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the unutterable tenderness of wifely love. Then I knew that it was a dream after all: I had no wife but Cora, and this surely was not Cora. I shut my eyes to puzzle it out, and knew nothing more until roused by a masculine grip on my wrist. I remember seeing dimly two or three queer-looking figures flitting like black ghosts about the room, and hearing the doctor say, in his cool professional tones, that the attack was evidently due to over-exertion, aggravated by some severe mental strain; and then I wandered again. They told me afterward that I raved incessantly of Cora, begging her to come back and love me; and I have a vague remembrance of sometimes feeling a wet cheek pressed to mine, and hearing a tender voice whisper frantically, "I am here, darling." But for nine weary days and nights the fever filled my brain, and when at last it ebbed I was too weak to know or care what was going on about me. I was only conscious, in a happy, dreamy way, that soft hands smoothed my pillow, and that loving lips whispered my name between kisses that dropped like rose leaves on cheek and forehead. But one September morning, after a long, refreshing sleep, I waked to see a whiterobed figure kneeling by my bed, and heard a voice praying passionately, “Oh, Father! spare him till he shall know how dear he is to me!" And then I knew that I was loved. It was the beginning of my recovery. Slowly but steadily

I gained strength, for love is the true elixir; and, when I was able to hear it, Cora told me the story of her seeming desertion on the day of my return. Owing to Bridget's absence, she had risen an hour earlier than usual that morning, and was standing by the window watching the clouds and wondering whether or not it would be worth while to send Mike to the station for me, when she heard loud voices on the street, and caught the words, "Terrible accident near the Gorge!" "Cars a total wreck!" " Passengers killed and wounded!" Ten minutes later she was sitting in the spring-wagon, with baby in her arms; and, while Mike was urging old Dobbin to his utmost speed, she was begging him to drive faster, and praying God in an agony of hope and fear to let me live at least until she reached me.

"Oh darling, darling!" she cried, "I never knew the meaning of love till then?" And there she broke down like a bashful girl, and hid her shining face in my bosom. And so through pain my Undine found her soul.

For months after that terrible fever I was unable to leave my room or attend to any business; yet they were the happiest months I had ever known; and, looking back now, I can see that there was not one of all those days of discipline that was not needed for the perfecting of the good work. We thought then that nothing could ever disturb our new-found peace and joy; yet I dare say if I had recovered quickly, and returned at once to business, we might unconsciously have drifted back into the old ways. As it was, in that long period of daily and hourly companionship we grew into each other's soul with a closeness that left no room for doubt or coldness to come between. The ways of God are past finding out,

but always they work together for good; and to the end of time I shall give thanks for those months of pain and weakness, for it is to them that I owe my second wife.

My story is told. We had come into love's kingdom, but it was only by slow degrees that we learned the riches of our inheritance. Most men count toil and hardship small prices to pay for wealth; and, to those whom God has joined together, it is worth all cost of time and pain and patience simply to know each other; for knowledge is the foundation of all intelligent love, and love alone is wealth. The new wife, with her radiant face, leans over my shoulder while I write, and her eyes grow misty as she reads.

"It seems too sacred, dear, for other eyes to see," she whispers; but I shake my head at that.

"There is nothing too sacred for use that may help others to the truth, my darling."

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Good Housekeeping.

Nothing looks so easy. Nothing really demands so much time and care and attention to detail. "Man works from sun to sun, but woman's work is never done," is true so far as the ordering of a household is concerned. But now and then we find somebody who gives due credit to the good wife's housekeeping.

Says the author of "How to Be Happy, Though Married: "

"To paterfamilias it seems as much a matter of course as that night succeeds day and day follows night that his meals should be served up in becoming rotation, and each with its proper complement of viands; that his servants should perform their offices deftly; that his children should not profanely break in upon his repose; that his chimneys should be swept before the soot has dangerously accumulated; and that, generally, his household machine should revolve easily, with its works well oiled and in the best of gear. But suppose he had not a helpful wife, how then?

"We hear enough and to spare of the strikes and complaints of 'working men,' but there is one class of laborers who never strike and seldom complain. They get up at five o'clock in the morning and never go back to bed until ten or eleven o'clock at night. They work without ceasing the whole of that time, and receive no other emolument than food and the plainest clothing. They understand something of every branch of economy and labor, from finance to cooking. Though harassed by a hundred responsibilities, though driven and worried, though reproached and looked down upon, they never revolt; and they cannot organize for their own protection. Not even sickness releases them from their posts. No sacrifice is deemed too great for them to make, and no incompetency ever daunts their heroic courage or wears out their fortitude."

Robert J. Burdette, well known by his humorous contributions to the Burlington Hawkeye, and also as a lecturer, gives an account in Lippincott of the stimulus which he received from the invalid wife, lately deceased, of whom he tenderly says, at the close of the article, "Whatever of earnestness and high purpose there is in my life I owe to the gentlest, best and wisest of critics and collaborators, a loving, devoted wife." Concerning his work he says: "As Mrs. Burdette's health failed I did more and more of my work at home, soon withdrawing entirely from desk-work in the Hawkeye office and writing altogether at home. 'Her Little Serene Highness' was at this time quite helpless, suffering every moment, in every joint, rheumatic pain, acute and terrible. But in these years of her suffering helplessness more than ever is visible her collaboration in my work. Each manuscript was read to her before it went to the paper. She added a thought here and there, suggested a change of word or phrase, and so tenderly that, in her trembling hand, the usually dreaded and remorseless 'blue pencil'

became a wand of blessing, struck out entire sentences and pet paragraphs. How well she knew what not to print!' Blessed indeed is the man who writes with such a critic looking over his shoulder, a wife who loves and prizes her husband's reputation far above his own vanity or recklessness!"'

The thorough way in which some wives identify themselves in the pursuits of their husbands is illustrated in the case of two American ladies. The engineer who was carrying on the works of the stupendous bridge which now connects New York with Brooklyn became incapacitated, through illness, from further superintendence while a great part of the work still remained unfinished. Thereupon his wife, who, in assisting her husband in making his plans and specifications, had already mastered all the details connected with the structure, at once took his place and successfully completed the magnificent bridge, having, while daily overlooking the works, commanded the respect of contractors and workmen by the knowledge and ability she displayed in conducting the operations.

The Schoolboy's Evenings.

The worst thing which can befall a boy is to be allowed to spend his evenings in the street. "Where does Freddie go after supper?" I asked a mother.

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'Oh!" she said lightly, "I don't know. He's around with the boys. So long as he's in by ten o'clock we ask no questions."

This is a great mistake. Home, after dark, is the place for growing lads. And make home pleasant for your sons, dear mother.

Let the father or the mother think long before they send away their boybefore they break the home-ties that make a web of infinite fineness and soft silken meshes around his heart, and toss him aloof into the boy-world, where he must struggle up amid bickerings and quarrels, into his age of youth! There are boys indeed with little fineness in the texture of their hearts, and with little delicacy of soul, to whom the school in a distant village is but a vacation from home; and with whom a return revives all those grosser affections which alone existed before—just as there are plants which will bear all exposure without the wilting of a leaf, and will return to the hot-house life as strong and as hopeful as ever. But there are others to whom the severance from the prattle of sisters, the indulgent fondness of a mother, and the unseen influences of the home altar, give a shock that lasts forever; it is wrenching with a cruel hand what will bear but little roughness; and the sobs with which the adieux are said are sobs that may come back in the after years, strong and steady and terrible.

God have mercy on the boy who learns to sob early! Condemn it as a sentiment, if you will; talk as you will of the fearlessness and strength of the boy's

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