"Whew-w-w." said Easelmann. "Found her? Then she's eloped too! I just left a disconsolate lover mourning over a runaway mistress. It seems to be epidemic. There is a stampede of unhappy females. We must compress the feet of the next generation, after the wise custom of China, so that they can't get away." "Whom have you seen?" "Mr. Monroe, an acquaintance of mine." "The same. The lady, it seems, is his cousin,--and is, or was, my betrothed." "And you two brave men give up, foiled by a country-girl of twenty, or thereabouts!" "How is one to find her?" "What is the advantage of brains to a man who doesn't use them? Consider; she will look for employment. She won't try to teach, it would be useless. She is not strong enough for hard labor. She is too modest and reserved to take a place in a shop behind a counter, where she would be sure to be discovered. She will, therefore, be found in the employ of some milliner, tailor, or bookbinder. How easy to go through those establishments!" "You give me new courage. I will get a trades-directory and begin at once." "To-morrow, my friend. She hasn't got a place yet, probably." "So much the better. I shall save her the necessity." "Go, then," said Easelmann. "You'll be happier, I suppose, to be running your legs off, if it is to no purpose. A lover with a new impulse is like a rocket when the fuse is lighted; he must needs go off with a rush, or ignobly fizz out." "Farewell, for to-day. I'll see you to-morrow," said Greenleaf, already some paces off. [To be continued.] PRAYER FOR LIFE. Oh, let me not die young! Full-hearted, yet without a tongue,-- Thy green earth stretched before my feet, untrod,-- Thy blue sky bending over, As her most tender lover, With infinite meaning in its starry eyes, Full of thy silent majesty, O God! And wild, weird whispers from the solemn deep Of the Great Sea ascending, with the sweep Of the Wind-angel's wings across the skies, Burdened with hints of awful memories, Whose half-guessed grandeur thrills us till we weep!-- I love thy marvellous world too well-- Its sunny nooks of hill and dell, Its majesty of mountains, and the swell Of volumed waters--for my heart to yearn Away from the deep truth which veils its splendor In beauty there less dazzling, but more tender. With grave delight I turn To all its glories, from the tiniest bloom Whose hour-long life just sweetens its own tomb As with funereal spices, To the far stars which burn And blossom in fire through their vast periods,-- Borne in thy palm, Like the pale lotus in the hand of Isis, When throned white, and calm, In solemn conclave of the mythic gods.