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VOL. VII

N0181.

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! CHAPTER I.

I ’ LOVE’S YOUNG DREAM;

“ I’M only going out for half- an hour, Sarah.
Your master is asleep. If he should call, go to
him at once,” I said to my uncle’s servant, as I

. hastily slipped ‘on my hat, and cloak and sallied

forth, for the first time for several days, to get
a breath of fresh air.

v, , “A walk will do you good, miss, I’m sure,”
" replied the old servant, as I hurried away.

“Don’t be worrying about the master; I’ll see

-, to him, if he wants anything. He’ll have to

 " ' learn to put up with my nursing now.”

 I had been with my uncle—an old bachelor
" ' in failing health—for nearly a month, the
period allowed for my yearly holiday from the
hospital where I was matron.

/ V’Ihad come to him instead of going‘to my

1 home at Bridgeport: first, because he was ill

- and fancied my nursing better than any one

else’s; second, because my stepmother had

taken it into her head to arrange her yearly

; trip with my two sisters just at the very time
I was forced by circumstancas to take my va-

cation, and neither my time, my purse, nor my

, inclination would permit me to join her in

I  Saratoga, whither she had betaken herself.

I Was grieved to lose my yearly opportunity
of seeing the girls, but beyond that I did not
- care; and my uncle’s offer of a home during
 : \my holidays was most welcome. "

But it had not been much of a holiday to me

‘, after all; for the poor old mam had been taken

suddenly ill, and for the last fortnight I had

had to watch him almost perpetually.

’ Myleave of absence from the hospital was

: now over, and on the morrow I should have to
-" ,‘return to town. I

 I hurried along the streets—Atlanticville,

7, ' ‘where my uhcle lived, was a large watering—
, I place—through the town and out on to the

l f . beach, and, was soon seated half-buried in the

dry: seasand watching the gorgeous sunset and

'tbe'reflection of the crimson and golden clouds

in the motionless sea before me.

" , 'How calm and fair it looked, as if it never
'_ could beruffled; and how securely the-whiten

~ 3 winged vessels sailed along on its bosom in the

far distance. , .  ' v

.. .y ‘Itiwas a lovelyI V

 1th u re etfu 9M1" ,

‘ , ‘   in ti: minis

‘ c.  “boss ,awi a do ;  ' t

 he ast  I get away again,

 unless it ‘be'for as; .io'djtwo at Christiana.) r

 Iounkluwk a: "fluid asthesethoughts

  passed through my   began thinking

‘ ' ’ of the journey before:  the mar-row, and

= the, state ‘ or nay-uncle’s health, when voices
 :elose at hand fell entail-yew, and I pooped out

I

from under to lumbrello’ff’to  who the new-

ooiners‘could e. . 1 - - ,

' “What a lovely girl!“ I thought, “and what
av'handsome follow! one of» the oflcers from
‘ .tfiomn-of-war anchored in the bay, Iauppoie.
<‘Who’ can she be!" I; 7 V
 ‘ 'All‘oblivious‘ of my presence, they walked
7 , ’slowly - along, talking eagerly—or rather, I'
. should say, the young ofllcer talked eagerly to
x" his companion, who listened: with downcast
.- " eyes-her long, dark eyelashes almost resting
~' [-‘on her cheeks, and a blush mantling her fair
face. ' ' ‘

‘ him say. " I did not mean tospeak yet, but?
‘  you have heard, have you not, that I am pro-
‘ meted and must leave?” “

v “ Leave?” she cried. with a start.

~‘,‘ Yes; to-morrowflhe: replied. '
v ' ’ ‘1' Tower owl—ac sconl’"she said, and then
 ,hlushed deeply. -

 I looked at it with _

“‘I have'been too hasty, perhaps,” I heard .

 

 

“‘ Tomorrow  v-II  be. “my 3‘
long, long times" I have been  to the
Iceland. you know, and—Jr " ’

“ What! the ship that is going on the Arctic

expedition l” she cried in consternation, stopping ‘ '

short in her walk.
you go?" ~

“ I cannot refuse,” he replied firmly. “ But
tell me ”———and his voice grew very soft—“are
you sorry? Do you care whether I go or stay,
Miss Lonsdale?”

I began to feel uncomfortable. I felt as if I
were eavesdropping, but hardly liked to make
my presence known after having heard so
much. I hesitated, and remained still, and
apparently asleep. '

“Of course, I—I wish you weren’t going,
Mr. Sinclair. Oh, we havo had such a pleasant
time of it at Atlanticville this year, and now
our party will be spoiled! Why could they
not have waited l” I

“Then you are sorry? you will miss me a
little?" he said eagerly.

“Yes; certainly I shall miss you,” she re-
plied frankly, looking up into his face with the
loveliest, softest of dark-brown eyes. “ I am
very sorry you are going.” '

And her voice was full of regret.

“ Then if you will miss me-—if you are
sorry, you give me hope,” he replied, seizing
her hand. “ Oh, Lisa! I love you so madly!
Do not send me away without teelling me that
I need not despair!”

I felt my ears tingling. I would have
given anything to get away, but I dared not
move. '

There was nothing for it but to remain
quiet. '

Her reply came slowly, and in a faltering
voice. '

“ I hardly know. Only six weeks ago, Mr.
Sinclair, we Were almost strangers. It seems
so singular—so sudden. You must give
me time to consider before I answer,” she
said. ‘

“ But remember that to-morrow I sail.”

“Ah, yes! Well, till to-morrow then,” she
said. I

“ But I may speak to your father to—nigbt—
may I not?” ‘

“ Why‘not wait till to-morrow ’3” she replied
doubtfully.

“Because I may have to start early. And
remember, Lisa, (I feel as if, after all, it were
a shame to bind you for so long), I may be
away three years.“ . '

“ Three years!” she said, in a voice of con-
sternation.
three years?” . ,

“ Lisa, Lisa l" he cried joyfulLv—“ my dar-
ling, you do love me l~the tone of your voice
tells me so.” v

“Oh, Mr. Sinclair! must

“Wait, wait! 1 cannot decide cm you have

seen papa—till tomorrow!" the said shyly,

but not taking her hand from his clasp. “ Let,

us go home, Hr. Sinclair; it ingetting late.”
He murmured a few words, stooped suddenly

and kissed her brow and lips,‘ then they walked

silently on.

I peeped out from my hidin -place; and
when I saw they were well away
walked on. quickly as possible toward home.

What would Sarah say to my half-hour!

It had already grown to an hour and a half;
it was nearly seven o’clock.

I found Sarah in tears and the house in con-
fusion. ,My uncle had been taken worse: the
doctor had been summoned: danger was an
prehended; and though before nine o’clock all
the worst symptoms were alloyed, my uncle
determined to do what he had for one reason
or another put oil! from day to day—make his
will.

The lawyer and a friend,.a certain Colonel
Lonsdale, were accordingly sent for.

“ Lonsdalel” I mused, as I wrote the note.

“Surely he called her Miss Lonsdale "(thinking

of the love-scene I had witnessed on the beach).
“ Can Colonel Lonsdale be the father .of the
lovely girl I saw this evening?” v

An hour later the lawyer arrived; and soon

I

 

“Shall I not see you again for,

get up, and-

 

,ofterwlwsaw hitiihll, handsome, militaiy' man ,
"9511‘! no   . ‘ . i r ”

As he entered, the’lhwyer, ‘Mr.”‘Brand,'beg-
ged me to send him upAstairs at once.

Colonel Lonsdale needed no second bidding;
he ran upstairs, to my uncle’s'bedroom, and
with the doctor and Mr. Brand remained there
.for more than an hour, while I and Sarah sat '
in the dressing-room waiting lest we should be
wanted. . v _ '

At last the deer opened, and- the doctor
beckoned to me to enter. ,

I did so softly, and saw my uncle pale and
haggard, reclining against his pillows in a doz-
ing condition, while Mr. Brand was collecting
and sealing up certain papers and documents
that lay on the table. 7

“ He will do new,” whispered the doctor.
“ It has been an exertion to him, dictating and
signing his will; but it is well it is over. His
life, as he and all of us know, is a very uncer-
tain one. Not that I apprehend any immediate
change, you know.”

“Then I can leave him to-morrow to Sarah’s
nursing,” you think?" I replied. “ If not, lwill
write for further leave of absence.”

“Oh, you can leave .him to Sarah and me
with safety,” he rejoined. “Colonel Lonsdale
has kindly promised to look in now and then,
and, being an old friend, he will cheer him up
a bit. How late it is! I must be going~ half-
past twelve, I declare!”

“Take some supper before you go; it is all
prepared," I said.

“ Thank you, no; I must be off,” he re-
plied. ‘

And he left us; but Colonel Lonsdale staid
for an hour or more, and the clock struck two
as I let him out at the front door.

He looked worried and depressed, I thought,
and I wondered what private troubles he might
have; for although my uncle was an old friend,
I did not imagine his dejection could proceed
entirely from grief at his illness. . .

“It will be almost light when I get home,"
he observed, looking toward the east. “How
deliciously cool the air is l” '

“ Have you far to go, then?” .I asked. '

“Yes; don’t you know? We live at South-
bank—quite on the other side of the town. Our
house is on the edge of the cliff there.”

“Oh, I didn’t know,” I replied. “ My uncle
has been so poorly ever since I came here that
I have seen none of his friends.” '

“Yes, you must have had a dull time of it.
But your uncle has been fortunate in having
such 'an excellent nurse. At what hour
.do, you leave to-morrow—or to-day, I should
say!”. ‘ ,

“ At four o’clock,” I replied. .1
" f‘Then I‘ shall do myself the pleasure of ‘
seeing you 0 ,” he rejoined, ‘fif you will
allow one.” .~ I v '
.I  in reply; he raised his hat, and
 briskly away in the directldn of his

,.“What a handsome man!” Ithought. “I ,
neversaw a face that pleased me more. And
what a pleasant voice! I wonder how uncle
came to know him so well; he has never men-
tionedhim to me. He must be the father of
that pretty girl. There is something in his
face that reminds me of her. ' I almost wish I
were going to Itay herea little longer, so that
I might make their acquaintance."

Then I closed the door and went up again to
my uncle’s room, and soon fell asleep in the arm~
chair near his bedside. '

When I woke up it was broad daylight.

, My uncle was still sleeping peacefully, so I
stole away on tiptoe to arrange my hair and
dress, and finish my packing.

V At ten o’clock we breakfasted, my uncle J.
declaring himself much better, and even wish—
ing he had not made his wi:l with such precipi-
tation. _ . =

“However, it had,to be done, and is done," a
he ended by saying, heaving a deep sigh, as if
the doing of it had involved some enormous
sacrifice. "‘So you are leaving me today,
Ernestine?” I x ,r _

 

 

 

 

I,

 

 

 

L ‘1 f .“ Yes; I am not my own mistress. you know.

7 I am under,0rders.” -

~ , «sight. '

\

“True; and orders must be obeyed. You’ve
had an unpleasant holiday, with a cross old
bachelor full of whims and fancies, my dear;
but you’ll find I’ve not forgotten you in that

precious document I signed last night,”-—his .

Voice growing pathetic.

“Indeed, uncle, it has been a pleasure to
me to be of any service to you,”l replied.
" You know, nursing is my vocation.”

,“I know you have given up everything to
goin for it, my dear; but to my mind girls
ought to marry—ought to marry-th husbands
to work for them, my dear, instead of taking
up new-fangled notions about being indepen-
dent and working for themselves.”

“But suppose the husband can’t be found,
uncle?” I said, with a laugh.

“ Pshawl My dear, do you pretend to tell
me pretty young women like you and Emma
and Eleanor can’t find husbands? The world
must be strangely changed since I was young
if such is the case, that’s all I can say 1”

“There’s hope for Emma and Eleanor,
uncle,” I rejoined, laughing; “they are young
-——quite girls. But time flies. How old do you
think I am, uncle?”

My uncle looked at me in surprise.

“ I remember your birth very well, my dear;
when your father and mother were living at
The Grove. Let me see, in— Why, by J0ve,
Eruestinal you don’t mean to say you are
thirty-two years old?"

And my uncle looked quite aghast.

“ Thirty-two years and four months,
uncle. Quite an old maid, you see i” I replied,
laughing at his dismay.

“ Well, time does fly! But you don’t look
it, my dear—not a day over eight-and-
‘twenty, I‘vow; and you always were a fine-
'l0oking girl. You’ve time before you yet, my
dear," he returned, consolingly.

“Not long, I fear; and, talking of time, it’s
twelve o’clock. I wonder the doctor is not

, here.” I replied.

“Oh, I feel all right to-dayl Don’t want
him. I expect Brand at two, and Colonel
Lonsdale will come in this evening. I‘ll take
my medicine now, Ernestine,” he said. “Are
your trunks 'allpacked, my dear?”

"Yes," I answered; “I’ve only One.”

“Travel light? \That’s right, :my dear;
ladies generally cumber themselves with pack-
ages and parcels by the dozen." ,

“ Hofear of that with me,” I answered;,and
stood looking with rather wistful eyes at the
sea, thinking how in a few hours I should
again be in my quiet rooms in the hospital,
with no view from my window's but the dingy
street. . , ~

The morning passed, but neither thedqctor
nor Mr. Brand appeared

At half-past three
without their making their appearance.

Arrived there, I remembered Colonel Lone.
dale‘s promise, and looked around in search of

l

, him; but he was nowhere to be seen.

i To the last I momentarily expected him; yet
he came not. Then the bell rung; the conduc-

, tor signaled; the train started.

‘ ‘ We were of, and Atlanticville was soon out

 

CHAPTER- II.
A. SUDDEN cannon. ,

" “EBNESTINA, Ernestinai some one has taken
Penton!” cried my younger sister. Emma,
rushing into the drawing-room at Sunnyside
(Our home) one spring morning.

This was nearly a year later than the events
recorded in the previous chapter, and six
mouths’ after the death of our step-mother,
which event had obliged me to give up my
hospital life, and return to Bridgeport, to keep

a house for my two sisters.

“That is a piece of

“ Indeed!” I replied. I a!
ways

news. Who are the happy people?

, think Penton one of the loveliest places in the
Country.” _
' “Ah! you would indeed have said that if

I started for the 

 

youhad been 'with me this morning, Tim.
The ground. in the grove was pink with ane-
mones, and the turf on the lawn. under the
chestnut trees, blue with violets. Look!”

And she held up a huge bundle of floral
treasures.

“Yes, and the house was all open," said
Eleanor; “ we went in, Tina. They have re—
furnished it almost entirely. The drawing-
room is lowly.”

"But who are the people? I hope a nice
family.”

“Oh, a Colonel Somebody, with an only
daughter, an invalid. What was the name,
Emma?"

“ Longford or Langdale—some such name.
No, Lonsdale;that was itl And much I envy
them!” re‘urned Emn‘a. “The chestnuts are
just lll‘f akin g into lie-“era, Tina, and—”

“Lnnsdalel” I repeated, thoughtfully, with-
out replying to Emma’s words,-—“Lonsdalel
How strange if it should be—”

“What do you mean? If it should be what?”
the two girls both exclaimed.

“If it should be Colonel Lonsdale, poor
uncle’s friend, whom I met at Atlanticvillejust
a few weeks before he died,” I answered; for
our uncle had died very suddenly, not two
months after I had left him the year before.

“Most likely, unless he were a very rich
man.” replied Emma, d'oubtfully.

.“ He may be a rich man for all I know. He
had a daughter—I saw her once—a beautiful
girl. At least,” I added, correcting myself,
“I believe the Miss Lonsdale I saw was his
daughter." V

“ And was she an invalid i” asked Eleanor.

“No-o,” I replied, doubtfully; “ I . shouldn’t
say'So. At least, when I saw her she Seemed
well enough. Uncle, however, did mention in
a mysterious way in one of his letters some
‘ very disagreeable event,’ that had happened at
his friend’s house soon after I had left. I won-
der—but we shall soon know. When are they
coming down?” .

“In a fortnight, Allen said. And then good-
by to our rambles in the grounds,” said Emma,
ruefully.

“ Come, let’s put our flowers into water
now 1” Eleanor said. “ We must make the most
of them, you know; and I do think, Tina, that
when this little drawing—room has plenty of
flowers in it, it is the snuggest, prettiest little
room .in the place. You have done wonders
for Sunnyside since you came home.

“ Yes; it is. a pretty little place,” I said
stifling a sigh; for pretty as it was, and much
as I loved my two sisters, it had been a terrible
trial tome to give up the path in life I had
chosen, and say good-by to my patients and
the. career I had entered into in the hospital.

., ‘_‘.I believe, Tina, you Would prefer being in
New York to being here!" said Emma, turning
up her pretty little nose at the idea. “How

buyould endure that hospital I cannot imag-
ne

“You forget how interesting my work there

' was,” I replied. as I smoothed the bright golden

hair back from her fair forehead, and looked
into her laughing blue eyes; “ but I assure you,
Emma, I prefer the country to NewYork.”

“Tina would prefer whatever place her duty
lay in to any other!” said Eleanor, a tall, ele-
gant~looking brunette, the elder of my two
sisters, laying her hand on my shoulder. “ She
likes Sunnyside, and is quite happy here; but
she gave up her work in New York because
she thought it her duty» to do so when mamma
died.”

“ Anyway, I am quite happy; and what can
I desire more?" I replied. “ I do wonder if the
Lonsdales who have taken Penton are the
Lonsdales I mean? He is a very handsome
man, and—” ,

“ A handsome maul , But he has a grown-up
daughter; he must be quite old i” said Emma,
who had just passed her eighteenth birthday.

“"Well, not young. of course; but still under
fifty, I suppose," I answered. ,

To me that age did not seem so great as it
did to my sister. I ,

4 ,

 

      

   

‘ r 'f 
.~ '. g. x

l‘ L“.

 

Eleanor.

f‘ I never heard—my uncle never mentioned ' I

her; but of course there may be,” I replied.‘ "

“In that case it can’t be the Atlauticville
Lonsdales who have taken Penton. Allen said ,
he was a widower,” she anSWered. ,,

“Well, we shall soon knoW, I suppose. What
are you girls going to do this afternoon?”

.“ Mr. Dacre asked us to come d0wn and se'e
the church decorations,” said Eleanor; “ they
are nearly finished now. We can go, I sup-
pose, Tina?” ‘ ’

A slight blush rose to her check as she spoke. . I  

 "l

' “And there is no Mrs. Lonsdalel" asked »

Our handsome young rector had been a very, " .

constant visitor at Sunuyside of late.
“0! course you can go," I rejoined.
will meet you on your way home, and Mr.
Dacre might come in and take tea with us.
I’ve several things to do, or I would come with

My “several things” consisted in the

you." ‘- ' 
mend-f.~ ‘ " -

or”

ing of a large basketful of house linen, and as' '

soon as the girls had started for the village I sat r,  ‘v

down in the bow—window and began my task.-
My thoughts soon wandered back to our

morning’s conversation, and I began 150 W00- j
der it Miss Lonsdale,vthe pretty girl I had. ‘

seen or the beach at Atlanticville, was really
to be our neighbor, and if she were engaged to
the handsome oficer, Mr. Sinclair (yes, that?
was his name—I had not forgotten it), when: I.“
had seen with her. " T v

Furthermore, I wondered what was the. an? 

fortunate event that had happened in was,
house, and whether or not the poor girl were . 

really an invalid.

I found the girls and Mr. Dacre brimful ‘(uf “ IV

news concerning the expected strangers, Thi‘. ~ 

arrival of a new family in a quiet. country
neighborhood is a great event, and we all
looked forward anxiously to it.

“If they are nice,” said Emma, “it will. I

make all the difference to Bridgeport.

I dare » 

say they will give lots of parties—a ball, per», 

haps, and they have had made a lowly tennis ,__‘ .,

lawn behind the house.”

