in fact, that dark, inexplicable hush that precedes a storm. But Lois, coming down the hill-road, singing to herself, and keeping time with her whip-end on the wood

head turned towards the gray distance. Lois's vivid eye caught the full meaning of the woman beside him. The face hurt her: not fair, as Polston called it: vapid and cruel. She was dressed in yellow: the colour seemed jeering and mocking to the girl's sensitive instinct, keenly alive to every trifle. She did not know that it is the colour of shams, and that women like this are the most deadly of shams. As the phaeton went slowly down, Margret came nearer, meeting it on the road-side, the dust from the wheels stifling the air. Lois saw her look up, and then suddenly stand

Were you, then, so chivalric? Was it to have been a s

r a kind word? LOVE? He was sick of the sickly talk,-crushed it out of his heart with a savage scorn. He remembered his father, the night he died, had said in his weak ravings that God was love. Was He? No wonder, then, He was the God of women, and children, and unsuccessful men. For him, he was done with it. He was here with stronger purpose than to yield to weaknesses of the flesh. He had made his choice,-a straight, hard path upwards; he was deaf now and forever to any word of kindness or pity. As for this woman beside him, he would be just to her, in justice to himself: she never should know the loathing in his heart: just to her as to all living creatures. Some little, mean doubt kept up

they were nothing but movables, pleasant or ugly to look at, well- or ill-dressed. There were no dark iron bars across her life for her soul to clutch and shake madly,-nothing "in the world amiss, to be unriddled by and by." Little Margret, sitting by the muddy road, digging her fingers dully into the clover-roots, while she looked at the spot where the wheels had passed, looked at life d

road-side. What madness of weariness crossed his brain just then I do not know. He shook it off. Was he mad? Life was worth more to him than to other men, he thought; and perhaps he was right. He went slowly through the cool dusk, looking across the fields, up at the pale, frightened face of the moon hooded in clouds: he did not dare to look, with all his iron nerve, at the dark figure beyond him on the road. She was sitting there just where he had left her: he knew she would be. When he came closer, she got up, not looking towards him; but he saw her clasp her hands behind her, the fingers plucking weakly at each other. It was an old, childish fashion of hers, wh

argret, these two yea

a word it needed, he thought,-very kind and firm: and he must be quick,-he could not bear

for me, Margret," he said, at las

ue, then,

true,

t it go. What right had he to touch the dust upon her shoes,-he, bought and s

her, you know. She

her again; and a strange, vacant smi

e her, S

t and firm

. She does not care for love. You want me to succeed, Margret?

le face

ow! I did und

er, after a l

u did not

id, in his steeled voice. "You will know that, when

his eyes,-as she used to do in the old time. Whatever secret account lay betwe

" he went on, in his low, hard tone.

as s

phen. It kep

y. I put it away

But he almost wished he had not said it, she was such a weak, sickly thing. She sat down at last,

ht to be," she said, wearily, w

me, then?"

anly triumph; her puny fram

s you are,-not with those inhuman eyes. I do understand you,-I d

m; something we have never seen on his face

ely; "don't leave me with m

a frightened cry flapped its tired wings, and drifted into the dark. His eyes, through the gathering shadow, devoured the weak, trembling body, met the soul that looked at him, strong as his own. Was it be

, "when I thought you belonged to me. Not here, but before this

worked feebly together, the du

ought of heaven or God in her soul: her craving eyes seeing him only. The strong, living man that she loved: he

eath the pain there was

arms to where she stood,-the hea

be nothing without you, now. C

then, and put h

phen," s

in her tone, she kept

u,-as you are. It might have

to him than his own soul. She was so yet. He held her close to his breast,

id. "It might have bee

believe in you, Stephen. I will be yours some time:

he said, flinging her

other. If the dark square figure standing there had been an iron fate trampling her young life down into hopeless

yonder, if I die fi

er, waiting

ove you,

his cold lips to hers, without a wo

onged him!-What did it matter, if he were hard in this life, and it hurt her a little? It would come right,-beyond, some time. But life was long.-She would not sit down, sick as she was: he might turn, and it would vex him to see her suffer.-He walked slowly; once he stopped to pick up something. She saw the deep-cut face and half-shut eyes. How often those eyes had looked into her soul, and it had answered! They never would look so any

unconscious, except of the damp stone-wall her head leaned on, and the stretch of muddy road. Some time, she knew not when, there was a heavy step beside

e and find you. He'll not miss ME for an hour. That man has a natural hankering after treason against the people.

