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[ For The Sunny South.]
CALM AND STORM.
BY WILLIAM HAMILTON.
The water is peacefully flowing.
And the wild zephyr* are blowing,
As I glide along the stream,—
And the pnro heaven above
roods like a dream of love
Over the stream.
The passionate billows are groaning.
And the wild wind is moaning.
As I glide along the stream,—
And the vailed heaven, in gloom,
Broods like a judgment doom
Over the stream.
A ROUNDABOUT ROMANCE.
BY S. M. A. C.
CHAPTER XXXI.
Arthur's captain.
The fitful late April sun shine falls softly bright,
over the dark forest of nodding pines, the wide,
level low-lands, through which a sluggish creek
runs down to the blue sound, and the long, low
sandy swell which make up the broad acres of
Point Breeze. The house stands well into the
pines, at the very crest of the uplands, above the
fogs and miasma of tide-water. It is old, and
rambling, built for comfort instead of show, with
a'l sorts of unexpected doors and queer little win
dows and wide, shady piazzas, upon one of which,
that, which looks down the drive, there is a group
which shows a gentleman, erect and vigorous in
port, though his grey head tells of a long past
prime, a matron softly fair, and of gracious pres
ence, a slim, graceful girl, whose dark eyes seem
strangely familiar, and a middle-aged negress,
comely and comfortable, with the gayest of hand
kerchiefs, turbaning her bead, and row upon row
of blue glass beads about her throat. Every face
wears an expectant look, and the girl is fairly a-
quiver with impatience.
“Why don’t they come !” she says aloud, strain
ing her eyes for the hundredth time, down the
road. “Grandpapa, is there anything in the world
so tiresome as waiting?”
“Not to young people, Baby, says the old man
smiling, while the ebony dame breaks out:
“De Lord ! Miss Lyt; you’s in a mighty hurry
fur yer new beau. Git out o’ all dat fidget chile,
time you’s had many as I is, he! he 1 he! Won’t
she ole mistis ?”
“Of course I will Patsy,” the girl says, laughing,
“but that is not the matter now. I’d be just as
glad to see Arthur if there was to be no one with
him—as indeed I wish there was not.”
“Ah 1 my chile,” shaking her head, “you jes
talks dat way ; can’t fool me. But if ’tis Massa
Arthur, you got to wait fur me, ’cause ’fore God
I’m gwine hab de next hug to Miss Ly’beth.
Lord love my boy. He’s worth jes two dozen o’
you, an’ I ain’t seen him in a whole year.”
“I’m very willing, Patsy,” with a little rippling
laugh, “but suppose we give him choice of the
matter.”
t'Wouldn’t he choose me 1 He ain’t forgot who
nussed ’im from de day he was born, and went
’way fum C’liner to dat yonder place when ole
Marster gim me pribilige to stay jes to keep wid
my pretty baby. 1 ain’t ’feerd, he be ’shamed o’
his black mammy. You calls her ‘Patsy,’ ” with
a ludidrous mimicry of the young lady’s tone.
“Mammy Patsy, I’ll say, if you like it any bet
ter; but Arthur will scold you for being so cross to
me. Oh I wish that strange man would go some,
where else, and let us be, just ourselves.”
Lyt! For shame! How can you be so selfish?”
from the grandfather, while the mother says mild
ly:
“If my daughter had thought one minute, she
would never have said that, for I am sure she is
too good and generous, even if she were not patri
otic, to prefer her own pleasure to the comfort of
a suffering fellow-creature, and when, in addition
he is a soldier in our cause, her brother’s and her
father’s friend, and worse than homeless for our
sakes; 1 know she will welcome him, not on suffer
ance, but gladly.”
The girl’s eyes are misty ere the lady is done,
but she turns away her face, saying saucily :
“I’m not patriotic—that is I don’t think soldiers
and heroes are interchangeable terms, as the rest
of you and mankind hereabout do, I love the grey
with all my heart, but in the nature of things it
must cover some precious scoundrels, and papa
and Arthur are such gentlemen ingrain, that they
are slow to penetrate specious seeming, though I
am told the camp, of all places, brings out the true
metal, but after that good little sermon,” giving
her mother a hearty squeeze, “if Arthur’s Cap
tain should prove the veriest yahoo alive I’ll nurse
and tend him like he was a prince of P .ladins.”