“That does not look as if the young lady" ’

were an invalid,” said Mr. Dacre. ["1 hope;
at any rate, that she will be strong enough x5

help us in the parish, Miss Eleanor, and.th

they will turn out good church peeple.” . ‘ .. .
“ Oh, I hope so,” replied Eleanor, whose
pale cheek I saw flush with pleasure at the V
rector be \‘ing identified her with himéelf in 
parish work. ‘

It seemed as if they, certainly ' were. church 

people, for the Sunday after their arrivgyc'pd
just as Eleanor began to play the  '
(she always played the organ in church)»: car‘-

riage drew up, and: Colonel  his?

daughter, and a middle—aged W6  (hi3,
daughter’s companion as we 

up the finale and‘seated themselves-fin 
Penton pew. . . ,_   5
“Is be your Colonel Mondale!” 

' Emma.

I nodded.
“ And the girl!”

I had to lookat in: twice before, 

“I think so," I, replied, doubtfnn, , y.

And then the service began.  ' a 

I fear I did not pay half. the  toil;
which I ought, or to Mr. Dante’s eloquent ser
mon. . .. .e

I was so struck with the e ‘
change in Colonel and Miss Lonsda ,
I could think of little else. ,,   a,

The colonel had aged by ten years 
saw him at Atlanticville. Handsome and"
striking he still was, but every line on his face

had deepened, his hair had begun to  ;

and the vague look of uneasiness I had noted,

on his face had changed to an expression. of the I. ' '

deepest melancholy.

As for the girl, whom I had thought sog ’
lovely scarcely a year before, the change in .'

her was still more remarkable.

She was pale, thin, and worn; the light had ‘ .
beautiful eyes; no smile parted; ' _-

died out of her
her pale lips.

t

 

   

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.«_.f .1 -' "'  _
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x. -;r Us. .;~ . w,

 

 

   

 

 

' = ' ' ‘ .Vfihescarcely raised her eyes-from her book
‘ " Turning the service, ’and the expression all her
: hoe-“Was one.'of theeprofoundest melancholy,
, mingled. as I fancied,‘with a touch of horror
, ‘ and fear. . / v y
' What had happened to change them so
strangely? “
I looked at the lady“who accompanied them
' --a commonplace middle-aged woman, with a
good-natured face, though rather sharp ‘gray
eyes and firmly-set mouth, dressed in deep
, mourning. v
Ihad fancied for a moment she might be
_ the colonel’s second wife, and the cause of the
’ ‘ change I saw in him; but second thoughts in-
duced me to dismissl such an ’idea from my
' mind altogether. .
" Gould Mr. Sinclair have diedil w
, Was it grief at his death that had altered
 Miss Lonsdale so completely!
This seemed probable, but'in a few moments
Iremexrnbered that not a. week before I had
, ‘ seen his name in the papers in connection with
‘ the exploring expedition in the Arctic regions,
_ and knew therefore that his death could not be
. 'V the cause of ‘ her trouble. ,,
I was thrown back on the “unfortunate
’ events” (whatever they were) mentioned by
my uncle. 1 ‘ '
 ” ‘;‘My~dear'1‘ina,” said Emma, as we came
1 , out of church, “ I am dreadfully disappointed
in Miss Lonsdale. Do you call her lovely?”
, “ She is much changed,” I replied, “ but still
hers is a lovely face, Emma; every feature is
perfect." .
1‘} But how pale, how inanimate, how.mis-
. N erablyill and unhappy she looksl” continued
' " Emma. “The colonel is a fine, soldierly-look—
lug man, but as grim as can be. I didn’t ex—
pect them to be a bit like what they are, Tina,
and I confess I feel disappointed.” ‘ ' ' '
" As she spoke the Penton folk drove by.
u _, Miss Lonsdale was lying back in the car’-
\  rings, wrapped in a shawl, almost as if it were
winter. Besideher sat the strange lady, and
'r; 3f Colonel Lonsdale sat opposite, with his backto
 thehorses. , '
"1,,‘They were all silent as they drove by, and I
’ r‘noticed that Miss Lon‘sdale's eyes were fixed
blankl‘y' on the cushions of the seat before her.

   
   
  
   
    
   
   
   
   
   
   
    
   
  
  
  
   
   
  
  
   
  
  
  
   
 
 
   
   
 
  
    
  
 
   
   
 
  
   
  
   
   

‘ and they fell on me.
"  1A look of recognition came into his face.
, I  sodas he took at his hat a smile
' '  over his countenance that made him al-
*   Old “#2 h I

 ’“. “ ‘ her: you, then, Tina,” said

 

‘
- , or, in surprise. “ How often did on see
1 I" ‘ ‘ yonce, 'repied; “onthe'n ht r
 taken ill and made his wmigtho‘phgtoh

, ' 1,  last, you knew.” '

‘ midweek, than!” ' ‘
anew so, aswam an ladies, and we
'hlirs.mrtbefore.",1 answered» ‘ '

‘ ,I‘, f 4%“’fiollrvdelighttifii ‘But I dowonder what is
 \  matter with that poor girl! Her eyes quite
;  haunt may Perhaps we may be able‘to cheer
.’ up, slittle,” said Emma, gazing after the
us it disappeared in ‘ the distance.
_ ,f‘Shelinust have'been very ill ,since 'I saw
,Ivsai’d. ‘f She then hadtheloveliestrcol-
you afid‘th’ux brightest expression. The colonel

"tidy is?”

7‘ fly duriosity was, satisfied on that point a

a. week later, when Coleus] 'L'msdale called. ,

- ; He apologized for the non-appearance of his

“daughter and Mrs. Parsons, her companion.

‘ [lilies ‘Lonsdalej was wOrse than usual that

gay, and Mrs. Parsons, did not like to leave
* 01".? ‘

. 2 He sighed doom}; as he spoke, and looked so
,1, troubled that from my heart I pitied him.

i “ You consider the climate here healthy and
bracing, Miss Traflor'dl” he asked. “ I am ter-

srihly anxious about my daughter’s health. She

‘ dislikes the sea, or I should have taken a place

near it; the sea air, would have been so good

.fofhcr.” ’ ‘ x " ' 3‘

 ,7,  ave-comma the A an o: the: Berkshire,

,\, ‘
.-_v.

speak cheerfully.

   colonel raised his eyes as he passed us, '

icons changed too. I Wonder who the strange

 

 

Hills wondermny ‘ invigorating)" ‘I replied. ,

“ You could not have chosen a.” Healthier-i spot,
Colonel \Lonsdale. I was sorry to see Miss
Lonsdale looking so ill and altered last' Sun-
day.”

“ What! you have seen my daughter before?
I was not aware of it,” he replied with interest.

“1 saw her once at Atlanticville. I don’t
think she saw me,” I replied.

And I felt I was blushing as I recalled all
the circumstances of our meeting.

He sighed again. ,

“She is very much, altered, and her state
causes me great anxiety. It willbe very good
of you and your sisters if you will come over
and see her sometimes, Miss Traflord. The
doctors advise cheerful society; but Lisa.
seems to dread the sight of strangers, and even
of acquaintances, and would shut herself up
from every one—even from me—if she could.”

The tone in which. he said the last words
was most touchingly sad. '

“We shall only be too glad to do our best,”
I replied. “ Is Miss Lonsdale fond of country
excursions! Does she ride or draw?”

“ She used to be fond of all these things,” he
answered, sadly; “ but of late she has given
them up. I don’t think that since her illness
-a sort of nervous or brain fever—I have
ever seen her take up a. pencil. And she seems

averse from any exertion.”

“ Emma and Eleanor must take her in
hand,” I replied, with a smile, and trying to
“I am sorry they are both
out to day; but we will come over and see
Miss Lonsdale in a. few days.”

“‘It would be very kind of you,” he said,
eagerly; “and I should like you to see my

child, and hear what is your impression of,

her state. You are accustomed to invalids,
Miss Traflord, and might see something in her
condition that . escapes our eyes. I shall
anxiously look forward to your visit?”

After a little further conversation he rose to
go; and, I was glad to notice, looked more
cheerful than when, he come.

He hoped great things, I saw, for his child
from the companionship of Emma and Eleanor.

“So your handsome colonel has been here,
Tina,” said Emma, half an hour later, “and
We have missed hm.”

“He wants «us all to come over to Penton
and make his daughter's acquaintance. So you
need not be too much disappointed," I replied,
lightly. ' . ' ’ ‘

“ Oh, I dare say we shall see plenty of him
by-and-by,” she retorted. “ As for me, I con-,
fess I am quite curious to make the acquain-
tance of the whole family. ' By the way,‘now
I remember uncle mentioning some very pain-

- m1 occurrencewhlch took place in their house

just after you left him last year. What was
it. man . * v .
“I don’t know; I bevel-(heard. It mightho
best not to allude‘to it in any way when we go
over to Penton.”, '
“Allude to it, my dear Tina!  ‘ course
not," replied my sister, laughing. “ Ishould be
afraid to do so, for your grim colonel might
treat me like a naughty, curious child, and box
my earsl” V . .

 

" ’ CHAPTER III.
‘ A STRANGE sromr. ' ‘

ONE fine sunny afternoon, a week later; we
set oil to pay our visit to Penton. ' '

,We all enjoyed our drive," I think, and were,
in the best of spirits when We stepped at the
door of the house. ' ,

It *was three years since I had visited it,
when its late owner, an Old maiden lady, was

inhabiting il; and I was.hardly prepared for

the alterations I saw on every side.

The gloomy old Hall, with its stifl’, ugly
chairs and hard marble floor, was now trans-
formed into a luxurious apartment; flowers
bloomed inprofusion in everyporner; soft car-

pets covered the floor; china and pictures

adorned the walls, and tastefully arranged fur—

niture gave the place. quite a romantic appear-1
once,  “‘  ‘ V ‘

l

   

' time to go. 

 

on'wlth her, Eleanor?”

 

,  drawing-men: into i which, we were. 3
shown was: equally changed, and furnished I

with the utmost taste andsplend'or'; but I could
not notice the elegance of. everything around,
for my eyes were fixed on the face of the
young lady seated on the sofa. ’
The oolon‘el hastened to introduce me to his
daughter. ' ,
He had taken her hand while he did so: but-

she, with a look of horror that astonished and _,
perplexed me, withdrew it hastily as he said:l .

“ My daughter—Miss Traiford. Lisa, I hope
you and these young ladies will soon be
friends.” '

She smiled rather coldly and shook hands
with us all; and as we went through the same
ceremony with Mrs. Parsons—who at that mo-'
ment hustled in—I felt the colonel’s daughter
was watching us with searching eyes.

In another moment she had seated herself
heeido me, and we were soon in deepconversa-
tion, while Mrs. Parsons did her best to enter—
tain Emma, Eleanor being taken possession of
by Mr. Dacre, who had just come in, and the
Colonel looked on well pleased. ‘

An instant later, Miss Lonsdale caught his
eye fixed on her, and became suddenly silent;
and not until, with a gloomy countenance, he

‘ had left the room did she address another w0rd

to me.

“ How do you like Pentoni” had been natur—
ally my first question. “Is it not a pretty
place?" I l

“ Very pretty. I like the hills!” she replied,
a dreamy look coming into ' her large, dark
eyes.

I could not but think of the difference be-
tween this scenery and that of the beachwhero

(I had first seen her with her lover.

Did she still remember him! I wondered. .

“The air here is very healthy. I hope you
will soon get stronger.”

She sighed. ,

“I hope so; but I don’t think the air will
make much difference to me.”

“ Oh, but, excuse me, I am half adoctor and
something of a nurse, you know. For invalids
there is nothing like good air, and you have
been very ill.” I -

“ Who told you so?” she said, quickly and
suspiciously.

“ Your father,” I answered, surprised at her
manner. ‘ ,

“ And what did he tell yen about my illness?"
she continued.

“ Nothing; only that you had been ill.”

She seemed relieved, and turned the con-
versation into another channel, till colonel
Lonsdalo reappeared, and she again become
silent. ‘ - ‘ '

I did not speak much more to her that day.

Colonel 'Lonsdale seated hinted! beside me,
and Mrs. Parsons joined in 9111' talk till it was

As I shook hands with the oolonel’s_,’daughter
she said hurriedly; ' ' " i ‘- *

“You will come and see me againsoon, will
you not?" ' " ‘ ’ '-

“ Certainly; whenever you like.” I .

For the first'time, her face lit up with some-
thing like a smile of gratification, and I \saw
the oolonel’s countenance beam with satisfac-
tion. . /

What a kind, handsome face he had! How
was it his only child seemed to dread him! ~

“I have not seen her look like that since—-
since her illness,” he whispered, as, he gave me

his arm and led me to the carriage. “You have? _

done her good already, Miss Traflord." ,

“ Cheerful society and our healthy country
air will Work wonders for her you will see,” I
replied, hopefully. ’ ’ ‘

 

 

i

, “But you will come again soon, will you ‘ ‘

not?” , _ , .

"Of course; with pleasure. I foresee your‘
daughter and I twill become great friends.”

“ What nice peoplei” cried Emma, as scones
we were out of hearing.
charming, Tina—not a bit grim,»after all; and
Mrs. Parsons is an old dearl

1

“Your colonel is , '

How did you get ,

 

  1y

   
 

 

' ‘g I

“Idon‘t know; I hardly spoke to her. She
looks nice, and‘Mr. Dacre says—“r '

“’Ahl” interrupted Emma, mischievously.
“I think Mr. Deere talked more to you and
you to him than to the Lonsdales. However,
Tina and I did our duty. Perhaps you can tell
me, Tina, what you think of Mrs. Parsons."
“I liked her,” I replied; “ but I talked most-
to Colonel Lonsdale and his daughter. Poor

' ' , girl, her illness must have been a serious one!”

r . ing at me implmingly

consider good health the great"

“She has a beautiful face, as you said,
Tina,” put in Eleanor; “ but what an odd ex-
pression it sometimes wears! She almost
frightened me once! Such a fearful, terrified
look came into it! It was when you spoke of
her illness.”

“She is very nervous, I can see that,” I an-
swered, thoughtfully; “ but I dare say she
will soon get better. How beautifully they
have furnished the house I” ' _

“ And did you ever see such flowers? Miss
.Lonsdale ought to be a happy girl. What a
pity it is she should be so delicate!"

“Ah, you see there is some drawback in
every one’s lot!” I replied. “Perhaps we
though so'much poorer, are far happier "
she is. I, who have seen so much 0" . .ess,
vartlzlly
blessings!”

“Just what Mr ' 
Eleanor. “You k.
poor people in the v1.

“Yes; they are luc
I replied. ‘

“ I wonder,” interrupted Emma, slyly, “if

. .M

dawn?) Lie-V‘— ..4
. 3,

' 3-3.! goo/‘- ‘xa -_ .o the

.. Ire... ‘

n}

t, 7 

' ' are such a friend,”

’ he will take a fancy to Miss Lensdale?"

A look of dismay came into Eleanor’s face.
“ Do you think it likely?” she faltered, look-

“Hardly,” I replied. laughing. “At any

V frets, we need not begin to imagine such a

; times of it, and I saw. that she could not stifle,
the remembrance. ‘ ‘

thing, Nelly.”

“Of course I was only joking," sai-l Emma,
contritely; “he hardly spoke to or looked at
her. Hei‘has other fish to fry.’ as they say.
Now, Eleanor, don’t upset us. We were near.
ly in the ditch" that time. I really think I’d
better drive in at the gate, or you’ll come to
grief,”

, “Nonsense! I upset you, indeed!
Mr. Dacre says—” - , V
. “That you drive splendidly! I can quite
believe it, my dear. He has a strange way of
admiring everything you do,” replied Emma.
“ There! the danger is over, and here. we are
once more safe at home.”

It was long befom I paid another visit to
.Penton, and then’Lisa Lonsdale drove over
and spent the afternoon with us; and every
time I saw her I grew to like her better, and
was glad to think that the feeling was recipro-

Why,

eated; hut'as time'passed I found itédlmcult to.

get beyond a certain point with her, and I'
came to the admission that she was not only
nervous and feeble, but that she had some ter-
rible secret weighing'on her spirit that she
dared notdivulge to any one.

One day by chance I let slip the name of
Atlanticville, and the fact that I knew the
place, and in a minute the smile that had
brightened her face fled, her color faded. and

as looked at me with the expression of she.
pinion and doubt I had seen 'in her face when I
visited her first at Penton. I

“Do you know Atlanticville well .9” she
asked. _

“ I was there only once,” I replied, “ nursing
an uncle who died soon afterward. I was
,seldmn out of the house,'so I Can’t say I know
the place well.” ' .

” We lived there once. I don’t care for the
place,” she said, after a pause. “ Don’t let us
talk about it; it was there I was so ill, you
know.” I .

But in spite of her request. she spoke several

For the rest of that day she was sadder and

L .. _ more dreamy than I had known her for some

 

time.

;
,'-\

.or fright must have caused it.

 

 3"}; o. "  1"!" w.“ 1,1. A \, "1' 1-   -- 5'11“ _'-’

;;, r~ - y ~ ) .- \v.
.f-,  , , «,~
‘ i.‘ l

[Inseamatone;

'whet had_pamed,"andi medeup'my mind to
ask Colonel Lonsdale for a full account of her
illness. _ ‘

He had, always shrunk from speaking of it,
but I felt that if I were to give him my opin-
ion on her case, as he had often begged me, it
was necessary that I should know what had
taken place and how her illness had come about.

“ Has she never said anything to you about
it herself?” he said, his face falling, and a sad,
wistful expression coming over it.

“ No, never,” I replied. -

“ Ab!" and he sighed deeply; “that is just
what troubles me, Miss Trafford. I feel I am
in ignorance as to what really caused her sud-
den attack. I cannot believe that I am ac-‘
quainted with all the circumstances that hap-
pened on that dreadful night. Doubtless you
have heard of the murder—for a murder it
certainly was—that was committed at our very
door at Atlanticvillel”

I shook my head.

“I did hear in 3. Ass;
unr'easant circr‘ 1'».:::":.7' 

ay of some very
...t had happened

  

more 7013. iczft  ..,.cville, but what they
were .I to, I " _..ued. If you do not object
to sr-  -nem, perhaps you will tell me what

L?

.ere. It is not, I assure you, from any

‘ are curiosity that I inquire.”

“As if I should for an instant imagine such
a thing!" he replied, reproachfully. “I ought
to have told you before, but I imagined you
knew, if not everything, at any rate the out-

‘ line of what happened on that dreadful night."

Again I made a motion of dissent.

“Well, then, I returned home late—past two
it was—and was just proceeding to my room,
when the gleam of a light burning in a distant
apartment caught my eye." ,

“ It was in a small sitting-room, leading
out to a piece of garden just on the edge of the
clifl, and along the front of which ran a va-
randa, a favorite resort of my daughter.

“ ‘ Very imprudent of Lisa/.1 thought, ‘if
she has left it burning, or perhaps is still there.
The child should know better than to wait. up
for me when she knows I have gone out on
business!

“ And I hastened toward the room.

‘ It Was empty!

“ ‘Lisal' I cried, but there was no answer;
and taking up the candle with a strange fore-
boding of evil, I looked around, then walked
out into the veranda.

“,She was net there; but on the grass just
beyond I saw her lying, the moonlight gleam-

ing on her white robe and white face, from

which all signs of life were absent.

“ With a cry, I rushed to her. raised her in
my arms, and alarmed the household. .

“The doctor was summoned, and ere long
my poor Lisa was restored to consciousness,
but her mind was gone. ' _

“She raved incoherently, and it was plain,
to us all that brain—fever would be the result.

“You may imagine the state of anxiety I
was in that night. '

“Q What could have caused this sudden seiz-
are

“The doctor declared some terrible shock

“What frightened her? or what had she
seen from the veranda, or the garden that had
so terrified her? , "

“The morning brought an answer to our
questions. '

“I was sitting about nine o‘clock by her
bedside, half stunned by grief, when I was told
my~presence was at once required below.

