who, like many of the suburable to have the models prepared upon the ground, where the work could be under the eye of the designer of the Memorial Hall, Mr. H. J. Swarzmann. This gentleman is at present busily engaged, with a corps of assistants, in preparing the large working plans, which are nearly completed. The grading of the site upon which is to be erected the main Exposition building is fairly under way, 300 men and 250 horses being employed in prosecuting the work. Messrs. Vaux and Radford, the architects for this structure, have adopted the plans of Mr. Pettit of the United States Centennial Commission, and will personally superintend the work of construction. The Managers of the Centennial Board of Finance are preparing an address to the people of the United States, embodying a financial scheme to be submitted to the citizens of every State, and which the managers expect will result in the collection of all the funds necessary for the successful carrying on of the building operations and the Exposition.

ban residents of London, are obliged to ride chiefly on underground railroads, the change will doubtless be welcome; but the great majority, who now travel above ground, will gain only time by the arrangement, and lose what little opportunity the railroad of to-day affords of obtaining some idea of the country through which one travels. Only one who is fortunate enough to get away from railroads, and ride across country in one of the few surviving stage-coaches, can appreciate the enjoyment which did much to atone for the discomforts experienced by the travellers of a generation and a half ago, who could see in detail the natural features of the region they were traversing, and obtain a personal acquaintance with every hill, mountain, valley, and river that came in their way. For the man who has horses and a carriage, there is no more sensible way of spending a summer vacation, than to take a jaunt to the mountains with his family in his own conveyance; and many are beginning to find this out.

L. II.]

A ROSE IN JUNE.

CHAPTER XVI.

A FOURNAL OF CHOICE READING.

WHEN Rose found herself, after so range and exciting a journey, within e tranquil shades of Miss Margetts' tablishment for young ladies, it ould be difficult to tell the strange ush which fell upon her. Almost efore the door had closed upon Wodeouse, while still the rumble of the ansom in which he had brought her o her destination, and 1 which he now drove away, was in ner ears, the mush, the chill, the tranquillity had egun to influence her. Miss Margetts, of course, was not up at halfpast six on the summer morning, and it was an early housemaid, curious but drowsy, who admitted Rose, and took her, having some suspicion of so unusually early a visitor, with so little luggage, to the bare and forbidding apartment in which Miss Margetts generally received her "parents." The window looked out upon the little garden in front of the house, and the high wall which inclosed it; and there Rose seated herself to wait, all the energy and passion which had sustained, beginning to fail her, and dreary doubts of what her old schoolmistress would say, and how she would receive her, filling her very soul. How strange is the stillness of the morning within such a populated house! nothing stirring but the faint, far-off noises in the kitchen- and she alone, with the big blank walls about her, feeling like a prisoner, as if she had been shut in to undergo some sentence. To be sure, in other circumstances this was just the moment which Rose would have chosen to be alone, and in which the recollection of the scene just ended, the words which she had heard, the looks that had been bent upon her, ought to have been enough to light up the dreariest place, and make her unconscious of external pallor and vacancy.

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But although the warmest sense of personal happiness which she had ever known in her life had come upon the girl all unawares ere she came here, yet the circumstances were so strange, and the complication of feeling so great, that all the light seemed to die out of the landscape when Edward left her. This very joy which had come to her so unexpectedly gave a different aspect to all

SATURDAY, AUGUST 22, 1874.

the rest of her story. To fly from a marriage which was disagreeable to her, with no warmer wish than that of simply escaping from it, was one thing; but to fly with the aid of a lover, who made the flight an occasion of declaring himself, was another and very different matter. Her heart sank while she thought of the story she had to tell. Should she dare tell Miss Margetts about Edward? About Mr. Incledon it seemed now simple enough.

