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“And yet, little woman, you can’ttring your
self quite to like him?”
“I’m getting to like him better than I did,”
she replied.
“But,” said he, “I never could understand
your dislike for the poor soul. He cannot help
being ugly.”
“I don’t know,” she answered. “That is—I
could not explain why. There are some motives
one is unable to analyse. Besides, girls take
strong likes and dislikes, often without any
very real reason.”
Whereunto he remarked, sententiously enough,
that it was very silly of girls not tt> use their
jndgment—a sentiment which brought the con
versation to a close.
Every man is proud of his own place, even
although in his heart he may detest it. Great,
then, was the pleasure afforded this good vicar
by the obvious interest which friend Blackley
appeared to take in all things connected with
Uudflat—in the church, and house, and glebe,
in the condition of the poor—even in the plan
of Mr. Roper s domicile, and the quantity _ of
timber round the glebe hedges. He was alike
affable and enquiring on the subjects of rates
and roads, and in short lionised the entire parish
with positive pleasure. Better still, he lauded
everything to the skies: the quality of the grass,
the quantity uf the crops, the roof of the church
the arrangements of the vicarage. The only
things he seemed bored about were the
harmonium, which had been procured, after
much begging, by subscription; and the school-
children, of whom he remarked, with more
truth than grace, that he disliked animal odors.
In short, a severe critic would have said that he
was more concerned about the material than the
spiritual welfare of Mudflat; but then he was
not the vicar, and could not well be expected to
ascend to a vicar's responsibilities.
The two clergymen spent the whole of Satur
day in thus lionising the little parish from end
to end. In the evening, Ralph came down from
London, to the great delight of Adine, who
straightway devoted herself to him, leaving the
duty of entertaining Horace Blackley to her
husband.
At supper, however, conversation perforce be
came general. Ralph, now grown into a tall,
handsome, though rather sickly young man,
bad brought down a stock of witticism and an
ecdotes from London, which he fired off bril
liantly enough, being cf an age when the teller
enjoys the tale even more than the hearers.
Supper over—and it was a real good hot affair
of the old English and savoury type—nothing
would satisfy Mr. Lovett but the broaching of a
bottle of Scotch whisky, a present from Farmer
Roper, who had received it direct from a broth
er, who happened to be learning the art of agri
culture on the northern side of the Tweed.
Under the benign influence of this nectar
tongues soon began to wag all round. Much
against her will, Adine was forced to imbibe a
wme-glassfull,adulterated of course. Her first im
pression of the liquid was that the water was
smoked. Corrected on that point by the supe
rior intelligence of the male sex, she opined
that, if it was not for the smoke, it would be
very nice. Lastly, she regretted in her soul that
propriety compelled her to decline a second edi
tion.
“Charming spot this,” remarked Mr. Bleckley
to her, as if to initiate conversation. During
the past twenty-four hours he had not addressed
to Ler a dozen sentences in all.
“What, Mudflat?” she exclaimed in undis
guised astonishment.
“Certainly. I do not say that it is pretty,
and there seems to be some water about, but to
a practical man it seems a very capital place.
It beats Coldhole in most respects. ”
Coldhole was Mr. Blackley’s preferment in
Essex.
“I thought Coldhole was quite double the
value of our living, besides being so near Lon
don.”
*‘I don’t mean in respect of income,” here-
joined. “ There, I own, Coldhole is superior.
I mean as regards advantages.”
“Advantages!”
“Yes. Only look at your glebe. To a man
who really understands farming, it is worth five
pounds an acre.”
“Oh, Dors !” cried Adine reproachfully ; “then
you’ve gone and let it to Mr. Roper for less than
half its value.”
But Mr. Lovett shook his head. “I don’t
think,” be said, “that any one butRoper would
pay our price; and he, poor fellow, pays extra
for the sake of sentiment.”
Mr. Blackley begged to differ. He had walked
all over the glebe and was able to speak from
close personal observation. The land ought to
let higher; and, as far as he was concerned,
having farmed the Coldhole glebe, and knowing
something of the subject, it was his candid
opinion that the land was worth, to a man of in
telligence and enterprise, a good five pounds
per acre.