“My daughter! Where did you learn such lan
guage?” The old gentleman’s query is heavy with
reproof, “such words as ‘scoundrel’ and ‘yahoo’
should never come over a gjjl’s lips.”
“Shouldn’t girls speak the truth?” very de
murely. “Those are the only words that express
it, of some people. As to where I got them—dear
me ! They are in the air I think; and between the
soldiers and the newspapers are as fairly inevita
ble as measles to a raw recruit.”
“You talk entirely too much,” but a proud smile
lurks about his mouth, telling plainer than words
that here is the light of his eyes and heart.
“Dar dey is,” shouts Patsy, as a heavy old car
riage, with horses wearied with a long day’s^ravel,
comes slowly in sight. When it stops a litheyoung
fellow in the full vigor of manly prime, and beau
tiful as the sun-god, ’spite his grey private s uni
form, springs out, and after claspnig his mother
as though he could never let her go, turns, un
heeding any other of the group, who all hurried
to the steps at his coming, and half lifts from the
carriage a man, whom supporting still with his
arm, he presents as,
“She called him dat too,” from Patsy, whose | “And very rightly. I am not one of the crying
memory equals her comprehension. j kind” speaking though with a sort ofspasm in her
“She did ! Why sissy, you were in a contradic- j throat. “That is, over things that really hurt,
tory humor. What did you really say?” j A little trouble will make my eyes red enough,
“Nothing wrong my son,” says the mother, run- j and I do hate that.”
ning her fingers through his short bright hair, i “I believe you are something of a heroine, any-
“and if, as 1 do not doubt, your friend retains no i way.”
memory of his fainting, how it all was, I mean, j “Oh ! T hope not; that is something I would not
of course, you must not recall it.” ! be for anything.”
“I haven’t quite lost all refinement, mamma i “Why?”
dear, if I am only a private in grey uniform. I
only meant to tease this girl a little.”
‘‘My conscience! Massa Arthur, your—her—
Captain, what he name? jay-bird, is so ugly he’s
right owdacious—he is dat, shore’s I’m a nigger.”
“Because they—heroines in books, are such un
comfortable people to live with. They never do
have any common sense, and make the trouble of
a lifetime out of what nobody knows.”
“That is the romancer’s fault, or art. You are
“And you’r not that, you know, Patsy,” Lyt : thinking of the ideal sort whom I’m very glad you
says gravely, “but just a beauty of the dark'
skinned type.”
“And wait” adds Arthur; “till my poor i.«a»
has a tew weeks of rest, and quiet, and the good
things you will cook him, and you will see the
finest looking officer in the Confederate Army, and
he is no whit behind h ; s looks I can tell you.”
“Go ’way chile. Him fine-looking. You must j
must be terstricted; and talk about me cook fur
dat mouf, wid all dat yaller beard ’roun’ it. It
looks des ’zactly like the sink hole down in dat
yonder ole brum-sage field.”
“Hush Patsy,” says Mrs. Stuart, and Lyt pre
tended to whisper to her brother:
“I suppose you leave the privates quite out of
the comparison?”
“Yes,” is the answer, “for he is beyond compar
ison with anybody. You can’t know how glad I
am to have got him here, at last. I thought more
than once that hospital, with its noise and horrors
would be the death of him. He is without father,
mother, brother or sister, and I want to give him
a share inmine. What do you say to it Lyt?”
drawing her arm about his neck.
“Oh ! I don’t know;” nonchalantly, “nothing—
unless that you must take care not to make your
benevolent intentions oppressively apparent.”
“I will guard against it, though I have no fears
on that score.”
“How long he gwine stay here Marse Arthur?”
from the unabashed Patsy.
“Some time, I hope, at least until he is well, as
he is on sick leave; I must go back in two weeks.”
“De Lord o’ mercy. Ef I’s Miss ’Slizybeth I’d
gib you some yipecac er wormfuge er sump’n and
make you sick too.
“Patsy believes still in the heroic treatment I
see,” Arthur says “but come indoors. It is get
ting too damp.”
