no word.

What was the story of those tired eyes I never asked, and I never knew.
Once, as I passed the room, a quick picture showed through the open
door. The two women lying with their arms about each other's neck, as
they used to do when they were children together; and above them, still
and watchful, the wounded Face that had waited there so many years for
this.

One was speaking with weak sobs, and very low. It was Aunt Alice. I
caught but two words,--"My husband."

But what that husband was remains unknown till the day when the grave
shall give up its dead, and the secrets of hearts oppressed and sinned
against and sorrowful shall be revealed.

She lingered weakly there, within the restful room, for seven days, and
then one morning we found her with her eyes upon the thorn-crowned face,
her own quite still and smiling.

A little funeral train wound away one night behind the church, and left
her down among those red-cup mosses that opened in so few months again
to cradle the sister who had loved her. Two words only, by mother's
orders, marked the simple headstone,--

"ALICE BROWNING."

I have given you facts. Explain them as you will. I do not attempt it,
for the simple reason that I cannot.

A word must be said as to the fate of poor Sel, which was mournful
enough. Her trances grew gradually more frequent and erratic, till she
became so thoroughly diseased in mind and body as to be entirely
unfitted for household work, and, in short, nothing but an encumbrance.
We kept her, however, for the sake of charity, and should have done so,
till her poor, tormented life wore itself out; but after the advent of a
new servant, and my mother's death, she conceived the idea that she was
a burden, cried over it a few weeks, and at last one bitter winter's
night she disappeared. We did not give up all search for her for years,
but nothing was ever heard from her. He, I hope, who permitted life to
be such a terrible mystery to her, has cared for her somehow, and
kindly, and well.

THE MINER.

Down 'mid the tangled roots of things
That coil about the central fire,
I seek for that which giveth wings,
To stoop, not soar, to my desire.

Sometimes I hear, as 't were a sigh,
The sea's deep yearning far above.
"Thou hast the secret not," I cry,
"In deeper deeps is hid my Love."

They think I burrow from the sun,
In darkness, all alone and weak;
Such loss were