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Castle and Cabin;
OR,—
Lord Edwin’s Vow.
A TALE OF ENGLAND AND THE GREAT WEST
BY C. H. WEBSTER.
II.
CHAPTER III.
A massive castle, stately with ancient battle
ments and toweis, rose in the heart of one of the
middle counties of old England.
Deep forests, preserves, and oofses stretched
away, acre on acre, under the moist English sky:
a spacions park, dotted with noble trees and till
ed with deer, surrounded the stone edifice, so
aristocratic with the prestige time has given its
gray walls and mullioned windows; and a smooth
shorn lawn swept from'the broad terrace, dark
with thick clumped yews and white with b'os-
soming hedgerows, down to a winding avenue,
which curved its broad, sinuous length to the
white, dusty turnpike beyond.
It was near the close of a soft May-day; and
the deep embrasured windows of a chamber fac
ing the west, in one of the wings of the old cas
tle, were thrown wide open, and the rays of the
sinking sun fell in upon the lifted canopy of a
stately cedarwood bedstead, whose counterpane
was of embroidered damask, and pillow cover
ings of fine linen and costly lace, and glanced
tUence to the death-strioken face of its occupant
lying there.
He was a man not yet past the middle prime
of life, but premature age had heavily threaded
his hair witn gray, and there were deep lines
upon his brow, as of some heavy calking care.
The emaciated face was classic in its contour,
denoting his aristocratic lineage, but the mouth
alone of his noble features was weak and waver
ing in its moulding, as though his nature was
vascillating, though never low or evil. This
man, upon the pillows in the castle, was one
who bore an honored name among the peers of
the realm—Lord Randolph Arthur Stanhope,one
of England’s proudest noblemen; and he lay up
on his death bed.
Beside the couch stood a handsome, manly
youth of some sixteen years, whose likeness to
the sick man bespoke the relation existing be
tween them—of father and son. A nurse and a
skillful leech also stood near, anticipating every
wish of the nobleman.
At length Lord Stanhope spoke, raising him
self feebly and looking toward the leech, who
drew closer and placed his fingers on the wan
ing pulse of the dying man before him.
‘I feel that my time to go is drawing near,’
said his lordship. ‘The day is departing, and
when the sun goes down, with its close the
sands of my life will be told. I would see my
son alone ere I die. Leave us together till he
summons yon for my closing breath,’ and he
motioned for the nurse and leech to leave the
apartment.
As the door closed npon the receding figures,
the boy approached nearer the conch of his dy
ing parent, and tenderly bending over him,
took his hand within his own.
‘You have something to say to me, and I am
here to listen; but my dear father, do not exert
your failing strength. If it concerns your es
tates or tenants, all shall be as you would have
desired,’ and the youth’s countenance indicated
the truth of his promised words.
my dear son, I feel assured that you will t
will fulfil all as you would wish,’ said the youth,
fervently and solemnly.
A grateful pressure repaid bis words, and his
father said, feebly again:
‘Tell me once more that yon forgive me, Ed
win, and that yon will not think too harshly of
me when yon know all, and I am in my tom b!'
•You have my full forgiveness, dear father,
j whatever deed you were tempted to commit,’
j said the boy; and he bent down tenderly as a
I young girl, and imprinted a kiss upon the i'ore-
I head ot his dying parent.
; A smile came faintly over Lord Stanhope’s
countenance; then a bright light seemed to pass
over it, wavering and glimmering over the pal
lid features with a holy radiance.
The boy grasped the silver bell upon the ta
ble and struck it hastily, and the leech and nurse
came in.
‘It is the death summons,’ whispered the for
mer, as he advanced to the couch and saw the
change which had come upon Lord Stanhope's
face. ‘A moment, and all will be ended and our
noble lord at rest.’
The halo passed from the dying man’s coun
tenance, seeming to ascend upward. His eyes
were raised as though he saw waiting angels,
and as if assured of pardon aDd welcome from
the heavenly throng. Then slowly they closed
down over the last earthly sight; and with a
sigh Lord (Stanhope's spirit weot out into the
unknown land to be judged by Him who ming-
leth mercy with justice.
The last rays of the summer sun sunk away
in the west, and the shadows of twilight fall
upon the castle with its dead and living inmates.
