THE youthful beauty of her face,

Set in its nut-brown tresses,
Her supple form and modest grace,
Her perfect fitting dresses,

Won for fair Bessie many a glance,
And many a smile of pleasure,
As, whirling in the dreamy dance,
She lightly tripped the measure.
'Twas Christmas eve, and merrily
The dance went on unceasing,
A hundred happy hearts were free
With smiles and laughter pleasing.

And Bessie, as her lover's prize,
In the cotillion moving,
Saw not a stranger's wistful eyes,

Who gazed with thoughts approving.

The dance, what pleasure may it bring!
What pleasure turn to sorrow!
Today in pleasure's offering

Is anguish for tomorrow.

"Another dance can he demand?"

The stranger's eyes are beaming; The gentle pressure of his hand Thrills Bessie while she's dreaming.

'Tis nice to be so much admired,

For John her boyish lover, Had never in his life inspired

Such thoughts of things above her.

Poor John! His heart ached with a dread Of soine impending danger,

As round and round the dance they tread-

His Bessie and the stranger.

He gained her side, his place he claimed,
While she, his presence scorning,
Mocked every fear as idly named,
And heeded not his warning.

For flattery is very sweet:

The stranger's conversation

Had changed all Bessie's thoughts dis

creet

To love of adulation.

And then, of course, fond love is done, She pouting--John in trouble,

'Tis strange how hearts that should be one So often will be double.

They parted; John was icy cold,

Too sore at heart to linger.. Within his hand the band of gold

Once placed on Bessie's finger.

So Bessie flirted. On and on

The dance went wildly whirling,
Till from the east the purple dawn
Its banner was unfurling.

How apt the stranger's words of praise
How neat his hat and clothing!
Poor John! his awkward country ways
Now Bessie held in loathing.

"Miss Bessie I will see you home?"—
Assurance and suggestion-

How bashfully once John had come
And stammered out this question!

With clever hands both wraps and shoes
He helps her with so neatly,
"A ride! Ah, yes do not refuse!
But to your home-directly."

How different from clumsy John's-
The team and fancy cutter!
The frosty twilight softly dawns,

Her thoughts she cannot utter.

Her heart beats with no sense of fear
Within the spell that's o'er her;
It seems a moment only, ere

Her home appears before her.

"Good by!" he whispers soft and clear "When may I have the pleasure

Of seeing you again, my dear?"

Sweet words she could but treasure.

The heart that's caught on the rebound, Must, pendulum-like swinging,

Go to and fro till rest is found

From memories up-springing.

For pride and anger similate

The love they cannot fashion, And wounded hearts with petty hates Know not love's deepest passion.

And Bessie ill at ease all day,

Her old love interceding, Kept banishing the thoughts away Of conscience gently pleading.

Like soft, low music of the birds,

Oft in her thoughts renewing,
She let the stranger's artful words
Complete their power of wooing.
Till ev'ry visit 'neath his power
She yielded to temptation,
Nor realized the fatal hour,
So great her fascination.

As one may cloy of luscious fruit,
He surfeits who has flirted.
He left her, stained with ill repute,
Betrayed, and then deserted.

A love that flashes on the mind
Too often proves its treason;
A love that's born of reason kind,
May dwell a life long season.

Let love be love and love is truth, And it shall dwell forever,

No ups and downs of age or youth Can e'er true love dissever.

And Bessie grieving day by day,
Atoned in helpless sorrow,
Too dumb with pain to even pray
And hopeless for the morrow.

But honest John, her lover, came,

(Although 'tis not the fashion) He knew the story of her shame, But he had love's compassion.

His soothing words unlocked the tears
By pride held in suppression;
He counseled in her hopes and fears,
Forgiving her transgression.

And Godlike thus his wife he won,
A nobler life beginning--
For where are those who have begun
But what would cease their sinning?

J. L. Townshend.

AUNT RUTH'S STORY.

THE gnarled oak crackled merrily in the old open fire place, around which Aunt Ruth and the young people had gathered in the twilight one evening to tell stories and talk confidentially. They were sitting in a semi-circle with Aunt Ruth in the center of several of the girls, for they were all girls, trying to encircle her trim waist with their short arms each one protesting that it was her turn this evening to sit next to aunty. When the mother was finally settled in favor of the two youngest, Flora and Dora, Aunt Ruth said in answer to the request for a story: "Well what shall it be then?"

"A fairy 'tory," lisped four-year old Dora, "somefin about Sir Skip and Jump."

"A ghost story, aunty," cried daring, ten year old Flora, at the same time looking askance in, the

direction of the darkest corner of the cosy sitting-room.

"A

love story," whispered Nancy, a blushing damsel of fif

Aunt teen, with a timid look up at Ruth from beneath her lashes.

"Nothing of the kind, aunty. Let's have a good sound sensible story from real life with a moral in it." demanded practical Lea, a bright lassie of seventeen, clasping her hands around her knees, and looking as if she knew that her words would carry the point.

"And what say you, Isabel?" asked Aunt Ruth, turning to her sister's eldest child, the beauty of the family, who had not yet seen nineteen summers.

"Oh I have no choice in the matter, your stories are always lovely, aunty, whatever they are; but I believe I should incline towards Lea's request. A story with a moral in it will suit me."

