dreams, he saw the pale, sad face of his mother, and heard her entreatingly say, "be true to your brother!"

But when the morning dawned, the angel departed, for the tempter had conquered! Charles determined to retain the possession of his legal rights, and to urge upon Joseph the acceptance of ten thousand dollars. Joseph scorned the gift and no entreaties could induce him to receive it, for he had a firm conviction that Charles had influenced their uncle in the disposition of the property.

Thus the brothers parted. Mammon divided the hearts which should have loved each other always.

Both of these brothers possessed fine talents, and were fitted by nature for public men. A few years passed away, and they found themselves political opponents; candidates for the same office. Party spirit raged high, and the strife was bitter and unmanly. In the struggle, the last spark of brotherly love seemed to die out in the heart of each, and cruel, bitter taunts were flung back and forth in the heat of contest, which could not be easily forgiven.

Charles was defeated, and he retired to private life in disgust. He turned every energy of his mind to the accumulation of wealth, and as time passed, his fortune assumed colossal proportions.

Joseph was a lawyer; he became eminent, and occupied important public offices with honor and fidelity. His integrity and brilliant powers of mind made him at once a useful and popular man. Charles, at a distance, watched his progress, and when he saw the wreath of laurel resting upon his head, he smiled sadly, and said, "Fame for him, and wealth for me!"

Each brother had a happy home, a loving wife and beautiful children. And though they had disobeyed their sainted mother's last wish, they cherished her name and memory, for in each home was a little girl, with hazel eyes and golden hair, answering to the sweet, simple, hallowed name of Mary.

In the course of time it became expedient for Joseph Raymond to move to the city where Charles resided. He pur

chased a fine house, and it chanced to be upon the same broad avenue where stood the costly, imposing mansion of his brother.

They daily passed each other in the street, knowing one another, yet as strangers; and their children met at school unconscious of the tie of relationship between them.

One morning in passing to his place of business, Charles Raymond met his son, a lad of sixteen, walking arm in arm with a youth of the same age. His brow darkened at the sight. He knew the youth whose noble features, clustering brown hair, and clear penetrating eyes, were so like Joseph's in the happy days of boyhood. The boys were chatting merrily, and with affectionate, confiding glances.

"This must not be!" said Mr. Raymond to himself with set teeth, "this must not be my son must not walk arm in arm with Joseph Raymond's sonfriends, indeed!" and with a cold sneer upon his lip he turned into his counting house.

Wallace and Francis had been schoolcompanions but a few months, and yet they were ardent friends. They studied the same books, enjoyed the same sports, and shared their very thoughts with each other. Some who have outgrown or forgotten the warm, beautiful impulses of youth, and those whose hearts beat coldly and measured, may smile incredulously when I speak of the strength and disinterestedness of early friendships. True, these friendships are sometimes evanescent, yet pure and precious while they last, but many times they grow stronger and

brighter, through the eventful lapse of years, until old age.

Youth is the time to form the purest friendships, for then the heart is fresh, and the sweet spring of hope is bubbling to its very brim; then the soul is not warped by selfish interests, and faith, and confidence, and joy, is the very air it breathes. But in maturer years, when the world looks dimmer through tearful eyes; when sorrow has tamed the bounding pulse, and the dust of toil seems to rest even upon the radiant face of Nature; then very true to its native instincts, very loyal to its God, must be the heart that can form a friendship as ardent, as unselfish, as it might have known in youth. At night when Mr. Charles Raymond passed over the threshold of his dwelling, a sense of pain and depression, rested like a. cloud upon his spirits. This cloud always enveloped him now as he entered the door, for only a few weeks previously the Death angel had taken the little Mary, who was the sunlight of that home. She was the idol of both parents, and for a season they were utterly heart-broken. Time, however, had blunted the sharp edge of their sorrow, and the father forgot it in the busy whirl of traffic, but the mother's voice was still plaintive in its tone, and her smiles were touched by sad

ness.

Mr. Raymond entered his splendid parlor with a listless, melancholy air. The only occupant of the room was a little girl seated upon an ottoman, who was examining a collection of toys and picture books. He recognized the playthings with a start of pain-they had belonged to his lost Mary, and the child seated there, was like, so very like his own! the blood rushed back upon his heart, and faint from the sudden shock, he sank upon the nearest chair.

The child looked up with a smile of innocent joy. She was lovely, with fair curls, beaming eyes, and pearled lips and cheeks. She spoke, and her words thrilled the stern man's heart strangely. "The kind lady here, has lent me the pretty things her little Mary used to play with.'

'What is your name, sissy?”

Mary Raymond."

He was sure of it before; his brother's Mary, all beauty and joy, and his own Mary lying in the grave! Must he meet that brother or his children everywhere? He pressed his hands over his eyes to crush the bitter, bitter tears that filled them.