“Reluctantly enough I left her, and was
met in the hall by a detective

“ ‘A murder ‘was committed on your prem-
ises .last night, sir,’ he ,said, respectfully
enough, ,

“ ‘A murder!’ I repeated in horror. ‘Who
is murderedl—which of myservantsl’

“‘None, sir; the body found is that of a
strange woman, but it is certain she was mur-
dered in your garden last night, and thrown

r . _ ' over the cliff. V The marks of. the struggle may.
I sat long after she had left,‘thinking of

be secuuplain. enough, and a’ fragment or two

lugs: , ,"\ _ .,

 

~Gradually the remembrance of what had" 

 

|,a/,’ A .., 1-»

 

of hardness still has!“ “IQ bushes “your .
down the face of the clifl.’ _ ‘ . 1

“Here was an ample explanation of Lisa's _ ‘ » ,*
illness. Without doubt she had unnamed the . 1  4
whole struggle, and the horror, the terror ob , {3‘51
the scene had injured her brain. . . , - ‘

“‘Have you no, clew to the murderer? I
asked. * , _ ' , 

“ ‘ At present, none whatever,’ the detective . 1 
answered; ‘but, doubtless, in time we shall ob: " 
tain some. At present all that is certain is - ‘
that it must have taken place after the turn of ,
the tide, otherwise the body Would have fallen v
into the water, and been carried out to sea.
Will you come outside, air, and take a look at
the corpse?’ '

“I shuddered at the matterof-fact way in , 
which he spoke; but I could not refuse, and k 5;;
followed him to where the murdered woman . i 
ay. 1 ,.v

“ ‘ Do you recognize her?’ he asked.

“ ‘ No; a perfect stranger.’ ”

“‘Married,’ he observed, pointing to the
wedding ring on her finger. ‘ Young, too, and
pretty, or must have been so once. You’ll ex— .
cuse me if I make a few inquiries up at your
house, sirtY ;

“ ‘ 0b, of course l’ I replied. feeling an uneasy
Sensation, nevertheless; for I felt sure enough 3 .
that my poor child’s evidence, should she ever ,. ‘
be able to giVe it, would be réhuired at the in-'
quest on the remains of the murdered wt»
man.” '

The colonel paused in his narrative, and I .
saw the sad look deepen in his eyes and the ' ‘
lines about his mouth grow sterner. ‘ .

“It Was weeks before my poor child recov-
ered, her senses. ‘ r v * ‘

. “ She lay on'her fevered couch, raving im
coherently, and for some time we feared the ?.
worst. »

“ It seemed as if her strength must succumb ' .
to the fever, and that she would die without
telling us what she had witnessed. r , . . .

“One curious, and to me, as you may  / '
agine. most painful peculiarity in her delirintn T
was her strong aversihn to my presence. , . "' g

“The sound of my footstep was sometimes, 
enough to bring on a paroxysm of frenzy, and - v
she would utter shriek after shriek if I  a 
within her sight when the delirium was 
her; so it came to pass that I was fenced to:
give the care of her to others and seldom to, . ,
enter her room, but to content myself...mitb .i "
sitting day and night ass sort of sentinel!» ,«
the dressing—ream. r ' r'

, “At length, a change for the W  
clared itself. . , ' . '  xvi ' ’.
“ My child was free from fever. once a ‘L r
though weak and helpless as a new-horn. hubs.   ‘ ,~
I “ Leannct tell you, Miss Tmflard,  
joy and thankfulness I felt when I Welter 
speakto the nurse. in her natural  I5 ’
longed to rush; to her bedside, but something _;  a
kept me back, and the doctor‘approved of my“? ‘_ f
self-restraint and begged I would wait  ~
askedfor me. - = . ' '  .,  V. i
“ ‘She is very weak,’ he said, gravely. . 91 a: -'
dread any excitement for her. A return of '
fever would be fatal.’ 7 ' ' .  .
“How I waited and listened, and longedio ,T 'P
hear her ask for me! But the dayspasaed: at. ‘
and for a week she never mentioned my nanw. ._ .

 

passed on the night she was taken ill come
back to her, but the doctor wouldnot knew I ‘
hertospeakofin. _ - 
“Then she asked for me. , '  . - 
“ ‘18 Color el Lonsdale, my father, hereer I 
said, in a strange, hesitating way. . v   " 
“ ‘ Here? Certainly! He has. neVer- left]  .3
you,’ replied the d< ctor. ‘Bhall I tell him to v 
come to you, Miss Lise?’ I
“I was at the door, longing for her torsnme
mon me. lcould see her lying on her little
white-curtained bed, looking so pale and at—
tenuated, and yet so sweet and lovely; but
when the doctor said these words, alookI shall.
never forget came over her face—~a look of ter~ V ‘
ror,’loathing almost, ‘and she replied, hurried. ' .
ly. “ No, no! Icanuot! Not yet, not yetl',

    

,“

 

 

 

 

/ I “ ‘Certa’inly not yet, if you, prefer to waitl’

-"   ‘8""thnch or surprise ‘ihf'his voice.
‘ gout distress yourself, m‘y‘dear; [you are weak

1 j “Yes; Iam weak,’ she answered.
-“ put it ofl a little, can’t I i’

' “ ‘Certainly,’ answered the doctor, and I
, ', thought I detected a look of anxiety in the
t, ,y. n glance he cast on her; and then I shrunk away,
   1 bitterly grieved, and more hurt than I liked to

own at my child’s reluctance to seems. '
V . " . i “Well, she grew better, and at last I could

 , bear the separation from her no longer.

 " j: “"1 entered her room one day without warn-
; ing, and would have clasped her to my heart
' yit-she/would have let me. .,
 “But she shrunk from me, with a low cry

1  of terror, and fell to weeping so bitterly that,
’ : dreading her excitement might bring back
 ,fever, I left her; and for nearly a week after-
ward ,I did not see her again. «

,‘ " I “When I next met her I strove to be calm
\ -, land'Self-res'trained, and not to show that I re-
Imembe‘red the repulse I had experienced at
,‘our'last interview. To my surprise, she was
' ‘7 perfectly calm, collected, and cool; greeted me
  distantly, as if I. were a stranger; and a
 stranger to all intents I have been to her from
g,  that day to this. ”

 

‘I can

 

   
    
  
   
    
    
    
 
  
 
 
   
 
   
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
   
  
    
   
   
 
  
    
     
 
 
   
 
   
   
  
  
   
  
    
   
  
   
   
 

 

CHAPTER IV.
.. A SHADOWED LOVE.
 “AND the inquest?” I asked anxiously.
I“ How did she bear herself at it?”
'i‘As’calmly as could be,” he replied; _“too
_, lmly almost; her manner hardly seemed nat-
ural—eat, least, not to those who knew her.
 coroner complimented her,.I remember,
3_ on the’elearnees with which she gave her evi-
»“j*dm; but to me it was a painful hearing.”
.V ., “And what was her account of the matter?”
I hugilred, breathless with interest.
,3" i“ hestated that she had sat up later than
,7 ,usu'al in her bedroom, had then, tempted by
» tho heauty'of the night, on coming down-stairs
.- Mtalmnupyher position in a‘tavorite corner
go: the veranda: that suddenly she had heard
,I‘twompersnns speaking in low, hurried tones,
 .then'a seaming; and starting up, she, on reach-
- ‘jugthesteps leading from the veranda to the
«gardenglhad ‘seen a man and Woman on the
edfieotrthe’cliff. The man, with an oath, had
 the-woman from him over the cliff and
Miami the sight had so overcome her with
greed-that she fainted, and remembered no
shore till she awoke to consciousness weeks
 in her owm bedroom.
i1“ When questioned, she described accurately
 the face and figure of the woman
Whose  was found at the foot of the cliff--

jtlie murderer-’1; appearance her description was
42pm raguemhis back had been toward her,
 beyond the general outlined his figure
shsoould any little; ’ "
,, , \Iflfihe‘s’eemed a little troubled as she was
 questioned on this point; doubtless she‘
enter! that her description might point to
 ~.innocent person "instead of the real
oflender, and she seemed relieved when the ex-
 was at an end. ,
j“th itgwas over, she tank to her room
, at! her bed again, and for sometime we feared
-=g’reatly for her mind. ' .
t‘ Her old dislike to my presence blazed up
again," and it was then that I engage-d Mrs.
famous,“ her old governess and friend, as a
pompanion for her.‘ ‘-
= ; "Solitude; I felt, was the worst thing in the
world; for her, and my company she would not
endure. 80 things went on till we left Atlan-
tioville, which we did as soon as she was
strong enough to be moved; and though her
behavior to me is far diflerent now to what it
was then, yetin reality the gulf between us is
Washrond as ever.” I ‘ - ,
~ “ Is that all?” I inquired, after a pause.
. A ‘9 Yes,” he replica, in a hopeless tone; “there
2 smoothing more to tell you. The murderer has

i.

' said at last, in a low voice.

steam had shone full on her taco; but of '

 

“never tweed; the name of his“ victim is ’

 

unknown, and my child ishas unlike her old,
happy 56]! as one could. Well‘i'magine.f She
shuts herself up fromsociety, makes no friends,
takes no interest in anything, and is a stran-
ger to me. ' What is the cause of it, Miss Traf-
fordfl Can you throw any light on this mat-
ter?”

He rose as he said these words, and began to
pace the room in an agitated manner.

“Has ‘she told you all, do you think?” I
“Is she keeping
anything. back?” ‘

“ I think not,” he replied, sadly.

“Pardon me if I suggest something,” I said,
hesitatingly; “but did you know—was Miss
Lonsdale engaged at the time of this event?”

“Engaged l—to be married? Certainly
not,” he answered, in some surprise. “I had
hoped from what I had observed in a certain
quarter that she might have been, and to a
man who above all others I would have chosen
for her as a husband; but he had to leave
Atlanticville suddenly, and his proposal by lat-
ter came too late. Lisa was" lying stricken
with fever when I received it, and he had left
the States before I had time or leisure to
write and tell him how impossible it was for
me to discuss the matter with my child.”

“And since she has been better, have you
done so?” I asked.

“ No," he answered sadly. “In her present
conditionI could not think of allowing any
man to engage himself to her, and I fear it
might disturb and was: her if I reverted to the
past in any way.” ‘

“But does she never speak of Mr. —-— of
this gentleman~never in any way allude to
him?” I inquired.

“on several occasions his name has been

mentioned in the public journals—he is one of
the Government Arctic expedition I may tell
you- and she speaks of him with the calm in-
difference she shows for every one,” he re-
plied. v ‘ ' l .
“ May not this be assumed?” I said: “may
not a great part of, Miss Innsdale’s‘depression
be tracvd‘to a—a disappointment in love, 0010-
nel L medals?” ' s

“I can hardly imagine so,” he replied.

“Don’t you think,” I persisted, “that she
may have really been attached to this gentle-
man without letting you seeit? Do you not
think it would be better. even now, to tell her

'wbat the contents of his letter were?” '

“Do you think so,” be rejoined, uneasily,
“after this lapse of timeiuhe aWay, too, in
such a distant region? Even if she wereat-
tached'to him, eculd I, arter a year’s silence,
reopen the question?”

“ Doubtless he will write again when oppor-
tunity otters,” I said; “ and if 80-”

“Ifso, and you think it aprudent course, I
shall mention the subject to her,” he said;
“but I confess I doubt Mr. Sinclair’s having
made any deep impression on her heart. Ex-
cept'when we have come across his name in
papers, as I said, she never'has mentioned him.
I have had many troubles in my life, Miss
Traflord, but this woful change in my bright,
happy Lisa has been harder for me to bear
than almost any other. Before it came about
I had suffered much, and had secret Worries
and troubles that none knew of or suspected,
and which I was able to bear with 'tortitude
and resignation as long as she was untouched
by them: but this strange alienation from her, ,
my only child, is sometimes almost more than
I can bear.” , , , /

I felt how true this was; how the year of
trouble through which' he had passed had
changed him, handsome and vigorous-looking
though he still was. ~ My heart went out to
him, as I thought of the pangs his daughter’s
soldness inflicted on him and for one moment I
almost disliked her for her strange conduct.

“ It is a great comfdrt to have some one to
talk over one?!) trouhies with, Miss Tram-1rd,”
he. said, with a rather melancholy smile, as he -
rose to leave me. “I only hope I have not

tired your patience by my'lnng, personal talk?”

we had been a year-together!

 

""KNay;  think , it. is I who should apologize,

 

 

{for having “obliged you to talk ever such  and

period of your life,” I answered. V .

And then we parted, he to return to Benton,
and I to complete my household duties, which
our conversation had somewhat interrupted.

An accident occurred a few days later, which
made me certain ’that Lisa Lonsdale (whatever
might be her manner to her father) in her in—
most heart loved him dearly still. ,

Returning from the neighboring town, he
was thrOWn from his horse, and the frightened
animal dashed up to the house, and passed the
drawing-room windows, where Lisa and I were
sitting, riderless.

She rose, with a cry of terror.

“My father’s horse! He has been throwa!
—he must be hurt! Oh, Heaven! Save himl

And she rushed to the door, and out into the
avenue toward the gates. I followed her.

“0h, where is hel—where is be? My poor
father!” she cried, wildly excited.

And when, a few moments later, we met his
unconscious form, carried by several laborers
on a roughly-improvised stretcher, her grief
and terror knew no bounds. ,

“ Heaven save him!” she muttered, wring.
ing her hands. “ Oh, Tina!” (she had never
called me by my first name before), “can he
be dead! Oh, say, he is not dead 1”

“Be calm, my dear child,” I replied. “He
is not dead; only stunned. Do not cry so; you
will be ill again.” i

“ Pill—what do I cerel What does-it mat~
ter, if only he is saved? Oh, it would be too
horrible if he were to die!" V v

And she looked at him with, such wild,
scared eyes that I felt half frightened. ,

He was laid on a sofa in the study, and pres—
ently he showed signs of coming round. _

“ You see, he has only been stunned,’,’I said.
to her reassuringly. .
“ Are you sure?” she Whispered. , .

“Quite sure! There! his. eyes are opinl
Speak to him, Lisa!” I answered.

She bent over him eagerly.

His eyes met hers, and he smiled aflectiom
ately, and held out his hand toward her.

“I have frightened you, . my darling,” he
said, in a weak (voice; “but I am all right
now.”

No sooner did the sound of his voice fal‘ on
her ear and her eyes catch his loving gaze than
she drew back; the anxiety faded from her
face, the eagerness from her manner, and the
usual icy coldness that wounded his kind heart
so sorely took its place. ‘ ,

“ Younre better?” she said. “ That is well. ,
I was foolish to have been so frightened. Miss
Traflord, you must quite despise me for my
want of nerve. I will leave my father with
you now; I know he is in good keeping.”

And she left the room; but, notwithstanding
thh coldness of her words and manner, I could,
see during the next few days that her anxiety
for his recovery was great and. real, though
she professed to despise herself for her weak-
ness, as she called it, in being so much fright-
ened when the accident occurred.

CHAPTER V.
ELEANOB’S [mm v 1

A m days latcr, and our rector. Mr. Deere,
walked up to the, house, ‘with a look on lis
handsome, thOughttul face that made me cer-
tain he had something of importance to tell
us.

I saw Eleanor’s color rise and her eyes
brighten as he entered, and I noticed how his
eyes sought her face the instant he stood
among us. V a.

What was going to follow?

Was I then to lose one of my darlings before

 

The rector’s first words, however, were quite
difl'erent to what I had expected.

“ Miss Traflord,” he said, going‘to the point
at once, as was his wont, “I am goingio leave
Bridgepon ” , I ' , 4 ..

“ Leave!” cried Emma  I, in tones of
utter. consternation, whileElsanor' said not a

word, but'stooped to pick up her ball of. wool, ,

Z  '.

 

 

 

    
  

. which just then fellfrom her handsand

a little way under. the table. >‘ " , . 

She looked quite white,nerves?r r. when she
resumed-herseat. I  v '

 “ Iive been appointed rector of the Episcopal
church at Newton. I only heard of it last
night. a 'A fine salary and an important parish;
but I shall be very sorry to leaVe this.”

“ 0h must you go?” cried Emma. "Mr. Dacre
what shall we do without you“! What will the
people do? And the poor—think of them!”

“ Of course, Mr. Dacre did think before he
decided to go,” said Eleanor, in a quiet voice,
though I saw her lip tremble.

He looked at her as it greatly relieved.

“ I’m glad you think that, Miss Eleanor,” he
said. “I would have been better pleased to
have been left alone; but since this most im-
portant parish has been offered me, I do not
feel I should be doing right to refuse. It will
be hard work, and I'shall be far from all my
old friends; but that would not justify me in
refusing.” ' .

' “ Of course not,” I said, slowly. “ When do

you leave us, then, Mr. Dacre? Bridgeport

won’t be like itself without you, and we shall

all miss you terribly.”

~ He looked at Eleanor as I said these words:

‘ but her eyes were fixed on her work, and she
was knitting as fast as if life depended on the
sock being finished before night.

“ 0h, in a month, or perhaps a little sooner.
That depends. My successor is to be Tamlin—
James Tamlin—an old college friend of mine,

' with a charming wife and five or six children, ”
he rejoined.

“Five or six children!” cried Emma.
“Fancy five or six children let loose in your
beautiful garden, Mr. Dacre, rushing in and
.out among the beds and rose—bushes, and turn.
ing the whole house upside down!"

“ But I dare say Mrs. Tomlin wouldn’t allow
that,” interposed Eleanor, mildly; “it would
be too dreadful.” 

“Oh, you’ll find her a strict disciplinarian,
Miss Emma,” said Mr. Dacre, with a laugh.
4‘ You and she will become great friends, I
foresee.” ‘

Emma made a grimace, while Eleanor
looked at her with mild reproach in her soft
brown eyes.

“ Haveyou told any one
asked; " “the Lonsdaies or-J _

“ No, Miss Eleanor, I came here first; I came
to tell] you all—yon being myvoldest friends,”
he answered. , »

“ NewtOn is a beautiful place,” I said, in order
to break the pause: that followed this speech.

“ Lovely, I believe. I have never been
there. It is quite a large town, and the scen—

. cry is beautiful; and in summer, «if-course,
the place is thronged. I think you would like
it, Miss Eleanor; there would be plenty of
‘ subjects for your pencil'there." ,

_ Eleanor murmured an inaudible reply, and
rose token the room. I saw her lips quiver-
ing. and felt certain she was on the point of
bursting into tears. So I covered her retreat

Vina

about' it yet?” she
’ .~'

as best I could, asking her to take a message '

 to the gardener (who I knew was in a
distant part of the orchard), so that she might
have time to recover her equanimity.

“Poor child!” I thought. “I uspected it
all along. She loves him. I wonder—oh, I
hope she has not given her heart in vain!”

Mr. Dacre Watched her as she left the room
with a thoughtful gaze, was silent for some

I moments, and then entered into a desultory
conversation with Emma on various parish
, matters. Showing no intention, boweVer, of
leaving us, she took up her hat, and declared
that “Granny” Mason would be expecting
her, and she must go 03 to read to her at
once.
, “Mr: Tamlin will have excellent help in the
v parish from you and Miss Emma,” he said,
after my sister had'departed. '
a “From Emma and Eleanor, you mean,” I
answered. “ I fear I am not half so active in
unifies» they ”

_ '  ’ W ‘

,._

 

‘ “You have them  your house‘to look

 

 

  
 

  

l

    l      -
after, you use," he»  and sat silently

looking out across the lawn, as if he were ex:

peotingElmnor toreturn. ‘  > ,  .
-.“ Miss Eleanor is a long time giving that
message to Jones.” he said- at last, with a half-
smile. “I’ve a word to say to Jones, too, if
you’ll let me go down into the orchard.” '
And without waiting for my permission, Mr.

Dacre left the room, and in another moment I
saw his tall form striding across the lawn, and'

down the walk that led to the orchard.

His talk with Jones must have been a long
and important one, if it lasted all the time he
Was away, and Eleanor must have had enough
of it; but when nearly an hour passed, and
neither she nor the rector returned, and I had
observed Jones leave the garden and go into
the poultry-yard, I began to feel very sure
that he was not the person who was detaining
them.

so, putting on my hat, I went slowly down
toward the orchard.

