to do, when, in putting away
the materials lately in use, Annie took up my engraving of Hotspur and
Kate. Handing it to me, she said. "I know these engravings are precious,
Aunt Nancy, though what can be the association with this one, I am, I
acknowledge, at a loss to conceive."

"And yet it is a very simple one. I treasure it in memory of my friend
Harry Percy and his bride."

"What! Hotspur?" questioned Annie with dilating eyes.

"Not quite, though he was a lineal descendant of the old Percys, and hot
enough on occasion, too."

"You mean Colonel Percy of the British army, who married Miss Sinclair,
of Havre de Grace, during our last war with England, or immediately
after it, I never quite understood which. There seemed some mystery
about the marriage, and I did not like to inquire too closely, but I
dare say now, Aunt Nancy, you can tell us all about it."

"I believe I can. See Annie, if among these packages you can find one
labelled 'The Test of Love.'"

"What! another story of a proud beauty winning her glove and losing her
lover?" asked Mr. Arlington.

"No; my test, or rather my hero's test, was somewhat different," I
replied, as I received the package from Annie, and read,

THE TEST OF LOVE:

A STORY OF THE LAST WAR.

When Mr. Sinclair, the rector of St John's, in Havre de Grace took
possession of his pretty parsonage, and persuaded the fair and gentle
Lucy Hillman to preside over his unpretending _menage_, and to share the
comforts that lay within the compass of his stipend of one thousand
dollars per annum, he felt that his largest earthly desires were
fulfilled. A daughter was given to him, and with a grateful heart he
exclaimed--"Surely Thou hast made my cup to overflow."

But he too was a man "born to trouble." He too must be initiated into
those "sacred mysteries of sorrow," through which the High-priest of his
profession had passed. In the succeeding ten years, three other children
opened their soft, loving eyes in his home, made its air musical with
their glad voices and ringing laughter, and just as he had learned to
listen for the pattering of their dimpled foot, and his heart had
throbbed joyously to their call, they were borne from his arms to the
grave, and the echoes which they had awakened in his soul were hushed
for ever. Still his Lucy and their first-born were spared, and as he
drew them closer to his heart he could "lift his trusting eyes" to Him
from whom his faith taught him no