Mrs. Raymond came into the room with such a smile as she had not worn for many days. "Mr. Raymond, have you noticed my little visitor?" and she led the child to his side. "See how much she looks like our precious Mary, and her name is Mary, too!"

Mr. Raymond could not help it, the impulse would not be resisted; he took the child in his arms, pressed her to his bosom, whispering softly, "Mary, little Mary!"

66

She is Hon. Joseph Raymond's daughter," said the lady, "I expect her brother to come to tea with Francis."

Mr. Raymond shook his head with contracting brows; he put the child from him, and the upspringing waters of tenderness were sent back chilled and poisoned to their fountain.

At that moment Francis and Wallace appeared, full of mirth and high spirits. Mrs. Raymond enjoyed the company of her young guests, and exerted herself to make their visit pleasant, but Mr. Raymond's sullen silence cast a gloom over the little party. When they were alone, he said, Sarah, do you know who this Hon. Joseph Raymond is ?"

She hesitated and trembled a little, as she answered, "yes."

"Then was it well, was it kind, to invite his children to my house? do you do right to encourage any intimacy between his son and ours?"

Mrs. Raymond's eyes filled with tears. "I first saw them in the street; Wallace was leading little Mary; I heard him call her by name, and she so strongly resem. bled our own darling that I could not help speaking to her. Then I was so lonely, my heart ached so, and it comforted me to see her!"

Poor, dear Sarah, no wonder at that! but then when you learned who she was you should have conquered those feelings,

"My dear husband, does not this long, unnatural alienation weigh heavy on your conscience? forgive and forget; be reconciled to your brother!"

"Never, Sarah, that can never be ! I would not harm a hair of his head, but we can never be brothers again."

Mrs. Raymond sighed, and gathering up the picture books and toys, sacred mementoes of the loved and lost Mary, she retired from the room.

That night Mr. Joseph Raymond missed his children at the tea-table. "Where are Wallace and Mary?" he asked of his wife.

"Francis Raymond, Wallace's friend, invited them to tea, with his mother's permission. Mary has been there several times, and Mrs. Raymond makes a great deal of her, for she had a little Mary once who died."

"What, are the children visiting at the house of Charles Raymond!" "Yes."

"That man is my own and only brother!"

"Is it possible? I knew you had a brother, and that you parted from him in anger, but I never dreamed this Charles Raymond was the one. Have you spoken to him? do you ever meet each other?"

"We daily pass each other in the street, but we have never spoken. I long to say, Charles forgive me, and be forgiven,' but he looks so cold and proud, I dare not. I am proud, too, and though I would be reconciled to him, I could not bear to be repulsed."

"O, this is dreadful, Joseph does it not make you wretched?"

"Yes, my dear wife, it does. I remember when our mother was dying, we knelt by her bed, and she made us promise to love each other always. I often fancy she is looking down from heaven, reproachfully and sadly, upon her children. I wonder if Charles ever thinks of that. Poor fellow, he looks troubled and care-worn, and he used to be such a happy, gentle, loving boy! Of late I have thought that I was too hard upon him in our first quarrel. If I had been tempted by that fortune as he was, it is possible I might have done the same. And then in that political struggle, I was as selfish, as unjust, as unbrotherly, as he. O, how I wish I could live it all over again!"

"Will you not go to him and tell him so? then he will remember his wrongs to you, and you will both forgive, and the thought of your angel mother will give you joy instead of pain."

"I wish I could, I wish I could !” "You wish you could-then why not do it?"

66

'My dear, I don't suppose you know anything about this hateful, obstinate pride; it is that which hinders me!"

"Joseph, I am going to call upon Mrs. Charles Raymond to-morrow, and take little Mary with me. Wallace says it comforts her sad heart to see the darling."

66

'Well, what then?"

"Without doubt we shall be fast friends; the children shall visit back and forth just as often as they please, and

then how can the husband and father help finding out that they are brothers?"

Mrs. Raymond looked very beautiful in her half tearful, half smiling earnestness, at least, so her husband thought, and though he shook his head at her suggestions, he kissed her in a very lover-like

way.

True to her word, Mrs. Joseph called upon Mrs. Charles, and thus commenced a friendly acquaintance. Francis and Wallace were constantly together, and little Mary's society became very precious to the bereaved mother. Thus the families were placed upon the most familiar and friendly footing, but the brothers remained unchanged. Sometimes their garments brushed each other in the jostling crowd, and yet a gulf divided them. They looked into each others faces, not as strangers, for the studied coldness of their glances was very unlike the careless indifference of those who know nothing of each other. Outwardly they were unchanged, but He who sees the inmost heart looked with pitying eye upon their troubled spirits. Wealth and Fame, home and friends, earth's highest prizes were theirs, and yet they were wretched, for the burden of unacknowledged, unforgiven sin, grew heavier and heavier. Each yearned for the sweet peace of reconciliation, and carefully watched for the least sign of concession from the other, yet both were too proud, too obstinate to take that first important step.