Miss Margetts was a kind woman, or one of her "" young ladies" would not have thought of flying back to her for shelter in trouble; but she was always a little rigid and "particular," and when she heard Rose's story (with the careful exclusion of Edward) her mind was very much disturbed. She was sorry for the girl, but felt sure that her mother must be in the right, and trembled a little in the midst of her decorum, to consider what the world would think if she was found to receive girls who set themselves in opposition to their lawful guardians. "Was the gentleman not nice?" she asked, doubtfully; was he very old? were his morals not what they ought to be? or has he any personal peculiarity which made him unpleasant? Except in the latter case, when indeed one must judge for one's self, I think you might have put full confidence in your excellent mother's judg

ment."

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"Oh, it was not that; he is very good and nice," said Rose, confused and troubled. "It is not that I object to him; it is because I do not love him. How could I marry him when I don't care for him? But he is not a man to whom anybody could object."

"And he is rich, and fond of you, and not too old? I fear I fear, my dear child, you have been very inconsiderate. You would soon have learned to love so good a man.”

"Oh, Miss Anne," said Rose (for there were two sisters, and this was the youngest), "don't say so, please! I never could if I should live a hundred

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years."

You will not live a hundred years; but you might have tried. Girls are pliable; or at least people think so; perhaps my particular position in respect to them makes me less sure of this than most people are. But still, that is the common idea. You would

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Perhaps it will be best to have some breakfast," said Miss Margetts. "You must have been up very early to be here so soon; and I dare say you did not take anything before you started, not even a cup of tea?"

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Her very

Rose had to avow this lack of common prudence, and try to eat docilely to please her protector; but the attempt was not very successful. single night's watching is often enough to upset a youthful frame not accustomed to anything of the kind, and Rose was glad beyond description to be taken to one of the little whitecurtained chambers which were so familiar to her, and left there to rest. How inconceivable it was that she should be there again! familiarity with everything made the wonder greater. Had she never left that still, well-ordered place at all? or what strange current had drifted her back again? She lay down on the little white dimity bed, much too deeply affected with her strange position, she thought, to rest; but ere long had fallen fast asleep, poor child, with her hands clasped across her breast, and tears trembling upon her eyelashes. Miss Margetts, being a kind soul, was deeply touched when she looked into the room and found her so, and immediately went back to her private parlor and scored an adjective or two out of the letter she had written a letter to Rose's mother, telling how startled she had been to find herself made unawares the confidant of the runaway, and begging Mrs. Damerel to believe that it was no fault of hers, though she assured her in the same breath that every attention should be paid to Rose's health and comfort. Mrs. Damerel would thus have been very soon relieved from her suspense, even if she had not received the despairing little epistle

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sent to her by Rose. Of Rose's note, however, her mother took no immediate notice. She wrote to Miss Margetts, thanking her, and assuring her that she was only too glad to think that her child was in such good hands. But she did not write to Rose. No one wrote to Rose; she was left for three whole days without a word, for even Wodehouse did not venture to send the glowing epistles which he wrote by the score, having an idea that an establishment for young ladies is a kind of Castle Dangerous, in which such letters as his would never be suffered to reach their proper owner, and might prejudice her with her jailers. These dreary days were dreary enough for all of them for the mother, who was not so perfectly assured of being right in her mode of treatment as to be quite at ease on the subject; for the young lover, burning with impatience, and feeling every day to be a year; and for Rose herself, thus dropped into the stillness away from all that had excited and driven her desperate. To be delivered all at once out of even trouble which is of an exciting and stimulating character, and buried in absolute quiet, is a doubtful advantage in any case, at least to youth. Mr. Incledon bore the interval, not knowing all that was involved in it, with more calm than any of the others. He was quite amenable to Mrs. Damerel's advice not to disturb the girl with letters. After all, what was a week to a man secure of Rose's company for the rest of his life? He smiled a little at the refuge which her mother's care (he thought) had chosen for her her former school! and wondered how his poor little Rose liked it; but otherwise was perfectly tranquil on the subject. As for poor young Wodehouse, he was to be seen about the railway station, every train that arrived from London, and haunted the precincts of the White House for news, and was as miserable as a young man in love and terrible uncertainty with only ten days in which to satisfy himself about his future life and happiness could be. What wild thoughts went through his mind as he answered "yes" and " to his mother's talk, and dutifully took walks with her, and called with her upon her [friends, hearing Rose's approaching marriage everywhere talked of, and the good luck" of the rector's family remarked upon! His heart was tormented by all these conversations, yet it was better to hear them, than to be out of the way of hearing altogether. Gretna Green, if Gretna Green should be feasible, was the only way he could think of, to get delivered from this terrible complication; and then it haunted him that Gretna Green had been "done away with," though he could not quite remember how. Ten days! and then the China seas for three long years; though Rose had not been able to conceal from him that he it was

