growing edifice. You hear no sound, your eyes open upon no scene, you read no sentence, you neglect no intuition, you obey no law of right, you resist no temptation-indeed you can not act, or speak, or think without adding a stone to the rising structure. Silently the work goes on, until the building stands forth beauti ble failure. Consider the millions of such buildings which since Adam have been reared. What are the piles of brick and mortar, raised with noise and tumult, one stone of which shall not be left upon another, to these edifices, reared in silence, enduring throughout eternity? how, working silently, mysteriously, ceaselessly, is more wonderful than any thing we have contemplated. Consider the Imagination, for instance. Having its seat in silence, noiselessly and in an instant of time it spreads out ocean and sea, and sprinkles them with green islands and white sails. It paints sky and landscape; it rears cities and lays them in ruins; it peo-ful and fair as Solomon's Temple, or a miseraples the earth, water, and air with beautiful creations. It transforms this everyday world into a fairy-land of beauty. Yet this is but one of a dozen faculties, as wonderful, of a single mind among the countless millions that have existed since the creation of Adam. Oh! those silent but busy work-shops! Who shall number or measure their products? These are seen in every thing which distinguishes the abode of man from the wilderness. They have caused "the desert to blossom as the rose." From them have issued cities, homes, and libraries. In them science has been made and art created. These silent workers-the intellects of menhave built the nations with their laws. In brief, they have made civilization. We have thought a hundred times, and each time with fresh wonder, of the silent growth of a thought or a principle. A thought, dim, scarcely defined, born one knows not how, coming one knows not whence, finds a lodging in some mind. Fed silently and mysteriously, it grows. Like the seed planted under the stone fence, the tree from which lays in ruins the strength which had sheltered its tenderness, it slowly but surely overturns the walls of prejudice and ignorance, and grows to a mighty power which revolution We can not dismiss the subject of the Silent without one other thought. There is a silent preacher, more eloquent than all the eloquent men that ever lived, more patient and tender than all the tender mothers since Eve. He visits the poor slave in his cabin, the Hottentot in his tent; goes to the poor and degraded, the sorrowing, every where cheering, comforting, uplifting, as no earthly preacher can. No heart has ever throbbed which he has not visited. The world should know the name of this silent preacher. Hear it, O children of men! write it upon your hearts, engrave it upon the palms of your hands: The Holy Ghost, the Comforter, is his name. Verily God worketh in silence. Especially in his dealings with the hearts of men is the Lord not in the wind, or the earthquake, or the fire, but in the still small voice. THE WIFE'S THANK-OFFERING. but a very trifle-the mere beat of a izes the world. Christianity, a little seed plant-Tild's drum upon the highway—but it came ed in the hearts of a few ignorant fishermen, has gone on noiselessly taking in life, putting forth near being of very serious consequences. Dr. bud and leaf, sending down its roots, outstretch-Austin Raimond, a physician in middle life, ing its mighty boughs, spreading abroad its giant branches, until it overshadows the land. Liberty, in some heart conceived perhaps from the carol of a bird, as its free wing cut the ether, or from the laugh of the storm, how has the beautiful child in silence grown and strengthened, until to-day "she looketh forth as the morning, fair as the moon, clear as the sun, and terrible as an army with banners." Consider the growth of character. At the birth of the infant there is somewhere in the tender, palpitating form the germ of a character, which, as years pass, silently swells and grows, strengthening, solidifying, sending out root and branch, until it stands a matured tree. Or, to change the figure, there is in your nature, which stands as the type of all others, the corner-stone of character laid by the hand of God. We read of a house in which neither hammer, nor axe, nor any tool of iron was heard while it was in building. So in the building of your character no sound is heard. In silence the work goes and of high standing alike in his profession and in his social position, was returning from a medical consultation in the country, to