ing at church, or his mother's voice as she car- with sunrise and sparkling dew, and vocal with oled the ballads of her girlhood. bird songs.

The first purchase he ever made, with money for which he had worked indefatigably at odd jobs, was a small violin. He had a marvelous delicacy and aptitude of touch, and, as he grew older, a singular power of improvisation. He talked through his violin. It uttered all the griefs of his lonely boyhood; all those vague longings that trouble the heart of an imaginative youth after power and fame, or a dim, undefinable greatness and goodness shining afar off, like the pale beauty of a vailed statue.

In all these dreams he was to be a musician. In that way he was to draw near the far-off good. His little violin was to talk to many hearts. The world should hear its cry and obey its teaching. He would do a good work; be a master among men. With all these visions his mother fully sympathized; nay, her simple, unworldly heart was as fully imbued with faith in them as his own. They were poor, but she managed to send him to school all through his boyhood, and afterward to keep herself so neat and comfortable that he should never see she wanted for any thing, that no care for her might ever disturb his progress.

son.

Others find it at high noon-the zenith of power and pride and passion, when the sun wooes the earth with his most fiery kisses-the hour in which bold and daring souls recognize a peculiar heritage. For others-men and women of sober, thoughtful, mysterious lives, half superstitious, owning a ready allegiance to the unseen-the hour of fate is the solemn noon of night. For Joseph Thorne, and such as he, it was twilight. On a summer twilight had he been born, and on a summer twilight he told his love.

But their utterance changed the whole current of Joseph Thorne's life. They made it necessary to him, for he possessed a high sense of honor, to go the next day into the presence of Farmer Emerson, and, telling his story this time to ears that would not be sympathetic, to ask for his Mabel's hand.

They stood those two young things for whom life and sorrow were still invested with a sweet, serious, half melancholy charm-for whom the dark days had not yet risen-under the trees of Farmer Emerson's old front yard. The balmy summer air was burdened with the fragrance of blossoms. The sunset clouds were like that hour of their two lives, all couleur de rose, and the chimes of the village bells, mellowed by distance, rung out a pleasant chorus-a sort of consecrated amen to their plighted vows. In that hour no new tale was told-both had been fully satisfied before that they were beloved; the very words were the sweet old words that As I said, he had always known Mabel Emer-have trembled all along the discords of so many As a child he had led her to and from centuries of years, upon so many loved and school, or drawn her over the drifts on his little loving lips. sled. She was dearer to him then than any thing else, save his mother and his violin. She was not yet seventeen when he had learned to place her even before these. As a child, she clung to him with caressing, childish fondness; as a maiden, she loved him with all the strength of her heart. She recognized in him the consecrated high-priest of her life. For him the altar was unvailed, and he looked unchidden upon all the thoughts and fancies of her innocent soul. She possessed, what to such a nature as his was more than all things else, entire faith in him. She believed in his power to do great things; to be not only the noblest of men, but the first of musicians, and it was very sooth-should ever have power to change her love, ing to him, so poor, so proud, so sensitive, to fortified anew by the trembling touch of his turn from the world to her; to be comforted by mother's fingers upon his hair-his mother, to the singleness of her devotion, the implicitness whom he confided every thing—and her whisof her trust. Yet it was many months, even aft-pered, "God bless you, my son, for you have er they each believed themselves dearer to the other than any thing else on earth, before any binding vows of love were spoken. Such utterances are of slow growth in a mind so dreamy and sensitive as Joseph Thorne's. The uncertainty of her girlish ways was so sweet-the coming and going of her delicate color-the fluttering of her fingers when he took them in his own. He hesitated to exchange all this even for the assurance that she would be his wife.

But the charmed hour came at last. I think every human life that is worth living has its hour of fate; its one golden number in the twenty-four, at whose chiming is ushered in every important change, whether of joy or sorrow. To some it is morning, rosy and bright

It was a terrible ordeal to the young, sensitive musician. He had an intuitive knowledge of the farmer's character. Instinctively he felt that this busy, energetic, matter-of-fact man would look upon him and his music with distrust, perhaps disapprobation. But, fortified by Mabel's solemn pledge that nothing on earth

been a good boy all the days of your life,” he sought the man in whose hands lay his destiny.