Aunt Ruth sat awhile thinking, then presently said:

"Well to tell the truth I am beginning to get tired of telling stories with morals to the young people, since the moral generally seems to be entirely lost on my auditors; at least they take no heed of the warnings I hold up before them. Have I not been moralizing on the danger for our girls of listening to the flatteries of those who are not of us, these many years? And yet, where are the fruits of my labors? Have not all my sisters had a girl or two fly out from the home nest, a bright and happy bird, with a stranger, of whom we knew noth

ing, and come back in a few years with drooping plumage, despising and hating the mate she had chosen and followed, to pay a sorry price for her folly! price for her folly! And who can. tell but that even in this little circle there might perchance be one who will ignore the life-long teachings of her parents and listen to the idle flatteries of a stranger, whom she sees for the first time, and take his lightly spoken words. for gospel truth in preference to the words of the mother, who would die to save her child from sorrow and disgrace!"

An awkward silence fell upon the little company, for it was generally understood among them that Sister Isabel was receiving attentions from a handsome stranger, much to the sorrow of her parents. Each one asked herself if it were possible that Aunt Ruth, who lived in another town, quite far from them, could have got an inkling of the matter. But Isabel sat motionless looking at the fire, where just now an immense structure, looking like a castle on the Rhine fell out of shape and tumbled down among the other embers. She shuddered slightly, rested her head in her hand and said faintly:

"Let us have the story, aunty, I know you have one on your mind."

"Yes, aunty, hang out the skeleton, let's have a look at it," interposed Lea; "who knows but perchance some of us may get frightened for once at your rattling of it. I know that you are think

ing about Cousin Clara.

How was it about her anyway, I have heard fragments of her dreadful story; but they are living so far away we never got the whole thing. And then everybody seemed reluctant about talking of it."

"Yes, and no wonder! no wonder! Well she was as good a girl as could be found anywhere till she met him.

"Who was he, and what was he?" sounded in chorus.

He

"We didn't know; no one knew. He came among us uninvited. said he was a telegraph-operator or something of that sort; but he never worked at his trade that I heard of, yet he always seemed to have plenty of money; invited the girls out with him right and left. until he met Clara, when he seemed to forget all others. Clara was a pretty, dark-eyed girl of eighteen, with a sunny disposition and a light heart. She was a general favorite among her friends and companions. She was a member of the Sunday School and of the Young Ladies' Association and was quite religiously inclined. We all thought the world of her. And I well in fact she was a special favorite of mine; having lived with her mother, my sister, ever since my husband died, as you all know, and having no children of my own-for which I have been tempted to be thankful, I when I have seen the course some of our young people take-and she being such a loving, good-natured child, I took to her almost sa if she could have been my own.

And she was as fond of me, bless you; she was only six years

old when I came to live with her. Well I made it my special duty to teach and train her, and the seed I sowed seemed to bear good fruit; for she bloomed into the sweetest womanhood, was a good, obedient child, with reverence for the aged, which is something I prize very highly.

"We heard a good deal about this stranger before we saw him. Accounts of his extravagant habits reached us, and Clara even wondered that some of the girls were so ready to take up with him, and she was curious to know what he was like.

I re

"One summer afternoon when she had been out in town she came home and told us she had met the stranger at a friend's house. I asked her what she thought of him. O he appears to be a gentleman,' she said. member she was in the act of taking off her bonnet and was smoothing out the creases in the strings very carefully and meditatively. Strange to say, an unaccountable evil foreboding crept. over me; but I said nothing.

That same evening, after supper, when she was ready to go to Young Ladies' meeting, she said. as if suddenly remembering something annoying:

"Oh that's so! Why mother, if this Mr.Mr.--what's his name should call while I'm gone-it's possible that he may--I couldn't avoid asking him you know--but I hardly think he will. However,

if he should, you needn't show him the door.'

"Why, my dear girl, have we ever been guilty of such rudeness to anyone be he ever so obnoxious to us?'

"No, no! of course you know I did not mean that. But please be as hospitable to him as you can. I-I think we owe that to ourselves as a people to be kind to strangers.'

"Her mother looked offended at her daughter presuming to teach her a lesson in what we owe ourselves and the church we belong to. It was so unlike Clara, and I felt that it was all a studied part she was playing, and it gave me great pain to detect this her first deceit.

"She had not been gone very long when a dashing young man made his appearance. He stood leaning against a pillar of the porch when my sister opened the front door to him, showing his teeth and viewing her insolently from head to foot before he demanded in a condescending way if Miss Somers was in. My sister very kindly said, 'Won't you come in?' He answered discourteously, 'No! I'll call some other time.' Wherewith he sauntered off with out as much as having wished my sister good evening.

"Well we were not sorry that he did not come in and my sister laughed heartily, saying: 'Well I do not think there is any danger of his captivating Clara with such Fortunately the girl has some idea of gentlemanly de

manners.

portment. But I remembered what Clara had said about him that very afternoon and concluded that his manners varied according to the impression he desired. to make; and thinking my sister a plain country woman who wouldn't know the difference, he considered it unnecessary to exert himself.

"When Clara came home she appeared to have forgotten all about the stranger and it was not till she was preparing for bed that she said as she turned up the kitchen lamp she held in her hand: 'Well did Mr. Brown call?"

"Yes he did,' answered her mother. 'And I hope it is the last time he calls here.'

"Dear me, I don't think this lamp will burn at all.' And Clara pretended to have paid no particular attention to her mother's words until she had got the lamp in good working order, then she said with an effort to seem absentminded:

"So you did not like him? Well!' then hurriedly casting a glance in the direction of the clock 'Why it's long after ten! Good night.' And she hurried out to avoid hearing any more on the subject of what I felt confident, was uppermost in her mind.

"For sometime, several weeks I think, we heard nothing of Mr. Brown, and I began to persuade myself that there was nothing in my presentiment after all, till one day Clara astonished us by saying that Mr. Brown was going to take her to the grove next day, where