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THE SUNNY SOUTH
which she stated that Liuise was teaching
school m Liverton and boarding with a
Widow James. Here he threw the letter
•down, exclaiming:
“Then Archie and her mother will know it
all. I am undone, undone. Verily, tue way
of the transgressor is hard.”
Tne following day he delivered a speech in
Congress, which electrified the whole coun
try, t bus showing the capaoilitits of the hu
man mind to soar away from troubles which
on first acquaintance seem to paral} z; it.
After this he became more popular than ever,
old offences were seemingly forgotten, and
the story of hi« double marriage counted a
anyth.
He was a speaker of great magnetism, a
noble bearing, and fi ie, open countenance,
4iis every feature illuminated by the phos
phor esence of his capacious brain.
He was sitting in a cloak room at the cap
rjtol one afternoon about a week later, look
ing over the morning papers in which his
•own name figured largely, when a page from
(the Senate Chamber handed him a letter,
•which he found was from Martha.
“Dear Friend,” she wrote, “I will at this
Sate hour, acknowledge the receipt of the let
ter and check which your generous heart
..prompted you to send me, thanking you
many times for the same. You spoke ot com
ing to see me on your return home. I have
hitherto encouraged you to come, feeling
•that without an occasional glimpse of you,
jny life would be dark indeed. Hut hence
forth, I cannot see you. it is like tearing
•out my heartstrings to say it, but it is the
•best. An angel of goodness, who is now an
inmate of my household,has persuaded me to
■look for comfort where it alone can be found;
«ud from this path in which I walk in fear
mod trembling, 1 cannot for a moment turn
•aside, unless, perchance, I stumble into still
deeper gloom than heretofore. Your thoughts
and affections now belong to another, and i
have no right to either hereafter. One
glimpse of the face and form 1 have so loved,
•or oue sound of the voice which has been
osore to me than all the rest of earth’s mu
■sic, might prove my soul’s undoing. And
Dow, upon this tear-stained page, 1 write,
imploring you never to parmit me to behold
your -dice (md 1 fear s'ill) idol; z;d face
again, if in any way, both for your good and
my own, you can avoid it. I read with the
greatest satisfaction of your political success,
but daily pray that no worldly ambition
may deter you from seeking that great priza
without which eternity must be a never end
ing day of remorse and despair.
Whatever directions you may ever have
to give in regard to the education and bring
ing up of onr boy, I will attend to most
strictly. And it any time you see fit to re
mit money to be used for his benefit, it will
go for no other purpose. And now, forgiv
ing and hoping to be forgiveD, 1 say—fare
well. Martha..
Welby read the letter and then re-read it;
then be sat back in his chair never stirring
•a muscle for at least an hour. He was
stunned. When he once did arise from his
seat, he walked straight to his room in the
hotel, locked himself in, and was not seen
again through the day. He was wanted in
•the Senate, but on his arrival at the hotel
die dispatched a servant to the Speaker’s
desk, saying he had been attacked with ver
tigo, and begged to be excused from the per
formance of his duties in the Senate that
day. How he passed the long solitary
hours no one ever knew, it was only known
that he emerged from his room the following
morning looking ill and worn, and then went
diligently about his work which was not
again interrupted till the close of the session.
Jie then went immediately to the Palms, and
after reaching that place he found his lovely
young wife in the best of spirits, owing to
her having had plenty of money to spend of
late. Before he had been at borne an hour
•she was planning her rntended trip to New
port in July,
“You wiU not bring up any obj action, dear,
I am sure, as I was so good as to stay home
here all winter, while you were gone,” said
Archie coaxingly.
” Jjre’llfeeUitEyapdgo. my tayeyrou
at home.
“And you’ll get me some diamonds,
■want a brooch, necklace and earrings.”
-“Ain’t there some of my mother’s that
might be reset?”
“None except the ring and bracelets.”
Well, the next time 1 go to the city I will
take them along.”
“‘And get me a new set?”
“Yes.”
-“And you know if 1 wear diamonds I must
have a very expensive troaseau to corres
pond.”
'Then I suppose I must take you to the
city, too, and have you reset?”
“Oh, I have never seen you act so perfectly
lovely before, dear James—that is, since *ve
were married,” beaming upon her husband
-one of her sweetest smiles.
The fact was, Welby had been expecting
dll his way home, that Archie would meet
him with a frown, as he, not having heard
from her in some time, was pretty sure “the
angel of goodness,” as Martha had called
Louise, had told her the whole story of his
treachery. But the first glance at her smil
ing face told him it was not so, and it caused
(rim to feel so grateful he was ready
to grant al.nost any request she might make.
He knew the time would come when she
would hear it, but it seemed to him that he
could not bear it then, for he was weary,and
•say what he might, or resolve what he might
to the contrary, she who had by a few writ
ten words, banished him from her sight for
ever, had caused him a sickness of heart
which made him faint and yielding.
And bis boy. Must he never again feel the
E ressure of his little arms about his neck. He
ad business in Liverton even then, bat he
would not trust himself to go; it should be
transacted by his agent.
(TO BE CONTINUED )
ELINOR;
OR,
Aunt Ruejs Legacy.
BT MRS. B. C. LOCKE.
