*
+

*

 

. —yes, he would deny it. Oh, why have I loved-him in
_ ‘spite of all? I cannot see him marry another! Shall I
- tell her ?’—she sprang from her seat, her hands locked
_. “Shall I tell her that he asked me to be his wife ?—that
I have the first right? And then confront him with his
confession ? It would be dearly purchased bliss. And
he is writing love to her—to her—when I knew he loved
me. first. If 1 had been rich—ah! if I had only been
rich, he never would have thought of her—no, never!
Oh, what shall ldo? Will he be here again, I wonder ?”

She sank down pale and faint, trembling in every limb
now that the force of her passion had spent itself.

“7 have the best right,” she murmured ; ‘lam pledged
to him. I wonder if she knew the worst of him, it she
would marry him? No, never, never! while I——. Oh,
God, be mercifultome! WhatamIsaying? Hethinks
me dead. Well, let him. My life would only be a re-
proach to him—he shall still think so. I will ask her as
a special favor not to mention me in her letters—not to
say I am. here, or there, or anywhere. Let me be as
dead to him till——yes, yes, my time may come.”

CHAPTER XXIL
DOTTY’S RETURN.

A beautiful woman, with the bloom of health on her
cheeks, exquisitely dressed, sits by one of the front win-
dows of the old Staak’s house. The room has been much

‘relieved of its somber hue by a fresh coat of paint and
a@ prettily tinted paper that lines the old walls. New
and beautiful furniture of the modern style replaces the
heavy chairs and cumbrous tables. Light, cheerful,
elegant, that is the present aspect of the room to which
the same woman came, anxious, depressed, unacknowl-
edged, not so very long ago. The magic by which this
metamorphosis has come to pass ismoney. And she
loves to lavish, not as a spendthrift, but as one surround-
ing herself with beauty and purity. These things, besides,
are fixtures, intended to bedeft when she leaves, all but
the pretiy swinging cradle in which lies a rosy boy, a
boy so beautiful and so noble that he looks like a young

od

ae

Yes, Eden was her old self again. Evenin the black

silk that she wears in token that she has lost her nearest
nd dearest, site looks like a fresh young maiden.

lips are wreathed in smiles, a tremulous flush keeps
rising in her cheeks. Hope has stimulated and in-
creased her beauty—she has heard from Dotty.

On the porch Andrew sat with his book, studying
Latin. He had become a protege of this deserted wo-
man, and she had laid her plans to educate him, not in
any niggardly, parish way, but out of the abundance of
her great Sympathy for the poor and neglected. Near
him sat Dalton, looking down the road. Dalton was
going abroad to be educated. He had already adopted
the pretty foreign term of the Germans, ‘Little Mother,”
and so he loved to call her.

‘-There’s the coach,” cried Dalton.

“Now, don’t fly off at a tangent,” said Andrew, coolly;
‘perhaps the man hasn't come.”

‘‘And perbaps he has. He said this morning, and I
take it, if he’s a man of his word, that doesn’t mean to-
morrow morning.”

“All right,” Andrew responded.
know.” ;

The coach dréw up with a flourish. Dalton flew up
_the stairs with the information that he saw the face of
a little girl, and then could hardly wait for the evidence

that would make his wish a certainty.

Eden, not less excited, walked the room hastily.

“How aml to know for asurety ?” she murmured.
“Will my heart tellme? May I not be deceived ?”

Another moment and she was down on her knees,
scanning the features of a lovely child, who neverthe-
less held fast by the hand of the tall, good-looking me-
chanic who had brought her hither.

‘Little mother, she looks like you,” cried Dalton.

“That she do. Jsee the likeness myself,” said the
man, Winking hard, and trying to steady the muscles of
his mouth.

«J teel as if this was my baby,” said Eden, holding the
child in herarms. ‘But why does she wish to get away
from. me? I was foolish enough to think she would
know me.” P

“Carry me back to mammy,” said the child, clinging
totheman. ‘Take me home again.”

It’s but natural, you see, ma’am,” said Stephen,
‘troubled that the tears started to her eyes.

“How long has she been with you ?” asked Eden.

“Four years and seven months, ma’am, and we’d be-
gun to look upon her as our own, seeing no one took an
interest in the little thing.”

“Yes, thatis just the time my darling has been away
from me. Youshall have the money, sir, every cent of
it. Oh, now that I know she is mine, how bitter to see
her cold tome! How shall I teach her to love me ?”

‘It'll all come in time, ma’am,” said the man, with an
unsteady voice.

Yes, yes. Did she—your wife I mean—love her very
dearly ?”

“Indeed it did come nigh to break her heart, I think,
to part with her,” and now the tears were fairly drop-
ping from his lashes.

«Poor soul! I know how to pity her. Think whata
hungry heart I have carried for all that time.”

“Take me to mammy,” persisted the child, putting up
her beautitul hands.

“This is your mammy, dear,” said the man, bréaking
down, and turning to the window he took out his hand-
Kerchief and wiped his eyes with a great sob.

“Oh, I see its very hard for you. Money won't pay
you, but you shall have the two thousand pounds and
whatevenis due besides. Tell that poor woman how
I pity het, but 1 can’t give up my little one, because, you

. see, God gave it to mefor my very own. Now go”—Dalton
had enticed the child, with some pretty painted toys, to
anotber part of the room—‘‘while her attention is taken
off. I hope you won't wish to kiss her good-by, though
I couldn’t blame you if you did.”

“No, ma’am; Ltook my last in the coach,” said the
man, as he softly sidled out of the door.

Presently he was missed, and then there was a scene
very trying to the mother.

It was days and days before Dotty ceased to mourn
for ‘“‘mammy,” and though it. roused some little antag-
onism in Eden’s gentle heart, yet she had the good sense
to let the child’s grief have its way. Meantime she still

“We shall soon

#

Daiton was to go as her right-hand man and protector.
With a good nurse and experienced waiting-maid, she
hoped to get comfortably through the voyage.

CHAPTER XXUI.
LIVELY TIMES AT ALDERBOUGHS.

