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Waiting for the Dawn. BY IRENE INGE COLLINS. CHAPTER XXIII. ‘The occupants of the picturesque villa in which Eloise had found a home were a widow and her two daughters, together with a young son who was studying art in Rome, but was now at home for a short holiday. Mrs. Marchfield—a pretty English girl traveling in Europe with her father, had met the young American artist whom she married in Rome where he was pursuing his art studies. Her father recognized the talent of the young man and permitted him to paint his daughter’s portrait. The sequel was that the young pair mutually loved each other and after some demur and considerable delay, her father consented to the union and they were married. After six years of wedded life the young artist died, just as his star of fame was rising. He was genial and generous in nature and had many friends. Among those who loved him and had aided him by buying his pictures, was the rich merchant from whom Eugene Bertram had obtained the letter of introduction for Eloise, to Mrs. Marchfield: Consequently Eloise met with distinguished consideration at their hands. Afterwards they valued her for her own worth. Her gentle, obliging nature, her culti vated mind, her grace of manner and person won their admiring regard. Mrs. Marchfield took warm interest in her hopes concerning her voice. The family were delighted with her singing. The young girls Carmina, and Ninene thought it perfect, and young Victor Marchfield declared that nothing sweeter than the vesper hymns sung by Eloise had ever greeted his ear, and that her expression while she sang was an gelic. ‘I shall paint you as a Madonna when I get to be an artist,’ cried the young student en thusiastically. Mrs. Marchfield was more just in her praise. ‘Your singing is very sweet my child,’ she said ‘but your voice needs training as you say, and I think I know just the master you desire. Sig nor Carlini is said to be the finest vocal teacher in Italy. My sister, Countess Angelo, sent her daughter to Carlini rather than to the masters in Rome. He is not gruff and boorish like many of the music masters either. He is painstaking and courteous. He is enthusiastic about his profession, and when he finds you are gifted in that way, you will be his pet and favor ite.’ ‘Will you go with me to see him Madam ?’ ‘Willingly, I will go to-morrow. We can make Victor drive us. He has been wishing for some thing to do.’ They went to the Signor’s studio next day, waiting in the aDte-room while he finished giv ing a lesson to a class of young girls and boys. They found him tired and worried with his exer tions when they were at last ushered into his presence. He had an annoyed, heated look on his face, and Eloise felt it was a wrong time to impress him in her favor. But Mrs. Marchfield explained her young companion’s situation with much grace and feeling and the master turning his keen, black eyes upon her with more atten tion than before, was struck by her classic puri ty of features, and addressing himself to her in execrable English was agreeably surprised to be answered in his own tongue, with an accent it is true, but a very piquant and charming one. ‘Will you let me judge of your voice this even ing Senora? ’ he asked. •Certainly,’ Eloise answered. ‘I wish to begin with my lessons at once. Time must not be lost in my case. What shall I sing? ’ k friends, Count and Countess Angelo and the niihs turned to tho great- pile r/V**»ic tb)f#*^frjsly Cf re. Adc*ratioD-<»llowsd her wh^reverf, cumbered a desk and ta^le near tho(piano. She; she moved. She had several lovers, wbo laid all, (and gave her mind to her art. Thoughts would not be controlled, and Eloise passed many a bitter hour. While Countess Angelo was with her sister Eloise took part through an invitation,obtained for her by the professor,in an oratorio at a church festival. She had seyeral times before sung in public, on similar occasions, and was already spoken of as •la belle cantafrice.’ This time she sung a solo which excited the music-loving peo ple to extacy. Even the sacredness of the church could scarcely restrain their enthusiasm. A few nights afterward the catastrophe Carlini had predicted, came to pass. The prima donna en gaged for the season, by the lessee of the opera house,suddenly failed while singing at a rehear sal of La Favorila, which was due in four days. In the rendering of the final duet, her voice, strained to its utmost, suddenly gave way, and a rush of blood came from her lungs. The ver dict of the physicians was, that perfect rest and immunity from singing could alone restore her. The opera had to be given up unless some one could supply her place. Who would do this ? In dispair the manager went to Professor Carl ini, who said to him: ‘I have only one pupil who could fill the place. She has studied this opera slightly; she will be able to take the part; have no fear.’ He went straight to Eloise. ‘My child,’ he said, ‘I have done wrong. I have promised that yon would take the part of the prima who is ill. You can do so indeed,—it will be a triumph for you, but it will be very bad for your perfection as an artist. It will be the occasion of your being drawn into public life, and in the busy time that will follow, ii the whirl of success and adulation, you will neglect the patient study of your art.’ ‘But clear Master, I cannot sing in that opera.’ ‘You can; I have promised it. If you should not succeed you will break my heart—but you will succeed. Begin at oaoe to study the part; then come to me to-night. To-morrow you will have your first reheaisal. Then they will see I know what I have promised.’ ‘She thought too highly of her teacher to re fuse. An hour from that time she began to study the opera. The next afternoon at rehearsal she astonished all present by her ability. Three nights afterwards, in an opera house crowded with the elite of critical Naples, she sang the leading part of La Fauorita in a manner to bring down applause from the coldest musical connois seurs, while her beauty and grace threw the audi- ince into raptures, It was as Carlini had pre dicted. From that time she became the favorite of Naples. Flowers and jewels were thrown at her feet; the manager was delighted and offer ed her an engagement for the season, in which she would appear at Rome and in Venice. The terms were liberal, and though Eloise regretted giving up her regular studies under Carlini, she accepted at once. For now, money was a strong consideration. She had heard nothing from Bertram nor received any remittances from him. She wrote repeatedly; he was not dead, for she had seen his name in a New York paper. She became convinced of his perfidy. He had induced her to come here that he might rid him self of her forever. Her one hope now was, that her noble gift of song would bring her money enough to free her from all obligations to the man who had blighted her life, and enable her { to return independent to her native country, and to resume a trust she had laid aside from necessity, but which preyed more constantly on her mind, sinoe she could no longer hear from America. • In Venice she had many friends among the nobility, thanks to the generous regard of her ‘Madamoiselle, pardon, but I must tell you that no one ever sings in these high regions with out injury to their voice. Even much talking is apt to produce hoarseness,’ ‘Thank you,’ Eloise said, smiling. ‘I shall only sing this one song. I find not the least difficulty in singing.’ She began to sing again; her eyes sparkling, her voice ringing out preter naturally clear.and sweet and rich—a flood of melody that thrilled her hearers. It was the last time that marvel ous voice was to thrill and touch them. Sud denly, while her voice trilled on an upper note, she ceased to sing; her white throat still swell ed with the effort, her lips were parted but no sound came. Eloise’s voice had failed. She turned deadly pale, as she made another vain endeavor to sing. Was her voice really gone? Sir Arthur Greville sprang to her side, but she rallied, tears came to her relief, and she cover ed her face with her hands as she sank into a seat upon the rock. Her friends gathered around her, trying to console her with the assurance that her loss could only be temporary, that she would recover her voice as soon as she was again in the valley, or at least as soon as she had got ten over the cold and hoarseness which existed prior to her ascent of the mountain. Alas! it was a vain hope. Eleise’s worst fore bodings were realized, her splendid gift was hers no more. The castles in the air she had built upon that glorious possession faded into the dark mist of despair. Her Spanish lover de serted her shrine, when he found that the gift which would have biought her a golden dower was hers no longer. The fair-haired English man was faithful, but Eloise would not listen to his pleadings. Sometimes his dark-blue eyes reminded her of a pair, true and tender that had looked into hers as though they would read her soul and pierce the mysterious barrier