“And what are our other advantages?” enqui
red Adine.
“Climate, for one,,’he rejoined.
“That is bad enough,” remarked Ralph, with
a sarcastic smile.
Lookers on see the best of the game. Mr.
Blackley, to a dispassionate listener, appeared
to have a motive in thus eulogising an obvious
ly disagreeable place. Ralph somehow did not
give that evil mouth the credit of uttering with
a good intent. He related in after days his im
pressions of this conversation.
“Nonsense, my good boy,” replied Mr. Black
ley. “Your lungs are delicate, and the country
atmosphere tries them. But this sort of place
is health compared with Essex. My poor Louey
is often quite laid up.”
“So are we,” said Mr. Blackley. “No, my
dear fellow, if you will make comparisons, I
venture to assert that Mudflat is about the most
unwholesome corner of the earth.”
“I would gladly exchange,” responded Mr.
Blackley dryly.
“And I too,” asseverated Mr. Mr. Lovett
“What! to our marshes? That would be from
the frying pan into the fire !”
“Besides,” added Adine, innocently, “Cold-
bole Rectory is quite a rich living, and this is
poor. It would not be fair, would it ?”
“It certainly would not be wise to go to Essex
for health,” said Mr. Blackley. “However, se
riously, Lovett, if you have any wish to move,
I have no doubt it can be arranged. I’ll get rid
of Coldhole, if you will let me have Mudflat,
and ’
“But what ’a to become of us?” enquired
Adine.
“Well, Mrs. Lovett, I suppose a nice pied a
terre could be found for you. For instance,
there is St. Mary’s Lingeville going begging.”
“Lingeville? Oh, how delicious? The very
nicest place in the world. Such shops, such
dresses, such charming concerts, Dore, dear!”
Mrs. Lovett was positively excited.
Her Dore, however, although he smilef, did
not appear to regard Mr. Blackley’s scheme as
anything better than a chateau en Espagne.
“I am unfortunately no patron of Mudflat,”
h( remarked.
“Granted. But your patrons will throw no
obstacle in the way. My plan is simple. You
exchange Mudflat for Coldhole. The Dean and
Chapter present me, whereupon Coldhole be
comes vacant. Then Mr. A. B. buys Coldhole—
I have, by the way, a man in treaty for it now—
and out of the purchase money I secure you St.
Mary’s Lingeville, whilst A. b. pops into Cold
hole. A sort of chassee croisee, you know. ”
“That would be hardly honorable to the Dean
and Chapter, would it, suggested Mr. Lovett.
“I am sure,” interrupted Adine, “they never
treated you with such consideration, that you
should regard them at all in the matter!”
“If the Chapter consent to the whole arrange
ment, I suppose your couscience will not troub
le you ?”
Mr. Blackley’s face could hardly conceal the
sneer he felt for Mr. L ivett’s conscience.
“I should consent to nothing but what was
strictly legal,” said Mr. Lovett most sternly.
“Pooh! What do the Blankton Cathedral au
thorities care for Mudflat? I’ll answer for it,
they regard such patronage as the veriest ci
pher.”
“Perhaps. But their disregard of this poor
little village does not alter my responsibility
as a man of honor. ”
“No, no, certainly not. Still in these sort of
matters it is absurd to be prudish. The Lon
don agents carry through this type of negotia
tion every day. Clever fellows those agents are,
too, only a trifle dangerous. Better, perhaps,
for the clergy to manage these little arrange
ments themselves. Suppose now that I sound
the Chapter on my return to Blankton ? Then
if they are agreeable ”
"“But what about this church in Lingeville?”
“Yes,” cried Adine. “Please tell us about it.”
She was very deeply interested in this conver
sation, and her beautiful eyes were sparkling
with more than usual lustre.
“It’s what they call an episcopal chapel,” he
replied. “Muckrow held it, and made a pot out
of it too. The present holder is a duffer, and
has talked the pewholders away. That is the
reason why he wants to sell.”
Whiskey and water caused Mr. Blackley to
drop his conventional polite manner, and to
irdulge in his mother tongue —slang. “I don’t
think that would suit me," observed Mr. Lovett,
a fairly cautious man.
