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ROBERTSON'S CHEAP SERIES. / 
 
 POPULAR READING AT POPULAR PRICES- 
 
 MAGGIE LEE! 
 
 BAD SPELLING, DIAMONDS. 
 
 TMK ^^r^^siiwii: 
 
 PJK^k^ltJEIt 
 
 BY- 
 
 MARY J. HOLMES, 
 
 Author of Lena Rivera— Tctnpest and Sunshine— Meadow Brook— Eiiglisli Orpiians, otc. 
 
 C O M r L K T E, 
 
 TORONTO: 
 J. ROSS ROBERTSON, 55 KING-ST. WEST, COR. BAY. 
 
 18 81 ' 
 

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 B^A^r) si'EXjXjiiN'a-. 
 
 The last notes of the bell which duly sum- 
 moned to their tasks the pupils of Madame 
 huvant's fashionable seminary had ceased, 
 and in the school room, recently so silent, 
 was heard the low hum of voices, interspers- 
 ed occasionally with a suppressed titter from 
 some fji,ir\ more mischievous than her com- 
 panions. Very complacently Madame Du- 
 vant looked over the group of younir faces, 
 ment.' ly estimating the probable gain she 
 should receive from each, for this was the 
 first day of the t 'rm ; then with a few, low- 
 spoken words to tlie row of careworn, pale- 
 faced teachers, she smoothed down the folds 
 of her heavy grey 8atin and left the room, 
 just as a handsome travelling carriage stop- 
 ped before the door. 
 
 The new arrival proved to be a fashion- 
 ably-dressed woman, M'ho, with an air of ex- 
 treme hateur.swept into the parlour, followed 
 by two young girls, one apparently sixteen 
 and the otiier fourteen years of age. The 
 younger and, as some would sail her, the 
 plainer looking of the two, was unmistaKably 
 a ' poor relation,' for her face bore the mefek, 
 patient look of a dependent, while the proud 
 black eyes and scornfully curved lip of the 
 other marked her as tiie daugiiter of the 
 lady, wlio, after glancing about the room 
 and satisfying herself that the chairs, tables, 
 and so forth, were refined, gave her name as 
 ' Mrs. Greenleaf, wife of the Hon. Mr. Green- 
 leaf, of Herkimer Co., N. Y.' 
 
 ' I have come,' said she, apparently speak- 
 ing to Madame Duvant, but looking straight 
 at the window, ' I've come to place my 
 daughter Arabella under your charge, and if 
 she is pleased with your discipline, she will 
 finish her education here — graduate — though 
 I care but little for that, except that i*- 
 sounds well. She is our only child, and, of 
 course, a thorough education in the lower 
 English branches is not at all necessary. I 
 wish her to be highly accomplished in 
 French, Italian, music, drawing, painting, 
 dancing, and, perhaps, learn something of 
 the; old poets, so as to be able to talk about 
 them a little, if necessary, bat M for th« 
 
 other branches, such as ceography, history 
 arithmetic, grammar, anclthe like, she can 
 learn them l)y herself, and it is not my wish 
 that slie should waste her time over anything 
 s ) common. These will do for Mildred, ' ana 
 she glanced toward the poor relation, whose 
 eyes were bent upon the carpet. 
 
 ' She is the child of my husband's sister. 
 and we have concluded to educate her for a 
 teacher, so I wish you to be very thorough 
 with her in all those stupid things which 
 Arabella is not to study. ' 
 
 Madame Duvant bowed, and Mrs. Green- 
 leaf continued, ' Last term they were at 
 Bloomington Seminary, and, if you'll believe 
 it, the principal insisted upon putting Ari- 
 bella into the spelling cl.irss, just because she 
 didn't chance to spell every word of her first 
 composition correctly ! I dare say it was 
 more Mildred's fault than hers, for she ac- 
 knowledged to me tliat 'twas one of Mildred's 
 old pieces that she found and copied. ' 
 
 An angry flash of AraVjella's large black 
 eyes, and a bright red spot on Mildred's 
 cheek, were the only emotions manifested by 
 the young girls, and Mrs. Greenleaf proceed- 
 ed : ' Of course, I wouldn't submit to it — 
 my daughter spelling baker, and all that 
 nonsense, so I took her away at once. It 
 was my wish that Mildred should remain, 
 but husband, who is peculiar, wouldn't hear 
 of it, and said she should go where Arabella 
 did, so I've brought them both.' 
 
 After little further conversation, it was 
 arranged that Miss Arabella should go 
 through a course of merely fashionable ac- 
 complishments, Madame Duvant assuring her 
 m >ther that neither spelling book nor dic- 
 tionary should in any way annoy her. Mil- 
 dred, on the contrary, was to be thoroughly 
 drilled in every thing necessary for a teacher 
 to know. Mrs Greenleaf hinting that the 
 sooner her education was completed the 
 better she would be pleased, for it cost a 
 great deal to clothe, feed and school her. 
 Madame Duvant promised to execute the 
 wishes of her patron, who gathered up her 
 flowing robes, and with a dozen or more 
 
 iwij ii uu ti$Li i Mimadm.''"'^. wver- 
 
•1 
 
 BAD Si'KLLiNli. 
 
 f 
 
 kisses for her daughter, ami a nod of lier 
 bjiid for Mildred, stepped into her carriage 
 and was (hi\(!ii rap'dlv away- 
 
 * * ^^ * * * » 
 
 .lust across tiie spa<;ious grounds of the 
 Duvant Seminary, and divided from them by 
 a wall which it seenuul almost impossible to 
 scale, stood a huge stone building, whose 
 iiacked walls, bare Hoore and dingy windoM^s 
 -from which were frc(iuently susj)ended a 
 cap, a pair of trousers, or a boy's leg -stamp- 
 ed it once as 'The College,' the veriest pest 
 in the world, as Madame Duvant called it, 
 when, with all the vigilance both of herself 
 and Arguh-eyed teachers, she failed to keep 
 her young ladies from making the acquaint- 
 ance' of the students, who winked at them in 
 church, bowed to them in the streets, tied 
 notes to stones and threw them over the 
 ponderous wall, while the girls waved their 
 handkerchiefs from their windows, and in 
 various other ways eluded the watchfulness 
 of their teachers. A great accjuisiticn to the 
 fun-loving members of the .seminary was 
 Arabella (Jreenleaf, and she had scarcely 
 been there six weeks ere she was perfectly 
 well acipiainted with every student whom 
 she considered at all worth knowing. But 
 upon only one were her brightest glances and 
 her most winsome smiles lavislied, and that 
 was (Jeorge Clayton, a young man from 
 South Carolina, who was said to be very 
 wealthy. He was too honourable to join in 
 tlie intrigues of his companions, and when 
 at last he became attracted by the watching 
 eyes and dashing manners of Arabella (ireen- 
 leaf, he went boldly to Madame Duvant 
 and asked permission to see the young lady 
 in the parlour. 
 
 His request M'as granted, and during the 
 two years he remained at college, he continu- 
 ed occasionally to call upon Arabella, who, 
 each time he saw her, seemed more pleasing, 
 for she was beautiful, and when she chose to 
 1)e so was very courteous and agreeable. 
 One evening when George called as usual and 
 asked to see her, lie waited a lony time, 9,nd 
 was about making up his mind to leave, 
 when a fair, delicate looking girl, with deep 
 blue eye.s and auburn hair, entered the room, 
 introducing hei'self as Miss Graham, the 
 C(jusin of Anibella. who, she said, was inuis- 
 pjsedand unable to come down. 
 
 ' She bade me say that she was very sorry 
 not ti see you, ' added Mildred, for she it 
 was. blushing deeply as she met the eager, 
 adiniiiu.r eye of (reorge Clayton. 
 
 iJladly would he have detained her, but 
 with a polite good evening, she left him in a 
 perfect state of bewilderment. ' Strange 
 that 1 never observed her before, for I nuist 
 have seen her often.' he thought, as he slo\ - 
 
 ly wended his way back to Iii.s rooms, ' and 
 stranger still that Arabella n<'ver told mo 
 she hail a cousin here.' 
 
 The next time he met Arabella his first in- 
 quiry was for lier cousin, and why she had 
 never mentioned her. With a heigh lened 
 colour Arabella answered, ' Oh, she's a little 
 body, who never cares to be known — a i)er- 
 iect bookworm and man-hater.' 
 
 The words bookMorm and man-hater pro- 
 du -ed upon (Jeorge Clayton a far difi'erent 
 effect from what Arabella had intended, and 
 he often found himself thinking of the soft 
 blue eyes of Mildred (jlraham. Unlike some 
 men, there was nothing terrible to him in a 
 bookish woman, and he might, perhaps, have 
 sought another interview with Mildred, but 
 for a circumstance which threw her entirely 
 in the shade. 
 
 The annual examination of Madame Du* 
 V ant's seminary was drawing near. Arabella 
 was to graduate, while both she and Mildred 
 weie competitors for a prize offered for the 
 best composition. There was a look of wonder 
 on Mildred's face, when she saw her cousin's 
 name among the list, for composition was 
 something in which Araljella did not excel. 
 Greatly then did Mildred marvel when day 
 after day she found her, pencil in hand, and 
 apparently lost in thought, as she filled one 
 sheet after another, until at last it was done. 
 
 ' Now, Milly,' said Arabella, ' You correct 
 the spelling and copy it for me — that's a 
 good girl.' 
 
 Mildred had acted in this capacity too 
 often to refuse, and with a martyr's patience 
 she corrected and copied the manuscript, 
 wondering the while from whence came the 
 sudden inspiration which had so brightened 
 Arabella's ideas. But if she had any sus- 
 picions of the truth she kept them to herself, 
 handing her own composition in with that 
 of her cousin, and calmly waiting the result. 
 
 The examination was over. Arabella, who 
 knew exactly what (juestions would be put 
 talier,had acquitted lierself with great credit, 
 and her proud lady mother, who was one of 
 the numerous visitors, fanned herself com- 
 placently as she heard on all sides the praises 
 of her daughter. 
 
 And notlnng remaiued but the evening ex- 
 hibition, at which music and the prize com- 
 positions formed the chief enteitainnient. 
 At an early hour the large school -rooms 
 were densely crowded. Among tlie first 
 who came was (George Clayton — secur ng a 
 seat as near as possible to the stage, so that 
 he should not lose a single word. He him- 
 self had graduated but two weeks previously, 
 and was now about to make the tour of 
 Kuroj)e together with his father, who was 
 
 I 
 
 leave 
 
 tion A 
 
 estinn 
 
 to hin 
 
 wh m, 
 
 muslii 
 
 the stj 
 
 playec 
 
 knowr 
 
 More. 
 
 The 
 
 tions, 
 
 clear p 
 
 iDg to 
 
 when s 
 
 cheers, 
 
 was sni 
 
 was th 
 
 queenl 
 
 heads i 
 
 from G 
 
 hand i 
 
 Her sui 
 
 ward L 
 
 handlec 
 
 she fini 
 
 shook t 
 
 name w 
 
 left th 
 
 struck 
 
 ;irosc t( 
 
 cess, an 
 
 gone to 
 
 wai-ndy 
 
 to se(> h 
 
 lier a 
 
 .<Iiould 
 
 Half : 
 was Ik 
 later, ai 
 u)) and 
 of two 
 worth i 
 Forty 
 the door 
 arose, a 
 crowd, a 
 stage, th 
 toward 2 
 ' I am a 
 my peac 
 against 
 right to 1 
 has palm 
 ^yoodlath 
 obscure 
 came by 
 I cannot. 
 At th< 
 speech, A 
 
, ' and 
 told tna 
 
 tirst in- 
 hIic hati 
 jhlened 
 I a little 
 — a per- 
 
 er pro- 
 lifl'erent 
 eil, and 
 the soft 
 ko sonio 
 lini in a 
 ipSjhuve 
 red, but 
 entirely 
 
 me Du- 
 Arabella 
 Mildred 
 I for the 
 F wonder 
 cousin's 
 tion was 
 )t excel, 
 hen day 
 and, and 
 filled one 
 /as done, 
 u correct 
 -that's a 
 
 acity too 
 patience 
 luscript, 
 ame the 
 ightened 
 ly si^s- 
 herself, 
 th that 
 e I'esult. 
 
 ella, who 
 be put 
 
 it credit, 
 one of 
 
 ielf com- 
 
 16 praises 
 
 ning ex- 
 ize cotn- 
 liimient. 
 )ol-rooma 
 tlie first 
 cur ng a 
 so that 
 He him- 
 eviously, 
 tour of 
 who was 
 
 i 
 
 BAD SPELLING. 
 
 present. They were to sail the next nighti 
 and at nine o'clock this evening they were to 
 leave for New York. During the examina- 
 tion Arabella had risen greatly in George's 
 estimation, and if she .lad seemed bflautiful 
 to him then, she was tenfold more so now, 
 wh Ml, with flowing curls and simple white 
 muslin dress, she tripped Kracefuliy across 
 the stage, and seating nerself at the piano, 
 played and sang with exquisite skill the well- 
 known Boug entitled, *No More, Never 
 More.' 
 
