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.

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 sound

"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. I 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. I will believe that you love me always. It shall be the glory of my life. You must go to 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."

ment to sit in the farmer's porch, while Mabel brought cool, sparkling water to lave his burning, dusty face.

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 With these words, and such as these, he soothed grow stronger and get used to it in time." Maher; in some measure he won her from her sor- bel saw more clearly, and the hope in her eyes row, and yet, though the smiles came to her lips grew less steadfast. Often, when he came to at his bidding, in her heart was a prophetic si- | her in the evening, tired and worn, she would lence of fear, lest, in giving up his music, her say, 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.”

It is no use. You will have to give it up, or it will kill you. Besides, I can see your heart is breaking.”

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. And then he went home to his mother. It It was during Ole Bull's first visit to this was dark, but there was no light. She had country, and, as the autumn grew into winter. been sitting alone, absorbed in her anxious, the papers were full of his success. They often thoughts. He knelt at her feet as in his early boyhood days, and told her his story.

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

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.

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 grow whiter. But there came no quiver into her quiet tones.

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 ou 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 wroto

"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. succeed, you must succeed. there is no such word as fail. right."

And you will
For such as you
Go, Joseph; it is

as it had done, all that his genius unced and struggled to express in nispered to her, in those long, 27% Then he was going down by his side f leath; down to the river's race she must turn back in loneliness e must go out upon the tide. mens were those last hours of They lived in those few weeks an any ouis can reckon in with marsumi ten. Mabel felt then art of himself—that their ruzica nough they might be for anned efore either could be merfeet whole.

ame on a June twilight. On Tento ears before, he had been vf mortals; on that day, od be born again into

rts. The two women, of both vas he tearest portion, were an inspeakable tenderness I is reweil. His last words were: PIN TRUE vil know you in heaven. a prin me will wait for you where EL DE 7 Bar or be given in mar

STE, Siwen more mournful. Low, and remmuus yet wild, it thrilled along

mi. & last, with a long sob, it Via the soul of the music had

If Joseph Thorne.

sun followed him. Their graves ear the sunshine of this peaceful Audi Emerson's work is not yet Sailed to a hope and a memory. Rak. Inde must the man be who would dare Innal v ner of love. Wherever trouble is, KRETAUS MAITE £e struggling with sorrow, her serve s at de door; and she whom Joseph *re tred to call the angel of his life will

go to her last rest crowned with the blessings of | One bright spring, a pair of rose-buds, "Her works they shall

Clothed them, stripped and left them bare; Maidenhood stole softly on her,