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We none of us know one tiiiotlier,
And often in error we fall,
So let us speak well of each other,
Or speak not at all.
A smile or a sign may awaken
Suspicions most false and undue;
And thus our belief may be shaken
In hearts that are honest and true.
How often the light smiles of gladness
Is worn by a friend that we meet,
To cover a soul full of sadness,
Too proud to acknowledge defeat.
How often the friends M^e love dearest,
Their noblest emotions conceal;
And bosoms the purest, sincerest,
Have secrets they cannot reveal.
How often the sigh of dejection
Is heaved from the hypocrite’s breast;
To parody truth and affection,
Or lull a suspicion to lest.
Leave base minds to harbor suspicion.
And small ones to trace our defects;
Let ours be a nobler ambition.
For base is the mind that suspects.
We none of us know one another.
And oft into error we fall;
So let us Si^eak well of each other,
Or speak not at all.
The Young Wife’s Dilemma.
My wedding tour was a trip to Niaga
ra. How I enjoyed the scenery along
the railway ! My husband left our car
to spend half an hour, as he said, among
r.he smokers. He had scarcely gone out,
when a lady, who had been occupying a
seat on the other side, rose and came
toward me.
I had particularly noticed her neat at
tire, and youthful appearance, wonder
ing to see her traveling alone. She wore
a plain, gray poplin dress, trimmed with
black braid, and a tunic and straw bon
net, with wide ribbon strings, and pink
rose buds inside. Her gray barege veil
was thrown lighth’back, and she placed
her little gloved hand on the back of the
seat, and looked in my face with an earn
est appealing expression, w'hioh interest
ed me at once.
“May I sit by your side a few mo
ments?” she asked, timidly, and in a
■very low tone.
“Certainly,” I replied, making room
for her by taking up a book that lay on
the seat.
After a moment’s silence, she said :
“Indeed, I ought to ask your forgive
ness for coming to you ; but I have been
looking at every lady in the oar, and I
find not one to whom I dare speak but
yourself. You look as if you would lis
ten to me,”
I turned and looked her full in the face,
moved by the unmistakable tone of deep
feeling. She was evidently very young
and extremely prepossessing in appear
ance. Her features were regular and
delicately molded ; her complexion was
fair, and her low forehead was banded
ith masses of soft, brown hair j her eyes
were large, and dark gray, shaded by
very long lashes.
It was the eyes that most attracted me.
There was a tender shyness in their
■depths, and I saw that they were suffused
with moisture. My sympathy was stir
red as I asked her what I could do for
her. She hesitated, and I could see that
she trembled.
“I shall he glad to assist you.” And I
made a move to draw out my purse.
She started, and colored painfully, as
she prevented me.
“Not that, madam,” she exclaimed;
“I do not want that kind of help. But I
do want advice. Oh, madam,
great—very great distress !”
“You have lost a friend?” I asked,
tears welling into my own eyes as I
thought of such an affliction of my own.
“No, ma’am ; that is, if you mean by
death!” she faltered, with a kind of dry
gasping sob, as if her heart w'ere aching
wdth grief. “I may have lost my best
friend : at least—oh forgive me ! How I
wish I could be certain what to do.”
She oov.iiedher face and burst into
passionate tears. I soothed her gently,
and after a short time, she was able to
tell her story.
She was a young wife, and had keen
married a little less than a year. Pier
husband lived in Rochester and was a
lumber merchant. She had left him a
few weeks before to pay a visit to her
mother, who lived on a farm beside the
Hudson river not far from Albany.
“Oh, madam, I was so happy there. I
cannot tell you how happy. It was my
first visit; and to be at home once more
with my dear mother and young sisters,
and my brothers on the farm ; and all so
lovely at this pleasant season. Was I
wrong to be so happy ?”
“Wrong. Surely not,” I replied.
“I wrote,” she continued, “to tell my
husband what a delightful visit I was
enjoying at home, I wrote many times
and got no answer. At last he sent me
this.”