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whom she loved, and not Mr. Incledon. Poor fellow in his despair he thought of deserting, of throwing up his appointment and losing all his chances in life; and all these wild thoughts swayed upwards to a climax in the three days. He determined on the last of these that he would bear it no longer. He put a passionate letter in the post, and resolved to beard Mrs. Damerel in the morning and have it out.

More curious still, and scarcely less bewildering, was the strange trance of suspended existence in which Rose spent these three days. It was but two years since she had left Miss Margetts', and some of her friends were there still. She was glad to meet them, as much as she could be glad of anything in her preoccupied state, but felt the strangest difference - a difference which she was totally incapable of putting into words-between them and herself. Rose, without knowing it, had made a huge stride in life since she had left their bare school-room. I dare say her education might with much advantage have been carried on a great deal longer than it was, and that her power of thinking might have increased, and her mind been much improved, had she been sent to college afterwards, as boys are, and as some people think girls ought to be; but though she had not been to college, education of a totally different kind had been going on for Rose. She had made a step in life which carried her altogether beyond the placid region in which the other girls lived and worked. She was in the midst of problems which Euclid cannot touch, nor logic solve. She had to exercise choice in a matter concerning other lives as well as her

own.

She had to decide unaided between a true and a false moral duty, and to make up her mind which was true and which was false. She had to discriminate in what point Inclination ought to be considered a rule of conduct, and in what points it ought to be crushed as mere self-seeking; or whether it should not always be crushed, which was her mother's code; or if it ought to have supreme weight, which was her father's practice. This is not the kind of training which youth can get from schools, whether in Miss Margetts' establishment for young ladies, or even in learned Balliol. Rose, who had been subjected to it, felt, but could not tell why, as if she were years and worlds removed from the school and its duties. She could scarcely help smiling at the elder girls with their "deep" studies and their books, which were far more advanced intellectually than Rose. Oh, how easy the hardest grammar was, the difficulties of Goethe, or of Dante (or even of Thucydides or Perseus, but these she did not know), in comparison with this difficulty which tore her asunder! Even the moral and religious truths in which she had been

trained from her cradle scarcely helped

her. The question was one to be de cided for herself and by herself, and by her for her alone.

And here is the question, dear reader, as the girl had to decide it. Self-denial is the rule of Christianity. It is the highest and noblest of du ties when exercised for a true end. "Greater love hath no man than this, that a man lay down his life for his friend." Thus it has the highest sanction which any duty can have, and it is the very life and breath and essence of Christianity. This being the rule, is there one special case excepted in which you ought not to deny yourself? and is this case the individ ual one of Marriage? Allowing that in all other matters it is right to sacrifice your own wishes, where by doing so you benefit others, is it right to sacrifice your love and happiness in order to please your friends, and make a man happy who loves you, but whom you do not love? According to Mrs. Damerel this was so, and the sacrifice of a girl who made a loveless marriage for a good purpose was as noble as any other martyrdom for the benefit of country or family or race. Gentle reader, if you do not skip the statement of the question altogether, you will probably decide it summarily and wonder at Rose's indecision. But hers was no such easy way of dealing with the problem, which I agree with her in thinking is much harder than anything in Euclid. She was not by any means sure that this amount of selfsacrifice was not a duty. Her heart divined, her very intellect felt, without penetrating, a fallacy somewhere in the argument; but still the argument was very potent and not to be got over. She was not sure that to listen to Edward Wodehouse, and to suffer even an unguarded reply to drop from her lips, was not a sin. She was far from being sure that in any case it is safe or right to do what you like; and to do what you like in contradiction to your mother, to your engagement, to your plighted word- what could that be but a sin? She employed all her simple logic on the subject with little effect, for in strict logic she was bound over to marry Mr. Incledon, and now more than ever her heart resolved against marrying Mr. Incledon.

