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Autbi

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 '

...v

no*^

i/ ^1

I i-{ ;, /

!■

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.

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

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

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.

(»

tull^

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

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

I »1 AMOK IKS.

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

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

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

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

•

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.

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^

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.

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

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

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-

THE ANSWERED PRAYER.

if!

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«

(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-