lover’s past life which he had confided to her
father, but not to her. If her father were Sat-
isfied, would not she be, too? Why did they
not speak freely to her? One hundred times a
day her thoughts would go back to that assur-
ance of Delorme’s that she was his first, his
only love. If she could doubt his word in that,
she must in all things.

“He would not tell me an open falsehood,”
she assured herself.

Her aunt Margaret liked Delorme, too.

That old lady was fanciful in her likes and
dislikes, bitter in her prejudices. It was a
great triumph to Barbara to have her take
kindly to Delisle.

Aunt Margaret Harlenberg was an old maid
of sixty years. She had once been as beauti-
ful, high-spirited, proud and coquettish as her
lovely niece—much such a girl, in fact; and
she had broken with her lover in a fit of jeal-
ousy—had found out, too late, that she was in
the wrong—and had never married. Being
rich as well as handsome, she had been sought
by many men, ay, up to her fiftieth year; she
had laughed at them all, and lived on, in her
own way, growing more odd, high-tempered,
and prejudiced, as the years went by.

She had left her own house, twenty miles
further up the river, and hurried down to
Bellevue the day that a rumor reached her that
her niece had a suitor.

She felt it incumbent on her to take a lead-
ing part in anything so important as Barbara’s
choosing a husband.

She came down to Bellevue, as we have seen,
and she fell in love with the English gentleman
to whom her niece had plighted her troth.
Whether he reminded her of her own first love
—long ago moldering in his grave—or whether
it was simply that Delorme could charm wher-
ever he chose, she became his ardent admirer,
praising him to everybody and promising her
niece all her plate and jewelry, when she
should herself no longer want them.

This was wormwood to Herman.

He had hoped to have his aunt on his side.

Instead of that, she treated him almost with
contempt, because he had again and again re-
turned to his attacks on the chara er of De-
lorme. She did not mince wordsf3 t was not
her way.

“If you really know anything, Herman, do
speak out! Don’t stab a man in the back.
That’s not like a Rensellaer, to slander a man
in secret. I see through it all. It’s jealousy.
You were such a fool as to hope to get Barba
yourself. thy, she wouldn’t look at you!
Not but what you are well enough, Herman, in
your way—an honest, steady—going young
man, to whom I shall leave a few thousand
dollars, when I die, if you continue to behave
yourself—but not Barba’s mate! Come! give
up this backbiting, and be good-natured about
what you have no power to prevent!"

“ Oh! haven’t I?” muttered Herman, between
wrathy lips; but not so that his aunt could hear
him. He had built too much on the “few
thousand dollars” she had promised him, to
dare to offend her. “ ‘No power to prevent!’
That may be a mistake of yours, aunt Mar-
garet. 1 rather think that doughty milord in
disguise would tremble in his shoes if he even
suspected what I know and what I am doing.
Confound it! I wish it did not take so long to
send to England for those documents! The
lady has promised they shall be here within six
weeks. Then, we will see who is the most be—
coming match for my proud cousin—an honest
man, whom she knows, or a scoundrel, and a
stranger, who has fled from his own country,
to make a victim of some heiress here."

As to Delorme, he was happier than he had
been in years——happier than he had thought
ever to be again—as happy as a man circum-
stanced as he was could be. From whatever
motive he had first sought the heiress of Belle—
vue, he was dead in love with her now.

In her delicious company he forgot every-
thing but that she loved him and had promised
to be his; but, alas! when alone, when he had
time to reflect, a brooding, nervous fear took
hold of him and shook him with a mortal ter-
ror—the terror that Barbara might hear some
thing to destroy her faith in him and convince
her that he had told her a falsehood when he
assured her that she was his first, only love.

So more than a fortnight fled by. In that
time Delorme had not once seen or heard of
the woman whose one appearance—unheralded
and unexpected—on the stage of his affairs be-
gan to seem to him like a dream. Sometimes
he actually doubted that Mrs. Courtenay had
come from England and he had met and talked
with her.

