tfun •••• • g);.•- 4 . • WM. BREWSTER, EDITOR & PROPRIETOR. TERMS OF THE 'JOURNAL. TERMS The .Hinwrttrobox JOURNAL' is published at th•e following rates : If paid in adVance $1,50 If paid within six months after the time of subscribing 1,75 tf paid before the expiration of the year, 2,00 And two dollars and fifty cents if not paid till after the expiration of the year. No subscrip tion taken for a less period than six months. 1. All subscriptions are continued mail oth erwise ordered, and nopaper will be discontinu ed, until err earages are paid, except at the option of the publisher. 2. Returned numtersare serer received by us. All numbers sent us in that way aro lost, and never accomplish the purpose of the sender. 3. Persons wishing to stop their• subscriptions, must pay up arriarages, and send n written or verbal order to that effect, to the office of pub lication in Huntingdon 4. Giving notice to a postmaster is neither a I egal or a proper notice. 5. After one or more numbers of a new year leave been forwarded, a new year has commenc ed, and the paper will not be discontinued until orrearages are paid. See No. 1. The Courts have decided that refusing to take a newspaper from the office, or romovi tig and leaving it uncalled for, is PRIMA FACIE evidence of intentional fraud. Subscribers living in distant counties, or in other States, will be required to pay invariably in advance. 'The above terms will be rigidly adhered to is all eases. AD6"ERTISEAIItiIiii4 Will be charged at the following rate,. - I insertion. 2 dn. 3 dn. Six lines or less, $ 25 $ 371 • $ 50 One spar., (IC lines,) _ 50 75 100 Tw•o " (32 " ) 100 150 200 3 ino. 6 no. 12 mo. $3 03 $5 00 $8 00 5 00 8 00 12 00 8 00 12 00 18 00 12 00 18 00 27 00 Ono Bilouro, Two pinnies, column, Flo., 18 00 27 00 40 00 28 00 40 00 50 00 Business Cards orsix ~r less, $4.00. Advertising and Job Work. We would remind the Advertising com munity and all others who wish to bring their business exten,ively before the pub• lic, that the Journal has the largeet cir culation of any paper in the county—that it is e instantly increasing;—and that it goes into the hands of our wealthiest citi zens. We would also state that our facilities for executing all kinds of JOB PRINT. ING are equal to those of any other office 'lithe county; and all Job Work entrus. ed to our hands will be done neatly, promptly, and at prices which will be au tisfactui y Aistotical THE CATACOMBS OF ROME. (Continued.) When the Goths descended upon Italy, ravaging the country as they passed over it, and sat down before Rome, not content with stripping the land they fo reed their way into the catacomus, searching for trea sure, and searching alio, it scents most likely, for the bodies of the martyrs, whom their impet•fect creed did not prevent them from honoring. After they retired, in the short breathing-space that was given to the unhappy city, various popes undertook to do somothi ng to restore the catacombs,— and one f them, John 111, [A. D. 560- 574] ordered that service should heves , formed at•certain underground shrines, and that conlles and all else needful for this purpose should be furnished from the Iht °silica of St. John Lateran. Just at the :close of the sixth century, George the •Orcat [590-694] again appointed stations in the catacombs at which service should •be held on special days . in the course of the year, and a curious illustration of the veneration to which the relics of the saints were then field is afforded by a gift which he sent to Theodelinda, queen of the Lombards. At this time the Lombards were laying all Italy waste. Their Arian zeal ranged them in religious hate against the Yoman Church,---but Theodeliuda was an orthodox believer, and throngh her Gre izory hoped to secure the conversion of her husband and his subjects. It was to her that he addressed his famous Dialogues filled with the most marvellous stories of holy nien and the strangest notions of re ligion. Wishing to satisfy her pious de sires, sod to make her a very precious gift, lie sent to her many phials of oil ta ken from the lamps that were kept burn trig ol the shrines of the martyrs in the catacombs. It was the custom of those who visited these shrines to di,t handlcer chiefs, or other bits of cloth, in the reser voirs of oil, to which a sacred virtue was supposed to be imparted by the neighbor hood of the saints ; and even now may