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For Woman’s Work. OLIVE TREVOR’S FORTUNE. BY LUCIE DAYTON PHILLIPS. Part 111. “ O, love,” she sighed, “ since life is sweet, Since life is brief, why seek so long • For gifts to lay before my feet ? Thoudoestmy love a wrong.” LENWOOD is one of the loveliest ( among the lovely suburbs in which this southern city abounds. From al most any point of view taken in its busy, pulsating heart, the distance G looks spectral and gloomy; but this is only result of the thick, woolly streams of the smoke which the slender cloud-reaching chimneys pour forth—a torpid, sombre medium by day, a fervid gruesome glow by night. Beyond the complication of narrow, wide and winding streets, the tall ladder like business the gilded spire and lofty dome of numerous churches, the loud-hawked traffic, countless pedestrians and vehicles, one might find in all direc tions scenes that presented a gentle, idyllic beauty and rural charm that readily ac counted for the large number of beautiful, suburban homes. There were wayside streams which the southern spring fringed with delicate flowers, velvety pastures on which the cattle corraled at will, long stretches of woodland where the live oak grew in its beauty, picturesque churches and chapels of the Gothic style, trailed over by English ivy, and a small colony of Queen Anne houses that looked every inch homes. But a little apart from these, much nearer the city, in fact, stood a large mansion of gray stone, less marked by elegance than by quaintness, a daring innovation on the characterless architecture of its day— which was long ago—yet, even now, in the midst of far grander and more tasteful houses, maintaining a striking individuali ty of its own. It was almost monastic in style. The simple severity of its lines; narrow windows, stained and pointed; heavy doors, square and panelled, gave it a certain “ last century ” air; and it was this air that reminded Olive Trevor, of the old hall in fair Devon, the birthplace of her forefathers. Upon making inqui ries she found the house unoccupied, and to be leased; so she took it at once and began to make it into a home. Her first task, and it had been an easy one with her full purse, was to engage a housekeeper. In a lew days she had settled in the sunny rooms of the rear addition, a perfectly respectable,middle-aged couple, who brought flawless recommendations from one of the “ first families ” of the city. It was only a week since Olive had reached the city, a week spent in an ele gant suite of rooms in the palace-like ho tel known as “ The Gilbert.” She had felt an insuperable shyness about going to “the Mammoth;” indeed, had avoided even pass ing by, lest she might be seen and recog nized by some former acquaintance there. She meant to ask certain carelessly-put questions about Nora Curry, Gertie Mason and others, perhaps; but her lips had trembled at the thought of syllabling once more those familiar names. She could not do it—yet. She was glad to be “back at home”—so she told her lonely heart—and yet nothing seemed stranger than to call it home when she had time to think her words over, and to analyze them. She was really as re mote from the only home she had known, when once established in the quaint stone house in the suburbs, as if she were still thousands of miles away. She seemed, too, to be divided by a long lapse of years from the life she had led in the shabby little far-up back room in the red-brick tene ment. What a strange undreamed-of life was this in which she now found herself? Why was it, after all, that she had come back to America? But the next month or two were given to very ardent, if not very diligent labor. Olive Trevor, rich, young and beautiful, had failed to find perfect happiness abroad —what had been the reason or difficulty, she had failed—and so she began to prose cute a second enterprise in its search. She would buy this gray old mansion; she would fill every room with beauty and charming things; she would find new friends to enjoy it with her, and—happi ness, too; content, rest of heart. She had many alternating moods of ex altation and despair as the weeks of plan ning, furnishing and “ settling down ” went by; but Olive would not yield, now that the goal was so near. Why, any girl would be happy and proud in such a beautiful home as hers I She had only a few more days now, and then she would really begin to enjoy life. But in the meantime, the handsome rooms, still solitary, were very lonely. On this April morning, when the sun shone only in fitful, inconstant fashion, and an east wind gave a reminder of winter to the early spring, she had been roving through the house like a restless spirit, pursued by some thought or memory—that would not “ down at her bidding.” And to her wistful ear the old house seemed haunt ed to-day by echoes of dead and gone mu sic. Songs sung by the happy-voiced; or light, dancing foot-steps; laughter of young girls; whispered vows that death or fate had broken. In spite of the spacious elegance of her parlor and drawing-room, with their rare antique and modern decoration, their cu rios and bric-a-brac from many lands, she felt them to be lonely. She would go up to her own rooms where she had gratified to the last degree, her own fanciful tastes. The first of the three was the prettiest, perhaps; light, graceful, not too elaborate, and intensely womanly in every fine de tail. There was an open wood-fire behind the glowing brass fender, and in front a large rug of snowy fur. A low, wide sofa, luxurious with its rich robes and lazy, silk-bound pillows, was placed on one side; on the other, the deepest and softest of Turkish chairs, upholstered in palest blue brocade. There were square and oval mir rors exquisitely draped to reflect the faint, fair hues of summer clouds, and