Herman Rensellaer could have told him it
was no dream. He knew where Mrs. Courte-
nay was, and what doing. He had held as
many as four or five interviews with her.

One evening the whole family was assembled
in the back drawing-room. For a wonder,
there was no company. It was late in Septem—
ber now; and the spacious room, with its rich
furniture and decorations, was doubly cheerful
from the light not only of plentiful lamps, but
of a blazing wood-fire on the hearth.

Peter Rensellaer believed in fireplaces—an
open fire was to him the very nucleus of home-
comfort, the core, the heart of home itself.
The light of this one played cheerily over the
heavy carvings of the rosewood mantel, the
subdued tints of the velvet carpet, over the
tasteful and sumptuous plenishings of the room,
and over the faces of its occupants.

A table was drawn not far from it; at this
table sat Herman, apparently deeply occupied
with some accounts. Old Peter Rensellaer was
toasting his slippered toes and reading the eve—
ning paper. Aunt Margaret sat at the same
table with her nephew, busy with some intric-
ate piece of knitting-work; but not so busy but
that her tongue was ever ready to utter some
sharp remark when occasion offered.

Herman, affecting to be absorbed in his led-
gers, was really watching the betrothed pair,
in a way that would have spoiled their uncon‘
scious pleasure had they been aware of it.
There was a gloomy scowl on his brows and
beneath them his eyes glowed with an evil light
of jealousy, hate, ungenerous triumph.

The lovers were at the piano. Delorme, who
had a magnificent voice, had been singing a
passionate love—song which had brought the hid-
den roses to the surface in Barbara’s cheeks.
Her dark skin, with its clear pallor, was like
the velvet vellum which appears to be blank;
yet warm it, and out come the ardent poems
which are written on it. Warm Barbara’s
heart and out on her face come eloquent blush-
es and speaking expressions which made it the
sweetest face in the world to read. Delorme
evidently thought so, as he leaned on the piano,
his hand toying absently with the sheets of
music lying there, his eyes fixed on the fair
face, upturned to listen to the low voice which
was saying things to deepen her color and in-
tensify the light of her dark eyes.

The fitful, rising and falling glow of the fire
fell over his tall, elegant figure, his earnest, re-
fined face—fell over her slender, supple, girlish
form, robed in garnet silk, her purple-black
hair, her bright, upraised face, so sweet. so rap-
turous—the very sight of it turned the heart of
her cousin into a hell of discontent.

 

The lovers had no idea that he was watching
or listening—that his ear was strained to catch
their careless words.

“I believe in the wonds of the song, Delisle,”
Barbara was saying; “that the only love worth
having is first love. I would scorn a man’s
heart after half a dozen other girls had played
foot—ball with it. And aren’t you glad, Delisle,
that I never even thought of any man as a
hero until I met you?

“ All my heroes were book-heroes. It was
not until—until—you know when, that I began
to take the grand qualities of the superb fellows
one reads about in novels and wrap them about
a living, breathing man.”

“ Ah, Barbara, darling, for Heaven’s sake
don’t make a hero out of me. I am anything
else but a hero—a poor, fallacious, weak mor-
tal. Yes, child! I sometimes think weaker
than you are—for you have some strong char-
acteristics for a girl of your age. You frighten
me at times.”

“ Frighten you, Mr. Delorme!”

“ I mean that I stand in awe of you.”

“ Oh! I dare say you mean that you fear my
furious temper,” observed Barbara, with a flash
of her dark eyes. '

“No, I do not mean that, Barbara. 1 ad-
mire your temper. I should be more than will
ing to have my ears boxed by you! I do not
care for inane women. But—”

“What, Delisle?—how can such a little goose
as I am inspire awe?”

“Well, for instance, I should not like to see
you jealous—3’

“ But I never will be, Delisle. How can I be
jealous of you, when I am your first love, and
you are never to admire any other girl but me?
Do you expect to indulge in future flirtations,
sir? Explain yourself,” and she put on a be-
witching air of pouting displeasure which made
her lover steal one of her dimpled hands and
press it again and again to his lips.

