arged her to be gentle in communicating the
tidings that she bore, and had departed alone for London. He heard all
remonstrances with patience. He did not deny that the deception of which
his wife had been guilty was the most pardonable of all concealments of
the truth, because it sprang from her love for him; but he had the same
hopeless answer for every one who tried to plead with him--the verse
from the Gospel of Saint Luke.

His purpose in traveling to London was to make the necessary
arrangements for his wife's future existence, and then to get employment
which would separate him from his home and from all its associations.
A missionary expedition to one of the Pacific Islands accepted him as a
volunteer. Broken in body and spirit, his last look of England from the
deck of the ship was his last look at land. A fortnight afterward, his
brethren read the burial-service over him on a calm, cloudless evening
at sea. Before he was committed to the deep, his little pocket Bible,
which had been a present from his wife, was, in accordance with his
dying wishes, placed open on his breast, so that the inscription, "To my
dear Husband," might rest over his heart.

His unhappy wife still lives. When the farewell lines of her husband's
writing reached her she was incapable of comprehending them. The mental
prostration which had followed the parting scene was soon complicated
by physical suffering--by fever on the brain. To the surprise of all who
attended her, she lived through the shock, recovering with the complete
loss of one faculty, which, in her situation, poor thing, was a mercy
and a gain to her--the faculty of memory. From that time to this she has
never had the slightest gleam of recollection of anything that happened
before her illness. In her happy oblivion, the veriest trifles are as
new and as interesting to her as if she was beginning her existence
again. Under the tender care of the friends who now protect her, she
lives contentedly the life of a child. When her last hour comes, may she
die with nothing on her memory but the recollection of their kindness!

THE EIGHTH DAY.

THE wind that I saw in the sky yesterday has come. It sweeps down our
little valley in angry howling gusts, and drives the heavy showers
before it in great sheets of spray.

There are some people who find a strangely exciting effect produced on
their spirits by the noise, and rush, and tumult of the elements on a
stormy day. It has never