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THE BEAUTIFUL
Beautiful fares are those that wear
It matters little if dark or fair—
Whole souled honesty printed there.
Beautiful eyes are those that show,
Like crystal.panes where earth fires glow,
Beautiful thoughts that burn below.
Beautiful lips are those whose words
Leap from the heart like songs of birds,
Yet whose utterance prudence girds.
Beautiful hands are those that do
Work that is earnest and brave and true,
Moment by moment the long day through.
Beautiful feet are those that go
• On kindly ministry to and fro,
Down lowliest ways, if God wills it so.
Beautiful >
shoulders are those that bear
■ Ceaseless burdens of homely care,
With patience, grace and daily prayer.
Beautiful Kves are those that bless
Silver rivers of happiness,
Whose hidden fountains but few may guess.
Beautiful twilight at set of sun,
Beautiful goal with race well run,
Beautiful rest with work well done.
Beautiful grave where grasses creep,
W here brown leaves fall, where drifts lie deep
Over worn-out hands—oh, beautiful sleep!
THE HEIRESS,
BY EMMA A. OPPEI!.
She was known as Aunt Lucinda by
••all.Boynton, Williams called because her, that is what Ph ebe
and Boynton liked
to do what Phcebe Williams did.
When Aunt Lucinda and Phrebe had
bought to Squire Branch’s house, and come
live in Boynton, the general verdict
had been that Aunt Lucinda’s niece was
weeks an uncommonly of pretty girl. A few
fact that she acquaintance had settled the
bly was, moreover, a remarka¬
nice girl; and Boynton had never
had occasion to alter its decision.
AVhat, alas! had been a powerful con
sideration . with
a certain portion of the
town was the well-grounded belief that
Phcebe was Aunt J ucinda’s heiress.
' There was no proof of it, since nobody
had mustered the courage to ask them;
hut it was a self-evident fact.
She was, confessedly, Aunt Lucinda’s
.sole likely, living relative. AVhat was more
more a matter of course, than that
the fine old house and the rich furnish¬
ings bellished with which Aunt Lucinda had em¬
proceeding it, and the solid fortune which
the bespoke, should, upon
Aunt Lucinda’s demise, become the
property of her niece. Nobody doubted it.
Of course, the bright and' pretty heir¬
ess had to a delightfully mysterious fortune
plenty of ardent admirers. Just
which of them were admirers of the for¬
tune and which adorers of sweet Phcebe
Williams herself was an ever fresh sub¬
ject of speculation and con educe in
Boynton. Truth to tell, it was a puzzle
to Ph rbe herself.
| i* Nobody greatly would concerned have believed that she
J was about that or any
j thing else, however, who had seen her
on a certain winter’s eveningwhen all
| the youth of the town had swarmed to
j I Aunt The Lucinda’s heiress’s entertainments for a candy pull. fre
were
1 quentand always lively, and nobody who
was invited ever had a previous engage¬
ment.
satin Aunt and Lucinda, white in a shining black
a lace cap—and a very
impressive old lady—roamed figure she was, being a hand¬
some about from room
to room, smiling on this one, conversing
for a moment with that, and patting a
third on the head or shoulder.
She was a very cordial old person, and
very popular in Boynton, being second
in the hearts of Boyntonians only to her
niece.
Pha be was in her element. She wore
a red dress with profuse colored head¬
ings, which shimmered and sparkled as
she flitted up and down, and in and out,
like a moving flame.
Her costumes were a perpetual wonder
to Boynton girls, and indeed she would
have excited admiration anywhere, as
would also her pink and-white complex¬
ion, her long-lashed eyes and her fresh
lips. The candy had been boiled
the point, and had been to precisely
proper set out
on the snow in pans to cool just enough
for pulling, time the with waiting lively company filling
in the a quadrille or
two.
And now the front yard was comforta¬
bly filled with giggling girls, in care¬
lessly-adjusted with wraps, hastily and young men,
hats stuck on the backs of
their heads, somebody having suggested
change. pulling the candy out of doors, for
Everybody clutched a generous bunch
of it in greased or floury hands; shoul¬
ders bent to the task; elbows worked in
in and out, and tongues chattered.
