“O,” said Mrs. Titus, "don't say Mr. Carleyn is killed. I won't believe it until I have to. If he had been a good for nothing drunkard, whom nobody wanted, and nobody needed, he'd gone through a dozen battles and come back alive, without having one hair of his useless head injured; but men whose lives are worth hundreds of others, a blessing to everybody, must always be among the missing or killed;" and Mrs. Titus could say no more, for she burst into a fit of sobbing. Just then one of the little girls came in with a bunch of fresh flowers, and laid them on Nepenthe's lap-columbines, anemones, and evening primroses. "Desertion, forsaken, inconstancy," thought Nepenthe, as she took the flowers, whose language was only an echo of the language of her heart, which was beating violently. "Do come and play with us, Miss Nepenthe," said the child, pulling her dress, "only just a little while," she eagerly added, as she saw Nepenthe about to shake her head and say, "Some other time." 66 Do come, just this once!" said the child, and Nepenthe went out into the little shaded yard at the side of the house, where a group of children were playing under the apple -trees: "I'm waiting for a partner, I'm waiting for a partner; So open the ring, and let her in, And kiss her when you get her in." As Nepenthe joined the ring, the children went round and round in merry glee. Nepenthe's eyes were fixed on the ground. Her thoughts were at hard sober work, while she was playing with the light-hearted children. She did not notice that some one had slipped up from behind, and joined the ring, until she heard some one from the middle of the circle, in a familiar, manly voice, singing, "I'm waiting for a partner, I'm waiting for a partner;" and in one moment Frank Carleyn seized and impris oned both of her hands, and drew her within the circle, and kissed her, to the great delight of the children at seeing big people joining so heartily in their play. He looked pale, more shadowy and spirituelle than ever-but it was Carleyn still. Just then a big wagon drove up to the door, and this was the signal for the little folks to pile in, as they were going off whortle-berrying. They all went but two little ones, who sat down on the door step to read over aloud the stories of the Man in the Bramble-bush, Blue Beard, and Jack the Giant Killer. "Blue Beard," said Carleyn to Nepenthe, taking the book from the child and looking over the pictures, 66 was one of the first stories I read. After that, I can remember how we children huddled together around the hearth, listening at nightfall to tales of robbers, ghosts and murders, till we were afraid to stir, lest in some dark closet, or lonely chamber, we might meet a robber's eye, or see a murderer's hand. How the shadow of something on the wall of the dimly lighted chamber assumed dark and terrible shapes, and we drew the sheet close over our eyes and fell asleep, to dream of pale ghosts and midnight robbers. The selfsame chill creeps over me still, at the thought of those bloody deeds we then in faney witnessed. Blue Beard seems even now a half reality, and the hero of the bramblebush, who performed in so brief a space the wondrous feat of losing and winning his eyes, is something in my fancy, even now, half real, half fabulous. It is strange how the thing we really believed true in our childhood, and we really saw in fancy, keeps still in our minds as a kind of fact. These first pictures of the youthful imagination were actually carved and stained on the walls of the heart, to which all after pictures seem fancy sketches, or like handbills posted up new every day, to be torn down to-morrow at leisure by sober reason. The early toy-books are the old masters, whose pictures longest hang in the gallery of the soul, and every holiday we brush off the dust of years, and find them bright still." "Santa Claus will always seem to me like something real," said Nepenthe. "Yes," said Carleyn, " he was an immortal, ever welcome hero in the land of my childhood. We exile him in after years from the land of facts, yet still is his portrait hung in fast colors by the heart's fire-side. Like the wandering Jew, We still see his imaginary form each Christmas morning, as we hear the rattle of miniature drums, and the clang of lilliputian trumpets. Sinbad the Sailor has started floating masts and swelling sails across the sea of many a young imagination." "Yes," said Nepenthe, "and the Children of the Abbey has waked a good deal of romance in many a young girl's head; and that illustrious Man of the Moon, so talked about in childhood, whose jagged eyebrows I actually saw when a child, is still a real picture in my mind. I often see him glaring ominously over my left shoulder, some lonely evenings." And poor unlucky Friday," said Carleyn, "is still to many, not good, but bad Friday-and I myself, I will own it, would a little rather commence a journey on some other day, although the journey I once took on a Friday in a thunder-storm, ended very pleasantly after all. I often think," said he, "I'd like to be a child again, and live once more in that realm lit up with Aladdin's lamp, so wondrous wise with mysteries and haunted by fairies, who kept our thoughts like little Micawbers, always waiting for something to turn up. But," said he, looking up at the western sky, we are going to have a beautiful sunset. Let us take a ramble over the fields and then down the lane, where there is a fine echo, and in an hour or two we can see the sun set over the water. There are a great many bright things in the world for grown up people to enjoy. We have our ideals still.” 