“For a soldier!” Lyt pulls his blond moustache
as she speaks, “what a carpet knight, you must
have grown since you have been in garrison at
Mobile.”
“Not for a soldier, or even a naughty girl, but
for mother. ‘Take care of her’ was the last thing
papa said when I came away.”
At this a silence falls upon the group that is un
broken until Mrs. Stuart says,
“This young man, Arthur, where is he from ?
Your father told us but I have forgotten.”
“Maryland, sis, and you ought to hear him talk
of his State. Linley, a young fellow who came out
with him, says he had great possessions there,
which, of course, are confiscated. When we suc
ceed, the Confederacy will owe him a fortune, not
merely for the one he gave up and spent for her,
for he brought a large sum of ready money with
him, and serves without pay, but on account of
the splendid fighting he does for her. You would
think from his face he was going into a ball-room
when we are ordered into action, and no matter
how thick the bullets come, he places the guns as
Cttiefully, and trains them just as coolly as he
might aim at a bird on the wing.”
“Bah! I hate that gladiator style,” Lyt says
sententiously, “If a man must fight, let him do it
the very best he can, but of a duty instead of a
pleasure.”
“Whata contrary mortal you are.” The tone,
though, is void of reproof.
“Why ! Your eyes are flashing now, in sympa
thy with the ‘gladiator.’ You ought to have been
a soldier, dear, by all means, I honestly hate it,
and wish I might never smell gunpowder again,
even at Christmas.”
“You’s right, dar,” puts in Patsy, who remains
serenely oblivious of her mistress’ gentle intima
tions that she may go to her own domicile, “when
you was chillens she loved traps an’ dead falls an’
ketchic’ birds in de net, four times mo’ an’ you
did. She didn’t keer ’bout what she hurt for her
fun. i uster tell her she’d nebber git married
’doutshe stop dat boy-walk and ways.”
“Patsy ought to be licensed to preach against
the doctrine of woman’s rights,” Mrs. Canmore,
says aside, and her son answers:
“Yes, and that last argument would be especial
ly effective.”
Lyt falls into a half-dreamy state, whence she is
presently roused by her brother,
“Come,” he says drawing her towards the pi
ano, “sing for me please.”
“Why ! will it not disturb him?” inclining her
head to where the sick man lay.
“No fear of that. He will sleep like one dead,
until morning. Go on.”
“Well! What shall I sing ? Something patriotic,
‘My Maryland V ”
“No, if you please. I am sick of such. Some
thing old and sweet, like ‘The House o’ Airlie,’
‘The Hunter's Horn’ or ‘Robin Adair.’ ”
“Why not “The Girl I left behind me?
Apropos, I had a letter, via flag of truce, from
her the other day.”
“Indeed ! Who is she?” with a face perceptibly
brighter.
‘‘Bless its innocent heart, it does not understand,
oh ! no, not all. The letter was from Miss Alice
McLean; and now I think of it ought to have been
addressed to you, as it was chiefly reminisential of
‘Arthur’ and his kindness in ‘that delightful sum
mer at Kingswood.’ three years ago. Of all pre
servatives of school girl friendship commend me
to the having a handsome and eligible brother, as
the most effectual.”
“My daughter ! I thought you were too honora
ble to speak thus of africnd,” from the mother, and,
“Lyt, were you born a cynic?” from Arthur;
are not at all like. What I meant was that you had
a strong tinge of the real heroism that eventuates
in action.”
‘•Indeed? How did you find that out?”
‘‘At our first meeting.”
“Why,” blushing rosily “how do you—who told
you of that?”