‘Dore!” ejaculated his wife. How tiresome
you are!”
Then Mr. Blackley adopted a slightly offen
ded tone.
‘Indeed ! I should have imagined it was the
very preferment of all others adapted to your re-
quirments. St. Mary Lingeville is in affect a
leasehold property. You tell me that ready
money is an object to you”—this with no small
pc iut of sarcasm. “Mudflat assuredly provides
little enough of that luxury, whereas any one
would advance you as much as a thousand pounds
on the lease of a valuable property like St. Mary
Lingeville, and you have only to exert your abili
ties in order to fill your pews, whereby you would
enjoy a clear income of at least eight or nine hun
dred a year. However, it does not matter to me.
I mean in any case to retire from Coldhole, as it
disagrees with both my wife and myself, and I can
easily purchase other preferment.”
Dore,” sighed Adine, “you won’t refuse so
capital an offer.” She would have clenched the
bargain on the spot.
Mr. Lovett looked grave; the temptation was
strong. Ready money now, a good income in pros
pect, an agreeable and healthy situation, perhaps
the chance of high promotion—for Mr. Muckrow
had used St. Mary’s Lingeville as a stepping stone
all these baits might have caught a wiser man.
1 will think it over, Blackley,” he said.
CHAPTER XIV.
Monday morning. Scene, Mr. Chowner’s house
in the dull old city of Blankton. Present, Mrs.
Chowner and Mrs. Horace Blackley. Accessories,
chintz furniture.
I’m sure,” cried the latter lady, whose natur
al plainness was by no means enhanced by the ap
pearance of temper—“I’m sure, I consider that
Horace has behaved extremely ill in leaving me
here. He went away for the day, and has remain
ed absent the greater part of a week.”
“There, there,” rejoined Mrs. Chowner, a fat-
tish and torpid specimen of an ancient womanhood
—“when you are older, my dear, you won't grum
ble. My motto is, give a man his head, and he’ll
uever kick over the traces. It is your curbs that
make ’em restive.”
In early life Mrs. Chowner had been fond of
horses and the stable. When she desired to be es
pecially emphatic, she always selected metaphors
from her pet subject-
“It’s abominable behavior. He married me for
my money, and he doesn’t care for me a rush,”
whined the young lady.
“Nonsense, my dear ! you are a little bit out of
temper this morning. That’s all. It’s the effect
of too much church yesterday.”
Sirs. Chowner was matter-of-fact. Church
bored her intensely, and she rather opined it
had the same effect on ethers.
“No, it’s not church,” almost whimpered the
ill-used wife. “I wish I’d never set eyes on that
hideous man. I know very well what it is, Mrs.
Chowner. I know. He’s in love with that Jeze
bel, Adine Lovett. I’ve found that out long, long
ago !”
“Well, my dear,” observed Mrs. Chowner plac
idly, “men will be men. Now I recollect a horse
Mr. Chowner once had ”
“But Horace isn’t a horse!” cried the excited
young lady. 1 only wish he was. I’d flog him
soundly. I’d. ”
“Spoil his temper, no doubt,” interrupted Mrs.
Chowner. “It’s the way with you heavy-handed
rough-riders.”
“I bate that designing Adine,” said Mrs.
Blackley, tossing her bead majestically.
“Hate her you may, if you care to,” rejoined
Mrs. Chowner, whose energies had never risen
to the extent of hating a single soul. “ It’s
absurd, however, to be jealous of her. You
know, as well as I do, that she married her
husband for love, and so I suppose she is in
love with him still. Girls are generally very
obstinate in their likes.”
“ She’s a heartless flirt,” was the reply.
“Harmless enough,” yawned Mrs. Chowner,
not much relishing to hear Adine abused. In
her own bland way, she preferred Mr. Lovett’s
to Mr. Blackley’s wife. Comparing the rival
charms of beauty and wealth, the good lady
assigned the palm to beauty. Not that she
omitted ever to do proper homage to money.
Oh, no, Mrs. Chowner was a lawyer’s wife,
and faithful to her husband's principles and
practice.