“ I would be willing to ignore the existence
of the whole sex, saving you,” he said, raptur-
ously.

It was only foolish lovers’ talk, of no interest
to any but themselves; it was mean of Herman
to listen; but he strained his ear to catch every
accent of what made him so wretched after he
had overheard it.

His eyes burned balefully as they stole long
glances at the handsome and happy lover who
had robbed him of his cousin; he ground his
teeth together; the long rows of figures which
he was pretending to balance danced before his
eye.

“ Scoundrel! Deceiver! Who would believe
that he could look into her innocent, truthful
face, and lie to her so! I cannot endure it. I
will speak to her this very evening. I was go-
ing to wait until the documents came—but I
cannot bear this! It is driving me wild.

“Barbara tells me that this man had confided
his whole past life to her father. I do not think
so. If he would tell her a deliberate falsehood,
would he not deceive my uncle? Of course he
would. Perhaps uncle excuses everything in
the cousin of an earl ! We Americans love to
lick the shoes of patrician Englishmen.

“One thing is certain. I have it in my pow-
er to make Barbara break her engagement with
him! I know my proud little cousin. She will
be very angry. In the first white heat of her
passion she will dismiss Delorme with con-
tempt. I will be on the ground, ready to reap
the after-benefits of her quarrel with him. All
in good time I will urge my suit. She will not
love me at first; but pique will prompt her to
accept me. She will take me because she is
angry with him. Very well. I shall be satis-
fied. I shall not give her long to repent—I
shall insist on a hasty marriage. Ah! all is
not lost yet!" and he smiled, even as his envi-
ous heart cramped to behold the soft looks in-
terchanged between the lovers.

Suddenly Herman laid his account-book on
the table, walked over to the piano and offered
his arm to his cousin.

“If Mr. Delorme will excuse me for interrupt-
ing so pleasant a tete~a~tete, [will beg of you
to walk on the piazza with me a few moments.
Remember! I have not had much of your so-
ciety recently, cousin Barbara: and I desire to
consult you about something of importance, or
I should not be so rude.”

Delorme bowed politely. It puzzled him,
but it hardly troubled him, that Herman should
have so brusque an air and speak in so forced
and formal a tone.

“ Do not forget to have a shawl before you
go out in the cold air, Barbara," he said, kind-
ly, as she took Herman’s arm.

“ I will see that my cousin does not run any
risk,” answered Herman for her, as he took her
off with him.

“Where are you going with Barbara?” ask-
ed aunt Margaret, as the two passed her, look.
ing up sharply from her knitting.

“ Only on the piazza a few moments—to look
at the moon.”

“Let me beg of you not to become moon-
struck. What! do they leave you out?” she
asked of Delorme, who came over to her table
and took a seat as he replied:

“I certainly was not invited. You must
make yourself very entertaining, Miss Harlen-
berg, so that I shall not miss them.”

They chatted aw ay in an easy, friendly style
for ten or fifteen minutes. The master of the
house folded up his paper and joined in the con.
versation. The hickory brand on the gleaming
brass fire-dogs fell apart and crumbled into
glowing coals, sending a. shower of sparks up
the chimney.

Suddenly into the warm, splendid, shining
room came Barbara. She brought a breath of
the cold night-air with her. Herman did not
return with her. She swept in alone and walk-
ed quickly up to within three paces of De-
lorme.

He looked up in surprise, and his face paled
at the change in hers. Aunt Margaret and her
father stared. A young girl, with blushing
cheeks and dewy eyes, had gone out of the
room—a young girl with a sunny face, full of
coquetry, arch happiness, hope, the glory of
love.

Then came back into it a girl looking five
years older, white, stern, with a blasting, steely
flash in her cold eyes that pierced like death to
her lover’s heart before she had spoken a word.
Her slight figure seemed to have grown inches
taller as she paused before her lover who stared
up at her with the smile frozen on his paling
face.