“No one. I did not quite lose consciousness,
, M ? Captain, Mother, Grandpapa-Patsy-why ; tQ which that lady lies .
where s Lyt? I . J J F
“Here,” darting from behind an old-fashioned “No. I just got my eye-teeth rather earlier than
evergreen, her face pale with intense joy, while common. Alice McLean is all well enough I sup-
Patsy rushes forward to claim her nursling. P ose > but she is no mor « a pin-feathered angel than
“But Oh ! Look ! Your friend,” as that oerson, 1 am i as - lf You won’t believe me you may one day
faint and ill, and over-weary, totters—falls for- ! ’ ear “ * Jour cost. I don t consider her my |
ward, limp, nerveless his head prone upon her frlend > wlth a stron S empbasis on the word, “I d
shoulder, al most a dead weight in the clasp of her cut ton g ue out rather than talk so of one who
strong young arms. | was; she understands as well as 1 do, that we are
After supper, when the sick man is comfortably J ast mutually convenient acquaintances though
■enincr. Arthur hrincrs his mother awav from her 1 she P^nds not to, and calls me 'dear and -so
sweet till I sometimes can’t stand it; and now
sleeping. Arthur brings his mother away from her
purposed watching to the starlit back-piazza,
where Patsy and Lyt are holding a subdued quar
rel.
“There is not the slightest danger, mother,
dear,” he says; “he is so weak yet, from that fever
I do not wonder that he fainted; and Lyt,” pinch
ing her cheek, as *hey nestle together on the steps
at the mother’s ki ee, “you acted quite the hero
ine there, very gracefully too, I must say, accept
my thanks—until my captain is well enough to
pay them himself.”
“Oh ! she didn’t want him to come wid you,”
hush, while I sing expressly for you ‘Her bright
smile Haunts me Still.’ ”
though 1 did all power of nerve and muscle. If—
if my mention of it pains you forgive me. I wanted
to thank you for such ready kindness.”
“I hope I am more sensible than to—to—well
—care about—what I would do over again this
minute if need were. Patsy has been quarrelin
all the morning, at my dry eyes, and vows my
heart ‘would make a whet-rock dat nebber’d war
out while de worl’ stan’s;’ she has been crying
since yesterday morning.”
“She is very much attached to Arthur?”
“Y’es. She was his nurse and fosier mother.
Her only child was just his age. He was drowned
at seven years old, and Arthur came very near it
in trying to save him, and ever since, I believe
Patsy has worshipped him.”
“Who is ‘mister Jaybird’ that she so often an
athematizes.”
“Just her pet name for yourself—yet she will
tend you like the apple of her eye, for Arthur left
you sacredly in her charge. It was she who laid
the embargo on my tongue.”
“Which you will please disregard. I begged
another reversion of Arthur.”
“And of course got it—may I ask of what?”
“Y’our sisterly kindness—of which 1 am greatly
in need. He is willing I should haveit, are you ?”
“You might have his head for the asking.”
“Y’es—he is the best fellow alive.”
“I think that you and he have a mutual admi
ration society.”
“We’ll admit you and make it triangular.”
“No if you please, for you would never allow
that the triangular was (equilateral.”)
“How could we? when it is evident you would
insist on being the square of the hypothenuse.”
“There ! Y’ou have mixed the metaphor; you
are getting exhausted. We will keep the quarrel
’till you are stronger.”
“Good girl,” closing his eyes dreamily. “Come
and sit here by me Lyt. Ah ! Pardon me. I caught
that from Arthur ”
“As is not at all strange. Twenty times in speak
ing to you I have found ‘George’ on the tip of my
tongue.”
“In future pray substitute nothing more formal.
I like the name from such lips better than I ever
thought I could.”
She gives her head a little wilful toss:
“No ! No ! Monsieur le capitaine 1 know you mili
tary gentlemen are far too proud of your titles to
be pleased with their abatement; besides Patsy
would go into spasms about it.”
“Y’ou are very perverse,” turning a little more
towards her, “and I shjll call you Lyt whenever I
choose. It is such a pretty, lovable name. Are
you afraid of Patsy ?”
“I am not afraid oS’RJftny things.”
“You look like your father now.”
“That is the best thing anybody can say about
me.”
“The most pleasing, do you mean !”
“Y’es—of course.”
“Not stall ‘of course/ He is only handsome.
Would you not rather be called beautiful?”
“No; for it would not be true.”
“It would be true.”
“It would not,” very emphatically,
“Am I not too ill to be contradicted? If you
persist in it I will certainly tell Patsy. Own now,
that you know you are beautiful,” looking at her
sharply from under half closed lids.
“What you say of my looks with your eyes shut
is not worth a denial” Lyt answers, “I have known
since I knew anything that I was not pretty.”
