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THE SUNK - SOUTH.
She was thl ‘' 1
That ever set a
’Tw.is mnrvelnu
Con il be su'i.l
To bi >n M.vll-lble
To KS.'iill else
Askfl u liiuli of
BSOTS8.
little woman
mortal crazy ;
how my erring spirit
i -'il hy one so lazy,
i Addicted,
exceeding loath,
wo things slit* preferred,
She only murmured, ‘‘Both!
jl i5no paradox to say so:
Her even' movement was repose;
\sO’A asummer day the ocean
slumbers, the while it ebbs and flows.
Yet was there latent tire; her nature
That of the panther, not % the s’oth
I asked her once, which she resembled :
:dii* only murmured, “Both !”
Her person—well, ’twas simply perfect,
Matching the graces of her mind ;
To perfect face and form she addei
A keen perception, taste refined.
But when I challenged her to tell me,
What I knew not myself in troth.
Whether her wit or beauty channel me,
She only murmured, “Both!”
Provoked at last at never hitting
This lazy little wom an’s point.
] scanned her armor, and discovered
llaply therein one open joint,
in careless tone I asked lier, knowing
Her word was binding os an oath,
‘•Shall love or friendship. be between us?
She smiled, and murmured, “Both !”
anything but qui t?” ho said, with a tender sunshine lighting up all those stately wliifrt a cloak nor a scarf—something put
haif-reproach. ‘ Do you think, after all the | giants in their robes of rime. He” siartwiil and knotted behind like this,” said L*l-
luppv tini-short*, th.it 1 have no feeling;” | lightly, closing toe door after him withlid, doing his best to show how, upon hiio-
But, indeed, n > one had thought tint, as Maud | cheerful hang, and taming his steps towiirdwith his h mils.
made haste to say. i the lime-tree walk, through which one greaA fichu, you mean, 1 ' said Maud, suffering
The carols were sung, but with tears in | beam of sunshine like red gold had pierced Eelf to lm betraye 1 into a smile,
them. The house v.as dressed as usual with , the opening bet we m I he t «vo greatest. t.rciAl fichu, that’s the thing; and a large
holly and i.ll the decorations of the time; 1 This looked like a goldm bridge cutting t^a 1 lint, llat she did not look like art-
little avenue in two: beyond i'. th to was tbdlework—she looked quite natural.”
shadow of the wall already deieribsl whioIVVhat an interest von must have taken in
thrust itself straight in troutof tile low sutfc lady! When did vou meet her; It could
dV hilo L hnuud admind this gr. it broj have boon any one cc
Indze of light Iio was star;led by seeng some has been here all day. 1 '
tiling move beyond it at tin* darker part—I met her—but I did not meet her—1 fol-
some king white, winch he could nit maki.-d her along the lime-tree walk and out by
out so long as lie was himself in the sun. Da little corner door.”
when lie h id cross.-d tii.it bridge of light, billow very strange? I cannot thinkwhoit
was still more surprised to see in front of him have been And where did she go after?'
at the end of tin* avenue, a woman, a ludy'i'li it is the strangest of all,” said Edmund,
walking along with to* most composed anoe disappeared somewhere. That was un
gentle tread. The roail was not exact Lv aer reason why I thought it must have been
private road—all the people from the village,!. 1 cannot tell where she went. Down
almost everybody who came to Daintrey outlie keeper’s cottage, I suppose; but I saw
...... I i 4- Ii 1 .! ..... . , . 1 .1 ...1.4. 1. 1* 1 .. °
■iii.1 there Wits at least a gre.it deal of
.-..itiou which lightened the glaoni and silence
of th » previous period. Even Sir li-abert was
glad to talk to Mr. Lightfoat, who h id been
Hie rector in former times. On Christ’ii.ls
night the attempt at games was somewhat
doleful, as it will ho, ;ila-d each Christmas in
many a sorrow inland many ;ui anxious house:
hut the talk ami the little bu tie of renewel
movement did everybody good. The com
monplace ghost-stories which are among the
ordinary foolishnesses of (Christmas did not
suit with the more serious tone in wh.ch their
though is ll nvcd; but there was some talk
among the older people about those sensations
and presentiments that seem sometimes to
convey a kind of prophecy, only un ierstood
after the event, of sorrow on the way; aiul
the young ones amused themselves after a
sort with di cussi ms «»f those iiew-fangl '<1
fancier which have replaced that old favorite
lore. Tin y talked about what is called spirit
ualism, and of many things, both in that fan
tastic faith and i • the older ghostly traditions,
which we are all half glad to think cannot bj
expl lined. Th? older |K?ople, indeed, unliesi
passed on, and in another moment had gone |
out bv the door. He had not opened it fori
her, as politeness required He hud been too
much taken hy surprise—hewil lered bv the
sud leu appearance. Even now lie stood still, .
dazed, not knowing what to do, puzzled how ,
to address a lady whom lie dal not kilo#, to
intrude in‘o an acquaintance whetuer she
wished it or not, bu yet feeling it linpossnile
to let her go like this. He stood—was it tor
a mom -lit, o 'longer '-hesitating, ’wondering:
i. for no then rushed after her, moaning to say that
’ she could not possibly cross the park a. this
hour alone, that she must p-rmit him 1> ac- |
company her. In his hasm he made a (lash
at the door, thre w it open, plunged out into
the wide white il*K*rt wh re she had gone.
