hastily he threw the sixpence on the counter and hurried off, vexed even at the momentary delay. Kenneth Graeme, you have brightened another young heart to-day, and that when your own heart was very heavy-when your own thoughts and your own pressing cares for yourself and those dearest to you, were almost more than you could bear. In your time of trial, when you "would do good" but "evil is present" with you-when in the struggle to do right your spirit faints and is ready to sink, then may some guiding hand be sent to help you, even as you have lent a helping hand this day. Kenneth Graeme and Joanna Douglas had been engaged for three years. Since the hour when Kenneth first told her his love in the simple words, "Will you wait for me, Joanna, my love, my friend?" how faithfully and lovingly true these two had been to each other! Through all the troubles and anxieties of their lives, this love had flowed on clear and bright, like a silvery moonlighted stream through a landscape of shadowy hills; separate from all else, yet interwoven with the very being of each-hidden, it might be, at times, by the dark shadows surrounding it, but never lost always flowing on, pure, deep, and quiet, and suddenly and surely gleaming out again-gladdening and making the whole inner life beautiful with its soft, trembling light. Eagerly, and often hopefully, they looked together into the future, trying to picture to themselves a time when, all difficulties cleared away, they should reach the end for which each was striving, each was working, each was living; for hard as Kenneth's work and life had been, and still was, it was equalled, if not surpassed, by Joanna's. It would have been far indeed beyond her strength, had it not been the supporting power of her deep, passionate love for him-more self-sacrificing than his, because of her woman's nature -more undivided, because she had neither father, mother, nor sister to share it with him. "What a foolish engagement! it can never come to anything,' so the world would have said, had it known of this one, or thought it worth a remark; but the world knew nothing of it-nobody knew anything of it, except Kenneth's mother and sisters. Joanna had been the only child of a poor professional man. At the age of seventeen she was an orphan, with no means of living, except by work, and no relation whose assistance she felt a right to claim. Since then, she had lived alone, and worked constantly, patiently, and conscientiously, without envy of others, without repining at her own lot-a pure, honorable, independent, but at times a sad enough life for any woman. It had once been so to Joanna. Now the sadness was gone; she had something to live for. On this evening she was sitting alone in her little parlor. She had returned, as her custom was, from the school where she was employed all day, to a small lodging where she lived, in a quiet, suburban street, away from any of the fashionable thoroughfares of the city. She preferred the short time this gave her of uninterrupted solitude and freedom, to the more comfortable but also more dependent plan of living with her employer. These evening hours were very precious to her, brightened as they often were by thoughts of him, sometimes even by his presence and companionship. A very small and shabbily furnished room it was when first she took possession of it; but she had occupied it now for several years, and it was beginning already—from her taste in arranging the few unexpensive ornaments she possessed, the little bookcase, Kenneth's gift, at a time when actual poverty had not pressed on him so hardly-her old and wellused piano-and the white muslin curtains giving an air of lightness and freshness to the whole-to wear something of the pleasant home look, in which lies all the charm of a room, and of which none, however plain, need be destitute, if a lady is the occupant. Let us for a moment look at Joanna as she sits there. She is evidently too intently occupied just now to observe us. From her appearance her age must be about twentyfour. A slender girl of middle height, with a slight stoop-that stoop which gives an effect of languor, not of heaviness. It is scarcely observed just now, for she is bending over a well-worn, old-fashioned desk, busily engaged in writing; but in a few minutes, at the sound of a step outside, she will rise from her seat, and then it will be well seen, telling too plainly of days and nights And yet at times the thought would come -Perhaps she might succeed;-some one might like the tale; she had put out all her strength, and much wearing thought on its creation; every feeling it expressed she knew was real. If she did, what a reward for all the labor would be the joy of telling him! of far harder work than the poor girl has | from her regular hard day's work-she feels strength for. Still there is a certain grace painfully how ignorant she is of much that about the figure in spite of this defect, and would have made her task more easy-and, in spite of the very moderate display of all as it draws to a close, the high hopes with such fashionable disguises as rank under the which she began it are fast dying away. She comprehensive name of crinoline. On most feels that there is scarcely a chance of its people the old and well-worn black silk dress success. she wore, with its plain, untrimmed skirt hanging in soft loose folds about her, and the little frill of lace round her throat, fastened with a small mosaie brooch (her only ornament), would have been pronounced decidedly