he thought his
betrothed showed too much regard for his rival, and as she only laughed
at his pleadings he grew angry and threatened to leave. Her seeming
indifference made him desperate, and he declared:

"If you dance once more with that fellow you will not see me again for
twenty years."

"You couldn't leave me for even twenty hours if you tried ever so hard,"
she replied, and with a coquettish smile she went off to dance with his
rival.

Craig went home alone that night and the next day was missing. The most
careful search failed to reveal any trace of him. The old couple
continued to till the farm without the aid of the strong-armed son, and
at the neighbor's down the road pretty Mary Barker went about her
household labors with a demure air that told plainly how she regarded
her lover's disappearance. She refused to "keep company" in the
old-fashioned way with any of the young farmers who would willingly have
taken young Craig's place. She went out very little, kept a cat and grew
domestic in her habits. She had an abiding faith that Craig would
return, and to all entreaties would only shake her head and say: "I am
waiting for Will." The firm contour of the cheek grew somewhat less
rounded, the springing step less elastic, but she would not think of
marriage.

Friday, December 7, of this month (December) was just twenty years since
the disappearance of William Craig. In the twilight a bearded man of
forty came up the walk and as Miss Barker opened the door he put out
both hands and said:

"Mary, I have come again."

"I am sorry you waited so long Will," was the quiet reply, as she led
him into the house, where each told the story of the weary waiting, and
Christmas was fixed upon once more as the day for the wedding.

To the eager questions of old friends as to where he spent the time, he
told them, as he had already told his wife, how he had at once gone to
Philadelphia, enlisted in the army under an assumed name, then, after
the war, gone to Nebraska and taken up a tract of valuable land. This he
had diligently cultivated until at present he is in more than
comfortable circumstances. The Craigs will leave early in January for
their Nebraska home.

WILL READERS TRY IT.

The other day, says an exchange, we came across the following recipe for
making ink in an English archaeological journal. Archaeology is the
"science of antiquities," and surely this recipe is old enough to be
good. It occurre