BT ANNA SIIIELDS. In speuking of her nie...

BT ANNA SIIIELDS. In speuking of her niece, Mis Lolltia Anstriither was accustoined to pi linlively cali her "the trial ot my life," and for once, the expression was a simple truth, (levoid of exaggeratlon. Alrittiu Aiistrutht-r certainly was a trial. ■You know, my dear,' Miss Anstruther would say to one intini ite frlend or auotlier, "iny hrotlier Jolm want to Texas twenty years ago. Don't ask me who hls wife was! I don't know. I never saw her. I never heard her name until John died, and aomebody sent liia child to me, with her baptistmal record, John's marriage certifícate and the lawyer'a letters, telling me 8he will have about a hundred and fifty thou-and dollars when she is tweutyone. Jolin made his money upon a stockfarm, and, afu-r his wife died, appetirs to nuve lived alone with Matllda, on the place - 'ranch,' she calis it. Slie was slxteen when she carne here, aud sbe was a perfect savage; a savagr, my dear, and is very little better novv." And a savage the girl appeared to her neat, prim aunt, who nearly went into convulsiona over a crooked table-cloth, and looked upon a knowledge of housekeeping and needle-work as the climax of womanly education. Jiliss Anstruther' ■ house was small, a cottage set in au exact square of prim garden, but every room was the perfection of order and cleanliness, and a small income was economizad and nursed to give a inargiti for Berilo woola and tidy cotton wherewith n the leisure hours left by household care, theold muid manufactured wonderful articles for the ornamentiition (or ollierwise) of her parlor and guest-room. Into tbis dómalo there had been thrast a lank, tall gir] of' sixteen, in suabby tnourning, grieving violently for the losa ofheronly frieud, har ftther. A girl who wore thick-solcd boots which she never wiped upn the door-mat, whosc profusión of hair was gathered into a net loosely, "anyhow," as lier aunt remarked, who had never ownod a collar or a pair of cuft's, nor had ever peen a carpet. And yet, a girl who could read Homer and Virgil in the original, wns ncquainted with Shakespeare, Milton and Chaucer as familiar friends, could solve geometricul probleins and make the churcli organ speak, but never lnd fashionecl agarment or knotted Berliu wool. And she soemed uttei ly untumable. In vain Mips Anstruther scolded and groanod, in vain grew p.ithetic and tearful. Miitlie would "ütter up" her neat rooms with growlng fern, biids' nests, leave, fl werí, stones; would have "John's horrld books" piled in her own bedroom on shelvcs, tables or even the 11 mi; wouKl iiot loai-u to stir puddings or hem towels, and d irtp.l nbout like au elf, reiT'irdleís of fu in i tor e or decorum. Now she was llngtag in a glorious contrnlto the wi'dost of glees, now sobblog convulsively over some scrap of paper rolded avvay by her futher's hand newly discovered by the girl in her desultory readlng. She would sit on the beat sofaa wich her feet tucked under her, and wear the ampie handtome wardrobe Mis3 Anstruther onlered out of her liberal allowance, witü utter disregard of the propertles - wrappera in the evening and evenIng dres;sat breakfast, "just as it lnippened." In the first two years of her life at Uoncester, it would have been hard to say which was more miserable in the llttle cottage, the prim nuidan lady or the wayward neice. She was seated under the shaile of a wlllow, one June afternoon, looking tnoodily into the water of a little hrook at her her feet, while the Revemnd Albert Mayhew finiahed a little lecune Miss Anstruther had asked him to deliver. He was a tall, near-sighted, bishful man of over thirty appearing still older from a habitual stoop and a quiet reserve of minner. It had uot been a ploasant taek to him to obey Miss Antrutlier's request ; but, meeting M ittie in an aflernoon stroll, he liad conwlenttously done his duty. "But," she answeied him, "I cin't. I can't stay in the hou3e day alter day, slitching and cooking. Aunt Letty has a servant and works harder tlian Jane does. But it killE me it siiftocutes me. She can't talk of aiiythiug hut scrap bay and tidies. Oh, you do uot understaud!" "Understand what, my child!" "The difference between thia life and my real life. We were alone papa and I, though there were servanta indoors and out, but no other house for fourteen miles. Sometimes Mr. Parker, my guardián, carne over from Brownsville, but not often. ünly papa and I, year in, year out. In the morning, we rode over the countrv to see about the stock, vi-ited tlie cabins where the grnz'ers lived, and were out till it jrrew hot, and tlien we went home to rest tlll t grew cool. And we read and studled and tulked, or we )la}Ted upon the organ papa had built in the" house. We wanted no one else. Sometimes. we read Greek or Latln; sometiines we we recited whole plays. We did not care what we ate or what we wore, so we were fed and comfortable. Oh, papa! papa!" and soba shook the slendcr frame, as Mattio rocked to and fro, convulíed with grief. "But now, Mattie!'1 said Mr. Mayhew, very gently, "you are a vvonian with a woman's duties before you! Can you not try to understand that the wild, free life is unauited to your present positionf' She llstened, that was one gain, while he talked gravely but tenderly, pointinji out to her the pain it would have caused her fatber to know lier discoatented, rebellious and wayward. SomeUilng in the quiet voice seemed to aoo'he the girl's heart, and after the sunset clouds were tinged with the last rays of the dyuíg day she rose up saying very slowly: "I will try to be more womanly, I will try I" Miss Letitia was grimly astotiishet), but not very hopeful, when Mattie appeared at breakfasl with her huir ghinlDjt llke