This question worked in her mind presenting itself in every possible phase- now one side, now the other. And she dared not consult any one near, and none of those who were interested in its solution took any notice of her. She was left alone in unbroken stillness to judge for herself, to make her own conclusion. first day she was still occupied with the novelty of her position-the fatigue and excitement of leaving home, and of all that had occurred since. The second day she was still strangely moved by the difference between herself and her old friends, and

The

sense of having passed beyond them into regions unwn to their philosophy, and from which she never ld come back to the unbroken tranquillity of a girl's life. t on the third day the weight of her strange position rhed her down utterly. She watched the distribution the letters with eyes growing twice their natural size, a pang indescribable at her heart. Did they mean to ve her alone then? to take no further trouble about ? to let her do as she liked, that melancholy privilege ich is prized only by those who do not possess it? Had ward forgotten her, though he had said so much two ys ago? had her mother cast her off, despising her, as a bel? Even Mr. Incledon, was he going to let her be lost him without an effort? Rose had fled hoping (she lieved) for nothing so much as to lose herself and be ard of no more; but oh! the heaviness which drooped er her very soul when for three days she was let alone! onder, consternation, indignation, arose one after another her heart. They had all abandoned her. The lover hom she loved, and the lover whom she did not love, ike. What was love then? a mere fable, a thing which erished when the object of it was out of sight? When he had time to think, indeed, she found this theory unnable, for had not Edward been faithful to her at the ther end of the world? and yet what did he mean now? On the third night Rose threw herself on her bed in espair, and sobbed till midnight. Then a mighty resoluion arose in her mind. She would relieve herself of the burden. She would go to the fountain-head, to Mr. IncleHon himself, and lay the whole long tale before him. He was good, he was just, he had always been kind to her; she would abide by what he said. If he insisted that she should marry him, she must do so; better that than to be thrown off by everybody, to be left for days or perhaps for years alone Miss Margetts'. And if he were generous, and decided otherwise! In that case neither Mrs. Damerel nor any one else could have anything to say she would put it into his

hands.

She had her hat on when she came down to breakfast Lext morning, and her face, though pale, had a little resolation in it, better than the despondency of the first three Cays. "I am going home," she said, as the school-mistress looked at her, surprised.

"It is the very best thing you can do, my dear," said Miss Margetts, giving her a more cordial kiss than usual. "I did not like to advise it; but it is the very best thing

you can do."

Rose took her breakfast meekly, not so much comforted as Miss Margetts had intended by this approval. Somebow she felt as if it must be against her own interest since Miss Margetts approved of it, and she was in twenty minds then not to go. When the letters came in she said to herself that there could be none for her, and went and stood at the window, turning her back that she might not see; and it was while she was standing thus, pretending to gaze out upon the high wall covered with ivy, that, in the usual contradiction of human affairs, Edward Wodehouse's impassioned letter was put into her hands. There she read how he too had made up his mind not to bear it longer; how he was going to her mother to have an explanation with her. Should she wait for the result of this explanation, or should she carry out her own determination and go?

"Come, Rose, I will see you safely to the station: there is a cab at the door," said Miss Margetts.

Rose turned round, her eyes dewy and moist with those tears of love and consolation which refresh and do not Scorch as they come. She looked up timidly to see whether the might ask leave to stay; but the cab was waiting, and Miss Margetts was ready, and her own hat on and intention declared; she was ashamed to turn back when she had gone so far. She said good-by accordingly to the elder sister, and meekly followed Miss Anne into the cab.