It was just after dinner. He knew Mr. Emerson would be resting, as was his habit, on the wooden settee, under the porch at his front door. He walked into the yard with desperate courage and approached him. He was kindly received and invited to sit down.

"I wanted to speak to you, Mr. Emerson."

"Well, my young friend, what is it? Any assistance about getting into business? I will do all I can for you, gladly, were it only for the sake of your dead father, as good a neighbor and as honest a man as ever sat in Westvale meeting-house."

"No, Sir, it is not that;" and Joseph plunged bravely in medias res. "I love your daughter,

and she loves me, will you consent that she | life—how could he give either of them up? No shall be my wife?"

Wide opened the farmer's eyes in wonder. "Your wife! my daughter Mabel! What are your prospects? What is your business? What would you keep her on ?"

Joseph's tones faltered. "I did not mean just at present, Sir. We will be satisfied now with your consent to our engagement. I hope to be a musician. I think that is my true calling. For nothing else have I so much talent; in nothing else am I so happy."

There was silence for a few moments, and then the old man broke it. His voice was firm and clear, and yet it seemed almost sad.

"I am sorry-I am truly sorry. Mabel is like her mother, and if she loves you she will not love lightly; but, if such is the life you have marked out, I can not give her to you. I do not care so much for money. It is a good thing, though I would let her marry without it; but a musician! a fiddler! It is an idle, wandering, useless life: I speak to you frankly. No good will come of it. I can not give her to you."

A wandering, useless life! Alas, Joseph Thorne, where were your lofty dreams, your high hopes now? You that had aspired to talk to the world through your instrument, to sound upon its delicate strings the awakening calls to a higher, purer life-you to whom this had seemed the noblest of missions. Small wonder your voice faltered as you asked

"Can you then give me no hope ?" "Yes, I can give you one hope - -one test of your love for Mabel. She is my only child; I would not cross her lightly. If you will give up these vagaries about music, and become a practical working-man, you shall have her. I will take you on my own land, under my own eye, and when I think you competent to manage for yourself you shall marry her, and I will give you the Widow Sikes's farm for a wedding-portion. There isn't a snugger little place, or one under better cultivation in Connecticut; and you'll be close by home, too. But I am a man of my word; and unless you give up this foolery about the music, you shall never have Mabel. If you want time to decide, you can take three days."

"I will give you my answer in that time;" and, bowing gravely, Joseph Thorne went out of Farmer Emerson's yard with crushed hopes. He made no attempt to see Mabel. He went home. His mother read the sorrow on his face, but she was one of those rare women who know when to keep silence. Heavy as her heart was she asked no questions. He went into his own room and sat down by the window. He took his violin, which lay upon a stand beside him. He had been accustomed to translate into music all his griefs, but now that the first real trial of his life had come upon him, its chords seemed dumb and powerless to comfort. He bowed his head over it, and tried to think.

Το

one knew-no one could know-what this gift,
which he had fondly deemed his calling, had
been to him. Something else he might, indeed,
make his business, his profession, but it would
be only a profession—a living falsehood.
this only God had called him. His soul was
full of a light, a heaven-bestowed revelation.
The world had need of it. How, save through
this voice of music, could he give it utterance?

