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PO R VALEEii!

THE BROKEN TROTH.

BY MARGARET BLOUNT.

.——.——

CHAPTER I.

“ ’Twas on a Monday morning
Richt early in the year,
That Charlie came to our town,
The young Chevalier.

“ And Charlie, he‘s my darling, -
M darling, m darling.
An Charlie, he s m darling,
The young Chev er!”-—0LD SONG.

 

IT was ten o’clock on a bright summer morn-
ing, and London, at least the busy part of Lon-

 

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Entered at the Post Office at New York, N. Y., at Second Class Mall Rates. -

 

 

 

Copyrighted in 1882 by BEADLE AND ADAMS.

July 4. 1881.

 

 

 

 

No.138. VOL. VI. PUBLISHED WEEKLY BY BEADLE AND ADAMS, 98 WILLIAM ST., N. Y. PRICE, 5 CENTS

 

don, was all astir. Business-men were hurry-
ing on foot or by omnibus, from the country-
trains to their respective offices. The shops
were all open, and every one was rushing to
and fro. intent upon their own errands, and
wearing that compressed, money-making look,
that is seen upon the face of every Londoner
from seven in the morning till evening brings
rest and thoughts of pleasure in its train.

As in the city, so in the suburbs. Knights-
brid e and Brompton were crowded, though
the International exhibition was even thought
of then. Up and down the omnibuses went; up
and down the foot- passengers jostled and
crowded each other as the minutes fleeted b .
The early service was over at Brompton Churc ;
so also were the early masses at Brompton Ora-
tory; and the two streams of worshipers, meet-
in at the gates, looked half-pityingly at each
at or for an instant, and went their several

tive lonnger with plenty of time to ponder over
its meamng. Those two beautiful churches-—
the one gray and ivy-clad. hushed beneath the
shadow of its avenues of blosSUming limes, and
its pleasant burial—ground—the other, more
modern in its style, though representing an
Older and a different faith. There they stand,
side by side, nothing but a slight stone wall to
mark their outward separation; and yet in
truth what a chasm yawns between them? And
ever and anon, as the sweet bells cease to tinkle,
and the fragrance of the incense dies upon the
air, the great doors 0 en, and the thron come
forth to meet upon t at narrow strip 0 pave-
ment outside (common to all) to eye each other
askance wonderingly, yet pityingly, each think-
in in his or her heart. perhaps, of the other:
“ ow sad that so good a man or woman should
have stra ed so far from the right way-should
know not ing of the co and ha piness I feel !”

 

ways. It was a. suggestive sight to any medita-

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THE BROKEN TROTH.

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citizens of one country, loyal to one throne,

children of one Father, heirs of one eternal

home, yet aliens and strangers forever here

on earth—through religion and through faith.
On the morning of which I write, a young

 
 

'girl sat in her father’s shop, watching the

 

people as they passud on their way from:

church. She knew most of them by sight; for
Catholics and Protestants alike dealt with her
father, and she could testify to many an act of
kindness performed by them without respect to
creed or church. None knew‘ better than she
how, during the previous winter, many of the
Protestant poor of the neighborhood had been
supplied with food and clothing by the Fathom
of the Oratory, and with her own eyes she
had seeh a Protestant lady of high rank
kneeling by the sick-bed of a poor Irishwoman
who died in the next house; had seen her go

on foot for a priest, and support that peasant’s ,:

head as tenderly upon her breast as if it had
been a queen’s. Knowing this, Valeria Grant
watched that lady on her way home this morn-
ing, and mused:

“ How is it? Why is it!”

Ahl Valeria, that question has puzzled many
a wiser head and stronger heart than yours.
It is a problem that can only be solved, beyond
the grave.

Feeling her inability to penetrate the mys-
tery, Valeria dismissed it from her thoughts,
and returned to the perusal of the paper in
her hand. It was a penny weekly, and shel
w“ reading one of the exciting stories pub-
lified therein—stories whose heroines invari-
ably wenrcoronets, and whose heroes are noth-
,ing lea than dukes. The tale pleased her, yet
it made her discontean and unhappy at the
same time. In that story, the Countess Dul—
cibella Millifleurs ate 0!! gold and silver plate ‘
every day of her life, were white silk dressing
gowns in the morning, and white satin and
pearls at night, had a house in Piccadilly, a
,mansion in Hertfordshire, a lodge in Inverness,
a residence at Brighton, and a cottage in the
Isle of Wight. Four pages and two maids waited
especially on her ladyship. Her boudoir (de-
scribed in three full columns) was a miracle of
silk 'veJVet, tapestry and gilding. She had an
opera-box, a pony carriage, a miniature
brougham, three satin-skinned, bright-eyed
saddle-horses, a toy terrier that she could hide
in the dainty pocket of her white silk morning
jacket, and a Newfoundland about half as
large as her town-house, and as faithful, beau-
tiful and brave as Newfoundlands always are.
The Lady Dulcibella‘s beauty matched ‘this
rare setting of luxury and wealth. Her
bnow was like alabaster, her cheeks like blush
roses, her - eyes were sapphires, her hair
like threads of gold, her teeth were pearls,
her lips were rubies, her hands were lilies,
and her breast was like moonlit snow. In
short, she was one of those floral and minor-
alogical wonders only found in novcls of the
Laura Matilda ct lo—cnc of that extinct (I had
almost said foe-if) order of dancelc, who never
cat, drink, or slccp like other mortals, who can
pei-fltrin that most amazing feat of treading on
a daisy without crashing it, and whose express
mission on earth' is to bewilder unfortunate
human beings with thcir marvclouc beauty, not
everyone by the ears, eclipse all other women,
capsize the world, and play the mischief-gene-

i ton were accustomed to point it out to their

I
l

I poor Valeria began to consider herself quite a

 

rall . Being Only a plain woman myself, and
feeling suficicstly nlrcad my own shortcom-
ings, l for one feel most evoutly thankful that
the Lady Dulcibellas have the kindness to stay
in these stery‘boeks, where they belong; else,
what would become of all the rest of us, my
sisters 9 ‘

Valeria Grant did not look upon the latter ;
ac philosophically as I do. She had that bcuu- '
biful gifv—fsith in the author‘s story—which
is the greatest compliment any author can 1305- l
' ly receive. To her simple heart, the Lady .
guicibella was a positive reality, white silk,
morning-dre'uec, and all. And she dropped the ,
paper from her hands and sighed discontenteldly l
as she glanced'nround' the chop.

m... ml

elf—what was she beside all this beauty and i
s! '

; peculiar institution of their own suburb. But,

   
  

POOR VALE-Rim

grace, only a stone’s throw from her home, only
a little~way doWn Piccadilly? ,

The place where she sat, though light and
airy, was but a greengrocer‘s shop. ~l‘he vege-
tables and fruit in the great window were so
beautifully arranged each morning by her own i
tasteful hands, that the good pco lc of Bromp‘

stranger—visitors with pride, as if it had been a

alas! all lwr care, and skill, and taste could
make nothing more of the contents of that win—
doW, than vulgar carrots, rsdishes. potatoes.
celcr , and fruit. No touch of imagination
coul possibly transform them, even for a mo-
ment, into the costly ornaments of the Lad

Dnleibelln’s boqdoir. And the floor, thougli
vs?! clean, was uncarpeted, and the shelves
au‘ counter, though painted like marble, were
of deal, and the chair on which she. sat was
rush-bottomed—by no means a throne. Her
dress, too! It was a dark-blue gingham, with
linen cuffs and collar to mulch, tied with a
coquettisli little knot of ribbon, very neat and
tasty, it is true, but not to be named in the
same day with white silk dressing-gowns.
While an to beauty—her heart fuiled her. She
had always considered herself very good—lock-
ing, very pretty. it may be, for her ghu-s told
her a flattering tale, but the Lady Dulcibellu‘s
lonlineu was something so superhuman that

right. As she sat there with her cheeks lean-
ing on her hand, and her eye looking pensiwly
down, she certainly did not resemble one. She
was tall, slender, and peculiarly elegant and
graceful in her movements; her head was beau-
tifully act upon a nwsulike throat, her hair was
abundant, wavy, glossy, and black as the ravens
wing. She was fair as a lily, without a tint of
color, cave in the small, full mouth ; her eye-
brows and eyelashes, of the same jetty hue as
her hair, gave a peculiar intensity to eyes of thc
deepest and darkest blue ; her features were i
regular—had she been a pcer‘s daughter, they l
would have been called “ aristocratic” ; and the
eculiar smallness of her hands and feet Would

ve been taken as additional lX‘OOfD of her
“ glcntlc blood”. But she was on y a gremgro-
cer’c child, and so her grace, her delicacy, her
alight rescpvc of manner, gifts that wuuld have
been hcr right in higher circles, only rocured
herin her own, the rc utution of .“a aughty,
stuck-up thin , who oesn‘t know which side
hcr bread is uttered on”. So differently do
the eyes of difl’crent people see.

You will percech that, in reality, Miss Val"-
is need not. 8‘ “mt. have troubled her head
about the Lady Dulcibeils’s beauty. In fact,
she was a remarkably pretty girl; and, if her
glass had not assured her of the fact, there were ‘
plenty efcycc to tell her so, in and out ofBromp.
ton. Tho o'nng'mcn of the neighborhood,
thriving be. crs, rising butchers, and aspiring
shopkeepers, generclly found ways and means
of being civil to “old Grant"; some of the
clerks from Harvey it Nichols’ mammoth ware-
house, and the students from Markham College.
and the soldiers from Knightlbridge and Ken-
sington barracks found it convenient to purchase
their fruit at Grant‘s, and from Grant‘s pretty
daughter. To each and all she was attentive
and polite, but nothing more. They might gaze ‘
at her ardently, they might pay her respectful
compliments, but not one among them all could
boast of the slightest return, not 0e could any, ’
with truth, that he had been favored with more
than that sweet, calm smile, that graceful bend
of the head, that low voiced “ I‘hank you".
which every customer received. She liked ad-

 

 

: miration—what young and pretty girl does not?

--but she never made the slightest exertion to
obtain or retain it; and those who would have
wuoed, even if they could not have won her,

‘ were tacitly re ulsed by the quiet di nity of

her manner. ' hey called her cold an proud
-“ the beautiful iceberg"—among themselves,
and the epithet was well applied ; but icebergs ,
sometimes melt! . (I
But you will ask me if she was so beautiful, i
and if all these people told her so. Why did she

torment herself about the Lady DulCibélln’
Did she think herself a fright?

My dear reader, if you are a woman, and
look honestly into your own heart, you Will
guess before I can tell you. But if you lmmN-‘n
to belong to the more obtuse sex, I Will have
compassion on your ignorance and explzun- .

There comes a time in every woman's life,
when she sees herself as she really is. Youth-
ful vnnity, youthful spirits blind us in (NP
earlier years, and there is a glamour over our-
selves us wall as o'wr ev’crything else; but Winn
all other illusions fade away, this one fudes with
them. Then the ugly Woman sees the irregular
futures, the dull eyes, the scanty hair, and the

indifferent complexion she failed to notice be- ‘

fore—the beauty spies the coming wrinkles,
the jaded air, the faded bloom, the symptoms
of decay, which, till now, she Would not ac-
knowler ge—the clever woman acknowledges in
her own heart, what a “ Bristoldiamond” that
cleverness really is, and how artfully thou h
uIIConsciously she has taken in, not only all who
know her, but also her own self; the dull Wom-
nn begins to be dimly conscious that she has
iichr yet set the Thames on fire, and now will
never accomplish that feat, and so on to the end
of the chapter. I say, this time comes to all
women, because I feel sure that it must do so.
It is not possible for us to go on fancying our-
selves beautiful, wisc, good, and amiable, till
death comes to show us our dreadful mistake.
Vanity is one of the strongest and longest lived
of pussions, yet when the broad light of noon-
day shines, one can but choose to see.

But this light shines only after a certain time.
One must have tried all earth’s toys, and
found them crumbling and breaking in their
grasp, before they see what toys they are. A
woman, who has lived a busy changing life,

, necessarily learns this lesson long before others,
l'who have been sheltered in the sacred silence of
' home. but I should say that no woman, gifted

with an ordinary amount of common sense, ever
liw-d to be thirty, without being so far en-

1 lightened if she would but be hpuest enough to
l acknowledge it.

Before this grand natural awakening, cornea
another.
falls in love. Then all about herself ‘lookspoor
and unsatisfactory—all about her lover grand
and noble. He stands in the golden_sunlight of
Claude Loraine. She lingers. outside, in the
cold and the dark, with nothing on earth to
offer him in return or the priceless treasure of
his affection! Inefi'able nonsense, It, so true!
And it makes one laugh to recall. such folly,
such insanity, and yet—ah, me l—tlt was sweet
to be a fool! very sweet to be insane! No
woman worth the name, eVer et loved for the
first time, an felt herself Wort of her lover.
Rely upon it, Venue, when her esrt was first
touched, believed herself as awkward as a calm.

try clown, fancied that her hair was red, not

golden, and her nose a perfect snub.

Murder will out, you perceive, and MiscPu-
s has put her head out of the bag in the Very
fillet chapter of my tale. Valeria’e personal
envy of the Lady Dulclbella arose from a purely
personal cause. Hyde Park was one of the

oung lady‘s faVOrite resorts when she could
get a holiday from the shop4 and there, in

, company with her sister Maris, she would spend
‘ hours gazing at the occupants of the splendid

carriages, and at the riders in Rotten Row.
Valeria had no conce tion of the life of matter-

: rable wesriness most 0 those people led.‘ You

could not have made her believe that those duch-

‘ eases, countesses, and baronesees, lying back. in
their coroneted carriages, were devoured with "

envy. Spite. hatred, malice, and all unoharitablo-
ness. She could not have understood that one
was broken-hearted because her husband’s favor-
itc' sultana had just passed her with an import!-
nent smile in a carria e for handsomertbal he?
0"" S that another ha pswned her diamondlv for
money to Lay her gambling debts; Mum“
a guilty secret in her breast, and dreaded I

exposure, and dishonor, do by  “I” ‘
fourth was  with envy because U
bor’s opera-box and house eclipsed M 0 ‘

.svnson, and so on through, the Ion! “WOW ,

’Tis when the girl or’lwomb'n fir...

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POOR VALERIA!

 

titled names. No; Valeria believ‘ed that every-
. one was happy there. Rotten Row was no
equestrian slave-market in her eyes. The slyl-
ish young beauties were no husband-hunting
damsels to her.

And there was one-—oh, there was one among
those riders whom she would have known among
ten thousand anywhere! A young and stately
gentleman, apparently no more than twenty
three years of age, with the fairest face and the

I most graceful form. Ah, how she watched for
his bright bay horse, as it came cantering side-
, ways down the Row! Beautiful as a dream he
seemed to her, with his bright, fair complexion,
his curling, golden hair, his blonde mustache,
his large, sparkdng, joyous, blue eyes, and his
happy smile and graceful ways. She never
asked his name, or knew his home. It was
enough for her to watch him humbly from a
distance, to think of him by day, to dream of
him at night. Once, as he came leisurely by,
his eyes rested for a momentapprovingly upon
her uplifted face. How she blushed at the re
collection—how she sighed a moment after at
the thought of the Lady Dulcibellas in ihe
Park as well as in Picadilly ! With those young,
beautiful, highborn girls to choose from, was it
likely that he would give a thought to a green-
grocer’s daughter?

A little tear fell as she asked herself the sen-
sible uestion.

An this was why Valeria Grant believed
herself to be awkward and ugly, and exalted
the Lady Dulcibella on high at her own ex.

pense.

 

CHAPTER II.

“ Sse licht he jumped up the stair,
And tirl’d at the pin,
And whu sae readie as hersel’
To let the laddie in?

And Charlie, he’s my darling
My darling, my darling,
And Charlie, he’s my darling,
The young Chevalier ."—Oi.n Sosa.

A. slight noise in the street disturbed Valeria’s
reverie. A prancing saddle-horse stopped be
fore the door, and the rider, dismounting, sum-
moned the room to repair a stirrup-leather
which had given way. With a slight exclama-
tion of surprise, which she Would have giVen
worlds to recall the next moment, Valeria
dropped her sper, and started from behind
the counter. he gentleman looked up, gave
’one uzzled glance, then his face cleared, and
lifting his hat, he bowed slighl to her. She
shra k back into her place con used, agitated,
and lushing, but, oh, so hap y! It was the
mag stranger of the Park, andJ he had remem.

' and recognised her. Nay more—fax
more. He left his groom to repair the damage
done, and entered the shop, bringing light-and
beauty with him—a young Apollo in her en-
rapturcd eyes. She glanced slyly at him, and
looked down, half smiling, half afraid. How
handsome he was! How elegantly he was
dressed! And when he spoke, his musical
Voice sank into her very heart of hearts. She
might live to be nine hundred and ninety—nine,
yet never could she forget those sweet, low
tones.

If the young stranger saw her embarrassment
and understood its cause, he had the delicacy
to appear entirely ignorant of it.

“ It will take some little time to repair the
stirrup,” he said. “ Will you allow ms‘to wail
here 1’" I

“With pleasure, sir," she stammercd, and
pointed out a seat, with a hand that trembled
visibly. '

“NO. thank you, I prefer standing. But, I
amvery thirsty. May I ask you to give me
some of those delicious cherries in the win-
flow/r"

Ruble-sly and deliberately Valeria despoiled
the window of one of its princi a1 ornaments,
in thc.shape of apyramidal has at of cherries
-—sel«tcd-the finest, weighed out a pound, and
placed. them before him. Her father would

svcpulled her ears soundly, had he been there
‘ to see, for that window was the ride of his
s‘INIVILJIfl‘OIOO' arrs ed for-t ds , was
never to b. disturb“ ' ' htfall, though’king
\ Gad  O) buy. ut Valeria. for the

 

stranger’s sake, would have pulled shop and
all to pieces, at that moment. ndeed, one must
hare felt that she had a fair excuse, when they
looked upon him. So gay, so graceful, so beau
tiful, so ready with his winning laugh and smile

talking to her as respectfully as if she had been
a duchcss—his blue eyes only speaking the all

mirstion his tongue dared not as yet express.

“ Do you stay here all day 2’ he asked, at
last, drawing on his delicate gloves after the
cherries were finished. “ Do you never get out
to take the fresh air f”

“in the afternoon, sometimes.” she replied.
“My father is in the shop after twelve, and Ma
ria and I go out then.”

“ Who is Maria 1”

“ My sister, sir.”

“ Ah ! I saw you in Hyde Park several times.

this spring, I think. You used to stand by the
rails watching the riders. Do you go there
now ?"

“ Sometimes,” she faltered, blushing crimson,
for his eyes were upon her, smilineg saying,
“ You see I noticed on out of all the crowd,”
and she could scarce y speak.

“Hyde Park is a pleasant place enough," he
continued carelessly. “ But you ought to have
a breath of fresh country air now and then. Do
you never take a trip out of town ‘3"

 

Ah, Valeria! Had one of the Chelsea stu~
dents --one of the Knightsbridge officers ven-
tured to inquire so closely into her moi’enicnts,
what a haughty look she Would have put on—
how soon she would have pointed outiheir er-
ror, in terms which they coul
mistake! But now she answered readily and
eagerly:

“ Oh yes, sir! we go sometimes ; in fact,
we are going to-morrow—”

“ May I ask where ‘3" said the musical voice,
gent] .

“ o—to Hampton Court."

" And who may we be ‘?"

“ Father, mother, Maria, Cousin John, and
myself."

“CousinJohn!” said the young gentleman,
slightly raising his brows.

“ My father‘s nephew,” she somewhat unnec-
essarily explained. “He helps wrth the sliop‘."

“ Indeed!” he said, poutin r his beautiful lip
like a spoiled child. “ I u not like Cousin
John—d0 ou ?" .

She could not help laughing at the question

“Why, yes, sir! He has een brought up
with us ever since he was three years old , he is
like a brother to us." - ‘

“ Ah, Well, that is better! Then you do not
approve of cousins marrying ?"

“ No, sir."

“ And you are not going to marry John 2’“

“ No, sir." .

“ I will forgive him, then. And now I must
really go,” he said, looking at his watch. “I)o
you know how long I have been here, eating
cherries and talking to you 1’” ‘

“ No, sir.” ‘

“Just half an hour by the clock.
your fault, you know.”

“ Why 2"

“ For looking so beautiful that a poor fellow
cannot tear himself away. Ah! forgive me. I
ought not to have said that, I know; but don’t
be an ry. Are you an ry ?”

“ es, sir,” she said, ut certainly she did not
look so.

He drew of! his glove suddenly, leaned over
the counter, and held out his small white hand.

“ Come, give me yours, and say I am forgiv-
on."

The slightest possible hesitation, for she knew
she was doing wrong, as well as you or I, dear
reader; then she gave one hurried glance at
him, and placed her hand in his, that closed
over it with a firm, warm pressure, as if it did
not mean to let it go a sin. Tire rosy blood
stclo sohl up over chee and brow, her eyes
drooped, or head drooped also, and a slight
sigh parted her lips. Leaning forward, so as to
screen her from the observation of every passer-
by, and casting a hurried glance around the

I 2

It is all

not possibly ,

 

‘

shop to make sure tnat they were alone, he went
on in slow and tremb‘ing voice:

‘I DULlel you in thel’ark long ago; Icould
not help seeing that you were beautiful. I was
drawn toward you in an extraordhiarv way,
for which I could not account. But I neyer eit-
pected or hoped to meet you like this. This
morning. when I was riding along the Fulham '
Road, to keep an appointment with a friend, I
had no thought of seeing you. But it has all
been brought about without any fault of yours
or mine. Why should that stirrup-leather have
broken before your door any more than another,
if it had notbeen, that through the accident, I
was to have this unexpected, this delightful,
pleasure.” and be pressed her hand closer than
ever, and leaned so fur OVer the counter that
she could feel his warm breath upon her-cheek.

She had been well and carefully brought up.
She was naturally reserved, and, perhaps, a
little proud. The utmost prudence had always
marked her intercourse with the gentlemen who
made their purchases of, and uttered their com-
pliments to her; and her father was accustomed .
to say, with proud exultation, that he could
leave his daughter alone in the world without a
fear—could go down to the grave, if need be,
happy in the thought that, though so young
and beautiful, she was able to take care of her-
self—~to be as good and virtuous a Woman as her
mother had been before her. How did it hap-
pen, then, that this stranger, in the'course of
thirty minutes, had made such progress—had
stirred that proud heart, had held that coy hand
is no one had ever dared to do before? "' The
hour and the man“ had come—that was all!
And Valeria Grant, being only frail flesh and
olood, being “ only a Woman", and a woman in
love for the first time, must be excused if in the
giddy whirl of tumultuous feeling she forgot for
an instant the strict rule of decorum and con- ’
straint which had heretofore so easily and so_
safely guided and guarded her through life. It
was one thing to listen to student or soldier with
a heart indifferent and at ease—it was quit»
another to look up into this beautiful face—t)
hear this musical voice, to feel this warm hand
upon her own, and she grew almost frightened
when the first thrill of delight had passed awa .
With a deep blush suffusing her face and necli',

she tried to draw her hand away, but he held it

fast. ; .
“ Do not send me awa just yet—I will go in
one moment. You nee not fear me,I would
not harm you for the world. I only want to
show you—I must show on, how glad I am to
find you out at last. Te lme your name.”

“ Valeria, sir.” ,

“Valeria! I shall call you ‘Vallie’. May
I? That is prettier by far, ‘ Vallie’. Do you
object? I shall ride this way, now and lien, if
you give me leave.”

“My father—perhaps you had better not,
sir,” she stnmmered. ~ ,

“ Do you not wish to see me tgtln, than
he asked, sorrowfully. .

It was only a look that answered him, but
eyes can sometimes say so much! ,I do not
think Valeria was aware how much hers told
him then.

“ You angel I” he murmured, and bending
down his head, before she could prevent him,
he pressed his soft lips passionately on her
hand.

Valeria was in a fever.

“ Don’t sir; pray don't do that !” she mur-
mured. “If any one should see on, if my
father should come in, what woul he say?
And it is wrong, you ought notto do it; on
know it as well as I do. If you go on 'ks
that, sir, I can’t see you any more."

Instantly he relinquished her hand, and step-
ped back with a low bow. '

“You are right," he: said. “I ought I“ to
have taken such a liberty, and I beg your pardon.
But tell me one thing. You have many..-
tomers here, no doubt. Do none 003 i.
tell you what I have told y”. a yéu's'ss
beautiful i”

“ Sometimes, sir.” ‘

“ And what do you an?!

 

  

  

 

 ‘4

I never haVe to repeat my request, sir.”

Her simple air ofdignity and innocent pride
touched the young man deeply.

“I believe you,” he said, fervently. “I am
sure that you are as good as you are pretty, and
I hope you will always be so. For what oc-

' curred just now I am truly sorry ; I will never

offend again, if you will but forgive me now.”

“ Yes, I will forgive you.”

“ And this is not our last meeting? I may
see you again ‘1’ If I pass your door some day
in my ride, you will not refuse to speak to me
ifI come in?’

“No, sir.”

“ Then good-bye for the present, fair Vallie.
I shall remember you, even if you forget me.”

He raised his hat respectfully, went out, sprang
into the saddle, and rode away.

POOR 'VALERlAl

 
 
   

 

“1 ask them not to speak like that to me.  ls hard to have such things said belore you,
i when you have been domg your best!

But as
to being ashamed of m '. father—bless him !—I

, would not change him or the Lord Mayor of

London—gold, robes, aid all. Is dinner
ready Y”

She ran off to see ; and, coming back in ten
minutes’ time, dragged Valeria away to take
her place at the table, while Cousin John did
duty in the shop. Well-to-do people were the
Grants, and their table was always an abundant
one. On this day they had roast mutton,
baked potatoes, and batter-pudding. They ate
offdelf, it is true, and drank their beer out of
shining pewter-mugs ; but the cloth was clean,
the knives and forks bright, the room tidy, and

i the mistress of the feast wore a new cap and a

Valeria remained where he had left her, fixed 
—rooted to the spot—watching his galloping ,

horse. When he was fairly out of sight, she

sighed deeply, sat down in her chair, and cov- 3

eredher face with her hands. Was it all a
dream, then—bad he really been there—had he
looked at her admiringly—called her beautiful?
True, he had taken'a great liberty; but how
earnestly he had apologized for ‘t the next mo-
ment. If she had been an earl’s daughter, he
could not have asked her pardon more respect-
fully. And his eyes—his voice—ah, me! how
that Voice kept sounding in her ear, though its
music was hushed for a time! As she recalled
its varying, eVen musical tones, another voice,
harsh, coarse, and loud, broke in upon her de-
licious reverie, with z
“ Beg pardon, Miss, but how much is cherries
the quart ?"
'With a sigh, sherose to serve the customer-—
a burly working-man—who was about to invest

'some of his hard—earned pennies in s dainty

dish for his sick child at home. Valeria served
him with the best, asked kindly after the little
girl, and put the cop er he tendered her into
the till with her ion and. The fingers which
thou entle lips had kissed were not to be pro-
faned y the touch of vul ar coinl

In rushed a tall, good- coking school-girl, at
that moment, with her music-books under her
arm. This was Maria, who immediately flung
her books on a chair, and leaned her elbows on
the counter, as she began to talk.

“0 Valeria, I wish I was you! I would
rather serve the shop than be poring over those
musty French verbs all the morning, and then
thumping swa at that hateful piano all the
afternoon. W at s shame it is to keep me- at
the two thin s I hate the worst! And. after
all, what’ goo will it do me? Only to-dsy I
heard that stuck-u little Bell Jordan ss , when
I went up above er in the class. ‘ , she's
only a guengrocer’s daughter! who cares how
many prizes she gains?’ Horrid little creature,
I hate er! And I hate school, and the French
verbs, and the piano, and everything else, and
I wish I was dead—there l"

“ Why, Maria ?” said Valeria, gentl .

u~Wcll, I do! Where is the use 0 ‘working
hard, only to be told that it does not matter,

, since you are only a grecngrocer‘s daughter?

Why, Miss Finch, the governess, when I won
the medal last week, said that she thought it
well to encourage eople of my station. She
did, indeed ! An her father was a hair-
dresser! ,Oh, I wish I was an earl’s daughter!
at least, I wish father would give up this hate
ful sling” ' A

Poem ly, Valeria in her secret heart had oftei
wished the same this . But Maria’s words 'ust
then touched s to el' chord, and she kin led
immedistaly.

“ Are on ashamed of our good, kind father,
Maria,” s e exclaimed,“ because he works hard
to pay for the ve things you and I enjoy? It
is not like on! or my part. I am very proud
of him,» I. would'rsther be the daughter of
an hottest grommet than the child of a gen-
:19!!!“ .lhnd' us to poy his debts—unless it
s  debts-o-hke Mr. Jordan. I
would got shsngs places with ’Miss Boll, if you

would»
' ' - "V'sll, don’t scold. Vslsris! You know it

 

clean print dress. Mr. Grant sat at the bottom

1 of the table, with Maria on his right hand ; Va-

leris’s place was by her mother, and the four
smaller children were ranged along the sides.
Healthy, happy, and good-tempered creatures
they al were, and seasoned their re net with
much talk and laughter ; but Vall-ria was
strangely silent. Something in the family cir-
cle, she new not what, jarred upon a new sense
which had sprung into existence with the stran-

er’s. She loved her mother and father dearly ;
but to-day she wished that they would not both
drink beer. She was very fond of her sisters
and brothers; but they had a perfectly mirac-
ulous gift for slamming doors, tearing up and
down stairs, being in several different parts of
the house at once, and talking at the very high-
est pitch of their very loud voices while there
She noticed these things more than she had
ever done before, and liked them less. When
the dinner was over, and the servant had cleared
the things away , when Maria and the children
had gone back to school ; when her father had
taken Cousin John's place in the shop ; and
her mother had gone to lie down for what she
called her " catnap" ; then Valeria sought her
room to dress. The blue gingha’in was changed
for s pretty, light muslin; a black apron, an
smbrosdcred collar and sleeves were donned;
her beautiful hair was re-arrsnged carefully ;
and then she sat down at her window, which
looked out upon the garden, and began to
think.

Dangerous, unprofitable reveriesl And yet,
how sweet are they to the heart of youth! 0
girls of sixteen, wi I you not know—0 women of
thirty, will you not remember what it meant,
when Valeria terminated those musings. as the
clock of Brompton Church struck four, by

ressing her lips, with a lingering touch and s
blushing smile, u on her right hand—the hand
the stranger ha kissed before her, are that
clock tolled the hour of noon!

CHAPTER III.
_‘ I’ll no walk by the kirk, mithu.
I'll no walk by the mansc.
I syo meet wi’ the minister
th looks at me asksncc.

" tht slls ye at the moist“!
A doucc and sober lad,
I trow it isns every day
That slc like can be had.
Awa, sws, ye glsiklt thing,
It’s a’ that Geordie Young!
The lslrd has no sn do like him
Nor the minister a tongue !"
—Hmsr Gussrosn Hm.
The next day dawned as bright and fair as if
it had been made to order for the express en-
jloyment of the greengrocer and his family.
ere was not a cloud to be seen in the sky,
scarcely a breath of wind to be felt among the
trees, and Valeria and her sister were full
justified in srraying themselves in bright, so
muslins, imitation lace shawls, and straw hats
of the most fashionable shape and style. Mrs.
Grant having a less artistic taste than her eldest
daughter, wore a brown barege dress with three
flounces, a hotrlooking but really comfortable
variegated shawl, in whose border crimson wsl

 

the most prominent and decided color} s 1303- '

horn bonnet, trimmed with green ribbon. find
Lisle thread gloves. The irlscsrricd dainty
psrasols, fringed and tease sd}; but Mrs. Grant
was show such nonsense. There was no trust-
lnc the shin England. she wisely said, and

 

bein an old woman, she need not worry her
minfabout‘ her complexion, So, in the place
of parasol or parachute, she equipped herself
with an alpaca umbrella, large enough to fell on
ox. It was shabby—it was rust —-it bulged
and bagged almost as much as “ rs. Gamp's”,
and it had a vulgar Wooden handle and an iron
ferule. Altogether, Valeria shuddered at the
sight of the thing, and even Maria, who was
most indulgent in matters of the toilet, eyed it
askunce upon this warm sunny day. But nei-
ther of them ventured to allude to it in any
way. Mrs. Grant might not be the most refined
of mortals, but. though a kind wife and an sf-
fectionate mother, she was most decidedly head
and mistress of her household, and no member
of it Would have been rash enough to hint at a
fault in her management or her appearance.

If you do not mind what “ people say", or if
you happen to be a stranger in London, with no
one to take heed where you go or what you do,
there is no greater fun than going in a van to
Hampton Court. You see the most ludicrous
things, and sometimes the most pathetic ones,
in your journey of a day; and, if you are a
student of human nature, you will be well rc-
paid for the jaunt by the new additions to the
eollection, in “your mind‘s eye", of human
foibles, good traits, and oddities. But Mrs.
Grant was no such student, and, like most r-
sons of her class and in her circumstances, and
a horror of an thing so common as a van—she
would have ca led it “ a wan". No ; “ let us be
genteel or die" was her motto, in a very humble
way, and so the handsome oart (brown stri ed
with green) was brought out from theista le,
and the fast-trotting bsy mare harnessed to it
by the hands of cousin John, while she and her
daughters were arraying themselves tip-stairs.
The cart had two wide seats, nicely cushioned
with American patent leather. The mare was
a pretty, clean-llmbcd, high-stepping, wicked-
looking little animal; the harness was silver-
plsted; the whip one of the handsomest that
money could buy. Altogether, the “ turn out"
was s most nncxceptionable one,in its way.
Mrs. Grant stood looking at it with pride in her
eyes. while her husband was lookin for his
driving-gloves, which (man-like be I: thrown
into some remote corner of the case at the net"
time of using. Certainly, although theil” 1
despised the “ wan", she was to be commends
for the genuine contentment displayed in every”
feature of her face as she gazed at her own
equips c. She mi ht wish to be genteel, but
she ha no foolish ' oughts of rising above her '
station. She might lik e to be thought rich and

prosperous by her neizhbors, since she 

was so, but she was s greengrocer‘s wife all tho
while, and never dreamed of aspiring to a higher
title. Maris, almost ss well pleucd as her.
mother, hovered about her, settling her collar
and tying her bonnet-strings afresh with o
gentle hand. /

“ I do like to go in style anywhere,” observed
her mother, confidentially. “ And the m.
looks so well today. She Won’t belong taking
us down there, lovely. I do hope the children
will behave well. And, oh dear me! where’s
the basket T”

“All right, mother. Here it is!" said Mr.
Grant, coming through the shop. “Drat thc

loves—I, cant spend any more time looking
or them,,and my hands ain‘t so white that the
sun will hurt them—eh, Valeria? Here’s your
luncheon, mother. I‘ll put it under the back
seat. It's precious heavy, I can tell you I”

“ So it on ht to be, George. I’ve no notion
of going to am ton Court to starve. I went
there once like s 001, without anything to egg,
Catch me at it again, that's all! The my
keep their dinners at the hotels for me— don’t
want an more of them. It‘s s mercy I wufl
poisléne t“that dlsyl"

“ 0 ’ l 7310‘ ‘9'; {OPI don’t know
osrth we should havo done without ydlilzl’t :
plied Mr. Grant, helping her to her seat in the
cart,,as gslfsutly as if she had still been s girl
of sixteen. .
“1°11 ‘0 MM“. Ind sssumsd

backseat between them, film pk“ “Palm

The servant mind-s

Cousin John gsvs his hsnd first to Valeria... ,

l

   

l

f

r
‘2.
s

1 i

 

 

 

   

 

 

 

 

 

smiling good-bye from the door, the children
cheered vigorously, the well-fed mare tossed her
head and heels in the air, and rattled them
away, as if five people and a cart werea mere
nothing in her eyes. They were off ; the day

’/ of pleasure, so long looked forward to, had be-

no.

Valeria had once longed f-r it, almost as
earnestly as Maria; but, now "-Iiat it had really
come, somethin marred and spoiled all her en-
joyment. Maria and her Cousin John gazed
about them curiously, as they threaded the city
streets, examined the shop windows, cracked
jokes with the worthy pair upon the front seat,
or exchanged laughing remarks upon the front
passengers; but Valeria sat silent, scarcely
looking to the right or the left, only feeling,
with a miserable sense of degradation, that she
was riding in a cart instead of a carriage ; and
that, in the place of coronetcd panels and her-
aldic devices, that hateful

“ Grant, Greengrocer and F‘ruiterer, Brompton !”
stared everybody in the face as they passed by.

“'The girl Has a fool i" you will say. I sup-

ose she was. And as ungrateful as she could

e, into the bargain. What if her mother did
wear a brown, flounced dress, and crimson shawl,
and carry a horrible “Mrs Gamp" umbrella?
Wu she not ‘her mother still-—h« kind, good
~ mother, who had watched over her tenderly
I during her infancy, and who was ready to make
any and every sacrifice for the comfort and
' happiness of her child, just when the child was
gazing with coldly critical eyes at her shoulders,
and thinking in her own heart how very broad
they were growing? Ah, me! rely upon it,
Miss Valeria will be well punished for her pride
and self-conceit before this story comes to an
end. In the meantime, abuse her as much as
you like—l shall not pen a word of eXeuse or
pleading in her cause.

It so happened that there was a regatta at
Ham ton Court that day, and the place was
crow ed with sightseers of every kind. There
were soldiers and their sweethearts by the score,
there were jolly tars “ out for a cruise", there
were cockneys of every grade, plowing their
wa through the dust toward the place—all
loo ing happy to an insane degree.

It was delightful to watch the bright faces—-
to hear the merry Voices and loud laughter on
ever side. Mrs. Grant enjoyed it thoroughly,
but eing a practical woman, she decided u a
refreshing hér treeps before leading them into
action. Accordingly the mare was well stabled,
the cart put under cover, and then dismiming
all the hotel and tea-room touters. who were in
her path, with a curt, “ I came here to eat, not
to be poisoned!” she led the way to a green
“eminence, a little way out of the town, where a
group of trees formed a most welcome shelter
trom the bummg sun. There, with the distant
voices of the multitude, and the sweet strains
of the military band, forming a pleasant accom~
puniment to their merry talk, they ate their
noonday meal in '

O . Q Q Q Q I

Who does not remember that ludicrous pic-
ture in Punch, of a ‘fswell”, who is discovered
by his horrified friends in a high state of exhil-
aration, upon the box seat of a sixpenuy ’bus?

“Look eile l” he exclaims, holding up a‘non-

'descri t atom to their gaze. “I’ve found out
somet ing new! I go up and down, from
Whitschapel to Bayswater, outside, and sat
periwiakles with a pin—all the wayl”

A new sensation! The poar wretch (you

' ‘, .can see it in his face) has smoked, and yswned,

and dancsd through a whole London season,
has been bored to death b friends and duns—
has looked at the Thames rom Waterloo Bridge,
and wondered if it would “pay” to throw
himself in—hss tired of ever thing and every-
body. and every place—an has at last found
out this grand receipt for ennui. The man is
saved!
some people might look'at this icture and
hirgh a: it, without a thought 0 its hidden
meaning, When I first saw it I was loungin
. in a friendly “dye-listlsu—ldlsabluc—borsd

,- - . fitlrsdésisk at heart—and feeling as if any one
"(who knocked me on the hssd quietly would

\

T

 

POOR VALERI'A!

confer a lasting benefit on the world in general.
Then came that gentleman with his periwmkles,
and whispered in my ear, “ Look at me! Is it
not true, that when every expensive and hard-
to-be-got-at pleasure has been exhausted, the
simplest one may do as Well ?” And I tookOthe
lesson to my heart, and was a better and a Wllel‘
Woman thereafter.

It Would have been well, perhaps, for George
Monair if he could have seen that sketch on the
morning after his first interview with Valeria
Grant. He had gone down that same eVening
to Norwood to dine with an aunt, from whom
he had great expectations. The dinner was
heavy, and the evening dull. When he retired
at eleven he dared not smoke; his aunt hated
cigars. IIe slept ill, rose late, and was snubbed
for it by his aunt, who was always out of her
bed by six, A. M., winter and summer. So, after
breakfast, Mr. Monair went out, feeling cross,
bored, and miserable. He had but one resource
——to take a walk, and thereby keep out of the
way till he could make his adieus With decency.

Across the fields he strolled, till he came out
upon Streatham Common. Quaint, delicious,

reen old place; how it rises up before me!
how I feel its breezes blow even as I write the
name ! You will observe that these are my im-

ressions of the place, not Mr. Monair's. To
him the Common was simply a dull and dreary
waste, where the furze bushes impeded his path.
He looked up at the blue sky with an impatient
groan, and decapitated thistle after thistle with
his ebony walking-stick.