One day, being wearied with a long walk, Mr. Joseph Raymond entered an omnibus which ran in the direction of his home. The vehicle was crowded and with some difficulty he obtained a seat, when, to his extreme annoyance, he beheld his brother sitting directly opposite. Both felt painfully embarrassed, yet no trace of feeling was visible upon the stern, composed face of either.

At one of the crossings they were hindered by a crowd, and the driver reined in his horses, and quietly waited for a passage to be made. Two men stood talking upon the side-walk so near that their conversation could be distinctly heard.

66

How, and what was it?"

"A horse got frightened, and ran, and knocked a boy down in the street; the poor fellow was taken up for dead."

"How old a boy, should you think?" "About fourteen or fifteen; he was a fine looking fellow, with beautiful, curly, brown hair."

The Raymonds listened with breathless attention; an awful presentiment thrilled them, and they looked into each other's eyes tremblingly, and with whitened lips. "Do you know who he was ?".

"I heard some one say that his name was Raymond, and that he lived in Sixth Avenue."

A smothered cry of anguish rose to Joseph's lips and he started to his feet, but Charles sank back dizzy and almost stunned.

"Charles, O, Charles, it is your boy

or mine!"

66

Charles, one moment! let me clasp your hand! your home or mine is desolate; then let us, in this solemn moment, forgive and be forgiven."

"Willingly, brother; willingly! we have been very wicked in our pride and stubbornness, and now God's heavy stroke has made us humble."

They grasped each other's hands, and tears stood in the eyes of both. They stepped out upon the pavement as they saw a mutual acquaintance advancing with a serious aspect. It was the messenger of mournful tidings-which, O, which, was to be called to weep upon "Mr. Joseph Raymond, I have sad news for you."

-

?"

"I know it I know it-my boy is dead!" What a heart wail was in his tones! Charles felt the tears gushing from his eyes he had not wept thus since his childhood. It was not a time for words, and they hastened on in silence. Wallace lay upon his couch as if indeed dead, and his mother and sister hung over him in transports of grief and terror.

"Sarah, why will you put it in that light?" said Mr. Raymond uneasily, and with a touch of anger in his tones. Joseph was my brother, but I do not recognize him as such now."

"My dear husband, does not this long, unnatural alienation weigh heavy on your conscience? forgive and forget; be reconciled to your brother!"

"Never, Sarah, that can never be ! I would not harm a hair of his head, but we can never be brothers again."

Mrs. Raymond sighed, and gathering up the picture books and toys, sacred mementoes of the loved and lost Mary, she retired from the room.

That night Mr. Joseph Raymond missed his children at the tea-table. "Where are Wallace and Mary?" he asked of his wife.

"Francis Raymond, Wallace's friend, invited them to tea, with his mother's permission. Mary has been there several times, and Mrs. Raymond makes a great deal of her, for she had a little Mary once who died."

"What, are the children visiting at the house of Charles Raymond!" 66 Yes."

"Is it possible? I knew you had a brother, and that you parted from him in anger, but I never dreamed this Charles Raymond was the one. Have you spoken to him? do you ever meet each other?"

"We daily pass each other in the street, but we have never spoken. I long to say, Charles forgive me, and be forgiven,' but he looks so cold and proud, I dare not. I am proud, too, and though I would be reconciled to him, I could not bear to be repulsed."

"O, this is dreadful, Joseph does it not make you wretched?"

"Yes, my dear wife, it does. I remember when our mother was dying, we knelt by her bed, and she made us promise to love each other always. I often fancy she is looking down from heaven, reproachfully and sadly, upon her children. I wonder if Charles ever thinks of that. Poor fellow, he looks troubled and care-worn, and he used to be such a happy, gentle, loving boy! Of late I have thought that I was too hard upon him in our first quarrel. If I had been tempted by that fortune as he was, it is possible I might have done the same. And then in that political struggle, I was as selfish, as unjust, as unbrotherly, as he. O, how I wish I could live it all over again!"

'Will you not go to him and tell him so? then he will remember his wrongs to you, and you will both forgive, and the thought of your angel mother will give you joy instead of pain."

"I wish I could, I wish I could!" "You wish you could-then why not do it?"

'My dear, I don't suppose you know anything about this hateful, obstinate pride; it is that which hinders me!"

"Joseph, I am going to call upon Mrs. Charles Raymond to-morrow, and take little Mary with me. Wallace says it comforts her sad heart to see the darling."

"Well, what then?"

"Without doubt we shall be fast friends; the children shall visit back and forth just as often as they please, and