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' Pacific.

. resembling a globe of gold, goes down behind

‘ their heads about this, or any thing else in the
‘ Ship.
.,white fingers bent over the tafi’rail, they look

~ mit of a hill, ere long tosink beneath the sea,
, or become lost to view by the setting of the sun.

' Not so much as a note, nor even a verbal mes-

?éknees and apologizes for it.

membrance of the last words spoken at another
and more painful parting “ IIasta Cadiz." The
thought of that takes the sting out of this.

The boat reaches the ship; and, swinging
around, lies alongside.

Captain Lautanas stands b the gangway to
receive his passengers, wit their friends;
while his first officer helps them up the man-
ro ies.

lAmong the ladies Harry Blew distin uishes
the two he is to have charge of; an with
them is specially careful. As their soft-gloved
fingers rest in his rough, horny hand, be men-
tally registers a vow, it shall never fail them in
the time of need.

0n the cabin table of the Condor is spread a
rcfection; and around it the leave-takers as-
semble, Captain Lautanas doing the honors of
his ship. And gracefully; for the Chilian
skipper is a gentleman.

Half an hour of merrymakiug—light chatter,
enlivened by the popping of corks, and clink—
ing of glasses; then ten minutes of talk more
serious; after which hurried graspings of the
hand, and a general scattering toward the
shore boat; which soon after moves oli‘ amid
shouts of “ Adios!" and “Buma triage!" ac-
companied by waving of hands; and white
slender fingers saluting with tremulous motion,
like the quiver of a kestrel’s wing—the fashion
of the Spanish-American fair.

While'the boat is being rowed back to the
shore, the Condor spreads sail, and stands
away toward the sea.

She is soon out of sight of the port, having
entered the strait which gives access to the
great land-locked estuary of San Francisco.

But a wind blowing from the west hinders
her running out direct; and she is all the day
backing and filling through the eight miles of
narrow water that connects the bay with the

The sun is about to set, as she passos the old
Spanish fort, and opens view of the ocean. But
the heavenly orb that rose over Monte Diablo

Los Faran more like a ball of fire, seeking
to be quenched in the sea.

It is still only half immersed in the blue liq-
uid expanse, when, gliding out from the portals
of the Golden Gate, the ship rounds Seal Rock,
and stands on her course \V. S. \V.

The wind has shifted about; the evening
breeze beginning to blow steadily from land.
This is favorable; and after the tacks have been
set, and the sails sheeted home, there is but lit-
tle work to be done. .

As it is the hour of the second dog-watch, the
sailors are all on deck, grouped about the fore-
castle, gleefully conversing. An odd individual
stands by the side, with e es turned shoreward,
taking a last look at Cali ornia. Not as if he
regretted leaving it, but rather glad to get away.
More than one of the Condor‘s crew have rea~
son to be thankful that the Chilian craft is car-
rying them from a country where, had the
sta ed, it would have been to be lodged in a jai .

arce recovered from a carouse of the night
before, they show swollen cheeks, and eyes in-
flamed with alcohol ; countenances from which
the breeze of the Pacific, however pure, can not
remove the sinister expression. At sight of
them, and the two fair creatures embarked in
the satne ship, a thought about the incongruity,
as also the insecurity, of such companionship
can not he] ) coming uppermost. Like two
beautiful bir s of paradise shut up in the same
cage with half a score of wolves, tigers, or
hyenas.

But the birds of paradise are not troubling

Lingering abaft the binnacle, with their

back at the land, their eyes fixed upon the sum-

They have been standing so for some time in
silence, when Inez says:

“ I can tell what you‘re thinking of, tie."

“ Indeed you cant Well, let me hear it.”

“ You’re saying to yourself, ‘ What a beauti-
ful hill that is yonder, and how I should like to
be once more upon its top—not alone, but with
somebody beside me !’ Now, tell the truth;
isn’t that it?”

“ Those are your own thoughts, sobrina.“

“ I admit it; and they are pleasant. They
are yours also—are they not ?"

“Only in part. I have others; which I sup-
pose on share with me."

