you-you loved me-ever so long? Well, I don't think I've any very loud call to be a farmer's wife. (Take up portrait; keep the back to audience.) No, I will not show it to you. (Turn to back.) Oh! very well, Mr. Slowbody. Call again when you can't stay so long. (Turn to front; put portrait in chair.) Jediah couldn't deceive me. Nobody could. I'm too smart to be taken in by—(Move up quickly to back; call off.) Return! Oh! Return, I'll show it to you. (Come down.) He's gone. Now who will bring my letters and carry my hymn-book Sundays and praise my tea-cakes? Jediah will never like my cooking in this world. (Take up portrait.) I must hang Jediahin my room. I wonder if he will love me as much as Return. (Look at portrait.) Oh! Jediah. It was a mercy you sent me your picture. I might have-Oh! Return. Oh! Jediah. [Exit with portrait, back.

Slow Curtain.

SCENE III. Sarah's kitchen. A table at right with board, flour dredge, rolling pin, knife, plates, etc., and some dough for pie crust. Other simple furniture. The portrait hanging on wall at back. Entrances, right and left, and at back. Summer house-dress with apron. Time, afternoon, a week later.

(Enter at right; roll up sleeves to elbow; take up flour dredge; sprinkle flour on board and roll out dough into thin sheet; put some of the sheet of dough on plate and trim it off as for a pie; roll dough out again. Do this while talking.) I do hope Jediah will like my pies. I've writ to Jediah that I couldn't come to see him now, as I have a house full of boarders and I told him to make me a little visit. And yesterday he writ he couldn't afford it. He gives all he has to the poor. (Look at portrait.) Oh! Jediah. I aint fit'to be a helpmeet to such a saint. (Look to left. Wipe hands on apron.) Gracious! Who's that? (Cross to left.) One of the boarders. (Open door as if to admit some one.) Oh! That you, Miss Breezie? Come right in, if you don't mind my cooking. (Offer chair at

left.) I'm making a mess of pies. Sit down and be sosherble. (Resume work on pies, adding a second and third layer over the first on the plate and trim them off with the knife; do not notice mistake.) Are you acquainted any in Boston, Miss Breezie? Didn't know but you might be, seeing you've lived there so long. Don't suppose you know the Reverend Jediah Hopkins. Yes, Hopkins— that's the name. Am I sure? Why, certainly. Of course, I know him very well. He's a missionary to the poor. If it was not for speaking of myself-I'd tell you I've often sent him money-for the-- Excuse me, there's Return. (Run up, wiping hands on apron; call off back.) Yes I'm coming.

[Exit, back.

(Re-enter with a letter.) Another letter from Jediah. (Speak to left.) Sit still. It aint a mite of matter. I can read it by and by. Return brought it over, but he wouldn't come in. (Resume work at table.) Why-yesJediah does write pretty often. He's a perfect saint (Point to picture.) That's his portrait. (Suddenly drop plate on table.) What! No such person? (Point to portrait.) That is-oh, Miss Breezie, you don't mean it! Deceived me? Oh, no, no! I don't believe-You are sure-sure? (Run to back; call off.) Return-Oh! Return.

[Exit, back.

Oh, what a pile And he kept it all. I'm at home--mak

(After pause re-enter slowly and in changed manner ; look about; speak off back.) No. She's gone. There's nobody here. (Suddenly turn the portrait with its face to the wall.) What a mercy she told me. of money I have sent to the poor. (Speak off back.) Come in, Return! ing a pie for you. (Point to seat at left.) Sit down and make yourself at home. (Look at portrait.) That? Oh, Return, don't ask me. I've been-Oh! Return, you knew it all the time. (Take up pie plate.) Look at that. I've put on three bottom crusts and left out the filling. Oh! Return, I aint fit to go alone another day. Me! me, Return! Love you? Oh, Return, you knew it all along. Curtain.

CAUGHT.-K. E. BARRY.

They were sitting by the fireside,
On a very frosty night,

And their heads were close together
And they talked of-well-the weather,
Or, perhaps the "Injun" fight.

As their chat grew more engrossing
Near and nearer yet he drew
Till her fair hair brushed his shoulder,
And in trembling tones he told her
Of the sorrows of the Sioux.