siitin in glossy braids, her collar pinned evenly, her feet neatly dressed In in kiel slippers, and sat erect but eilent, actually eatiug like a lady, not dasliiui; through her breakfast as a necessary evil. Her wonder increased when after the meal was over, Mattie deiuurely followed her from room to room, awkwardly, but wllllngly assistiug in the dusting and cooklng, with a nervous little apology for faults, to the tffeut that she would try to iniprove if her auut would instruct lier. It was like chuining a chamois goat to a plow, and M ittie's cheeks grew thin, her eyes dull as she plodded on, day after day, consclentiously doing her duty, as directed. Only one pleasure remalned. Every afternoon she went across the ryc Heldl to the little country church and spent two or three hours at the organ, reveling In muaic, workingofl'someof the crushed vitality of heart and brain in the fingerwnrk tliat earried out lier Improviaition. It became the subsitute for home, father, friemlg and - no, not for love; for often nto the church would steal the ligureof Albert Mayliew, aiul Maltie would hear a few woids of commendation thnt wero her rewards for this supprcased, cramped Ufe tliat was killing her. She loved him, after a blind, unreasoninjr faahion she cunipreliended m little as he dld. He talkcd of ber books aa lier father had often talked; he loved music, and would pniise her wondrous genius underatandingly; and he was her mentor and guide to Christian faitli and hope that werc revelations truly to her atarvinj: soul. Even her father had never wakened Christian truth In Mattie's mind, but Albert Mayliew founded his life and teachings upon tlial rock. Summer sped away, and in the early fall a friend with great news called to see Miss Anstruther. "II ive you lieard of Mr. Mayhew's fortune?" she asked, and Mattie's tangled wools dropped In her lap as she listened. "No; what is it?" Misa Anstruther asked. "He's come into money - i lot, they say - and he's goiug to be married. There's men to the ptirsouage now measuring for carpeta and new furniture." ''You don't aay say so?" And they talked and tiilked, while Mattie stole away, unheeding the destructlon of an elabórate piece of canvas work she dragged after her over the grnss and gravel. Mecbanically she went to the church, but not into the organ loft for in the cemetery she met Albert Mayliew. His heud was more erect, hls eyes brighter than she had ever seen them, but he came to meet her swifily. "la it true?" sbe asked, piteously, knowing no maidenly wile to hide her stricken heart. "That I am lo-'lay than I was yeatordaj' ?' he asked. "That is true." "Yes, I heard that - and - you are living the house - ''. but her lips were parched and sbe stopped. "I am making the house more comfortable, or rather Margaret, my housekeeper is. She lias been ao long lamenting over faded curtains and rajíged carpeta, that I could not resist givine her the intense happiness of reneving"them.v "You look happy, too!" Mattie said; wonderiug a little that the min she had placed upon a level with the apostles should care so much for mere mouey. "Shall I teil you why f" he asked.drawing her hand upon his arm, and so leading her out of the city of the dead, down the path to the willovv and brook, her favorlte resting-place. "I have trled to hide my secret from you," he aaid, "but now I am free to Bfieak, T love, and I was boand In honor to be silent, because the roman I love will be rich, and I was very, vfiy poor." Poor Mattie bent her head away from the tender eyes seeking to scun her face. She pictured a stately, beaatifal woman, accomplished and gnceful, sume quecu of society Albert had met ; and loved before he to Doncester. H; had told her often of hls life in New York, a beau in society before he took tip the Lord'a work, of tlie Midden los of his farher's property, and his owii strugle to decide between contimüng his chosen work, or learning soms money-winning art. Somewhere In that past was this rich, beautiful woman he was now free to woo and win. Ah, surely he would win her, little Mattie thought, nervously plucking at 8ome autumn leaves upon the ground beide her. "I never thoujht to have tliis money," ontinued Mr. Mayliew," for my unele angry beoiUM I would not leave the pulpit and learn his business. But he has left it to me, and I can de good with it; oiily I want a tender, faithful woman's help in my life-work. I want- ih, Mattie, I want a home; some one to love me, to welcomt' me there; snne one who will let me bring ber happincss, will let mc shield her from all liarm, will make my life perfect." 'Yes," Mattie Mld, woudering whera lier voice hai gone, "you will make her very happy." 'lJ)o you think ao, Mattie?" "Why," sho sald, simply as a child, "she must be happy with your love." "Tlien will she now come into my heart, into my life. Mattie, do you love me? Can you give me love for love, be my wife, my other self ? Will not the quiet parsonage be a prison to you, little wild bird ?" "Tome? You love me?" alie gasped. "With all my heart." "But you said ahe- '' and juát tben.not belore, Mattie remembered that she would be rich. In her humility, the money had never croased her mind, and she shuddered as she tboiight it raight have been a bar to this perfect, cloudlesa happiness. She scarcely knew what she aaid, but it 8atisfied her grave lover, and they went home in the gloaming to astonish Misa Anstruther. It was a nine-day wonder at Donceater how Mr. Mayhew ever carne to prefer that "hanuu-scarum girl " to the ateady, gentle missea of his congregation, but in the parsonage there is no regret, and the minister doea not flnd wife or married life a burden, thougb Misa Lettie ,-till talks of Mattie as a dreadful trial.