The shone full upon nil the breadth of
of the park. Tne ground was higher h
and there was less mist; the pathway
along for a hundred yards or so, tull.v
was there. “Again!” he cried
(!<< i it at.
foot, used it. But Edmund thought lie knew no more,
all the people about, and he certainly did notl’lt tell you who it was,” said Maud, just
know any one whose appearance was at allttle piqued— 1 “It must have been the keep
like that of the Indy who preceded him to the niece, who hat come for a l.ttle change,
door in the wall—unless it were one of the* is in a dressmaker’s in London. Of course
girls masquerading: but he had just left, the will dress nicely—though to wear white
girls wit'.i their mother round the fire, and lie a winter afternoon, trailing across the
could not entertain this idea. The dress, too,np grass ” She laughed again, but
struck him with great surprise. It was a, so sweetly as before. “This must have
white dress, with a black mantle round them your ladv, Edmund, I fear.”
shoulders, an l a large hat; not unlike ihe l do not lielieve it. 1 cannot believe it,”
ouiiii
fully visible;
but no one »*‘w “.v,. — _ -t« f j
speaking the word al ml m his co.ifus on a d
annoyance. 'fhe bushes indeed clustered
thick upon the way to the keepers cottage.
Could this be a second niece, another von
woman living there ? He was so vexed,
'railing Ailvaata^
Vrar.
A Detroiter who was out in the ».
the other day to look after some poultry,
stuck in a mud-hoi *, al hough having a ligu.
buggy and strong horse. Ugot out, took a
rail off the fence an l was trying to pry the
i vehicle out, when along enno a strapping
young woman aiioiit twenty-six years of age.
| She. halted, surveyed the situation and said:
I “You stand hy t.he horse while i heave on
| the rail, and don’t be afraid of getting mud
j on your hands and boots.”
I Their united efforts released the vehicle,
| and the Detroiter returned thanks and ask d
i her to get. in anil rid-. She h si at.si, looked
i up and down the road ami finally said:
| “S ranger, I’m blunt spoken. Who are
you?”
lie gave his name and residence, and she
continued:
•Tin over twenty-five, worth $5oo in cash,
know sill aliout house-work* and this is Leap
“Yes, I know, but for heaven’s sake don’t
ask me to marry you!” he replied, as he saw
the drift.
‘•See here,” she continued, looking him
square in the eye, “I’m a s might girl, wear
THE WHITE LADY.
A STORV Ol’ TME SEEA A\l)
By Mrs Oliplinnt.
CHAPTER I.
There was but a small party for Christmas
at Daintrey. The family were in mourning,
which mean' more than it usually means, anil
the whole life of the place was subdued. Nev
ertheless, the brothers and sisters were young,
and were beginning to rise above the impres
sion of the grief which had come upon tii -in.
The gloom hail lightened a little; they liegan
to forget the details of death, and regard the
image of their brother in a*i asj>ec. more fa
miliar. It was not long since the news had
come, and yet already this change had taken
place, as inevitable. "The father and mother
were less easily cheered: blit li'e must go on
even though death interrupts. The girls and
boys could not bo made to sit like mutes
around a grave. They had to rise np again,
and go on »i h their individual existence
Lady Beresford. who was a w,s • mother, felt
and acknowledged this, though her heart was
still bleeding Christmas was coming; and
though there could lie no Christmas festivi
ties'in the ordinary sense of the word, one or
two old friends and connections were invi cd.
Sir Robert, for his part, was opposed to the
appearance of strangers. He was never verv
fond of visitors. “What do you want w ith
people here!” he said, with a kind of growl,
in which he disguised his grief. "Surely once
in a way the girls might get through Christ
mas without visitors. Christmas! the very
idea of these horrible merry Christmases
that we have to go through makes me ill!”
“ I should do without them only two glad
ly, Robert: but the girLs and the boys are too
young to be cooped up. Gr.ef is so monoto
nous, and they are s> young. It is not that
they love him the less: bu‘ ih*y must live—
for that matter, we must all go on living,”
she said, keeping with nil effort the tears in
lier eyes A in tber who cannot give herself
over io lier sorrow, who i.tusv —,., k
all her little daily round of duties all the
same, and think of the girls' ' ‘ \ —id the
boots and the flannels of the -chool,
and only now and then in a .re moment,
can shut her door or turn her face to the wall
an l weep a little over her dead, the tears that
have lieen gathering slowly while she has
smiled ami t ilk d and kept everything going
through the long day—has a hard task when
her troubles come; imt she had no time for
self-indulgence. And naturally she had her
way, and the few were invited whom it had
seemed to her good to invite. One of them
was Edmund Coventry, who had beena ward
of Sir Robert, and now in his manhood cal
culat'd upon being a member of the Daintrev
party at all those periods which are specially
dedicated to home. He was a young m in of
excellent character and very fair fortune:
and, if the truth must lie told, the heads of the
house at Daintrey had conelu led that he
would be a very convenient match for Maud,
who was the second girl. Perhaps it would
be better to suv th it one of the heads of the
house hud already perceived and accepted
this view. A in itcliinaking mother is :i thing
that is supp* »sed < m English soii to lie exl rein •
lv objectionable: anl yet if she does not
think of the welfare of her girls, who is to do
j-< The French mother considers it her first
dii-y. Daily Beresforil was a higli-minded
Englishwoman, an 1 not a scheming mamma:
but she could not shut her eves to the fact that
Edmund Coventry was exactly suited to
Maud. And so, among the few wh. > came to
spend a very quiet Christmas at Daintrey,
and “cheer a sad house,” which was what she
sai l in her invitations, E imund was one of
whom she thought.
“Poor li iy!" she said, “hehas always come
here. He has no other place where he will
care to go. Of course he w ill kn >\v that it
will not be lively. IJnt he is a good boy. I
do not think he will mind.”