of ten be seen the places where the lamps were kept lighted. But although the memory of tnose who had been buried within them was thus preserved, the catacombs themselves and the churches at their entrances were fall ing more and more into decay. Shortly after Gregory's death, Pope Boniface IV. illustrated his otherwise obscure pontificate by seeking from the mean and dissolute Emperor Pantheon for the purpose of con secrating it for a Christian church. The glorious temple of all the gods was now dedicated [A. D. 608, Sept 15] to those who had d:splaced them, the Virgin and all the Martyrs. It new name was S. Marta ad Martyres—and in order to sanc tify its precincts, the Pope brought into the city and placed under the altars of his new church twenty•eight wagon loads of hones, collected from the different cata combs, and to be those of martyrs• This is the first. notice that has been preserved of the practice that became very general in later times of transferring bodies and bones from tneir graves in the rock to new ones under the city churches Little more is known of the history of the catacombs during the next two centu ries, but that for them it was a period of desolation and desertion. The Lombard hordes often ravaged and devastated the Caminna up to the very gates of the ci ty, and descended into the underground passages of the cemeteries in search of treasure.. of relics, and of shelter. Paul about the middle of the eighth century took many bones and much lashed from graves yet unrifled, and distributed them to the church -s. He has left a record of the motives that led* him to disturb dust that had rested so long in quiet. "In the lapse of centuries," he says, 'many ceme teries of the holy martyrs and confessors of Christ have been neglected and fallen to decay. The impious Lombards utter ly ruined them,—and now among the faithful themselves the old piety has been replaced by negligence, which has gone so fur that even animals have been allowed to enter them, and cattle have been stalled within them." Still, although thus dese. crated, the graves of the martyrs contin ued to he an object of interest to the pil grims, who, eves in these dangerous times from year to year came to vist the holy places of Rome; and itineraries, describ ing the localities of the catacombs and of the noted tombs within them. prepared for the guidance of such pilgrims, not later than the beginning of the ninth century. have been preserved to us, and have affor• Awl ocoonl3ol unil trkllcl irrtnrtrlnnl itcmictitnro in the recent invesiigations About the same time, Pope Paschal I. [A. D. 817-824] greatly interested him self in searching in the cataeotnbs for such bodies et the saints ns might yet remain in them, and in transferring these relics to churches and monasteries within the city. A contemporary inscription, still preserved in the crypt of the ancient church of St Prassude, (a church which nll lovers of Roman art and legend take delight in,) tells of the two thousand three hundred martyrs whose .emains Paschal had placed beneath its altars. Nor was this the only church so richly endowed. One day, in the year 821, Paschal was praying in the church that stood on the site of the house in which St. Oecilia had suffered martyr dom, and which was dedicated to her hon. or. It was now one of the oldest 'churchs in Rome. Two centuries before, Gregory Lhe Great, St. Gregory, had restored it,— for it even then stood in need of repairs, and now it was in greater need than ever. Paschal determined, that he would rebuild it from its foundation; but with this deter ntinution came the desire to find the body of the Saint, that her new church might not want its most precious possession. It was reported that the Lombards had sought for it and carried it away, and the knowl edge of the exact pitted of the grave, even was lost. But Paschal entered vigorously on the search. He knew that she had been buried in the cemetery of St, Collis. tus, and tradition declared that her sepal. chre had been made near the Chamber of the Popes. There he songht, but his seek- ing was vain. On a certain dny, however,—and here he begins his owe story,—ln the 0 hurch of St. Peter, as he sat listdning to the har mony of the morning service, drowsinesi overcame him, and he hill asleep. As he was sleeping. a very beautiful maiden of virginal aspect, and in a rich dress, mood before him, and