“Land sakes! I haven’t seen you so chipper for a long
time, and it’s right glad I be,” said Mrs. Leslie, with a
beaming countenance, one cheerful day in spring.

“TJ have good reason to be, Mrs. Leslie; I have news

‘from abroad.”

‘News from the young country, is it, my lord ?”

“Yes; and you may get ready for company. I want
all the rooms done up, for 1 have invited some ladies
who are coming to England to make Alderboughs their
bome while they remain.”

‘Ladies !
should see a woman.in the old place—a real lady, I
mean? In the old lord’s time they never came. I sup-
pose you’ve heard the silly old distich that’s to be found
somewhere in the records ?”

“No, I never heard anything of the kind.
Do you know ?” :

“Oh, yes. They say twas spoken by old Sir Edward,
who got dreadfully crossed, and that’s why it happens
on the records, Is’pose. This is it: -

“ «There ll be trouble, and ruin, and death, I vow,
When a lady shall reign at Alderbough,

It’s writ in’ the dreadfullest, old-fashionedest English—
‘enough to make you cross-eyed to read it.”
“Oh, well, we won’t Say anything about the reigning
part at present. These ladies—there will be gentlemen
With them, too—are coming as visitors.”
“Prynly, truly, and glad enough Ibe. Why, it.will put.
such new life into the old house! But, sir, shail I hire
-mnore maids? We'll surely need them.”
“Yes, yes; get all the help you want.
you the money this time.” ; :
“Surely, sir, that’s spoken like one o’ the old line. It’s
‘been years enough since there were any doings of the
kind here. and it willdo my heart good. Shall you fur-
nish new, my lord ?” ;
“Yes, two or three of the rooms en suite. Find out
for me which will be the best adapted to young and
pretty ladies. They have been used to having every

comfort and luxury.”
“Prey ab. nothing they’re used to, my lord,
and I Mon’t think theg’ye a many such castles as old
’ Alderbough’s in that American land. Lord, how they'll
-4+~* brighten up the grounds! I ean seem to see ‘em now all
a fitting in beautiful dresses. “Well, I hope we'll not be
* lonesome, never no more.”

“J hope not, Mts. Leslie. I depend upon you for keep-
ing up the honor of the house. Let me know this even-
ing which rooms had best be attended to, and I'll send

n upholsterer here to-morrow.”
. Bue agreeable, sir ;” said Mrs. Leslie, delighted at her
appointments. ‘We'll raise a dust, depend on't,” she
paged, in an undertone, 28 Dunniston went back to his
den, as he called the study.

From that time on the house was noisy enough. One
improvement made way for another. The upholsterer
was really a genius in his art, and suggested some ideas
that in their working out cost the new lord a mint of
money. Windows and doors were open—bright colors
met the eyes everywhere. Old stores of linen were
brought out of odd closets—old silver was taken out of
its secret recesses, and rubbed and placed ready for use.
The grounds were beautified.

A glass door was added to one of the rooms opening
on to the garden—one crystal in a frame—so that the
oceupants had a fine view of winding walks, shrubbery,
fountains, and flowers. This was to be used as a break-
fast-room, and in its adornments, drapery, and finish
was simply perfect.

Never had Lord Dunniston been so nearly happy as
while superintending operations—never had he so nearly
forgotten the past. True, his dreams were troublesome,
but Dunniston seldom gave himself the opportunity of
criticising them—they were, gone with the darkness.
He was busy all day, now with the new gardener, now
with the upholsterer. His stables were thoroughly
renovated; né bought several horses, and a new and

‘dashing earriage, and for all these things he went into

debt. "mere wasS,no difficulty about that, though it was

“new for a Dunniston, the trade’s people said. They
were very glad to get him on their books. “

“J forgot to ask you how many there would be ?” asked

's. Leslie, one morning. ;
How many? Oh, well, let me see.”
h truth be had merged all in one person, the only one

I won't grudge

 

Her.

made diligent preparations for leaving the country, and |

Oh, my heart’s ease! did I ever think | |

What is it? |

on his fingers.

‘Miss Isoline and her friend, the judge, Benton and
Eldredge, five in all, Mrs. Leslie.”

‘Dear me, and only two ladies 2”

“Tl warrant you theyll be as much as you will want
to manage, Mrs. Leslie.”

“And they'll bring their maids, I suppose.”

«Very likely.”

‘‘And the gentlemen their valets.”

“Gentlemen seldom have body servants in America.
We'll find them valets, if they want them.”

“Dear me, how odd!’ ejaculated Mrs. Leslie. ‘But,
then, poor heathens, they’ve no lords and ladies in that
country! They can't know so much of comfort and re-
finement as we do.”

«Perhaps,” he said, smiling.

“Well, it’s odd as we got just five bedsready, though
we could put up plenty more, for there’s not a room in
use in the third story. There’s pink ’angings, and blue
‘angings, just lovely, andas would suit the most fas-
tidious. And maybe my lord ‘ll take it into his ’ead to
keep one of the ladies at Alderbough.

‘‘Maybe I can persuade one of the ladies to stay. I
pledge you my word I shall try,” he said.

“Ah! that be the best news yet.”

CHAPTER XXIV.
WHAT A LIKENESS!

The steamer Ocean was lying at the wharf, and her
passengers were coming in crowds. A gentleman, who
looked like a lawyer, was busy going in and out of a
handsome doubie state-room, and he seemed very so-
a in providing for the comfort of its future occu-
pant.

In the state-room adjacent, Isoline Huntley and Laura
Veschoff were busy arranging their books, bags, and sun-
dry packages, assisted by a good-natured looking girl,
who was Isoline’s dressing-maid.

“I’m afraid they’re going to have a baby next door,”
said Isoline, rather crossly, ‘‘or a whole raft of trouble-
Some children. Ah, what a beautiful woman!”

‘“‘Where ?” cried Laura, coming forward.

“Gone into that same state-room; and there's a nurse,
and—a baby! I knew it! It’s such a nuisance to have
a young child near. However, it can’t be helped. They’re
an uncommonly handsome party. The lady had a little
girl by the hand, as lovely as anangel. I wonder who
they are ?” .

