And she kept the suffering before her consciousness, and refused to see that his own want of faith and patience had been the cause of it all. For three wonderful hours they wandered, or sat, in the old garden; telling little stories of their love and sorrow, or planning, to the bird's song above them, the joys of the future. And when Robert at last said a reluctant "good night, sweet Katherine! Good night, my dear one!" she ran lightly and happily upstairs to the music of her heart; and, looking in the mirror, was astonished at her beauty, and glad of it. "Oh, how good is the end of sorrow!" she mused, as she uncoiled her bright brown hair. "God has given me a thousand-fold for all my tears and fears. It is not the uncertain bloom, but the ripe fruitage of love, I gather. Robert loves me! And, oh, how dearly I love him!" and she shut her eyes, and let her hands downfall, and as she slowly rocked herself, hummed in low, sweet melody: "My heart is like a singing bird, Whose nest is in a watered shoot; My heart is like an apple tree, Whose boughs are bent with rosy fruit. EVERY CROSS BEARS ITS OWN INSCRIPTION. BY AMELIA E. BARR. A long, very long room, lit from the roof. Thousands of threads around thousands of spindles. Hundreds of mules and throstles and looms working as if they were endowed with intelligence. Nearly four hundred women watching the operation: a few have a little knitting or a book in their hand, but this is no child's play, and there is no room for laughing or folly where a moment's carelessness might be the gravest wrong, or a few thoughtless steps a frightful death. You may see such rooms in nearly every street in Manchester. Stand with me a moment at the door and look in; and if an inspiration of prayer, a longing to sing "Glory to God on High," does not fill your heart, it is dry as summer's dust. For in our days there are giants in the earth again; giants with cranks and wheels and iron arms tethered to do work instead of men, and frail, pale-faced women control them-nay! a little child can lead them. The smoke wreaths from the tall chimneys of these temples of labor are better far than all the clouds of the ancient sacrifices; the hum of the engine, the breath of its iron lungs, the clank and clash of machinery, is nobler music than the barbaric cymbal, or pealing trumpet; for when these latter fill the air with their dissonant rejoicing "blood is on the grass like dew," but those solemn, earnest toilers in iron hum the symphony of the Millennium. Such a scene and such thoughts filled my eyes and heart one summer morning in the city of Manchester, nearly twenty years ago. But as one object in a landscape, or one figure in a picture, will by some inexplicable sympathy force itself on your notice, so also among four hundred women I almost instantly selected one as every way above her fellows. Perhaps I was involuntarily directed to her by an uneasy glance from my companion, but having once noticed her it was impossible to turn my eyes from her. She had the charge of two looms, and she stood between them calmly watching their movements. The moment a hread broke, her quick eye detected it, and her fingers deftly repaired the damage. The Lancashire girls are justly famed for their beauty, but this one had personal loveliness of the highest order. Her brow was large and calm, her face like a holy book, only the large grey eyes had a pensive waiting gaze in them that gave me the idea of a hungry heart. But as we passed her, her whole coun tenance changed, the blood surged over her face, and she turned to my companion with a look inquisitive, almost imploringhe gave her neither word nor look, and in a moment she became white as marble again. My interest was strangely excited, and as soon as we were out of the factory I said, "Who was that girl who looked so strangely at you, Mr. Braithwaite?” "Her name is Jane Wilson," he answered gruffly. "She seemed to know you." "She does know me." And then he shut himself up in a coat of bristling silence, which said at every point, "Hands off." He was driving furiously too, and looked so black and angry that I involuntarily endorsed Carlyle's opinion-"Every man contains within him a madman." John Braithwaite, twenty-seven years before this, had married my mother's favorite maid. He was then a poor handloom weaver, but his mind was cast in a large type and he was among the first to recognize the new omnipotence of the steam engine and to ally himself with it. So at this day he stood foremost among the cotton-cratic lords of his adopted city. Though of humble birth, he had been polished and whetted by daily attrition with steam and commerce, until he had at tained a very good control of his naturally violent passions. Those who did not see into the "bluebeard chamber" of his lifehis home-believed him to be the most genial and generous of men. But the true test of goodness is to be good at home, among the women and children and servants dependent on one's love and forbearance. And John Braithwaite could not have stood this test. His wife's perfect love had not cast out her fear of him. His two daughters had been compelled to marry as he desired. His servants obeyed him trembling. His "hands" served him with an enforced faithfulness, grudgingly and without interest. None of these things however troubled him; nay, he rather enjoyed them as evidences of his power and superiority. But punishment, though slow to come, comes surely; and the Nemesis had been growing up at his fireside, fostered in his bosom, trained in all his ways for twenty-five years. He had never guessed it. He knew certainly that his only son Antony was willful and stubborn, and impatient of all control; but it was his son, and he tolerated, nay even admired these traits of character so strongly resembling his own. "Antony is a chip of the old block," was his apology for every act of insubordination either at school or at home. That |