divided hearts met in that union which on earth is never broken; it was there that they were wedded, and upon the rock by the beach their marriage feast was spread; and the honest fishermen, whose smiling faces gave cordial cheer to the beloved bride, the nymph of their wild coast, called the place ever afterwards, "The Bridal Rock."

BABY'S FINGERS.

BY REBECCA R. PIERCE.

Baby's soft fingers
Lovingly rest

Like delicate rose-leaves,
On mamma's white breast.
Now clasped in a gentle

And loving embrace,
Is the soft, velvet palm,

That touches her face.

Baby's sweet fingers,
Dimpled and fat,
Make rarest of cakes,

Pap-a-pat, pat-a-pat,
All moulded so nice,

As a baker's should be,
And tossed in the oven
For papa and me.

Baby's small fingers
Dainty and fair,
Are busy all day,

With never a care.

Finding from morn till night, Plenty to do;

Work is a pleasure now,

Life is so new.

Rosy and restless

All the day long;

Never aweary,

At work or at playBaby's wee fingers,

Ten, and no more, Photographed plainly

On window and door.

Fond mother, ne'er weary
Of wiping away
Prints of those fingers;
It may be some day,

For each tiny impress

On window and wall,

If the world's wealth were yours, You'd barter it all!

A French Woman at Home. She helps to cook the dinner she has boughtfor servants are wasteful with charcoal and she knows to an inch how little she can use. In that marvelous place, a French kitchen-where two or three little holes in a stove cook such delicate dishes, and perform such culinary feats as our great roaring giants of coal fires have no conception of-she flits about like a fairy, creating magical messes out of raw material of the most ordinary description. Yes, though a lady born and bred, refined, elegant

and agreeable in society, a belle in her way, yet she does not think it beneath her dignity to lighten the household expenses by practical economy and activity. The dinner of a French family is cheap and simple. There is always soup, the meat of the stew-pan-sometimes, if not strict in expenditure, another plate of meat-generally two vegetables, dressed and eaten separately; and sometimes, not always, a sweet dish; if not that a little fruit, such as may be the cheapest and the ripest in the season. But there is very little of each thing, and it is rather in arrangement than in material that they appear rich. The idea that the French are gourmands in private life is incorrect. They spend little in eating, and they eat inferior things; though their cookery is rather a science than a mere accident of civilization. At home the great aim of the French is to save; and any self-sacrifice that will lead to this result is cheerfully nndertaken, more especially in cating and in the luxury of mere idleness. No French woman will spend a shilling to save herself trouble. She would rather work like a dray-horse to buy an extra yard of ribbon, or a new pair of gloves, than lie on the softest sofa in the world in placid fine ladyism with crumpled gauze and bare hands.

The Benefit of Laughing.

Dr. Greene, in his "Problem of Health," says there is not the remotest corner or little inlet of the minute blood vessels of the human body that does not feel some wavelet from the convulsion occasioned by good hearty laughter. The life principle, or the central man, is shaken to its innermost depths, sending new tides of life and strength to the surface, thus materially tending to insure good health to the persons who indulge therein. The blood moves more rapidly, and conveys a different impression to all the organs of the body, as it visits them on that particular mystic journey when the man is laughing, from what it does at other times. For this reason every good, hearty laugh in which a person indulges, tends to lengthen his life, conveying, as it does, new and distinct stimulus to the vital forces. Doubtless the time will come when physicians, conceding more importance than they now do to the influence of the mind upon the vital forces of the body, will make their prescriptions more with reference to the mind, and less to drugs for the body; and will, in so doing, find the best and most effective method of producing the required effect upon the patient.

A WESTERN STORY.-Deacon B., of Ohio, a very pious man, was noted for his long prayers, especially in his family. One Monday morning, the deacon and his wife were alone, and as was his custom, after breakfast a prayer was offered.

There being an unusual amount of work that day, the deacon's prayer was short, and seizing his hat and milk-pail he started for the barn.

His wife, being deaf, did not notice his absence, but supposed him to be still engaged in prayer.

On his return from milking he was surprised to find her still kneeling. He stepped up to her and shouted "Amen!" when she immediately arose and went about her work as if nothing had happened.

and the hope it inspires burns as brightly in the hearts of the followers of Christ to-day as it did in the hearts of those who listened to this exquisite parable from the lips of the Great Shepherd himself in far-off Judea, more than eighteen hundred years ago.

