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PEACE. Wind.-. nud wild waves iu hcadloug huge com motion Scud, dork with tempest, o'er the Atlantic's breast, While underneath, few fathoms deep in ocean, T.ie peace and rest. Storms in midair, the rack before them sweep ing. Hurry and hiss, like furies hate-possessed; While over all white cloudlets pure are sleep ing > In peace, in rest. Heart, O wild heart: why in the storm world eaugiag l lit st thou thus midway, passion's slave and When Ml so near above, below, unchanging. Are heaven, and rest r —A. I}. B. in the Spectator . MORXIX(. NEWS LIBRARY, No. 37. FIVE OLD LETTERS. 1 BY MISS S. LUCY JOYNER. [Copyrighted, 1887, by J. H. Estill.] CHAPTER VII. I have Rpoken of Miss Meredith. She also conies into my story. She was the daugh ter of wealthy parents and a reigning belle. Her mother, they said, had tieen sacrificed to her parents’ love of position, and had married one man while loving another. Be ing unusually plain iu person, the passion of her life was her love for her beautiful child. And she, like the rest of the world, had done all that admiration could do to spoil her. People called her spoiled and vain. But she was so lovely that I set that down to envy. She interested me. She had lustrous dark eyes, full of charming lights, magnificent dark-brown ham, and a perfectly bewitching, siren-like face. Her Skin was a soft, slightly rose-tinted olive. I do not remember how it began, but we soon came to be friends. And after a while they spoke our names together. Somebody told me at last—it was a lady, and one who could not err in such matters—that I had been paying Miss Meredith too much attention unless I meant to propose for her hand. I was altogether shocked. I certainly had not thought of that. I had often said that Miss Mereditli was a most companionable young girl. She was not (I thought) a mere society queen. She had decided literary tastes and a poetic nature. There was poetry in the upward glance of her soulful eyes, in the dreamy tones of her musical voice, in the graceful sweep of the rich dresses she wore. She had dabbled in art also. In two senses, though I did not know it then. "You are the strangest man in the world,” she said to,me in her languid tones. "You are down-right stupid sometimes. You never pay me compliments like all the rest, and yet 1 fancy you like me. Is it not sol” The glance of her dark eyes emphasized the words and made them seem wonderfully childish and innocent I answered quite seriously: "Yes, I do like you ” “How delightfully earnest you are!” dapping her hands and brightening very much. "Your eyes tell one so much. Oh, how should X have gotten through this sea son but for you?” I laughed. "To have helped so fair a creature through the horrors of a 'season!’ What a destiny! Then I have not lived in vain.” ••Now you are laughing at me, and I am very serious bright.” She was languid again, and so beautiful' No true artist's eyes could look at her un moved. The crimson velvet lining of the chair on which she sat formed a rich background for the finely-molded figure in its close-fitting dress of black velvet. Soft, creamy lace at her throat, fastened by a cluster of gleaming pearls. One rounded arm. dazzlingly fair, displayed by the half-open sleeve that fell back from the wrist, rested on the arm of the chair. The soft eyes, the rich dark hair, the full red lips, what a picture she made in the warm glow of the firelight! The ele gantly appointed room, with its silken araped windows, its costly flowers, the graceful, half-reclining girl with her beauti ful, soft-hued face; in every detail of the lurroundings a delicious luxuriousness was breathed forth, and like the aroma of the fiowers, crept into the senses with a subtle enchantment. One might almost close his eyes and fancy himself floating down some flower-bordered dream in the drowsy clime of the lotus eaters, his faculties steeped in lazy enjoy ment. I half-started from my flitting dream as another picture rose before me. The pic ture of a barren room, and the strong, pure face of a girl in whose eyes a lofty purpose shone 1 Why could I not forget that face ! Why did it always come back to me, when I had been with Clara Meredith, like a breath of sweet fresh air, and the smell of wild dowel’s after the oppressive sweetness of exotics ! “I wish you would talk to me!” The soft, delicious voice again. “You have never told me of your Italian mother. Was she not lieautiful? 