“And who said you were so? Y’ou have not one
small element of prettiness, and I dare say you
might, in some cases be ugly, but as you are now,
with that fire in your eyes, that changing color,
that figure, the epitome of all lightly-pliant grace,
you are so beautiful that a man might lose his soul
for you and still deserve the pity of heaven;”
looking at her now with straight, audacious eyes.
She faces him steadily to the close, then says, with
an air of comical wisdom:
“Your fever must, I think, be coming on again.
Had I not better call Patsy to put ice to your
head ?”
“No,” he says, rather disconcerted. “You are
coolness enough for me at present. Read to me
please—if you are not angry. This is just the
morning for the Lotus Eaters.”
“Do you say with them ‘there is no joy but
calm ?”
“Y’es. And I think one must have endured the
din and turmoil of a soldier’s life before he can
enter fully into the charm of the poem.”
“Don’t you think it is the power of feeling as all
classes of men do without haying had their expe
rience in life which make the poet?”
“Undoubtedly; that and the faculty of putting
those feelings in words. Shakespeare proves
that.”
“I believe I will read you my favorite ‘Sir Gala-
had.’ ”
“I hope he is not your ideal hero.”
“Why?”
“Because if he is you will be so sorely disap
pointed in the mortal whom one day your fancy
will glamor into his seeming likeness.”
“Y’ou are'indeed considerate, but lama crea
ture of fact, not fancy; and as to ‘ideal’ I do not
cherish any.”
“I do not believe that.”
“How polite you are !”
“Y’our eyes tell an altogether different story.”
“Yly lips are worthiest of belief.”
“I should hate to think so.”
“Why?”
“Y’ou are too young to be worldly-wise, and too
lovely to be heartless.”
“At this rate when will the leading begin ?”
‘I don’t know, or care if you will talk and be
“Suppose he is incapable of them.” \ blinder than an owl, when out of humor you would
“An untenable supposition here. Y’ou are not j straightway vindicate my judgment, by stalking
an idiot any more than I am a simpleton, and why j off as tragically as the Ghost in Hamlet, and giving
need we go on behaving sis if we were? I don’t
really blame the gentlemen much, for most girls
have to be talked to that way or not at all, but
some of us don’t like it and you should really
spare such.”
“I will” says the gentleman, with the utmost
gravity, “if 1 ever live to encounter such a feminine
phenomenon.”
CHAPTER XXXII
IS VERY IDYLLIC.
Late level sunshine floods the pine-woods, gold ^ ^
ening the young green tips, glancing jagged and and* be "friends like a" good” sifter should.
me the direst civility for a week. Of all roles,
save me from enacting the candid friend.”
His f. ce does grow harsh at her words.
“I don’t think Miss Canmore need ever be as
sured of‘dire civility’ towards—her very humble
servant,’* he says, with a motion as though he
would rise from beside her.
“No,” she says, not looking tewards him, “but
you should not complain of her treatment, she
says what she likes to her brother—and that was
included in the reversionary interest.”
“Lyt,” with a quick change of manner. “I am
ready to own that we were both wrong. Now kiss
broken off the straight, dark trunks and showing
in a million tiny patches on the carpet of dry,
brown needles. The “merry month of May” is
almost gone, and in passing it has wrought a won
drous change in Arthur’s Captain who now walks
with Lyt, through the pine-aisle straightly vigor
ous as one of their own sturdy selves. 1 do not
know why they should halt at the foot of this
great pine, just beside the path from the orchard.
True, they have beeu rambling in the wood this
hour, but the gentleman’s figure and gait, have no
trace of fatigue, so complete is his recovery, and
Lyt—nothing save the “foot-cavalry” of this time,
has any chance of tiring Miss Canmore. Unde
niably they are a handsome couple. Even Patsy,
the most nobly prejudiced of judges is forced grum-
biingly to admit it, and the fact was never more
apparent than now, as they are seated at the root
of the great tree, she prone against it, not wearily
but with indolent grace, he bending to touch her
lightly waving hair.
“Why did you cut this off ?” he asks toying with
the short silky locks that cling about his fingers
almost lovingly.
