EVERY SATURDAY: A JOURNAL OF CHOICE READING, Published WEEKLY BY H. O. HOUGHTON AND COMPANY, 219 WASHINGTON STREET, BOSTON: NEW YORK: HURD AND HOUGHTON; Single Numbers, 10 cts.; Monthly Par's, 50 cts.; Yearly Subscription, $5.00. N. B. THE ATLANTIC MONTHLY and EVERY SATURDAY sent to one address or $8.00. STAT NOMINIS UMBRA. THE United States Postal Guide, just issued, contains a good deal of interesting reading for an imaginative person. Passing by the Rates of Postage to Foreign Countries and Time of Sailing of Mail Steamers, which affect one in the reading much as the casks of sugar and molasses make a haze of the West Indies about one as he walks along Front Street or Commercial Street, there remain a hun dred and fifty pages containing the names of all the post offices in the United States. At each one letters are received, from each letters are sent forth, and certain ones, with cabalistic G. M. B. against them, intimate how many golden threads bind together people in the Old World and the New. But our interest is of a less general character a mere curiosity respecting the names which this conglomerate country of ours is giving to its towns. Indian to begin with, Spanish, English, German, French, Italian, Norse how many nations have made their mark on the soil; significant is one omission; we have searched California postoffices in vain to find any sign of Chinese life, with the single exception of Chinese Camp. Should that tide of emigration ever ebb to China it would leave no marks on California topography. The fathers of the country have not been forgotten. Forty-five towns keep alive the name of Washington, and Jefferson is remembered by thirty-nine. There are sixty-four Jacksons or compounds of Jackson. But this does not necessarily argue the great popularity of the historic Jackson, since the President had no monopoly of the name, and we do not believe that Jackson who had Corners named after him in Missouri was the one who had such a rush of white hair, and an unpleasant habit of swearing. How clearly the great migrations are marked by the more than five hundred places which are New something or other; and in these names we have not included the old migratory names which were once new, like Newport, Newburgh, Newton, and the like. What affection must those Choctaw Indians have felt for their old marshy home, when they named their new one New Boggy Depot. Either the affection which Bostonians feel for their home is slight, or they despair of another one ever being constructed by Fate or Enterprise, for the name occurs but thirteen other times in the Union, and New Boston but seven times. We have not been wholly indifferent to our foreign visitors. Lafayette was complimented eighteen times and Kossuth six times. It was not without forethought that the Boston people stuck a pin in their Bunker Hill, for there are eight others in the country. Memories of the Mexican war are preserved in the eighteen places named Buena Vista and the fifteen named Monterey. Literature is represented by twelve Byrons, one Schiller, twelve Homers, some of them probably modern Homers, fifteen Irvings, twenty Coopers, some, very likely, local coopers, thirty-three Miltons, and even one New Milton, actually in Doddridge County. We have hesitated about Dickens including one Tupper's Plain, in this catalogue. personally, does not appear, but he is represented by a Pickwick in Minnesota and a Weller in Iowa. Sam's Valley in Oregon may be a faint echo also. The contentment which reigns in new settlements or perhaps the eagerness to attract settlers, is illustrated by the fact that one hundred and forty-four post-offices prefix the word Pleasant, one even going so far as to call itself Pleasant Unity, a name which has its rival in Social Circle in Georgia, where, if we remember, all trains stop for refreshments. Perhaps Pop Corn in Kansas, and Soda Bar in Iowa, are similar stopping-places. The extreme Western States show the most sang-froid in their nomenclature. In California, for instance, where the bump of reverence is small, the founders of the republic make small show, but there is a frank homage paid to Jenny Lind and Yankee Jim. Colorado Territory has private reminiscences in Left Hand, Mace's Hole, and Fair Play, while some names in all the States defy our small philological attainments. Please explain, for instance, Ty Ty in Georgia, Cob Moo Sa in Michigan, Siuslaw in Oregon, Scy ene in Texas. The devil, acting so often as name-parent for local severities, is carefully excluded, we see, by the postal authorities, only finding admission under the disguise of Devall, in Devall's Bluffs. The saints, however, are some two hundred strong, including some, we suspect, of local canonization, as Saint Gilman in Iowa, Saint Morgan in Illinois, Saint Wendall in Minnesota, and Saint Tammany, who was a sinner when we last heard of him. In short, this guide is quite as good reading as the directory, and it certainly is a book which every novelist ought to have; every man of letters of course requires it. We have only hinted at the treasure which is hid in it. It would be interesting to show how the old names which we speak with reverence are translated back into their first meaning by some of these new, rough names that make us shudder at their impoliteness. want. NOTES. -The Philadelphia Evening Bulletin is one of the papers that early in the summer took up the matter of a