“Mr. Delorme, my cousin tells me that you
were married nine years ago, and that you have
a child eight years of age, living, and under a
tutor’s charge somewhere in England. Is this
true?”

Her voice was scarcely more than a whisper,
but it was the whisper as of a wintry wind that
passes over an ice-ridge. Delorme sprung to
his feet; he tried to answer, but no sound came
as he opened his lips. Her father hastened to
answer for him.

“Barbara, I tell you Delorme has confided
everything to me. Who has been talking to
you? I will explain—”

“ Hush, papa. All I want is for Delorme to
say yes or no. Short words, easily spoken.
Yes or no, Mr. Delorme?”

 

He looked wistfulb', despairineg into the
beautiful, stern eyes that never wavered.

“Barbara, I Will tell you all—”

“ Do not speak to me, except to answer, yes
or no.”

H Yes. i)

The word was wrenched from him by her
commanding look.

“Barbara, my daughter, I tell you I will—”

“ Papa, do not interfere. And the lady you
married is still living, Mr. Delorme?”

A groan from the very depths of his heart
was his reply.

“Yes or no?”

H  77

“And you have seen and talked with her
since—since—you spoke to papa about me!”

‘6  7) .

Very pale, proud and erect—as haughty as
herself—he stood before her, and their two
glances struck fire. He would not, at their
tone and manner of hers, vouchsafe a word of
explanation—nor would she have heard it.
Again the excited old gentleman sought to make
peace.

“My child, if you knew all, as I do—”

“Papa, I will not listen to you. Do not in-
sult me by a word. There is nothing to be
said. Whatever excuse Mr. Delorme may have
for living apart from his wife, he has none for
deceiving me. Papa, he told me a plain false-
hood. I refuse ever to speak to him again.
None of you need try to persuade me. I will
not be annoyed even by the mention of his
name. Our acquaintance is ended—forever!”

When that last sad word had dropped from
her white lips she turned and swept out of the
room with an air of unfaltering majesty.

Betrothed—parted—broken—hearted at seven-
teen!

Alas! proud, unreasoning, exacting Barbara!

Yet—is it any wonder that she would not
pause for explanation?

(To be continued—commenced in No. 340.)

LOVE AND FRIENDSHIP.

What is friendship .' TM union of two hearts that
beat as one, without a throb quassion.

I asked the question as I musing sat
Silent and lone;

And straightway this answer came back to me:
Nor sound, nor tone,

Only the sweet and solemn mystery

That gave this quaint reply so hastily.

Friendship—so oft we hear it, as ’twere such
Or such a. thing;
Of which young maidens prate, wise ones declaim,
An poets sing.
Strong, holy, pure and true, love's sweetest name,
Or but a flatt rer‘s breath, a transient flame.

What I am, and what I can freely give,
As friend to friend;
Sweet interchange of thought, genial and true,
Where warm hearts blend-
Good counsel, hopeful words and kindly deeds,',
With tender sympathies, life‘s daily needs.

Whom call we then our friends? Not always they
Who chance to claim
A kinship with us, or may with us share
home and name;
They, rather, who our noblest thoughts attest,
Can guide us, help us, understand us best.

Love giveth well—yet far more in return
Ever demands;
And at the ortal watches jealously,
ith outstretched hands,
Fearing to lose what it has never won,
Warring with passion til] at last undone.

It springs to life the blossom of an hour,

In lad surprise;

With cheeks ahloom, unmeaning flatteries,
And lover‘s sighs;

Seemin as sweet as fragrance that is blown

From llIy fields, or a. harp‘s wand‘ring tone.

True friendshl wakens like some little seed
Hi in the ound:

The tiny root, the sta the leaves, the flower,
As years to round.

Deeper and purer joys, with time, it brings,

Then flies to heaven, at last, on angel wings.

Love that is lasting, that can challenge time,
Death and the rave,

Is born of friendship—fon and deep and true—
Not as a slave;

But, as a monarch ruling graciously,

Whose loyal subjects are orever free.