“ What a bore it is to live i" was his mental
commentary on all the lowliness that surround-
ed him ; “ especially in the country, where, un—
less people fall to and eat grass as these cattle
are doing, I see no amusement for them. Ne-
buchudnezzer might possibly have liked it, but
I don‘t, and I wish my aunt would either give
me the money out of hand or die and leave it to
me, so that I might never have to come here
anv more." '

Another fearful awn, and another lucklcss
thistle beheaded. hen a new idea seemed to
strike the listless young gentleman. IIe flushed
up, brightened up, looked at his watch, and
smiled.

“ Time enough to do it, and the experiment
is really worth trying. Here goes."

With that he set off at a furious pace toward
his aunt‘s villa, bade that lady a hurried fare-

.wcll, rushed to the station, from thence to Lon-

don Bridge, and then by cab to Waterloo. A
train was just about starting as he drové up.
He secured a ticket, ran at full speed along the

latform, threw himself, panting and breath-
liess. into a first-class carriage, and was of! for
Hampton Court.

The “ fun of the fair" was nearly over when
he arrived. The last boatrrace was being con-
tested as he crossed ths bridge, and the popping
ofa'cannon, about the size of a pocket-pistol,
on the bank, and the cheers of the people, her-
hlded the approach of the victor—a gallant
young waterman—ths Queen’s watermsn. in
fact, who wore his distinctive dress and badge,
and came up the stream laughing good-natured-
ly at his triumph and his welcome. Mr. Monair

lsnced an instant over the animated scene but
ailed to discoVer the face and form he sought.
It was rather a wildgoose chase, I must con-
fess; for he did not even know how the fair
Valeria was dressed; but, trusting to his usual
good luck, he went into the Palace-grounds in
search of her. She was not in the palace itself
—s hasty race through the great hall and the
picture-galleries assured him of that fact. She
was not in the cloisters, nor beside the fountain,
nor in the maze, nor viewing the mammoth
grape-vine. Where had she got to? Perhaps
she had not come at all.

I am afraid that at that moment Mr. Monair
was guilty of uttering a very naughty word.
But it was not very pleasant to imagine his
laddy love peaceably weighing out green-gages
an plums in Brampton, while he was broih
in the ‘hot sun at Hampton Court, for her sweet
suks'.

“Servos ms ' ht l" he muttered, discontent-
edlz. “What he deuce—as my dear uncle

would say—do I want of the irl, at all? It
would be much better for as th, no doubt
and for me most certainly, if we should never
meet again. So I had better search no more
for her here, visit her no more at Brampton;
but go home, like a good boy, and stick faith-
fully to my cousin Isabel.” .

As he came to this sensible conclusion, he
stood beneath the shadow of that greemarched
walk, in the gardens, which everyboi knows,
and which all lovers, it may be, rememger—aud
as he gazed‘fixedly upon the ground, he was
" made ’ware", in some mysterious way, olthe
presence of a new-comer. A slender, pretty
girl, wearing a lace shawl and a gipsy hat, trip-
ped lightly up the steps. Behind her came a
tall, good-looking young man, and a young girl.
who were more intent upon each other than
upon their companion’s movements.

Mr. Monair started, the lady turned very pale.
But she was by far the most self-possessed of
the two, and made him a hurried sign, which he
construed as a command to keep silence.

Valeria pleaded fatigue, and said she would wait
in the covered Walk till they returned. With-
out even noticing the tall gentleman who stood
in the entrance, lost in admiration of the scen-
ery, they left her and went on her way, laughing
and talking like We children just let loose from
school.

.dIn an instant the gentleman was by Vsleria’s
si e.

“ Oh, how kind of you l" he murmured, lifting
her hand to his lips—this time unreproved. “ I
came here purposely to see you."

“ I must not stay an instant—my father and
mother are close behind,” sue murmured, blush-
lag deeply beneath his ardent gaze. ' “Only I
did not like to pass you without speaking.”

“I should think not. But, Vallie, when am
I to see you again? I want to talk with you.
[have thought of you ever since I left your
father‘s shop. May I write to you I”

“I don‘t know. oh, go, sir—go at oncol I
hear my mothers Voice. Pray go 1"

“ Say I may write, then.”

“ Yes—yesébut pray go now 1"

He kissed her hand again and darted away.
She hurried to the entrance to meet her mother,
who was summoning her rty together, in or-
der to retire. John an Maris had already
obeyed her call, Mr. Grant was waiting at the
gate, only Valeria remained.

“ Why, child, how hot you look!" cried the
unsuspicious mother, as they went down the
long avenue together. “ The day has tired us
all out, I think. I shall be glad to get home,
for one." v

Valeria answered nothing. She was silent
during the long ride home—silent at the supper-
table—silent when she went to bed. ,

A journey to Hampton Court and back, for
the sake of exchangin a dozen words with such
other! Was it wort your while? you say.
My dear, you know as wellas I do. that when a
woman is in lova, for the first time, she will
journey from Dan to Beersheba, without I
thought of fatigue, cal to get a glimpse of her
idol‘s shoe-strings. Wyhile a man, in the some
interesting predicament, might possibly under-o,
take the same journey, but would grumble at
the length and badness of the road all the way.
and would most assuredly require post-horses.
or " seat in the train, as he came back.

. CHAPTER IV.
“ Hears he inc—hears he me there—
How I sit singing here—
Slt alone. singing hers f
Wind which blows hers and thus
Over the trss-tops bars,
Over high mountain and am,
Oh, tear from his breast
A word to [in mg rest, "
And my answer take back with thes.’
—8wsnssl Isis.
In an elegantly furnished morning-room, look-
ing out upon a small, the h pleasant, garden
in Hslfimoon strut, Piccsdi ly, sat George Ho.

heiress in her own light of ths'tsmily fortune
and the family estates. Hrs. Honsir was “all.
pals, elegant. but feeble-looking old lady. or I

 

Cousin John and Maria went eagerly on; but

nsir, with his aunt and his cousin, [stitch-tho .

 

 

  

 

 

 

 

 

   

t-.,.,. . _ . . . _

somewhat sentimental and melancholy turn
mind.
brunette of twenty-one. She was small and
slight, but upright as a soldier, graceful in all
her movements, and easy and finished in her
manners as a Parisian belle. Her hair was dead
black ; wavy and luxuriant to an extraordinary
degree. ller features Were exquisitely molded;
her forehead was low and broad ; her nose
slightly aquiline; her lips thin, but beautifully
shaped, and of the most vivid crimson. A bright
eolor tinged her olive check, her teeth were daz-
zling white, and often displayed by a somewhat
peculiar smile ; her eyes were large, bright, and
Sparkling, and fringed with inky lashes, so long
that when she looked down they almost touched
her cheek.

Ha... .. ..

Her daughter was a bright, sparkling l

A beautiful face, you will say; and so itought ,

to have been. At the first glance, when you
marked the regularity of feature, the perfection
of contour, the warmth, and light, and bloom of

.4 - i .-r

 

_g POOR ‘VALERiAi

 

oi  purse, in return for the magic plain gold ring,

and the respectable sanctuary of hearth and
home. In the meantime, let him take his
pleasure—let her take hers. No Woman, I think,
ever laid plans for the future more quietly, less
romantically, than Miss Mohair. _
But although, aside from his beauty and his
grace. she did not care two pins for her cousin
Gsorge, still she looked upon him as her top-
city, and could be intensely jealous of him, if
he seemed in any way to ignore her claims.
On this day he was in sad disgrace. In taking
his impromptu trip in Hampton Court, he hat
entirely forgotten a prior engagement. With
Miss Monair and her mother, he had to call that
very afternoon upon a ceremonious old baronr-ss,
who had been his and Isabel's godmother. The
ladies went alone; and the baroness‘s two ugly
dmghters, who had both picked up husbands,

‘ iii the shape of good-looking young commoners,
‘ slicered politely at Isabel on account of her

coloring, you were inclined to think it very fair. '
As Isabel Mohair passed through the streets in i

her mother‘s carriage, or cantered down Rotten
Row upon her favorite pony, the bystanders
noting her small but elegant figure, and radiant
face, said admiringly to each other: “ W'hat a
handsome woman l” As she glided through the
dance in the stately halls of her aristocratic
friends, those who caught a linipse of her as
she floated by, called her “ a Is“
the “ Spirit of the Waltz", or any other poetic
name which happened to strike their heated fan-
cies. But it was noticeable that her partners
her.

The young men who rode eside her in

eri", “ a Grace”, ‘

never lavished these flattering epithets upon’
)

the Park, who had the felicity of holding her‘
delihate hand, or encircling her fairy waist in t

the ball-room, said but little about her, and
that little was not always in her favor.

HA‘

prettyish girl; an elegant girl; a clever girl; 3

a lady-like girl”.

Those were the epithets, cold j

as ice, chaste as the lady Moon, with which they ,

honored her. In one sense of the word, they
talked to and danced with her as if she had
been a grandmother of seventy instead of a
Woman of twenty-one. You never heard of any
. rash young ensign writing a challenge, or any
disconsolate lover blowing out his brains for
the sake of Miss Monair. They might, perhaps,
do these things for a girl with a snub nose and
indifferent gray eyes, and so set all the World
talking: but not for her—the beauty, the heir-
ess, and the belle. In fact, she had no lover,
disconsolate or otherwise. Girls who came out.
in her first season had hunted down their noble
prey—had married dukes, earls, and marquises,

on the right and on the left—but Miss Monair ,
1 You were to have taken us to Lady Dc Clara’s,

fired her guns, barbed her books, and spread
her nets in vain. Men paid her cold attentions
it may be during a whole season, and then flut-
tered off at the end and proposed to some
baby-faced chit, without a penny to call her
own.

I have said that she had no lovers. It may
be that she would have contradicted this state-

lover’s defection, and managed, in that quiet
way which Women understand so well, to let her
know that they considered her a less attractive
magnet to George Monsir than others whom
they would not mention. Miss Isabel went
away, smiling and courteous outwardly, in-
ward] in a furious rage. She sat at home and
sulkedall that evening, but no lover came to
woo ', in fact, George had but just made his ap-
pearance, and it‘ was the fifth day after the
Hampton Court excursion. Who can wonder
that hisflancéc was determined to find out the
reason of this mysterious absence?

He came in with a very guilty look, as if he
expected a sound scolding. But, much to his
surprise and relief, Isabel received him with the
utmost kindness ; played for him, sang for him,
and made herself as agreeable' as she possibly
could. He drew a long breath.

“I’m wall out of that scrape," he thought.

Just as he took up his hat to go, she called
him to her seat in the garden window. IIei
favorite parrot eroaked and muttered upon tht
back of her chair. A little table on her right
'was covered with fancy-work and embroidery,
and in her hand she held a skein of coarse crim-
son silk.

“ Will you help me wind this, George ?" she
said. '

He put down his hat, sank gallantly on one

 

l ind honored wife.

knee before her, and held out his hands for the :

skein. There she had him. The light was full
on his time, his hands were bound, her mother
could not hear what she was saying, as fixmg
ker sparkling eyes on his, she asked in the most
matter-of—fact way :

“And where were you on Thursday, George?

you know." I
For the life of him he could not help it. Ids
would have given worlds not to blush, but With

7 that searching glance full upon him, the color
I flew up to his forehead in an instant.

ment, since she was engaged—had been engaged r
almost from her childhood—to her OOUBln,‘

' George Monair. When' she was under the care

~' of her governess, and he at Eton, they had been ‘
little lovers ; and the contract made mutually t

days, had never been broken, in

in those happ T u
o a

the letter at east, by either of them.
intents and purposes, her cousin
Is inuoh her own now as he had been then. If
she had any suspicion that his heart had strayed
from her, she did not dream how far. On her
PM“, the somewhat romantic fancy of her
school-girl days had subsided, and a calm and
very rational attachment had taken its place.
If any one of higher rank or brighter prospects
had laid heart, hand,aud fortune at her feet,

George was .

“On Thursday ?" he stammei‘ed. " \Vhy—
why, I was at my aunt’s in Norwood.”

“Only till one \o'clock, George. I saw your
aunt esterday. We dined there ; and she told
ms t at you went back to town by the one
o’clock train."

He was silent.

“ You were to liavs been here by three.
Where did you go ‘3”

“Well you see, Bell,” he replied, affectin
extreme candor, “I wanted a breath of fres
air, and so I Wenton the river.”

“ Which way ?"

The code of fashionable morality teaches you
to pay your gambling debts, not your tailors,
and forbids you to tell a lie to your brother

, officer or your gentleman friend, not to a Wom-

Master George would speedily have had to Wear .

the willow. As her success in. matters of this
kind roved so smal , she had no idea of relin-
quishing her hold upon him. Miss Mohair must
never fade and pine away in single blessedncss.
.To got married somehow, anyhow, and with as
little sacrifice of pride of. place as I might be—--
this was her only aim. George was handsome,

W ofgood birth, of pleasing address ;
‘ and who?th to 1- time came, she would .on-
or

slow him with

’ 4
/

osd acres and, her well-filled

l
|

 

l

on, even though she be our sWeetheart or your
wife! So Mr. Monair elt no scruple cf con-
science as he answered glibly:

“ I went to Kew.”, ,

“ Indeed! And who went with you?”

“ Oh! Blake. You know Blake?”

“ Very well indeed, George. He called at
Lady De Clare‘s while we were there on Thurs-
dfiyy Ind escorted us to Hyde Park afterward.
Very singular, is it not, that Captain Blake can
be in two laces at once. I never know he
he possessé: that wonderful gift before."

 

noun“. tliisliml down the silk, sprang 
feet. caught up his hat, and pulled his handker-
chief fiom his breast-pocket, in order partially
to conceal his now burning face. A... he did so,
a letter, neatly sealed, stamped, and directed,
fell to the floor. Quick as thought, Isabel put'
her foot. upon it, and shook out the voluminous
flounces of her dress, so as to hide it complete-
ly from his eye. When he looked at her again, .
she was quietly disentangling the knots he had
made in the skein of silk.

“ I tell you what it is, Bell, he said, bending
down over her, “ I will not be cross-questioned
in this way by any Woman on earth. I am
very sorry I forgot to call for you as I promised
to o. lapologize for the breach of 'eourtesy
with all my heart. More than that I cannot
say, but if you think I am going to give you a I
strict account of every moment I spend away
from this house, you are vastly mistaken. It
will be quite time enough for you to beginpthat
sort of inquisition when we are married, if we
ever are.”

He spoke the last words very low—more to
himself than to her—but she heafil them. She
put down her silk, and waited cold] for him
to go.
notice of it, only bent her head slightly,,and
turned away to her embroidery again.

“Just as you choose,” he said, in a huff, and
bidding his aunt good-bye, he left the rooms

Isabel waited till she heard the hall-door
close behind him, then she snatched up the let-
ter from the floor. It was addressed .to “ Miss
Valeria Grant (at Mr. Grant's, Green-grocer and
Fruiterer), Fulham Road, Brompton, S. W.”,
and sealed With the device of the Monairs, hn
eagle gazing at the sun. Without the least
hesitation, she tore it open, and read these
words :

“FAIRIBT or in Farssns :—To see you as Isaw you .
on Thursday at Hampton Court, or yesterday in your
father’s shop, is but a poor reward for all my thoughts of
you. I long to talk with you—to hear you talk more
than I haVe already done. Send me a line to say if you
and your young sister can go to any place of amusement
together. I will meet and escort you there with your
permission.

“ I shall expect a note from you to-morrow—do not fail
to write.. You little know how I think of you, Valeria;
you need not fear me, I have only the most honorable
intentions towa’rd you, and it. only rests with you to say
if you will share my heart and home forever, “my dear
Falthfully yours,

“ Groaal Mount."
. Miss Monair uttered an exclamation after pe-
rusing this note, that quickly brought her moth-
er to her side.

“ What is it, my dear?"

“ You may well ask, mamma. Gedrgo did
not come to us on Thursday, because he was
better engaged. Look here. In this letter he
offers to marry some greengrocer's daughter
whom he ha; met—offers to marry her, and he
is engaged to me! Oh, I shall go mad with '
rs. c!"

EShe certainly looked anything but safe or
sane as she sat there, grinding her teeth and
stamping her feet, pale with passion and with
ante. -

Mrs. Monsir was terrified at the sight, but all
t e consolation she could give took one stereo-
tgped form.

“Wait till the Colonel comes. my dear, and -
don‘t excite yourself so. It is his day for can.

. ing; and the Colonel can always set thingr

straight, you know.” i
' CHAPTER V.
“ Tell him, oh, tell him, my breast
Never, never has rest,
Day and night has no rest!
Wed me before the priest,
3st in?, in silkk be dressed.
h,w ytoo Ithor‘ 1
Haste, fuithless ongiaigcm [Iv-{rhu’
I will hol thee fast,
.And keep thee till winter again !”
' —Oi.i> Swsnisn Son.
At three o clock that afternoon, Colonel Mo-
nair did himself the honor of making his usual’
Weekly call upon his sister and his niece; The
Colonel had been a bachelor for mor'e‘th'ln s’ —
years, and was as methodical in his habits II- '
any human being could very welt-be. Hos al-
ways rose exactly at eight, bmkfasted st nin'o,;

)

I

He held out his hand, but 3 e took no "

I.

I

took a “ constitutional", wet or dry, hot or cold“ ‘

a

‘ {rotates till twolte, and pm we grandad“, . x

.y‘
t

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ovum,“

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POOR VALERIA‘!

' 7

 

 

of the day in the Park and at the club, unless
some pleasant engagement took him elsewhere ;
and he always made his appearance at the house
in Half Moon street with such military preci-
sion at three o’clock, every Tuesday during the

. season, that lsabel and her mother would haVe

been seriously alarmed if, by any chance, he
had not come.

The colonel was, really and truly, sixty-five,
but his best friends never ventured to tell him
80. With the help of Truefltt, he sported a
most luxuriantcrop of black curls, slightly ting-
ed and streaked with gray. His teeth were
white and dazzling, his cheeks and lips still
bloomed, his hands were white as snow, and his
figure was almost as upright and slender as
when he had been the pet of Almack’s in his
early days. His manners were faultless, his
voice was low and musical, his whole appear-
ance eminently calculated to strike the eye and
win the fancy of any unsophisticated woman
who looked upon him. His large black eyes
still smiled and spoke, the crow’s feet at their
corners were skillfully disguised by the hand of
his French valet, his waist was laced, his chest
was padded, his trousers were strap ed down,
his coat buttoned up, his boots fitted) tight to
his small feet—in short, Art did for the gallant
Colonel in his old age all, and more-than all,
that Nature in his youth had done. He was a
powdered, painted, peruked, tightlaced, Vain,
disreputable old sinner, but at the first glance
you could only discern in him a well-dressed,
fine-looking, gentleinanly man, a little pastmid-
die age. Although he had lost all his teeth,
and his head under his wig was as bald as a

\ coot's, he had not forgotten the sins of his

youth. He chuckled over them before young
men in a way that was horrible to see, and he
was still for ever leering in the face of every
decent-looking woman he met, or giving a fan-
cied chase to pretty shop-girls along the pave-
ment, with his tightly-shod, half-gouty feet.
He fancied these little displays of weakness
toward the softer sex gave him a claim to rank
with the younger generation who were followmg
fast in his footsteps, even while they laughed
among themselves at his ridiculous folly.

Yet, with all these faults, he had a certain
reverence for his beautiful and highly-educated
niece. She bore his name, his blood ran in
her veins ; and if any one had wronged her, his
sw0rd would have been first to avenge the in-
sult. He was very fond of her in his own way,
and submitted to her caprices, and allowed her
to order him about with a patience that was
truly edifying. And she repaid him by giving
him more affection than she bestOWed upon any
human being, except her eousin George.

The hard old man and the worldly young
Woman suited each other to a hair. He was
ambitious for her, she was ambitious for herself.
Neither of‘them had one grain of faith in any
human being except their tWo selves ; yet that
faith in each other, strange to say, it would
have been very hard to shake. They were
both selfish, both cruel; and neither of them
would have hesitated, for an instant, to rid
themselves of any obstacle in their onward
path, by fair means, if possible; and, ifuot, by
oul.

lsabel, havin been accustomed to confide all
her childish an§girlish perplexities to her uncle,
and to form her heartless life by his heartless pre-
cepts, had waited his coming most anxiously on
this'sunny af ernoon. He found her sitting at
the piano, or ging, with passionate energy, a
song from “Norma” ; whi e her mother slept
placidly over a novel, in her softly-cushioned
chair. The strong contrast between the two;
the old life done With dreaming, and the young
one hot, eager, and restless, struck even the un-
imaginative man of the world; and, pausing an
instant to assure himself that his sister-in-law
still slept, he came up very softly behind his
niece, and said :

“ Well, what is the matter, now? I always
know something has gone wrong when I hear
you singing that song. ’
- She whirled suddenly round upon her music-
stool, and took both his hands in hers, and said,
hrs low voice : ‘

 

 

“ Uncle, somewhere the other day, I don’t
know where, I read astory about a Woman, who
had contriVed to get her husband hung by be-
traying his political secrets, because she fancied
he loved some one else better than he loved her.
After he was dead she Went mad; and she used
to go to the square, where they had lived in
their happy days, and look down the area, and
cling to the rails, saying all the while, ‘ Jealousy
is the devil! Jealousy is the devil l’ Did you
ever read the story ?"

“ No, my dear. And I should be very sorry
to meet that lady. I hope she didn't live in my
square. It would be dooced unpleasant to have
such a visitor as that, say about one or twa
o’clock in the morning ; wouldn’t it, Bell ‘3"

“ Undoubtedly. But never mind her. I was
not thinking of her, onl of what she said.”

“ Jealousy is the devi .”

“ Yes. Were you ever jealous, uncle l”

“Scores of times; and horribly so. Gad! I
Know how to pity that poor old Othello. I've
suffered all he suffered over and over again, and
all for a good-for-nothing little chit, who never
cared two straws for me. Ugh! l’m glad that
time has gone by, Bell. A man does not want
a taste of that dose more than once or twice in
his life.” ‘

“ I’m glad to hear you cuff-red, uncle.”

“What do you mean, minx ‘3”

“Only this, that you will know how to feel
for me.” She glanced toward her sleeping
mother, and went on almost in a whisper: " Uu~
cle, I am jealous, too.”

“ The dooce you are l”

The Colonel wished With all his heart thatth
revelation would stop there. He knew that she
was going to talk about his nephew, and it was
a sore subject with him. George was engaged
to her, it was true, but he was by no means a
St. Anthon ; and divers little escapades of his
had recenty come to his uncle‘s knowledge,
about which he was horribly afraid Bell was
aboutto question him. For though with her
mother she assumed all the innocence and
harmlessness of the dove, with her uncle she
often displayed more of the wisdom of the ser-
pent; and, without positively infringing any
strict rule of propriety, spoke freely of things
that are generally “ tabooed” for British maid-
ens, under pain of fearful enaltics. ,

His misgivings were sti led, however, as she
went on. i

“I am jealous—oh, horribly jealous, uncle!
Do you know what George has been doing ‘3"

“ No, my dear. But you really must not his
him too closely to your apron-string. Young
men will be young men, you know.’.’

“ Oh, I am not complaining of anything of
that kind l" she said, with a wicked laugh in
her black eyes. “This is something quite dif-
ferent—something that you ought to know.
What do you think of his marrying a gree
grocer’s daughter l"

“ What !" shrieked the Colonel, so loudly, th
he started Mrs. Monair from her quiet slumbers.
‘ “There, you have waked mamma. However,
she knows all about it, so there is no harm done.
I was just telling Uncle Alfred about the green-
grocer's daughter, mamma."

“Yes. How do you do, Alfred? Did you
ever hear of anything so shocking? The oy
must be mad.”

'“ But, what is it, my dear sister? What does
Bell mean ‘2”

“Tell him, Bell.”

“ The matter is this, my dear uncle. George
has fallen in with some horrid creature at
Brompton, who sells potatoes and onions in her
father's shop, and they haVe been to Hampton
Court together; and now he is offering to marry
her, although he is engaged to me. And the
creature‘s name is Valeria—of all names in the.
world. Here is a letter to her, which he drop-
ped out of his pocket while he was here this
morning.”

The Colonel took that billet-dour, over which
poor George had breathed so many sighs, and
read it through. His hands shock as he laid it
down. and wiped his gold-framed spectacles.

“A very serious piece of business,” he no-

marked. “ With list letter in her possession
\ ,

  
 

 

 

\ .
the girl could sue him for breach of 'promise, if
he married you. Bell. As you justly say, he
must be mad. And where is he now, pray?”

“ At the feet of his lady-love at Brompton, I
dare say," said Isabel, scornfully. “Perhaps
serving in the shop, with a white apron tied
round his waist.”

Mrs. Monair groaned.

“ Not quite so bad as that, I hope,” said the
Colonel. “But what could have possessed the
boy to write such a letter. If he likes the girl,
why don’t he—" IIe checked himself, sudden~
ly remembering who he was talking to, and went
on again—"“ That is to say, he must give her up
at once. We can’t have a greengrocer’s daugh-
ter in the family.”

“ A creature who would want to shell her own
peas for dinner, and afterward eat them with a
knife," said Isabel, smiling. “No, uncle, we
cannot afford to call cousins with a lady of that
description just yet.” I

“ Why can’t you see him, Alfred—or talk to
him—or do something ?" suggested Mrs. Mo-
nair. feebly.

“ Why, so I will ; and the sooner the better.
There is a boat-race at Putney. this afternoon—
I shouldn't wonder if I found him there. At all
events,1 will ride up and see. What are you
laughing at, Bell?”

“Nothing. uncle - only my own thoughts.”

She was smiling to see how her uncle made
even the slightest benefit conferred upon an-
other, tally with his own exclusive plans and
pleasures.

At Putney, in a villa by the water’s side,
lived a ceriain rich widow, whose hand and

>ul‘se the Colonel coveted, and it was more than
likely that, his nephew once found and lectured,
he would spend his evening coinlbrtably in the
widow’s drawing-room, thus killing two birds
neatly with one and the self-same stone. i

“ I will go home and order my horse at once,’?
he said. rising from his seat. “Bell, my dear,
don't you fret about him ; once out of this
scrape, we will have him safely married—then
it will be all your own fault if he goes philan~
dering about after greengrocers’ pretty daugh.
ters any more.”

“ I will take good care of that,” said Bell. sig-
nificantly. “But remember one thing, uncle.
lie must break this off, and at once. I don’t
care if the girl kills herself, starves, and dies.
No one shall say that Isabel Monair has been
slighfed for acommon creature like that."

“Bell, my dear!” remonstrated Mrs: Monair,
gently, as she heard this speech. But the Colo-
nel nodded his head approvin ly.

.“You‘ll do, Bell,” he said, as she followed
him out to the head of the stairs, to say good-
bye ; “ and we will very soon bring that young
fellow to his senses betWeen us.”

“ We will try, at least,” she answered. “And,
.ncle, while you are at Putney, couldn‘t ou
manage to call on Mrs. Dalton, and say ow
very anxmus we are to see her again 3”

The Colonel looked up at the laughing face,
peered into the depths of the flashing, wicked,

lack eyes, and shook his head quiszically. ‘

" You‘re too clever for me, Bell—too clever
by half! Good-bye to you l” I

The Colonel did not find his nephew at Put-
ney.
on, and checking his horse beneath the window
of “The London Rowing Club”, he gazed with
heart and soul upon the exciting scene—at the

light boats skimming over the water like birds'
——at the crowded penny steamers, whose occn- '

pants waved their handkerchiefs and cheered as
the rival champions darted by—at the shout-
ing, eager throng that ran along the path, or
waited more calmly near him upon the shore.
When the race was won, he cast a hasty look
around the groups of youn men who were dis-
cnssing its merits, saw not ing of his‘nephew,
and rode away to call on the widow, fully satie-
fied that he had done everything that could pos-
sibly be required of ,him.

Mrs Dalton was very ungraeioue that even-
ing. She snubbed the Colonel, and talked all

during tea-time of a wonderful young dissent-L /

ing minister who wae inst then thrilling the

He arrived there just as the last race was .

\

 

   
  
   
 
  
   
  
  
   
  
  
   
  
   
   
 
  
  
   
    
   
   
    
  
  
   
   
 
   
   
   
  
   
   
  
  
   
   
  
  
  
   
     
   
     
   
      
    
   
      
     
   
   
      
       
       
     
    
    

Van-mus..- ~“.Mov-.om . .. MW.

8

neighborhood of Putney With his eloquent ser-
mons. The Colonel, though he scarcely ever

entered a place of worship, and never thought '

of saying his prayers, called himself a staunch
Church of England man, and so felt bound to
object sturdily to this gentleman, especially as
he was young and good-looking. The widow
grew indignant, and the consequence was avio-

nt quarrel, which made the chance of sharing
her home and purse look exceedingly dubious.
Mentally anathematizing her stupidity and his
own fol y,'the Colonel bade her adieu, and rode

anilenly toward home again. But the night was

a little chilly, and his coat was thin: and he ‘

caught a violent cold which laid him up for a
week, and effectually put all thoughts of his
own or his nephew‘s wooinirs out of his head
while it lasted. How Isabel would have raged,
had she known itl

And, meanwhile, where was the young scape-
grace in whom they both took so ( eep an inter-
est? On that very afternoon of the Putney
boat-race, he was playing at the old riddle of
walking “round and round the house, and all
about the house"——that is to say. he was walk-
ing up and down Hans Place, and round and
round Sloane square,till even the cabmen on
the stand seemed to understand the state of the
case, and forhore to urge him to enter a vehi-
cle, hut grinned good-naturedly to each other as
he passed by. Why was this? Because he was
not taking that walk alone. On his arm hung a

pretty, swaet-faced girl, modestly dressed, grace- ‘
(

ill in her walk, an quiet in her manner; but,
oh,so happy! You could see it in her face, her
eyes— on could hear it in every tone of her
sweet, ow voice. There is a sort of halo thrown

around young and innocent lovers, by the;

magic of their love, that the hardest heart can
scarcely fail to see.

a pair who had evldentl just entered upon the
first and far most delicious stage of that re-
spectable folly. They were engaged—I could
have swarn to that—and just engaged. There
was a look of conscious proprietorshio in the
young man‘s face, and an expression of gentle
content at being owned in that of the girl, that
told the tale most plainly.
carriage; and I suppose] must have looked
very benign and indulgent; for, after a time,
they took no more notice of me than if I had
been a piece of stone wall. The lady’s hand rest-
ed in her loveI's, his head leaned gently t0ward

her shoulder; and when we entered the tunnel, ~

I thought I heard something which was not
exactly like the shriek of the engine, or the
puflug of the steam. Out into the sunlight we

came once more—they gazing fondly into each ‘

other’s e es, I looking intently out of the win-
dow, an thinking to myself, “What happy

()nly yesterday, as i went :
from London Bridge to Norwood, I sat opposite ‘

Only us three in the ,

POOR VALERIA!

l earth he should do in this perplexing state of

t in s.

’ Hg had not been gone ten minutes from his
, aunt‘s house, when he missed the letter which
he had written to Valeria. He dared not return
for it. He knew that it was in the breastpocket
of his coat, and that when he took out his
handkerchief, the letter must have fallen to the
floor. Isabel sat directly in front of him, and
her eyes were as sharp as needles. Was it ilKe-
ly that she had failed to see itl‘ Absurd! She
had opened and read it by that time—he knew
her ways so well!

“I‘m in for a row, and no mistake," he
thought, perfectly aghast at his carelessness
and its consequences. “ An awful row, for Bell
. will blow the roof of the house off, if she once

reads that offer of inarriare. And so Half-

Moon street, I think I had ~Lbetter bid you ‘a
long and last adieu’—for the present at least !"

Jaunty and self-possessed, in spite of his
frightful blunder, he hurried out to Bromptou,
waylaid Maria on her way from school, and, by
her help, contrived to get Valeria out for a
walk in the squares before tea-tinie—that walk
which I have already described. One word led
to another, and almost before he knew what he
was saying, the young man found himself com-
mitted, bound fast and firm to one woinan, by
Word of mouth, when all the while he was
tacitly engaged to another. It was, indeed,
what he called it as he walked along Piccadilly
-—“ an exceedingly pretty kettle of fish, and no
mistake about it!"

What ailed him, do you say? I'm sure I do
not know. I believe we are all mildly insane
once in a while, and his turn had come, that
was all. On] by the charitable supposition of
insanity can Iyaccount for that apparent despe-
ration which seizes now and then upon men
and women alike. Good, quiet, heayily-mold-

‘ ed people never feel these impulses to do every-
‘ thing that is criminal and absurd, and they
would set you down as a lunatic, or something

Worse, if you confessed, in their presence, to
I being occasionally subject to them. But nerv-
ous, high-strung, keen! tempered people will
know what I mean. "Ills a nialign influence
that points toward a sharp razor, or a leap from
1 Waterloo Brid e, as the best means of settling

the dreary pro lem of livin ; or, taking a less

physical ut far more moral y dangerous form,
whis ers recklessly into our edrs :.

“going down ill—all is wrong—life is a
blunder, and you are a fool! Why should you
, hesitate at anything since Fate and the world
T are both against you? Be bad—be mad—be
. wicked—do your worst, and it will answer quite
‘ as well as your best! Who cares—and who is
l afraid ?" .

l That evil spirit was whispering in my hero’s

young fools they are! and what a pity it is such ‘ car on this very day. He was poor, he was

pleasant folly cannot last for everl” 2g deeply
So I suppose the cabmen thought, as theyi '

watched the youthful pair, and remembered the

.as hampered by his engagement to his cousin,
e was out of sorts with himself and the world ;

time when they took their “missises” (young 1 and Valeria Grant’s love seemed to his sick

9nd" blooming then, and without the six crying
children at their heels) out walking in pleasant
countr fields, “ a Wee before the sun gaed
down.’ 80 thought, perhaps, the maid-servants

who eyed them curiously from deorsteps and 
area-window's, or from behind the perambula- :

tors, whose stony-hearted course they were for

ever directing straight upon pedestrians’ toes. 1

But Maria, walking behind, in all the glory of a
new mantle and her best muslin dress, never

‘ dreamed that so pleasant a state of things must

end. Of course they would love each other for
ever and for ever, and better. and better every
day, dud thsnthey would marry, and live in a
beautiful house, and she should go and see
them, and perhaps at last find a young gentle—
man as rich and beautiful as Mr. Mohair to
marry her. , Never had a duenna a greater faith

' ' - in her charge, and her charge’s future, than this

one of thirteen years. with her school-satchel
still hanging on er arm.

‘ That pleasant afternoon, walk decided, in a i

eat measure, the fate, of both. Before the
lover.’ parted, they were formally engaged.
And George Monair,bidding the two iris adieu,

as the corner of Sloane-street, walk thought:

y fully toward his lodgings, considering what on

i‘ heart the only thing that could she him well
i and happy again. W should 0 hesitate to
secure it—to make her is ow ‘ In time some
good fortune might “ turn up", that would en-
able him to shake off Isabel, and marry her;
in the meantime, she would wait for him patient
' ly, and her love would be the charm that would

make the waste desert of fashionable existence
‘ bloom and blossom like the rose. He was just
. in the mood to do something utterly foolish

i and perfectly desperate, and ‘acting in the spirit _

l of that wise old proverb: “’Tis as well to be
I hung for a sheep as a lamb," no sooner did he
j find that his secret was in his cousin's keeping,

than he wronged her still more deeply b offer.

ing Valeria a hand that was already p edged, ‘

and a heart that ought never to have been her
own.

The same evil-spirit that tempts us to our
desperate deeds, is generally kind enough to
assist us in carrying them out in the easiest
way. So, Mr. Mohair had scarcely reached the

Green Park before an idea of dazzling brilliancy
é entered his head. He hailed acab upon the
l instant and drove off at a great pace toward
i . . .
ihis lodgings in Bondctreet. His room. a
l mounted sentinel of despair, was stationed be-

in debt, he was harassed by dune, he I

fore the door, with the' horse which he had
ordered at five, and forgotten! The young
, man could not help laughing heartily when he
‘caught sight of the man’s mutely-reproschful
see.

i “ I entirely forgot you, Robert,” he said, as he
E sprang out. “Get some one to hold the horses,
j and come up with me for a carpet-bag. Then
iyou may take the horses back. I am going
‘ out of town for a few days, and shall not want
you.” ,

Cabby having volunteered to take charge of
the spirited animals, Robert followed his master
to his rooms, and assisted him in packing up a
few changes of apparel. Stufling the letters
on the table into his breast-pocket, Mr. Mohair
then ran down stairs and jumped into the cab.

“Take good care of the horso,._Robert,” he
said, “ and tell Mrs. Jones I shall not be back
for a week.”

He was gone, and Master Robert stood look-
,ing after him, with his tongue in his cheek.
Then he took out a little notebook, made“.
memorandum, mounted his horse, and rods 05
to the stable.

“ Well, I’m blessed!” was all he dcigned to
say; but he had the number of the cab in his
ta lets, and before the next morning he in~
tended to know more of this sudden Escapade.‘

.Little dreaming of his servant‘s determinao
tion, Mr. Monair drove gayly back. to Broinp-
ton, and stopped before a house in Alfred
i Place, whose windows, as he had noticed that
l afternoon, bore the Welcome announcement,
I “Apartments to let, fairnished,for single gentle.
men.”

Our single gentlemau’was very easily suited,
as you may imagine, and having dei osited his
carpet-bag in his bedroom, began to patrol the
Fulham and Brompton roads once more, in
hopes of seeing Valeria or her sister. Valeria
did not. make her appearance, but just at dusk
he met Maria face to face in St. Michael's
Place, and sent a message by her to his hid -
love. I leave you to guess with what thank ul
Joy that young person received it—how tender-
ly she looked at the flat roofs of the houses in
l Alfred Place that night before she said her
prayers and went to sleep, and how Marla,
eluted at the important art she was playing in
a real love affair, coul not shut her eyesxtill
long after the clock struck twelve, though the
real heroine of the romance had been slumber-
ing placidly by her side for more than three-
quarters of an hour.

CHAPTER VI.
u--—0nly in my chamber,
Dare 1 thus boldly speak-
Alas ! when he was present,
My words were sad and week.

“For there were cvll angels, ,

Who quickly hushed my taupe,

And'oh ! such cvlhlp'zhoelz.young ”

Kill many a has “Hun!” .

There was a rand arty 'et Mrs. Monair’a
house in Half Mgon strget, Piccadilly All the
rich and the great friends of that l y had been
invited, and most of them werepresent-A'or‘ it
was her lat party that season—in a week‘s time
she was going out of town. The carriages had
been coming and going all the evening. but now
the roll of wheels lead «seed, and in its place
You heard the soft note of the piano, or the
hrobbing pulses of the harp and the guitar.
For it was a mixed assemb y, and there wore
one or two famous “professionals” present, who
condescended to bestow upon their entertainers.
gratis, some of those liquid notes, for which the
lessee {of Her Maaesty‘s and the Royal Italian
Opera would have had the pleasure of paying
in solid coin of the realm. Now and then, a
solitary passer-by lltopped beneath the win-
dows, entranced, as a burst of ravishing har-
monyfell upon his ear, while the guests within,
rivilsged to listen longer and more enjoying-
y, gazed listlessly around, whispered to each
other,‘ or yawned ebind their fans. The music
bored them, poor things! for the penalty

 

 

day, and day into nigh you estanddrink

 

everything that is sure to disagree with you,

on pay for being fashionable is the loss of the "
acuity of enjoyment. If you turn night into
t—i

 

 

 

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. ,—

n

4 VJ... .‘—:+~4~T .h..-

 

 

 

   

    
  

 

 

 

 
   

PO

9

 

 

 

and 'take little or no exercise all the while—n

on allow yourself, at the same time, to “ look

fore and after, and pine for what is not’b—to
wish you were handsomsr, or happier, or rich-
er, or more fashionable—anything in short ex-
cept what you are and must be——how can you
expect to care for anything, to be leased with
anything, though it be the most (elicious mu-
E10, which the most delicious of tenors sings?

.. in such a frame of mind, the melody of the

lieiiveiily choir itself would jar harshly upon
)‘0111' Ufll‘.