Phoebe Williams stood by a snowy
evergreen tree, with Harrison Holding at
her side. He was tail, good-looking and
thought. altogether quite distingue, so Boynton
He was Colonel Belding’s son,and pros¬
pective heir to a property of no mean
proportions. Boynton girls admired and
coveted him, but he had hardly looked
at one of them since Phoebe Williams
had come to town.
said, “Charming night, Miss Williams,” he
from shoving the a cuff to a safe distance
sticky substance in bis bands.
“Yes, delightful,” Phrebe assented,
lifting “Wasn't her bright eves * to the starry sky.
I lucky?”
“You’re always lucky,” Harrison re¬
joined, her. bending his own fine orbs upon
“Iwishlwasl” he added, enig¬
matically.
“Why, aren’t you, Mr. Bolding?” said
Phoebe, in pretty concern.
“I don’t know!” Harrison burst forth,
boldly. “It’s for you to decide.”
“Why, what can you mean?” Phcebe
murmured.
“Well, I mean this,” Harrison re¬
joined, determinedly—“that I shall con¬
sider whatever luck I’ve had so far in
life as nothing—worse than nothing—if,
to crown it, I can’t have you. Miss Will¬
iams—Phoebe—you this. must have known
Come; give me one word of hope.
I can’t live without it!”
He came closer to her, with a frantic
but unsuccessful effort to free his lumds
from their sticky bonds.
Phtebe moved back gently, with a
timid, upward glance.
“Oh, Mr. Belding—” she began, de
precatingly.
“Don’t say no—don’t, Miss Williams
—Phoebe!” Harrison implored.
“But I can’t say yes,” said Phoebe,
softly. “I don’t know, Mr. Belding,
whether I—care for you or not.”
“But you don’t know that you don’t,”
cried her lover, tearing frenziedly at his
sugary shackles.
“N-no,” Phoebe admitted, with her
eyes cast downward.
“Then I can hope!” cried Harrison,
triumphantly ; “and I’m confident, Miss
Williams—Phoebe—that you’ll decide
favorably. Nobody loves you so deeply:
nobody could make you happier. I
may hope for a speedy answer, may I
not? 1 may call for it soon?”
He “Yes,” did Phoebe look responded, handsome sweetly. standing
there, very
tall and manly, under the stars.
Ph.ebe bestowed a faint smile upon
him as she slipped timorously away.
Eben Lake stood leaning against the
fence. He interposed himself in Phoebe’s
ship, path, and with a calm smile of proprietor¬
willingly. Phcebe stopped, not quite un¬
Eben Lake was, in a sense, the pride
of Boynton. He had been uncommonly
bright at school, and an admiring uncle
had sent him to a law-school, whence
he had emerged with high honors. Now
he had a lucrative practice in the largest
town in the county, and was known
among his fellow-practitioners as a
sharp fellow; and he wa3 not yet
twenty-five. Boynton was justly proud
of him.
“Stop here, Miss Williams!’’ he com¬
manded. “I haven’t seen anything of
you all the evening.”
with “Oh, Mr. said Lake, Phoebe, I danced a quadrille
you!” reprovingly.
“Oh, I don’t count that!” Eben de¬
clared. “To tell the truth, Miss Will¬
iam’s, I don’t count anything, unless-
unless it has a meaning, and you under¬
stand it so. There! do you understand
that?”
“I don’t know,” said Phoebe, some¬
what unsteadily.
Another! AVhat was she to do?
with “Well, professional I’ll explain,” calmness. Eben proceeded, “I
mean,
Miss Williams, that I want you to marry
me. I have had this in my mind for
some time—in fact, since I first saw you;
and it has lately occurred to me to settle
matters. I don’t need to tell you of my
esteem for you— of my love; you must be
aware of that. May I not hope that you
return it?”
He was arid pulling his candy with strong Miss
hands perfect self-possession.
Phoebe glancing up at him from beneath
the pink scarf on her soft hair, felt a
thrill of admiration for his strength and
his cleverness. She hesitated, prettily.
“If you want time to consider it,”
said Eben, reassuringly, “you shall have
it. I know this may seem sudden to
you, but my feelings would not endure
a longer repression. I shall return to
the city in three days. You will give
> me mv answer before I so. will vou not?