Giving, as one whose favors ever bring
A benison;
Asking, yet ere the wish is well expressed,
6 been is won.
Chiding, as were each sad reluctant word,
Forgiveness and compassion deeply stirred.

Then, call it friendship if ye will, or love,
Nor separate

From love such attributes as long endure;
For time, nor fate

Can recompense two hearts that never know

The joys congenial sympathies bestow.

And builders all who toil for happiness,
Your fabric rear
From a. foundation deep and strong and true,
That year by year
Some added virtue and some greater good
May fit you for a. nobler brotherhood.

Daisy May’s_|.ove Story.

BY MARY REED CROWELL.

Tun old-fashioned double kitchen door stood
wide open, and the strong sweet west wind
poured through the big, sanded-floored room,
stirring the feathery asparagus boughs, that
hung, red-berried, over the high mantel shelf,
and swaying in slow, graceful waves the blue
muslin skirts of Daisy May’s morning wrapper,
as she stood beside the sn0wy pine table, or
ranging a pile of stemless flowers in a shallow
glass dish, and displaying the neatest, smallest,
highest-instepped feet, booted to perfection in
buttoned pebbledgoat.

Her bright, piquant face was bent caress-
ineg over the fragrant hyacinths and early
roses, and vivid rose-geranium leaves, and her
eyes that were as blue as the June sky that
was glowing like a gigantic sapphire over the
fair country landscape, were dancing with exu-
berant delight as she realized that she was
really and truly done with books and schools
and everything but being at home with Aunt
Mary and Uncle Joe, and having a dear, de-
lightful time at picnics, and riding parties, and
at boating and croquet, and with company and
visiting. It was asif the golden gates of fairy-
land had been swung open by magic fingers,
and the whole enchanted realm within were
free for her to go in and conquer and reign.

It was perfectly natural that she should feel
so. There never was a girl of seventeen,
healthy, pretty, vivacious, that did not at the
first emancipation from school books and short
dresses, revel in the glorious anticipation of
freedom, and the legitimate power of her
charms and influence; and Daisy May, with
her face as sweet as a flower, with its merry,
dancing blue eyes, and hair that had red~gold
tints among its long, lustrous, half-curling
waves, with her complexion like cream—and-
roses, and the prettiest. most Witching mouth,
and pearly teeth, and dimpled chin in the
world, this merry, dainty girl, fresh from
“ .lludmne Sf. S/mdalle’s Pensionnat de Dem<
m’sellé’s ” in New York, was no exception to the
rule that has governed, and will govern so
many girls.

Just now, be '1 ding over the flowers that were
scarce sweeter or fresher than her own lovely

 

face, and inhaling their sweet fragrance so like
her soft, pure breath, Aunt Mary came in, big,
portly, jolly Aunt Mary, than whom Daisy
had never known another mother.

“At your flowers again? I declare, Daisy,
country birth will out. won’t it? I expect be-
fore long you’ll be marrying some of these
good-looking young farmers around here, and
settling down as demure as if you never had
been a mile away.”

Aunt Mary sat down in the capacious cre-
tonne-covered rocking chair and fanned herself
with her stmbonnet, and Daisy looked up
laughingly, as she disposed of the last blossom
to her satisfaction, a creamy, yellow rosebud,
against a vivid glowing crimson hyacinth.
There was a haughty little gleam in her eyes,
and quite an arching of her round white neck
accompanied her answer.

“Indeed I’ll never marry a farmer, auntie.
I love the country well enough—~here at home,
where nothing but the poetry of it falls to
me—gathering flowers, drinking creamy milk,
hunting eggs when I feel like it, sketching shady
spots, driving whenever I want to, and always
sent luscious things to eat—and in winter sleigh
rides, and singing schools, and plenty of books
and my music.”

“And Jack Maurice,” Aunt Mary tacked the
name very tersely at the end of the long list
of attractions, then watched to see the effect on
Daisy’s face.

The pretty lips pouted charmingly.