But the secret which had preyed so heavily up
on the lift-happiness of the departed one was
safely locked in the recesses of the heavy, rich
ly-polished cabinet, in the apartment where lay
the form of the English peer, grown stark and
cold in his last dreamless slumber.
A week later—when his sire had been lain in
the family vaults of the dead SUmhope3 -the
young Lord Edwin entered the deserted cham
ber, and with mournful glance guzed around,
where the lust scene of a life-drama had been en
acted. Then, with tender, loving eyes, he drew
aside the veil that hid the face of his lost moth
er, for the old ssrvaDts of the family had draped
all the portraits during the week of gloom and
silence in the castle.
•The time has come when I must know the
sad secret which so troubled my sire’s last mo
ments, and perhaps preyed upon his life; and
I have come,my gentle mother, to gather strength
from your sweet, pure face, which seems to say
‘My son, I forgive, and you must also cast out
every anticipation of unkindness toward the
dead.” And so saying he turned to an ancient
cabinet and unlocked the shut lid.
Touching the secret spring, which his father
had shown him a year before, bidding him to
remember its existence, the youth perceived an
enveloped package, which he drew forth; and
then, seating himself in one of the cumbrous
oaken chairs, he opened the written paper and
began its perusal.
A half-hour later, young Lord Edwin Stan
hope again stood before the portrait of his dead
mother. But a change had passed over his boy
ish face; the features no longer bore only the
imprint of a sadness engendered by recent grief
for his lost sire, but they seemed stamped with
some heavy, stunning imprint of misfortune or
disgrace.
‘Oh, help me now, sainted mother,’ he said,
agonizingly. *1 have passed my vow and will
not break it; but my heart may break instead,
for my life is blighted henceforth. But I am
glad, sweet mother, that you passed away before
revealed. You were pure,
died when ypu did. But
throw an interest around ,
“ throughout the C C await e<|ftA ^ourf from my promise or the
lwo'*~/"- j Vj;f e to yW, L lwin.l without any words of wr
to ut***?±l*%au h * art that your lips* fil- My dead sire is forgi
“Theboy^azed^end^Sy 1 and apprehensively
father, as if fearful that his mind was
weakened in his last moments.
Lord Stanhope caught the glance,and replied:
•I understood your gaze, my son, but my
mind is clear as in its strongest days of health.
I have delayed telling you my secret till this
hour, for I could not brook that your young life
should be blighted; and I was cowardly, too, iD
wishing to retain your affection - But I feel
that now the time has come. My life is going,
and I cannot die with the burden upon my
soul. Look at your picture upon the wall, Ed
win. You know it for the face of your dead
mother, who died at your birth. Would you
think that toward her and to you, the son she
left me, I could have ever done a base wrong ?
and yet, there is the stain of crime, too black
for forgivness, upon me to-night; and it has
been eating at my life for years; though God
knows that I wish that 1 had faithfully tried to
right the one crime of my youth!’
As his lordship had spoken, he pointed to the
opposite wall whose heavy, oaken pannelled
surface was broken by a richly framed picture
—the portrait of a young and lovely woman, with
tender blue eyes, and smiling face surrounded
by clustering auburn ringlets.
This was the face of Lord Stanhope s wife, the
fair and lovely Lady Amy, who after a brief
year of wedded life, had left her stately castle-
home with all its brilliant surroundings, and
exchanged an earthly life for one amid the
depths of heaven,leaving Lord Stanhope, in the
son she gave him, a sacred pledge of affection.
The boy gazed tenderly and sadly upon the
portrait, and a holy light came into his face.
v .jiy dear mother?’ he said, softly; ‘and I
never knew you, for your life was a sacrifice for
mine. But, in the future, mine shall be as
though you had lived to guide it by your loving
counsel.’
Lord Stanhope turned his dimming eyes from
the portrait to the face of his son.
•You are like her in character, Edwin,’ he
said, feebly, ‘and you will never disgrace the
name she, in dying, gave you.’ Then he con
tinued, in a fainter tone, ‘But I must haste, or
what I would say will remain untold. Bend
nearer, my son, for my strength is fast failing;
and I cannot go without telling you the story
of my early life.’