“ If it were Eleanor he wished to speak to,
surely be has had time enough to say all he
could want. He’s been gone ” (and I took out
my Watch) “just an hour. and dinner will be
coming on table presently.”

I stopped at the orchard gate, and called
softly:

‘ ‘ Eleanor——-Eleanor l”

I heard voices in the distance, but my call
remained unheeded.

So peepir g over the gate, I looked round
the orchard, and there, under my favorite
apple-tree, I saw the rector and .my sister,
seated on a rustic beach. ‘ .

Her eyes were bent on the ground; but a
happy smile was on her face, which was blush—
ing‘with pleasure. One hand held her hat, and
the other was clasped in the rector’s, who was
eagerly talking to her. ‘ -

Seeing this I prudently withdrew, and re-
tired to the drawing-room again.

“ Where’s Eleanor i” cried Emma, coming in
half an hour later. “ five a message for her
from Mrs. Green; and—” _

“I sent Eleanor on a message to Jones—-
don’t you remember?” I replied demurely—
“and she hasn’t come back yet.”

“Not come back! Why, that was, two hours
ago! What do you mean, Tinal" she answered
doubtfully.

“Just what I say. Mr. Dacre went to look
for her more than an hour ago, and he hasn't
come back yet either,” I rejoined.

“Oh!” cried Emma, sitting down suddenly,
quite aghast. “ Tina, Eleanor will have to go
.to Newton—~mark my words!” ’2 ~

“Probably. Mr. Dacre said he thought she
would like the place,” I answered.

I  And what shall we doi” she inquired wo-
u y. .

“ 0h, stay where we are, and help Mrs.
Tomlin to mind her children and the parish.
Here they come at last, Emma.”

And I pointed in the direction of the walk.

Emma gave one look,. and a little well-r

pleasedcry. ‘. .

“ I am goirg—I’ll make myself scarce;
theS”ll want to tell you alone. Dear Nell,
how happy she looks; but it’s awful for us.”

And so saying she fled from the room.

“Your conversation with Jones has been a
long one, 111'. Deere,” 'I said. “Nelly, did
you give him my message?”

She started.

“ Oh! dear, Tina, I quite forgot; I hadn’t
time.” ‘ .
“ Not time!” I laughed.

“ l-—I mean Mr. Dacre came, and then—L

Oh, Reginald! tell her!” faltered Eleanor.

“ i can guess, I think,” I replied.

“Ah! Miss Trafiord, she has promised to
come to Newton—think of «thatl—a’s my wife.
What do you say to it! Will you be content
with me for a brother-in—lawl”

“ Far more than merely content!” I an-
swered, kissing Eleanor, and shaking the rector
by the hand warmly. . “Leonid nothare
bop”! for a happier fate for  Nelly  to
be your wife, Mr. Dacre.”  ' ~ ’

 

 

r get Emma to forgive you; but as it is {for

it?” said Emma, as she and I went  the

' no reason to think so really. ,_ ,Don’t 

I thing except to you, Tina!” rejoined Eagles.
“and I only hope she will, be bridesmaid, rem

 

 

.“ Oh, Tina, how nice of you!" Iknew'you V ‘ ’ ;
would/he pleased,” whispered, Eleanor. , “oh,  , , f
I am so happy i” ' “

“There! run away
And glad of an excuse to hide her happy ‘ ,
tears, Eleanor ran off to her room to. tell the ' ‘
news to her sister. 'I 1!

“Thank « Heaven, that’s settled I” cried Mr. ‘ ,
Dacre, with a sigh of relief, throwing himself  ‘
into a chair beside me. “Do you know, Miss '
Trafford, I was horribly afraid she did lint care,
for me this morning, when I told you of my
plans. She took my going so calmly, I almost
believed I had been deceiving myself. Hadn’t 
it been that I saw her wiping her eyes as she
crossed the lawn, I don‘t think I should have
had the courage to speak to her today.” '

“ I’m thankful you did,” I replied. _,“ Nelly
feels deeply, but does not show her feelings. I
felt pretty sure of her feelings for you, and  ’ W:
noticed, though you did not, how much shes”, 
suffered when you announced your intentiouofj w .1 '
leaving Bridgeport.” ' - I . . 

“Poor darling, how blind I was!” he cried. “
“ Never mind; I shall soon learn to know ' heri-
hetter. I don’t think, indeed, that I shall ever
misunderstand her again.” i “

“ You did not find her very ohdurate, Inf
fancy.” I laughed. _ I ‘ '

“No, no; she was gondness itself to me. She ,
thinks too well of me, M'iissl'l‘rafl'ord,” he re. ».
plied, feelingly. . q . I  ;_.

“Hum! no, I can’t allow that,” Irépliedg ;
“Neither can I allow you to call me MissTraf-  /
ford any more.” , . . \   .~

“ Well, Tina, then. I declare I feels; it it i
were cruel of me to rob you of such atreasnm
as Eleanor,” he went on. ' ' " "

“ We shall miss her.

ma mainland, then,” I

 

  
  
 
   
  
   
  
   
   
    
   
   
 
   
     
     
  
   
  
    
   
  
 

 

 

I don’t km; if yours,

Nelly’s" happiness, I will pardon the ofiense,” I
answered. ‘ ,r x 

.Preeently Emma entered, followed by thee"
blushing Eleanor, and after a wordy warfare, 
Emma and the rector made their peace, and we
sat down to dinner together, as happy a party ‘
as couldbe found in all the town, although the
cook did send upa warning message that the '
dinner was all buint to a cinder through"
ingsolong., . , . " y. a

“I wonder what the Lonsdales will thinker! "

drawing-roomafterdinuer, leaving the 
to wander out intone garden alone. ., r l j
“The Lonsdales?‘ Why, what,  it".
be to them?" I replied, “i am gm .(lolonel
Lonsdale will be delighted- Woman;th
Lonsdale to be bridesmaid, Emma.” , -, Ty, ’ 
“Do you think she would?” replied,m f
doubtfully. ' i _. 
“Why not?” I
“ She likes Eleanor so much, I think it
please her to he asked.” ‘ '

 

rejoined, muss    1; 7 _

“ Perhaps! She would  a lovely .vhfid
maid; I should look dmadtnlly  ,;_  ‘
her; but I wonder would Shelike it}! 3‘.  ‘
Tina, is that Miss Lonsdale has  = j I 
love, and weddings may not   inver‘jhct
now. You know her best, h,  
you twice as much as she does either Eleanor
or me. If you think she wouldn’t mind—euj

“I’ll ask the colonel first;  
Lonsdale being crossed in love, remember that.
is quite a fancy of your own, child. We hare

 

such anidea.”  .. -. V , 
“Oh, I would not thinkoflsayingsuch a.

prettier one we could not find. . Here are 
newly-engaged couple returning from 
walk. I will go and look-alto: five. old-oak,
tea,,which must follow very close on diam
to-day, as Jones and they kept us waiting on;
long.” , P , , 
CHAPTER VI.   
ran nrsrnav nnnrn’ as... 
 news of Eleanor: ' ’

spread, and we were overwhelmed  can;

. , I '

 

   
 
    
 
 
   
  
 
 
    
  
 
   
   
 
   
    
    
  
 
   
  
   
  
  
    
     
    
  
   
   
  
    
  
  
 

. _
l

gmtulsftions and visits from our friends and
7 “ . acquaintances. But I do not ,tbink that any
_, _, .  them were more" delighted With the news

 h , than were Lisa and Colonel Lonsdale. ,

 ‘Iuisa’s sad face brightened into positive
' ’lgs‘uusbin‘e when Itold her; and when I broached
,1: 4: «the subject of bridesmaid she looked for an in-
" stunt quite joyful; then in another moment
1 some terrible remembrance seemed to take
fl . possession of her—~the old cloud settled on her
‘ ;} ' brow, her voice resumed its usual tone of sad-
' ness, and though she contrived to talk of
: -.Eleanor‘s prospects with interest, and agreed
 ,,tofbebridesmaid Without demur, yet her tone
 Avand, manner were joyless, as if' the sorrow she
. hid so carefully in her inmost heart forbade
 her to . do more than sympathize distantly in

 our happiness.
.. ' It was" settled that the marriage was to take
 place late in the autumn, so as to allow of an
‘ [October tour before the newly-married couple
, «took possession of their new home. And so it
learns to pass that my time for the next few
,weeks was much occupied, and I saw but little
3'30! the Lonsdales—less of the colonel than of
" his daughter, however, for Lisa would often
.drive over in her pony-carriage and spend the
~ afternoon with the girls.
.'~ ffAhi here is news of the long unheard-of
‘Arctic expedition,” said Reginald Deere one
afternoon, as we all sat together under the
' bade of the walnut-tree in the orchard.
, ‘Tbey seem to have done wonders, and to have
accomplished more in the comparatively short
imethey have been absent than any other ex-
_»,pedition that has preceded them. They’ll be
‘ oing into winter-quarters in a month or two,
 suppose." , ‘ '
' ". I looked quickly at Lisa as he spoke. and saw
or an instant a look of intense anxiety 4 come
into her eyes. ' ‘ ‘
I thought she was about to ask for further
- unwed-perhaps to ask Mr Dacre to read all
 was said of it in the paper—but suddenly
"r-the flush died out of her cheek, the anxious
light from her eyes; she kept back the half-
 ‘,uttered‘;words, and busied herself'silently with
3‘ peer world ‘- > _

‘ ",!'Do"they menlion any of the officers?” I
sameness t I seewhat efl'ect my question
,might‘liave ‘on List). " » I
‘V ‘3“ several: Captain Boscawen, Mn.
prisoners; Mr. ‘Sinclair,"—+I saw Lisa start-s

 . 1- .5; ,s fl ’
“,“A‘n‘d-gwbat of them i" I asked. ‘
2“??th seemifio‘be the leading spirits of the
,h'olé'dretfiffi" he! answered. "‘ Poor FSlnolair
'u'gnfl‘efid‘d g60d‘d»al.-,though,'it seems; and
tenement: his teens will, permit him to
’ hence another winter. Miss Lonsdale, are
x pu‘going'aofsooni” '
311:; had) risen, pale asdeath, and taken up
V, filtthlnk‘sofit is late. “ Mrs. Parsons may
 expecting me,” ,shefstamme'red. ' " Good-v
«niggtfi’Miisi'Tra’floi-d." ‘M’r.’Dacre, would you
‘ki '  my'carjriag‘e‘is ready?”

 

   
  
    
   
   
  
  
  
  
   
  
  
  
 
  
  

' "’ mints of the two girls’ protestations and
entreatieli, she insisted on going home;
til/wonder fiat disturbed her so?” said
,1 ins, thoughtfully; ;“ for she [was disturbed,
mN’1is Inc/doubt,*by,’sometbing. She has.
“ rig-so ‘muchsrhore cheerful and like other
.;  leaflets, that 15am sorry to see her giving
tragic her'wbims again. She is so sweet and
 when‘ she shakes'oil.’ that perpetual
 melancholy." '

‘»,;A.week passed, and we saw nothing more
,V-Lisayi neither-'hadgthecolonel been once
 grand I confess I began to miss, his
mm: ~ \  ~ = - .- . ,
“One evening as I was sittingalone in the

 my whim ride up to the door, and

2Wntly' heardr’bis' well-known Voice asking
(at, 7  , , v

w  unusual had happened I-felt sure,

 there was a ring of eagerness, almost joyy‘

 tone. '
am”, Trauma,” he cried; “do you know

 

,W.W‘Wiehlld‘s as”, M
1 : "mgré‘  a  “wk, 2 M. iv, (,2, L]; ‘

manner? and

   

a

 

.,«

 begin as believe‘l‘ have'th'e key to the ,,

 

mt»,

I...

fear I have been very
this.” And he handed

, .

constant melanchol i I
blind and stupid. 
me a letter. '
It was from Mr. Sinclair, begging for a
more definite reply to the letter he had sent
the colonel on the morning he quitted home.

“ Miss Lonsdale "—the letter ran—“is. I sincerely
trust, restored to health long ere this. Will on not

put me out of my mise colonel, by lot: ng me

know as soon as may be iliyyou approve of my suit,
and that the ho I entertain of having won her
love are not u ounded? I think I am not pre-
sumptuous in nelievinlg that after what she said to me
figrour last meeting am not wholly lndiflerentto

“Now, what I can’t understand is—” began
the colonel, and then he stopped. “It is
strange,” he continued, “ that she never should
have mentioned that last meeting to me, nor
what passed at it.”

“ When did it take place? 'How long before
the—the murder?” I asked.

“Why, now you come to speak of it, it was
that very evening. Sinclair left next morn-
ing, and when his letter reached me, Lisa was
ill, raving with delirium.”

A strange feeling came over me as he spoke.
I looked at him, and suddenly his ' cheek
blanched—the same idea had evidently passed
through our brains at one and the same mo-
ment! A monstrous and absurd idea, how-
ever, that we both summarily dismissed.

“ I think I ought to show this letter to Lisa

at once, ” he said, after a pause.

“Certainly!” I replied.

“She may have been expecting to hear of or
from him all this time; but I rather dread the
manner in which she may receive the news
from me; and-dnn’t think me a coward, Miss
Traflord- but [have come over to ask you to be
present, and help me to talk to her on the sub-
ject.” ‘

“Most willingly,” I replied.
I come?" , .

“ I think to morrow, if you are not too busy,”
he answered. * ,

And then he bade me good—night; but as I
thought over the letter, I felt very, nervous.

Was Emma right, them—wand was Lisa’s
melancholy the effect of disappointed love?
Did her coldness to her father arise, perchance,

“ When shall

' from the mistaken idea that he had in some

way separated her lover from her, or was there
a deeper cause yet for it? -

I had intended to start for Penwn early next
day, but something hindered me, and‘instead‘
of arriving at eleven o’clock, I did not get there
till past twelve. ' ,- ~ ' '

I heard voices as Insured the drawing. room

'door, and felt that the colonel had broached the-

subject of Mr. Sinclair’s proposal without wait:
ing for my arrival. v ' ‘

I' was right. Lisa, it‘ seemed, had been
in a gentler and happier mood than usual
that morning; the colonel had (taken courage
and showed her Sinclair’s letter without delay.

It had upset her terribly, I saw at a glance.

“Tina, Tina!” she cried, calling me by my
Christian name, as she always did when any-
thing moved her deeply; “speak for me!—
speak to papa for me. ” ' ‘

“About what, my dear Lisa?” I replied,
quietly. ' r ' '

“ About this. Here; read it!” And she
gave me Mr. Sinclair’s letter. r“ Tell him it is
impossible; that I can not—~I dare not marry
him!” .

" You dare not? Lisa, what can you mean?”
interrupted Colonel Lonsdale, in a bewildered
tone. “Why can you not marry Sinclair, as
good and honest a follow as ever lived?”

“-I shall, rever marry!” shereplied, passion-
atel y. “Father, do not urge me.”

“It you do not care for this gentleman,
Lisa. I feel certain that--”

v “ Whether I care for him or not,” she inter-
rupted, a look of agony crossing her face, “ is
not the question, He may be—nay, I know he
is--good,. honest, honorable-‘- all that my
tether says; but ” (and here  sighed deeply).
“I'can’never be his wifeP'v- " -‘  

“‘Bn;t;"”_ said ’the colonel,- gentty, “that is

,l 

   

   

 . "v

My deancbild,’ be sensible;

nonsense,  V
let no talk the matter over quietly. Ask Him.
Traitor-d what she thinks of it. Here is a man

whom you used to like, and who—” I

“Used to like!" murmured .Lisa, with a
wild' light in her eye ‘of repressed agony.
“ Well, yes, perhaps; But I am changed now
to what I used to be, father.”

“ And that is just what makes us so con-
cerned about you, darling,” continued Colonel
Lonsdale, anxiously. “Why should you' be
changed? Why should you be sad, anxious,
and depreSSedi” '“

“Father,” she cried, in a strange voice, in
which I could detect terror as well as trouble,
“have I had nothing to change me, then?”

“ Yes; a shock—an illness. But you are
strong and well now, thank Heavenl and
should try to shake off these nervous terrors—-
these imaginations that—3’ '

“ ImaginationS!—— nervous terrors! Are they
so?” she said, breathlessly, in a low tone, fixing
her large, dark eyes on her father’s face, as it
she would read his very soul. I

“ Surely you must know they are, whatever
they may to, my child,” he replied, with re~
proachful tenderness.

She kept her eyes fixed on his face for a mo-
ment longer; then dropped them with a deep
sigh, and turned away; and in an instant all
the warmth and eagerness had died out of her
manner, a! d when she spoke again it was in
her coldest, quietest tones. = '

“If you say so, father, it must be so,” she
said; “ but be that as it may my resolution is ,,
not altered. If I do not wish to marry Mr.
Sinclair, I presume you will not attempt to
force me to do so?” '

sternly.
cally—have I ever, tried to force you to act
against your wishes?”

Mr. Sinclair," she answered, “ for I do not wish
to—I shall never marry.” ~ .
" That is rather a hasty resolution," I said,
with a smile. “ As your father says, Lisa, you
should think well before you refuse such an
offer as this, coming, too, as it does from a
man I know you—well, like, wewill say.” .
She looked at me with rather a startled ex-
pression. . ,
“ Do you know Mr. Sinclair?” she asked. I
“ No; but I have seen him once,” I replied.
“Where?” she asked. a z
" At Atlanticville,” I answered shortly. ,
She was silent; then, sighing agaiarsho got
upand walked slowly to the window. . . .
“You will answer Mr. Sinclair’s letter,
father, I presume?” she said, calmly. .
“ Certainly; and am I to give the, death
blow to his! hopes, then?” answered Colonel
Lonsdale, almost bitterly.

moment or t“0 before she answered: ‘

“You must tell him it cannot-be."  _, v
’ “Oh, Lisa, Lisa!" I said, " think how no i
will sufler when he gets the letter, far away
from home and friends as he is! Can you give;
him no hope, dear!” K ” .

I shall never forget the solemn moumfnlnest
of her low, sad voice as she replied, “Nonet
Tina—there is no hope; I can give him none.”

The colonel looked at me in despair.

“You can have a fortnight to think of it,
Lisa.” he said; ,“there will be no need torwrite.
before then." ' ' .

“ It will heal] the same,” she replied, with-
out looking at him.
it again, father.”

“ Not unless you think better ,of it, Lisa.

v Indeed, my dear child, your strange conduct

grieves mentors than I can tell you. I had al—
most made up my mind that- But tell me,
darling, do you knew anything against Sin-
clair that. makes you doubt his fitness, his
worthiness to be your husband?" ’

 

the husband of a queen! Any woman might

 

“Lisa, you are unjust!" he answered, almost "
“Have I ever treated you tyranni- ‘

“ Then you will no more urge me to marry

-I saw her shudder at his words, and it was a. '

“Do not let us talk about .‘

“Anything against hlmi—Ji" she cried, '
tnrningto him, her eyesflaming and her v.
z cheeks all aglow.” “Victor Sinclair is fit to be.

  

.x
/ ‘ "_

 

 

 

   

 

.{x ,

'i
v

v.

.;..
" :1
W,

1 '--’.~"‘ " é-i    «‘5.   z
’ ~ » r , - A I. v . », ‘r on.
,v “1'. I 1' if .,r m i

v.

 

 

     

nob! good, and true that he is?” r

_, r “ %en all I can, say isthat you are a perfect
_ enigma to me, Lisa,” returned her father,
sadly. ' ‘ '

Again the searching look came into her eyes
",as she fixed them on him, and, as before, as

quickly passed away.

. “I’m sorry we troubled Miss Trafl'ord,” she
said, more quietly, “there really was no ne-
cessity tb inflict this family matter on her. She
can take no interest in it, nor understand how
I feel on the subject.”

She spoke almost haughtily, and I confess
her tone hurt me. '

“ You are wrong,” I said; “ I take an
interest in everything that concerns you,
Lisa.” ,

“Forgive me!” she cried, repentantly,
throwing her arms round my neck and kissing
. me. v '

Then, without speaking again to her father,
she left the room.

