the sublime and great, he has studied human nature in its shameful parts, and thinks he knows the whole anatomy of man. A shrewd man he certainly is, but shrewdness is not wisdom."

On the other hand, one of Mr. Hardin's greatest admirers was S. S. Prentiss.

Hardin died in September, 1852. He might have lived much longer but for a fall from a horse. In the lingering hours of his illness his thoughts turned toward religious matters, and he expressed his belief in Christianity. The powers of his mind were undiminished, and those who came to sit by his bedside enjoyed the rare treat of his conversation.

"On the farm in Washington County," says Judge Little, in his admirable biography, "where Mr. Hardin's parents had settled on coming to Kentucky, in 1788, their bodies had long been laid to rest. Others of his family, dying before him, had been interred in the public cemetery at Bardstown, Mrs. Hardin being the last. By the side of his parents, in a spot marked by evergreen-trees (and of late by some intrusive locusts in addition), in in old and neglected field, near the public road from Springfield to Lebanon, a few miles from the former, stands a stone, bearing as its sole inscription: Ben Hardin, of Bardstown.' There his dust now reposes."

JENNY LIND.

ALL Songs that thrill the trembling heaven of Spring,
Or voice her woodlands, from the lark's first note
To Philomel's good-night, all strains that float
In music atoms on each zephyr's wing,
All melody e'er born of earthly thing,

Mellowed a thousand-fold, from her sweet throat Leaped in one carol that all heart-strings smote, And taught the dullest souls of men to sing.

Alas! her spirit, with white wings outspread,
Speeds forth to sing in sunnier climes than ours!
( skies that drank her songs, stretch o'er her head
Your rainbow harmonies of sun and showers!
Strew, blossoms, strew your petals on her bed,
Tell her you wove her melodies in flowers!

WHAT TWO TOLD.

BY CLARENCE M. BOUTELLE.

CHAPTER I.

THE LAWYER'S STORY OF FAILURE.

I SHALL never forget the first time I saw Leona Dunerath. I suppose that when I am dying, when I ought to be thinking of other things, when I should be sure that sin has been left behind me, and that there is only sure and steadfast hope before, I shall remember that rarest of all times-the perfect night in the long-ago June when she who has been more to me than any other woman ever has been or ever can be came into my life. Came into my life? Yes, and saved it when she came. I -I wonder whether I have been very ungrateful not to have been as steadfast and firm as she?

It was not a very strange thing, nor a very remarkable one, that she did. Only rowed out, an eighth of a mile or so, and pulled a man into her boat and took him ashore again. Any one could have done it, any one with strong arms and a steady head and a brave heart-any one with quick thought and alert faculties. But others, men too, some of them, ran helplessly up and down the beach, shouting incoherent orders to men who had no thought of obeying. She, she of all those congregated

there, was quick enough to do what she saw was needed; she, she of all those who looked and lamented, saw that delay would grow into failure if it lingered long; and she, she from among all who gave good wishes to the man who had drifted out so far as to be beyond the power of helping himself, came out and saved his life. I shall never forget it. I shall never forget her. For I was the man to whom she came. I was cramped and helpless. I was drowning. And she came none too

soon.

It was as fine an evening as one ever need see. The full moon, rising in glory in the cloudless blue of the eastern sky, made ample recompense for the stars, obscured by setting the signet of her delicate brightness on tree and hill-on sand and rolling waves. Summer's clouds, piled mountain high in rugged beauty all along the west, were scarcely growing dull and dark yet, from the slow withdrawing of the magic power of the sunshine which had burned and brightened among them after the sun had gone below our horizon-the horizon of those whose home was the earth instead of the clouds, and which had beaten and burnished them into columns of gold and pillars of silver.

A perfect evening! An evening when a man can easily forget either heat or cold; an evening when it is hard to remember toil or failure; an evening when it is a terrible mockery of the impotence of human strength to be called upon to face death, and to face it in utter helplessness.

And she saved me.

I went up to my room at the hotel for a change of clothing and for something warm inside to keep out the chill, because she had done her best; I walked, instead of being slowly carried by four friends-two at my head and two at my feet-because her best had been quick and ready and wise; I went in life and strength and hope, instead of in silence and death, because she had lived. Do you wonder that my heart warmed toward Leona Dunerath? Is it strange I chafed at the decision of my friends, who said I was too weak and too much nervously depressed to meet and thank my preserver that night, and that I found the night long and the nervousness growing, because they kept me an unwilling prisoner in my room?

I met Leona Dunerath on the morrow. I found a mutual friend, who volunteered to make me acquainted with her in the most conventional and unromantic fashion. I felt, somehow, that that was best, though I should have gone to her to thank her, even though I had had to go alone.

I had had scarcely more than a glimpse of the lady the evening before, for she had worked rapidly and silently, and I had been almost gone. I had gathered the idea that she was quite pretty, however, dark and stately and dignified. I found, when I came to meet her face to face, by daylight, that instead of being merely pretty, she was remarkably handsome. She was dark-very, very dark, her hair the blackest I had ever seen, her eyes seeming even yet blacker than her hair, and her skin a marvel of velvety brunette perfection. She was tall, self-possessed, queenly. I found in a very short time that she was as ready at repartee as at rescue, and as quick with her tongue as with her oars.

Leona Dunerath was a universal favorite. She was as generally liked by the women as by the men, a fact which struck me as rather remarkable. But, then, Leona Dunerath was a rather remarkable woman in most respects.

