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Elma often wondered that so much joy was given to her earthly life; but she understood the true philosophy, for her every grief was regarded as a special messenger from the spirit-land, and amid her tears she looked up, and resolutely answered to the call, “Excelsior!” She was ever receiving with gratitude the blessings that clustered about her lot, and, as it were, transmuting all common things into pleasures, by seeking out a brightness in them.

But a heavier trial was in store for the wife than she had anticipated. Horace had been very unfortunate in business; he bore it with more gentleness than Elma had expected, but it wore upon his spirits; day after day he was busied in settling up, and came home with a look of sadness and anxiety. One evening he came in with a brighter look.

“What is the news?” asked his wife, as she read his face.

“I have an offer of a clerkship, at a very good salary, eighteen hundred dollars a year!”

“We can get along admirably with that!” said Elma, with a bright smile. “You know we are retrenching our expenses so much, that we can live on half that, and the rest can go towards your debts. In a few years you will be able to pay all you owe, will you not?”

“Perhaps so, by exerting every faculty, and living on less than you propose!”

“Oh! well, we can!” was the eager response. “I’ll manage to get along on almost nothing; as small a sum as you choose to name. Every trifling deprivation will be an actual delight, that helps to discharge those debts. It will, indeed!” she added, as Horace smiled at her enthusiasm.

“I believe you, little one, every word you say!” and, with an air of cheerful affection, such as he had not shown for weeks, the husband drew his wife’s head upon his breast, and, forgetful of cold business cares and the world, they were gay, tender, and happy.

It was with a different look that Horace entered his home the next evening; a shadow fell on Elma’s heart when she saw him, and the evening meal passed in silence.

“What are you thinking of, Horace?” she timidly asked, some time after, approaching him as he stood by the window, gazing out gloomily into the star-lighted street.

“I have received a better offer, and have determined to accept it.” It must be known that Horace came quickly to a decision, and then persevered in it; none knew the vanity of striving to change him, when fairly resolved, better than Elma; but in small matters he was yielding as Elma herself. She stood in a fearful silence, looking into his face, which he had turned towards her.

“I am going to California!” he said, almost sternly, for he feared Elma’s tenderness might unman him.

“Not without me?” she asked, with pleading eyes.

“Yes! Elma, I cannot take you, for I shall be constantly travelling, and subject to the greatest hardships,–you could not bear it! I shall be back in a year and a half.”

“I could bear anything better than to be left behind–you do not know as well as I what would be the greatest hardship for me. Ah! Horace, do not put me to this dreadful trial. Let me go with you, and you will find that I will not utter a complaint. You can leave me at some place, while you travel over the roughest country–you may be sick, and need me. I fear men grow hard and selfish there, and what you gain in purse, you may lose in what is dearest to me. ‘It is not good for man to be alone.'”

“Hush, darling; every word is vain!” answered Horace, clasping her to his breast, and kissing her with passionate vehemence. For the first time in his life he wept without any restraint over her. “Do you think anything but duty would tear me from you? It is my duty to be just to all men, and to pay what I owe as soon as I can.”