“I am sure, mamma, ha will not mind,”
said Susan, who was the eldest. Susan was
going to make a by no means brilliant mar
riage. She was to marry a young man who
was in the diplomatic service, but had no
money, and was scarcely the sort of man to
lie a diplomat; so that the prizes of that pro
fession seemed improbable to him. And she
thought it very desirable th it M tu l and Ed-
nmnd Coventry should see a good deal of
each other. “He will be gl.ul to be with us
in our troubl**,” she said; “lie was always
fond of Willie." Thus the invitation was
given half in love and tender certainty of
sympathy, yet half with a certain calculation
too. . .
The other guests were of a very quiet kind
— a brother of Sir Robert’s, a lonely bichelor;
a widow, il s ster of Lady’s Beresford's, with
her little boy and girl: tiie former clergyman
of the parish, who had been \\ lllie s tub >r
once upon a time: a nephew who nas an or
phan, and had no home to sjiend his Christ
man in;and Edmund, “lie will be the only
little bit of liveliness. He will help to cheer
us up,” Susan said. Her attache was tocome
too, but only for a few days. He was one of
those to whom social duties were important,
and he had a great many visits to pay. But
for this mourning they would have been mar
ried lief ore now.
Edmund Coventry was a young man who
was very wel! off, and very greatly esteemed.
He was twenty-seven—no longer a boy. He
had a very nice estate, and a house in town,
and no relations to speak of. He was very
well-looking, without being handsome, which
is iierhaps the sort of compromise with nature
which Is must approved in England. There
are a great many people who do not care for
unusually handsome men. Beautj is an ex
travagance, they feel, in the male portion of
st .. -1.1 1fro wl looks Hill
taring! v rejected all mediums anil snpermit- j kind of costume which people in a*sth tic cir-said. much vexed; hut after a good ileal of
ural operators of every kind as impostors; j cles liegiu to affect, but far more real andiistanoe he was brought to allow that, as he
but even on this point various members of the I natural, it seemed to him—though how lied only seen h**r back, and that at a little
party had things to t ell which they did not j cmil I judge at i nis distance and with only th&tanee, h 'Vould not have any such e irtainty
knowhow to explain, ‘‘is not there some j lady's back visible it would Ik* difficult to ho hod supposed that she was a lady,
tradition of a glio.t aliout Daintrey;” Mr. j tell. The curious thing was that the moment'Besides,” said Maud, with a little gentle
Lighr.foot, th*» old rector, said as trey all sat | Edmund saw this pretty figure in front ofmiuih. “a girl like that may walk like a
in a wide circle round the great glowing lire j him his heart began to boat. Ho hail thely anil dress like a lady. She has got to be
just b fore the moment should arrive for bed- 1 same feeling which a man sometimesiong ladies most of her time, and to see the
j candles mi l general good-nights. There was lias when he suddenly meats a iovnlvst people. Unless you talked to her and
| not very much ligir i i the r io;n, but large as lace and says b i himself that, please Cod, m I she dropped her lis, or had vulgar ideas,
it was, it was all ruddy and brilliant with the I tliis woman is the one woman for him. But w could you tell; Indeed, sometimes they
blaze of the great cheerful fire. such a thing would Ik* absurd when you con-!k even, just as nicely as we do,” said 'he
“Nothing of the sort,” said Sir Robert cm- ! rider that it w is only her hack he saw. Yet mug 1 idy. more just than many of her kind,
phutically. it was he who was mo it strong ! it made liis heart heat; lie was seized with atis seemed to make an end of the question,
as to tiie whole thing being an imposition, j great desire to follow, to "get a good look’ att least Edmund could find no more to say;
her, to know what she could lie doing hereid Lady Beresford, who had observed the
and who she was. what was she doing there!ng and interesting conversation in which lie
Surely a creature of so much grace, moving^) been engaged with Maud, gave him a
like that, dressed like that, coal I not possibly ill kinder smile than usual when sli ■ bade
have been visiting the servants’ li ill; and slie m good-night.
had imt lK*eu in the drnwing-rooir he was
sure. If she only would turn round at the
sound of his step; but she did not turn round.
She moved on as if she heard nothing—across Next day the frost held; tiie pond was
tiie curious little square, straight to the door taring, and the whole house turned out
in the wall. Come, Edmund said to himself, i skate—even Sir Robert. Laly Beres-
if she is going to the village 1 must overtake ird looked on with that indulgent won
her. And he did not hurry, feeling sure sheer with which a woman regards a man s
could not escape him. He was pleased by theelight in outdoor amusements, and the
little mystery — who could it be? But lieharm they exercise over him. She was un-
must fiuil out before he returned, for unknowndgnedly glad that her husband should lie
ladies do not walk about in a park in theoused from that growing seclusion in the
disappoint* I, so tantalized, that lie did not
know what to do or say* .
4 ‘II‘is Ferney a d mgh'er «*ts well as a met <
he said to Mauil, singling her out again, her
mother remarked, trom all the rest.
“A daughter! Oil, no: nobody but J.me. _
Thev brought her up; but that is all. " ■>.> | a ? shoe, and I like the looks of you.
do vou take so much interest in the i ermns, | • y,, s p u t don't—don't talk that way to
Edmund ? You have always known them, | tnp , r
' Daily
and who “did not believe a word” of the
stories he was told
“I lielieve there is something—very vague.”
said Lady Beresford. But there was a "'call
ing look exchanged between them, and the
talk suddenly ceased.
Anil by-and-by th" ladies went all flocking
out of the room, carrying their lights, like a
procession of tin* wise virgins in the parable.
But their black dresses made that procession
a sad on ’. though the soft bloom of the young
faces came oat with even more effect when
tne light found nothing else to dwell upon.