pecuniary testimonial to Hans Christian Andersen, and it now publishes a letter from the author in response to a remittance from the paper. The letter is too long for our notes, but we quote a paragraph which contains the gist of the matter: "But I am owing it, at the same time, to myself and to the nation to which I belong, to discard a possible misunderstanding. I am still a feeble convalescent, and fast approaching seventy; but I am suffering no My country is not one in which poets are left starving or in distress. Without being in the service of the state, I receive from the public treasury an annual salary, offering me a modest but honorable competency. From my authorship I derive a further income, and though it is true that almost no pecuniary reward has accrued to me from the numerous translations of my works into foreign languages, still I have now and then got some salary, as, for instance, from America, for the so-called Author's Edition.' My sympathizing friends beyond the sea are, therefore, not to think of me as a poor old derelict poet, living in care for his daily bread, and unable to nurse his enfeebled frame. In this respect, also, God has been gracious to me, and loving friends are around me. Even now many a joy is gladdening my heart, not the least of which is that in far-distant, great America, many dear children are breaking their saving-box to share its contents with their old friend, the story-teller, whom they believe to be in want. It is a fresh leaf in the fairy-tale of my life. But this I must declare, that I cannot accept any individual gift sent to me. However well-intended, such a gift receives a character alike inconsistent with the wishes of the offerer and with my own dignity. What would be to me an honor and a precious proof of attachment, if offered me from the youth of America, as a whole, is becoming a painful charity if dribbling in as contributions from individuals; and, where I would fain feel proud and grateful, I am exposed to feeling humiliated." The Montpensier collection of paintings, to which we have several times referred in these notes, has been opened at the Boston Athenæum, and visitors have begun to gather and pass through the several stages of disappointment and satisfaction. Probably many making their first visit have been less overpowered than they expected to be, but anticipated feelings are usually exhausted before the actual experience comes. Nevertheless he who is willing to lay aside prejudice and sentiment, and simply sit down before the Virgin of the Swathing Band by Murillo, the Adoration of the Magi by Zurbaran and the Holy Family by Sebastian del Piombo, and let the pictures occupy his mind, will find his reward in a rare pleasure. We leave to painters the special treatment of these pictures; unprofessional in our judgment, we find for ourselves a delight in the tender humanity of Murillo's painting, where we see but a human mother with her human child and the eager human angels with their sweet, unheard music; the light of the picture is from humanity and not from the superhuman; we note the sleeping divine child in Piombo's picture, with the little bird that he has taken to the pillow with him; is it in reference to the legend that while the clay birds that the other children moulded crumbled to dust again, the bird of Jesus became alive and flew away? Then the strong likeness and contrast between the wise man in the one picture and the shepherd in the other, of Zurbaran, the central figures, one venerable and lit with intellectual fire, the other venerable and rugged with physical toil, these things and many others make the looking at these pictures as delightful and refreshing as reading a great book or hearing a great symphony. The critical faculty may be untrained in either case, but the power to enjoy is partly independent of it. - As the season for holiday gifts comes on we make a suggestion to the amateur artists who have such pleasant means of giving something of their own, not to be bought in shops. It is to take a volume of poems, like Mrs. Thaxter's Poems, for instance, or Mrs. Ford's "My Recreations," where flowers, distinctly named, appear so frequently in the verse, and paint frankly upon the printed page the flower of the poem. A spray, a leaf, a bud, laid upon the page as it were, make a charming effect, all the more charming for the apparent carelessness. It is as if one opened the book and found some flower had been pressed in it. - The Chicago Public Library dates from the fire of 1871. Its foundation was laid in the gifts made it at that time from home and abroad, and now, with the additions made by purchase, the second annual report shows it to number some forty thousand volumes. Mr. W. F. Poole, formerly of the Boston Athenæum and later of the Cincinnati Public Library, took charge in January, and in May the library was opened for the distribution of books. resources are derived from one fifth of a mill tax, which Its now affords an annual income of about $65,000, with a certainty of increasing with the city's growth. The serial publications in the reading-room represent twenty-three nationalities besides the United States and Great Britain. There is no library in the city to compete with it, and its success is sure and immediate. -The Twenty-Second Annual Report of the Trustees of the Boston Public Library shows a use, during the past year, of 553,129 volumes, while