“Jack Maurice! Oh, Jack’s good enough,
of course, but—”

Aunt Mary rocked leisurely.

“ It‘s a good thing you have got over your
childish attachment to him, Daisy, for he’s go-
ing to be married soon. Engaged to one of the
prettiest girls you ever saw—a Miss I’Vinches-
ter, visiting from Philadelphia, at Judge Cas-
tledean’s.”

Daisy‘s eyes grew a little darker, and then
she elevated her eyebrows coldly.

“He is engaged, is be? Oh, well, that’s per—

fect-1y natural, I am sure. I suppose Miss—Miss
Winchester did you say .?-—I suppose she’s a de-
cided blonde, and petite?” Daisy didn’t say
that Jack Maurice had often sworn there was
no other style of beauty for him but Daisy’s
own.
“ Ah, bless you, no. Miss Winchester is
tall—almost as tall as Jack, and very stately,
and a lovely brunette. Everybody thinks
Jack’s a lucky fellow.

Daisy arose and took down her garden hat.

“I dare say he is—only I never could see
wha“ there was about them tall dark women to
captivate any body. Auntie, I’m going over
to Minnie Castledean’s awhile —may I?"

Aunt Mary watched the petite, graceful fig-
ure in the navy-blue foulard cambric, and
white tarletan shade-hat tied over the cluster-
ing, floating curls, and nodded her head wisely,
and smiled serenely, and went in to her baking.

And Daisy walked slowly along, half in—
clined to turn out of the path to Judge Castle-
dean’s handsome summer residence, and go off
in the woods somewhere all by herself, half de-
termined to go straight ahead and see this won-
derful paragon of perfection who had consented
to be Jack Maurice’s wife.

Jack Maurice’s wife! Somehow it seemed
so strange—not that she really cared, oh! no—
but because, two or three years ago, when she
had been a bashful, sunbrowned youngster in
short dresses, and Jack a gallant, handsome,
barefooted lad; he had made her promise to be
his wife some day, when he grew up, and saved
some money, and had a farm.

And Daisy, lured by gifts of glossy—coated
chestnuts, and the biggest bunches of grapes,
and long rides on Jack’s sled, had promised,
with a coquettish little toss of her head.

Of course it had all been childish nonsense,
too ridiculous to remember, and then with a
straightening of her graceful little figure, and
a curve of her lips intended to be the very es-
sence of contempt for past silly childishness,
Daisy walked in through the bronze gates of
Castle Dean, and asked for Minnie, utterly ig-
noring the etiquette that insisted on Minnie’s
calling first on Daisy’s return.

“You darling—you perfect old darling, to
come to us! Daise, I’ve been just dying to see
you, and have you at home again. We’re go-
ing to have the most jolly times this summer,
you know. The house is full—and there is
Nellie Winchester especially I want you to
know, and the handsomest young officer on
leave—~Gus brought him up-Colonel Cremlng-
ton; and we’ve impressed Jack Maurice—you
remember Jack? He’s the handsomest fellow
around—beats the colonel, I tell you, and Nel-
lie’s just bewitched after him.”

And Daisy laughed and assented, and dc.
clared she half remembered Jack Maurice, and
was dying to see Miss Winchester, and intend-
ed inaugurating a flirtation at once with the
military gentleman.

Minnie rattled on, as seventeen-year—old girls
have a way of doing.

“It’s too bad Nell’s gone down to the city
to—day to buy ribbon for the picnic—oh, you’ll
surely be on hand next Tuesday for our picnic
at Eagle’s Head, Daise? I suppose Jack Maurice
will take Nellie, and I am sure Colonel Cres-
sin n will be delighted to escort you.”

“Colonel Cressington will be happier than
ever before in his life if he may have that
honor, Miss Minnie!”

Of course the girls started and expressed
their surprise at that gentleman’s sudden ap-
pearance, and then Minnie introduced Daisy,
and Colonel Cressington made the mental de-
cision that he was in luck, most decidedly, and
engaged Miss May on the spot to share his
phaeton to the picnic grounds, and his devotion
for the day.