“ They’ve robbed us of several hundred
pounds,” continued Mrs. Blackley; “ and I
swear ’’—this in a whisper, as if the stronger
the language the more piano should be the sound
of its utteranoe—“ I could swear that, if we only
knew the truth, Horace has been cajoled by that
sly, artful, vile thing.”
“ No he hasn’t, ” answered Mrs. Chowner blunt
ly. “ I’m quite aware of all the facts of the case.
If he has lost by Mr. Lovett, it is his own fault.
He offered to lend him money. ”
“ We don’t know the rights of the case, ” re
marked the other, sententiously.
“ I’m truly sorry for the poverty of those poor
Lovetts, ” said Mrs. Chowner, attempting by a
side-wind to change the current of a conversation
too strong for her nerves. “ You ought to be thank
ful, Louise, that you are so well off. ”
“ I’m not well off,” snapped the other. “No
one is well off with an indifferent husband.”
“ Well, well, Louise, you know your plain duty
is to make the best of matters. Perhaps you ain’t
very fortunate in your husband. He is not so
clever, or so interesting, or so manly as Mr. Lov
ett; but then ”
“ Mrs. Chowner, how can you ? How dare you ?”
interrupted Mrs. Blackley. It needed- only for
any one to disparage her beloved Horace to ex
tract the true state of her feelings for that indi
vidual, which was in reality one of blind devotion,
tempered, as we have seen, by chronic grumb
ling.
Mrs. Chowner stared at her in mute surprise.
Being one of a class who generally say what they
mean, she failed 10 realise a paradox. “ Confound
the girl! ” she thought. “ She evidently wanted
me to join her in abusing her husband, and now
I’ve said a simple truth she's up on end.” She
was too far surprised to answer, and her opponent
had it all her own way.
“ It’s very wrong of you to abuse my dear Hor
ace behind his back; very wrong indeed, Mrs.
Chowner, and I won’t listen to it.”
“Why, my good girl,” exclaimed the elder
lady, “1 didu't mean to abuse Mr. Blackley. If
I’d said one-half as much as you have ”
But at this juncture, on hearing a footstep on
the stairs, Mrs. Blackley suddenly started from
her seat, and with a cry of “ Goodness gracious,
he’s come!” rushed to the door, and embraced
her husband, who entered, in a style more demon
strative than elegant.
“How dye do, Mrs. Chowner? There, there,
Louey, that'll do!”
The ill-used wife had already begun to fawn on
her lord like a well-thrashed spaniel, to the utter
bewilderment of poor Mrs. Chowner, who had an
ticipated a very different scene.
That was reserved for the privacy of the bed
chamber.
“ I’ve got a bit of good news for you, Louey ”
said Mr. Blackley, as he deposited her on a sofa
for the sake of peace.
“ Please tell! ” she cried, clapping her
hands.
“ We are not to go back to Coldhole. I have
definitely arranged with Lovett to take his living
in return for a church I shall procure for him at
Lingeville.”
“ But Mudflat is a horrible place, ” cried his
wife, at once crest-fallen.
“ It’8 delightful, ” he answered. “ The land is
worth five pounds an acre. ”
TO BE CONTINUED.
out and clasped hers an 1 a voice repeated, “It
is circumstances, not hearts that are change-
able. With a haughty start she looked up.
Whose eyes were thes * bent upon her. Could
k be that this was the man who had gone away
from her so loner before ? F.ir a mnninnl all (Via
strength of the city of New York ! How many
of us do you suppose have had an original
thought in our lives; we who profess to do the
thinking for the people !”
“More than you imagine, perhaps. The world
is so vast a ball, and the people circle so busi- from her so long before ? For a moment all the
ly around it, that oue hardly feels like laying old resentment came back and her eyes flashed
his hand upon a m in and saying he was born j with wounded pride and defiance. At last she
here. Infact.it is difficult to trace a man’s ; said. “Excuse me sir! It appears to have
birthplace by the likeness he bears to a past j taken you a long time to find this out. Sup-
generation; and much more difficult to trace a ] pose I contradict you and tel) you that hearts
thought. ’ ! are changeable, and those are wise who do not
“Perhaps it is difficult to trace a thought have t > be told of it.
just in one set form of words. But go back to a “ Which
THE BROKEN ENGAGEMENT.