You will never meet with one more de¬
voted to your best happiness, Miss Will¬
iams!”
Phoebe “1 appreciate the honor you do me,”
three murmured; “but I will take the
days, please, to think it over.”
Eben waved a courteous hand.
“In three days I confidently expect to
be engaged to the piettiest girl in the
State!”
He smiled, tenderly and triumphantly,
as Phoebe fluttered past him, her color
heightened and her lips parted tremu¬
lously.
.John Wells was standing in the mid¬
dle of the snow-piled flower-bed, in
solitary edge. state. Phcebe paused at its
“You look like patience on a monu
nient!” she declared, w r ith a half hyster
ical laugh.
I d ou’t feel unlike it.” said John,
. . her with long stride.
joining a
“Why?” Phoebe demanded, calming
dow'n under the friendly glance of John’s
pleasant gray eyes, and taking a bite
from her candy, which was getting hard,
“Well,'’ said John, slowly, “when I
have to stand still and see you talking
to Belding or Lake, or anybody else, for
that matter, patience is all that keeps
mo —well, sane!”
He laughed apqlogetically _ as he said _
it; and lie said no more.
Phoebe found herself wondering if lie
never would say any more. Not that she
wanted him to. Two proposals in an
evening, and those unanswered, were
quite enough!
But John had said things of the same
kind before, and always stopped short at
the most incomplete point.
Not that John Wells flirted. _ No;
Phcebe knew better than that. But he
was a clerk in a hardware-store, and the
sole support of his mother and two
younger sisters; and Phcebe was an heir¬
ess!
No; silence had been John’s role hi th
errand he had told himself, sternly,
that so far as Phcebe Williams was con
cerned it would continue to be.
“Don’t you think it's pulled enough?"
said Phcebe. for want of something bet
twist. ter to say, “I’m holding out her stiffening
everybody is. going Why to eat don’t mine. See—
you eat
yours?”
“f don’t feel hungry,’’said John, so
berly. ’
But he looked hungrily at Phoebe,
nevertheless.
“You can have mine _ then. AVill you
eat that?” said Phcebe, breathless at her
own And daring. she thrust into
it his hand, and
saucily suatched his own, and ran away,
bling leaving the young man red and from
with a pleasure that was half
pain.
* * *
Three days afterward, Boynton „ was
shocked and sympathetically grieved by
the news’of Aunt Lucinda s very sudden
death.
Shocked and grieved, but—alas, for
, human nature , !-far , _ beyond , these ,, emo
turns in depth and intensity was the as
tomshment and horror which greeted a
second Mid complementary piece of in
telligence. had -
Aunt Lucinda _ not possessed a for
Phoebe *£&,.“ AA ilhams a was uatural not an c ° heiress 11SeqU< ; UCe ’
The report was well founded Phoebe
herself had told Judge Campbell so
her own bps, when he had called to as
sist in the funerall arrangements, and had
put a delicately-framed inquiry on the
subject.
Aunt Lucinda had had no money!
That was the news which set all Boyn
ton agog. Where had the fine house
and the finer furnishings come from?
AVhat had they lived on? AVhat would
Pliu'be do now? Boyton well-nigh discussion lost
its reason in the breathless of
these Phoebe sphinx-like AVilliams riddles. in the richly-fur
sat
nishedparlor, late on that exciting day.
Her sweet face, sad and subdued, was
sweeter than ever in its black rushiugs,
Possibly Harrison Belding, who stood
before her, thought so. If he did, how
ever, he gave no sign of it.
“I was dreadfully shocked to hear of
your aunt’s death, Miss AVilliams,” he
was saying, in properly-modulated condolence!” tones.
“Accept mv heartfelt
“She was all 1 had,” said Pbmbe
gently. ‘I d °n t know how I shall get
on without her—dear Aunt Lucinda.
Harrison cleared lus throat nervously.
“I—you will excuse me, Miss AYill
iams, ‘if I intrude upon your
with an apparently inappropriate matter,
but—pray excuse me—but is the report
that your Aunt Lucinda was penniless a
correct one?”
“Aunt Lucinda?” Phcebe repeated.
