hearts, irrevocably laid on the altars of Mammon?  God help the women of America!  Grant them the true womanly instincts which, in the dawn of our republic, made “home” the Eden, the acme of all human hopes and joys.  Teach them that gilded saloons, with their accompanying allurements of French latitude in dress and dancing, and the sans-souci manners and style of conversation (which, in less degenerate times, would have branded with disgrace and infamy all who indulged it), teach them that all these tend to the depths of social evil; and oh, lead them back to the hearthstone, that holy post which too many, alas, have deserted!  Eugene Graham’s love and tenderness were all bestowed on his daughter, a beautiful child, not yet five years old; the sole companion of the hours spent at home, she became his idol.

It was one sunny afternoon that he finished copying some papers, necessary in a case to be defended the following day.  The sunshine, stealing through the shutters, fell on his lofty brow, pale from continued study; his whole countenance bespoke a nature saddened, vexed, but resolute, and, leaning forward, he touched the bell-rope.  As he did so, there came quick footsteps pattering along the hall; the door was pushed open, and a little fairy form, with a head of rich auburn ringlets, peeped in cautiously, while a sweet, childish voice asked eagerly: 

“May I come now, father?  Have you done writing?  I won’t make a noise; indeed I won’t!”

The gloom fled from his face, and he held out his arms to her, saying: 

“I have done writing; you may come now, my darling.”

She sprang into his lap and threw her little, snowy arms about his neck, kissing him rapturously, and passing her fragile fingers through his hair.  She resembled him closely, having the same classical contour and large, soft, dark eyes.  He returned her caresses with an expression of almost adoring fondness, stroking her curls with a light, gentle touch.  The evening was warm, and large drops stood on his forehead.  She noticed it, and, standing on his knee, took the corner of her tiny embroidered apron and wiped away the moisture, kissing the forehead as she did so.  A servant looked in at the door.

“Did you ring, sir?”

“Yes; tell Philip I want my buggy.”

“Oh, you are going to ride!  Can I go? and will we go to see Aunt Beulah—­will we?” She looked at him earnestly.

“Would you like to go there, Cornelia?”

“Oh, yes!  I always like to go there.  I love her, she is so good!  Let’s go to see her, won’t you?”

“Yes; you shall go with me, my darling.”

He bent down to kiss her coral lips, and just then Mrs. Graham swept into the room.  She was attired in an elegant riding habit of dark purple, while a velvet hat of the same color, with a long, drooping plume, shaded her face.  Her hands were incased in delicate kid gauntlets, which fitted with perfect exactness.  She was a beautiful woman, and the costume heightened her loveliness.  She started slightly on perceiving her husband, and said hastily: