tion, however, by dismissing Madame Dalmas at once and for ever. As soon as you can spare Harris, I will send her to change a check at Coutts's, and then, for expedition and security, she shall take on the brougham and make a round to these tradespeople. Meanwhile, I will drive you in the phaeton to look at the bracelet." "Oh, no-no, dear Walter, not the bracelet."

"Yes-yes-I say yes. Though not a quarrel, this is a sorrow which has come between us, and there must be a peace-offering. Besides, I would not have you think that you had reached the limits of my will, and of my means to gratify you."

"To think that I could have doubted-that I could have feared you!" sobbed Lady Lucy, as tears of joy coursed down her cheeks. "But, Walter, it is not every husband who would have shown such generosity."

"I think there are few husbands, Lucy, who do not estimate truth and candour as among the chief of conjugal virtues :-ah, had you confided in me when first you felt the bondage of debt, how much anguish would have been spared you!"

A WORD FOR WIVES.

WHAT is it? A little pencil note, crumpled and worn, as if carried for a long time in one's pocket. I found it in a box of precious things that Fanny's mother had hoarded so choicely, because Fanny had been choice of them. I must read it, for everything of Fanny's is dear

to us now.

Ah! 'tis a note from a gentleman who was at school with us at F, whom Fanny esteemed so much, whom we both esteemed for his sterling integrity, and his gentleness. It is precious, too, as a reminder of him. I love the remembrance of old schoolfellows,of frolicsome, foolish, frivolous, loving schooldays. let me read. 'Tis mostly rubbed out, but here is a place.

But

"You know full well that long since, that dear cousin' permitted me to call her by the endearing name of sister; and may I not, when far away, thinking of bygones, add your name to hers in the sisterly list? You asked me when I had heard from the dear one: she was down here a short hour last week, but what was that among so many who wished to see her?"

Ah! that means me! If I had only known it then! And just now I was wondering if he really loved me, and perhaps felt almost in my secret heart to grieve a bit— to murmur at him. I fear I spoke as he little dreamed then the "dear one" would ever do. What shall I do? I remember him now, in all his young loveliness, in all the excitability of a first love, and my heart kindles toowarmly to write what I wished.

What if one had told me then that my home would be in his heart-that my beautiful Alma would be his child! My Alma, my beautiful babe! how sweetly she nestles her little face in his neck. She has stolen her mother's. place; little thief! I wonder she does not steal his whole heart to the clear shutting out of her mother!

Little wives! if ever a half suppressed sigh finds place with you, or a half unloving word escapes you to the

husband whom you love, let your heart go back to some tender word in those first love-days; remember how you loved him then, how tenderly he wooed you, how timidly you responded, and if you can feel that you have not grown unworthy, trust him for the same fond love now. If you do feel that through many cares and trials of life, you have become less lovable and attractive than then, turn-by all that you love on earth, or hope for in Heaven, turn back, and be the pattern of loveliness that won him; be the "dear one" your attractions made you then. Be the gentle, loving, winning maiden still, and doubt not, the lover you admired will live for ever in your husband. Nestle by his side, cling to his love, and let his confidence in you never fail, and, my word for it, the husband will be dearer than the lover ever was. Above all things, do not forget the love he gave you first. Do not seek to "emancipate" yourself-do not strive to unsex yourself and become a Lucy Stone, or a Rev. Miss Brown, but love the higher honour ordained by our Saviour, of old—that of a loving wife. A happy wife, a blessed mother, can have no higher station, needs no greater honour.

Little wives, remember your first love. As for me, I see again the little crumpled note about the "dear one," and I must go to find love and forgiveness in his arms.

NO JEWELLED BEAUTY.

No jewelled Beauty is my Love,

Yet in her earnest face

There's such a world of tenderness,
She needs no other grace.

Her smiles, and voice, around my life

In light and music twine,

And dear, oh very dear to me,

Is this sweet Love of mine.

Oh, joy! to know there's one fond heart

Beats ever true to me:

It sets mine leaping like a lyre,
In sweetest melody;

My soul up-springs, a Deity!

To hear her voice divine,
And dear, oh! very dear to me,
Is this sweet Love of mine.

If ever I have sigh'd for wealth, "Twas all for her, I trow;

And if I win Fame's victor-wreath,

I'll twine it on her brow.

There may be forms more beautiful,
And souls of sunnier shine,

But none, oh! none so dear to me,
As this sweet Love of mine.

THE FIRST MARRIAGE IN THE FAMILY.

"HOME!" How that little word strikes upon the heart strings, awakening all the sweet memories that had slept in memory's chamber! Our home was a "pearl of price" among homes; not for its architectural elegance for it was only a four gabled, brown country house, shaded by two antediluvian oak trees; nor was its interior crowded with luxuries that charm every sense and come from every clime. Its furniture had grown old with us, for we remembered no other; and though polished as highly as furniture could be, by daily scrubbing, was somewhat the worse for wear, it must be confessed.

But neither the house nor its furnishing makes the home; and the charm of ours lay in the sympathy that linked the nine that called it "home" to one another. Father, mother, and seven children-five of them gayhearted girls, and two boys, petted just enough to be spoiled-not one link had ever dropped from the chain of love, or one corroding drop fallen upon its brightness.

"One star differeth from another in glory," even in the firmament of home. Thus-though we could not have told a stranger which sister or brother was dearest -from our gentlest "eldest," an invalid herself, but the comforter and counsellor of all beside, to the curlyhaired boy, who romped and rejoiced in the appellation of "baby," given five years before-still an observing eye would soon have singled out sister Ellen as the sunbeam