 Then followed the reading of the composi- 
 tions, Mildred being called upon first. In a 
 clear peculiarly sweet voice she read, chain- 
 ing to perfect silence her audience, which, 
 when sne was done, greeted her with noisy 
 cheers, whispering one to another that she 
 was sure to win. Arabella,at her ownrequest, 
 was the last. With proud, flashing eyes and 
 queenly air, she coolly surveyed the mass of 
 heads before her. caught an admiring i^lance 
 from George Clayton,and then, with a steady 
 hand unrolled her manuscript and read. 
 Her subject was ' The Outward and the In- 
 ward Life, ' and no gray. haired sage ever 
 handled it more skilfully than she. When 
 she finished one universal burst of applause 
 sliook tlie building to its centre, while her 
 name was on every lip as she triumphantly 
 left tlie room. Just then a distant bell 
 struck the hour of nine, and (George Clayton 
 arose to go. He was sure of Arabella's suc- 
 L-ess. and in the h.all below, whitlier she had 
 tjoiie to bid liini adieu, he shook her hand 
 warmly, telling her how happy it made him 
 to se(> h«r thus victorious, and winning from 
 iier a promise to write to him when he 
 rfliould l)e over the -ea. 
 
 Half an hour later and the night express 
 was bearing him far away. Half an liour 
 later, and with flushed brow Arabella stood 
 uj) and received the prize, which consisted 
 of two elijgantly bound volumes of Words- 
 worth and Coleridge. 
 
 P\)rty minutes later, and from the seat by 
 the door, a little bent, weird-looking woman 
 arose, and making her way through the 
 crowd, advanced until she stood upon the 
 stage, then stretching her long, bony finger 
 toward Avabtdla, who had returned she L.-i,id, 
 ' I am a lover of justice, and should I hold 
 my peace, the very stones would cry out 
 against me. Yonder young lady has no 
 right to the prize, for the piece which she 
 has palmed off" as her own appeared in the 
 Woodland Oazelte, a paper published in an 
 obscure New Hampshire village. How she 
 came by it, she can, perhaps, explain, but 
 I cannot. ' 
 
 At the commencement of this strang« 
 speech, Arabella arose as if to defy the wo- 
 
 man, who was thus blasting her good name, 
 but at the mention of the Woodland Qazette 
 she fainted and was carried from the room. 
 Madame Duvant now came forward and 
 addressed a few, low spoken words to the 
 woman, who answered aloud, ' L have the 
 best of reasons for what I have said. My 
 son who lives in New Hampshir3,occa8ionlly 
 sends me the Qazette, and in one number, 
 which came nearly a year ago.appeared this 
 very article, taken originally from an old 
 English paper.' 
 
 ' Prove it I Produce the paper 1* fiercely 
 ejaculated Mrs. Greenfeaf, as she left the 
 room in quest of her daughter. 
 
 'lean do so,' answered the woman; 'I 
 never tore up a newspaper in my life, and if 
 the audience will wait for the space of ten 
 minutes, I can show them the very article' — 
 saying which she glided noiselessly from the 
 room. 
 
 She was a strange, half-crazy old creature, 
 of wonderful memory, who occupied a small 
 cottage in the suburbs of the village, and 
 many doubts were expressed as to the vera- 
 city of her statement. But these were soon 
 put to flight by her reappearance. Unfold- 
 ing the dingy yellow paper, she read aloud to 
 her astonished hearers the article which 
 pvoved to have been taken from the London 
 Examiner. There was no longer a shadow 
 of doubt, and tlie prize was witlidrawn from 
 the treacherous Arabella, and as Mildred's 
 composition was pronounced the next in 
 order, it was bestowtnl upon her. 
 
 Mortified, indignant and almost frantic at 
 this public disgrace, Arabella finally confess- 
 ed to having stolen the piece from a paper 
 sent her some months before by a fornit r 
 schoolmate. The next mwning she left the 
 village, heaping her pent-up wrath upon the 
 head of her innocent cou»in, who was de.s- 
 
 tined in more ways than one to rival her. 
 
 «•»«■*♦*■» 
 
 Three months had passed away since the 
 night of the exhibition, and in a piivate par- 
 lour at a London hotel sat George Clayton, 
 rather impatiently awaiting the return ot his 
 servant from the post-office. As yet he had 
 received no letter from Arabella, for th. ugh 
 she had written it had failed to reach him, 
 and while in the Old World was marvelling 
 at her long delay, she in the New was won- 
 dering why he did not answer. The morti- 
 fication which she had endured affected her 
 deeply, bringing on at last a slow fever, 
 which confined her to her bed, where for 
 weeks she lay, carefully attended by Mil- 
 dred, who once, when she complained of 
 George's neglect, suggested the possibility of 
 his not having received the letter. This 
 was a new idea to Arabella, and as she was 
 
BAD SPELLING. 
 
 liLTHclf ijimblc to write, she persuaded Mil- 
 dred to do it for her, and strange to my, the 
 two letters reached their destination at the 
 tianie time. 
 
 VVitli eager haste George took them from 
 Ilia servant, who soon went out leaving him 
 alone. The handwriting of both was not 
 alik^,and in some trepidation the young man 
 broke the seal of the one bearing the more 
 reciMit date. It was l)eaiitifully written, and 
 mentally complimenting the fair writer, 
 ( J oor;ije opened the other, uttering an ex- 
 clamation of surprise ere he had reail a dozen 
 lines. It was sickly, sentimental atl'air, 
 taken partly from an old letter writer, and 
 contiiiMinj,' many highflown sentence concern- 
 iuL' the ' pearling rill, ' the 'silvery starlitc' 
 an<l thi! ' rozy mor i,' which, l»eing sjielhtl as 
 they were, presented a most formidable 
 aspect to the laHtidious young man. 
 
 Although Arabella had taken much pains 
 with her letter, at lea.nt one-fourth of the 
 words were ini.ss))elt, and by the time 
 (Jcorge had finished reading, he entertained 
 no other feclinu towards the writer than the 
 one of dJHgust, to think that, with all her 
 sliowy accomplish menta, she had neglected 
 what to liiu) was the most important of all, 
 for in nothing is tlie ignorance of a young 
 I.hIv more appnroiit than in a badly-spelled 
 letter. It was :i long time ere he answered 
 it, and then the few linos whicli he wrote 
 were so cold, so dittbrenl from his first, that 
 in a fit of anger Ar;il)ella tos.sed it into the 
 til-', repenting the act the moment after,and, 
 as it' to inike amends, writing in return a 
 loni lett(;r, to which there came no response, 
 and thus tlie correspondence ended. 
 
 Eighteen months later, and again Madame 
 Duvant's rooms were orowdetl to overflow- 
 ins^, but tl»is time Arabella (xreenleaf was 
 not tlicre, thougl\ (Jeorgc Clayton was,eager- 
 ly w.iteliing each worl and movement of 
 Mildioil (irahani, whose uncle had insisted 
 upon her roniaining at school until she, too. 
 sh >uld urrailuate. and who now, justly, re- 
 ceived tlui highest honours of her class. Very 
 beautiful looked the young girl, and as she 
 modestly received the compliments of her 
 friends, George Clayton's was not the only 
 
 smging 
 
 admiring eye which rested upon her, formany 
 now paid hor honiugo. 
 
 That night (ieorge asked to see her alonu. 
 His request was granted, and when next she 
 parted from him it was as his betrothed. 
 Immediately after (Jecjrge's return from 
 Europe, he had heard the story of Arabella's 
 pel Ddy, and if no otiier cironmstanccs had 
 interposed to wean him from hor entirely, 
 this alone would have done it, for he uould 
 not respect a woman who would thus meanly 
 
 stoop to deception. He had lingered in (J 
 
 for tlie purpose of renewing his former ac- 
 (|uaintancj with Mildred, the result of which 
 we have seen. 
 
 Mortified beyond measure, Arabella heard 
 of her cousin's engagement, and when George 
 came at last t(» claim his bride, she refused 
 to see him, wilfully absenting heiself from 
 home that she !=hould not witness the bridal, 
 which took place one bright October nujru- 
 ing, when the forest trees, as if in honour of 
 the occasion, wore dressed in their most 
 g'rgeous robes, and the birds were 
 their farewell songs. 
 
 New misfortunes, however, awaited poor 
 Arabella, for scarcely was Mildred gone to 
 her southern home when the red flag of the 
 iuictioneer waved from the windows of Mr. 
 (Jieenleaf's luxurious house, which, with its 
 costly furniture, was .sold to the highest 
 bidder, and the family were left dependent 
 upon their own exertions for support. When 
 the firtt shock was over, Mr. Greenleaf pro- 
 posed tiiat his daughter should teach, and 
 thus bring into use her hoasteil accomplish- 
 ments. For a time Arabella refusecf, but 
 hearing at last a situation which she tljought 
 might please her, she applied for it by letter. 
 But alas, tlie mistake she made when she 
 abandonded the spelling-book for the piano, 
 again stood in the way, for no one would 
 employ a teacher so lamentably ignorant of 
 orthography. Nor is it at all probable she 
 will ever rise higher than her present posi- 
 tion—that of a plain sewer — until she goes 
 back to first principles, and commences 
 again the despised column beginning with 
 ' baker !' 
 
 THX EVD. 
 
 i 
 
 I 
 
 (» 
 
 tull^ 
 
 hy 
 
 T\ 
 her 
 
 \\\a 
 him I 
 you 
 I 
 et, d 
 shalvl 
 and 
 thati 
 treat 
 Coral 
 
 It .set 
 
 ne.s.s 
 
 rathi 
 
 was 
 
 fain ill 
 
 very 
 
or many 
 
 r alonu. 
 lext she 
 trothed. 
 rn from 
 rabella's 
 ices had 
 entirely, 
 he could 
 a meanly 
 
 in (J 
 
 rmcr ac- 
 of which 
 
 Ua heard 
 ;n tieorge 
 J refused 
 •self from 
 lie Ijridal, 
 lier morn- 
 \onour of 
 heir most 
 e singing 
 
 lited poor 
 [I gone to 
 ag of the 
 ^■9 of Mr. 
 I, with its 
 e highest 
 dependent 
 jrt. When 
 Bnleaf pro- 
 teach, and 
 ccomplish- 
 jfused, but 
 he tljought 
 t by letter, 
 when she 
 the piano, 
 5ne would 
 gnorant of 
 'obable she 
 resent posi- 
 til she goes 
 commences 
 aning with 
 
 .V 
 
 I^I.A.D^^Ols^r) s. 
 
 ' The boys mustn't look at the girls, and 
 the girls must look on their books, ' w,is said 
 at least a dozen times by tlio villa.,'o auhool- 
 master, on that stormy moniini^ wlieii Cora 
 lilancliaril and f — ^she in iiur brother's boots, 
 and I ill my lather's socks— waded tlirough 
 drift after drift of snow to tlie old bnnvn 
 school-house at the foot of the long, steep 
 hill. 
 
