At last, in desperate mood, they sought once more
  The Temple’s porches, searched in vain before;
  They found him seated with the ancient men,—­
  The grim old rufflers of the tongue and pen,—­
  Their bald heads glistening as they clustered near,
  Their gray beards slanting as they turned to hear,
  Lost in half-envious wonder and surprise
  That lips so fresh should utter words so wise.

     And Mary said,—­as one who, tried too long,
  Tells all her grief and half her sense of wrong,—­
  “What is this thoughtless thing which thou hast done? 
  Lo, we have sought thee sorrowing, O my son!”

     Few words he spake, and scarce of filial tone,—­
  Strange words, their sense a mystery yet unknown;
  Then turned with them and left the holy hill,
  To all their mild commands obedient still.

     The tale was told to Nazareth’s sober men,
  And Nazareth’s matrons told it oft again;
  The maids re-told it at the fountain’s side;
  The youthful shepherds doubted or denied;
  It passed around among the listening friends,
  With all that fancy adds and fiction lends,
  Till newer marvels dimmed the young renown
  Of Joseph’s son, who talked the Rabbis down.

     But Mary, faithful to its lightest word,
  Kept in her heart the sayings she had heard,
  Till the dread morning rent the Temple’s veil,
  And shuddering Earth confirmed the wondrous tale.

  Youth fades; love droops; the leaves of friendship fall: 
  A mother’s secret hope outlives them all.

* * * * *

THE MINISTER’S WOOING.

[Continued.]

CHAPTER XII.

MISS PRISSY.

Will our little Mary really fall in love with the Doctor?—­The question reaches us in anxious tones from all the circle of our readers; and what especially shocks us is, that grave doctors of divinity, and serious, stocking-knitting matrons, seem to be the class who are particularly set against the success of our excellent orthodox hero, and bent on reminding us of the claims of that unregenerate James, whom we have sent to sea on purpose that our heroine may recover herself of that foolish partiality for him which all the Christian world seems bent on perpetuating.

“Now, really,” says the Rev. Mrs. Q., looking up from her bundle of Sewing-Society work, “you are not going to let Mary marry the Doctor?”

My dear Madam, is not that just what you did, yourself, after having turned off three or four fascinating young sinners as good as James any day?  Don’t make us believe that you are sorry for it now!

“Is it possible,” says Dr. Theophrastus, who is himself a stanch Hopkinsian divine, and who is at present recovering from his last grand effort on Natural and Moral Ability,—­“is it possible that you are going to let Mary forget that poor young man and marry Dr. H.?  That will never do in the world!”