CHAPTER VI.
It was quite a reunion when they were all
back at Earncliffe again. Howard was there
for the first time in a year. Frank was
there too, to welcome them. He had been
disappointed abont entering upon a collegiate
course.
At his fathers death, the estate had been
under a heavy mortgage, and as he had now
arrived at years of discretion, his mother
thought it best for him to assist in the man
agement of the farm ; which he was doing,
and had already paid off the most pressing of
the debts. It was a great check to his ambi
tious hopes. He had always looked forward
to entering upon a profession, but seeing the
path of his duty so plainly marked out before
him, and knowing his mother had his interest
chiefly at heart, he was much too dutiful a
son to disappoint her. He cheerfully took up
her views and entered upon her plans.
Home was wearing its brightest aspect. It
had been agreed upon that a party should be
given, intended for a welcome for the
young folks, and an opportunity to introduce
them to neighb raood society. The party
came off a week after their arrival at Earn-
cliffe. During the bright days that interven
ed, they had been looking forward to it with
eager hopes. Very beautiful the cousins
looked as with toilettes completed they stood
watching the arrivals from the library win
dow. They presented a more marked con
trast even than when in childhood they were
called Fairy and Gipsey. Elinor was rather
above medium height, with a well-rounded
graceful figure, her dark eyes looking of mid
night hue when shaded by the long black
lashes ; her olive skin lit np with rich damask
in the oval cheeks. Her dress wtas of white,
abundantly trimmed with soft laces, and
from tbaeoils of her beautiful hair drooped a
cluster of blush roses.
Grace’s slight almost childish figure hardly
reached Elinor’s shoulder. Her hair still
hnbg in bright curls to her waist. Her eyes
ipere as blue and sunny, her cheeks as softl
pink, her neck and brow as purely white.
H-r dress was a light blue silk, and her curls
were hell back with a wreath of pale blue
and white flowers.
They were soon joined by Howard, a tall
straight young fellow, with hazel eyes full
of intellect and sometimes sparkling with hu-
moi for he was the same fan loving spirit.
“Your humble servant is commissioned to
solicit the hand of' your maj-sty and your
my fairy ship, for two friends waiting at
the door.”
He threw open the door and ushered in
Frank Wheatley and his college friend Ar
thur Willard, who bad arrived that day from
Baltimore.
They went down to the dancing hall and
took places for the first quadrille. They were
soon joined by Howard, who selected a part
ner from the numerous guests. Earncliffe
[(resented a brilliant appearance that night.
Every window gleamed with lights, and the
lower branches of the trees in the lawn were
bung with colored lamps. The festive scene
was in the height of enjoyment, when a
carriage drove up and a gentleman alighted.
The servant would have 9hown him into the
drawing room, but he said .
“Not there. I wish to see Mr. Cleveland
in private.”
He was ushered into the library, and the
colored servant, wondering who this elegant
stranger could be, departed in search of bis
master, and found him in company with Mr.
Talbot locking on with q net enjoyment at
the gay scene. When he entered the library
he saw a distinguished looking but moody
man seated in the shadow.
“Did you wish to see me sir, on private
business f’ he asked.
The stranger thus addressed, rose and ad
vanced a few steps, the light shining full in
his face.
“Am I then unrecognized ? Hive I wan
dered from yonr remembrance too, E lward
my brother ?”
“George I can it be George, my dear broth
er ?” The brothers embraced with glisten
ing eyes. The long estrangement, the way
wardness and the coldness of years were for
gotten in that heart to heart embrace; and
sitting side by side on the sofa, with the sum
mer brtez; coming ia from the open window,
and the sounds of gayety and pleasure reach
ing them from across the hall, George began
the narrative of his wandering life.
He bad finished the business which took
him to Europe and already engaged bis pas
sage for home, when he received the letter
bearing the tidings of his wife’s death. The
shock helped to throw him into a brain fever,
which confined him for some weeks to bed.
When he awoke to consciousness, he found
himself almost constantly attended by au old
gentleman, very kind and fatherly, who took
the whole responsibility of the sick room uj£-
on himself ; issued orders and administered
medicines. He would answer no questions
pat to him by the invalid, until assured by
i be physician that there was no danger of a
relapse. Then very cautiously and making
as little mention of himself as possible, he
told him that in passing bis room one day he
was attracted by his moans of pain, and look
ed in to see if he could render any assistance,
but finding him delirious, he enquired of the
landlord, who could tell him Dotbing except
that he was a stranger, who had taken pas
sage for America, but was taken suddenly ill,
and was unable to leave. This had enlisted
bis sympathy, and having nothing to engage
his attention particularly at that time, he had
taken upon himself the efflee of nurse.
‘ I am an old man,” he said, “alone in the
world. None have claims of kindred on me;
and with your consent I will take the place of
the father who has cast you off; who has
treated you as I would not treat my son. You
see I know your history. You told all in
your delirium; and I read the letter lying by
yon, which gave me the clue to the cause of
your illness. You are too weak and ill to
care for yourself, and must depend upon me.”
I was in no mood to refuse this generous offer.
I.felt so utterly crushed and dependent; with
no aim, no hope and no desire to return
to my native land; where even if my rela
tives did not secretly exult over my buried
ll—tkl ♦hnrivpa’riri
but he held a hand of each, and turning to
his brother, he said:
“These are my girls, sir,—sad romps, you
see, just out from the restraints of the school
room. This is Grace and this Eiinor,” and
he emphasized the last name as she cast a
furtive glance at her fatner, who looked a
moment at Grace, then bestowed on Elinor
lODg and searching gaze.
“Elinor,” he repeated, still keeping his eyes
fixed upon her.
“She is generally thought like yon,” said
Mr. Cleveland; “indeed the likeness is quite
striking to most of tne family.”
“That is certainly a high compliment to
me,” he managed to say, and then dropped
her hand abruptly and walked to the win
dow, while Elinor gaz3d after him, her color
coming and going with the sudden thought
which rose to her lips and found utterance
m the words, as she turned an impl (ring
look to her uncle.
“My father!”
“Yes.”
In an instant she was at her father’s side,
her hand upon his arm, her face raised to
ms.
“Father, my own dear father, I did not
die with my mother, but lived to wait and
watch for your coming. I am your own
daughter E.mor. Take me home to your
near! and never leave me again. Oh I the
long years I have waited for tuis hour.”
Sne would have fallen, but her father
caught her to his bosom, and while closely
clasping her there, turned to his brother for
confirmation of the words he was afraid to
believe. Hia face was startling in its pale
ness, his lips compressed, and his form shak
ing as with ague.
reavement W e returned to the coon
the house of my adopted father, as soon as I
was able to travel; for be had been in Liver
pool transacting business when he so provi
dentially found and cared for me. I wrote to
the firm in New York, whose business had ta
ken me from home, and gave up the situa
tion, merely stating that circumstances had
induced me to remain there, and then stopp
ed all communication with this country. My
benefactor had a beautiful ancestral place,
the model of an old English home; and we
lived together there for five years, in the
most tranquil quiet manner. He was an en
tertaining companion, having been a great
traveller, and had his stories of all lands,
which he never tired of telling ; nor I of
bearing. And his library of rare books
could only have been gathered in a lifetime.
We lived very retired, which was his habit
and my wish, for had it not been that this
generous devoted being crossed my path, I
fear I should have been a misanthrope.
How such deeds shine out on the sea of life
as beacon lights to give erring men a faith in
humanity and Heaven.
I afterwards learned that mine was not an
exceptional case ; that this man spent a por
tion of his time and money every year in the
quiet missionary work of hunting the poor
and sick, and distressed in the by-paths of
life.
At his death he willed me a part of his
wealth; but this would not recompense me
for the loss of my friend and companion. Af
ter his death I iived more retired than ever,
brooding over the loss of my dear ones If
my wife had lived or my child been spared,
1 would have had an object to which I coula
have devoted my time and money.. I read a
great deal, but finding my health giving
way, I was advised to travel. I visited dif
ferent places of note and renown in Europe.
At Florence I lingered long yielding to the
balmy air and peculiar attractions of the
place. I mingled little in general society,
but occasionally joined parties of Ameri
cans who were on a pleasure tour. At length
I joined a party of travelers from New York,
became quite domesticated with them, and—
well to shorten my story, I finally married a
young widow, who was the life of the party.
Soon after my marriage I returned to my
English home, with my wife and her two
children, where I remained until a short time
ago, when feeling an irresistible desire to re
turn to my own country, sold off my proper
ty, settled my estate and come back, expect
ing to spend my days here. I heard of the
death of our father in New Y ork, where *
left my wife with her aunt, and hastened on
to see you.”
As his brother finished his narrative, Mr.
Cleaveland felt himself in rather an uncom
fortable situation. That his brother was en
tirely ignorant of the living, breathing
reality of his daughter was painfully evi
dent in his touching wish that she might
have been spared to him, and what effect tne
intelligence might have upon him he could
not determine. Aad Elinor, the child of his
love and adoption, though she had always
cherished the idea that her father would one
day return, she had never imagined the pos
sibility of a step mother. What if she should
not be all that a daughter’s love might re
quire? He thought it probable, as his broth
er had abruptly broken off his story, when
he spoke of his marriage, not saying one
word descriptive of his wife, or detailing one
circumstance of his married life. After
thinking it over a moment he thought the
best plan would be to bring father aad daugh
ter face to face and see if a recognition
would take place, Elinor having always de
clared she would know her father if she
met him in Africa.
He was abont leaving the room to bring
his family in, when Elinor and Grace sud
denly entered the room, gaily talking and
laughing, not having noticed the stranger.
So deeply had Mr. Cleveland been interested
that the hours had passed unheeded by, and
he was unaware until now how late it was,
and that the last carriage was rolling away.