“Tl find out, miss,” said the maid.

‘“Do—but be careful.”

Back came the girl in a few moments, quite posted.

“The gentleman that was fixing up things wasn’t her
husband at all; he was her lawyer, and the lady was a
widow—but oh, oceans rich! She'd had a fortune left
her in England, and she was going on there to see her
native place once more.”

«Some rich old family, I suppose,” said Isoline. «I
wonder what made her come to America? Oh, married,
Suppose, and came on with her husband. Well, it’s
none of our business.”

The steamer was staunch: the ocean as calm as it
could be; the company on board excellent. isoline and
Laura were always together.

A great change had come over the latter, though Iso-
line, selfish in her new experience, did not observe it,
only at times. Laura brooded much over the past.
Sometimes she hated Isoline, and the most cruel
thoughts, like unbidden ghosts, would take possession
of her brain. A wild jealousy, that stung like scor-
pions, goaded her night and da\. She was very restless,
impetuous, and listless by turns; nursing dark and al-
most murderous fancies. In fact, her love became a
disease that poisoned her life. She was all the time im-
agining the meeting between them.

“Shall I brand him then and there, or had I best bide
my time?’ she would ask herself, and then smile and
gloat over his imagined discomfiture.

“What will he say to me first? I shall seem to him
like an avenging spirit risen from the depths of the
sea.”

“I can’t think,” said Isloine, one day, ‘‘why you
wanted me to be silent with regard to your movements.
Have you any plan ?—do you fancy you shall frighten
him or make him swoon with transport, to find you
alive, when he has been thinking you forty fathoms deep
for months ?”

‘‘Nonsense!” said Laura. ‘You know itit is onlya
whim of mine. I have told you a thousand times.”

“Now, how do I. know what you and he did on that
vogage out? Men are so queer—off with the old, on
with the new. Did he make love to you 2”

“Don’t be silly, Isoline.” These were the words she
said aloud, but, oh, in her heart she was thinking of
that wonderful time when they two planned how they
should live in a cheerful corner in old Alderboughs, and
be all the world to each other.

“If 1 believed the red on your cheek, I should answer
my own question,” Said Isoline. ‘Well, it wouldn’t be
very strange. I could forgive him, couldn’t you ?”

Mian ” snapped Laura. Let me alone, Isoline, my head
aches.’

“But I do wish you would tell me.”

“Suppose I did. If you wish me to say he made love to
me, why lll say it. Anything to please you,” and she
laughed strangely. m

“How far did it go?” asked Isoline. affecting to ex-
amine a ring she wore on her fourth finger.

“iow far? What do you mean 2?”

Did he ask you to marry him ?”

‘Would you like me to say yes ?” es

‘Well, if he really did, you know.” —

‘Then he really did—continuation 6f the fiction. } He
ased meé to be Lady Dunniston.” .

“Oh, ef course it’s fiction because it isn’t probable that
he knew anything about his good fortune till he got to
ee Do you suppose he did?” she added, teas-

ngly.

“TI don’t want to talk aboutit. Why can’t you keep
your happiness, and let me alone ®”

“Tam keeping my happiness, my dear. I only want
a reasonable excuse for your odd way of doing things.
It would be natural enough for you to like Lord Dunnis-
ton.”

cw hy ”

“Oh, you knew him before I did.”

“When I knew him he was probably—not a widower.”

Isoline winced. She had often scouted the idea of mar-
rying a widower. First hand or none, she was wont to
say.

“But, come, say now, do you really think he loved
you before he saw me ?”

“Why will you talk about it?” cried Laura, sharply.
“What isit to you what he thought of me, if you are
sure that he loves you ?” a

“One likes to learn about these little may-have-
beens,” was the reply. ‘Did he ever talk about si

“[ won't hear another question,” said Laura, de-
7a and rose from her seat and crossed to the other
side.

It was a glorious day. The sea gleamed like sheets of
emeralds; the sky was blue as summer skies can be.
The great steamer rocked gently like a cradle.

Laura leaned against the side, and felt desolate and
heart-broken. Ali the wealth, all the joy, all the glory
; and beauty of lite were for Isoline, not for her.

“Andi can blight each and every separate blessing,”
she said to herself. ‘But how willit be done? I can’t
shape anything; I must let events and chances shape
themselves. If I plan them, I shall surely spoil them.
; And I teel as if I am sent by some unseen power—per-
| haps the spirit of his poor murdered wite—for I do be-
j lieve he murdered her. If have never recalled the ex-
pression of his face at that moment, but what I have
absolutely believed his words—yes, absolutely. He could
not have invented so terrible a story; at that time it
must have been simply impossible. I almost wish,
sometimes, that I had let Isoline tell him all about me,
and staidat home. Why have I this wild longing to
destroy him, when they two might be happy? Why not
say to myself, that confession was a fiction, and he, in
his excited state, did not know what he was saying?
No; on the whole, I’m glad IJ didn’t, when I recall the
language of that letter—‘I love her, almost, because she
is your friend.’ Oh, the duplicity of the man! Ill teach
him to hate me, and to some purpose.”

She shut her teeth hard, and still continued to gaze
over the wide, dazzling expanse ot waters.

Presently the sharp exclamation of some child struck
her ear. She turned.

A child’s swinging cradle, adroitly arranged so as to
serve aS a Carriage, was close beside her, and Dalton,
who had tied a large white handkerchief over his
bright curls, every now and then propelled it for a short
distance. ;

“Oh, what a lovely boy! Oh, you sweet baby!” cried
Laura, who was a passionate admirer of children.

The chiid looked full in her face, with his dark eyes
enlarged and shining, and smiled; then took on the
look of precocious wisdom children’s faces assume.

““You beautiful baby ! whom do you look like? Surely
some tace I have seen before. Will h me kiss him,
do you think ?” :

“Oh, yes, madam,” said Dalton, pr
her delight. Bi i

‘Is he your brother ?” a

“No, indeed; I have neither brother nor sister.”

«Your little nephew then, or cousin ?” 6

“No relation atall. I’m going out with Mrs. Wane to
be educated abroad.”

