"She acted for the best, and all's well that ends well," replied the colonel. "Look at my dream, now. If I had not gone to my wife's help and shot that tiger I should never have seen her again. No, no, as I said before, you can't expect these warnings to be printed out in big type. You must just take them as they come, and chance your reading them aright." "And come within an ace of drowning yourself, or some one else," interjected Jones. "It only bears out the old saying that 'Dreams go by contraries,'" I remarked. "Still, these are a very remarkable pair of coincidences." "Here's my view," said Sir Alan. "Eat light suppers, go to bed healthily tired, and you won't dream at all; or, if you must, forget all about it as soon as possible. You can torture a warning out of almost anything, and make yourself wretched trying to find out where the hidden danger is, and very likely rush right into it, as Everton did, trying to avoid it. Half the time dreams do go by contraries, and it's dangerous meddling with what we don't understand." And by the time the spirit case had completed its next round, we all agreed with Sir Alan. THE TABLES TURNED. BY WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. Up! up, my friend! and quit your books, Or surely you'll grow double; Up! up, my friend! and clear your looks; Why all this toil and trouble? The sun, above the mountain's head, A freshening lustre mellow Through all the long, green fields has spread, His first sweet evening yellow. Books! 'tis a dull and endless strife; Come, hear the woodland linnet-- How sweet his music! on my life, There's more of wisdom in it! And hark! how blithe the throstle sings! He, too, is no mean preacher; Come forth into the light of things-- Let Nature be your teacher. She has a world of ready wealth, Our minds and hearts to bless; Spontaneous wisdom breathed by health, Truth breathed by cheerfulness. One impulse from a vernal wood May teach you more of man, Of moral evil and of good, Than all the sages can. Sweet is the lore which Nature brings; Our meddling intellect Misshapes the beauteous forms of things-- We murder to dissect. Enough of Science and of Art; Close up those barren leaves; Come forth, and bring with you a heart That watches and receives. PASTEUR AT HOME. WITH AN ACCOUNT OF THE WORK DONE AT THE PASTEUR INSTITUTE IN PARIS. BY IDA M. TARBELL.