her up gen

-out face. A hungry face always, with her life unfed by its sting

ugh cheerfully, and went

Jezebel to-night, an

articulate damn at the obstinate mud. She stopped at last, with a quick gasp. Looking at her, he c

t at home, child. I want

er along, watching her stealthily, but going on with his disjointed, be

The clergy can't attend to it just now: they're too busy measuring God's truth by the States'-Rights doct

through the skyless fog, striking her face with a chill. The Doctor quit talking, hurrying her, wa

knew your work, and forgot your weakness. The curs

This one was a smoky frame, standing on piles over an open space where hogs were rooting. Half a dozen drunken Irishmen were playing poker with a pack of greasy cards in an out-hous

u have come into dens like this,-and never gone away. Does it make your delicate

up a chorus of whining begging when they entered. Half-naked children crawled about in rags. On the damp, mildewed walls there was hung a

nc'-- Good God! what IS tru

the women, through the

ot a living lie. Can they help it? Think of the centuries of serfdom and

to Canada. Stolid, sensual wretches, with here and there a broad, melancholy brow,

blood out of the

d, kissing its brown fac

got you were born down Sout

e door. Margret sto

limpse of the under-life of America,-God hel

He did not heed her. The passion of the man, the terrible pity for these

ause that mass of selfishness has left you,-because you are balked in your puny hope! Look at these women. What is their loss, do you think? Go back, will you,

ld woman in a flaring cap sat at the top, nodding,-wakening now an

s a girl who loved him,-you know what that is? She's dead now, here. She drank herself to death,-a most unpictures

oman

ookin' foine in her Sunday suit. S

ath, dead,-her lithe, delicate figure decked out in a dirty plaid skirt, and stained velvet bodice,-her neck and arms bare. The small face was purely cut, haggard,

iful God, how young she is!-What is that yo

among you, let him firs

on her dead face. Is your loss like hers?" he said lower, loo

she said. "

en road, leading her tenderly eno

then. "It is not too late,-will

her hands

h me?" she cried. "I

r and strengthen; the man's face in the wall lig

d heart. Give yourself to these people. God calls you to it. There is none to help t

from his plan: he meant to give all he had: it was the noblest of aims. He thought some day it would work like leaven through the festering mass under

Margret, what is home? There is a cry going up night and day

k; her brai

this work? Does He

hed her

father and mother and love, and go down as Christ did. Help me to give liberty and truth a

s a weak, weak woman, sick f

t my

a single human heart that calls you nearest and best. Shiver, if you will,-it is true. The man you wasted you

king down at her, until

you have trusted in the Christ you worship to make it right, to give you your heart's desire. Did He do it? Did He hear your prayer? Does He care for your weak love, when the nations of the earth are going do

white with pain. After

ive up your idle hope that Christ will aid you. Swear to me, th

falling softly, the fresh blue stealing broadly from behind the gray. It seem

er. I think He will answer it. He was a man, and loved as we do

Christ would falter; that she would grasp at this work, to fill her empty hands and starved heart, if for no other reason,-to stifle by a sense of duty her u

ift when she was little. How fond Holmes and her father used to be of each other! Every Christmas he spent with them. She remembered t

er mother came with

ret. Why, your ha

her head down a minute on her breast. She st

you stay with

your father wants

d he miss me to

king old times over,-i

; good-

arm about his head. God knows how lonely the poor child was when she drew the dog so warmly to her heart: n

e?" she said, and

ards town. Such a little thing, it was! But

dim Life holds the worlds in His hand, knew or cared how alone the child was? What if she wrung her

ious, in infinite calm of right, He came close to her with human eyes that had loved, and not been loved, and had suffered with