utterly in partial spirit (as if she ever could), his little wife sometimes wondered if passers-by would not think him a tr.Se erow-looking in the abstract, and if they could ever imagine what this same preoccupied man was to her. moved to sympathy by the queerest and most disjointed narratives, which any moderately sharp woman would have seen through at once. went. Two women, who called themselves "oftens "-a good Barises trazected and shop-windows gazed into- name, Hope, said, on the whole, though not conveying Hope dearly loved shop-windows, and John never seemed exactly what they meant to express-were haunting him in a hurry when he was with her-they took their dinner constantly; now borrowing money to pay their room-rent, "on the European plan." This was another poetical now the means of taking themselves off somewhere per£etion of Mra John's, and simply meant that they patron-manently-a journey, by-the-way, upon which they never ized the eteapest restaurant that was good and respectable, and, carefully counting the cost beforehand, got as nice a live diaser as the money left for this purpose would purchase But Hope always had ber ice-cream-for John langbingly said that she was like the children in her fondLea for sweet things, and, if left to herself, would order nothing but dessert for dinner; and with his good management or self-denial (which, John ?) the money invariably held out for this indulgence. Then the coming home, with John's arm to lean upon, and the gloating over their purchases after they got there, like two happy children-it was simply delicious. Each of the litte houses in Avon Place had its two tiny parlors, separated by folding-doors, and its small diningroom at the end of the hall; but John Chestlewaite had turned the two parlors into one by taking away the doors altogether, and this made a very respectably-sized room. He had constructed a famous sofa, too, out of a huge packing-box; it had springs and the softest of cushions, and was covered in the most lovely Oriental-looking fashion with some mysterious fabric in stripes. The prevailing hues were scarlet, black and cream-color, effectively embroidered with zephyr; and Mrs. Hope whispered in confidence to a friend that the chief ingredients in this gorgeons covering were scarlet flannel, unbleached muslin and old black velvet, feather-stitched with odds and ends of worsted. A pile of cushions in one corner, before which was spread a Moorish-looking rug, was treated in the same way. Mr. and Mrs. Chestlewaite laughingly declared that they had set up housekeeping with these two pieces of furniture and some pictures, and had given the whole of their minds to every added article. This was the room in which they lived, evenings, at least, and it had just the brightest, coziest, most home-like look that a room could possibly have. There was always a low-down grate fire-Hope declared that she would rather go without butter on her bread and sugar in her coffee (they eschewed tea) than not have this, and John ditto; and the centre-table, with a brilliant Argand burner, was always covered with the newest periodicals. John's handsome books were arranged in an Eastlake affair which he had made himself at odd moments, with a little help from the carpenter in turning; and which he proudly declared had cost him just one dollar. Successfully ebonized, and the shelves trimmed with scarlet fringe and brass-headed nails, it was a very pretty and serviceable piece of furniture. There were a number of fine engravings, the frames of home-manufacture and very tasteful, odd-looking brackets and all sorts of nicknacks. Everything about the house seemed to look a little different from what other people had; and this is always a charm of itself. People said it was a little Paradise, and Adam and Eve enjoyed it hugely. They were considered the model couple of Avon Place, and their popularity was unbounded. There was only one flaw in John's otherwise perfect character-he was too soft-hearted. All sorts of females in distress took advantage of him, and rifled his pockets of change that he could ill-afford to spare; and he was But there was another woman of higher grade who clung, ivy-like, to John Chestlewaite, and whom little Mrs. Chestlewaite did not approve of at all. John, she knew, was as good as gold-true metal all the way through; but these women bothered him and took his time from her, until she felt very much like disposing of them after the fashion of dealing with superfluous kittens. Miss Diver, the person in question, had never been to the house; her attacks on Mr. Chestlewaite were made at his office. She excused herself by saying that she was quite alone in the world, and had no friend or relative to aid her, and was obliged to depend upon the efforts of her pen for her support. She had frequently heard of Mr. Chestlewaite's kindness, and his influence, etc., would be of great advantage to her. Couldn't he introduce her