the consulting hall was visited by some 72,313 visitors, making a total of 625,442 books in circulation during that time. The library now numbers 260,550 volumes, of which 51,094 were added during the year · the largest addition ever yet made in twelve months. This is explained, however, by noting that during the year several smaller libraries were incorporated into the Public Library. - A monument has recently been erected in Mount Auburn to Jared Sparks, once President of Harvard, but known best by his edition of Washington's Letters and his library of American biography. The notable thing about the monument is the Latin inscription by Professor Lane and Dr. Palfrey, said to be not only excellent Latin but the first attempt in this country to reproduce the classical Roman lettering. The queerest freak in the way of inscription, which we have noticed in Mount Auburn, is that on the Sphinx erected by Dr. Jacob Bigelow, where the very simple English inscription on one side has been translated into Latin on the other, for the benefit, we suppose, of educated foreigners. The Postmaster-General is disposed to adopt the recommendation made by the chief of the Stamp Division in regard to the method of prepayment of postage on newspapers or periodicals mailed from the office of publication to subscribers and news agents. The plan is to affix stamps to a memorandum of mailing, the stamps to range in value from two cents to sixty dollars. We do not see why there need be any difference made in the system because of the change in the law. Prepayment is required, but prepayment in bulk. Why then not sell stamps of different denominations, and let the publisher affix his twelvedollar stamp to the bag containing the mail, just as he would affix his three-cent stamp to the envelope containing a single letter? A new emigration to the United States is in a fair way of being accomplished, which will tend to develop the resources of Alaska as well as furnish a considerable increase of hardy toilers to our national population. A committee of three persons, chosen by the people of Iceland, is now in this country looking for a habitation for the entire people of that ancient island. A war vessel has been promised these avant couriers for the purpose of inspecting the coast of Alaska. They claim that by reason of climatic changes their native home is no longer suitable for a residence; that it has become too barren to offer the usual opportunities of deriving a comfortable living, and that starvation is prevented only by securing from other lands the bare necessaries of life. Alaska, they feel assured, is sufficiently cool. It is preferred to Canada, where a strong influence is now endeavoring to attract them. They promise to work the fisheries, supply the Pacific States with lumber, build ships as in former times at home, raise cattle and other commodities, and, lastly, furnish through their children a body of sailors for the Pacific Coast trade. They are poor but determined, and wish, if the Government will grant them the necessary assistance, to inaugurate the emigration at once. EVERY SATURDAY. A JOURNAL OF CHOICE READING VOL. II.] HIS TWO WIVES.1 BY MARY CLEMMER AMES. SATURDAY, OCTOBER 17, 1874. CHAPTER XXVII. THE DUFFERIN RECTOR. THE REV. Athel Dane, in his well-stored library, was looking over some books, to select one or two to take to a friend. The friend was a lady; and this reverend gentleman, like the rest of his kind, was always pleased to do his share toward the enlightenment of the feminine mind. He was early and profoundly impressed with its need of enlightenment, also with the hopelessness of the undertaking. No other class of educated men assume such an attitude of mental and spiritual arrogance toward women as clergymen. Doubtless their interpretation of the words of Saint Paul has much to do with it. A priest in that function addressing a woman, rarely forgets that she belongs to a tribe under ban; that she is one who because of her sex alone is forbidden, he believes, by his favorite Apostle, ever to become a preacher, while he, elected by sex to teach her, feels the old Adam in him swell into grandeur at the very thought. Athel Dane possessed the faults of his class to an extreme degree. Temperament and education combined to make him mentally and spiritually arrogant. He was a very young man for the place he filled. The responsibilities which came to him so early, which he met so manfully and fulfilled so well, made it impossible that he should discern how much of human nature and of human life he had yet to learn which years and experience only could teach him. Surely he was not remarkable in this, that being very young he felt very old. Such a feeling is the inevitable indication of studious, poetic youth. He could scarcely be called poetic, but studious and thoughtful he had been from his earliest childhood. He had no recollection of the time when he felt young, and having studied always and attained to a scholarship in itself remarkable, it is not strange he should feel old and wise to a degree to which the mere years he had lived gave no warrant. That he should feel thus was perfectly natural, for his emotional nature had never been fully aroused, much less developed, and he was very ignorant of that lore of human experience which all the cloistered colleges of earth, all the theologies of all the ages are inadequate to impart; whose teachers are