1 know you have her eyes and her smile. Tell me of your home be fore you came to your cousin’s. It must have been enchanting.” “I do not love to speak of it. I hnvo never talked of iny home und my mother to any one, except to a dear cousin whom I used to love very much.’' "How strange you are! But you will toll tne?” “I think not. At least not now.” “You will not trust me that much?” “You do not understand. It is hardly my own confluence. Others aro concerned whom I have no right to mention. This much I con tall you. I was not a very happy child.” "But you said you had talked of it to one person.” ■‘That was my cousin. And something of whit I told her she knew already. - ’ “O, pray forgive me! I did not think of what i was asking you. Ido understand. Only if it is a sad story, I should be so glad to let you know of my interest and my sympathy.” “Thank you very much.” “And your cousin ? Was it Bessie Har wood? Mamina knew her mother well, and she had the little girls visit us once after their mother died. I am younger than either of them, but I remember how afraid 1 was of their black dresses. Boor little things! That is all I remember about them, but I have heard what fine girls they grew up. Was it she?” “Yes.” A sudden thought seemed to come to her. "Was it of her that the young man spoke when you were so furiously angry that night ?” "The same. Shall I tell you of her?” “No, thank you! I do uot fancy that stylo of youug lady." "You certainly do not attach any im portance to such remarks as his, and from such a source f” “O, no! Still I gathered enough to feel lure that she is one of Uiim interesting young |iersoi.s wlioae very existence is meant to lx- u reproach td such us 1. Pray don’t talk of her. It tires me to think of all the L rolc things she must have done to have gained her reputation.” “You have changed your mind very maidenly. You have often told me how much you want's! to be of some use ui the world Only a few days ago you told me how tiled you were of ynurlift of |irpet ual idleiuaw und self-toduigaiiro, and how you hail Im’u tempted to break away from It and go to Rome and work like a true art ist. “ “Old I say that to you? And you reinem ls*ied Itr with ■ quick bright blush "The*! 1 u*nl it. I Iwlu-ve I am ernes to niglit Rut you always have your way, Pray Util hie about bet. Istov MU( f ‘‘lt is not of that I was thinking,” I an ! swered, finding myself strangely embar i l assed at her question, and wondering why I had tried to talk of her at all. “But.” with an effort, ‘ ‘she has a face one never forgets —singularly ‘sweetand fair and pure.’" “But has she real beauty ! Fine eyes and hair and all that?” “ ’She had gold and pearls for her dowry,’ ” I answered, quoting from a French author. “ ‘But the gold was on her head, and the pearls in her mouth.’ Her eyes are blue and Very fine.” “I thought you liked dark eyes best?'’ “1 may nave said that 1 think, as a rule, dark eyes are finer, but the exceptional blue j eves I prefer.” “Very flattering to me. You might be : polite enough to keep your preference to | yourself.” This very pettishly. “I am only answering vour questions,” I j answered, laughing at her contradictory j mood. “Perhaps you will sing for me now : before sending me away. I have a book too j I should like you to see. May I bring it soon, and will you read to hue again* I have seldom enjoyed anything more than the poem you read to me that afternoon in the park.” A smile lit up the soft face. “Ah! you know well what praises I like best. A woman must have praise of some sort, you know. Others tell me I am beau tiful—and you—ah! yes. I like you best of all, though,” with an impatient gesture and a little flash, “you entertain me with praises of another woman’s charms.” “I could not give you a surer proof of my confidence than to speak to you of my cousin. 1 had grown to look on you as my friend, or I should not have done so. But”! do not think I shall talk of her again. There, at least, I cannot count on the 'sym pathy and interest’ you offered to-night.” “Why should you need sympathy on her account?” She did not look as if she meant to give it, no matter how great the need. Her lip curled slightly, anil a frown disfigured the white bl ows. I took a sudden resolution and answered quietly; “Because I loved my cousin, and—well, j you know the rest.” “Loved her ? You do not then agree with Mrs. Browning (whose poetry I cannot bear) about that phrase 'Loved once?’” “I do agree with her perfectly. At least in my own case. I cannot judge for oth ers. ” “Then you love her still!” “Will you not sing for me?” I asked, try ing to smile. “Will you not answer my question?” she persisted. “Yes,” I said. “Why should I shrink from saying it? I do love her. I think I shall love her until I die.” “You think so!” “How closely you question me! And yet you do not seem sorry for me.” “I am not sorry for you. I am not sorry for any man who wastes his life in grieving for a girl who has jilted him, to whom his love is valueless. I think Mr. Grimes’ name for such a man the right one.” “You mistake,” I answered, coldly, ignor ing her last remark, though it angered me. “My love is not valueless to my cousin. And 1 do not blame her because she could not change, at my bidding, the sisterly re gard she had for me into a deeper feeling. You are seax'oely yourself tins evening, Miss Meredith. I had better go.” “Very well,” languidly and haughtily. “Pray call again.” A week later this note, on delicate violet scented paper, was handed me: “1 am nothing but a spoiled child. Every body else humors me. Why should not you? I have never before shown vOu how horrid I can be, and you run away from me as if I were the plague. Come back to me, my friend, and I will be so good—oh! so good that you shall never repent it.” I replied to the note in person. I took the book 1 had spoken of, and I had a literary feast in hearing a fine poem exquisitely ren dered in the soft, rich voice whose perfect modulations and tuneful cadences lent a new meaning to the poet’s fancy. What