pale and abstracted in their expression, yet their marvellous

likeness was still unchanged. Ruth's eyes were cast down so they
could not be seen; she trembled visibly, and her voice was scarcely

audible when she spoke the vow. It was only known in the
neighborhood that David was going to make another journey. The

truth could hardly have been guessed by persons whose ideas follow
the narrow round of their own experiences; had it been, there would

probably have been more condemnation than sympathy. But in a vague
way the presence of some deeper element was felt--the falling

of a shadow, although the outstretched wing was unseen. Far above
them, and above the shadow, watched the Infinite Pity, which was

not denied to three hearts that day.
It was a long time, more than a year, and Ruth was lulling her

first child on her bosom, before a letter came from David. He had
wandered westwards, purchased some lands on the outer line of

settlement, and appeared to be leading a wild and lonely life. "I
know now," he wrote, "just how much there is to bear, and how to

bear it. Strange men come between us, but you are not far off when
I am alone on these plains. There is a place where I can always

meet you, and I know that you have found it,--under the big ash-
tree by the barn. I think I am nearly always there about sundown,

and on moonshiny nights, because we are then nearest together; and
I never sleep without leaving you half my blanket. When I first

begin to wake I always feel your breath, so we are never really
parted for long. I do not know that I can change much; it is not

easy; it is like making up your mind to have different colored eyes
and hair, and I can only get sunburnt and wear a full beard. But

we are hardly as unhappy as we feared to be; mother came the other
night, in a dream, and took us on her knees. Oh, come to me,

Jonathan, but for one day! No, you will not find me; I am going
across the Plains!"

And Jonathan and Ruth? They loved each other tenderly; no external
trouble visited them; their home was peaceful and pure; and

yet, every room and stairway and chair was haunted by a sorrowful
ghost. As a neighbor said after visiting them, "There seemed to be

something lost." Ruth saw how constantly and how unconsciously
Jonathan turned to see his own every feeling reflected in the

missing eyes; how his hand sought another, even while its fellow
pressed hers; how half-spoken words, day and night, died upon his

lips, because they could not reach the twin-ear. She knew not how
it came, but her own nature took upon itself the same habit. She

felt that she received a less measure of love than she gave--not
from Jonathan, in whose whole, warm, transparent heart no other

woman had ever looked, but something of her own passed beyond him
and never returned. To both their life was like one of those

conjurer's cups, seemingly filled with red wine, which is held from
the lips by the false crystal hollow.

Neither spoke of this: neither dared to speak. The years dragged
out their slow length, with rare and brief messages from David.

Three children were in the house, and still peace and plenty laid
their signs upon its lintels. But at last Ruth, who had been

growing thinner and paler ever since the birth of her first boy,
became seriously ill. Consumption was hers by inheritance, and it

now manifested itself in a form which too surely foretold the
result. After the physician had gone, leaving his fatal verdict

behind him, she called to Jonathan, who, bewildered by his grief,
sank down on his knees at her bedside and sobbed upon her breast.

"Don't grieve," she said; "this is my share of the burden. If I
have taken too much from you and David, now comes the atonement.

Many things have grown clear to me. David was right when he said
that there was no blame. But my time is even less than the doctor

thinks: where is David? Can you not bid him come?"
"I can only call him with my heart," he answered. "And will he

hear me now, after nearly seven years?"
"Call, then!" she eagerly cried. "Call with all the strength of

your love for him and for me, and I believe he will hear you!"
The sun was just setting. Jonathan went to the great ash-tree,

behind the barn, fell upon his knees, and covered his face, and the
sense of an exceeding bitter cry filled his heart. All the

suppressed and baffled longing, the want, the hunger, the
unremitting pain of years, came upon him and were crowded into the

single prayer, "Come, David, or I die!" Before the twilight faded,
while he was still kneeling, an arm came upon his shoulder, and the

faint touch of another cheek upon his own. It was hardly for the
space of a thought, but he knew the sign.

"David will come!" he said to Ruth.
From that day all was changed. The cloud of coming death which

hung over the house was transmuted into fleecy gold. All the lost
life came back to Jonathan's face, all the unrestful sweetness of

Ruth's brightened into a serene beatitude. Months had passed since
David had been heard from; they knew not how to reach him

without many delays; yet neither dreamed of doubting his
coming.

Two weeks passed, three, and there was neither word nor sign.
Jonathan and Ruth thought, "He is near," and one day a singular

unrest fell upon the former. Ruth saw it, but said nothing until
night came, when she sent Jonathan from her bedside with the words,

"Go and meet him?"
An hour afterwards she heard double steps on the stone walk in

front of the house. They came slowly to the door; it opened; she
heard them along the hall and ascending the stairs; then the

chamber-lamp showed her the two faces, bright with a single,
unutterable joy.

One brother paused at the foot of the bed; the other drew near and
bent over her. She clasped her thin hands around his neck, kissed

him fondly, and cried, "Dear, dear David!"
"Dear Ruth," he said, "I came as soon as I could. I was far away,

among wild mountains, when I felt that Jonathan was calling me. I
knew that I must return, never to leave you more, and there was

still a little work to finish. Now we shall all live again!"
"Yes," said Jonathan, coming to her other side, "try to live,

Ruth!"
Her voice came clear, strong, and full of authority. "I DO live,

as never before. I shall take all my life with me when I go to
wait for one soul, as I shall find it there! Our love unites, not

divides, from this hour!"
The few weeks still left to her were a season of almost

superhuman peace. She faded slowly and painlessly, taking the
equal love of the twin-hearts, and giving an equal tenderness and

gratitude. Then first she saw the mysterious need which united
them, the fulness and joy wherewith each completed himself in the

other. All the imperfect past was enlightened, and the end, even
that now so near, was very good.

Every afternoon they carried her down to a cushioned chair on the
veranda, where she could enjoy the quiet of the sunny landscape,

the presence of the brothers seated at her feet, and the sports of
her children on the grass. Thus, one day, while David and Jonathan

held her hands and waited for her to wake from a happy sleep, she
went before them, and, ere they guessed the truth, she was waiting

for their one soul in the undiscovered land.
And Jonathan's children, now growing into manhood and girlhood,

also call David "father." The marks left by their divided lives
have long since vanished from their faces; the middle-aged men,

whose hairs are turning gray, still walk hand in hand, still sleep
upon the same pillow, still have their common wardrobe, as when

they were boys. They talk of "our Ruth" with no sadness, for they
believe that death will make them one, when, at the same moment, he

summons both. And we who know them, to whom they have confided the
touching mystery of their nature, believe so too.

THE EXPERIENCES OF THE A. C.
Bridgeport! Change cars for the Naugatuck Railroad!" shouted the

conductor of the New York and Boston Express Train, on the evening