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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.’