privilege to scatter seed in the wilderness. "Now, I urge you to come, because there is health for Molly to be found on these sunny slopes of this grand Backbone of America. That is my strongest point. If that does not move you, nothing else will! One glance from the windows of my wooden house--this Eagle's Nest on the Rocky Mountain Slopes--would be sufficient to begin the work of convalescence. Woods, dells, knolls, hills, plains, prairies, lakes, streams--with the blue mountains in the far, far distance. Oh! if I were a poet, what a flight I would make into the realms of--of--well, you understand me! I have no time for more. The big-bearded postboy is growing impatient. Only this much will I add,--do, _do_ come, if you love me. My kindest love to you all. May God guide you in this matter.--Your affectionate son, JIM. "P.S.--One of the members of my congregation is a celebrated hunter named Reuben Dale. His wife is also one of my flock, and so is his friend Jacob Strang. The manner in which Reuben got married is so curious that I have amused myself by writing an account of it for mother. I enclose it." "Read the story aloud, Fred," said Molly. "What Jim thought interesting must be well worth reading." Thus urged, Fred took the manuscript and read as follows:-- THE HUNTER'S WEDDING. A STORY OF THE ROCKY MOUNTAINS. On the summit of a green knoll, in one of those beautiful valleys which open from the prairies--like inviting portals--into the dark recesses of the Rocky Mountains, there stands, or stood not long ago, a small blockhouse surrounded by a wooden palisade. Although useless as a protection from artillery, this building was found to be a sufficient defence against the bullets and arrows of the red men of North America, and its owner, Kenneth MacFearsome, a fiery Scotch Highlander, had, up to the date on which our story opens, esteemed it a convenient and safe place for trade with the warlike savages who roamed, fought, and hunted in the regions around it. Some people, referring to its peaceful purposes, called it MacFearsome's trading post. Others, having regard to its military aspect, styled it Mac's Fort. Reuben Dale stood at the front gate of the Fort conversing with a pretty, dark-haired, bright-faced girl of eighteen years or thereabouts: Reuben himself being twenty-eight, and as strapping a hunter of the Rocky Mountains as ever outwitted a redskin or circumvented a grizzly bear. But Reuben was naturally shy. He had not the courage of a rabbit when it came to making love. "Loo," said Reuben, resting his hand on the muzzle of his long rifle and his chin on his hands, as he gazed earnestly down into the quiet, soft little face at his elbow. "Well, Reuben," said Loo, keeping her eyes prudently fixed on the ground lest they should betray her. The conversation stopped short at this interesting point, and was not resumed. Indeed, it was effectually checked by the sudden appearance of The MacFearsome.