“Stop. Grace—Elinor—don’t seat me in
this gentleman’s lap!” exclaimed Mr. Cleve
land to the two merry girls, who each had him
by an arm and were palling to the sofa in a
shadowy corner to make him give an ac
count of himself for his absence from the fes
tal scene. His words arrested them, and, si
lent and blushing, they would have retired, |
The story was soon told, the mistake mde
in regard to the infant’s death, and the sub
sequent unavailing attempts to reach him
witn a letter: his lather’s relenting, his will
in favor of Elinor, and after events of her
life, and then Mr. Cleveland and Grace re
tired, leaving the two alone. Morning light
found them together, Elinor still clasped in
the arms whose sheltering fondness had been
so long withheld. His story had to be told
over again, his solitary life and yearning for
numan sympathy. And then he must hear
from her own lips of her lonely, loveless life
and neglected childhood, and of the after
days brightened by love and care bestowed
with such lavish hearts and hands; her annt,
who had so well supplied the place of a moth
er, her uncle’s unvarying kindness, Mr. Tal
bot, Howard, Grace, Miss Loudon, all entered
into the narrative.
Of his wife and her children, Mr. Cleve
land spoke but litt.e, and from his silence
upon this subject, Elinor did not draw a very
favorable picture of her fatner’s domestic
life, it was a great blow to Eiinor that he
bad a wife, but she could even forgive him
that since he had come back. He remained
a week at Earnecliff before he returned to
New York for his family, a3 Mrs. Cleveland
wished to remain that length of time with
her annt, the same who had taken her to
Florence, and wfiom she had not seen since
ner marriage. Mr. Cleveland’s manner was
exceedingly tender and affectionate towards
nis daughter. It seemed as though he would
never tire watching her movements, listen
ing to her conversation and returning the
caresses which she bestowed so bountifully
upon him. How much he regretted the cruel
desnity which had kept them so long apart:
Elinor, with her passionate and demonstra
tive nature, could scarcely leave her father’s
side or think of anything but him.
“How opportune, George,” said Mr. Cleve
land, “that you came at this time, for Wild
wood, the old Clifton estate, has just been
offered for sale, and you can buy it and live
neighbor to us. It is a fine old place, though
fallen into decay, as the family have not
lived there since the death of the old gentle
man.”
Elinor was delighted at the proposition,
and the purchase was shortly effected. It
was a fiae, substantial property. The main
building was a quaint old-fashioned but mas
sive structure with sloping roofs aud dormer
windows; wings had been added and rooms
built on in a mort modern style, until it was
as pleasant as this.” Stella walked to the
open window and looked down on the beauti
ful landscape spread out below.
“Well, I like the place very well. It suits
me in some respects. But it is nearly time for
tea; go to your room aud dress. Take some
pains with yonr toilet, too. I don’t like to
see you thrown completely in the shade.”
In an hoar after, Stella, with her mother,
joined the family circle. Mrs. Cleveland was
now the dignified, elegant, self possessed
lady, with a peculiar sweetness of manner,
amounting almost to fascination. Better
far would it have been for George Cleveland
if he had resisted that influence, which he did
for a time, but he was not proof against the
snares of the lovely widow, in whose eyes h:s
chief attractions were his fortune and his
name, which last, for reasons well known to
herself, she would rather bear than her own.
Robert Grey, Mrs. Cleveland’s son, was
naturally of a frank, lively disposition,
bat he had been a petted, spoiled
child, raised without discipline, at one
time indulged, at another thwarted, until
as a child be became reckless and disobedient
and lost all respect for her. When he came
under the influence of Mr. Cleveland, who
took a great interest in both children, en
gaged a private tutor and personally superin-
rAnJail ofiirlino tha Kofrfor nnalir.iaa r.1
Alw.Wa hnna.-, in the country. AU jt neeH-
ed was to be thoroughly cleaned, paperea,
painted and the porches rebuilt. The grounds
had been laid off, but were in a neglected
state; everywhere the weeds were growing
rank and high, and the walks overran with
grass. Off to the left and skirting a stream,
tne same which wonnd through Earncliff,
was a piece of woodland, filled with wild
and densely-tangled undergrowth. Severa.
footpaths intersected it in different drictions,
and made it in summer an inviting retreat.
CHAPTER VII.
Mr. Cleveland went back to New York and
returned in a few days, accompanied by his
wife, her son and two daughters, who, with
him, would spend the time until Wildwood
was'ready at Earncliffe.
Elinor had told no one, not even her annt,
her feelings in regard to the new relatives,
with whom her father had returned. She
felt a chill foreboding, a shadowing present
ment, that he was not happily married, and
that her own future would not be the bright
one she had always anticipated in connection
with his return. But she would not give up
to fancies and prejudices, for his sake she
would try to like them all, and she began
seriously to blame herself for such fancies
after spending an hour in her stepmother’s
society. What could be more winning than
the smile and caress with which she greeted
her husband’s daughter ? What more fond
and affectionate than her manner after
wards ? But it will be as well to look behind
r.he scenes and see the true character of the
1 dy.
She is in her room resting after the fatigues
of the journey, in a becoming dishabille—she
always studied the . becoming—seated, or
rather reclining in a large arm chair, her feet
resting on a cushioned footstool. Her age
would be hard to determine, but judging
from her children she must have reached the
snady side of forty. Her complexion was
well preserved, h6r hair black and her eyes
almost emitting sparks, in their blackness
and anger.
She was speaking to her daughter, who had
piled the pillows up on the bed, and with her
arm under her head, in a careless graceful atti
tude, was attentively regarding her mother.