“It is hopeless, I fear!” said Colonel Lons-
dale, despondingly. “Poor child l—poor Sins
clairl—I quite believed she cared for him.”

“And so did I!” I said, incautiously.

. “What?” he cried, eagerly; “did she ever
' speak to you about him?”

“No,” I answered; and then I felt myself
bound to narrate what I had seen on the beach
that evening at Atlanticville.

“ And which evening was it?" he asked.

- “The evening my poor uncle was taken so
~ ill, and you ware ‘sent for,” I said almost re-

luctantly. ,

“'Whatl-—the evening of the night on which
the murder was committed?” he cried.

Involuntarily I started from my seat.

: “Was the murder committed on that night?”

 I exclaimed.

' “Yes; didn’t you know it?‘ It was on re-
5 ' turning from your uncle’s that I found Lisa in-
ix ' sensible, and-you know the rest,” he answer-
.‘. 1" ed

would! possiblyvh‘ave‘learued to his, detriment,

 

l  We were silent, and, the clock striking two,
 - I rose to go, but before leaving Penton I stole“
up to Lisa’s room to bid her good -_by.
The door was half-open, and I heard the
sound of sobs.
= There, on her‘ knees by the sofa, her face
_buried in her- hands, knelt Lisa, sobbing as if
 her heart would break.
" 1 ' “Oh, Victor! Victor! I shall never see you,
, again—neverT—never!” she murmured. '
I withdrew silently. ' '
 j , Perhaps tears would bring her relief. It
' would   to let her grief have free
’ course. ‘ . . ,
‘ .1 ’But if she loved him-as she evidently did——
, i:vhy did she so obstinater persist in refusing
‘ ' im? ‘ . '
g ' It ‘wasa’ .miy‘stery tome, and I felt it would
‘  be so to her father also. ' '

 

 

 

 

I '  overheard and seen, and he' decided to
.‘Dostpone the'sending of the letter which should
;  V have conveyed Lisa’s refusal to Mr. Sinclair to
“ , afuture occasion. ‘

q . “I only wish he-Could come home and plead
” a skills suit! himself,” said’the colonel. “Perhaps
 he might succeed Where we have failed.”

And I wished s6, too, with all my heart. It
 grieved me to See Colonel Lonsdale so troubled

  
   
 
  
  

 

 , most to see the shrinking distrust and timidity
 With Which she treated him, the coldness with
l which she received his many acts of love and
~ kindness, the almost aversion she evinced for
I his society; ' ,
r __ I thought he ‘was a man who deserved the
 1' lull love and confidence of his child, and whom
‘ ' any daughter might have been proud to love
find obey and devote her life to. .

What was the] cause of Lisa’s strange con—
duct toward him? Did she really feel all the
- indifference she exhibited or was her disregard
' -‘ IQI‘ his 'low’her apparentshrinking from him,
#8 unreal as the indifference , she had ex-

 :or Hrssmclam - .  "

I .

’ > . , I. .
i .I , , ‘ I  .
. . . . ..

be proud  "be honored by his love! What "b

(about his child; it grieved and angered me al-g

 

, v a , i ,  '

, CHAPTER. VII. , «.

IT was a relief to me to see the happy faces

gathered round'the dinner—table at home, when
I returned toSunnyside.

Reginald Deere and Eleanor met me at the
door, and on entering I found Emma talking
to a pleasant-looking young man, with fair hair
and a sweeping blonde mustache, whom Regi-
nald introduced as his cousin, Captain Coven-
try, and his proposed best man at the wedding.

“We were just going to begin dinner with-
out ~you, Tina,” cried Emma. “ What did
Lisa want you for this morning? How tired
you look!’ There is nothing wrong at Penton,
is there?" '

“Nothing at all,” *I replied. “Lisa was a
little contrary, that was all,” I added, seeing
Emma look at me rather searchingly.

“ Ah, poor girl! We have a dear, capricious
beauty close to us, Captain Coventry, whom
you will meet at the wedding. She is to be
my fellow—bridesmaid,” said Emma.

“ Oh! a capricious beauty,” he replied,
laughing. “ I shall be afraid of her, Miss
Emma. Is she very haughty and repellent?’

“Oh, no; a sweet girl,” I answered. “But
yet she has her whims.”

“ Like all ladies,” laughed Mr. Dacre. “Here
is Eleanor declaring that she will not let me
fit up her sitting-room from Elkingham’s; that
Brown and Co.’s thingsvare quite good enough
for her.”

“ Brown and Co.’s!” repeated Emma dis-
dainfully, tossing her pretty little head. “My
dear Eleanor!” '

And then we talked of a dozen things con-
nected with the approaching marriage, but I
confess the! sad, handsome face of. Colonel
Lonsdale haunted me the whole day, and even
in my dreams that night.

I did not see much of Lisa during the weeks
that interVened till. the wedding-day dawned-—
the day that was to take our dear, gentle
Eleanor from under our roof forever.

She had been over once or twice, but had
given up her frequent morning visits to Sunny-
side, and I thought treated me with a. shade of
001an

I had veryrlittle time, howeVer,rto think of
her behavior, so much had I to do at home, and
so deeply was I wrapped up in plans and ar-
rangements for Eleanor and her future.

At length evarything was completed. The
last trunk was packed, the last direction writ-
ten, and I saw Eleanor look pensively at the
baggage labeled “ Mrs. Reginald Dacre.”

Yes; tomorrow she Would be Eleanor Dacre
—Eleauor Traflord no longer.

The morning broke dim and hazy,as'autumn
mornings often do; but as the sun rose higher,
and higher, the mists dispersal, and when I went
to awake the bride the sky was blue and clear,
and the birds sung almost as merrily in the trees

V _, as if it had been springtime.
I mentioned to him a few days later what, I

f‘ Awake, my darling,” I' said, stooping over
her audkissing her, tears Coming into my eyes

,when I thought it was the last time, perhaps,

she would lie awake in her own old room, or
that I should wake her with my usual kiss. “ It
is time to get up; don’t you know what day
this is?” V .

“Oh. Tina, I was dreaming such a happy
dream if’ she said, opening her' eyes; “we were
all so happy!" ’

“ And now you wake to a happy reality, dar-
ling,” I replied. “ Come, get up! It is past
eight, and at nine Lisa will be here to break-
fast, and at eleven we must be at the church.”

80 she r< se, and for the last time I helped her
twist the masses of her glorious dark hair
around her graceful head, and, when her toilet
was complete, accompanied her to the break-
fast roam. v  ‘

We were met on the stairs by Emma, carry-
ing three splendid bouquetssone pure white for

I the bride and two of roses and choice hot house

thwcrs for the bridesmaids, , . . ,
“Just, see what that delightful Captain Co-

ventry has sent us!” she cried. “Did you evar

seeanything so lovelyi'l' ' r’ . ‘ ‘

.I r.’ 

 

' would be surely hard to find. 

,“Beautifulindeedl’WefiGd. .. I -_
“ asn’t he good taste, 'Tinal, How aplen-
didly they are arranged. And here is a pore“ '
for you, Eleanor, from Captain Coventry also?

She put a little case into Eleanor’s hand. , a

It contained abeautiful diamond spray, with .
which the young man begged the bride would
do him the honor of fastening her veil. _. H

“ How lovely!” she cried. “ Too grand
almost for a clergyman’s wife; but I must
wear it, I suppose” , x . , ‘

“Must, indeed!” cried Emma. “It will be ' , 7
just-the thing, Nelly, and will sparkle mags  »
niilcently in your dark hair.” . ' I ”‘

“ Captain Coventry mtst be rich to alter!
such a gift,” I said, examining the spray.

“Yes; didn’t you know?” said Eleanor, iuuo- ,
cently. “Reginald says he has twenty thou-
sand a year, and when his uncle dies will 
still richer.” .

“Twenty thousand a year!” cried Emma, f
looking, I thought, a little downcast. ‘f‘Dear
me! and I never for a moment fancied he was
a person of any means. ‘ Well, his Wealth has
not had the effect of spoiling him. I never
found out even that he Was rich 1” ., 

“What! do people go about the world telling '
how rich they age?” asked Eleanor, laughing. '

“ No; but somehow they generally give _
themselves airs,qand manage to let you know . 
it. Who is the, uncle, Nelly?" replied Emma. _ ,

“Oh, Admiral Collington, the owner of the /
Hall, I believe! Reginald‘s uncle, too, you 1
know—his mother‘s brother,” rejoined Nelly. '

“Then he’ll be his heir—rich and a ‘swellfi 1 v
Oh, dear, I never could have imagined it!"

And I thought Emma’s face fell again. ' . -

“ Does it distress you?” I said, laughing. . a

“No,” she answered; thoughtfully; “but I ,
think, for all that, I should have been better
pleased if he had been poor—or poorer, at ,
any rate—and-and not a ‘swell,’ Tina.” , . _

“It can’t hurt you, child,” I rejoined. _ , _’ ' ~ >

“No, perhaps it can’t,” she replied, quietly. "3  up:
“Well.now we must think of other   1 
Ah, here’is Lisa, and the bride must   _‘
arrayed!” . .- ,   5  - ,' ,

She was soon ready, and Emma fastened ’ 
her long white vail with the dia‘mond-apray
Captain Coventry had Sent. . ,. '

She looked grave and thoughtful as  did ’ v ,
so, and I wondered what was passing through 
her little head. 4 n g a  3

Lisa looked beauliful in her bridesmaids: 
dress, and for the moment quite as cheerful as _:'_ -
I had eVer seen‘yher; and I could not 
whispering to her, as we left the bride‘s dres- ,, v
lug-room, that some day I hoped I should, ’ re”.
the pleasure of assisting at her bridal toi  ,   e3
“I prophesy you will be the next, Distal“ ' 
said.  .4  , I
“Never!” she answered, no firme II {*3 ‘
was quite startled; “I shall never ,, ‘v
Tina. It is far more likely I shallassist  
yoiir wedding than you at mine". . I, i   , If,"

‘.‘ My wedding!" I cried. “Why,,Lisa.Tal;lj
the world knows law an old maid.” »_ , , I, -.  u

“ Not so very old,” she replied, with 2a  ‘ q _*
nod and a smile, which, however, faded away , '
somewhat suddenly. , , _. ‘ ‘ V ,, 

We found several guests in the drawing-T.
room, and the clock warned us that it  '
time to start for church. , v p .  

So we set off—J, Colonel Lensdale, and}, ,
bride in one carriage; the bridesmaids and beat]

   
   
   
    
 
   
 

man in another. (. I  g,

The church—which had been prettily. ,_ '.
rated-wwas crowded with it iendgand I  ;‘
hear murmurs of admiration as the bride ens ‘ ,
tered the vestibule, and, followed by herniated  y f 
and Lisa, walked up the aisle—I on one dds of. ' '
her and Colonel Lonniele on the other; , .. . 

She was met half-way by Reginald Dacron ,‘
and Captain Coventry, and ’I_ thoughg. as   L
looked at the group assembled at thealtar-i ‘ _
rails, that a handsomer Wedding - party it '. ’

Eleandr all grace and sweetness; Regina“ 9,.  7,. 1
picture of manly beauty; Emma fair my)“-  .
ly as a lily; Lisa with her dark, soft eyesand ’

 

'- perfectfeatures; Captain Coventry, with his, x

 

 i

 

 

 

a...» In... .

v '*§th, I: thought, could bear comparison with
either of the younger men, in spite of his five-
and-forty ‘ years.

” Amid a perfect shower of flowers, Eleanor
and her husband, after the ceremony was over,
regained their carriage, and soon we were at

' the cottage again, seated at the wedding-break-

 wfast. '

v ,2' Then the bride rose and retired to change

' : her dress; the carriage came round, the last
1 adieux Were said, and the newly-married pair

started on their tour.
For some minutes I could hardly realize it
‘ was all over, and sat half-stunned in the little
I boudoir—where Emma and Eleanorhad been

  
  
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
   
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
   
    
  
 
 
 
 
 
   
   
   
    
  
   
  
  
   
   
   
    
  
 
 
 
 
    
   
 
 
  

 

cheers, that were brought to my ears by the

breeze as the carriage drove through the vil-

lage, hardly able to believe that Eleanor had

, ._ gone from us forever l—‘that only Emma. and I

'  would inhabit the cottage now!

I' And then came the thought, with apang,
new long should I be likely to keep Emma with
met—would she not soon go too, and then

‘ should I not be quite alone?

_ Colnn‘l Lonsdale’s Voice roused me from my
‘ . sad thoughts.

1  "‘* Well,»all has gone ofl? capitally, Miss Traf—
' ' ford,” he said, cheerfully; “ but how tired you

luck l”

_ ,«é “ No, I’m not tired,” I repeated, rather rue-
" fully; “but oh, I shall miss her sol and who
_. ’, knows how long it may be before Emma fol-

"lows in her footsteps, and I am left a dreary

,old maid?”

- . I attempted to laugh as I said this, but, I

. fancy, failed signally.

V " “ You an old maid l” he replied, looking sur—
' .prised. “Well, I confess i never looked on
you in that light, Miss Traiford."

/ “ But! have always considered. myself one,

" ’ and'never cared about it till today, now.
D" ‘ f‘ Bus” (and I brightened up) “ I need not mind;
i v , I‘need never be idle. I can always go back to
' V the,.hospitai.” ‘

‘ 5‘ He looked at me strangely.

‘=.“.To the hospital! I hope you will never do
that,” he said. '
> “Why not! I was very happy there,” I an—

 , “But think of us; we could not spare you,"
 rejoined. . ‘

"9 “Obi when Emma and Lisa are both mar-

.  :10de shall have nothing to keep me at home

n, 4»! sha’n‘t he wanted,-’ I said, laughingly. ,

" “Eon forget; I shall be left alone if LiSa

 ;  be said, slowly.

J ,  “ Ah? but you are a man, so it doesn’t mat-

 . ‘ter,”.I answered. '

 ., emu you think so? There I dlfler with

 flies Traflord,” he answered, with a sigh,
 for a moment as if my words had hurt

2’1 “him, and I fancied he was going to say more;

   second thoughts, he held his peace, and

‘/   Coventry’s voice was heard calling

D .

V v V  "t'mss Lonsdale and Mrs. Parsons are wait
5 laying for you, colonel,”'he said, coming in.

\ ing and holding out his hand to me. “Miss
 Traflord, now that the wedding is over, and
rayon are not so busy at home, i hope we shall
’ see more of you at Penton; and as to the bos-
"L, pital—w”
 “ 30h? I'shall certainly have to return there
‘l'f'some'day, I foresee [thatl”I rejoined, as I
. » hem Emma and Captain Coventry talking in
 “ low tones in the porch.
‘ j ‘ ‘»’“Bon’t say so! If I can influence you, be
sure you shall not,” he said, earnestly, holding
my hand in his as he spoke.’
_,   ‘; are Irina and Mrs. Persons, in the
 marriage; I‘ mint say good-byl”I said with-
  drawing it hurriedly,,and hastening out into
. " this passage, feeling that, for an old maid, I
iglwhsr-hiushing very foolishly, and really quite
 'i??"!lW'Well you look-0nly a little flushed,

‘  "‘

,sunny'slnile and clear-eut,faristoeratic profile;
and last, though not least, Colonel Lonsdale, r,

Wont to pass their mornings—listening to the

,gui “must say good-by, then,” he said, turn- "

'   ins: Traitord,” said, Mrs. Parsons, as, I

 

 

 

 

 

bade her good-by. l‘“ Iihope all this elicitement
won’t be too much for you.”
“ Come and see me soon,

Tina,” Said Lisa, as
the carriage drove off, and I nodded and waved
my hand. , ‘

Colonel Lonsdale bowed, and without daring
to raise my eyes to his, I re-entered the house.

“How foolish I aml What has come over
me?" I thought. And I really felt angry with
myself when I noticed my flushing cheeks, and
marveled to think how a few chance words,
which had probably meant nothing, had sent
my silly heart beating.

There was no one by, however, to see my
emolim. All our guests had departed, and
Emma and Captain Coventry had wandered
out into the garden, and I heard their merry

" Voices and laughter in the direction of the

orchard.

I sat down in the arm-chair by the window,
my favorite place, and fell into a reverie; and
then sleep overtook me, and it was not till
Emma's voice roused me that I woke.

“ We—~Captain Coventry and I. I mean——
have left you alone a long time, I’m afraid,
Tina; but I really didn’t know—I forgot how
time was going,” she said. '

“ And I haven’t the least idea of the hour,”
I said. ‘.‘ Why, it’s fire o’clock!"——and I look-
ed at the clock. ' .

“Yes, time for me to be saying good-by;
but if you’ll allow me, Miss Trafi'ord, I’m going
to ride over from the Hall to-morrow with
some books for MISS Emma?” .

“With pleasure,” I replied.‘ “Do you re-
main long with your friends, then?”

“ Oh, some weeks, I hope,” he answered,
with a bright smile. “ I always liked the Hall,
but this year it seems more delightful than
ever. Goodvby l” ‘

“What a frank, charming fellow, and how
handsbmel” I said, after he had left us.

“ Do you think s0?" said Emma, gravely. .

“ Certainly; don’t you?” I. replied, rather in
surprise.

“ Ye-es,” she rejoined; “but, oh! I do wish
he were not so rich, and Admiral Collington’s
heir.” '

, “ Hum!” I rejoined; “I don’t see that it
matters.”

“ We are so poor,” she rejoined, simply.

“ There are diversities of position in this
world,” I answered, demurely. “ It wouldn’t
do for every one to be poor, you know.” ' '

But Emma still looked pensive.

CHAPTER VIII.
WHAT was HEB sncnn'r.

WE saw a good deal of Captain Coventry
during the next few weeks; then a telegram,
announcing the serious illness of his uncle in
Florida, reached him, and he had to leave the
Hall quite suddenly for the South.

He had Only a few hours to prepare for his
start, [but he managed to ride over to Sunny-
side to bid us good-by. " Unfortunately Emma
was out, and I saw at once what a bitter dis-
appointment it was to him.

“ I wish I could stay till your sister returns,”
he said, looking wistfully across the garden;
“but time presses. At any rate, I hope to be
back in a few weeks, and then—”

He did not finish his sentence, but I saw a
soft, tender smile on his lips. I could easily
guess what he was thinking of, and for Emma’s
sake my heart rejoiced.

, “ Good-by!” he said. “ Tell Emma-tell
your sister I shall not be happy till I am back
again, and—and don’t let her—don’t forget
me!”

“No fear of that,” I replied, heartily; and
watched him from the doorstep; as he rode hur-
riedly away. 1‘

“ What a prospect for youflittle Emma!” I
thought. “But she is worthy of him and he
of her, which is saying a good deal. But, oh,
what shall I do without her?” ‘

“Darling,” I said. when, half an hour later,
Emma came in, “Captain Coventry has been
here to wish us good-by.” ‘

.She- turned quite‘ pale. and

 

 

the; flowers she

l

 

I seeing you.

 

carried in her hand fell unheeded ' to the 
ground. , ,_ : , . _ ' r 

“ Is he going to leave us, then?” She said, in 3
a low, pained voice. , 

“ Only for a time. His uncle is ill, and has '
telegraphed for him.” '-

“Oh, is that all? How you frightened m
Tina! But when will he be back?” she
answered, with a sigh of relief.

“ In a few weeks; and be begs you will not
forget him. I felt myself justified in saying 5.
I thought you would not. Was I. right-“eh?” ‘
I replied, mischievously.

“Forget himlg Of course not! But did he
really say that, or are you teasing me, Tina?”
she said, looking at me gravely.

 “ He really said so, and looked quite anxious
about it, and was dreadfully put out at not
Do you think»you will be able to
exist without him for six weeks, my dear?”

“Tina, how can you?” she cric d, blushing
rosy red. ‘

And in another moment she was in my
arms, sobbing as if her heart would break.