which he had been called, and driving quietly homeward to the city, his thoughts engrossed by the peculiarities of the case which had just been submitted to his medical acumen, he had become so involved in the consideration of the subject as to entirely forget that the horse he was driving was a young and spirited animal, which he had recently purchased in place of the old, steady, and well-trained servant that had been his trusted companion through many years of professional visiting, and upon whose discretion he had confidently relied. A loud, sudden, and most unexpected tattoo upon a toy-drum, given gratis by a very juvenile drummer, startled both the horse and his driver. The former reared for a moment upon his hindfeet, then springing forward, shied suddenly across the road, and, turning, struck the wheel of the carriage against the stone-wall with such violence as to tear off the wheel and upset the vehicle, sending the astonished M.D. flying through the air with a velocity as undesirable as it was unusual to him; and his first distinct consciousness was a confused finding of himself all in a heap upon a pile of loose stones upon the | which she replied, "Do tell! I want to knowi" edge of the wayside. and recommenced her rocking and knitting After a few moments' silence she again stopped, and scratching up her hair with her knitting-needle, as if trying to stir up the dor mant ideas, renewed the attack: Never for a moment indulging in the hope that he was not "kilt entirely," as the Irish patois expresses it, and gathering himself up with exceeding care and caution, as if he fully expected to find some of the pieces missing, the wor- "Don't you think there has been a sight of thy man was fairly amazed to find himself sudding deaths this year, Doctor-say now?" really unhurt, though somewhat unsettled by "I do not think I was aware of it," said the his hasty flight; and, adjusting his glasses and Doctor. "There have been none in the circle replacing his fugitive hat, he took a good self-in which I visit, and I do not remember to have congratulatory shake, and finding that all his heard of many." limbs worked as well as before, he next proceeded to look after his horse and buggy. To his farther satisfaction he found the horse too was unhurt. Some men who chanced to be passing at the moment had secured him; and, the first error over, he certainly behaved uncommonly well, looking round at his master with a trembling and deprecatory intelligence which seemed to say that he was sorry he was so foolishly nervous, and would not do so again-but he really couldn't stand that boy with the drum any way! The carriage and harness had, however, sustained considerable injury; but as there was a blacksmith's shop close at hand, Dr. Raimond proceeded thither, and had the pleasure to learn that one hour and a half would repair the damages. As this time, though not long for the needed work, would inevitably prove tedious to the detained gentleman if spent pacing up and down in the heated air of the smithy, the master of the shop asked him to walk into the house and rest, where it was cooler, and where, in fact, he would be less in his way. This offer the Doctor gladly accepted, and was shown immediately into a neat little sitting-room, and introduced to the mother of his conductor, a tall, thin, gaunt, raw-boned looking old woman, who, dressed in a shabby black alpaca, and close but soiled white muslin cap, was sitting by the window in a tall rocking-chair, rocking and knitting with slow but persistent industry. As the blacksmith, having performed his duty as master of ceremonies, immediately withdrew to give his personal attention to the needed repairs, the old woman seemed to feel it was incumbent upon her to entertain the gentleman thus thrown upon her good offices; and stopping her rocking for a moment, and holding the immeasurably long stocking she was engaged upon suspended in mid-air with one hand, while with the other she pulled out yard after yard of coarse blue yarn from the ball hidden in the depths of her pocket, she coolly surveyed him over the top of her glasses, and then commencod her labors of love with the somewhat hackneyed inquiry of, "Good deal of sickness about now, Doctor ?" "No," the Doctor replied; he thought not more, if indeed so much, as usual at that time of the year. There was usually a greater amount of illness in that month than in the two or three preceding ones, especially among children. To "You don't?" she answered. "Well! that's good now; but I suppose you've been a doct'rin' a good while now, and it's