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DOSIA THE TAMING OF A GIRL. BY HENRY GSEVILLE. Translated from the French, e or the “Sunny South,” BY PROF. OHAS. F. GAILMABD. X. The carriage stopped in fiont of the little porch, and two minutes later Pierre was sitting in the second arm-chair, opposite to his friend, and both were conversing with the Princess as if they had all been acquainted of old. The big books and the paper knife had disappeared, and a few modern romances replaced them upon the table. Breakfast passed gaily. The rich silver ware, fine crystal, rosy radishes, shining table-cloth, sweetly-fragrant bouquets scattered all around, the Princess’ velvety eyes and white dress, all con curred to form an harmonious ensemble, well con- oeived, in which bright and soft colors formed a pleasant and apparently natural contrast. The Princess excelled in the art of arranging an inter ior with the objects surrounding her. Maybe that arrangement was the cause of her house having an irresistible attraction. After a conversation at random on a thousand topics, the Princess proposed a walk in the park. It was about four o’clock. They passed the mon umental entrance erected by Alexander the 1st, and bearing on one side a Russian inscription in golden letters, repeated on the other side in French language : A mes chers compagnons d'armes. Leav ing behind them the palace and flower gardens they went to a bowlingreen surrounded by a stone balustrade, and took seats at the very place where Catherine s old court used to assemble for a famil iar talk or for lunch. They had all of them thought of Dosia more than once during the day, but no one had pro nounced her name. ‘1 wish I could have some milk,’ said the Prin- cees, all at once. ‘Is the gardener’s house far from here ?’ ‘About ten minutes walk,’ answered the Count. * Well! please have some milk brought here, I am very thirsty.’ ‘I will go there myself,’ said Mourief immediat ely. She signed him to stay. ‘No, sir, you are my guest,’ she said with her peculiar grace, ‘my brother will take that trouble.’ Seurof started off rapidly without uttering a word. He understood that when alone with the young officer, Sophie would easily make him say what she wanted to know. He guessed rightly; for they could see yet his white cap among the trees when Sophie asked Mourief: ‘What has your cousin Dosia done to you that you have such a poor opinion of her ?’ ‘What she has done to me, Princess ? she has—.’ He stopped one second, and then added : ‘She almost made me commit a folly that I would have regretted all my life.’ ‘I am fond of follies,’ said the Princess, smiling, ‘tell me all about it.’ In a few words Pierre relatedh is ride with Dosia him aY*eiiV.Vb'fy7smifmg aTpiit^^vfiflei ‘Well.' Mr. Mourief, supposing that she had not made up her mind to come back, what would you have done ?’ ‘I should have led her to my mother’s as I had said. But such a ecolding I would have received ! I am really thankful to this little brainless girl that she saved me from that storm !’ ‘Wonld not your family be satisfied with that choice ?’ ‘Certainly not. But you, Princess, you who are acquainted with her, I see, would you like to have her for a relative ?’ ‘Oh !’ said Sophie, *1 am not a judge of those things. First I think Dosia a charming person, even with all her defects, and I know that could I have her with me for only one year, she would change her ways—moreover, I cannot marry her,’ she added, smiling, ‘which alters the question considerably’ ' ‘I shall not marry her either, thank heaven !’ exclaimed Pierre. ‘But tell me, sir, what if your family had refused to consent to that marriage ? I believe Dosia is a relative to you to such a degree, that the Church itself would oppose.’ ■I had thought of that too,’ answered the young man. ‘In that case I was determined to resign my commission of officer, and go to some foreign country where we would get married.’ ‘You would have run the risk of displeasing the Emperor ?’ ‘It would have been a necessity, since I had run away with her.’ ‘So you would have married her in spite of any thing?’ Monrief looked at the Princess in wonder. ‘But, Princess,’ he repeated slowly, ‘sineel told you that I had eloped with her!’ Sophie cast down her eyes, enjoying for a while the supreme contentment of meeting with a true honest soul. ‘ Did you not love her deeply ?’ she asked. ‘Candidly, no ! I even ought to say that I did not love her at all. I see it plain now; I feel that something more than beruty and wit is necessary to inspire true love.’ ‘Have you made that discovery, indeed ?’ said the Princess, smiling. Pierre blushed and kept silent. Fortunately, Sophie did not ask him how long since he had made this discovery, for he would not have dared to tell the truth. ‘You would have married Dosia without love, and knowing well that she could not bring you happiness?’ ° ‘ ‘I had eloped with her!’ he sadly repeated for the third time. Sophie shook hands with him. ‘Mr. Mourief,’ she said, ‘you are a true man, but, she added, drawing back her hand, ‘you must be thankful for the ending of that trial. It is good for you and her. She is not the woman of your dreams, nor are you the husband for her.’ ‘Who is the unfortunate man whom you would condemn to wear such a heavy chain through his life?’ 6 ‘Ah! that is the question,’ said the Princess with her enigmatic.'smile, ‘I dont know. But for guiding this unmanageable ship it takes a wiser pilot than yon.’ Plato came back at that moment, followed by a peasant bringing milk and some glasses in a basket. They drank the milk,; and the peasant went back. When the Princess rose to resume their walk, she said, addressing Pierre : • Are you sure that the return of Dosia to her mother’s did not leave you any regret ?' ‘It was to me the greatest relief I ever exper ienced, the truest and most genuine joy. I never slept any better than I did that night.’ ’Happy prerogative of a good conscience!’ said the Princess, addressing h ir brother. ‘You see before you, Plato, a man who never knew remorse. Admire him, brother.’ ‘Ah! Princess,’ sighed Pierre, ‘you cannot imagine how glad I was When I thought of the risk I had run. Great heavens ! I sigh bow when I think of the danger I eseaped.’ They went towards home, conversing along, all of them satisfied, but each one for a different reason. Sophie’s contentment was the most serious of the three. She had spent her life seeking noble souls, and when she found any—which hap pened very seldom—a music was sung in her heart that would have delighted the angels in heaven. This time the concert was particularly sweet and brilliant. Sophie and her brother, doubtless found an op portunity to exchange some mysterious words in an a parte, for all the way back to the camp, Plato kept humming operatic airs. As for Mourief, he did not say a word but he smoked eight cigar- reites. XI. The two young men got in the habit of visiting the Princess often. This peaceful life had so plaased Mourief, that he disdained his other am usements, except perhaps the theater, and still he selected carefully the plays he was going to see. The great drilling and manoenvering took plaee and the camp was broken up. For one week after, Pierre, who was exhausted by fatigue, did nothing but sleep, ea‘t, smoke, promenade and sleep again. After that week he felt like himself again. The Princess had loaned him some books, and the lieutenant, who before never read, took a great pleasure in reading them. He did not real ize at the beginning, that the cause of this change was the pleasure he had in speaking with Sophie about things which she loved. One morning he woke up thinking that he had no motive in going so often to see the Princess Koutsky. ‘I must bother her a great deal,’ he sail to him self with sorrow. He resolved then not to go there any more. Saddened at that resolution, which was not asked for, he prepared to write a very polite note to be sent with the books he had, when Providence, dis penser of joys and griefs, reminded him that the regattas would take place that very day, and that he had promised to go with Plato to his sister’s. •One more happy day,’ he said, ‘I shall write to-morrow. Since she invited me, it is evident that I am not intruding. Besides, she will prob ably have company.’ The unfortunate officer did not know that he was guessing rightly. As he passed the gate of the Princess’ residence, he saw his friend Plato—whose smile seemed to him particularly sardonic—coming to meet him with these words : •I believe that a sudden great joy is dangerous. Sister had an idea; I dont know if you will ap prove it or not. I fear not.’ ‘ Uh ! speak quickly,’ said Pierre impatiently, ‘dont keep us here in the draught.’ ‘Well, my friend, here is the thing. Sister loves concord and would like to see union and peace reign all over the world with a cornucopia in each hand. As she cannot reconcile empires— which is sometimes imposs ’ ‘How long will you speak that way ?’ interrupt ed Mourief. •I’m through. Sister satisfies her pacific aspira tions in reconciling her friends. She knew that your cousin Dosia and yourself had a casus belli, she undertook to make you shake hands together, and to that purpose she invited her to see the reg atta.’ ‘Dosia! Dosia here !’ exclaimed Pierre, taking up his cloak that he had thrown upon a settee. * —* * - * - — —— — — —1 —«— . O'J 1 sister wait for you. She has seen you through window and will wonder at what we are talking bout so long.’ So saying, Sourof laughing—though a little un easy—almost forced his friend into the parlor. Dosia was there, indeed, sitting in the middle of a sofa, the ends of which were occupied by her dress. She sat straight as a young poplar, imp assible as a statue, and grave as a babe waiting for his broth. Four or five ladies—well selected for the occasion among those who look without seeing, and listen without hearing—formed a frame to that picture. Sophie knew well how to ar range things and she expected to amuse herself at the meeting of the two cousins. ‘Oh ! Princess, this is not fair,’ he whispered, while kissing Sophie's hand. ‘You had to come to that some time or other,’ simply answered the Princess, smiling. It was true, Pierre bowed respectfully before his cousin,^who drily returned the salute. Plato was leaning against the door, looking at them with uneasiness. At last Pierre boldly took a chair by Dosia and began talking with her. ‘Have you been well, consin, since 1 had the pleasure of seeing you?’ •I thank you, cousin, I have only a bad cold,’ and she kept turning the leaves of an album. ‘And my excellent aunt has not been ill, I hope,’ Baid Pierre, to continue the conversation. ‘No, cousin, no more than usual.’ Pierre could not stand it any longer. His nat- ural sense of t he comic was choking him. The pres ence of indifferent ladies around him encouraged him, so leaning towards Dosia he asked her softly ; ‘Tell me, cousin, did they punish, or at least scold you on account of your last—freak ?’ ‘No, cousin, and I’ve got back my horse. I have a room to myself, and Pluto sleeps at the foot of my bed.’ ‘I am not surprised that you took your dog for a room-mate.’ ‘And I do all I please now,’ she added angrily. ‘I think it has always been the case, but I am glad to hear that you have progressed. And what about music ?’ The Princess, who saw that the quarrel was lapidly brewing, called Pierre to her side, while Plato took the place vacated by him. Dosia be came immediately grave and the red that anger had brought to her cheeks disappeared. Her face then resumed that sweet and childish expression that made her so charming. Come, Mr. Mourief,’ said Sophie, who couldn’t help laughing, ‘wait at least until after chocolate. Do not open hostilities before armistice is over. You will have plenty time to quarrel; the day is long.’ ‘She is insupportable with her coolness.’ ‘But you commenced first.’ ‘I own that I did, but she shall not have the last.’ ‘Dont forget she is my guest, Mr. Mourief. Be patient for my sake’ ‘I shall do anything to please you, Princess,’ answered Mourief, looking at her. ‘I thank you, and will depend on your word.’ The Princess went out to give some orders. A few minutes later the servants brought the chocol ate, after which the company walked towards the lake where the regatta was to take place. at a great cost from long distances, is kept in a sort of museum in a castle of a poor-looking ap pearance, but copies of those originals are free to all. At any time of the day, any one can get the use of the boat of his choice and paddle it himself or even get a sailor to do it for him for one hour. All that gratis. Of course you are at liberty to give something to the man who is rowing, exposed to the burning sun while you and the ladies are sitting under a canopy. It was that strange and mottled flotilla that was to run the regatta. Among so many different kinds of boat they had necessarily established several classifications, as well for sailing as for rowing. The grand dukes were to run the race in sail boats ; humbler mortals were to compete with the oars. Several young officers had inscribed them selves for podoscaphs and drowners, that are the comic elements of the regatta, on account of their almost inevitable—but not dangerous—accidents, and difficult and awkward handling of the pagaie. When the Princess and her company arrived at the lake, a crowd composed of all the wealth and elegance of Tsarskoe Selo and its neighbor city were assembled around that immense crystal cup. Some had come too from Saint Petersburg and vicinity. The lower clf^js were but few and gen erally occupied retired places frem' which only a part of the lake could be seen. As for the nobility and princes of finance they crowded around the imperial wharf from which the sovereign family presided at the regatta.Velvet carpets and gorgeous seats covered the marble floor. On the immense steps that run down below the water level was the graceful garland of t&e maidens of Honor, the pages and officers on d<*fy, all in brilliant array of dazzling summer-uniforms. A little further up were old generals blowing under the weight of their too-tight dress and too-heavy epaulettes. The Princess Sophie had a reserved place near the wharf, and her friends formed a compact guard of honor around her. The signal was given, and the graceful boats started. Sails of all shapes and sizes traced ele gant curves on the horizon, then disappeared behind the island which occupies the center of the lake. They were seen a moment later through an opening to disappear again. All eyes were