•I entreat of you dear father, not to shorten your
last moments by this tale,’ he said, earnestly.
‘If it is of some fancied wroDg to me or my
mother, your goodness and kindness have more
than repaid it, and the sweet face; ot her who
smiles down upon us from yonder wall, tells
me that she also would have granted full for
givness. Rest now in peace, my father; and
think of this—whatever it is—as though it nev
er had been.’
‘I meant to tell you all, Edwin, with my own
lips,’ feebly uttered the nobleman; ‘bat 1 tear l
have delayed too long. Lay me haok a moment
upon the pillow; and mayhap I shall rally more
strength for the duty.’ , . . hand
The youth tenderly placed his kthers head
upon the pillow; and hastily tebmg a strong
storative from the table near, applied it to his
A few moments, and ^ r 4 S b ^e°n Iccent^:
unclosed his eyes, and swd. b My momente
Alas . I have waited too 1 8 . ,, r OB j m „
are too tew for the tale, fori t wonW
dying tongue. Rnt it"J 1 JSingenoy' In the
pared myeelf against this w f[ich, yon re
secret panel ef my escrtto • bow 0 p e n,
member, I showed J on ^nintt all. Promise
you will find the P R P®ff my last wishes
me, Edwin, that yon nobleman faintly
therein expressed! *“ ith a look of entreaty
clasped his son’s h»®“; features'
npon his death-striok God helping me, I
‘I promese, my **ther.
duty which, knowing,
ritten bond, I must ful-
My dead sire is forgiven. Ho suffered much,
and in his after life made atonement as far as
possible; and I cannot curse him. Now let the
memory of your sainted face, which I shall car
ry with me in my wanderings, be the one oheer-
ing hope of my life—may we meet at last in hea
ven!’ and the boy knelt clown with clasped hands
and tearful eyes uplifted to the face looking out
from the heavily gildedT?°rtrait on the p«nnel-
led wall.
CHAPTER IV.
A riLAIUIE ON FIRE.
When her lover uttered the exclamation of
alarm w'hich told of the prairie on fire, Lucy
Brandt turned to him, for a moment bewildered
with sudden terror. Her cheeks blanched and
her form quivered as she clung to his arm. She
knew what it meant—a prairie fire—blackening
and devouring every thing in its relentless
course! For a moment »he clung to him; then
she released her hold, crying out as she made
a rapid motion to leave him lor the encamp
ment:
‘I most awaken my uncle’s family! We must
all perish together!’
But the young man detained her again with a
strong hand, saying hurriedly but firmly:
‘I will try and save you all, Lucy, God help
ing me! The flames are yet at a distance. Go
down close to the water’s edge, and stay till I
return!’ and he left her side as he spoke and ran
rapidly toward the camping spot, where the set
tler's family lay sleeping sonndly.
Lacy did as she was commanded and hasten
ed to the rank, moist grass which grew at the
edge of the run; where, with terrible fear, she
watched the lurid red of the sky, which grew
each moment more vivid as the fire rapidly drew
nearer with a hoarse and dreadful roar.
Scarcely five minutes nad passed, which seem
ed to her many hours, when Tarbell, followed
by the emigrant family, with the horses which
they had hastily secured, approached the ran.
The faces of all except, perhaps, Tarbell’s,
evinced the wildest alarm. This unlooked-for
enemy was not to be met and conquered as they
had fancied they could conquer the red-man,
should he attempt to enter their tent us a fox.
The strong-limbed settler and his stalwart sons
were powerless before its scorching breath; aud
they knew not what course to lake, but clung
with childish dependance upon Tarbell, whose
coolness rose with the danger, and whose clear
brain calculated their chances for escape.
‘We must clear a space on this bank that slopes
down to the run. Down there where Lucy is,
there’s a strip of moist,damp grass; but all about
here is last year's growth, and dry as powder.
Take bold—all of you—and pull it up, and we
oan clear us standing-room.’
‘It will not do, Tarbell, yon are insane! Pall
ing np a little grass will not save our lives! The
flames are too nigh us for that!' exclaimed the
settler, moodily. ‘We will be burnt crisp as yon
dead tree afore mornin’,' he added, as he gazed
over his frightened family and at the red, lurid
sky with its clouds of rising smoke, which ev
ery moment came nearer in heavy, blinding
folds.
