AT HER FEET.

—Amelia B. Welby.

—Moore's Loves of the Angels.

She pushes back the sliding-doors between her own room and this one, letting the soft, clear light flood its dim recesses, opens the windows admitting the balmy sea breeze and the moonlight. Divided then between suspense and pain she throws upward the lace canopy and stands leaning once more over the empty crib that seems to her now more like a grave.

"It was May, 1870, when we quarreled here over baby's crib," she muses to herself, "and it seems as if years, and years, and years have gone over my head—yet this is only May, 1874. Ah! me."

Did minutes or hours go by? She never knew as she steadied her soul against the rushing, headlong waves of memory that threatened to engulf her in its chilling tide. She had put the past away from her in the excitement of other pursuits and other aims, and now—now it came back, relentless, remorseless, sweeping her quivering heart-strings, atuning all her sensitive nerves to pain.

Would he come? Her helpless heart throbbed a passive denial. If he came, as Lulu had asked her, would she be glad?

She scarcely knew. She loved him—loved him with a pure, deep love that having once given its pledge to last till death, no earthly power could alter. Hers was a very strong and faithful devotion, but human resentment must hold a small place in the human breast as long as life lasts. And Grace Winans, brave, patient, tried by fire as she had been, was still only mortal. If he came, strengthened, purified, enobled by suffering and sad experience, they must still meet, she thinks, with a sharp heart-pang, as over a grave—the grave of their child; the winsome baby whom she sees in fancy at his childish play on the nursery rug, toddling over the floor, laughing in her arms, catching at her long, bright curls—what shall she say to the man whose folly has deprived her of all this joy, when he comes to ask forgiveness?

"God help me!" she moans, and drops her hopeless head upon her hands.

"Gracie!"

Does her heart deceive her ears? She glances shyly up, sees him standing not three feet from her, and he lifts the little child by his side, and tossing him into the crib, growing too small for his boyish proportions, says, wistfully:

"Gracie, I have brought him back to you to plead his father's cause."

One long look into the boyish beauty of that face that has not outgrown its infantile bloom, and her arms are about the little form, though silent in her joy as in her grief no word escapes her lips.

"Mamma, my own lovely mamma!" the little boy lisps, tutored thereto no doubt by his father's wisdom, and her only answer is in raining kisses, smiles and tears.

It is so long before she thinks of the silent father that when she turns it is only to find him kneeling at her feet. On the dusk beauty of that proud face she sees the sharp traces of suffering, weariness, almost hopelessness. He takes the small hand that falls passive to her side, touching it lightly to his feverish lips.

"Gracie," she hears in the low, strong accents of despair, "there is nothing I can say for myself—I am at your foot to hear my doom! Whatever you accord me, it cannot be utter despair, since I am blessed beyond measure in having looked even once more on your beloved face."

For minutes she looked down on that bowed head in silence. All the love and pride, all the good and evil in her nature are warring against each other. Shall she let the cruel past go by, or shall she—and then, between her and these tumultuous thoughts, rises the face of one who is an angel in heaven—her lips part to speak, and close mutely; she smiles, then slowly falling like the perfuming petals of a great white rose, her white robes waver to the floor, and her small hand flutters down on his shoulder, and she is kneeling beside him.

He looks up with an unspoken prayer of thanksgiving on his mobile features, and twines strong, loving arms about the form that has fallen unconscious against his breast.

General Winans takes his wife abroad to escape the "nine days wonder." Norah goes with them, in charge of little Earle, her face glowing like a miniature sun with delight at the way that "things," in her homely phraseology "have turned out."

They visit the adopted grandparents of little Earle, and are feted and flattered by them, until sweet Grace in the fullness of her own happiness and her compassion for them, promises them an annual visit. Deo volent, from the small idol of her heart and theirs.

And, "by the way," in Paris—"dear, delightful Paris"—where they sojourn awhile, they meet—who else but Major Frank Fontenay, U. S. A., "doing the honeymoon" in most approved style with the "fair Cordelia, the banker's heiress." And thus has the susceptible major consoled himself for Lulu's rejection. It is needless to say that these two couples uniting, "do" the tour of Europe in the most leisurely and pleasant manner, and are duly favored with honors and attentions.

Latest advises from Norfolk report the Winans and Conway families as on the happiest terms. Rumor says, indeed, that the two young mothers have prospectively betrothed the fragile little brown-eyed Grace Willard to the handsome young Earle Willoughby, the hopeful heir of two fortunes. "However these things be," we leave them to the future, which takes care of itself.

And far down a shady path in one of Norfolk's lovely cemeteries there rises a low green grave, over which a costly white marble shaft, never without its daily wreath of fresh white roses through all of summer's golden days, tapers sadly against the blue sky, telling all who care to know that

Willard Clendenon,
AGED 36,
Rests Here.

[THE END]

"THE RHINE,
THE ALPS,
And the BATTLEFIELD LINE."

The Famous Limited

HAS NO EQUAL BETWEEN

CINCINNATI and NEW YORK,

Via Washington, Baltimore, and Philadelphia.

Vestibuled, Steam Heated, and Electric Lighted Throughout.

THROUGH DINING CAR and COMPLETE PULLMAN SERVICE.

THROUGH SLEEPERS TO AND FROM

ST. LOUIS, CHICAGO AND LOUISVILLE.

The most interesting historic associations and the most striking and beautiful scenery in the United States are linked together by the C. & O. System which traverses Virginia, the first foothold of English settlers in America, where the Revolutionary War was begun and ended, and where the great battles of the Civil War were fought; crosses the Blue Ridge and Alleghany Mountains and the famous Shenandoah Valley, reaches the celebrated Springs region of the Virginias and lies through the canons of New River, where the scenery is grand beyond description. It follows the banks of the Kanawha and Ohio Rivers, and penetrates the famous Blue Grass region of Kentucky, noted for producing the greatest race-horses of the world.

For maps, folders, descriptive pamphlets, etc., apply to Pennsylvania Railroad ticket offices in New York, Philadelphia, and Baltimore, the principal ticket offices throughout the country, or any of the following C. & O. agencies:

NEW YORK—362 and 1323 Broadway.
WASHINGTON—513 and 1421 Pennsylvania avenue.
CINCINNATI—Corner Fifth and Walnut streets.
LOUISVILLE—253 Fourth avenue.
ST. LOUIS—Corner Broadway and Chestnut street.
CHICAGO—234 Clark street.

C. B. RYAN, Assistant General Passenger Agent, Cincinnati, O.

H. W. FULLER, General Passenger Agent, Washington, D. C.