likely you've got to be pretty considerable knowledgable by this time, ain't yer? Do you live any wheres round ?" "No," the Doctor told her; he was only passing through the town. "And where do you come from then?" The Doctor named the country town he had just left. "Law! did you? Why, do you live up there? Why! I want to know!" "Oh no," said the unwilling catechumen, "I said I came from there; I live in Boston "Boston, do you? Well, now, that's sort of curious; why, that was where I orig-gi-nated." "Ah, indeed!” "Yes. Well, that was where I was born. Yes, and it was my place of residence when I was a gal; indeed I lived there till I was married, but I haven't been there since-no, not for these forty years and more, far's I know." "Really!" said the Doctor. "And how does that happen? I should think, if it was your native place, you would like to visit it now and then." "Well! like it? yes, so I should and I do keep a meaning to go; but lor, there! I tell our folks 'tain't no use in life; there never comes a time for me to go nowheres; there's allers something to keep me at home; if it ain't this it's that, and if it ain't that it's t'other. But there! I mean to go, I do really mean to go, if I break right off, and I s'pose I'll have to if I go at all. I want to-why! I suppose there's been a sight of repairs there since I come away, ain't there?" The Doctor said yes; in the last forty years there had been a great many alterations, and he thought probably some improvements in the place. "Like as not-shouldn't wonder. Why, do you know I heer'd tell they had tore down the old bake-house just at the corner of our street? Only think of that now!" "I dare say; a great number of old buildings have been removed in that time. In what part of the city did you live?” ""Twant no city, I guess, when I lived there; laws, no! nor for years afterward; but, you see, I lived in Ruggles's Lane; I s'pose you know where that is well enough." "No, I do not think I do; I do not remember the name. 1 "Well, like as not they've been and changed | pernickity about his vittles;'-and so he was, the name on't by this time; I shouldn't wonder sure enough. But still, for all that, he was a if they had. But I lived with old Mr. Smith, real good man, too, and I liked him, and I coula of Ruggles's Lane; you knew him, Doctor, suit him; and so I used to laugh and tell her didn't you? Lors! no; I don't suppose you did I guessed there warn't no danger of me getting nuther; you couldn't have, come to think on't, married." for the Smiths they were all dead or gone afore ever you cum to yer senses. But I guess you've heard tell of him often enough, hain't you?-old Mr. Smith, of Ruggles's Lane-why, he was a inan much know'd." 'And what became of him after you did leave them?" "Oh, I didn't-I didn't leave him; I staid by till he died, poor man! He died sudding. Well, there, I don't justly know how it is, Doc "No, I think not; I do not remember ever tor, but I've allers minded this one thinghearing of him. Who was he?" there's some folks dies kind of sudding, and “Why, he was Mr. Smith, of Ruggles's Lane; there's other folks kind of hangs on longer than I told you so." "Yes, I know; but what was he?" "Well, he was Miss Smith's husband, and a great; rich man. Why, he owned the house they lived in (and it was a real nice one, too), and the one round the corner (that warn't quite so good), and he kept a horse and shay, and he was one of the s'lectmen! Why, Doctor! you must have heard of him often and often, time and agin, only maybe you disremember it." "But what was his profession? Can you tell me that ?" you'd expect 'um to. Now there was my husband, Mr. Blaney, he hung on nigh upon two years, up and down, up and down, nigh upon two years; but Mr. Smith (as I was saying) he died real sudding—he died of the cholera, they said." "Indeed! and how long was he ill ?" 'Well, after his death Miss Smith she said he had had the monitorial symptoms for two days; but I'm sure I never knew nothing of it if he had. I'm sure I thought he ate his dinner with the very greatest veracity that day. But jest as I was cleaning my knives Miss Smith she run out, all wild and sort of flabbergasted like, and said he had got the cholera, and that he had collapsed; and so I went right away "Oh laws! he wa'n't a professor-at least not as ever I heard tell of. He was a Baptist, I guess, but I can't say punctually; and a good enough sort of a man he was; but he wa'n't a professor, nor nothing like that-oh my good-after the doctors. The last words he ever said ness gracious, no!" "Well, then, what did he do?" "Do? Why, he didn't do much of any thing amiss as I know of; he did use to smoke a good deal, and sometimes he did use to take something spiritual like when he went to bed anights in cold weather, but not very often, and not very strong; and I declare I don'no as it hurt him any, Doctor. Do you s'pose it did, now ?" "Oh no; all right, I dare say; but what was his calling? Can you tell me that?" "His calling? Oh yes; that was John E. Smith-John E.