Had

it been worth while winding herself up to the resolution of fight for so little? Was her first experiment of resistance really over, and the rebel going home, with arms grounded and banners trailing? It was ignominious beyond all expression-but what was she to do?

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Rose made no promise, but her heart sank as she thus set out upon her return journey. It was less terrible when she found herself alone in the railway carriage, and yet it was more terrible as she realized what desperation had driven her to. She was going back as she went away, with no question decided, no resolution come to, with only new complications to encounter, without the expedient of flight, which could not be repeated. Ought she not to have been more patient, to have tried to put up with silence? That could not have lasted forever. But now she was going to put herself back in the very heart of the danger, with no ground gained, but something lost. Well! she said to herself, at least it would be over. She would know the worst, and there would be no further appeal against it. If happiness was over too, she would have nothing to do in all the life before her nothing to do but to mourn over the loss of it, and teach herself to do without it; and suspense would be over. She got out of the carriage, pulling her veil over her face, and took an unfrequented path which led away across the fields to the road near Whitton, quite out of reach of the Green and all its inhabitants. It was a long walk, but the air and the movement did her good. She went on swiftly and quietly, her whole mind bent upon the interview she was going to seek. All beyond was a blank to her. This one thing, evident and definite, seemed to fix and to clear her dazzled eyesight. She met one or two acquaintances, but they did not recognize her through her veil, though she saw them, and recollected them ever after, as having had something to do with that climax and agony of her youth; and thus Rose reached Whitton, with its soft, abundant summer woods, and, her heart beating louder and louder, hastened her steps as she drew near her destination, almost running across the park to Mr. Incledon's door.

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THE capital city of the nation to-day is a paradise for children. If you doubt it, just visit Washington on "The Children's Day;" when with banners, emblems, garlands, and ribbons flying, they march through the parked streets on a resplendent May morning. No city in the land can show fairer, fresher, happier children, or more of them. I doubt if any other city can show so many thousands who are at once healthy and glad in an untrammelled, unartificial childhood.

The cause for this may be found in the fact that the children of the capital have broader streets, freer and fresher air, live more in it, and closer to the life-giving earth, than the children of any other American city. This was not true once of the children brought to it strangers; who were born in higher latitudes, and who

1 Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1874, by H. O. HOUGHTON & Co., in the Office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington.

were never ingrafted into and nourished in its homes. How many children, used from birth to airy nurseries and grassy yards at home, have been brought hither into over-crowded boarding-houses and contaminated air, to die. Many a mother remembers Washington only as "the place where Marion died;" the spot which, "had I never seen it, Arthur would have been alive to-day." It is no easy matter for the transien resident, in his cramped quarters, by his table of illassorted and villainously cooked food, to obey hygienic law, and once it was impossible.

It was May now. The city was all abloom. All starkness of hue, all crudeness of outline were lost, hidden out of sight in a, wilderness of rippling greenery, swaying about the house-tops and weaving above the streets umbrageous arcades of leafy bloom. May is the "month of roses" here; the whole city was a garden of roses, clustering about the walls, peering through the fences, starting up by the wayside, everywhere pouring out from their hearts the most celestial fragrance.

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Mamma, take us to Van Ness garden, do!" "Yes, my darling, you shall go," said Agnes, looking with sad eyes upon the face of her boy. "You and Vida shall go. A sweet lady who lives there says I may gather all the roses for you that I want." Little Cyril was ailing. He was languid, restless, chilly and feverish by turns, yet with an ever-yearning cry to be "out, out." The ladies all said it was "malaria." If you have the toothache, or a fit of indigestion from a lump of sour and stony bread, or any ache or ailment under the sun in Washington, you are told that it is malaria. It is the very healthiest city in the land, as its sick and death rates show. Where in its broad, airy, and sunny spaces malaria hides, no mortal can tell; nevertheless every outrage of the laws of health and of life is denied or ignored under the cry of malaria.