The young men found a little relief from the
gravity of the conversation in Hie smoking-
room, where Mr. Beresford the elder, the
uncle of the pirty, disiourseil upon town and
its charms, and congratulated himself that
he wns not like his brother Roliert, the head
of the family, and compelled to piss liis win
ters in the middle of those damp acres of
oark. “it would kil' me in a year,” Mr.
Beresford said. < >n tiie whole they were all
gl td that the worst was over, and Christinas
got safely done w ith for that year.
CHAPTER II.
Edmund showe I no inclination to cut his
visit short: liestaye ion after Uncle Reginald
had returned to liis dear club and his rooms
in St- James street, and the attache h al gone
on upon his round of visits, and young Beres-
lord, the cousin, had returned 11 his work.
Tne eldest of the sons at home was over twen
ty; the other two wire boys at school. And
Susan and Maud and little Ed e were the
girls. It could not be a very sad house, after
all. with all that youth in it: and on the whole
Daintrey liegan to turn round as it were, like
tiie earth when a new day is breaking, turn-
ing itself to meet the light. Edmund was very
much at home and very comfortable, and he
was pleased to think that he was doing them
good, as Lady Beresford told him with a
smile i f tender gratitude. It had not yet oc
curred to him that of nil people in the world
Maud was the one who would suit him most
exactly for a wife. But he was in a verv
prom sing way for making tiiat discovery,
CHAPTER III.
.or maxing tnat discovery, ™tely, as she had taken the trouble to do ..
»h ch had alreidy faintly gleamed upon,#* ,Jlfi?'Vt%u!= r t V .^ r K ! . . 1 '
not go to the length of beauty. He was not
a tall, muscular, well-developed hero, but
slight, and not more than of middle stature.
With all he was ail ingratiating, lovable
young man, very gentle in manners, \ ery
tender in his friemIships; no doubt would make
an excellent husband. There was no need to
explain to him the position of affairs in the
house. He knew all about it, and he sympa
thized with them in every point. “Mamma
hesitated to ask you, said Maud, “because we
were to be so quiet.” "‘Could 1 wish to l>e
consciousness of Maud herself as iiciijibl rn*ni
oteach other,' though not a bit t<H> much.
They were like brother and sister. Lady Beres
ford said: which was quite true: an i yet there
was always a possibility of s miething more.
Daintry was a haiidsouie house of no parti
cular period, built almost ilu-* east an west
like a church. The front entrance was by a
square court shut in by a screen-wall built
between the two wings. At the back the
wings were very shallow, projecting but
sligii ly from t he e >rj>s eV On the south
side ot the hous ■ was a green terrace, as tiigo
as the windows of tne si ting-rooms, ascended
by handsome marble steps ornamented with
vases as i i an Itiliau garden and separated
bv the brilliant parterres of the flower-
garden from tiie lions *. Run ling along the
upper end of .he garden anil conneetiug it
w i ti th-* west end of the house was tiie lime-
tree walk, a noble bit of avenue at right
angles with the terrace. Bo:h of these w ere
beautiful—but tiie li tie square comer which
connected them was not I•eauthliil. Here,
for no apparent reason at ail, a wall had been
built, of the date of some hundred years back,
a high brick wall, quite out of place, screen
ing in a square and lather gloomy angle of
grass, in the midst of which stood a high
pedestal surniounte 1 by a large stone vase.
Whether this was meant to commemorate
anything, or whetuer it was merely supposed
to Ik* or name dal. ill the days of George ill.,
nobody could tell: but that it was very funer
al and ugly was certain. In the side of this
wall farthest from the house was a door u h ch
opened into th- byway through tie park.
Perhaps the wall had been buiL to stop some
light of way; perhaps —but there is a little use
in multiplying piTailveirures. There stood
the w..ll built to shut out no one knew what:
there loomed aloft the funeral urn upon its
pedestial raised to commemorate no one
knew what. Sometimes the door would be
locked by a sulky gardener, and the key had
to be hunted for in the house and out of it,
high and lo.v. At such moments Sir Robert,
especially if he hail himself to wait, would
vow that he would throw down the wall and
almlisli both urn and door. Rat Sir Robert
was an absolute Tory in action, though some
thing of a Liberal in politics; and threatened
walls live long, especially when there is no
reason why they should live.
Edmund had gone out with the intention of
walking to the villtge one of these wintry
afternoons. There had been talk of skating,
but the ice was not quite solid enough for
skating, and liis errands to tiie village were
manifold. He was going to see aliout Mau i’s
skates, which wanted something done to them.
He was going to the rectory to tell the new
rector, who was young and a great athlete, to
join the party at the pond to-morrow if the
frost “held:” and he had other little commis
sions to do. IV hen there is nothing 1 letter, to
be done it is something fora man to have
commissions in the vill ige—it gives him a
reason for his walk; it makes him feel that
he is not absolutely without an occupation.
