“Blessed be the name of the Lord. This lesson was also revealed unto me. Had thee not felt called upon to warn me against such temptation, I should have dwelt upon it to thee at the first opportunity, but our Heavenly Father hath spared me the trial.” A QUAKER WEDDING. A renowned foreigner characterized Philadelphia as a “city of magnificent sameness.” Possibly this is true of the older portions of the town, and surely there is little in the exterior of the compactly built houses on upper Arch Street to distinguish the dwelling of the Twelfth Street Friend from that of a more worldly citizen. On a certain morning in October, the same atmosphere of seclusion surrounded the whole block between Sixteenth and Seventeenth streets. No possible hint came forth from No. -- that within its red brick walls, outlined with the cold precision of white marble sills and doorsteps and guarded by heavy shutters, there was about to be consummated a tender little drama. The narrow door, with its painted icy glare and glistening knob, opened at short intervals to admit tall figures in long coats, cut with straight collars, and beaver hats in gray or black, whose broad brims shadowed smooth-shaven, manly faces. Trim little maidens too, and their quaint feminine relatives, waited demurely on the spotless step, for the opening touch of a dark-skinned hand within. It rarely happened that a newcomer entered without a pleasant greeting to the elderly colored woman: “How is thee to-day, Hannah?” or, “I am glad to find thee has conquered thy rheumatism”; which brought a low-voiced answer: “Thank thee; will thee go up to the second story, or can I send thy bonnet?” This to the elder women, while the sweet young damsels, in a happy subdued flutter, have turned to the guest chamber to smooth their silken raiment, or possibly to venture so far toward personal adornment as the fastening of a few white buds over the dainty corsage. There was a little murmur of soft voices: the expression of joy that Cassy and George had been blessed with such a beautiful wedding day; the hope that Mary Anna Landers would be able to reach there in time for the ceremony. “She always speaks so acceptably to the young.” One told of a certain aged Friend in deep affliction and the message that she bore from the dying bed to the gentle bride whose helpful hands had so often soothed the pain away. And thus, in groups, the guests descended to the parlor, the straight long room where a strong light from tall windows in front and rear was modified by means of drab Venetian blinds. Between these windows hung, on one hand, a modest engraving of William Penn, and upon the opposite wall that of Elizabeth Fry. Both were framed in dark-colored wood, and the benign expression of the gifted man, and the wealth of dignity in the face of the celebrated philanthropist charmed in spite of their austere surroundings. Upon a marble mantel, under a glass shade,