Mm Monair mOVed among her guests, per-
haps is greatlv bored as they were, but looking
full of life and animation. Some of her dear
young lady friends looked narrowly at her flush-
ed cheeks and brilliant eyes, and smiled signifi-
c-intlvas they whispered to each other sonic-
lhing about a “hare's foot, my dear." But
they were misinkcu. There is no rouge that
will paint a check half so becomingly as anger,
and Miss Monair, for all her smiles, looks, and
courteous ways, was in a terrible rage. Only
thatpropriI-ty and decorum forbade it, she would
have liked to stand in the middle of that splen-
did drawing-room, and stamp, and shriek—per-
ha s swear. Oul that ladies “in good socie-
ty.‘ do not send y do such things, she would
have enjoyed tearing off the diamond; that
flashed upm her neck and arms, and in her
raven hair—would have liked to dance a 
upon them before her astonished guests, and a -
terward turn every one of those astonished
guests, out of the house, by actual bodily force
—nsck and heels, out of the doors or the win-
dows—as the case might be. And with all this
tempest of rage, of hatred, and defiance seeth-
ing and swelling in her breast, she was obliged
to soften her tones, to temper her smiles, to ca-
ress, to flatter, to compliment. only lsttin her
crimson cheeks and her flashing eyes te the
tale of some inward disturbance, which, she
had, as yet, the power to control! She had
never looked so beautiful in her life. and yet
the youn men who were attracted by her un-
usua bril ian'cc, shrank from her when they came
too near.

“She's too sharp—too littering,” said the
melancholy Colonel Ross Edwards, to his young
brother. " Don‘t you go near her, Charley
The woman is not safe. I'd as soon play with
a ti rcss as meddle with her to-night. l
woul n't be in George Monair’s shoes for some
thing. I wohder if they have quarreled that

" he’s not hers to-night."

Other people wondered, too, as the evening
wore on, and he did not make his appearance.
Perhaps Miss Monair wondered as wel , for she
glanced now and then at the door with a sharp,
anxious look, as if she expected some one. But
no one came. No George—no Colonel, which
we? strangest of all.

Ops by one the guests took their departure,
and; went their several ways, and when t a room
was empty. Mrs. Monair looked at her daugh-
ter s pityinIg, yet fearful eyes.

“ y dear spbel, where can your uncle and

‘ Geor’ e be?"

, r~ladyl her heart was hill of sorrow for
her child. She would gladly have spoken some

 word of comfort had she dared. But Isabel

was too proud by far to be pitied, and hervoice
was cold and steady, as she replied:
“Don‘t waste your time in thinking about

I th ,“inamma, but 0 to bed and also well.
\ Gd Knight!" and,"~with akisa,shs gave er her

bed __ m candle, ind dismissed her.

'l‘lfl' old lagy went 03 vs meekly indeed.
She was dre fully tired an sleepy, but Bell
was so quiet; and, perhapsI Geor e or the
Colonel would call twmorrow, an then all
would be well ain. And so she trotted 08 to
bed, and slept t e sleep of the just.

But there was no sleep,.just then, for Miss
Monair ; u and down file long room, she paced
with knitte brows and clenched hands, mutter-
ing to herself :

"Jealous is the devil! Where is he, and
\what is he slug 1 How date he, treat me so!"

Mind, dear reader, staple not love him, u-
. ding— :o  antler ind /plll‘r notion of

 

!
)

 

     
  

love. She would not a : ne of the
hairs of her head for his goo, d, general-
ly speaking, she was happier out of his pres-
ence than in it. But she admired him for his
fresh young beauty and his grace; he was her
property ; and the thought that any other Wom-
an had dared to win him from her, drove her

 

wild with rage. Her pride was wounded, her ‘
sclf~conceit was touched, that was all. But r

Wounded pride and hurt self-love. sometimes
contrive to create avery little disturbance be-
tween them, I can assure you.

As she paced up and down like a caged ti-
gress. a stylish, dressy, little French maid glid-
ed into the room. and stood contemplating her
for a moment. with a smile, which it was quite
as well, perhaps, her mistress did not see.

“ You can 0 to bed. Rose. I shall not want

on!" said sabel, waving her hand, without
looking up.

But the maid still lingered, explaining, in her
pretty, broken English, that she was “ desolato
ed" to intrude u on mademoiselle, but there
was a person waiting to see her.

“To see me? At this time of night!" said
Isabel, looking up with a start.

“ Yes; Monsieur’s groom.”

That was enough. Without another word,
Isabel followed her to a little room, which she
sometime used as a library and study. She
called it a "den". There she found Robert,
who saluted her with the profoundest respect.

“ What can you want at this time of night 7”
she exclaimed. “ Is your master ill ?"

“No, Miss, not that I know of,” was the re-
ply. “I should have asked to see you earlier,
only I did not like to let any one but Rose know
that I was here.”

“ Quite right. And, now, what is it 1’”

“ I thought I had better come and tell you at
once, miss. M master has gone.”

“ Gone! Wliere ?"

“He said he was goin out of town, miss.
But the truth is, he is at rom ton.”

The blood rushed into Isabe ‘s face.

“ What is he doing there ll ’

“You'll excuse me for speaking of such a
thing, Miss Monair," stammered the man ; “ but
it may be. that {on can put a stop to it before
it is too late. here is a girl out there, a very
plrctty girl, and my master is mad about her.

c has been out there three or four times this
week; he has written to her, and now he has
actually gone and taken lodgings in Alfred
Place, so that he may be nearvher, and see her
as often as he likes. And I saw him dancing
with her at Cremornc last night!”

“ Where is Alfred Place 1”

“Just out of the Fnlham Read, Miss. There
is the number of the home. I got it from the
cabman this morning.”

He gave her a large card, with an address
written on it, as he spoke.

“ And this girl i” also said, without looking
at it.

“ If on will be kind enough to look at the
other side of that card, Miss, you will see what
her name is. Her father is a grecngrocer!”

Miss Mohair looked at the card. It was
printed legibly and neatly. Yes ; there was
the hated name of “Grant”, and there was a
list of the things that odious creature helped to
sell.

“ Do you know an thing about these people,
these greengrocers, bert ?” she asked, at last.

“ Not personally. I have made some inqui-
ries in the neighborhood, though. They seem
to be very well off, and very respectable."

“ The girl and all f"

“ Yes, Miss."

“ We shall see—we shall see l" she murmured
to herself, with an evil smile.

In her mind‘s eye, she was icturing poor
Valeria months, or years after, fa lsu, degraded,
a hunted outcast, even among those poor crea-
tures who pace the dreary round of Regent
street, or jest and laugh in that horrible Hay-
mar‘net, as the unhallowed ni ht goes  The
picture charmed her. She oated over it with

onset pleasure. But, in t meantime, till it
became a reality, she hated Valeria Giant ; and,
for such a woman as Isabel’ Monair to hate

 

#

another, means something serious, my dear
readers. .

She glanced keenly at the man. who, having
told his tale, steed waiting for her orders or his
dismissal. He had betrayed the secrets of‘ a
kind master—mo much the better. He might
betray her also. No; she would take good care
of that. '

“ Every man and every Woman has a price,"
she thought to herself. “ I will soon find out
how much this man is worth."

She sent her maid to her own room for her
purse, and'having received it, took outa five-
ponnd note, and placed it in his hand.

“ You have served me well to-night," she said.
“ Watch your master during the next week for
me. Let me know when he comes in and when
he goes out—how often he sees that girl, and
what he means to do with her, and you shall
not find me an ungenerous employer. Now,
good night, and thank you.”

Robert made a low bow, and went away
charmed with his good fortune, and with his
mistress. Pausing a moment in the 1'11, to
snatch a kiss from the coquettish Rose, he went
strai ht out to Brampton, whers,'as good luck
woul have it, his new friend, the cabman,
resided. He had already taken one room in
the humble cottage, and one pound out of Miss
Monair‘s five was bestowed upon the cabman
for the information he had given, before the
lucky groom went to sleep that night—or
rather, that mornin .,

Robert in the Mardborough Road—Mr. Honair
in Alfred Place—Valeria in the Fulham Road
-—that was the way in which the pieces were
palaced upon the chess-board at. which Miss

onair presently intended to “make has
game”.

 

CHAPTER VII.

“ Butch, the night is a: too lcn , ‘
And my heart bounds in my breast,
hlr water-fairies, come to me.
And sing my soul to rest.
" 0h ! tale in be u
Take hodyyandfoufiolnpfigih,’
. But sing ms dead—caress me dead-
And kiss my lit away !”
~Hmsxon Barns.

It did not take long for our hero to ingratiats
himself with Valeria’s mother, and through her,
with Cousin John. He was young. gay, and
gallant ; no one could help liking him—and the
mother had a faith in his 'sinccri that wsa
guite beautiful to see. Mr. Grant sti remained
ignorant worthy man !—of all that was oing
on under his very nose, but that mattered ittlc.
With mamma on their side, and Cousin John
and Maria for companions in their walks and
talks, how happy and how foolish those two
young so is were!

Was a eria happy now that she had got her
heart’s desire—now that her lover was so near
her, and so fond ? Ah, no! There is often no
curse so heavy as a “ granted prayer”, and the
girl‘s heart was ill at case. She scarcely knew
why..- A thin but impalpabls barrier separated
hcrfrom George -—shc did not understand. fill
less could she remove it. It was nothing in his
manner—never woman had a humbler slave
than she possessed in him. In fact, he himself
was not conscious of the existence of such a
barrier, even when it was making her most un-

happy" . . .
he mercst trifle in the world enlightened her
as to its nature. She went early one August
morning, with Maria, to Mitcham, to see an old
friend of their mother‘s. The road from the
station was a very pleasant one ; it led by villa
after villa, by gardens, hotbouscs, and conserva-
tories, with whose floral contents Maria was so
enruptured that it became a diflicult matter, at
times, to get her along. As they passed one of
these places two gentlemen came out and walk-
ed down the road toward the station. Valeria
glanced in at the open gate. The house was
large and square. built of stone, with a porch.
and a flight of broad steps ascending to it. The
arden in front was handsomely laid out, and
beyond the conservatory she caught a limp”
of a green lawn, shaded with trees, on w ich 
drawn -room windows looked. Flowers 
light wicker stands lined the entrance to this

   
   
   
 

   
         
  
     

 

 

1 O
pFetty home—flowers bloomed in everv window,
with {luxuriant profusion that spoke more sig-
nificantly than anything else could have done
of the owner’s wealth and taste. In the porch
stood two young ladies, who had evidently come
out to wish the gentlemen good-bye. One was
an elegant girl of eighteen, dressed in light blue
muslin—her companion. a little older, but evi-
drntly her sister, from the close resemblance
1 they bore to each other, was fastening a flower
“in her curling hair. They were laughing and
talking gayly, and took no notice of the humble
footpassenger'who gazed upon them so ear-
nestly for a moment, and then went on her way
with a sick pang tugging at her heart. She
know now, only too well, what was the barrier
between George Monair and herself—that in-
stant‘s vision of the elegant house and its dainty
inmates, had disclosed it to her. His fittin
place was among people like them--people with
’vhom she herself had-nothing in common. He
ahould have chosen a bride like that fair girl
who wore the flower in her hair—he should not

i

have stooped to one who only gathered flowers I

(or sale. True—abs was young and pretty, and
could write and read, and repeat poetry, and

draw a little, and play five or six tunes, pass- "
ably, on the pianoforte, but what was this to 

the education, the accomplishments which these
young ladies, and all others like them in Eng-
and, had rérceivcd?

, Strange, is it not, what the possession, or the .

so” ically call “ dross", can do. Valeria went
'sa y’ou her'way, feelin her dress shabby, her
‘shoes’dust’yyah her wiole appearance mean
bird unprepossCSsing ill the ettreme. I Three or
four carriages whirled past them. Maria looked
coolly and criti'Cally at the horses and the serv~
ants, but Valeria shrank back upon the footv
path from "the gaze of, their occupants, feeling

imly in her own mind that. she was out ol

 of a little of what we heroically or philo-
l

place—or rather that there was no place in this E

World for her. The young, the rich, the great,
and the beautiful, the world was meant for them
slope, and she had better go and hide her head
in’i nominious obscurity, and trouble the sight
of er fellow-creatures‘no more.

I am afraid you will think my heroine very
weak, indeed. But she‘ was endowed (since she
‘ha‘d known George Monair) with that very
houblesomc virtue called‘humllity. A virtue
which is very well for saints,'and helps them
hr, I have no doubt, on the road to Heaven.
But, ah, me! It is much in the way of people
who have to live in this World, an'd'want to get
on well in the eyes of others. It makes you
shy, lt‘makes you awkward, it sends you to the
wall when, perhaps, you are not the weakest;
It malted you blush, and stsmm'er, and appear
liké'an ntter'fliol, when ‘your wish to make the
‘Utst impression ossibls 'on another. Believe
me,‘so‘far as mn- dly success is concerned, it is

lsc'h better 'to have the frcnt of the sunfloWer,

an the shrinking delicacy of the wood-violet
hi'lu‘icw'ly dell. , I a
" And the consciousness of wealth, cfinfluence,
In'd‘ofposition, 'ha's‘ftr more “to do with fronts
‘of brass, than We imagine. It is all very well, I
.Iupp'dse to'cry down wealth, and to ‘cx'alt pov-
drty‘on high; but I cannot do it. I don’t be-
lieve in poverty. Money, taken b ' itself, pos-
iibly may not make’ you happy: ' but. even to
the iuost scrrowfhl wretch on earth, it brings a
sovereign balm. Are you ill? Money will give
you evor attention, chry comfort. every miti-

ationo your pain, that 'it is possible to devise.
‘ re you' unhappy? ‘Moncy’ will help you to
distract your mind, in a thousand pleasant ways,
fioih‘ the grief on which it is not good to dwell.
HM our true-love deserted you ? Money will
buy ou’snother site as truce.I Are you old?

Money will so pa , and paint. and po‘wdcr, and '

ragcneratc you, that people will think you have

discovered the Fountain of Eternal Youth, and ‘

kept its healing water‘s solsl to (yourself. Do
you long for respect, for civi lty, or smiles from

ir ladies, for eetln in the market-place?
gone wilb buy h m a l‘. Au‘d “will give you,

.pdiflio’ , subhfi comfortable was of your
own ignity, "your own cleverness, your own
[our of musing, that it is, really worth while

lAl

 

 

i to us rich, -- y to feels. an pleasant sensation
for an hour. Money ! l have the tirnicst faith
in it, in evm'y way and shape if it be but fairly
some by. Fill me this large but remarkably
light purse of mine with coin of the realm and
bank-notes, say to the tune of fifty thousand

 

 

*I
I

George’s lips, and from Henry’s. So I am
ashamed to say that Valeria forgot to reprovs
the culprit—nay, that she forgave him, and said
very meckly .

“If you don’t like church, George, when

i shall we go ?”

pounds, and see what a Wondrous change you ,

would work in the “ me” of me.

afraid of no one, then. I should never dreud
unkind remarks or uncivil Words. There Would
be, no more sliy shrinkingr back from the cold
eyes of strangers-duo more troubled misgivings
as to the opinion my profi-ssional friends might
hold of me. llow clover I should inniginc my-

' self. how beautiful, how fascinating, seen in the

‘ reflected brilliancy of those fifty thousand

l golden charms! Ah, me! will no good fairly,

inc benevolent genie, fly hither from Thread-

‘ needle street, ascend to tho roof of my oliice,

come quietly down the chimney, and deposit

that sum, in sooty canvas bags, at my foot?

Strange things happened to Aladdin, who, I am

Very sure, iiewr did in all his life one-half the
hard work I have done in the last twenty-
four Wcoksl Why should they not happen to
‘ me?

Or to Valeria! I wish, with all my heart.
that I could make her rich and a duclicss on
i the spot. But my story is a real and a true
‘ one, and I must relate things as they actually
occurred—not as I, and perhaps you, Would
have them. .

, Valeria, then, went meekly on to pay her
Visit, and returned to Brampton just as the
bells were bcgiuuing to ring for the evening

‘ prayers. George wus,ca crly waiting forp her ;
and, in the simplicity of icr heart, shc thought

ishe might follow up her usual custom, and

asked him, toaccom any her to church. But,
to her surprise, he iburst out laughing in her

face, at the mere idea ofsuch a thing. ,

“To church, prott ,oncl, Now, what, on
earth should you and go tq church for, this
beautiful evening Y" _ ‘

Valeria managed to stamnier out something
about her mother liking her to go, and about
Mr. Blank’s being such an excellent preacher.
But her lover was perverse, andpoutud, and
shrugged his shoulders, like a willful child.

“ But do you never go to church, then ‘3" she
asked, with much surprise. .

“ Sometimes, on a rainy Sunday, when I am
bored to death, and there is nothing else to
do."

Valeria locked shocked.

' “ But I don’t like it, even then," he continued,
very candidly. “I don’t know which bores
me the most, new I come to think of it, silting
at home and counting the raindrops as they
fall, or sitting at church to hear some men
drone through his nose-1'

“ 0 George, don't.”

“ But,. my pretty child, why don’t they say
something original while they are about it? ‘I
protest I have heard the same old tale over and
over so often, that I am wearied to death with
it. They reach to me about justification by
faith, and aptisinal regeneration, and all that
sort of thing, and it bores me. I don’t care for
it. I go to sleep under their very noses, while
they are talking. And then, to think that any
one man is privileged to stand up in a pulpit

 

dare not contradict him, or go out while he is
talking, or ask him to stop. Oh no, Vallie, I
don't like it at all, thank youl

Valeria scarcely know whether to laugh or
cry at this outbreak. She had been so well
brought up herself—such respect for the Church,
and the ministers of the Church, had been in-
stilled into her outhful mind—that to hear
what. George b
dreadful as if behad
Buckingham Palace, an owing the inhabit-
ants thereof into small fragmenis. Probably,

i such heterodox sentiments in her presenccmhs
 wouldhave avoided. them forever after as dan.
l genius“ md designing. persons; but it. was
1; “George”,th spoke. and Iguana” ,mqst .sf
3 us have known at one time or another incur
l lives how very differently things pound from

i
i

1 should be ,

 

‘ and then I was run“ ha pp
and preach to, say, one hundred more, who ; “ y PPY

‘madncss, but never ha piness; for the

‘with their moonlit avenues, and the 0

been saying was almoat as ‘
ropused undermining ,
b

He looked up at the sky.

“ Let me see. The night will be fine, and
we shall have a moon. The air is warm and dry,
I‘ll toll you, Vallic—we'll go to Cremorne to

‘gctlicr, and you shall dance with me on thv

crystal platform."

“ Confession er Cremorne, my lady 2"

Do you remember that clever hit at Belgrav
inn Follies in Punch, dear reader? Maria liar'
soon the picture and laughed at it; but never
thought how applicable it was to her own case,
just then.

And so “ my lady" chose to go to Crcmorne.
Of course she did! To her that place was a
garden of magical delights. She know every
inch of the ground by heart. She. was learned
in the mysteries of the dog-show ; had seen the
wonderful "salamander" face to face, one day
when he came unexpectedly into their shop to
buy twii pounds of the best potatoes, thereby
proving that whatever else he might do, he ate
his dinner, and enjoyed it like a sensible man.
She knew the ballet-dancers, too, by sight, and
before the advent of George the First, had so-
cri-tly admired a magnificently-proportioned
and very handsome acrobat, who threw somer-
units with such marvelous rapidity, that it was
the most difficult thing in the world to distin-
guish his head from his heels, or, indeed, to
know if he had either head or heels at all. And
as for dancing on the platform, had she not done
it scores and scores of tir‘n‘cs with kind Cousin
John for a partner, and her mother and father.
looking delightch on, yet watchingcsrefully
all the while that 't eir two girls took no harm,
and that they left the gardensat‘a proper‘hour?
The moment the“last firework, had fired and
crackled in the air, Mrs. Grant/gathsr'ed‘her
brood under her wings and was‘bfl’, much to
Viilcria‘s regret, who could not understand why
half an hour more of such pleasure could possi-
bly be wron .

The girl, mind you, had not the blightest idea
of what CremOrne at twelve o’clock was really
like. She shrank from viceand evil sonata-
rally and instinctively, that she escap d 'much
knowledge of it. Maria, though much, call or,
was far better “posted” in the ‘wayh of his
wicked world than her elder sister. She: know
well enough (thou h she did not say so) wh
her mother scuttle away so rapidly, like an 01
hen, with' her two chic ens under her win s.
The talk of the girls at her day-school h’ad taught
her that; and I am much afraid, if the Ruth
was known, that Miss Maria had a rest desire
to stay—never imaginin that, with _ousin John
at hand, she could possi ly come to sf—énev.
or thinking of the injury that might done to
a young and innocent mind b the spectacle to
be “witnessed there. And, a r all, what was
it over which she pondered so curiousl and so
often? Vice that would be pleasurei it could '
——but it never can! No human bein , endowed
with reason apd conscience, ever yet could oint
to the memory of an evil hour, and say

It Was excitement, it Was intoxication, it was
ood.
alone are happy. And t ose brilliant gar ens,
_ ryelal
platform echoing the tread of flying feet, what
are they when oucsty and virtue (is art, and
vice and immorality take their lace? It is‘
the dance of‘ death they dance enc'ath'those
burning lights, and the hearts 'of the merry.
makers are full of misery and despair.

Ah, fair Valeria,-it is,wcll.for you that you

; are kept by a kind ‘mothci'f’l'csre frbm all such

if any other linmsn being, bad darsd to,nttar :

circus, and. the how,

“pleasure” ss‘thisl 1 . .
0n thip eventful   allgt'snd the
., . .. .  an HMO"
the kgir’l,'and flick ms acrobat mifht have
rosaisu,",ztwen,,lspss,"hs ad
mil." 'glléjc st .htgvcpssss him. 3h.
wds thinking only and alwa of Gsoxe, and of

‘ the walts he had promised er up on t a crystal .

’ -

‘ here

 

~  .~— —~»

\

y l
, I

 

I
'wi,’
\

 

 

 
 

 

 

 

and' 'b sofgandthc,‘ ianofo had
In}: an  a cowamrtilme
the. ' 0 room. 4a, little,

 

POOR VALERIAi

1’1

 

latform. And when it came—"when she 1:00..
or place just before the band, and felt his arm
steal round her waist, and his hand press hers.
while the passionate melancholy of Weber‘s last
waltz throbbed out upon the moonlit air, and
they whirled away—ah, me, how sweet it wasl
—what an elysium of bliss—how gladly she
would luwe seized that happy moment, and lived
in it for ever ! Moonlight and music, a beloved
partner and a waltz in the open air! The pen
drops from my hand, and I see a verdant grove
in a land beyond the sea, a little brook that
sparkles like silver beneath the moon, a group
of ga girls and young men dancing to the mu-
sic o three violins and a flute. And they play
Beethoven's “ Spirit Waltz"; and as we float
around, almost as silent as spirits ourselves for
the instant, under the wondrous charm of the
music, a warm hand Clasps my own, and dear
blue eyes smile into mine, and a curl of olden
hair, stirred by the gentle night-win , just
brushes my cheeks. AndI close my eyes and
sigh for the beautiful past which can never
return to me again; for the blue eyes closed
forever; for the graceful, golden head laid low
beneath the shadow of those very trees where
we danced so lightly upon that summer nightl
Strange memories these, to bc roused from their
long sleep by a vision of the dancers at Crc-
morne!
. f O O Q
It is but a dream; but George Monair, as ho
waltzed that evening, became suddenly conscious
of avery disagreeable reality. It took the shape

“ and form of his groom, Ro ert, who stood at a

little distance among the spectators, watching
him and his pretty partner, with a disagreeable
smile upon his face

CHAPTER IX.

one day passt by. Then Robert came again,
was admitted privately to Isabel’s presence
I) Rosalie, and this time he brou ht informa-
on that made her decide speedi y upon her

course of action.
Nothing had been seen or heard of the
Colonel all this time, and Mrs. Monair was
‘ctting alarmed at his absence and silence. So,
n the place of sending a servant down to his
lodgings to inquire "for him, Isabel volunteered
to o, and set out,just after luncheon, in the
using. accompanied by the discreet Rosalie.
Tho Colonel’s own‘man met them at the
door, and then, for'thc first time, Isabel learned
at her uncle had been really ill—too ill even
to‘u‘nd for, or to see her. The news came with
a sort of shock to her. Having always seen
ale. in the hci'ht' of health and spirits, it had
nWodcu to her that anything could ail
him. And these slight changes sometimes sug-
gfit the thou ht of a greater, terrible one—
dbth. Isabel did not care to dwell upon such
a‘flbOIny idea Very long.
' ‘dams showed them u into the drawing-
room, and went to finish his master‘s toilet, in
which he had been interrupted by their arrival.
Italic] took up a book and began to read. Misc
Ros'dlie,‘from her seat in the corner, examined
the‘rqom and its furniture with a critical eye.
or. wasnone of the disorder usually visi Is
in a gentleman‘s apartments to be seen there.
I’remember ining once with a arty of friends
ata b, alor‘s house in New ork, where the
chief‘orhsment of the writingtable was a bet-
erogeneous collection of broken pipes, odd
spurs, a d ‘fr ments of cigars; and where I
co‘vh'i'e'd mysealf with frightful confusion by at-
tempting to draw back a curtain in the ante-
roo’m‘ (which, as I thought, hid a window
whence I could watch the rising moon), and
thereby bringing down a perfect avalanche of
boats and slippers, which had been cunningly
stowed away there that very day by my host

“Mi. little foot-page, “to give the ladies

more room". But you might have dined at the
Colonel's our day in the year, and no such
accident won). “have ha pened to you. Eve

oil it: fiditap aceI And opt it; tbcwbisbtsblc,
‘ “90.6. in
,Isabcl had
, I _ red-checked,
Whit); chil‘ pinaforcc and trowurs. To

tell the truth, this perfect neatness was a sore
trial to the you lady. Her own room, but
for the heroic 6 ions of Rosalie, would have
borne a strong resemblance to Chaos. She
had not the slightest faculty for using a thing
and putting it back in its place again. Away
it went, in the first corner that happened to
look convenient, till Rosalie came by, with her
light touch and skillful management, to set
over thing to rifiits again.

“ f Mademoiselle only resembled Monsieur
the Colonel in this one oint,” thought poor
Rosalie to herself, as she g anced around, “ how
much more time I shoul have to myself each
d‘ !71

The next moment she rose from her seat,
courtcsied respectfully, and glided into the hall,
for Monsieur the Colonel was coming in through
the folding-doors. Isabel rose, threw down her
book, and offered her check to her uncle, saying
as she did so :

“ How could you be so ill and never send for
me ?”

“ It was a mere nothin , Bell—a bad cold and
slight fever; that was al. It was not worth
while bringing my pretty niece down here to
see me wrapped up in blankets like an old mum—
my, and coughing, sneezing, and dosing myself
with ruel from morning ti 1 night.”

“Yeour pretty youn niece would have been
very glad to come an, take care of you, if that
was a I, my dear uncle,” she said, very softly,
for something in his aspect touched her wonder-
fall].

He had not been dangerously ill, and yet he
looked so chsn ed—so aged. There was a little
tremblin of t 1e hand, a feeble look about the
still handsome face, that made her feel instinc-
tively disposed to pet and make the most of him
while he remained with her. Yet all the while
she did not lose sight of the object which had
brought her there.

“ Has George been to see you ?” she asked.

“ Not be! caught this cold riding after him
out to Putncy that day, the ungrateful young
dog, and he has never been near me since.
What is be about ?"

“ Oh, he is out of town, Uncle Alfred."

“ With the Grays Y"

“ No l"

“ Gone abroad, eh i"

“ N o l"

“ Where the dooce is he, then f"

” Not very far awa . His out-of-town excur-
sion will make you augh, I am sure. He has
lodgings at Brampton, near his Dulclnea of 'thc
potato-shop."

The Colonel looked utterly aghast.

“ Bell, you don’t mean it 1” .

“I do, indeed.” .

“ Did he tell you this 3" '

“ Ch dear, no—you could not expect such rc-
freshing simplicity from a young gentleman
like him.” ,

“ How did you find it out then 2”

- “ Through Robert, his groom, who is now
rcall in my service, though ostensibly in his."

“ 8 Robert, with him at Brampton ‘3”

“ Not with him, but still at Brompton. 'Hc
lodges With a cabman, near Mr. Mouair’s pres-
ent house, watches his proceedings, and reports
them all to me. "I‘ll enough to make one die
with laughter when you come to think of it.
There is not a movement of his that I do not
understand fully, and all the while the young
skimpleton believes his secret to be so cleverly

e t.”

The Colohel did not join in her mirth. Evi-
dently he thou ht it no laughing matter.

“ Pro how oes this wretched boy spend his
time ?” e asked.

“In the most total manner imaginable,
my dear uncle. , c rises earl , breakfasts, goes
shopping, that isto say, he bu s cherries and
green—gages of his Jody-love. Then he dines,
and then he walks out with her.” .

." Alone 2” . » r > -

“Oh no. Everything is managed.an the
most delightful propriety. . There is a younger
sister, a school-git of fourteen. and a t,
qvcrgrown young man, a cousin who a ways

 

go with them, and they walk up and down
. l

Sloane street, or look at the boats from Chcyno
Walk, or sentimentalize along the Kin ’s Road.
in a manner most edifying to see. you the
butcher-boys respect such true affection, and re-
frain from saluting them in the streets. Then,
when they have a scientific fit on, they go to the
Kensington Museum, and at night they go to
Cremorne l”

“ Go where!" ejaculated the Colonel.

“ To Cremorne. But don’t be shocked. They
retire discreetly after the fireworks are over,
and the green-groceress, who is in the secret.
generally pla s the part of chaperone there.”

“Oh, goo gracious me l” exclaimed the
Colonel, trotting u and down the room in dire
distress. “ Why oes that ho make such an

ass of himself? Why, I shall congratulated
the next time I go to my club, on the prospect
of a niece who will bring vegetables into the
family at a most reasonable price, or something
of the kind. I must go and see the boy at
once, and put a stop to this nonsense. I should
have gone a week ago,“ it had not been fog
this abominable cold.

Isabel listened with a quiet smile, playing an
opera-air with a paper-cutter on the book she
held. He stopped suddenly in his hurried
walk, and looked searchineg into her face.

“And I can't make you out either, Bell.
You tell me that you are jealous, and yet you
seem so cool about the matter; and you laugh
when you talk about his dangling after that
girl, as if it was‘ the funniest thing in the
world l” v

“ And so it is." she answered, composedly.

“ Well, I’m doocod glad you see it in that
light!”

“Where is the use of fretting myself about
it 1" she said, lightly. “ Let it pass. Are you
well enough to go out, uncle 2”

“ Yes, my dear.“~

“The carriage is at the door. I will take
you down. I want ybu to go somewhere with

me." _
They went down-stairs arm-in-arm.

 

CHAPTER 1X.

“ 'l'hy fatal shafts nnerring move,
1 bow before thine altar, Level
I feel thy soft, resistlccs flame
Glide swift through all my vital franc.

“ For, while I gaze, my bosom glows,
My blood in tides impetuous flows ,
flops, hair, and joy alternate roll, '.
And floods of transport ’whelm my soul.” ‘
‘ —Toaus Snort...
Rosalie having returned home, the Colonel
and his niece had the carriage entirely to them-
selves. She talked, it is true, but only of the
Park, the opera, the last balls of the season,
and her approaching Continental trip. " The
Colonel‘s mind was set at rest for some, Ind \
.it last he ventured to ask where they were
Inlllg. '
“ 'l‘o Kew," she replied.
" To the Gardens?” 7 ’
u 1'88." ‘ . , v . Ii
“ And what is going on there to-day, my
lcar ?" ‘ 1
“Something that you and I ought .to ace,"
s38 replied. with a slight smilcu “George '3
t ere." ‘ '
The Colonel began to sit uncutly a: this 060
cushions of the carriage. - i v «
“ Hem! Any one with him, my dear f"
u Oh, ye. pi . , I
“ The young person, I suppose ?”
“ Exactly. Hianlfrinccss of Potato‘paringn.
She is with him.” . v' ‘
“But, my dear,rdon’t you think it will ho
rather unpleasant i”
“ 0n the contrary. It will be very amnn’ng, .,
I should say; and I wnnt something tonakb
me laugh.” ‘
r.“ But, suppose this youn
her head to got up a scene I’
“ Let her.”
B ‘l‘lConaidcr the publicity of the thing. myth.
e . 9 ' | V ‘ ,.
.“You no righthat abs-will
scene. She is one ofthosccfi

person takes 

l

' - ,

 

I am told, who never know what it £9 to go}

I

 

  

.12

b. . .fi. ..

into a good Sound rage—who can only cry’ a
little, and perhaps faint becomingly now and
then, if any one is near enough to catch them.”

“ But what good will it do, Bell, to come up-
on them in this very unexpected way 1’"

“She burst into a hard, bitter laugh.

“ Would you have me send the creature a
sealed and perfumed note, appointing an inter—
xiew with, her to-da ’ Nd, uncle, there is
nothing on this earth ike taking people by sur-
prise. You find out so many things, then, that
would otherwise have been a secret to you for
ever.“'

, “ Dooced un leasant things, too, sometimes,”
muttered t olonel. _

“ Well, would rather know unpleasant
things, uncle, than live to be duped, deceived,
made a fool of!" she answered, bitterly.

The old man was silent. In his heart he
loved this haughty, headstrong girl. He loved
her better, perhaps, since she had shown him
how she suffered. than he had ever done before.
But he knew no more how to manage her thnn
'1 should know how to tame a royal Bengal tiger
ct loose here in my study. And his sensations
were, perhaps, much such as mine would be
nuring my forced tétc-a-téte with the kineg
beast. That a storm was brewing, he could not
fail to see, but when, and where, and how, or on
whose devoted head it would break, he had not
the power tosay. He dreaded the meeting at
Kew, andleven tried, dangerous as her mood
seemed to be, to persuade her to return again
without accomplishing her object. A ludicrous
vision of a collision between the reengrocer‘s
daughter and his haughty niece aunted him.
He 'ctured Valeria to himself as a buxom,
han some hoyden, who, at the first appearance
of ~impertinence on the part of her rival, would
take to fisticuffs as a matter of course. He
groaned inward! at the then ht of such a vul-
gar assault. he hrasco o of the ring
mixed itself, in his ewildere mind, with her
soft accents, till at last he stammered out, in
answer to a remark of hers about a carriage
they passed : '

“ Bell, if she strikes you, don't hit her back
again 1"

Miss Monslr looked at her uncle with utter

‘ astonishment, and then burst out laughing.

\

“ My dear uncle, you must be talking in our
sleep. We are not goin to settle our itth
ificultf—this lady of t e onions and I—as

eensn and Tom Sc crs might settle theirs."

“No,” said the Oblonel, somewhat ashamed
of having thought aloud so ridiculously; “ but
you never know what such people may say or
' do. If she is s vulgar, impertinent sort of girl,
she will certainly insult you, and I know you
will never bear it. Do come away, Bell, like a
good child, while there is at time.”

She laughed and pat his extended hand
with a playnt gesture,

“Uncle, on mistake me. I am not oing
to resort to rute brce as a means of alienating
my grievances, nor will she. I am yer pas-
five in the matter. If George likes her etter
than me, how can I help it? I can revent
his marrying her; it may bc—ct least mean
to try- or the rest, that which is to happen

must he pen; and since I cannot alter it, why ‘a
t

. should grieve? As you say so oftsn, uncle,
is all ‘on the esrds’, and I must take what is
given me like any other mortal, and do the best

can. Talk about hoe will, of liberty of action,
of making life what we choose it to be 1‘" she
cried out, with sudden scorn. “ You know as
well as I do, that such a doctrine is but a mock
ery_and a liel We are slaves, blind slaves,
mere uppcts in the hands of an all- owerful
Som‘v in , who will and must be Siipreme,
fume, an fret, and struggle as ws me ."

The Colonel looked rather perplex . Grace-
less old sinner thou h he was himself, he had a
sort of action t at the nature of a woman,

.si use it was a woman's, ou ht b
rigidity-to be higher, and better and urgr thug
pishow; hIt was as rent universe lesson of

' gw . ever ,, earns, or c htto learn,
pigs migthg's {assigndl thipseugho have ‘so

t  finan- , on t,' not utter! im-
~. roast“: ‘pat aside is utter years that c’hild.

l
l

 

POOR VALERIAI

like belief in woman's goodness, no matter now
often a woman may have deceived, betrayed,
wronged, and ruined thorn during those years.
So the Uolonel, though his experiences of the
sex had not been of the best and brightest kind,
still crowned his ideal woman with the halo that
had shone around his good mother’s head, and
for her sake believed in this oung descendant
of hers, in a way that; wouldyhave made Bell
smile could she have guessed it. He had no

i more idea of the depth of possible wickedness

lying dormant in that young girl’s heart, than I
of the secrets of the Maelstrom whose whirling
waters I have never yet seen. Bell, he thought,
was young and gnidy, and high-spirited and
wild ; and George had not behaved Well to her,
and the knowledge of this stung and angered
her. But she was good at heart, and when she
was once happily married, all would go well.
And so, when he heard her talking in that wild
sort of way, he felt it his duty to make a little
gentle remonstrance.

“ My dear child,” he said, softly, “ you should
not say such things. If any one else had heard
you, they would have set on down directly as
something Vvl‘ like an infidel."

Bell opener her black eyes widely at this
unexpected exhortation.

“ As for what you say about an all-powerful
Something," he continued, elated It his success
in inculcating precepts in morality, “ that is all
very well, if one knew what you meant by it."

“ Fate, Uncle. Nothing less. Nothing
more.”

“ Then you ought not to speak in that way.”

“Hem! Saul is among the prophets once
more, Uncle Alfred l The idea of our setting
yourself up as a parsonl I shoul not be at
all surprised, now, when I go home, to find my
lady-mother enacting the part of clown or pan-
taloon l”

“ Bell, I am ashamed of you !"

“ Well, so am I ashamed of you, uncle, when
you talk in that fashion. The idea of your
scolding me for believin in Fate, when you
taught me to do so! by, that sentence of
yours, ‘It is on the cards’, was almost the first
one I learned to speakl And, now—O Uncle
Alfred, how can you ex ect me to preserve a
sober face, when you tal such utter nonsense!
When you have owned, time after time, that
nothing ever turned out in this world as you
had hoped, and expected, and intended it would
—-when you have acknowledged honestly that
not the ‘best laid’, but that cry ‘plan of
mice and man gang aft a glee—men on know
so well that one may work and toll their lives
out for any given end in vain, if that end is not
to be sccom lishedl You have proved this;
so have I, an new I am proving it again. My
whole life is going erng—my whole future
hangs now upon its last turning-point. Do you
think I would not make that point a bright one
if I could ? I cannot, on cannot, no one can
do it for me, or tell me ow it will all end. But
the way is fixed, and in time I shall find myself
walking there, though I may hate it all the
while. No tears, no rsyers of mlne can alter
it; smiles or sighs m l avail the one as much
as the other, and smiles are leasanter than
sighs, and so I choose them. nowing all this,
seeing yourself how much depends upon the
events of the next few months, feeling what a

 

crisis this is in my existence, do you not see at

the same time how utterly powerless I am—how .
utterly unable to bring the happy or unhappy ‘
future within my grasp ? If George loved mt—v I
if he would marry and be true to me, I feel that ‘
I might yet be a good and happ woman. Can ‘
any exercise of my own will in uenee his—can '
any effort of mine draw him one inch nearer to 5
me, or enable me to free in self from the influ- l
once for good or evil he as always had over 1
me? You know better. I can do nothin ,un-
Iess I go blindly and impulsively on' as am ’
doing now. I cannot make him dislike that'l.
woman and be constant to me. I cannot make 
myselfs ood, forgiving creature who would place I?
her h in his and say, “Be happy,and never -
mind me.‘ I'look back u r‘ip‘yflpsst life, and '
see a dreary blank. I loo fo into the fu- l
ture, and know and feel that there I shall be ten"

\

times weaker and wicksder than I am now. Yet
I cannot help it; I cannot turn awa from the

sin and misery I see before me. was born
wicked, and I suppose I shall die so. ’Tis my
kismet, and I must accept it. Wicked, restless,

desperate, unhappy, and lost, that is it! Allah, 1,

il Allah! Who can help it f—not I."

She sat lookin at him when she had finished
speaking, beautiful, defiant, and unha py.
Among all the nonsense she had uttered, t ere
was a grain of truth and sense, and he knew it.
Her inheritance from her ancestors had been
beauty, grace, and a heart and soul of the most
chaotic kind. Her passions were strong, her
nature rash, despotic, and reckless. If she had
been a boy, she would have run away and gone
to sea, most probably, and hard work and strict
disci. iline would have improved that nature
considerably. But sheJiad been an only daugh-
ter—an only child—a beauty, and an heiress—
the queen of the nursery—the idol of a weak
and indulgent mother—and finally, the passion-
ate, headstrong, unreasonable, undisciplined
creature she was now. It was dificult to say
what her future would be ; but as she talked on,
showing her uncle, for the first time in her life,
a glimpse of her unquiet heart, the poor man
grew sorely alarmed, and ima ined her even
worse then she really was. If s e had but met
with a kind, considerate, truly religious adviser
at that moment, how different, her after-life
might have been! Half the evil doing in this
world arises from the fact that evil-doers have
been left to themselves at the most critical peri-
od of their lives, without the warning word, the
guiding hand that might have prevented the
mischief and the crime. So in this case. Issp
be] —— poor, unhappy, wayward girl—wanted
nothin so much as a grave, wise friend and
counts or then. Was it some mute hope that
she might find one in her uncle, which impelled
her to such a passionate outbreak of hopeless

unbelief and despair! Perhaps so, for she sat ‘

watching him eagerly, while he shrank from her
eye, feelin sbashed, uneasy, and ashamed.
She was gorn wrong, that was evident one h;
but what con d he say to her? If he talk of
God instead of Fate, she might. laugh in his
face, and with very good reason. Besides, what
he did he know of religion. that he should name
it to her?

