ON Easter Sunday morning Far Edgerley people woke to find their village robed in blossoms; in one night the fruit trees had burst into bloom, so that all the knolls and Edgerley Street itself stood in bridal array, and walking to church was like taking part in a beautiful procession.

Nearly a month had passed since the Major's attack; but all his old friends in the congregation of St. John's missed him more than ever on this Easter morning. Sara and Scar were in the Carroll pew at the head of the aisle; but it looked very empty, nevertheless. During this month there had not been much change in the Major, save that for two weeks after the doctor's decision he had not been so well; restlessness had troubled him. But for the preceding few days he had been much better, and every one was cheered by this; every one was interested in hearing that he had talked quite at length with his wife on simple local subjects, that he enjoyed little things, and thought about them. He lived entirely in the present, the present of the passing moment; everything in the past he had forgotten, and he speedily forgot the moment itself as soon as it was gone. What his wife said to him he understood, and he always knew when she was near, though his blind eyes could not see her; he felt for a fold of her dress or the ruffle of her sleeve, and held it; the sense of touch had taken the place of the vanished sight. He listened for Scar's voice too, and seemed to like to have him in the room, to hold the child's hand in his. In the same way he always smiled and was pleased when Sara spoke to him.

When the morning service was over, every one waited to ask how the Major was on this lovely Easter Sunday. Lately they had come to like his daughter far better than they had liked her at first; they said she talked more, that she was not so cold. Certainly there was nothing cold in her face, but a beautiful sweetness, as she rose from her knees and, taking Scar's hand, turned to go down the aisle. She answered their questions on the steps and in the church-yard. For on Easter morning Far Edgerley people always brought many flowers to church; then, after service, they took them out and laid them upon all the graves, so that, as Scar once said, "they could have their Easter Sunday too." Every mound had its blossoms to-day, and there were many upon the grave of the young stranger, Louis Dupont; this was because there was no one, they said, to remember him. So they all remembered him.

A little before sunset Frederick Owen, having officiated at the Easter service of the Sunday-school and at one of his mission stations, was on his way to Carroll Farms. As he came up Carroll Lane and crossed the little bridge over the brook, he saw that there was more bloom here than anywhere else in all the blooming town. For the whole orchard was out behind the house, and all the flowering almonds in front of it; the old stone walls rose close pressed in blossoms. Sara opened the door before he had time to knock. "I was watching for you," she said. "Judith Inches and Caleb have gone up the mountain to see their mother, as they always do on Easter afternoon, and they have taken Scar."

Owen paused in the hall to greet her; he was very proud of this proud, reserved girl whose love he had won.

"Do not wait, Frederick. Mamma has such a pleadingly sorrowful look to-day that I want to have it over."

"Only a moment," said Owen. He was standing with his arm round her, holding her close. "Do you remember that afternoon when I spoke to you of your mother, of the sisterly kindness she had shown to that poor woman who had lost her crippled boy? And do you remember that you said that no one save those who were in the house with her all the time could comprehend the one hundredth part of her tenderness, her constant thought for others? Your answer put me in a glow of pleasure, I did not then comprehend why. I asked myself as I walked home if I cared so much to hear Madam Carroll praised. I know now what I cared for—it was because you had said it. For I had been afraid, unconsciously to myself, perhaps, that you did not fully appreciate her, appreciate her as she seemed to me."

"And I had not until then. I shall always reproach myself—"

"You need not; you have made up for it a hundredfold," answered Owen. Then, coming back to himself, with love's unfailing egotism—"I wonder if you realize all the suffering I went through?" he continued. "You made me wait in my pain so long, so long!"

"We suffer more than you do, always," answered, after a moment, the woman he held in his arms. And then into her beautiful eyes, raised to meet his, there came such a world of feeling, some of it beyond his ken, that touched, stirred, feeling himself unworthy, yet exultant in his happiness, the man who loved her rested his lips on hers without attempting further reply.

