tle and he's gone that's all there is to it.'

"Kitty, she never answered them letters; she remembered that uplifted
arm as the vast shadows swayed towards her on the meadow, and Joel, he
give it up."

* * * * *

By this time the heavy hay-waggons began to move across the meadows. It
was drawing near supper-time and the speaker rose and briskly set aside
her knitting.

"I believe that's all," she said. "It's a tragic story for a country
place like this. But now set down, won't you, and wait till the men come
up for supper? Mebbe you'll be glad of a cup of tea before you go any
further."

The stranger, well within the shade of the clustering vines, made no
reply.

"Say," cried she, from the porch door; "set down and wait for supper,
won't you?"

Surprised at the silence, accustomed as she was to the garrulity of
country neighbours, she stepped out into the piazza. A beautiful woman
she, of forty years, whose fine face seemed now set in an aureole of
sunbeams. The stranger took off his hat and stooped somewhat towards
her; there was something familiar in the gesture, which set the wild
blood throbbing at her heart-strings as though the past twenty years had
been a dream.

"Kitty, my dear love, Kitty."

The farm men came singing up the lane, the heavy waggons grinding slowly
along in the sunshine. All this, the everyday life, was now the dream,
and they, Kitty and Elihu, had met in the meadow lands of the earthly
Paradise.

A MEMORY.

How much of precious joy, that leaves no pain,
Lives in the simple memory of a face
Once seen, and only for a little space,
And never after to be seen again:
A face as fair as, on an altar pane,
A pictured window in some holy place--
The glowing lineaments of immortal grace,
In many a vague ideal sought in vain.
Such face was yours, and such the joy to me,
Who saw you once, once only, and by chance,
And cherished evermore in memory
The noble beauty of your countenance--
The poet's natural language in your looks,
Sweet as the wondrous sweetness of your books.

GEORGE COTTERELL.

AUNT PHOEBE'S HEIRLOOMS.

_An Experience in Hypnotism._

We do not take to new ideas readily in Bishopsthorpe. Our fashions are
always at least one season behind the times; it is only by a late
innovation in Post Office regulations that we are now enabled to get our
London papers