shabby and unbecoming. On her, by some magic influence, I know not what, unless it was the complete harmony of every feature, every expression, and every movement, this dress seemed more becoming, more in character with the style and position of the wearer than any she could have chosen. Her head was small and well formed, and the soft fair hair sloped gracefully back from her forehead, and was twisted up and fastened behind without any ornament. The face, like Kenneth's, would at first sight have been called rather plain, for it was colorless and thin; and the features, though far from coarse, certainly irregular-some decidedly bad. Yet it was a sweet face, with its large, dreamy eyes, its thoughtful, everchanging expression—a face, if once seen, not easily forgotten- very easily loved. Wanting as it was in all beauty of form or color, I have seen it look strikingly beautiful. It was not difficult to perceive, from the quiet strength of will that was written in every line of it, what was the attraction that drew Kenneth Graeme, with all his more brilliant talent, so closely to this young girl. She has always rather an anxious expression, but at this moment she looks even more than usually careworn. Kenneth's difficulties and troubles are lying heavily on her mind. She is exhausted, too, by her work. Since she came in at seven o'clock she has had no rest. Her evening hours are too precious to lose; she is too eager about what she is at present occupied with to let them pass unemployed. It is nearly nine o'clock now, and for the last two hours she has been writing on rapidly, without stoppage or interruption. She has been engaged for months at this tale. It is now nearly finished; but it is almost her first attempt-she is as yet unknown as a writer-it is the production of the few hours only that she could spare Wearily the little white hand moved over the paper. Her cheek had become pale and thin, and the soft, dreamy eyes sunken and dim with the excitement of the long-continued mental strain; but still she wrote on, unconscious of all the toil,-unconscious of everything, except the absorbing interest that carries her on in her work, and an occasional thrill of wondering joy and gratitude that even the slightest touch of such a power had been given to her. Very, very slight indeed she felt it to be, as compared with the gifts of others. How valueless in itself, yet how precious to her, was that pile of manuscript! What would Kenneth think of it? By means of the little talent, was it not possible that she might make something that would help him that would bring the time nearer, when, the lonely working over, they might begin at last to work together? As she looked at it, a flush of innocent triumph brightened for a moment the anxious face, her pen was laid down, and resting her head on her hand, she gave herself up for a minute to the thought of that time and the quiet, happy life that would lie before them. Then she began to wonder whether he would come that night. He had half promised, but this was his last night for preparation, and she feared he could not have time. She knew how sorely pressed and agitated he had been during the past week, and how much more than ordinarily anxious he was about the next day. He had looked ill the last time she saw him. Then as he did not come, as it became too late to expect him, she grew uneasy about him. She remembered that he had promised to come and read his sermon to her, and he had not appeared. Could it be that he was not ready-that he was still struggling on at his work-surrounded by "you must have been dreadfully worn out when confusion and noise in the house, and that inward vexing confusion of mind that made thought an impossibility? So Joanna was sitting in her room, her head shaded by the position of the lamp, bent down, listening for some signal of his coming, when Kenneth Graeme reached the end of his walk, and, with a rapid glance up at the little window that he knew was hers, passed from the street.into the long dark close. you wrote it. How your hand has shaken. Even I could scarcely read it. I cannot bear it, dearest. You are hurting yourself with this extreme anxiety. It is not necessary. How I wish it was over!" Kenneth's face flushed deeply as he said, in an impatient tone, "Not more than I do, Joanna; but give me the sermon if you want to hear it read. I do not see really that the writing is more indistinct than usual." In a minute more she has heard the step on Joanna looked up, surprised at the tone of the outside, and the anxious expression is his voice; and, without speaking, at once gone. She never mistakes that quick, ner-handed the manuscript to him. He had never vous tread; and as she started up to meet him, a gleam of joy lighted up the quiet, colorless face. She looked almost beautiful then, standing waiting for him, with that soft light in her eyes. Kenneth thought so at least, as, when they met, he bent for a moment over the slight drooping figure, and, as he felt his love and his relation to the lonely girl gave him right, once gravely and tenderly kissed her. She glanced up anxiously at his troubled face, saying eagerly, "Kenneth, have you finished it? Is everything ready?” "Yes, I am quite ready, love, But I was up very late last night," he added, quickly. "Don't wonder that I look a little worn out; it's only my last week's anxiety." He wished to get this said at once; he could rot bear that Joanna should question him about the trouble he feared was in his face. She saw at once