love for the moment became unreasoning wrath. "You are disobedient," she continued.

"O mamma! we are vewy sorry," said the lad, who had been the less offending culprit.

"Well, well. No matter. It is bed-time, children. Now to bed, and no more nonsense. I can't have it, I can't bear it."

The children rose submissively, and, kissing her, were just leaving the room, when she said: "Oh! but we must not lose our manners. You forget."

The girl, pausing near the doorway, dropped a courtesy.

"That wasn't very well done, Alice. Ah! that was better."

The little fellow made a bow quite worthy of the days of minuet and hoop, and then, running back, kissed the tall mother with a certain passionate tenderness, saying, softly, "Now, don't you cry when we are gone, dear, dear mamma," and then, in a whisper, "I will pway God not to let you cwy," and so fled away, leaving her still perilously close to tears. Very soon, up-stairs, the old nurse, troubled by the children's disappointment, was assuring them with eager mendacity that Kris would be certain to make his usual visit, while down-stairs the mother walked slowly to and fro. She had that miserable gift, an unfailing memory of anniversaries, and now, despite herself, the long years rolled back upon her, so that under the sad power of their recurrent memories she seemed a helpless prey.

And Opened the Case of A Miniature, Slowly and With Deliberate Care.

While the children were yet too young to recognize their loss the great calamity of her life had come. Then by degrees the wreck of her fortune had gone to pieces, and now at last the home of her own people, deeply mortgaged, was about to pass from her forever. Much that was humbling had fallen to her in life, but nothing as sore as this final disaster. At length she rose, took a lighted candle from the table, and walked slowly around the great library room. The sombre bindings of the books her childhood knew called back dim recollections. The great china bowls, the tall silver tankards, the shining sconces, and above, all the Stuart portraits or the Copleys of the men who shone in Colonial days and helped to make a more than imperial nation, each and all disturbed her as she gazed. At last, she returned to the fireside, sat down and began anew her unfinished task. With hasty hands she tumbled over the letters, and at length came upon a package tied with a faded ribbon; one of those thin orange-colored silk bands with which cigars are tied in bundles. She threw it aside with a quick movement of disdain, and opened the case of a miniature, slowly, and with deliberate care. A letter fell on to her lap as she bent over the portrait of a young man. The day, the time, the need to dispose of accumulated letters, had brought her to this which she meant to be a final settlement of one of life's grim accounts. For awhile, she steadily regarded the relics of happier hours. Then, throwing herself back in her chair, she cried aloud, "How long I hoped; how hopeless was my hope, and he said, he said, I was cruel and hard. That I loved him no more. Oh! that was a lie! a bitter lie! But a sot, a sot, and my children to grow up and see what I saw, and learn to bear what I have borne. No! no! a thousand times no! I chose between two duties, and I was right. I was the man of the two, and I sent him away—forever. He said,—yes, I was right, but, my God! how cruel is life! I would never