a companion she would make for a lonely man! When we parted that night I asked herAvhen she would finish my book. She said I might come the next evening but one, unless, indeed, I could spare a morning before that time. That, I regretted, was impossible. I held her hand for half a min nto, and told her how much pleasure she had given me. At which she gave me a lovely smile. I did not think that she cared for me. I knew that she was full of coquetry. And yet, like all women skilled in that art, she had succeeded in making me think that she preferred me to many others, so that I might reasonably aspire to her hand. Neither did I deceive myself into believing, for one moment, that 1 was in love with her. I had several times asked myself the question if it might not be better for me if —ah! well—l was getting lonely. My life did not satisfy me. Each time I had seen her I had discovered some new accomplish ment. She would make my home full of warmth and elegance. She would preside gracefully at my table. She would enter tain my guests superbly. To-night she had worn a dress of white mull without orna ment save the w bite roses she wore at her throat and in her shining braids. The most critical taste could have suggested nothing in the perfect pose of the girlish figure as she sat and read. Ideal beauty in its rare perfection, grace and elegance and wit. All these she possessed. What more could any reasonably being desire? I kept my appointment I must have been earlier than usual. The fire was not kindled, and I had waited full fiteen min utes when, through the door which the ser vaut had carelessly left ajar, I heard these words: “Love him! Ha! ha! .That’s too good! I thought you knew me bettor, mother mine! Never fear for me. There’s small danger of my losing my senses. I was born to rule, not to love! Pshaw! If he could have known my disgust while he was moaning over that girl whose role is to be heroic. Just the kind of thing to attract such men as he. But I have made him do homage to my beauty. Ah! it's a triumph worth all the trouble I have had' When 1 know how lie detests such girls as I am in his heart! And then my diamonds, my blazing, splendid diamonds, worth all that he owns for all his proud name! If 1 did love him, it I were mad enough love anybody, do you think I would not sacritico such" non sense for the sake of Victor’s millions? Shall I tell you what 1 have dime? I have made a betv with Victor. You know I mean to marry him. He is rich, and (like Fanny JDorrit) ‘there’s no nonsenssabout him.’ He will bo quite happy to give me beautiful dresses, aud stay in the background (as he does now) while others admire me, if only I pet him a little sometimes (as I do now) and tell him that he's the dearest old boy in the world. I vowed that I would have that man of stone at my feet. He promises mo those diamonds, the loveliest—oh! the love liest —the saiuethat von refused no'this win ter—if I succeed. If I fail I am to marry him when he shall say. '1 shall win! It was ou his lips last night, hut lie is fearfully slow and prudent. But to night—look at me! Do you think I shall fail to-night<” The dreamy, musical tones, the softly vibrating, rhythmic tones of Clara Mere dith's wonderful voice. But it was higher pitched and sharper, each word uttered with stinging emphasis. “I have never yet failed and 1 do not mean to now. But you know nothing of the triumph of beauty, poor, plain-faced mother that you are. And art that he prates about there she laughed aguiul 1 am ni ire skilled In that than he dreams!” “Don’t, Clara:” and 1 beard a mild voice speak in gentle, hopeless protest. A violent hanging of doors, the rustle of a dress, ami light te| along the passage, and a vision of transcendent toveliue** hurst upon me. Clara Meredith *Utt in the centre of the room, looking, in her aaitsjr tiued gossamer robes, os Tf she hail been touched by some fairy's wnml of enchant merit. One gleaming arm was extended, m, 1 tier eyes shone like sUU’ft. 11l spite of myself, I started, with a murmur of aduil ration. Then 1 said smiling; “Yuu have made an elaborate bdlct while | here laid Me* ol'weure of wailing I “111 uw ooH. she AniJied. glancing at the THE MORNING NEWS: SUNDAY, SEPTEMBER 25, 1887. frate and frowning. “A thousand par ons! Those stupid servants! I never knew them to be so careless,” and she crossed the room to ring the bell. “Do not ring,” I said. “It does not mat ter. I shall go directly.” “What do you mean? Has anything happened that you look so cold and hard? Have you no woi-d of greeting for your friend?” Again she stood under the brilliant chan delier. Again she extended her hand. I stood before her, looking at her with a half fascinated gaze, in spite of the scorn I felt for her. “You are wonderfully beautiful, Mias Meredith. You' look like a goddess. Is that what you expect me to say?’’ Bhe softly laughed. “I have some right to expect it. have 1 not! But why are you going? Did you uot bring your book !” “Yes, but let me say the truth at once. I do not know how to tell you except iu the plainest words.” Her eyes fell, and the long lashes drooped over the pink-tinted cheeks, and the pink deepened ever so little. “Do not fear to tell me,” she said, softly. How well she concealed her triumph, for I saw at once that she had misconstrued my words. “I do not fear,” I answered, “though it is not a pleasant truth I have to tell you. A moment ago I heard you say that you ex pected me to tell you to-night that—l loved you. Instead I must toll you that Ido not. No, Ido not love you. Enchantress that you are, you have never touched iny heart. I knew that before 1 came here to-night, before I heard what you confided to your mother just now. It was not my fault that, 1 heard. I regret that you will lose your diamonds. But, on the other hand, Mr. Victor Wright will gaiu ahrid j. I shall be pleased to congratulate him!” A cruel change had passed oyer the beau tiful face. [Surprise, auger, scorn had suc ceeded each other in rapid transition. All the color had left, and thp large eyes were no longer soft and tender, Quick, bright flashes made them annost black. A scorn ful laugh broke from her. “You have the face to tell me this? And you fancy I care!” “I fancy nothing, Miss Meredith. I re gret that I have lost a friend I trusted. It is a hard lesson, but not an uncommon one, I believe. I have only to wish you good evening, and thank you for some pleasant hours you have given me.” “And I,” she said, “am glad our little farce is over.'’ She had quite regained her self-possession, and bade me good-night with a perfectly po lite but freezing bow. That night as I crossed the bridge, walk ing homeward in the moonshine, I saw a couple standing in the shadows. A slender girl leaning with hands clasped on the strong arm of her lover. His head was bent eagerly toward her uplifted face. A stray moonbeam flashed over her, and showed a pair of shining love-lit eyes. Their attitude spoke of mutual love and trust, and I heard the man’s voice say: “I did try, but it was no use. To love you once, is to love you forever!” 0, Bessie! O, my queen! How could I •have deemed it possible to disenthrone you! As I walked sorrowfully onward I almost hated the man for his happiness. CHAPTER VIII. “It is good to have you here. I wonder if your illness was sent just to teach you how much your cousins needed you! There! No more thanks, if you please. W r e have had quite enough of that, sir. I have a whole morning for your amusement. Give me the book. Not that one? Why ? I could begin where she left off. But you prefer another? Well, since all sick people have their whims, I will humor you a little longer; though the very air to-dav suggests the soft-flowing numbers of ‘Hiawatha.’ But mind! Your rule is at an end when your strength returns And you are look ing shockingly well to-day. How lovely she must be—Clara Meredith, I mean. I am sorry she was uot true. I think beauty is so divine a gift. It must be so easy to live and be happy when one is beautiful. ’’ I was lounging near the open window. I could see the undulating fields of waving grain across the lawn and the flower bor ders where June roses were blooming. Far away beyond field and wood, glittered the blue line of the sea. The breeze, freshened with its salt, brought the smell of violets and roses in its breath, and kissed the face of the girl who sat near me with a book in her hand. A pure, sweet face encased in bands of golden hair. I remember the dress she wore, and how it seemed a part of the ‘eternal fitness of things’ that she should wear such a dress on such a day. It was a fresh white muslin with no ribbons, and pansies at her throat and in her belt. I had had a fever, and had been ordered to the country to recover my strength. They did not kffow of my illness at Valley Field un til I was almost well, and then Mr. Wallace himself brought me such an invitation as I could not resist. I closed my eyes with a sense of perfect content, fof the moment, anil listened to the clear ringing tones of the sweetest voice in the world as she read. I hoard the voice only, not heeding what it said, until I start ed, with a thrill, at these words: "She will weep her woman s tears, she will pray her woman's prayers; But her heart is young iu pain, and her hopes will spring again. By the suntime of her years.” “He w ronged her there,” she said. "How?” I asked. “Can you think, having risked already so much for him, that death or time could make any change iu her love!'’ “How can 1 tell,'’ I answered, crossly. “I confess Ido not understand a woman’s af fections when she happens to have any. The few I have known have altogether baf fled me. One never knows how to take them or where to find them. For my part. I have given up the riddle. No doubt the ’Duchess May’ was like all other Mays, and Kates and Janes and Husnus from that time to this.” “How provoking you are!” she said. “To bring down my mournful passionate rhyme to the level of ‘Janes aud Susans.’ I w ill not read to you in that mood. To read rightly one might be sure that the listener is not criticizing, but siiaring one’s interest entirely.” “Pray go on,” I said. “At all events, your voice is pleasant to hear.” I was unreasonably irritated because she, ray model of a true womanhood, thus showed rae that she' was faithful in her heart and soul. I had thought it- impossi ble to grieve deeply yet near a smiling face. I had not remembered that that was her way of bearing paiu. Until now I had been too weak and listless to bo otherwise than happy to have her near me, to see her Hitting about the house, to watch for her coming. More thau ever my queen. More than over my good angel. More than over the on woman in the world for me. Now, iu the face of her earnestness, the old |>aiu w.i, stirring. “I am determined to be good to you, no matter how cross you are, dear old bov,"she said, after n moment of waiting. ‘’Ho I will go on. But first I wunt to tell you something.” Hhe oame nearer anil snt down on the floor by my sofa. Hhe took one of my lumds in liotii hers and stroked it. Then she laid it back, and placed one of bers on my fore heuii, looking into my eves. 0, the ionging in my soul! The mad longing to catch her in my arms, to hold her close to my heart. I shut my eyes to keep out the sight of that tender, pitying face so done to mine. “Dear Jeff.' she said, “‘I am afraid you are worse. Hindi I wait and talk to vou another tintef” i shook my lewd. “Jef frny |” and she |>aued. “1 do not know how to say it, hut i mast. I don’t know what you are thinking if mo, but I know your face so well that I am sura I have hurt you in sima way. 1 want to l**g you to forgive me for whatever jadil I have given or may give you. I want to ask you to believe that nothing nuutd grieve me so mud) as to think that you doubted or mistrusted ttv*. I want t<> aiwure you that there hi nothing in the world I * iib so modi ae your hapianes. Nothing in Mam world l*u you bear ms, J afire if Lh> >ou undw.uuut i want you to know that none of the heroes we used to ltiad of, no single one of the brave and great hearted ones whose nanus haye rung in song and story, is half so bravo and great hearted, worthy of all honor in my eyes as —yourself dear cousin. I used to weep at thought of the boy in that dark old house in Venice, hiding his griefs in his lonely little heart. I have shed sadder tears for the lonely-hearted man who—shall 1 toll you what they say of you ? How your praises aro on every one’s lips! The man whose large soul is first in ail noble undertakings. The man who with a princely fortune en nobles his profession by such labors that in one year he has—” “Spire me,’’ I said, laughing uupieasant ly, and sitting up straight—as she arose—to offer a seat by my side. “I have no pa tience with what the world says. Because 1 am independent of it, it is pleased to give mo nothing but praise. A poorer man, with far higher abilities, would have met with no encouragement until he had toiled to the last round of the ladder.” “Aud my opiuiou, Jeffrey? Does that of fend your sense of justice also?” “You but echo what you hear from oth ers.” “Let it pass, then, for what it. is worth.” She arose, with a proud gesture, and walked to the table where she hail left her book. “Bessie!” I called. I had never seen her look so niuoli offended. ‘‘Shall 1 finish the poem,” she asked, “or had you not better be left alone?” “Forgive me!” I cried. “I am a brute. Pray do not leave me! You cannot under stand—' “If you wish me to finish the poem,” she began, “I have only time to do so before dinner.” Coldly and quietly she spoke, and then she began to read again. The while her sweet words kept repating themselves in my thoughts—her sweet words that I had so rudely put aside because I could not, could not bear her pity. “Oh, the little birds sang east and the little birds sang west; And I smiled to think God's greatuesss flowed around our incompleteness, Round our restlessness, His rest.” “Round our restlessness, His rest,” the sweet voice repeated. I opened my eyes. She was looking out of the window in a dreamy, absent, fasnion, as if she had forgotten my presence. And a look of pain had crept into her face. The days sped by as ail days will speed, whether happy or otherwise. I counted them up —th&se that remained to me—and was jealous of every moment spent away from her. She was far, far too good to me, though after that day there was a touch of reserve in all she said. Still she was, as I have said, far, far too good to me. The day before my departure came, she sat at the piano singing for me; the clear, liquid notes now rising and floating through the room, now sinking into sweet contralto strains “Let me alone, the dream is my own— And my heart is full of rest!” The low murmur died away, and she sat quite still, the song unfinished, the singer silenced (I felt sure) by thoughts of her buried love. It was early twilight. It hail been raining all day, but the clouds were broken, and one by one the stars were throbbing out. A bird chirped tiis good night song as she left the piano and stood by the window resting her folded arms on the back of a chair and gazing upwards. “Bessie!” She started. “Bessie, forgive me that I have been too selfish to realize the sorrow you bear so patiently am i quietly. If your heart is ‘full of rest’ it is the rest that comes after sharpest pain. I know it. But I cahnot talk of it. Ah! his waiting must be the sweeter if he can see how faith 1 ful your love has been. 1 cannot tell what it cost me to say this. I had not before been manly enough to speak of him. She started again, and turned away her face. “My poor child! I will leave you atom.” “No—oh! no. Jeffrey, what do you mean? Do you think I— Did I never tell