that he wished no remark to be made upon it, and, trying to look cheerful, said, "Have you brought it? You said you would." "Yes. I thought, perhaps, Joanna, you would like to hear it." 66 I should, very much. Is that it. Give it me for a moment in my hand." He slightly hesitated, then gave it to her. She took it from him, holding it lovingly and proudly. How secure she felt that she should admire it. How she longed to hear him read it! He watched her for a minute, smiling somewhat sadly at her trusting, innocent admiration; then he held out his hand to take it from her; but not observing the movement, she continued turning over the leaves of the little manuscript. spoken to her in that tone, but she put aside the momentary vexation it had caused her, by the thought of how much he had to irritate and annoy him. It was no wonder that he spoke impatiently; and quietly pushing aside her desk, she drew the lamp close to Kenneth's side, and taking a little piece of work in her hand, she seated herself opposite to him and listened. It was truly a striking sermon-high and pure in conception, and beautiful in language. Very soon the neglected work fell from Joanna's hand, as, bending eagerly forward, she gazed with an earnest, loving, wondering delight into the face of the reader. And how well Kenneth read it. How deeply he seemed himself to feel; how clearly and fully to impart the meaning and importance of what he said. How brightly the fire of intellect flashed from his eyes. Joanna had never seen him look like this before. How the dark, rough face lighted up with expression, showing the deep feelings that were being stirred in him. Rapidly its changes came and went, now flushing to crimson and next moment fading to a deadly paleness, till, as the reading drew near the close, she was almost frightened by the intense depth of feeling it revealed. CHAPTER IV. Ar last the end came-the concluding sentence was read; with a hand trembling from excitement, Kenneth folded his manuscript, and, throwing himself back exhausted on his chair, silently, almost breathlessly, waited for Joanna to speak. The contrast was strong between these two at that moment. She, with her quiet fair. Surely, Kenneth," she said, suddenly, face flushed with happiness and pride, look ing up reverentially and lovingly into his. | very moment; something he was concealing How very pale and weary it was! from her. She could be deceived no longer; For a minute or two after he had finished the truth was forced on her mind more she sat still, leaning forward on the table, strongly the longer she looked at him. her hands folded loosely together, speechless Suddenly starting up, forgetful of his harsh with delighted surprise, entranced with the words to herself, remembering nothing but powerful eloquence of his words; then, as if that he was suffering, desiring nothing but to speaking half to herself, she said in a low, help him, to lift at least a part of its weight tremulous voice, "It's very fine-very beau-from him to herself, she said, earnestly, tiful." "Kenneth, what is it you are concealing "You like it then, do you, Annie?" he from me? There is something. Tell me, said, wearily. "Kenneth, you need not ask me that. There's only one thing I do not like about it. What work it must have cost you! It is far too good. No wonder that you are feeling ill. Writing a few more such sermons under the difficulties you had last week would kill you." “You are right in that, Joanna," he answered, bitterly. "It has cost me hard work." Without noticing the change in his tone, she went on, cheerfully, "It wont be necessary though to preach such sermons always; something simpler and plainer would even be better understood by the country people. But, oh, I am so glad that one will be fully understood and appreciated, I can scarcely grudge your labor.” His look of trouble and annoyance increased as he said, coldly, "I see you are determined to believe that I am unable to write another sermon as good. I did not expect you would have shown so much surprise at this one being passably well written." Joanna started. 66 Kenneth," she said, gently, "you don't mean that?" Poor girl, she was very much hurt by the unkind words. This was the second time to-night she had unconsciously vexed him. For him to speak harshly to her! She could not understand it; it was so unlike Kenneth. As she glanced up again timidly to the face that till now had never looked on her but with tenderness and love, that in every sorrow had always brightened at her presence, she was struck at once by the extreme suffering written in every feature. It was not, she felt sure, either overwork or anxiety which had so altered its expression, so deeply lined the forehead, and given such a sunken yet restless look to the eyes. No, it could not be. She was convinced that some positive heavy trouble lay on his mind at this dearest; surely, I have a right to know. Oh, let there be no secret between us two." Kenneth's brow darkened; but his voice was still cold and constrained, as he answered, “I do not understand you, Joanna. Why do you suppose I have anything to conceal from you? You seem bent to-night on saying things to irritate me. Everybody has little trifling annoyances that one never thinks of mentioning. If there were anything you could help me with, or that would do you any good to know, I would tell you at once; but there is nothing." Poor Joanna! what was it that, while he spoke, made the slight color fade from her cheek, and filled her eyes with