looking at him, said,- 4, We return thee many thanks; but why without cause, trusting to false reports, host thou given up the search for me ? Thou host been so near me that we might have spoken together." The Pope, as if hurt by her rebuke, and doubtful of his vision, then asked the name of her who thus addressed him. “If thou seekst my name," she said, "I ain called Cecilia, the handmaiden of Christ." "How can I believe this," replied the sleeping Pope, "since it was long ago re ported that the body of this moat holy marty was carried away by the Lombards. The Saint then told him that till this time her body had remained concealed ; but that now he must continuo his search, for it pleased God to reveal it to him ; and that her body he would also find other bo- " LIBERTY AND UNION, NOW AND FOREVER, ONE AND miEPARABLE. dies of saints to be placed with hers in her new-built church. And saying this, she departed. Hereupon a new search was begun, and shortly after, "by the favor of Glad, we ' found her in golden garments, and the cloths with which her snored blood had been wiped front her wounds we found rolled up and full of blood at the feet of the blessed virgin." At the same time, the bodies of Valeri an, l'iourtius, and Maximus were found in a neighboring cemetery, and, together with the relics of Pope Urban,—as well as the body of St. Cecilia,—were placed under the high altar of her church. The cypress coffin in which she had been rev. erently laid at the time of her death was preserved and set within a marble sarcoph- I agus. No expense was spared by the de vout Paschal to adorn the church that had been so signally favored. All the Art of the time (and at that time the arts flourish ed only in the service of the Church,) was called upon to assist in making the new basilica magnificent. The mosaics which were set up to adorn the apse and the arch of triumph were among the best winks of the century, and, with colors still brilliant and design still unimpaired, they hold their place at the present day, and carry back the thought end imagination of the beholder a thousand years into the very heart of this old story. Under the great Mosaic of the apse one may still road the inscription, in the rude Latin of the cen tury, which tells of Paschal's zeal and Rome's joy, closing with the line, "Boma resultat ovans semper ornata per (To Lc continued.) gk. Vitning *tug. D)Ott& It was not in the year of fairies—of wee godmothers, sometimes old ladies with crutches and goggles and sometimes floa ting erpionrpa in rrngAnrrinr rnhoo nnrl wands, sprining out of ros s and lillies, or anything as sweet and beautiful; but it was in the year of spirits, 1800, that our heroine lay. just ono day, by her mother's side. Of course she was very small, and was hidden carefully in blankets, to be found only when visitors of near relationship hunted her up, one to exclaim, 'What a dm ling ?' and another, *What a head of hair ?' It was owing to this same head of hair that she was ever found ; for the little round blank head wag the only evidence, at first sight, that anything but a little bun. dle lay there so well preserved. When the privileged visitors had depar ted and she rested quietly, the mother's mental eyes wandered over the globe, and could see nothing in all the treasures of gold and silver on Broadway—in dazzling cases of diamonds, rubies and pearls, in London and Paris fashion-marts—in fa bled stock of riches gathered in royal trea sure houses, including the greatest gem yet found, or the greater that yet lay se ' cretly sparkling in toe bosom of mother earth—that could buy h•:r baby ! No di amond had such sweet eyes and rosy mouth set in it. What, then, was it worth if never so large ? Could any pearls equal those body fingers ? The mothers thought if she should be queen of She ba, going to another Solomon, she didn't see how she could show him the riches of the world in a better form titan in her ba by. Don't laugh at this beautiful young mother; for although another Solomon might conclude, in his great wisdom, that Mrs• B 's baby was not a condensed in. ventory of the wonders of the earth, yet let Mrs. B. think so; it is very delightful to her and will help her to gain strength and good health. Mrs. B. lay in the twilight tranquility. The busy nurse had carried away the tray, and down stairs with cook in the kitchen's gossip•warmed nook, forgot the lady and the baby. Mrs. B. didn't care ; she listened for a foot on the stairs. It came—The quick bounding step, two staris at a time. (The young mother and first•born, in the darkened room up stairs, draw the young father with wonder ful power to a great demonstration of speed. What a pity that he should grow laggard witt the etgth or ninth !) He comes. 