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Show m . ,. . , i. . i i - tt- p i .i iiSliFsKS . RHID) AS- AOTHORFTHEJTOGLE" tj. "I bad maca rather play my violin for the flowers and the trees." music was made out of nothing, and exists but for its xrae (freat purpose, and therefore is the most spiritual of all of them. I like to say that it is time made beautiful, and so a shadow picture of the soul; it is this, because it can picture different degrees of speed and of power,, because it can breathe and throb, can sweep and soar, can yearn and pray because, in short, everything that happens in the heart can "happen in music, so that we may lose ourselves in it and actually live its life, or so that a great genius cannot can-not merely tell us about himself, but can make all the best hours of his soul actually a part of our own. This thought that I said was beautiful came to me from noticing how perfectly the art was one with that which it represented; repre-sented; so that we may say not only that music is life, but that life is music. mu-sic. Music exists because it is beautiful, beauti-ful, dear Helen, and because it brings an instant of the joy of beauty to our hearts, and for no other reason whatever; what-ever; it may be music of happiness -or of sorrow, of achievement or only of hope, but so long as it is beautiful it is right, and it makes no difference, either, that it cost must labor of men, or that when it is gone it is gone forever. for-ever. And, dearest, suppose that the music not only was beautiful, but knew that it was beautiful; that it was not only the motion of the air, but also the iov of our hearts: mifirht it not then be just this that they will make me do: you said that God was very good, and so I was thinking that I would show him how very much I love you, how I could reaDy never get along without you, and how I care for nothing else in the world. It seems to me to be such a little thing, that we should only just want to love: and trulv, that is aD I do want I would not mind anything else in the world I would go away from this little house and live in any poor place, and do all the work, and never care about anything else at all, if I just might have you.- That is really true, David, and 1 wish that vou would know it, and that God would know it, and not expect me to think of such dreadful things as you talk of." As David 'gazed into her deep, earn, 'est eyes he pressed her to him with a sudden burst of. emotion, "Ton have me now, dearest," he whispered, "and oh, I shall trust the God who gave me this precious heart!" He kissed her once more in fervent love, and kissed her again and again until the clouds had left her face. She leaned back and gazed at him, and was radiant with delight de-light again. "Oh oh oh! " she cried. "David, it only makes me more full of wonder at the real truth! For it is the truth, David, it is the truth that you are all mine! It is so wonderful, and it makes me so happy -I seem to lose myself more in the thought every day! " (To Be Continued.) . PART IL ' CHAPTER I. (Continued.) Helen paled slightly; she felt' his hand trembling upon hers, and she re membered his illness at her aunt's, about which she had never had the courage to speak to him. "And so, dear heart," he went on, slowly, "let us only be sure that we are keeping-our keeping-our Uvea pure and strong; that we are living in the presence of high thoughts and keeping the mastery of ourselves, and saying and really meaning that we live for something unselfish; so that if . duty and danger come, we shall not prove cowards, and if suffering comes " . we should not give way and lose our faith. Does that please you, dear Helen" Hel-en" . The girt pressed his hand silently in bars. After a while he went on still more solemnly. "Some time," he said, "I meant to talk to you about just that, dearest, to tell you how stern and how watchful we ought to be. It is very sad to me to see what happens when the great and fearful realities of life disclose themselves to good and kind people who have been living without with-out any thought of such things. I feel that it is very wrong to live so, that if we wished to be right we would hold the high truths before us, no matter ow much labor it cost." "What truths do you meant" asked Helen, earnestly; and he answered her: "For one, the very fearful fact of which I have just been talking that ion and I are two bubbles that meet for an instant upon the whirling stream of time. Suppose, sweetheart, that I rere to tell you that I do not think you and I woula be living our lives truly hntil we were quite sure that we could bear to be parted forever without losing los-ing our faith in God's righteousness ?"