in tensely fixed on the extremity of the island where the boats would soon appear. A snow white sail emerged first from behind the green bushes and pointed towards the shore. The Grand Duke A., who handled the rudder, turned its course at right angles and so gained a considerable advance on his competitors, who had followed a curve to turn the island. A cry of admiration rose from all around, and half a minute later, the firing of a gun announced that the young victor was receiving the reward of his boldness. ‘ The military band played a march, and the second race began. The weather was beautiful; the sun, reflected by the waters of the lake was dazzling in spite of the parasols. Dosia did not notice it; she was ab sorbing the spectacle offered to her as a young plant absorbs the morning dew. ‘I wish I could have won the prize,’she said to the Princess. ‘So that you might get the silver pitcher?’ asked the latter. ‘No. But that I could have had steered that boat so skillfully. That was a fine handling of the rudder, right square. I must have a skiff brought to the country.’ ‘Why not say a steamer?’ whispered Pierre in his cousin's ear. She turned to him with lightnings in her eyes ovpment towards him. Had XIL The flotilla of Tsarkoe-Selo is a very curious one. It has its admiral—not a sham admiral, in deed. The command is generally given to a marine officer as a reward for some wound that renders him unfit for active duty. The flotilla is composed of a specimen of every light boat employed in the Russian empire. Everything is found there : the microscopic mahogany drowner, the elegant pod- oscaph, the yawl, the Chinese junk, the flat boat, in which old matrons dare to go, the seals-skin canoe used by Esquimaux, the long plrugue that needs long transversal poles to keep its equilib rium. The original model of each kind, brought , . and made a slight imovpmi nA PP ent;a have publicly received a slap on the face; but Dosia had improved since their recent stormy meeting. Mourief was scared, however, and ins tinctively dodged back. Dosia, having noticed his backward motion smiled, thinking herself sufficiently avenged. The regatta over, the Princess secured a boat. She and Dosia took each one an oar like the young men and they pushed outat random upon the lake. ‘Great heavens! how badly thou rowest, Pierre,’ exclaimed Dosia, impatiently. Perceiving that according to an old habit she had used the familiar word thou, she blushed and repeated in a contralto voice ; ‘How badly you row, my cousin.’ The company burst into a laugh. ‘Dearest and most respected cousin,* retorted Pierre, *it is not everybody's good fortune to have as brilliant and natural disposition as you have for all exercises-pertaining to boyB.’ Dosia looked at him crossways, and straighten ing the boat with a vigorous stroke, she said: •It is true; I ought to be a boy. How funny it would be ! They would order me to do precisely all that is forbidden me now. Is there any justice in that ?’ Although the sun had given Plato a painful head ache, he couldn’t help laughing. ‘Stop !’ said Dosia after a moment. They all rested on their oars, for Dosia had effectually taken the command of the boat. The spectacle that surrounded them was grand. Dosia was looking at the shores, the Turkish Bath they were passing, the innumerable roses in blossom, the falls that empty into the lake, the beautiful marble bridge with its lines of rosy columns and its elegant balustrade, all that harmonious ensemble that is characteristic of Tsarskoe-Selo. She was looking at the elegant crowd promenading on the shores, the friendly shaking of hands and she expressed her many impressions by these words : ‘Is that the world ? It is nice. I wish I could go there!’ ‘Before going in the world, one must be well raised at home,’ saia Pierre to her. He thought she would reply in anger, but she simply sighed and resumed her oar without say ing a word. The boat moved again, but slowly. ‘Is it true, Princess,’ asked Dosia, after a few moments of silence, ‘that I am so badly raised?' She had spoken low, and the Princess answered on the same tone : ‘No, my child, not so bad as you think, but not very well, indeed. ‘I am sorry of it,* sighed Dosia, ‘but will that prevent my enjoying myself in society? You know that mother will introduce me next winter?’ ‘That would certainly be an impediment to your enjoyment, should you not change, but before three months you will be a- great deal more .’ ‘Acceptable,’ whispered Pierre, and he kept rowing (aster than before. Dosia seemed not to notice what he had said, and her cousin began to be uneasy about such an un usual placidity, when the boat neared the landing place. Plato landed first and helped the ladies to get out of the boat. Dosia alone was behind with her cousin, who was engaged in picking up an oar that had fallen into the water; but as he took it by the flat end instead of the round one he exper ienced much difficulty. ‘Cousin, can you swim ?’ Asked Dosia, softly, at the same time gathering the folds of her dress. ‘Well—yes, cousin. Why?’ ‘Swim, then,’ she answered, giving a strong impulse to the boat as she jumped to the shore, without touching the hand offered her by Plato. Pierre rolled down the back part of the boat, and had he not got hold of one of the seats he would have fallen overboard. Without getting ex cited, he rose, looked for the oars, and finding only one of them—the others had been given to a sailor on the shore—he coolly folded his arms and looked to the shore. ‘What is the matter, Pierre ?’ asked Count Sourof. ‘Do you intend to spend the night on the lake ? If so, let me send you a guitar.’ ‘You had better send me a steamboat to get me out of here,’ answered Pierre, at the same time hoisting his cap at the top of his only oar, as a sign calling for assistance. Dosia, evidently satisfied, was calmly contemp lating her work. The Princess gave signs of dis satisfaction; the others laughed. Plato was looking at Dosia, and he felt convinced that Pierre had said the truth, and that this child was really but a child. ‘It is impossible,’ he thought to himself, ‘that she would so treat a man she would have loved. That would be supreme impudence.’ A feeling of real satisfaction entered his heart absorbing his headache. His pain disappeared in proportion of his conviction, and he felt he was as light as a feather. There was no vacant boat to be sent after Mour ief; but fortunately a podoscaph steered by an of ficer of his regiment came in sight. ‘Who are you down there?’ asked that officer. ‘Are you an audacious navigator, or simply a waif?’ ‘A waif, my friend, a genuine wreck. Bring me to the shore.’ ‘Catch hold of the corner of my handkerchief; we will use it as an awser to tow your ship’, said the young man. They gained the wharf after a senes of awkward handlings of both boats which the company enjoy ed heartily. When on land, Pierre bowed to his cousin as if thanking her for what she had done. ‘Well! what does that prove?' she said, with a shrug of her shoulder. ‘Just what I ask myself, what does that prove ?’ ‘That proves that you dont know how to get out of trouble. I would have jumped into the water, swam with one arm and towed my boat with the other.' ‘Thank you, cousin, such amusements are good for you, but I have no desire for an unexpected bath.’ ‘Come, ehildren,’ said the Princess, ‘make friends. Shall I be always obliged to reconcile you! Oh ! to reconcile us is an impossibility. We have been quarrelling ever since we were born. We never could agree together.’ Pierre looked at her, with a glance of irony. She blushed and added as a corrective : ‘That is for any length of time.’ Plato felt his headache coming back with new intensity. (to be continued.) Waiting for the Dawn. BY IRENE INGE COLLIER. farther down the coast at a beautiful place quite near the sea where she could have splendid bathing and a fine beach to stroll upon. The lady had a daughter nearly grown, whom she wonld no doubt be glad to put under her mu sical instruction upon his (Eugene’s) reeomen- dation which he would give if she desired. Would she ? It was left entirely to her pleasure.’ His voice and manner, calm and convincing, had their old persuasive power, and she had consented before she suspected that Eugene’s motive was an interested one. He was taken a back by her advent so near him when he thought her thousands of miles away and he was anxious for her to keep secluded until he could manage some way of spiriting her off again. When she had consented to remove to the pri vate house if Mrs. Sullivan wished her, he told her that her former friends, the Farnams, were living in the country a few miles away, but he did not tell her of Anna’s engagement to her brother. He refused to believe this himself, though he had heard it avowed as certain in A-— and if he had given it credence he would still not be willing for Eloise to know it. She might feel it an irresistible link between herself and Anna. She might seek Anna and confide the secret to her. Before he left her, however, he said, looking at her steadily; ‘Eloise, did you know that Sydney Farnam was dead. He was killed in the battle of Sliarps- burg.’ She kept back the cry that rose to her lips, but she could not keep herself from turning deadly pale, from trembling like an aspen as her white lips murmured, ‘Dead !' Something like a malicious smile flitted over his face. A moment after, she rose and excused herself. Hurrying to her room, she encountered Guy Lawrence walking up and down the corridor impatiently. He turned to her eagerly as he saw her, but his smile faded as he noticed how pale she was. She inclined her head and passed on. Alone in her room, she threw herself upon the bed and gave way to the tempest of grief pent up in her bosom. ‘ What have you been saying to that lovely cousin of yours, Guy ? She was pale as a ghost. You haven't had the heart to hurt her feelings in any way I hope? She is divinely beautiful. I never saw so loveable a woman. And there is a sweet sadness About her that is irresistible.’ Eugene looked at him with a displeased ex pression. ‘ You are a very susceptible youth,’ he said with a halt sneer on his lip. He did not see Eloise again that day, but a note was sent up to her two hours after, con taining these words: ‘ I have seen Mrs. Sullivan and made all ar rangements. She will be glad of your society. She will send her carriage for you to-morrow.’ ‘He is bending me to his will as he always did,’ Eloise said to herself with a feeling of lit- terness. ‘But this chimes in with my wishes. I desire to live secluded. I am willing and anx ious to earn my bread, and to be where I can have solitude and leisure to practice in the hope of my voioe becoming restored.’ CHAPTER XXVIII. He knocked on the door. ‘Come in,’ said a low voice. He entered: there she sat, dressed in black silk; a pale rose brightening up her dark hair, her face pale still, but her eyes bright, her mouth proud and firm. He approached her rapidly. ‘Eloise, my darling, do I see you at last ? ’ She rose and stood before him looking at him with a curling lip, an eye that was keen and cut ting as a sword. Involuntarily he stepped back, this look cowed him, and checked even his as- snrence. r»„v. RArfrana. and I know full well that it is no agreeable surpriss to you. I am here, no thanks to you. I am sure you have hoped that not even my ghost would ever be seen in America again.’ ‘Eloise you do me great injustice. You are angry because I have not been to Europe to seek you. I could not go, business held me here, though if you had written to request it, I would have gone; but you did not write, not even to ac knowledge my letters and the money I sent.’ ‘I received none sir. After the first eight months, I heard nothing of you.’ ‘Is it possible. Well it was because of the irregularities of mail conveyance that lasted some time after the war. Indeed I wrote punct ually and was surprised and troubled that I coulu not hear from you.’ ‘Eugene do you speak the truth ? ’ ‘Of course I do. Why do you doubt me ? ’ ‘Have I not had cause to doubt you Eugene Bertram? How have you acted towards me? You have blighted my life, ruined my fair pros pects for happiness, thrown a dark shadow over my future that was so promising. Oh ! that fatal hour when I yielded to your persistent will and promised to keep that wretched secret.’ ‘Still harping on that secret. You have told it doubtless long ago . Have you not ?’ ‘It does not matter.’ ‘It does not matter true, because it would not be believed after all this time has elapsed, still I would like to know if you have told it.’ ‘I have not.’ ‘Ah ! ’ evidently relieved. ‘You are one wo man who can keep a promise.’ ‘It was no promise that kept me from making it public, I considered all promise to you fully annulled. It was because I was hopeless of any good result that would follow, I felt indifferent. I had so long worn the chain, I had grown cal lous; and I thought—but never mind.’ ‘I will tell you what you thought. You feared that you would be doubted and suspected even by your brother, and you shrank from the pang of knowing yourself suspected. You were right, you would be doubted and disbelieved and you can bring no proof.’ ‘No proof? You forget sir.’ ‘No, I don’t forget. You forget what changes time may have wrought. Death and fire, they can destroy all testimony.’ ‘And you are coward and villain enough to shield yourself behind them. You will not acknowledge this secret if I make it public ? ’ 1 will not.’ Then Eugene Bertram, I tell you, as God lives in heaven— Hush; ’ he said. ‘Hear me out. I will not acknowledge it just yet The reason still re mains, is more obstinate than ever, bat cannot long endure. In a little while, I will be free to give you permission to reveal the secret to the world.’ She looked at him with scornful doubt in every line of her face. He bore the scrutiny this man of iron nerves. He returned her look —grave and pale; not a muscle of his massive face moving. She faltered in her certainty as to his baseness and presently when his soft per suasive voice came to her ear, she listened toler antly at last almost believingly, though when he was gone from her the doubt would return. He sat down by her, he begged her to believe that he had always had her interest at heart; he had al ways tried to make her happy, he reminded her of other days and of fond hopes and tender ties. She had asked the question that lay near her heart and received an answer that seemed satis factory. Then he asked concerning her future plans; learned that she had none except to try and reoover