And so, for that feeling of miserable, sell:
shame—for that dread of a scornful laugh, ‘
let the decisive moment pass by, and thus, per-
he s, a soul was lost forever. What do you
think he said in reply to that outburst of hers?
Only this: - ' '

“ M dear Bell, you must not excite yourself
so. We will bring George back and marry you
OK, and then all will be ri ht.” ‘

She turned white, uttsre a sort of roan, inc
turned away, with a wild, re roach I look at
him that haunted him to his ylng day. A no.
meat after, she looked up again, smiling and
self-possessed as usual.

. Q C O 0

They drove across the bridge at Row, and
drew up before the hospitable door of the Boss
and Crown. _

‘t We will get out here," said Isabel. " It Is
just possible that Strephon may be feasting
Delis with curds and cream in the dining-room
here."

“ No; she was wrong. They looked through '

the dining-room, the tea-room, and into every
wooden arbor in the grounds in vain. There
were plenty of people there. some of whom
paused in their meal, as Isabel's stern, letting
gaze rested upon them, to express a po Ite hope
that the young lady would know them again
when she saw them—but there was no curds
and cream, there was no Strephon, no Della
in the place. So they walked up into the gas-
den slowly, arm-in-arm, and began their search
there. '
The Colonel lim lion
spirit. His week's llnessh
more than he knew, and he was in positive
bodily fear, of s collision—personal, or other»
wise—with the green '

in bitterness of

ocer’s dagghur’ . ‘
“Bell!” he said, piteously, ' tliero hi 
sea I v

time» the up thl,  “It

\

broken him down .\

 

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. from every passer-by.

 .llaabel, my (I r, this is no place for
1110,qu you to thccarri a; and I wil see him

I

POOR VALERIAI

 

1

I do on no earthly good to meet them here. I
willy

see George myself and set it right, if you
will only—"

“Too late, uncle i" said Isabel, suddenly
stopping. and speaking in a suppressed voice,
while she pointed to a group just before them.
:“ Look there I"

The Colonel did look—uttered his usual excla-

' mation of “The dooce l“ and then stood utterly

aghast and helpless.

For he saw, not more than six feet away
from him, a rustic bench, placed beneath the
shadow of a grand old tree, whose branches
spreading to the right and the left. and drooping
almost to the ground. formed a pleasant screen
Upon that bench sat a
y ung girl, dressed in light summer attire, whost
dglicats beauty would have attracted the Colo-
nel's favorable regards wherever he might havi
happened to meet her. Beside her—bending
over her—talking to her only as a favored and
sees d lover would talk, sat George Monair,
blissinlly unconscious, as he gazed into those
dark blue eyes, of the pair of black ones that
wars-regarding him so wrathfully at a little dis-
tance. Not far away, Maria roamed to and fro,
looking curiously at the visitors, the most faith-
ful yet at the same time the most delightfully
neglected of warders.

Five minutes passed, and still the enamored
pair were utterly unconscious of any presence
save their owu. The Colonel began to fear that
he had made some dreadful blunder.

“ I think we had better go," he whispered tc
his niece. “ George is a scainp, that is true,
and I will give him a sound lecture to-night.
But that young lady cannot be—”

“Don’t alarm yourself, uncle,” said Isabel,
aloud. “ That young lady, as you call her, is

' the greengrocer’s daughter, and there is no mis-

take."

. At the sound of her voice, the lovers started
and looked up. George crimsoned to the roots
of/his hair, and sprang from his seat. Valeria‘s
eyes Were fixed upon the lady whose fell glance
at her expressed such a depth of loathing and

" of hatred. Who could she be? and what did
she want there 7

There was an instant's awkward silence. Then
Mr. Monair advanced hesitatingl toward them.

“ Well, Sir!” said Isabel, coldly. ,

I But the Colonel stammered, and shook his
cane at him.

. " What do you mean by such conduct as
this, Sir 1'" he exclaimed. “You ought to be
ashamed of yourself Call yourself a gentle-
man and a man of honor, and then do things
of this sort? Iinsist upon' your taking leave
of that young person at once, and returning
with us."

George burst out with a ver naughty word.
' “ b‘wearing before a lady l hat next, Sir—-
what next 2"

“ You drive me to it," said the young man,
aulkily. “ What does this interference mean 2”
,. “That is a cool usstion, Sir—a remarkably
coolquestion, consi ering all the circumstances
of the case. If Isabel avoided you studiously
for a week or ten days, and then you found her

. sitting in Kew Gardens with a young gentleman's

' arm around her waist,l think you would like to
know the reason of such extraordinary conduct,
wouldn’t you—hey ?"

George nawed his glove. and said nothing.

“ Now, gir." thundered the Colonel, “ are you
coming with us or not ?"

t “I am not coming."

"You are going back to that young per-

son f“
, “'I am going to that young person," replied
“George, who was too much excited to care what
lie was saying. “ And I recommend you to speak
a little more respectfully about her; for, in a
very few weeks. she will o my wife.”

“ Your what, Sir ?” gasped the Colonel.
“ Good heavens!
mine say such a thing 7 To offer such aminsult
to our own cousin—to your afianccd wife-
andybsforc in faccl You must be mad, Silrl

u; ct

'again, and find out what t is cxtrosrdinary con-

,' ' n
(5,192? i.

."f‘ m

Do I livc to hear a nephew of ,

 

—ss'——_

Isabel did not answer. She, was still looking
at Valeria, who sat breathless and frightened.
fixed by that baleful glance as if b the charms
of a deadly serpent. When she did open her
lips, it was to some purpose, I can promise you ;
for fine ladies are only flesh and blood, after all,
and the most perfect breeding in the world can-
not always restrain the natural outbreaks of rage,
and hate, and jealousy. So Isabel exclaimcd to
her rival, as she passed :

“ You simpering, painted thing! I‘ll spoil
those pretty eyes and pink cheeks before I' have
done with 'ou 1 You thought to take him
frorlili’me—did you? See if you can do it, that
is a "

It was not lady-like—it was not well-bred—it
was not nice in her to do it—but it was human;
and I am sorry to say that she felt ten degrees
better for the spiteful speech when she left the
gardens, got into her carriage, and drove away,
And I scarcely think the Colonel was sorrv she
had uttered it, either. His sympathies were all
with her just at that moment; and although
the greengrocer's daughter had unexpected] '
turned out to be a very elegant and pretty girl,
it still did him good to think she had received
something like her deserts at the hands of his
niece.

“ You’re a trump, Isabel l" he said, as they
drove away.- “I was afraid you would faint,
or do something of that kind, when you saw
them."

“ Faintl—with that creature before me!" she
said, turning her flushed cheeks and sparkling
eyes upon him. "Uncle, since you like this
little amusement so well, you shall go out to
Broinpton with me to-morrow evening, and sea
the play played out." I

“ ’ou are never going there, Bell 1’"

“Wait and see. When you find yourself
among the potatoes, and onions, and cabbages,
Uncle, you will begin to understand what it is

,that I mean to do by way of finishing Master

George's little romance," she answered, with a
quiet laugh. _
. CHAPTER X.

Just imagine, my dear young lady friends,
what a situation I have placed our poor little
Valeria in. To go to Kew Gardens with the
the beloved of your heart, to sit under the
shadow of whispering, green trees, listening to

the accents that fall more softly than any others
on your ear, to be thinking. and feeling, and
knowing what a happy place this grave, old
world is, after all -- when youth, and love, and
pleasure combine to make it so — and then to
have the blissful reality. and no less blissful
reverie, broken in upon b an unmistakable ri~
ml, who is, perhaps. far a ovc you in rank and
position, if not in grace and beauty, and who
turns up her aristocratic nose at you and your
belongings with a scorn that you can but writhe
under. bittcrl though you may resent it. Sure-
ly, this must a very unpleasant ending to a

' pleasant day l

Poor Valeria found it so, as she sat on the
garden-scat, long alter the ban hty lady had
gone, wiping the tears from her eautiful blue
eyes, and glancing furtively, now and then, at
Mr Monair, who paced up and down the grav-
cled path with a lowering brow, and an air so
sullen that she dared not speak to him. Maria,
recalled from her enthusiastic contemplation of
the ladies‘ dresses and bonnets, by the threat
that fell from Isabel‘s lips at the conclusion of
that strange momentary interview. sat with her
arms around her sister’s neck trying to comfort
her, and wondering, in her own mind, why
Mr Monair did not come to assist her in her
task

" A nasty stuck-up thing she was, Valliel"
she exclaimed “Don‘t spoil your eyes over
her, my dear. You are ten times prettier than
ever she was or will be. And I should just like
to see her meddle with on again while I am
near on, that’s all! I‘l tell her and that hor-
rid o d man just what I think of them the next
time they dare to come bothering you, V allie,
dsar—aec if I don‘t."

“ Hush, Msria—Georgs '1 coming.". .

And the poor girl dried her eyes, and put her
faithful slly’s arms may that she might hear

l
i

__“._. .v __ _.________.__

 

‘13

what her lover deigned to communicate to her
about the scene she had just witnessed.

“ I am very sorry you should be so annoyed.
my dear," he said. in a constrained voice. “I
think we had better go back to Brampton now.
Will you take my arm?"

“ But—Geor e," she said, hesitatingl , “ who
were they 2 an why did that lady spea to me
like that?"

“ Oh, hang it!
just now "

She was silenced at once

But Maria. grown suddenly watchful for her
idolized sister, was not so easily to be put
down.

‘ You ought to tell Vallie all about it. Mr
Monair." she said, resolutely, " because i am
very sure my mother will not let her go out
again with you, if people are going to come and
say such things as that lady said to her

‘ Little gir s should be seen and not heard.
him Maria," was the sarcastic roplv

“Little girl, indeedl I’m no more a littls
girl now than you are, Mr. Monair! I'm oiu
into long frocks next birthday , and I love Val-
lie," she added, stoutly , " and I‘m not ring
to stand b and see any one insult her, if can
help it! shall tell my mother all about that
lady when we get home "

" Little mischief making monkey! I will nev-
er forgive you if you do Ifyou must know all
about it, the lady was my cousin, and the ‘ hor-
rid old man’, as you so politely called him, was
my uncle."

“ Well, he was a horrid old man. and I hate
him, and so does Vallie! But what business
had ‘our cousin to speak so to her ?"

“ 'ou had better go and ask her," said the
young man, lightly.

But something in Maria’s round young face
showed that she did not mean to be trifled with ;
and Vallie, also, was looking very pale and um
hap i. So, after considering a moment, he
mu up his mind that nothing but a good round
falsehood could possibly save his credit and his
ladye-love, and prepared to make it sound as
much like the truth as be possibly could.

" The fact is," he said, with an air of ex-
treme candor, “ my cousin is jealous of you.
Valli» !"

Valeria‘s heart sank heavily down.

‘ Jealous! Why, you have not been making
love to her, have you i“ asked the downright
Maria, looking very fierce at the mere idea of
such a thing

Mr. Monair winced slightly, but replied tho
next moment, with a look of injured innocencc.
that he had never thought of such a thin .

“ Then why on earth should she be jealgous of
Vallie .’"

“ My dear Maria, although you are going into
long frocks next birthday, itis just possible that
there are some things connected with the pas-
sion of love which you may not fully under-
stand,” he answered, in a tons that showed ho
was very nearly at the end of his patience.
“Valeria is better fitted to enter into, a‘dis-
cussion of that kind than you are, I’m sure.
She can see how my cousin may be jealous of
her, even if I have never given bar a right to
feel so.”

Valeria raised her eyes sad] to his. ‘

“Yes. I understand it, eorgc. only too
well. But there is nothing. between you -'shc
has no claims upon you -— you are not cugagsd
to her ?"

‘- What a question."

" But answer it, please. Icsnnot doubt your
word. you know; and it would ease the pain
liere"—and she laid her hand upon her heart—-
‘ to know that I have more right to you than
she has."

. Poor child i If she wantcd to know all, why
was she so beautiful, so gentle, so winning ?—
why did also look in his face with those tnndé‘r.
violet eyes? If she had but boon awkward and
ugly, he would have told the truth with cheer-
iul alacrity, and all would have been well. But
because she had a fair skin, and soft, dark hair,
and a pretty month, and lovst eyes, he found it
u yisnpossiblc to do anything batter til“,
add another to the long list 01 fibs (that b

1

Don‘t ask questions, Vallic,

\

er

   

. for abusing you so!

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, of utter solicitude in the free, fresh air.

been lucky enough to win.

.. kills

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I

 

Solite way, believe, of describing a lie now-a— ‘
ays) he a already told her.

“ my dear Vallie,”'he said, earnestly. “ I
assure you there is nothing between us —-— never
has been, and never will be ! Are on satisfied
now, Or do you want me to go down on my
knees and swear to what I have said ?”

“ No, George. Your word is quite sufficient,”
she answered, with a look of trusting confi-

». dence that made him heartily ashamed of him-

self. “ And I am really sorry for your cousin.
It must be very hard to love you and meet with
no return.” _ _ _

“ SOrry l” burst out Maria, spitefully tossing
her head. “I am sure it serves her quite right i
And why she wants to do i

it. 1 can‘t say. Catch me caring for any man
who was not fond of me! A woman must be
mad to make such a goose of herself."

,Mr. Monair started impatiently from his seat.
He could hardly say which gnlled him the most,
the kind or the impertineut speech. Isabel,
his proud, beautiful cousin, alternately pitied
and condemned —- and by whom ‘3 The daugh-
ters of a rreengroccrl The blood of the Mo-
nairs rose otly in his cheek at the unwelcome
thought. ‘

“ Come, Valeria," he said, coldly ; “ we must

’really go; it is getting late.”

Quick to observe the slightest shadow of a
change in his manner, she followed him Without
a word. The journey back in the crowded
steamer to Cadoghn Pier was rformed almost
in silence. When they landedfhe put the girls
in a cab; and, excusin himself from accom-
panying them on the p es. ,of an engagement,
walked away toward Battersea Park, ry way of
soothing his ruffled feelings with an hour or two

“I don‘t like that young gentleman’s pro-
cev-dings just at present," observed Maria, as
they mVe toward home. “ I shall keep my eye
on hi , Vallie—do you hear ?"

. Valeria did not answer. Tears were in her
eyes, and a heavy cloud seemed hovering in her
life’s blue sky. That first uncertain doubt
which succeeds ‘our perfect trust in s belovsd
-one——-oh, how hard it is to bear!

 

CHAPTER XI.

“ All is lost—save honor!” cried the defeated
king in olden times, as he gathered up his bri-
dle-reins and rode away from the battle-field,
which had been fatal to ‘0 many of his gallant
kniarhts, and very nearly fatal to him.

“ Allis lost—honor and all !" echoed Isabel
Monair, as she drove toward Brompton, on the
eventful morning which was to decide her fate
and Valeria’s—ay, and her cousin‘s too! “All
is’lost—honor and all i"

’ She knew that she was about to do a cruel—.

perhaps a Wicked thing. For the sake of yesl- '

ous pride, still more for the sake of an estab ish-
meat in life which she did not real] need, she
was going to crush two hearts, andy make two
lives forever miserable. True, her cousin had
wron ed—had slighted—had scorned her. But
she did not love him; it was her pride, not her
heart, that was Wounded; and she might, had
she been magnknimous enough, have made him
a better as Well as a happier man, by releasing .
him from the chains he hated, forgivin him his

crime of dishonesty pnd double-den ing, and 
leaving him at peace with the woman he really i
lovedhand whose first fresh affections he had 1
She might, I say,
have done this, and all his life long George Mo- .
nair would have blessed her for her charit ' and ‘l
kindness, and through that life he Wouldjhave 
endeavored to deserve it by his fidelity to the ;
wife! he had chosen. i
‘ But Isabel was no angel, to set herself aside .
and put her rival in the better place so meekly. 
Indignant with Valeria for daring to be loved, ‘,

 

‘angry with George for his treachery, she was}

also'esger for her own interests, bent on her own
advancement all the while. If she had ever
reall l'OVed her cousin, his conduct must have
that love -
‘d‘apisc him. She‘still held him ound,to her,
but chic because it was her interest so to do.
city bi  could she gain" “ifpodtioa

l ‘ ~.

as it was, it sim ly made her I

.._'1?OQR VALERIA!

which she coveted, and the gri-aier liberty of
speech, thought, and action, denied to her by
the customs of her country as a single Woman.
And since no other came to Woo, she must hold
fast by the one already there—must bind him to
her chariot-Wheels till the ring was on her finger,
and her end was won.
a slight smile, as the drove down Piccadilly,
“then let him go where he likes—do all he
likes; it will be all the same to me i"

“Allis lost—honor and all i" Yes. she might
Well say that. Circumstances were bitterly

, auainst her just then, and the passion of woun -
1 cd feeling in her haughty heart forbade that

patience which would have taught a meeker
woman to wait till circumstances grew kind once
more. Isabel rebelled, warrcd against, and, in
her heart, refused to be conquued b
even While she confessed with her lips t e utter
necessity of submission to their unt0ward march.
While she struggled so desperately With herself
and with her fate, she stood upon the brink cfa
deep and dark abyss, and looking dowa into its
depths, with half-fascinated eyes, she saw her
future image, repeating, with melancholy de-
spair, “ Yes, all is lost—honor and all!" She
knew only too well what was coming—what
must come, if she forced herself as a wife 11 on
a man who loved another woman better t an
her.

And yet she went straight and swift on to her
doom. The Colonel had promised to meet her
at Brompton, and When the carriage had turned
down by the “Bell and Horns", she saw his
stiff military figure far up the Fulham Road,
pacing up and down like a sentinel on uard.
As the carriage drew up beside him, he ooked
at Isabel With a scared, guilty face. ’The truth
was, that he had gone out to Bromgton directly
after breakfast that morning—ha visited his
nephew‘s lodgings, in order to warn him of the
]approaching interview between Isabel and Va-
eris.
had risen at six that morning, the landlady said,
gone off without any breakfast, and left no mes-
sage as to the time of his return ; so there was
nothing for the poor Colonel to do but to pace up
and down the street, with the vague hope of
running across him before Isabel arrived.

Of this unsuccessful mission he took great
care to say nothing, as he handed her from the

carria e, and ordered the coachman to return to :

the “ all and Horns", till he was wanted.

“ Well, uncle,” said the young lady, briskly, ‘

as she took his arm. “ Have you paid your re-
tpccts to our dulcinea yet ?” ,

“ No,” said the poor Colonel, who would far
rather have heade< the assault upon the Redan.
“ ’Tis an ugly business, Bell—make the best of
lt. And so unusual, too i”

“I like doing unusual thin s.”

“ Poor little thing!" sighe the Colonel.

“Is it me you mean, my dear uncle?”

“No, Bell. I was thinking of the poor irl
yonder. How little she dreams what is coming
upon her! Upon In honor, I pity her!”

“ No doubt," Efli( Isabel, quietly; “ she is'

pretty—and beauty in distress is so interesting,
especially to a man. If she had a coffee-colored
skin, green eyes, and a bump, you Would be
saying, ‘Liltle wretchl it serves her right l’
Here we are, uncle, in the actual ‘presence of
your divinity. You can take off your hat, and
go down on your knees before her as soon as
you like.”

She gave him a little push as she spoke, and
sent him into the shop, while she stood smiling
upon the threshold, a destroying angel—beauti-
ful to behold, but in reality as cruel as the
grave ! , '

Valeria stood behind the counter arranging
the shelves and the window for the day‘s sale.
Piles of fruit and vegetables were around her;
a basket of velvet-checked peaches was in her
hand; and, smiling to herself, while she softly
sang a little song, she removed two of the larg-
eat and finest, and placed them carefully on one
s'lde, hidden b a wreath of grape leaves. The
colonel sighs as he saw her do it.

dress, and white collar and slc'cvd—it seemed a

sin snd‘a shame to come and disturb the inno- ,

l

“ Then,” she said. with ‘

them, ,

But no Mr. Monair was to be found. He :

So young '
—s6 fresh—so fair in her little print morning '

cent peace and confidence that had just prompt»
ed that graceful little act. But Miss Monti!
had no such seruple to contend with. She
watched the transfer of the tempting fruit with
a sarcastic smile. and then said quietly-“FM
George, I suppose, young woman I” '

At the sound of that clear, ringing, slightly
metallic voice—that dreaded, that'nnforgottsn
voice—Valeria turned swiftly, as if an arrow
had struck in r. The pitying face of the Colonel,
the cruel eyes of her rival, met her astonished
and terrified gaze. She dropped thebasket of
fruit with a low cry, sank down upon a seat, and
covered her face With her hands.

I her from head to foot.

“ You expected a visitor, perhaps, not visit-
ors,” she said. “ Let me see. A blue dress;
’ Mr. Monair‘s favorite color is blue, and it suits
i your complexion admirably, I'must say. Linen
} collar and sleeves; he likes that refreshin sim-
? licity and neatness of attire, 1 know. lack

kid slip ers and white stockings, I dare sa , if
i I could at see your feet; and your hair one
in braids, not in a net-oh! no; nets are out of
fashion, and he likes the fashion, whatever it
may be! And you have a ring, too,“ she added,
catching a glimpse of Valeria’s hand; “a for-
get-me-not ring. He gave it you. and we all
know what that means."

 

1 She paused for a reply, but none came, nor .

. did Valeria raise her head, though a doe red

flush suffused her cheeks and neck. That lush ,

‘ seemed to sting Isabel with a sudden fury
} d“ Will you stand up, creature 2” she exclaim-
e .
i has tempted Geor e Monair to sell his honor-
7 to break his Wor 1 Come, here is my uncle;
an older man, but b far the better catch of the
l t'wo. Be kind, and {oak at him, and see if you
icaunot make an impression on his heart—it
‘ would be worth your while."
“Bell, don’t be too hard on her," said the
Just then Valeria

i Colonel, under his breath.
‘, raised her head.

" Why do on come here and talk to me like
‘ this?” she said, with gentle dignity. “This is
‘ my father’s house—my home; and you are a.
{ lady, and ought notto insult a poor girl who is
l beneath you—who never wronged you Willing-

, ly—who—” ‘

Her voice faltered. Miss Monalr laughed
aloud.

“So on attempt to teach me courtesv, do

‘ you ? ell, perhaps you are right after all. I
. must not forget that I am a Monair, even while
i I remember that I am a woman. And so, Miss
1 Grant, as we are in your father‘s house—your
home, may I ask you to favor me with half an
1 hour’s conversation in’ a place more private
l than this i”
1 She looked around at the unfortunate beets
and cabbages with a glance that made Valcri
feel herself mean and small indeed. ‘ , I
But although that shop was evidently no
place for a private interview, the young girl did
not move from her seat.
‘ was so puzzled and perplexed by Isabel's sud-
! den request, that she scarcely ‘knew what she
‘ was doing. Her mother was in the kitchen,
busy with the affairs of the house. Maria was
in the parlor, preparing her lessons for school;
their one servant was up-stairs engaged in mak-
ing beds, or in looking out of the window, as
the case might be; her father was on his daily
rounds, and Cousin John had gone into Thurloo
Square with a basket of peculiarly nice fruit for

an old invalid dowager, who gobbled up an '
enormous quantity of their goods, and then ,

grumbled most fesrfully when she had to pay
or them. The whole responsibility of the shop
rested, therefore, just at that moment with poor

Valeria, who had a dim idea through all her .

bewilderment that business must be attended to
before anything else—that potatoes must be sold
though hearts might ache—that cabbages would
command the market price even thou h hearts
were breaking. She meekly intimat umuch
to Isabel, though ot exactly in thesame' words.
That/young lady smiled scornfnll , bowed her
head, ad‘still kept her lacs.- V3 ria, loo
sadly up at her, remain red another who I

' I

 

 

Isabel advanced to the counter, and looked at

“Stand up, and show us that face which ’

To tell the truth, she '

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I‘POOARW VALER‘IA I

15

 

 

 

\
snce stood before that counter, bright and
beautiful as the opening day. Ah mel how
things were changed! how she was changed
since then! And the pretty head drooped, and
the violet. eyes were softer still with unshed
tears, as she went down to the other end of the
shop to attend to an impatient customer. When
she returned, Isabel began the attack again.

“ Can you name any time when you would be

’ more at leisure, Miss Grant ?f’ she said, in her

most dulcet tones.
again."

“ Oh no: here is Cousin John!" said Vale-
ria, as she caught sight of a well-known figure
strolling down the street. “He will attend to
shop, and I am at your service.”

Cousin John came in whistling, sto ed ab-
ruptly at the sight of Isabel, took of;) is but,
and slipped behind the counter, with a meek

“We could easily look in

‘ look that would have made Valeria laugh, but

for the trouble she was in. The young man
took them for some very grand customers, and
thought to himself that “ Grant (is Co. were
looking up." Valeria explained to him her
transactions of the morning, shoved him the
slate, and ave an order or two touching the
disposal o certain baskets of vegetables behind
the counter, lsahel watching her all the while
from under her drooping lashes, with a scornful
smile.

“ She never loved him,” she thought. “ She
cares more about those baskets of peas and cu-
cumbers than she does for George Monair, ans
she will console herself with them when l have
taken him from her. It would be a pity tosnoll
such an excellent woman of business."

So she hushed the vague stirrings of her con-
science, never dreaming that the gentle nature
of the girl she despised was far superior to her
own, never thinking that it might be a meek
fulfillment of a daily duty, a service of love to
kind parents, rather than an undue interest in
cabbage and potatoes, that she was condemnin .

With her hand upon the shop-door, Valeria
hesited for an instant. Had Miss Monair been
alone, she would have taken her up in her own

bedroom, haughty and unmerciful as she look-
ed. \ But it would never do to escort the Colonel
into that modest little chamber, and be evident-
ly intended to accompany his niece wherever
she might go. So, with much disquictude—for
it was like approaching a lighted candle close
to a barrel of gunpowder—she led them into

the little parlor where Maria was learning her:

lessons.

Where she was supposed to be learning them,
I should say ; for, at the moment of their unex—
pected entrance. that ouiig lady was endeav-
oring, with the aid 0? two chairs placed far
apart, and weighted with books to keep them
steady; a short rope, that looked suspiciously
like a missing clothes line Valeria had heard
her mother inquiring for only the day before ;

. and the long-handled hearth-broom, to imitate

feats which she had seen performed at Cremorne
and elsewhere during the summer. At sight of
the strangers, and sound of her sister‘s horrified
“Maria !”, the young acrobat leaped lightly to
the ground, the two chairs coming together the
next ins nt with a great crash, that brought
Mrs. Gra t up from the kitchen to see what was
the matter.

"‘My clothes-line! Oh, you naughty, wicked
girl!" were the first words she said, as her as-
tonished eyes took in the scene; and then, as
she became aware of the presence of stran ers
—suoh stylish strangers, too—she grew em ar-
rassed and voluble, and crimson to the ears, in
one and the same moment.

“I am sure I hope you will excuse me, my
lady," she said to ISIbel. “ I was so taken

V aback at what that wicked child had done, that

I never heard you at first. That girl is the
plague of my life, my hilly. She hates playing
the piano and learning reach, and she is al-
ways up tasomething of this kind. I declare,
it is enough to make one discouraged, that it is!
I know what will be the end of it all some fine
day ; she will break her neck, and than she will
be sorry enough she did not mind her mother.
best clothes-lino. too! Just look at it, my

 

As she held up the unfortunate hit of rope,
avll knotted. tangled. and cut, Isabel could not
help laughing.

“Never mind, Mrs. Grant," she said. “L
the young lady‘s tastes lie so decidedly in that
direction, you can make a rope-dancer of her,
if the worst comes to the worst.”

“ And it Would saw: her right mylady," re-
plied the worthy woman, who had mistaken Is- I
abcl fora titled customer of theirs, and never 2
dreamed that her suggestion was anything more
than a threat over the recreant Maria's head.
Had she known that Isabel in her own heart be-
lieved it the highest and most honorable posi-
tion her young daughter could possibly hope to
aspire to, I firmly believe she Would have boxod
her ears soundly then and there, and turned her
out of her house, without deigniiig  listen to
any apology or excuse she might think in to of-
fer. But it is such a wise prov1sion that we
cannot read each other's thoughts ! My dearest
friend probably thinks me an unbearable bore,
and I believe her, in my heart of hearts to be
an utter simpleton', yet see how well my dear-
est friend aud I get on together, how glad we are
to meet, how sorry we are to part ! Bless me!
What life Would be worth a moment‘s )urchase
if it had to be spent in that horrible niece of
Truth, where it was utterly impossible for any
one to tell one of those merciful little white
fibs that now make us endurahle to each other!
What a palace of envy, and hatred, and malice,
and all uncharitableness that must have been i
I could not well afford to live in it, my dear
readers. Could You ?

And so good Mrs. Grant, little dreaming that
she was welcoming her daughter‘s direst enemy
to her hearth and home, rolled up the clothes-
line, disengaged the two chairs from their bur-
den, and offered the one to Isabel, the other to
the Colonel. Miss Monair sat down at once—
she wished to play out the comedy completely
at her ease. The Colonel had some Arab-like
scruples about accepting the hospitality of
those whom he was about to insult and injure ;
but a slight twmge in his foot, and a direful vis-
ion of flying gout, were stronger than those
scruples, an he took the proffered seat with the
air of a martyr. Valeria stood silently near her
mother’s chair; Maria, with her books, retreat-
ed sulkily to a corner. whence she watched the
intruders with suspicious eyes. Child though
she was, she felt certain that they were, to use
her own expressive phrase, “ after no good",
and she grew doubly watchful for her sister‘s
sake, after she got one glimpse of her downcast,
sorrowful face.

There they sat, in the pleasant, simply furn-
ished parlor, with the autumn sun shining in
warmly through the open window, and the birds
chirping and singing in the small garden just
beneath. If, through the glass door of the
shop. you had caught a momentary glimpse of
the group, you would have fancied that the
Golden Age had really come atlast; you would
haVe said to yourself that here were wealth and
luxury sitting amiably to be entertained by vir-
tue and competence. The Golden Age, indeed i
It was the present one instead—the Age of Iron
and of Brass! And it was Pride, and Hate,
and Revenge, who had come to pay a morning
visit to Beauty, Youth, and Innocence, that was
al .

The strange silence that had fallen upon them
lasted so long, that Mrs. Grant’s kind motherly
heart took alarm at last. Sue looked up in her
daughter's pale face, then glanced at Isabel,
whose pitiless eyes were also resting there, then
at the Colonel, who turned red and fidgeted un-
easily as he met her gaze; something was evi-
dently wrong. The good soul saw it dimly.
But what could it be? and what could that
proud young lady have against her Vallie, that
she should watch her so?

“ Perhaps I have mistaken you for some one
else,” she said to Isabel. “I called you ‘My
lady‘, for I thought—"

“ You thought quite wrong, Madam," was the
curt repl . “I bear no title at present; I am
simpl iss Monair.” .

“ Mybnair l”

 

_ “The cousin of Mr. Geor e Monair. And
this gentleman is his uncle—- olonel Monai ."‘
“ Oh! my prophetic soul! My uncle!”

What malicious spirit whispered that acts- ‘

tion into Valeria’s ear? I cannot say. only
know that, even in hei’ sorrow, an odd vision
flashed across her mind, and she saw the boards
of a well-known theatre over the water; saw a
fifteenthratc actor swaggering overthe st 6
and mouthing out those words, while she sat in
the pit with Maria and her cousin John, and
laughed, in spite of herself, at the burlesque he
was making of his part. '
the memory lasted, and then she was back again
in the little sunny parlor, face to face with her
future sorrow, and feeling as if she should never
laugh again.

Poor Mrs. Grant sat utterly aghast. Had
these grand relations come to treat with her for
the hand of her daughter, or were they about to
forbid the match ?

“ Having learned that Mr. Monair was in the
habit of visiiing here," Isabel went on, “we
have called to ask you a few questions, which. no'
doubt. you will be perfectly willing to answer.”

“ Oh yes ; certainly,” murmured Mrs. Grant,
turning very red.

“ Have you known Mr. Monair long?”

“ Not very long. Above a montli,I should
say. Isn't it, Vallie ?“

'Valeria. who had every day of that happy
time indelibly impressed upon the tablets of
her memory, and could have told to an hour, a
minute, and a second. when and where she first
saw him, ansWered faintly that she believc'i it
was a month. _

“And during that time he has been pretty
regular in his visits here 2”

“ Very regular, Miss. He comes every day
of his life—sometimes two or three times a
dav."

“ Exactly," replied Isabel, blandly. “And
in the evening. Your daughter sometimes
walks out with him in the evening, does she
not Y”

“She does, Miss."

“ And goes to Cremorne, I believe 7"

“ Yes,” said Mrs. Grant, rather,sulkily. “ She
has been with him there.”

“ And danced with him ?”

“ I dare say she did. People often dance to-
gether when they go there. Is there any harm
in that, Miss ?”

“ Not the slightest.”

Only for a moment ‘

“My daughter never set her foot out of the '

house with Mr. Monair alone, if that is what you
mean. Her sister and her cousin have always
been with her."

“I have no doubt, Madam, that your daugh-
ter is the very personification ¢ prudence and
propriety," said Isabel, with a wicked smile.
“ I had no doubt of it, even when [met her at
ch Gardens with Mr. Monair, yesterday afier-
noon, alone—"

“Oh! what a story i" burst out the indig-
nant Maria. “1 was with her every moment
of the time, mother. Wasn’t I, Vallie ?”

Vallie simply bent her head. These conceal-
ed sneers, these half—implied hints and taunts,
might anger her mother and her sister—they
had no power to wound her. There was some-

thiug far, far worse behind them; she knew it, __

and was waiting for that alone! ,

Mrs. Grant‘s patience, never of the longest
or strongest, gave way as she heard the accusa-
tion and the prom pt contradiction.

“If I thought Maria had left her sister, I as:
sure you I would box her ears soundly," she or
claimed. “But she says she did not, and I be—
lieve her. As for the rest, Miss, pray why
should not my daughter 0 to Kew with Mr.
Monair as well as you t I dare be sworn you
had some gentleman with vou. There was no
harm in the one nor in the 'other, that I can see.
You were probably engaged to him. And my
Vallie is engaged to Mr. Monair." ,

She fired that last shot point blank into the

enemy‘s camp, with a look of triumph that said.-

“ Now, find fault if you dare, and do your worst.
I defy you!” But Isabel only raised her eye-

brows-slightly, and passed her handkerchief

across her lips, to hi e the smile thah'iasniv

\

 

 

 

 

(

  
 
 

I » gentlest tone.
. : 1. pretty one!"

  
 
 

POOR VALERIA!

 

  

 

16

 

/ ,4 of her, tremb'led and flickered in her deep dark
s es.

y“ I/was at Kew {Gardens with a gentleman, it
is true,” she observed ; “ but I was not engaged
to him. I was with my uncle. And so Miss
Grant is really betrothed to Mr. Monair ?"

1 “He has asked her to marry him as fair as
an man could," replied the mother, proudly.
“ nd she has promised. There is the sign-—

Vallie, my girl, don‘t be frightened, but show
your ring.” ' '

' She held up her daughter's hand as she spoke,

and pointed to the little cluster of forget-me-
nots. Isabel leaned forward to examine it with
a critical air.

"Turquoise," she said, calmly: “and Worth,
I should say, taking the chasing and setting into
consideration, as much as three pounds ten.
But if she should sell it, Mrs. Grant, the brokers
yould’ncver give her more than thirty shil-
l s.’

“ Sell it! What on earth should she do that
for, gray ‘2"
“ ’ is just as she likes. She may attach more

value to it than I should in her case."

“I don‘t understand you, Miss," faltered Mrs.
Grant, who began to grow bewildered with Isa-
bel's mocking manner. “ Can you tell me. sir,
what she means ‘2" she added, turning directly
upon the Colonel, who was watching the com»
bat with wonder, and likened his niece in his
own mind to a velvet-footed cat, and >oor Mrs.
Grant‘to the hapless mouse, who, a ter tw0 or
three more taps from those soft paws, would
find the sharp talons buried in her quivering
flesh. Taken all aback by the mouse‘s sudden
appeal to him, be spoiled Isabel's fun in an in-
stant by blurting out the truth.

“ She means, Mrs. Grant, that the ring is of
no value—that it means nothing. In fact, Mad-
am, my nephew is a scamp, and deserves I don’t
know what, for misleading your daughter. He
has been engaged to my niece ever since he was
a mere boy, and he can no more marry 'our
V daughter than I can, nor half so well,” a ded

the gallant Colonel, bestowing a kind glance

upon the pale beauty before him; “for l at
least am a free man, and that is more than he
can say for himself."
But the pale beauty paid no heed to the Colo-
nel‘s glances, she only heard his cruel words.
She'leaned eagerly forward, her hand upon her
aching heart.
I “ Sir, I am onl a poor ignorant girl," she

said, with. a sort 0 sob in her Voice. “ I know
I am not worthy of him; but oh! I,love him
so! You would not deceive me. I think. Upon
your honor as a gentleman. is this story true 2”

" Quite true, my poor child.”

“ He is still engaged to her?”

“ He is.”

“And he told me with his own lips that there
had never been anything between them l"

“So he did. I heard him say so myself,”
added Maria. “ Somebody has told a lie, that
is certain."

It was a downright, perhaps an offensive, way 3
of stating the case, but the Colonel forgave it, 1

for he was sorry for them all.

“ I have not lied l” he said, simply. “ I have
said nothing but the truth. He has been rom-
ised to Isabel almost from his cradle, an they
were to have been married at the end of the sea-
son. Young men will often misstate things,
you know, my dear, when they are led away by
a face as pretty and a heart as kind as your sis-
“r7..',

Isabel’s lip curled at this compliment, which
proved that her uncle was, like all other men,
ready b defend the cause of a pretty woman
above all others. But Maria drew nearer to

' him. liked himlfor the kind way in which he '3
' orgot that she had ever called ;

kc, and qui
bun “ a horrid d man".

’Valeria bore the tidin s much better than
Miss Monair had expecte . She still stood be-
side the easy chair, half encircled by the pro-
tecting arm of that mother whose kind heart
wss’h ceding for her wrongs.

“Cheer up, Vslliel" she was saying in her
“Don't you fret for him, my

1

  

i at him proudly; “

 

 

“ 0 mother, he told me a lie 1"

“ ’Tis the way of the world, my poor child i”
said the Colonel. “Men often do so.”

“ Other men may," said Valeria, looking up

at Geor e——O George 1"

She gave a great gasp, and hid her face upon
her mother's shoulder. Miserable though she
was, she would not break down—she would not
cry before that cold, proud woman, who Would
only sit there and smile to see her weep! And
so with one or two heavy sobs, she conquered
herself for the time, and lifted her face again
with a look that went to the'Colonel's heart,
and brought a sensation into his throat as if he
was choking. Isabel looked on quietly. There
is nothing on earth so cruel as a woman can be
to a hated and successful rival—and for every
sob that shook that slight frame, for every pang
wrung from that gentle heart, Isabel counted
a moment of joy. Had there been a stake and
a lighted pile in the sunshiny back garden, and
had the power to condemn and torture been
hers, she would have conducted Valeria thither
with her own fair hands, Would have roasted her
alive, and sung an opera-tune to drown her dy-
ing shrieks. Was she so very wicked and un-
womanly after all? Analyze your own sensa-
tions, fair slighted beauty, the next time Adol-
phus deserts your side to hang enraptured over
the lovely Julia's chair, and then judge Isabel
as best you can. You know (if you are a wom-
an of spirit, and honest with yourself), you know
quite well that at the precise moment you could
see Julia grilled with the most perfect satisfac-
tion. Within the next quarter of an hour you
ma possibly forgive her in your own heart,
am go to the piano and sing a duet with her
while Adolphus “stem and looks on—but for
that one moment you devoted her to the flames.
Be honest, and own it, now‘

Maria, hanging about her sister, and pettin
and caressing her in her deep distress, was sucE
denly struc with a very bright idea. She
would have scorned to speak to Miss Monair,
but she looked up at the Colonel, and said very

simp‘lfy:

“ aleria finds it very hard to believe this,
Sir; so do I, and so does my mother. May I
ask Mr. Monair before you both? I will run
and fetch him, and then all will be settled at
once. He cannot deny it here, if it is true."