love, suffering, selfabnegation, and whose final, consummate flower is the pure, lowly, and loving heart which through sympathy makes every sorrow of the race its own. Such a heart did not beat in the breast of Athel Dane. His was a strong, true heart in its way; it beat 1 Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1874, by H. O. HOUGHTOX & Co., in the Office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington. [No. 16. resolutely for principles and opinions and classes. It was cold to all outside. The cry of the human for the human's sake had never penetrated, much less moved it to tender pity. Dufferin was proud of its minister but did not love him. He was in no sense a popular clergyman. Rather, he proved himself to be an exception to most young ministers in this, that he did not love his young lady parishioners, and they did not love him. It is true that he conscientiously tried to do his duty to them all, to redeem their souls from the frivolity of their natures, but he did it with an unconscious mental and spiritual superciliousness which provoked their resentment. When he came to the parish he was met by the usual feminine bombardment of embroidered slippers, dressing-gowns, and caps. He stood the siege without yielding an inch in any one direction, a fact for which Dufferin womanhood individually never forgave him. Each lady received in return for her gift a polite note of thanks, and a book: "The True Woman." Thus it happened that there were a hundred or more copies of "The True Woman" hidden away in manifold corners, each bearing the name of its owner with the "best wishes of her pastor." The second year of his stay in Dufferin the Rev. Athel Dane did not receive a single personal gift from a lady. It was not "The True Woman as a personal present that any one objected What harrowed her soul was that she shared this "True Woman " with a hundred other women. Such unnatural indifference in a young man under twentyfive, and that young man a clergyman, could be accounted for only by the fact that still further back the Rev. Athel Dane had been ill-used by a woman. other words, the Dufferin mind concluded that in his college days he had been jilted by a girl, which was reason sufficient why he should at present avoid, if not hate, all other girls. to. In One or both he assuredly did. In fact, he did only the former. He avoided young ladies not because he hated them, but because, as the inferior race of beings which he deemed them to be, they did not personally interest him. He recoiled from any human relationship which did not embody largely the element of companionship. What possibility of companionship was there in a creature whose energy of body and brain was all consumed by crocheting, Berlin wool, inane novels, and personal finery? This creature, woman, as she lived in his opinion and prejudice, aroused in him a sense of injury and even of resentment, of which he was not conscious. Mentally he blamed her severely for being what she was, even while he believed her constitutionally incapable of attaining to the highest heights in any direction. His sense of injury came from the conclusion in his own mind that woman as woman had never done anything for him. He ac knowledged his need of her as a force in his being and life, even while he assumed her inadequacy to supply it. Because she was what she was, his nature stood alone, his sympathies ran low, his heart was apathetic, his affections dry as dust: this was his deliberate conclusion, arrived at with an indolent bitterness. A very young man who felt very old, he was like all men at least in this, that while he believed his virtues to be all his own, his failures he thought were caused by other people. It was true that in life and character he owed little to women. Losing his mother in babyhood, he grew through childhood the pet, plaything, and butt of an aunt, shallow in brain, weak in purpose, but mighty in hysteria. With divided tenderness and fury she took care of him. He never ceased to be grateful to her for such love as she had given him, but all his gratitude was veined with a sense of pity and contempt for her character. It was but natural that he should now feel old, for it seemed to him that he had never been young. As he looked back he knew that he emerged too early from a wretched boyhood, conscious of a fearful lack in his life if not in his nature, and filled with wonder that he lived at all. The only explanation which he could find to so unsatisfactory an existence was in the certainty of another. He grew to a sure faith of the life to come, and in contemplating the fulfilments of its fair thereafter, he found the only sufficing solution to the imperfect days which now tantalized him, troubled him, yet inspired him ever to aspiration and endeavor, whose fruition waited far beyond their horizon. His favorite theme was the future life as a continuation, and sequence, and reward of the present one. His sermons on this subject had given him his reputation as a preacher. When he preached of the everlasting life as an influence and an inspiration in this unsatisfying and transitory one; of the husbandhood and wifehood, the fatherhood and motherhood, too divine to be reached in fading outward forms, to be realized there in types of life full and sweet beyond our conception, through the working on of the perfect law of the hereafter, he was strong, vivifying, uplifting