you?” She stopped suddenly. Then she added: “I forgot I did uot send that letter.” “VVhat letter?” “The one I wrote after you came to see me. I remember now that I did not. I changed my mind. But you have been so much like yourself to-day, and, above all, you are so unchanged in your rare way of giving sympathy—l thiuk,” she said, turn ing suddenly and looking into my eyes, “I think I shall let you read it when you go awav. I kept it as a kind of sad record of those days. I think—that you will like to read it.” I could not guess her meaning, but her strange, hurried manner came back to me afterward. CHAPTER IX. AloDe in my city chambers, with trem bling fingers, I unfolded the well filled sheets, and read those pathetic pages And my heart reproached me that I had failed her in the hour of her direst need. Hhe had not loved him? Perhaps—be silent, fool ish heart: Yet she had said there was noth ing in the world she so much wished as my happiness. And now that I recalled the last evening spent with her, there had bean something strangely sweet in her voice, in her eyes, when she said: “1 think you will like to read it.” O, foolish, foolish heart be still! As the summer waned and the autumn drew near again, I made another visit to Valley Field. On a Saturday morning I threw i few things into a portmanteau, and took an early tram to . A few hours ride brought me to the country town nest ling in a green nook of a valley, the hills around and fur beyond it looking like huge, many-colored bouquets leaning against the dark blue background of the sky. Lit up magnificently by the yellow autumn sun shine the scene was dazzling, and beautiful beyond all power to tell. I gave my bag gage to the hackinan. and docidod to walk to Valley Field, a distance of three miles. I struck across the fields and, after walking about a mile, came into a shady path through a dense wood that I know led up to the back of the plantation. 1 walked along at a rapid pace, busy with much thinking; and while not outwardly noting, delightful ly conscious of, the bracing atmosphere, the sun-rays glinting through the branches of the trees and dancing on the leaf-strewn path, tlow very still! A squirrel darts nor the path and rustles the leaves at my feet. A robin twitters in one of the oak branches. No other sounds save the crack ing of a dead branch now and then, or the thud of an acorn dropping on the ground. I stop. My heart gives a great iiound! Just be fore ni", leaning her arm on the low fence that divides tie- wood from tiie fields, a girl is standing. Hhe wears a white dress and pansies—my true heart's ease! Her back is toward me, showing the graceful outlines of her figure, and the shnp.dy, gold-crowned head, set. so daintily amt proudly onto the sloping shoulders. .Suddenly the sharp harking of a dog breaks the stillness, and rouses the ecnoes In tho solemn, dim old wood. At the same time a bird, perched on a bough just over her head, opens its throat and trills forth the maddest, merriest note. She turns and looks up at tlie songster. What is it in her face that I have never seen there before,' With a fascinated gaze 1 stand anil look at her for a minute; then 1 am at her side. “You!" The rich color spreads over her face, and even dyes tne pure, white neck. “How you frightened m!” giving me her hand. “I believe 1 was thinking of you.” Ami then she stopped, and for tue first time in our lives we two stood together and hail nothing to say to each other. Hhe Ni>oke first. “It is kind of you to coma again. Josie hits born fretting about you a groat deal. A* you have not written lately, idle felt sure that you had broken down again for not taking her advice and staying longer when you were hero. Are you quite strong egaJu f" “Quito fttroiig. But I And thet lam very dependent on my cousin* dura they have aliowu ini-, by their good new, my blank in gratitude of the |auit. ” Why dwl the worda corns *o slowly t A passing wind lifted a half-brow lied trees ■if tier hair and fluttered her drew. The bil l bed flown to another tree lie threw bu ll hts head nod snug agaui hit Wonderful m /us. “I think lie is drunk with joy,’’ she said. “And no wonder. The day is intoxicating. When he burst into singing just now, I thought of Shelley’s lines— “ ‘Teach me half the gladness That thy brain must know, Such harmonious madness From my lips should tlow,’ etc. I seemed so full of a joy that had no out let. Can one help being haopv on such a day! When nature gives tis such beautiful lessons; when she opens her lips and speaks to us in her own wild, sweet language i” I answered some what sadly: “A moment ago 1 felt tin* same strange ecstacy. Hut the sight of —” I broke off there. “Bessie,” I said, presently, “I am mad myself to come lien* again. But when a man’s sole happiness lies in the sight of one sweet face, can you blame him if he sometimes indulges it, though he feels it to be dangerous!” 