‘Jacob Brandt!’ sxolaimed Tarbell, calmly and
hopefully; ‘if you and yonrs help me, I can save
you all. Bat if you stand idle, we shall all per
ish together!’
The settler, now roused, bent to the work
which his sons had began at Tarbell's first sug
gestion. Mrs. Braudtand Lucy even aided in the
labor,pulling at the long prairie grass with trem
bling hands. In a few moments, a space exten
ding from the run some yards back toward the
prairie, was elsared; and upon this they all gath
ered. First binding his horse’s limbs and cast
ing them upon the bare earth, Tarbell,who had
secured his rifle on his hasty visit to the tent,
appreaohed the edge of the tall grass and select
ing a handfal of the driest, placed it over the
pan of his rifle.
The crisp combustible kindled in an instant.
Then he touched the dried grass of the prairie
with his little flame, aud drawing back upon
the earth, awaited the result. In a few mo
ments it was seen. The fiery element eagerly
seized upon the long, dried herbage with quick
grasp; and soon shooting tongnes of flame glid
ed out like hissing serpents, blackening every
thing with their breath, and lapping np the
earth’s covering in the direction of the approach
ing fire.
‘ It is ‘fire fight fire,' I see, Tarbell,’ said the
settler, as he watched with anxious eye the
young man’s proceedings. ‘I’ve heern on’t,
but should never ba' thought to try it myself.
You’ll save ns all, Tarbell, and the poor horses
too,’ he said, in a grateful tone.
Tarbell bad drawn bapk^ and now they all
stood in silence. ‘Tee fire he had kindled
spread outward, leading the place whereon they
stood bare and dry. The other fire came on.
The two subtle elements met; aud then- all
along the path he had burnt so smoothly—the
flames, finding no food, died out; and the anx
ious watchers knew that they were saved.
Five minutes more, and all danger to them
was passed; and as'they watched the flames fol
lowing on the course wfcioh offered no impedi
ment—now running low in the deep hol.ows of
the prairie, and anon shooting up into high
flames on the swelling land—they thanked God
for their deliverance. It was with mingled feel
ings of sorrow anrt joy that the settler and his
family witnessed the brilliant spectacle of the
burning of their own tent and wagons, as the
flame reached high to heaven, dyeing all around
with a vivid coiorTSig—sorrow at their loss, and
joy at their own safety. At length Jacob Brandt
turned to Tarbell,
‘We are saved; but ye see us here a ruined
family. What will become of us I know not,
without supplies or shelter on this desert spot.’
‘Do not be despondent, sir. I will show you
to our settlement, where you and yours can soon
make good that which is lost,’ said Tarbell, en
couragingly. l ’Tis but a few miles distant;
and fortunately, you have the horses left for the
journey,’ he added.
‘Yes, father, cheer up !’ said David, a thrill of
joy coming over liis heart as he thought of their
safety, and of one whom he shonld soon meet
in the settlement. ‘We can soon make up the
value of our loss-. iChxuks to Vance, we are all
saved uninjured. Let the tent and the wagons
go. We will soon^nake ’em good again !’
The settler’s wife and Lucy now thanked
Vance, with tealful eyes, for his efforts, which
had been successful in saving them.
‘We should all have perished together if you
had not been with ns,’ said Mrs. Brandt, in
grateful tones, as she looked at her family clus
tering around— - and my husband was loth to in
vite you to stay the night with us. Jacob,’ she
said, turning to her husband, ‘ I told you that
Tarbell’s coming would prove a blessing to us,
in finding us a good, pleasant spot to settle down
upon. But it bas been more—for it has kept us
all from a terrible death !’ and the matron shud
dered as she looked at the blackened prairie-
land around them, which stretched away as far
as the eye conld reach in the distance, and saw
the charred aud crisp ruins of the tent from
which Tarbell had awakened them in time for
safety.
•Yes, wife; I’ll never doubt your words in the
future,’ said the settler. ‘Tarbell, man,’ turn
ing to him, * I hope your name will be cleared
of the crime tl|ey laid to ye; and though I never
said it afore, yet I say it now, that I think ye are
innocent, and if I knew to-day that ye were not.