The boys were all about the pond, Induing it
to freeze, as the keeper sai 1—watching, at
least, with the most anxious eyes, how this
process went on. Edmund came out at the
western door of the house facing a low red
sun. which shone into his eyes, easting long
level gleams of light acre s the grass and dye
ing it orange, He was very lighthearted to
day, with a feeling that jioor Willie Beresford
had died long ago, and that life had begun
again, anil that the prospects of existence
were opening out. Perhaps it was Maud,
whose sweetness and pleasant *ociety hail
suggested to him long stretches of happy life
to come. He went out, glad even of the
sharpness of the air, pleased to hear the crack
ling under his feet which betokened the frost,
and admiring the fairy whiteness in which
the great trees hail robed themselves. All lit
up with those red rays, with warm anil gor
geous lielts of color upon the sky, and every
prospect of cold and line weather, the things
most desirable when there is a frost and it is
Chri-itmas, the prospect round him was of it
self exhilarating. How foolish, he thought,
of the girls not to coine out, to get the lienefit
of the smart walk through the park, and the
keen fresh air which made his countenance
glow. Talk of summer! The park at Dain
trey was lovely* always, hut it never was
more beautiful than it was now, with that red
country, or go to and fro between the village brary, which looked like temper and meant
a <1 the great house, without being easily rief—glad to the bottom of tier heart: and
traceable. What a pretty walk she hail! so et there was a wondering in her mind, a
light that lier step was ant audible—no creak-ensation of half-grieved, half-smiling sur-
iug and crunching ii[K»!i fa!l"ii twigs nndirise. Sha wns glad to get them all out of
stones and frostliouiid sodas with him. He he h* mse, and said “Thank God !” fervently,
was charmed with the pn-tty, graceful figure lint here was something which would take
—certainly n Iittl" like Maud, slimmer and-rf the strain, which would tiring in a little
not quite so straight, utid with a pretty driKipunusement, and help the convalescence of
in it of fragility and dependence, but yet cer-grief which was working itself so quickly in
tainly like—younger perhaps, though Maudthese young people; and tnen she went up to
was but nineteen. He followed her softly,her own room and shut her door, feeling as
promising to li llisel f to quicken his ste|>s as if she, who had the best right to it, had got
being and gathering.
could see lier half turn round ns if :o look who got out of the shallow for a moment, and tne
was behind; but, though she must have per-pond was n merry scene. K r Robert skated
ceived him, she shut the door upon him as she about very solemnly at first, taking long
passed through—not verv civil, he thought; turns round the island t int lay at one end of
but perhajis she was espiegle, and could no*, the long piece of water; but by-and-by he
resist a little merry affront to him, innocently liegan to help little Eilie and give directions
provocative, as is the fashion of girls. Hi to To.u. This diversion filled up the whole
very fond of fun in the old days. The smile espeeiallv as Maud hail already given him
was almost a laugh on his mouth when he saferal little playful reminders, and he (le
stepped out of the park and let the door swin'^pkfiined according! v that he would not al-
ever since you first came here.
Then Eimund toll his story. How once
more he hail seen the strange 1 uly. how sue
had passed through the door, and once more
gone down the keeper’s way; or, au eu-t, so
he supposed. Had s.ie gone to the village lie
must have so *n her. This time Maud bcca.ne
excited too. S ie took her motbei into
council. “Mother, do you know any one ,
who lias lately come to the \ iha&e, <> > * . J
of the houses aliout ‘ I should tuiiik she must
ne a crazy person. Edmund lias met ea j
twice in the lime-tree walk, in a viiite ,
''"•Edmund must have been dreaming,
Beresford said. . .
“Nat any more than I am now. 1 saw her
quite plain to-nigh'. There is something m
her air, generally, that reminds me of Maud.
I thought it was Maud herselt playing me a
trick the first time 1 saw her. ’
•knd dressed in white. Such an extraor
dinary thing!” Slid Maud. “tV ho can it be.
This incident of the dress moved the ladies
more than it did the man He had to ex
plain to them exactly what kind of a dress it
was that she wore. “Tnough 1 < aresa> he
has not a no ion,” said Lidy B resfoid.
Probably it is only some ligat comr. M *n
never know , . . f
A slight look of uneasiness got l.itolier face.
She listened as the dress was described with
reluctance, trving to change the subject, but
the others were very much interested. A
dress not. like anything you ladies wear now,
Edmund said. ...
44 A dress. I should siy, very lik? what the
art people wear. It must Ik* some artistic
person who has taken lodgings in the vil.agt*.
said Mrs. Cole, who was Lady Berestord s
sister “Depend upon it that is what she is,
an art-student, not rich, living in some little
rooms, studying the effects of a winter land
scape, or something of tr.ut sort. Perhapi
Ferney has let her his parlor. Hasa t he got
a parlor ? That is what this strange visitor
inus*. tie.” .... ii * ,
This was not quite so objectionable to
Edmund’s feelings as the other guess,
and the talk got quite animated about has
lady. Onlv Lady Beresford did not quite
like it. “f lease not to say anything about
her to Sir Robert,” she said: “he is not fond
of strangers about.” And she was visibly
uneasy, But no one oould tell why.
Conlcuded next Week.
The Country l*oy l’rom Home.
•arelesslv behind him -not shutting it elnb \ W v nimself to think any more of the little
• rouble to do. \ 5™.which had so t!?
There comes a time when the country lad
grows weary of the prosaic surroundings of
his life. The old hoinstead looks smulUunl
sr.,
She had slipped behind a bush, n.i doubt, to
l« wil<1er him. There were several byways
running i i different directions—one towards
Ihe deserted cricket ground, another towards
the keepers cottage, beside the straight road
which led to the village. Probably she had
tucked up lier dress and made a dart through
the brushwood out of sight. He stood for a
moment looking after her, now one way, now
another, tiut he could see no one. “I know
you,” lie cried, “1 know you: where tire vou,
Maud?” But there was no answer from
among the brushwood. Finally l;e bad to
make Up liis mind that th * trick li :d been suc-
cessfu , that she had got away, an 1 that if Ue
was to execu e liis commissions in ill" vill ige
he must not lose any time. But he went
along with only half the spirit with which he
had started, bis mind quite absorb;d in this
.adventure. As he resumed liis way he met
one of the keepers coining in the opposite di
rection. whom lie stopped to ask ii he ha l met
a lady on liis way. The nun looked at him
as if he thought him mad, but answered no,
he had met no one. “A l.nly in a white dress
and a black mantle,” said Edmund. “Lord
ble-s vou, silt” said thek *eper, “a white dress!”
