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dressed to Freddy, Johnnie, things in gen- to tell the truth, she was very inexpert-uneral. Miss Wodehouse pondered over the ready-deeply embarrassed with the unusual handle of her parasol. She had absolutely necessity. Nettie's case, so wonderfully difnothing to say; but, thoroughly unconvinced ferent from any thing she could have conand exasperated at Nettie's logic, could not ceived, lay on her mind, and oppressed her yet retire from the field. as she went home to Grange Lane.

," said

"It is all very well to talk just now," the gentle woman at last, retiring upon that potent feminine argument, "but Nettie, think! If you were to marry-"

Miss Wodehouse paused, appalled by the image she herself had conjured up.

"Marrying is really a dreadful business, anyhow," she added with a sigh; "so few people, you know, can, when they might. There is poor Mr. Wentworth, who brought me here first; unless he gets preferment, poor fellow. And there is Dr. Rider. Things are very much changed from what they used to be in my young days."

As for Nettie herself, she took her work and her children indoors after awhile, and tried on the new frock, and scolded and rehabilitated the muddy hero of the brook. Then, with those light, fairy motions of hers, she spread the homely table for tea, called in Susan, sought Fred in his room up-stairs with a stinging word which penetrated even his callous mind, and made him for the moment ashamed of himself. Nettie bit her red lip till it grew white and bloodless as she turned from Fred's door. It was not hard to work for the children-to support and domineer over Susan; but it was hard Is Dr. Rider in the same dilemma? I for such an alert uncompromising little soul suppose, of course, you mean Dr. Edward," to tolerate that useless hulk-that heavy cried Nettie, with a little flash of mischiev- encumbrance of a man, for whom hope and ous curiosity. "Why? He has nobody but himself. I should like to know why he can't marry—that is, if anybody would have him-when he pleases. Tell me; you know he is my brother-in-law."

Miss Wodehouse had been thinking of Bessie Christian. She paused, partly for Dr. Rider's sake, partly because it was quite contrary to decorum, to suppose that Bessie, now Mrs. Brown, might possibly a year ago have married somebody else. She faltered a little in her answer. "A professional man never marries till he has a position," said Miss Wodehouse, abstractedly. Nettie lifted up her eyes that danced with mischief and glee. "A profession is as bad as a family, then," said the little Australian. "I shall remember that next time you speak to me on this subject. I am glad to think Dr. Edward, with all his prudence, is disabled too."

When Nettie had made this unguarded speech, she blushed; and suddenly in a threatening and defiant manner, raised her eyes again to Miss Wodehouse's face. Why? Miss Wodehouse did not understand the look, nor put any significance into the words. She rose up from the grass, and said it was time for her to go. She went away, pondering in her own mind those singular new experiences of hers. She had never been called upon to do any thing particular all her gentle life. Another fashion of woman might have found a call to action in the management of her father's house, or the education of her motherless young sister. But Miss Wodehouse had contented herself with loving Lucy-had suffered her to grow up very much as she would, without interference had never taken a decided part in her life. When any thing had to be done,

life were dead. She bit her lip as she discharged her sharp, stinging arrow at him through the half-opened door, and then went down singing, to take her place at the table which her own hands had spread-which her own purse supplied with bread. Nobody there showed the least consciousness of that latter fact; nobody fancied it was any thing but natural to rely upon Nettie. The strange household demeaned itself exactly as if things were going on in the most regular and ordinary course. No wonder that spectators outside looked on with a wonder that could scarcely find expression; and, half exasperated, half admiring, watched the astonishing life of the colonial girl.

Nobody watched it with half the amount of exasperation which concentrated in the bosom of Dr. Rider. He gazed and noted and observed every thing with a secret rage, indignation, and incredulity impossible to describe. He could not believe it even when it went on before his very eyes. Doctor though he was, and scientific, to a certain extent, Edward Rider would have believed in witchcraft-in some philtre or potion acting upon her mind, rather than in Nettie's voluntary folly. Was it folly? was it heroism? was it simple necessity, as she herself called it? Nobody could answer that question. The matter was as incomprehensible to Miss Wodehouse as to Dr. Rider, but not of such engrossing interest. Bessie Christian, after all, grew tame in the Saxon composure of her beauty before this brown, sparkling, selfwilled, imperious creature. To see her among her self-imposed domestic duties filled the doctor with a smouldering wrath against all surrounding her, which any momentary spark might set aflame.

THE REPUBLIC.

"The temple crumbles, and the pillars fall! The altar passes, and the worship dies!

"The great Republic is no more."-London Times. The millions gather as they bear the pall,

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And Freedom seeks her refuge in the skies.