'the pure white cheek has a pretty glow upon it, from even the little excitement, and the lips are parted with a smile ere the door is opened oy a cautious hand. The young father enters with scarce a creak to his boots, and it is quite agreea ble to them that the kitchen vuiy; for the nurse can be spared a little longer. HUNTINGDON, PA., WEDNESDAY, APRIL 14, 1858. It is of no use to mention dotnils in this connubial case. Ve know that there are kisses and fond words, an - , that our racy is of course regarded with unmixed en thusiasm. The nurse comes up too soon and too suddenly, but don't see anything of the young couple's fondness—she's particular ly anxious about setting a mtraight toilet cover a little straighter, and newly arran ging the very orderly looking articles on the farther burnau. She is an exemplary and faithful nurse ! Night comes. The exemplary nurse has steeped herself in sleep to such a de gree that the voice of mother and rest• lessnees of baby cannot move her to more than a pat on nothing at all, instead of the precious bundle, ancr whispered !hush ! hush !' like the maudlin whisper of a man in his cups The mother soothes, and does the gen• uinc patting, pitying the elderly female, who is perhaps so tired, from running up and down. It was pleasant, :vhen the baby went to sleep, to lay there and think of all her happines. She thought of what her baby would be—very lovely; for the families on both sides said it was already remarkably so, and she was sure it would grow up beauti. ful. Already there was astonishing, full ness of brow. Everybody was speaking of that—that is, both the families were speaking of that, And this was mind, perhaps genius. it hadn't cried above its breath since the tint hour of its birth; and what could better betoken an amiable and gentle character 'What,' thought the happy mother, 'should I ask, if a fairy should stand sud. denly upon the bedpost, with one foot in the air, as they are always represented, with airy garments and a waving wand, and should say to me in a low, sweet tone , W hat gift shall the powers of fairy land bestow upon the child of your love!' She was sure she couldn't tell ! The very bright. There was every reason to believe that her disposition was very sweet. A wonderful purse that filled up itself as fast as it was emptied, might be very useful if the times continue hard; this was the only thing she could think of. But money seemed such a low subject! for the thoughts, when she took a careful peep at the pretty creature, which she was 'so glad she did'—ior there lay the baby with one dear, sweet hand quite over its head; such an alarming position, the nurse had said, for its intellect. With a little trembling at her darling's narrow escape. the mother brought the lit ' tle hand carefully down, and put a fold of blanket round it to keep it from endanger ing it again. Then she laughed to he rself at the idea of fancying what she should say to a fairy on her bed-post when fair'es had gone from the earth so very long ago, And with a smile she fell asleep, although she still felt wide awake. Somebody spoke to her! Not a fairy but something belonging to 1800 which I Bald : 'What good do you ask for your child I' There was nothing to be seen, but the voice was strong, yet gentle, that repea ted : 'What good do•you ask for your child?' The mother, calmed to thoughtfulness after the playfulness of her last thoughts seemed to answer: 'My darling has sweetness. loveliness, a promise of intelligence; what can you give her to crown these ?' will help her to speak the holy and pure truth, while surrounded by the fashionable deceit and falsehood. On ev. err small or great occasion of her life• her lips will only open to speak the pure un shackled truth. Shall the gift be hers 1' 'My child's sweet mouth never to open to speak an unrue word ? Oh I blessed and power and blessed giver, accept my gratitude The baby moved : the mother suddenly awoke, and for a moment listened for the voice of her dream. But although she listened in vain, there was in a heart a voice as clear and real as the baby's cry now in her ear. 