“Just for why,” tossing them off her forehead
and speaking with a sublime disregard of gram
mar; “you and every other man between eighteen
and eighty wear mustaches, or attempts at them,
namely, to look furiously military, which is the
air a la mode of this present time; witness our col
lars, cravats, coats, etc., masculine every one, and
you see how impossible it is to blockade the fash
ions.”
“ ‘Make the doors upon a woman’s wit and ’twill
out o’ the window.’ But tell me pray, of what
era’s fashion is this?” taking up the hat she has
just thrown off, a straw of finest texture, but
quaint, almost grotesque in shape, and yellow with
age.
Take it up tenderly, lift it with care;’ my an
cient, my venerable flat. I have an affection for
it. It is the identical one my mother had on when
my papa came, saw and was conquered.”
Ah ! How came such an heir-loom entrusted to
your untender mercies ?”
It wasn’t ‘entrusted;’ I just got it, rummaged
it,and t wenty more out of some inches of dust,in the
garret, after my last hat was blown into the sound,
and this was my choice of the lot. Wasn’t that
better than plaiting myself one out of native straw,
as an industrious girl would have done ?”
“Yes: especially as I have some doubt whether
you could have accomplished that. Your fingers
were not made for work. They are too delicately
tapering for anything but touching the piano keys
or putting flowers in place, or tangling some poor
fellow’s heart-strings.”
“What a dainty, useless, dangerous creature
you would make me out. I have half a mind to
vindicate myself by making such a case for my
‘flat’ as ‘The lily maid of Astalot’ made for Lance
lot’s sacred shield, though I’m afraid it would be
rather hard, to give it all the devices which Time
has ‘blazoned’ hereupon.”
“That poem seems to haunt you.”
“It does, sometimes for weeks, and then per
haps I will not think of it any more for a year.
Is the book in your pocket?”
“Yes but you shall not have it. You know
‘Elaine’ by heart.”
“I do not. It is too daintily sweet to be memo
rized. If 1 knew it there would be only stale sa
tiety in re-reading it, and as it is, I never tire of
it.”
“Y’ou have been repeating it all day.”
“Just in snatches; 1 could not say ten consecu
tive lines.
“And what do you think of Elaine herself? Is
she not an impossible woman ?”
“That depends—”
“Upon some unattainable condition ?”
‘‘Almost, for it is the finding of a Lancelot. The
truest lover of a sinful man that ever loved woman.
There is more real pathos iu that line of the old
chronicler than in any that a poet ever wrote.”
“I think it may be fairly matched with ‘One
might have been in Heaven,’ but what was that
you spoke of this morning as having the cadence
of perpetual heart-break ?”
“This,” taking the book from him.
“Sweet is true love though given in vain, in vain;
And sweet is death, who puts an end to pain;
I know not which is sweeter; no. not I;
Love art thou sweet ? Then bitter death must be.
Love thou art bitter. Sweet is death to me.
O! Love, if death be sweeter let me die.”
! good-tempered.”
* * * * * * j “I think I shall go away.”
Point Breeze in the balm, and bloom of middle “I would not, you will be lonely away from me,
May It is morning and all the air throbbing with ; and that is something you hate.”
the loud clear song of happy nesting birds. The
stranger lies at length on the shady west piazza,
the books, flowers, etc., strewed about his lounge
showing that though alone, he is by no means neg
lected.
Presently Lyt comes out to him, saying, “Grand-
breaks in Patsy, “called him a—jay-bird, an’ all 1 papa went with Arthur this morning, and mamma
dat. Ketchin’ him right at de fus’ off start will be invisible for the rest ot the day, so you will
like as he was too good to be let fall, looks like it,
don’t it ?”
“He is,” says Arthur, “entirely, but a jay-bird
Lyt, how did you get up that comparison?”
“Patsy got it up, I said yahoo.”
“Never say it again, especially of my friend.
Why he’s a perfect Paladin.”
only have your books and me for entertainers.”
“Well!” smiling, “that is not a very appalling
prospect.”
How do you know that?”
“I heard Arthur say so.”
“He might have been better employed.”
“No doubt of it, but you will stay ?”
“Upon one condition.”
“Name it, pray.”
