d her no more remittances, to honor no more of her
drafts, as she has already almost beggared him by her extravagance
abroad. Verily, she has her reward!

One farewell glance at our favorite, Mary Grayson, and we have done.

Beside a lovely lake, over whose margin light graceful shrubs are
bending, and on whose transparent waters lie the dense forest shadows,
though here and there the golden rays of the declining sun flash through
the tangled boughs upon its dancing waves, a noble-looking boy of four
years old is sailing his mimic fleet, while a lovely girl, two years
younger, toddles about, picking "pitty flowers," and bringing them to
"papa, mamma, or grandmamma," as her capricious fancy prompts. Near by,
papa, mamma, grandmamma, and one pleased and honored guest, are grouped
beneath the bending boughs of a magnificent black walnut, and around a
table on which strawberries and cream, butter sweet as the breath of the
cows that yielded it, biscuits light and white, and bread as good as
Humbert himself could make, are served in a style of elegant simplicity,
while the silver urn in which the water hisses, and the small china cups
into which the fragrant tea is poured, if they are somewhat antique in
fashion, are none the less beautiful or the less valued by those who
still prize the slightest object associated with the affections beyond
the gratification of the vanity.

The evening meal is over. The shadows grow darker on the lake. Agreeable
conversation has given place to silent enjoyment, which Mrs. Oswald
interrupts to say, "Philip, this is the hour for music; let us have some
before Mary leaves us with the children."

Full, deep-toned was the manly voice that swelled upon that evening air,
and soft and clear its sweet accompaniment, while the words, full of
adoring gratitude and love, seemed incense due to the heaven which had
so blessed them.

The last sweet notes had died away, and Mary, calling the children,
leads them to their quiet repose, after they have bestowed their
good-night kisses. Philip Oswald follows her with his eyes, as, with a
child on each hand, she advances with gentle grace upon the easy slope,
to the house on its summit. She enters the piazza, and is screened from
his view by its lattice-work of vines, but he knows that soon his
children will be lisping their evening prayer at her knee, and the
thought calls a tender expression to his eyes as he turns them away from
his "sweet home."

Co