to all who hearkened. But when he attempted to deal with human life as we find it, with the daily struggle of men and women in the ruck and shard of every day, he was weak. He was perhaps too keenly conscious of the incompleteness of every human relationship, every human effort; but of the long process of pain, disappointment, failure, submission, from whence such unsatisfying results grow, he knew but little from observation, and less from experience. He had not lived long enough for that. In his strictures upon human life and relationships he proved that he was very young. The study of theology, divine as it is in the abstract, if filtered through half-experiences, and applied by a mind concentrated and prejudiced, often warps and belittles it to a painful degree. Athel Dane's theology helped to hold him a blameless man, no doubt, but it had failed to make him a nobler one. He had never tested it in any stress of soul, such as may overtake one in the clash and clamor of the world, or in some silent strait of the inward life, when the very foundations of being seem to collapse and to sink from under one. He was too familiar for his own amiability with the frets, worries, and gnat-like exasperations of daily existence; but to the isolated sorrow which smites to crush the soul, or to prove the utmost test of its spiritual strength, as it soars above it purified and exalted, he was a stranger. He was a natural student. The various languages which he knew unlocked to him the lore of many races, and of the dim elder ages. His life was in his books, in his thoughts and theories, and in the elemental world in whose contact only he felt somewhat of the rush of freedom, strength, and power which belonged to the primeval man. This unity with natural forces had so fed the sources of manful life that Hebrew roots, Greek particles, and juiceless theology combined had failed to dry them up. The conflicting forces of his nature had never been reconciled. It was full of sharp contrasts which needed a potent harmonizer to bring forth symmetry of character. In contact with others he seemed self-assured beyond the possibility of receiving help from any human being, yet in secret he sighed over his inward inadequacy to extract a sense of peace from all his combined powers. His temperament seemed out of tune with that of almost every one whom he met. Nobody seemed to be necessary to him, yet in the silence of his soul he felt a sense of human loneliness which he himself did not understand. If he felt an unfeigned pleasure in thinking of the fulfilments of the world to come, he felt no less an ever-present under-protest against the incompleteness of the tangible world in which he moved and had his being. His nature was at war against itself. Thus far not even "grace" had reconciled its inward discords or wrought through pain and sacrifice into living experience the sweet fulfilment of the gospel of peace. When he turned his back on his problems and polemics, and mounted on his powerful steed rode forth to the vastness of the plains, and the grandeur of the mountain-tops, he reached his highest ultimatum of strength and of content. In such moments his being gained an equilibrium. Nature was centripetal to the man. She drew him toward herself in full accord. No alien thought could drive them asunder. Thus he thought after a gallop out of Dufferin one day, as he dropped the reins idly and allowed his horse to walk on at its leisure. After riding up and down high hills and through narrow valleys for ten miles and more, he had gained a lofty plateau. Far below him was the cultivated vale with its farm-houses, its yellow fields, its groves of sugar maple with their banners of crimson, gold, and green burning in the September sunshine. Far away on its lofty plain stretched the stately expanse of Dufferin Street, its distant spires sending forth a far-off gleam. Still beyond, three distinct ranges of mountains rose in succession, the farthest notching with deep sapphire the pale azure of the sky. Between them, two lakes had cast down their shields, their sheen flashing through the open gates of the nearer hills. Ten miles distant were the stone mansions and ambitious spires, the thrifty cottages, the small trade, the idle tattle of Dufferin Street, that repeated all the world of men and women in miniature. About him were the log-houses of the pioneers, smouldering amid their scanty fields and grazing herds; before him stretched. the native forest, the topmost stings of the firs piercing the air like the needles of innumerable spires, while giant maples and elms met in mid-air, like a minster dome. Impatience, weariness of what he had left behind, rather than any longing for the solitude before him (for he was always solitary), seemed vaguely to propel him onward. His closely observant faculties took in all around him, while through his unrestful soul stole a consciousness of peace. After the dust and prying eyes of Dufferin Street, it was a restful relief, this narrow forest road, as silent of human voices, as if mortal had never entered it, yet all interpenetrated with the pervading music of the universe. The bough of a beech-tree brushed his face, yet the squirrel on it, blinking and nibbling the nut in its hand, did not move from its perch.. A partridge hopped slowly across the road, and the near stride of the horse's feet did not cause him to hop a pulse faster. The desire