“ \ hat others ?"

“Reflections not at all pleasant; quite the
Contrary."

“Again distressing yourself about that. It
does not give me any concern, and didn‘t from
the first.”

“ No ?“

( t NO."

“ Carrat'! I must say you take things easily,
which I don‘t. A lover—engaged too—to go
off in that sans facon, unceremonious manner!

sage. Santa'saz'ma! It was something more
than rude, Inez. It was cruel, and I can't help
thinking so."

“ But there was a message in the letter to
grandpapa for both of us. What more would
you wish ‘5'"

“Pff ! who cares for parting compliments?
A lepero would send better to his sweetheart in
sleeveless camisa. That's not the message for
me.’

“How can we tell there wasn‘t some other
that miscarried? I’m almost sure there has
been; else why should somebody have been
to our old house, and said so; the Americano
left to take care of the place speaks of four
men. \Vell, one of them might have been the
messenger, the others going along with hitn for
com any. .And through his neglect we’ve not
got otters intended for us. If our friends did
not write to us at all it’s because they were
pressed for time. We shall know when we
meet them at Cadiz."

“ Ah! When we meet them there I'll demand
an explanation from Edwardo. That shall I,
anti get it, or know the reason why."

“He will give a good one. I warrant. There‘s
some mistake, somehow. For you know there‘s
been mystery all round. No fighting as we
feared, and have reason to rejoice. And notho
ing since seen of your Californian chivalry.
That’s the strangest of all."

“It is indeed strange," rejoins Carmen, seem-
ingly startled by the remark. “ I wonder what
became of them. Nobody that we know has
seen either after that day, nor heard of them.“

“ Carmen, I believe one has heard of them."

it  i)"

“ Your father."

“What makes on think that, Inez?"

“ Some words overheard while he was con-
versing with the man who’s now on the ship
with us. I’m almost ccrtafn there was some-
thin, in Don Edwardo's letter that related to
De am and Calderon. \Vhat it was grand-
p‘apa seems desirous of kee )ing to himself, else
he would have told us. i e must try and find
out from the sailor."

“You’re an astute schemer, Inez; I should
never have thought of that. “'0 shall try.
Now, I remember Don Edwardo saved this
man’s life. ~Wasn't it a noble deed? For all,
I‘m angry with him, for leaving me as he did,
and shan‘t be otherwise till he gets upon his

“ Well, I confess I was spitcd myself; at first
and only a little. On reflection I feel sure
there‘s some mischance, and we’ve been wrong-
ing them both. I won’t blame mine till I see
him at Cadiz. Then if he can’t clear himself, I
will."

“ You forgive too easily, Inez. I can’t.”

“ Yes, you can. Look at yonder hill! Re-
call the hours passed upon it, and you‘ll be le-
nient as I am."

Carmen obeys, and again turns her glance to-
ward the spot sacred to sweet memories.

As she continues to gaze on it, the cloud lifts
from her brow, and is replaced by a smile, that
promises easy pardon to him who has offended.

In silence the two stand straining their eyes
upon the far summit, till shore and sea become
one, both blending into the purple shadow of
twilight.

“Adios California !"

Land no longer in sight.
on the ocean.

(To be continued-Commenced in No. 172.)

The Creole Wife:

THE COUSIle’S SCHEME.

BY MRS. JENNIE DAVIS BURTON.

AUTHOR or " comm awn near.“ ” ADRIA. 'rnn anomn,"
“ ermueuv wan.“ onclr's DICII'I‘," “nun-m
Dcuaxo‘s rnoreoas," “ ran “as:
wrnow," 1-:‘rc., are.

CHAPTER VIII.
vaa'rn DISCUSSIONS.

“ I TELL you, Grandison, I see in the new en-
terprise the chance to retrieve our past misfor-
tunes. I am not discouraged as you suggest by
the singular chain of unfortunate results that
has attended our later engagements. The ex.
perience of eight years has taught me that cer-
tain stages, whether of prosperity or otherwise,
are followed by natural revulsions. We have
had our turns of ill-luck before now that have
amounted to nothing in the long run; neither
you nor I can complain at the general results
of our mutual operations."