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"To arms! to arms!" they cry;
"Defend that flag, or die!
"To arms!" amid their tears;
"To arms! as in the years

When heroes saw the field of battle nigh;
"To arms!" replied the hills;

"To arms!" the mountains grand;
"To arms, let him who wills!
Swept o'er the freeman's land;

It leaped from hill to hill,

It shook the mountain crag,
For love's electric thrill

Still kept the starry flag; "To arms!" replied the plains, The hot blood throbbing through the veins, For millions rallied with the vow, "We strike for Freedom surely now; In Heaven's great name the damning wrong shall bow!"

From the steep mountain side,
From the deep flowing tide,
From the green prairies wide,
"Forward!" they cry;
From the far eastern hills,
From the pure flowing rills,
From the great busy mills,

"Onward for aye!"
From the forge, old and grim,
From the mine, dark and dim,
Swelled the bold hero-hymn,

"Onward or die!"

And to their arms they sprung,
Freedom on every tongue,
True to the songs they sung,
Filling the sky:

"Arm, brothers, arm! for the foe is before us,
Filled with deep hate to the Union we love :
Onward we press, with the loud-swelling chorus
Shaking the earth, and the heaven above.
CHORUS-Arm, brothers arm!

For the strife be ye ready!
With an eye ever steady!
Arm, brothers, arm!

"On, brothers, on! For they haste to the battle!

The treason is theirs, whom we trusted so long;

For Freedom we fight, and not a mere chattel; The Union and Peace-the Right over Wrong. CHORUS-Arm, brothers, arm!

"Haste, brothers, haste! for the moments are flying!

An hour now lost may undo all the past! And millions of mourners now burdened are sighing,

And, terror-struck, bow in the force of the

blast!

CHORUS-Arm, brothers, arm!

"Come, brothers, come! It is time for the starting!

We pray on the field! At the altar they pray Who mourn for our loss-nor wait for the parting

Our children shall bless us for valor to-day! CHORUS-Arm, brothers, arm!

"Swear, brothers, swear! For the Union forever!

Resting not now till each traitor is riven! God for our land, and of freedom the giver, Onward we haste in the sunshine of heaven." CHORUS-Arm, brothers, arm!

"She lives!" the freeman cried;
"She lives! my heart replied;
"She lives!" rolled o'er the plain,
And thrilled the waking land,
That caught it back again

From mountains old and grand;
And starry banners waved

From peak, and dome, and spire,
The flag of love and peace,
And glory's quenchless fire.

O toiling millions on the Old World's shore! Look up, rejoicing, for she is not dead! The soul is living as it lived before,

When sainted heroes spurned the tyrant's tread;

The strife is earnest, and the day wears on,
And ages tremble at the mighty blow-
Beyond the conflict is a glorious dawn,

A rapturous birth of Freedom out of woe;
The clouds may gather, and the storm be long,
And lightnings leap across the darkened sky,
But Freedom lives to triumph over wrong-
It still will live, for Truth shall never die!

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POETRY.-Civile Bellum, 338. Not Yet, 338. Doubting Heart, 338. Autumn, 364. The Deserted, 364.

SHORT ARTICLES.-Her Majesty's Crown, 352. An American Examination of Essays and Reviews, 360. The Tools Great Men Work With, 384. Rev. J. W. Cunningham, Vicar of Harrow, 384.

NEW BOOKS.

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1

CIVILE BELLUM.

"In this fearful struggle between North and South, there are hundreds of cases in which fathers are arrayed against sons, brothers against brothers.-American Paper.

"RIFLEMAN, shoot me a fancy shot

See, in the west, the sun grows broad and red;
His golden glory rests upon thy brow,

And makes a halo round thy down-bent head,
And glimmers o'er thy soft dark locks that
flow

In waves of light above, in waves of shade below.

Straight at the heart of yon prowling vidette, That setting sun will rise again in might, Ring me a ball in the glittering spot

That shines on his breast like an amulet!

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Will dry the tears the sorrowing night hath
shed;

Will wake the world to gladness and to light,
What sun, the summer of the heart once fled,
Can brighten into spring its winter, cold and
dead?

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"But, hark! the far bugles their warnings The sun has hid its rays

unite;

War is a virtue-weakness a sin:

There's lurking and loping around us to-night;
Load again, Rifleman, keep your hand in!"
-Once a Week.

NOT YET.

Not yet, not yet. Ah! let me gaze once more
Into those eyes, those earnest truthful eyes,
A little while, and then my dream is o'er;
And I, a wanderer under alien skies,
Shall see thy face no more, nor hear thy low
replies.

These many days:

Will dreary hours never leave the earth?
O doubting heart!

The stormy clouds on high
Veil the same sunny sky

That soon (for spring is nigh)

Shall wake the summer into golden mirth.

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