to some newspaper men who would be likely to give her employment? He both could and would; for John's soft heart was particularly touched at the thought of a woman's having to come in contact and drive bargains with men for her daily bread-suppose it were Hope, instead? So he took Miss Diver figuratively on his broad shoulders, and by dint of considerable trouble and much running after sundry editors, he managed to put her in the way of making a few hundreds a year. The young lady's bright eyes were decidedly keen, and she proved a very sharp business-woman, being sent finally as correspondent to Washington. Here she haunted all the society mansions from whence issued sounds of revelry by night-how she effected an entrance to many of them being best known to herself-and wrote the most personal and gossiping letters that had appeared for many a day. Hope Chestlewaite was genuinely glad when Miss Diver was thus comfortably disposed of, and the Winter passed pleasantly and swiftly into Spring. Why is it that, at this hopeful season, when all nature seems calling upon us to rejoice, untoward circumstances so often force us to mourn? Avon Place was putting on its prettiest dress, and the little gardens gave promise of speedy and abundant bloom, when there came to John Chestlewaite's wife, without any previous clouding of her peaceful sky, a sudden blackness of darkness that she will never forget if she lives to wear a crown of silvery hair, John had kissed her good-by, as usual, some little time before noon, saying that he would be late that night, probably as late as two A. M., and she must not sit up for him; and away went the wife, singing, to her household duties, and away went her husband, whistling, down the street. It was a busy day, and toward evening Hope stole out for a little fresh air, and had quite a chat with Mr. Richards, the florist. She could not resist his violets, in whose little purple chalices the very essence of the Spring seemed to be distilled-ah ! how faint the odor of violets made her for long months after !—and he gave her such a generous supply for the small sum she felt able to invest in such perishable property, that the parlor was filled with fragrance. It was such a darling room, thought the little wife, as. she seemed to have some particular call to make it prettier | some absurd and disconnected story. What would John than ever to-night. She looked like a picture herself, with go to England for with Miss Diver? She took up his coat her brown hair waved back over her neat little head, and that lay across the back of a chair. There was a rattle of three long thick curls falling from the comb behind, as paper in the pocket. Just like him, exactly !-her letter, John liked to see them; her garnet-colored cashmere, too, of course, that she gave him to mail on Tuesday morning; with its dainty white ruffles, was his favorite dress. She he changed his coat on Wednesday for a thinner one-and was no longer pale, for she looked plump and blooming | here it was. now, and there was an unutterable light of happiness in her eyes. She sewed and read until she was tired; and, for a wonder, no one came in that evening. Then she sent her little maid to bed, and kept up the watch alone. It was foolish, of course, when he had to be out late so often; but she had taken it into her head to watch for John that night, and watch she would. Two o'clock came and past, but no John-three-four; and the first rays of dawn, peering curiously into the pretty parlor in Avon Place, discovered the haggard, sleeping face of the little mistress nestled among the cushions of the lounge. There were ashes now where a cheery blaze had been; and the pitiless sunshine, growing stronger and stronger, made everything look faded and cold. Hope suddenly roused herself from her uneasy slumber, and sat up wide awake, painfully conscious of the fact that John had not come in. Poor fellow how hard he must have worked all night 1-a press of extra writing, probably, for that troublesome paper; very likely he was scratching away now for dear life. She would hasten Gretchen with the coffee-he might return any moment, and would surely need it. What a slave's life it was, to be sure! But at nine o'clock the master had not appeared; and his anxious wife sent the little German girl down to the office to see what it meant. She brought back a note from the senior editor saying that Mr. Chestle waite had not been at the office since Tuesday (it was now Thursday), and he had been on the point of calling at the house to see what detained him. This was frightful-where could John possibly be? Murders, accidents, all sorts of horrors, rushed into her mind; and she sat holding her head; perfectly bewildered, and not knowing which way to turn, when somebody was announced. A tall, grim man, with a kinder heart than he seemed to have, and who came to give the poor little woman what comfort he could. He knew the husband and