 We were the only girls wlio had dared to 
 brave tiiat wintry storm, and we felt amply 
 repaid for our trouble, wlien we saw how 
 mncii attention we received from the ten tall 
 boys who had come — some for fun — .some be- 
 cause they saw Cora lilanchard go by — and 
 one, Walter Beaumont, because he did not 
 wish to lose the lesson of the day. Our teach- 
 er, Mr. (irannis, was Htung him for col- 
 lege, and every moment was precious to the 
 white-hrowed, intellectual student, who was 
 quite a lion among us girls, partly because 
 he never noticed us as much as did the other 
 boys. On this occasion, however, he was 
 quite attentive to Cora, at least, pulling oil" 
 her boots, removing her hood, and brushing 
 the large snow-Hakes from her soft wavy 
 hair, whUe her dark brown eyes smiled grate- 
 fully upon him, as he gave her his warm seat 
 by the stove. 
 
 That morning Cora wrote to me slily on 
 her slate : — * I don't care if mother does say 
 Walter Beaumont is poor as poverty — I like 
 him best of anybody in the world — don't 
 you ?■ 
 
 I tiiought of the big red apple in my pock- 
 et, and of the boy who had so carefully 
 shaken the snow from off my fatlier's socks, 
 and answered, ' no' — thinking, the while, 
 that I should say yes, if Walter had ever 
 treated me as lie did my playmate and friend 
 Ooia Blaiicliard. She was a beautiful young 
 girl, a favourite with all, and possessing, as 
 It seemed, but one glaring fault — a prome- 
 ness to estimate people for their wealth 
 rather than their worth This in a measure 
 was the result of her home-training, for her 
 family, though fiir from being rich, were 
 very aristocratic, and strove to keep their 
 
 oliiltlron as much as possible from associating 
 with the ' vulgar herd,' as they styled the 
 labouring class of the community. In her 
 secret heart Cora had long cherished a pre- 
 ference for Walter, though never, until the 
 morning of which 1 write, had it been so 
 openly avowe<l. And Walter, too, while 
 knowing how far above him she was in point 
 of position, had dareil to dream of a time 
 when a briglit-haired-w<jnian, with a face 
 much like that ot the girlish Cora, would 
 gladden his home, wherever it might be. 
 
 That noon, as we sat around the glowing 
 stove, we played as children will, and it 
 came my turn to 'answer truly whom I in- 
 tended to marry. ' Without a thought of 
 the big apple, the snow; socks, or of any one 
 in particular, I replied unhesitatingly — 
 ' The one I love best, ' and the question 
 passed on to Cora, who was sitting by the 
 side of Walter iieaumont. He had not 
 jointed in our sport, but now his eye left his 
 book and rested upon Cora with an expres- 
 sion half fearful, half expectant. She, too, 
 glanced at him, and as if the spirit of pro- 
 phecy were upon her, she said — 'I shall not 
 marry the one I love the best, but the one 
 who has the most money, andean give me 
 the handsomest diamonds. Sister Fanny 
 has a magnificent set, and she looks so beau- 
 tiful when she wears them. ' 
 
 Instantly there fell a shadow on Walter 
 Beaumont's face, and his eye returned again 
 to the Latin lettered page. But his thoughts 
 were not of what was written there ; he was 
 thinking of the humble cottage on the bor- 
 ders of the wood, of the rag-carpet on the 
 oaken floor, of the plain old-fashioned furni- 
 ture, and of the gentle, loving woman who 
 called him ' her boy, ' and that spot her 
 home. There were no diamonds there — no 
 money — and Cora, if for these she married, 
 would never be liisr'wife. Early and late he 
 toiled and studied, wearing his threadbare 
 coat and coarse brown pants-r-for an educa- 
 tion, such as he must have, admitted of no 
 useless expenditure, and the costly gems 
 which Cora craved were not his to give. In 
 
DIAMONDS. 
 
 the p-uro, unselfiMh love Bpriii^'in^ up for her 
 within his ht'urt, tliofo were (liamomls of 
 itnperishable value, and thuHo, together with 
 tho nuiiiu hf would iiiiike for liiniself, he 
 would ofl'or her, l)ut nothiiii,' more, ami for 
 many weeks theio wan a shatlow on hiu 
 hrow, thougli ii*> was kind and considerate 
 to her as of old. 
 
 Ah the spring and lumtner glided by, how- 
 ever, there uame a change, aad when, in the 
 autumn, he left our village for New Haven, 
 there was a happy, joyous look upon his 
 face, while a trcus of Cora's silken hair was 
 lying next hin heart. Kvcry week he wrot« 
 to her, and Cura answered, always showing 
 to me what she had written, but never a 
 word of his. ' There was too much love, ' 
 she said, ' too much good advice in his let- 
 ters for me to see,' and thus the time passed 
 on, until Walter, who had entered the 
 junior class, was graduated with honour, 
 and was about to commence a theological 
 courso at Andover, for he had made the min- 
 ist. V his choice. He was twcnty-ono now, 
 and Cora was sixteen. Wondrously l)eauti- 
 ful was she to look upon, with her fair young 
 face, her soft brown eyes, and wavy 
 hair. And Walter Beaumont loved her 
 devotedly, believing too, that she in turn 
 loved him, for one summer afternoon, in 
 the green old woods which skirted the little 
 viliage, she had sat by tiis side, and with 
 the sunbeams glancing down upon her 
 through the overhanging boughs, she had 
 told him so, and promised some day to be 
 his wif«. Still, she would not hear of a 
 positive engagement— both should be free to 
 change their mind if they wished, she said, 
 and with this Walter was satisfied. 
 
 * I have no diamonds to give you, darling,' 
 he said, drawing her close to him ; and Cora, 
 knowing to what he referred, answered that 
 ' his love was dearer to her than all the world 
 besides.' Alas, that woman should be so 
 fickle ! 
 
 The same train which carried Walter 
 away, brought Mrs. Blanchard a letter from 
 her daughter, a dashing, fashionable woman, 
 •who lived in the city, and who wished to 
 bring her sister Cora ' out ' the coming win- 
 ter. ' She is old enough now, ' she wrote, 
 • to be looking for a husband, and of course 
 she'll never do anything in that by-place.' 
 
 This proposition, which accorded exactly 
 with Mrs. Blanchard's wishes, was joyfully 
 acceded U by Cora, who, while anticipa- 
 ting the pleasure which awaited her, had 
 yet no thought of proving false to Walter, 
 and in the letter which she wrote informing 
 him of her p4an, she assured him of her un- 
 changing fidelity, little dreaming that the 
 promise thus made would so soon te broken I 
 
 I'ctted, caressed, flattered and admire<l, how 
 could she helpf^rowing worldly and vain, m 
 avoid constrasting the plan, unassuming Wal- 
 ter, with the polished and gayly-drcssed but- 
 torilies who tl) rouged Mrn. Huiton'H drawing- 
 room. When the summer came again, slie 
 did not return to us as wo had uxnected, 
 but we heard of her ;it Saratoga, and New- 
 port, th«i admired of all the admirers ; whilf 
 ouo, it was said, a man uf high position and 
 untold wealth, bid fair to win the beauteouH 
 belle. Meantime, her letters to Walter grew 
 short and far between, ceasing at length alto- 
 gether ; and one day, during the second 
 winter of her residence in the city, I receiv- 
 ed from her a package containing his minia- 
 ture, the books he utd given her, and the 
 letters he had written. These she wished 
 me to give him when next I saw him, bidding 
 me tell him to think no more of one who waM 
 not worthy of him. 
 
 ' To be plain, Lottie,' she wrote, * I'm en- 
 gaged, and though Mr. Douglass is not a bit 
 like \Valter, he has a great deal of money, 
 drives splendid horses, aud I reckon we shall 
 get on well enough. I wish, though, he was 
 not quite so old. You'll be shocked to hear 
 that he is almost fifty, though he looks about 
 forty 1 I know I don't hke him as well as 1 
 did Walter, but after seeing as much of the 
 the world as I have, I could not settle down 
 into the wife of a poor minister. I am not 
 good enough, and you must tell him so. I 
 hope he won't feel badly— poor Walter, I've 
 kept the lock of his hair. I couldn't part 
 with that, but, of course, Mr. Douglass will 
 never see it. His hair is gray ! Good-by.* 
 This was what she wrote, and when I 
 heard from her again, she was Cora Douglass, 
 and her feet were treading the shores of the 
 old world, whither she had gone ou a bridal 
 tour. 
 
 In the solitude of his chamber, the young 
 student learned the sad news from a para- 
 graph in the city paper, and bowing his head 
 upon the the table, he strove to articulate, 
 ' It is well, ' but the flesh was wenk, warring 
 with the spirit, and tlie heart which Cora 
 Blanchard had cruelly trampled down, clung 
 to her still with a death-like fondness, »n'l 
 followed her even across the wa.-^te of waters, 
 cried out— 'How can I give her up?' But 
 when he remembered, as he ere long did, 
 that 'twas a sin to love her now, he buried 
 his face in his hands, and called on (Jod ta 
 help him in this his hour of need, wept such 
 tears as never again would fall for Cora 
 Blanchard. 
 
 an -I J 
 so wt 
 consf 
 And! 
 us at 
 8he 
 there 
 ing 
 wavel 
 on \v| 
 the sj 
 Til 
 presel 
 DowiJ 
 a mil 
 
mired, lu»w 
 i«l vaiii, o> 
 lining Wrtl- 
 resHcd but- 
 
 s drawing- 
 uguin, Hhe 
 
 exnected, 
 und New- 
 rers ; while 
 toaition and 
 B beauteoim 
 V alter grew 
 length alto- 
 
 thu 8econ«l 
 
 1 
 
 I »1 AMOK IKS. 
 
 y. 
 
 I receiv- 
 
 , his ininia- 
 ler, and the 
 she wished 
 him, bidding 
 one who was 
 
 be, 'I'm en- 
 , is not a bit 
 i of money, 
 ikon we shall 
 uugh, he was 
 >cked to hear 
 e looks about 
 t as well as 1 
 much of the 
 t settle down 
 I am not 
 him so. I 
 
 Walter, I've 
 couldn't part 
 Douglass will 
 ! (lood-by.* 
 
 and when I 
 ora Douglass, 
 
 shores of the 
 ne on a bridal 
 
 r, the young 
 
 from a para- 
 
 )wing his head 
 
 to articulate, 
 
 wenk, warring 
 
 , which Cora 
 
 \ down, clung 
 
 fondness, «nd 
 
 apte of waters, 
 
 er up?' But 
 
 ,eei-e long did, 
 
 low, he buried 
 
 led on (iod ta 
 
 Bed, wept sucli 
 
 fall for Cora 
 
 K 
 
 The roses in the our garden wore faded' 
 and tlio haves ot autumn were piled upon 
 the ground, ere he came to his home ngiiin, 
 and 1 liikd im opportunity of presentin^r }iitn 
 with tlie package which many niontliH before 
 hud been oominitted to my care. flis face 
 wan very pah;, and his voice trembled as he 
 asked me — 'Where is she now ?' 
 
 ' In Italy* I ftnHwerod, .-idding that 'her 
 husband was Mai<l to be very wealthy.' 
 
 Uowing mechanically, lie walked away, 
 and a year and a half went by ere I him 
 again. Then he came among uh our 
 minister. Tlie old, white-haired pastor, 
 who tor so long had told us of the (Jood 
 Shepherd and the better land, was sleeping 
 at last in the (piiet graveyard, and the peo- 
 ple had chosen young Walter Meaumont to 
 fill his nlaco. Ho was a snlcndid-looking 
 man— tall, erect, and finely formed, with a 
 most winning nianne.', and a face which be- 
 tokened intellect of the highest order. We 
 were proud of him, all of uh — proud of our 
 clergyman, who, on the third Sabbatli in 
 June, was to be ordained in the ohl brick 
 church, before whose altar he had years ago 
 been baptized, a smiling infant. 
 