She diew out a folded paper from her
satchel, and handed it to me, bidding me
read it. As I did so she turned, so that
her face was concealed. But I knew she
was weeping.
It was a short letter, but written in
correct language, showing the hand of a
man of education. But every line was
barbed with refined cruelty. He express
ed satisfaction in hearing that Emily—so
he called her—was so very happy as she
deserved herself; it was certainly natu
ral that she should enjoy the society of
her nearest kindred ; and he could not
blame her, nor regret it. On the contra
ry, he was glad of it; and he proposed to
her to extend indefinitely the visit she
was enjoying so much, Indeed, he really
thought it would be far the best thing
for her to remain with her mother and
family, and not to return to him at all.
He would send her money whenever she
wanted it. In urging her to stay with
her relations, he seemed to have made up
his mind to insist upon a separation.
The poor young wife looked eagerly in
my face as I handed her back the letter.
“What do you think of it?” she asked,
in a quivering voice.
It is not a kind letter,” I began.
“Oh, but my husband was always kind
to me—always !” she exclaimed quickly,
“And he loved vou?”
“He seemed to love me. Why else
did he want me to marry him ?’’ she ask
ed innocently.
“True. And you loved—you love
him ?"
She clasped her hands and her eyes
filled again. No need of answer in
words.
“What ought I to do?” she asked,
searching my face with anxious scrutiny.
What is the best thing to do after receiv
ing such a letter ?”
“What did your own heart at first
prompt you to do?”
“To go to my husband at once,” was
her emphatic reply. “So I came directly
I did not wait an hour to think of it
though they all said I should not come,”
“You did right 1” I exclaimed. “Just
right /”
“Did I? Oh, I am so glad you think
so /” and in her girlish impulse she seized
my hand and pressed it closely in both
hers, “But they all reproached me for
coming after a man who had shown he
did not care for me, and wanted to be rid
of me ; and after I came into the oar I
began to think perhaps they were in the
right, and my husband did not want me,
and that after he had written to desire me
to stay away from him, he might think
me forward and indelicate in coming
back directly. Do you think, madam, I
can be supposed too forward in doing
so?”
“Too forward ?” I echoed. My dear
child”—I felt myself quite the matron,
“it is not a lover you are gping to reclaim.'’
It is your husband. Who has a better
right to go to him, or to be with him ?”
“So I thought—so I think,” the young
creature said, her face suffused with a
blush I thought infinitely becoming.
“But—”
“But what, child ? Surely there can
be no objection—■”
She looked down, and her face was
pale again. At length she said, with a
timid hesitation,—
“My husband is very much my supe.--
rior. He has had a splendid education;
has bee.n through college, and has min
gled ;n excellent society in the large cit^
ies. I never could converse with him on
many subjects, for I have had only plain
schooling, and I never was much in socie
ty. He may have found out that I could
not make"him happy, and he may really
wish to oast me off.”
“It is not possible,” cried I calching
her hand, and controlling with difficulty
the impulse I felt to clasp her in mv
arms. “It cannot be that any man who
is not a downright fool would wish to
lose such a sweet little wife, who loves
him as you do. No, no, dear. If your
husband is a man of culture, he will prize
you all the more, knowing how rare such
women are. And, besides, yon can edu
cate yourself to his level.”
“Can I ?” she asked, her eyes dilating.
“Certainly. I have often heard of wo
men acquiring a noble education after
marriage. But yon must apply yourself
and study—study hard.”
“I will, oh, I will,” .she exclaimed.
“What a blessing you are to me, dear
madam. I will study with all my might.
Be sure of that.”
“And you must seek guidance and as
sistance,” I went on, solemnly, “from one
who never fails to listen to prayer. Are
you in the habit of praying ?”
She stooped her face, and I saw
glistening on her crimson cheeks.
“I have not prayed as I might,’
answered, “but I will—I will—from this
time forward.”