“That you talk to me as you would to Arthur,
that is as sensibly.”
“Have I said anything nonsensical?”
‘A good many', 1 think.”
The fresh young voice is softly vibrant, and as
it dies away shadows of feeling play athwart her
face, like clouds above a wind-stirred meadow.
“Read on please,” he says in a hushed key.
She only shakes her head and looks abroad over
earth, glorious in the marvels of its old ever-new
lovliness. She was born an enthusiast for the
great mother. Wind, cloud, star, stream, tree and
flower, even grey rocks, rough pebbly reaches,
long sweeps of barren sand have had for her a
strange companionship from her first conscious
years; and she keeps still the child-heart, sensi
tively alive to the thousand sweet influences of
this waking time, but somehow, why she does not
ask herself, there is now a richer bloom, a whiter
radiance, a clearer carrolling of birds than ever
spring brought before. Her eyes have put by
their piquont, mocking shiDe, and show for the
moment, only a liquid fathomless darkness, a joy
of life too intense to be conscious, her hands lie
idly one upon the other, and a half-curve, too
dainty to be called a smile stirs faintly the soft
lips. Ah ! It is not strange that the eyes behold
ing her are so bright and eager. Their story is
soon read, and if it were not, I think those lips so
firm and manly, under their fringe of golden
beard would not be slow or cowardly in the telling.
Presently he says.
“Come back to the real world Lyt. Y’ou have
been in dream-land long enough.”
“Let me alone, please,” half plaintively, “I
want to be good for a while.”
“Very well;” taking out his watch, “I will wait
the passing fit. It cannot possibly last five min
utes.”
“Don’t;” with a hurt thrill in hor tone, “it is
not affectation. I am really resolving to be hence
forth the nice girl who does not talk slang and do
saucy things, that Mamma, Grandpapa, Arthur,
all want me to be.”
“Don’t,” he says entreatingly, “I hate ‘nice
girls.’ They are so insipid. Y’ou are worth a
world-full of them.”
“Just as I am ?” her eyes downcast.
“Just as you are, except that I want your hair
long again. Y’our other faults I hope time will not
cure. They make you so adorably imperfect.”
“Speaking of faults,” the old light flashing back
into her eyes, “1 wonder now, if you think you
have any ?”
“On general principles I suppose I must have.
Y’ou doubtless have observed them closely. Will
Excuse me if you please” drawing a little away
from him, “It is only nice girls who forgive as
they would be forgiven at a minutes warning, and
until further notice. I am too true to my Scotch
blood to take up my quarrels so easily.”
“And you have not even a little bit of pity in
your heart ?”
“For your infirmity of temper? 0 ! yes, a most
sincere condolence for that.’
“Then at least shake hands,” he says good-hu
moredly, “and sing something for me please.”
“Wait until we get back. My voice is insignifi
cant her# in the wood; besides 1 lack an accompa
niment.”
“Your voice is stronger than the cicada’s isn’t
it? and the sough of the pines is all the accompa
niment I want.”
“Well, what shall it be?”
“Not those dirge-like notes you are so fond of
but something, anything that suits time and place.”
“I do like sad music. ‘The Three Fisher’s’ just
rings in my ears, whenever there is a strong wind
over the Sound. Shall I give you
‘A passionate ballad gallant and gay,
A martial song Ike a trumpet call?”
For instance ‘The Bonnets Bonnie Dundee ?’ ”
“No if you please; I prefer something soft—”
“ ‘As the memory of a buried love?’ Enpassant
if the poet who used that metaphor had seen some
heads I wot of—”
“Lyt, leave that sentence unfinished please, and
sing.”
“Very well. Does this please you ?”
The quaint words and tripping melody of
“When Rye Come flame,” came bubbling over her
lips, and ringing fresh and clear, on the pine-
scented air. He listens with his soul in his eyes,
and at the close says:
“Admirable. It is the sweetest thing you ever
sang, and the sentiment,
‘What is the highest joy
That the heart o’ man can name ?
’Tis to woo a bonnie la-sie
When the kye come hame,’
is beyond praise. It begins to be that witching
time ‘twixt the gloamin’ and the murk’ and I won
der if this old pine would not answer as well as the
‘spreading birch,’
•In the dell without a name t”
“Substitutes, like comparisons are odious,” Lyt
says, the red flashing over herface, “but it is time
for people of common sense to go home.”