her voioe, and quietly, and with seeming disinterestedness he advised her to se clude herself and practice her voice in the mild, soft air, and it was highly probable that her glorious gift might be restored to her. But in order to keep her mind serene, it was necessary that she should lead a retired life. The hotel was too public; there was a lady living a little CHAPTER XXIX. The plain old fashioned carriage of Mrs. Sul livan drove to the door the following morning. The lady herself alighted and asked to see Miss Clues and introduced herself to Eloise, who found her a handsome, kind and refined look ing lady of thirty, with a little daughter of twelve—a quiet, intelligent child. Mrs. Sulli van still wore deep mourning for the loss of her husband, but she was cheerful and talkative. Her home was a pretty one, embowered in ce dar trees and quite near the sea. Eloise had all the leisure and solitude she could desire. .fiffcox trcavl Ixexard •£'U>rono« , ft Fren^i 1688011 and given her her hour’s instruction on the pi ano and listened to her practice foranother hour in the afternoon, she had all the rest of the day to herself. She passed hours walking alone on the beach, a sheet of music in her hand, practicing her voice, running the scales over and over again and still hearing the harsh notes that discouraged her, though often she felt sure the harshness and hoarseness were wearing away, that her tones were becomibg clear and fuller. Then, she would note some falling off'— some discordant sound that jarred on her trained and delicately sensitive ear and she would once more grow despondent, though never wholly despairing. This she would not allow herself. She would redouble her exertions, meantime doing all she could to restore her general health. She was successful. Exercise and sea bathing, the wonderful balmy air, the varying beauties of nature around her and the kind atmosphere of friendship in which she lived wrought beuif- icently upon her. Her form rounded, her cheeks became suffused with a delicate shell pink and her lips took the ooral glow that they once possessed. Eugene looked at her with gloat ing eyes. He was a warm admirer of beauty, and he could but acknowledge that Eloise was the loveliest woman he had ever met and yet his cold, calculating nature urged many prudential considerations why he should not install her mistress of his fair home. One consideration that weighed more heavily than ever was that Eloise Ennis was now under a cloud of sus picion. He knew well that if it were known she still lived, Scandal would shrug its shoul ders and add: ‘Yes, but better for her if she were really dead and in her grave.’ One other found Eloise fairest of women and would have flung himself at her feet, however loudly Prudence might remonstrate. Guy Law rence came occasionally to see Eloise. She did not encourage his visits, but his society was pleasant, he was frank, ardent, well informed and lively and Mrs. Sullivan gave him a cordial welcome to her home. He never came with Eugene. Indeed, Bertram’s visits were very rare, and were made at times when they could excite no observation. He continually enjoined upon Eloise the necessity of prudence and se clusion and he did all he could to keep Guy away, representing Eloise as an invalid and a student who cared for no society. He even went so far as to hint of incurable consumption, but Guy’s passionate admiration turned a deaf ear to these admonitions and he framed every pretext to call at Mrs. Sullivan's and was deeply annoyed that Eloise would never see him alone and that she expressed her preference for soli tary walks. Those walks were a great consolation to her. Out of sight, out of hearing of anything but the deep murmur of the waves that flung themselves on the beach at her feet, she would give herself up to the passionate effort to reoover her lost gift Over and over would she try scales and trills, sound high and low notes. Once, she had been doing this for hours. She was pale and tremblifig with nervous excitement. She thought she saw a decided improvement. Oh! if she were not deceived. Stretching out her arms towards the sky in which the stars were beginning to appear she oried in impassioned appeal while tears poured down her cheeks: •Oh God ! pity me. I am thy child. Thou gavest me this one talent, deprive me not of it$ restore it to me. Oh merciful father! be piti ful. I have sinned, but I have suffered. Oh I I have suffered so deeply. I found such com fort in my gift. Such hope for myself and for another. Oh God restore it to me; restore it to mel beseech you here upon my knees.’ With white face uplifted, and kneeling on the hard white sand she remained for many min utes. At last, a voice seemed to speak hope and calmness to her souL She rose, she smiled brightly through her tears. *God has heard me, she said, and she began to sing the grand 1