that banned her from love and hope; but she was ob durate and he left her at length, convinced there was no love in her heart for him. Misfortunes never come singly. Count Angelo Eloise’s kind and noble protector, died soon atter that fatal ascent of Mont Blance; the fa tigue of which, initiated tho disease that caused his death. His large fortune was so bound by a will that if he died without male issue.it would go to the Catholic Church. Grief at the loss of her husband and knowledge that her beautiful and delicately-nurtured daughter was left almost penniless, preyed on the mind of the Countess; she was reduced to a weak state that suffered her easily to fall a prey to the malarial or ‘Ro man fever.’ Poor desolate Clare determined to enter a convent. She ever resolved to take the black veil and become a recluse, withdrawing herself utterly from the world. It was in vain that Eloise sought to dissuade her. Society had no charms for her. Beautiful and admired as she was, her affections had long been weaned from the world. The lover of her early youth had fallen in battle, and since then,she had liv ed only for her parents. She begged Eloise to accompany her to the convent,and remain there during her year of novitiate. After she took the black veil she would not be permitted to have any more intercourse with her friends of the outside world, but until th6n she might enjoy the comfort of her friend’s society, Eloise had ceased to expect a letter from Amer ica. She had received no remittances from Ber tram since the first year of her stay in Italy,and she had now been away from her native country nearly three years. She had thought repeatedly, since she had lost her voice, about telling her history and re lying on the kind hearts to accept her ‘just as she was, without one ‘plea;’ or of joining per manently the sisterhood of charity. She would took a piece in her hand. ‘Not that,’ he said. •You will find that too difficult. It is a fugue of Bach’s.’ ‘I think I can sing it,’ Eloise answered simply. Holding the music in her hand, she began trem ulously at first, but gathering confidence, she sang with a clearness a compass and a melody that evidently took the old master by surprise. He said nothing but he placed another piece iu her hands—a combination of his own—full of trills and appoggiatura’s designed to test the voice. She ran her eyes over it, struck the key note on the piano and then sang it through. Her voice as she gave the final trill rang so pure and true, that the master involuntarily clapped his hands. ,1 have not heard so pure a voice'since my most promising pupil, Anna Alferidi—you knew her "onora Marchfield—was lost to me through marriage. You must never split on that rock, my dear Miss Ennis. Your voice, in the upper register is wonderfully true; let ns try the lower notes. Run the scale for me if you please.’ Elcise did as she was requested and had the satisfaction of seeing the professor delighted. ‘I shall have a pupil after my own heart in you,’ he said. ‘Your voice is tclassio, none of the vulgar rococo about it that is fashionable for the moment. Come to-moirow at this hour for a lesson, and practice constantly, my dear child. You have some faults I shall point out to yoa, and your voice is a little veiled, as it were, in some of the notes. It needs practice to clear it. Your method, too, is wrong in some respects. But we shall set all this right in time. To sing well one needs a life-time of study and prac tice. Eloise returned home with Mrs. Marshfield, much encouraged. She knew the value of the master’s commendation. Then began a severe course of study and practice. Every day gave her fresh insight into the science of music, ev ery day disclosed new beauties and new difficul ties. Her progress was something wonderful. Her inborn love for music and her natural indus try were stimulated by an ever-present purpose. She spent many hours of every day and night in practice. It was long before her teacher would permit her to learn any opera, or similar composition. He strengthened and perfected her voice by the practice of exercises especially designed for that purpose. One night he took her to hear a prima donna who sang in ll Trovatore. She listened with profound interest. The lady who sang the part of Leonora had a fine voice, but in parts calling for sustained effort her voice seemed on the point of failing; one could see it was strained to the utmost. ‘Some day she will suddenly break down,’ said the maestro. ‘She will have hemorhage.’ With them at the opera was the young Clare Angelo—the only daughter of Mrs. Marehfield’s younger sister, whose beauty had won her a cor onet. Clare had inherited her mother’s loveli ness—a slender, willowy figure, warm auburn hair, and a dazzling complexion. The Count ess was visiting her sister and bad become great ly interested in Eloise. Claire had also conceiv ed a romantic attachment for the young Ameri can girl. Another bond was their similarity of faith. Both were Roman Catholics, and the Countess was a believer in the same Church. Eloise had now been a year in Naples. Study had greatly trained and strengthened her voice. She now sung the most difficult arias. Remit tances had come regularly from Eugene, and brief letters, in which he told her what he knew of her friends in answer to her eager inquiries. When the anniversary came, upon which Bhe had almost determined to disclose the secret to her brother, her courage failed her. ‘I cannot write it,’ she said to herself. ‘I will wait till I return, a successful artist, worthy for him to take pride in. Now I have nothing to off set his anger, his jnst indignation. I will wait till I have acquired that fame whiohwill oertain- orown my efforts.’ she made no disclosure, remained dead to their hearts and fortunes at her feet. What a mockery this teamed to her! She who sang of love so passionately on the stage, seemed cold as marble in real life. Not a blush rose to her cheek when words of love were whispered into her ear by these dark-eyed, courtly Italians and the stately, fair-haired English gentlemen, who visited at the Count’s beautiful palace, and with whom she often floated in gilded gondolas along the watery streets of the City of the Sea. When her engagement terminated in Venice, the troup visited Florence and Genoa. Before the close of the season, Eloise. who had hoarded her earnings, had money sufficient for her pres ent purpose, but she was completely worn down and needed recreation. Count Angelo and his family, on their way to Switzerland, called upon her and induced her to join their party. Sir Charles Greville, the young Englishman, who had been so devoted to Eloise that he could not see her indifference, wai also of the party, to gether with a romantic-looking Spaniard, who had followed the lair cantatrice wherever she went. Clare’s infatuated admirer—a Russian officer of mark, whom her parents wished her to marry, joined them in Chamouni Valley. An as cent ot Mount Blanc was arranged for the next day. In the cool of the early dawn they started. All but Eloise were in high spirits as they set out. with their alpen-sticks and guide, and serv ants with well-filled lunch baskets. Eloise had not been well for several days. A cold had given her hoarsness and a slight fever that burned in either cheek aud shone glitteringly in her eyes. She had never looked handsomer, and her two lovers looked admiringly at her slender figure in the short dress of the mountain tourist, display ing her tiny, beautifully shaped feet and outlin ing her lovely limbs. Clare too, was bewitching in her climbing dress. With her golden curls and dazzling fair oomplexion, she was a striking contrast to the dark, brilliant Eloise. The climbing began. On and on they went over stone boulders, and leaping rocky clefts and clutching fir branches as the ascent became more difficult. Along narrow ledges of rock, on the brink of frowning precipices, the guide led them. At each stopping place the view widen ed and became more sublime. At last, they reached a broad ledge of rock shaded by a clump of pines. Here, as they sank down to rest, the guide said. ‘Travelers usually go no farther than here. At least, this is the customary stopping place of ladies. The rest of the way is far steeper and more difficult.’ ‘Pray let us go no farther then,’ said the old 1 count, who had dropped into his seat, panting and half exhausted. How far have we gone?’ ‘Three miles and something over. ‘And we have the same distance before us on our return. My dears, at my time of life, I must say of this mountain climbing, that the game is not worth the candle.’ ‘I am sorry we did not dissuade you from coming,’ the Countess said with affectionate concern, while Clare stood by and fanned him gently. ‘I ordered the mules brought to the half way house,’ said the guide. ‘Ah!' returned the Count, with evident re lief, ‘that is good news. We will restand refresh ourselves here. You have brought the sherry I see. Come my pet’ to Eloise. ‘I will give you a toast and you shall thank me with a song. Here’s to the future Maiibran—the fair star of the west, just rising above the horizon of fame. Now will yon sing me the Vale of Chamouni? This grand view will inspire you.’ The view was indeed inspiring. Far, far below the mighty pile of rock and precipice and jutting ledge lay the green vale of Chamouni with, itB picturesque hamlets and pretty cha lets and grazing herds, all diminished by dis tance to miniature proportions. Eloise’s dark eyes kindled as she looked, and she sang with enthusiasm a few lines of the Vale of Chamouni. She was stopped by the guide, who respectfully touching her sleeve with his fingers, said : •have- boeeask-o ’t.'iee—^vitb Cia-rejV-bas-sesiew' thing in her pafi| forbade it. A confession sh9 must make wouid bar her from the holy vows. Then she still felt that life had duties for her, and that her own land held a sacred trust, she could not forget. »«•••• The time drew near when the two must part forever. The year of novitiate had passed. For a week Eloise had not seen Clare, she was busy preparing to assume the responsibility of renouncing the world,and had much to arrange. About twelve o’clock the last night of Clare's period of fasting and prayer, Eloise heard a tap at her domitory, knowing it was the knock of a sister answered instantly. She told Eloise to go quickly to Clare, as this would be her last conversation with her. Eloise hastily threw something over her shoulders and sped like a frightened deer down the long hall to Clare’s cell. Eloise turned silently the bolt and entered, shivered at the sight of the pale, slender nun in her long black robe and white veil. Giving her a ghastly look, Eloise almost stepped upon the beads of jet with the cross attached. As she entered, Clare was kneeling upon the bare floor. Eloise could not speak, but gathered the frag ile, trembling form of the sister in her arms and wept silently. ‘Eloise, young English friend, do not weep for me. 1 am quietly happy; there is a sweet feeling of rest and peace,a sense of duty fufilled. I will seem nearer my lost ones by renouncing the world and becoming a holy sister. Ah, El oise, think of it. At sunrise I will be prepar ing to become a bride of the Church.’ They talked of joys past, each loving word was recalled, and then a long, sad farewell was spoken. Eloise thought it best to leave Clare a few hours alone. She knew she must nerve herself for the trial on the morrow. She must leave the Convent, although Clare had begged the Sisters to allow her to stay if she desired. But there was no longer any tie for her here and she determined to leave the Convent, only waiting to see the young novitiate become a re cluse. Eloise did not close her eyes, but wept upon her low couch. The next day was cloudless and rich in gold en sunbeams. At an early hout the vast cliapel connected with tho oonvent was darkened and lighted with myriads of wax tapers, thousands burned upon the altar which was decorated with white flowers. Silver censors swung by white-robed acolytes before the altar filled the building with a subtle perfume from the mosaic floor of blue and white to the fretted roof above. The dark robed Sis ters and nuns stood on one side motionless as statues. Yet there arose from their midst a sol emn chant of plaintive sweetness. Eloise was one of that audience assembled composed of the grandees of Rome and Venice, and all who could obtain admittance. Eloise knelt before a crucifix near where Clare would enter—holding her breath—praying for her friend. Saddenly the tapers were almost extinguished until a sol emn light filled the Chapel and one sweet tremb ling voice was heard sobbing as Clare entered upon the arm of the Mother Superior, followed by many bishops, priests and laymen of the Church. On a raised platform, glittering with cloth of gold, sat the Pope in his superb robes, and on either hand, bnt seated lower down, was a cardinal in his splendid vestments. Eloise reached forth her hand as though to detain Clare —but on she walked until at the altar; kneeling before the mitred Pope and gorgeous cardinals. Clare was well known in Rome—and many Ve netians also were present and the man who thought the beautiful rose ‘with soarcely a leaf as y.et unfolded’ should have been his bride—watch ed her with cold eyes and with every muscle of his face looked into rigidity. It was the last time she would be seen by the world—and a costly attire suiting her former wealth had been selected and according to her own suggestion. A long trailing robe of lnstrons white satin, a tight, close-fitting boddice, with