When he went down stairs he found supper prepared, and Pauline and their daughter waiting for him. He sat down in silence, seeking to avoid the questioning eyes which turned toward him so expectant and so hopeful. Discerning his mood, neither wife nor daughter troubled him with questions; at last, of himself, he broke out vehemently,-- "I wouldn't for the world have lost the chance! Laval wasn't the man to take care of that gentleman. But he don't say a word against Laval, mind you. He spoke about the flowers and the music. Oh, hang it!" Here, in spite of himself, the Drummer was wholly overcome. He bowed his head to the table and broke into violent weeping. Another barrier gave way beside. Elizabeth flew to him. He seemed not to heed her, nor the sudden cry, "Oh, father!" that escaped her. She sat down by his side,--she wept as he was weeping. It was a stormy emotion that raged through her heart, when her tears burst forth. She was not weeping for pity merely, nor because her father wept. Long before he lifted his head, she was erect, and quiet, and hopeful,--but a child no more. She was a woman to love, a woman to dare,--fit and ready for the guiding of an angel. By-and-by Adolphus said to Pauline,--"If any one else had undertaken this job in our place, we should have deserved to be shut out of heaven for it. Thinking twice about it! I'm ashamed of myself. Why,--why,--he looks like a ghost. But he won't look that way long! We aren't here to browbeat a man, and kill him by inches, I take it." "No, indeed!" said Pauline, as if the bare idea filled her with indignation. The three were surely one now. [To be continued.] * * * * * WALDEINSAMKEIT. I do not count the hours I spend In wandering by the sea; The forest is my loyal friend, Like God it useth me. In plains that room for shadows make Of skirting hills to lie, Bound in by streams which give and take Their colors from the sky, Or on the mountain-crest sublime, Or down the oaken glade, Oh, what have I to do with time? For this the day was made. Cities of mortals woebegone Fantastic care derides, But in the serious landscape lone Stern benefit abides. Sheen will tarnish, honey cloy, And merry is only a mask of sad; But sober on a fund of joy The woods at heart are glad. There the great Planter plants Of fruitful worlds the grain, And with a million spells enchants The souls that walk in pain. Still on the seeds of all he made The rose of beauty burns; Through times that wear, and forms that fade, Immortal youth returns. The black ducks mounting from the lake, The pigeon in the pines, The bittern's boom, a desert make Which no false art refines. Down in yon watery nook, Where bearded mists divide, The gray old gods that Chaos knew, The sires of Nature, hide.