The speaker was Darcy Casselworth, and the
two men were met in his private apartments,
comprising the best suit of the Cassel House.
The scene was not dissimilar to one that had
transpired seven years before, when Paul Gran-
dison had come down from Pittsburgh to re-
ceive the final decision of the other in regard to
engaging in the field of speculation, in which
their after-interest had been mutually combin-
ed. He had come down again to receive Mr.
Casselworth‘s unequivocal instructions before
entering upon some new gigantic scheme, the
monopoly of which promised much. The
hazard involved not seeming great in experi-
enced hands. if thrown into the conduct of
heads less collected than theirs would prove in-
evitably ruinous. The scheme, no matter of
what particular nature, had fired Mr. Cassel.
worth‘s mind with all the enthusiasm the confi-
dent agent conld have desired. There was a
side-table with decanter and glasses, as there
had been on the occasion of the first visit, but
the host, acquainted with the other’s abstemi-
ous habit, drank his own French brandy and
pushed an open cigar-case toward his guest.

“ You have no reason to complain,” said
Grandison, helping himself. “ You had a capi-
tal at the start which was equal to the result of
years’ profits on my part. It will fall to my lot
to leave off where you began, I suppose; but
then,there might be worse places to leave ofi’
than even that.”

Mr. Casselworth dropped into a lounging.
chair, taking a cigar in his turn, and biting off
the end with a contemplative expression.

“ I’ve wondered at your coolness, sometimes,
Grandison. \Vith your head for keeping clear
of inextricable difficulties. I wonder that you

The shipis au large

 

 

 

have never ventured more on your own ac-.

count."

“ Two-very good reasons for it. My business
is to push the business of other men, yours, for
instance; and when in certain breathing-spaces
I’ve considered my own interest, my tether was
too short to admit of any very brilliant or ex-
tensive flights."

“ There‘s where you baffle my speculations.
With outside capital lying on your hands, why
haven‘t you employed it to your own advan-
tage? lou have had hundreds of chances to
my one, which I used to the effect of all my
gains from first to last. The first absolute ris
I involved—you remember it ?-—was the stake
of some fifty odd thousands, supposed at the
date of its use to be quietly reposing in my
cousin‘s name in the Cassel bank. I mppose a
man of weaker nerve might have shuddered at
the possibility of losing, but I didn‘t lose, nor
would you in doing likewise.”

“ I don‘t know,” answered Grandison. “ At
any rate I prefer keeping my brain clear. I
can trust my own judgment while I am not se-
riously involved in the issue, but throw my own
life or death interest in the balance, and I
couldn’t answer for the result.”

“ \Vhich may be the better for your patrons.
You’re right, whether wise on your own score
'or otherwise. A man can’t play with fire and
not be burned, and no more can he speculate
without being carried awa , to some extent, by
the madness attending. V itness which I put
more faith in your foresight to-day than in my
own judgment."

“I wouldn‘t take the responsibility without
your concurrence for all that, along with my
most favorable convictions. One has to be can-
tious to be safe, but now since our order is
given, I tell you that this will e the grand
stroke of the many we have made together. I
wouldn‘t advise any limited tether in regard to
this—a full, clean sweep, if any, command the
entire market for a day, and you will have no
need to dabble in stock operations, large or
small, ever again.”

His easily-confident tones re-aroused Mr. Cas-
selworth‘s enthusiasm over the action proposed.
It was something mightily in favor of the
scheme that his enthusiasm should be aroused.
Cold, mercenary, calculating Darcy Cassel-
worth was not the sort of man to take fire from
a delusive spark. He held his cigar between
his fingers, and filliped the ashes from its end
with calculating nicety.