flowing sleeves; her own fingers had embroidered the lilies of the Valley, and the long, slender leaves with silver thread mingled with gold. A handsome belt embroidered with the many devices of the Church and studded with jewels, encircled her waist. A long gossamer veil of white fell from a wreath of orange blossoms. A gauzy scarf, Eloise had embroidered, fastened on one shoulder with a cluster of orange flow ers and diamonds, fell far back with splendid effect; her hair of glossy auburn was parted and thrown back, under a bandeau of pearls strung on golden thread. The Abbess left her at the Pope’s feet. They removed the veil and cut her hair close to her head. She knelt—a dark robe enveloped her. A faint sickness came over, when she heard the clash of the scissors through the bright locks her father and mother had so prized. The next moment a black velvet pall was thrown over her. She sank on the floor. A low cry came from the rear of the church. In a loud, distinct voice came the words: ‘Dead to the world and dead to yourself; henceforth you are the bride of the church and dedicated sacredly to God.’ The vast concourse of spectators were silent with awe. Through the whole building surged the triumphant music, amid which Clare was borne, almost fainting away. The crowd were leaving; only Eloise was left still kneeling before the crucifix as pale as Clare. No one noticed the woman so affected or if they did they thought she was doing penance. Eloise bade adieu to those sacred walls that for so long had sheltered her like the wings of mercy. Her fingers closed tightly over the tress of hair Clare had given her the last night in the cells. ' She obtained some light sewing, tried to eke out a bare subsistence, day and night she work ed, scarcely heeding the leaden hours. One day as she was returning from carrying home herwork.her madonna face caught the eyes of a young artist and leaving the loiterers with whom he was conversing crossed to meet her. As he drew nearer, he uttered an exclamation of delighted surprise, and Eloise saw that it was Julius Marchfield, the young artist. He had not seen her since she went upon the stage; and at first sight he had not recognized her. ‘But,’he said, ‘I thought instantly. There is the faoe that I need as a model for my pic ture. Do you remember you promised to sit for me when I became an artist ?’ He then told her as they walked toward a cool garden that his mother had written him of Miss Ennis being with Clare in the City of Rome. He knew it was vain to seek admittance at the Convent, and he had feared he would not meet Eloise again. They seated themselves and talk ed of all that had passed since they were last together in Mrs. Marchfield’s pleasant home. She accepted his offer to sit for his painting of the Madonna. Day after day, she would leave her attic and with a woman come to his studio until disease laid its hand upon her. Had it not been then for Victor Marchfield’s kindness to her she must have died, during her long weeks of helpless ness. Then came long, kind letters from Mrs. Marchfield begging her to come and spend her days of convalescence with them. Eloise did not know what to do. Not a word from Eugene. Her illness, loss of voice and other trials had left many palpable footprints upon her still lovely face. The painting was finished, and Eloise could not but acknowledge it was the most expressive Madonna face she had ever seen. She went back to Naples. As she met her many friends, tears filled her eyes, p ad her 'master'vPas deeply affected whem he looked into* her pale face. Her voice was the subject of much comment. ‘My dear pupil, he said, smoothing her dark locks with his long, taper fingers, ‘the good God only knows how deeply I grieved over your loss. That splendid voice ! It was my pride. I have received compliments from the highest sources as the trainer of that voice. But really I did little. It was a gift of Nature.’ ‘Will I never recover it, do you think, mas ter?’ Eloise asked with pathetic eagerness in her tone. ‘It may be. It may come back as suddenly as it went. Let us hope. Your health is not gooh my child. Some anxiety preys upon you. Perhaps it is the fear of poverty! If that be so, I can help you a little. I can get you some mu sic pupils on my recommendation, will you like to have them?’ She thanked him warmly. She was glad of any assistance, for she had almost reaohed the bottom of her slender purse, and she wanted money to pay her passage back to America. She taught for six months, saving up every cent of her earnings for Mrs. Marchfield would accept no pay for her board. She had at last the sum requisite and a little more. She then prepared to return. She who had hoped to go back with thousands that she might cancel her money ob ligations to Bertram—obligations which made her blush with shame whenever she remember ed them; and resume the sacred trust, she had been forced to desert. Oh! how utterly her hopes were orushed, how all her plans were de feated by fate! She was going home—home—she had no home unless like the Patriots she could call the laud of her birth her home and Columbia her foster mother. How thoroughly now had she learned the bit ter lessons of perfidy and deceit. She returned with her voice gone, sick of life, no friends, no money. She only craved a glimpse of all what was once dear to her, she crossed again the ocean, stood upon the shores of her native land. Her sw^et face was thin and marble white, her dark eyes dim with tears; still she was beau tiful. More than once she had been tempted to better her condition. She might have been even a countess and dwelt in the seven hilled City of Rome. \et one tie back in her native land saved her from perjury at the altar. [xo bf. continued. ] Cherry’s Picture. BT STEPHEN BBENT. ‘I can paint a picture,’ said Cherry. * Ton really think so ?’ queried her brother Joe. ‘I know it.’ ‘I always make it a point to believe whatever people tell me,’ remarked Joe, ‘but when you say, you can paint a picture, then I am forced to doubt your word.’ ‘Besides, you know nothing about pictures,’ said Judith, the elder sister. ‘You never saw a dozen good ones in your life.’ ‘Don’t be foolish, Cherry,’ said her father, re provingly. ‘You never will be smart enough to do anything useful.’ Cherry sighed. ‘I know no one ever expects anything of me.’ It was a fact. No one ever expected anything of Cherry Olmstead. She was a blank in the busy world. Her vagaries were reproved, or laughed at in her practical country home. The family treating her as a mild lunatio, and Cher ry herself began to think she must be the fooL of the family. It was only at times, she would speak of her passionate love of art and her firm belief that she coaid paint a picture. She was tall and flight, with rippling dnn brown hair, violet Shadowed gray eyes, like pools of liquid light, and a hint of intellectual power in the broad, well-shaped brow. ‘A girl that would develop into a noble wo man if properly appreciated.' That was what Allan Torrence said to himself after he had been boarding at the Olmstead’s a week. Mr. Torrence was eight and twenty. A true patrioian by birth and breeding, and pos sessing a kindly grace, and nobleness, that was truly the best of all. There was nothing about the country girl that shocked his fastidious tase. She was like some dainty, wild flower, looking with shy eyes out on the world. One morning, Cherry was down in the orch ard drawing. She was so absorbed in her work, she did not know any one was near, until a pleasant voice said: ‘A very good likeness, Miss Cherry. Who taught you to draw so well ?' Cherry gave a little startled cry, and tried to hide her drawing, but a firm hand drew it from her grasp and Allan Torrence examined a sketch of his own face with eritical calmness. ‘It is extremely well done,’ he said at last, ■and again I ask, who taught you to draw so well ?' Cherry’s cheeks were flushed with shame and vexation. ‘ I took a few lessons in drawing two years ago.’ ‘You are a real artist.’ A sudden light broke over the girl’s soul, like a rift of sunshine. The lovely gray eyes filled with radiance. ‘Do you think I could paint a picture ?’ Mr. Torrence looked down into the eager, young face and smiled. ‘Yes, I think you could. Have you ever tried?’ ‘No, not anything worthy of a passing glance.’ ‘Well, I want you to paint one this summer. You are no genius child, but you have that which is sometimes better; you have great tal ent.’ There was a new beauty in Cherry’s face after that—the beauty of hope. These few kindly words had broken the bands that held her soul and set it free. So Cherry turned her room into a studio. No one was to see the picture until it was finished - Joe and Judith laughed at her and her mother denominated the whole thing as ‘a pack of non sense, and she did wish Mr. Torrence would let the child alone, and not be putting such ideas into her head; she was foolish enough as it was.’ The long summer days passed, and a new trouble came to the Olmsteads. Years before, Mr. Olmstead had borrowed a large sum ofmod- ey. The debt had always hung over him like a black shadow, and now he was unable to pay the interest. Mr. Torrence offered him the money, but he refused. ‘No, that would be only a new debt. If I had the money of my own, I would gladly pay the interest; but I can’t do it, and the old place will have to go,’ and the farmer sighed heavily as he thought of leaving the home to which he had brought his bride. One evening as Torrence lay on the grass smok ing, Cherry came to him and said her picture was finished. ‘I want you to see it first and pro- rounce judgment on it,’ she said looking very pale. Allan took the trembling hands in his strong tender clasp, and said: ‘Don’t look so white child; I will not be a hard critic.’ ‘But I want you to be hard, justly hard,’ she answered bravely. The sunset light from the western skies fell through the open window and across the easel. The picture was ‘A Scene in the Autumn Woods.’ Vistas of forest aisles streched away, until lost in soft purpla shadows; a rain of brown, and crimson leaves covered the ground, ! and a few still floated in the hazy air. A ereepbr flung its dark green leaves and bells of crimson fire around the dark trunk of an old oak. Through the trees there was a glimpse of a wide lake lying level and calm in the dim, veiled light of the sun. It was not a grand picture; but that it was beautiful could not be denied. The mellow autumn tints were blended together with won derful delicacy and the air of stillness and peace gave one a sense of rest. For a time, dead silence reigned in the small room, then Mr. Torrence turned to the waiting girl and said: ‘Your picture is a success, Cherry. It is as nearly perfect as a picture can be. Child, you have found your talent.’ Cherry’s eyes brimmed over with happy tears. The family looked, rubbed their eyes, and looked again in wondering admiration. ‘Who would a thought it?’ said her father and mother. •We were mistaken after all Cherry,’ said Joe with a laugh, ‘and instead of being a lunatic, you are the brightest one in the family. Mr. Torrence bought Cherry’s picture, paying her two hundred dollars for it, and with a feel ing of pride, such as she had never felt before, Cherry gave it to her father. ‘It will pay off the interest on that bill wont it ? ’ she asked eagerly. ‘Yes,’ and then drawing his youngest daugh ter close to him Mr. Olmstead tremblingly said: ‘You must forgive us dear for always think ing you were the fool; we were such clods our selves, we had to wait for a stranger to find out what a jewel we had.’ Cherry laughed, and kissed tho rough sun burned cheek. ‘Never mind papa, let the past go. I am just as happy as I can be now.’ Mr. Torrenoe was going back to the city, and in her heart, Cherry took back the words about being so happy. She had commenced another picture, but all her fine enthusiasm was gone. One evening she went out to the small bridge lying across a large creek, to watch the sun set; but there was no pleasure for her in the fine coloring of earth and sky. ‘I do wonder if I am crazy ? ’ ‘Why no, I thought we had proved that false,' and Allan Torrence stood looking at her. Waves of color crept up over the fair girl-face, and the clear earnest eyes fell beneath his keen, searching glance. ‘I am going home in a few days Cherry.’ ‘Yes I know it.’ ‘How proud you are my darling ! you will not let me see one particle of your heart.’ ‘I don’t know why you should want to see it Mr. Torrence,’ lifting her head. He took the small sweet face between his hands, and said: ‘Because I want it all for my own. Can it be so Cherry, or not?’ and Cherry found out she was not crazy, but in love. ‘I—I don’t know,’ she stammered confusedly; but Mr. Torrence seemed satisfied, for he took her in his arms and kissed the innocent lips tenderly. *•*•••• Mrs Torrence is now really a good artist, and she receives plenty of praise and appreciation. ‘And it all comes of your boarding at our house that summer,’ she says to her husband, and Allan, man-like, is pleased at the compli ment. Exhibiting a Dead Mubdebsr. —Pittsfield, Mass., Ahg. 17.—After the body of John Teneyok reached Chester it was exhibited for several hoars in the freight-house of the Boston and Al bany Railroad, at ten cents admission fee. The reoeipts amounted to 15$. Two oolored men, one of them the father-in-law of the deoeased, had the body in charge. They said they were forced to exhibit it by the clamors of the crowd. Sheriff Kellog went to Chester to stop the exhi bition, but arrived too late, the party * atarted for Blandford.