wife well, and it had struck him as strange, the day before, when he saw John going on board an English steamer with a showylooking young lady. Mrs. Chestlewaite was not with them, and he wondered what it meant. It is astonishing how such news travels; and before she knew it herself, quite a number of Hope Chestlewaite's friends and acquaintances were aware of the fact that she had been shamefully deserted. Hope Jooked as if she was listening to Mr. Baskell's account of his last sight of John Chestlewaite, which he tried, poor man, to make as little painful as possible; but she did not appear to think that it particularly concerned her. There was no interruption, rather to the speaker's embarrassment; she grew white and still as he went on, and when he had quite finished, she said, very calmly : "Thank you, Mr. Baskell-there is some mistake about this," and glided from the room. He picked up his hat without a thought of anger at her unceremonious departure, and feeling deeply for the poor little wife, went back to his ledger. Hope Chestlewaite went up to her room and tried to collect herself. It seemed to her that she had been told She drew it forth; a letter, certainly, but not hers. It began: "DEAR FRIEND: Not much use, you will think, perhaps, in writing to you to-day, when we are so soon to meet; but knowing of old your gift for forgetting things, I venture to remind you that of adieu. Yours, as ever, the steamer sails at three. I am so glad that it is au revoir instead LOUISE. She turned white to her very lips, and read and reread the note until she could repeat every word in it. Louise-Louise-ah, yes-Louise Diver-she saw it all now. John had left her for that bold, forward woman; and with this terrible conviction, a merciful fit of insensibility came to her aid, as she dropped limp and helpless upon the bed. She never knew how long 'she staid there. Gretchen came up and looked at her, finally, and then dashed some cold water in her face in her kind, clumsy fashion; and Hope Chestlewaite came slowly back to life and wretchedness. All that day, the poor wife wandered aimlessly about the house, having given Gretchen strict orders that no one should be admitted; and when she went to bed at night, it seemed to her as if she must go mad. She had tried to pray, but that heavy iron weight of misery pressed her down to earth. Several times in the night she heard John's knock at the bedroom door, as when he staid out late at work, and she, little coward that she was, had fastened herself in, but, on going to welcome him, she gazed into the darkness of blank space. It seemed to her that she had lived a lifetime in that one night; but with the dawn of Friday there came back some of her old strength. For Hope Chestlewaite was a proud woman-prouder than she knew; and she began to reflect that this man whom she had idolized had not been snatched from her by death-if he had been, she would have mourned for him all her days; he had voluntarily left her for a woman who was in every way her inferior, deliberately disgracing himself and her, and forcing her to provide for herself as best she might. She Hers was sorrow with a sting in it; but she resolved to hide this sting as much as possible from the world. went quietly about her household duties as usual, folded up all John's clothes-he seemed to have taken nothing with him-and put them carefully away; locked up his papers, which she scorned to examine after that note, and, finally, asked herself what she was going to do. Stay where she was, for one thing; whatever came, she would try to keep her home. She had her own little bankaccount-ber savings when a teacher, and both she and John had resolved not to touch this; but now it would be a great help until she had decided upon some means of support. She could go back to teaching, if she chose; but she felt disposed to try something different. Sometimes she had laughingly threatened to write a book, but John always discouraged this. He did not want his wife, he said, to become a blue-stocking, or to enter into the struggle for money-he thought it demoralizing. Now, however, since he had left her to the struggle, Hope resolved to exercise the gift that she believed herself to possess. She sat down to her desk with a purpose; and having A new novel had fairly taken the public by storm; and the little woman who wrote it sat, one dull October afternoon, with a check in her lap that she had just received from her publisher, and which was so much more than she expected, that it seemed almost fabulous. Hope Chestlewaite was thankful for the money; it would cover many a need-but she sat there by her lonely fireside, thinking that, after all, she was feeding upon husks in place of the love she still missed so sorely. She must have fallen into a doze-surely, she was asleep now and dreaming; for a night-key turned in the front-door lock-a familiar footstep sounded in the halla familiar voice was in her