“ Don't stop at trifies, then, Grandison. You
have it all in your own hands, now—authority
for action and availability of funds. Use your
own discretion to the furthest limits. Sell out
Erie and Central if you want greater margin.
If this turns out well, or say, rather, when it
turns out well, I shall wash my hands of the
business for all time. I shouldn t care to reach
the summit of successful operation to pitch
headlong to the bottom by a false step at last.
I mean to content myself with this one grand
ooup.‘

“,The very advice I would give it you asked
it. I shall report here, then, sometime in the
course of the next ten days." He stood up as he
spoke, making ready to de )art. “You are ex-
pecting Gilbert very soon, suppose ?”

“Almost any day, now; positively within
the week. Ilis coming involves another specu-
lation quite as essential to my mind as this we
have in hand.”

“ Ah ?”—interrogatively.

 

. That he shall do
at Cadiz.” . ‘

dis

VD

.“ To put it in a familiar way. It lays with
him to secure the Casselworth possessions to

the Casselworth name; and if there is any one
thing my heart has been sct upon all my life, it
is that."

“ Not a result to be slighted by even a young
man with prospects as fair as his. There can
be but one construction to 'our meaning, I sup-
pose. The little Miss asselworth I have
caught sight of on one or two occasions is sole
heiress, I believe ?”

“ Sole heiress, and an eligible parti for Gil.
bert in more ways than one. Different disposi-
tions, opposite temperaments, and all that, sufll-
cicnt to insure more than any merel lukewarm
affection between them. There’s t no difficulty
in so many of the marriages of the day. Throw
a couple of young people together who make
the discovery that they are affected by a simi~
larity of. tastes, and general ideas following the
same line, and ten to one that they jump at the
conclusion that they are expressly created one
for the other. They jump to the result of ma-
trimony before givmg the conviction time to
cool. Consequence, a mutual disaff‘ection very
soon, and the extreme of continual wrangling,
or the lukewarm condition of reciprocal uncon-
cern. Audrey has the natural fire, the quick
impulse, generous, but rather thoughtless and
willful; Gilbert the power of quiet reasoning,
the calm consideration which wi l prove a coun-
terbalance. Say what on will, third parties
are best calculated to u go of a young couple‘s
mutual fitness, and am satisfied that this
match, if not exactly prearranged in the celes-
tial kingdom, as they say matches are, is one of
the few wise ones effected on the earth. Au-
drey’s father uite agrees with me, and the
chance stands air that the injustice done a gett-
eration ago, will be repaired in this."

“Meaning in the matter of the estates? I
was not aware—"

Mr. Grandison, still standing, was evidently
in no haste to depart, as he invited the some-
what unusual confidence of the other by the
l(ipportune word thrown in at the opportune

ace.

“ In the time qfiour fathers, Elmer’s and mine,
and tnine was the elder son of the house. \Ve
don’t tie to the law of primogeniture here in our
country, but it is customary to give the eldest
son an equal show. However, theirs was a dif-
ferent and more unjust case. My father was
given some paltry position, and left out in the
cold, while the younger brother succeeded to
all the rest. There is such a thing as the rule of
compensation, I suppose; it is coming into ef-
fect at a late day in this case.”

“ Perhaps,” thought Mr. Grandison, while his
inscrutable face revealed nothing. “ But the
version of the case I discovered before this was
somewhat different. The elder brother, of his,
own choice, took the moneys and stocks which
he occupied a respectable portion of his lifetime
in squandering; the oungerhad theland and the
liabilities, but by the persistency of his indivi-
dual efiorts, brought the former to their present
prosperous condition. Pity his son has not
some of the father‘s indomitable purpose to cut
clear of your power over him.” Aloud he said,
“ It is something after the reading of an old ro-
mance with the flavor of to-day annexed in the
manner of true love running smoothly in the
straight channel where it should. There is no
doubt of that, on say 1'"

Darcy Casse worth gave his shoulders a sh rug
while he poured himself another draught.
French brandy had no effect upon him, not even
in makin him more communicative; it was

 

. it, and all his life, since he had taken any

ward to having the same ultimately under his
control. His eye wandered over it now with
almost the pride of secure possession.

