gentle admonitions of these so dear to her, and before it was finished the little buzz of friendly interest had wreathed the placid face in smiles, and dried the tears that were almost too ready to start to the eyes of the tender mother. No one was forgotten; even the faithful Hannah and the Cassius of long service added their irregular strokes to the certificate, and Cassy caught up on her arm the three-year-old guest, and guided his playful fingers over the smooth page. There was a quiet intimation that a collation was spread in an adjoining apartment, and the thrifty folk, who scorn the embellishments but not the substantials of life, did ample justice to the bounteous repast, daintily served from the finest of linen, the clearest of glasses, and the frailest of china. There was no spoken word of thanksgiving, only a pause wherein their hearts might acknowledge the mercies of the Giver of all Good. There was no haste, no indecorous indulgence in the temptations of the table, but a cheerful, happy tone pervaded the company who regarded marriage not as the absorption of one life by another, but as a true union of strong souls for the furtherance of God’s holy purpose. As each guest departed, he or she was freighted with a package of wedding cake for some friend or servant: “Maria, will thee kindly give this to Eldridge Percy? We all feel to regret his absence, and trust that he may be spared to meet with us once again.” “Philip, thee knows how dear our Cassy was to Hagar the summer we spent at your home: thee will not mind carrying her a bit of cake?” And when at length the hour of parting came, there was no long line of merrymakers to hurl slippers and showers of rice after the retreating carriage, but there were last words spoken that dwelt in the hearts of the earnest young husband and wife, and the injunction of the father was a simple admonition to “search ever for the light that is revealed in the soul”; and the loving children heard his brave voice reply to the neighbor that regretted the distance that must henceforth separate them: “I can safely trust my son and daughter in the hands of the Lord, wheresoever he may lead them.” TWO GENTLEWOMEN. The square brick house with many windows, in the little village of W., was called the “Mountain Place,” both from the name of one of its occupants, and also from its situation, which was the most conspicuous point in town. The owner was a rich manufacturer, who had for many years placed it at the disposal of his two widowed sisters less prosperous, financially, than himself. Mrs. Letitia Mountain’s family lived on the lower floor in a commodious suite of “apartments,” hardly known as such in that day, when any respectable person was supposed to occupy, or furnish, an entire dwelling, but the idiosyncracy was in this case excused on ground of a peculiar attachment existing between the sisters.