wonderful pictures of scanes across the wide seas; puffed and padded furniture in strange costly stuffs of foreign ports; an old oak cabinet of Italian vases, bronzes and china; and besides these, various feminine devices which go to make the lovely, not too serious, harmonious “girl’s own room ” of to-day. Such a room showed the finest contrast possible to the one Olive remembered with a pang that savored of regret; that deso late, dingy little space she had once called home. Ah, how happy she had fancied herself in those old reveries in such a fair, calm, gracious spot as this—and all her very own! And yet, she was very dreary, even here. She would go down and call her companions. At a word, two splendid grey-hounds bounded to her side, gazing with their great, pathetic eyes into hers. She stroked their gaunt heads, caressed and talked to them fondly, coaxingly. No doubt but that they would have answered her in words if they had possessed the power of speech. But they could only tell their love for their beautiful young mistress in eloquent looks. And Olive Trevor felt this silence, this lack of language. The soli tude of her life oppressed her. She burst into tears. That very afternoon she met Garner Craven, face to face. He. started toward her, for one instant, feeding his hungry dreams with the strange sweetness of this reality. But he re strained a passionate exclamation, and his manner became the very perfection of self-control. “ You did not know that I had come back?” she said,for all greeting, her heart too full at this unexpected meeting for girl ish doubts and tremors. “Yes—l did. I have known it from the first.” His quiet words were a shock to this proud girl, who knew her own heart so well, and whose image dwelt there. “Do you know why I came then, since you know the rest ? ’ “For your own pleasure, Olive.” How well he remembered her selfishness in the old days at “The Mammoth 1” And the dangerous admission she had let slip in their last interview of her love—a love she meant to bury out of sight, to trample un der foot—doubtless he remembered that too! She felt herself growing pale. ‘lit was my duty to go away as you know,” she said in a low voice. Her heart was sinking. “Yes, I know. It was your duty, too, perhaps, to break the strongest and oldest bond between man and woman; to deny to our love its natural end—marriage— when we were both poor; to deny it again when fortune had placed its barrier be tween. Ah, there was something in this last I I was far J»op§ willing to share my WOMAN’S WORK. life, in its poverty, with you,Olive, than to have aught to do with yours after it had been changed by riches, title, distinction.” His dark, thin face had paled, too. He spoke with a thrill of passionate feeling. But the words brought no hope to the proud girl who had mocked on that now long ago evening, at the love she owned, but laughed at. A belief which she had cherished, wheth er consciously or not, a belief which had upheld her and had brought her back to this place, forsook her utterly,as she listened to this brief, formal speech. Garner Craven had taken himself out of her life forever! “ I have taken an old house on the edge of Glenwood,” she began humbly and qui etly, “ and am making it into a home, since I so greatly prefer living in America; and—here I would be glad you would come to see me sometime. Will you not ?” There was no moment in the past, how ever deep and fierce his bewildered sense of ill-treatment and injury had been before it, when he was not moved to pity by a little weariness in her tqne, or pallor on her cheek. These had ever wrought dis aster to his stern resolves, which Olive’s capricious pride had often forced upon him. He would have noticed such signs in any one in whom he felt an interest, for Garner Craven was a noble-hearted, great souled man; but in this girl whom he loved, they had only to be seen, to sweep away every other feeling, save the one to shield, to care for, to help to make hap pier. His beautiful young love! But now, looking straight in her face, pallid, altered, her lips quivering, her eyes darker yet with pain, he could say coldly: “No, Olive! We did not make the tie you felt it your duty to break so soon as fortune and fate made your own life all smooth sailing. But since you must do with it as you would—as you have—so let it remain 1 And, now, that it is broken, don’t you see that it is far better that we should remain apart? If your life had been spoiled, Olive, if you had lost your wealth, your beauty, everything, you know, I could come and off«r to share that ruin—to suffer, too, to help you to en dure. But, as it is I can never come!” “ Good-bye, then,” she said very gently, turning away. And so they parted once again; this time—forevei ? ***** “And if heaven, bending over, Should turn black instead of blue, If my own, my own true lover Should prove false instead of true, Do you think for the untrue one I would cry! No! I’d laugh, and get a new one! That, would I!” Not like poor Olive, these lines. She was proud to her heart’s core, and suffered at the mere possibility of the man she loved turning away from her because he was “ false, instead of true.” It was enough that she had caused this parting—broken the heaven-made bond. She only sang the light inconstant little song out of the hardness of a heart she was trying to school into an outward patience and con tent. The lips that caroled the gay measures were pale and set. Olive looked anything but happy these bright spring days. She was sure that her one lover would never come now. She might just as well be across the Atlantic, at Trevor Hall, for all she expected to see of him. Yet, she went on living at the old stone house, in the luxurious home she had made for herself, because she knew nothing better to do. It was a rather deso late sort