t
and taste of the gift horse without seeming to tax the poor animal's
resources. For instance, Mrs. Guy Sloane brought a silver butterfly
intended for a pen-wiper, and my old friend Sam Bolles a silver
paper-knife. Polly Flinders (I never remember her married name), who
has babies of her own, gave Josephine a silver whistle, ostensibly
intended for my grandson, and Gillespie Gore handed me, with his best
bow, an antique silver decanter label marked "Madeira." To be sure,
Mrs. Willoughby Walton did bring a splendid Indian silver necklace of
exquisite workmanship, which she hung about Josephine's neck with a
grand air, informing her that it had once belonged to a princess. As
Josephine said to me later, Mrs. Willoughby can afford to be munificent
if she chooses, and the necklace will just suit Winona's style of
beauty.

Supper was served at half-past ten, and no one would have guessed that
my darling had not ordered it. Our healths were drunk, and the healths
of our children and grandchild, and I was badgered finally into rising
and making a few scattering remarks by way of grateful acknowledgment.
An effort of this kind would be trying to the sensibilities of even a
real philosopher, and I will confess that, what with stammering and
repeating myself, I was uncertain for some moments whether I should be
able to make myself intelligible. At last, however, a sudden
reflection coming straight from my heart drew me from the slough of
renewing thanks and unsealed my lips.

"If," I said, "kind friends, you behold me in my fifty-fifth year a
contented man, tolerably well preserved, and with the lustre of true
happiness shining from my eyes; if you see around me brave sons and
fair daughters, with whose promise of usefulness as men and women you
are not ill-pleased; if, indeed, there is any good or any virtue in me
or mine, know as the source, the fountain-head, the inspiration of it
all, the sweetest woman in the whole wide world, there she stands, my
wife Josephine."

As I sat down amid a tumult of approbation, my darling's confused but
happy smile shone like a beam from heaven athwart my misty gaze. I see
it still as I sit here to-night, with her hand in mine in our silent
but joyous home. The mystery of mysteries, life! Why were we born?
We do not know. What is to become of us when we go hence? We have no
knowledge, but we live in hope. I live in hope. When the last trump
sounds, and the graves give up their