“Yes; this is what we came here for, is it,
to have this conceited minx set over us ? X
know j list how it will be; you can see already
that her father has eyes and ears for no one
else where she is, and she fairly makes me
•' k with her hanging around and fa* n'ng
upon him. Bah!”
Sue stopped short, with an expressive gest
ure of disgust. No doubt but the circle in
the parlor would have been inexpressibly
shocked had they heard this speech from the
lips which had been speaking but a few mo
ments before in the most polished, well-timed
phrases, and in the sweetest of accents.
"And I suppose,” she resumed, without
waiting for an answer, “chat yon and Robert
may just as well give up all expectations of
ever inheriting his fortuue, as, of course,
since his precious Elinor has turned up, it
will all be bestowed upon her. What an
end to all my scheming and planning for
years I”
“Well, ma, of coarse she has the best right
to it.”
“Humph,” and the lady rose and walked
the floor with unquiet steps, “and I suppose
that is all yon care. If you only knew—
“If I only knew what ? What is this mys
tery of your life ? You hint at it now and
then, but you give me no idea what it is. Is
father connected with it, and who and what
was he ? I am old enough now to know. I
can bear these concealments no longer with
out explanation.” She had risen from the
bed, and her utterance was thick and rapid,
while her face was pale with excitement.
“Do not become excited Stella, and do not
catch my words up again. If I have never
spoken of yonr father, rest assured it is be
cause I would spare you pain. The mystery
of my life, as yon term it, to you must re
main a mystery still, but I was speaking of
my plans. I have laid them before and car
ried them out, and I will not be foiled this
time. If we were only out of this house! The
atmosphere does not suit me. So much
mawkish affection. Did you know Cleveland
had purchased a place near, here f she asked,
^NoTIutlti^fahall like it, if it is half
lended their studies, the better qualities of
bis nature asserted themselves, yet the errors
of his earlier years still clung to him, and oc
casionally q iite a scene would be enacted
between him and his mother when they took
different views of things.
With all his faults though, he was his
mother’s idol. The predominant traits of his
sister Stella’s character were inordinate self
ishness and vanity combined with a love of
ease and comfort and a decided taste for the
luxuries of life. She had also a great deal of
wily perseverance, inherited from her moth
er, in the pursuit of an object, and would go
to any length for the accomplishment of a
purpose. Sae had not many natural gifts of
mind, and was superficially educated, but
had a good deal of tact, and appeared well
in society. In person she was strikingly like
her mother, ot medium height, with dark
hair and eyes, regular features and was rath
er pretty
Frank Wheatley was at Earncliff that even
ing, and Mrs, George Cleveland used her eyes
and ears to advantage to see into affairs, and
before the evening was over was resolving
in her fertile brain improvements upon the
scheme already mapp id out
Frank was equally attentive to Elinor and
Grace, turning the music and selecting fa
vorite pieces for each and it was only just
before they separated for the night, with a
slight frown she saw him lead Elinor out foi
a private chat and promenade on the long
porch.
“How extremely pleasant and fascinating
Mrs. George Cleveland is! But I would not
like to live with her. I have formed an idea,
erroneously, perhaps, that she has two sides
to her character, and this is the company
side, Then he drew a long breath, “I feel
relieved to be from under her eye, she has
been looking me through for the last hour.”
“1 hope then she has made out a more fa
vorable opinion than you have of her,” was
the laughing reply.
“I hope so, but how strangely things oc
cur. I am afraid you will be forgetting all
your old friends now you have so many
new ones.”
“How can yon think such a thing? I
learned to appreciate friends before I had
any, and would not now cast thorn lightly
aside. And yon, Frank, were the first friend
I ever had.”
“Well, remember now, I am still your
friend, and if you ever need one call on me, I
feel propheetic when 1 look at that woman,
and now I must tell you my secret, for which
I brought you here. Your uncle to-*day
gave his consent to my engagement with
Gracie, and when I get my lost debt .paid off.
which will be in another year, Providence
permitting, we will bid you haste to the wed
ding.”
„“Oh, Frank, I am so glad! Dear little
Xracie, she thought it hard that her father
would not permit the engagement last vaca
tion. but fie was right in refusing till her
^EdSraiay/vfOTSrdBaeff:*' ■
“Come, let us return to the parlor. How
ard is calling yon, and we have put my lady
on the wrong scent. I know she thinks we
are lovers,”
Grace could scarcely wait until they were
alone in their own room, which they occupied
together through the crowded condition of the
house, before she had her arms around Eli
nor’s neck and her face hidden on her shoul
der, saying:
“Can yon guess, Elinor, why I am so hap
py to-night?”
“Yon transparent child! It’ would not
take a magician’s skill to discover.”