Then he put his arms about her
In the dimly lighted room,
And they saw naught but each other,
Never heard her bad, small brother
Stealing softly through the gloom,
Till a flash dispelled the darkness,

And a shrill voice cried with glee:
"Caught your photo-you and sister-
Pa will like to know you kissed her—
Buy the negative from me?"

-Photographi Times.

HOW I WON MY WIFE.-W. A. EATON.

I was standing alone on a rocky height,
The sunshine around me fell warm and bright;
The deep blue ocean stretched far away;
There was scarcely a ripple on all the bay.
A boat was just putting off from the beach;
I could almost hear the light-hearted speech
Of the young girl sitting in the bow.
How well I remember! I see her now,-
Her golden curls blown back by the wind,
And the bright blue ribbon floating behind;
And her sunny laugh, like silver bells,
Still clearly in my memory dwells.
The boat sped on o'er the summer sea,
As light and gay as a bird set free.
An aged man by the young girl sat,
And seemed delighted to hear her chat.

How I wished I were he in that tiny boat,
How sweet it would be o'er the waves to float,
And hear that voice and be near that form,
And watch the breezes her fair cheeks warm
With the glow of health, and clasp her hand,
And gaze with her at the lessening land!
The boat went on, and I turned away,
But the picture was with me all that day.
At evening when the sky was red

With the great sea sunset, and overhead
The sea-gulls screamed in their whirling flight,
Where the mighty cliffs were gleaming white,
I strolled on the beach, for I could not rest,
A nameless longing filled my breast,-

A yearning to see that face once more,

And the boat return I had watched from shore.
I lit a cigar and strolled along,

Humming the tune of an old love song;
And the days of my youth came back to me,
As I strolled along by the murmuring sea;
And the visions of greatness and glory came
As they used to do, and my cheek grew flame,
And my heart beat high, and my head grew hot
With aspirations I thought forgot.

I was roused from my dreams by a sudden blast,
And the raindrops falling thick and fast.

I looked above, and the sky was black:

I hastily turned to hurry back

Ere the storm came on; but I saw the bark

Dimly and faintly through the dark,

Like an egg-shell rocked on the hissing waves,
Whose roaring echoed through all the caves.

"God help them!" I muttered beneath my breath.
"Oh, save them fro n such a fearful death!"
The life-boat house was far away,

There was no time to think or stay.

But what could be done? I flew to where

A light was lit at the jetty-stair,

And shouted and shrieked with all my might:

"Pull if you can, towards this light!"

They heard me, thank Heaven!-they come this way.

They were nearing the lantern's flickering ray,
When a huge wave came and the boat upset.
That poor pale face! I see it yet,-

The despairing eyes that gazed at me
Far out of the depths of that awful sea!
One cry to her, "Hold on, be brave!"
And I had plunged beneath the wave.
I seized the poor half-fainting form,
And madly battled with the storm.
A thought of home-a thought of death-
A fearful catching of the breath-
And then I strove with all my might
To reach the lantern's flickering light.
The lifeless form within my arm
Was cold and dead to all alarm;
Her long hair floated on the wave,
That yet might prove an early grave.
One struggle and a stifled prayer,
And I had reached the jetty-stair.

But there was the aged man to save

From the deep, dark gulf of the yawning wave.
So I gave the girl into friendly hands,

And plunged again from the wet sea sands
Deep down into the foaming sea.

By the fitful light I could dimly see
The boat upturned, and the aged man
Clinging as only the drowning can.
An awful plunge and a fearful gasp,
And the aged form was within my grasp.

A few strokes more and we reached the strand,
The crowd pressed round and grasped my hand.

A few months more, and the joy-bells rang
With a resonant chime and a joyous clang;
And the bride that stood by the altar rail
With the beautiful eyes and the fair cheeks pale,
And the hand that trembled and voice that fell
With an earnest tone and deep-souled swell,
Was the form and voice of the girl whose life
I had saved from death. I had won my wife.

HE HAD FAITH.

A young man, about twenty-one years old, was sitting in the waiting room of a depot with a year-old baby on his knee, and his alarm and helplessness when the child