The Colonel coughed, and looked dubioust
at his niece. But the child’s proposal seemed
to tickle her fancy immensely.

“Thank you for your implied doubt of our
honest ',” she said afi'ably; “ and by all means
go an br ng Mr. Monnir to join us. It will be
such a charming family party; I shall await
your return with the greatest impatience. Pray,
fly for him as if you had wings."

“There is no need," said Maria, looking rath-
er scared. “ He is coming.”

Sure enough, they heard a frank cheery
voice outside in the shop, saying, “ A fine morn.
ing, Cousin John—enough to do one’s heart
good, is it not?" And then ‘the door opened,
and gay, handsome, and smiling, George Mo-
nair stood among them.

 

CHAPTER XII.

“ Go from me. Yet I feel that I shall stand
Henceforward in thy shadow.
is a o O

The widest land
Doom takes to part us, leaves thy heart in mlns
With pulses that heat double. WhatI do,
And what I dream, include thee, as the wine
Must taste of its ()Wn grapes. And when I sue
God for myself. He hears that name of thine,
And sees, within my eyes. the tears of two."
—-I‘]leABITH Baaasn Baowslno.
The hardest sinner, the most glib maker of
excuses. might well be staggered and abashed at
such an unex )ected meeting.
ed white, an stared at Isabel a moment, then
sadly hung his head before them. The poor
wretch felt that all was known—that all was lost
—and he. had just sense enough yet remaining

to teach him not to injure his cause further in ,

Valeria’s eyes by pretending ignorance of the
cause of their arrival. 'l‘hat tacit confession of
guilt, though it destroyed every lingering
hope within her heart. touched that heart deep-

ly still. She could not bear to see him—her

 

Mr. Mohair turn- ‘

fairy prince—standing there penitest and asham- ‘
ed, w ile the piercin eyes of the woman who
wished to marry but id not love him watched ,
him coldly. Maria could not bear it either.
All her sympathies had been on her sister's side
till he appeared; but he looked so downoas
so wretched, so utterly unlike her gay and han -
some friend, that, regardless of her mother’s
frown and shake of the head, she stole around
beside him, and slid her small hand into‘his.
The young man grasped it as a drowning wretch
clings to an oar, looked at her with tearful eyes,
and murmurin , “ Good little thing—kind little
friend i" beat own and kissed her.

“Maria, come away," said Mrs. Grant; but
Maria rebelled entirely. She shook her head,
and caressed Mr. Monair‘s hand with her own.
I think Valeria never loved her little sister half
so well as when she proved so unexpected and
so staunch an ally to the lover disgraced before
her ver eyes.

Mr. Elonalr looked round the room with a
heavy sigh. Never again could he sit there of
a pleasant autumn morning hindering Valeria
in her Work, or playing at childish Igames with
Maria and her young brothers. ever again
could he smoke a pipe with Cousin John and
Mr. Grant, in the shop outside, listening all the
while betWeen the pauses of the conversation
for the sound of a sweeter voice within. It was
all over—that pleasant dream. He had been
able to make it last, he might haVe been a good
and a happy man. Tied up to yonder woman,
he shuddered to think what his daily life must
be. Vice must form his only pleasure, every
wicked excitement must be brought to aid him,
or he should go mad at once. And the end
would be—ah! he knew too well the lost and
degraded wretch he should infallibly become—-
a wretch, upon whom the pure eyes of Valeria
never ought to look. There is virtue, and vir-
tue in the world, you see. And the one can
Wd serenely alone, looking only to God for
its strength and its reward. ut the other needs
fostering, and encouraging, and propping up
with the purest earthly aids. Mr. onair’s
goodness was of this latter kind, he knew it only
too well. And now that the prop and support
were so violently wrenched away, where could
poor virtue go?

All these looks, words, and thoughts, which it
has taken me so long to describe in my own
clumsy way, were over within two minutes of
the young man’s appearance, and Maria had no
sooner come to his side with mute encourage-
ment, than Mrs. Grant assailed him.

“ You don't seem surprise-l, Mr. Monair, to
find your uncle and your cousin here ?"

Poor George glanced at his uncle, whose flea
was almost as rueful as his own.

“ I am certainly surprised, Mrs. Grant."

“And what do you think your uncle has been
tellin us about you ?"

“ y uncle l"

There was a sort of “at £11., Brute 1” tone in:
his voice that made the Colonel wince,

“I could not help it, Gregory, my boy," he
said, with a deprecating look. “ The truth had
to come out. Isabel was determined it should."

“ I am very much obliged to Isabel, and shall
never forget this kind office of here,” said Mr.
Monarr, looking at her with his blue eyes full of
In ry light.

ghe tossed her head and smiled. .

“ Why, surely, George, you did not expect
me to let this farce go en ti 1 I had lost my bus:
band, and this young lady had gained him i”

“ I expected nothing from you, Isabel, that
was kind, margnanimous, or great ."

“ Thanks or the compliment. If you wish
me to deserve all those grand ephitets, you must
set me a better example. Have you been so
very great and magnanimous during the last
month. that you can afford to sneer.at me Y” ‘

He looked at Valeria, his pals Valeria, with a
heavy heart. 1‘

“I have been a rascal and a traitor to the

sweetest, loveliest woman on earth, if that is . .

what you mean." .
“ To in f" she-asked, with an innocent look.
“A Does the description suit you r”,
I',‘Bome scoot. might possi ly say so." '

. -.........~.. no.4. . . .. . v.~..

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A loved her first."

, broken in fifty pieces.

4

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f

POOR 'VALERIA!

Wm“a"l _ -r .x

"i ‘
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‘

 

 

.“f ih'ou'ld‘h‘ot make 'one of th'eir number.
Io: there is the heart I have ‘wounded—thwe
is the heart that loved me." and he pointed to

. Valeria. who raised her eyes and looked at him,
with a rosy blush just tinging her cheek.

“Well, opinions differ,” said Isabel, li htly.
“ I should have said that you had behave like
a traitor to some one else as Well: but I sup-
pose ou know best."

“ es, Mr. Monair, the lady is quite right,"
broke in Mrs. Grant, whose kind heart began to
bleed for him, thus warning her that the inter-
view had best be brought to a close. “You
have wronged my Vallie, but you have wrong-
ed your cousin more. You knew her first, and

l

“I never loved her !"

“ Tut! tut! you are angry now, and scarcely
know what you are saying. But she has the
best right to you, and you ought to go with her,
and behave honorable after all this.”

“ And Vallie !” said the unhappy young man.
“Oh! what will Vallie do 3‘"

“ We will take care of her."

“And you will make her hate me.”

Tears struggled up to the kind old eyes, in
which he son ht his doom so eagerly.

“No, Mr. George, I suppose I ought to do
that, but I haVen't the heart. We shall always
think of you kindly out here, for though it was
all ver wrong, you have been so pleasant and
so kin , that—oh! George! George! why did
you come ?”

If Isabel had not been there, George would
have flung himself at the kind creature’s feet
and wept with her. But those cold eyes were
ever on him; he felt their influence, though he
did not , mac: their glance. Arad so he only
hun his hes sin, and iresse aria closer
to hi‘s side. W I /M

“ Can'you ever forgive me, Mrs. Grant 1’” he
asked humbly. “I loved her so. that I would
have risked my life for her; and, as sure as
there is a God in heaven, I meant to marry her.”

“ Y“. I believe that; I don‘t think you ever
had a thought of wrong toward the poor girl.
And so we all forgive you, Vallie and all; don‘t
we, Vallic f"

But the girl could not speak. Pale as death,
she leaned upon her mother‘s chair, drawmg the
forget—me-not ring from her finger. Mrs. Grant
saw it and wiped her eyes.

“ That is quite right, my child. There,
George, you must take back your ring."

Valeria held it out without a word. He step~
pod forward to take it, and their eyes met. Be-
tween the tearful eyes and the trembling hands,
the‘ little-toy fell to the floor. With a sudden
impulse of fury he set his foot upon. it, and
when Maria sprang forward to rescue it, it was
With all the instinct of

the future woman strong within her, the girl
preserved those fragments carefully, and gave
them to her sister that night. Do you want to
know what' Valeria did with them? She pur-
chased alittle gold locket, hid them therein,
and wore them on her heart, to her dying day,
in memory of the vanished light and beauty
and fra once of her “ lovs's young dream" !
Miss onair, who had been watching this lat-
ter scene» very tiently, now rose to go. The
‘ Colonel rose am, and turnin to Mrs. Grant,
shook her warmly by the ban .
" You will forgive us, I am sure, _Msdam, for
the very disagreeable errand on which we have

\ visited you. And you, my pretty child, will

you forgive us too 2”

Valeria uttered a faint “ Yes."

The Colonel's heart was moved at the sight of
so much patient suffering. He beat down and
kissed her forehead.

“God bless you, my child 1” he said, softly.
“ An old man's kiss and as old man‘s blessing

' , can do you no harm in the heavy trial before

you." , A _
piqod bless you, uncle !” cried out poor

George, whose heart was ready to break at this

fj recognition of Vsleria's goodness from the head .

ofhis house. “You neVer did akin“; thing
, in your life, or one that made me love you boy
. lure’f i . _ , ’ .
m '0“ men looked at the 'rosns. ass with s

I

I

 

sad‘and tender smilF. was it'just possible that
he, too, had loved, and lost his love .9 Was this
the reason of his kindness to his nephew and
Valeria? ’

“ Come, Isabel,” he said, gently, “ Say ‘good i
morning’, and we will go. It is quite hard '
enough 11 on the poor boy in any case ; let him
say ‘ goo ~bye’ to her alone.”

“ Oh ! ray don’t let us interfere between
them," a c 'said, with a hard laugh. “Good-
morning, all. George, whenlyourleave takings
are over, you will find us at 1e carriage at t e
door.”

They were gone at last. He turned to Mrs.
Grant with such a look of utter misery that her
heart was melted by it.

“I have been a coward and a villain,” he
said, bitterly; but you see my excuse in her.
Can you wonder that when I saw your daughter
I was ready to risk anything and everything to
win her. .

“ If you had broken with that lady first, you
might have had her, George."

“ It is not too late,” he cried out, vaguely.

But Valeria’s soft voice threw that hope to the
ground.

“’Jl‘is too late, George. Even if you were
fl'ee, I could not marry you now. For you told
me an untruth. I could never trust you—never
believe you again.”

“ 0 Valeria, will you never forgive that ?"

“I forgive; but we part now, and we must
never meet any more."

“You never loved me—you cannot care for
me. I see it all now I" he cried, flinging out of
the room in a rage. ‘

Both Maria and Valeria ran after him into the
hall.

“ 0 George! mt like this—not like this i" the
poor girl cried; and he came back from the
open street-door and flung his arms around
her.

All was forgotten—all was forgiven in that
one fond kiss, while Maria stood by, crying no if
her heart Would break.

“Now go; we part friends—dear friend’s.
Now go, and God guard and bless you I" said
Valeria, freeing herself from that close embrace.
“ I shall never forget you, George”

Forget him! All the fire of his nature was in
the look he gave her. She understood it too
well, and crying out in sudden alarm, “Oh, you
must 0, George—she has a right to you”, she
drew ack into the parlor with Maria, and shut
the door. What it cost her to do that he (lid
not know, he never will know!

He ran out to the carriage, looking like a
madman.

The Colonel gras ed his hand as he stood by
the door, and force him in. ‘

“ Home !” said. abel ;.and leaned back upon
her cushions smil g with closed eyes.

The long, exciting chase was over, and the
day was hersi __ . '
CHAPTER XIII.

“ He listened at the porch that day,
To hear the wheel go on and on,
And then it stopped—ran back away—
W‘hilc through the door he brought the III.
And now my spinning all is done!

“ He sat beside me with an oath

That love ne’er ended. once begun;
I smiled, believing for us both

What was the truth for only one.

And now my spinning all is done !"

-—Euussrs Baum Baownmo.

All stratagemi, they say, are fair in love OI
war; but I am afraid our hero‘s tactics looked
paltry and pitiful enough to him, when he re-
viewed them b the light of a racking headache
in his old 10 gings the next day. Had they
been successful. he might have ploried in them ,
but beaten. disgraced and humiiated as he was
he could only toss wretchedly to and fr'o upon
his unsteady pillow, and groan—ay, and weep—
as the events of the last month passed in rapid
succession through his mind. The success or
failure of a project stamps its character in our
own eyes sometimes as in the world's , and Mr.
Monair, being discouraged as well as defeated,
took a most unfavorable view of his little cam-
paign, and came to the conclusion thst, while it

e

 

, he had behaved more like an idiot than

, x

r i

like a youn man who had “seen the woi’ld",
and learne how to appropriate its good gifts
with the greatest amount of pleasure and bene-
fit to himself. .

He thougnt of Valeria—of her beautiful face,

. her winning Ways, and her gentie, loving heart.
y He thought of their many happy hours, of their
3 long and pleasant excursxous, of their boating-
; parties on the river, their trips to Kew, to Cre-
‘ moms, to Hampton Court. All over!

The
sun had shone more brightly, the little birds hdd
sung more sweetly, the sky had been bluer, the
grass greener, and the flowers fairer for the gen-
tle presence at his side. Now, sun, and sky, and
flowers, and the song of birds, were sba
by a horrible cloud of doubt, and estrange-
ment, and misery. Never again could he be so

ood, so happy, and so pure, as he had been
during that one brief month!

Who had Worked this change ? Isabel! He
ground his teeth savagely as he thought of her,
and if wishes had powerin them (which, luckily
for us, the have not), 1 am afraid that young
lady WOUl( not have been eating her breakfast
and reading a French novel in Halfmoon-street
quite so comfortably at that very moment. If
one might judge from the good turn she had
done him, their married life promised to be
anything but a serene and happy one.

He rose at last, and havingdresso-d and break-
fasted, rang the bell, and ordered his horse. In
a quarter of an hour it was at the door. and
Robert, who had also returned from..his subur-
ban trip, was in ntteudancr. stolid and immuta-
ble as a liveried sphyux. lIis master hesitated
an instant when he saw him, then muttering to
himself, “After all, what d0es it matter? What
does anything matter now 1’" he mounted and
rode away. followed at a respectful distance by
the groom.

Every one was “ out of town". That is to
say, all the fashionable people who could afford
it had gone into the country or upon the conti»
nent, and those who could not, were living in
the back rooms of their houses, with the blinds
drawn down in front and the shutters decorous
ly closed. The squares were empty and desert-
ed. Rotten Row looked utterly forlorn, and the
drive was silent as a tomb. Even the sunshine
seemed to have gone out of town with the but-
tertiies, for the sky was gray and leaden, and the
air raw and cold, with a slight suspicion of'fog
'ul its chillness. .There was not one of Mr. Mo-
nair s aristocratic acquaintances to observe 0!
quiz him as he trotted slowly along Piccadilly,
with his head bent down, and his eyes fixed
sadly upon his horse‘s mane. The crossing-
sweeper looked after and envied him as he
passed ; the butcher-boys and errand lads won-
dered within themselves: “ Wotever could make
that ’ere swell look so down on his luck P"—when
the luck was evidently of the best and brightest
kind. A prancing horse, ood clothes, a gold
watch, and a groom in livery. What more
could “ the swell" want, in the name of all that
was sensible ? So they judged him, little think-
ing how heavy his heart was lying in his breast ;
how gladly he would have resigned everything
for which they envied him, could he but 
one treasure which could never more be his .

They passed IIalfmoon street.

“ Now, surely he is not going after that girl
again i" said Robert, with a grin, as he rode be-

g

hind.

But he was ! Strai ht through K‘nightsbridge
he rode, and stopper before the “Bunch of
Grapes", near St. Michael‘s place.

“ You will wait here for me," he said, walkin

away at a great pace toward the “Bell In

ilorus".

Robert watched him till he turned the corner.
then shrugging his shoulders, he dismo ted,
and. leaving his horses in charge of a ca man

waiting for a fare, went in to taste the beer 6‘"

the “ wrapes".

“Shall I meet Valeria? 0 star of love!
shine now, and guide me to Valeria 2" than vht
our hero. as he hurried along the old familiar

road. It was a peculiarly appropriate invocv

tion, when you come to consider that it was
about eleven, a. 1., and. that a dim, red sun was

vainly trying‘to \pierce the foggy, cloudy sky; ‘1

But he was to be pardoned for three cos

OWed .

x

_( "WM, mw-w-“MO-v
I v ’ - .r .. v:

'17“ f I! ‘

 

 

 

 x 1‘18!

.. “‘1: : ‘

ll

POOR VALERIA!

 

 

 

times, seasons, and heavenly bodies, since'h'e
was in love. That any one, when that peculiar
form of lunacy seizes hold of them, should
even remember that there are such things as
suns and stars in the world that holds their be-
loved one, is a matter of mystery and wonder
to me!

‘Neither stars nor sun were propitious to Mr.

Monair; that day, for, though he paced up and ’

down the pavement in front ofthe greengroecr‘s
sho
fort . Mr. Grant was serving his customers
within, too busy even to cast an eye toward the
street,.and see, the unwelcome visitor loitering
there. Cousin John had evidently gone on the
morning round.
she?

Driven desperate at last, Mr. Monair took a
sudden and hold resolution. He knew where
Maria's school was situated, and walking straight
up to the door, he rang a pea! which frightened

' the maid-servant half out of her wits, and bade
her say that “Miss Grant was wanted instantly
at home". The message had the desired effect.
In the minutes Maria came rushing dewn three
stairs at a time, dropping all her books on the
hall~floor, when she saw who had sent for her.

"Oh! what is it?" she asked, breathlessly.
“ What is the matter? ls Valeria worse i"

“ Worse!” he gas(ped, turning white. “ What
do you mean ? 1 out know! Pick up our
books, give me your satchel, and I will ta k to
you when we get into the street."

She obeyed in silence. When the round-
eyed, inquisitive servant had locked the garden-
gatc upon them, he caught her hand, and asked,

iteously : _

“ What did you mean just now, Maria? Is
she ill ?”

“ Well, not very ill, George. But she fainted

'.this morning at breakfast, and mother made her
go to bed. When I saw you, I thought she
must be worse, and that they had sent for

on." _

“ Fainted at breakfast! My blessed darling!
0 Maria. what does'she say of me ‘3"

“I have never heard her mention your name,
George, since you went away yesterday."

“Wth did she do ‘3"

“ After you had gone ?"

“Yes. Did she cry 5’"

“Not that I know of. She went up to her
own room at once, and did not come down again.
Mother and father were both with her in the
evening but I don’t know what they said to her,
forI had to sleep in another room last night.
And this morning she fainted away at the table.
Mother says she must go into the country at
once.”

“ Where—where is she going ?"

“’I can’t tell you."

'ww—vc—Q'

for nearly half an hour, no Valeria came !

And Valeria—oh! where Was ‘

 

 

“burned 0’ “3 Ill, find tried to make her his own mindfhc would have decided that th ‘

’ashamed too."

“ Your mother does not know me, Maria. If

i ly refused their profi‘ere

must be either mad or ti sy, while he scornfu —
aid. In the second

Vallie would take me, I swear I would serve in ; place, those very people whom he envied were,

the shop to-morrow—ay, and feel proud and

happy to do it, all the while.”

“ hen you don’t despise us because we are

’ greengrocers, George ?”

“ Bless the child ! No.” ,

“ If you really mean that, I have half a mind
to go and tell Vallie you are here.”

“ Oh, go—go at once !"

“ Take my music, then.”

She flung the roll at his feet, and set off at a
swift run.

Mr. Monair paced up and down with the bag
of books in one hand and the music in the oth-
er; and passcrs-by stared at him, and wondered
what on earth he could be doing with such
things. He minded their scrutiny little ; in
fact, I think he was hardly aware of it. He
was on! intent upon that corner round which
his litt e messenger had disappeared. Only
looking, listening, longing, waiting to see her
back again.

She came, after a little time, but so slowly
and sadly that he knew, when he first caught
sight of her, that she brought no good tidings.
His heart sang down like a lump of lead within
his bosom, and he could not speak when the girl
came up and looked sadly into his face.

“ She will not see you ; but it has made her
so ill !” she said. “ She gave me that, and told
me to ask you to read it when you were alone.
And then she fainted away again; and mother
came, and oh, she is so angry, George, because
I have seen you. I would come to bring you
the note ; but I must go back now. Good-bye,
Geor re. Oh, I‘m sure I wish we were all dead
toget ier, and well out of this world, where
there is nothing but trouble on every side!"

He let her talk on after she had put Valeria’s
little note into his hand. He let her go, kissing
her tenderly as she burst into tears, and then he
tore open the precious bit of paper. The note
was very short and very sad :

“ Dalia Grows :-—You must not come here any more.
[cannot see you, and Maria was very wrong. But the
poor child is so unhappy about us, that i cannot scold
m‘r‘dt is very kind of you to offer to marry me still —-
but that must not be. It is all over between us — all
over. and for ever. You must marry Miss Monair, and
I will pray for you both. God bless you, dear George,
and give you strength to be good and happy.

\ “ Vsuau.”

“ l". S.—For my sake, please don’t come to Brompton
any more. V.”

The unhappy young man looked from that
fatal paper out into the busy street with a gaze
of blank despair. There they were—the peo-
ple who had no such grief as his to bear : there
they were, passing to and fro, bargaining, sell-

 

erhaps, no happier than himself, had be but
known it. The old applewoman ,had an idiot
son at home, for whose sake she sat there day
afler day, throu h summer’s heat and winter’s-
cold; and the ricklayer, though he laughed
heartilyjust at that moment, was at his wit’s
end to rovide decent food and lodging for his
bedriddién wife ; the young married cou is,
proudly watching their 'first-born son, ad

inched and denied themselves for weeks in or
iler to array those baby limbs in garments dain-
ty enough to satisfy their fond eyes; and the
pretty servant girl and the life guardsman—ahl
there was a secret between them which, in s its
of their natural gaycty, often filled both ' eir
hearts with remorse and guilty fear. As for the
cabmen—poor fellows! Every one knows that!
they must have had quite enough to contend
with at home and abroad; and even the chil-
dren found many a grievance during the long,
bright day; while not one among that band of
gayly-dressed school girls but had some private
vexation of her own—only a mouse, it ma be,
but looking, in her undisciplined eye, quite as
large as a mountain.

He had only made the same mistake which
we make every day of our lives. “ Alas !" cries
Delia, “if Phillis had my trials, could she be so
gay ?” While Phillis, it may be, after her mer-
ry laughter is over, is crying her eyes out in
her own little garret, and wishin she could 'al—
ways be as calm, as contente ,and as little
moved by passing events as Delia seems to be.
“I could tell you tales—real tales, mind you,”
says my neighbor to me; “tales of my own
li e, my own sorrows, that would be far more in-
teresting, far more affecting than any you can,
possibly write I” And I listen quietly, and say

shall be glad to hear them. 'But how does
my neighbor know that I, too, may not have
my own private griefs, which would make quite
as good a story, did I choose to tell it, as any of
his own? That idea never enters his head, you
see. Perhaps it never enters mine concerning
him till his remark puts it there. We all cry
out loudly enough when the sh0e pinches us,
but we never seem to remember that the friend
who walks so quietly at our side may possibly
have tender feet. and be wearing a far tighter
boot we. No “Pannus Cerium” has ever yet
been invented that can soothe such pangs as
these. The best thing we can do is to shumc
along with as few grimaces and groans as we
may. This was what the old applewoman, the
guardsman and his sweetheart, the calwman, and
the Irish laborer were doing : all praise to them
for the worth effort! But by what right did

 

 

1 years ago! As I walked in the soft twilight of ' .‘
i the summer evenings down St. Julien’s road, .,
road. Every one was happy» every one '55 through the brick fields. and under the railway- '

, useful but him? And he had lost his only hope , arch at Streatham, toward a certain place whose

! of peace and purity? Yet who cared?_ Who ’ ma nificence was the talk of the whole neigh- ‘
i would stop to utter one word of consolation, as I,

dies swept in by tWos and threes on their way
to music and drawing lessons farther up the

 “ O my good little Maria, don’t be unkind to ingijestillg, “"d laughing 3' if Bmm "’0 W!“ this spoiled arling of luxury, robbed only of I
 me when I am so unhappy, but tell me where “10 MP!)Mt Place 0“ earth- The " d_‘Pl?le‘ one good which .he had coveted, compare his
,.,«, sh. i. going.” woman at the corner of‘the street was lighting troubles mu, them?
“5 .. NC. My mother would not like—value her pipe by that ofafriendly countryman with no, “me we kno'qhg how little we kno'
 would not,iike it—I should not like it, either,” “n empty hOd 0“ ["3 Shoulder» “ml the “'0 we" of the lives that are being lived around us. How
., 1, repued the shrewd little thing it You see, laughing over some rude Joke as if they would pom-1y we. can judge of, human reality from it.
‘  George, it is all over, and you ought not to fol- crack the" P‘des- J‘"? bede them Walked 1' outward ideal appearance ! Look at that sad
 low bu. about any more. I heard my mother ‘ young married couple, intent upon the contents case which has 0,113, jun been slimliqu from
 say last night that it Would be very cruel in you ‘ 0f 8 small Perdlllb‘llfltorv thh .tl’e fuller W“ the courts of law—the great trial for forgery,
 to try to see her or to'write to her again. And ‘ proudly Wlleell'lg “10"8 3. Md, 1‘!“ 39”)“ t1“ the conviction of the man who made a fraudu'o
 my mother must know what is right.” ‘ “1‘13"”: 1‘ liretty servant-81M!“linger")? "1"“ 3 lent sale of his estates, who escaped safely to a i
 “ 0 Maria! you don‘t understand—you are to i ‘0“ elm!” "1 hfi'ld: blushing 3} the comp im’entl i foreign land. where he might have lived and
 1 young to understand—you can‘t imagine how I  0f 1‘ Pr!"Me 1" “10 I“!th Llre Gl1?l'd9- I‘ll“ T died in case and luxury, who came back at last,
 ' suffer.” . I cabnwn, 0081‘ “I? “ .Admlml KGPPlG' i We“? 1'3' ' of his own accord, and gave himself up to the
 ‘ “I’m sorry for you, George—very sorry! j telling ‘0 3'1 9"“ch "1 8 dMly P'EPC‘" refid 91°!“ ‘ justice he had outraged so long: Arraigned at
 . But you can’t marry Vallie now, and why by ""9 0f the” u“’{‘b°l‘ from the b" 9f ll” V!‘ the bar, and waiting for comnction, what did he i
 ‘ t should you wish to see her?" “if; thel'me Chll‘ll‘en were tr‘lf‘dllug the" , say of himself and his antecedents? “My
i.‘ ’ “I would marry her this moment. if she ‘ 110 )9 “long the Pavementv Slmm'ng *0 “011 fwhole life has been a fearful mistake!” How
Iii-yr " t " would have me," cried the young man, wildly. - other 88 they PB": and well-dress“ young I" l many of us would have thought it a few short

I “ Why should she give me up to Isabel Monair? i
 ‘ My srsnts made that match ; but I have chosen
' ’ Val to myself. and if she will only take me back
again, I will be true to her to the end. You
have been my good little friend, Maria, from

 

 

i ‘ st. Go and tell her so rom me." I, bor ood, I used to seea splendid carria e, drawn . .
i... \ argutgtlfie chm hung buck. f l he stood there utterly alone and utterly for-  by thoroughbred hon”, 1-011, swiftlygby, "la 3 'y I
f i “I heard my mother say last night, George, i lorn? . ' i enter at those open gates. And musing over ‘
 that, perhaps, after all, it ‘was the best\thing i It was a sweeplng and an absurd Judgment. 3 the house and its occupants, as I often did, I  ,5
sushi}, ’ that could haVe happened. She said that you ‘ In the first place, had any one Iventured' to “to. m {"1‘ ki’dlxmtemnfin their by“... I - 3,.
' v, ' ‘ om rich, and of a good family. and that if you i pause and pla the part of the good Samaritan  m ,0 Mk 1, on me“- '83“,th Wham.” , ; p, I.
.  , 33d; married Value, you might have been ‘ to this woun ed stranger, no one would have ; Pug“; pm. -of the re“). .dghborhood’wd L    g
 -’ . ' , \ ' ' i felt more indignant and sstomhhsd than be. In *1 felt somewhat proud 0 it accordingly. ch all . 
" , \ \ I l \ ' i

 

s.

 

 

its fortunate owner. And yet, at be

 hated to be unhappy.

 

 

 

Pgng VALERIAl

197

 

 

 

 

r the while that heavy cloud hun over the doom~

ed hous’e, and I knew it not. I ad I been asked
,to point out a spot free from care,s person
blessed with every good that heart could wish, I
should have named that beautiful ilace and
ll, at feast
and revel, that sharp- ointed sword, suspended
by a single hair, was anging over the aching
head! And now it has fallen ! And as I write
these Words a penny paper lies upon my desk
with a portrait of that well-remembered face;
and in the street outside a ballad-monger is
singing, in a doleful tone:
“ A wretched man in aforeign land
For ever doomed to dwell,
How sad and awful is the fate—"
and so on -, while mingling with the strain comes
back the memory of those hopeless words, “My
life has been one fearful mistake l” (words. alas!
that so many of us might say with equal truth!)
till I grow as nerVous and despondmg as even
the ballad-nionger could wish, and am tempted
to write It down. as my firm and unalterable
conviction, that there is no such thing as ha -
mess in this world of mistakes and sorrow. Is
it. a morbid thought? The novelist sees with
eyes that pierce through the ordinary veil of
fact and things. and after an apprenticeship 01'
long years. this literary socond-siglit—if I may
coin an expression—becomes so strong that the
heart grows sick. As the soft silence of a coun-
try evening comes closing in upon tired heart
and 'brain, and I lift my eyes to the calm night
sky. where the silver moon is shining, I often
muse over the great articulate murmur of pain
and woe that must ascend from the earth to the
heavens, an audible voiCe of suffering that God
and his angels know how to hear. Take the low
cry of the houseless, starving poor, the bitter
laugh of the wanton and her momentary dupe,
the sob of the widow and the orphan above a
new made grave, the moan of ill-used animals,
that most pathetic sound of all; the wail of a
breaking heart, the despairing shriek ofthe sui-
cide; would they not form themsolws into a
swelling minor key that would drown all the
happy laughter of childhood, all the glad voiCes
of youth, all the mad chiming of the joyful
marriage bells? I think so. And if, as seems
somewhat likely, we advance so far as to make
balloon ascents no more than pleasant evening
excursions, I believe that as we hang in the si-
lent air, above this mighty Babylon, these
Sounds of grief Will make themselves audible to
our ears, even above the universal roar of the
metropolis and its inhabitants.
CHAPTER XIV.

But while I have been discoursing upon the
science of happiness, I have left my hero stand-
ing in the street, with the letter which he called
his “ death-warrant” in his hand. What was
be to do? Where was he to go to drive away
his grief? Like most light-hearted people. be

he could not bear sor-
rOW; and‘the first thing he did when it came to
him at last, was to endeavor to get rid of it as
soon as possible. He folded up the letter. walk-
ed slowly past Valeria‘s house, looking up at
the closed windows as he did so, mounted his
horse at the “Grapes”, and rode straight to
lHalfmoon-street, Piccadilly.

The” W118 110 one in the morning-room when
he entered execpt his aunt, who was half asleep
over 8. Volume of sermons, which she felt it her
duty to read. But, while he was talking to her
about the weather, the door opened, and Isabel
entered with his uncle, the Colonel.

' “ You here, Geor ey?" said the old man.
looking reatly plea e . “That is right. Isa-
bel and Iwere just wondering if you would call
filo-day.”

' Mr. Monair looked at Isabel. As if in honor

. of his visit, she had decked herself in his favor-
. ~ite color—blue.

But that was not all ; with the
help of her mind, she had contrived a far snails
of poor Valeria‘s simple morning dress. and
Wore it with a air of utter unconsciousness that
was not the least revoking part of the busi-
ness. There was t e trim little waist fastened
with pesrl buttons; there were the nest linen
collar‘snd sleeves, the blue silk tie, the coqnét-

 

tish black apron. the kid slippers and white
stockings, he remembered so well; and she
looked in his face, as helglanced at them, with
an air of smiling malice that made her meaning
very plain. The Colonel and her mother only
noticed that she had on a new and .very becom-
ing dress ; but George understood that it was an
insult to his tender memory of her who had
first worn it—an outrage upon ever feeling
that his heart held most sacred. I is an ry
glance delighted Isabel; she had gained er
end by provoking him, and was content.

The Colonel, blind to all this by-play be-
tween the plighted pair, began to talk to his
nephew about the arrangements which were be-
ing made for the marriage.

“ A special licence is a very easy thing to get
now~a-days, and the quicker the ceremony is
over the better. Every one is out of town, so
We need make no stir about the matter. Bell
will invite her own bridesmaids, and I will see
to the breakfast? Is there anything you would
like to do, George? Anything you Would like
to say?"

“ That is the last question they ask a man be'
fore they hang him,” said the young man, bit-
tcrly.

Mrs. Monair looked up with some astonish-
ment. Isabel hit her lips. But he Went on.
Ile felt so reckless, so lost. so drape-rate, that, it
was a positive relief to show them how heartily

he abhorred the marriage they Were forcing
him into.

“ And many a man has gone to the scaffold,"
he said, “ with a lighter heart than I have here."

“ Bless me, how very dreadful l" said Mrs.
Monair, looking at Isabel. “ My dear, if George
really dislikes you so much, Would it not be
better to put the marriage off for a little while 7“

“George’s likes and dislikes area matter of
perfect indifference to me," said the young lady,
with a look of scorn. “But I have been en~
gaged to him for years. Every one knows it,
every one wonders why we do not marry. If,
at this late hour, he chooses to draw back and
break his word for the sake of that wretched

irl at Brornpton, let him! I will not hold him
Eound to a promise he dees not './ish to kee i.”

“That wretched girl, as you call her, Isabel,”
said the young man, hotly, “ has been the very
first to plead your cause. She refuses to see
me, she refuses to marry me, though I asked
her again this very day.”

"To-day !” cried the Colonel, aghast.

“ Yes, Idon’t care who knows it. I Went out
to Brompton this morning, to see if I could
meet her. If she Would have eloped with inc-,1
should have been far enough from London by
this time. But she is the soul of honor, poor
little thing! and though she loves inc—by hea—
Ven! I know she loves me dearly !-—~she only
sent word from her sick bed thatI must keep
my first promise and marry Isabel, and that she
Would pray for us both."

“ Humph! I am very muchobliged to her, I
am sure!" said Isabel, looking coldly at his
flushed face and quivering lips, as if she was
studying a new and interesting problem in nat
ural history.

" I can’t bear it," he cried, grasping the Col-
onel's hand. “ Isabel, I can‘t hear 'ou talk of
that angel in that cold-blooded, mercilyess way. Is
it not enough that I have given her up forever,
that I have broken the only heart that sum
loved me? Why do you go on insulting her
and me 1’"

“ He is as mad as a March hare on the sub-
'ect of the greengrocer‘s daughter,” observed
Isabel, turning toward the Colonel with a slight
smile.

" Don’t vex him too far, Bell—there’s a good
girl,” said the Colonel, soothingly.

“ Vex mel She drives me wild! Come with
me, uncle. I feel as if I was choking.”

IIe dragged his uncle from the room. Isabel
shrugged her shoulders, and sat down to read.

“What a bore it must be to be so dreadfully
in love 1” she observed to her mother, as she
settled herself comfortably in her easy-chair.
The poor lady made no answer. She was puz-
zled and bewildered by all that had occurred.
This was ,not the way in which she had been

 

wooed and won by the father of Isabel, when
she was scarce her daughter's age.

Once alone with his uncle in the ante-room,
Mr. Monair burst suddenly into tears. The old
man felt his own eyes water as he gazed at him,
and he atted him on the shoulder consoling-
ly, as ifphe had been an urchin of ten years
wee ing for the loss of some favorite toy.

“ here, Georgey, never mind; don't cry so.
You have got yourself into a dreadful mess, and
I know you must be tremendously cut up; but,
after all, there is but one way out of it. The
young lady at Brompton will not marry you,
but Isabel will; and you must acknowledge
that you have not behaved well to her. She
has almost as much to Complain of as the other,
if we come to look into the case.”

“ What does she want me to marry her for 9"
burst out George. "I hate her. and she does
not care three straws whether I am dead or
alive."

“ Well, I know neither of you feel very kind
ly toward each other-just at prcSent, my boy.
But time will cure all that, and six months from
now I trust you will be livmg very happily to-
getlwl‘; all this folly ended and forgotten.”

“I‘Inded it may be, and is i" said George;
“ but it will never be forgotten by me till they
lay me in my grme. Uncle, when I think of‘
that gentle little thing lying ill out yonder, and
then look at Isabel, I have scarcely patience to
speak to her. Oh! if she was only a man, how
soon I would call her out for her yesterday's
work.”7

“I am a man. and I was there," said the Col-
onel, smiling sadly. “ Why don't you call me
out, my boy ‘3"

“BL‘CIIUSC you are my kind, good uncle al-
ways," said the young man, touched with a
pang of remorse at the sight of the, sad face
turned toward him. “ And you will forgive me
all this,l know. I am behaving badly to you
as Well as to Israel ; but I cannot help it. I am
desperate, and at times I feel as if I was going
mad in earnest, as Isabel says.”

“I’oor boy I" said the Colonel, pressing his
hand. “It brings back my 'oung days to see
you like this. I can remem er when I wasin
love with pretty I’olly Hayes, our Adjutant’s
daughter, and fit to blow my brains out for her
sake, when they took her away.”

“ Ilein ! She married the Drum-Major, a
great ignorant hint of a fellow, with nothing but
his six i'eet of stature and his red cheeks and
black eyes to recommend him. She has eight
Clllldl‘v‘u now, and has forgotten all about .
long ago, I dare say," the Colonel added, With
a sigh.

The poor man did not mean to be in the least
satiriCal, but he seemed so ; and George’s
thoughts turned instantly from Valeria, pale
and sorrowful, stretched on a bed of sickness, to
Valeria “ fair, fat, and forty", and the mother
of eight young greengrocers, with loud voices
and large appetites. it was not a pleasant ides.
IIe shrank from it with a shudder of disgust;
and yet it haunted hiin persistently.

“ Well, in the years to come, I may be telling
my son the same tale you have just told me,”
he said, with a sigh. “I suppose I shall get
over it, as other men have done before me; but
just at present, uncle, it looks a wretched world
enough.”

” I dare say it does, my boy; but no trouble
lasts for ever, that is one great comfort. Try
and put yours out of your mind as much as you
can, and do what isrright. That is all that is
left you now." ,

" Oh! I will marry Isabel, since I must-mn-
less I turn coward, and take to my heels at the
very altar. I will not promise, mind you, that
I shall not do that."

“There is little fear. And now will you go
back to 'her 1’”

“ Not I.”

“ But it will look so strange.”

“I cannot help it. Isabel knows, as well as

you do. just what I am thinking, and feeling,
and suffering. If she persists in forcing herself
upon me during these few days of gmee, if the
keeps me dancing attendance here,she will lose
as. You may tell her so plainly. All I ask
now is, to be let entirely alone—to come and go

-1

 

 

- Monair shivered llllt or her thin cloak; Isabel

_ the bridegroom‘s face was clouded over as

to forget her!

. sabel’s cold, clear voice, and Mr. Monair‘s half-

»resolve seemed forming in his mind to free him-

POOR VALERlA!

as I like. and where I like. When you want] allowed to witness by accident, as it were. Did

me for the ceremony, I will come; till then,
Half-moon street will see very little of me.”

“Bless, me, how odd! What will Isabel
say 7” ejaculated the bewildered Colonel. But
his nephew was already half-way down the
stairs, and there was nothing for him to do but
to return to the ladies, and account for his dis-
appearance as best he could.

Mr. Monair kept his Word. Except when
positively summoned by his bride or her legal
advisers, he never made his appearance at the
house. Where his time was spent, or who were
his companions, not even the Colonel knew.
Isabel cared Very little what he did, or where
he went; but Valeria. on her sick bride—Valeria,
who had such a horror of evil for its own sake
ah! what tears of agony Would she not have
wept, had she been able even to imagine in
what way the unhappy young man was trying

CHAPTER XV.
" When I heard you sing that burden, ,
In my vernal days and bowers,
Other praises disregarding,
I but hearkeiied that of yours.
Only saying,
hi heart playing,
Blessed eyes, mine eyes have been,
It the swwtcst his have seen!”

