ream in the cradle of the deep.

CHARLES WARREN STODDARD.

HER CHANCE.

Mary Trigillgus tucked the money away in her purse. It was a very small
sum, but it was the utmost that could be spared for the evening outfit:
she and her mother had talked it all over, and such was the decision.

"Now, Mary," said her mother, "don't get a tarletan, or anything
exclusively for evening wear: you so seldom go to parties that you can't
afford such a dress. I would try to get a nice silk. Something that's a
little out of style by being made up fashionably might answer very
well."

Mary gave a sigh and turned her face toward the shops, feeling how
difficult it would be to purchase a fashionable outfit with the scanty
sum in her purse. And she sighed many another time that afternoon as she
went from shop to shop. The goods were too expensive for her slender
purse, or they were poor or old-fashioned. Twilight was settling down on
the gay streets; window after window was flashing into light, revealing
misty laces with gay ribbons and silks streaming like banners; the
lamplighters on every hand were building their walls of flame; and yet
Mary wandered from store to store, each moment more bewildered and
undecided as to the best investment for her money.

She approached a brilliant store, passed it with lingering step, then
paused, turned back, and stood looking down the glittering aisle. The
large mirror at the farther end seemed scarcely broader than the little
cracked bureau-glass in her humble room before which she dressed her
hair in the mornings. The clerks were hurrying to and fro, eager and
business-like, while fine ladies were coming and going, jostling her as
she stood just outside the door. Among the hurrying forms her eye sought
one familiar and loved: not a woman's, I need scarcely say, else why
does she stand in the shadow there, with her veil half drawn over her
face, trembling and frightened? Why else does her cheek glow with shame?

Poor Mary! You feel like a guilty thing in thus seeking a man who has
never declared his love; but let me whisper a word in your ear: True
love is woman's blue ribbon of honor: without it her nature is the rose
tree without the rose--the dead egg among the cliffs: quickened by the
grand passion, it is the eagle soaring to the stars. Your heart is a
grander thing now than ever before. Next to loving God, the best thing
for woman is to love a good man. Take th