The gates ajar. By Elizabeth Stuart Phelps.

The Gates Ajar. 33
in a mud-puddle; the bluebirds are huddled
among the leaves, with their heads under their
drabbled wings, and the maple blossoms, dull
and shrunken, drip against the glass.
It begins to be evident that it will never do
for me to live alone. Yet who is there in the
wide world that I could bear to bring here -
into Roy's place?
A little old-fashioned book, bound in green
and gold, attracted my attention this morning
while I was dusting the library. It proved to be
my mother's copy of " Elia," - one that father
had given her, I saw by the fly-leaf, in their
early engagement days. It is some time since
I have read Charles Lamb; indeed, since the
middle bf February I have read nothing of
any sort. Phoebe dries the Journal for me
every night, and sometimes I glance at the
Telegraphic Summary, and sometimes I don't.
" You used to be fond enough of books," Mrs.
Bland says, looking puzzled,-" regular bluestocking, Mr. Bland called you (no personal
objection to you, of course, my dear, but he
does n't like literary women, which is a great
comfort to me). Why don't you read and divert yourself now?"
But my brain, like the rest of me, seems to
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