Strangely enough, she hal no lovers - at least not

But I don't know. So I need not pursue even so fascinating a subject as the character of this wonderful

woman.

As for me, I liked Miss Dunerath. Gratitude led me to her. Interest kept me near her until I had grown well acquainted with her. And after that, I doubt whether I really cared to go.

Did I love Miss Dunerath? That is a question which is hard to answer. I was her lover, so the world said, and the world is not unlikely to be right. I walked with her in the morning, in the afternoon, in the evening; I rowed her up and down the broad bay, and along the river beyond it; I even ventured out upon the sea itself, because she liked it. We took horses, not infrequently, and rode away for a half-day's pleasure in the fields and woods and hills.

I learned to listen, for a man cannot always avoid overhearing, you know, for the remarks which followed us wherever we went. I liked to hear the name of Dudley Wynway coupled with that of Leona Dunerath; it is not always that a young lawyer, barely beyond his time of waiting for a practice which will keep him from want in the world, can monopolize the time of a woman who has wealth and beauty and talents-a woman without a trait one would wish lacking-a woman lacking nothing a man would wish her to have or to be.

But-did I love her? I didn't know. I wasn't sure. Men have passed such perfection as hers by, time and again, to love less worthily. I was not sure I loved her, but I told her I did. Where is the man who could have looked her in the face and blamed me? I had no doubt we should be happy together; I knew I should be proud to face her over our dining-table, with our mutual friends sitting by to admire her and envy me; I had no reason for thinking I should not grow to care for her more and more tenderly as time went by-no reason for believing I should not love her, some time in the future; I had never seen a woman for whom I cared so much as for her. And so I took a lie from my soul, fashioned it upon my lips, and laid its pleading question before her for her

answer.

It is scarcely for me, perhaps, even to guess how much flattery or temptation she found in my offer. I can only say, honestly if not modestly, that there was so much of passion in her words and her tones that I was surprised and a little frightened. I had spoken under no sudden impulse; I had deliberately determined upon what I was to do; I had chosen the very words I would say; I had rehearsed the sentences I would speak and the gestures with which I would give them emphasis; I had selected the very spot, and the very time-a quiet nook among the hills, where we should turn and face the sunset as we rode slowly home at night-and I carried out my programme to the very letter. A man would be a poor lawyer, whatever might be said of him as a lover, who would let the beauty of a woman, the loveliness of a landscape, or the grandeur of an Autumn sunset, compel him to fall short of his well-studied ideal of language and its accompaniments of gesture and expression. It may be that some men, men thoroughly in earnest, for instance, would have found in the hour and the surrounding an inspiration to something better than they

I rode home with her less slowly than usual. Strange to say, I wanted to be alone. Naturally enough, under the circumstances, we were more silent than usual. But I do not think Leona noticed it; she sat in the saddle as superbly as ever, her slightly stooped head more gracefully charming than its usual uprightness had ever been, and the tender womanliness and joy in her face, alike under the fading glory of sunlight and beneath the gathering gloom of twilight, was a glorious revelation. A revelation! And so I was ill at ease. I wondered whether I had thought too much of her face, her conversational powers, her social position, and her money? I wondered whether it was possible I had thought too little of her? Had I lied to her? Would she ever find it out? What would she do if she did?

There were new arrivals loitering on the hotel-piazza when we rode up, just as the long twilight was really leaving the world to the coming night.

I had time to notice but two, and one of them only because her presence brought a something which was very like a frown into the face of the woman who had just promised to be my wife. It was not strange that a man should give a glance of curiosity to the woman who had power to print a scowl on a face which he had never seen disfigured by one before, especially when he had recently acquired a sort of ownership in the face and its wearer.

The newcomer, a tired-looking blonde, with a look in her eyes which seemed to betoken an ugly sort of temper, stood almost directly in our way, close to the door, as we went up the steps and crossed the broad piazza. The look in her eyes! It was surely there, as I have said, and yet she masked it with a smile.

She held out her hand to Leona, but in vain. Leona did not give her hers in return.

"You here?" she asked, harshly.

"Certainly. Why not ?" asked the blonde.

"Who gave you permission ?"

The conversation had been carried on in undertones, but I could not help hearing all that was said. This was the first indication, however, of the fact that the blonde young lady had seen me at all. She did not look at me now, not directly enough for it to be admissible for me to bow, but she half turned my way, and made some little gesture which I did not fully see. "A friend of mine," said Leona. "Indeed? What's his name?" "Wynway, Dudley Wynway."

"A charming name! Is he as charming himself?" She lowered her voice still more. But still I could not help hearing what she said.

"I don't know."
Leona's manner was growing frigid.

Her tones were

"I hate Leona Dunerath," she said.

"Indeed? Do you know her well?"

"I ought to. She is my half-sister. We had the same mother."

"Did you?"

"Yes. And we've lived in the same house nearly all our lives. She's a strange woman-a very strange woman, a thoroughly unscrupulous and evil-minded woman. She would not hesitate to deceive her best friend. She would not shrink from any wrong she could inflict on Vol. XXV., No. 3-23.

Mr. Wynway, and it will only be the worse for you if you fail to heed it. You see I am very frank, and-" "Yes, Miss Raymond, I see you are."

"And that is because I hate Leona Dunerath," she exclaimed, spitefully, "and not because-because

She paused abruptly, blushed, and nervously turned over the stones and shells with the toe of her shapely shoe.

I was startled, puzzled, and-if I must confess it-a little flattered. But I made no attempt to follow up the