“Wane! Who is that—the mother of this boy ?” asked
Laura, still on her knees beside the carriage.

“Yes, madam.”

“Wane—Wane! What have I heard in connection
with that name?” she murmured,.softly. Then aloud,
“These look like English children.”

‘Mrs. Wane is English,” said the boy, with a cautious
manner and a wary look.

“TJ thought so. And the papa ?”

“He is dead.” p

“Oh, how dreadful! And that pretty woman is a
widow then? Does she never come on deck ?”

“Oh, yes, Sometimes, but mostly after twilight. She
suffers from sea-sickness.”

“TI should like to know her.”

The boy was silent. Laura played with the white
hands of the cherub, who seemed to take a particular
fancy to the small featherin her hat, and laughed and
showed his pretty pearls of teeth.

“How strange that the face reminds me of some other
familiar face, and I can’t place it,” she said to herself.

“Oh, there is little mother now!” cried Dalton, his
face radiant; and at that moment Ed@en made her ap-
pearance, moving unsteadily, until Dalton gave her his
hand for support. She seemed surprised for a moment
to see the dainty, handsome, high-bred woman paying
humble homage to the child, but could not do less than
smile and scem gratified.

«Your beautiful baby has stolen my heart,” Laura
said, playfully. ‘How proud you must be of him!”

 

 

‘and pleased at

 

he cared to see, Isoline Huntley ; but now he counted |

}
}

~ (“A Heart’s Bitterne

| say:

“Tam a little proud of him,” replied Eden, casting a | «Since you will be alone now you will spend a deal of

loving glance at the boy.
“He doesn’t look a bit like you.”

low, faltering voice.

Laura turned a little aside. |

“She cannot bear yet to speak of him,’ she thought to |
herself.

“You are nota good sailor, I see,” she added
determined to make the most of her interview.

‘“Notvery; Iden’t liké the sea,” and Eden's pale face |
eee whitely under the silver spray of a gossamer !
vail. i > ]

“And is this your chil¢ also?’ asked Laura, as little |
Dotty, who had been ‘indulging in familiar gossip with
an old gray-beard, suddenly came into the group. ‘She
looks like you.”

‘Yes, this is my little girl,” murmured Eden, drawing
the child jealously nearer. ‘My. darling, I think we
must send the maid for your hat,” she said.

“IT never saw such lovely children,” continued Laura,
really honest in her admiration; -‘and such clearly dif-
ferent types of beauty! I must ask my friend over here,
may Ll? Am I taking too great a liberty ?”

“Oh, no, indeed, no,” said Eden, smiling and gratified.

‘Isoline!” called Laura. ‘“‘Isoline! Miss Huntley!
The wind is the other way, she doesn’t hear me ;” and
Laura _rose to her feet and crossed the deck.

She did not see the expression that came into Eden’s
face, as she spoke that name, the sudden catching of
the breath, the drawing back of the body, the flush
- and pained, the quick rising and falling of the
chest.

-*Tsoline! did she say; ‘Miss Huntley!’ Oh, only too |
well I remember that name! It was on the letters I |
found, and he said it was the nom de plume of a lady |
who wrote for the press. Oh, how that name has stirred |
me! I never thought f should feel like this again. 1)
hope it is not hate.”

She was all burning with curiosity now to see the face
of this woman who had innocently or otherwise corre-
sponded with Dunniston, though she shrank at the same
time from the sight. But Laura had spoken to her;
Eden saw the lithe, slender figure rise, with that pecu-
liar swaying motion indivative of supreme refinement if
not of gentile blood, au¢ ker heart grew sick, though the
author of herjedi0tey Weegee She thought, far beyond
the chancé or a judgment.

“Isn't he beauty itself.’

For one supreme momeat Eden felt inclined to lift the
babe and hide his face inher bosom out of the woman's
sight, but she forced herslf to see how unreasonable and
even childish such concuct would be. She sat there
stolidly, instead, holdinginer vail down like a mask.

“Tsoline !” she had heard her husband speak the name
to himself—she had by ¢Hance seen the letter whose re- |
ception he tried to cover with a jest. Yes, she was}
very beautiful—she could not but acknowledge it—very
queenly, thoroughly bred, elegant in manners, peerless
in expression—that is, ¢xpression of a certain kind.
Isoline was also thoroughly charmed with the child, and
the little aristocrat heid his dainty head back and finally
consented to give one of his hands for the lady to kiss.

“Are you going to London 2” asked Isoline of Eden.

“Oh, no!” was the col reply, ‘lam going to my old
es in Streatford. I haye never been in London in my

fe.”

“Tsoline!” cried Laura, all of a sudden, her cheek
growing a shade paler, ‘1 have just thought whom that
child resembles. I havebeen trying and trying to think,
until goaded to desperation I gave itup. But, oh! I see
it now.. What a likeness!”

«Well, who is it 2”

“Tord Dunniston !’

The effect upon the two women before whom that
hame was pronounced, under such strange circum-
stances, was widely different in each. Isoline flushed a
little and smiled, while 4 supreme content seemed to
irradiate the whole fatey’ Eden grew cold, white, reti-
cent. She turned away from them all, and drew her
chair back with a ape dea seemed to say, ‘‘The in-
terview is over, I desire ( say no more to you, to have
no more to do with you.”

Dalton and Dotty were having long walks together.
With a motion of her. hand she brought them to her side.

“Dalton, will you. gall the nurse?” she asked, with
quiet dignity. ‘My boyis sleepy.”

Dalton went away, so did Laura and Isoline, chilled |
effectually. ; |
“Well, I never was so@jtin my life,”said Laura. ‘Did

you see how cold she wag all suddenly ?”

“T should think I did?’ Isoline retorted, with some |
asperity. ‘I always di@{think it a most unbecoming
thing to make advances ¥®o perfect strangers. Blessed {
be etiquette! If ever fea its laws again may I be

, aloud,

 

 

made to feel as supremel¥: ridiculous as I do now.”
(TO BE KONTINUED.)
P

(THIS STORY WILL NQ BE PUBLISHED IN BOOK-FORM. }

ILLGEGSS,

enced in No.45. Back
Agents. } -

humbers can be obt

“THEN, VIO!

