MY BIBLE.—MINN1E SCOTT.
work will be good for both body and soul, and you will find yourself a much less ill-treated was a matter of doubt.
“I believe I am cured of my follies—a few of them, at least, and you shall complete the good work."
“Ah, Raphael!” she repeated, with an affectation of Mrs. Warner’s manner, which was irresistible.
But Lydia was far too wise to allow that name to become a subject of irritation, and she never again alluded to the past unless her hus- band invited the conversation.
Fortunately Mrs. Warner soon after left the city, and the husband and wife saw nothing more of their transcendental acquaintances; although they learned about a year after that the poetess had married again, whether from an appreciation of the man or his money-bags was a matter of doubt.
Then it was that Guy made his full confession, and gave Lydia an account of his last visit to the poetess. Lydia was seated in her easy-chair in becoming invalid costume, and upon her lap slept the tiniest and prettiest baby that ever gladdened a young father‘s heart.
When Guy finished, the wife looked up with affected commiseration, saying only,
“Oh, Raphael!”
The tone and glance were enough; they both laughed until the babe awoke, and lay staring at them with her serious, blue eyes, as if she could not understand the matter at all, and was some what inclined to think their conduct rather undignified, considering their position and her presence.
MY
BIBLE.
BY MARGARET LEE BUTENBUB.
It tells me. in beautiful story,
Of the streams by that unbounded shore,
By the cross of the crucified Saviour,
And the thorns that they placed on his head.
Where the saints in their white robes of glory,
It tells of the tear-moving prayer
Are haunted by sorrow no more.
It tells of that land where no shadow
Of sin ever darkens the way,
He breathed in his agonized love,
That, if might be, the cup could pass from him,
And “forgive” to the Father above!
That vindeth for spirits in rapture,
No night—but a limitless day.
It tells how he wont unto Ileawn.
From the tomb-way with death that was pared,
It tells that the pilgrim is weary
And hm those who are holy in spirit
No more in that Heavenly scene,
Where the Shepherd will lead him by waters
Ettgirdled with pastures of green.
It tells of a friendship unbroken,
0f love, that can never grow dim:
That God will wipe tears from the faces
Of all that He calls unto Him.
It tells that no sickness can enter,
No woes that on earth are e’er known,
Can disturb the repose of the dwellers
That stand in delight by his throne.
Will with Him in Eden be saved.
Then who would not yearn for the waters
Of life on that beautiful shore,
Enwrenthed with a verdure unfading,
And blossoms that bloom evermoret
0 For the wings of the seraph to wander
With its countless and angelic band,
As they sing with a crown on each forehead.
And harp of bright gold in the hand.
Ohl teach us, thou “Holy of Ilolies,"
To find, by the “Book” thou hast given,
It tells of the undefiled martyr,
That pathway, though narrow and lowly,
And that taunts and rerilinge were shed
Which leadeth to Thee and to Heaven.
Nov, Minnie Scott, I tell you what,
I’m not the slave of your eapricee,
To come and go, to wait and do
SCOTT.
FRANCES HENRIETTA SHEFFIELD.
A step too far In love’s sweet. war.
And for her mshnees win just censure.
Now, Minnie dear, will you please hear
As your capricious highness pleases.
And Minnie Scott, you’ve quite forgot
’Tis woman’s lot too oft to venture
With patient ear the terms 1 tender,
Since you won't yield, nor quit the field,
Lay down your arms and I‘ll surrender.