Jacob Brandt w tiever be the man to point ye
out to the law ! me your hand, Vance, in
sign of goo J-;.u sf *s.t e future, and the settler
wrest ,
The young rYllips says, a few yearrig ’-n
reply: . Jew thousand votes wi
‘Jacob Bran>»~ f ro m our limbs. Ye;kind
words. They fl’^ WO rst man who hash has
long been hungi tV^ last thousand years,-
nocent as the yi st bane -.-i •ix-»«prge of - ‘Hell,
laid to me. If.e true, I could not tatte a- .
man’s hand antk him in the face unshtink-
inglv.’
•Wal, I beliei and could swear to it!’ said
the settler warns he gave the hand he held
a hearty shake.id as a proof of this, I trust
myself and fanwhollv to your lead till we
reach yonr villwhere we can set to work for
ourselves and sin life new again.’
‘And gladly \ guide you thither, and as
sist, by every & in my power, to make your
family comfort; replid Tarbell. ‘My home
is open to you ours can be built; and my
sister will give a pleasant welcome. Now,
it only remainms to reach it; and that can
be easily doneyou have the horses left for
your wife and iren.’ Then he added, ‘But
we must tarry little time here before set
ting out, as thflind is still hot with the fire,
and the poor s’ feet would not bear the
heat.’
The settler bis son now unbound the
horses’ limbs, the animals went quietly to
grazing upon title strip of moist land left
untouched by town by the edge of the run.
‘See, the sunrising now !' said Lucy to
Tarbell, as beared a moment by her side
when the settlfcl his sons turned away.
•Yes, this isie sunrise, aud not that you
saw some hource, Lucy,’ he replied, in a
tone full of meg.
‘O Vance, t what would have happened
if you had noti with us ?' she said, shud-
deringly, as Bioked into her lover's tace,
now pale with iforts he had made for them.
But Mrs. Bns voice, calling ‘Lucy !’ in
terrupted this* scene.
The sun cant, broadening over the prai
rie, black andky with the fires just passed;
and the eottlomily awaited the time when
Vance shonld^hem set out on their journey.
Tarbell had dpeared, but in a little while
the report of trie came to their ears, and in
a few momentsvas back again, with a brace
of wild partrit which he had taken on the
wing and notought in to Mrs. Brandt for
their morning.1.
‘You will nereakfast ere setting out; and
as I knew all yfood had vanished with the
fire, I took t£>erty to supply you. A man
living long u the prairie gets used to all
kinds of skifltid can furnish a meal in an
amaziDg shorriod. While you are getting
them ready, ill kindle a fire to cook them
with.’ And Til again was absent a few min
utes.
Going down run, he broke the upper and
drier twigs frdie shrubs which grew on its
bank, and brtt them back; then, as before,
he kindled a With the pan of his rifle, and
touched it to pile of fagots. Over these he
placed the foirs. Brandt had dressed in his
absence, and i stood awaiting their cooking
as calmly as tgh it was an every-day occur
rence with hi
Mr. Brandi his family looked on, at first
in wonder, foey were not used to this kind
of life. Alt^h they had come to the far
north-west totle, yet, ere setting out, they
had providedply for the journey, and ex
pected thes6)plies to last till they should
find a little stment where they could live by
tilling the and and hunting the game so
abundant up<he prairie. But to see \ ance,
when everyth but his rifle was gone, impro
vise a breakfand the means for its prepara
tion in this iner, was more than they had
thought of. pas with feelings of admiration
and respect ftieir deliverer, therefore, tnat a
half-hour latoey partook of the breakfast be
had furmsheceiu; after which, they set out
under his guioe, to the new home.
) BE CONTINUED.)
A Heartless Coquette.
BY STEPHEN BRENT.
make
must
‘Lawrence, do quit that eternal smokiDg and
get ready.’
•For what Teddy ?’
‘Oh, of course you don’t know anything abont
it,’ said Teddy arcasticly. ‘Now Lawrence, you
know you promised to go with me to the Ashly
ball.’
‘Did I ?' then may heaven forgive me for my
folly. I must either have been dreaming or in
sane, for the bare thought of a ball in July, is
enough to make me foreswear such things alto
gether.’