to destroy, instinct in the original man, rose quick and eager in the pulses of Athel Dane at the sight of such game. "Why didn't I bring a rifle!" he exclaimed involuntarily, for the instant losing the priest in the man, and forgetting that the sight of a shooting minister with a gun would have set all Dufferin agog. "I have no natural life," said youth and manhood half bitterly to the priest. The next instant the Rev. Athel Dane wondered how he could make such a remark even to himself. He came to the end of the woods, to behold to his astonishment on one side a remarkable sight a field of ripe wheat rippling in the sun, a grassy meadow, a crystal spring, a log-house covered with crimsoning vines, a small, dark lake fringed with willows, and an abrupt precipice with firs, silver birches, and fluttering poplars flinging their green and gold about its bastions and battlements, while it thrust a scarred and castellated summit far up into the air. He paused and gazed upon the scene. It seemed born of utter isolation and perfect peace. The loghouse was alone with nature. More, it seemed itself but an outgrowth of the earth, and as if in tint and bloom it had been almost resumed back to its original elements. As lowly as any he had passed, it wore an ideality of aspect which a moment before he would have believed impossible of such a structure. It was opulent in fruit and bloom. It smiled amid its ungathered harvests as if from a cradle of plenty. It bore an aspect of prosperity remarkable in such a place, and in a region where poverty and privation were the rule. It could be the result only of the most intelligent thrift; but it was touched with a grace born of a quality beyond mere intelligence, a love of beauty cultivated and refined into artistic forms. These conclusions of Athel Dane were arrested by a faint human sigh. It was not a sigh of grief, but of relief. A little girl had been gazing upon him so long with suspended breath that now she was obliged to catch it again or to relinquish it altogether. As he heard the sigh Athel Dane turned his head suddenly, impatiently almost, to think that even here he was not alone; but in the same breath a thrill of pleasure stirred his heart. There on the edge of the wood, surrounded by ferns and mosses and vermilion-mottled leaves which she had gathered, and which she was now weaving into wreaths and crosses, sat a little girl-the same, though grown and changed, that Athel Dane found in his church-yard and led to her mother years before. Few objects of personal interest came into his life for him to remember, and she had lived in his memory as an exceptionally beautiful child. He inquired after her once, to learn that she was the child of the village milliner, of whose brief artistic reign in Dufferin not even he was ignorant, and that she vanished with her mother, whither he did not take the trouble to ask; yet there had been moments more than once when the vision of the child came "Do you know me, little maid?" he asked with a swift smile which could be enchanting, it broke so like sudden light out of darkness. 66 Yes, sir; you are the rector from Dufferin. You took me home to my mamma once, when I ran away for a butterfly." "You were a very little girl then. I am surprised that you remember it," in a tone of delight. "I was five years old then. I'm ten now." "Do you live here all alone?" pointing to the loghouse. "No, sir; I live with my mamma, and with Evelyn, and with Jim. Tom is married and lives on the other side of the Pinnacle." "Who is Evelyn, and Jim, and Tom?" My name is Vida; Vida Darcy, I guess. Darcy is mamma's name. Nobody ever calls me anything but Vida.” "Did you ever go to school?" "No, sir. My mamma teaches me." "Does she teach you your catechism?" "No, sir. I never saw a catechism. What is it?" "It is a book that will teach you how to be good; every little child should study it." "It can't teach me how to. be good, better than the Bible, can it? My mamma teaches me Bible lessons. I know the Sermon on the Mount and the Ten Commandments and the Lord's Prayer, the fourteenth chapter of St. John, and ever and ever so many more verses," said Vida warmly, wishing to be polite, for in her heart she liked this tall, dark rector, yet vaguely feeling called upon to defend her mother. 66 Nothing can teach you how to be good like the Bible. But the catechism teaches you how to understand the Bible aright," said the priest, who had already silenced the man. "Has your mother ever taught you the Thirty-nine Articles?" "No, sir. I never heard of them. What are they? They are the doctrines of the church, and you are, old enough to learn them. Can you say the creed: 'I believe in God the Father and" "Yes, sir." "And you believe it, don't you?" "Yes, sir;" and Vida arose with alacrity, taking the autumn wreaths which she had completed upon her arm. It was the missionary who had spoken last; even he was not so absorbed in the thought of bringing a stray lamb of the church into its fold but he observed, as she stood up, her unusual height for a child of her years, and her still more unusual beauty. Her hair fell about her slender waist like a fleece of gold, and her eyes looked forth large and lucent as a fawn's. As she ran before him across the meadow to the house, he observed also that this child of the solitude did not look rustic, even in her simple attire. "Oh, mamma!" she exclaimed under her breath, as |