"You fairy princess, what do you mean by condescending to a mortal's grey hairs?" "We shall be so happy, you and I and papa. We shall lead the country life, though he'll have to come to London now and again for his serious 'frivolities.' And I shall make you care for me. Now you do not care for me nearly so much as I do for you." "You bewilder me, Sylvia." "Ah! yes, you will care for me. I shall not let you cheat me." "You talk as if my youth were not flown, you lovely child." "It is not flown. You do not mean to say you used up your youth during those hard years that lined your face and sowed grey hairs in your head? Ah! no, you were saving it up for me." "It is _too_ incredible!" "Take time, then, to think, good gentleman," said Sylvia, with laughter dancing bewitchingly about her mouth; but her eyes were tender. "If I take time, all this will take wings like a dream and fly away." "Then keep it," said Sylvia. "My life--what remains of it--will be devoted to you." "It is time you should say that. You have been going after false fires, while I have been true all the time." "You to me, Sylvia!" "I to you. But if I had not almost asked you, you would have left me to single blessedness. Ah! there is papa's ring. He will be glad." "He will think it folly, Sylvia." "Ah! no, he won't. Dear, wise papa, he was always anxious for you to marry one of his daughters." [Illustration: THE END] TIRED. On the weary waves of the world To and fro This tired life of mine has been whirled! In the flow And ebb of every dangerous tide My thoughts have drifted far and wide, As on a bleak and bare hill-side Drifts the snow. I sought for rest afar, afar, But found it not; I dreamed sweet dreams, if such things are Sweet which we wot Are false. I woke again to know The weight of an unceasing woe, And journeyed onward, bending low To a hard lot. At length to my weary soul I said, "Soul of mite, The empty restless life thou hast led, In shade and shine, In winter's cold and angry beat, In summer's languid parching heat-- Poor soul!" I said, "It is not meet Such fate be thine. "There is a rest, oh! my tired soul, Far away, We soon may reach that happy goal Beyond to-day. Far, far beyond those darkening skies There is a Land which Rest supplies-- Peace, endless peace, that never dies. Come away!" H. BROOKE DAVIES. LIGHT THROUGH DULL PANES. _A VISIT TO THE EARLSWOOD ASYLUM._ (_Illustrated from Photographs by Cassell and Co., Ltd._)