He

At one moment he had well-nigh resolved to cling to his chosen vocation through every thing. He would go out into the world, and do his duty manfully. This great world should recognize him. He would do it good. But he must grow old; and there rose before him a picture of a lonely, loveless old age; a hearth which no woman's care made bright; a fireside where no wife's sweet presence, no calm brow and holy eyes would linger beside him; a silent house, where no children's light footfall pattered along the floor, no little faces reflected back the vanished light of his own youth. At this picture the humanity of his nature vailed its face, and uttered a wail which would not be quieted. His love was mightier than his genius. could not give himself wholly to the world. He had a heart that only human tenderness could satisfy. Then Mabel's face rose before him, in the still, summer afternoon-the calm brow, the holy eyes of his fondest dream. He thought of her as his wife-the mother of his children-in bridehood, wifehood, motherhood; and growing old, at length, by his side, yet never old to him, with the smile which age had no power to dim lingering still about her lips, till death should freeze them into the last and sweetest smile of all, and they should be young once more in heaven. And thinking thus, his soul seemed to clasp and tighten round her image, and involuntarily his lips cried out,

"Oh, Mabel, Mabel! Mine own- mine own!"

All the afternoon he sat there, lost in troubled thought, his fingers now and then wandering listlessly over the chords of his violin. At twilight he rose, and went silently down stairs and out of doors. Standing at the window, his mother watched him as he walked with rapid step toward Farmer Emerson's house. The knowledge had come at first to this gentle woman with a sharp pang that her son loved another better than his mother, but for his sake she had conquered it; and now she said to herself, thankfully,

"I am glad he is going over there. Poor lad, he is in heavy trouble, but God grant Mabel may be able to console him."

Mabel was standing under the trees at the gate. He saw her waiting for him as he drew nigh, but he had never seen her face so sad before. He unlatched the gate, and took her trembling fingers in his own. They were icy cold.

"I know it all," she said, with sorrowful Mabel and music-twin inspirations of his calmness, through which thrilled the smother

ed cry of a breaking heart; "father has told | go to work at Mr. Emerson's to-morrow. Mabel me. I know you can not give up your music, will be mine. Music must be given up-my and I can't disobey my father. We must-" dreams-my ambition." She could not finish the sentence. Her voice broke up into sobs; and Joseph Thorne drew her shivering form to his bosom. Swift as lightning the thought flashed through his mind that thus Heaven had taught him his duty. He had not considered her suffering before. What claim had the world on him, what claim his beloved music, that could be weighed for one instant with this breaking heart—this pure woman's heart, which was all his own? He pressed his lips to the forehead lying against his breast. He said, very tenderly,

"Hush, Mabel-hush, darling! I have decided for us both. God has joined us together, and nothing can put us asunder. I shall accept your father's proposal. What would music be to me without you-you, my soul's best music? If I went forth without you into the world, the thought of Mabel alone and suffering would unnerve me and make me powerless. What could I give forth but utterances of despair? No; God calls me to stay here. Look up, my darling, my pure wife, Mabel! You do not fear I should ever tire of you?"

His mother interrupted him with her sobs. She clasped him in her arms. She wept over him; she, who had gloried so in his gift, who, ever since he had been laid, her first-born, upon her breast, had understood him and lived in his life. And he wept with her. He was not too proud, with his mother's arms around him, to weep for the far-off fame-wreaths of which his ambition had vainly dreamed-wreaths which he must never more hope to gather. That night neither of them slept. He laid his head, as in boyhood, upon her motherly heart. He breathed into her sympathetic ears all the hopes and longings which this decision had crushed, and all the other hopes and longings, which were blooming now brighter than ever, which clustered around Mabel's name. And his mother comforted him.

The next morning he commenced his task under Farmer Emerson. His heart was almost buoyant, despite all he had resigned, for he had had a few moments' conversation with MabelMabel, who was to be all his own. She looked so lovely in her fresh calico morning dress! The light of hope sparkled in her eyes, and sat serene

She raised her eyes, and looked long and ly upon her brow. Surely that beloved smile earnestly into his face.

"No, Joseph, no! I do not fear you will tire of me, for I know your steadfast nature. I know God has made us one. But it will break your heart to give up your fame, your calling, your beloved music. Better give up Mabel. Better wait a few years until life, troubled human life, is over.

would have power to brighten any fate.

