But her new lover had never a disloyal thought to his mistress, and his love transplanted to the pleasant places of New York life, seemed to find its native air.  It enveloped Eleanor now like a glad and heavenly atmosphere; she was so happy that she dreaded any change; it seemed to her that no change could make her happier.

But if good is good, still better carries the day, and Mr. Smith thought marriage would be a great deal better than lovemaking.  Eleanor and he were sitting in the fire-lit parlor, very still and very happy, when he whispered this opinion to her.

“It is only four months since we met, dear.”

“Only four months, darling; but I had been dreaming about you four months before that.  Let me hold your hands, sweet, while I tell you.  On the 20th of last April I was on the point of leaving for Colorado to look after the Silver Cliff Mine.  My carriage was ordered, and I was waiting at my hotel for it.  A servant brought me a letter—­the dearest, sweetest little letter—­see, here it is!” and this William Smith absolutely laid before Eleanor her own pretty, loving reply to the first William Smith’s offer.

Eleanor looked queerly at it, and smiled.

“What did you think, dear?”

“That it was just the pleasantest thing that had ever happened to me.  It was directed to Mr. W. Smith, and had been given into my hands.  I was not going to seek up any other W. Smith.”

“But you must have been sure that it was not intended for you, and you did not know ‘Eleanor Bethune.’”

“Oh, I beg your pardon, sweetheart; it was intended for me.  I can imagine destiny standing sarcastically by your side, and watching you send the letter to one W. Smith when she intended it for another W. Smith.  Eleanor Bethune I meant to know just as soon as possible.  I was coming back to New York to look for you.”

“And, instead, she went to you in Colorado.”

“Only think of that!  Why, love, when that blessed telegraph clerk said, ‘Who sends this message?’ and you said, ‘Mrs. Eleanor Bethune,’ I wanted to fling my hat to the sky.  I did not lose my head as badly when they found that new lead in the Silver Cliff.”

“Won’t you give me that letter, and let me destroy it, William?  It was written to the wrong Smith.”

“It was written to the wrong Smith, but it was given to the right Smith.  Still, Eleanor, if you will say one little word to me, you may do what you like with the letter.”

Then Eleanor whispered the word, and the blaze of the burning letter made a little illumination in honor of their betrothal kiss.

THE STORY OF MARY NEIL.

Poverty has not only many learned disciples, but also many hidden saints and martyrs.  There are humble tenements that are tabernacles, and desolate, wretched rooms that are the quarries of the Almighty—­where with toil and weariness and suffering the souls He loves are being prepared for the heavenly temple.