—and then it o v a re 1 to Edmund for the first
time how entirely inappropriate such a garb
was to the season. It must h ive been one of
the girls who had. “dressed up,” as they used
to he so fond of doing in the old days, to give
him n fright. And yet in liis heart he did not
in the least believe this explanation he hid
given to himself. Even Maud, though lie
liked lier so much, had never excited that
sudden and causeless emoti m in his heart. It
was some one new—some one who had never
crossed liis path before, and who was destined
to work he knew not what commotion in it.
But then, who could it be'
“Did you go out after 1 went out?” he asked
M ind when he went back to Daintrey. “Tell
me, did you or any one tukea run across the
park?”
"Oh, no: mother would not let us go. She
said we could not go to skate to-inorrow if we
went out so late to-day.”
“Or has any one been here? Did you have
any visitors?” Edmund asked, though he
knew very well that this could not explain
the presence of the lady, who must have left
the house before he did. Maud looked up at
him with her soft blue eyes.
“We have had no one,” she said. “We did
not stir all the afternoon. Mother had a head
ache, and \\ e did not wish to leave her. After
you went out we sat and talked til! the dress
ing-bell rang. That was all; but why do you
suppose we must h ive had visitors?”
Edmund felt—lie could scarcely tell why—
a little shyness and unwillingness to explain
himself.
“Because I met a laily in the park,” he said,
“an 1 could not make out who she was. Have
you any new neighbors since I have been
gone ?”
Maud shook her bead. “Nobody.” she said.
Nobody hail been calling. Nobody had in
truded into the neighborhood. Site looked
earnestly at the young man, who, for his part,
was a little excited by his own questions, but
not at all unpleasantly excited.
“I thought, fora moment you were playing
me a trick. Hhe looked a little like you—that
is, her figure looked like you. I did not see
her face.”
“Like me?” Maud was half pleased, but
more surprised. “I play you a trick? I don’t
think,” she said, with a sad look, “that I shall
ever do that again.”
“But I hope you will a hundred times,” said
the young man; and this pleased her, though
she could not have told why. “But help me
to find out who it D,’’ he went on. I feel an
noyed that I don’t know everybody, ns I used
to do. She was dressed in white with a ”
“In wliite! You must have been dream
ing.” said Maud, in amazement.
He stopped short again. “That's why I
thought it must be you,” he said, yet with a
little conscious Jesuitry, for ha had not thought
so—indeed, had assured himself that the little
stir of his being which he hid experienced
could only mean that this was some one of a
different kind from any he liad met before: a
new woman, a creature born to influence him.
“But it is quite true and 1 was not dreaming.
8he had on a white gown. Something black
over her shoulders, like the thing ladies have
been wearing lately': I forget what you call it
Was ill his mind a lurking purpose of coming
jome fro n the ice some evening by the
keeper’s cottage, just to see; but even that
he did not carry out for those two days. O.i
the third afternoon, however, by some chance,
be was left to come home alone. The others
had set out before he was ready. He heard
their voices s mulling cheerily through the
frosty night air, a g'Hxl way on, uikm the
path before him, when he eoinp'eted his last
long whirl round the island, during which
SirRoliert had got impatient, and summoned
all his fl ick about him. Thev had all linger
ed to the last moment p issible, as there were
signs of the frost breaking. It was dark, so
1 irk that Edmund could scarcely s >e to take
iis skat"s off, and all the hollows of the park
acre full of mist, anl the sky overspread
m l blurred, and covered with clouds. It was
dearer in the east, however, and there an
tiir 1 v, pale-eyed young moon, with a certain
♦ger’ness about her, as though full of iinpa-
ieace to see what was going on in the earth,
uni gat up hastily in a bit of blue. .She
ouched the mists, and made them poetical,
•riidu.illy lightening over the milky expanse
if the park, in which the trees stood up like
^.ads of shadows.
Suddenly it came into E.hnund's head that
tils was the very moment to carry out liis
iteution. He :ook lip nis skates hastily, mid
talked round by the other end of the pond
awards the cottage of Ferney the keeper,
'he moon, g"tting brighter every moment,
jjvw the whole little settlement of this small
abitatiou ill the midst of the park and woods,
ato brilliant relief. There was a sound of
ogs and human voices p ipulating the still-
ss-s. and the cluster of low red roofs, the
moke from the chimneys, the cheerful blaze
f firelight out of the uncovered windows,
seined to cheer and warm the whole land-
jape. Half ash uned of his own artifice, Ed-
lunil stopped at the door to give some ines-
oge to the keeper. In the room beyond he
law a young woman seated at a table sew
iig, the light of a candle throwing a full light
oon her. She was dressed in black with the
liua! white collar and little locket—a liand-
sme, pali girl; and os Edmund stared in,
lirgetful of politeness ia his curiosity*, she
at up, with a reserve that was in itself co
iiettish, and walked to the other end of the
mini. When he saw this movement he had
irnost laughed aloud. That the lady of the
ine-walk; They* might as well have told
lim that good Mi-s. Ferney, with her stout,
jjironly bulk,and white apron,was the lady
1Thad met. He went oft, pDa.se with his
orn discrimination, pleased that he had not
l*n mistaken, wondering if he should ever
reet her again anywhere. He felt sure that
hi would know her, wherever ne might see
'tit by* her figure and by her walk.