But the task which was set him, light as it seemed, taxed all his energies. The delicate, study-loving youth was not used to labor. The sun scorched his slender hands pitilessly; the sweat stood in great, bead-like drops upon his brow. It was a comfort when the horn soundI know God will give us to each oth-ed for dinner. It was a sorely-needed refresher in heaven. Go, Joseph; I am not selfish.ment to sit in the farmer's porch, while Mabel I will believe that you love me always. It brought cool, sparkling water to lave his burnshall be the glory of my life. You must go to ing, dusty face. your career, your duty."

'My career is here. My duty is here. My world is in your heart, your priceless heart. Nay, Mabel, I have decided. Urge me not. How could my heart break for music when the clinging tendrils of your love bound it together? Be satisfied and smile, for I shall be happy."

With these words, and such as these, he soothed her; in some measure he won her from her sorrow, and yet, though the smiles came to her lips at his bidding, in her heart was a prophetic silence of fear, lest, in giving up his music, her lover gave up the best half of himself.

They went together at length to her father, and, holding in his the hand of his betrothed, Joseph Thorne said,

"I require no longer time, Mr. Emerson. I have decided. Your daughter is more to me than all things else. I give up all for her. I accept your offer with thanks. To-morrow I will come and place my time at your disposal."

Day after day passed on, and he never faltered. With steady, unflagging industry he performed whatever tasks were appointed, and as rapidly as possible made himself master of all the mysteries of farming. But he drooped under his uncongenial toil. Even Mr. Emerson could see this, but he predicted "the boy would grow stronger and get used to it in time." Mabel saw more clearly, and the hope in her eyes grew less steadfast. Often, when he came to her in the evening, tired and worn, she would say,

"It is no use.
or it will kill you.
heart is breaking."

You will have to give it up,
Besides, I can see your

And he would strive to answer cheerfully. "Nonsense! I am tired, but my heart's all right; and you know, dear, it will be so much easier when we get a place of our own. I need only do the lightest work then."

But he could not blind Mabel's clear eyes. It was during Ole Bull's first visit to this country, and, as the autumn grew into winter, the papers were full of his success. They often read of him together; of his slight, swaying figure, his face so calm and spiritual, and the won"Iderful music which seemed the voice of his soul.

And then he went home to his mother. It was dark, but there was no light. She had been sitting alone, absorbed in her anxious thoughts. He knelt at her feet as in his early boyhood days, and told her his story.

"All is settled now," he said, steadily.

One morning, with a paper in his hand, Joseph | he had decided, but Mabel saw how it would be Thorne came to Mabel. His face was kindled with enthusiasm. His eyes flashed, and his manner was eager and hurried.

"See here, Mabel," he said; "he plays at New Haven to-night. Only thirty miles off. I can resist the temptation no longer. I must go. There is not much to do on the farm, and I can borrow your father's horse. Oh, Mabel! it will give me new life."

all along. Not for an instant did she beguile
herself with false hopes. He went. The fare-
well kisses of two pure women, mother and
betrothed, were upon his lips. Their blessings
were the last sound in his ears.
Their prayers
followed him. He seemed to suffer more than
Mabel in the prolonged agony of their parting.
Twenty times he was on the point of giving up
his career, his future, to stay with her, but she
would not suffer it. She sustained him, she
cheered him; she who knew better than him-
self how impossible for him was any other life
than the one which had haunted all the dreams
of his boyhood. When he was gone at length

She entered eagerly into his plans. Her father did not oppose them, and in half an hour he had started. Most tenderly had he bidden his betrothed the good-by which was to be so brief, and she stood at the gate and watched him with a cheerful smile until his eyes, look--when anxious eyes, strained ever so widely, ing back, could discern her no longer. Then she went into the house, and the grief smothered, woman-like, for his sake burst forth.

"Oh," she murmured, "he will never be the same to me again-I feel it. This music will speak to him like a clarion. It will awake him from dreams. His life-work will rise up before him, and the necessity to go forth and do it will be upon his soul. And I-woe is me!-how shall I learn to live without him? Hush, selfish heart! Wouldst thou hold him back from his true life, weak spirit?"