OR
CIRCUMSTANCES ARE CHANGEABLE
AND NOT HEARTS.
“Mother, I am losing hope. I have worked
and waited, and waited and worked; and I do
not see the frnits of my labor. There is no jus
tice in the present course of things. If I were
a man, it wonld not be so. Men always find a
door open for them; bnt women have to make
the door and then fight every step of the way as
they enter.”
“Why, Laura, my child, what new cause is
there for complaint, that yon are so bitter this
evening ? Has the world changed since Arthur
Mansfield went away, and asked you to wait
until he had made his fortune?" said Mrs.
Westbrook, as she turned and looked enquir
ingly at her daughter.
“Yes, mother, the world has changed; or
rather I am beginning to see it in its true light;
and to see him as be is. I knew be was not rich,
mother; and 1 made no complaint when he said
he would go away and work until he could give
me the place in society that I ought to have. I
was not unhappy, because I trusted him; and I
knew that he bad ability to rise in the world.
I could have waited forever, if he had only been
true to me. But read this, mother, and you
will see for yourself.” And she flung a letter
in her mother’s lap, as if the very sight of it was
torture; then turned away with a defiant, reso
lute look, while her mother read:
“Dear Laura : “I have just reached California,
after almost a two months voyage. And in this
two months, I have been thinking—soberly
thinking. Two thousand miles now are be
tween ns. It may be a long time before I return
with the fortune for which I came in search.
It seems a linos- cruel thai Iwinding
you with a promise, to be kept, perhaps, for
years, before I can return to you. Forgive me,
my darling, if now I seem indeed cruel, for it
is not without a pang that I write the next few
lines.
“Laura, I ought not to fetter you, so I give
you back your freedom, to do with it as you
will. And if you can find another that you can
give the place that I had hoped would be my
own; do it; and God be with you. But when I
succeed, as I will, soouer or later, I will re
turn; and if I find you waiting, I shall lay my
heart again at your feet. “Yours
“Abthdr Mansfield.”
Mrs. Westbrook folded the letter carefully,
and looked at her daughter. “Laura, my dear,
I know you think this cruel. But, after all, it
may be best."
“I agree with you, mother, that it is best; for
he never could have loved me, or else he would
not have thought of giving me back my free
dom. It would have been time enough when I
asked for it The idea that he will presume to
come back and offer me bis heart again! He
may keep it; and I will make my own way in
the world, even if I do have to fight for it step
by step, rather than to s*and back now and see
him make it for me. I will do it; and then we
will see who has the fortune. But I shall never
lay it or my heart at his feet; trust me for that.
I despise him, and all mankind.”
Mrs. Westbrook smiled, for this daughter of
hers, was not one with whom one could mingle
her tears; for, if she shed them herself, she
did it when no pitying eyes were near. Pity !
she did not want that. She wanted to go out
into the world and defy it—wrench from it an
acknowledgment of her capability.
So her mother only said : “Act as you please
in this matter, my daughter; only be careful
that you do nothing rashly.”
“I shall not be hasty, mother; but I have re
solved, and shall live up to it. The future shall
be to me ideas, not men. I believe there is but
one thing worth living for in all the world, that
is, the grand interchange of thought. Hence
forth, I shall only seek society for the thoughts
I find: these found, 1 can afford to let men
drop."
“Don’t be cynical, my dear; worthy thoughts
do not originate in vile hearts. Therefore, oe
careful that in casting humanity aside, you do
not cast away the kernel from which true hap
piness will spring. Life is only in sympathy,
and union of heart and heart.”
But Laura, though her cheeks had lost all
their warm, rich color, shook her head, and
curled her lip.
After this, the brilliant society pet isolated
herself from social circles, dressed plainly, and
spent all her time in study. When she sought
any society, it was that of men and women who,
as she said, could teach her something. She
sought knowledge with a diligence that was
feverish enthusiasm at first; but after awhile she
felt that “all was vanity.” There were few
grand new ideas to be learned—many that
seemed so were traced back and back, until
they were enshrined in old-time mysticism and
mythology. Thoughts but revolved on wheels
of time; and men were but the spokes that car
ried them.
