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that heart might almost have brought back
life to the dead; but she did not move.  She
was like a statue in my arms, and only looked
at me and sighed.

  "Too late! Too late, Frank!"

  "Will you never forgive me?"

  "Forgive? Do you think I have one unkind
thought or feeling towards you, Frank?
Ah, no!  But I am chilled through and
through.  My love is dead and buried.  Stand
away from its grave, and let us meet the
world as we best may."

  I leaned my head upon my hands, and my
tears fell, and I was not ashamed of them.
But they seemed to rouse her into a kind of
frenzy.

  " You? " she exclaimed suddenly.  " You,
who a year ago sowed the seed which has
borne this fruit, can you weep over your
husbandry now? Don't, Frank! Take what
I can give youtake my earnest friendship
and God grant we may never part, here or in
heaven."

  "Ah! in heavenif we ever get there
you will love me again."

  She quoted those sad words which poor
St. Pierre uttered on his dying bed:

  " Que ferait une âme isolée dans le ciel mâme?"
  (What would an isolated soul do, even in Heaven
itself! )

and laid her hand gently on mine.

  " Heaven knows, dear Alice, that as I
loved you when we first met, I loved you on
that unhappy day, and love you still!"

  " I am glad to hear it, " she said hurriedly.
"Heaven only knows what days and nights
were mine at first.  For my life had been
wrapped up in yours, Frank, and it was
terrible to separate them.  I thought at first
that I could not live.  I suppose every one
thinks so, when a heavy blow falls.  But
strength was given me, and by-and-by, peace.
We seem like two grey shadows, Frank, in a
silent world, and we must only wait God's
time; and hope that, on the other side of the
grave at least, this great mistake may be
set right.  Believe me, I am happy in being
with you, Frankhappy in thinking that
the same roof shelters us, and that we shall
not part till one of us two dies."

  I opened my arms, and, of her own accord,
she came to my heart once more; her arms
were around my neck, and her head upon my
shoulder, and her lips meeting mine.  Not
as they used to do, yet tenderly and kindly.

  " We are older and wiser than we were,
and sadder, too, dear Frank, " she said with
a smile.  " Yet who knows? It may be that
all the love has not left us yet."

  And thus that chapter of our life ended.

  We have never touched upon the subject
since; but I have waited calmly for years,
and the same quiet light shines always
in the eyes of Alice; the same deep, sad
tone thrills my heart when I hear her speaking
or singing.  An angel could scarcely be
gentler or kinder titan she who was once so
impetuous and full of fire.   She was unreasonable
and exacting and ardent and
imperious in those days, I know, and my
slower nature was always on the strain to
keep pace with hers; but, what a bright,
joyous, happy creature she was!

  It would have been different but for me.
O you, who read this little tale, remember in
time that a kind word and a loving look cost
little, although they do such great work; and
that there is no wrong so deep as wrong
done to a loving heart.

HOME AND REST.

CHILD, do not fear;
We shall reach our home to-night,
For the sky is clear,
And the waters bright;
And the breezes have scarcely strength
To unfold that little cloud,
That like a shroud
Spreads out its fleecy length.
Then have no fear,
As we cleave our silver way
Through the waters clear.

Fear not, my child!
Though the waves are white and high,
And the storm blows wild
Through the gloomy sky;
On the edge of the western sea
See that line of golden light
Is the haven bright
Where Home is awaiting thee.
Where, this peril past,
We shall rest from our stormy voyage
In peace at last.

Be not afraid;
But give me thy hand, and see
How the waves have made
A cradle for thee.
Night is come, dear, and we shall rest;
So turn from the angry skies,
And close thine eyes,
Lay thy head upon my breast:
Child, do not weep,
In the calm, cold, purple depths
There we shall sleep!

FETISHES AT HOME.

  I THINK, if my memory serves me rightly,
that in some part of Africano matter where
there exists, or did exist, a curious tribe of
people whom we, in our superior wisdom,
consider heathen fanatics, and whom we, in
our superior language, term fetish worshippers.
I am not going in this paper, and especially
in this journal, to enter upon a short history
of creeds and persuasionsto hold the
balance between east, west, north, and south;
to say which is the most preferable or the
least repulsive form of worship, to discuss the
doctrine of symbols, or to propose any plan
for the spiritual amelioration of the untutored
savage.  I am merely about to

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