 On the Thursday afternoon preceding the 
 ordination, a large travelling carriage, cov- 
 ered with dust and laden with trunks, 
 paased slowly through our village, attracting 
 much attention. Seated within it was a 
 portly, gray-haired man, resting his chin 
 upon a gold-headed cane, and looking curi- 
 ously out at the people in the street, who 
 stared as curiously at him. Directly oppo- 
 site him, and languidly reclining upon the 
 soft cushions, was a white, proud-faced lady, 
 who evidently felt no iuiterest in what was 
 passing around her, for her eyes were cast 
 down, and her thought seemed busy else- 
 where. I was sitting at my chamber win- 
 now, gazing out upon tliein, and just as they 
 drew near the gate, the Jady raised her eyes j 
 — the soft, brown eyes, which once hac won | 
 the love of Walter licciumont, and in wliioh 
 there was now an unmistakeable look of 
 aUj'uish, as if the long eyelashes, drooping 
 so wearily upon the colourless cheek, were 
 constantly forcing back the hidden tears. 
 And this was Cora Douglass, come back to 
 us again from her travels in a foreign land. 
 8he knew me in a moment, and in her face 
 there was much of the olden look as, bend- 
 ing forward, she smiled a greeting, and 
 waved toward me lier white, jewelled hand, 
 on wliic » the diamonds Hashed brightly in 
 the sunliglit. 
 
 The next morning we met, but not in the 
 presence c/f the old man, her husband. 
 Down in the leafy woods, about a quartt-T of 
 a mile from Mrs. Beaumont's cottage, was a 
 
 running brook and a mossy bank, overaha 
 dowed by the sycamore and elm. This, in 
 the days gone by, had been our favourite 
 resort. Here had we built our play-house, 
 washed our bits of broken china in the rip. 
 pling stream— here had we wat lied tlio little 
 fishes as they darted in and out of the deen,.r 
 eddies here had we (ronncd our (laily t^^n\^t^ 
 —here had she listened to a tale of love, the 
 menutry of which seemed but a mocking 
 dream, and here, as I faintly hoped, I found 
 her, With a half-joyful, half-moaning cry, 
 she threw her arms around my neck, ami I 
 could feel lit r tears (hopping upon my face 
 as she whispered, ' Oh, I^ottie, Lottie, we 
 have met again by the di-ar old brook.' 
 
 For a few moments she sobljed as if her 
 h«?art would break, then suddenly drying 
 her tears, she assumed a calm, cold, digni- 
 fied manner, such as I had never seen in 
 Cora Blanchard. Very composedly she 
 questioned me of what 1 had done during 
 her absence, telling me, too, of her travels, 
 of the people she had seen and the places 
 she had visited, but never a word said she 
 of him she called her husband. From the 
 bank where we sat, the village grave-yKrd 
 was discernible, with its marble gleaming 
 through the trees, and at last, as her eye 
 wandered in that direction, she said. ' Have 
 any of our villagers died ! Mother's letters 
 were never very dehnite. ' 
 
 'Vea,'I answereil, ' Our minister, Mr. 
 Sumner, died two montiis ago. ' 
 
 ' Who takes his ])lace ?' she asked ; and 
 as if a suspicion of the truth were flashing 
 upon her, her eyes turned towartl mo with 
 an eager, startled glance. 
 
 ' Walter fjjaumont. He is to be ordained 
 next Sabbath, and you are just in time, ' I 
 replied, regretting my words the next instant 
 for never saw I so fearful a look of anguish 
 as that which swept over her face, and was 
 succeeded by a cold, hard, defiant expres- 
 sion, scarcely less painful to witness. 
 
 She would have questioned me of him I 
 think, had not an approaching footstep 
 caught our ear, sending a crimson flush to 
 Cora's hitheito marble cheek, and producing 
 on me a moat unpleasant sensation, for 1 
 knew that the gray-haired man now within 
 a few paces of us, was he who called that 
 young creature his wife. Golden was the 
 chain by which he had l)ound her, and every 
 link was set with diamonds and costly 
 stones, but it had rusted and eaten to her 
 very heart's core, for the most precious gem 
 of all was missing from that chain — love for 
 her husband, who, fortunately for his own 
 peace of mind, was too conceited to dream 
 how little she cared for him. He was not 
 handsiome, and still many would have called 
 
I 7 
 
 
 
 /.r.r 
 
 M 
 
 DlAxMONDS. 
 
 him a fine looking, middle-aged man, though 
 theie was something disagreeable in his th n, 
 compressed lips and intensely black eyes — 
 the one betok- ning a violent tempt r, and the 
 other an indomitable will. To ni' he was 
 exceedingly polite — rather too much so for 
 my perfect ease, while tOMard Cora he tried 
 to be ver> iffectionate. 
 
 Seating himself at her side, and throwing 
 his arm around her, he called her a ' little 
 truant, 'and asked 'why she had run away 
 from him?' 
 
 ' Half pettishly she answered, ' because I 
 like some imes to be alone,' then, rising up 
 and turning toward me she asked if ' the 
 water still ran over the old mill thini in the 
 west woods just as it used to do, ' saying it it 
 did, she wished to see it. 'You can't go.' 
 she continued, addressing her husband, 'f 
 it is more than a mile, over fences and 
 plowed fields. ' 
 
 This was sufficient, for Mr. Douglass was 
 vei^ fastidious in all matters pertaining t.> 
 his dress, and had no fancy for soiliuL' his 
 white pants, or patent leathei'.s. So Cora 
 and I set off togetlier, while lie \\aikecl slow- 
 ly back to the village. Scarcely was he out 
 of sight, however, when seating herself be- 
 neath a tree, anil throwing herself flat upon 
 the groiuid, Cora announced her intention of | 
 not going any further. 
 
 ' I only wished to be alone. 1 l)reatlie so 
 much better, 'she said, and when I looked 
 inquiringly at her, she continued, ' never 
 mairyaman for his wcaltli, Lottie, unless 
 you wisli to become as liard, as wicked and 
 unhappy as I am. John Douglass is wortli 
 more than half a million, and yet J would 
 give ituu if I were the same little girl who, 
 six years ago, waded with you through the 
 snowdrifts to school on that stormy day. 
 J)o you remember what we ])layed that noon 
 and my foolisli remark that I wouhl marry 
 for money and diamonds ! Woe is mv, I've 
 won tlieui l)oth !' and her tears fell fast on 
 the sparkling gems whicii covered her slender 
 fingers. 
 
 Justthenlsaw in the distance a young 
 man wliom I knew to be Wiilter Beaumont. 
 He seemed to be approaching us. and wjieii 
 Coi'a becaine aware of that, siie .started \ip 
 anil gi-asping my arm, hurried away, saying, 
 as she cast backward a fearful giaiice, 'I 
 would rather die than meet him now. 1 am 
 not ])ropared. ' 
 
 Fur tiie remainder of the way we walked 
 on in s-ilene, until we reaclieil her mother's 
 gate, wliere we found her husliand waiting 
 for her. Bidding me good morning she 
 followed him slowly up the gravelleil walk 
 and I saw her no more until the following 
 Sabbath. It was a gloriously beautiful 
 
 mor;iing, and at an early hour the old brick 
 church was filled to overflowing, for Walter 
 liad many friends, and they came together 
 gladly to see him made a minister of God, 
 Du'ing the first part of the service he was 
 very pale, and his eye wandered very often 
 toManl the large, square pew where sat a 
 portly man and a beautiful aroung woman, 
 richly attired in sat'n and jewels. It had 
 c(j8t her a struggle to be there, but she felt 
 that she must look again on one whom she 
 had loved so much and so deeply wronged. 
 So she came, and tlie sight of him standing 
 there in his early manhood, hie soft brown 
 hair clustering about his brow, and his calm, 
 pale face ^^caring an expression almost an- 
 geli(.', Mas more than she could bear, and 
 leaning forward she kept her countenance 
 concealed from view until the ceremony was 
 ended, and Walter's clear, musical voice an- 
 nounced the closing hymn. Then she raised 
 her head, and her face, seen through the 
 folds of her costly veil, looked haggard and 
 ghastl}% as if a fierce storm of passion had 
 swept over I er. By the door she paused, 
 anil when the newly-ordained clergyman 
 passed out, she offered Jiim her hand, the 
 iiand which, when he held it last, was 
 pledged to him. There were diamonds on it 
 now — diamonds of value rare, but their 
 brightness was hateful to that wretched wo- 
 man, for she knew at what a fearful price 
 they biul been bougiit. 
 
 They did not meet again, and only once 
 more did Walter see her ; then, from our 
 door, he looked out upon her as with her 
 husband she dashed by on horseback, her 
 long cloth skirt almost sweeping the ground, 
 and the plumes of her velvet cap waving in 
 the air. 
 
 'Mrs. Douglass is a fine rider, 'was all 
 Walter said, and the tone of his voice indi- 
 cated that she was becoming to him an ob- 
 ject of indifference. Desuerately had he 
 fouglit wii,h his affection for her, winning the 
 victory at last, and noM' the love he once had 
 felt for her was slowly and surely dying out. 
 The next week, tiring of our dull vdlage 
 life, C.^raleft us, going to Nahant, where 
 she spent most of the summer, and 
 when in the ^^ inter we heard from her 
 again, she was a widow— the sole heir of her 
 husband who had dicij suddenly, and gener- 
 (jusly left her that for which she married 
 him -liis money. 
 
 'Will Waijer Beaumont marry Cora 
 now ?' I asked niy.«elf many a time, witlK)ut, 
 hawever, arriving at any definite conclusion, 
 when a little more than a year succeeding 
 Mr. Douglass's death, she wrote, begging me 
 to come to her, as she was very lonely, mmI 
 the presence of an old friend would do her 
 
 i 
 
 Bu 
 
 solutj 
 order! 
 it atf 
 
 ing ail 
 
 al liv, 
 
 monti 
 
 That 
 
 the ft 
 
 to wal 
 
 oursof 
 
 in will 
 
 t'ntenl 
 
 mark 
 
 there 
 
 'Le 
 one I 
 our .sel 
 
 Scail 
 ; Of satif 
 
 • 
 
I 
 
 DIAMONDS. 
 
 ! old brick 
 for Walter 
 le together 
 er of God, 
 ice he was 
 
 very often 
 vhere sat a 
 iig woman, 
 Is. It had 
 ut she felt 
 
 whom she 
 f wronged, 
 n standing 
 soft brown 
 ad his calm, 
 
 almost an- 
 l bear, and 
 countenance 
 remony was 
 cal voice an- 
 (U she raised 
 
 through the 
 
 haggard and 
 
 passion had 
 
 she paused, 
 d clergyman 
 3V hand, the 
 
 it last, was 
 ian.onds on it 
 ^, but their 
 wretclied wo- 
 
 fearful price 
 
 nd only once 
 en, from our 
 • as with her 
 orseback, her 
 ;g the ground, 
 cap waving in 
 
 rider,' was all 
 lis voice indi- 
 to him an ob- 
 iitelv had he 
 r, winning the 
 ve he once had 
 ely dying out. 
 xr dull vdlage 
 S'^ahaut, where 
 summer, and 
 iard from her 
 sole heir of her 
 Jily, and gener- 
 ;h she married 
 
 marry Cora 
 1 time, without, 
 nite conclusion, 
 tear succeeding 
 ote, begging me 
 cry lonely, ;<'."l 
 ud would do her 
 
 good. I complied with her request, and 
 withiu in a few days was an inmate of her 
 luxurious home, where every thins indicated 
 the wealth of its possessor. And Cora, 
 though robed in deepest black, was more 
 life herself, more like the Cora of other 
 days, than I had seen her before since her 
 marriage. Of her husband she spoke freely 
 and always with respect, saying he had been 
 kinder far to her than she had deserved. Of 
 Walter, too, she talked, appearing much 
 ^'ratified when I told her hnw he was loved 
 uid appreciated by his people. 
 