When her morning call was over, Colonel
Cresington insisted on walking home with her,
and Daisy permitted it—not because he was so
handsome, and so entertaining, or she so pleas-
ed with him, but because—well, she felt a lit-
tle provoked at hearing so many praises of the
lady to whom Jack Maurice was engaged; and
somehow, it made her feel better to flirt a
little.

And as if the very Fates :themselves were
propitious, who should she and her gallant
cavalier meet, face to face, for the first time in
three years to Daisy, but Jack Maurice.

Jack Maurice—so perfectly splendid in his
clear, dark, manly beauty, with his close-cut
black hair, his bright, happy eyes, his—oh! his
elegant mustache, Daisy thought, and Daisy
adored black mustaches—his stylish clothes—
everything just as it should be.

This, Jack Maurice—and—and—engaged to
Nellie W’inchester! Daisy’s heart gavea bound
as he doffed panama, and extended a hand she
saw had a plain gold ring on the little finger;
and then she crushed all the joy she had felt
at seeing him, and gave him her hand with a
cool, graceful little bow.

“Daisy May! is it possible? Why, you are
prettier than ever, and—I declare, Daisy, I
am awfully glad you‘re homel”

He was so easily familiar, so frank—and en-
gaged to—her.’

Daisy smiled.

 

It was very proper, very ladylike, but a.
shadow came over Jack‘s handsome face.

“ I hope I shall see you often, Daisy. You’ll
be at the picnic Tuesday? Cressington, keep
that sunshade over her head! Good-by till I
see you again! ’

His horse was prancing restlessly, and he
was off like a dart and out of sight when Daisy
boxed good-by to her uniformed gallant at the
ga .

“ What a handsome fellow Jack Maurice has
gmwn to he, hasn’t he, Uncle Joe?”

Daisy was sipping her coffee slowly that
Tuesday morning—a cloudless June day, that
the gods had arranged for the Castle Dean par-
ty’s picnic; and Daisy, her lovely golden hair
brushed off her forehead in loose burnished
waves, and caught at the back of the head with
pale-blue ribbons, was impatiently trying to
gel; tthrough her breakfast before finish' ing her

1 e .

And a lovely toilet it was, too—a combina—
tion suit of ecru-perle percale and pale-blue and
ecru plaid, that Daisy knew was marvelously
becoming to her, that Daisy had almost prayed
might be prettier than Nellie Winchester’s.

She wasn’t as happy as she had expected to
be, somehow; somehow, she never had thought
she could dislike anybody as she disliked Nellie
Winchester, and yet, for the life of her, she
couldn’t have thought of a thing Nellie had
ever done to her that was not pleasant, and
kind, and well—bred. Only—Nellie was so
pretty, with her velvety black eyes, with their
heavy dark lashes, and her clear complexion,
with cheeks like rose-petals, and her lovely
hair, as black as a raven’s wing, that always
was arranged so becomineg and fashionably.

She was thinking of Nellie now, and na.ur—
ally, of Jack Maurice, as she sipped her coffee
that morning of the picnic, and almost before
she knew it, had said the thoughts in her fool-
ish little heart, that as yet hardly knew its own
wants.

Uncle Joe buttered a slice of home-made
bread with keen relish.

“ You might travel a seven-days’ journey and
not come across his equal. And he’s lucky too.
He sold his interest in that Bee Line Railroad
for ten times what he gave, enough to buy him
the prettiest farm in the country—‘ Edge
ero,’ and it’s stocked first—class, I can tell you.
He’s bound to make a fortune—and they say
that Winchester girl 11 bring him considerable.”

Daisy’s cheeks flamed.

“ Jack’ll never think of her money. He’s
not that kind of a fellow at all.” Aunt Mary
stole a sly glance at the girl‘s face.

“Jack’s a splendid fellow, and his wife’ll be
the happiest woman going. I do say, Daisy,
nothing would have pleased your Uncle Joe
and I better if Jack had taken a notion to you.”