But the chidden agony would come back again. The vail was rent away from the pale brow of the future. Swift and sure she saw her fate coming toward her. All that day, all that night, all the next day, she wrestled with it, but still its face was set resolutely toward her -still its steps were onward.

It was almost nightfall when the watched-for figure came in sight. She went to the gate to meet him. He sprang from the horse and folded her in his arms. His kisses thrilled upon her lips, yet even then she felt there had been a change. She drew him into the house and questioned him eagerly. It had been as she expected. The wonderful music had troubled all the depths of his nature. It had bound him captive. In vain he struggled against the chain. Unfalteringly she gave her counsel.

"Go!" she said; "you must go! I told you it would break your heart to give it up; and see, already in these few months you have grown prematurely old, and weary, and feeble. Go! you will be false to the highest part of your nature if you do not serve your soul's master. It is the task God himself has set you; it is not yours to deliberate whether you will accept it." "But you, Mabel, my life's life-I can not give you up.'

For one moment the white face grew whiter. But there came no quiver into her quiet tones. "You need not give me up. I shall be yours only, till I die; nor need we despair. If you succeed, perhaps my father will give me to you. I believe he will, he loves me so. And you will succeed, you must succeed. For such as you there is no such word as fail. Go, Joseph; it is right."

could not catch another glimpse of the beloved form-the two women, both bereft of their dearest thing in life, went in silence, each into her own home, to struggle alone with her sorrow. In that hour there could be no partnership of grief.

Mabel suffered most. It was natural for the mother to wish her son to go out into the world, to do and be all that God gave him power; and whatever change came to him the one tie could never be broken-he would be her son always. But to Mabel, despite her strong faith in him, the light of her life seemed to have gone out, and her soul shuddered-alone in the darkness. She had exhausted all her energy in soothing and encouraging him. She had none left to struggle with the grim presentiment which oppressed her own spirit.

She had always been strong, in spite of the extreme delicacy of her figure, and she did not grow feeble even now. She did all her accustomed duties with her usual energy. There was no visible change, save that her lips smiled a little more seldom, and her cheek was white as marble. She seemed to strive to be continually occupied, as if fearful if she gave herself time to confront her grief it would overmaster her.

Her face always brightened after a letter from her betrothed. They were not very frequent, but when they did come they overflowed with love and hope. She felt that now, indeed, was he living his true life. Nor had success been so very difficult to him. Ole Bull had been his friend. He had sought, at once, the gifted Norwegian. In secret, for he was not one to bestow his benefactions in public, the master performer had given him a few hints, a few instructions, that he might know better how to translate his soul's depths into his music.

Soon Mabel heard of him. He was making a tour under an assumed name, to which only those who loved him best had the key, and every where he was-as Mabel had felt he must ever be-successful. The small country places where he was making his first trial of strength were moved as they had never been before. No mind so dull but his tones made themselves understood. The country press was full of his A troubled, anxious week intervened before praises. This young performer-they wrote―

so delicate, so almost boyish, but with such a wonderful genius! They told of his face beaming as if inspired; the soft fall of golden hair floating about his forehead; the eyes sweet and bright, yet sad; the slender figure; the almost transparent hands; and, as she read, the prophetic fear in Mabel's heart grew heavier. His letters became more and more rare. It was not that he loved her less. Mabel had never doubted him for a moment. But he was doing his work, and it absorbed all his energies. If it were brief, it must be mighty.

volition, Mabel had crossed the room; her arms
were folded about his neck, her lips clung to
his in a long kiss of love and despair.
For six weeks she was his constant nurse,
sharing her duties only with his mother. Dur-
ing many hours of every day they were alone
together, and in them all his soul was revealed
to her. She shared his triumphs, his success-
es; success whose contemplation deepened the
hectic on his wasting cheek even now.

"But it has been too much for me," he would say, with a sad smile; "the excitement, and, worst of all, the being parted from you. It has worn me out."