"Your little boy is suffering from malaria. Give him two grains of quinine twice every day till he shows no symptoms of the chills," said a native doctor called in, who gave a superficial glance at the child, which in no wise satisfied his mother. She had larger faith in fresh air and sunshine than in the doctor's prescription, and it was the day after he gave it that she went alone with her children to the Van Ness grounds.

As they passed the lodge and entered the historic garden, they found its high brick wall mantled with ivy and honeysuckle. Aged fruit-trees-apple, pear, peach, apricot, nectarine, and fig trees-clung to the old walls and lifted their crowns of tender fruitage into the late May sunshine. The gigantic trees - the maple, yew, walnut, and holly- wove a roof of softest shade over the warm turf below. Within its barricades of ancient box, the white stuccoed walls of the Van Ness mansion rose from out of beds and solid

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banks of budding and blooming roses. From the low windows of the eastern drawing-room spread out broad parterres of roses of every known variety, — the red, red rose with its spicy heart, the aromatic tea-rose, the virgin blush rose, the vestal white rose, the royal moss rose. Orange-trees from the conservatory were flushing in the open sunshine of the lawn. Honeysuckle in great masses of bloom hung from the balustrades of the southern portico, pervading the air with sweetness for acres away.

The freedom of the garden had been given to Agnes by the refined and gentle inmates of the mansion.

Now for the first time availing herself of it, she left the carriage, and with a child on either side of her sat down on a low seat beneath a tree that tempered the sunshine which fell upon their faces, and ran in light and shadow through the rippling grass. To her right, just the other side of the mansion, towered an appletree that in its reputed century of life had dared to grow to the height and proportions of an oak. Beyond it the dome of the government observatory on Braddock's Hill, where the young surveyor Washington dreamed his first dream of the future city, swelled into the blue air. Before her, past the grassy border of the garden, spread the Potomac pranked with white sails. A lovers' walk, shaded by murmuring pines, ran through the grove, down to a mimic lake, and there in mid-water ended on a tiny island filled with shadowy trees and restful seats. Beyond the garden, on her left, spread the capital city, and holding tutelary guard above it was its Capitol.

Just beside her rose the white walls and sharp roof of the Burns' cottage, embedded in lilacs and wild roses, while before her eight Kentucky coffee-trees towered high aloft, casting the shadows from their clustering crowns of more than a hundred years upon the cottage so fraught with the memories of buried gen erations, upon the white walls of the mansion rich in recollections of the illustrious dead of a later past; while through their palm-like leaves the quivering sunshine transfigured cottage and hall, and rested with hallowing radiance upon the faces of the mother and her children, sitting on the old seat beneath the trees.

"I'm goin' away," said little Cyril. His eyes seemed to follow a white sail-boat floating down the river. "Where?" said his mother. "Do you want to sail to Alexandria? If you do, mamma will take you and Vida."

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I want to doe on a boat, I do," said Vida. "I don't," said little Cyril; "I want to go home. Mamma, will you take me?"

The soft, searching mother eyes scanned the face of the boy, and as they did so the mother-heart leaped with a throe half of pain, half of premonition.

"Hore! darling, do you want to go home? Papa cannot go. Would you want to go with mamma alone?"

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don't

Yes, with mamma alone, and Vida. My papa want to go home." "Your papa can't go home, not now; he can't till Congress adjourns-and this is the long Congress, Cyril."

"How long, mamma?"

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"Oh, till July; as long as that, Cyril. If mamma brings you down every day to this beautiful garden, and takes you to sail on the river, wouldn't wait for papa? "No. My papa don't want to go home. go, mamma. "Can you tell mamma why you want to go home, darling?

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"I'm so tired here," lifting his hand to his head; "I'm so tired. I'm tired all the time now. Maybe I wouldn't be, at home." "Home! You shall go home, my darling boy, and go with you, if"

mamma will

"If she has not gone," her heart said, though her lips did not finish the sentence. Little Vida slipped from her seat on to the green turf, filling her little hands with the violets which purpled all the grass;

but

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