let us try to be happy, and enjoy all there may be left for us in the few days we may be permitted to be together."

"Be happy? Yes, I am happy, too happy for it to last. Rodney, you have made me happy to-night. I have just begun to be happy, and now comes the great sorrow of my life. Why did you tell me you loved me? Why did you hold the golden chalice to my lips but to dash it from me? We might have parted as we often have before, to meet neither knew when. Time might have flown, weeks and months might have passed, even years might have rolled away, ere you came, and I could have hoped on, but to listen to your words, to know that it may be years ere we meet, if ever, is more than I can bear, and yet I would not stand in the way of your advancement. I can still love, suffer as I may."

The clock struck the hour of twelve. It was midnight. How fast the hours had flown! Neither realized that it could have been past 10 o'clock. Bernard had not arrived and of course would not be home before the next afternoon. Rodney retired, and Endura, agitated and wakeful as she was, could do no less than go to her room. Cold as was the night, she threw herself upon her bed and wept. How long she lay there she did not know, but when she arose, she felt a severe chill, which did not leave her when she was in bed.

The next morning she sent for her mother and told her how ill she had been all night.

Mrs. Ivers was frightened, as it was too apparent that her daughter was destined to have a settled fever. Rodney was told of Endura's illness, and he drove immediately to the village for the doctor, who happening to be at a neighbor's, whose wife was at the point of death; nothing was left, but for him to go for another physician, who lived four miles away. Taking the doctor in his cutter, as no time was to be lost, harnessing another horse, they were soon on their way to Endura's home, where they arrived in good time. Rodney's horse had seldom felt the whip before, and when he was urged by his considerate master, he seemed to feel the importance of the occasion and he fairly flew over the smooth frozen road. Doctor Edgar was a young practitioner who had lately settled in the county, and notwithstanding the popularity of Doctor King, the old family physicain, he was building up a splendid practice. It was unfortu

nate for Doctor King, that he was unable to attend Endura, upon on that occasion, as Doctor Edgar gave such perfect satisfaction that he was ever after retained as the family physician.

He set himself to work to break up the fever, taking measures which the old allopathic system prohibited, but which appeared to work like a charm. Endura was very ill. All the day following the night when Rodney spoke to her of going away, her mind wandered, and the next night she was quite delirious; so much so, that when Bernard came, she did not know him. She was in great pain, and between her groans would say, appealingly, "You must go." The third day, the doctor had obtained complete mastery Over the fever, and his patient began to mend, and grew better rapidly.

Bernard remained at home for several days

to the great delight of his sister, who could not bear to have him out of her sight. Rodney came every day until Endura was quite recoved. The day before Bernard was to return to his studies, Rodney invited him to take a sleigh ride with him, which Bernard very gladly accepted. During the drive, Rodney took occasion to disclose some of the facts herebefore mentioned. Among others, the long standing and growing regard he had for his sister, and finally that he had told her all, which, he was happy to say, was reciprocated. He said he had some misgivings as to the wisdom or propriety of letting her know his feelings, knowing as he did the peculiar position in which it would place her with her neighbors and friends, who differed with him on religious matters. He said he felt it would be better for him to accept the position offered him at New Orleans, as it would give Endura plenty of time to consider the advisability of her continuing to recognise him as a friend or something nearer.

Bernard said he knew his sister well enough to assure him that it would make no difference whether the neighbors indorsed him or not, if she had once made up her mind. At the same time, he approved of his accepting the position, which was offered him, as one which would eventually lead to further advancement.

Bernard was surprised and indignant. He expressed the belief that with such bigotry and intolerance ill would befall the place soon or late, and he advised Rodney to give his father his opinion, and tell

him to try and dispose of his property as soon as possible. Rodney said his father had no idea of running away from them because of their threats.

"But," said he, "if he could find a customer who would offer him a fair price for his place he thought he might sell."

Returning from their drive the two young men separated. Rodney going to his home in the village, while Bernard made himself ready to take the stage, which was to convey him back to town. Endura recovered without suffering a run of fever, which was attributed to the prompt treatment of Doctor Edgar, who was much honored for his great success.

THEM

CHAPTER XVI.

WORKING TO REST.

If by prayer

Incessant I could hope to change the will

Of him who all things can, I would not cease
To weary him with my assiduous cries.

-Milton's Paradise Lost.

HE season of revival had its run, and after the winter came spring and flowers, and bright sunshine and green leaves. The hyacinth and the crocus awoke from their winter's sleep and came forth decked in beauty, and laden with perfume the first children of spring. Anon the stately lilac puts forth its purple plums, and sways its censers o'er the garden walks; the orchards are in bloom, and o'er the earth is scattered the snowy leaves, like flakes they fall from the parent tree. The blue sky and clear cut clouds, the clear air and gurgling brooks, the early song-birds, and the concerting frogs in the marsh below, all said that spring had come. The wild-geese were winging their way northward, which assured the cheerful farmer that the winter had, indeed, gone, and the time for him to begin work in earnest was at hand.

General Ivers was prepared for emergencies. His plows were in order, his tools were kept bright, and his sleek, well-fed cattle were in good heart to undertake what was before them. The General had employed a man and boy who, with what assistance he would give them, and now and then an extra man or two by the day, were expected to do the work on the farm.

General Ivers often spoke of Donald Kent. He said he was the best hand he had ever had on the place, man or boy. All of his good qualities were talked over in the family, with an expressed wish, by some one of them, that he would come back; none wished it more than Endura, who said the least about it.

There are two seasons in the country, especially conducive to contemplation if not to loneliness. They are spring and autumn. The

one is the awakening, and the other the consummation, or the morning and evening of the year.

The very birds go in pairs to seek their nests, and are happy together in spring. They grow glad with the summer, and when the melancholy days are come they change their songs of mirth to suit the time, and fly away to warmer climes, until another spring shall bring forth other flowers, when they will come again with their happy songs. Why there should be an air of loneliness around when all nature is so gay, with its new life is hard to understand, unless it is that toil and hardship is before us. When the crops are planted a kind of respite is had, and the husbandman rests complacently while they come forth.

General Ivers' crops were all planted. His fields were dressed; his walls and fences were repaired. The corn was just beginning to peep from the ground, showing the green blades in long rows across the field. It was May. Every vistige of winter was gone. Flowers were on the meadow. The hillsides were strewn with violets, and the blue fleur-de-lis were on the river bank. The gentle breeze kissed the grassy knoll that blushed at its embrace. Summer was near, gay, glorious, bountiful summer, nature's perfect life.

One evening, the last of May, General Ivers received a letter postmarked Boston. He knew the handwriting. It was that of Donald Kent's, who had been quite ill, so much so that both partners of the law firm, with which he was studying, advised him to take a good, long rest. He wrote to his old friend to know if he might come and work for him for a few weeks.

He said that he should not expect any pay, for he did not think he would be worth much, if anything, for some days, at least, until he could regain his strength which he wrote was nearly all gone since his sickness; but he promised to do his best if the General would let him

come.

General Ivers answered the letter immediately, and told him to come at once. Said he :

"Your hoe hangs in its old place. I have never let any one use it, and it is almost as bright as when you hung it there years ago." Donald was delighted to receive the letter, and immediately made arrangements for his departure.