—and his wife, Miss Smith, she used allers to laugh and call him Johnny Smith, don't you see?-John E.-Johnny-just for the joke, you know; and it used to make him as mad as a hop. Warn't it good?" Very, indeed-a capital jest. But I meant what business did he do?" "Oh laws! Well, why did not you say so before? I didn't sense your meaning. Well, he kept a provision store, and we allers had the very best of every thing in the house; he would have it. Miss Smith she used to tell him he was a terrible epicack, and I don'no but that he was. That was how I cum to stay there so long-nobody else couldn't make the coffee to suit him, and he was awful perticular about his veal cutlets. Miss Smith she used to laugh and say to me, Salome, if you should ever get married, and go away and leave me, I guess I should have to be disvorced, for nobody else in the world couldn't suit him; and I'm sure I do not know how you do, he is so tedious and in this world-he looked up at me as I was wringing out the hot flannels for him, and he says to me, ‘Salome,' he says, 'too much onion in that stuffing' (you see, we'd had potted pigeons for dinner that day; laws! I remember it jest as well as can be). The doctors they all thought he was out, but I knew better; he knowed what he was saying well enough, poor man! And then he died." 66 Well, so I did, and so he thought, and so every body used to think; but didn't you ever mind, Doctor, that some folks die and leave more than folks expected 'um to, and other folks die and they don't leave so much? Well, then, sometimes I think-and then agin I declare I don't know!' "Had Mr. and Mrs. Smith any children?” "No, not when he died; I guess they never had but one, and she died young. Miss Smith had her picture, and she set a sight by it; she showed it to me more than once, and she said it was her dear little Sairy-Mary who had gone to glory. And I'm sure I can't say but what she had, but she did not look like it a mite (not in her picture), for she had a terrible humor and was cross-eyed. But then, you see, the picture was taken before she got there, and that might | before beheld a human face so winning and lovemake a difference far's I know." "And have you never heard from Mrs Smith since you left her?" "Yes, indeed! Oh laws, yes! ever so many times I know first she went into a community, and then she went into a consumption, and then she went into the hospital. I went over to see her there once, but it wasn't no sort of satisfaction to me; for you see she had become a mediator by that time." "A what? She had become a what?" "Well, a mediator; you know, Doctor, a spiritual mediator they call 'um. One of them spirit folks who rap up dead people, and turn tables, and all that. She seemed to be happy enough, poor creature; she said she often heard from Mr. Smith, and had letters and messages from him. I said I hoped he was well, and she said, Yes, he was quite well, she thanked me. And then I asked her how he looked, and she said she hadn't never seen him yet; she supposed she was not enveloped far enough for that yet. And then I asked if she ever see her little Sairy Mary? But she said, No, she hadn't actually seen her yet, for she was not enveloped far enough for that nuther; but that she often heard her round, sort of flopping her wings like, and she did hope soon to get a sight of her. Do you believe in them spiritual folks, Doctor? Some folks ly. Her features were all regular and good, her complexion of marble fairness, yet with a freshness about its coloring which seemed to give assurance that though perhaps habitually pale when at rest, an aroused feeling, a passing thought, a quickened movement, a mere heartthrob of accelerated motion even, would flush the sweet young face and make it like the face of the young Aurora. And this sweet face, attractive as it was in color and outline, was fitly framed in soft, loose, gleaming curls, which fell in rich abundance over her ivory neck and shoulders in the unstudied but graceful order which we always observe in pictures or casts of the gentle Evangelist, the beloved John. But yet beautiful as it was the observer felt