'Always truthful.' Hea ven itself was gained for her child, with the immortal gift? Oh ? bonny youth—with eyes like sum mer stare, with heaven's morning smile— when storms are in the secret places, known only to bitter hearts or disappoin• ted age—when the great, wild ocean is a emilling- lake and deep, broad lakes are mirrors only of the trees and birds on wing of the moonlight and the stars—Dora was an embodiment of all thy graces and all thy hopes—of all thy sweetness and all thy joy ! . Dorn, the tiny creature of the quiet birth-room—she with the small, round head and bundled limbs—had grown thro' all the actual devournients of doting pa rents and admiring friends, to a beautiful child of ten years old. The small, round head had kept its prettiness, only to be improved up'n by time ; and the small white hands were still so small and white only more plump and full of work, from an active spirit. If she did a naughty thing, from baby impulse, or childish thoughtfulness, and was asked about it. the child's blue eyes !coked straight into the eyes which ques tioned of the truth, and the child's lips willingly answered to the command— 'You have been naughty, Dora ; tell me about it.' some other time.' 'Shall I only tell the truth when it says something pleasant to you ?' So sharp a question. pierced very deep. And Mrs. B. allowed, that evening to the unmoved reader of the news, that Mrs. Brown was somewhat sarcastic, and perhaps her nose did show it some. Dora heard it, and knew that the acid of the cranberry tart had passed away. 'My Darling Dora,' said Mrs. Brown, one oay, :your mother is the sweetest wo• man. and your papa such an agreeable man. Now don't think lam trying to find nut your secrets, pet.' And Mrs. B. laughed quite naturally, it was such a pleasant fancy to ascertain it the quiet and intelligent husband of her friend ap. preciated her • Dora was willing to avoid an answer, and made an effort very gracefully to do so; but Mrs. Brown knew very well that she should get the truth, if anything, and The mother loved the friend of her girl- so she mentally clutched the little truth hood more than ever for the words, and teller, and would not let her go. :Come, there's no escape, my Dora,' this mother was like most others, as w© can plainly see. said Mrs. 8., with a very lovely smile, 'What a dear, good, constant friend ,is which didn't seem to warm the child, Mrs Brown I' said Mrs. Beals to Mr. 'what does papa say about Mrs. Brown?— haven't you ever heard ?' Beals that night at tea. 'Very,' said Mr. 8., quietly; and as he have heard papa say somt thing about sipped his tea, inquired, without a smile you, Mrs. Frown; but [think 1 must not that Mrs. B. could see— say,' says Dora quietly. Friends, relations, acquaintances, tho't it beautiful— spoke in raptures of the trait which prollised such a noble wom anhood. How much they all loved truth fulness !--How much they all enjoyed those pure blue eyes, dotvo in whose depths lived Truth in its fabled well—na ked and pure, with no mortal garments of flaunting flattery or false gems ! , What a sweet treasure you possess !' says Nirs. Brown to Mrs. Beals. , Anything of Dora from Mrs. Brown ?' Of course Mrs. Brown was quite as 'Oh ! yes, my dear, she thinks so much anxious after t.:4is as before to have Dora 'say;' aml so she intimated, with a pocu• of her. She speaks of her ns such a treasure, and quite envies me, I know, liar expression of the little , sarcastic nose.' the possession of such a darling. although i There was no escape. And it may be there isn't a bit of world envy in it. My thot the child, not quite angelic, felt some deer Matilda is just such a sympathizing indignation at the process she was subject site could be divided over the whole world 'Papa says ne minus you are a time s to make every body as happy as she does sarcastic,' and Dora's eyes were on the me !' expressive feature. "Where would you bestow her little 'And what noes mamma say to that ?' satcastic nose, my dear ?"said the strong- says Mrs. Brown, with a growling elo hearted Mr. Beals. 'Don't let her leave it quence in the unfortunate nose. here, I pray.' 