He asked t.ie keeper some trivial question
t justify his pause at the house, then walked
a, whistling, with cheerful speed, till he
cpie to tiie little corner hou-e, as it was
idled; but he had scarcely got within, when
h' checked himself abruptly. The moon was
sining full across the greeu terrace and the
ejpty beds of the flower garden, streaming
u«n this little forlorn an;rie and its big ugh*
un. Full in its light, softly crossing in front
o the big pedestal, her pretty figure relieved
aninst it, within half a dozen paces of him,
riming towards him, was the lady he had
can before. Her dress was the same dead
vinte, with the black fichu, all frills and
fiSge, tied liehind; a broad hat, thrown
H;k a little from her face. His heart gave a
gsat jump when he saw that in a moment
hiinust pass close, and that she could not in
aif way conceal herself from him. He al-
m*t stopped short, but she came on softly,
wfcout einbarassinent, without alarm. Cer-
tatlv she was like Maud: a tender little pen-
sin face, with softy very Urge eyes—which
m*t be blue, Edmund fel.—a pensive half-
snile about the mouth. She was neither
stalled by the sight of him, nor did she take
a bgle step out of his way, but went on in
thisame composed pace. She had almost
(idled him, when he bethought himself to
pil off his hat. This seemed to give her a
litle movement of surprise. She half turned
heihead to look at him, and the half-smile on
hetlelicate lips brightened h little. It was
tonfligbt, too evanescent, to be called pleas-
urt and yet it was something like pleasure
thi lighted up the gentle face. Then she
i
an expensive experience tha'o shall have some
thing more than the hayfielil in summer and
the wood pile in the winter to develop his
latent energies. He takes his father’s hand in
a “good-bye,” kisses the tremulous lips of liis
mother, strolls down by the neighboring farm
house and bikes an awkward but loving fare
well of his sweetheart, and takes the first ac
comodation train for the city. Here he will
learn the secrets >f business life, crown liis
iatKirs with a fortune, in about a year ami a
half a il retiring to the haums of his youth,
bring forth the hand maiden of his heart to
surroundings fitted for her wonderful good
ness and sweetness. So he thinks. Arriving
at the goal of his ambition he is charmed and
delighted, blocks oil blocks of houses so close
together that a sheet of paper cannot be slip
ped Ik-tween them, the burly burly of the
enormous traffic of the streets, the crowded
sidewalks, the brilliant show windows, all
tend to (ill his eyes with wonder and liis heart
with enthusiasm. He enj >y*s himself hugely.
Night comes and after a brief view of the
brilliancy of the stree.s by gaslight, he leisure
ly finds his way to his boarding house. He
half way rememliers that lie has forgotten
something, that the cows are not milked, or
wood for the kitchen (ire not brought in, but
his tramp on the hard pavements has made
him footsore, and the confusion of sights he
has seen has tired out his receptive brain, and
he wearily tumbles into bed. The moment
his body touches the easily-yielding spring
mattress he is wide awake, the strangeness of
his surroundings and the slowly dawning
truth that he is am mg strangers seems to pry
opeu his eyelids and keep them ojk'H. There
is not that reissuring resistance to the bed
that there is in his own cot in the attic at
home: the noise of the city is not as soothing
as the song of the katydids, the flickering
shadow of the street lights across his room has
not the softening influence of tiie moonlight
rays upon the coverlid knit by the loving
hands of a mother. He grows more wakeful,
the curious sounds tiiat he hears put him on
the alert lest some foul deed of violence is be
ing committed in the nextrimm, and lie starts
up in a cold sweat a dozen times only to flnd
everything all right. He wonder- if his fath
er and mother are talking themselves to sleep
over the trials and temptations to which they
know he is exposed; if Jennie, the dear little
creature with the rosy cheeks and dimpled
elbows, is dreaming of him with the last rose
bud he gave her under her pillow. He some
how* begins to feel that he is out of place, and
if he could only see the old black cat asleep at
the foot of the lied h9 would be reassured.
He turns over his homelife in liis mind as
often as lie turns over Ins body in Ik*i1, and
that is about once in ten minutes. At the
first gray streak of dawn he arises, as has
been his habit. Not a soul stirring, except
now and then an early milk-man, and lie
would give his old boots if be was on a milk
ing stool that very minute. As he looks out
of his window the sun rises plump up out of
the northwest and looks upon him as coldly as
if it really did come from that corner. This
is too much. A solitary tear trembles on his
eyelid and before he knows it he is hard at
work at a crying match, the first since
the schoolmaster made him sit with the
girls. He goes upon the street again,
and sees not a face that he knows, not an eye
that looks kindly on him. He buys a second-
class ticket for home and remains the joy and
comfort of the old folks, and when they die
takes Jennie and both the farms, and never
goes to the city again except to sell garden
truck.
“Stranger, it’s Leap Year anil I'm going to
pop. Will you have me or not?”
“i—I'm already married!” he faltered.
“Honest Injun!”
“Yes. ”
“Well, that settles me and I wont rid". 1 11
I take a cut across the field over to oi l Sooon-
i er’s He’s got four sons ami a fool nephew,
anil I'll begin on the old man and pop the
crowd clear down to the i Hot. for I've slum-
mixed rouii 1 this world just as long as I’m
going to. Good-bye, sir—no harm done!”
A l>a*iiiiK<*u
“I saw little Betsy as drunk as a fi Idler one
time, and she was a funny sight. We were
showing late in the fall in Indiana, in very
severe weather. Some monkeys and birds
anil snakes had already frozen, and Betsy
showed that she was suffering greatly from
the cold. Long John went to Manager Older
anil sanl to him:
“You’d better get some whiskey for Betsy
or she'll freeze.”
“How much?”
“Her ears are lK*ginning to freeze; get three
buckets.”
