In the middle of Peter's croaking of "Poor Yarico," to show her how Catalani sang it on the London boards, she jumped up and went to the window. People were coming home from prayer-meeting, husbands and wives together. "I suppose every woman must marry, father?" she said. Peter looked doubtfully at her over his spectacles, opened his mouth and shut it once or twice. "I judge that is the highest lot for a woman," he said slowly, "to be the wife of a good man." "A good man? Oh yes, good enough!" and with that she flung herself down on the floor, and, putting her head on Peter's knee, cried as if her heart would break. For Kitty was never in the habit of carrying her pain off into solitary places: when she cried it must be with her head on somebody's knee. * * * * * This chapter of Catharine's history every wide-awake young woman among our readers has doubtless finished for herself: she knows the closing-in process by which society, expediency, propinquity, even moral obligations, hedge many a man and woman and drive them into marriage. In the weeks that followed she saw but one path open to her: in it lay her work for Christ and her woman's birthright to be a wife and mother (for Kitty, ever since she was a baby nursing dolls, had meant to be both). She spent most of her time shut up with her Bible and hymn-book, sometimes praying over them, sometimes sticking in her forefinger and opening at chance verses to try her fortune about this affair. During this time she was usually unnaturally humble and meek, but there were days when her temper was intolerable. "Don't come complaining to me," said Peter testily to her mother. "The child's a good child enough. But when you force her to stretch her heart over three hundred vicious little imps, no wonder it breaks." "Kitty's a free agent," she replied calmly. Kitty was a free agent, and at the end of two weeks she accepted Mr. Muller. REBECCA HARDING DAVIS. [TO BE CONTINUED.] THE GLACIERS OF PARADISE. Spring is waking, and the Yokul lifts on high his glittering shield, Far and wide in sunny splendor gleams the ice-engirded field, And the swelling freshet murmurs gay spring-ditties as it flows, Till its noisy life it mingles in the ocean's grand repose; And in silence, Dream-fraught silence, O'er its course the billows close. On the strand they gayly played, where the trembling birch trees grow, Children both with golden ringlets and with cheeks like maiden snow, Wherein blushed fresh spring-like roses--blushed and hid, and blushed again, While they plucked the shining pebbles, smooth-worn by the stormy main; And in silence, Rippling silence, Chants the sea its old refrain.