66 But we never find our ideals, say many practical experienced people," said Nepenthe. That is not true," said Carleyn. some time." "I'll show you mine, They rambled half an hour, and at last they came to an old well, deep and moss-grown, under a beautiful chestnut tree. 66 The philosopher says we can find truth at the bottom of a deep well," said Carleyn. "Look down, Miss Nepenthe, and see how deep this well is." As she bent over and looked down the well, “See," said Carlyn, as he looked over her shoulder, "there-there is my ideal, reflected in the bottom of the well; and my ideal is truth itself. I hope it will never vanish away and leave me, as children's ideals do." He drew her away from the well, and they sat down under the tree. As he went on twining a wreath of oak leaves, he said, "There is another well of affection in the bottom of my heart, where I see reflected the image of my ideal. Whenever I look down into my heart, I see the shadow of that beautiful image. I wish I could draw it" "Here they are! hero they are! we've found them at last," screamed a group of noisy children, hurrying to the old well all out of breath, with baskets and pails full of berries. See, see, Miss Nepenthe, how many I've got," said the foremost one ; and these are for you," she added, handing a cup made of two leaves filled with berries to Nepenthe; "and these are for you, Mr. Carleyn," said Mrs. Titus' orphan niece, handing him a basketful. I wonder if the simple-hearted children really thought Nepenthe's brimming eyes and blushing cheeks and bright smiles were caused by her excessive joy at the sudden sight of so many unexpected berries. Certainly her eyes never had such light before; the dawn of happiness was coming to her soul; she walked on home with Frank Carleyn and the children, who were tired enough for once to walk as slowly as older people. The wreath of oak-leaves was twined around Nepenthe's bloomer. That night, by moonlight, Carleyn showed Nepenthe the depths of his warm heart-he finished the sentence so unceremoniously interrupted-he asked her at last the one question in love's short catechism, and we leave her to say what you, fair reader, would say under such exciting circumstances, and the best wish we can make for you, fair and gentle as you may be, is that some time some noblegifted and good man may ask you the same question Carleyn did Nepenthe, that you may give the same short answer, and have as sweet, bright dreams on your pillow that night, and he find in your image ever after this ideal of truth, when he looks into the clear depths of his manly heart. Not until Nepenthe became his wife, did she reveal to Frank how his image had so long been imprinted within her heart, and that she was the little pale girl at the hospital, on whose pillow, years ago, he had lain those beautiful flowers. And now to her, life seemed pillowed with flowers, the air never before so fragrant, Little buds were opening down in her heart, so fresh and green, after that sad shower of hopeless tears, such a rainbow spanned her soul. And that promise of Frank's, to love, cherish and protect, was a sure pledge that while he lived the fountain of sorrow should never more quite overflow the springs of happiness. While she nestled quietly in the ark of his strong manly heart, she could outride with him life's roughest tempest and highest billow. I forgot to tell you, reader, that Frank Carleyn had a cousin killed in battle, of the same name as himself, and a great many people thought for weeks it was our artist friend; but he was in the hospital for several weeks, very ill with that frightful brain fever, of which as yet he has said nothing to Nepenthe; and then, too, he was taken prisoner, after lying on the field wounded, two whole days, without food. It was there Kate Howard read his name in the evening paper: "Private Frank Carleyn, missing." CHAPTER XXXVII. CARLEYN'S IDEAL. How wise in all she ought to know, THE ANGEL OF THE HOUse. If thou HAST Something, bring thy goods, a fair return be thine, Is she rich, young, handsome, and highly connected? "Were you appointed a committee of investigation, you might return with a decided negative to them all-and they are questions I cannot answer with monosyllables. I know, Mr. Selwyn, you are not actuated by mere idle curiosity, so I will answer you candidly. She is not rich; but when I' think of her as poor, there comes to my mind that verse in the Bible which I used to hear repeated so often by an old minister-rich in faith, heirs of the kingdom.' I almost reverence her simple rare beauty and affluent loveliness. "She is young, but were she still younger or much older, my admiration and affection could not diminish. Her mind is stored with thoughts, her soul with feelings, rich, deep, |