A moment later he went up the stairs, and Sara turned the key of the front door. The Major, his wife and daughter, and the clergyman were now alone in the flower-encircled house. All its windows were open, and the flowers fairly seemed to be coming in, so near were they to the casements; outside the Major's windows two great apple-trees, a mass of bloom, stretched out their long, flowering arms until they touched the sills.

The sun, now low down, was sinking towards Lonely mountain; he sent horizontal rays full into the mass of apple-blossoms, but could not penetrate them save as a faintly pink radiance, which fell upon the figure of Madam Carroll as she stood beside the bed. She wore one of her white dresses, but her face looked worn and old as the radiance brought out all its lines, and showed the many silver threads in her faded hair. The Major was sitting up in bed; he had on a new dressing-gown, and was propped with cushions.

"Has the clergyman come?" he said. He spoke indistinctly, but his wife could always understand him.

"Yes, he is here, Scarborough," she answered, bending over him.

"He is welcome. Let him be seated," said the Major, in his old ceremonial manner. Then he felt for his wife's arm, and pulled her sleeve. "Am I dressed?" he asked, anxiously. "Did you see to it? Is my hair smooth?" He supposed himself to be speaking in a whisper.

"Yes, Major, you have on your new dressing-gown, and it is of a beautiful color, and your hair is quite smooth."

"I don't feel sure about the hair," said the Major, still, as he supposed, confidentially. "I don't remember that I brushed it."

Madam Carroll took a brush from the table and gently smoothed the thin white locks.

"That is better," he murmured. "And my clean white silk handkerchief?"

"It is by your side, close to your hand."

He thought for a moment. "I ought to have a flower for my button-hole, oughtn't I?" he added, looking about the room with his darkened eyes as if to find one.

Sara went to the window and broke off a spray of apple-blossoms from the tree outside. His wife gave it to him, and he tried to put it into the button-hole of his dressing-gown; she did it for him, and then he was content. "I am ready now," he said, folding his hands.

Frederick Owen came forward; he wore his white robes of office. "Dearly beloved, we are gathered together here in the sight of God to join together this man and this woman in holy matrimony," he read, standing close to the Major, so that he could hear.

The Major listened with serenity; and of his own accord, when the time came, he answered, "I will."

When the longer answer was reached, Owen repeated it first, then Madam Carroll repeated it to the Major, as he could hear her voice more easily. "I, Scarborough, take thee, Marion, to my wedded wife, to have and to hold from this day forward, for better for worse, for richer for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, till death us do part, according to God's holy ordinance; and thereto I plight thee my troth," said the Major, in his indistinct tones, following her word by word, and holding the hand she had placed in his.

Then the wife drew off her own wedding-ring, and guided his feeble fingers to put it back in its place again. "With this ring I thee wed," said the Major, repeating after her in a voice that was growing tired.

"Let us pray," said Owen. They knelt, and the Major bowed his head, and put his hand over his eyes. "Our Father, who art in heaven," prayed Owen, "hallowed be thy name."

As he came to the benediction, the sun's last rays, sent from the golden line of Lonely Mountain, shot triumphantly under the apple-blossoms and entered the room; they shone on Madam Carroll's kneeling figure, and lighted up the old Major's silver hair—"that in the world to come, ye may have life everlasting. Amen."

There was a silence. Then the Major took down his hand and tried to look from one to the other as they stood round his bed. His wife kissed him. And then Sara, her eyes full of tears, came and kissed him also.

"Where is the clergyman?" said the Major to his wife, again supposing himself to be speaking apart. "I ought to shake hands with him, you know."

Owen came forward, and the Major bowed and put out his hand. Then he seemed to be forgetting all that had occurred. "I am very tired, Marion," he said, not complainingly, but as if surprised. "I don't know what is the reason, but I am very tired." They took out the cushions, and he put his head down upon the pillow. In a few minutes he was asleep.