The brilliant color in Daisy's cheeks deep-
ened, then she laughed, and arose and pushed
away her chair.

“You should have said if I had taken a no-
tion to Jack, auntie. But you see—I haven’t.”

She threw a kiss coquettishly, and vanished
through the door to have a foolish cry up in
her room before she dressed herself.

And when Colonel Cressington drew up in his
two horse phaeton, he thought he never had
seen such a perfect picture of girlish beauty
and happiness in all his life.

And Jack Maurice dashed by inhis buggy
with Nellie IVinchester, radiant in white mus-
lin and rose-hqu ribbons, in time to get a bow
and a gleaming smile from Daisy, and to think,
with another of those shadows on his face that
Daisy had seen before, that Colonel Cressington
and Daisy were good, very good friends.

The long summer day had crept pleasantly
along, and the lengthened shadows were warn-
ing the gay picnicers it was time to be prepar-
paring for return. Colonel Cressington and
Nellie Winchester had strolled off arm-in-arm,
an hour before, and Minnie Castledean and a
dozen others were lounging on the soft sward,
gossiping, laughing and enjoying a dolce far
nie'nte generally; while Jack Maurice was walk-
ing about, unobserved, unremembered by the
others, with head bent down as if in close search
for something lost —his ring, that, until several
minutes before he had not mimed, and, missing,
had at once commenced to hunt for. Not that it
was so valuable—but —a pained, white look on
his face that had been there at intervals all
day, intensified, as he thought how dear that
simple band was to him, and why.

He went on and on, separating further and
further fr ;m the party, until—sobs, low, indis-
tinct, as if unsuccessfuly suppremd, but un-
mistakable sobs, attracted his attention, and a
seconds continuance in the direction he was
going. brought him -—in full view of Daisy May,
with her head bowed on her hands, and her
frame convulsed with violent weeping, and,
glistening on her fair finger, the circlet of gold
for which he was searching!

She sprung to her feet, in alarm and confu-
sion, but Jack was at her side in a. second.

“ Daisy! Daisy! what is the matter?”

Her face was flushing and paling alternately
under his keen glance.

“ I—I—thought I was—was lost. And I
found your ring, Mr. Maurice.”

She drew it off her finger and handed it to
him, calling all the powers of an unhappy, fool-
ish little heart to her aid, to make her strong
and indifferent—who had been sitting there,
kissing and crying over Jack’s engagement
ring!

But Jack made no motion to take the ring.
Instead, he took strong hold of both her wrists,
and looked in her face, with his own pale and

r.

eageDaisy—tell me you were crying beamse
you love me! Is it so? Daisy, my only, own
darling. I almost dread to have you anfiver,
for fear it will be no. But—do you love me,
my darling?” A sudden glory flashed over her
face—her very soul looking out of her eyes.
Then, her lips quivered piteously.

“Oh, Jack, how can you talk so to me?
Nellie Winchester—”

He pressed her suddenly, closely to him, and
pushed her head down on his shoulder.

“ Look up, little one! Nellie Winchester is
nothing to me, although rumor has said so.
You are all the world to me, darling; am I so
to you? Will you take the ring I bought when
I heard you were coming home, and determined
to secure you for my own as soon as I saw you?
Daisy, I have been engaged to you ever since I
can remember. Will you ratify it?”

And with all her soul in the kiss she gave
him, Daisy knew her heart was at rest in Jack
Maurice’s love.

That night it was announced in the Castle—
dean parlor privately, of course, that the picnic
had been a grand success. Colonel Crossing—
ton had proposed to Miss “'inchester and been
accepted, and Minnie confidentially whispered
to Daisy—“ wasn’t it cunning, for Nell carried
on with Jack Maurice just to try to make the
Colonel piqued, so he would propose! That‘s
the way I mean to do, don’t you ?”

And Daisy smiled and blushed, and stole a

“Thank you, Mr. Maurice, for your good I glance at Jack’s handsome, happy face, and

will. I am glad to see you.”

thought how good everything was.