I kissed and pelted and tried in Every way
to c ~mfort her. I longed to tell her of Cap-
tain Coventry’s urfinished speech; but dared
net, although in my OWn mind I was certain
of what it meant. _

Week after week passed, however, and Cap~
tain Coy‘entry did not return. He wrote; to
me once or twice, and I (ould see how anxious
he was to get back, but his uncle still lay in a ,
critical state, and he could not leave him.

So winter came and passed, and nothing
particular happened till spring returned.

Then Colonel Lonsdale informed us one day
that he had decided on going abroad with Lisa
and Mrs. Parsons, and, would probably be
absent several months. \ ' ’

“So we shall be quieter here than,
said, regretfully.

“Yes; we shall miss Lisa terribly,” added
Emma. “ I wish people would not go away.”

“ I wish I had not to go, I assure you,” said
the colonel. “ It’s more on Lisa’s account than
my own.” I

“ Yes; Lisa mentioned to me once that she
thqiught she, would like to travellabroad,” I
sai .  ‘ - '

“I am in hopes the change may do Lisa
good. How do you think her looking, Miss
Traflord?" ' ' .

And be lowered his voice, and sat down he»
side me as he spoke. ,

Emma rose quietly and left the room.

“ Better in health, decidedly, and more
cheerful by far. Dun’t you think so?” I said.
“ Perhaps,” he replied, doubtfully. ,

“ And Mr. Sinclair—~havo you any news: of
him?" I asked. -. ' .

He shook‘his head. ‘

“None whatever; and she never mentions
him,” he replied.

A week later the Lonsdales had started, and
for. another month Emma and I led our usual
quiet life, till one morning I received a letter
from Cecil Coventry, telling us his uncle was
dead, and that in a few days he hoped to be
North again.

“I have chanced to meet an old whool
friend,” he wrote, “ just returned to the United
States from the uttermost parts of the earth: ’
He has been a great help and comfort to me,
and will accompany me home to the Hall.”

“I suppose he is wealthier than ever now
his uncle is dead. I wish he wasn’t,” and
Emma looked uneasy.

“ Do you? Well, I don’t think his change of

ever,” I

prospects will aflect him much. Let me see; "

when was this letter written? Why, Ideclare,
a week ago! To-morrow, or next day, he 3
ought to be here.” And I handed the letter to 
Emma. ‘ , . ‘ ‘

I saw her ooldr come and go as she read it,

' and her band tremble as she handed it back to

me, with a soft sigh. 
“ I, shall be very glad to I60 himfagain,” she 
said, simply. . ' U M
“Of course. 80 shall} be. I wonder-what .:
sort of a person the friend VWill be?” 1‘ ' - ' ' 

l

 

  

  

 

. ‘/ T, ’v"g._--' .3. 3

 

l ~> ./ a mi]:- 

.',  7“ ;- .

    

’ .

 

A few days later (he  unavoidably de—

" talliedin‘ town) Gecil' Coventry drove up to

our deer ‘and entered, followed by a oung
man whbse appearance was not altogether un—
familiar to me. I

“Allow me to present—J he began.

“ Mr. Sinclair!” I cried, quite forgetting my-
self.

“Yes; I did not know you had met before,”
he said, in surprise, while I saw a puzz‘ed look

5 L V come into the other’s face.

“Excuse me, I met—I saw Mr. Sinclair
some years ago—no doubt he has forgotten me
'——at Atlanticville,” I faltered.

“ Indeed? Excuse me; it seems rude to say
that I have forgotten you when you are kind
enough to say you remember me,”he said,
with a. peculiarly pleasant smile. “Do you
know Atlanticville well? I passed some happy
days there, just before I sailed for the Arctic
sens.” ,-

! He sighed as he spoke, and his face grew sad;
then he turned to bow to Emma, to whom
Cecil Coventry was presenting him. And that
ceremony over, he sat down beside me, while
Emma and Cecil talked together by the win-
dow.

A smile lighted up Sinclair’s face as he
watched them.

“Have you known Mr. Coventry long?” I
asked. ' y I

“Since we were boys together at school,”
he replied. “I feel, Miss Traiford, in spite
of my surprise at your recognizing me a (few
minutes ago, almost as if we were old ac-
quaintances. Cecil has spoken so often of you
to me. ‘ Your sister married his cousin the
other day, did she not?” ‘ V

“Yes. And he was best man, while Emma
and Lisa—” ' ’ 4 ,

“Who? Lisa who?” he asked, hurriedly,

looking at me anxiously.

“Lisa Lonsdale, a friend of ours,” I fal.
tered. “'I‘hey——”
“Lisa Lonsdalel--- and he never mentioned

. herl” he cried, excitedly. “‘But what am I

thinking of? I never told him; it was my
fault. Where is she. Miss Traflordl”

“Just now, she and Colonel Lonsdale are in
Earls,” I replied.

“ And I have been expecting for months
past to hear from them! Tell me, Miss Trait.
ford, is—eis Miss Lonsdale engaged l" __ ,

V“ Tube married“? No: I believe—I know
she is not,” I replied. ‘

.“ And she is well—recowared from the ill-
ness she was suflering from when I left the
States?" he asked, anxiously.

“Hardly recovered; but still, much better.
0h, Mr. Sinclair, I am a poor one at pretend-
ing! I feel so thankful you have come home, '

 , for Ibelieve that you will be able to do more

 

toward restoring our dear Lisa to her ‘former
health than any one else!” ‘

And then we plunged into an absorbing con-
versation. «, ’ - , '

Ma’sinclair soon opened his heart to me,
and told me all his hopes and fears, and his
love for Lisa, and listened with the deepest in-
terest to what I had to tell him abOut all that
had passed since he left Atlanticville.

“That first letter, the only one I ever re-

ceived from the colonel, told me of the murder,
' and her’ illness. Since then, not a word of her

has reached me. You may imagine the state
of‘miserable anxiety I have been in.” he said,
iu conclusion. .

“And in another wrek they will have re-
turned to Benton. when all your trouble will
be over, I trust,” I rejoined. “But can you
throw any light on the cause of Lisa‘s extra-
ordinary depression?”

“The‘ shock—nothing more— caused it; at
least, so it seems to me,” he replied, thought-
fully; 5‘ Have you ever talked over the mur-
der with her, Miss Traffordl”

“Never; she can bear no allusion to it,” I
answered. ,

He remained silent, and Emma, Gecil and
the tea entering simultaneously, our conversa-

tion was brought to a close.

I“ ’ >

if". .

 

But my head was so full of Lisa, that I
never remarked, till i foundnmyself alone
night in my bedroom, that Emma and Mr.‘
Coventry had been absent in the garden for
nearly an hour that afternoon, while Mr. Sin—
clair and I had had our talk together.

The Lonsdales returned rather unexpectedly
two or three days sooner than I had anticio
pated, and it was from Mr; Sinclair I heard
first of their whereabouts.

All flustered and breathless he rushed into
the cottage one afternoon, as I sat niche in my
accustomed seat by the Window.

“ She has come—they are here, Miss Traf‘
ford!” he cried. “ I have seen her again!”

“ Who—Lisa? This is sudden, indeed! How
quickly you have walked to tell me so! I hope
you will not bring on a return of your illness,
Mr. Sinclair;” for it was ill-health that had
obliged him to leave his ship and return home.

" No fear of that. I am only longing to see
her—to speak to her, and learn my fate. She
did love me once, Miss Trafl’ord; I—you know
that much.”

“ Yes, I am certain she. did,” I replied, grow—
ing quite excited; “and I cannot but believe
—> hide it as she will and may—she does so
now.”

“ Oh! I trust you will force the acknowledg-
ment of it from her!"

“ Now sit down and rest while I make you
some lemonade.”

Next day early I tcok my way to Penton,
leaving Emma engz-‘ged in inditing a lei-lg
epistle to Eleanor; and as I entered the park
the sounds of well-known voices fell on my
ear-the voices ,of Lisa and Mr. Sinclair.

Was I to be the involuntary spectator of an-
other love—scene between them?

“ What has changed you, Lisa, my own
love?” I heard him say, in imploring accents.
“ Do you remember the last evening we were
together-that night on the beach 9"

“Yes,” she interrupted, in a stifled voice;

“that terrible night. Ah, how little I imag-
ined that that would be the last happy one of
my life!” , ‘ '

“Why should it be? "Why. in Heaven’s
name, if you love me as you did then—and
you have just denied that you are fickle, Lisa——
why may we not p as many happy years to-
gether? The hope of having you for my wife,

Lisa, has nerved me in the hour'of danger and

given me strength to go through what would
have crushed many a man. In all my dangers
and diflioulties, darling, I have thought of you.
You have been thy-guiding star; and now——
now that I am with you once more, are you
bent on sending me away forever?"

She murmured something in reply which I
could not catch.

“Be my wife, ‘darling-—trust'me-—tell me'

all i” he went on; -

“ No, no,” she broke in, passionately. “ Leave
me! Do not torture me! I cannot—I can
not P) V , . .

“Cannot you trust me, Lisa?" he said, re—
proachfnl‘ly. r

“ Not in this matter,” she replied.

“ What! "Do you doubt my honor! Have I
so fallen in your estimation, then i” he replied,
bitterly. r

"No; do not misunderstand me. I do not
doubt you. I honor, I—-—respect you, and in no
way have I altered toward you; but my secret
must never be told. It shall die with the. I
cannot marry you i"

“ Then your Scoret shall be your own, dar-
ling. I shonld be the last to try and force it
from you. But Why should it separate us?
That is what I cannot comprehend.” I

“ You are very good—-—very kind,” she mur-
mured, with a sob in her voice; "‘ but it can
never be.” '

“ Then you have
me, Lisa?”

““ Nay, I did not say that,” she replied,
quickly. “ At least——-” ' r

“Ah! if you only tell. me you love me, I
shall not give (up hope. I‘will find out your
secret, Lisa, and show you iyc‘an make no dif-

changed—eyou do not love

 

 

Reginald visited him. fie who very

  
 

tonnes in my love '« for you, and my earnest
desiretomakeyou mine.”- : U  * ,.  I‘ ‘

Icaught aglimpse of her face Whthe
branches as he said these words. 3It had turned
deadly pale. ' ' ' I

“‘ If you love me, you will never try to find,
out my secret If you care for my hrppiness,
my peace of mind, you will let the matter drop , 
and leave me—forever!” she said, in a low, I, v A
husky voice. “ Say good-by now, and let us ,
never meet again!” v ,  , ,

“That I refuse to do! Nay, I must speak , 
out, Lisa! I can see you are sacrificing your- ‘
self to some mistaken sense of duty, and I can»
not go away and leave you, break my own
heart, and maybe yours (for I believe you love
me, darling), because you persist in hiding ,
from every one something which may be, if told, ,
would be easily cleared Have you no pity‘
for nle~for yourself-for your father, Lisa?”

As he said the last word, Lisa’s manner
changed, and a wild light that almost fright-
ened we came into her large, dark eyes.

“I do not care for myself,” she gasped;
“ but I have pity for you and for him; there-
fore I will nepher tell my secret nor marry
you." . , ,
She tattered backward as she spoke, and
woul-l have fallen had I not started and
caught her in my arms. u

“Tina, Tina,” she 'sobbed, “tell him to go
-—it is useless! Take me away; hide me from ,
himl Take me home, or my heart will .' '”
break!” _ v

I took her in my arms, and she wept bit-
terly on my shoulder. I signed to Mr. Sinclair
to leaveus. ,, a? ’

He hesitated; then pressing her handto his;
lips and murmuring a few words of farewell, ‘
he turned away, and Lisa and I walked slowly
on to Penton. ._ , V . /

“Come and see me to-morrow;.1 cannot,
talk any more now, my head is splitting,” the“. 
said. “ Oh, Tina, am I never to be hep  ‘ 
how long is thismisery to lam”. . _‘   ,' 1  ‘

’And then she turned away, and I heard her, 1 ' .
lock the door behind her as 5110 entered  ’
ownroom.‘ . ' ,v ., Y

CHAPTERIX. _ ,

A DYING conmsron. ’,  ;.

I Puzznsn myself not a’ little over '
had heard as I walked back to Sunnyoide. .4, , 
Nothing in Lisa’s words threw the
light on what troubled me.  . 2 ,i '
I felt sick at heart and terribly maria: 
poor In.» Sinclair, who had grown a great; , f a

   * .,., _ 'I'g‘ Myers. u, >  ‘ N
air“:  

.,,,

 

  
 
 
 
  
 
    
   
 
 
   
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
  
   
  
 
 
 
 
 
     
      

 

._\§
'4

“It is seldom a girl gates. H H _
happiness in married lite than use Would have ‘
with him,” I thought, as I entered the  .. r
“ Ah, hens in letter from Eleanor, dear than;
What . a thick packetl I wonder   ,_
she has to tell us? But antlmustseewhers 7.  *
Emma is; then 1 will”settle down, and  
my letter thoroughly. ‘ , . _ 33., 

Emma was nowhere to be found; so  -,, ‘
log off my hat and shawl, and seating 
on the sofa, I began to peruse Monitor’s epistle ,1
and' after reading the first words, Iewas speed- ,
ily so absorbed in itscontents that! don’t
think the report of a cannon would have}
aroused me. . . s ,g 

“ Such an extraordinary thing halrhappen’ed, .,
Tina; I can hardly believe it. But Reginald:
says there is no doubt but that it is reqllylruer
Just fancy his coming across the Atlanticvillegx
murderer in the hospital here, find-renewing
his dying confession! : "  . A "  V

“ But I had better begin at the beginningxp
and tell you the whole story. There when;
wreck here last Week. .A vessel struck on ,1th ‘
rocks at the point in a gale, and out of the six»:- '
teen men on board, only four were taunt/1,1» ;
clinging to the rigging, when the lifeboat 
reached her. . - » . (1..

“Three were sailors, and the fourth 
senger, who was so badly hurtlfthat .he ,Jsvu, '
taken at once to the hospital; and  day  .
dull and, ‘

 

 

7 ’9

 

     

*   "4' .
.512 ;
"l

- taciturn, and spoke only a few words the first
, time; but Reginald was troubled with a cer-
{ v tainlikeness in him to some one—he could not
.. say to whom—and tried hard to get him to
~‘ , give. some account of himself. It was of no
I avail, however, The man kept his mouth
rigidly closed, and would answer no ques-
': 'ltions.
, “ At first the doctor gave hopes of his recov-
, eryw—the injury he had received was not con-
' sidered‘ mortal; but after thethird day he
, began to grow worse instead of better, and
 I 'soon the doctor saw he would never again rise
'_ fromrhis bed.
a 4,“ Doctor Brice says, when he felt it to be his
-”.,dutytotell the man of the state he was in,

 
  
   
   
   
 
   
   
  
     
    
   
   
  
  
   
   
   
  
   
  
  
   
  
 
 
  
   
   
 
 
    
 
  
  
  
   
    
   
   
    
  

and dread that passed over his face.
I ,“f Must I die?’ he said. ‘Has it come to
‘1' ‘thad'doctori-V I am a poor, miserable wretch
  cannot pay you to.save me; but if you
. have any pity left in you; you will not let me
‘4: die. I cannot. You must save mel’
 .. “ ‘My poor fellow,‘ replied Doctor Brice,
x 2‘ .‘soothingly, ‘it is beyond human power to save
you. If I could, I would do it; but I should
be wrong togive you false hope. We must all
Judie, some day. Try and nerve yourself to meet
the'common'fate of all.’ '
' “ The man turned pale, and gasped for
breath. - ’ .
‘.‘ ‘ Yes, all die,’ he replied; ‘but all have not
the sine to answer for that I have. It is not
death I fear; it is -’ And he covered his face
' Fwith his hands and shuddered. ‘ I see her face
 alwaysbefore me, with the moonlight shining
j on her yellow hair, and the tears in' her blue
' eves!" Will it never go? Shall I always See
it? Sometimes I fancy ’—-and he whispered
the words in an awe—struck tone—-‘ that she is
heresiclose to me! I hear her voice calling
the: and her shriek as she disappeared'over the
Clix!" .‘ , _ .
T,‘ .“ tor Brice looked at the unfortunate
man. ‘ ‘
 "(this a clergyman, not a doctor. you want,’
Jill] d, ‘ If you have done wrong, confess it,
 brake your peace before it is too late.’
f “ ‘A clergyman! One came to me, and I
had halffi mind tospeak, but {could not then.
Bond forhim,‘ doctor, and i will try again,’ he
 eagerly. And an hour latex-Reginald
 him. ' ' 4 '
1-" ""*.,He had a hard, hard struggle with the un-
 ' He would not speak for along
 daagto the hope or recovery, though
Mylwurtbat passed brougbtibim nearer to
death,-fna&wheu the and came, fought deeper
 he confessed he " had com—
 crime,.and was a sinner of the deepest
 not until the cold dumps of dissolution
 ohhirhrow would he make a clean
firm, or local! confess how he had sinned.
1’“ {flyhsmwho said, holding Reginald’s hand

_ ,  every advantage the world could
myth“; Mgambling and drinking destroyed
me,‘andidragged hie down until, at the age of
twenty-dye: I was around man. « .
“I filly. Whe'npeut, my prospects gone, and
A    to her grave through grief
 imy weer, I had one relation left—a step-
brother, my mother's eldest son, and all he
v could defer me, hedid. ‘.
J  that! only repaid his kindness with in-
mtlthdo, and at last only on condition that I
would/never again set foot in America would
ithe meanttoasaist me, and allow .*:.e ’a small
motility in a‘ foreign land.
, 2‘5‘ For several years I kept to my bargain. I
 and for a while my wife kept me from
tbogamin‘gstahles, but soon-the old love of play
withéitsfor-mer strength. and all my
nightmafind the‘beet part of my days passed in
 coining-houses of the town in which I lived.
9:? Of course I lost, and misery and poverty

 

 

 

fl  health failed, her temper grew
,  m wretched, undone bitter-v
1  with 'beingwthecause of» her

  

l

.4.

 

that he shall never forget the look of horror-

, replied.

 hisdying grasp, ‘is Frank. Milton. I started *

   

 UNbER'AI-ci, IUD.

on every side, and the keen pangs of poverty
made themselves daily felt., . v

“ ‘ Like acoward, as I was, I resolved to de-
sert my wife and go backto America, see my
brother once more and implore him to give me
a fresh start. Minna’s friends, I thought, would
look after her. My brother did not know
I was married, and I hoped that unincumbered
ina new country I might at length bavo .a
chance of succeeding in life.- '

“ ‘I managed to steal away one night
while Minna was visiting a relation, and
in ten days I was again in the States and at
Atlanticville, where my step-brother, Colonel
Lonsdale, resided. VVbutl (as Reginald started)
you know him; but what does that matter?
You can tell him all if you like.

“ ‘ He was very good to me, as he always
had been, and agreed to give me the start in
life I asked for. My ticket to California was
secured, and I bade him good—by on the second
of J uly. resolving, if possxble, to lead a better
life, and return to Minna if I found I pros-
pared.

“ ‘ What malicious demon promoted me to
it I know not, but late that night I wandered
out of the town whexe I was staying in the di-
rection of my brother’s house on the cliff; and
as I reached the pathway that led last it, I be-
came sensible that some one was following me.

“ ‘I turned, and, to my anger and dismay,
beheld my wife.

“‘Ah, villain l’ she whispered, in a hoarse
voice, ‘ so you thought to leave me. But I
have followed you, and I do not intend to let
you go.’

“ ‘ And she caught hold of my arm.

“ ‘ Wretchl’ she cried, ‘you would desert me
—-leave me to starve. I who have been your
faithful wife 2’

“ ‘Listen to reason!
tell you!’ I urged.

“‘Listen to falsehoods and deceptional' she
‘No, I am come to expose you. 'To—
morrow I'will see your brother, the rich coloh
nel who lives in yonder house, and—’

“ ‘I smiled when I thought that before the
morrow’s sun rose I should be miles away across
the continent.

