over his countenance. Agnes gazed tenderly into his face, and
asked--

"Why this look of doubt and anxiety?"

"Need I answer the question?" returned the young man. "It is, thus
far, no better with me than when we left our old home. Though health
is coming back through every fibre, and my heart is filled with an
eager desire to relieve these kind friends of the burden of our
support, yet no prospect opens."

No cloud came stealing darkly over the face of the young wife. The
sunshine, so far from being dimmed, was brighter.

"Let not your heart be troubled," said she, with a beautiful smile.
"All will come out right."

"Right, Agnes? It is not right for me thus to depend on strangers."

"You need depend but a little while longer. I have already made warm
friends here, and, through them, secured for you employment. A good
place awaits you so soon as strength to fill it comes back to your
weakened frame."

"Angel!" exclaimed the young man, overcome with emotion at so
unexpected a declaration.

"No, not an angel," calmly replied Agnes, "only a wife. And now,
dear Edward," she added, "never again, in any extremity, think for a
moment of meeting trials or enduring privations alone. Having taken
a wife, you cannot move safely on your journey unless she moves by
your side."

"Angel! Yes, you are my good angel," repeated Edward.

"Call me what you will," said Agnes, with a sweet smile, as she
brushed, with her delicate hand, the hair from his temples; "but let
me be your wife. I ask no better name, no higher station."

NOT GREAT, BUT HAPPY.

How pure and sweet is the love of young hearts! How little does it
contain of earth--how much of heaven! No selfish passions mar its
beauty. Its tenderness, its pathos, its devotion, who does not
remember, even when the sere leaves of autumn are rustling beneath
his feet? How little does it regard the cold and calculating
objections of worldly-mindedness. They are heard but as a passing
murmur. The deep, unswerving confidence of young love, what a
blessed thing it is! Heart answers to heart without an unequal
throb. The world around is bright and beautiful: the atmosphere is
filled with spring's most delicious perfumes.

From this dream--why should we call it a dream?--Is it not a blessed
reality?--Is not young, fervent love, true love? Alas! this is an
evil world, and man's heart is evil. From this dream there is too
often a tearful awaking. Often, too often, heart