The years slipped away, and brought her
much of knowledge of men and things. She
was what people termed one of the “literati,"
without having aimed at that distinction. In
fact, she had a decided aversion to being classi
fied by what she may have acquired of knowl
edge.
Once, when she attended a select party, gi f
en by a friend for the purpose of gathering to
gether all the wise and learned of the city, she
looked over the m »tley group of men and wo
men, and remarked to the gentleman who stood
near her.
“And we are the ‘literati,’ the wine and
little, and you will always find that the man
whom the people think is the most original, is
always one who deals in old forgotten lore; who
takes what he finds and turns it over and paints
it anew, and then says to the credulous world:
‘Behold what the Inal of this thinking age hath
wrought?’”
“It may be that man has a germ of thought
to begin with—yon may call itGod-giveu, if you
will; bnt he still has the capacity and will to
enlarge upon what he finds; to put a little here
and a little there, until, in truth, he may claim
the glory, not of a strictly originating power,
but of one which is as great in its way; the al
most infinite one of collection and selection.”
“An! Mr. Holmes I see how it is. You are
like other men; y ou conde nn women for their
want of reasoning; you follow out your own way
of grinding and sifting your wheat and you
bring us only flour at last. But we women,
what do we do ? We take the flour and examine
it; we know that it was made of wheat, because
we accept the evidence of our eyes—call it in
tuition if you will; then we only ask, from
whence came the wheat? We know tnat no man
now living cm make one grain—and this is the j and the woman too.
means that you have no welcome
for me and that I may go back as I came and
not carry with me the woman whom I had hop
ed all along might still be true to me.
“Exactli. You are wiser than I thonght!
You gave me back my freedom did you not ?
What reason ha l you to hope that I would re
member you after so many years ? ”
“ Nothing only my own ‘love which did not
change. Shall I go ? ”
“ You may go. ”
He released her hand and walked slowly away.
Miss Westbrook did not bow her head and weep
this time, she only stood still and thought.
Ah! “ the thoughts of youth are long, long
thoughts. ” °
She looked straight ahead of her, away off
into the future. She pulled the flower to pieces
that she held in her hand and then she whis
pered to herself. “Yes, I did love him; I do
love him. But I have sent him away from me
forever. ”
“ It is circumstances, not hearts that are chang-
able, and you will not send me away from you
now !” said Mr. Westfield, who had returned
unnoticed, and now imprisoned both hands
age of wisdom !—and therefore we infer that no
man ever did.”
“A truce ! Miss Westbrooks. I must claim to
bo vanquished, though not convinced.”
“That is even a greater concession than I
would have expicted, alter knowing the charac
ter of my most noble enemy.”
“Thank you. It is sweeter to be called a no
ble enemy by some persons than a blessed com-
And she did not.
Flowers at a Ball—January Turned into Julie.
At a recent ball in New York, given by Mrs.
Lorillard, the floral decorations were so gor
geous that it seemed one had stepped on the
magic carpet of the Arabian Nights, and been
suddenly transported from the frozen streets
panion by others. But why will you ever con- j j n to some gorgeous tropic scene. A correspon-
sider men as your enemies ? Is there nothing
in them that would soften the word ? Will you
tell me why it is tuat we always find the sharp
edge of your tongue ?’’
“People generally find the weapons they
have whetted, sharper than those that they left
to themselves. And if men find, at last, that
it only takes about six thousand years of this
same whetting, to give women au edge that
will not bear pressing too closely, is there a
better way to do than to ask men, who did the
sharpening ?”
dent writes “it soft, rose-colored light reflected
from the Moorish ceiling, gave a picturesque
effect to the costumes of the lodies as they en
tered. The interior was a veritable flower
palace. To the right of the entrance three large
drawing-rooms were thrown open, which, to
gether with the conservatory in the rear, made
practically one grand hall for dancing. In the
middle room Lander’s orchestra was hidden
away in a grotto of flowers, and furnished the
dance music. Eight superb chandeliers, from
the center of each of which were suspended
Vanquished again my unconquerable! But j candelabra, bolding ornamented candles, light-
I am a true Crusader, and never give up the
hope of planting my feet upon holy ground.
