they heard the old lady say in a thin, feeble voice, "Come agin." They might, but she would be missing.

CHAPTER VI.

THE months rolled on with Susanna and her grandfather, and one day was much like another, save in the failing strength of the three old people around her.

Her grandfather rode off occasionally among his patients; but Sorrel was clumsy, and often stumbled, and the doctor was talking of buying a new horse, and of giving Sorrel "his time." Mollie was so feeble that Susanna had talked with her grandfather about having one of the Samson girls come and help Mollie, and learn about the work. The doctor had thought it best, and Patty Samson was in the family. It was like sunshine to hear the young girl's voice singing so gayly, as she skipped up the wide, low stairs. Peter had given up many of his old ways, and was like Sorrel, stiff and clumsy. Mollie sat by the kitchen fire and jogged herself in a pitiful way; but she said "she didn't think much o' that Samson gal, young 'uns was more plague than profit allus."

When the summer came again, Susanna helped her grandfather in the garden, where he raised many of his herbs. In the sweet summer days she walked with him, and gathered the bright saffron blossoms. At this time he talked with her about her grandmother, and her father and mother. The old man always spoke of his wife with so much tenderness and love, and once only he told of her sickness and death. Tears filled his eyes, dimmed with age, as he went over this scene again. "Your mother was a beautiful woman, Susanna: when James told me

that he was going to be married, I felt thankful to have them come home. Mollie was young when your grandmother died, but she did very well. When Mary came, she straightened every thing, and we were so happy. In a little while after you were born, I found that your mother had got to leave us, and I felt that my cup was too full. She lingered along through the winter, and died in May. You were three years old when you were five, your father died, and you were all I had. I never realized how thankful I was for you until then. When you were eight years old, you had the throat distemper. I had almost given you up. worked and watched over you, Susanna ; and, when your throat was swollen out even with your face, Peter was nearly crazy. He went down to the spring by the thick hemlocks, and dug through the frozen ground till he found a frog. He brought it up, and sat it on your chest close to your mouth: the frog drew several long breaths, and then toppled over, dead: we thought that it helped your throat." Susanna felt after this talk how good they had all been to her; and, if she could comfort them in their old age, she was glad that she had lived, had loved and lost.

Peter and Mollie

Once in early autumn the doctor walked to the church with Susanna, and this sabbath Mr. Bostwick preached such a comforting sermon ; often before Susanna had thought his sermons were cold. He had made God seem unapproachable, not a God to love, but a God to fear; but this day that feeling melted away, and his words floated out from under the sounding-board, and settled like a balm on his listeners. Susanna and her grandfather had many pleasant talks before the fire when the days grew colder, and the doctor had

given up going out: patients came to the house, but he was too feeble to ride.

One night he went to his room; and, when Susanna went in to see that he was made comfortable for the night, he said, "Sit down here by me, Susanna, I want to talk with you a little." Susanna gave him an anxious look. "Don't be worried, child," he said: "you know I can't live long. I have passed by my days of usefulness, and I have no desire to live longer."—"Oh, don't say so, grandfather! You are all I have," said Susanna. "Well, dear, when I am gone, you will live here just the same, of course. I have made all legal arrangements. Mollie and Peter won't last long. I want you to keep Sorrel and Bluff as long as they live, and give them a decent burial. There, that is all, now go to bed. Peter will see to the fire." Susanna bent over and kissed his forehead, and took his shrunken hand in hers. "Now go, Susanna. I shall soon sleep."

In the morning Peter knocked at Susanna's door, and said, "Somethin' is the matter with massa, he don't answer me.'

." Susanna's heart seemed to stop as she walked into her grandfather's room. Just as she had left him, lying on his side: not a struggle had he made when death came. He had met the stern messenger fearlessly, and had gone into a better life. Susanna felt that he was ripe for the harvest, and that he longed to be with those who had crossed before.

Patty came into the sitting-room one morning with an armful of sheets, and said, "Miss Susanna, where shall I put these fine sheets? in the press in the attic? Mollie always kept them there." "Yes, I think so," said Susanna.

"I will go up with you, and we will look them over." Standing in one end of the attic was a large press filled with homespun linen, sheets, towels, and table-cloths: they were yellow with age, and Patty said, "Hadn't I better bleach these on the grass ? ” — “Yes, I think so," said Susanna, and they piled them out to take down. "What's in this great chist ?" asked Patty. "Things of by-gone days," answered Susanna, as she went along to open the heavy oaken lid.

"Here is my mother's weddingdress," she said, as she unfolded a stiff white brocade. "Grandfather always said that he wanted me to be married in it." With a sigh she took out a thin white gown, and a pair of white spangled slippers. "There, Patty, this was my only party dress. I wore it to 'Squire Ricker's ball. You know the old 'Squire Ricker house? The whole upper story is a hall. I wore this dress there full twenty years ago, and I was as happy then as a mortal ever was."

Susanna lived on with Patty. Peter and Mollie had died very near each other, and Susanna cared for them as tenderly as they had watched over her in her childhood. Sorrel and Bluff were sleeping in company under the pines where Bluff had shown so much sympathy for Susanna in her hour of trial.