Oh, yes, quite correct, Mr. Belding!
Aunt Lucinda had nothing.”
Harrison paled, reddened, and moved
uneasily from one foot to the other and
back -‘I again. hardly
know how to put it, Miss
Williams,” he stammered; “but this—
plans ah—intelligence regards naturally affects my
.Miss Williams—naturally, as yourself. Naturally,
you must ad¬
mit—”
Phoebe rose.
“You mean, Mr. Belding," she said,
pleasantly, “that you wish to withdraw
the proposal with which you honored
me the other evening?”
“ —I—well, but you must see. Miss
Williams,” Harrison faltered, with his
eyes on the floor, “that a fellow—that a
man—”
“I see, certainly. Mr. Belding,” said
pho.-bc, quite collectedly. “I am glad
to he able to release you. Be assured
that I do it freely!”
Mr. Bolden, passing down the front
steps, met Eben Lake coming up. He
carried a .satchel, and a cane and um
brella strapped together, and he bowed
ried before Pkcebe, iu the parlor, in a hur
way.
“I am on my way to the station, Mi 33
Williams,” he informed her: “but I
wished to assure you of my deep sym
pathy “Thank in your bereavement.”
you!” said Phcebe, raising
her candid eyes to his.
But Eben avoided them,
thing “Forgive me for mentioning such a
at such a time. Miss Williams,” he
continued, hastily, “but as this is my
only chance—is it true that your Aunt
Lucinda was not possessed of the for
tune she was generally believed to
have?”
mild ‘ ‘Perfectly true,” Phcebe rejoined, in
tones,
Eben took out his watch.
“I have not a moment to spare, Miss
Williams,” he said. “You must over
look my that abruptness; but I mentioned am forced to
tell you the matter I to
you the other ever ing, is—or—at least,
that I no longer desire to proceed in it,
if you will consent to my withdrawal. I
am exceedingly sorry at being obliged to
say this, you know, but—”
He was already half way to the door,
Phcebe followed him with calm eyes.
“Certainly, Mr. Lake,” she said, quite
cordially; and the door closed behind
him.
Five minutes later the waitress won
deringly admitted a third gentleman, longer,”
“I couldn't stay away any
said Phcebe, John with AVells, both her standing hands iu close his. “I to
am so sorry for you, dear! May I call
you that? AYill you let me take care of
you now as well as I can? I can’t be
sorry Aunt Lucindi was poor, because if
she "hadn’t been—well, you knew how it
was, didn’t you? Perhaps it was foolish
ia m e _f a lse pride-but I couldn’t help
it _ If j had known, though, rd that risked vou
(M care for me> : gucss have
it in spite of your thousands!”
For there was no longer “ a doubt in
his boundi heart . th tenderness in
her soft eyes settled that. Still, there
was an expression £taud. in them which he did
not uudei He started back sud
deil i Y
“Have I made a mistake?” he said, in
confusion. “Has everybody made a
mistake? Was Aunt Lucinda rich-and
J an heiress after all }»
noI „ cried Pha , be following hands
him „ he retr eated, with both
round his arm . * > Xo she hadn’t a cent,
but I’ve never let her feel it. I’ve taken
C are of her for a long time, and gladly.
The money’s mine, don’t vou see? I’ve
b een an heiress for years." for And I know- don’t
,hink much of Boynton not
l n g it.”
“But—” said her lover, slowly.
“But what? but nothing!” cried
ph ibe, tenderly. “You’ve asked me to
murrv vou, and I’m going to do it, and
f shan’t let you off. 1 think it’s you I've
bked a p the time, dear!”
Everybody in Bovnton knew the facts
0 f t h e case within” twenty-four hours.
How ever it leaked out concerning Ilar
r json Belding and Eben Lake wasamys
tery: but those enterprising last, the subject young for men
did not hear the of a
i, )n g and heart rending time .—Saturday
Jsijt,t. *
- ■■■ -
The parking fowls, the oldest of all
tbe val .;eties, j s UO w beginning to and be
popular ! again both iu this country
“ l
Mig3 Glass has been marr i e d to Mr.
Br - ttle iu p rtts burg.
It is said that a gallon of ink is used,
daily in the United States Senate.