such bitter tears? What was the dim shadow that she saw slowly rising up between them, separating them from each other's love, holding them back from their old heart companionship? What was the thought that was gathering like a cloud, hiding from her the sunshine of all her life! Was it that he was now so immeasurably above her, that he could not even stoop to teach her? Was the difference between them so great, that for her even to understand him was impossible? She knew how far he was her superior in intellect; but could his love for her indeed be growing cold—was it changing to mere protecting friendship and pity for her loneliness? Poor lonely girl! There is a shadow coming between you, but this is not its form. As Kenneth finished speaking he rose to go away, "I had no idea how late it was. Good-night, Joanna Impatiently pushing the lamp aside, its light happened for a moment to fall full on Joanna's face; and as he caught its sorrowful expression, noticed how dark the circles under her eyes had become, and thought of how lonely, how separated she was from all love but his, and how little he had showed her of it just now, his voice changed, and, holding her hand tenderly in his, he said, | Nothing but the words in which he gave it "Annie, dearest, try not to think of what I was his own. Could there be a meaner robhave said to-night. Surely, I cannot be quite bery, or a darker deceit than this? myself, when I vex you; but I am sorely troubled, Joanna. You are right that between us there should be no secrets; there will, I trust, be no other, but this must remain with me." O "Could I do nothing to help you? Kenneth, I think if I knew it, I could do something to make the trouble lighter, if trouble it be." His answer came very tenderly, but still very firmly," Joanna, no one could help me." He took her hand again before he left her. As she looked up before they parted, their eyes met, and his fell before the earnest, truthful gaze of the woman he loved. For a moment he hesitated. Must it be henceforward always so? Will he never again be able to meet without shrinking that pure, innocent face-to look fearlessly into the depths of those candid eyes? Yes; so it must be now, for he has gone too far and risked too much to turn back. But is there no possible way? Might he not tell her his secret, and still not turn back? He could-or in his present wild dream he thought he could-act a lie before all the world; he had made up his mind to that; but to her? There is no safeguard for a man so strong as the love of a pure and true woman. Kenneth Graeme found it so this day; prepared to deceive all others, his whole nature recoiled from the thought of deceiving this young, simple girl. Her hand was still clasped in his. He made her promise that his secret should be between them two forever; then he told her. It is over-the words are spoken-the confession made, and again Kenneth and Joanna stand facing one another. He has told her of his temptation that night; of his struggle to resist it, of his utter failure; of the determination then formed to carry out his sinful plan-to rest his worldly success on a lie; to claim the honor and reputation which he had not toiled for-had not fairly gained, and to purchase worldly goods and worldly position by the sacrifice of honor, conscience, and all inward purity and truth. The sermon he had read, and which Joanna had listened to with such delight, was in all its thought and labor the work of another. All this story Joanna heard from the lips of the man whom already she had promised to love, obey, and honor, and whom, till now, she had most fully honored almost worshipped in her love; and bravely she bore it. Though it fell like a heavy weight, crushing and bruising her, he needed not to fear that she would shrink from him. No; far, far above the sorrow, and the shame, and the bitter disappointment, rose the strong, all-enduring woman's love. That was still unchanged. He had erred, most grievously erred, but it was over. To her he was the same, even nobler than before, for he had wandered to the very mouth of the dark cavern of sin; but there he had stopped. From entering in and following its deceitful windings he had recoiled. Else, surely, he would not have told her. So to Kenneth there was no change in her voice or manner when she first looked up and spoke. Only she was very pale, and her hand shook nervously. Perhaps there was a slight degree more of firmness than usual in the tone in which she said the simple words,— -"Kenneth, it must be destroyed at once." Kenneth let go her hand quickly. “Joanna, what do you mean? What must be destroyed?” Her voice trembled now. "Kenneth, don't let me have to ask you to do this. O Kenneth, of yourself, of your own will, do it now." He was first startled, then touched by her beseeching earnestness, but only for a moment. "Joanna, I will not destroy it — no, not even for you. You do not know what you are asking. Besides, it would make no difference. I know the sermon by heart. I can make use of it without any manuscript, and I will." And as he said the words, his face was very hard and stern. Bravely had Joanna borne all that had gone before — all her disappointed hopes the thought of Kenneth's failure of another year at least of weary waiting-of the smal chance he now had of success in his profession, and, worse than all, of the weakness that had led him on so far in sin ;-but for these last words she was not prepared. They sank like a cold, dead weight on her heart, foretelling |