ear; there was the well-known clasp and the tender tones: "My darling!" But Hope was wide awake now, and she pushed this man who had been her husband from her-how dared he to pollute her with his touch after what had been? A dreadful Enoch Arden sort of feeling took possession of John Ches tlewaite; but it could not beit was not like Hope, and yet she wore no mourning. "You did not think me dead, then?" he asked, bewildered. "No,"replied his wife in clear, ringing tones that were laden with scorn, "I did not think you dead, because I knew you to be alive." "Hope, my darling! I have been very near death. Have you no welcome for me?" "What did that woman write you such a note for and sign herself 'Louise'? And you did go with her on the steamer-Mr. Baskell saw you." "That is easily explained, darling. She signed herself 'Louise' because she signs that to everything-it is her nom de plume, you know. She came to the office the day before to tell me that the Bugle was sending her to London as special correspondent, and to thank me for all my kindness to her, as she said, though I really did not do very much for her, after all. Then I remember that she cried, and said she felt her lonely position so much” Hope made a remark here which John smothered in kisses. "And what a comfort it would be to her if I did not mind it very much to have me see her on board the steamer. I did not feel that I could refuse this, particularly as it was to be the last of her; and I did not mention it to you, simply because I knew that you thought Miss Diver a nuisance. But, Hope, darling! I never CONVENT OF THE SISTERS OF "OUR LADY OF THE ROSARY," NEW YORK CITY. SEE PAGE 170. She almost relented, his face looked so thin and wan in the firelight-she could see that he had suffered. But did he not deserve to? Had she not suffered ?" She forced herself to ask: "Where is Miss Diver ?" "I have not the least idea," he replied, more and more amazed. "I saw her last on a steamer bound for England." "John-John Chestlewaite !"-his quick ear caught the agony in her tones-"do you mean to deny that you went with that woman to England ?" "I do, indeed," said he, emphatically, as he caught her again in his arms. "I have not been in England at all, but in a hospital in Calcutta. Do I look like a strong, well man ?" "Oh, John-John!" and the little aching head was buried in its old nestling-place with a flood of remorseful tears. What had become of the dignified stand she intended to take if this man presumed to claim her again? John Chestlewaite sat down once more at his own fireside with his wife on his knee; but Hope half broke away again, as she cried out : dreamed of your putting any such construction on my desire to help a fellow-creature. You believe this, don't you ?" Hope had to say "Yes." "I would have seen Miss Diver at the bottom of the Red Sea first!" continued John, quite fiercely, considering his gentle nature. "But the poor girl really was not to blame. She has a hard life of it. I understood the note perfectly, and thought nothing of it. She seemed delighted to think that she would have some one to see her off, as she was going alone-women think so much of these things, you knowand she was so afraid of my forgetting the engagement until it was too late that she scratched off these lines to remind me. So much for Miss Diver." But John Chestlewaite was not allowed to tell his story in peace. While he was explaining about Miss Diver, his wife interrupted him to ask how he got into an hospital, and what took him to Calcutta ; and when he attempted to answer these questions, she insisted upon having his connections with Miss D. satisfactorily accounted for. It was well into the night before the whole matter was fairly understood; and then Hope felt quite ashamed of herself; although John good-naturedly declared that, under the circumstances, her view of the case was perfectly natural. How could she know that, having run back and forth about Miss Diver's luggage, that was detained until the last moment, exposed to the direct rays of an unusually hot April sun, he had a sort of stroke on board the vessel, just as it was about starting, much to to Miss D.'s concern and distress; that he was carried off to Sandy Hook before he recovered his senses; then, in a dazed condition, with the one idea of getting home again, he hired a leaky boat and a half-drunken sailor at dusk; that a sudden squal upset their miserable little craft and nearly drowned them; and that they were rescued by a brig bound to Calcutta, on which John Chestlewaite was taken in a perfectly insensible condition? He had overtasked his brain for some time past, and now utter prostration and fever ensued, so that when they reached the East Indian capital he was handed over to the hospital authorities as a sick stranger without money or friends. Months of illness followed, but to the sufferer this time was a perfect blank. Fortunately for him, he had fallen