grandeur of this phenomenon of nature.

I walked over Suspension Bridge in order to realize its construction
through the sense of feeling, and our driver seemed much amused at my
manner of seeing. Dismissing our carriage, we walked over Goat Island, in
order to better take in the diversified beauty. The old man at the bridge,
in consideration of my affliction, refused to accept the usual fee; so
hard-hearted as they seem, in their spirit of gain, they have still some
vulnerable point, some avenue left open to the heart, thus confirming the
humanitarian sentiment, that no nature is utterly depraved.

Entering into conversation with the old bridge-tender, I was amused and
surprised at his fund of anecdote and wealth of wit. Among other playful
jests he declared he could define the exact condition of heart in each
individual who crossed over, as accurately as we note the mercury in the
barometer for atmospheric probabilities, even going so far as to say that
he could guess the "Yes" or "No," and consequently the engagement or
non-engagement of each returning couple.

We followed the meandering paths and shaded seclusions, where tree and
flower, rock and stream make up the fairy realm, and crowned all by
standing in the tower on Table Rock, our hearts awed and reverent and our
lips inaudibly whispering "Be still, and know that I am God."

Leaving by the Great Western Railway we stopped at London, Canada, where
Hattie had friends, and where I found a letter from my husband, who had
returned from Woodbine, and being about to establish himself for a time in
Milwaukee, where he was to build a mill, he desired me to return at once
and accompany him. Without delay we sped on in the lightning train to
Chicago, my impatient heart keeping time with the winged flight of the