way, among
wild mountains, when I felt that Jonathan was calling me. I knew that I
must return, never to leave you more, and there was still a little work
to finish. Now we shall all live again!"

"Yes," said Jonathan, coming to her other side, "try to live, Ruth!"

Her voice came clear, strong, and full of authority. "I DO live, as
never before. I shall take all my life with me when I go to wait for one
soul, as I shall find it there! Our love unites, not divides, from this
hour!"

The few weeks still left to her were a season of almost superhuman
peace. She faded slowly and painlessly, taking the equal love of the
twin-hearts, and giving an equal tenderness and gratitude. Then first
she saw the mysterious need which united them, the fulness and joy
wherewith each completed himself in the other. All the imperfect past
was enlightened, and the end, even that now so near, was very good.

Every afternoon they carried her down to a cushioned chair on the
veranda, where she could enjoy the quiet of the sunny landscape, the
presence of the brothers seated at her feet, and the sports of her
children on the grass. Thus, one day, while David and Jonathan held her
hands and waited for her to wake from a happy sleep, she went before
them, and, ere they guessed the truth, she was waiting for their one
soul in the undiscovered land.

And Jonathan's children, now growing into manhood and girlhood, also
call David "father." The marks left by their divided lives have long
since vanished from their faces; the middle-aged men, whose hairs are
turning gray, still walk hand in hand, still sleep upon the same pillow,
still have their common wardrobe, as when they were boys. They talk of
"our Ruth" with no sadness, for they believe that death will make them
one, when, at the same moment, he summons both. And we who know them, to
whom they have confided the touching mystery of their nature, believe so
too.

THE EXPERIENCES OF THE A. C.

"Bridgeport! Change cars for the Naugatuck Railroad!" shouted the
conductor of the New York and Boston Express Train, on the evening of
May 27th, 1858. Indeed, he does it every night (Sundays excepted),
for that matter; but as this story refers especially to Mr. J. Edward
Johnson, who was a passenger on that train, on the aforesaid evening,
I make special mention of the fact. Mr. Johnson, carpet-bag in hand,
jumped upon the platform, entered the office, purchased a ticket for
Waterbury, and w