nd walnut trees, and the
hum of the bees were heard around the flowers. All Nature sang through
these various forms, that All is life, All is love, All is joy, and All
is God.

On this day two ladies were sitting out on the porch of the Herne
residence, one was a lady with gray hair, the other was her daughter.
Both were sitting in silence. The younger was thinking how very much
like this beautiful day was, to the one five years ago when she entered
her new home as the wife of Charles Herne. Many thoughts were crowding
upon her mind; she was thinking how perfectly, supremely happy she was
on that occasion. Every thing about her seemed to respond to the happy
thought within, and her cup of joy was overflowing. Then the thought
came to her why was it not so to-day? Nature seemed just as beautiful,
her home was more beautiful, and the returns from the sale of their
fruit each year had exceeded their expectations. Her health was good,
she was in harmony with her neighbors, and enjoyed her life among the
people in Orangeville. And above all she had experienced the joys of
motherhood, having a son two years old, and her husband was just as kind
and attentive to her as ever, and yet--and yet--and yet, must she
confess, yes, she very reluctantly told her thoughts to her mother to
see if she could explain and give her light on those feelings which had
come to the surface many a time, only to be suppressed. But they would
rise again, and the more they were put down, the more they would rise,
till at last she would relieve her mind by telling her mother, who she
knew had had more experience.

"Mother," said Clara, "why is it, when everything about me is as good
and some things much better than when I was married, and Charles is just
as kind, thoughtful, and loving as a husband and father can be, and yet
after five years of happy, harmonious life, there is less attraction
between us, than when we were first married? Of course, I have never let
Charles think that I felt this way, but I noticed that after we had been
married two months, Charles' kisses, touches, and pettings did not
produce that pleasurable thrill they once did, and it has been growing
more and more that way ever since. Why, even when he kisses my hand, it
does not produce any more pleasure than if I had kissed my own hand. I
remember the time when Charles' kisses used to send an electric thrill
of joy through me; the sound of his coming footsteps was a delight whic