“Ther, you may be sure of success,” I
said, encouragingly.
Some minutes passed, while the train
stopped at a station. After we had start
ed again, she said,—
“I thank you, madam, so much. But
foi what you have said to me I should
have got off here, and taken the train to
my mother’s. I felt so afraid my hus
band would not w.elcome me.”
“He lives—you said—•”
“In Rochester. I am doubtful now
what to do when I get there. I have an
aunt living in the city. Shall I go to
her house and rest, and stop all night,' or
send word to my husband, and wait for
his answer. What would you advise
me ?■’
She was trembling, and her rapid
change of color showed that she was suf
fering from suppressed excitement. I
considered a moment and then counselled
her to stop first at the house of her aunt,
and when she felt rested and able to go
to her husband before sending him any
word. She decided on doing this, I asked
her name, and wrote it down, handing
her my own card. I begged her to write
to me, feeling anxious to know the re,suit
We were in Rochester long before dark
and I had my husband to assist the young
stranger to alight. On the third day
afterward I received a letter from her ^
She had stopped at her aunt’s, audit
was her intention to remain till the next
■day, Blither impatience would not let
her stop. She walked to her husband’s
place of business. He had an office in
the lumber yard, and was seated at his
desk writing when the slight figure of his
wife appeared in the doorway. As fig
turned to see who it was, she sprang for-
ward, flung her arms round his neck and
exclaimed, sobbing,—
“0 George ! Are you not glad to see
me .? How could you think I would stay
away from you
That was all the reproach she gave
him, and it sufficed. The husband was
all penitence in a moment for his absurd
jealousy and his cruel letter. The yo-jng
wife's letter to me expressed so much
gratitude that I verily believe shetho’t
me the author of her happiness.
I imagined afterward the consequence
if she had fallen into the hands of a
“strong minded woman,” or a proud one
ivho would t^ave deemed it due to the dig
nity of her sex to obey the unkind man
date she had received, and leave a hus
band so unfeeling. The wife’s loving
heart pointed out the best -way ; and I
always took some credit to myself for the
“word spoken in season.”
tears
she
A Tradition of Saratoga Lake,
MilliamL. Stone, in Harper's Maga
zine fur August, says : There is an Indian
superstition attached to this lake which
probably had its source in its remarkable
loneliness and tranquility. The Mohawks
believed that its stillness was s.acred to
the great spirit, and that if a human voice
uttered a sound upon its waters, the canoe
of the offender would instantly sink. A
story is told of an Englishwoman in the
early days of the first settlors, who had
occasion to cross this lake with a party
of Indians who, before embarking, warn
ed her most impressively of the spell. It
was a silent, breathless day, and the ca
noe shot over the surface of the lake like
an arrow. About half a mile from the
shore, near the centre of the lake, the
woman, wishing to convince the Indians
of the erroneousness of their superstition,
uttered a loud cr}'. The countenances of
the Indians fell instantly to the deepest
gloom. After a minute's pause, however
they redoubled their exertions, and in
frowning silence drove the light bark
swiftly over the waters. They reached
the shore in safety, and drew up the ca
noe, when the woman rallied the chief on
his credulity. “The great spirit is mer
ciful,” answered the scornful Mohawk;
“he knows that a white woman cannot
hold her tongue!”
The Great Light.
The Ancient Accepted Rite of Mason
ry, around whose altars the Christian, the
Hebrew, the Moslem, the Brahmin, the
followers of Zoroaster can assemble as
brethren, and unite in prayer to the one
God, who is above all, the Baalim, must
needs leave it to each of its initiates to
look for the foundation of his faith and
hope to the written scriptures of his own
religion. For itself it finds those truths
definite enough, which are written by the
finger of God upon the heart of man and
on the pages of the book of nature.—Ex,
You will notice that when a boy steps
on a Canada thistle, or sticks a splinter
into his foot, it is invariably a few min
utes before school or work time.