Never was there a more dismal Wedding-day
than Isabel Moniiir's. The morning had dawn-
ed brightly enough, but, before ten o’clock,
clouds obscured the sky ; a high wind rose,
and when the I carriages drew up before St.
George's Church, a heavy rain was falling. The
brideiiiaids looked pinched and blue. Mrs.

looked as if she was carved out of marble, and

gloomily as the sky. The clergyman Wondered
secretly, as the sermon proceeded, what could
possibly have brought the two together; and

murmured replies, alike jarred upon his car.
They came at once to a dead stop. The final
question, “ Wilt thou take this woman?” had
been asked, and every one was waiting for the
reply. But none came. The bridegroom stood
with his eyes fixed on the ground—not on his
bride’s face; and a sort of gloomy, desperate

self, even at that late hour, from the bondage
he abhorred. Mrs. Mohair turned pale—the
Colonel fidgeted about-lsabel raised her eyes
and looked at him steadily. The power of her
glance was felt by him, even in that sullen
mood. He looked up, quailed a little before the
angrdy glare in those deep dark eyes, and mut-
tere sullenly, " I will," with the air of a ‘
schoolboy who yields to any terms rather than
receive the whipping which he so richly de-
serves. Isabel smiled slight! as she heard the
irrevocable words pronounce , but in her heart,
at the some moment, she registered a vow. He
was hers now, to have and to hold for ever.
But for that momentary hesitation in confirm-
in the sacrifice which he had agreed to make
— or that instant‘s despairing pause, which told
so plain a tale, especially to her young lady
friends who were watching him eagerly—oh!
for that she would have full reVenge—for that V
she would exact full payment, even to the utter- E
most fol-thing} And, uttering this Vow inward-
ly, she pronounced the words appointed for her,
and the ceremony drew to a close.

The Colonel drew a long breath of thankful-
ness when they Were fairly iii the vestry at last.

“ Good heavens! George, how could you
frighten me so?” he whispered to his nephew
as they stood a little apart from the gay group
who were thronging round the bride with smiles

 

and kisses and congratulations.
“A very near thing. wasn‘t it, uncle ?” re-

pliedthe oung man, with a dreary laugh. “If 

there ha been an 0 on door ‘convanient’. no
the Irish say, I shoult have bolted, I am sure,

.and Isabel would have lost her husband.”

“Well, she has him now; and I hope all will

' go on well."

.
i.
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“How can it go otherwise, my dear uncle 1
This is one of t 0 matches that are made in

‘ heaven, you know, and! which sinners like you

use the :3} of our get-tidy {rigpds here, He only

you ever see a more modest bride or a more
sure )tured bridegroom ‘2"

“ eorge, I do hope, now that you are a mar-
ried man, you will be kind, and steady, and
good, and all that sort of thing," said the poor
Colonel, a little aghast at the turn the conver-
sation was taking. Here. as once before in Isa-
bel’s case, he felt called upon to utter some
word of advice, some grave and friendly coun-
sel. Yet his tongue failed him. He was asham-
ed to speak the words that were on his lips lest
George should laugh at him. And so he looked
contemplatively at his white kid gloves, and held
his tongue. George burst hto a fit of laughter
that turned the eyes of the bridal group upon
him instantly.

“ Uncle, your sermon is Worth a dozen from
the parson. Rely upon it, I shall spot-din be-
come ‘all that sort of thing‘, with a Vengeance!
And now we must go back to breakfast. Mrs.
Monair, are on ready ?"

He offered, his arm to Isabel, with a mocking
smile, and led her to the carriage.

The Wedding breakfast was as stupid and fool-
ish as all Wedding breakfasts are, but the con-
duct of the bridegroom on the occasion was eer-
tainly an exception to the general rule. He
never spoke to his bride—in fact, he spoke to
no one except when he was pOsitchly obliged to
do so. He looked little like a man who was liv-
ing “the happiest day of his life" as he made
his speech ; and the speech itself was so strange,
so cold, so almost sarcastic and bitter, that Isa-
bel sat gnawing her lip nervously all the time
he was speaking, and the pretty bridemuids
exchanged glances of wonder with each other,
and began to fancy that she had not made so
wonderful a bargain as they had supposed.
George Mohair was certainly handsome, and
elegant, and fascinating, but what should make
him “ so odd" at his wedding feast? Poor Isa-
bel! how could she expect lo live happily with
him all her life long. if he began like this?

“ Poor Isabel", conscious of their looks, their
thoughts, their Wonder, and their pity, sat smil-
ing and beautiful by the side of her incody
bridegroom. But under that fair mask, rage
and hate were filling her haughty heart. How
dared he insult her so carelessly, so publicly,
and at such a time? But she would be reVeng-
ed; and for every stab he had giVen her vanity
that day, she would make his heart-strings bleed.
She knew so well where to wound him mortally.
Through that pink and-white-fuccd girl at
Brompton she could pierce him td the very
heart. And she would do it!

Who could have guessed that the graceful
bride was thinking those thoughts a she with-
drew from the room to put on her traveling at-
tire ?

 

The meek, gentle mother, who accom- 1

panicd her to act for the last time as lady‘s ‘

maid, never dreamed it. She hung about her
in an unusually affectionate way, and kissed her
not before they Went down stairs together.

“George is a little Vexed and hurt, my dear, ‘
and we cannot Wonder at it," was her sole re- ‘

mark. “ But don‘t lake any notice of his man-
Iier, and I'm sure that it will all be right when
you are away together.” I

“ Have no fear for me, my dear mother," said
Isabel, quietly. “I shall soon bring Master
George to his senses.
and the next time you see him, I trust you will
find that he is much changed, and for the bet-
ter.”

There was a vicious light in her eye as she
spoke, that boded ill for her husband’s future
peace, if he attempted to repeat the insults of
that morning. This was no Katherine to be
tamed by a I’etruchio, and a pair of scissors
snipping up a new dress. Isabel‘s l’etruciiio
might have cut up her whole wardrobe, if he
had liked, without frightening her in the least.
And then he Would have had the pleasure of
purchasing a new and for more costly one, and
of owning himself beaten by that cold, remorse-
lcss, overbearing will.

She drove away from her mother's house as

He is my property now ; .

composedly as if she had been setting out for ,

an afternoon's excursion, rather than the' lon

voyage of life. When they were fairly ofl,
George turned and looked at her with a savage
sort of smile. ‘ ' .

. ‘ ,

“ \Vell, Isabel l"

“ “’ell, George l"

“ You have got your heart‘s desire now."

“I have—andl mean to keep it too !" she
answered, coolly.

lie said nothing more, but pulled a morni
paper from his pocket and began to re .
Nothing daunted by this strange behavnour,
lsabcl took from her traveling—bag the first
Volume of a popular novel, and was soon buried
in its pages. Mr. Monair watched her from be-
hiiid his paper with wondering eyes. She was
really reading, not pretending to read, as he was
doing. There was no mistaking her air of quiet
interest, of absorbed attention, in the tale.
What was she made of? Had she a heart?
Had she any sort of feeling about her? As he
gazed at her, and she continued to read without
once troubling her head about him, he felt very
much like a simple fly entrapped in a spider’s
glittering web, and waiting for the moment
when the cold—blooded insect would pounce
upon and devour him. It was a pleasant be-
ginning, certainly, to that sort of Companion-
ship which ihvy bud sworn, only two hours be-.
fore, should last until death did them part.

The Colonel, left behind after the wedding-
guosts bad dopartwl, exchanged confidences
with Mrs. Monuir upon the subject with a can-
dor that did him credit.

“ Gad ! It was a regular George IV. business
over again i" he remarked “I was doomed
afraid every moment that he Would turn hit
back on her and call for a glass ofbruiidv—nnd-
water, as the Prince did, when he saw lllefl‘lCt.
Luckily, he span-d us that; but how disgrree-
fully he behaved at the breakfast! I cotfdh‘t
lmvve bcliowd it of him, if I had not men it
with my own eyes. 1 was disgusted—pos' Lively
disgusted."

“ But if George IV., who was the ‘firs gentle-
man in Europe’, you know, behaved so to his
bride, there was not so much harm in George,
poor boy!" said Mrs. Monair, perfecily uncon-
scious of the implied satire in her wrrds. “And
you know it was rather annoying tc have Isabel
go out to Brompton, and lecturo him before
that girl and her mother.”

“Good gracious! Would you save had her
stop quietly here, and let him ri 4 off With the
girl? For that is where it world have ended,
if we had not interfered."

“ Well, I suppose you km v best. But I
cannot blame the poor fellow 'or feeling a little
annoyed."

“He might, at least, haw had the decency
not to exibit thit annoyance iefore his guests, ’
growled the Colonel. ' .

But Mrs. Monair. having got the brilliant ex-
ample of the Prince lit-gem into her head, was
so ready in making excuses for her son-in-lawp
that the Colonel grew tired Jf grumbling: Be—
sides, with her, marriage was the universal
panacea for way evilunder the sun ; and to all
his fears, lest people should “talk” about his
nephew‘s strange behavior, she offered two
pleas—one being, “ But you know they are
married, Alfred. dear ;" the other, “Well, peo-
ple are always talking about something or other,
and I dare say they will let it drop in time.
And it will all be the same to us, you know, a
hundred years from now."

“ Fiddlerde—dce l" was the Colonel's irrelevant
reply to this wise axiom, advanced for the hun-
dredth time. And then he took himself off to his
club, and left her to her embroidery. her nOVel,
and her memories of Isabel.

But I Wonder what the Colonel and Mrs. Mo-
nair would have said—what George and Isabel
would have thought—had they known one
thing? It was this: That while that solemn
inock~~ry of a wedding was going on, a pale little
pitiful face, and tear-stained, was looking down
upon it from the gallery; and that when the
carriage drove awa from the door, two simply-
dresscd young girf; stood at a little distance
among the vulgar crowd, and watched it off be-
fore thgy‘entered the humble cab that was wait-
ing for them in the next street.

Ah! what a sad and weary heart it was that

v went back to the, greengrocer‘s house at Bromp~

l

\ .

ton, while the bride and the bridegroom sat ’-

reading, side by side, as theyrolled toward

their beautiful’countr: home. a
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POOR VALERlAl

21

 

' r

CHAPTER XVI.

So, the hero having been disposed of, it only
remains with us to look after the welfare of the
heroine. whojs left behind. How long is that
poor Valeria, who has really committed no

hit, exce t the very common out of loving
and bein lived—how long is she to be left upon
her sick- d, mourning for the lover who can be
her lover no more 2

Not Very long, Iassure you. 'It is not “ prop
er’? to continue to love a married man unless he
happensto be married to you; and good Mrs.
Grant had as strict an eye to the “ proprieties"
of this life as any fine lady of them all. Never
having been in love in er life—if we except
that very mild attack of sentiment which led
her to bestow her hand upen the worth green-
grocer—she was inclined to look upon aleria’s
sadness as s species of “ nonsense" to which all
young girls were subject while receiving the
attentions of handsome youn men, and which
would be more speedily COMM by change of air,
country diet, am plenty of exercise and amuse-
ment, than anythin else. Accordingly, Va-
leria and her faithfil confidante, Maria, were
dispatclled, like tWO bales of goods, to their
uncle’s farm in'Hampshire, where they had often
visited as children, and where Valeria had spent
four consecutive years of her delicate early girl-
hood.

The old Bruce farm! How pleasantly the
words sounded in the girl's ear, as they drove
from the little Forest Station toward it! And
the old Bruce farmhouse too! She had seen it
under every aspect; with the first sweet breath
of the spring sweeping through its spacious
rooms, and the broad golden rays of the sum-
mer sunshine lying on the floors 3 with the cold
winds of autumn enhancing the comfort of the
blazing fires. and the snows of winter givin a
sense of sscurit to every one within its hospita-
ble walls ; and ate Bruce had been her dearest
playmate in those days of old, and she had
shared her father’s knee and good-night kiss
with her more times than she could count.
Dear Kate l she had but that father to protect
her; her mother's grave was in that “ bonnie
Scotland”, of which Alan Bruce told such stir-
ring tales to the listening children at his knee.
Katie—whose second name had been given her
in honor of Burns‘ Highland Mary —Katie
grew up in that sequestered
farm ouss, fresh and lovely as a mountain-
flower.

She had a brother, Malcolm, whom Valeria
remembered only as a fair-haired, round-faced,
blue-eyed urchin, resolute, darin , and mis-
Bhievoul, Who always lau hed w en she fell
down and hurt herself, an who curled his li

'most contemptuously when he found Katie

tsaehin her to skate and slide upon the little
strum hind the house. Valeria was neither
glad nor sorry when Malcolm went away to
aahool. She had her little lovers, even at that
early day, who were very gracious to her. and
she did not waste msnv thoughts upon her
“cablesome tomboy cousin. How it all came

back to her, as she drove through the half-for-

3°n€n Vin“ ‘3 “Feet. Where she had played so
Often with atie and those little lovers, grown
inen now! Which were the most real? The
early days with the bright halo of purity and
Peace around them, or these later and more
tronblous nours, when her heart knew no rest
and little pleasure because of what it had found
tad lost?

A sudden turn in the green, forest road
brought them in sight of the farm. The house
was low, and built of stone, overhung with ivy,
and surrounded by a garden filled with flowers.
Before it was the ba ed white road, behind it
the singing stream and the mighty forest, in
Whose coo! recesses she had so often spent her
summer (la a.

It was a lovely day -- a day to be happy in.

he evening was fresh, and pleasant. and r' ht;

a air was full of the son s of birds; she'd“.
0n lifted their hrighbhue heads to catch the

trays of sunshine, and the leaves rustled

‘ bud waved about softly in the wood, as if they
' were whispering secrets to the gentle wind that

 

A lady stood at the roadside gate, waiting to
Welcome the traVelers with eager look and
smile. Forgetful of the equal change in her-
self, Valeria gave a little scream of surprise at
the sight of her. Tall, slender, and elegant,
with soft, dark. gray eyes, and gleamin olden
hair, could that oung lady be the wil little
girl with whom she had ramped, and frolicked,
and torn her pinafores ten years ago? Tears
sprang to their eyes unbidden as they kissed
each other.

“It is but a sorry welcome to you," said
Katie, smiling through those tears. “I know

on never used to like me to cry. But, 0 Val-
fie, ou are so changed! I am almost afraid I
woud rather see the little girl in the green
gingham frock than you." _

“ Yes,” said Vallie, sighing. “ I should like
to see my little playmate, too. But that cannot
be. And it is ten years since we met, Katie,
and life changes us all, you know. Especially,
if we have not always had a bed of rose-leaves
to lie upon.”

She spoke so sadly, and looked away toward
the sunset west with such a dreary glance in her
aye, that Kate was startled

"Yes," she said, regarding her friend more
earnestly. “ You are right: life does chan e
as all. But I never felt it so much as I 0
now."

They went toward the house together. Maria
followed more slowly, watching the farm-labor-
er, who was driving into the yard with the
carriage which had brought them from the sta-
tion.

Two fair-haired children stood in the farm~
house door. The youngest, a boy, who could
scarcely speak plain, held out his arms to his
mother. The little girl, a few ears older.
looked up into Valeria‘s face wit a winning
smile.

"' Kate, how strange it all seems!" she said, as
she bent down to kiss the children. “Can
these be yours 1"

“They certainly are. Troublesome pleas-
ures, Vallie,” said the young mother, looking at
her children with a smile that betrayed how lit-
tle trouble they really were.

“ You are very happy," said Valeria, looking
at her, at them, and at the pretty house, with a

lance that was almost envious. How prefera-

le that rich and full existence seemed com-
pared to her own lonely, vacant, disappointed
ifel

Kate looked at her roguishly.

“ Well, my dear, what should kee you from

bei e uall happ ? Hereiamyv rother."
“1‘5 latte!X y

“ I see you have not forgotten our old plans,
my dear.”

“ Your plans—not mine? You know how
angry I used to get when you talked about
them.”

“ Ah I but you will not now, after you have
once seen Malcolm. He is my only brother,
and I may be partial; but do you know, Val-
{‘ie, it seems to me that there is no one like

im.”

“ Not even John Paul l!" .

“ Ah! John Paul is my husband, my dear; it
Will never do for me to praise him to you. But
seriously, Vallie, I want you to like Malcolm—I
have set my heart upon it."

. " and Maria and I have set ours upon get-
ting into the house, Katie, if you will allow us
to do 80s" .

“ Bless me, how rude I am! What must you
think of me it”

“ Just what I always did, Katie.” said Vallie,
laughing. “That you are Malcolm-mad.”

“ New, to unish you for that saucy speech,
I shall intro uce you to him this very instant,”
said Mrs. Paul, throwing open the door of a
small parlor as they entered the hall. “ Here
he is; shake hands with Malcolm.”

A gentleman, who had been standing near the
window, came forward, and offered his hand to
Valeria, with a pleasant smile. She took it in
mute astonishment.

“ Can this be Malcolm t” she exclaimed, while
her e es dwelt upon the noble stature, the
gracefin head, with its fair clustering hair, the

I I

 

calm and beautiful face, the blue eyes full of
life and light, and the faint. golden-brown mus-
tache just shading the delicate upper lip.

“ Yes ; it is Malcolm l” he said, “ almost as
as great a tease and plague as ever, I am afraid,
but very glad to welcome his cousins to the

old Bruce Farm once more, in spite of all u'

that.”

Mr. Paul entered at that moment, followed -
b' his father-in-law, who kissed Valeria, com-
p imented her good looks, and welcomed her
to liiis house with a heartinesa that did her

00( .

When the bustle of the reception was over,
and the group were chatting gayly together,
Valeria sat apart, with her head leaning on her
hand. The unexpected change was almost
painful to her. She might learn to love the
new friends tenderly and well, but the children
who had played with her during those long,
blue, summer afternoons, would never meet her
there again. And Malcolm—Malcolm‘s way of
speaking and looking, and the peculiar beau-
ty of his face—ah ! she knew only too well
for her own peace of mind, of what and of
whom the reminded her so vividly. Malcolm,
also, at t at moment had his dreams of her.
He had seen the sadness in her eyes, those
“ bonny wells of eyes ", whose single glance
had haunted him. And the lines of Tennyson
came to his mind as he watched her.

“ 0 sweet pale Marguerite,
0 rare pale Marguerite,
What as your eyes with tearful powa'.
lee moonlight on a falling shower 3
More human in your mood,
Than your twin sister Adeline,
Your hair is darker, and your eras
Touched with a somewhat darker has:
And less serially blue,
But ever trembling through the dew.
Of dainty wol’ul sympathies."

When a' young man begins to quote poetry in
his own mind abouts lady’s eyes, we can gen-
erally give a pretty shrewd guess as to what will
ha pen. ’ ’ ' ' '

Eats that night, when Maria was sleeping
soundly, and the house was still, Valeria sat by,
the window of her little room and looked out.
The village church was but a little way 08' ; she
could see its spire glittering in the moonlight
behind the trees. Beyond it rose the moun-
tains, at whose dark tops she liked to look so
well. She leaned her head upon her hand and
mused. What had they done without her? How
much had they missed her at home to-day?
Had her mother shed a tear because her two
children had left her? Ah! she knew very well 3
and her own eyes grew moist at the thought of
the kind heart that loved her so. Life was not
all a blank (though its richest prise had been
lost) while that dear mother‘s love remained.

Then her thoughts went back to her school-
dsys. How pleasant, how full of sunshine, how
free from care they looked, now that she had
found out that there was such a thin as unhap-
piness in the world! How she u to stroll
with Katie out throu h the little country-town,
and stand upon the hill from which it took its
name, to watch the rising and the settin sun.
How often they got leave of absence on a ed-
nssdsy afternoon to take those strolls, or to
visit the brown-stone house that was their holi-
ds home. Did Katie remember those days as
wel as she did—the sails upon the river, the
strolls u on its banks with Malcolm and with
others w om the might never meet on earth
again? Trouble -—tossed with tem eats, and
not comforted, as she had been of to, those
simple and quiet delights seemed to Valeria the
sweetest memories of her life, mid she sat and
thought of them till the tears came to her eyes
with a kind of passionate rayer thatshe mi ht
be taken,  it so pleased god. from the troll la
and the grief which had darkened her laterdaya.
To die, at that moment, seemed far sweeter to
her than to live! To die; ganin once more
upon that fairy land which'she hadfioat for ever;
seeing the same lorified sky, the same enchant-
ed earth, and fee i the same winds that played
around her then. hl that would be sweet in-

deed!
She looked at Mark sleeping quietly ; she
been the salsa,-

thought of Katis, whose past

 

  

22

I
4,.
,i
h

‘ POOR VALERIA!

 

 

.only she was sad and ill at case. And yet she
remembered one evening—a July evening, cairn

and still-——when the school had broken up for .

the holidays, and the scholars were {11:0 from all
restraint. ’l'hnt freedom only brought flirting
with it. and though those who were nliout to
separate looked cheerful, and spoke of a s wedy
meeting ; in their hearts they knew too well that
such a thing might never be! Once away from
that house, and they We re parted for ever!
And Katie! She stood on the steps of the

‘ schoolhouse that night, her face pensive, and,

it may be, sad, and her dark eyes lifted thought-
fully toward the moon that shone then as she
always shines, let her worshipers on earth be
sad or gay. Katie‘s eyes at that moment Were
dimmed with coming tears, and though she was
a wife and a mother now, Valeria knew well that
neither her husband nor her children had ever
seen the look which she saw then, as they stood
side by side, mere maidens, with the World be-
fore them ‘ where to choose! The first fond
fancy of a young girl‘s heart lived and died in
that glance toward the moonlit sky. And now
it was all over, and Katie, happy in her home,
her husband, and her children, would probably
laugh heartily if Valeria Ventured to conjure up
before her the image of the slim young apothe-
cary’s clerk, who wore spectacles, and sang in
the choir, and for whom the apple-faced‘school-
girl avowed that she should certainly die!

And six years had passed away, and strange
faces were in the streets that they had so often
paced, strangers were in the houses thev had
oved to visit. Katie had forgotten the romance
of her early girlhood «in a woman‘s love; Va-
leria‘s romance had come much later, and prom-
ised to last much longer than hers had done.
Would the time ever come when she could think
and speak of George Monair as Katie would
pr’oba ly speak of the upothecary‘s clerk, should
she chance to hear his name?

Yam-is fairly shuddered at the thought, as

' she extinguished her lamp and crept into bed.

 

, CHAPTER XVII.
" rs is no one bcsldo thso, and no one above thos—
Ou standest alone, as tho nightingalo sings.
And my words that would praise thcc arc impotont
l s,

For nono cti‘xprcss thee, though all shall spprovo
'3! am thoo unclear, that I only can love thee !

" 8a , what can I do for thoc f weary thee, grisvo shoot
on thy mouldcr, now burdons to add 1
Wssp my soars ovor thoo, making thee and!

0h! hold no not ! love no not ! lot me rotricvo thcc !

' I love thso so door, that I only can leave theo '”
—lusnsrl Buns-r Bsownxlo.

'By dogrcoo, something of the old pesoc and
calmness csmo book to Valeria "m her country
home. Maris roturnsd to Brompton, after a
visit of two weeks, but Valeria was to be spared
knight, “so that she might oomo back strong,
on well and happy,” her mother wrote. And
alto w'sswcll contont to stay. ‘

By dogress, abs and her cousin Malcolm grow
to to the dearest friends. It was Malcolm who
was by her side during tho long walks and
ridos tho took each day—Malcolm, whose rapt
oyo was i“ d to the moonlit sky that filled her
soul with pocry—Mslcolm, who read and song
to hor when, weary of tho day’s lossures, sho
sot 'm tho dark old parlor, whore stic flittod to
and fro like a sunbeam, brightening everything
and no body around hor with her lad smile.

And rough it all Valeria was b ind l The

'biotor drosm of love which sho horsclf had had,
. and 'whoso fading had left her lifo such a blank,

kept hor from bar another—kc t her also, which
was worse, from seeing that slcolm might be
droansing ovon though she w. broad awake.
She felt old, and cold, and weary herself, and
 thstcvory one else must do so. And
oho had grown ambitious, I am sorry to say;
and was begin ' to look upon marriage rather
a a moons of elevation than as s founda-
ion fordomcstlo hop incss. It was a sad ity
we so sweet and rock a nsturo should’ bo
grid by sny't’sint of worldlinoss; but, alas!

' ‘lsvo plays‘tho very mischief with us all,
whoa it mass hsvo its own foolish, willful way;

- Add Valeria fired no better than tho, rest of us,

I .
f/
. ll

1
l
l
l

I
l

One was as quiet, as happy as the other, and after falling into the merciless urchin's grasp.

She might have been happy once as the wife of
an unknown farmer—not. now. ‘

So the weeks glided away—pleasantly to all. 1
The whole village was rin ring with the praises ,
of Valeria. Those who ad known her as a l
pale-{heed little child, were surprised and de-
ighted to meet a beautiful young lady who had .

‘ remembered them so well, and was ready and

 

    

willing to own that she did so. No empress
sitting on her throne ever held a more bond/ids
court than she. All the morning she was invis-
ible, sitting up in her little chamber, where the
branches of the oak-trees outside made pleas-
ant shadows on the floor; reading, writing,
sewing at times. but singing softly to herself for
oftenor. .The afternoon was sacred to her do-
mestic pleasures—to the society of her cousin,
her uncle, the children, and those of her young
friends who were familiar enough to join the
uiet famil circle. Tea once over, however,
e latch of the garden-gate was sure to be un-
fastened, and, one after another, the visitors
dropped in. Valeria was in her element then;
laughing, singing—I am afraid I must add,
flirtin -—with her worshipers, till the moon
rode high in the heavens, and the lights had
gone out along the villa e street. At such
times, however, her cousin lalcolm was by no
means in his element. The si ht of so many
faces in his quiet homo annoye him. He lov-
od Valeria, and he wanted her all to himself.
He could not bear that others should be rivi-
lo ed, even as he was, to gaze upon that lieau-
tilul face, to hear that sweet voice, to hold that
slender hand a moment as they said goodbye.
And, since they wore so privileged, he deserted
the pleasant arlor night after night, but stood
outside for ours, beneath the forest trees,
watching, as the curtains wavin in the air
gave him momentary glimpses of tho lighted
room.
One Woek after Maria’s departure, there was
a grand gathering at the Bruce form, into
which Valeria cntcrod with her wholo heart and
soul. The busy timo was almost, ovor at tho
farm. The boy was safe in the grost barns, tho
grainhousod and tho land dog over. Nothing
remained of the rest harvest but some late
Apples on the orc ard trees. They wero to be
gathered on this day, and Katio and Valeria,
y way of doin somethi original, had Mor-
mincd to take t o work on of the hands of tho
farm laborers into flair own. All the young
people in the neighborhood wcro invited to as-
list. and to wind the day with a suppcr and
a dance on the coo greenswsrd of the orchard.
The orchard was just boyond the house. It

. ate her from him.
' thing remained for him, and that was death!

 

extended a long way in a straight line, and tho
trees were planted in regular mm on either
side of the flold, having a wido spas}, level and
green, like an avenue, between. here was
room enough and to spare for a quadrille, and
thirty-two couples were to stand up after supper l
and dance by tho oombiaod light of the moon
and the paper lanterns which wcrc to be hung
from the branches of tho tress.

When Valeria cntorod tho orchard that after-
noon, it lookod little like a ball-room. Great
carts, drawn by scdato~looking horses, stood
hero and thoro along the avenue, and barrels,
baskets, and pails were under every tree, while
a laughing crowd of young people shouldered
osch other about, and gathered the fruit with
the greatest good humor. Valeria joined them,
and was pressed into service at once, and com-
pclled to gather the golden pippins that fell ‘
frun the branches of a troc callod “ Dorothy’s _I
Early”, shot the doc htcr of the former owner
of tho farm. Poor orothy Hart! She had ,
grown in in that quiet homo; had become a ,
wifo an a mother; and now the grass was
growing ovor her grave in the village church-
yard, while thosc whom she had nhvcr soon
woro josting and enjoying thcmsclvcs as they
shook tho a pics from her favorito tres !

Thoy wor ed till the sun was almost down;
and not till the last csrt was going toward tho
barn, lsdon with emptz‘baskcts, distloris cs-
cspc from her marry 'snds.

All that day hot-.cossin Malgolm had boon
watching her; all that day he had been long-

A

f
l

.,\\r~  ‘

ing to see and speak to her alone ; but the per-
verse fates gave him no chance. He had made

; up his mind, like many another gambler, to risk

his fate and his lill- upon a single throw of the
dice. if luck befriended him; and he gained the
love of Valeria—ah! he dared not. think of that

‘ possibility, lest he should break out into some

mud extravagance, which should forever alien-
But, if he lost her, but one

We all say that, when we are really in love for
the first tinie—-perhaps we say it for the second
__but. by the time the third experience of the
little pangs and pains comes on-— We know very
well that it means nothing more than avcry
temporary disurrangement of the heart and
liver, after winch we shall ro on and. eat din-
ners, and attend puities, andaeiijoy life generally
with a better zest than ever.

Malcolm waited and watched a wean while,-

on that evening of the harvest-ball, for" his di-
vinity. At last he heard the rustle of dresses,
and the soft murmur of women’s voices on the
stairs. Yes. there she was, among a group of
friends, dressed in a soft blue muslin, that set
off her fair face and golden hair to the utmost
advantage—a white rose at her breast and
another in her hair. She danced, of course,
but not with him, because he did not ask her.
He watched her for a time, as she Whirled
around the room with a young lawyer who had
been one of her boy-lovers; then he went into
the quiet parlor, where the old folks Were play-
ing whist, and watched them by way of a chin 0,
But presently the magic of a voice drew hm
back again. Valeria was singing!
“ I have heard thee sing of a sky more blue,
And a sun more warm than this ;

And I’ve sometimes thought, if they tell no trio,
To dwell in that home wcro bliss.

But, oh! when l gaze on In! MMeful cot, .
Whore tho clematis bowers cntwlno,

The land of the stranger tempts mo not-
No, ne’er, can thy home be mine 3"

The words Were simple, but the melody was
plaintiva, and the voice of the singer one that,
once heard, would haunt the heart forever. Ho
Was conscious of a vague, oppressive sadness
when she finished the song. It seemed as if
those words— “ No, ne'er can thy homo bo
mine!"—were sung to and for him, as if b then
she would place an insurmountable barrior bo-
tWeeu them, then and forever. She rose from
the phone, acknowledged the thanks of the circlo
around her with a faint smile, and as soon as
the dancing recommenccd, glided quietly from
the room. Malcolm followed her. his heart beat-
lng fast and high ; for the decisive moment for
phich he had watched so long, had come a
act. ‘

A little apart from the farm-house, but con-

, mated with it by a covered way, stood an old

building, used only as a granary. Strange to

3 say, this was one of Valeria‘s favorite retreats.

One small room (accessible only by a

path

, through the potatoes that covered the floor of

the outer chamber) had been fitted up for her
byMaleolm with a table, so easy-chair, sud a
swinging bookcase, filled with her favorite vol-
umes.  door opened at one sido of this room
into a dim-looking closet, full of broken vialfi
and old pa era; the one window looked out
over the il s for miles away, and gavc her also
a view of the road that led toward the vill c.
Many of her solitsr mornings bad eon
passed here, watching t e autumn rain that fell
steadily, and the hills that wrapped thomsolvss
the while in a thick ray mist. From that win-
dow she had lookea, at times, when all the

, earth seemed brooding sadly over the winter

near at hand, and when the bell tolled faint
in the village church for some one who wssjast
dead. Au now, after all the mirth and merri.
meat of the d , she had betsken herself to the
little window or a few moments‘ quist, while
the rest were dancing. _

“ Fair shone the moon", touching the bosutl.
fol face. the graceful are, and tho protty evo-
nin drug, with a on 0 light that only height.
one the charm. find,” she stood lookin pp

   

st-ths olosr 'ht-s ,,snd ofths, / ‘
that would iiisvcr gum: again,  great ‘ u:

of the old ‘house opened,and she heard It’s

 

 

. .1) ;.u‘213‘5’3‘*3"’:i’ ‘

 

 

 

. r ‘1‘"
' -. thin

.i i would

I

' POOR VALERIA'L

 

' 28': V

 

 

one stumbling through the potatoes on the floor
outside.
“ Is that you, my good Talbot ?" she asked,
thinkin that her faithful dog had followed her.
“Tal at is in his kennel ; it is Malcolm,” was
the re ly."
“O 1 Come in, Malcolm," she said, cheer
hilly
is manner had been so strange for a flaw
days, and he had avoided her so carefully, that
she fancied she must have offended him. He
entered, and 'oined her at the window.

“A beautiful night," he observed, “ and the
moon shines brightly enough.”

“But you do not bring a very cheerful face
to the moon, my good cousin."

“ D0 I not P"

She held out her hand, with a frank smile,

“ Come, Malcolm. out with it, as we used to
say when We were children. What has been the
matter with you for the last week? Have you
been ill, or have i vexed you with any of my
mad pranks 2‘”

He looked at her with a sad smile.

“I think, Valeria, you could never vex me.“

“Something has gone wrong with you, I am
sure. Tell me what it is. There was never a
trouble yet that could not be lessened by the
telling it to another.”

’ “Do you think so?"
‘_ Hs gazed at her admiringly. A. shade of
3/ ’ pansivsness was the only thing wanting, in his
§ , eyes. to her face, and it was ad ed now.
' .' . ,There was a long silence.
- “The moonlight makes one sad, if nothing
‘ ~ also," she observed at last. “ Let us go back to
the dancers. ’
“I should say that sadness nevsr cams to
you," he observed, without heading hsr re~
nest.
“ Why not to me, pray?" she asked.
“ So young—so beautiful—so beloved l"
Bhs waved her hand impatiently.
, “ Cousin Malcolm,I was not seeking for s
 compliment. I only wished to know on what
1' rounds ycu exempted me from the common
. ' . .V

,i “ Are not those I have already named sum-
‘ sicnt 2” ‘ _

. “ Granting that I possessed them—no."

a , “ Is it possible, then, that you have suffered
"j— —that y‘pu havc bean unhappy?"

‘. she oksd up to the moonlit sky with a
 smile. .

r; .“I hava lufl'ercd," she said, as if she was
to herself rather than to him.

,r “ Va sris, I would die gladly if I could make
you happy”

‘ r ‘ ‘ Shs shook her head.

. “I do not like to hear you say such things,
I “Ins”

“Is itbscsuse you do not believe in them?

Upon my life they are true! May I go on,

* .1. I Vallisf"

< She saw it all now find murmured faintly—
. .uDo not say any more, Malcolm."
~\ ~ ss You must hear me now! I love you dear.

“You love me as a cousin, Malcolm. No.

more. Do not say that. Take it back i"
c.‘ o‘nnot, for it is true i"

,3 ' He bring his head sadly..and his blue eyes

M almond with tears. She laid her hand gent],
‘- on his arm.

" Cousin Malcolm. Willy“ believe me when

" A I say that I never dreame of this ? I thought
;-‘ I was like Katie to you—O Inter. and~ nothing
r more. If we had met one year 0. you might
 have been m choice. But 110"» 3100101, I am

1:, h w“ you “'1 forgive me for all the pain I have

.. “med you, when I ten you that I too have
loud—and in vain l" ‘ . .

’ “ In vainl" he said, lookin With Qfitomfih-
. ,msnt athcr beautiful face. ‘- s it possible that
i you 00,31“ love in vain Y"
‘ “ Is it possibls 2" she said with a sigh. “ Every

0” “"5 me that I am retty. MalWImif’ 'h"
 ' said. frankly; “and I be icve thsm at tunes.
' s .fit this {MOJhst won the love I coveted, could

 

\ ‘ i" n’9‘ keep it; a“ mall would have married only
v -’ ' L00“ M m “P my beauty! And all the while,
"H ' 3.1“ 09in“! he '39 “R‘IOG to his cousin—a lady
It i'i‘ I ‘ l
J I»  1,,- Yv .3 I I x ‘ ‘
iii! ‘9‘” _ .’;,__‘_ . a _ I, '5 A

" . r312. , ,
s . v n .  v' , l, , ‘i
s; i‘ 0A., x‘wufirw ,1, e, v

 

 

far above me in every way. He is married to
her now. And I am a weak, wicked, miserable
wretch l" she added, bursting into tears. “ For
he is married, and I cannot forget him ; I can—
not keep from remembering how I loved him!"

He waited till she grow a little calmer.

“ Dear Vallie,” he said at last, “I grieve for
you with all my heart. But you have lost him,
and in time you will get over that loss, I think.
Is there no hope for me in the future 7 Years
hence—"

She shook her head.

“ Years hence, if I live, I shall love him
still 2"

“Then farewell, Vallie l"

He leant his head upon her hand, to hide his
tears. She touched his hair lightly with the
other, and murmured :

“ I am grateful to you, Malcolm, for I fancied
no one cared for me. Let u- go back to the old
time. and be brother and sister once again i"

“ As if that were possible 1” he said, with a
faint smile.

“ It is! It must be! Let me be your sister,

our little friend once more. I cunnotlosc you,
hialcolm. I need a friend."

“ Valliel Vallie! where are on ?" called gay
voices outside. But she waiter for his answer.

“Yes, yes; have it as you will," he said,
hastily.

“There‘s my good cousin. I will thank you
to-morrow," she said, as she wrung his hand
and darted away to join her friends.

Malcolm did not return to the Lari-room that
night. But Vailie danced awn ', most persever-
ingly, till the clock struck th ve, and the party
broke up.

CHAPTER XVIII.
“ Outspoke the bride‘s brithcr,
As he cam’ in wl’ the kye—

‘ Poor Willie wad ne'er hse ta‘en ya

Had he kcnt ye as weel as I ;
For ye are balth proud and saucy,
And so for a poor man‘s wife ;
Gin I oanna get a h- Ltsr,
Isa ns'sr take anc a’ my life.’ "
—0r.n Sosa.

Days passed on, and neither Malcolm nor
Valeria made an allusion to the convsrsation
on the evening 0 the harvest supper. To all
outward seeming, they were as friendly as ever.
Only Valeria knew that Malcolm was silent and
absent when by her side—not bright and gay,
as he had once been. She was annoyed by the
change; it made her more uncomfortable than
she could as .~ “ Foolish boy i” she would
think, half indyignantly, when one of their silent
interviews was over, “what could have made
him take that absurd fancy into his heal?
What nonsene it is for him to fancy he is in
love with me! and what greater nonsense still
to imagine that he can never get over it!” ’

It makes all the difference in the world, you
see, whether it is in our own proper person,
or in our nei vhbors, that we bear the pain and
smart of such a wound. There is nothing so
sasy as to say to the next-door sufferer: “I am
sxceedin ly sorry for you; but why on earth
do you istress yourself about a thing which
cannot be helped ?"

Valeria‘s character, well-nigh perfect in some
other respects, was tainted with this prevailing
selfishness of the age. She could fee her own
immediate . troubles keenly enough, or the
troubles of her own family ; but her sympathies
did not extend ver far beyond the house at
Brompton. And alcolm, cousin though he
was, ot but half the pity he deserved from her.

M colm bore her somewhat trying behavior
very well. If you have a hankering after a
temptin cluster of grapes, which you cannot
for the life of you pronounce to be " sour”. it
is certainly very aggraVating to see them hang~
mg quite within your reach, yet no morc to be
had than if they were a thousand miles away.
And yet, poor fools that we are! how we always
long. and linger, till at last ths‘ fortunate gar-
donor comes by, carcisssl‘ 0 es the tempt?!)
prize with a confident smile, ifts up his han ,
and, lo! it is gonel

The fortunate gardener, in this on
not’ been so ver fortunate, after a
had been oblige

case, had
, since hi
to leave the grapes 'bchiii'd

 

i him. Much god that did his successor! Poor

Malcolm knew it Well ; and yet he hung about
Valeria day after day, and waylaid her in her
walks and rides, only to find himself dumb in .
her presence, and commitled a thousand [other
follies which he ought to have blushed at, and
over which the girl sighed and smiled impa- \
tiently when she was once more alone.