“ Trust Gilbert to hesitate at no means which
shall end in his securing all that. A rent-roll
of twenty thousand a year is not by any means
to be despised, aside from numerous other ad-
vantages, the least enviable among which is
the one that secures all the rest to him. God !
what a will that girl has! She has the fire of
her creole mother along with a fair share of
our Casselworth obstinacy. Her very sub-
mission is given under protest that would most
probably change to open insubordiuation it
open commands were laid upon her. There’s
where the real difficulty is. Unfortunate that
she had such a dislike for the boy when they
were thrown together, but we‘ll trust to time
and change to have obliterated that. Eight
years’ separation can’t leave her any very de-
cided remembrance, and Gilbert is scarcely his
father’s son if he has not the faculty of making
an agreeable inn ression‘. Without undue ego-
tism, I believe may claim in in time to have
gained the favor of any woman undertook to
particularly please. Pit that the only one
among the hosts whom might have favored
particularly was not only beyond my reach,
but driven to sword’s points for the benefit of
this slowly-revolving rule of compensation
which is nearly touching at my door at last
But there was no half~wa point for us; it had
to be a decided ground, ike or dislike, friend
or foe and at this day I can’t say whether the
pointl am bound to attain-the marryiu of
her daughter to my sow—emanates most mm
the desire to solidify family bonds and secure
family possessions, or from a lingering of the
old hate. How she would have fought this
had she lived! Requiem“ in. para; she did not
live, and my worst trouble now is in finding
certain traits of hers reproduced again."

A second way yet more untraversed than
this he was pursuing opened from it here. A
space beyond it merged into a dreary open flat,
and further still, upon another fiat a trifle
higher, could be seen the peaked roof and reg
ged chimney stacks of a road, low old domi-
cil, showing above the dim high wall and tan~
gling, scrubby foliage which slmt all other por-
tions of it away from sight. It was Wildbank
Commons, taking its name from those two
dreary flats and the dense low verdure overrnn~
ning them. The place had been in litigation
for a score or more of years, and when the
long-contested suit at last was decided in favor
of the Darrow heirs, that body found it too un-
attractive in natural facilities, the land about
too sterile, and the house itself so lacking in all
modern realizations of comfort that no attempt
was made to reclaim it from the general ne-
glect which had long since overtaken all.
Some negative endeavors had been made to ef-
fect a sale or lease, or, lacking that, to find
temporar tenants; but years had gone by and
the old p ace stood unoccupied except by the
bats that flapped in and out through loopholes
under the eaves, and mice that scurried in
frightened droves when once in a while a
casual visit was paid there. Mr. Cassclworth
stood still to take a dubious surve ' of the re-
mote, forbiddin spot, fortress-like in its aspect,
stationed behind a rugged graystone wall turn-
ed green in places where clambcring vines
gained a hold for their tendrils or moss strag-
gled over the rude surface.

“A courageous woman, Grandison's patron-

 

the comp acency of perfect self-satisfaction

 

which was prompting him to that.

“ My dear fellow, common sense has a ten;
dcncy to rule the current nowadays. lVe are
surebf nothing in this life, you know, but there’s
rather more than the average reasonability to
presume upon the favorable ending of this af-
fair. Young men sometimes pick up obstinate
ideas, or decline to see their best'welfare in its
proper light. As children together, he was very

ess, if aview of the situation doesn’t cause a
revulsion of her purposes. The old lady will
possess a greater veneration for antiquity than
I credit to any individual quite compo: mantis in
this generation if she doesn’t decide 'et against
the rookery and inconvenience. ther her
than me, if otherwise "—and he went on with a
slight shrug of his shoulders, and no prescience
of what that contemplated coming to Wild-
bank Commons might bring to hear for or

 

fond of his cousin Audrey, and as I said at the
start, the matter rests entire] with him. Take
another cigar, Grandison. on have oceans of
time before the express.”

“ Thanks—no! I have other business on
hand. By the way, how do you like the assist-
ant I sent you down ?"

“ Fits into his niche as though he had never
known another. Just the man for the place,
and, judging from his absorption in his busi-
ness, just the place for the man.”

“I am not sure but I shall need to consult
him. tho has the disposal of the Darrow
pro rty or of that portion of it known as Wild-
ban Commons ?"