This beautiful parable has been illustrated in an exceedingly fine hymn, entitled "The Ninety and Nine," the following quotation from which seems a fitting termination to this brief article:

"But all thro' the mountains, thunder riven,
And up from the rocky steep,
There rose a cry to the gate of heaven,
'Rejoice! I have found my heep!'
And the angels echoed around the throne,

'Rejoice, for the Lord brings back His own!'"

and he several years your senior, while I am only nineteen. Besides, we have not sympathies or tastes in common; I have the hopes and dreams and aspirations of youth; I like poetry and music, as my mother did before me, and he cares only for gold, and the advantages it can procure. Father, he wishes to win me merely because he thinks a bride will lend a charm to his dismal home."

"Dismal home!" echoed the old man, and an angry flush crimsoned his face, as he added, "why, girl, his house here in London and his estate in Cumberland, are fit for royal occupants; Charles, himself, in the height of his power, would have been glad to take up his abode in either of them." "I am well aware of the splendors which dazzle your eyes," said Rosamond, "but Hugh Marchmont's palace would be a prison to me, unless I

OR,

CAVALIER AND PURITAN.

BY MRS. C. F. GERRY.

CHAPTER I.

A STORMY SCENE.

OSAMOND—Rosamond-I would fain have a reckoning with you! Nay, do not draw back -you cannot elude my vigilance!" cried stern, old Roger Harcourt, as the great hall door closed on the retreating form of the only person, who had shared the sumptuous dinner, never provided, save when he was to grace the entertainment.

At the sound of her father's voice, Rosamond started and her beautiful face grew a shade paler, than during the scene which had been so distasteful to her, but endeavoring to summon all her courage, she returned to the banqueting room. One glance at that grave visage, told her she had little to hope, and much to dread from the interview, and the result proved her womanly intuition to be correct.

"Yes, child," continued Roger Harcourt, "I must have a few moments' speech with you, and know why forsooth, you treat an honored guest like Hugh Marchmont, with such neglect. To-day, when he led you out to dinner, you averted your head; you seemed to shrink from him when he was talking to you in the most complimentary strain, and when he drank your health in flowings bumpers of claret, I actually saw your lip curl with scorn. I marked the same thing, too, when he kissed your hand at parting; and this, this is not all; his gifts are despised; the flowers he sends you scattered to the four winds; the costly ornaments, with which most girls like to decoraie themselves, kept locked in their caskets, and his other offerings treated with similar disdain. See, see-there lies the rare book he brought you three hours ago-he, and everything that pertains to him, appear to be your special aversion!"

should be a primary consideration in marriage contracts, father."

"Tush! tush, child!" exclaimed Roger Harcourt, "I had hoped you would have been above such nonsense; but somebody it appears has been teaching you romantic notions-Rosamond, Rosamond Harcourt, you can no longer deceive me; this very hour the confession must come."

66

The young girl's lithe figure trembled, and a burning blush surged over her face; but though her lips parted, she could not articulate a syllable. Speak, speak!" cried her father, as he riveted a searching gaze upon her, “answer me a few questions truthfully as you hope for heaven. There is a certain cavalier, the younger son of a nobleman, half of whose estates may be wrested from him by another claimant, who is trying his utmost to establish his claim. You know how I despise Charles, and all his courtiers. But as ill luck would have it, he chanced to stop your frightened palfrey, the day it took fright, and thus not only made your ac quaintance, but won your gratitude. Rosamond, have you not often met him since that disaster?" "Yes, father."

"And are you not now in the habit of meeting him?"

46

That, too, I acknowledge," was the low reply. "Has love for him steeled your heart against Hugh Marchmont ?"

"Aye, sir, he has grown dearer than all the world beside, and to-night he is coming to confess his love to you, and beg you not to stand between us and happiness."

Even as she spoke, the sound of hoofs-beats came dashing along the street, and the next moment a well-known step, the clang of a spurred heel smote upon her ear, sending another, and more vivid blush to her face.

"He is here-receive him courteously," she faltered, but Roger Harcourt's rugged features did not soften, nor did his eyes lose their angry glitter.

Rosamond's heart beat fast as the door unclosed, and the porter announced one who had power to thrill every nerve,-" Rupert Mordaunt," the first name having been inherited from Spanish maternal ancestors, and the latter from a proud old English,

The sight of this gallant cavalier with his velvet doublet, and plumed cap; the courtier's cloak falling in graceful folds over one arm, and the flowing

locks, so detested and stigmatized by the Roundhead leaders, and those who sympathised with their views, was by no means calculated to lessen Roger Harcourt's indignation, but rather served to increase it. His daughter's appealing look was also quite wasted upon him, and with his fierce eyes still fastened on her, he exclaimed:

"Receive Rupert Mordaunt courteously, Rosamond-give my good right hand to the hated cavalier, who has stolen my child's heart from her old father, and the man he has chosen for her? Nay, nay, that is asking too much!"