“Yes. papa gave his consent to-day, and
Frank slipped this ring on my finger as he
bade me good night. Just think, Elinor, of
such a great happiuess coming to me—poor
little me! I used to think it would be yon,
Elinor, and would you believe it of me, dar
ling, but I was quite jealous of you. Not
that I ever thought you cared for aim, for I
know you never did in this way. Many a
time when we were children, and since too, I
would have cried for sympathy with hip,
when I have seen you with your coquettish
little ways turn from him and give some one
else the preference, and he would look so hurt
and sad. Taere now, l have made my con
fession,” and she threw her arms around her
coasin, and held up her face for the expected
loss.**
Oh, no, Gracie; he has been a dear friend
and champion ever since my first forlorn ap
uearance at Earncliff, but must I tell you,
dear? your hero is not up to my ideal. My
lover must be grand and learned and noble
and brave and—well, I don’t expect to fiad
him yet. But take my advice, dariing, and
don’t show your love too much. Be not too
clinging and dependent. It is best not to let
any man have too much power over your
heart.’’
“Bat I cannot help it, Nellie; Frank is so
araqi emu eji[ u ui ijnq'anJt eq Jura ivqx>.
(1 aC[pa}OAap os am saaoj pun pniq pan “<oo2
is a great deal to try love? I have no doubt
bat Frank will make a model husband and
love and pet yon to your heart’s content.”
“I’ll remind you of your advice when your
hero comes,” and after a little more conver
sation they retired, bat long after Grace was
in a quiet sleep, Elinor lay thinking it all
over, the past, the present and the.future,
and she was satisfied that dear, clinging,con
fiding Grace could not have chosen tetter.
TO BE CONTINUED.
THE OLD HOME.
O littXiX bonce, lost in the heart of tte Badena
What would I not rive to behold yon Mice more?
To Inhale once again the sweet breath of yonr roeas,
And the starry clematis that cUmhsfl round yonr
dour—
To see the neat windows thrown wide to the mm-
shine;
The porch where we sat at the cloee of the day.
Where the weary foot trar'ler was welcome to rest
him.
And the beggar was never seat empty away:
The wainscoted walls and the low raftered ceilings;
To bear the load tick of the clock on the stair.
And to kiss the dear face bending over the Bible
That always wss laid by the grandfather's chair I
0 bright little garden beside the plantation.
Where the tall flcnrs-da-lis their bln* banners un
furled, .
And the lawn was alive with the thrashes and black
birds,
1 would yon wets all I had known of the world 1
My sweet pink pea-clusters! My rare honeysuckle I
My prim polyanthuses all in a row 1
In a garden of dreams I still pass and caress yon,
Hut your beautiful selves are forever laid lev—
For yonr walls, little honse, long age have been
levelled, *
Alien feet yonr smooth borders, O garden, have trod;
And those whom 1 loved are at rest from their labors,
Reposing in peace on the bosom of God 1
A STITCH IN TIME.
“The Art of LUe.”
We quite agree with a contemporary tha
“the art of life is very backward.” The truth
of this remark is illustrated in the, at first
sight, curious fact that the great world spends
summer in London and winter in the country,
that “society” forsakes the Park in the eve
ning at the precise moment when it is becom
ing delightful, and betakes itself, in quest of
enjoyment, to crowded and heated rooms and
ass mb:i s, where heat a ;d light and food
and close quarters combine to make the mest
distressing inferno known to the world.
There is no room to doubt the accuracy of
this reasoning. We fly in the face of Nature
in too many of onr customs, and, speaking
generally, lead lives of flagrant offence
against common sense. We all know and feel
in our inner consciences that the majority of
the maxims and “principles” which govern
the usages of life in society are either unreal
or fallacious, but we cling to them and affecr
to obey or act upon them. Nothing short of
a politico-social revolution would induce the
legislature to assemble in the dark winter
months, or to sit by day instead of night. I
would be easier to change the calendar than
to put a stop to the giving of dinners and
balls and indoor entertainment in the eve
ning. It goes for nothing that men would
live longer and lead heal hier and happier
lives if the entire code of conventional pro
prieties was revised, and its unwritten bur
inexorable statutes recast on a rational and
natural basis. The physician has the errors
and incongruities of social life dai'y forced on
his attention. He does his best to reason his
patients out of their, most urgently mischiev
ous follies; bat for the most part, the words
of wisdom falling from his lips light on stony
hearts and barren brains. Society has plenty
of courage in the main, bat its members lack
the most virtuous form of valor, tha courage
to be sensible.—Lancet.
It was autumn, but too early yet to
light the furnace, and a bright wood-fire
was. blazing on the hearth. Before it,
curled np in an easy chair, a young girl,
some twelve or thirteen years of age. was
reading. This, to her, was the height of
luxury. Presently she was recalled to the
cares of this world by a very commonplace
question.
“Madge, have you mended your blue
dress yet ? ”
“ No, mother, but I’m going to by-and-
by ; just let me finish this chapter first,”
replied Madge, scarcely raising her eyes
from her book.
Mrs. Sanford, who was merely passing
through the room on some errand, said no
more ; but having oocasion to return again
when the clock on the mantel had marked
off just half an hour more, she found Madge
in the same position, excepting that the
now waning light caused her to bend her
head .a trifle lower.
“ That must be a very long chapter,”
said Mrs. Sanford, quietly.
O mother, I forgot; and it’s so inter
esting ; but it’s too late to mend the dress
now, anyway. I shall have to wait till the
gas is lighted,” said Madge.
But evening brought company, and a
game of “ logomachy ; ” and when Madge
was again reminded of her dress, she said,
“ Oh, well, mother, it will do just as well
to-morrow.”
