"Yes; but, Pearl, he was so very attentive to you tonight. I saw you in my dreams together. Dear sister, such a man is not for you."

"Not very much in common, I think, myself, Oliver," she laughed, with the familiar good-natured toss of her head. "Let us see, we are both vertebrates. We are both-we are-why, the resemblance stops about there, I guess."

"Dear Pearl, never let yourself be tempted by the thought that his gold would help you to do more good in the world. That man thinks there is nothing his money will not buy."

"Oliver! am I the girl to worship wealth?" she said, with a divine light in her eyes which he ever afterward remembered.

"Remember Mollie's father, Pearl, and his last words: Tell him that mightier than his Almighty Dollar is Almighty God.""

He drew her closer to him, and with childlike innocence she raised her lips to his. He called her precious sister, and they said good-night.

The last guest had departed and the body of the uninvited guest had been carried hence; but still beneath the gilded lights paced Mr. Villars. Did ugly visions disturb his thoughts to-night? If so, the mirrors were not in the secret; for each reflection smiled as blissfully as a lover.

Mr. Villars should not seek a wealthy bride; but rather he should look for brilliance, intellect and beauty. Never having tasted wealth, let her learn that it is a gift of the gods, and that he who confers this divine blessing is worthy of her reverent worship.

Let her be so cultured that she may easily occupy the central place in the social system and hold all satellites to their true course.

It was thus that Mr. Villars mused to-night. It was thus that he experienced "love's young dream."

He certainly could endow Miss Whitford with his worldly goods and not compromise his dignity to any great extent. Indeed, he half confessed to himself that he was quite fascinated by her graceful ways.

He hoped she did not notice his confusion at the time of that unfortunate occurrence. It was very hard that a man who desired to lead a respectable life should be mortified in this way. He had acted properly. When his sister married beneath her station, he simply closed his door, as any respectable man would have done. He was being annoyed as though the fault had been his own instead of hers.

Suppose any one had known the body! It almost made him shudder!

He was obliged to tell Pearl that he did not know who it was. Really, his conscience annoyed him on that point. But no good could have come from saying that he did,--much harm might have come from it. There were many such cases where conscience had to delicately balance both sides. For twenty years he had disowned her. To-night he had simply disowned her. This last act was the climax of a consistent

course.

Then young Arkwright had mentioned her husband. Was he to be forever haunted by this ghost? It was cruel that a well-meaning man should be so constantly annoyed.

When the husband-died, perhaps he should have

forgiven her and sent her money. Yes, his conscience rather told him that he should. But it was all over

now.

God! Suppose she had reached the house before she died!

How those shadows in the mirror made him shudder! Was he afraid of himself? Coward!

A little more rapidly he paced the room, staring into the long paneled mirrors as though to stare his shadows out of countenance; and in ten minutes he retired, looking like a man who has been grossly libeled, but can not be induced to take revenge.

CHAPTER IX.

"Sorrow would be a rarity most beloved,

If all could so become it."-KING LEAR.

A bright and gladsome morning; but let not Nature try to rival the benevolence and sunshine flowing from the heart of Pearl to-day.

The brakeman's step is brisk, the fireman leans a moment from the window to catch the bracing breeze, the conductor waves his hand more joyfully than is his wont, and even the great messenger of iron and steam, as it goes throbbing and prancing from station. to station, seems to have imbibed the life without.

Long rows of houses, all in the same monotonous shape, and all painted in the same monotonous color, filled with people leading the same monotonous lives, fly swiftly by. Then the backs of houses with rickety stairs, where from broken windows hang long lines of washing; here a rickety "oyster depot;" there a glass of foaming beer painted on the window; another long row of unpainted cottages swarming at the broken windows with various forms of life; and then a half-broken sign announcing that boarders will be "taken in,"-all as in a panorama fly swiftly by. Then a long line of blue cars obscuring the more dismal view beyond; then the lumber yards and advertisements of pills and plasters along the fences, receding in the distance; the tall electric-light towers and the great dome of the Capitol pointing skyward. Then

the zig-zag fences, and the net-work of wires carrying messages of bargain and sale, messages of joy, messages of sorrow and pain and death; along the banks of the Rapid with its hidden secrets, by fields of stumps; and then where hamlets fly by as rapidly as the stumps, the switch which hisses by, the train which thunders by, the ambitious puppy which persists in racing with steam power until it is hopelessly distanced; and so the individual is ever vanquished in his struggle with the great machine monster whose muscles and nerves are iron, whose heart is steel.

Rapidly fly by the mile-posts telling that Brockfield is nearer and nearer. Again long lines of unpainted houses, of rickety stairs and winter's washing, of lumber-yards and oyster-shops, and then the distant spires.

Hurriedly the passengers gather their bundles and leave the car. Alone amid the bustling crowd, anxious but self-possessed, moves Pearl. Her steps are turned down a dismal street lined first with brick tenements, and then farther down the street where unpainted houses and doors with broken latches and windows with broken glass tell of the poverty within. Halting finally at the door of a house in somewhat better condition than the rest, she tells whom she is seeking. Two women take their wet hands from a - tub, and, drying them upon an apron, tell of little Mollie.

"Her and her mother left two weeks ago," they both exclaim in chorus, and then, as they listen to her gentle words, so full of anxious love, their lips tremble, the hands hang awkwardly by the side, and they try to tell in softened words of little Mollie's worth.