‘I dou’t think so. There will be ices, and
such things you know, so a fellow can keep cool
it he won’t dance too much,’ answered Te.idy,
with a complacent look at his well fitting gloves.
Mr. Richmond threw away his cigar.
‘Surely Teddy, you are not fiendish enough,
to make me keep that promise ?’
Mr. Edward Forest laughed his hearty laugh.
‘I couldn’t think of letting you off old fellow, so
make haste, it is nine o'clock man.’
Mr. Richmond took his feet out of the window,
and with a regretful sigh for the ease, and com
fort he would have to leave behind him prepared
for martydom.
For five years he had been drifting about from
place to place, and had just returned. Of course
he was the lion, and the Ashly’s had given their
ball for his sake. Mr. Richmond accepted the
honors showored down on him, with a lazy grace,
and cool indifference; that only added fresh
glory to hit name.
He was rich, good looking, and with no ties
to bind him so he could afford to take things
coolly.
Teddy was several years younger than his
friend: a good tempered, easy going fellow with
a deal of light-hearted laughter, and nonsense
about him; but with a kindly heart under it all-
‘I’ll tell you what is the fact Lawrence,’ he
said one day soon after that gentleman’s return
to Glendale, ‘I think it is high time for yon to
marry. How old are you ?’
‘Thirty-four.’
‘And here you are, without a wifi to
home a paradise. This state of affairs
end.’
Mr. Richmond grimaced mildly.
‘Who must I marry Teddy ?’
Teddy sat and thought over his list of friends
Suddenly he sprang up.
‘I have an idea Lawrence !’
‘I would advise yon to keep it then,’ said,Mr.
Richmond oalmly, ‘ideas are not every day visi
tors. so you may never have another.’
•Well I don't care if I never do, so this one is
worked oat all right,’ making an excited dash at
a bee buzzing around his head in an insane fash
ion.
The ball-room was crowded and hot, and the
dancers looked flushed and uncomfortable.
Lawrence found a quiet corner and sat down.
‘Ain’t you going to dance ?’ asked Teddy.
Lawrence looked indignant.
‘Do you want to murder me outright?'
‘No, of course not,’answered Teddy, enjoying
his friend’s seeming misery.
‘Then pray do not mention dancing.’
‘Well is there any one, yon would like to be
introduced to.’
‘No—yes stay—who is that, standing by the
window over there ? The one with the pale clear-
cut face? She is different from the pink, and
white beauties dancing.’
‘Do you mean the lady in white lace, and
water-lillies ?’
•Yes. ’ -o ! *
all, as 111e’ grefellik
‘An enviable reputation,’ murmured Mr. Rich
mond, still studying the calm, colorless face,
with its deep, liquid grey eyes, and sensitive,
mobile month.
I just now said Miss Verne was a flirt, a heart-
,ne people say, and now I will tell you the
reason. When she was sixteen, she was engaged
to a cousin of her’s, and loved him with all her
heart; tut he proved to be a villian, and Miss
Verne visits his sins on the heads of others, and
it is rather hard.’
Lawrence looked at his young friend with
kindly eyes.
‘Has she rejected you Teddy ?’
The frank face flushed.
‘Well yes, she acted like a sensible woman,
when I made a fool of myself, and tried to bring
me back to my right mind; but for a day, and
night, I felt like blowing my brains out.’
‘I am sorry Teddy, dear boy. l'outhfal minds
scarcely ever survive, such a blight to their
hopes.’
Mr. Forrest laughed.
‘Don t throw your sympathy away, Lawrence.
My mind, and heart are both sound. l r on see’
pathetically, ‘it is my fate to fall in love with
every woman I meet, be she sixteen, or sixty.
Miss Verne makes a capital friend, and apart
from the fact, that she likes to break hearts, I
think she is nobleness itself. If you want an
introduction, I will go and speak to her.’
‘Well you may if you want to.
Teddy crossed the room. Mr. Richmond
lounged back in the easy chair.
‘I wonder it this is not Toddy's idea,’ with an
amused smile.
Directly he came back, and said: It is all
right Lawrence.’
