the faithful love and devotion of their wives. Kerner, the
Suabian author, said this beautiful word in testimony of his wife after
their long years of happiness together: "She hath borne with me." Martin
Luther said of his wife, the devoted Catherine: "I would not exchange my
poverty with her for all the riches of Croesus without her." Bismarck,
the man of "blood and iron," says of his wife: "She it is who made me
what I am."

THE YESTERDAYS OF HOME.

Every day becomes a yesterday. Our conduct at home should be such that
the morrow will bring no regrets. Mrs. Sigourney thus describes the
changes that must come over the brightest home:

"Not for the summer's hour alone,
When skies resplendent shine
And youth and pleasure fill the throne,
Our hearts and hands we join.

"But for those stern and wintry days
Of sorrow, pain, and fear.
When Heaven's wise discipline doth make
Our earthly journey drear."

It is sad enough when either a man or his wife learns first, when one or
the other is taken away by death, that there has been a life-long want
of considerate tenderness.

Supposing the late Thomas Carlyle had been a little more attentive to
his brilliant and devoted wife during their long and lonely life in the
plain home in Cheyne Row, in Chelsea, London, such words as these, which
escaped her in a letter to a friend, could never have been said: "Those
little attentions which we women attach so much importance to he was
never in the habit of rendering to any one; his upbringing, and the
severe turn of mind he has from nature, had alike indisposed him toward
them."

But the grim old man saw his mistake at last. It was all too late,
however. It was only after all her sacrifices had been made, and he had
written his many works, and she lay in her grave, that he awoke to a
knowledge of his long neglect. Mr. Froude says that Carlyle often said,
when there was no more opportunity for a kind word to reach his wife: "O
if I could but see her for five minutes, to assure her that I really
cared for her throughout all that; but she never knew it, she never knew
it." It is no wonder that Mr. Froude was compelled to write of Carlyle
these sad words: "For many years after she had left him, when he passed
the spot where she was last seen alive he would bare his gray head in
the wind and rain, his features wrung with unavailing sorrow."

We are prone to take too many things for gra