 One morning when we sat together in 
 her little sewing room she said, 'I 
 have done what you perhaps, will 
 consider a very unwomanly act. I have 
 written to Walter Beaumont. Look,' and 
 she placed in my hand a letter, which she 
 b^de mo read. It was a wild, strange 
 thing, tilling him of the anguish she h; d 
 endured, of the tears she had shed, of the 
 love v,hich thiough all she had cherished for 
 him, and begging of him to forgive her if 
 possible, and be to her again what he had 
 been years ago, Siie was not worthy of him, 
 she sr.id, buc he could make her better, and 
 in language the most touching, she besought 
 of him not to cast her oil', or despise her be- 
 cause she had steppetl so far aside from 
 womanly delicacy as to write to him this 
 letter. ' I will not insult you,' she wrote in 
 conclusion, 'by telling you of the money for 
 which I sold myself, but it is mine now, law- 
 fully mine, and most gladly would I share it 
 with you. ' 
 
 ' You will not send him this ?' I said. 
 < You cannot be in earnest ?' 
 
 But she was determined, and lest her re- 
 solution should give way, she rang the bell, 
 ordering the servant who appeared to take 
 it at once to the office. He obeyed, and 
 >Uiring the day she was unusually gay, sing- 
 ing snatches of old songs, and playing sever- 
 al lively airs upon her piano, which for 
 months had stood unopened and untouched. 
 That evening, when the sun went down and 
 the full moon rose over the city, she asked n;e 
 to walk with her, and vre, ere long, found 
 ourselves several streets distant from Uiat 
 in which she lived. Groups of people were 
 entering a church near by, and from a re- 
 mark which we overheard, we learned that 
 there was to be a wedding. 
 
 ' Let us go in, ' she said, ' it may be some 
 one I know, " and entering together, we took 
 our seats just in front of the altar* 
 
 Scareely were we tieated when a rustling 
 of satin announced the approach of the 
 
 bridal party, and in a moment they appeared 
 moving slowly up the aisle. My first atten- 
 tion was directed toward the bride, a beauti- 
 ful young creature, with a fair sweet face, 
 and curls of golden hair falling over her 
 white, uncovered neck. 
 
 * Isn't she lovely ?' I whispered ; but C5or» 
 did not hear me. 
 
 With her hands lucked tightly together, 
 her lips firmly compressed and her cheeks 
 of an ashen hue, she was gazing fixedly at 
 the bridegroom, on whom I, too, now looked, 
 starting quickly, for it was our minister, 
 Walter Beaumont 1 The words were few 
 which made them one, Walter and the 
 young girl at his side, and then the cere- 
 mony was over. Cora arose, and leaning 
 heavily upon my arm, went out into the 
 open air, and on through street after street, 
 until her home was reached. Then, without 
 a wtrd, we parted — I going to my room, 
 while she, through the live-long night paced 
 up and down the long parlours where no 
 eye could witness the working of the mighty 
 sorrow which had come upon her. 
 
 The next morning she was calm, but very, 
 very pale, saying not a word of last night's 
 adventure. Neither did she speak of it for 
 several days, and then she said, rather ab- 
 ruptly, ' I would give all I possess if I had 
 never sent that letter. The mortif cation is 
 harder to bear even than W^alter's loss. But 
 he v. ill not tell of it, I'm sure. He is too 
 good — too noble, 'and tears, the first she 
 had shed since that night, rained through 
 her thin, worn fingers. It came at last 
 — a letter bearing Walter's super- 
 Bcription,ard with trembling hands she open- 
 ed it, finding, as she had expected, his wed- 
 ding card, while on a tiny sheet was written, 
 'God pity you, Cora, even as I do — Walter.' 
 
 * Walter ! Walter 1' she whispered, and 
 her quivering lips touched once the loved 
 name which she was never heard to breathe 
 again. 
 
 From that day Cora Douglass faded, and 
 when the autumnal days were come, and the 
 distant hills were bathed in the hazy October 
 light, she died. But not in the noisy city, 
 for she had asked to be taken home, and in 
 the pleasant room where we had often sat to- 
 gether, she had bade me her last good-by. 
 Tliey buried her on the Sabbath, and Walter's 
 voice was sad and low as with Cora's coffin 
 at his feet he preached from the words, ' I 
 am the Resurrection and the life.' His young 
 wife, too, wept over the early d'^ad, who had 
 well-nigh been her rival, and whose beauti- 
 ful face wore a calm, peaceful smile, as if she 
 were at rest. 
 
DIAMONDS. 
 
 h 
 
 There was a will, they said, and in it 
 iV alter was generously remembered, while 
 to his wife was given an ivory box, contain- 
 ing Cora's diamonds — necklace, bracelets, pin 
 and ear-rings— all were there ; and Walter, 
 
 as ke looked upon them, drew nearer to hin> 
 his fair girl-wife, who but for these, might 
 not, perchance, have been to him what ih > 
 was — his dearest earthly treasure. 
 
 THX END. 
 
 >*.? .1 
 
 fi^ 
 
i 
 
 larer to him 
 iieae, might 
 n what ih ; 
 
 Is/L^^GrOrTMl LEE. 
 
 The usually quiet little village of Ellerton 
 was, one June morning, thrown into a state 
 of great excitement by the news that the 
 large stone building on the hill, which, for 
 several years had been shut up, was at last 
 to have an occupant, and that said occupant 
 was no less a personage than its owner, 
 Graham Thornton, who, at the early age of 
 twenty- eight, had been chosen to fill the re- 
 sponsible office of judge of the county. 
 Weary of city life, and knowing that'a home 
 in the country would not materially interfere 
 with the discharge of his new duties, par- 
 ticularly as Ellerton was within half an hour's 
 ride of the city, young Thornton had con- 
 ceived the idea of fitting up the old stone 
 house, bequeathed to him by his grandfather 
 in a style suited to his abundant means and 
 luxurious tastes. Accordingly, for several 
 weeks, the people of Ellerton were kept in a 
 constant state of anxiety, watching, wonder- 
 ing and guessing, especially Miss Olivia 
 Macey, who kept a small store in the out- 
 skirts of the village, and whose fertile ima- 
 gination supplied whatever her neighbours 
 lacked in actual knowledge of the proceed- 
 ings at " Greystone Hall," as Judge Thorn- 
 ton called his place of residence. 
 
 At last, every thing was completed, and 
 the day appointed for the arrival of the 
 Judfije, who, disliking confusion, had never 
 once been near his house, but after a few 
 general directions, had left the entire arrange' 
 ment of the building and grounds to the 
 management of one whom he km w to be a 
 connoisseur in such matters. As was very 
 natural, a great deal of curiosity was felt 
 concerning the arrival of the distinguished 
 stranger, and as his mother, a proud, state- 
 ly woman, was to accompany him, Mias 
 Olivia Macey, who boasted of having once 
 been aschoolmate of the haughty lady, resolv- 
 ed upon meeting them at the depot, think- 
 ing she should thereby show them proper re- 
 spect. 
 
 * So Maggie,' said she to her neice, a dark- 
 haired, white-browed girl of fifteen, who, at 
 at noon, came bounding in from school, ' so 
 
 Maggie, you must watch the store,for there's 
 no knowing how long I shall be gone. Miss 
 Thornton may ask me home with her, and it 
 would not be polite to refuse.' 
 
 For an instant Maggie's dark brown evyes 
 danced with mischief as she thought how 
 improbable it was that the lofty Mrs. Thorn- 
 ton would seek to renew her acquaintance 
 with one in Miss Macey 's humble position, 
 but the next moment they filled with tears, 
 and she said, ' Oh, aunt, must I stay from 
 school again? It is the third time within a 
 week. I never shall know anything !' 
 
 * Never mind, Mag, ' shouted little Ben, 
 tossing his cap across the room and helping 
 himself to the largest piece of pie upon the 
 dinner-table. 'Nevermind. I'll stay with 
 you, for I don't like to go to school anyway. 
 And we'll get our lessons at home. ' 
 
 Maggie knew how useless it would be to 
 argue the point, so with a dejected air she 
 seated herself at the open window and silent- 
 ly watched her aunt until she disappeared 
 in the distance — then taking up her book, 
 she tried to study, but could not, for the 
 heavy pain at her heart which kept whisper- 
 ing of injustice done to her, unconsciously, 
 perhaps, by the only mother she had ever 
 known. Very dear to Miss Macey were the 
 orphan children of her only sister, and faith- 
 fully did she strive to fulfil her trust, but she 
 could not conceal the partiality for fun-loving 
 curly-haired Ben, nor the fact that the sensi- 
 tive and ambitious Maggie, who thirsted for 
 knowledge, was wholly unappreciated and 
 misunderstood. Learning — learning was 
 what Maggie craved, and she sat there alone 
 that bright June afternoon, holdiniJ upon 
 her lap the head of lier sleeping brother, and 
 watching the summer shadows as they chased 
 each other over the velvety errass in the 
 meadow beyond, she wondered if it would be 
 ever thus with her— would there never come 
 a time when she could pursue her studies un- 
 disturbed, and then, as the thought that 
 this day made her fifteen years of age, her 
 mind went forward to the future, and she 
 said aloud — 'Yes— three years from to-day 
 
MAfJCJiE LEE. 
 
 ii 
 
 1 1 
 
 ami I shall be free— free as theairl breathe !' 
 
 But why that start, sweet Maggie Lee ? 
 Why that involuntary shudder us you think 
 of the long three years from now ? She cannot 
 tell, but the shadows deepened on her fair, 
 girlish face, and loaning her brow upon her 
 hand, she tliinks long and earnestly of what 
 the tlnee years may bring. A footstep on 
 tiie floor— the first which has fallen that 
 afternoon — and Maggie looks up to sec before 
 her a tall, fine-looking man, who, the mo- 
 ment his eyes fell upon her, checked the 
 whistle, intended for his dog, which was 
 trembling on hia lip, and lifting his hat 
 deferentially, he asked if ' this were Miss 
 Macey's store ? 
 
 '\e8, sir, ' answered Maggie, and laying 
 Beunie gently down, she went around behind 
 the counter, while the young man, gazing 
 curiously at her, continued, ' You surely are 
 jiot Miss M cey ?' 
 
 There was a most comical expression in 
 the hrown eyes which met tlie black ones of 
 the stranger, as Maggie answeied, ' No sir, 
 I am nobody but Niaggie Lee.' 
 
 'I'here must lutvc l)oensoniething attractive 
 cither in tlie iiaiiic or tlie little maiden who 
 bore it, for lonj,' ;iftur the gentlenuui had re- 
 ceived the article for which lie came, he 
 linger> d, asking the young girl numberless 
 (piestions and playing with little Ben, who, 
 now wide awake, met his advances more 
 than half way', and wad on perfectly familiar 
 terms both with tlie stranger and the dog 
 Ponto, who had stretched his shaggy length 
 before the door. 
 
 ' Mag cries, she does, when Aunt Livy 
 makes her stay home from school,' said Ben, 
 at last, 1 egiiiniug to feel neglected and wisli- 
 ing to attract attention. 
 
 Showing his white, handsome teeth, the 
 gentleman playfully smoothed tiie silken 
 curls of little Ben. and turning to the blush- 
 ing Maggie, asked ' if she were fond of 
 books ?' 
 
 ' Oh, I love them so much,' was the frank, 
 impulsive answer, and ere ten minutes had 
 passed away, Jud^^e Thornton, for he it was, 
 understood Maggie's character as well as if 
 he had known her a lifetime. 
 
 Books, poetry, music, paintings, flowers, 
 she worsliipped them all, and without the 
 slightest means either of gratifying her taste. 
 
 ' I have in my liltrarv many choice books, 
 to which you are welcome at any time when 
 you will call at (ircystone Hall,' the stranger 
 said at last. 
 
 ' Greystone Hall !' gasped Maggie, the I 
 little red spots coming out all ovi r her neck 
 and face— 'Greystone Hall !— tlun you must 
 
 * Judge Thornton, and your friend here- 
 
 after, ' answered the gentleman, offering his 
 hanl and bidding her good-by. 
 
