I have no worries which I do not borrow from my married friends. I keep up with the fashions; my clothes fit me; my fingers still come to the ends of my gloves; I feel no leaning towards all-over cloth shoes; I have not gone permanently into bonnets. I have tried to be a pleasant Old Maid, and my reward is that my friends make me feel as if they liked to have me about. I am not made to feel that I am passe. One's clothes and one's feelings are all that ever make one passe.

Nevertheless, I have turned my face resolutely towards the setting sun. I am resting now. I have given up struggling against the inevitable. That is a privilege and an attribute of youth. I feel as though I were only beginning to live, now that I have passed through the period of turmoil and come out from the rapids into gently gliding water. There is so much in life which we could not see at the beginning, but which grows with our growth and bears us company in the richness of evening-tide. I have learned to love my life and to cultivate it. Who knows what is in her life until she has tended it and made it know that she expects something from it in return for all her aspirations and endeavors? Even my wasted efforts are dear to me.

"'Tis greatly wise to talk with our past hours, And ask them what report they bore to Heaven, And how they might have borne more welcome news."

Yet there is a sadness in looking back. I see the many lost opportunities lifting to me their wistful faces, and dumbly pleading with me to accept them and their promises; yet I carelessly passed them by. I see worse. I see the rents in the hedge, where I forced my wilful way into forbidden fields, and only regained my path after weary wandering, brier-torn, and none the better for my folly. Lost faces come before me which I might have gladdened oftener. Voices sound in my ear whose tones I might have made happier if I would. Withheld sympathy rises up before me deploring its wasted treasure. How can any one be happy in looking back? The only pleasure in looking forward is in hope. Yet now both grief and joy are tempered with a softness which enfolds my fretted spirit gratefully.

"Time has laid his hand Upon my heart gently; not smiting it, But as a harper lays his open palm Upon his harp to deaden its vibrations."

And so I am looking forward to-night to an old age more peaceful, less turbulent, than my youth has been. I reach forward gladly, too, for life holds much that is sweet to old age, which youth can in no wise comprehend. Possibly this is one reason why youth is so anxious to concentrate enjoyment. But I am tired of concentration. There is a wear and tear about it which precludes the possibility of pleasure. I want to take the rest of my life gently, and by redoubled tenderness repay it for rude handling in my youth—that youth which lies very far away from me to-night and is wrapped in a rainbow mist.

THE END



LOVE-LETTERS OF A WORLDLY WOMAN.

By Mrs. W. K. CLIFFORD, Author of "Aunt Anne," "Mrs. Keith's Crime," etc. 16mo, Cloth, Ornamental, Uncut Edges and Gilt Top, $1 25.

This volume contains three brilliant love-stories well worth reading.... The letters are original and audacious, and are full of a certain intellectual "abandon" which is sure to charm the cultivated reader.... We trust that Mrs. W. K. Clifford will give us more fiction in this delicately humorous, subtle, and analytic vein.—Literary World, Boston.

Mrs. Clifford's literary style is excellent, and the love-letters always have their special interest.—N.Y. Times.

There is abundant cleverness in it. The situations are presented with skill and force, and the letters are written with great dramatic propriety and much humor.—St. James's Gazette, London.

In short analytical stories of this kind Mrs. Clifford has come to take a unique position in England. In the delicate, ingenious, forcible use of language, to express the results of an unusual range of observation, she stands to our literature as De Maupassant and Bourget stand to the literature of France.—Black and White, London.

The study of character is so acute, the analysis of motives and conduct so skilful, and, withal, the wit and satire so keen, that the reader does not tire.—Christian Intelligencer, N.Y.

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Published by HARPER & BROTHERS, New York.

The above work will be sent by mail, postage prepaid, to any part of the United States, Canada, or Mexico, on receipt of the price.



UNHAPPY LOVES OF MEN OF GENIUS.

By THOMAS HITCHCOCK. With Twelve Portraits. 16mo, Cloth, Ornamental, $1 25.

A fascinating book. So taking are its rapidly interchanging lights and shadows that one reads it from beginning to end without any thought of possible intrusion.—Observer, N.Y.

The simple and perspicuous style in which Mr. Hitchcock tells these stories of unhappy loves is not less admirable than the learning and the extensive reading and investigation which have enabled him to gather the facts presented in a manner so engaging. His volume is an important contribution to literature, and it is of universal interest.—N.Y. Sun.

The stories are concisely and sympathetically told, and the book presents in small compass what, in lieu of it, must be sought through many volumes.—Dial, Chicago.

A very interesting little book.... The studies are carefully and aptly made, and add something to one's sense of personal acquaintanceship with those men and women who were before not strangers.—Evangelist, N.Y.

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Published by HARPER & BROTHERS, New York.

The above work will be sent by mail, postage prepaid, to any part of the United States, Canada, or Mexico, on receipt of the price.

THE END