No use trying to silence Nature's voice in the breast of the young. It may speak little and shyly. The fair cheek may flush and the head be bent, but thought will be the busier for the very reticence of the tongue. And we old folk, what can we do? If we have nothing but sweet memories of pure joys that were ours in the far-away past, let us at least thank God for these, and give our sympathy to the young. Will not those who have walked in love towards God and each other whilst on earth, look forward to a reunion which shall last whilst eternity endures, with the dear one who has gone before for a little while? Tell us what kind of life is looked upon as the hardest. Not one of poverty, labour, difficulty, or even of affliction. Poverty and labour are lightened, difficulties smoothed, trials more easily borne with love for a companion. Suffering is almost forgotten when the tender voice of sympathy is heard and the pillow smoothed by affection's hands. Unrest is easier to endure when kind eyes watch beside the sleepless, and become moist with tears because the power to aid falls so far short of the will. The loveless life is the only really hard life. He who is all Love has shown us that with it we feel rich, but having all beside, we are poor without it. If parents could but see this, they would realise that they are exercising one of the most delightful of their privileges when sympathising with their children. They live again the days of their own pure young love, in the happiness of their girls and boys. Once an excellent lady, who was neither wife nor mother, said, "If I could have my way, I would keep every word relating to love out of books and stories for girls." Ah, dear lady! Then you must take many a passage out of the "Book of books," and begin the excision with the very words of the Creator, "It is not good for man to be alone." But having indulged in this little introductory preach, I will begin my story. Mrs. Manning was perplexed. A glance at her comely face was sufficient to show this, for it usually wore such a different expression from the half-puzzled, half-troubled look which now overspread it. Surely worldly matters could not cause the perplexity, for everything around her indicated a fair measure of prosperity, from the handsomely furnished room in which she sat and pondered, to the dainty lace which dropped so softly over her well-shaped wrists. Mrs. Manning was abundantly satisfied with and thankful for her present position, though during her fifty years of life she had experienced many trials. Early married, and almost perfectly mated, her first great sorrow came when her husband's death left her a widow, and with five children to care for and start in life. No light charge for a woman to whom anxiety had hitherto been a stranger. Still, she thought that having experienced such a trial and lived through it, no other blow could inflict a wound worth thinking of; but she had to learn a still harder lesson.