The letter from the L hancellor lay uppermost, and
as Violet took it trom thegalver she did not notice the
superscription of afe otter letter, which she dropped
into her lap. She cried, eAgerly :

“Now, Edna, we shall par what he says! Oh, I hope
he has appointed wise ang good guardians for my boy !”

“T am sure he has,” sai’ Edna, dropping her work.
“He would not do otherwBe, as he is a wise and good

 

 

 

man.’ ¥
Violet began to read afoud. After some general con-
dolences, and compliments, and explanations that ‘he |
would have come to her at the Towers had he not been
a prisoner to the gout, the Lord Chancellor went on to |

“You have committed fp me avery important trust, |
that of selecting suitablé guardians for the heir of one
of the oldest titles and finest estates in England. Your
child will have a long min¢rity, over twenty years. Itis/}
necessary that I should not appoint old men for his
guardians, but those whe may hope to see him attain
his majority. I would desire: men of large, liberal, kind-
ly natures, who would haye sympathy with their ward,
and obtain his love and cé@afidence. I should seek men
of lofty ideas, pure lives, wnsullied integrity, examples
to him of all the virtues they should inculcate. 1 have
thought deeply upo mice of these, my ideal guar-
dians, but high as is the gandard I have set, I think I
have chosen men who attain toit. I have spoken to
them, and they have agreeil to accept the trust. They
are the Marquis of Alwold dnd Lord Kenneth Keith.”

Violet dropped the letter, and the two young women
looked at each other across the fatherless babe, who,
unconscious of the questions at Stake, lay on the floor
between them, playing with a gold coral and bells. A
flood of crimson rose over Hdna’s fair face and throat, at
this unexpected encomium and mention of the man she
deeply loved. Violet grew paler still, in contrast with
her crape, and under the widow’s cap, which hid all the
shining rings of her pretty hair. She turned her eyes to
Rupert, and said, softly :

“T know Loré@ Keith loves the child; he said he would
always be his triend—and lie saved him his estate.” ;

“No doubt it is a good choice,” said Edna, taking up
her work again, and making various sudden resolutions,
as she sewed little stitches.

«Certainly I cannot dispute the selection, and I never
thought of his making such,” said Violet. Then she laid |
down the Lord Chancellor’s letter and noticed the other.

“Here is one from Lord Keith,” she said, breaking the
seal. She read aloud : i

“To THE HONORABLE COUNTESS OF LEIGH :—DEAR MapD-
AM. The Lord Chancellor has appointed me one of the
guardians of your son, the infant Earl of Leigh, and I
have found myself unable to resist the urgency with
which he pressed the office upon me, I trust J] shall ful-
fill my duties for the ehild’s¢ 0d, and to your content-
ment. Lord A}we " i dias been called to
Scotland, and as it.is févessary to confer with you, on
proper plans for the future, I Waco to wait on you at
the Towers, next week. [shail trespass but two days
on your solitude. My mit 1er sends her tenderest re-
gards, and begs that you will receive her, with me, as
she is longing to see both you and Miss Haviland.

“Your humble servant, KENNETH KEITH.”

Violet had not seen Kenneth when he came to the
Towers for the funeral. Sie had parted from him at the
railroad station in London, after he had won her case
for her. But the solemn days which had passed since
then, and the terrible tragedy which had fallen upon her
life, seemed. to divide her, by years and years, from the
girl whom Kenneth Keith had loved and mourned. Her
future and her present were all for her child.

It was in this mood, that when Kenneth Keith came
with his mother, she.moved tormeet*him, a pathetic
little gure, in her widow’s cap and weeds. The rector
and Mr. Storms were there also, and Violet asked the
rector to give her his arm to dinner, while Kenneth es-
corted his mother.

When they returned from the brief and silent meal,
Kenneth said :

“Lady Leigh, I wished to confer with you and Mr.
Storms, as 1 am about to leave England for some time.
My little ward will scarcely need much of myare at
present ; and my co-guardian, the marquis, can perform
all the duties that might fall to either of us. I think the
little earl will suffer no detriment from my absence. I
am going to India and China, and probably shall be
away two years.”

Violet did not know that she had been shrinking from
the future and from meeting Lord Keith until the sud-
den leap of relief which her heart gave at hearing he was
going from England. She Jooked up at him almost
gratefully, as she said, ‘‘She did not wish his guardian-
ship to be a burden,” and that “she was sure Lord
Alwold could give all the advice needed.”

“Our little earl will want no more important tutors
than a nursery maid during the next two years,” laughed
Mr. Storms.

Violet slid her hand into that of Lady Burton and

 

 

whispered :

| room, Violet came to her.

| your time with me, will you not, and teach me how to
| Manage my child and my estates? If you stay much
“Oh, no; he fayors his father,” she made reply, ina |

with me I can have Edna here more.”

Then the talk wandered into discussions of the estates,
and the rector gave long histories of various minorities
of earls of Leigh, and he spoke hopefully of the future,
and advanced the comforting doctrine, that the sons of
widows were usually good and useful men.

‘You will find Alwold most attentive and devoted to
his ward, I am sure,” said Lord Keith ; and then, at the
mention of Alwold, both Kenneth and his mother looked
unconsciously at Edna. They could neither of them
guess why for more than a year, Alwold, who had
seemed such an ardent lover, had abandoned Edna, and
why, though a shadow had evidently fallen on her,
she being endured her trouble in silence, giving no word
or sign.

Lord Keith and Lady Burton went away in two days,
and then, for October, life flowed on very quietly at the
Towers. However brayely Violet had striven to bear the
burden of her married lite it had undoubtedly weighed
very heavily upon her. ‘‘The lower nature linked with
hers” had worn and fretted her. Her tender spirit had
shrunk and shivered from harsh, repellent words and
looks and sneers, and she had lived in daily dread of
evil. Now she lived in calm, as one above whom the
storm has wheeled away, and who has nothing more to
dread. She gave herself ardently to the care of her child
and her tenants. The rector and his wife found her for-
ward in every benevolence; the people, old and young,
idolized her. Wherever there was one sick or sad, an
old person on the verge of the grave, or a babe new-come
to life, there the pony phaeton of the little Countess
Leigh stood by the gate, and her soft voice brought sym-
pathy or consolation, and her white hand help.