'She loves you very much; but she a grees with papas and the child's 'Now, Arthur, I never knew you so un just !' said the indignant and constant eyes read as plainly as if the nose could s friend, Rebecca Beals, no longer„ for the spank, when it turned up so emphatically; 'Mrs. Beals is a fool to pin herself to all moment, the loving partner of his joys and sorrows. 'Amy unjust! Ungenerous ! Mr. Beals' ideas, and let him turn her f. My friend, who has been so constant to me from anybody that's quite as good as her for long, long years (Perhaps there was self. ' an emphasis upon the 'long,' to convey n searching ideu to her husband's mind). So indulgent, too, and so very kind I Oh ! I could cry " 'Don't cry. my dear,' says the colly cru el Mr. 13 eating his buttered toast, with oat a choke of conscience rising in his t hroat. 'Mrs. Brown isn't so very bad ; but she never was and never can be all the angel you have fancied her. And I calm ly repeat, without the slightest fear of hur• ling your feelings, my dear, that she has very decidedly, a small sarcastic nose.— Hasn't she, Dora ?' I can't say it was right for Mr. 13. to appeal to the truthful child against her mother's friend; but men and husbands non't, as a general thing, stop to ask them selves delicate questions, when they see they are gaining a point • '1 tl.ink she has, papa," says the sweet deer voice, in a quiet way, as if it were quite proper she should tell the fact. 'Dora says it, my dear; and you know Dora always tells the tru;h. In tact, you pride yourself upon Dorn truthfulness, my dear, as of course I do.' And 11r. Beals pushed his chair bask from the table as he spoke; actually whis tling as he went to the sitting room, to read the evening papers. Whistled when he had spoken so slightingly of her friend's nose, and had called upon Dora (who was growing a little pert) to put her mother's friend to shame. 'Dora,' said the mother, with a little of the acid of the cranberry tart she had been eating, in her voice. 'it seems to me that you needn't join your father in anything that's rude. It doesn't seem quite proper that you should forget you are a little child, and have no right to speak against your mother's dearest friend.' 'But, dear mamma, you know I only told the truth, because papa asked me— so I must ! Could I help it, dear mam ma ?' 'They say Dora, that the truth isn't to be spoken at all times; and certainly it seems to me, to night, as if it were very wise.' Dora looked wonderingly at her moth• er, for a moment, and then said slowly, as if she were thinking it over in her little mind : 'Mamma, must I only speak the truth when it says something pleasant to you 1' The mother put her chair back from the table with some little haste, and, fol lowing her husband into the sitting room, said to the child,' 'We will talk of this Mrs. Brown herself said:— .I am much obliged to you, Dora, for tho truth. I shan't trouble your' parents with myself or my sarcasm after this, my clear.' And so, Mrs. Brown and Mrs. Beals were separated by the truth, which after all, had not said anything very had. Dora was sorry—her father wasn't very and her mother was wise enough to com fort the child with the assurance that she would rather lose such a friend than have her tell anything like a falsehood, ana so the cloud passed over. Sweet sixteen. And it is sweet. The dancing feet dance more slowly, but more gracefully, than at ten years old. The eyes are fuller of intelligence, and the mouth is parted with a firmer and per. haps a sweeter will. Dora is sweet sixteen. Beautiful, in. telligent, amiable stilt—and more so. Everybody's pet—everybody's paragon. Her strong, great trait has done her no great mischief since her mother's friend had departed affection's life by its death blew. Getting to be a belle, she was both char ming to other belles, and many beaux. She was now leaving school and had protnised correspondence to ten, twenty, thirty friends, One 'dear, nice girl ' Dora loved, na med Clara Bellows; and the dear, nice girl was very worthy of Dorn's love. _ Of course she had her faults, and some lof the great wrong that was done to wo of them were of goodly growth. But mankind in not trusting in, and advising who is there that hasn't faults ? So Do- with, as well as loving her. ra thought--and loved her for the many !You would then be a delegate to the virtues she found. Impulsive, strong, feminine convention, Dora darling,' said and earnest in her character, Clara rush. 11 Robert, half sarcastically. e d into friendship with all her soul, when .Never I' said Dora fervently. 