“ It is in our hands, I believe—has been for
years. What in the name of all mystery can
you want of Wildbank Commons? The old
house must be in a nearly ruinous state. and the
tangle about it is all but impenetrable.”

“A rather singular patroness of mine, who
helped me into my business at the outset, in
fact, and chances to have a penchant for ro-
mantic inconveniences, has deputed me to find
for her one of the most secluded, tumble-down
old rookeries possible to inhabit for the coming
month or so. \Vealtbv people can afford to in-
dulge their vagaries. \Vildbank Commons sug-
gested itself to my mind as the best practical
illustration of tumble-down inconvenience any-
where to be met with, and its undesirable situa-
tion will be all in accordance with Mrs. Car-
roll's present whim. I’ll speak to Dorchester
about it on my way past."

“ I’ll walk that far with you then. I‘ve a
mind to leave the business in Dorchester’s
hands when I am done with it for gond.”

Notwithstanding his prosperity, Mr. Cassel-
worth had never retired from his nominal oc-
cupation as real-estate agent, but the actual
business had long since been intrusted to sub-
ordinate hands. Dorchester had latel been
installed as business manager upon Pa Gran-
dison’s recommendation.

“ You Couldn‘t do better,” the latter answer-
ed, with just the suspicion of a stress upon the
pronoun—so slight that Mr. Casselworth did
not observe it They went out together and
walked the length of the Cassel streets side
gy side, but parted at the door of the estate of-

co

“Dorchester will attend to the business for
you, so I leave you here. I think I will walk
on to the Hotnestead. You will be down again
in ten days, you said? Make it exact and you
will hit fair upon the fate there—given in honor
of Gilbert’s return and to introduce Audrey to
the society about. Meantime, telegraph down
at different stages of progress, and apprise me
at once if any unforeseen occurrence arises.”

After that he strolled on by the side of the
wide sunlit road—a road which he traversed
often of these later days, for, as Audrey had in-
dignantly confided to her friend, he had as
good as taken up a permanent residence at the
Homestead, where his authority was unques-
tioned except in the case of Audrey herself.
The road was broad, straight, sunlit, and dusty,
and Mr. Casselworth’s state of mind prompted
him to more congratulatory self-communing
than its direct course was like to afford. He
turned into a byway which skirted some‘broad,
arable fields and occasional groves. It was the
side of the lands belonging to the Homestead
and a favorite walk of his. All his life he had
coveted this wide-spreading rich domain; all
his life he had envied the present possessor of

thought of his own course through the span of

 

 

years allotted to humanity, he had looked for;

against those well-matured, promising schemes
0 his own.

He found his cousin deep in some new course
of reading he had taken up, oblivious to all
practical purposes of the workings of the
household, utterly incapable in his own behalf
to issue an order in regard to the preparations
that should have been on the way.

“ I’ve been worried to death in the week
past," he said, a trifle uerulously. This vol-
untary seclusion of his or years past had de-
veloped all the latent selfishness of his nature—
a nature not essentially narrow or illiberal, but
weak enough to be swayed by one which could
justly have been so characterized. “ It’s not
like on to leave all the perplexities to me i”

" Vhat’s the trouble, Elmer? Why didn’t
you send for me if any thing important weighed
upon you? I have not been out of the vill e.”

“But the village might have been a bun red
miles away for all the good you were apt to do
there, with Miss Mallory filling one ear with her
especial grievances, and Stephens claiming the
other to put in his plea for information in re-
gard to arranging the grounds. I know noth-
ing about it and told him so, but he won’t un-
dertake any part of the work without instruc-
tions. Besides, the women are creating an up.
roar already about the coating fete. I wish it
had never been broached at all."