And there is first one thing that gives me a
last hope ,” as he spoke he drew her into a re
cess, that shielded them from the eyes of oth
ers, “and this as being a last resort, I venture
upon doubtfully. You must know that I have
respected you for years; that I have looked up
on you with more than common interest. I
have often tried to tell you my whole heart,
but you have justas often baffled me. But now
I must and will, tell you that I love you; that
I want you for my wife. Can I have my an
swer?”
“You can have it just as any other man would
get it. I do not want to marry. I want noth
ing from men, excepting their respect; and
that I claim as my right. A man can out liva
his love and sympathy,—I do not want them.
He weighs them, and counts the loss in time
or money. Take back your love and give it to
some woman, who will not question its durabil
ity."
“Keep it my qneen? It is circumstances, not
hearts, that are changeable,” he raised her hand
to his lips, and was gone.
Laura Westbrook stood where he had left
her, and a flood of memories rushed over her.
It was not thus that she had answered a man
eight years before. Then her heart was young
and fresh, and it bounded at the tone or caress
of him, who had won it. She had told herself
over and over again, that she hated him, the
man who had once won her deepest love, and
then been so cool and practical as to thrust
her freedom in her face. But her heart was
strangely softened to-night:—love, no matter
from whence it comes, always softens a woman,
however cold and unrelenting she may appear—
and she murmured scarcely above her breath:
“Oh! Arthur, perhaps, after all, I have judged
you too severely.” She leaned her head upon
her arm, and, this woman who had covered her
heart and dried her tears during all these long
years of self imposed isolation, and rankling
bitterness, actually wept, A woman’s tears
sometimes wield a power more magical than
the woman. They do what she could never do
with all her beauty, sweetness, and persua
sion. And the woman, |who so rarely sheds
tears when she does weep, startles and over
whelm the beholder.
A man who had been near, yet unobserved,
because of pyramids of hot-house plants and
shrubbery between, looked at her as she bowed
her head, and he started toward her as if he
would shield her from herself and all the worid
beside^. Then he hesitated. What if sho had
changed ? He turned pale at the thought, and
asked himself the question: “Have I done right?
Ah! I did not think how deeply I may have
wounded, while I sought to sive her.”
He moved uneasily toward her: and then as
restlessly back again. At last he took a position
where he would not seem to intrude, and yet
where he could be observed by the passing and
repassing throng. While he stood there, not
appearing to wish the attention of any one,
many questions were asked concerning him.
“Who is that gentleman ? ” inquired Mr. Wil
son of his friend, the host. “I mean that fine
proportioned man standing on the opposite side
of the room; the one who seems too much ab
sorbed in his own thoughts to care for any one
else just now. Who is he ? Is he a foreigner ?
He does not seem to have quite the manner of a
genuine “born New Yorker.”
“O, that man! Why, that is my cousin, Mans
field, who is just from California; and is said to
be one of the richest men of the State. He has
been away from here eight years; and just re
turned a day or two ago. By the way, people
used to say that he had a kind of fancy for that
brilliant and cynical Miss Westbrook. But,
from what people say of her, I doubt if his
chances are not rather slim, now. She makes
no effort to attract the opposite sex, and seems
really too cold-hearted and proad to love, or to
be loved.”
At this instant, Mr. Mansfield disappeared;
and the conversation dropped. Why had he
disappeared so suddenly ? The truth was, he
saw that his strange immobility was attracting
notice; and he was determined that the lady over
whom he stood guard, should not be the object
of obtrusive attentions. He began to feel a little
restless at the awkwardness of his position; but
just then Miss Westbrook got up and moved
away to the father end of the conservatory.
Was it presumption ? Perhaps it was; but he
followed her. When he came to her side, she
was bending over and pretending,to examine the
petals of a rich exotic plant. Her eyes sparkled,
and her cheeks were lighted with a peculiar
softened, glow.