“I thought we were agreed to stay and watch
the moon-rise. It will come in half an hour.”
“And so will supper, which is vastly more im
portant, besides that was your agreement not
mine.”
“I thought silence gave consent.”
“Not always,” rising as she speaks, “shall I tell
Patsy when you will be in ? tike will set up a search
for you, if I do not.
“I wonder if you would care if I really were
lost ?”
“Why?” shrugging her shoulders to hide a
quick shiver, “Do you think of wandering off to
the swamp ?”
“Would you really care Lyt?”
“Y’ou have got into a bad habit of occasionally
dropping the prefix to my name.”
“Don't be angry. I only do it when we are
alone.”
“That is just whatl don’t like. It would be en
tirely right ifyou did it always. Why don’tyou.”
“Oh because, I don’t known, mamma, and
grandpapa might think it sounded too familiar.”
“Then it certainly does, and you will please not
do it any more.”
“Y’ery well. Miss Canmore can I be allowed to
escort you to the house?”
“What 1 Give up your moon-rise ?”
“I don’t care for it now, or alone.”
“I see! you are afraid of what Patsy calls
‘haunts ;’ well this wood is rather ghostly, after
dark, especially where they are scraping turpen
tine. Do you know what I think a tarkiln looks
like at night ?”
“No. What is it ?”
An escape-valve of the under world. .The smoke
just smoulders up, like it was weighted with the
cries of lost souls.”
“What a weird imagination yours is,” drawing
her hand yet closer within his arm. “You need to
get back to the home-light. Come !”
They go onward almost in silence, through the
star-lit dusk. No one is on the piazza when they
reach it, and there is a slight pause, a whisper of
entreaty, then—
Five minutes after, Lyt is in her own room get
ting ready for supper. Her eyes are starry bright,
her breast heaves with quick pants of breath, her
cheeks are damask roses of deepest dye. She views
herself with evident dissatisfaction, and brushing
the hair from her hot temples thinks almost aloud,
“Y’ou ought to be ashamed of yourself Lyt Can
more. You know better, yet you will let yourself
be persuaded into—almost anything.”
(to be continued.)
Small Talk.
The Washington Capital mentions a visitor to
the Capitol who was as “black as the hinges of
midnight.” Now it is in order to explain how
black that degree of blackness is.
Dumas says: “The human heart is of all arti
cles the soonest shattered and the most easily re
paired.” He must be telling a heart-history.
No wonder “Old Probs” is often puzzled what
kind of weather to deal out, since according to
French authority, “when the weather is wet and
gloomy people commit suicide, and when it is cold
and brisk, they go skating anil get drowned.”
Brougham defines a lawyer as a “gentleman
who receives your estate from the hands of your
enemy and keeps it himself.” He must have fal
len into the clutches of one of the kind he describes.
Disraeli says: “I think I m rather fond of silent
people myself; I cannot bear to live with a person
who feels compelled to talk because he is my com
panion.” Wouldn’t he be happy with a lot of deaf
and dumb people ?
A woman who is “worth her weight in gold,”
taking the average feminine avoirdupois, would
balance about thirty thousand dollars of the pre
cious metal, and yet some crabbed old bachelors
exclaim that she is not such a great match after
all.”
‘And you don’t think much of a man who talks
‘No—for 1 was especially ordered not to talk too j nonsense.”
much.” “I confess I have a contempt for him if he per- j yon tell me what they are ?”
“Did you not cry over Arthur's going? Y’our sists in it when he knows I would appreciate bet- “No,” her head a little on one side, “for if I
eyes and cheeks say no.” I ter things.” I were to say that you were rash, hot-tempered and
There is a world of wisdom in this admonition:
“If your lips yon would save fiom slips
Five things observe with care-
Of whom you speak, to whom you speak
And how, and when and where.”
Clara Louise Kellogg is said to weigh one hun
dred and seventy-five pounds and some saucy fel
low says: “Whisper it not in the ears of Smith ”
as though he would not rather have that much
than less of sweet.