that the fair face upon which his gaze was riveted owed its greatest charm to its expression, which seemed to denote a strangely mysterious blending of the child and the woman. It had all the trusting love, the appealing tenderness, the innocent sweetness of childhood; but blending with it, and overshadowing it, and giving to it a loftier character, was the intelligent purity of maturer thought. And over all was the look of holy earnestness and calm contemplation which rests upon the faces of the pictured cherubim. But even in the hasty survey he took the good Doctor noticed, with his habitual and perhaps does, and more don't. My son's wife and Man-professional observation, one marked peculiaridany they go in for it, and they do tell some mighty queer things to be sure. John he don't believe in it, not a mite. Well there, sometimes I think, and then agin I don't know." As the old woman reached for the second time this very logical, and to her evidently satisfactory, "conclusion of the whole matter," and while the wearied Doctor was mentally wondering if human dullness and tediousness could reach a height nearer the sublime, a sweet, timid female voice just outside of the open door behind them, said softly, "Grandmother, are you here?" "Well, Helun, child," said the person thus addressed, and without turning round, "and what do you want this time of day, hey?" Instinctively the Doctor turned his eyes in the direction of the new-comer, and having done so he as instinctively kept them there; for the object upon which they rested was not one to turn away from with indifference. The speaker, who stood outside of the low door, leaning lightly in, supporting herself by one hand upon the side of the vine-hung doorway, which framed her like a picture, was a young girl of sixteen or possibly eighteen years of age. In figure she was tall and slightly made; slight even to fragility, yet it was evidently not the fragility of disease or weakness, but seemed rather an ethereal lightness, as if the spiritual element in her composition had outstripped the growth of the physical or material nature. But it was the face of the girl which fixed the attention of the good Doctor, for he felt he had never ty; he could not catch the glance of her eyes, for she never raised them-even when she turned her face toward the old woman whom she addressed she never raised the deeply fringed and snowy lids but kept her downcast eyes upon the ground. "Well, Helun," said the old woman, impatiently, "why under the sun don't yer come in and tell what you've come for? What in the world are yer 'fraid of? Nobody ain't a going to eat you, I guess. Come in, can't yer, and not stand simpering there?" In quiet answer to this comforting assurance and very courteous invitation the young girl glided into the room, and was crossing it slowly in the direction of the old woman's chair; but before she reached it she stopped abruptly in the middle of the floor, suddenly raised her hand, and lifted her head as if intently listening, and then, while the rich blood rushed tumultuously in a vivid blush over her brow, cheek, bosom, and even hands, she said, trembling violently, "Grandmother, you are not alone!" "Well, who said as I was?" said the old woman, bruskly and derisively. "I didn't, did I? But do come along child, and don't be such a fool! The gentleman won't want to run away with you, I'll be bound. Come along, can't ye? The poor creeter's as blind as a bat!" she added, in explanation to her guest, while poor Helen, hurt and abashed at having herself and her sad infirmity thus coarsely thrust upon the notice of an entire stranger, shrunk timidly into shelter behind the chair of the old woman. "Blind! and at her age! Is it possible?" said the pitying observer. "Oh, my poor girl, that is hard indeed!" There was very little in the words thus uttered, but their tone of genuine, earnest, heart-felt sympathy went straight home to the heart of the poor girl, to whom sympathy was rarely offered. "Who is it, grandmother?” she said, whisperingly, from behind the chair where she had vainly endeavored to hide herself from observa"Who is it, grandmother? Oh, please tion. tell me-do!" "Come out of that, can't yer?" said the grandmother, angrily; and reaching out her hand behind her she clutched vaguely at the skirts of the girl's dress, endeavoring to drag her forward. "What in the world are ye skeered of? Ar'n't yer ashamed of yourself, you great goose, you! I declare you're too old and too big to act so like a nat'ral fool. I only wish Harr'ot or Mandany was here; they'd know how to