“ ‘ She caught my smile, and paused with a
look of baffled fury in her face.

“ ‘ What new villainy have you in hand? she
asked, passionately. ‘I will not wait till to-
morrow; I will go to him now. See, there isa
light in yonder room. He is there!’ .

“ ‘ We stood within the garden then, just at
the edge of the clifl. -

“ ‘ I seized her by the arm. She attempted
to free herself from my grasp, and struck me
in the face. We struggled together.

“‘1 heard the waveadaahing on the rocks
below. ' ‘ .

"‘ ‘ A terrible feeling of hatred, and revenge
filled my heart. 7 I

“ ‘I dragged her to the very edge of the
precipice, and laughed when I saw the tears fill
.her eyes. Then, with" all my strength concen-
trated into one, eflort, Ithrew her from me
over the precipice—and fled!

“ ‘As I hurried frantically away, a cry—_-
not the shriek she gave, but a cry from another
voice—fell upon my ears, and lent, wings to
my flight. , -

“ ‘I caught the eVening train and reached
the city before midnight, and in. a few hours
had started on my journey rejoicing in, my es-
cape, and without onepaug of remorse for the
crime-I had committed. /

“ ‘ But now-nowl’« And .. the miserable
man looked implorlngly into .Reginald’sface.

“It was a terrible time, for my husband,"
continued Eleanor in her letter: “ He did all
he could for the poor, heavily-burdened soul;
but the‘passage from' earth to another world
was a troubled one,‘ and but little could be
done to assimge the pains-of dissolution, though
the dread of death was partly overcome, and
Reginald believed the man’g repentance lobe
sincere. ‘ ~’ * ' * '

Hear what I have to

 

' finger of scorn was poan at me

    

cosmetic likeness that struck him-when be-
‘-'e " “r   . 

 

 

 

.‘V‘His likeness'jtoJCp-lguel Lonsdalexwas of .

 

.. ‘

first visited the poor creature in the hospital.
He says he wasjust about the colonel’s higbt
and figure, and resembled him not a little in
feature." '

 

“What an extraordinary tale!" I thought,
as I laid the letter down. “I see Eleanor
says her husband is writing to Colonel Lone“
dale. It will be a painful thing for him to
hear, poor man!”

“ How terrible for the family!" said Emma,
when, on coming in, she perused the letter.

“We must tell no one—it must never
be mentioned. Remember that, Emma!” I
said.

“ Of course not!" she answered. “ But you

will see Lisa will be a difierent. creature in

future.”

I was going to ask her why, when Mr. COV-

entry entered, so I held my peace. ‘
v He had become a very constant visitor at
Sunnyside; and understanding as I did every
turn of Emma’s countenance, I could see
plainly enough how dear he was growing to
her.

sometimes my heart sunk as the possibility
presented itself to me that, after all, Mr. Cov-
entry‘s attentions. to her might mean nothing,
and that one day she might awake to find her
dream of love and happiness—for, all unknown
to herself, I felt certain she was indulging in
such a dream—dissipated.

“ She would never get over such a grief," I
thought. “ Many a girl would forget in time,
but to Emma it would be a death-blow. Not
that I think Mr. Covautry would willfully
deceive her, but his position and ours,
although our family may be as refined and
good in every way as his, are so diflerent. We.
are so poor, and he so rich and influential, that
his family might object to his marrying a
nobody like Emma. Oh, dear! I wish I had
any one to consult in the matter. Mrs. Parsons
is too much of a gossip, and. I can hardly
trouble Colonel Lonsdale with a fear that may
be quite imaginary on my part.”

And then I remembered that. Mr. Coventry
had told us he had no near relations, except an
aunt—his mother’s sister—41 certain Mrs. Ham—
melford; and Iwas selfish enough to rejoice
not a little at the fact. If he did care for
Emma, surely his aunt’s opinion of her would
not weigh very heavily with him!

However, I very much disliked the idea of
Mrs. ‘Hamelford, whom I pictured to myself a
high and mighty lady of fashion, who would

look down on us from the hight of her ariatc» .

cratic position. .

Mr. Coventry had told ushe expected her to ,

pay him a visit at the Hall shortly, and I can.
fees the news disturbed me. 

Emma, too, regarded her adventwith dread.

“She has five children, three girls and two
boys,” said Emma; “ but the girls are all mar-
ried. I‘ina, except the youngest, and she‘s em
eased”,

“ 0h! Mr. Coventry seems to have told you
all about themi” .

“ Yls. He says he likes to talk to meabout

his relations, because I never seem bored as .

other people would; but it interests me to hear
him, Tina,” she replied. . ,

“I dare say. When is Mrs. Hamelfcrd to ar-
rive?" '

“ Not for two or three weeks more. " is
staying in' Newport with her eldest dang ler
now; and oh, Tina, only think, when she does
comehe is going to give a ball in the big draw-
ing-room of the Hall, and every one is to be in—
vited!” she replied.

“Ourselves among the number, I suppose?”
I said, with a smile. “ Well, Emma, we must'
look up our dresses. As for me, it is years
sinceI was at a ball. I have quite forgotten
what they are like.” _ _

“You must wear your black velvet .and
pearls, Tina. You’ll look splendid!” she said.

“ Who do you think would look at me, nan .

youand Lisa art by?” I Said, with a laugh,

“ I know who will!" she cried, sauclly,.and ,

ran out Of the rooni. g y

,n . , "1 .
.K'IV ,  ,r ,'

 

 

:

 

 

/. I .,_' 

 

- U m..."

CHAPTER X ' - ,
. A~ DAUGETIR’SINJUSTICE I

I mama next day forPenmn with a heat-
ing heart. ' v

I felt sure the news I had heard the evening
before would aflect Lisa greatly, and I had a
sort of wild, unreasoning idea that it might in
some way influence her to look more kindly on
Mr. Sinclair’s suit.

I asked for Colonel Lonsdale when I got to
the house, and was told that he had gone out
early that morning, and would not be in till
lunch time; so I made my way up to the little
 room where Lisa generally sat in the forenoon.
5 As I crossed the hall my eyes fell on a letter
‘: lying on the marble slab, addressed to Colonel

Lonsdale in Reginald’s handwriting. It was
unopened, having arrived, I suppose, after the
colonel had started from the house. '

“She can’t have heard of it yet. H0wever,
there can be no objection to my telling her,” I
thought, as I walked up-stairs; but I wished,
nevertheless, that Colonel Lonsdale had been in.

I knocked at the door of the little room, and
Lisa’s voice bade me enter. She looked dread-
fully depressed, and I could see had been weep-
ing bitterly. I doubted if she had closed her
eyes during the night, so weary and tired did
she appear.

I kissed her warmly and heartily, and she
returned my embrace, bidding me sit down

/ beside her on the sofa.

“I know why you have come, Tina,” she
said nervously, before I had time to say a
word. “ Don’t think me unkind, Tina, but I
must ask you not to talk to me of what hap-
pened yesterday. I cannot hear it!” _

Her voice trembled pathetically as she spoke
and ,I saw two big tears rise to her eyes. -

“My dear Lisa,” I replied, in a cheerful
tone, "‘ I don’t mind making a little wager with
you that you do not know what has brought
me over here to-day.” .

“Why, you promised yesterday to come!"
she returned in surprise.

“That is true; but I have come to talk to
you on a different subject, dear. I heard

:1; , some very strange news last night, Lisa.”

{1" r A startled look came into her eyes.

 “News!” she said uneasily; “news of whom
‘ ——of what?"

“ Of what neither you nor I evar expected,”
I replied gravely. “I had a long letter-from
, Eleanor last evening; and—” -
-, “ from Eleanor!” she replied, as if
I‘ greatly relieved. “You quite frightened me,
i

 

 

 

 

Tina. ‘ I am getting more foolishly nervous,
I’m afraid.” ,
.“ That dreadful aflair at Atlanticville was
‘K enough to give a shock to any orie’s nerves,” I
replied. “But you must be brave, Jase, for it
is of that—of the murder—I have come to
speak to you.”

murder,” the said ins low voice. “ What can
, you.know—-'—what can you have heard about it?
You have been at Atlanticville, but——”

very night of the murder. My poor old uncle
maids his will that night, Lisa, and your father
was-mien! the witnemse, and stayed with us

till—r” .
" She had grown whiter and whiter as I
spoke. ’ 4v ' -

“ Yes; I know that he was out, and came in
just as the clock struck—4’
' “ Yes; just as the clock struck two he left
my uncle’s house,” I interrupted. ~
She looked at me, oh, so strangely! There
'was suchdoubt and terror, mixed with a wild
hope, in her eyes that I felt unnerved!
“Go on! What than? I tell you you are
wrong about the time though," she muttered.
. “ I am sure I’m not. But what does it mat-
' ter if I were? The whole mystery is explained,
,/ and the murderer—W .
She gave a short, sharp cry of agony.
“ Have they taken him twis be arrested!
Ohifor pity’s sake, Tina, do not let-”
“ Hush, hush, my dear!” I‘ cried. a “No; he

 

   
 
 
 

.‘  " ‘ ’

 

arms for a few minutes.

 “You have come to speak to me, about the;

“Yes; I. was there, oddly enough, on the.

v alone.

'to do that,” I said, smiling.

 

.is not arrested. The world will, may he, never

     

rrv"|‘, ‘.,V 

‘L 7 ‘ ‘

know of his guilt, bathe has confessed it. At
the eleventh hour his heart softened, and he
confessed his crime to Reginald.”

“To Reginald—Jar. "Dacrel" she faltered.
“ How—how— Oh, Tina, I cannot understand
it! Is he dead, then?” And she sunk trem-
bling from head to foot, at my feet.

“ Yes; he died three days ago,” I replied.

She looked at me wildly.

“ His name?” she said, hoarsely.

“His name?"———(and for a moment I hesi-
tated, but the imploring agony in her eyes
compelled me to speak)-—-“. his name was Frank
Milton!” She gave a great gasp.

“Where is my father!” she cried, starting
up suddenly. “Does he know this? Let me
go to him, Tina! No, you cannot stop me—I
must see him at once!” she cried.

“He is out; he has not come back from
his ride; he knows nothing of this!" I an-
swered. ‘

“Is it true! Can it really be true! Are
you certain?” she continued. “ Oh, Tina, how
can I ever forgive myself.”

“I don’t see how you are to blame,” I re-

*plied, quite bewildered.

“No; or course you don’t. But I will tell
you all, if I can. Frank Milton was my—
father’s—step brother—Very like him. I be—
lieved him dead, and—and—when on that fear-
ful night I witneSSed that terrible scene, I
thought—I believed— Oh, Tina! can you not
see the fearful mistake I madei—the awful de-
lusion I have been laboring under, and which
has made me the miserable creature I have
been ever since?"

“I looked at her for a moment in undis-
guised consternation, and then the full mean-
ing of her words broke on my bewildered
brain. 1 sunk back in my chair and burst
into tears.

“Yes, hate me——despise rue—as you must!"
she said. " “ I see you understand at last what
I mean! But, oh, if you knew the horrid suf-
fering, the misery and the dread and doubt I
have endured, you would pity, however much
you might condemn me!” i ‘

“Condemn you, my'poor child? I cannot
tell you how I feel foryoul ' I see how natural.
your mistake was. I feel how terribly you
have suflered {"1 cried, taking her in my arms
and kissing her. “But now, cheer up, dar-
ling," for the sky above you is bright once
more, and- the clouds of trouble are diapers-
in .” ‘

“But I do condemn myself in many ways,
Tina, "‘sbe went on, after sobbing quietly in my
_ “I have often been
cold and cruel to him when—when I ought to
have felt nothing but pity, even—even had
what I believed been true! And, after all,‘l
was wrong, and it was the brother for whom
he gave up so much, and to whom he was so
good! Poor father! how can I ever tell him?"
And she looked at meappealingly. '

I was silent for some minutee. ' V.

“Lisa, he must «never suspect it,”'I said at
last, very gravely. “I don’t want" to be no-
kind, dear, but I must say to you that I be-
lieve the knowledge of it would break his heart.

‘You must'keep the secret to. yourself, Lisa.

It may be a heavy burden for you to bear,
perhaps: but I am ready to share it with you
Why should we wound him by letting
him know that for these many months past you
have regarded him as—”

She laid her hand on my mouth.

“Don’t—~don’t say it; I can’t bear it. You
are right; we will never let him know. Oh,

hova will try to make up to him for all my

past coldness! I shall never be happy until I
have convinced him thatI love him an I did
when I was a little girl.” ‘

“ I don’t think you, will find it very dimcult
“He loves you
so dearly, Lisa, you have only to show him
your love in return. and act in all things, great
and small, as he would have you. And one
thing more, Lisa. Is there not a little corner

in your heart left for Mr. Sinclair! Will you

a

not give «him a little hope, dearl”

in his shoulder.

 

' A bright blush rose
faded away.
“He is gone,
bade him. It is too late,” she said. .
“ No, I think not, darling. ' Take heart, and,
I foresee we shall all be happy soon.” '
“ Poor papa-poor papa,” she went, on,

“what a grief it will be to him to hear of this -‘ ‘

terrible news! How good he is to everyone,
and how little good even his nearest and dearest
have done him in return. Ah, here he is, I‘
believe!" and she rushed to the window as
Colonel Lonsdale rode up to the door. ,
“ He has some one with him," she cried. “Oh,
how tiresome! I long to go to him, Tine. Now
I must wait a while.” ‘ I .
“I dare say his visitor will not detain him
long,” I replied; “ and when he sees Reginald’s

letter with ‘Immediate’ on it, he will open it“ a

at once and come to us.”
My words proved true.

stairs, and he entered the room. : 

“Miss Traflord, you haste heard of this ter-'”
rible aflair?"he began.
I see you have been told !" A

I was... ~.....;..;j.. . 

A4— ,

In a few minntés- » '
Colonel Lonsdale’s footstep was heard on the A;  ;_

“ Papa—papa— poor papa!" she cried, throws, ,

ing hewrms around him and kissing him re- r-  ~
feel foray}

peatedly; “it is terrible!
you so!

And, oh, I
Tina has told me all."

I sawa look of‘surprise and joy in his face  ‘

as he received Lisa’s embrdce, so..diflerent to »
:he cold kiss with which she generally saluted
1m. " '

“ It is what I more than half suspected.  be r.
said, quietly; “but my lips were of 

sealed, and you did not recognize
happily.” ‘ . . ,
She shook her head and then buried ‘ herfaco 

him,  ‘z‘

“ No, of course,” he continued.

:H

 

“Ah, Lisa. my love,  "

“YouzThad i 
not seen him for years, and of course hardly"  '

remembered him. Well, he is dead m and, 

we must say no more of him. 'May Heaven .., 

forgive him! I tried my best to keephim

straight when a boy, and to get him out of his "
troubles when he was older; but Icould‘ notina, 

duce him to lead a respectable life. , Little did ,:
I imagine, however, that he would havegfallea 

so low as he did. Poor Frank! Poor fellow!” 

' 1

Tears were in the colonel’s eyes- as he  '

and his voice faltered. ' ~

“on, father, father, how ‘good you are—".1

how little I have appreciated you!" said; Lisa}: ‘

I feel as if I had been as, wicked and migrate '

ful to you as—as he was; but it shall neverifie‘:

again, father, never! I feel art! am 
had been lifted from my brow Wt “‘3 ‘

heavy weight fromumy heart, slim. 'T

clear before me as it used to seem 
dreadful night.” ~ .  '/  '

He took her head between his 
looked into her eyes with an 
never forget.   : V,

 

\

Did be for an. instant realise  .~: 5

scored the love that had
tween them! -
Perhaps; but he
kissing- her tenderly, seated biracial beside‘her 1
on theeofm ' .~ ’   

“By-the-way,” he cried,  other: 4

minutes later, “ theme is an old friend waiting,
for me in the study—Mr. ‘he ‘
wants to bid you good-by W32:  , ‘ ‘ 

“ What! has he decided to go, then   ' ’.
.“Sovhe says,” replied the colonel, witha '{

sigh. “ I wish it could be otherwise;- 
haps he is right.” - * ‘ ' "

“ I am very sorry. Will nothing  

mind. do you thinki”31 said, anxiously,._ - (I ‘- ,
“That is dificult to say,” replied,

“Something might, perhaps. .He expects 

mi _, aid; is 

be sent 0!! to the African coast among the fit-

slavers, on an expedition being gotten He . ’"

has excellent interest, and many probably get 1;.

the ship he wants.” , ,
I saw Lisa getting paler. ~ % - ;
“ Africa—just aftor the Arctic plagiarism!» "
faltered. ‘ -‘ , ‘ ‘

“Yes; rather a change, is it not? But sol: 

.v.

‘ diers and sailors don’t think of such was; as f
. i  .r it a. . h

 

 

 
 

 

 x I ~' climates, my love, andSinolair’a-a thorough
 v .v sailor. But we are keeping 'him waiting all
th’is‘time. MissTraflioz-d, shall we go down?"

i; Certainly. ‘Come, Lisa,~are you ready?” I
88 i

_ “Yes; but you go first with papa—I will

» follow,” she replied.
‘ my hair a little; l—I—.--”

_ Victor Sinclair looked up eagerly as we
I entered. '

” “Well, will she see me? —- have you persuaded
her?” he asked, with great anxiety.

I “ I did not think she required much persua-
sion,s my dear fellow. Lisa did not express an
unwillingness to see you, did she, Miss Traf-
ford?” ' ’

. 7. “None whatever. ’I think Lisa was— Ah,

here she is!" ' .-

,, ' Bashfully and with downcnst eyes, Lisa
 entered. She had put on (I noticed it at once)
the very dress in which I had seen her that
evening on the beach, and she had arranged

her hair in the fashidh she then were it.

She held out her hand shyly to Frank Sin-
clair. I

“ Are you, really going to Africa?" she

said. - v

, , “To Africa?" he replied, glancing at the
 colonel, and catching the twinkle in his‘eye,

‘  he wanton: “I’m not bound to go there, Miss
g Lonsdale;. it depends on you whether I go or
stay.”

_ She was silent, and 'I could see her bosom
heaving.

“ Well, Lisa, give him his answer. Put him
out of his pain,” said the colonel, cheerily;
“ it’s best to know one’s fate.”

 g “ But can I decide, Mr. Sinclair?” she

‘ i said. ,

A ‘_‘ It is in I your hands, Lisa,” returned

"the young man. . “ If you will be my wife,

 [I Stay“; it not, I go wherever fortune may

 .  lead me”,

“ ‘ ' "Stay, then!” murmured Lisa. “Remember
,tortune is a blind guide!”

. The colonel and I strolled out into the gar-

1., den, butas I saw his eyes twinkling with a

«mischievous'glee, I thought of the tale of the

 flavors, and Victor’s intention to go to the

if at! wonderrif the colonel ,divined what had

 * changed her.

 

   
    
 
  
   
     
   
 
 
  
 
  
 
    

 

CHAPTER XI.
 awesome BELLS.

  “Tina, KraKHamelford has arrived!" cried
 bursting into my room one afternoon

and wants to see you; He wants
 to come over to the Hall to-morrow to
{my and spat! the « afternoon. and talk
Wthwamngemts for the ball he is going

, 39- give." _ .
 do me sand wentr down-stairs at once, while
I -;  m staid behind to of some ot the

. :hothoiule flowers *with which her hands were

, *fialltjand I soon arranged with Mr. Coventry
;. ' -’ that we were to be with him the next day at
  “taro   v r t \
' 7 ,,  pictured Mrs. Hamelford a cold, haughty
,. , ‘_  of the world, who would manage to
’ f make me feel ill‘at ease in her company. 80
r  on entering the drawing-room at the
 flail I was met by a small, plump, kindly-
_ refused, middle-aged lady with silver-gray
 hair and a sweet smile, I was agreeably sur-
' ' FW- , r
"She shook hands with me in a manner that
 at once put me at my ease; and after looking
at .  a. moment into Emma’s blue eyes, kissed her
 ntenderly on either cheek in a way that made
 ' f; me feel Iconld like her, and assured me that
  1t Cecil Coventry did love the child she would
..  _ bathe last peer in the world to try to oppose
“a  their union... ‘ _
~ ». f‘ You must come over again very soon,
 Traflord, and help me,” she said, cheer-
fiyg‘otberwlsa Ij  I shall come to grief
‘le v  invitations, and. get; myself

,/

   
 

I ‘/.