“Like sleep or peace, in dark affliction’s place,
She smoothed the furrows on the front of care ;
Clove with the glory of a loving face
The dreary dens and caverns of despair.
And pure as morn, sent forth her fair white hand,
Bearing a blessing on from door to door;
Till like a new-born light across the land,
Her heart’s large love went brightening more and more.”

Thus they were when November came to them, and
one day Violet went to Edna’s room with an open letter.

‘Dearest Edna, I must tell you, the Marquis of Alwold
is coming here, day after to-morrow, to see his ward.”

«Then, Violet,” said Edna, quietly, ‘‘to-morrow I must
leave you. I go to my cousin’s.”

CHAPTER LXXXVI.
*‘CRUEL, CRUEL THE WORDS I SAID.”

That night, when Edna had dismissed her maid and
was seated in a low chair before the fire in her dressing
Her brown hair, freed from
the widow’s cap, fell in all its beautiful abundance over
her shoulders, and her long black dressing gown made
her look more slender and childish than ever.

“Tam glad,” she said, ‘that your maid is gone, and
that you have no light but the fire. 1]. want to talk to
you.”

Edna, without reply, took her hand and stroked it.

‘“‘May I speak to you of Alwold, Edna ?”

“No,” said Edna, ‘‘not of him.”

“But I must. Bear with me, my loved Edna. You
know that my life has been sacrificed toa mistake and
an unkind interference. Ido not mean ever to refer to
it again. I wish forever to forget what tears I have
shed, what heart-aches ‘I have suffered. But my own
Edna, I cannot endure the thought of such mistakes for
you. Edna, do you still love Alwold »”

“T am not changeable, Violet,” said Edna, looking at
her friend between a smile and a tear.

“Darling Edna,” said Violet, in her most caressing
tone, ‘“‘surely you will not be so unkind as to leave me
alone here to receive Lord Alwold.”

“And you, my dearest, will not urge such a plea as
that when you know perfectly well that Captain Gore
and his wife are to be here before Lord Alwold can pos-
sibly reach here to-morrow.”

«You know it is not for my own sake I am Speaking.
I feel sure if you two were to meet the old good terms
would at once be established between you. The bappi-
ness of you both is at-stake. Oh, it-is asad thing to
part true lovers, my Edna.”

“Urge me no more,” said Edna. ‘I cannot see him; all
my peace, my dignity, my womanly self-respect are at
stake. I know if I met him I could not so command my-

self, but some look or tone must show that my heart is |
You know, Violet, how many there would be to |

his.
Say the poor rector’s child was seeking Alwold for his
lotty rank, and loved the title rather than the man. I
cannot lay myself open to any such suspicion by throw-
ing myself in his way. Allis ended between us.”

«But there is a mistake between you, Iam sure.”

“Itis not for me to right it,” said Edna, and the leap-
ing firelight showed her lovely blue eyes full of tears.
*«And now listen to me, Violet, promise me that you will
not speak of me—to him.”

“Tf cannot do that, for I should break the promise,”
said Violet; ‘‘everything would recall you, and I could
hardly avoid mentioning your name.”

“At least promise me that you will not inquire into the
trouble between us.” _

«Yes, Ican promise that. I do not know Alwold well
enough to intrude on his,private affairs.”

But Violet believed that she Knew what the trouble
was, and she set her loving heaf#t and earnest mind at
work to try and find a way to y@ght the wrong done by

er dead husband.

ven next day Edna went to 8
Her going from the Tuwers Wiis as a light withdrawn.
Fer the hour or two before Caj}tain Gore and his bride
came Violet felt utterly desolat¢, and even the jolly cap-
tain and Anna, happy and blushing, just come from the
fortnight in Paris, which had succeeded their wedding,
could not make up to Violet for the loss of Edna.

“Gore and I mean to be perfectly devoted to you,
Violet,” said Anna. ‘We will stay and go just as you
wish. Weare the happiest people in the world, and we
owe it all to you, for mamma would never. have con-
sented but for your persuasion.”

Lord Alwold arrived just in time to dress for dinner.
After dinner his little ward was brought to the draw-
ing-room, and then Lord Alwold hada long talk with
Violet about the estates, and how they should be con-
ducted during the little earl’s minority. Violet was

; eager to know what was her duty in regard to improve-

ments and benevolence, and would Lord Alwold study
the steward closely, and advise her as to his qualifica-
tions, both as a man of business and a philanthropist.
‘I feel that I know the tenants, and have some right
ideas about their good,” said Violet,” for two years ago

| Lady Burton and I spent an autumn here together, and

she taught "me much out of her experience. And now
this autumn I have been*doing what I can, and our
people are all very good and friendly.”

“T never saw any one like Miss Haviland for going
among people and saying just the right thing. J can’t
begin with her there, Violet,” spoke up Anna.

“When will she be back ?” asked Gore.

“7 don’t know,” said Violet.

“Such a pity she could not have staid twenty-four
hours later so we could have seen her,” said Gore.

And then, of course, the marquis could not but know
that Edna had fied to avoid meeting him.

‘Tf you lament her so much,” said Anna to her hus-
band, “perhaps Violet will show you the picture she
has of her on her dressing-table, painted on ivory, cab-
inet size—sweetest thing lever saw. Do, please, Violet ;
ring for it.”

Violet thought she must let events take their course.
She rang for the picture and handed it to Anna, who
summoned Gore to admire it with her. Then Anna said:

“We must not be selfish. Lord Alwold, you would
like to look at it, too, 1am sure,” and shea set up the
picture on a table before him. Then she andthe cap-
tain wandered to the other end of the room, and began
a private chat with each other.

