“Mr. Marriott is quite right, my love. The way they are bringing up their daughters makes marriage with any but a rich man out of the question.” “Oh, Aunt Jane, Cynthia is the sweetest girl,” we both cried, while Aunt Jane answered— “The sweetest of girls can make the worst of wives.” After bidding our kind old friend good-bye, we went at once to the kitchen to tell our tale to cook and Ann. As Aunt Jane had predicted, they received our news with the greatest kindness, and immediately offered to help us in every way. “You had better come into the kitchen every day while I am here, and let me teach you the young gentlemen’s favourite dishes, Miss Kitty,” cook said, and Ann, who was leaving because she had been so rude to Cecilly, sat down and cried because she could not bear to think of us having to “so bemean” ourselves. (_To be continued._) THE FIRE OF LOVE. BY MARY BRADFORD WHITING. “Come here, Lion.” It was not a dog that obeyed the summons, but a child, a sweet-faced, curly-headed child, with big, pathetic eyes, and soft smiling mouth. Treading on tip-toe, so as not to disturb the sleeping figure on the sofa, Lion made his way across the room and crept up to his father’s chair. “What were you crying for?” asked Mr. Beresford, as he lifted the little fellow to his knee. “Oh, daddy, how much, much too sharp your eyes are! I hid myself all up with my ship book, so as you shouldn’t see.” “No ship book that was ever made would hide your tears from me!” said Mr. Beresford, in a tone that was evidently more for himself than for the child. “But never mind that now. I did see, and now you must tell me all about it. What were you crying for?” “I don’t want you to go away,” said Lion, in a trembling voice. “Why must you go, daddy, and leave me alone with——” The loyal little fellow caught himself up without finishing the sentence, but Mr. Beresford knew only too well what the concluding word would have been, and he sighed heavily. A wealthy man, with congenial work to occupy him, with a lovely wife and a sweet little son, there were plenty of people who envied him with all their hearts; but Paul Beresford, like many of those who seem the most prosperous, had a secret sorrow that embittered his whole life. He had married young, believing that he had found the embodiment of grace and goodness in the beautiful girl to whom he had given his heart, only to discover too late that she was utterly selfish and cold-hearted. It was a terrible awakening for him, and many a man in his place would have made shipwreck altogether; but Paul Beresford only clung the closer to the hidden faith that sustained him, and solaced himself with the oft-quoted lines— “My own hope is a sun will pierce The darkest cloud earth ever stretched.”