“I must just arrange

 nineweolte later; “and Mr. Coventry is‘

 ’7 ran, and which Linew at Once came from the

 

  
 

‘ “Au—m—C»- w-J...‘ 

all sorts of trouble. Celia. .lused always. to
attend to those details. I think I must ask
you to [spare Emma to me for a day or two
next week." v . V ,

“That’s an excellent idea of yours, aunt!”
cried Cecil. “ Was I not right?” he whispered,
as he put me into the carriage. “Is she not
an old darling?”

“Quite right,” I answered, as we drove oflf;
and I found Emma was of the same opinion.
, Of course every one accepted their invita-
tions and the ball bid fair to be a most bril-
liant entertainment. . _ .

Lisa Lonsdale’s engagement was now pretty

widely known, and strangers who had heard~

of her beauty were anxious to see her.

The Lonsdales were to call for us in their
large carriage, and drive us over and back
again; and when Emma was dressed, and
stood waiting for them to arrive, I felt that
whoeverlwas-at the ball she' would not pass un-
noticed.

Her lovely complexion and golden hair was

shown of]? to perfection by the blush roses that

nestled against her snowy neck; and her eyes
were bluer than the turquoises around it;
while the soft tulle of her white robe draped
her slender, graceful form in classic folds. In

her hands she held a bouquet of forget-me:

nets and camellias, sent that day from the
Hall, while I were one, scarcely less beautiful,
of azaleas. that came to me from Penton. The
colonel had gathered and arranged them (Lisa
said), and I must thank, him and not her, for
were they'not beautiful?

I really believe we created “a sensation”
as we entered the ball-room, escorted by Mr.
Coventry, Victor Sinclair, and the colonel,
and partner after partner was introduced to
both Emma and Lisa, whose cards were speedi-
ly filled.

I noticed, however, that Mr. Coventry
claimed Emma for the first dance. I had quite
expected to share the common fate of chape-
rons, and to act the part of _Wallflower all the
evening; but I found, to my surprise, I was
mistaken.

lwas not allowed to sit still; and after a
waltz with Mr. Coventry and a quadrille with
Colonel Lonsdale, I found I had not many
vacant dances on my card.

Again and again did I see Enema pass on
our host’s arm, her eyes, sparkling with happi-
ness; and as I came up from supper with Colo-
nel Lonsdale, I caught sight of the pair disap-
pearing into the great conservathry together.

“Coventry is fond of the Hall,” said Colonel
Lonsdale, quietly. “You will not be separated
by any great distance from your sister,‘Miss
Traflord.” ‘ p 7 I '

“ Do you think—J’I began.

“Of course I do. Ah, I saw you ‘ were

anxious; but be sure Cecil Coventry is not a

man to trifle withany girl’s heart. It will be
charming, Emma being so near you. A It is
scarcely four miles from here to Penton.”

“No; and only three from Sunnysidsl” I
replied with a sigh. ' V

He looked up at we quickly and anxiously.

“ No; oi! course, you are nearer to the Hall
at Sunnyside,” he said, quietly looking dawn
again. fl‘ We shall feel lonely when both our
birds have flown, Miss Traflord.”

I was about to say, “There is always the
hospital for me to return to,” but Lisa, looking
brilliantly beautiful, came up on Victor Sin-
clair’s arm. _ 3 ‘

“What a sensation Emma is making, Tina!”
she cried. “Every one is raving about her!
How lovely she is looking tonight!”

“I think you share the general admiration
with her, my dear,”l answered. “Ah, here
she is! What. ofl? againl”. as the music struck
up, and I saw Mr Coventry resign Emma to
another partner. “ And you, too," I added, as
Lisa prepared to accept the arm of a certain

friend of our host’s, and I was left alone.
,Only for a moment; in another, Cecil had taken

amtbesideme.‘ \ - a,
“Thfiflk H®'§3,1",ho' cried, ferVently, “it’s

 over, gnaw"

‘ ,s l'.
.% - q

 

 g; A’ 4"

 

   

“Wham/are you so tired of the ball, then?"
I laughed. . .

“The ball? What do you mean, Miss Traf-
fordl I was not speaking at the ball, but of
something—something I said to Emma just
now. Do you know she has promised to be my
wife? I can hardly believe it, upon my word!
And I feel so thankful—so happy! Ah, there
she is! Fancy a lovely girl like that caring
for me!” ‘ .

“I don’t see anything so very astonishing

'in it,” I replied.

“And you appr0ve? She said she thought
you would! Dear Miss Trafi’ord, you have
been like a mother to her, she tells me; and
perhaps I ought to have spoken to you first,
but we have your consent and approval, have
we not?” And he looked quite anxiously at
me. ' ,
“You have, indeed!” I replied, giving him
my hand; and the tears would rush to my eyes
as I said the words.

“You will miss her, I fear,” he said; “but
still she will be near you, and you must often
be with us.”

I nodded, but could not reply. My heart
felt very full, and yet I rejoiced heartily, for
Emma’s sake, at the news I had heard.

“Well, our two birds are really goingto
fly,” I said, sadly, to Colonel Lonsdale, who
came up to me a few minutes afterward.

“ Whatl—it is settled, is it?” he cried, joy-=
fully. l rather wondered, at the moment, why
it should cause him such pleasure even if it
were. . -

“ Yes; Mr. Coventry has just told me,” I an-
swered. “I wish I could speak of it as joy--
fully as you do, Colonel Lonsdale; but at
present I can only look on the dark side of it.” 3

“Forgive me; I’m selfish and stupid, I’m
afraid," he replied. Then, seeing the, tears in
my eyes, “Let us take a turn through the con—
servatories,” he added. “We are not likely to

- interrupt any lovers’ confldences just now.”

I wondered as we walked slowly along why
he had called himself selfish; but I felt a little
so myself when I found myself picturing the
few opportuniqies I should have of meeting
Colonel Lonsdale after the two weddings had
taken place. - ~ _

There would be no more morning visits to
Lisa, or snug afternoon teas at ‘Sunnyside, or
rides and drives through the country. r 

I could only go to Penton when the colonel g 
gave large, still} dinner parties, and other '
ladies besides myself were present; and his

visits to me would have to be confined toshort ‘y 7,

calls at stated intervals, exwpt when I might
meet him at Other people’s beam, That

would be all I should see of him in future.

I" tried to appear cheerful, however, and

Emma’s joyful, loving smileas I met her at the, _,
end of our walk half reconciled me to my fate; j 

and I managed to get through the rest of
the evening without breaking down. ,_ '

What days of hustle and businessmnowed!
Emma and Lisa made up their minds to be 
married on the same day, and Colonel Lons-l 
dale insisted on giving the breakfast at Pen-
ton. , I . 
Eleanor wrote that she considered. it a first- J '
rate arrangement; but neither she: nor Regi—'
nald could be present at the marriage (which

was 3 grief towel”): 08 an heir to the house of r 7,:

Dacre was expected. A trip to New York’ to
buy Emma’s trousseau was made.  Men’s had
been already ordered, and, we passed a. delight—
ful fortnight with Mrs. Hamelford in New
Yor . ‘

The'wedding being fixed for the end of the
following month, our hands were full, and the
time’flew by with lightning speed.

I had no leisure to think of what Ishould do

.and suffer when everything was over and I  "’1‘;

should be alone. -
Again I stood before the glass in the room 2,.
where I had arranged Eleanor’s bridal toilette . 
a year before, and fixed the wreath of orange!
blossom with diamond stars on Emma’s golden

hand. , , i ,.
Again I kissed the bride as she, stepped 1 into

, .

 

 

 

   
  

 

her carriage, and then took my seat beside her,
and was driven off to the village church.

Again, standing beside my sister at the
altarflg’dve her to the‘husband of her choice
as I had given Eleanor, and Colonel Lonsdale
beside me did the same for his child, Lisa. I
felt like one in a dream as we walked into the
vestry to sign the register, and it was only
Mrs. Hamelford’s cheery voice that aroused
m I

took the place of parent in the ceremony
splendidly. What a lovely bride she makes,
dees she not? It is hard to say which looks
the better—Mrs. Cecil Coventry or Mrs. Vic-
tor Sinclair.”

“Or which looks the happier,” I replied.

A magnificent breakfast had been prepared
at Penton, and alarge number of guests had
been invited. -It was two o’clock before the
brides rose to put on their traveling costumes.
My heart sunk like lead when I realized that
the hour for Emma and me to part had really
come; but for her sake I tried to keep up and
stifle my feelings. I did not wish her to see
what a loss to me her gain was.

She clung to me and kissed me over and
over again at the last moment; but tide and
trains wait for no one—«not even for brides
and bridegrooms as I playfully warned herfi
and after a last embrace, I put her into the
carriage, and she was gone. Colonel Lonsdale
looked at me sympathetically as I bade him
good-by.

“ We shall both miss our bonnie birdies, I
fear, Miss Trafford," he said. “Penton is a
huge place to live alone in,”

‘ And he looked round rather dismally.

“Yes, far too huge,” said Mrs. Hamelford,
archly, which he anSWered with a smile.
“Stop at Sunnyside, James. A charming
man, isn’t'hel‘" she said, sinking back in her
seat. “A thousand pities he should be unmar-

. ried. How capitally everything went off! I
' never saw a wedding better managed.”

 

CHAPTER XIL
AN onn mun’s Roman.

AUTUMN passed away rather slowly, and
after a stormy October and dreary November,
winter set in in right earnest. and the ground
was white with snow around Sunnyside.
had had constant letters from the newly-mar-
ried pair during this time. They were in Italy,
and were to winter at Rome, so there was no
chance of their being home again or our seeing
them till spring was well set m.

I sighed as I thought of, the many long. win.
tar evenings I should how to spend alone.” I
had hoped'Ele'anor Would have passed some
weeks with me; but her baby wasldelicato, and
she feared the long journey for it, and‘I could
notnseke up my mind to leave Sunnyside and
go up to her for January, as she begged me.

7 ’Ihadsecn but little of ColonelLonedaleof
late. ’ Two or three times, however, — he had
ridden over to Mend on several occasions
had brought me letters from Lies to read; and

' then we had a. delightul time comparing the
'glrls’. accounts of their travels in Spain and

Italy, and talking of what we would do when .

came back. .
th‘i‘ylt will never be the name,though," I said,
one afternoon, as we sat by the fire, I with
Emma’s last epistle in my hand. ' “ When
‘Emma returns she will live at the Hall, Lisa in
New York, and except when they can come
and pay a visit to their old homes we shall see
nothin of them.” v

His gkind, handsome face belted and for a

'< moment; then he sat, down beside me with a

uiet smile.-

q “Do you know, Miss Traflor ,” he said, I

don’t ,believe either you or I are very happy?

We are both suffering from loneliness, and:—

and I see so little of you now,;for in losing Lisa
I seem almost to have lest you else."

 .“Yes,” I answered; “it is very diflerentl

 

e.
“Well, my dear,” she cried, laughing, “you

We.

*   “  

‘H  ,1" fig  't . i’ . l 4' I 2
 old days when we used all to be no

    
 
 

   

v.» m" N‘.‘~§<“"

   

‘\

 

   

 

happy together. However-fit is just what I
knew would and must be.” And I sighed as I
filmed “P Emma’s letter and put it back into
the envelope.

“Lisa wants me to come over to them next
month," he said, thoughtfully, as if he hardly
heard my last words '

“‘Yes,”I replied, dismally enough. “ Emma
says something of the’samekind to me; but, of
course. it can’t be. ‘I .shouldn’t like to leave
while Eleanor’s child is ill.” ,

“ No; I suppose not; then I shall not go
either,” he replied, decidedly. “I could not
bear to think of you left quite alone here.”

“How good you are!” I replied, gratefully,
and with a tone of relief in my voice, for the
idea of being the only one of the old happy
party left at home, had nearly upset me.

“Am I good—why?” he asked.

“ Because—because you are always thinking
of me and what is best for me, ” I answered.

“Ah, if you would only let me think more—
do more I” he began, and then stopped short.
My heart beat fast, but I made no reply.

“Would it really grieve you if I were to go
——to leave Penton?” he asked in a moment or
two.

“ Leave Penton! What do you mean?” I
gasped, looking up into his taco in astonish-
ment. He looked curiously moved.

“ Yes, if I left it altogether? It is very
lonely now, Tina.” ,

“I-—-I should—I don’t know what I should
do!” I cried, not noticing that he had called me
by my name. I—I should go back to the hos-
pital at once; I could not live here without—”

And then I stopped suddenly, With a sense
of utter confusion. ' .

“But you, will not go,” I added, anxxously

bending over my letters to hide my crimson
face. “ What has made you think of such a
thing?” '
, “Being so near you, and seeing you so sel-
dom, I cannot stand it, Tina; and I came to
tell you today that unless you come to Penton
for good, I must leave the place. ”'

He looked at me very graVely as he spoke.

“ But how? I don’t understand 1” I faltered.

“Don’t you? Then let me explain,” he said.
“ Our birds have flown, and we feel lonely
without them—each in our respective nest.
’Don‘t you think we should be happier together,
dear? Be my wife, Tina; and if you can love
me as I love you, we shall be happy indeed!”
For a moment I could not reply.

. " Well, is it to be or not?” be said, at last,
taking inyhand. “Speak, Tina, for the sus-
pense is hard to bear.”

“But can you;de you really wish it?” I

cried. “ Remember, I am thirty-three, and--
and quite an old maid!” '

me!” he answered, with a happy laugh. “So
you 890 We are well matched, Tina. But you
m'm’t answered me yet.” .

“ Well. it you insist-eyes!” I (altered. “But
0h, “but will the girls say!" .

“ Imitation is the truest flattery," herephed.
“ Oh, Tina. my darling, you have made me
very, very‘happy at last!"

 

‘I heped and trusted it would when I was at the
Hall,” said Mrs. Hamelford. a month later,
when I went to stay "a fortnight with her in
town. “ I felt there was but one thing for you
and Colonel Lonsdale to do. After all he has
suffered, my dear, he will want a wife to be
good to him. and you are just the very woman
for him. Now, donlt say you are too old.
You don’t 100k eight-and-twenty, and are as
handsome in your own way as either Lisa or
Emma” ,

I ran away, laughing;‘ but, oddly enough,
my colonel (as every one called him) had said
,the same thing to me once or twice before, but
he, I felt, was no judge, for is not love proverb-

 

ially blindl Q
We were married from Mrs. Ham

1 Tina!” said Cecil, laughing; “there’s been no

‘ hold.

“And Iam forty-six; quite a, middle aged. E

“ I am so delighted it has” turned out 1”” 83 V

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house in'Madison,,Square, a few weeks later-—~, ‘ ,. ,
a quiet wedding enough, for there was no one ‘5
'in town of her acquaintance, and our own  
friends were all in the, country. 'Of   4.,
Eleanor was there, and Reginald married us,
and then we set out on our wedding-tour, _ _
which was to take us as far as Rome, where we ‘ ’-
were to meet our newlyrmarr‘ied couples. , ~ "

I thought Emmawould have never done, , -.
kissing me and crying over me when, ,six, “'11;
weeks later, we drove up to the Palazzo di ' ‘
Venezia, where she lived. Her joy was ailment-
too great for words. ' A ,. l « .
“She’s been crazy ever since she heard of it, I _'  f

 

holding of her; she’s fast becoming perfectly '
unmanageable.”

Ours was a happy circle in Rome, where we
staid till the winter had quite passed away, 4
when, bidding the Eternal City a sorrowful ‘
farewell, we passeda few months in travel, and?
finally-ka passage for home once more. ' .

_“Poor Snnnyside; how empty it looks!” I 7'1"
said, as I drove by it on our way home. ,_ , ,
‘ But it was not long so. The Sinclairs took-
1t, and made a present of it to Mrs. Parsons for 1
her life; and the, good lady and her nieces soon
made the little place as bright and comfortable ,4,
as ever. And the old lady insisted, four or ,
fiv‘iyefn’s later, When Emma's son and heir was 7 .
beginning his education, on superintending his 7 i " “
first efforts, and was engagéd to do the semi). ‘
for our little ones when they shall have ar-
rived at a proper age. .' » * '

“She only wishes,” she says, “that Lisa’s
boy will be near enough to her to be midst her 1
charge.” ' , ’ ‘ r

Every year, at Christmas-time, w have—'3‘?
great gathering at Penton, and the 'o d
rings with happy voiCes and the echoes of 
"tering feet. Well, I little thought of such».
termination to my career when I left the 
pital to take upon me the cares or ,a'hOuses‘”,
But I need not say what ahappy termi-
nation it is. N 

 

    
 

 

  
   
 
     
  
   
    
 

 

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86 Janet’s Repentance. By George Eliot.

87 The Romance ofa Poor Young Man.
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88 A Terrible Deed; or, All for Gold. By
Emma Garrison J ones.

89 A Gilded Sin. By the author of “Dora.
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l 32 Sold for Gold. By Mrs. M. V. Victor.
138 Lord Roth’s Sin. By Georgiana Dickens.
134 aid He Love Her? By Barney T. Camp-

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136 Was She His Wife? By Mrs. Mary' Reed " '

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140 Without Mercy. By Bentley T.Campbell.
141 Honor Bound. By Lillian Lovejoy.

142 Fleeing from Love. By Mrs. Han-let
Irving.

By Miss

143 Abducted; '01-, A Wicked Woman‘s Work.
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144 A Strange Marriage. By Lillian Love oy.
145 grwo uGirl’s Lives. By Mrs. Mary good
owe . ,

146 A Desperate Venture' or, For Love‘s ’
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151 A “’ild Girl. By Corinne Cushmen.

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153 Did She Sin. By Mrs. Mary Reed Cl‘ovvell.

154 He Loves Me Not. By Lillian Lovejoy.

155 Win ulng Ways. By Margaret Blount.

l 56 What She Cost Him; or. Crooked Paths.
By Arabella Southworth. ,

157 A Girl’s Heart. By Bett Winwood.

158 A Bitter Mlstake' or, A Young Girlfs
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Helen’s Vow or, The Mother‘s.

Score . By the Late Mrs. .. F. Ellet. .

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161 Pearl'of Pearls. By A. P._Morrls.'Jr.. \

l 62 A Fablhl Game ;‘ or, Wedded'oncl Ported;
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By Philip S. Wame.

164 A Scathing Ordeal; or, May Lan'gley’s
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165 A Strange Girl. By Albert W. Aiken.

166 A Man’s Sin. By Rett Winwood. ' »

167 The Hand 1- of Fate; or, The Wreck of .
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168 Two Fair Women. By Wm. MTurner.
169 Tempted Throu it Love; or, One
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170 Run - Herbert’s Secret. By Mary
Grace pine. '  r

. 5,. Through
Much Tribulation. . ‘ Enacted -
172 Black Eyes und'hlue. By Corinne
' Cushmsn. . - . -

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1'15 Is Love u Blocker l. or, Revenge is
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176 Adria, the Adopted. 'By Jennie Davis
Burton. ‘

177 For the Woman He Lov‘ed; or, Fate?
ful Links. By Agnes Many Shelton. I

1 78 The Locked Heart. By OoflnneOushnsn.

1 79 Ported by Treachery. By Remaining.

1 80 Was She a Wife ? or, The Proof of have.
By Rett Winwood. ,

l 81 Under a Cloud; 01‘. A Daughter’s Sus-
pieiou. By Sara Claxton.

182 An American Queen; or, The Heart of
Gold. P‘y Grace Mortimer. ! I

,183 A 1) ant of Honor; or. Diamond 011

Diamond. By Lillian Lovejoy,
184 Purl-nod to the Altar. By Corinne
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