He paused an instant, and then went on, ing slowly, and with intense bitterness:

hark ye, young man, no honorable suitor will persevere in attentions to a lady who is betrothed to another. In six months, at least, Rosamond will be Hugh Marchmont's bride."

"Heaven forbid such a sacrifice!" cried Mordaunt, and turning toward Roger Harcourt, he would fain have resumed his plea, but the old man raised his hand, and with a fierce gesture exclaimed:

"Silence! I can listen to no more of your mad ravings; henceforth you and Rosamond must be strangers-begone, begone, this is no place for

"This hand I give you," and he extended the left, "not with the fellowship, with which I have to-night offered the other to him with whom I feel I can trust my daughter's happiness, but in token of my undying hostility, not only to you, but to all the nobility of the land."

How striking and picturesque was the scene portrayed in the old banqueting-room at that moment! The light of the antique lustre suspended from the ceiling, shone over the polished oaken floor, the curious panelling of the walls, quaint lattices of the mullioned windows, the cumbrous sideboards, with its grotesque carvings, its treasured china and tall decanters, and the table from which the dinner-party had not long ago risen; but the lampshine revealed more than these; for three figures broke up the otherwise still life of the picture. There by the festive board, on which might be seen the silver goblet, in which Hugh Marchmont had drank the health of his fair hostess, stood two persons, who formed, indeed, a strong contrast-the young cavalier, with his courtly dress and bearing, and bluff Roger Harcourt, with his closely shaven head, his plain doublet, and the rest of his costume marked by that severe simplicity that characterized the followers of Oliver Cromwell. Both gentlemen were gazing at the young girl standing opposite, and slightly leaning towards them in her keen anxiety. Her face had the pure chiselling of a Greek statue; her complexion was fair, and crystal clear; her cheek, usually flushed by a peach-like bloom, but now marble-pale; her large, blue, lustrous eyes looked strangely troubled, and there was an uneasy tremor about her red, ripe lips. She wore a long, flowing robe of blue silk, with the sleeves turned back to reveal a white lining, and an exquisitely moulded arm; a snowy kerchief was folded over her shoulders, and her heavy, goldbrown tresses entirely unornamented. On hearing her father's tirade concerning the book, which Hugh Marchmont had that day brought her, she mechanically picked it up, and now held it clasped in one hand.

For some time after Roger Harcourt's last remark, a profound silence reigned in the old banquetingroom, the stern father, meanwhile loosening his grasp of young Mordaunt's hand; but at length the cavalier said, earnestly:

"Sir, all my hopes of happiness, in this life, are now linked with your daughter, and I would give worlds, if I possessed them, could I win her hand. Is there no hope? Can no argument, no persuasion shake your purpose ?"

"None," was the curt answer, "I am firm; and,

As he spoke, he stalked to the door, and flung it open, sullenly awaiting the young man's egress; but Rupert Mordaunt sprang to the girl's side, and clasping her hand, murmured:

"Rose, dearest Rose, I cannot come to an oper quarrel with one, who though he has heaped insults upon me, is, nevertheless your father, and I therefore leave you; but believe me, our parting will not be eternal. It is the faith of my soul that you will yet be mine-my own Rose, my fair, Puritan bride."

"God grant it!" she whispered, and the tears gushed into her violet eyes, and glittered like raindrops on their long, curling lashes.

There was a yearning kiss, a look, which spoke more than the most eloquent words could breathe in such a crisis, and the next moment Rupert Mordaunt was gone.

The clang of his spurred heel had ceased to echo through the hall, Rosamond flung herself at her father's feet, and endeavored to soften his heart, but in vain, in vain; he was as cold as an iceberg.

CHAPTER II.

ROGER HARCOURT'S PLANS.

THREE days dragged wearily by, during which Rosamond Harcourt lived over in waking dreams, the period which had been the golden age of her life. Again and again she recalled the morning when her palfrey had taken fright in the environs of London, and the servant, who had accompanied her, found it utterly impossible to control him; the opportune appearance of a young cavalier, who had been sent with some important despatches to the city; the bravery with which he had rescued her, and the tender interest he had manifested in her welfare. From that time, his image had haunted her, and by various means he had managed to gain her companionship. She was sitting for a portrait, and he was often at her side in the studio, as the same artist had been patronized by members of his own family; he knew her favorite walks, and the hour when she came floating down the Thames in her father's barge, to go drifting back at twilight, and thus, thus their acquaintance had ripened into friendship, and their friendship into love. Whatever might come, the confession he had breathed in her ear three months previous would be the sweetest memory of her life; and not till she had been bound to Hugh Marchmont by the solemn vows of the altar, could she banish Rupert Mordaunt's image.

Since the memorable night, when such a stormy scene had been enacted in the old banqueting-room, she had neither met Marchmont nor obtained even