LIFE. lilfe's but a troubled river, flowing on lo guin the ocean, whose grim name is Fate. We float upon its surface, then are gone. Learning its lessons when, alas! 100 late. We quarruJ with the sunshine while 'tis thera. Yr-uok not the flowers that blossom all around, Heed not tne beauties in this world so fair, Tiii clouds close thicken, und the vision's drowned— Drowned in old ape, or in our faulty reason, Which sees not what things are or ought vo bo, 60 dwafed our knowledge truth confounds with treason. And pride won't tell us we've not power to see. Contentment! 'tis a lesson past our learning; We scorn the happiness the gods do scud; For far-oIT worlds and myths we've always yearning, To stoop to beauties near our minds won't bend. So Life is but one long and fruitless strain ing To get beyond what is within our reach: The river flows 011 without a moment deigning To listen to the wisdom we would teach; And Fate is reached—the dark and seething ocean, Which covers all and well its secrets keep; We float along with weary onward motion, Till all is over and in death wo sleep. —Charlotte Mansfield. | miss Faith's flflvicß. J Miss Faith sat in close companion ships usual, with her familiar spirit, a piece of crocheted edging. Her touch upou the mazes of tangled thread was very gentle, even endear ing, and her look of content as she held it up and noted its effect as a whole seemed vastly out of proportion to the cause. Miss Faitli was still pretty, with the pathetic beauty held as flotsam from the wreck of years. Her hair was prettier as silver than it had ever been as brown, aud her eyes, though they had lost their vivid glow and eagerness, had gained a kindly •ympathy. Her tenderness had even extended to the crocheting in her hand aud imparted something to that usually very impersonal object that her fancy had fretted into thinking a response. She passed her hand affec tionately over it now, as the figure of a pineapple much conventionalized, repeating itself like history again and agaiu, fell in scallops to the floor. "It's mos* done," she thought. "I can go back to the oak leaf pretty soon." A change in the crochet pattern was the chief diversion of Faith's life,that ran 011 as monotonously to the observer as the tune of the famous harper who played upon only one jtring. To an ant the coming of a etick or a stone may be a great event. It is not hard to understand how a life that consists in taking infinite pains with many little things may get its slips of excitement, interest and novelty from a change in a pattern pf crochet. The examination of the work appeared to be satisfactory, and Faith laid it on the table at her side. This table was devoted to the uses of her art, nor was ever profaned by the presence of any irrelevant substance. There were rows of spools upon it, drawn up in lines like soldiers ready te receive an attack, hooks of various sizes lying like weapons by their side and various rolls of lace, the finished product of their warfare. Faith re garded them with approval, but her hand that had lain upon the table fell away from the accustomed task, and she sat idle, watching the red coal, the shadows the lamplight threw upon the carpet and listening to the clatter that Mary, her maid of all work, was mak ing as a part of the dishwashing. "It's a kind of jugglery she goes through with those dishes," thought Faith regretfully, "a sleight of hand performance, to see how many tricks Bhe can do before one of them will break." But iter face did not cloud, for she had learned resignation. She had sur rendered to Mary the dishes and all the rest of the household divinities that she had served so deftly and care fully for years that she might be more at leisure to while away her time in her own innocent fashion. She wondered, as she sat staring dully at the blaze, how the crocheting bad come to mean so much to her and could not think for the instant, then half remembered, saddened a little, lost the thread of memory again, re covered it and fell to musing, her elbow resting 011 the table, her cheek in her palm. She could hardly believe now that a certain few years of her life had ever really happened. They must have belonged to some other and •wandered wilfully into her own, for there was 110 homo for them in hers or likeness unto anything they brought. Was it so? They had gone so utterly, BO completely,and she was liappy now in her own harmless way, far inland, out of all reach of storm and reef. She was still looking vaguely, half wistfully, at the fire, when her door bell rang aud some one had entered the room aud was hurrying to her side. "Aunt Faith," said a girlish tremu lous voice, "I've come to ask you to bell) me. Mother said you had suffered like this once aud you had learned to forget, and I thought perhaps you could show me the way." Faith looked down upon the slight figure crouched there, sobbing, and laid her hand gently upon the brown head, but she did not understand about the suffering. "What is it Grace?" she asked. "Oh, it's Phil!" she cried. "He doesn't care for me any more. He's taking Jennie Thompson now, and I can't bear it. Mother said other women had to bear such things, but ahe'd always been happy, and I could come to you. You could help me," she said, looking up appealingly. "You could teach me to forget." "Yes." said Faith, slowly. Then it came back to her. all her own little story, ancl a dim, broken memory of the first heartache and her own longing to forget. "Poor little girl," whispered Faith, stroking the beautiful mass of golden hair. "Ho