The next day passed—Madge could
scarcely tell how—and still the torn dress
had not been taken from its hook in the
closet.
“Never mind, mother; it will do just as
well to-morrow,” said Madge.
“ So you said last night,” returned Mrs.
Sanford.
“But I shan’t want it till Sunday, and
this is only Thursday. There is really no
hurry,” said the incorrigible Madge.
“ You may want it very much. How can
you be sure you shall not ? Remember, • A
stitch in time saves nine.’ ”
The next morning, just as the Sanford
family were rising from the breakfast-table,
the door-bell rang, a quick patter of feet
was heard in the hall, and two bright,
blooming young faces appeared at the din
ing-room door.
. —“-Ueftd-mqrniag^rq^l^ quntie, all of
yon,” cried the new-comers, who" weie
Madge’s cousins, Cynthia and Bell. “And
0 Madge, only think how delightful! ”
said Cynthia ; Uncle Peter has sent for ns
to spend the day at Longwood.”
n Vs ? does that include me ? ” asked
Madge, laughing.
“ Of course it does. And we’re to start
just as soon as yon can get ready. Hamlet
and the horses are waiting for us, so run
and dress yourself. Shall we help you ? ”
“ Yes, do,” said Madge, and the three
girls tripped merrily up-stairs to Madge’s
room.
“ Isn’t it too bad ? ” said Madge, as the
blue dress was at last taken from its hook
and thrown on the bed ; “ the last time I
wore it, I caught it on a nail and started
two or three of the ruffles ; but I can baste
them on in a minute. I’ve got to wear it,
for it belongs to my new suit.”
“ Let us mend it, while you fix yonr hair
and button your boots.”
This was done, and as Madge slipped the
dress on, she said, “ There’s a hole in the
pocket, too, bat nobody will see that, and
I’ve nothing bat my handkerchief to put in
it.”
When at last Madge was arrayed in her
suit of dark bine serge, her white felt hat
and blue feather, with her fair hair braidea
and tied with a ribbon of the same hue, she
was as fresh and trim-looking a little maiden
as one would wish to see. Of the basted
ruffles and the torn pocket none would
have dreamed.
Mr. Sanford stood ready to help the girls
into the carriage—they looking back and
kissing their hands to Mrs. Sanford in the
doorway as they took their seats. Black
Hamlet cracked his whip, the horses
pranced, and away they all sped, through
the gateway, down the street, out of sight.
It was six miles to Longwood, but the
roads were smooth and level, the horses
were swift, and it seemed but a few mo
ments before they drew up at Uncle Peter’s
elegant but somewhat fanciful residence.
He had been a seafaring man, and his house,
like himself, seemed to be the product of
*11 climes and countries. Within it was s
museum of curiosities, brought from all
quarters of the globe.
There were no children at Longwood, but
jovial, mirth-loving nncle Peter, with his
inexhaustible store of “yarns,” and kind
Aunt Sarah, with her heart of universal
motherly love, made it a delightful spot to
all young people.
I shall not tell yon precisely how the
cousins spent that memorable day—for
though it was quick in the passing, it would
be long in the describing—but all too soon
it was over, and the sun, which pays so
little heed to th- wishes of us poor mortals,
began to hide his face behind the pine
grove which shelters Longwood on the
north and west. Again Hamlet and the
barouche and the prancing steeds were at
the door.
“ Good-by, my dears,” said Annt Sarah.
“ I hope you have enjoyed yourselves sc
much that you will want to come again ; ”
and she gave each one a basket of oranges
and of great yellow Bartlett pears.
“ Of course they’ll want to come again,
and a good many times, I hope," said Unde
Peter. “Remember, the little craft are
always welcome here.” And he bade them
farewell with a real sailor-kiss and a hearty
grasp of the hand.
And in each hand he left a piece of money.
The girls knew it was money, though they
would not look at it till they were out of
sight, lest he should think they were eager
to ascertain its value. But when at a safe
distance, Bell unclosed her fingers and ex-
olaimed—
“A ten-dollar gold piece, I declare! ”
“ And so is mine ! ”
“ And eo is mine 1 ” exclaimed Madge and
Cyuthia.
Then they fell to discussing what they
should do with it. “ There are so many
things I want, I don’t know what to choose,”
said Madge.
“Bat then, ten dollars will go a great
way,” said Bell. * ‘ I never had so much be
fore to spend just as I pleased, did you ? ”
"No,” replied the girls, laughing, and
Madge added, “ It is really a case of the
embarrassment of richei”
“Embarrasde—du—what is it? Why
don’t yon say it in French ? ” said Bell.
“ English is good enongh for me,” said
Madge.
“ I think,” said Cynthia, “ that we onght
to spend it for one article—something that
will be a present from Uncle Peter.”
“ All agreed to this, and various artioles
were named—a muff, a ring, a locket, and
many other things. In fact, except when
a diversion was effected by the sight of some
fine antnnm leaves and a bunch of bitter
sweet, which the good natured Hamlet
stopped for them to gather, the ten dollars
and the manner of appropriating it formed
the chief subject of conversation. Finally
the decision rested on a seal-skin cap.
“ It will be both useful and ornamental,”
said Bell.