One afternoon in May she sat alone under the trees where they so often sat together. Her thoughts went back over all her life-that young All that his art had done, all that his genius innocent life, where were no blighting plague- | had comprehended and struggled to express in spots of willful sin, few even of unintentional his music, his lips whispered to her, in those long, wrongs, and yet where, of late, so many tears bright days, when she was going down by his side had fallen. She remembered the long-ago to the darkness of death; down to the river's time when Joseph Thorne had been her childish brink, whence she must turn back in loneliness friend and confidant; she retraced the days, and sorrow, and he must go out upon the tide. unquiet yet so blissful in their uncertainty, Unspeakably precious were those last hours of when her heart awoke from its maiden sleep, soul communion. They lived in those few weeks and she knew that she had given him the love a fuller life than many souls can reckon in with for which his words had not yet sued. Then their threescore years and ten. Mabel felt then she lived over again the evening of their be- how truly she was part of himself-that their trothal, and whispered over and over to herself two souls, separated though they might be for every tender word which had fallen from his years, must be reunited before either could be lips. Her father's step along the highway dis- a symmetrical and perfect whole. turbed her reverie. She looked up as he entered the gate, and something in his face startled her. There were tears in his eyes, and his whole expression was full of an unwonted, sorrowful tenderness. She sprang to his side.

His summons came on a June twilight. On that day, twenty-two years before, he had been born into the world of mortals; on that day, God saw fit that he should be born again into the world of spirits. The two women, of both whose lives he was the dearest portion, were alone with him. An unspeakable tenderness

"Poor Mabel!" he said, as if speaking to himself rather than to her, "how hard it will fall on her!" Then bending over her, and fold-breathed in his farewell. His last words were: ing his arm about her as if in terror lest the shock should overcome her, he said:

"Mother, your son will know you in heaven. Mabel, my life's angel, I will wait for you where it needeth not to marry or be given in mar

"Mabel, I have seen Joseph Thorne. He came home this afternoon, as I think, to die.riage." He wants you. Go to him, Mabel. I give you free leave to stay with him to the last. Poor child, it's all the consolation you can have now." Mabel did not faint. "Thank you," she whispered gratefully, as she withdrew from her father's arm and went into the house. The blow had come so suddenly that she did not realize its force. Mechanically, as one moving in a dream, she put on her bonnet and walked out toward the Widow Thorne's cottage. The cottage door was open, and she stood in it for one moment, silently watching her lover. He lay with closed eyes, upon a lounge. His face was very thin and white. In contrast the pale gold of his hair looked intensely bright, and his eyes, when at length he unclosed them, super-departed the soul of Joseph Thorne. naturally large and brilliant. His mother was kneeling by his side, with her face buried in his bosom. A solemn awe was upon Mabel's soul. She dared not go forward or break the silence. Already he seemed to her like an angel. He was the first to speak.

After that he lay, looking earnestly at his betrothed, as if he would fain carry her features with him to the land of the angels. His violin, beloved even in death, lay on the bed beside him. It had been placed there by his request. Listlessly his fingers began to wander over the strings, and beneath their touch grew, somehow, a strange, wild melody, as if spirits were playing upon the chords. It was like the story of his life. It began in feeble, uncertain cadence. It swelled into love, ambition, hope. grew feebler, slower, more mournful. Low, and sweet, and tremulous, yet wild, it thrilled along the strings, until, at last, with a long sob, it grew mute. With the soul of the music had

Then it

His mother soon followed him. Their graves are green under the sunshine of this peaceful summer. Mabel Emerson's work is not yet done. She is wedded to a hope and a memory. Bold, indeed, must the man be who would dare to speak to her of love. Wherever trouble is, "Mabel! Thank God! Come to me, dar- wherever hearts are struggling with sorrow, her ling!" presence is at the door; and she whom Joseph

His mother rose, and, almost without her own Thorne loved to call the angel of his life will