He watched beneath her window at night,
long after she was sound asleep, without a
thought of him; he stole her slipper and her
glove. and carried them about next his heart;
he rode miles away, to buy her hot-house floss-
em, fruit, and new books; he turned day into
night. and night into day. for her sweet sake;
and all the while, in the depths of her heart,
she was thinking what a goose be VIM making
of himself for his pains. She could not love
him while the memory of another stoo so per-
sistently between them; and I am afraid that,
at times. his devotion bored and wearied her.
If he could have got up a sudden shew of in-
difference—ifhe could have seemed to be at-
tracted by the charms of any of her young lady
friends, it might have done him good ,service.
But he was far too simple 'nd natural to play
a part. He only flung his cart at her feet, and
she—let it lie there i _ _

Malcolm, from constantly dwellin on this
one unlucky idea, and studiously neg ecting all
the minor consolations of mutton-cho s, baked
potatoes, beef-steaks, and bread and utter. all
the while, he grew as thin as a shadow and is
pale as a ghost. and looked at them all with a
worn and wearied expression in his beautiful
blue eyes, that was pitiful to see. Then Kati.
took the matter in hand. Knowing that Valeria
had a secret, she was not very long in getting
at the bottom of it ; but once there, all her sym-
path and kindness was swallowed up in horror
and ismay. So long as she had thought that
an absent or a recreant lover was in the way,
all was well enough, but when she’ discovered
that the lost love was the lawful property of 1
another woman, she grew indignant. and: told
Valeria she ought to be ashamed of herself: in
the first place, or charishing such a feeling , and
in the second place, for allowin it, wicked as it
was, to inter ere with Malco m‘s happiness,
when the poor fellow loved her so dearly. Now,
there are three things which you must not do
with a woman. You must not insult the mem-
cry of a former love—because you also tacin
insult her own taste and jud meat; you mud
not try to coax, cr argue, or ully her into lov-
ing another—because, thou h in her own heart
she may be slightly incline to do so, you! in-
terference will instantly make her as obstinate
asa mule; and you must not sit down 11 on
her best bonnet—because that is an in my
which women who Weir bonnets will own
really forgive. ‘ ‘ ’

Now, Katie had not sat down upon Vsleria's
best bonnet—her instincts as a woman would
never have allowed her to commit so heinous a
crime—but both the other offences lay at her
door, and by right of her womanhood shecught
never to have committed them. Asa matter
of course, a battle royal ensued, and poor Mal-
colm's cause suffered immensely throu'ghrhis
female ally. The two cousins would scarcely
speak to each other at dinner-time, and the next
day Valeria announced her speedy return to
Brom ton. Katie was in a ra e~Malcolln in
despair—Vallie triumphant. S e H had the
best of the battle, afler all.

It is just possible that a kinder mcbd might
huVe come over her, that she might have rc-
mainod a little longer at the farm—and that, in
some of their long strolls through the forest, '
with the dead loaves lying thick upon their path. .
Malcolm's love, and grief, and patience might
have won so far upon her, tbs; she would an;
listened to his prayer, even ifshe did not imma-
diately grant it. Just ossibls, I say, because
hearts are caught at the rebound; and walks
with handsome cousins, armng the forest trees

and autumn laughs" sometimes was: I r '

singular eflectn on a can lady's nerves. ‘But
so simple a squ ion 0 the ffi'slty was not for
a moment to bc'thonght'of. ’ nd so ‘that‘trick-
g .pirimkd imp of inf-carer, whoever he'rn‘dy

 

 

   

    

,N.
am 3“

‘ had the pleasure of meetin h m once or twice

. Only let me know

~ window.

.we are going back to England, Rosalie, at

:g‘ \_ .

' France and, above all, Paris, it is true ; but with

'e. a \’.

24

'. '3 HEW "v""‘,‘“-‘-. "3)- «~.."¢\  t-.W17"‘i‘f- Lye-z? “,5, guns —-e  no“: u «.- f‘c“‘w5 d,  L.  ~ ,‘N‘ X-

' A. in.

\ , ‘

POOR, VALERIA i

u" ,. 'I ., . m '

  
 

g (“WK ‘ ., —’%f-v.~ s...

\

 

W i r
be, that is forever turning all our plans topsy-

turvy, stepped in and brought a new actor 11 on
the scene—en actor who confused all the ot era

in their parts, and made the q eerest medleys ‘

in the business of the stage. on can ima -
ine why, when I tell you that on have alre y

in these pages, and that his name was Colonel
Monair.

It happened thus. Isabel, in her Parisian
home, felt bored and wearied, and longed to get
back to London, to the familiar sights and
sounds of an English winter. Accordingly, she
wrote to her mother and her uncle, announcing
her intention, and thereafter commissioned the
same piece of intelligence to her husband, seek-
ing him out in his smoking-room to do so. He
took his cigar from his lips, and looked up at
her with a peculiar smile.

“ Please yourself, Mrs. Monsir,” he said, in-
differently. “It‘s all one to me where I go
now." '

“ It was not all one to you once,” she said,
sharply.

He shrugged his shoulders.

“Once was a very long time ago, my dear.

t e day before you start for

England, that I may tell Antome what to
ask.”

P He resumed his cigar and his paper. She

stood looking at him a moment, then went back

to her own room, and closed the door behind her.

"Oh! how I hate that man l” she said aloud,
clenching her hands. “ How I wish I could
sting him with pain once more! His cool, as-
sumed indifference to all I say or do will kill me
in the end i” .

A discreet cou h startled her. She looked
u and saw her rench maid standing by the

“ You heard what I said, Rosalie ?" she asked,
shar 

“ re ret that Madame did not see me. But
Madames secret is as safe in my breast as in
her own," replied the girl, laying her band
upoii her heart.

“Not much of a secret, I fear." said Isabel,
laughing ; -‘ for you must know, Rosalie, that I
detest my husband.”

“ Hany ladies do the same,” said Rosalie,

quietly.
“ es; but they are not so honest as I am;
they lie to the world and to their husbands all
the while. So far as the world is concerned,I
keep my own counsel, too, for the resent. But
Hr. Hoaair certainly knows that do not adore
him. If he does not, ’tis not for the want of
telling; of that I am very sure."

Rosalie did not answer. It was her part just
then to listen, not to talk.

“ He seems even to have forgotten that green
grocer’e irl," continued Isabel. “I have a

rest curiosity to see if anythin can move him
om the stupid state he has fal en into ; and so

once."

Rosalie lifted her eyebrows imperceptibly.

“ Will that be wise, with the girl stil there 1”
she asked.

“ Pshawl I have long ceased caring for Mr.
Monair’s vagaries, I can assure on. Let him
go out to Brampton as much as e likes, if she
will receive him. I think I can find means of
amusing myself during the tedious hours of his
absence, especially if the Guards are in town,"
she added, with a little laugh.

Resell. understood its wicked meaning well,
and determined to accompany her mistress to
“ perfldioue Albion" once more. She loved

the 'prospect of so pretty a little farce to be
lsyed before her Very eyes, how could she re-
use to o? '
Isabe ’s letter made the Colonel exceedingly -

' next night he clept in Hampshire, at the W

 

stingy.
. “ ow she has got him safely away from that
white witch at Brampton.“ he muttered, pa be

women; and 1 don't think they know half the

time themselves what they are driving at.“
The Colonel was a shrewd man, on will ob-
serve. Bnt that did not save him rom doingla
e

- very foolish thing half an hour afterward.

actually sat down and wrote a letter to his
nephew about Valeria, cross- uestibning him
closely as to his feelings towar her, and wind-
ing up with a pathetic entreaty to him not to
come back if he felt the least disposed to ride
out to Brompton the very day after his arrival
in En land. Having dispatched this letter, he
trotte off to his club, feefing that a long-neg-
lected duty had been wel and faithfully per-

formed. .

Six months before, Geo e Monair would
have been immensely touche by the receipt of
such a letter. But when it reached him, as he
was dining at his hotel alone, he laid down his
knife and fork, read it throngh, and then re-
turned to his dinner, smiling now and then to
himself.

“My uncle has lived sixty-five years in the
world,” he said that night, as he perused it
again, in his bedroom—“ sixty-five years in a
world that ought to have taught him a little of
its wisdom ; and yet what a dear old simpleton
he must be to write to me like this! Here goes
for an answer that shall blind his innocent eyes
still further." And he scribbled away over a
sheet of note-paper, stopping now and then to
sip brandy and water, to puff at his cigar, or
laugh aloud over the farce he was playing, him-
self the only actor and spectator all the while.
And the letter which the Colonel received one
day later, was full of news of Paris doings and
Paris eople, with this one postscript tuc ed in,
like a ind of afterthought, at the end :

“ What could have posiessed you, my dear uncle, to
read me that solemn homily about the little greengrocer-
essf Have you forgotten the days when you were
young, and when, i doubt not, you ‘loved and rode
away’ as well as the rest of us? Have no fears for me
oh the score of a whey-faced little thing like that! She
sent me about my business, you know, and I find that,

" ‘ There are maidens in Scotland
More lovely by far,
Who would gladly be bride
To the young Loohinvar.’
Only he happens to have a bride already, and a precious
piece of c a she is, more by token ! However, let her
go—and et the other one 0 too, with all my heart. Gin-
gsr is still hot in the men , my dear uncle, and I find
cakes and ale remarkably leasan‘t fare. So good-bye
till we meet in ngland. ay ‘ my lady’ take it into
her lovely head to make that move soon.
" Yours ever. Glows.

“ There’s a young scam for you !” thought
the Colonel, as he took 0 his glasses. “ And
he calls that poor girl a who faced little thing
already. I wonder what a e would say if she
knew it? I wonder what has got her, by the
way! I hope she isn't ill, or dead, or anything
of that kind. Some women take their first
love-affair so much at heart—as if it was worth
making any fuss about. Ah! well, if she lives
to my age, she will know better, poor thing i"

Hie horse was at the door. He rode out to
Putney, thinking of Valeria and her sorrows ’all
the we , and then came back through Bromp-
ton. eeing Maria standing in the cor of her
father’s shop, he fancied it would be only polite
to inquire after her sister, and, checking his
horse, he took off his hat, and made her so
grand a bow as he asked the question, that in

er flurry she blundered out:

“ Oh! Vallie is quite well. She is staying at
Uncle Alan Bruce‘s farm in W ."

She would have given her ears not to have
said it the next instant, but it was too late.
The Colonel bowed again, thanked her, and rode

 

awa .
“yhat sudden whim, what unaccountable im- I

pulse seized upon him, I cannot say. But the

 

House, scarcely half a mile from Valeria‘s coun-
try home!

 

CHAPTER XIX.
Certainly the country did not wear its most

‘ agreeable as ct when ‘the Colonel opened his

nad it over hie late breakfast, " why cannot abs 4 eyes upon . ts beauties the next morning. A

as hundred times a day if he likes 2 I'll 'be .

‘ /

~ rest eentented f Why do. she want to bring ! heavy gal‘, which he had been pro hesying for
Hm back to the very spot where he can see the more than a week, was blowing hrough the '
‘ trees, and the air was full of flying, yellow ‘

, all I- sag “M the me ej jigs  lives; while eyeq now\ and than, as the wind

relentless steady pour. The inn where he was
staying looked out upon the village street, an
unpaved, muddy thoroughfare, with a few
houses and shops on either side—a deserted,
empty-lookin waste of road, that seemed to
stretch over t e hills into that ambiguous ter-
ritory described to him in his nursery-days as
“No man’s Land". The carrier’s cart was
wending its way slowly along that road, the
brown mare has in her head, and her master
whistling a dole ul gelled, as they jo ged along.
The mere sight of the two gave the éolonel the
horrors, and he rang the bell for breakfast, with
a melancholy doubt as to whether anythin fit
to eat could possibly be forthcoming in suc an
out—of—the-way place.

Breakfast soon appeared, and roved a much
more tempting meal than he ha hoped to see.
The landlord waited upon him in person, and
was as chatty and communicative as country
landlords generally are. From him the Colonel
learned many curious particulars concerning
the neighborhood of W—. There was no
'ssident lord or baronet. not even a resident
squire; and, in consequence, the famil at the
Bruce farm took rank among their neighbors,
and were almost looked upon, in the absence of
higher magnates, as the aristocracy of the town.
The Colonel was glad as well as surprised to
hear this. Since he had come so far to call on
a gfeengrocer’s daughter, it was encouraging to
find her in a comfortable and respectable home,

mud walls, as he had half feared he should do.
His sudden adventure began to assume the .ap-
pearance of a kindly act, rather than a foolish
im also of curiosity in his own eyes; and he
ful y persuaded himself into the belief that he
was almost performing the art of a good
Samaritan by seeking. throng his own cour-
tesy, to heal the wound which his nephew’s be-
havior had made. And so, in spite of the wind

set off, between eleven and twelve o’elo , to
pay. a visit at the farm. - I
he roads were almost flooded with the heavy

rain; walking was (suite out of the questi
even for that short istance; so he rform
the journey in a dismantled, old ye low
chaise, which belonged to the inn. The a vent
of this era: vehicle, with its two white horses
and deaf od post-boy, produced oonsiderabte
commotion in the farm-house when it was seen
stopping before the gate; and no one could
imagine who the “ distinguished stranger" could
gravel path with such daint steps, an in oots
facture.

The mystery was soon solved, however, by
his knock at the door, and inquiry for “Ike
Grant”. Katie ushered him respectfully into

the best parlor, and then ran away to look after
Valeria, who had not been visible all the morn—

m .

Elle was not in her own room. But mes
Malcolm on the stairs, he sug ested the o
granary as the most probable p ace of her re-
; treat, and Katie flew there breathleser to tell
l the news. Startled by Katie‘s sudden entrance,

 

n lv.

€th I beg your pardon, Vallie, for making
such a noise," said the eager messenger, “ but
a gentleman has come for you.”

“ A gentleman l"

“ Yes—from London."

“ Is it Cousin John ?"

“ 0h ! no—an old gentleman—ve hand-

someuwith gra hair and whiskers endan—
straight as a art. He tooks like a soldier.
‘ Vallie. Do you know who he is ?”
‘ Valeria turned pale. She knew but one gen-
tleman who answered to that description—what
could he possibly want with her! Had any-
thing hap sued to Mr. Monair ? And had they
sent him own to break the news to her? '

It was the first thought that crossed her mind.
She could have laughed at herself the next in:
stant ‘for entertaining it. Was it likely th‘t

, those proud people would thigk _of’ behaves,“ I

I
I

lulled a little, down came the cold rain with a .

instead of a cottage with a thatched roof and.

and the rain which prevailed the next da , he I

possibly be, who was picking his wa up the

that were most indisputab y of London mann- ,

Valeria turned round and looked at her inquir- I ‘

Aug—A —sn»-h

_._-‘—.

-..‘_A - . ._

/

‘ .lhtone unturned in

i
l

 

Seer e Was dylng.’ Was it likely that his Wire
woul allow them to summon her to his death.
b’ed, though he prayed for her presence with
his parting breath? But who could this my.-
terious visitor be i

“ You look so pale and frightened, Vallie,”
said Katie, who had forgotten their quarrel of
the day before. “Do you know who it is?
Don’t you want to see him? Because Iwill not
have you teased for forty like him, if you

‘ Would rather he went away."

“ No, I will go to him,” said Valeria. “ Where
is he ?"

“ In the best parlor. Shall I go with you i”

“I will see him alone,” said Valeria, walking
away.

She went into the little parlor quietly enough,

V [having persuaded herself on the way that there

i

c.

' done so.

"on business."

Was not the slightest occasion for misgiving,
since the messenger from town Would probably
turn out to be some neighbor, on his way to

Southampton, who had called at W , to
leave a message from her mother.

When she closed the door behind her, how-
ever, and saw Who the “neighbor” was, her
heart failed her again. She could not speak.
She stood and looked at him, pale as death, and
trembling in every limb.

The Colonel was a little frightened. He had
intended to be very courteous. but, at the same
time, very distant, in order that the young lady
might not presume t0o far upon his condescen-
sion in noticing her. But when he saw that
pale, beautiful face, his stateliness vanished like
frost before the morning sun. kle came ibr.
ward, took her hand, and led her to a seat With
the tendersst care. ' ~

“My dear Miss Grant, I shall never lol‘gl've
myself for agitating you in this Way," he said,
gently. “ I ought- to have known that the sight
of me could only bring the most disagreeable
recollections to your mind."

“ Oh no, Sir,” faltered Valeria. '

She had just sense enough left to keep her
from asking after George. Perhaps it would
have been better for her in the end if she had
But she looked at him as if she was

Wondering Why he came. The Colonel began

to wonder too. What on earth Would she say
V if she knew that he had made the journey from

London only to call on her? Why, that he was

mad, to be sure i, It Would neVer do to let her

know the truth about his visit; and so he fab-
ricated a fib upon the spot, with a celerity that
could only haVe been acquired by long prac-

tics in that fsshlonable art. .

i “I was obli ed to come down into Hampshire
0 said. “The evening beforeI
left town, I happened to be riding through
Brampton, and I saw your little sister in the
door of your fathers house. I inquired after
ybu, and, hearing you were staying here, I
thought, as I was to pass through W , a,“
I would call and pay my respects to you."

“ You are very kind,” said Valeria, feeling as

 

 

. ifshe should like to pull Maria‘s ears souudlv

for her ofiiciousness.

“Not at all, my dear young lady. To tell
'the truth, I was Very anxious to see you again,
and to tell you how pleased I was with your
conduct—in-—-in that lamentable affair."

She was perfectly silent, but he saw that she

,; turned 'pale at the allusion.

“ Ii. cannot be a pleasant subject for you to

'Y dwell upon ; and you will pardon me for allud-

ing to it in any way. Iain sure. But I feel that

v ,Imust have appeared in a most unfavorable

slight before you at that time. I assure you, if
"it hld‘been poi-Bible to secure your happiness
in the way you wished, I would have left no
your cause, but we were an
‘;.in a most awkwart dilemma. The only thing

-'iwe could do was, to get out of it as honorably

sss ossible. I fear it caused you much suffer-

' ing; Iregret that deeply. I would far rather

have borne the pain myself, than that you,’so
a": and so good,‘ should have had it laid

 on you.‘

. _ "Valeria

,.hfit into tears. . _
  “I see,” he said, with a sad smile; “I em a

, felt grateful for his kindness, but she,
I_M'litsrslly afraid to speak, lest she should

POOR VALERIAI

sort of grim old executioner in your eyes, and
you will never forgive me for the part I was
forced to play that morning."

“You mistake me, Sir," she said, with a vio-
lent effort to appear calm. “ I knew then that
M were sorry for me. You were obliged to

rule the part of your niece against me, and it
was quite right that—that Mr. )lonair should
marry her. I have nothing to blame you for."

“’l'hen you quite forgive me? I shall not
leel at ease till you have said ‘Yes' to that

luestion."

“If I have anything to forgive, most cer-
iainly.”

“ And We are friends 1’"

“ Yes, Sir.”

“ Shake hands, then."

She gave him her hand. The Colonel must
certainly haVe been losing his head, for, not
content with a gentle pressure, he raised it to
his lips. And Vallie blushed, and her ber
eyes sparkled through their comingr tears. It
was a sort of triumph to have the uncle paving
this homage to her, deceived and deserted as
she had been by the nephew. She did not own
withdraw her hand when he seemed inclined to
keep it. And so they sat side by side , the old
man’s heart beating fast 1 the young girl‘s eyes
fixed upon the floor. I wonder what George
Monair would have said if he could have looked
in upon the group inst then?

A tremendous (ebate, a hard strugls, war-
going on in tlie Colonel's mind at that moment
He was sorely tempted to do a very foolisl-
thing, 1‘. e., to make love to this pretty girl
whose white hand rested so quietly in his.

This was really what he had come to IIauip
shire for, though he would have been angry
enough if any one had told him so tWenty-l‘oui
hours previously! Should he go back without
accomplishing the object of his journey. simply
because he feared the laugh of a few henriless
people who knew him, and called themselves
the “ world‘ ? ~What did he can for the world?
It had never used him to well that he need do
fer to its opinion now. Besides, he had seen
quite enough of it, and with a beautiful young
wife at his side, would be quite as well pleased
if the “ world” would keep its distance. So the
die was cast, and the determination taken. If
Valeria Would consent, she should be his bride!

Through all this long silence he had held her
hand. But now he dropped it. She looked up,
and catching his breath, he plunged gallantly
into the waves of doubt—perhaps of despair.

“I am going to talk to you frankly. my
dear," he said, “and I want you to be equally
frank with me. Will you tell me—honestly,
mind—if you have quite got over that affair
with my no hew ?"

The poor Colonel! As if the most transpa-
rent woman that ever breathed could answer
such a question sincerely. Of course, Valeria
replied that she had quite got over it.

“ You are sure ‘2"

“ Perfectly sure.”

“ And you do not regret that he is married;
you do not envy Isabel 1‘"

Valeria smiled slightly. No, she did not
envy Isabel. She said that honestly enough;
for she knew pretty well, in her own heart, What
sort of a life Isabel‘s must be; and she would
rather be a galley-slaVe, chained to the oar,
than obliged to live that life herself.

“Your heart is then quite free ?" observed
the Colonel.

‘j humely fm." replied Valeria, with a blush.
. She began to see in Which way the conversa-
tion was tending, and already her brain was
racked With two questions: “Shall I?" or
“ Shall I not .9"

“They talk a great deal about a first love‘"
the Colonel continued. “I have known some
men go so far as to say that they would never
mun-y a Woman who had lowed any one before
them. They must be arrant simpletonafi the
believe what they preach. How can the tel
who has loved and who has not? Peopl on‘t
live in this World for sixteen or seventeen years
without using their eyes and findin out that
*they have hearts; and. for my part. think no
worse of a woman for having had two or three

 

l

 

'25

fancies, even before she marries. 'I could not
expect that you. for instance, would have re-
mained till now, waiting for my coming, without
a thought in your little head of any one else
on earth. But if I came at last, and said 2
‘ Will you be my wife?‘ I should expect you to
say ‘ No,‘ unlivss you knew and felt that every
other fancy “as quite our and gone. and that
you were sure you could be true in thought
as Well as in deed to me. Do you understand
me ‘:"

She did not entirely. She could not say
Whether he had positively made her an offer or
not, and to decline, or accept, or to say any-
thing which might seem to imply that she in-
tended doin‘ either, would be awkward in the
extreme. he Colonel was a little nettled by
her silence. .

“ Surely you must know if that fancy is over
or not, since you told me, not ten minutes ago,
that your lirart was entirely free. I would not
have gone so far ifI had dreamed you cared for
my nephew in the least."

“I do not rare for him now." she murmured. ‘

“ That is right, my dear, quite right. He has
forgotten the flirtation, too, ifI may judge from
his letter of a day or “to rip-o."

He drew it from the breiist~poeket of his cost
as he spoke; then remembering how‘ Valeria
was alluded to in its pages, was about to put it
back in some confusion, but she held out her
hand for it, saying, naturally enough:

“ May I see it ? I shall be only too glad to
know that he has forgwtten me 1’“

“ Well. take it. Perhaps it will vex you; but
it only shows how fickle young men are. If
you want a man to love you truly, my dear,
wait till he is fifty. and you will not be disap-
pointed in his affections or his fidelity."

She did not hear a Word he was saying. Her"
eyes were fixed upon that fatal letter, upon the
graceful handwriting which she knew so well!
Oh! bygone days! when to see t‘hat precious
handwriting would send her blushing to be!
room, that in silence and solitude she might
kiss the characters. and dream of the beloVed
writer! And now, after long and weary weeks
of suffering, of estraiigement, and of absence,
she held a letter in her hand again. And, oh!
how did it speak of her who had loved him
so!

If the Colonel fancied that she Would change
color, or shed tears, or even faint at reading
these cruel words, he was disappointed. She
merely crushed the letter in her hand, and sat
gazing sternly at the floor. - He had not the
slightest idea of all she was thinking and feeling
as he began to talk again. ,

“ You see that he has quite forgotten you, my
child."

“ Yes, I see.”

“ His lOVe was too warm to last. I thought
so at the time, though I would not pain you by
saying so. W'ell, let that pass. He can be no.
thing more to you, of course. _But, if another
wished to be all to you, Valeria, what Would,
you say 2’"

“ I do not understand," she said, putting her
hand to her head, with a Weary, bewildered
look.

“ If I, for instance, wished to fill his place,
and be to you all that he never can he, would
you consent?" .

" You Wish me to marry you 2" she said,turn.
ing, and looking at him steadily. ‘,

u I do.”

“ You remember that I am poor, that I am
only a greengrocer’s daughter ‘3”

“I remember all that"

“ You understand that when I marry I, will
not give up my family, as so many Women do.
The man who is ashamed to let my father, my
mother, my ,sisier. and my brothers enter his
house, though it were a duke‘s palace, can never
be my husband?"

‘ ’1 hey shall always. be welcome and honored
guests in my home, Valeria, ifyou Will only
consent to share it." ,

“You are very generous, very 'kind; but
there is one thi ,more. I told you that my
heart in free, aild so it is. But it mint to me -
that it is dead. I could be very gratefulto you, ~‘1

!

4..

 

 

 

 

'/
v

_ more quickly than young ones.

I

P‘O’OR VALERIA! '

.\

 

 

I could be true to you and kind, but I feer

could not love you as a wife should love her g

husband.”

“ I do not expect that from you just yet; but
I think in time my own fondness will bring a
return and a reward. If. you ive me grati<
tude‘pand truth, and kindness at t 0 first, I shall
be quite content to wait patiently for the rest.
Now, which is it to be? Yes or no 1’“

[She sat for a few moments in silence. She
knew well that on her decision rested his future
and her own. Every consideration was for
him: only one was against him. If she said
“ yes", she won rank, wealth, a happy home, and
a loving heart to keep her company there, at
one stroke. So much for the affirmative side 0.
the question. On the negative, there was but

" one solitary argument, and that, look at it as

she might, seemed a very ludicrous one. If she
married him, she would be the aunt of George
Monairl v

‘ “ Well,” said the Colonel, once again, “ am I
to have this little hand or not?”

She laid it mutely in his OWH.

“ I will try and make you happy, Sir,” was all
the promise she made to seal that strange be-
trothal.

But the Colonel wanted nothing more. With
his lips pressed upon those white fingers, he had
gone straight into a “Fool’s Paradise”, which
lasted, luckily, long after the light of his honey-
moon had waxed and wanedl

CHAPTER XX.

“ Five months ago, the stream dld flow,
The lilies bloomed within the sedge,
And we were lingering to and fro.
Where none will track thee in this snow-
Along the stream, beside the hedge.
Ah! sweet, be free to love and go!
For if I do not hear thy‘foot,
The frozen riVer is as mute,
The flowers have died down to the roo..
And why, since these be changed since May, ‘
. Should thou change less than they ?"
—ELXZABITH Baaaur Baowxrnc.

This strange and sudden wooing was not kept
a secret very long. Valeria returned to Bromp-
ton Within the week, and the Colonel made his
appearance that very evening to “ kiss hands“,
and to be acknowledged by his new relations.
To tell the truth, they were all delighted to wel-
come himdn his new character, all with one ex-
ception. That exception took the shape of the
young Maria. She had revoked the too hasty
{Judgment which stigmatized the colonel as a

orrid old man on the first occasion of their
meeting, but she was by no means prepared to
see him in his nephew‘s place—a loVer, and a
lover of Valeria’s. Maria had read many a ro‘
mance, but never one that ended in so unro-
mantic a fashion as her sister’s was about to do-
And she expressed her opinions upon the sub-
ject in terms more forcible than elegant. when
she and Valeria retired for the night. Valeria
listened in silence, as she sat by the window,
and looked toward the roof of Alfred place,toat
sheltered no longer one beloved head.

“ You ought to be ashamed of yourself,” cried
Maria. “ I’d never go and love one man a
month, and then marry his uncle! I should be
ashamed to look any one in the face if I had
done such a thing! It’s only his money you are
marrying, Valeria; you know that as well as I
do!" Still no answer came. Maria went to bed
in high dudgeon, but Valeria kept her watch
till the much rose high above her head. What
was she thinking of as she gazed at the window
where once a twinkling light had shone like
lOVe’s kind guiding-star ? What do We all think
about when “we pass the shrine after ihe idol is

' broken, when we shiver; an instant over the emp-

ty hearth that was once bright and warm for us
alone?

The preparations for the wedding went on
mesrily. I think old men speed their Wooing
They cannot
afford to wait so long ; they are not so sure of

in life and health and strength as they were at

twenty-fiv'sa‘and so, when happiness comes to
them the grasp her at once, and will not let
her go. go the aged bridcgnoom was as igipan

is

’ that as a child who expects a new toy ; an

future mother-in-law. who could scarcely believe

«I.

l in her daughter's good-fortune, was quite as ea-
ger as he. . '

‘ “Two out of the same family, Vallie, is more
, than any young woman could ‘reasonabl expect.
‘ And so, as you have no objection to him, we’ll
‘ strike while the iron is hot. and see on a lady
1 in spite of that selfish, stuck-up littfe monkey
in her turban hat, that took poor George away
from you i"

Valeria acquiesced meckly; she was losing
her appetite, her color, and her spirits; but
her mother would not see that anything was the
matter with her.

“ She's a little nervous, my dear, that‘s all
she said to her most intimate gossip, who ven-
tured to hint at the change. “ lint then that's
only natural. I‘m sure I was so flustrated when
I was going to marry Grant, that I scarcely
knew whether I stood on my heels or my head.
I was as nervous as a cat; and now look at me!
When it is all over,,you will see how bright and
happy she will look. And I am sure she might
eat gold if she liked; the Colonel dotes upon
her so.”

It was a dreary sort of business, after all.
They all tried to make the best of it. Valeria,
perhaps, tried harder than any one; but it was
an evident failure, and no one could help seeing
it, and feeling restless and dissatisfied in conse-
quence. A thousand times a day did the Colo-
nel wish his handsome young nephew at the
bottom of the Atlantic Ocean, with a stone tied
comfortably round his neck. Who will not
sympathize with him? When a love is lost;
when it is dead; when it is over and gone for
ever, I should like to know what earthly busi-
ness it has to rise,an unbidden ghost, at another
man's bridal feast? That Valeria had ever
loved George was a sufficient crime; but that
she should so persistently remember him, was
an offence not to be forgiven. And yet what
reason had he to suppose that she did so ? She
never mentioned George‘s name ; she never al-
luded to him in any way. Yet some torment-
ing little imp ofjealousy whispered to the poor
Colonel that this Was not from forgetfulness,
and led him an uneasy life in consequence. To
add to his perplexities, the young couple re-
turned from Paris just at this time, and he was
in mortal terror lest George should, by any
chance, find out what he was doing, and con-
trive some means of interfering with his hap-
piness. But, as good luck would have it, Mrs.
Monair was in the country, and they were
obliged, perforce, to pay a short visit before
settling down in the town house, which had
been rc-furnished for them, from top to bot-
tom. The Colonel breathed freely again. Dur-
ing that brief interim, Valeria would become
his own, and then he felt he could trust her,
though a thousand Georges were at her feet.

So time went on, and at last it wanted but
fourteen hours to that happy one which was to
put an end to all his doubts and fears. He had
spent the evening with Valeria, had hidden her
atender good-night; and now, in the solitude
of his own room, was thinkng of her grace,
her beaut ,her goodness, and how little he
deserVed t win all. Tears were in his eyes, and
something like a prayer trembled on his lips as
he sunk to sleep.

How did Valeria s ent that night before the
bridal? She.went (ircctly to her own room,
after the Colonel had left the house. Maria was
waiting for her there. No sooner did the door

l”

to sing, with great emphasis and feeling:
“ So they gave him my hand
Where my heart could never be,
And auld Robin Gray
Was a gude man to me !"

Perhaps, if she had given one look at her
sister's pale and weary face, before she began
the song, the words‘would have died upon her
lips. At all events, she produced an effect upon
w iicli she had by 510 means calculated.

. Whether it was a vision of the Auld Robin
Gray to whom she was about to be linked for
life, or of the “ Jamie" who was still living, but
no lon er true, that rose before Valeria I cannot
.say. at she put down the lamp she carried,
and sinking upon a chair, went into a strong fit
of hysterics. . . ' r

V.
. I

 

 

open than the provoking little monkey began a

‘ doves progressing? The honeymoon—if there,  'V
' had ever been the faintest semblance of such a f

i
l

Maria, frightened almost to death, in down
to call her mother. Mr. Grant was dispatched 
for the doctor, and by twelve o’clock all was
quiet once more. But all night long Maris
heard her sister weeping by her side—sobbing

and moaning. and now and then rising to walk _ '

the floor. The child never forgot those hours i
of misery and despair to her dying day. And
all the consolation, all the sympathy, all the
love she had to bestow, were lavished freely
upon the sufferer; but all in vain. And when
the morning came, Valeria was so pale and
ghastly, that they seemed rather to be dressing
a corpse for the coffin than decking a bride for
the altar.

Mrs. Grant was shocked at her appearance;
but she was a woman of expedients. It would
never do to present such a face to the elated
bridegroom, so she dispatched Maria on a secret
errand to the nearest chemists; and with the
aid of a little rouge, made the poor pale cheeks «
bloom as brightly as they had ever’ done, when
George Monair praised their roses. ~

One short hour, and all was over. There
was no more time for change—no more room

   
 

I

 

 

for regrets. The warp and woof of life were 3 :4
woven with sad and neutral tints, instead of  
bright, gay colors. Valeria could not helg »  
that! Nothing had gone with her as she ha ' . i

hoped, and wished, and believed it would do;
and hoping, and wishing. and believing were,
all at an end, now that the ring was on her fin-

er—now that she was the wife, not of—Gcorge,
but of Alfred, Monair.

Valeria had begged so earnestly that the mar- .
riage ceremony might be a private one, that the.
Colonel could not refuse so small a b )0“. Ac-

cordingly, very few of his friends or acquaint- V I

ances lgnew that “ old Monair” had taken upon

- 1

himself the yoke matrimonialpand when such "‘ 734,,

a rumor crept gradually about, they laughed it
to scorn. His return to London, however, set

the matter speedily at rest; for a handsome  ;j
house was taken in one of the streets at ‘the aid"

West-end, and the bride was visible to any 'one
who might choose to ca!l upon her.

Maria came. No secret had been made of
Valeria’s parentage.
the Colonel could ossibly have done, not to
seem ashamed of the Brampton shop. Medad-
mired him for his pluck, and mill more for his
good taste, after they saw Valeria; and the
Women could revenge themselves by sneers
about cabbages and canliflowers, in case she
gave herself airs.
inclined to do. She met her nests with a quiet
good breeding that astonishe them ; there was

s kind of gentle deference in her manner as she " '

conversed with ladies that seemed, without ser-
vility, to acknbwledgc the social difference be-
tween them ; and though perfectly courteous to
the gayyoung men of fashion who sometimes
thronge
serious reserved dignity about her all the while,
that taught them not to presume upon her posi-

But this she did not seem ‘

It was the wisest thing . .

her rooms, there was a little air of I, f‘

 

."s

 

tion by the slightest look or word; and theydld ’y ’- : ,lo

not. After parading their elegant forms and
handsome faces before her for hours, without
winning a single glance of admiration from
those and eyes, that seemed as if they were

glancing beyond them to something far away,‘ — i ,‘

they took themselves off, wondering what it'

could all mean, and deciding, as other young V.

men had done before them, that she “ was col

as an icicle I" And the women, seeing that she

neither intended to flirt with their husbands, fl 

nor entrap their sons, brothers. or lovers, ralliedI
round hengallantly, and supported her through
thick and thin, till she becameas fashionable as
her heart could wish. ‘ '

In the meantime, how were our other tnrtlr

thing—was over. and Mr. and Mrs. George M04”
nair were fairly launched, like other butterflies,

upon the surface of their fashionable life. Them' f.

were many rumors afloat concernin them;
they resided together at the housexin‘  .

street; there was . no visible separation-Ln? 
'open scandal, and they were both, \
courteous and civil to each other wgd'n they‘f-g,”

,were seen in public together. .Y;t Eldth  ‘

erfectlyri "

:4

   

 

    

 

 

—g0ing to the dogs generally.

27,

 

 

PooRi yALERiA i,

 

.mor said that George Monair was on the turf,
that the gambling “ hells“ of the great metro-
polis were his favorite resorts, and that he was
Madam Rumor
also hinted at an unrecognized establishment,
a villa at St. John‘s Wood, whose occupant
passed Isabel daily as she, rode and drove in the

ark. ‘Was all this true? And if so, how did
sabel bear it? For I am constrained to say
that she was no woman to sit down patiently to
be pitied by the world at large for a wrong like
this. She would be far more apt to retaliate in
kind, than to weep over her hushand’s iniqui-
tics. In fact, Madam Rumor added to the tale
a whisper that Isabel had eonsoled, or was about
to console, herself with the devotion of Captain
Archnev of the Guards; and certainly the gal-
lant ofiieer was somewhat assiduous in his at-
tendance upon her. The world, of course,
looked on and waited. So long as there was no
glaring impropriety, nobody had any business to
interfere. We may throw as many stones in
private at our neighbors as we like, but for lapi-

I dation in public, we must wait till the Voice of

'  . on“ publicly disgrace herself, and so give

 , a! "sure yan. ,

the public and of the law has condemned the
culprit. Then—then, indeed, the faster the
stones are thrown the better. Let no thought
of our OW‘II private catalogue of sins, no re-
meiiibi‘ance of One who put judges and people
alike to confusion by a single searching sen-
tence, stay our hands! ' .
Isabel was, at present, in no danger of this
social condemnation, though those who antici—
,pated it might think her so. She was too wise,
too wary, to be caught in any snare. What the
relation between her and the Captain might be
only they two could say; but if they had a
secret, they certainly kept it well. Even the
jealous watch of her husband could discover
nothing wrong, and gradually it eeased. He
seemed content, like the rest of tne world, to
wait till her own folly should precipitate the
discovery, if there was one to be made.
Marriage had robbed Valeria of some of her
charms, by investing her with a dignity that
forbade the smallest attempt to win admiration
from any cxcopt her husband. Marriage, on
'the contrary, had gifted Isabel with many a new
attraction. Men who had “fought shy" of her
while she was single. now crowded around her
wherever she Went, and were surprised at the
,wit, grace, and beauty of a Woman they had so
loan oVerlooked. She gloried in this admira-
tion, she reveled in it. Her position was se-
cured; she could do and say things now, which
six months before would have stamped her as
“fast”; and since not one of the men who fol-
,lowed in her train could flatter himself that she
wished to entrap him, she made use of smiles
and glances and blushes enough to drive a bat-
talion to despair. She was not artful—she was
not affected—she was simply a handsome Wom-
an, who knew how to make the most of her
good looks, and who played with her admirers
as a cat plays with a mouse. The pretty girls,
who had been her companions, and helped
themselves to lovers, while she remained un-
sought and nnwon, now suddenly found the
tables turned upon them. For every slighting
100k, for every itying smile they had given
her in days gone by, Isabel paid them back in
their own coin. She would come late to a hall,
where they came early; she would sail up the
room, cool, fresh, and beautiful, while they were

looking flushed and heated by the dance. She r

would wear black only, relieVed with a knot or
’tWO of deep blue ribbon, while they were decked
in all the colors of the rainbow; she would keep
their lovers and husbands hanging around her
chair, and eye their ill-concealed rage and vent-
tion with a cool, provokinr smile. In short,

here was no end to the trio s she played. and
“0 boundli I fancy, $0 the hatred with which
these fair creatures regarded her. Still, so long
as a woman behaves herself roperly, you can-
not turn her out of society, ecause “he is more
beautiful or more fascinating than you yourself
‘sre. And there was nothing left for the ladies
Iplit to submit and to wait for the day when she

{hem an opportunity of aying 03 their very
'1 ong scores. They was: very impatiently, 1

,"

 

It is not to be supposed that lsabvl had re—
mained all this time in utter ignorance of her
uncle's misdemeanors. No ; if you commit
matrimony in London, there is no necessity to
proclaim it from the housetops ; the very spar-
rows seem to aid in spreading the fact abroad ;
especially if you have any private reasons of
your own for Wishing to keep it somewhat quiet.
I‘he Colonel and his bride, I suppose, had no
such reasons, for as soon as they returned to
town, Isabel found a kind little note on her
dressing—table, accompanied by a handsome
present, in the shape of a diamond bracelet,
and a card for an evening party at the house of
her new mini

Fora mi, .l she was literally struck dumb
with astoniszi-neiit. Recovering herself, how-
ever, she burst into a hearty fit of laughter. and
taking the card, the letter. and the lll‘lll‘Wli'l, ~l:.-
ran down into the breakfast-room. Mr. Monair
and his mother Were already seated at the table;
Isabel took her place at the side, and, after eat-
ing an egg and drinking a cup of coffee, began
her attack.

“I have just had a note from the Colonel,”
she said to her mother, in her gI‘IltlL‘St tones.

“Indeed! I thought he was out of town.”

" He has been, but he has returned."

“ And when will he be lwre ‘3"

“I cannot tell," said Isabel, quietly.
time seems to be fully occupied just now." _

Master George prickcd up his ears, and turn-
ed toward her with a look of interest.

“IJ’y-the-by, Isabel, I heard a most ridiculous
report last night at the club. It is astonishing
what lies people are at the trouble of invent-
ing, when they have nothing else to do."