- - Helen turned quite white and ilutched the other's hands in hers; she ad not once thought of actually apply-ng apply-ng what he had said to her. "David! )avid!" she cried, "No!" The man smiled gently, as he brushed Pk the hair from her forehead and Flfied into her eyes. "And when you W Vkor sternness, dear," he said, "was fiat you did not know what the wwrd meant 1 Life is real, dear Helen, Ind the effort it demands . is real effort." ef-fort." The girl did not half hear these last Words; she was still staring at her husband. hus-band. "Listen to me, David." she Said at last, still holding his hand tight-r tight-r in hers, her voice almost a whisper; I could bear anything for you, David, I know that I could bear anything; I tould really die for you; I say that with all mv soul that was what I was thinking of when you spoke of death. Jut, David, if you were to be taken from me if yon were to be taken from re" and she stopped, unable to find word more. . ' "Perhaps it will be just as well not lo'tell me, dear heart," he said to her, kentJy. "David," she went on more strenuously- yet. "listen to me you must lot ever ask me to think of that! Do on hear met For, oh, it cannot be true, t cannot be true, David, that yon could taken from me forever! What would have left to live fori" " Would you not have the great won- its own excuse, just one strain of it that rose in the darkness and quivered and died away-again forever t" When David had spoken thus he stopped and sat still for a while gazing at his wife; then seeing the anxious look still in possession of her face, he rose suddenly by way of ending their talk. "Dearest," he said, smiling, "it is wrong of me, perhaps, to worry you about such very fearful things as those; let us go in and find something to do that id useful and not trouble ourselves with them any more." CHAPTER II. It was late on the afternoon of the day that Helen's father had left for home, and David was going into the village with some letters to mail. Helen Hel-en was not feeling very well herself and could not go, but ehe insisted upon his going, for she watched over his exercise and other matters of health with scrupulous care. She had wrapped him up iu a heavy overcoat, and was kneeling beside his chair with her arms about him. "Tell me, dear," she asked him, for the third or fourth time, "are you sure this will be enough to keep you warmt for the nights are so very cold, you know; I do not like yem to come back alone anyway." "I don't think you would be much of a protection against danger," laughed David. "But it will be dark when you get back, dear." "It will onlv be about dusk," was the reply: "I dont mind that." Helen gazed at him wistfully for a minute, and then she went on: "Do you not know what is the matter with me. David t You frightened me todav, and I cannot forget what you said. Each time that it comes to my mind it makes me shudder. Why should you say such fearful things to me f " "I am very sorry," said the other. gently. 'You simply must not talk to me so!" cried the girl; "if you do you will make me so that I cannot bear to leave you for an instant. For those thoughts make my love for you simply desperate, David; I cry out to myself that I never have loved you enough, never told you enough!" And then she added pleadingly. "But oh, you know that I love you, do you not, dear I Tell me." "Yes. I know it," said the other gently, taking her in his arms and kissing kiss-ing her. "Come back soon," Helen went on, "and I will tell you once more how much I do; and. then we can be happy again, and I won't be afraid any more. Please let me be happy, won't yon. David t" ''Yes, love, I win," said the man with a smile. "I do not think that I wss wise ever to trouble you." Helen was silent for a while, then as a sudden thought occurred to her she added: "David, I meant to tell you something do yon know if those horrible horri-ble thoughts keep haunting me, it is icricu uoai ' asea me oiner, gentiy ''the God who made me and all that Vas lovable in me, and made you, aud 6uld demand that you worship himf " iut Helen only shook her head onee aore and answered, "It could not be rue, David! no, no!" Then she added a a faint voice, "What would be the ise of my having lived!" The man bent forward and kissed her I gain, and kissed away a little of the Tightened, anxious look upon her face. 'My dear," he said, with a gentle mile, "perhaps I was wrong to trouble ou with such fearful things after all. ,et me tell you instead a thought, that nee came to my mind, and has stayed here as the one I should like to call h most beautiful of all my life; it "'help to answer that question of i I about the use of having lived, i love life so much, Helen, dear, that iipf- cannot ever have enough of it, i:iaVto.-keep it and build it up they . uakc ' what we call the arts; this laocght of mine is about one of them, J bout music, the art that you and I jive most. For all the others have leen derived from, things rternal, but |