ul. Discerning his mood, neither wife nor daughter troubled him
with questions; at last, of himself, he broke out vehemently,--

"I wouldn't for the world have lost the chance! Laval wasn't the man to
take care of that gentleman. But he don't say a word against Laval,
mind you. He spoke about the flowers and the music. Oh, hang it!"

Here, in spite of himself, the Drummer was wholly overcome. He bowed
his head to the table and broke into violent weeping. Another barrier
gave way beside. Elizabeth flew to him. He seemed not to heed her, nor
the sudden cry, "Oh, father!" that escaped her. She sat down by his
side,--she wept as he was weeping. It was a stormy emotion that raged
through her heart, when her tears burst forth. She was not weeping for
pity merely, nor because her father wept. Long before he lifted his
head, she was erect, and quiet, and hopeful,--but a child no more. She
was a woman to love, a woman to dare,--fit and ready for the guiding of
an angel. By-and-by Adolphus said to Pauline,--"If any one else had
undertaken this job in our place, we should have deserved to be shut
out of heaven for it. Thinking twice about it! I'm ashamed of myself.
Why,--why,--he looks like a ghost. But he won't look that way long! We
aren't here to browbeat a man, and kill him by inches, I take it."

"No, indeed!" said Pauline, as if the bare idea filled her with
indignation. The three were surely one now.

[To be continued.]

* * * * *

WALDEINSAMKEIT.

I do not count the hours I spend
In wandering by the sea;
The forest is my loyal friend,
Like God it useth me.

In plains that room for shadows make
Of skirting hills to lie,
Bound in by streams which give and take
Their colors from the sky,

Or on the mountain-crest sublime,
Or down the oaken glade,
Oh, what have I to do with time?
For this the day was made.

Cities of mortals woebegone
Fantastic care derides,
But in the serious landscape lone
Stern benefit abides.

Sheen will tarnish, honey cloy,
And merry is only a mask of sad;
But sober on a fund of joy
The woods at heart are glad.

There the great Planter plants
Of fruitful worlds the grain,
And with a million spells enchants
The souls that walk in pain.

Still on the seeds of all he made
The rose of beauty burns;
Through times that wear, and forms that fade,
Immortal youth returns