“But you and I must put selfishness aside
now and serve our turn in doing our duty to
ward a younger generation. Consider Miss
Mallory and Stephens disposed of—can’t you
manage the rest? '

“Can’t you take the whole business out of
my hands . It strikes me that you were prime
mover of the affair; suppose now you remain
prime manager. I’ve been thinking that we
ought to haye a woman’s head for advice.
What do two elderly men like us know of
cause and efi'ect asapplied to the rim of window-
shadcs or the brilliancy of colored lights? I
didn’t know quite how hopelessly adrift 'I was
wlrlhilie ,Audrey was by, inexperienced child that
s e s. ’

“ Where is she, by the way 9"

1 liter father glanced up with a deprecating
oo

“ Gone to the Glenhavens‘ for a week. I sup-

pose it has been intolerably dull for her here;

Irs. Glenliaven has been observing her closely
enough to suggest that she needed a change,
and was kind enou h to drive over particularly
on that account. iudrey seemed delighted at
the rospect.

“ o doubt of it—as she would have been at
the prospect of masquerading in public or in
any way running counter to common sense. I
should ave imagined that you might have seen
the impropriety of it, Elmer, little as you com-
monly do see of what goes on about you. After
keeping her within natural bounds for so long,
why couldn’t you extend the practice for ten
days more? This fete, for which we have tnade
all calculations, is intended to introduce her to
the notice of such country families as we
choose to include, an observance which will
probably be unnecessary after a week at Glen-
mere, where they seem to aim at continual
wild daily receptions—it’s the same there now as
it was in our time, twenty years ago. “’hen did
she go ‘5’" A e-V

The ver evident annoyance of the elder
cousin am the usual deference paid to his
Opinion, led him‘ to express himself with utmost
freedom—a freedom which, for this one occa-
sion, the other was inclined to resent.

“ Three days ago. I don‘t see that it makes

any particular difi‘erence—this of giving the

 

child a chance of enjoying herself before the
proposed event of the fete. There can certain-
ly be no very momentous question involved in
her casual meeting with people she has lived
among all her life.”

Lived among, indeed, but never mingled
with. Elmer Casselworth did not consider
that his own strict seclusion of later years had
as strictly secluded his daughter, too—did not
consider either that her young vitality and ex-
panding mind might crave the exciting vanities
upon which he had turned his back, which his
cousin‘s subtler foresight was proposing to re-
vive at the time and in the manner best calcu-
lated to advance his own plans. He saw the
necessity now of smoothing the other‘s ruffied
equanimity.

“ I dare say I am jealous regarding Audrey,”
he said ; “ naturally, too, considering our rela-
tions, present and future. I have been rather
calculating upon the effect her presentation in
a more responsible‘charactcr is apt to create,
and own to some disappointment in byhtg’at
all anticipatml. I'came out purposely to-day
to ak of the matter 10- on. It would spit
tne f our young people tn’ ht appear together
at the first with their future relations avowed
—might save misunderstanding, too.”

“Their relations i" A look of mystification
went over Elmer Casselworth‘s face. “ All
that is recognized, of course."

“ Their future relations, I said, my dear
Elmer; has it never occurred to you that
Gilbert will return, not the roist'ering, perhaps
objectionable schoolboy, but a young gentle-
man, finished, cultured, traveled ? that Audrey
is no longer a child to be petted and indulged?
You know how long our mutual hopes have
converged toward one point. If we don‘t take
the initiative in settling their prospects, our
young gentleman and lad will be arranging
their respective futures or themselves, an
possibly in a less advisable manner. Why not
have their betrothal understood at the outset 2”

“ You s ak as if it were a decided matter,
Darcy. I e have hoped so, but how are we to
know that the young people will conclude to
gratify that hope? They can’t be expected to
decide it in a day or asingle meeting. Their
desires shall be the first consideration.”

“Which I presume means Audrey’s desires.
I can vouch for Gilbert, notwithstanding all
these years of absence on his part. His last
letter referred particularly to the happiness he
expected in meeting with his child-love again.
I should say we were considering the best wel-
fare of both by taking prompt measures to re-
vive and n’vet their childish affection. You
will have Audrey throwing herself away upon
some speculating adventurer, who chooses to
take advantage of her inexperience, unless you
are decided with her. Girls of her impulsive
andfivayward nature are apt to end in. that way
unless properly restrained."