Well, thev knew that was two for Betsy
and one for'Long John; but when it came to
elephants he was boss, anil the whiskey was
cot, as lie ordered. Only you should have
seen the tavern-keeper’s eyes stand out when
they ordered three buckets of whiskey for
two drinks.
Betsy drank all they gave her and got stav
ing drunk. Slic’d stagger, anil roll over, and
pick herself up, and pick Long John up anil
toss him on her back and sort if laugh, and
it was nip and tuck between them which was
tiie drunker. Elephants are very fond of
whiskey,* or any sort of liquor, especially
if it has a lot of fiepper in it; and they are not
only fond of getting drunk themselves, but
thev are very considerate of drunken men.
I never yet knew of an elephant hurting a
drunken man. Tiiat Long John, "hen he
was staggering drunk, would go up to Sultan
or Canada when nobody dared go near them,
and would fool around them, and swing on
their tusks and toss their trunks about and go
to sleep right down by tiieir feet, and they
would not o ily not do him any harm, but
would not let any body go near him until he
chose to wake up; and any real drunken man
can do pretty much as he pleases with an ele
phant.
A poet says: “1 can never smile aga:n. ’
Oh, yes you can. You may have thought so
when you swore off on New Years day. but
tiiat same old “smile”—price ten cents—will
play around vour mouth iK'fore the year is
two ill uitlis bid. Stick a pin here,
g.-uiel" new to little loui'-yeai'-ol\i, ;.uu ne e:\re-
fully watched the bathing and dressing of his
little cousin. When the little powder Ikix
was opened and the fluffy brush was about to
be used underneath the baby’s chin and other
places, he exclaimed, “Oh, aunty, let me see
you salt her.”
Jones says his wife is the most thrifty wo
man tie ever knew. “Why, sir.” he says,
she has made ten lieilspreads during the last
two years: made them herself, sir, out of the
patterns she collected in her shopping tours
during that time.
Seated next us. a fe w evenings since, at
dinner, was a bright girl, who in alluding to
the frivolous ways of a certain young man,
said, “He really frivols too much.” The verb
is not only fresh and good, but it recalls a
somewhat similar saying of Bavard Taylor’s,
who, upon lK‘ing once asked if Mr. — was
not a very penurious man. replied, “Well, be
penures a good deal.”
“How pleasant life would be if it had no
shadows,” said she, as her bright eyes looked
into his face sympathetically.
“Yes, it would, and if the gas should Ik*
turned entirely off there would be no shadows
here,”
“Anil it would be pleasant, too. wouldn't
it?" as she toyed with her shapely fingers
around the arganil till an impenetrable gloom
set led over the room, and the Sunday night's
courting was fairly under way.
A corres; ion dent at Hampton. Virginia
apropos of the large-sized words sometimes
used by our colored bretheren in their pulpit
efforts, says that a certain colored minister,
who was i'n urgent need of funds to complete
liis church, made this “ver” appeal: “My
bredren, it's a long time since we hab distrib
uted anyting for de construction of dis yer
church. ” De hat will now be passed roun', an'
we hopes you uns will be right peart in gile
bn’ to de Lord. De good Lord lubs a fearful
gibber.”
It was at a late Quarterly Meeting of Sev
enth-day Baptist churches in Wisconsin that
two clergymen were to present papei*s on tin*
same day, and the question of precedence ha v -
ing arisen, Mr. A. sprang to his feet and said:
“1 think Brother B. ought to have the best
place on the programme: he is an older man
than 1 am, and, besides, is full of his subject.”
When tiie audience remembered that Brother
B's subject was "The Devil,” a cheerful smile
seemed to beam around the church. The
bretheru do so enjoy these little things.
A correspondent avers that this took place
in Connecticut:
Mrs. A., a close-communion Baptist, lives
near Mrs. B., a Methodist. Making a call one
day. Mrs. A., in speaking of her poultry, of
which she had a large number, complained
that she had one hen that she could not pre
vail upon to eat with the other hens, and hail
to give her a dish of food by herself; which
caused Mrs. B. to laugh. Mrs. A. wanted to
know what there was in tiie circumstance
that pleased her si > much. Mrs. B. feared that
Mrs. A. might take offence if she told her
thoughts. Mrs. A. promised that she would
not. “Well," said Mrs. B., “I was thinking
that probablu your impractible lien is a firm
believer in close communi’oii.”
Klectric Lighl s.
Four electric lights now iliumiaate the
reading-rooms of the British Museum at eve
ning. They have each a power of about
4,OOU candles, and yet it is said the cost of
each is only a shilling an hour. When the
electric light is perfected, it will undoubtedly
be generally adopted in libraries and read
ing-rooms, since many advantages will at
tend its use. No danger of fires is connected
with electricity; and it his been ascertained
that gas has an injurious effect upon the
leather bindings of books, causing them to
crumble and decay; consequently in some
valuable libraries objection is made to the
use of gas.
The Kile of Marriage.
The Latin text of the Pajial Encyclical let
ter against divorce fills twelve columns of the
Obser, atore Horn a na. It argues in favor of
the removal of the rite of marriage from all
eivil jurisdiction whatever. It traces the his
tory of marriage from patriarehial to Catho
lic times and declares that Christ elevated it
to a sacrament which only His church can
administer. The attempt made un ler vari
ous guises bv the modern spirit of irrehgion
to roll the Church of her right either to bind
or loose the marriage tie must be resisted by
the whole Catholic world. His Holiness in
dicates the conditions whereunder a separa
tion of husband and wife may be sanctioned
by the Church, and concludes with an ex
hortation to the universal episcopate to com
municate his teaching to the faithful for
their welfare in both worlds.
1
•