“ Besides, seals come oat of the ocean, so
it will be a delicate compliment to Uncle
Peter by reminding him of his seafaring
days,” said Madge.
Then the cousins bade each other good
night, and Madge ran into the honse.
“ 0 mother, we have had a splendid
time! ” exclaimed she ; “ and only think,
Uncle Peter gave ns each a ten-dollar gold
piece! and what do you think we are going
to buy with it ?”
Madge put her hand in her pocket, and
her countenance fell. The money was not
there.
She took out her handkerchief and shook
it. She turned the po .-ket wrong side out.
And then, for the first time, she remem
bered that-fatal rent. She had slipped the
piece into her pocket, that she knew—and
now it was gone.
It might be in the bottom of the carriage;
it might be lying at her own door; but
more likely than either, it was lying among
the moss, and ferns, and grasses, and broken
twigs, where she had gathered the antumn
leaves, or in the bottom of the pool on
whose margin the bittersweet grew, and
where it would never be found.
And it never was found. Instead of a
ring, or a muff, or a locket, or a seal-skin
cap. poor Madge had only that hole in her
•pocket!
Poor Madge ! for we can afford to pity
her a little, even though it was all her own
fault. Is it true that “a st.tch in time
saves nine?— Ruth Chesterfield, in Youth's
Companion."
A SUNDAY LAW.
Massachusetts has a rigorous but neg
lected law that “whoever travels on the
Lord’s day, except from necessity or chari
ty, shall be punished by a fine not exceed
ing $10 for every offence.” This statute
was enacted as late as 1836, and is only a
slight modification of the statute of 1693,
which said: “No traveller, drover, horse
courser, wagoner, butcher, higgler, or any
of their servants, shall travel on that day
or any part thereof, except by some adver
sity they are belated and forced to lodge in
the woods, wilderness, or highways the night
before; and in such case to travel no further
than the next inn or place of shelter on that
day, upon the penalty of 20s.” The exis
ting statute was habitually taken advantage
of by railroad and steamboat companies in
case of accidents on Sunday, the defence
being sucfeessfully made'^flten suits for
damages were brought, that the injured
persons were violating the law by travelling
on Sunday, and therefore could have no
legal status in the proceedings. However,
in the case of a man who, while driving in
Boston on Sunday, was bitten by a dog, the
Supreme Court has just decided that,
“ though the plaintiff was illegally travel
ling on the Lord’s day, his illegal act was
not a contributing cause of his injury, so as
to defeat his right to recover.” Another
recent case was that of a man who, having
gone to the funeral of a relative on Sunduy,
rode out of his way to call on a friend. He
was injured by reason of a hole in the street,
and sued the city for damages. The de
cision is against him.
A NERVOUS AFFECTION.
A Louisville despatch to the Cincinnati
Commercial tells of a young German girl
named Minnie Seebach, who has been lying
in bed for forty-four days without taking
any nourishment. She has been an invalid
for the last three years with a hysterical
nervous affection. This disease manifest
ed itself in varions ways, and seemed to
come on periodically. She would at times
be almost wholly well and able to go about.
At one time, daring a period of three weeks,
her limbs were cramped and drawn up, so
that it was impossible for her to move. At
another time she manifested different symp
toms, and wonld crow like a rooster and
bark like a dog, on being disturbed from her
lethargy by any sudden noise. But the
most remarkable phase of the disease is the
one that has manifested itself recently.
The girl lies in bed at her home in a semi-
unconscious condition, with her mouth wide
open. She seems to have lost nearly all will
power over the muscles, and does not seem
to notice anything unless she is suddenly
struck or touched, when a twitching motion
of the muscles takes place. She has not
spoken a word, so her parents say, in two
weeks, during which time she has lain in
this unconscious state. But what is more
remarkable, it ia positively asserted that
she has not taken a particle of food for for
ty-four days. Her parents have repeatedly
affirmed that she has utterly refused food,
and during her trance has been unable to
swallow it. Moreover she has not taken
any water k several weeks.
The Man-eating Tiger.—Ever since
the mutiny of 1857 the people of British In
dia have been disarmed, though generally in
villages bordering npon a forest one or two
inhabitants are licensed to carry a match
lock, which, although useful in driving off
hogs, is of small value in tiger-slaying. This
therefore becomes especially the business of
the magistrate of the district. Consequent
ly, when a tiger appears in the neighbor
hood, one or two officials pitch their camp
in his neighborhood, but are often thwarted
for weeks by his cunning, and sometimes
do not get him at all. A man-eating tiger
is abnormally suspicions, and is off at the
slightest alarm. When once a tiger-has be
come a man-eater he seems to care only for
man, and perhaps on this account usually
comes off rather short for food, and when
killed seldom presents a prosperous appear
ance. Not one tiger in a hundred, however,
is a man-eater; but once let one of this sort
get near a village, and it has often happened
that the whole of the inhabitants will, after
repeated losses, ia despair, move en masse
to a neighboring town for safety. This has
frequently happened in Central India, but
is now rare.
Sensible Defining.—Good breeding is
the art of showing men by external signs
the internal regard which we have for
them. It arises from good sense, unproved
by conversing with good oomoany.