into skillful hands and had excellent nursing, and by slow degrees he regained his hold on life and reason. The patient insisted upon starting on his return voyage before the doctor would pronounce him fully able to do so, and the kindly M. D., seeing him bent on his purpose, advanced the necessary funds, to be repaid on his arrival. He neither wrote nor telegraphed on the way, because he wanted to take Hope by surprise, and he knew that she must be mourning him as dead long before this. Over and over again had he pictured to himself the scene of their meeting. But Hope was crying hard now. How she had wronged him all this time! And, in spite of John's defense of her, she hated Miss Diver more than ever. The reader, if a woman, will say that this was quite natural. "What is this ?" asked the returned truant, as he picked up the slip of paper that had fallen to the floor. Hope confessed, rather timidly, that she had been writing a book; but John only laughed at the idea, while he congratulated her upon her success. "To tell you the truth," said he, "I thought that you were too sweet a home sunbeam to make anything of a scribbler, and so I discouraged you on principle. I never would have known your full value, you see, if I had not run away from you!" RELIGIOUS FESTIVAL IN ANAM. THE people of Anam, like those of India and China, depend almost entirely on rice for their nourishment. It is the staple crop, and a general or partial failure entails the greatest misery, often a famine that sweeps off thousands. When a drought sets in, all Anam is moved, and heaven is besieged with sincere prayer for rain. The mode of propitiation is, however, peculiar. A great festival is instituted in honor of the gods, which lasts a whole day and a night. By day, the main feature is a boat-race between very long periauguas, each holding some forty men, and adorned, stem and stern, with monstrous carved heads. They are decorated with red-andwhite banners, and carry gongs, which the rowers beat from time to time to produce the most deafening sounds. Bad as this is, they heighten the din by fearful howls and yells. The winning boat has a danger not permitted in our races. Those behind are permitted to upset the winning boat if they cannot pass it, and they use this permission without scruple. To avoid those collisions the boats cross and recross, giving the scene the appearance of a fantastic dance. Some are sure to go over, but lives are seldom lost, as the Anamites swim well. In the evening takes place a hacboy, or dramatic entertainment. Their dramas are always of the old heroic days of demigods and ancient kings, with an orchestra as bad, almost, as the yells and gongs of the boat-race. When the rain comes pouring down, making the ricelands the marsh required for the growth of the grain, they deem the gods propitiated by their offering in the shape of regatta and drama. IN FLETU SOLATIUM. BY ALFRED ENSIGN. WHEN sorrow's wave sweeps o'er the soul, And changes day to darkest night; When all around is wrapped in gloom, And vain we cry for light-more light, Where is the balm to ease our pain, To lift bowed head and breaking heart; Oh, where the voice at whose command, Our bitter anguish will depart ? Alas! that voice is not on earth; Not here we find the healing balm; Is by our loving Father given. A NEW CONVENT AND HOME FOR GIRLS. THE Dominican Sisters of the Order of Our Lady of the Rosary have erected a convent and home for girls on the north side of Sixty-third Street, between First and Second Avenues, the present home on East Seventy-eighth Street being inadequate to the requirements of the Sisters. The new building is one hundred feet square and three stories high, with a mansard roof. It is in the Gothic style of architecture, with a projection of the front wall in the centre, surmounted by a gable and cross. In a niche above the entrance, through the projecting centre, will be placed a statue of the patron saint of the Order. Like most Roman Catholic religious institutions, aside from the churches, the interior is quite plain. The basement is alloted to refectories, the kitchen, laundries, sewingroom, office and retiring-rooms. A handsome chapel, sixty-two feet long and twenty-three wide, occupies the easterly side of the first story. A parlor and a class-room occupies either side of the entrance on the same floor. The upper stories are arranged in class-rooms and dornitories. The new Home is estimated to cost $60,000. GOOD-NATURE is the best feature in the finest face. Wit may raise admiration, eloquence lead the mind captive, judgment command respect, knowledge attention, beauty inflame the heart with love; but good-nature has a more powerful effect. It adds a thousand attractions to the charms of beauty, and gives an air of beneficence to the homeliest countenance. THE happiness of the wicked passes away like a torrent Racine. If men are so wicked with religion, what would they be without it? |