 There are moments which leave their im- 
 press upon one's lifetime, changing instant- 
 aneously, as it were, our thoughts and feel- 
 ings, aiid"such an one had come to Maggie 
 Lee, who was roused from a deep reverie bv 
 the shrill voice of heraunt, exclaimed, 'Well, 
 I've been on a Torn -fool's errand once in my 
 life. Here I've waited in that hot depot 
 over two trains, and heard at the last min- 
 ute that Mrs. Thornton and her son came up 
 last night, and I hain't seen them after all. 
 It's too bad.' 
 
 Very quiet Maggie told of the judge's call, 
 repeating all the particulars of the interview; 
 then stealing away to her chamber, she 
 thought again, wondering where and what 
 she would be three years from that day. 
 
 A year had passed away, and Graham 
 Thornton, grown weary of his duties, has re- 
 sigiieil the office of judge, and turned scl ool- 
 teacher, so the gossipping villagers say, and 
 with some degree of truth, for regularly each 
 day Maggie Lee and Ben go up to Greystone 
 Hall, where they recite their lessons to its 
 owner, though always in the presence of its 
 lady mistress, who has taken a strange fancy 
 to 5laggie Lee, and whose white liands has 
 more than once rested caressingly on tlie 
 dark, glos.sy hair of the yoiing girl. To 
 a causal observer, the ]Maggie of sixteen is 
 little changed from the Maggie of fifteen 
 years ; but to him, her teacher, she is not 
 tlie same, for while in some respects she is 
 more a woman and less a child, in everything 
 pertaining to himself she is far more a: child 
 th.an when first he met her one short year 
 ago. Then there was about her a certain 
 self-reliance, which is now all gone, and he 
 who has looked so often into the thoughts 
 and feelings of the childish heart knows he 
 can sway her at his will. 
 
 ' But 'tis only a girlish friendship she feels 
 for him, ' he says ; ' only a brotherly interest 
 he entertains for her ;' and so day after day 
 slie comes to his library, and on a low stool, 
 her accustomed seat at his side, she drinks 
 in new inspirations with which to feed 
 that girlish friendship, while he, gazing down 
 into her soft, brown, dreamy eyes, feels 
 more and more how necessary to his happi- 
 ness is her daily presence there. And if 
 sometimes the man of the world asks him- 
 self ' where nil this will end ?' his conscience 
 is (juieted by the answer that Maggie Lee 
 merely feels toward him as she would any 
 person who had done her a like favour. • So 
 all through the bright summer days and 
 through the hazy autumn time, Maggie 
 dreams on, perfectly happy, though she 
 
 4 
 if: 
 
 knov 
 of 1 
 only 
 of fn 
 spot 
 ever 
 leive 
 VV; 
 sons 
 was t 
 \voul( 
 'I 
 gie, a 
 wiiicl 
 miss ] 
 met, 
 visitii 
 'Ai 
 asked 
 'Or 
 a beai 
 best n 
 ed M 
 Maggi 
 felt a ( 
 heart. 
 Alas 
 long si 
 future 
 walks I 
 trampl 
 have n 
 blot oi 
 Poor, 
 blautif 
 when i 
 locks o 
 blue, si 
 spacioii 
 their el 
 melod.^ 
 does 
 thoughl 
 the half 
 heard?' 
 world, 
 very dt 
 Bible till 
 you th( 
 still lo^ 
 tion h< 
 mother I 
 love, ai 
 knee cal 
 deem y^ 
 ; and nc 
 ; does no| 
 and Hell 
 her old 
 Grahaml 
 looks sol 
 to read 
 
 J 
 
MAOaiK LEE. 
 
 offering his 
 
 e their im- 
 iig iiistant- 
 :s ami feel- 
 e to Maggie 
 i reverie bv .;■ 
 ned, 'Well, 
 once in my 
 hot ilepot 
 le last niin- 
 3on came up 
 em after all. 
 
 jiulge's call, 
 le interview; 
 hamber. she 
 ire and what 
 
 [lat dav. 
 
 * « 
 
 i,nd Graham 
 Litics, hasre- 
 irned scl ool- 
 era »ay, and 
 egularly each 
 to Greystone 
 lessons to its 
 esence of its 
 strange fancy 
 te IjiUids has 
 nnyly on the 
 g girl. To 
 of sixteen is 
 of fifteen 
 she is not 
 spects she is 
 in everything 
 more ar child 
 e short year 
 her a certain 
 gone, and he 
 the thoughts 
 ut knows he 
 
 ship she feels 
 herly interest 
 ay after day 
 I a low stool, 
 lo, she drinks 
 hich to feed 
 , gazing down 
 y eyes, feels 
 to his happi- 
 iere. And if 
 Id asks hini- 
 his conscience 
 Maggie Lee 
 he would any 
 Le favour, -So 
 mer days and 
 time, Maggie 
 r, though she 
 
 11 
 
 k\ 
 
 ,t 
 
 knows not why, for never yet has a thought 
 of Ice for him enteren her soul. She 
 only knows that he to her is the dearest, best 
 of friends, and (ilreystone Hall the loveliest 
 spot on earth, but the wish that she might 
 ever be its mistress has never been con- 
 loived. 
 
 With the coming of the holidays the les- 
 sons were suspended for a time, for there 
 was to be company at the hall, and its mast'sr 
 u'ouhl neod all his leisure. 
 
 ' I shall miss you so much, ' he said to Mag- 
 gie, as he walked with her across the fielcTs 
 which led to her humble home. ' I shall 
 Miiss you, but the claims of society must be 
 met, and these ladies have long talked of 
 visiting us.' 
 
 ' Are they younc; and handsome ?' Maggie 
 arfked involuntarily. 
 
 ' Only one — Miss Helen Deane is accounted 
 a beauty. She is an heiress, too, and the 
 best match iu all the city of L ,' answer- 
 ed Mr. Tiioruton, more to himself than 
 Maggie, who at the mention of Helen Deane 
 felt a cold shadow folding itself around her 
 heart. 
 
 Alas poor Maggie Lee. The world has 
 long since selected the proud Helen as the 
 future bride of Graham Tliornton, who, as he 
 walks slowly back across the snow-clad field, 
 tramples u))on the delica4;e footprints you 
 have made, and wishes it were thus easy to 
 blot out from his heart all memory of you ! 
 Poor, poor Maggie Lee, Helen Deane is 
 V)lautiful, far more beautiful than you, and 
 when in lier robes of purple velvet, with her 
 locks of golden hair shading her soft eyes of 
 blue, she flits like a sunbeam through the 
 spacious rooms of Greystone Hall, wakmg 
 their echoes with her voice of the richest 
 melody, what marvel if Graham Thornton 
 does pay her homage, and reserves all 
 thoughts of you for the midnight hour, when 
 the hall iS still and Helen's voice no longer 
 heard ? He is but a man — a man, too, of the 
 world, and so, though you, Maggie Lee, are 
 very clear to him, he does not think it pos- 
 sible that he can raise you to hisrank — make 
 you the honoured mistress of his home, and 
 still lower himself not an iota from the sta- 
 tion he has ever filled. And though his 
 mother loves you, too, 'tis not with a mother's 
 love, and should children ever climb her 
 knee calling her son their sire, she would 
 deem you a governess befitting such as they, 
 and nothing more. But all this Maggie 
 ' does not know, and when the visiting is over 
 . and Helen Deane is gone, she goes oack to 
 her old place and sits again at the feet of 
 Graham Thornton, never wondering why he 
 looks so oft into her eyes of brown, trying 
 to read there that he has not wronged her. 
 
 Another year has parsed, and with the 
 light of the full moon shining down upon 
 him, Graham Thornton walks again with 
 Maggie Lee across the fields where now the 
 summer grass is growing. The foot-prints 
 in last winter's snow have passed away just 
 as the light will go out from Maggie's heart 
 when Graham Thornton shall have told the 
 story he hasconie with herto tell. With quiver- 
 ing lips and bloodless cheek she listered 
 while he told her indiflerently, as if it were 
 a piece of news she had probably heard 
 before, that when the next full moon should 
 shine on Greystone Hall, Helen Deane would 
 be there — his bride ! 
 
 * This, of course, will effectually break up 
 our pleasant meetings,' he continued, look- 
 ing everywhere save in Maggie's face. ' And 
 this I regret — but my books are still at your 
 disposal. You will like Helen, I think, and 
 will call on her ot course.' 
 
 They had reached the little gate, and, tak- 
 ing Maggie's hand, he would have detained 
 her for a few more parting words, but she 
 broke away, and in reply to his last question, 
 hurriedly answered, ' Yes, yes.' 
 
 The next moment he was alone — alone in 
 the bright moonlight. The door was shut. 
 There was a barrier between himself and 
 Maggie Lee, a barrier his own hands had 
 built, and never again, so long as he lived, 
 would Graham Thornton's conscience V)e at 
 rest. Amid all the pomp of her bridal day — 
 at the hour when, resplendent with beauty, 
 Helen stood by his side at the holy altar, 
 breathed the vows which made his forever — 
 amid the gay festivites which followed, and 
 noisy mirth which for days pervaded his 
 home, there was ever a still, small voice 
 which whispered to him of the great wrong 
 he had done to Maggie Lee, who never again 
 was seen at Greystone Hall. 
 
 Much the elder Mrs. Thornton marvelled 
 at her a hence, and once when her carriage 
 was rolling past the door of the little store, 
 she bade her coachman stop, while she her- 
 self went in to ask if her favourite was ill. 
 Miss Olivia's ea ly call at Greystone Hall 
 had never been returned and now she bowed 
 coldly and treated her visiter with marked 
 reserve, until she learned why she had come, 
 then, indeed, her manner changed, but she 
 could not tell her how, on the night when 
 Graham Thornton had cruelly torn the veil 
 from Maggie's heart, leaving it crushed and 
 broken, she had found her long after mid- 
 night out in the tall, damp grass, where, in 
 the wild abandonment of grief she had 
 thrown herself ; nor how, in a calmer mo- 
 ment she had told her sad story, exonerat- 
 ing him irom wrong, and blaming only her. 
 
MAGGIE LEB. 
 
 iielf for not having learned sooner how much 
 she loved one so far above her, so she simply 
 answered, ' Yes, she took a violent cold and 
 has been sick for weeks. Her mother died 
 of consumption ; I'm afraid Maggie will fol- 
 low.' 
 
 ' Poor girl, to die so young,' sighed Mrs. 
 Thornton, as she returned to her carriage 
 and was driven back to Greystone hall, 
 where, in a recess of the window Gra- 
 ham sat, his arm around his wife, and his 
 fingers playing with the curls of her golden 
 hair. 
 
 But the hand dropped nervously at his side 
 when his mother startled him with the news 
 that ' Maggie Lee was dying. ' Very wond- 
 eringly the large blue eyes of Helen followed 
 him, as, feigning sudden faintness, he fled 
 out into the open air, which, laden through 
 it was with the perfume of the summer 
 flowers, had yet no power to quiet the voice 
 within which told him that if Maggie died, 
 he alone was guilty of her death. • But 
 whatever I can do to atone for my error shall 
 be done,' he thought at last, and until the 
 cold Nevem)>er wind had blasted the last 
 bud, the choicest fruit and flowers which 
 gi-ew at Greystone Hall daily found entrance 
 to the chamber of the sick girl, who would 
 sonietinies pi\^h them away, as if there still 
 lingered amoiig them the atmosphere they 
 had breathed. 
 
 ' They remind me so much of the past that 
 I can not endure them in mv presence, ' she 
 said one day, when her aunt brought her a 
 beautiful bouquet, composed of her favourite 
 flowers, and the hot tears rained over the 
 white, wasted face, as she ordered them from 
 the room. 
 
 Much she questioned both her aunt and 
 Bennie of her rival, whose beauty was the 
 theme of the whole village, and once, when 
 told that she was passing, she hastened to 
 the window, but her cheek grew whiter still, 
 and her hands clasped each other involun- 
 tarily as she saw by the side of the fair Helen 
 the form of Graham Thornton. They both 
 were looking towards her window, and as 
 Helen met the burning gaze, she exclaimed, 
 ' Oh, Graham, it is terrible. It makes me 
 faint, ' and shudderingly she drew nearer to 
 her husband, who, to his dying hour, never 
 forgot the wild, dark eyes wliich looked 
 dovn so reproachfully upon him tliat mem- 
 orable M'intry day. 
 