Susanna grew old beautifully. She mellowed, and ripened, and shed happiness in her pathway. The young people in the old town came to her for counsel; and many a disappointed maiden and jilted lover found comfort in talking with "Miss Susanna." She cared for the poor; and Patty expected always to cook extra "for stragglers," she said. The sick felt that her presence was a medicine to them, and the

THERE are historic as well as mathematical problems, but there is no general similarity in them save in the name. Theorems in mathematics are susceptible of solution, if one can only get at the principles that underlie them; but there are no known rules by which the historical student can certainly and demonstrably solve the problems that are ever appearing on Clio's scroll. A theorem of Euclid, however difficult, consists of certain logical elements; and a series of mathematical processes will prove the truth or the fallacy of an operation indisputably and unerringly. None of the problems of history can be disposed of so readily. Assumptions of solutions can easily be made; but these, in turn, can be overthrown by the more subtle reasoning or the profounder erudition of another. And even the assumption of the last is not received as irrevocable. They are only speculations at the best, dependent on the animus of the writer, and can never receive the credence accorded to testimony irrespective of personal considerations.

Many of these questions are perhaps silly ones, the more so as it does not appear in all cases what should be the conditions of the problems. And still the amusement experienced in their examination is not surpassed by the interest and importance many times attached to them. An acute observer has declared that the study of history makes one wise. Accepting the truth of this apothegm, as applied to history in its political and philosophical bearing, it must be no less true that an ex

amination of its mathematical qualities, as we are pleased to term them, must render one subtle and profound. Take, for instance, that problem of Herodotus: What would have been the result if Xerxes had been victorious at Salamis? In order to arrive at any satisfactory conclusion, one must read through long annals, look at this and that authority, examine the religious and civil institutions of the rival nations; and not only must he be conversant with all the details of contemporary history, but he must stand far enough off to judge of the effects pro and con upon his own age. In fact, he must bring to the investigation a mind filled with the knowledge of long years of study. No novice, no empiric, can sit in judgment upon the declarations of astute and experienced historians.

Sir Edward Creasy, in his "Fifteen Decisive Battles," maintains that Marathon was the important and decisive event of the Græco-Persian war, rather than Salamis. How this could well be, when the Persians were urged on to still more desperate undertakings by Xerxes, and the Greeks had all their glories to win over again, we fail to see. Nor do we accept the assertion that Europe was saved from a desolation greater than would have occurred from a deluge by the destruction of the Persian armament. Greece rose, indeed, to unprecedented greatness and splendor after the billows of that mighty torrent had ceased to roll; but has one ever thought what lay at the bottom of that majestic and brilliant upheaval? The inherent genius of the Greek mind

alone would never have forced into such sudden action the arts and philosophy. Nor was it through the artificial and forced influence of the fierce struggle the Greeks had passed through. Sometimes, but not in this case, has civilization been matured by the energy of distress. What was it, then, that brought about this unexpected and glorious epoch that boasted of the Parthenon, of Plato, and of Sophocles? We answer, it was the influence of the Oriental upon the Greek mind.

The results were brilliant, but permanent: the process had been of slow growth. From the time of Croesus, from the time when Solon and Pythagoras had studied at Asiatic courts, this influence had been going out silently and slowly. The injection of the vast hosts of Darius and Xerxes into Greece forwarded this revolution. Mere contact alone would have done much, but how much more these counter-surges of invasion. Doubtless many of the conquered - some of them were Asiaticized Greeks - remained behind, and their influence performed no unimportant work. Greece threw off the Asiatic despotism, but succumbed to Asiatic thought, Asiatic manners, Asiatic religion. To the active, subtle, restless spirit of the Greek were now joined the gravity, the philosophy, of the Oriental. All the Greek philosophers drank their wisdom from founts in the East. All the Greek poets caught their imagery and inspiration from the Orient. Greek commanders copied the military system of Cyrus. Greek architects took their models from the grandeur, the beauty, the splendor, of Eastern monuments.

In all this no evil was done to Greece, but much good. But would there not have been good of much greater

abundance, had Persian and not Greek arms prevailed at Salamis? No, replies the modern democrat. Greek genius soared only for the reason that it was free. But when was Greece ever free? True, foreign domination did not always hold her in subjection; but her gigantic oligarchies, her rude democracies, her bad institutions, were worse than foreign masters. Besides, if democracies and oligarchies were indeed so stimulative of genius, so patronizing of letters, why sought Plato the court of the tyrant Dionysius, Pindar and Euripides the court of the Macedonian Alexander, and Aristotle the court of Philip? Moreover, did not the first soarings of Greek genius take place under the early tyrants? no! genius is not dwarfed or fettered by any thing. It flourishes at the courts of despots, under the rule of oligarchies, under the sway of democracies. Its habitat does not make nor mar it. Genius is divine, and God is everywhere.

Oh,

But if Persia had conquered Greece, what then? What evil would have been done? The religion of Zoroaster was superior to that of Homer and Hesiod, less animated and picturesque indeed, but more simple and exalted. The Persians had no gods partaking of the worst characteristics of a mortal nature. They worshipped their Great. One not in statues nor in temples, but upon the sublime altars of lofty mountain-tops. In many respects it resembled the religion of the Hebrews, and it was about the only other religion in the world which was not defiled by human sacrifices and brutal worship. Surely it would not have injured Greece to have received this paternal, mild monotheism over their false though very beautiful system of polytheism.