1 paused. There was no answer. “Need I tell you how much I have regretted writing you that letter now near ly a year ago! It deprived me of your com panionship, for I could not trust myself to see you after that It placed a gulf be tween us that nothing short of your tact an,! delicacy could have bridged over when I was here in the summer. And then it was a piece of shameless egotism on my part to ask you who had been almost my sister to marry me before 1 had done anything to win j our love. I hail no right to do it. I yielded to an uncontrollable impulse, and I lmve never forgiven myself that 1 added even that much to what you already had to bear. You will never know how much I have loved you. I have tried hard to forgot you. That is impossible. Forgive me, my love, my love! Be patient with me! I shall not speak of it again, i meant to be strong and keep the pain and longing to myself, but to day— ‘‘Stop, Jeffrey! i implore you to stop!” She was very pale, and she trembled. A wonderful gleam lit up the blue eyes. It was a strange new expression. “Speak to me, Bessie. What, have I done! Are you angry! I cannot have you angry with hie. I niust have your friend ship.” A sweet, bright smile broke over her face, and the soft color cams and went in her cheeks. “No, I am not angry.” “Bessie, what is this! Oh, my love! mind what you do! Do not trifle with my earn estness 1” She put both hands over her eyes. Trembling with a sudden inexplicable rap ture that frightened me, I drew away the hands with oueof mine, and with the other I lifted her face. O, sweet, truthful eyes! They flashed into mine a look of ineffable love. “My Bessie! Oh! niv da rling' My own! After such a weary waiting Mine forever! Mine to shield from the lightest breath of care. Say that you love me! My heart is hungry for one word of love from your lips!" The beautiful love-lighted face! the sweet, low, trembling voice! “I love you! O, Jeffrey, I do love you! And that is why I am so happy to-day. The shining head dropped on my breast. To have her in my arms! To hold her there while I kissed her fair forehead, her sweet,, red lips, and smoothed back the lovely hair! —ah! it was worth while to have suffered and waited for this! “How did you flud out your secret, Bes sie!” She lifted her head, and answered with a proud smile: “It was revealed to me long ago—longer than I care to tell you. When I heard of Clara Meredith I—was very miserable. I felt that you did not lov her as you had loved me, and it seemed cruel '< have found out that I cared for you when it was too late, when it only made it harder for both of us. Aud then when you came— But why go over it all now ! If you had not been blind, Jeffrey, you might nave known my weakness the night I broke down, not be cause I remembered the doctor, nor because my heart was ‘full of rest.’ But because it was full of wild unrest, of unavailing re gret. You were to leave on the morrow, and my ‘light in life’ would go with j-ou. I had tried to tell you once, and you taught my pride a lesson it could not forget. Not that I doubted your love, or failed to un derstand the cause of your bitttemess And, Jeffrey, that made it so much harder.” “Mydarling! My precious one! Noth ing shall ever be hard for you again. I will take all the ‘hard’ things for my share.” The bird had come back and perched just nliOvo us. We bowed our heads as again its wild, sweet warbling filled the wood with melody. Melody that thrilled through our united hearts. * * * * * * There are signs of day in the East. I have written all night, yet I must add a few words. We live at Harwood Place. At 40 there is no white in my wife’s shining hair, no wriifldes on her fair face, no dimness In her steadfast, eyas. She is still most fair to see, and I think she will always he young. We have had more joys than fall to the lot of most couples. Three children God has given us. One we gave hack to Him ere its white soul had received one soil—our little Josie, a year old when our tears fell over her grave. Harold, our hoy, they cull red headed. He is like no one else in the world, I think, and we are proud of him. Olive is like my mother, ns I remember her. Well grown for a girl of 14, lithe and slen der. With line dark eyes, full of tire ami pathos, delicate features, und a rich bright, dark complexion, and a great mass of dark colored hair. The children have one beau tiful trait in common—they worship their mother. She is, in their eyes, almost as beautiful and gracious as she is in mine. The pen falls from my Ungers. My head drops heavily on the table. lam awakened by a calutous tap at the door. Before my eyes are fairly open an old negro woman (no other than “nursie") has entered and begun to light my fire. She is over 70 now, and age has planted many a wrinkle ou her swarthy face. Yet, though the [lortly figure is somewhat bent, she is still active, and helpful, and there are some offices she will allow no hands but hers to perform for her “white folks.” “Miss Bessie bin powerful oneasy 'bout you, Mars'Jeffrey,” shesays. while the gray turhaned head bobs up and down as she blows the lire, “powerful. Hhe ’lowed sup pen mus' er liar/ ncl, but I tole her I lay you les done drapped ter sleep a raidin’ clem nr letters o’ hern. I rickolleck vutiddy uz yo’ weJdin day. Ketch me fo’glttin’ dat day! No, dat you don’t I I kin see my blessid chile now er standin’ ’long o’ you In dat ar lonesum-lookin’ little church, wid her shiny white frock on, u i dat ar long vail a hangin’ way down her back. An” you a lookin' Ink you laid eat her up. An’ didn’t her eyes ioolc happy! Lor! ljir! she never look Ink do sonic gal she uster in ilat ole sorry house what wara’t good nuff for none o’ my folks to look at, let lone liv in an’ die in. Po’ Mars’ Harold! Haem mity strange to think'boat him. Aye I/rrd, my folks is bin tbew de thews! Twaru’t no easy cliastymnent what de Lord giv deni, but Jt I'eglar Imrd swipin’ lieks, an' look lak my iKi' young marster jes sink right under Vn. But 1 ain't no eashuu fur tor com plain. 