She was looking at this flower with the eye of
connoisseur, but it was evident that it was only
with the eye that she examined it, for the
thoughts seemed to be deeper. But as she
held it in her hand, suddenly a hand reached
ed up the fair scene. These also were beauti
fully ornamented and draped with festoons of
smilax and rosebuds. In the conservatory rose-
colored globes shed a soft radiance over the rich
tropical plants and palms, and made a most
striking effect. All the windows between the
lace curtains were decorated with ferns, azaleas
and red and white japonicas. To the left of tho
conservatory the billiard-room was fitted up as
a smoking-room and was filled with statues and
garlands of lily of the valley and carnations.
The staircase leading up to the upper rooms
was festooned with ivy and flowers. In the
niches and alcoves were statues, imbedded in
flowers, with a vault of palms and ferns sus
pended over them. On the second floor, in
conformity with an idea first put into practice
by Mme. Murnetta in London, last season, all
the chambers were used as supper-rooms, and
these also were profusely decorated.
A farmer friend had occasion to write the local
editor of this paper a note the other day. In
closing his note he asked, “Urb, can you tell
me the way out of the present hard times?”
Of .course we can. Keep pegging away—live
within your income, and save a little for a rainy
day—sell your surplus stock and grain—if you
can’t get your price take what you can get; take
the money and pay your honest debts; and if
you owe no debts, put the money at interest
and don’t go on credit any more; work steadily
and be economical —make no bad or fool trades,
and the first thing you know you will be sitting
up cross-legged, with peace and plenty. Now,
we’ve told you the way out, and if you don’t go
it is your own fault.—Dawson (Ga.) Journal
Loving Fviendg
Never cast aside your friends if by any possi
bility you can retain them. We are the weakest
of spendthrifts if we let one drop off through
inattention, or let one push away another, or if
we hold aloof from one through petty jealousy
or heedless slight or roughness. Would you
throw away a diamond because it pricked you?
One good friend is not to be weighed against
the jewels of the earth. If there is coolness or
unkindness between us. let ns come face to face
and have it out. Quick, before the love grows
cold ! Life is too short to quairel in, or to carry
black thoughts of friends. It is easy to lose a
friend, but a new one will not come for calling,
nor make up for the old one.
“ Couldn’t Lie fob that Monet. ”—A story is
told ot a young Waverville, Me., lawyer, who
has of convival turn, who had in his hands a
number of unsettled accounts against an old farm
er in the vicinity, who never paid any debts un
til he was sued, and then only after loud out
cries against the lawyers for “ grinding the faces
of the poor.” One day he came in to settle a
bill, when the lawyer offered to disoount him a
dollar and a half if he would go into the street,
mingle with all the groups of people whom he
might meet and lead the conversation up to a
point where he could incidentaly remark that
he (the lawyer) was a sharp and worthy fellow.
The old man wanted the money, but finally he
said impressively:
“Squire ! I’m a very old man and have done
many wicked things in my life; but with my
views of eternity I can't lie like that for that
money.” The dollar and a half was discounted
without extorting any recompense therefor.
‘ The Philadelphia Times, says of the proposition
to admit an Indiana delegate to Congress: “ It is
good provided you are sure of your Indian. There
are some Indiane who are born Congressmen; who
can talk, tipple and play draw with the most ex
perienced politicians in the country. But there
are some who have not fully cultivated these gra
des of public life, and who might not prove such
sooiable companions on the floor of the House.
The bald-headed Congressmen can favor this new
proposition conscientiously and without fear, but
the member who has [any hair on the top of his
head will be very likely to feel a little backward
about rushing it through—at least before the army
is increased in numbers.
The ever sensational Mercury thinks the Chand
ler confession—a prelude to impeachment,and goeB
on to give prophetically, the programme of Ben
Butler, in ti e bold game they intend playing upon
the President. Butler seems the most bittsr sleuth
hound in the pack, though he doesn’t bark -o
loudly. He is to handle the Louisiana matter, and
he believes he is armed with such proof as will not
alone leave Stanley Matthews, Wayne McVeigh,
and Charley Foster on their backs, but will impli~
cate Mr. Hayes personally in all their treachery.
He intends so show that the office of Presi
dent was bought by “an honest man from Ohio”
under circumstances which prove him to be
oeiver of stolen goods.