At late twilight Scar came back in the wagon with Judith Inches and Caleb. His mother was waiting for him on the piazza; she took him in her arms and kissed him several times. "Why, mamma, you are crying!" said the boy, surprised. "Are you sorry about anything, mamma?"

"Yes, Scar. But it is over now. Come up-stairs."

The Major was awake; he looked very tranquil. Sara was sitting beside him. Scar went up to the bedside. "It is Scar," said Madam Carroll. "Don't you remember him, Major? Little Scar?"

"Certainly," said the Major. "Of course I remember him; a little child."

She took his hand and put it on the boy's head. The Major stroked the fair hair gently. "Little Scar," he murmured softly to himself. "Yes, certainly I remember; little Scar."

THE END.

ANNE.
A Novel.
BY CONSTANCE FENIMORE WOOLSON.
ILLUSTRATED BY REINHART.
16mo, Cloth, $1.25.
EXTRACTS FROM NOTICES OF "ANNE."

It proves the author's right to stand without question at the head of American women novelists.—N.Y. Tribune.

The appearance of "Anne" may be regarded as a fact worth special notice, for Miss Woolson adds to her observation of scenes and localities an unusual insight into the human heart. Sometimes one is ready to say that a fragment, and not an inferior fragment, of the mantle of George Eliot is resting on her capable shoulders.—Century, N.Y.

The scenery is fine, the characterization excellent, and the purpose true. * * * It has fine touches. * * * It has admirable sketches from nature. * * * The book has humor, also, and plenty of it.* * * Anne is full of power, and will not soon be forgotten.—Literary World, Boston.

A very vigorous story. * * * Anne is very well drawn, and is an attractive study.—Zion's Herald, Boston.

A rich contribution to American fiction.—Christian Intelligencer, N.Y.

It is one of the most remarkable combinations of feminine delicacy and acuteness with masculine strength and breadth furnished by a lady novelist since "Uncle Tom's Cabin" was given to the public. * * * Of the heroine we can only say she is wholly admirable—a perfect woman. The plot is unique, of increasing interest, presenting many varied and novel scenes, and alternating artistically between the lighter and deeper emotions. The author exerts her dramatic powers to the utmost toward the close, and the result is something rarely paralleled in modern fiction.—Pittsburgh Christian Advocate.

Its wealth of plot, its rare bits of humor, its well-marked characterization, and its many fine pieces of description of natural scenery.—San Francisco Chronicle.

Its characters are marvels. They are not portraits nor statues, but living persons among and of us. Anne is a type, first of girlhood, then womanhood, of wondrous beauty—an imperishable flower of that wild, almost uncivilized, rugged region whence alone she could have sprung.—Cleveland Leader.

A strong, fresh, vigorous story, American in scene, people, and tone. * * * Few novels contain more striking incidents.—Louisville Courier-Journal.

One of the cleverest of recent American novels.—N. Y. World.

The publication of a book like Miss Woolson's "Anne" is really a literary event. * * * The plot is carefully studied, and is worked out with an honest patience and a conscientious faithfulness in details which merit the name of genius.—Dial, Chicago.

Clearly a work of genius.—Boston Traveller.

A book which has excited more interest and expectation during its appearance in serial form than any American novel published for years. * * * "Anne" is a work of real power; its characters are painted with a master hand; its literary style calls for the warmest praise; and the story has pre-eminently that sympathetic quality which is the chief charm of what may be called the novel of domestic life.—Saturday Evening Gazette, Boston.

"Anne" has produced a very marked impression—more so, indeed, than any other recent work of fiction. * * * It certainly is a delightful and refreshing novel.—Albany Evening Journal.

A delightful novel of American life.—Portland Transcript.

A charming domestic story, interesting in plot and incident, and fresh in the telling.—St. Louis Republican.

It is one of the strongest and most perfectly finished American novels ever written.—New England Farmer, Boston.

To take up this volume is to hold it until every page has been read. The interest is kept up without intermission from beginning to end, for new complications and developments arise so constantly that the reader is kept on the qui vive.—Pittsburgh Telegraph.

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