 * ♦ ♦ « * « • 
 
 _ Three years have passed away since the 
 time when first we met with I.Taggie Lee- 
 three years which seemed so long to her then, 
 wid which have brought her so much pain! 
 She has witched tlie snow and ice as they 
 meltft.l from off the hill-aide. She has seen 
 
 the grass spring up by the open door— h s 
 heard the robin singing in the old oak tree- 
 has felt the summer air upon her cheek. 8hc 
 has reached her eighteenth birtbday,and ere 
 another sun shall rise will indeed be free. 
 
 ' Oh, I cannot see her die, ' cried poor little 
 Ben, when he saw the pallor stealing over 
 her face, and running out into the yard he 
 threw himself upon the grass, sobbing bit- 
 terly, 'My sister, oh, my sister.' 
 
 ' Is she worse ?* said the voice of Graham 
 Thornton. 
 
 He was passing in the street and had 
 heard the wailing cry. Ben knew that in 
 some way Judge Thornton was connected 
 with his grief, but be answered respectfully, 
 ' She is dying. Oh, Macgie, Maggie. 
 What shall I do without hor ?' 
 
 ' You shall live with me,' answered Mr. 
 Thornton. 
 
 'Twas a sudden impulse, and thinking the 
 assurance that her brother should be thus 
 provided for would be a comfort to the dying 
 girl, he glided noiselessly into the sick room. 
 But she did not know him, and falling on 
 his knees by her side, he wept like a little 
 child. ' She was sleeping, ' they said, at 
 last, and lifting up his head, he looked upon 
 her as she slept, while a fear, undefined and 
 terrible, crept over him, she lay so still and 
 motionless. At length rising to his feet, he 
 bent him down so low that his lips touched 
 hers, and then, without a word, he went out 
 from her presence, for he knew that Maggie' 
 Lee was dead ! 
 
 The next day, at sunset they buried her 
 in the valley where the mound could always 
 be seen from the window of Graham Thorn- 
 ton's room, and, as with folded arms and 
 aching heart he stood by, while they lowered 
 the coffin to its resting-place, he felt glad 
 that it was so. ' It will make me a better 
 man, ' he thought, ' for when evil passions 
 rise, and I am tempted to do wrong, I have 
 only to look across the fields towards the 
 little grave which but for me would not have 
 been made so soon, and I shall be strength- 
 ened to do what is right. ' 
 
 Slowly and sadly he walked away, going 
 back to his home, where, in a luxuriously 
 furnished chamber, on a couch whose silken 
 hangings swept the floor, lay his wife, and 
 near her his infant daughter, that day foul 
 weeks ot age. As yet she had no name, and 
 when the night had closed upon them, and 
 it was (lai'k within the room, Graham Thorn- 
 ton drew his chair to the side of his wife.and 
 in low, subdued tones, told her of the fair 
 young girl that day buried from his sight. 
 Helen was his wife, a gentle, faithful wife, 
 and he could not tell her how much he had 
 loved Mafpie Lee. and that but for his fool* 
 
 
 
 * 
 % 
 
MAGGIE LEE. 
 
 loor— h s 
 Ak tree— 
 .eek. She 
 ^^and ere 
 I free. 
 }Oor little 
 ling over 
 » yard he 
 tbing bit- 
 
 f Graham 
 
 and had 
 w that in 
 connected 
 pectfuUy, 
 
 Maggie, 
 
 rered Mr. 
 
 nking the 
 
 A be thus 
 
 the dying 
 
 sick room. 
 
 falling on 
 
 le a little 
 
 f said, at 
 
 oked upon 
 
 efined and 
 
 still and 
 
 [is feet, he 
 
 touched 
 
 . went out 
 
 at Maggie-' 
 
 juried her 
 Id always 
 m Thorn- 
 arms and 
 ey lowered 
 
 felt glad 
 le a better 
 
 passions 
 I have 
 wards the 
 
 not have 
 
 strength - 
 
 ish pride she would perhaps at that moment 
 tiave been where Helen was, instead of sleep- 
 ing in her early grave. Xo, he could not tell 
 her this, but lie told her Magg e had been 
 very dear to him, and that he feared it was 
 for the love of him that she had died. ' I 
 wronged lier, Nellie, darlinsr,' he said, smooth- 
 ing the golden tresses which lay upon the 
 piUow. • I broke her heart, and now that 
 slie is gone [ would honour her memory by 
 .ailing our tirat-born daughter Maggie Lee. 
 "Pis a beautiful name,' he continued, 'and 
 \<>u will not refuse my re(juest. ' 
 
 There was much of pride in Helen Thorn- 
 ton's nature, and she did refuse, for days and 
 fven weeks ; but when she saw the shadows 
 deepened on the brow of her husband, who 
 would stand for hours looking out through 
 the open window towards the valley where 
 slept the village dead, and when the mother, 
 in pity of her son, joined also in the request, 
 she yielded ; and, as if the sacrifice were 
 accepted and the atonement geod, the first 
 smile which ever dimpled the infant's cheek, 
 played on itsmouth,a3 with its large, strange, 
 bright eyes fixed upon its father's face, it 
 
 was baptized ' Maggie Lee. ' 
 
 *# * * » » ♦ 
 
 Four years of sunshine and storm hare 
 fallen upon Maggie's grave, where now a 
 costly marble stands, while the handsome 
 iron fence and the well-kept grounds within 
 show that some hands of love is often busy 
 there. In a distant city Ben is striving to 
 overcome his old dislike for books, and seek- 
 ing to make himself what he knows his sister 
 would wish him to be. At home, the little 
 
 store has been neatly fitted up, and Miss 
 Olivia sits all the day long in her pleasant 
 parlour, feeling sure that tlie faithful cleik 
 behind the counter will discharge his duties 
 well. Greystonc Hall is beautiful as ever, 
 with its handsome rooms, its extensive 
 grounds, its winding walks, its bubbling 
 fountains and its wealth of flowers, but there 
 is H shadow over all— a plague-spot which 
 has (jaten into the lieart of Graham Thorn- 
 ton, and woven many a thread of silver 
 among his raven locks. It has bent the 
 stately form of his lady mother, and his once 
 gay-hearted wife wanders with a strange un- 
 rest from room to room, watching over the 
 uncertain footsteps of their only child, whose 
 large, dark eyes, so much like those which, 
 four long years ago flashed down on Helen 
 their scrutinizging gaze, are darkened for- 
 ever, for little Maggie Lee is blind ! 
 
 They are getting somewhat accustomed to 
 it now — accustomed to calling her their 
 • poor, blind bird, ' but the blow was crush- 
 ing when first it came, and on the grave in 
 the valley, Graham Thornton more than once 
 laid his forehead in the dust, and cried, 'My 
 punishment is greater than I can bear.' 
 
 But He • who doeth all things well, ' has 
 in a measure healed the wound, throwing so 
 much of sunshine and of joy around her, who 
 never saw the glorious light of day, that 
 with every morning's dawn and every even- 
 ing's shade, the fond parents bless their little 
 blind girl, and angel of their home. 
 
 THE BMD. 
 
 ray, going 
 ixuriously 
 3se silken 
 
 wife, and 
 t day foul 
 name, and 
 
 lem, and 
 im Thorn- 
 8 wife, and 
 
 f the fair 
 
 his sight. 
 
 iful wife, 
 ;h he liad 
 his fool- 
 
 y 
 
 
THE ANSWERED PRAYER. 
 
 if! 
 
 I 
 
 All clay long the canary bird had sung un- 
 lieeded in his gilded cage by the door, and 
 the robin had carolled unheard by his nest in 
 the tall maple tree, while the soft summer air 
 and the golden rays of the warm June sun en- 
 tered unnoticed through the open windows of 
 the richly furnished rooms, where a pale 
 oung mother kept her tireless watch by the 
 jedside of her only chikl, a beautiful boy, 
 three summers old. For many days he liad 
 hovered between life and death, v'iiile she, 
 his mother, had hung over him with speech- 
 less agony, terril)le to Ijehold in oneso young, 
 so fair as she. He was her all, tlie onlj hap- 
 piness she knew, for poor Liua Hastings was 
 an unloving wife, wlio never yet luiil felt a 
 thrill of joy at the sound of her husband's 
 voice, and when occasionally his broad hand 
 rested fondly Ui.oii her flowing curls, wliile 
 he wiiispercd in her ear liow dear she was to 
 him, his words awoke no answering chord of 
 love. 
 
 How came she then his wife— and the 
 mistress of his princely home ? Alas ! wealth 
 was then the god which Lina Moore worship- 
 ped, and when Ralph II istings, with his un- 
 couth form and hundreds of thousands asked 
 her to be his wife, she stiHed the better feel- 
 ings of her nature which prompted her to 
 tell him No, and with a gleam of pride in 
 her deep blue eyes, and a deeper glow upon 
 her check,sheoneday passed from the bright 
 sunshine of heaven into the sombre gloom of 
 the gray old church, whence she came forth 
 Lina Hastings, shuddering even as she heard 
 that name, and slirinking involuntarily from 
 the caresses which the newly made husband 
 bestowed upon her. And so the love she 
 withheld from him was given to the child 
 who now lay motionless and white as the 
 costly linen on which his golden curls were 
 streaming. 
 
 All day she had watched him, for they 
 told her that if he lived until the sun setting, 
 there was hope, and as the hours wore on and 
 the long shadows, stretching to the eastward, 
 betokened the approach of night, oh, how in- 
 tense became the anxiety in her bosom. 
 
 Fainter and softer grew the sunlight on the 
 floor, and whiter grew the face oi the sleep* 
 ing boy. 'Twas the shadow of death, they 
 said, and with a bitter wail of woe, Lina fell 
 upon her knees, and as if she would compel 
 the God of Heaven to hear her, she shrieked, 
 'Spare my child. Let him live, and I will 
 bear whatsoever else of evil thou shalt send 
 upon me. AiHict me in any other way and I 
 can bear it, but spare to me my child.' 
 
 In mercy or in wrath, Lina Hastings' 
 prayer was answered. The pulse grew 
 stronger beneath her touch — the breath came 
 faster through the parted lips — a faint niois- 
 tu 'e was perceptible beneath the yellow curls, 
 and when tlie sun was set the soft eyes of 
 Eddie Hastings unclosed, and turned with a 
 look of recognition upon his mother, who, 
 clasping him in her arms, wept for joy, but 
 returned no word or tliought of gratitude 
 toward him Mdio had been thus merciful to 
 
 her. 
 
