But sorest of all bestead Was a night in my narrow cell, As I pondered with low-bowed head A purpose that pleased me well. 'Twas fond to the sense and fair, Attuned to the heart and will, And yet on its face it bare The look of a duty still; And I said, as my doubts took wing, "Where duty and choice accord, It is even a pleasant thing, _To the flesh_, to serve the Lord." I turned and I saw a sight Wondrous and strange to see-- A being as marvelous bright As the visions of angels be: His vesture was wrought of flame, And a crown on his forehead shone, With jewels of nameless name, Like the glory about the Throne. "Worship thou me," he said; And I sought, as I sank, to trace, Through his hands above me spread, The lineaments of his face. I pored on each palm to see The scar of the _stigma_, where They had fastened him to the Tree, But no print of the nails was there. Then I shuddered, aghast of brow, As I cried, "Accurst! abhorred! Get thee behind me! for thou Art Satan, and not my Lord!" He vanished before the spell Of the Sacred Name I named, And I lay in my darkened cell Smitten, astonied, shamed. Thenceforth, whatever the dress That a seeming duty wear, I knew 'twas a wile, _unless The print of the nail was there_! MARGARET J. PRESTON. THE LONG FELLOW OF TI. Colman put down his book and looked about the parlors and piazzas of the hotel, and went and spoke to the barkeeper: "Have you seen Mr. Field lately?" "No: he hasn't been in here since supper." Colman went out and walked down toward the head of the lake. Passing out of the shadow of the trees, the open shore was before him, and the wharf at some distance, with the tiny steamer, the Wanita, lying by it in the moonlight. There was some one coming along the sandy road, and Colman leaned against a tree and waited for him. The dark side of the boat was toward him, and though it was quite late, a light showed in one of her windows. When the person on the beach came near Colman, he turned and stood watching the light till it went out, and then came on. Colman stepped out, and the comer said, "Halloa, Phil! is that you? You startled me. Going in?" Philip only nodded, and they walked back to the house together, Field whistling absently. They went up to their room, and Field sat by the window while Colman struck a light. "Dan," said Philip abruptly, "I want you to come on with me to-morrow." Field was looking out through the trees toward the wharf and boats at the head of the lake. He turned sharply and answered: "Phil, you're a prig. I'll do nothing of the kind." "We've been here long enough, Dan," Philip went on, taking no notice of the rudeness except in his manner. "I shall go north in the morning. I wish you would come with me."