behave; they wouldn't act so like fools, I guess." "Yes, Sir; oh yes; you can indeed,' said the girl, whose whole manner seemed suddenly, under some strong and overmastering influence of feeling, to change from childish timidity to womanly self-possession; and leaving her retreat behind the chair of the old woman, who gazed upon her thus transformed in stupid wonder, she glided forward, guided by a quick sense of hearing, and the unerring instinct which a fatherly Providence so often bestows upon persons thus afflicted, and stood in quiet dignity before the Doctor. "May I take your hand?" she said. The Doctor put his broad firm hand into her little outstretched pink palm; she held it for a moment with quivering lip and flushing cheek; then she said, half timidly, half assured, "May I read your face?-my fingers are my eyes, you know." The Doctor silently raised her right hand and laid it upon his own brow. With light, rapid manipulations the slender finger-tips perused the kind, honest face before her; and then a "Grandmother! who is it? please tell me bright, beautiful smile flashed like sunlight over who it is?" pleaded the sweet voice. "I am a gentleman from Boston, my dear," said the Doctor, kindly. "I have met with a little accident upon the road, and am waiting until my carriage is repaired; and as it was very warm in the smithy I came in here to sit; but if my being here annoys you in any way I will go out at once." "Oh, no, no. Sir!" said the girl, eagerly; "it does not-I do not wish it; please do not go, I beg of you." "There, now, Helun, you great goose, I told you so. What's the use of you being so scarey always? I told yer the Doctor wouldn't eat yer, didn't I?" "The Doctor?" said Helen, eagerly. "Is the gentleman a doctor, and from Boston? Oh, grandmother, my dream! my dream! Don't you remember? Is he indeed a doctor, and from Boston? Oh! please tell me that." "Is this young girl your grandchild?" asked the Doctor, turning to the elder woman, for he was struck with the wide disparity between the two-the one being a very clod, "of the earth, earthy"-the other looking as if she had just walked out of the gates of Paradise. 'Law, sakes! no, indeed!" said Mrs. Blaney. "She isn't not the least mite akin to me in the world; she is my son John's wife's first husband's child. I never knew her parents from Adam. I never see either of 'um-not to my knowledge-father or mother. Laws no; she's no relation in life to me or any of my folks." The Doctor nodded, secretly pleased to find it was so. "Grandmother," again pleaded the young girl, with trembling earnestness, "won't you tell me? Is the gentleman a Boston doctor?" "Yes, my child," said the Doctor, answering the question the old woman teasingly had evaded; I am a doctor, and I am from Boston; can I do any thing for you?" her own. "I am satisfied," she said. "I liked the voice; I liked the hand, I like the face. I am sure you are true. I may trust you. I want your aid; will you give it to me?" "Yes, my child," said the good Doctor, fairly taken captive by her confiding innocence. "What can I do for you?" "I want you to examine my eyes, and give me your opinion of them. But first I should like to tell you my little history; may I?" "Certainly, my child, you shall, but not here," said the Doctor, glancing round at the watchful old woman, and naturally inferring the girl would speak more freely out of her presence. "Come with me, my dear. I see a nice bench out there under the apple-trees yonder. Suppose we go there, and I can examine your eyes better than in the house;" and drawing her hand within his arm he was leading her from the room, when the old woman exclaimed, "Well, Helun! I declare if you don't beat all! Ten minutes ago yer was scared to death; and now yer jest as bold as the dickens. What yer up to now, I should like to know?" "No mischief at all," said Doctor Raimond, quietly. "I am going to take her out into the light and examine her eyes, and ask her all about them ;" and carefully guiding her, he led her to the seat he had indicated. "And now," he said, when he had seated her and himself, "tell me all that is in your mind to say to me, my poor child." "It is not a long story," said Helen. "In the first place, I am, as you have just been told, in no way related to the family I live with; indeed, I am not related to any body, I think," she said, sadly. "These people keep me out of charity, I suppose; at least they say they do." Her lip quivered; she paused a moment, recovered herself, and went on: "They are very good to keep me at all, I suppose; for I am a great |