1 tell you what it is, Mars’ Jeffrey, de ways uv de good Master is mity kurus, and look lak we doan' know what Ho do mean by it suuitimes, but it alius kuin roun’ dat He ile on dot’s right an’ we do ones ilat wrong. He bin mity mustiful to us, M ar’ Jeffrey, dat Mo is!" The tire is (turning briskly now, and as the old darkey loaves the room, I hear a quick step omning along the passage, whoso ap proach has never yet fallal to quicken my pulses, and presently the blithe voice of iny daughter, who has rushed past her mother into the room; •Tujiii! Papa! ilo hurry up! Biddy says (imitating tier) the brakthfn* is reddy, shure an' it is, an’ the cakes a gittin' ail oowld!” (THE END.] Pink gum* uwl mouth and lUxxllng Mk, Aud bmUi uf bain,V and Mp* of row, An found uH in late world UmnuKli With young or old, save only I Low* Who ever wiwly , wtblft I “f uwy. lot tev/.UD'J.’i i by tu4 nl nod dev DRY GOODS. E CKS T K IN’S! Our stock of Fine Imported Robes, Dress Fabrics, Velvets and Novelties for Combinations represent the very latest ideas, both in designs and colors, from the largest European manufacturers, aud are exceptionally attractive. Also, a full line of American manufactured Silks, Velvets, Velveteen aud Dress Goods. Jackets and. Wraps. IjMDKR DOWN FLANNELS, in solid cloth shn.lnn nnd delicate tints. Fancy Stripes and Novel Designs In EIDER DOWN and JERSEY FLANNELS. LEADERS. fine All Wool Ladies' Cloth, Tricots, Serges aud Armures, IV6 yards wide, in all shades, 65c., 75c.. (Be., $l. OT-ineh Fancy and Plain Colored Dress Goods at 10c., lsc. Double Width American Cashmeres, in all colors and black, at 25c. All Wool Cashmeres, Serges and Armures, choice colors. 40c., 50c.. fisc. yard. Some entirely new makes in Wool Dress Fabrics, such as Fedora, Carmelite, Armure, Nubian Cloth, Figaro, Jet Black Cashmere, Cheviots. Blue Black Cashmere, Serges, India Cashmere, Camel's (lair. Nuns’ Veiling, Silk Warp Henrietta Cloths, Kigolettu. Lihiau Cloths. Scotch Plaid Dress Goods, so much in demand this season, from 10c. yard up to the finest All Wool grades. J>jsl opened, a large and superior stock of Mourning Dress Goods, including a line of ftiia Nuns' Veils and Veiling. English Crapes. KID GLOVES. Just oj>ened a full line. We lead off with a genuine Real Kid 4-Button Glove, in all colors, at 75c. pair. Zephyr Shawls. Long Wool Shawls and Fancy Theatre Shawls from 75c. up. If prices will do It we shall sell all the Blankets and Flannels that will be sold in Savannah this winter. We are offering Scarlet Medicated Twill Flannels at 8.5 c.: worth 50c. 10-4 Wool Blankets at $3 50; worth $5. white and Unbleached Canton Flannel at #J4c.; worth 10c. New Goods and Special Bargains in all departments. ECK STE I N’S. CLOTH IN'Ci ~~ ISTEVT 'F I T~R.TVr ~ ~ MENKEN & ABRAHAMS, 158 BROUGHTON STREET,. HAVE NOW A COMPLETE STOCK OF Men’s Pine Clothing, Youths’ Fine Clothing, Boys’ Fine Clothing, Hats and Furnishing Goods, LATEST STYLES AND BEST QUALITY. In our CUSTOM MADE DEPARTMENT Suits made to order on short notice. PARTIES IN THE COUNTRY sending orders can have same expressed C. O. D., free of charge, with privilege of returning if not suited. MENKEN & ABRAHAMS, 1/5 S BROUGHTON STREET. NEW YORK OFFICE, 850 BROADWAY. MILLINERY. We Leai and Otters Follow I FALL AND WINTER. Krouskoff’s! Krouskoff s! The Leader of Fashion. We are now opening the Latest Novelties in Early Fall aud Winter Millinery, consisting of the largest assortment this side of New York. We have just opened and have on display on our front tables 200 different shapes in Black and Colored Straws, consisting of all the very latest shapes, such as the Volunteer, Westminster. Sterling, Monopole, Larchmont, St. Germaine, Just Out, Zingare, etc. In Birds and Wings we have all kinds, from the Canary to the Eagle, or all the Birds of Paradise, in all new shades and combinations. Tips the same. In Velvets and Plushes we are leaders in prices and shades, as we always have been, and shall continue. In Novelty Stripes, etc., we have the largest assortment; also, Novelty Trimmings. In Ribbons we have the latest novelties, just as they are imported, and prices lower than the lowest. School Hats ! School Hats ! 5 (000 DOZEN IN ALL KINDS AT K R O U K O lf ’ S. • TRUNKS AND SHOES. Low Quarter Shoes at Cost. In order to make room for our Large Fall Stock, which will soon be coming in, we have concluded to make a rushing sale of the balance of our stock of GENTS’ FINE LOW QUARTER SHOES. We have sold our stock of these goods down closer this season than we have for years past, and being determined not to carry any over to next year, wc offer to close them out AT MANUFACTURERS’ COST. Remember the old saying, “the early bird catches the worm,” so don’t wait until the bent lots are gone. JOS. ROSENHEIM & CO., iy z> ujmjvuu ton trru& kt. 5