of life. The days were so long; the nights, too, when she lay awake; for she had discovered ere this that, “Weariness can snore upon the flint, when idle sloth Finds the down pillows hard.” Holiday-making, folding one’s hands, comes hard at times to people who have led busy lives, or carry heavy hearts. Olive Trevor longed to fill these emptv days with something—even work. She was glad when the pastor of the church near by, where she occasionally at tended on Sundays, came to call one after noon. He was shown at once into the library, where she happened to be reading; the grey hounds crouched close at her feet. The minister, a thin, tall man who stooped somewhat, but whose face, pale, masterful, had a look of strength and power, noted with a sudden, deep-drawn breath of pleasure the striking picture be fore him—the girl’s rich beauty in the foreground of the handsome, classic room, the noble pair, with their fine, alert heads “ on guard.” “ They are superb fellows, these grey hounds,” he said pleasantly, after some cordial words of greeting; “ You are very fond of them, too, I imagine.” Olive smiled sadly. “I am very fond of them, yes. One must have companionship of some kind, if only a dog’s. But grey hounds, even, are not sufficient. At times, I wish very much for some one to talk to, to talk to me. lam o’ten lonely—very lonely.” “Do you know what this house, which you have made so beautiful, used to be— at least for a few years? No? Well, I remember the time when it was used as a Girls’ Home, a sort of refuge for helpless, penniless young girls, who had nowhere else to go, no home of their own. A wealthy philanthropist suggested the plan, and the owner of this house intended it should succeed. It was established, and many poor young creatures found a quiet home here—shop girls, factory girls, and such as needed it; but those who planned it died. There was trouble about the deed; the whole enterprise lived but a brief period, and was finally abandoned.” The minister talked on kindly and pleas antly, but Olive’s part of the conversation was poorly sustained. She found herself looking at him vacantly, too, scarcely tak ing in the meaning of those gentle, timely words of his. The truth was, he had given her a new thought, a thought that was running riot in her heart as well as brain. The mo ment he was gone she caught herself whis pering, like the mad woman she had seen in some asylum. But she laughed aloud, a thing she had seldom done of late. In a few moments she came down the fine old staircase, dressed for the street. “Yes, I will! I said I wouldn’t, but that does not matter. lam going to ‘The Mammoth!’ ” And she went. (TO BE CONTINUED.) For Woman’s Work. TRUTH. The devil has been called the father of lies; God may be termed the parent of truth. Truth, therefore, is of divine ori gin ; and, though it be crushed to earth, it shall rise again, “for the eternal years of God are hers.” Magna est veritas et pi (Evalebit. The progress it makes is not dissimilar to that of a balloon, which, when it begins to ascend, moves heavily and unsteadily. Little by little, it arises with accumulating stability, until, having cleared the earth, it sails proudly and majestically onward. Both acquire strength in progress. It is of the utmost importance that ehildren should be taught to speak the truth. Thus, as Herodotus tells us, thought the Persians thousands of years ago, and the wisdom of the thought is apparent to-day. To tell the truth is to make state ments that accord exactly with that which is. or has been, or shall be What would be the value of history without the expres sion ot truth? What necessity could there be for courts of justice other than to dis cover the truth ? Witnesses are sworn to declare the truth, the wh Ue truth and nothing but the truth, in order that justice may be meted out to mankind. Truth is the spring of every virtue; falsehood, the source of every vice. The truthful man is Nature’s own nobleman ; he has within his soul an eternal spring of delight. Truth is the atlas of society; the main-spring of every joy; the mantle that covers cower ing shame; the balance and weight that equals the rich and the poor, the peasant and the king. It is the measure by which all things are to be judged. Is is said that Aristides and Epaminon das regarded truth so strictly as never to have told a lie, even in jest. Atticus, too, neither “ told a lie himself, nor could bear it in others.” Truth, or silence, should be the motto of every man ; and none of us should ever subject ourselves to the impu tation of the use of the “ necessary subter fuges of society,”—the polite lie. It is an erroneous idea, that of having, at times, to tell a falsehood in order to be polite. Ho mer makes Achilles say: “ Who dares think one thing, and another tell, My heart detests him as the gates of hell.” It would be an undisguised blessing could we all think as did the hero of the Iliad. That society which has for its foundation the practice of chicanery and subterfuge is as rotten and carious as the food of the vulture. The truthful man never lacks a confidant. All mankind respect and revere pure, unvarnished truth ; despise and contemn duplicity and artful falsehood. Says a writer on the subject: “ Every one can enter into the ani mating, the delightful emotion with which Petrarch must have received the gratifying tribute of public applause, when, on his appearing as a witness in a cause, and approaching the tribunal to take the accustomed oaths, he was informed that such was the confidence of the court in his veracity he would not be required to take any oath, his word was sufficient.” Let every mane mulate the example of the Italian poet, and thereby acquire respect and veneration among his fellows, and a name of which his offspring may well be proud I Lamar. Atlanta, Ga. 3