'But in she discovered an interesting character, : the dear domestic circle, I would be the and loved as much in a few years as ' confidante. and true partner of my hus some put into a whole life time. ! band, or I would set up a standard of re- Now Dora, with less enthusiasm, would 1 volt! I would rather penis in the battle, last the longer. 1 than be my husband's bondswornan!' Clara, in the first year of her corre- 1 II was the truth, and Robert felt that spondenco with her friend, wrote sixty he bnd his weaning. She was to be no letters ! She poured her soul out, liter- slave, in mind or heart ; but a true, faith ally, to her sweet Dora. Dora answered ful helper to the work of life. every six, which is in sixty ten times, • according to the table which, with much- Some would have known that such a travail, is fixed in tender minds, woman would make a noble wife —a noble VOL. xxm. NO. 15 Dora husbanded her zeal, so that at the end of the year it was still healthy and strong; While Clara's had a chill after the fever turn, and was dying out. But in a 'revival,' excited state of mind. ehs wrote to Dorn, begging, for their friendship's sake, that she would toll her all her knits, and help her to a truer state of heart and mind. Dora, with her high, noble views of character, and the use that we should all be to our friends, was delighted by the call to help her darling friend in this best slate of her life. And truthfully she gave out her knowl edge of her friend's peculiarities; ming ling with words of truth and counsel, ex pressions of tenderness and fond encour agement. Alas ! poor, loving, believing Dorn. She asked you for some truth, and you gave it to her. She asked you to speak plainly, ,and you did. But Clara's heart had been directed from revival to a lover; and, in the flush of gratified affection and devoted homage the truthfulness of Dora's chart of charac ter, so earnestly besought, came as chil lingly as it had been unmasked. Clara felt herself misunderstood— thought little of Dora's judgment—gave the letter to her lever—received with tri umph his glorying verdict of her perfec tions. against the clear sighted judgment of her truthful friend—and sent a wed ding card to 'Miss Dora Beals' some six months after, with the same ceremony as to her hundred other friends. Poor Dora! No, not poor Dora; but par flora, the friend. Was there not one other heart in the wide world that could bear the unveiled presence of Truth ? Sweet Dora asked this mournfully of the trees and stars that always answered her so gently .vitb the waving of their boughs, and •pith their twinkling eyes. Nature always spoke to her of truth; and when this last disappointment came upon to gldiv ivith zeal to tell her earnestly that truth was lovely and divine, and ,he must not sorrow over anything that would seem to prove it an enemy to hap piness, rnd 'good will upon earth.' And so Dora loved everything in Ns tare more and more, and fostered in her own heart the beautiful spirit which was so much in sympathy with every work of God. Twenty years ! since there nestled in tho blankets the little creature of the wee round head. More beautiful in the soul than at sweet sixteen, and lovely in body as lover could wish—and Dora had a lover. Yes, 'dear Dora' was the sweetest al literation of the evening worship, and the morning dream. 'Dear Dora %as the burden of the trees and all Nature's voi ces. Happy Dora ! Beautiful Dora ! rruth ful Dora! Will the dear worshipper of thy beauty and mental charms over grow cold and turn away from thee for the very clearness of thy brow and the very puri ty of thy lips 1 Alas !he will. No, 'not alas ! A man of intellect, a man of fashion, a man of wealth was Robert Percival; but not a man to understand the true nobility of woman. A charming woman, gentle and yield men feminine mind, keeping its subor dinnte position; a 'norm heart, with its affections under his control--was the be ing Robert would call a treasure of a wife. Dora would be quite willing to make one with him; but she would not be wil ling to be lost in him—with no individu- rt lity, with no will, with no judgment of her own. They talked one evening upon the home they should some day share tageth er. The lover's views were softened by expedient gentleness and selfish caution; but the truthful Dora, in the strong sptr• it of her mind and heart, spoke earnestly