•Lead on then Teddy, and I will go to my
doom, as the novels say,' and the next minute
he was bowing to the greatest coquette in Glen
dale. But the proud, pale face, and clear frank
eyes, did not look like they belonged to a
woman, that lived the heartless life attributed
to France Verne. Surely there were untold
depths of good under the gilt and glitter of
outward life.
It was in the wee small honrs, when Mr. Rich
mond, and his friend started to their boarding
house.
‘Well, what do you think of her Lawrence ?'
asked Teddy; with ill concealed anxiety:
‘Who ?’ with a hideous yawn.
‘Miss Verne of course,’ impatiently.
‘Ask me some other time Teddy; I couldn’t do
justice to the subject now.’
The Ashly ball was the ltist that season. Other
amusements succeeded. There were lawn par
ties, picnics, and various other devices, to get
rid of time. Mr. Richmond devoted himself to
Miss Verne, to the disgust of all the other girls,
and their mammas.
‘I don’t see how he can admire her,’ said one.
•Nor I either,’ chimed in all the others. ‘She
has no more heart than a stone,’ and they sighed,
and thought of their own tender hearts, waiting
for some one to come and claim them.
‘Lawrence what are yon doing ?’
It was a hot snmmer afternoon, with floods of
yellow sunlight, and the drowsy horn of bees in
the air. Teddy coming into his friend’s room,
was astonished to find him writing.
Mr. Richmond glanced np.
•I am wiiting Teddy, so none of your chatter
if you please.’
Mr. Forrest looked injured, gave Lawrence’s
eoat a vicious dig, and stretched himself on the
big roomy lounge, mattering something about
the utter want of appreciation.some folks had for
the conversation of others.
For five consecutive minutes silence reigned;
then the figure on the lounge, raised its head.
‘Who are you writing to, Lowrenoe?’
‘Edward, if yon don’t hash, I will stab you
with this pen.’ Teddy said no more. He knew
from experience that when Mr. Richmond called
him Edward, the last bounds had been reached.
The letter was finished,, sealed and direoted;
then with a pleasant smile, Lawrence said:
■Now, I will satisfy your curiosity, Teddy. I
was writing to Mr. Moore of New York. He has
kindly invited me to go with him to Central Af
rica, and I have accepted.’
Teddy sat np speechless with surprise. At
last he drew a long breath, and said:
‘Lawrence, you ought to—to be hung. Going
to Central Africa, indeed ! going to the—’
‘Don’t grow profane, Teddy, it ill becomes
your youthful years. Try to compose yourself,
dear boy.’
Teddy glanced at him.
‘Compose myself! It is impossible. Just
when I thought you were discarding your hea
thenish ways, you really tell me you are going
to Central Africa, then what will Miss Verne
say ?’
‘Miss Verne will not be interested enough to
say anything. Come, it is five o'clock, and if
my memory serves me right, we are due at Mrs.
Alcott’s at that hoar to undergo the torture of a
game of croquet.’
Teddy got up, saying reproaehfglly:
‘ I don’t believe you have got any heart, Law
rence.’
‘Yes 1 have, Teddy, and a large share of it be
longs to yon.’
Merry groups were scattered over the wide
liwn at the Alcott’s, and among all the fair wo
men, there was none fairer than France Verne.
The white dress with knots ot black velvet scat
tered over it, was eminently becoming, and she
possessed all the calm repose of the ‘ Vere de
Veres.’
The game was ended, the stars came, and
dusk twilight reigned over the earth.
Mr. Richmond walked home with France,
j but refused to go in.
•No, I must go on,’ stiil he lingered, leaning
| against the gate.
‘Mr. Garret told me this evening that you
J were going away,’ said France’s low, sweet
| voice.
! ‘Yes, I must go.’
Miss Verne gathered a creamy, white rose,
| and fastened it in the lace at herthroat.
•Why, must?’ she asked.
‘Because I have been foolish enough to fall in
love with you. I shall not ask you to marry
me,’ as she shrank from the rough passion in
his voice. ‘I know that I have not touched your
heart, that you were only amusing yourself, and
I am too proud to give any woman the pleasure
of saying ‘no.’ ’
It was too dark for him to see the sudden pal
lor that crept up over Miss Verne’s face. In his
calm, passionless wav, he had male up his
mind to say nothing; but for once he was driven
out of his cool indifference. Calming himself,
he said:
‘Forgive me, if I have wounded you. I could
not help it. Good-bye,’ and touching his lips
to the white hand lying on the gate, he left.
