And here let me relate a strange thing--so unexpected that Max and I shall always feel it as a special blessing from heaven to crown all our pain and send us forth on our new life in peace and joy. When in the service came the question:--"Who giveth this woman, &c"--there was no answer, and the silence went like a stab to my heart. The minister, thinking there was some mistake, repeated it again:--"Who giveth this woman to be married to this man?" "I do." It was not a stranger's voice, but my dear father's. ***** My husband had asked me where I should best like to go for our marriage journey. I said, to St. Andrews. Max grew much better there. He seemed better from the very hour, when, papa having remained with us till our train started, we were for the first time left alone by our two selves. An expression ungrammatical enough to be quite worthy, Max would say, of his little lady, but people who are married will understand what it means.--We did, I think, as we sat still, my head on his shoulder and my hand between both his, watching the fields, trees, hills, and dales, fly past like changing shadows; never talking at all, nor thinking much, except--the glad thought came in spite of all the bitterness of of these good-byes--that there was one goodbye which never need be said again. We were married. I was delighted with St. Andrews. We shall always talk of our four days there, so dream-like at the time, yet afterwards become clear in remembrance down to the minutest particulars. The sweetness of them will last us through many a working hour, many an hour of care--such as we know must come, in ours as in all human lives. We are not afraid: we are together. Our last day in St. Andrews was Sunday, and Max took me to his own Presbyterian church, in which he and his brother were brought up, and of which Dallas was to have been a minister. From his many wanderings it so happened that my husband had not heard the Scotch service for many years, and he was much affected by it. I too--when, reading together the psalms at the end of his Bible, he shewed me, silently, the name written in it--Dallas Urquhart.. The psalm--I shall long remember it, with the tune it was sung to--which was strange to me, but Max knew it well of old, and it had been a particular favourite with Dallas. Surely if spirit, freed from flesh, be everywhere, or, if permitted, can go anywhere that it desires,--not very far from us two, as we sat singing that Sunday, must have been our brother Dallas.= ```"How lovely is thy dwelling place ````O Lord of hosts, to me!-- ```The tabernacles of thy grace ````How pleasant, Lord, they be! ```My thirsty soul longs vehemently ````Yea, faints, thy courts to see: ```My very heart and flesh cry out ````O living God, for thee.. . . ```Blest are they, in thy house who dwell, ````Who ever give thee praise; ```Blest is the man whose strength thou art ````In whose heart are thy ways: ```Who, passing thorough Baca's vale,