 ♦ «♦«•♦* 
 
 In a small brown cottage in a distant part 
 of the same village, another mother was 
 watching beside lier first-born, only son. 
 They had been friends in their girlhood, she 
 and Lina Hastings. Together they had 
 conned the same hard tasks — together they 
 had built their playhouse beneath the same 
 old chestnut tree — together, hand in hand, 
 had they wandered over the rocky hills and 
 through the shady woods of New Eng- 
 land, and at the same altar had they plight- 
 ed their marriage vows, the one to the man 
 she loved, the other to the man she tolerated 
 for the sake of his surroundings. From this 
 point their path diverged, Lina moving in 
 tlie sphere to which her husband's Avealth 
 had raised her, while Mabel Parkham one 
 sad morning awoke from her sweet dream 
 of bliss to find herself wedded to a drunkard ! 
 Only they who like her have experienced a 
 similar awakening, can know the bitterness 
 of that hour, aud yet methinks she was 
 happier than the haughty Lina, for her love 
 was no idle passion, and though weal and 
 woe she clung to her husband, living oft on 
 
THE ANSWKkEli PRAYER. 
 
 iffht on the 
 D? the aleep- 
 death, they 
 oe, Lina fell 
 )uld compel 
 he shrieked, 
 , and I will 
 u shalt send 
 sr way and I 
 child.' 
 [I Hastings' 
 pulse grew 
 breath came 
 a faint niois- 
 yellow curls, 
 soft eyes of 
 iriied with a 
 lother, who, 
 for joy, but 
 of gratitude 
 merciful to 
 
 distant part 
 mother was 
 
 only son. 
 jirlhood, she 
 
 they had 
 
 Dgether they 
 
 ith the same 
 
 md in hand, 
 
 ky hills and 
 
 New Eng- 
 
 they plight- 
 
 5 to the man 
 
 she tolerated 
 
 From this 
 a moving in 
 md's wealth 
 arkham one 
 sweet dream 
 :> a drunkard ! 
 xperienced a 
 18 bitterness 
 iks she was 
 for her love 
 ch w^al and 
 living oft on 
 
 thv. reiiieiiiltrance (>t' what he had been, and 
 liii! li('|tc ot wliat In; nii;L,'lit l)e auain, fvnd 
 whiii Iter little \\ ilhu v\ua lirtst laid u|ioii lier 
 Imihiiiii, I'nd Hhe felt her husband's tears upon 
 hi r .(hi . is lu! promised to reform for her 
 -lakf uii'i tor his Moii.s.sht; woiiul not have ex- 
 ( li aigetl lif^r lot with that of tlie proudest in 
 tii' hind. That vow, alas, was ero long 
 luiiken, sul then, though hIm! wept bitt<M'ly 
 over lii.s lull, sue felt that she wan not deso- 
 late, foi' there was music in her Willie's voire 
 and bunsliine in his presence. 
 
 Hut now he wiis dying, he was heaving 
 lier fori;ver. and slie thought of tlie long, dark 
 days \\ lien slio should look for liim in vain ; , 
 she staggered l)eiio;ith the heavy blow, and 
 ill tones as heart broken as those which liad 
 fallen from Lina Hastings' lips, slie pr:r -^d, 
 'It it be possilile let this cup pass from iue, " 
 adiliiig, 'Not my will, oh Goil, but thine l)e 
 done.' 
 
 • I will do all things well, 'seemed whisper- 
 uii III her ear, attd thus couifortcd she nerved \ 
 heisclt to meet the worst. All the day she ' 
 watclicd by her child, eluding his little 
 luiiids, smoothing his scanty pillow beneath 
 his iiead, Ik; thing his burning forehead, and ■ 
 forcing ilowu her liitter tears when in his 
 distiiriied sleep lu; would beg of his father to i 
 ' iiii .g hiiM an irange — a nice yellow orange i 
 — he was so dry,' 
 
 Alas, that lather wfts where the song of ' 
 til ' inebriate rose high on th.c summer air. 
 • ind he heard not the pleadinsis of his son. ; 
 'Twas a dreary, deso'ate room- where Willie 
 I'ari-ihani lay, and when the sun went down 
 and t!ie n ght shadmvs fell, it seemed darker, 
 dr^^ai ler still. On the rude table by the ; 
 wiiidi'W a. caiidK? dimly burned, but as the 
 luaiivs sped on it ilickeredawhile in its socket, 
 til' 11 for an instant flashed up, illuminating 
 the •■strangely beautiful face of the sleeping 
 boy, and went out. 
 
 An hour later, and Willie awoke Feel- 
 ing tor his mother's hand, he said, ' Tell mo 
 true, do drunkards go to heaven ?' 
 
 'There is foj- them no promise.' was tlie 
 wretched mother's answer. 
 
 'TlienJshall never see pa again. Tell 
 hiui good-by, go,;d-iiy foivver. ' 
 
 The next time he spulie it wa.s to ask his 
 mother to come near t<> him, that he might 
 see lier face once more. She did f»o, bending 
 low and and stitling her own great agony, 
 lest it should adrl nne pang to his dying 
 heiir. 
 
 • 1 cannot see you,' he wliis))ered, ' it is so 
 ilark — so dark." 
 
 Oh, what would not tiint tnother have given 
 tlieu lor one ol the lights "which gleamed 
 troiii the windows of the stately manviou 
 where Eddie Hastings was watched by care- 
 
 ful att'^ndants. But it could not be, an«l 
 when lit last the silvery moon-bcama came 
 strngLding through the open window and fell 
 upon the white brow of thu little bov they 
 rlid not rouge him, for a hir more olorioiis 
 light had dawned upon his immortal viaicn 
 — even the light of tiie Everlasting. 
 
 In her tasteful boudoir sat Lina Hastings, 
 ami at her side, on a silken lounge, lay Eddie, 
 calmly sleeping. Tlie crisis was past— she- 
 knew he wouhl live, and her cup of hap- 
 piness MRS full. Suddenly clie morning 
 stillness was broken by the sound of a tolling 
 bell. 'Twas the same which, but for God's 
 mercy, would at that moment, perhaps, have 
 tolled for her boy, and Lina involuntarily 
 shuddered as she listened to the strokes, 
 which, at first, were far between. Then 
 tliey came faster, and as Lina counted five, 
 she said aloud, ' 'Twas a *5hild but two years 
 older than Eddie. ' 
 
 Later in the day it 
 bereaved one was her 
 now she seldom met. 
 flown to Mabel's side, 
 
 came to her that the 
 early friend, whom 
 Once Lina would have 
 and poured into her 
 
 ear words of comfort, but her heart had 
 grown hard and selfish, and so she only said, 
 ' f oor Maoel, she utever was af fortunate as 
 I'- -and her eyes glanced proudly around 
 the elgantly-furuished room, falling at last 
 upon Eddie, whom she clasped to her bosom 
 passionately, but without thought of Him 
 who had decreed that not then should she be 
 
 written childless. 
 
 * * * « * 
 
 The humble funeral was over. The soft, 
 green turf had been broken, and the bright 
 .lune flowers had fallen beneath the old sex- 
 ton's spade as he dug the little grave where 
 Willie Parkham was laid to^rest. In the 
 drunkard's home there was again darkness 
 and a silence which would never be broken 
 by the prattle of the childish voice. Sober- 
 ed, )'e]ientant, and heartbroken, the wretch- 
 ed hither laid his head in the lap of his faith- 
 ful wife, beseeching ot her to pray that the 
 \ow that morning lireathed by Willie's coffin 
 aind renewed by Willie's grave might be 
 kept unbroken. And she did pray, prior 
 .Mabel. With her arms around the neck of 
 the wfeping man, she asked that this, her 
 great bereavement, might Vte sanetitied to 
 the salvation of her erring lii^sband. 
 
 • 1 will do all things well," again 
 whispei-ed in her ear, and Mabel felt 
 that Willie had not died in vain. 
 hard at fir.st for Robert Parkham to break 
 the cliains which bound him, but the re- 
 ineiiibcrance of Willie's touching message — 
 ' Tell pa good-bye, good-bye forever, ' w ould 
 lush to his mind whenever he essayed to 
 
 seemed 
 
 assured 
 
 'Twas 
 
THE ANSWKI:kD PHAVKR. 
 
 ill 
 
 'I! 
 
 S S-i 
 
 !;!i 
 
 (■ 
 
 tuk« the poisoQOUH howl, an<l thu» was lie 
 Hjived, and wh«ii tin? first ilay of a new y«ar 
 was ushered in, he Btood with Mabel at tiie 
 altar, and on liis nptiimeil hmw nncivcl tin- 
 I)apti8mal waier.s, while the niun of <ltul 
 broke to him the bread of life. Much that 
 iiiglit they niinKeil their child, and Mal)erM 
 tear» felllike rain upon the Hoft, chestnut 
 curls she had severed from his head, but as 
 she looked upon her huBl)and, now stront? 
 ii^aiu in his resorted manhood, she murmur- 
 ed—' it was for this tliut W illie died, and I 
 would not that it should be otherwise.' 
 
 • ♦ • • • 
 
 Fifteen years have jjassed away since the 
 day when Lina Hastings breathed thnt 
 almost imj)ious prayer- ' Send upon me any 
 evil but this,' and upon the deep blue weters 
 of the Pacific a ii(»l)le vessel lay l.ecalmed. 
 Kiercly the rays of a tropical sun poured 
 down upon her hardy crew, but they heeded 
 it not. With anxi("»Ms, frightened faces and 
 subdued step, they trod the deck, speaknig 
 in wiiispors of some dreaded event. There 
 had been mutiny on board that man-of-war 
 — a deep-laid plot to murder the command- 
 ing officers, and now, at the sunsetting, the 
 instigators, four in num^n'r, were to pay the 
 penalty of their crime. Three of them were 
 old anil hardened in sin, Init the fourth, the 
 fiercest spirit of all 'twas said, was young 
 and beautiful to look upon. In the brown 
 curls of his waving hair there were no tiireads 
 of silver, and on his brow there were no lines 
 save those of reckless dissipation, while his 
 beardless cheeKs was round and smooth as 
 that of a girl. Accustomed from his earliest 
 childhood to rule, he could not brook re- 
 straint, and when it was put upon him. he 
 had rebelled against it, stirring up strife. and 
 leading on his comrades, who, used as they 
 were to vice, marvelled that one so young 
 should be so deeply depravecl. 
 
 Tlie Bun was set. Darkness was upon the 
 mighty deep, and the waves moved by the 
 breeze which had sprung up, seemed to chant 
 a mournful dirge for the boy who, far below, 
 
 lay sleeping in a dishonoreJ ^rave, if gruvt 
 it can b« called, where 
 
 "The purple niulh.'t and gold fish rove, 
 
 W here the sea flowers ^pioails its leaves of 
 
 l)lue 
 Which never are wet with the falling dew, 
 Hut in bright and changetul beauty shine 
 Far doMii in the depths of the glassy laine. " 
 
 Over the surging billow and away to the 
 northw.'inl, other robins are singing in the 
 old n)aple-tree than those which sang there 
 years ago, wlien death seemed brooding o er 
 the place. Again the summer shadows fall 
 aslant the bright green lawn, and the soft 
 breeze laden with the perfume of a thousand 
 flowers, kiss the faded brow of Lina Hast- 
 ings, l»nt they bring no gladness to her ach- 
 ing heart, for hei' thoughts are afar on the 
 deep with the Wiiyward boy who, spurning 
 alike her words of love and censure, has 
 gone from her • to return no more forever.* 
 he saiil.for she felt in her bitter anger. For 
 three ye.irs the tali grass has grown over the 
 gi'a.ve of her husband, who to the last was 
 unloved, and now she ih alone in her splen- 
 did home, watching at the dawn of day and 
 watching at the hour oi eve for the return of 
 her son. 
 
 Alas. alas. tV>nd mother, Mabel Farkham 
 in her hour of trial.nevei" felt a throb of such 
 bitter agony as that which wrung your heart- 
 strings when first yon heard the dreadful 
 story of vour disgrace. There were days and 
 weeks of wild frenzy, during which she 
 Avould shriek ■ Would to Heaven he had 
 died that night when he was young and in- 
 nocent, 'and then she grew calm, sinking 
 nito a state of imbecility from which naught 
 had power to rouse her. 
 
 A year or two more, and they made for 
 her a grave by the side of her husband, and 
 the hearts which in life were so divided, noM' 
 rest quietly together, while on the costly 
 marble above them there is inscribed the 
 name of their son, who sleeps alone and un- 
 wept in the far-off Southern Seas. 
 
 THK KND. 
 
 
rav« 
 
 CH 
 
 of 
 
 (lew, 
 i' 
 Hie. " 
 
 I the 
 
 1 the 
 there 
 
 I o er 
 J fall 
 
 I Hoft 
 
 leatul 
 HaHt- 
 • ach- 
 
 II the 
 riling 
 , has 
 ever,' 
 
 For 
 Bi- the 
 
 t WUH 
 
 splen- 
 y and 
 ini of 
 
 •khain 
 if such 
 heart- 
 eadful 
 ys and 
 ch she 
 [le had 
 md in- 
 inking 
 laught 
 
 ide for 
 d, and 
 id, now 
 costly 
 led the 
 nd un-