An hour after, France Verne lifted her head
from her folded arms and walked slowly to the
house, drearily wondering if she could live and
endure the desolation that seemed to have dark
ened all her life.
•**••**
Two years later, Lawrence Richmond once
more landed in his native city. He was thin
and brown, and there was a tired look in the
handsome eyes. Almost the first person he met
was Teddy. That young gentleman upset an
old lady and two peddlars in his eagerness to
reach his friend.
‘Lawrence Richmond, as I live!’ he cried,
‘Why, we all thought you were dead and buried,
or eat up by the cannibals.’
‘Not yet,’ said Lawrence’s now pleasant voice.
‘You see I am safe and sound.’
J,;Yes,’ and Teddy performed a,war danoeJj^K
The wearied, half sad look left Lawrence’s
eyes at the sight of Teddy’s delight.
‘How have you been getting on ?’ he asked, as
they strolled down the street together.
•Capitally, I am the happiest dog that ever
lived. ’
‘Indeed ! how is that ?’
‘Come home with me and ask the little madam.’
Lawrence stopped.
•You don’t mean to say you are married ?’
‘Yes, I do,’ said Teddy, trying to look digni
fied. but breaking into a laugh.
‘Well, I have always been prepared for any
thing, but this upsets me entirely.’
Mr. Richmond went home with his friend. A
little, apple blossom-faced woman was at the
gate, who was introduced to him as ‘my wife.’
‘By the by,’ said Teddy, as they sat on the
porco after supper, ‘you haven’t asked me about
Miss Verne.’
•No, tell me, now.’
‘Well, she has lost nearly all of her property
and is living in a little cottage. Next to my lit
tle woman here, I think her the noblest woman
that ever lived. She is educating two little or
phan boys, and actually sold a jeweled necklace
the other day to defray the expenses of a poor
woman's funeral. She never did have but one
great fault, that I know of, and that was flirting;
but I don’t think she was mnoh to blame there.’
‘I think she was to blame, Teddy. Trifling
with hearts is a serious business, and should
never be engaged in by either manor woman.’
After Lawrence left, Mrs. Forrest turned to
her husband and said:
‘Teddy, I wager my diamond ring, that your
stately friend is in love with France.’
‘Well, 1 thought so two years ago; but I was
mistaken, and I have since come to the conclu
sion, he is about as impressible as a stone.’
The red radiance of the sun set had faded into
pale pink and gray tints, when Miss Verne
pushed open her parlor window, and leaning
her head against the frame, looked out. There
was a new expression in her face. Sweet humil
ity mingled with the pride of other days. Sud
denly a tall figure came between her and the
light.
‘Mr. Richmond!’
Her face flushed crimson as he came up to the
window. He took her hands in his.
•France, I have come back.’
‘Will you come in,’ she asked, trembling.
‘No, not yet, not until you say you forgive
me.’
• I did ' at long ago.’
‘Franc :y darling ! two years ago I said I
would never ask you to marry me, darling, I
take the cruel words back. Will you be my
wife ?’
‘ If you had asked me two years ago, I would
have said yes, now—’
‘Let it be the same, dear.’
‘But—’
He drew the dark, proud head down on his
shoulder.
‘France, do say you love me, I have suffered
so much.’ And I think she said it.
‘What about that idea you had once, Teddy ?’
asked Lawrence one day.
‘Oh! it has come ont. eautifully,’ answered
Teddy with a laughiu glance at Mrs. Rich
mond’s lovely fac-
‘What about my wager, Teddy ?’ queried his
wife.
‘Oh, you fair ladies always know best,’ look
ing at her with more admiration than the
‘lords of creation’ generally bestow on their
wives.
Here is a specimen vi the way Religious Intel
ligence is arranged by a young Indianapolis
journal: ‘Rev. J. L. Reagan—the hero of a
steamboat idyl on the Ohio, with a buxom widow
as a party of the second part—has scooped n
hundred souls into his church lately. Reagan
is a smasher.’