Violet was seated on a low chair near the fire that
leaped in the grate. Her black robes fell heavily about
her, her white cap made the one strong point of light,
as with her lovely child-like face turned aside, she
watched Alwold while he studied the portraic. She
could not doubt that he loved Edna deeply still, when
she saw how pale he grew, and how a mist swept over
his eyes, and a look of longing and despair settled over
his handsome face. He turned and caught her gaze.
He strove to speak indifferently. *

“Miss Haviland has been keeping you company ?” he
said, coming and leaning his elbow on the jade mantel,
and looking down at the countess.

“Yes. I cannot tell you what she has been to me.
think ours is such alove as Tennyson celebrated in ‘In
Memoriam,’ more than: the love of kindred. And yet, do
you know, once I had the deepest and most unreason-
ing aversion toward Edna.”

“Ah ?” said the marquis, softly.

“Yes. But it was all owing to a mistake. No one
could be angry with Edna, nor condemn her, except as
under a mistake, because she is the most perfect crea-
ture on earth. Well, I mistook her, and disliked her,
and refused to meet her, and she returned me good
for evil, and love for hate, and saved me for myself, and
if | have been strong at all, and have done my duty, it
is all owing to Edna.”

“She is fortunate in having so warm a friend,” said the
marquis.

“Would you imagine me ofa jealous nature, Lord Al-
wold ?”

‘7 do not know. But if you are, I thinkI could sym-
pathize with the infirmity, as I possess it.”

“It leads us into many mistakes, and often causes us
to destroy our own happiness and the happiness of
others, and to condemn the innocent,” said Violet,
quietly, and then turned the conversation to business
channels.

The next morning, before breakfast, Lord Alwold was
strolling about in the park, when he came upon a little
rustic seat under a beech tree, and there lay an open
book, and on it a kerchief and a withered cluste of
pansies. The handkerchief had Edna’s name on it.
She had inadvertently left the things there some thirty-
six hours before. The book was Tennyson’s Poems, and
Lord Alweld read:

* Cruel, cruel, the words I said,
Cruelly came they backto-day. .
‘You are too slight and fickle,’ I said,
‘To trouble the heart of Edwin Gray.’”

CHAPTER LXXXVII.
‘‘BEHOLD A PENITENT HERE, FOR PARDON.”

All during breakfast Lord Alwold seemed lost in
ek meditation. After breakfast he and Violet went
to the library to look over papers. The library was a
great room, well lighted, into which the November sun-
shine was pouring a pale light, while fires glowed in two

s

¢ coussn near Hackney. |

I}.

opposite fire-places. The table, with japanned boxes of
papers, stood in the centerofthe floor. In a distant bow
window Anna sat knitting, as she slowly swayed back
and forth in a low rocker, her rosy cheeks and blue
gown forming a brilliant contrast to iVolet, pale and
slender in her black bombazine.

When the papers had been examined Lord Alwold
spoke, abruptly :

“You say you mistook Ed——, Miss Haviland, and dis-
liked her; would you mind telling me about it ?”

“There is no reason why I should not tellyou. I heard
that she had been engaged to Lord Leigh, and I be-
lieved he continued tocare for her, and I wasangry and
jealous.”

Lote was she not engaged to him ?”

‘No.”

“Can younot tell me about it, Lady Leigh? I, too,
have heard of this, and perhaps not a true account.”

‘But, if you were interested, why did you not ask
Edna?”

“T did.”

“What did you ask her? If there had been an engage-
ment ?” ‘

“Why, I asked if he had been her lover.”

“You see, there is a vast difference,” said Violet,
quietly. ‘Did you ask her to explain 2”

“No. Iwas jealous and hasty, and I asked fora ‘yes
or no,’ and when it was ‘yes,’ 1 went into a rage.”

“Then you were very foolish,” said Violet, calmly.

Lord Alwold leaned his head on his hand, and sighed
deeply. Violet remembered how her own life had been
blighted by misunderstandings, and she pitied him. He
was, in spite of his admitted hastiness. a good and noble
man, and he had had his lesson. She bent torward.

‘Lord Alwold, let: me tell you that story. Edna’s
aunt lives by our park gates, and Lord Leigh saw Edna
there, when she was scarcely sixteen, and fell in love
with her.”

Then she told how he had followed her into Cornwall,
and succeeded in meeting her, and had seemed much in
love, had really been enamored, and how Edna had at
once told all to her father ; and the wise old man, feeling
Sure that his child’s fleeting fancy, and not her heart,
was enlisted, had insisted on a year of probation and
parting. ee oe

She told the little story Simply, ¢arnésciy;trankly,” —
with delicate tact, which tried to hide the truth—that
Lord Leigh had not loved herself, had pursued Edna,
and Edna had used all her power to try and comfort and
help her, and make peace between her and Leigh ; she
also told how Edna had comforted and encouraged her.
Thus Violet told her friend’s story.

«You think, then, she did not love this first lover ?”

*‘| know she did not. Hers was a girl’s heart, faintly
stirred by first words oflove, which did not waken any
real or strong emotion. And then the acquaintance
was of the slightest—a few meetings, with the governess
or her father for a third.”

“I never loved but one,” said Lord Alwold, ‘‘and that
one—Edna. I have always said I could marry only a
woman who loved me, first, last, only. i could have the
ghost of no dead loves rising in my married life. A
coquette is a being whomtabhor. i believe marriage
should be made on the simple basis of honest love. I
felt sure that Lord Leigh could not have been truly con-
genial to Edna, and if there had been a two years’ en-
gagement, it was on the ground of social advantage. I
admit I was rash, hasty, jealous, unjust. She ought to
| hate me, and, no doubt, she does.”

Violet was silent. She took up a paper covered with
calculations of certain interest, and knit her pretty
brows, as she studied it with zeal.

“Do you think I might have another chance?” he
asked.

“I think you owe her ample and sincere apology,”
said Violet, with admirable frankness.

«She shail have it. Where shall I find her?”

Violet still continued to study figures. Finally she
lifted her sweet face.

“Lord Alwold, I have such a plan!”

“Ot a school-house ?” asked the marquis, gloomily.

“No. Harka minute. This is my plan.”

She bent torward, and talked earnestly. Asshe spoke
Lord Alwold’s face brightened like the morning.”

