"Oh, I appreciate your tender susceptibilities. Please consider me as asking the question again in the most engaging manner." His new wig was becoming uncomfortable, and he fidgeted in his chair, twirling the luckless blossom. "Why, Mrs. Kinloch, the long regard I entertained for your late lamented husband,--ah, I mean my regard for you,--ah, my lonely domicil,--ah, since the decease of my--my sainted wife,--ah, and since the Scripture says it is not good for man to live alone,--ah, your charming qualities and many virtues,--not that your fortune,--ah,--I mean to say, that, though not rich, I am not grasping,--and the cottage where you lived would be a palace,--ah, for me, if not unworthy,--ah, no desire to unduly shorten the period of mourning,--ah, but life is short and uncertain"---- There was a dead silence. His mouth was vainly working, and his expression confused and despairing. The flower had wilted in his moist hand. Little streams of perspiration trickled down his face, to be mopped up by his bandanna. Such was the ordeal of talking hollow sentiment to a cool and self-possessed woman. She enjoyed the exhibition for a time,--as what woman would not? But the waves of her trouble rushed back upon her, and the spirit of mischief and coquetry was overwhelmed. So she answered,-- "You are pleased to be polite,--perhaps gallant. You must excuse me from taking part in such conversation to-day, however little is meant by it,--and the less meant the better,--I am not well." She rose feebly, and walked towards the door with as much dignity as her trembling frame could assume. He was abashed; his fine speeches jumbled in meaningless fragments, his airy castle ready to topple on his unlucky head. He would have been glad to rebuke her fickle humor, as he thought it; but he knew he had made a fool of himself, so he merely said,-- "No offence, I hope, Ma'am; none meant, certainly. Wish you good-afternoon, Ma'am. Call and see you again some day, and hope to find you better." _Would_ he find her better? While the mystery remained, while the ruin of her hopes impended, what could restore to her the cheerfulness, the courage, the self-command she had lost? [To be continued.] "BRINGING OUR SHEAVES WITH US." The time for toil is past, and night has come,-- The last and saddest of the harvest-eves; Worn out with labor long and wearisome, Drooping and faint, the reapers hasten home, Each laden with his sheaves. Last of the laborers thy feet I gain, Lord of the harvest! and my spirit grieves That I am burdened not so much with grain As with a heaviness of heart and brain;-- Master, behold my sheaves! Few, light, and worthless,--yet their trifling weight Through all my frame a weary aching leaves; For long I struggled with my hapless fate, And staid and toiled till it was dark and late,-- Yet these are all my sheaves.