“ There’s no occasion to urge such a remote
probability, at any rate," said Audrey’s father.
a little impatiently. “If the two are disposed
to fall in with our wishes, all well; but I really
don’t see how we are to force their acquies-
cence otherwise. I for one am not disposed to
attempt, nor to preci itate the result, if at-
tained at all. Audrey s"—he paused a second
to reckon her age—-“ only sixteen."

“ And Audrey‘s mother was only sixteen
when you married her. Don‘t deceive yourself,
Elmer. Audrey has arrivad at the age when
romantic sentiment has its fullest sway, and she
is of that headstrong disposition that will rush
into some early entanglement, if nothing
worse. You'll have to pardon a little plain
speaking from me, not in thelight of Censuring
you, but to call your mind more accurately to
the true ease. You have been so bound up in

 

 

your studies as not to be aware of Audrey‘s
transitional-y moods. It‘s not a pleasant sub-
ject to dwell upon, this of comparing her with
her unfortunate mother, but Audrey has in-
herited many of the same intense traits." It
was not a pleasant subject for even Darcy Cas-
selworth. The memory of the woman whom
he had both loved and hated, whose banish-
ment from home and husband and child was
due to him, was scarcely a reproach, but there
was a deep-rooted, lingering jealousy which
left him strongly disinclined to discuss her as
she had been, faulty, brilliant, wa want, but
generous, true, and noble, under t e variable
surface, fascinating even there through all,
with the unconscious dupe of his slow, steady;
moving schemes. “ You know too well what
was the result of the indulgence with which
7m slightest wish was always met; it was your
misfortune to enter most. I don‘t mean that
Andre would prove so intractable and un-
reason ng, but I do fear that she may rush
through sheer perversity into an unhappy
union. With Gilbert, whom she has known
since her earliest years, and who thoroughly
understands her disposition, her truest chance
of happiness will be secured. She took an ab.
surd prejudice against him when a child which
she may possibly have treasured up through all
the years since—she is rather remarkable for
her retentive memory, you know. In such a
case I really think you will consult her perma-
nent welfare by an interposition of your au~
thority."

It was a rather long prelude to' the real fact
which he wished to impress; but his very super-
fiuity of solicitous expressions prevented his
cousin from detecting the one true gr‘sin con-
cealed in all the chaff—the fact that his influ-
ence was to be brought to bear in coercing
Audrey’s will. if it should arrive at that. He
was distressed and confused at this serious pre-
sentation of the case. His long termof seclu-
sion, which had weaned him from warm
sympathies wlth humanity at large, left him
equally at alose- to respond to the nick pas-
sion, which it was reasonable to in er would
gain stray over the guileless, girlish heart.

“ Then let us hope it may not come to that,”
he answered, despondinglg. “Let Gilbert
>lead his own cause when e comes. I shall

ave no objection to announcing their engage-
ment, if there be one, at the fete, even though it
seems out of reason to contemplate marrying
Audrey to any one for years 'et."

It was not the concession Ir. Darcy Cassel-
worth wanted, but he saw there was nothing
more to be gained by continuing the subject then.

“ You will have no objection, I am perfectly
well aware,” he thought, discontentedly.
“You would have no objection to the demolish~
ment of the spheres and the creation of a new
concourse so long as your particuler'little orbit
chanced to be spared. It’s the {#0th of
troubling yourself to oppose her, more than
any conscientious scruple of the right of i‘t',~that
is having its weight now." ,

It is possible that he was half right in his
judgment, and it may have been to escape a
more unpleasant contemplation that his cousin
referred to the original topic of their conversin-
tion.

“ This fete, Darcy, and arrangements pertain-
ing are quite out of my line. It will probabl '
drop altogether unless you take the responsi-
bilit '. Suppose you take up your quarters at
the omestead until it is over.”

“ But Gilbert,” suggested Darcy, hesitating.
“I am looking for him any day now."

“There's room enough for Gilbert, too, I
should hope. \Vhy, this was his home proper

‘- before he went to his Alma Mater ; do you ima—

 

gine I'd be apt to shut its doors against him
now?" '