«You are my best friend,” he said. ‘I owe you every-
thing, all my devotion, how shall I ever repay you ?”

«Pay the debt to my boy,” said Violet, quietly.

“And it Shall really be this way ?”’

“Yes. JT think it will work to a charm,” said Violet.

His lordship looked another man from that minute.

eo wore a most radiant face when he drove off to the
station.

‘How handsome he is!” cried Anna. ‘Wonder he is
not married ?”

“He will be, I hope, to my own dear Edna. But, Anna,
be sure you do not mention it.”

‘Not to a living soul,” said Anna, ardently, and in an
hour had told Gore, but in strictest confidence.

Now, about the middle of December, Violet wrote to
Lady Burton, begging that she and Edna would come to
the Towers, to pass the holidays there quietly.

«Anna and Gore would like to go to Uncle Ainslie’s for
a week,” she wrote, ‘‘but they do not wish to leave me
alone. You twodo not care for gayety; you will not
mind my dull house. Come and see how my boy thrives
at the mature age of thirteen months. A pretty pair of
guardians he ‘has—one in Egypt, and one in France! but
as yet he needs no one but his mamma,”

In answer to this earnest entreaty, Lady Burton and
Edna arrived on the twentieth, and fell readily into their
places in Violet’s quiet household life. —

: On the @vening of the twenty-fourth, Violet, in a

| furred cloak and hood, was, just before twilight, pacing.

| the terrac¢g, looking dowir the avenue, as’ it watching

for some ome. She did nofseem at all surprised when

cg Alwoid rode up, followed by a groom on horse-
ack,

The groom led off the horses, and Alwold, with his-
cloak over his arm, went up the broad steps by Lady
Leigh’s side.

‘*{ peeped into the library just now, through the shut-
ters,” said Violet, ‘and Edna is sitting there alone by the
fire. You shall go in at once, if you like.”

She knocked at the library, then pushed open the
door. Lord Alwold entered, and the door swung shut
softly.

The library was in a ruddy twilight of the hearth-
fires and the dying day. Edna was leaning back in a.
low bamboo chair, her lovely head against the tutted
blue satin cushion, her white dress falling in a soft
cloud about her, the leaping flame touching robe and
hair with points ot gleaming gold. Lord Alwold moved
sottly forward.

“Miss Haviland! Edna!” he said, in a low tone.

She made no answer. He drew nearer; he could see
her face now. Her hands lay loosely in her lap; the
long, dark lashes swept her delicate cheeks. Edna was
asleep, and her dimples went and came, and her lips
curved, as in a happy dream.

Alwold knelt beside her chair, and said, gently:

“Edna, Edna, wake!”

She opened her eyes; he seemed to so mingle with her
dream that she did not wonder at seeing him there. The
soft. light of her beautiful smile shone into his heart.

“Edna,” he said, ‘‘behold a penitent here for pardon.

I make a full confession. I was hasty, hard, unkind; I
deserve only your indignation. ButI loye you with all
my heart. Ilay my life at your feet. Only your love can
make me happy. Edna, will you forgive me? Will you
be my wife ?”

A rosy flush dawned over her fair face and neck.

“Alwold! Are youreally here? Isit not a dream?”

“Make it the most blessed reality that ever was, by
saying that you love me.”

“Vm afraid you'll think better of it,” said Ed
a most enchanting smile.

“So I shall, every day I live!” cried Alwold, folding
her in his arms.

”

 

 

na, with

[TO BE CONTINUED.]
See ar ere

THE SENSES AS AFFECTED BY SEX.

Tf the senses are taken Seriatim, it will be evident
that they are not parallel in men and women. ‘The lat-
ter possess; in a much greater degree, the perfection of
the sense of touch ; those occupations that require ex-
treme delicacy of manipulation, such as lace making,
embroidery, bead stringing, etc., are therefore usually
followed by women, As regards the sense of hearing,
we are not aware of any experiments or observations
on the relative perfection of the sense in the two sexes;
and the same may be stated as regards the sense of
sight, which appears to be equally acute in Women and
in men. In the extreme delicacy of taste it is probable
that the men excel. . Whether they do so naturally or
in consequence of the cultivation of men’s palates, As
a moot question ; but that they excel not only as judges
of food, but also as judges of wine, may be accepted as
an established fact, and the accurate perception of the
delicate shades of difference distinguishing different
brands and vintages of wine is much more frequently
found in men thanin women. As regards the sense of
smell, some exceedingly conclusive experiments have
been made by some American savants which appear to
subvert out preconceived opinions. The experiments
were performed with prussic ‘acid and other. strongly
odorous substances on forty-four males and ‘thirty-eight
females, and it was found that in nearly all cases the
sense of smell was about double as acute in men as in
women. The-cause of the difference in this matter
between men apd womenis quite unknown, as is the
object of the distinction ; but it has one practical bear-
ing that may be borne in mind. The employment of
strong and potent’ perfumes by women may depend on
their less acute sense of smell, and they would do well
to bear in mind the fact that odors and perfumes which
may be quite peasant to them may be almost overpow-
ering and decidedly unpleasant to individuals of the
other sex. : ‘

——_—_—__ > @-~

Ir you speak what you will, you shall hear what you

dislike.
——————>-o +_____—__

CONSEMPTION CURED.
_ An old physician, retired from practice, haying had placed
in his hands by an East India missionary the formula of a
simple vegetable remedy for the speedy and permament cure
of Consumption, Bronchitis, Catarrh, Asthma, and all Throat
and Lung Affections, also _a positiye and radical cure for
Nervous Debility and all Nervous Complaints, after having
tested its wonderful curative powers in_ thousands of cases,
has felt it his duty to make it known to his suffering fellows.
Actuated by this motive and a desire to relieve human suffer-
ing, I will send free of charge this recipe, in German, French
or English, with full directions for preparing and using.
Sent by mail, by addressing, with stamp, naming this paper,

W. A. Noyes, 149 Powers’ Block, Rochester, ¥ ¥

 

 

 

 

ox THE N KW YORK WEEKLY. ee v0, 42-No. a