“ And what lies have they been telling now,
George?" she said.

“ Why, they positively had the impertinence
to assure me that my uncle was married ! As
if he would—eh ?—what are you laughing at,
Isabel?"

“It is so ludicrous, George.
onel is married !"

“ What!" shriekcd Mrs. Monair, aghast.

“Stuff and nonsense, Isabel I” said George,
sitting uneasily in his chair. “How can you
believe everythin that people tell you. The
Colonel was not iorn yesterday, my dear. It
would take a remarkably shrewd Woman to put
the noose over his head, I can promise you."

“All men are Solomons till they meet the
Woman whose mission it is to make a fool ol
them," said Isabel, shaking her head. “The
Colonel has met him."

“ You must be joking."

“ There is his confession in his own ‘ hand 01
Write‘, " she said, pointing to the note. “No.
you must not read it—l allow no one to read my
letters. liut it is a fact that he is married, and
here is an invitation to his house for tho 271b,
and a diamond bracelet, which he has sent for
me to Wear on that eventful oceanion. I am
surel don’t care if he marries twice a week,
provided he sends me a handsome present each
time.”

She held the bracelet up to her mother's ad-
miring eyes. George scarcely looked at it.

“ Hang the diamonds!" he said, sourly. “If
my uncle has made an idiot of himself, 1 should
like to know more about it. Pray, what is the
lady’s name? I Wish he had asked my advice
about the matter. I could have given him Some
hints about the joys of matrimony that would
have made him hesitate before he entered lnto
that hon stale, I think."

“ Yes, George,” said Isabel, with a sweet
smile; “ but then every one, you know, has not
your peculiar blessing. Every man has not the
memory of a little greengroceress to trouble
his repose, as you—fl” ~

“Mrs. Monair I” said George, coloring vivid-
ly, “there are some names I will not hear
spoken lightly, and that is anal”

“ Why, I thought you asked me her name,”
said Isabel, with an air'of innocence.

“ Whose name .9”

“ Our new aunt's, George."

“ Good heavens! what do you mean, Isabel?"

“ The Colonel's wife is very young, George.
Very retty, too; and she‘ has blue'eyes and
black 'sir, and a very distinguished air, and the

" His

Why the Col-

9

 

 

things that she does wear. they make her fine _

and fair—~and they are a happy pair—~”

“ Bell, stop a vile doggerel, or I shall go
mad !" exclaimed Mr. Monair, starting suddenly
from his seat. “ Who has the Colonel married t”

“ Vile doggerel, indeed! My only attempt at
wooing the tuneful Nine to be stigmatized‘in
that 'manner.
genius can always console itself with the con-
templation of its own unappreciated merits."

"Will you tell me, woman 2”

" Well 1 yes, I am a woman. Thank you for
reminding me of the fact. And the Colonel's
wife is a woman, too ; and her name is Valeria
Grant—or, rather, it is now Valeria Monairl"

George sat down as if he had been shot.

“ It is a lie !" he groaned.

“Thank you!" said Isabel, with a look of
fierce contempt and haired. “I have been
called a ‘Wonian', and told to my face that I
am a liar! You Coward! If I was only a man
I Would tight you! I‘ll tight you now! There
are some revolvers up stairs; get them, and Ill
show you if you can insult me with impunity,
because that baby-faced girl has married a man
old enough to be her grandfather. I hate her!
Ihate you! I hate every one! Get the pis-
tols, George, and let us make an end of it.
Then you ean shoot the Colonel afterward, and
marry his widow, you know."

“ Bell, my child! Do you know what you
are saying?" said Mrs. Monair, laying her hand
UPON her III'III.

"Great nonsense, I suppose," replied Bell,
glancing at her husband, who sat With his face
hidden by his hands. and had not heard one
Word she had uttered. Presently he rose and
left the room, with an uncertain. staggerin
step. Bell glanced after him, bit her lip, an
shrugged her shoulders.

“ Well, what is to be will be! I cannot pre-
vent it, and so I will eat, drink. and be merry!"
And she sat down again with great composure

to another cup of coffee, a plate of delicate but-.
tered toast, a rnslier of breakfast bacon, and the \

morning paper. Isabel was certainly becoming
a sensible woman very speedily.

 

CHAPTER XXI.

And so Isabel and her. husband went to the
little party on the twenty-seventh? Of course.
There is nothing like getting these awkward
meetings . ‘.ci‘ as speedily as possible, and both
ladies, I iancy, feit immensely relieved when

the oliVe-branch had been fairly tendered and‘

accepted.

lsanel and Mrs. Monair were among the first
to grace the festiVe walls Within their presence.
’l‘hey greeted Valeria with a kindly courtesy
that shoWed her that bygones Were to be by-
gones, and that, whatever might have been her
inults as lilies Grant, Mrs. Mohair was to be con-
sidered their equal and their friend. Much flat-
tered by this condescension, she received her
other guests with a heart at ease, and was able,
later on, to watch at her leisure the proceed-
ings of George's wife. They were somewhat
peculiar, they made her open her blue eyes
wider than ever, and feel for a moment thankful
that George himself was not there to see. For,
us I have always said, Isabel had “suffered a

sea change”, that had transformed her from a 1

cold, sih nt, and almost unattractive girl, into a
fascinating, bewitching, brilliant, and perfectly
heartless flirt! Never shone sun or moan upon
a more dangerous one. Clad in a who of dark-

blue silk, her beautifully-molded neck and arms
bare; a single diamond, blazing like a star;

above her forehead; a single white rose neut-
ling in the fields of her corsage—that was all;
and yet enough to bewitch the throng that hov-
ered continuall r abdut her. Every motion was
grace itself. Lvery attitude had the royal dig-
nity of a princess, or the lovely ease of a
pretty child; every bend of that white neck
was swan-like ; every glance 'of those dark eyes
thrilled the "heart of him on whom they, for the
moment, turned. To this one she talked, upon
that one she smiled, and a third received; shy

~ expresive glance ; one held her fan, another her

bou net, another still, picked up the , cloud-like
handkerchief, redolent of delicate perfume,_thst

I . \ 1 I

Well, never mind! neglected

felhat her feet; and when one ‘9; the number; 

   
  
   
   
   
    
   
  
  
  
   
   
   
  
    
   
  
  
   
   
   
    
 
    
     
    
  
   
  
  
   
   
   
   
    
  
 
 
 
 
     
   
  
   
    
  
  
 
  
   
 
   
       
      
        
   

  

    
  

      

 

 

’ scene”.

 

\

. 2‘8

POOR VALERIA!

 

2;:

 

 

more fortunate than the rest, whirled swag With
her in the waltz, looking down into those ewil-
dering eyes, and encircling that perfect form
with his trembling arm, the rest stood spam
eyeing him with jealousy, angry glances, that
pussled Valeria ore than anything else. Why
should a metric woman, married to the man of
her choice, seek for admiration so degrading as
this 1

It may be that her looks ex ressed her
thoughts almost too plainly; for sabel rested
from the waltz upon t e sofa she occupied, and,
when the were alone, said quietly:

“ You ave honored me with a rent deal of
attention this evening, for which should feel
flattered if I did not know its cause so Well.
Yop never liked—you never had reason to like
me. And now on despise me! Perhaps I de-
spise myself. erhaps I feel that I was born

for better things; it may be that I once hoped

and expected to be a better woman than I ever
can be now i” '

“ I should have thought," said Valeria, gent-
! , “that you at least would not care for such
things. 'Ihe homage of one true heart surely
ought to suffice—-”

She could not finish the sentence, for Isabel
began to laugh.

“You are alluding to my marriage—to my
love-match,” she said. “My dear, the moon
never shone on such a fool as I was then l You
were wiser. One may marry for rank, for
wealth, for position, but for love—bah !” She
glanced at her weddin ‘ring; at her distant

roup of admirers; at aleria, and swept away.
Valeria gazed after her with new and painful
interest.

“She is not happy; I knew she would not
he,” ran her thoughts, as she talked politely to
a dowager on her left. " But she is Worse than
unhappy; she is desperate ; she is in the mood
or doing something yeah. I wonder where he
is, and what he thinks of it all.”

From the whirl of the gidd dance, and the
velvet-clad dowager at her si e, her thoughts
went wandering persistently back to George
Monair. She had changed toward him far more
than she knew. There had been a memory of
him connected at first with every action of her
daily life. By degrees that passed away. And
the life itself, so far as love was concerned, grew
to resemble one of those placid “ tarns‘ we
sometimes see among the Scottish hill, mirror-
ing the blue sky and the little flowers that grow
upon their hanks. uilruffled by adverse brechs,
unshaken by adverse storms, but alwa s still,
and quiet, and eaceful—so eaceful t at the
weary traveler ings himself own beside them,
and almost longs to breathe his life out there!
To know an anxious days, no sleepless nights;

sigh no more, to weep no more, to rest and
to be at rest; this was what Valeria had gain-
ed, although she knew it not.

Some faint shadow of the truth may have
dawned upon her, when, lopking up from that
reverie, she saw the ob'ect of it standing by her
side. He had come late—he waited for her
greeting, without daring to ex est a kind one,

.and the eyes of his uncle, 0 his mother, and

his wife were upon them both. To the surprise
of all, Valeria rose, shook hands with him
kisdi , made a few remarks as quietly as if he
had sea a perfect stranger, and, letting him
pass on, resumed her seat and the conversation
with her Venerable neighbor, with the most per-
fect composure. Only four of the guests knew
how imminent had been the danger of “a
Mrs. Mohair con ratulated herself in-
wardly that all had passed‘ off so well. Isabel
hit her lips, and Wondered whether the woman
was a hy ocr‘ite or a fool. She inclined to the
latter opinion, as being the most charitable one.
As for, the Colonel, but for the place and the
people, I think he would have rushed across the
room and knelt at her feet, to thank her for her
admirable behavior; and yet it was no particu-
lar merit of hers—the change was one which

she did not make—one over which she had no,
. Dentin]. '

The Goo e Monair of to-day was not what
“(George onairof yesterday had been. 01:
the day other marriage, his image had probabo

 

 

ly been most vivid in her mind. For in the last
look which we give to anything We once have
loved, there must always be some little twinges
of heartache. That he had been Weighed in the
balance and found wanting, was nothing at that
moment. She was only conscious that she was
losing him, and with him, all the hope and
faith in life and in humanity that made earth
beautiful.

It was her last weakness, and it came and
went in a moment. Before the final Words of
the service were uttered. she was calm and com-
posed. The cnp had been bitter, but it was
drained at last, and to the very di‘egs. Come
what might, of sorrow or of grief, Valeria Mo-
nair could never feel a pang like that again!
And here was the hero of her romance once
again before her!

She was rather silent the rest of the evening,
though her guests were gay enough. She luok~
ed now and then at the face that had once
charmed her so. It Was strange how great an
alteration those few short months had made.
Handsome he was still, but it was a kind,of ani-
mal beauty that could not please her eye. He
looked flush and dissipated. His eye had a
glance from Which she shrank—his month an
expression which she could not tolerate. She
saw him once that evening standing by her
husband's side, and she thought the Colonel
showed to far greater advantage than his nephew.

So, my dear readers, if you have been look-
ing forward to this inevitable meeting, with an
expectation or a fear of someting evil resulting
therefrom, you see that you will be disa point-
ed. Valeria was safe so far as George onair
was concerned. Had she ‘never met him again,
he would have lived in her memory as a bean-
tiful dream, too sacred, and still too dear, for
the eyes of the world to gaze upon. But if we
Wish to keep up the illusions of girlhood, till
old age comes upon us, we should never in after
life meet those who shared the illusions with us.
Experience lifts the magic veil of romance from
our eyes for ever.

Freedom in one direction presupposes slavery
in another, you Will say. I am glad to confess,
that this rule held good in Valeria‘s case. She
knew well, as she glanced at those two men,
which was the dearest. Her husband, by his
kindness, had Won,just as his nephew by his
selfish weakness had lost her heart. She ran
every risk of becoming a faithful Joan to the
Colonel‘s Darby; she was altogether likely to
make a good and affectionate wife if she was let
alone.

How did Isabel like the promise of such sim-
ple happiness—such domestic bliss? Not very
Well~—if one might judge from the frown With
which she was regarding the pair and her own
husband from under her dark brows!

But while the heroine was 80 calm and “‘1‘
moved, what of the hero?

A more lonely, desolate man, I think, never
existed. He lingered for an hour in the rooms,
after that briefiuterview with Valeria, and then,
making his way through the crowd, he stepped
out on the balcony that overlooked the garden,
and sat there in silence. The balcony was in
the deepest shadow, but the moon 8
house shone dowu into the garden with a tender
light. He was alone—scarce knowing whether
he most belonged to the shadowy existence be-
hind him. or to the harder world, whose dawn,
in climbing up the eastern sky, must never find
him there! Oh! the pain of that hour—the
certain anguish with which he brooded over the
treasure he had lost! Wealth, and youth, and
health were his, but “the children of Alice“
would “ call Bertram fiather"——and what could
life be worth to him, deserted and despised?

As he sat in that gloomy reverie, the curtain-

ed Window opened, and ii light step crossed the l

balcony. ,It was Valeria! So near him—yet
never seeing—never dreaming that he was
there!
wretched, toa lost, and weak and despairing, to
speak just then.

She stood a few moments gazing at the sky.
She si ed heavily. Once he thought he heard
her sob, but he saw‘ her flies the next moment,
and it was calm, though very pale, She trifled

ove the ,

He watched her silently, for he felt too .

    

with a spray of fuchsia from her bouquet—she
raised it thoughtfully to her lips. At last she
laid it down upon the balcony’s edge, and went
away. It was his favorite flower. Was she
, thinking of that? lie stole softly‘ from his
= hiding-place, and secured the blossom with a
trembling hand. Something sparkled in the
.moonlight upon its drooping leaves. It was a
, tear! lIe hid it next his heart—it may be that
he cherishes its faded and ruined beauty even
yet !

Surely, here was material enough, even for
the malice of an lsiibel Mohair, to lay the foun-
dation of future misery upon!

___.

CHAPTER XXII.
“To see her is to love her,
And love but her for ever;
For nature made her what shell,
And ne‘er made sic anither.”
—anss.

We all seem to have our good and .our bad
angels as we go through life, and, and, what is
worst and best for us is this, that they generally
appear in some tangible human shape, to tempt
or to guide us, as the case may be. Now, the
White wings fan our tired eyes, now the black
ones spread their gloomy shadow o’er the way.
And too often, I fear, the good angel has to
make way for the bad one, not. only in our lives,
but in our hearts, and in the affections that
should be dedicated to better things.

Valeria was more fortunate than most of us;
for though lsabel would gladly have played the
part of her bad angel, just at this time, a coun-
teracting influwce was at Work the while whic
she loved far better. i

Colonel Monair had a married cousin residing
in Eton square, to Whom Valeria had felt drawn'
from the Very first. Not all the distinctions of
souls apart. And ere long the young bride
revereneed her the more for it.

In fact, it was difficult for the most hardened
heart to resist the gentle influence of Catherine
Moore, since her long life of sorrow had only
taught her, through sympathy, the surest way
to every sinning and suffering soul that'brought
its burden to her feet. '

From their first meeting, Mrs. Moore had
taken an, almost painful interest in the young
girl. The Colonel’s joy, and Valeria‘s apparent
content, could not deceive her.‘
something was wrong, and she watched them
both narrowly whenever they were together.
Were those two doomed to belong to the long
list of fashionable married couples who only
saw each other once or twice a week? Would
magnificent diamonds, and a carri e, and a
box at the opera, atone for the loss of domestic
happiness, or hide from the prying eyes of the
World the lone] hearthstone, and themehing
hearts that shoufd have been happy aside it ?

She knew better, and yet she dared not speak

silent and reserved upon the subject, eVen with
her.
giving her a clue to the look of sadness and
weariness she had sometimes seen in Valeria's‘
eyes, and she would not let the occasion pass
by unimproved. They were standing one even-
ing togetherin Mrs. Moore's conservator , look-
'ust left. Valeria saw the eldest daughter of
her hostess, a lovely girl of sixteen, waltzing
set their quiet nook. She threw her a kiss.
far nodded gayly as she whirled away, the very
god est of the dance.
that lovely air to which the Princess Sophie
waltze~d while Strauss stood lookin on. ~ Va-
leria leaned against the window, an kept time
i to the measure as she looked at the dancers.
i “ Poor Strauss !" she said, gently.
. “Strange, is it not?” replied Mrs. Moor},
l “how many of our heart-histories arevnlike
From Heloise down to Strauss, from Strauss to
Valeria. it is one and the same thing—a lost
low. that spoils and saddens alL", ,
Valeria started violently. I ,  ‘
\ “Mrs. Moore, what can you mean I?" H .0
“Ah! my dear child, I know all.’
your story quite by accident, and it will

 

 

birth and wealth could keep those tWo kindred '

knew all the wife's sad story, and lewd and' 1

She saw that ‘

her thoughts. For a long time Valeria was _ I‘ ‘

But chance enlightened Mrs. Moore by.

ing back into the lighted ball-room t ey had’

The band was playing ”

 

heard  i' ' " ,

 

.JTIM . .

five: '-

. 25-...
i

 

 

 

 and long-expected guest.

." may
” .once wounded, faint, and dying, the vnnquished

\

POOR, VALERIAI

29.

 

m

i

ass m Ii s again: But you will let me ive
gen mi; little word of advice, for I am gull
enough to be your mother as Well as Mary’s.
My .dear child, what is past is past, and sorrow-
ing will neVer mend it. And after all, it matters
[but little if our foudest wishes are granted us or

 not, since. every pleasure offered us in heaven

so far transcends them. There are many joys I
am content to lose here, many sorrows lam
ready to hear, when I think ‘of the country
where I am going, where so many I have loved
have already gone ; where I shall one day meet
them all, I hope, and know and love them as I
have done on earth, onl far better—far better 1"

Valeria was silent. 0 her it seemed a dreary
life, with so much of real sorrow, and only that
one faint, dream-like hope to compensate for it.

“ You do not a ree With me,” said Catherine,
with a sweet, as smile. “The things of this
world are more present to you, just now, than
the things of the next. But is it wise, Vallie‘?
Is it kind to your good husband, this continual
dwelling on a love you have lost, and which you
ought now to forget—"

“ You mistake me, said Vallie, blushing deep-
ly. “ One cannot forget, perhaps, at once ; but
I respect my husband; I am grateful to him for
having placed so many gleasures within my
reach. As for love—ahl have already found
out that love is not everything in this world,
Many other things can makehpeople happy ; and
I almost feel, at times that, i it was ossible for
me to love again—oh! Ihave suffers too much.
M heart.shrinks and trembles at the thought
ofyanother wound, and at the memory of the
one I have alrcad felt.”

“ I am glad. to rear you say that, my dear."
replied Catherine, kissing her. " When it has
become a pain to remember. we are glad to
learn to forget. And now let us go back and
join your husband in the music-room."

From that night Mrs. Moore felt less anxious
about Valeria. Then came the dreaded meet-
ing with the early love. to set her heart entirely
at rest. If she had wished for further informa-
tion, she had it a few weeks later, when the
Colonel was suddenly laid upon a sick bed, and
Valeria assumed her place as nurse, and watched
by his side. .

. The illness was not only sudden, it was also
dangerous; and at one time .it seemed as if it
must be fatal. If ever any one had felt inclined
to doubt the attachment if the young wife,
they could scarcely have Ione so when they
saw her sitting, so pale, so anxious, and so
wretched, beside what she feared was her hus-

Iband‘s dying-bed. The crisis came at last.

The house was hushed to the deepest silence,
the hours dragged their slow length along; but
the breathing of the sick man grew easier, and
Valeria and the physicians exchanged a glance
0f lIOPe “5 we day begun to break. Just as

1 the first streak of light was tinging the eastern

sky, the Colonel’opened his eyes, looked at them

.both, smiled faintly, and sank again into a placid

slumber, which was the welcome herald of his

'recovery.

“ SaVed! saved!" said Valeria, softly; and
kissing the poor pale hand that lay so nerve-
Iéssly upon the counterpane, she hurried from
the room in a passion of tears. Till all danger

(. was over. she had not felt what it would have
'been to lose him!

In that hour, the husband
rescued from the grave was far nearer to her
heart than her first lover, in all the flush of

he Colonel could not have done a wiser thing
than to fallill. For Valeria‘s heart—like that
of every other woman—kept its gates shut, it
be, while the besieger was unhm‘t; but.

victor saw them ii asun cr—felt himself

' brought gentl into the fairest chamber of the

stubborn cast e, and cherished there like a dear
Yes, thank God!
whatever may be the faults of woman, she has
this yirtue: that sickness and suffering never
ask her aid in vain. Even the savage women

 "7 . ~Urere kind to the “ poor white man" who 1‘37

‘Pl'k in “Nit Vi" ; and the most warlike

g-‘Amanon that svsr onned cost' of mail would,
.1 think,“ the fury of thebsttle was 0!.er
:  7 fl 1 \ ' ,, I

 

 

outh, and health, and beauty had ever been,

 

dress, with the gentlest care, the Wounds which
her oWn sharp swurd had made. The aching
head and aching heart may rest alike on wom-
an's gentle breast, and hope to find relief. It is
her hand that must comfort—her voice that
must soot.-—her foot that must go to and fro
upon its Weary, ceaseless round—her eyes that
must watch and wake and weep. For the sake
of this one attribute of the gentlest and most
untirin sympathy—to which ever man owes
more tian he can say, if he Woul but speak
the truth—I think We should forgive her many
a minor fault and sin. But men are prover-
bially ungrateful; and not one in a hundred,
I dare say, after these entle ministrations are
over, remembers the se f—sacrificing kindness of
the minister. Perhaps, if the Colonel had been
a younger man, he Would have forgotten it, too.
As it was, it touched him immensely. If the
Colonel had loved Valeria before, he almost
worshiped her after his recovery. And she,
on her part, had grown quite fond of him. .
The months that followed were most happy
ones. If those who saw them together in so-
ciety wondered, almost audibl at times, wh
she had married him, they nee on] have fo -
lowed her to her quiet home to iscover the
reason. The devoted~love that encircled her
there, the kind face that met her eyes each hour
in the day, the ready hand that never could do
enough for her comfort, the ai hful heart tha'
never deceived her, thouuh sru- placed hm
whole trust in its fidelity—these things formed
the hidden charm that won and kept her true—
thst made her, though no longer a bride, the
desire and joy of her husband‘s heart, as she
was the light and ornament of his happy home?

 

CHAPTER XXIII.
“ I think that love is like a play
Where tears and smiles are blended,
0r like a faithless April day
Whose shine with shower is ended.
Like Colnbrook pavement, rather rough,
Like trade exposed to lossesI
And like a Highland plaid, all stufl,
And very full of crosses.
—Psun. _

What a pity it is that when people are really
as comfortable, as happy, and as good as any
uue can reasonably expect to be in this world,
they should not be let-.alone in their conten-
ment, their felicity, and their goodness. It
seems rather hard, if A has made up his or her
mind to walk, in the straight and narrow path of
virtue and respectability, that B should want to
push him or her out of it at once. Yet, gener-
ally speaking, this is the case. People are not
let alone to be good in this World ; If the are
good at all, it must be in spite of the worl , the
flesh. and thedcvil, not with or by them.

Take Valeria, fo instance. I am sure no
woman ever inten ed to do her duty more
thoroughly than she. Take .the Colonel, who
fully meant to be the. kindest and most faithful
husband in existence - they both got themselves
into hot water, as you will see preacntly, in
spite of their good intentions, and the car-nest,
honest way in which they carried them out,
They got into trouble; lhey fell among thieves;
they Were wounded, beaten, stripped, and
bruised.

Valeria seemed to have got her heart‘s desire
She had a beautiful home, where her lightest
word was law; a husband whose Whole exist-
ence was devoted to her; kind friends—kind, at
least, as the whole world goes; and youth and
health, and beauty into the bargain. What
more could she want? Apparently nothing.
If in her heart a wish lurked ungratified, no
one was ever the wiser for it. She seemed to
enjoy herself as gayly and as entirely asa hap.
py child, that on y knows the days are bri lit
and pleasant; but never asks the reason w y.
I wish such a state of beatitude could have last.
ed longer, for lidr sake.

But the serpent had entered this Eden 9,150
On all this peace and domestic happiness, Isa.-
bel Monair looked with jealous and envious
eyes. I cannot tell why she hated Valeria, who
was so gentle and so ood. But she did hate
her; and Ida not think that Valeria grieved
much about the matter. One of those sudden
untipathles, which/ are so common, but which

 

no one can fully account for, bad sprung up
between them from the first moment of their
meeting. Then Valeria carried off Isabel’s
lover; and Isabel rescued him in triumph, and
married him under Valeria’s very nose. In re-
turn, Valeria, by her marriage with the Colonel,
disappointed Isabel in her expectations of a
nice little property ; and Isabel, by way of tak-
ing her revenge for all the old scores, was doing
her best to sow dissension between the husban
and the wife.

The sight of their happiness was worse than
all the rest. Her own home was nothing than
a place to eat, drink, and sleep in, both to her
and her husband. She was buried in a whirl of
fashionable engagements. George was at his
club, at billiard rooms, at races, or at the villa
in Regent’s Park, where one person, at least,
was always glad to see him. And the gallant
Captain lounged in Isabel’s drawing-room or
opera-box; and the world looked on and smiled
significantly the while!

This was not a pleasant state of things. Nor
was it a safe or a respectable one. At last the
Colonel took it into his wise old head to inter-
fere, thereby making matters ten thousand
times worse, as people who interfere invariably
do. He talked seriously to George, who laugh-
ed openly in his face, and advised him to go and
preach to Isabel. He took that advice, and
reaéi the lady a homily that nearly drove bet
wil .

The attack was made in his own drawing-
room. and in the presence of his wife, who sat
upon a low footstool at his knee, gazing into the
fire, while the war of words rage on.

“ You are makin yourself the talk of Lon-
don," cried the Co onel. “ Every one is Won-
dering at you l."

“ Let them,” said Isabel, bitterly.

“So I Would, if you stood quite alone. for
you are as headstrong, and obstinate, and un-
grateful as a mule ! But the honor of the
family is in your hands ; if you fall, that comes
down with you.”

“ And pray what do you think I am goin to
do with the honor of the family 1’" said Isa el,
furiously. “Why don't you go and talk to-
Georgc about the honor of the family, too 2"

“So I have,” replied the Colonel, with un-
lucky cnrdor. “ And he referred me to you."

Isabel burst out laughing.

“ Oh! you may laugh, but I assure you the
thing is getting serious. Why, some of the men
have actually made bets—”

“ About what i”

The Colonel hesitated, and glanced at his
young wife.

“I scarcely like to say before her."

“ It is a pity to offend her innocent cars, I'
know," said Isabel, with the bitterest. mucksr
in her look and tom. “Nevertheless, c on. I
may know what bets have been made a out me,
i suppose 2”

“ About you and the Csotain.”

“ Take them, Uncle Alfred, take them all.
And I'll help you to make a good thing out of'
it—a better book by far than you ha at the.
Derby last year.” _

The time had gone by when the Colonel could
have relished a speech like this. Instead of
laughing, as Iflbel had half expected he would,_
not even a smile disturbed the iron gravity of
his face; but he drew himself up, glanced at
Vallie, and muttered something about being
shocked. Isabel glanced at her too. “(1‘ her
beautiful lip curled.

“ Oh! I see how it is, my ious uncle! Your
teeth are drawn, and your c aws are pared, and
no wild animal is ever going to be allowed to
scratch or bite in our presence any more. I'm
agreeable; but, man Dieul how bored you
will bel” .

“ You have taken up the French fashion of
swearing along with your French principles,”
sneered the Colonel.

“ Now, don’t abuse the French, b90811” I
adore them, and Paris, and everythingl that 5.-
‘ongf to France. 80 do you in your cart."

u _"

“New, uncle dear, don’t put yourself in a.
r_sgc, or‘you will certsihly have the goat. You.

 

  

g.

‘ , hated her none the less for it.
 confess I have the greatest ity for her.

' charms.

30

were going to observe that your Paris days are
over, and we all know that. But, if the Jardin
Mnbille knows you no more—”

“ Don‘t talk of the Jardin Mabille here, if you

lease."

“Ah! I forgot. We are all on our good be—
havior, we monkeys who have seen the world,
before the monkey who has not! Colonel, my
dear Colonel, how innocent you are l”

“ Confound it! What do you meandsabel ?"

L

L 1

   

“ Nothing. Only I once read a fable about a ‘

certain wise shepherd, who took such good care

and roup, be-

his own, ate them all up, stou
no moral, that

fore he knew it. It has a
fable ?"

“Good heavens, Isabel! Do you mean to
drive me mad!" exclaimed the Colonel, who
looked as if he was going to have a fit.

“On the contrary. And so, my gentle shep-
herd, farewelll Farewell, shepherdess !"

She made a sweeping courtesy, and glided
from the room. The Colonel heard her laugh-
ing as she went, and ground his teeth with
rage. __
CHAPTER XXIV.

It takes but a very small seed to produce a
perfect fruit or flower; and we may do more
mischief with one single word, spoken in a
second of time, than years of human life have
the power to undo. No one knew this better
than Isabel Monair, else she Would not have
fired her gaming shot so successfully during her
retreat. he Colonel was at first enraged by
ht‘r insinuation. and declared roundly that she
should never enter his doors again. Isabel took
her sentence of banishment very coolly, and
went her own gay way, without paying any at-
tention to his wrath. But the sting of her words
could not be banished, and the words them-
selves were haunting him by night and by day.
What could she have meant by her parable
about the shepherd who watched other men’s
folds, but left his own unguarded, while the Wolf
stole in ? Such words could apply only to Va-
leria, to his own little ewe-lamb, for whom he
would have laid down his life. Had Isabel
seen or known anything which would justify
such a hint?

It was, perhaps, an absurd query to make ; for
if he had taken the trouble to think for a few
moments, he would have remembered that there
was a very little portion of the day when Va-
leria was not in his sight. They occupied the
same room; they breakfasted, lunched, and
walked out together. If she rode in the park,
or out on the country roads, his bay mare gal-
lopcd steadily by her side; if she visited the
theatre or opera, the Colonel was her most at-
,‘tcntivc cavalier. Under such circumstances. it
would have been hard indeed for a woman to
play tricks. But he forgot all that, as he i sed
n on Isabel’s words, Isabel‘s sharp glan c at
his wife, Valeria’s sudden blush and drop of the
head, as she felt that glance. What could it
have meant, but that there was something going
on. known to those two, of which he was per-
fectly ignorant ? .

The plain truth was, that Isabel had been an
unseen witness of that silent meeting on the
balcony at Mrs. Moore’s house. She knew that
to Valeria it was an unknown meeting; but she
Poor Isabel! I
Con—
stant companionship had ro bed her idol of its
She did not love her husband, for he
was indifferent. and she was proud. Still, he
was her property, not Valeriss; and it stung
her with a fresh anger and deeper hatred,» see
how the old dream could influence. him still—
how, the man who scarcely knew whether she
was in the room beside him or not. could trem—
blc’cnd thrill ct Vslcris‘s unconscious approach
-how the eyes that looked so coldly or so an-
grily at her, could row moist with tears as they

cd upon a simp c flower, which Valeria hcd

‘ id for ’a moment and then thrown carelessly
aws . It was not pleasant. I think no woman

won d have liked it any better than Isabel did.
i But another woman ,might have wept and
pincd in mt. Igbcl did neither. She sought

 

. POOR VALERlA!

 

 

l
' to revenge herself. and. in a measure, she suc—

ceeded; for she changed the Colonel from a

 

frank, confiding lover into a jealous and snspi- ;

cious husband. He began to watch his wife.

Now, watching a wife is about one of the worst .

things a man can possibly do. Because, in the
first place, if the wife is not a born idiot, she
will infallibly find out that she is being watch—
ed ; and, in the second place, when she has so
found it out, she will either be utterly alienated
from a husband who cannot trust her, or she

. . . ‘ ' 1' ’t - kt 'velimavsr
of his neighbors flocks, that the w0if got among ‘ "111 set ml W] s to “or 0 gl 1 ~ ( y

good and sufficient reason for his Jealousy.
“Trust is not rust", as the old proverb has it.
Trust disarms many a hand, and wins many a
heart; but jealousy and suspicion are deadlier
than the plague.

It was a thousand pities that some good friend
had not been near at hand to whisper this little
warning in the Colonel‘s car. No such friend
was found, and, between the pair who had once
been so happy, a breach widened slowly day by
day. Valeria was at first puzzled by her lins-
band’s behavior; then, when she learned its
cause, thoroughly indignant. “ Was it for this,"
she said to herself, “ that I sacrificed my youth
and my happiness to an old man 3’“ She forgot,
the while, that the sacrifice had been a purely
Voluntary one ; that no one had forced her into
the marriage she was re retting; that the Col-
onel had been there be ore her, to take or to
leave, as she chose. But, when We are angry,
We are never just; and one thing and another
conspired to keep the flame alive in Valeria‘s
breast for many a weary week. She felt hurt,
aggf'ieved, and disappointed ; she was Weary of
life, and more 'weary still of Colonel Monnir.
She grew ill, and dull, and lonely; she wanted
some kind friend to pet, and pity, and condole
with her. She had a true friend in Mrs. Moore;
but she counseled submission and gentleness,

and other things to which Valeria, in her state,

of excitement, could not possibly subscribe.
So matters went on; and Valeria, brooding
over them in her own heart, fancied but one
course remained for her to take. She must
leave her husband, since he no longer bad faith
in her.

She knew well that, if she took such a step
the most of its disadvantages would remain
with her. In England, a woman is always to
blame. Public sympathy goes with the bus-
band, no matter what hc ma have done, no
matter what he may be; an public opinion
stones the wife with stones, though she maybe
only freeing herself from a slavery she can no
longer bear, in the place of flying with s lover
from her duties and her lawful ties. But Eng-
land is not the whole world ; and Valeria knew
that in other countries a home and a refuge
would be open to her.

“ Then let me end it all l" she cried aloud, in
her misery. “ Let me escape from this unhap-
py home; let me fly from this degrading es-
pionage, and enjoy myself once more 1”

She was as mad as a March hare, you will
say. Of course she was; for, setting aside all
other considerations, she had no visible means
of support. She had been educated, like most
English girls, in a very superficial manner.
She could draw a little, paint a little, dance
beautifully, and enter a room with ease and
grace; but she was about as fit for a governess
as the kitten playing with the pens upon my
desk is fit for the chair of an Oxford don. She
could sew well, and might, perhaps, have earn-
ed a scanty subsistence b making dresses for
fine ladies at ruinoust ow rices; but that
was the only armor she could uckle on in the
hour of battle, that frail shining needle. the
only sword that would fit her hand. So, ob-
viouly, the wisest course she could take was to
stay quietly at home and make the best of cir-
cumstances; wait till the Colonel’s jealous fit
was over, and play the part of s patient Grizel
all the while, no matter‘ how tyrannical ho
mi ht take it into his head to be.

u her ssncr moments she soknowlcd ed this

herself; but it was van: hard to feel it when

the chain tightened around her helpless hands;

_ and just at thls’critlosl moment the tempts:

0.1110. -

 

 

J

 

Finding all other things failing her in her
hour of need, the poor child bethought herself
of the comforts of religion, and sought to apply
their healing balm to her own b ceding wounds.
She opened her heart and told her griefs to the
pastor of the church which she was in the habit
of attending. This might have been a wise
plan had the clci‘gyiiian‘s head been gray and
his heart cold. But the Reverend James Fran-,
cis was a handsome "1111] of thirty, with the most
beautiful dark eyes and hair, and the whitest
teeth. and the swwtest smile; and manya dam-
sel‘s heart hnd ached vainly as she gazed at the
fascmuting young clergyman in his readin - .
desk or pulpit. For my part, I think a ban -
some clergyman is a great mistake. How can
one listen properly to a sermon while one’s
fancy is bewildered and taken captive by thc
speaker wlimlelivers it? lN'o; let none but the
plainest men mount the pulpit; or, if the
preacher cannot divest himself of his outward
graces, let him preach froui behind a screen,
and be to liislady hearers, not a face or a form,
but iiici-i-ly n. voice—“a persuasive voice".

llad there been a screen in the church of'St.
Gerdule, I question whether Valeria would ever
ever have made her confession to the Reverend
James. As it was, she sought his presence,
and asked for his advice, more frequent] per-
haps than was prudent. Understan mc.
Neither priest nor penitcnt had, I am Verysure,
the thought of a shadow of evil in their heads.
But men are men, even though they be clcrg -
men; and Women are women, even if they c
married, and thoroughly good. In the course
of time, the priest began to feel uneasy if his
penitent did not appear punctually at the hour
appointed; began to think what a brute the ’l
Colonel must be to distrust so frank and so art-
less a creature ; began to feel that she had lovc-‘
ly eyes, a perfect complexion, the softest of

hair, and the sweetest of voices. W'hile Valera
ia, on her part, recalling his words of kindness,-
in the solitude of her own room, sometimes 're-
called the musical tone in which \they were ut-
tered; sometimes saw a pair of beautiful dark-
e es meeting her own, sometimes felt I. hand
c asp hers, almost as warmly as if the fancy had .
been real. And then she would blush and sigh, _ ,. r '
and go on with her daily life, which had sud- I
denly grown endurable, now that she had found I
a friend to syiiipnthize with her in all griefs; a
friend who was like a brother—nothin more— ’
she said to herself a hundred times a ay. For
my part, I believe the tempter has not, in' all . 1
his armory of Weapons, one so fatal as a relig- . »'
ious friendship, which borders, unconsciously to I A: ,_ v
the friends, upon the Verge of a rofane love. , i
And Valerin, thinking herself an e, had.,never
been in so great danger—thinking herself ex- 
sited on high, had never been so near aterriblc ‘
fall! “ 'ln
It was some weeks before Isabel discovered _ 'v
the charm that had rendered the young wife's , ’ f, .‘v
existence more endurable. .A slight rumor, .  ‘ '
floating over the surface of society, reached her‘ '
at last. She took an early opportunity of watch-
ing Valeria and the Reverend James when they
met, in her presence, at an evening arty. Onc
glance was enough. “Caught at set, and. in
my power l” she said triumphantly to herself, .
as she watched the unfortunate air; and, flg- 
uratively speaking, she “jumped for joy l" ’

.. .
guy—w .

 

 

CHAPTER xxv. ' " 

To be thoroughly revenged upon an enemy, ' .
one must be patient, slow, crafty, watchful, and. ','
above all, powerful. It is a hard art to play. ,
For my part, I think I should pre er cue good. . ' t '
honest blow at my enemy—one halfeminutc’s ' : :i '
flair fight out in “ the 0 en”, to a long and '1 ' '
stealthy skulk behind the ‘hush, from whence“! . i . _
could hit him with a deadlier aim and s more .v 
telling blow. To feel anger, to know hatred, is I 'I.‘ "
perfectly human. But surely itis better to hate . f
apex-son thoroughly for five minutes and for; _’ ':' i
gm him in another five, than to spend dcyd,‘ :1
poi-h s_ years, of life, watchi him, cntrs 1
pm; inn, body, bones, and ' l—ss s c1115 ,
zpl cr lies in wait for and ‘dcvofiri s hccdlcsss’" '

1. There is something so cold-bloodod-ic  , “l

' . . ‘ , I ‘-,‘.

 

  

   

 

 
  
  
  

 

. . A
x r7er .

 

 
  

,' comfortably, in s ite of the separation.

 

\

POOR VALERIA!

 

very act of waiting and watching, that One
shrinks instinctively from it.

But Isabel, strange to say, liked it. She was
passionate and hasty enough when it suited her
to be so: but she could disguise her anger
‘most skillfully when occasion required. She
liked, a plot; she liked‘to angle for her trout

‘ \ before the sharp book made it writhe in agony.

Accordingly, when she saw that Valeria
romised fair for “sport,” she ado ted a new
ine of conduct altogether. She cal ed upon the
Colonel; apologized for her rudeness; attributed
it to anger; professed penitence; and promised
to gch the bone of contention—the gallant
Captain—up. She was as good as her word,
moreover, and the guardsmnn found himself

summarily dismi:sed. I do not know that she
deserved any great credit for'this; since, if the

truth must be told, she had grown heartily
tired of him. And “they ” did say, the very
next season, that a certain foreign prince called

‘rather more frequently in Half-Moon street
than was necessary, or, perhaps, prudent. How-

’ ever, that is neither here nor there.

/ The Captain was sent about his business.

I " Isabel was sorry and ashamed, or, at least, had

the grace to pretend to be so; and the Colonel
was delighted. They were often together, as in
the days of old, when he was a bachelor and
she a young lady on her promotion. She
amused, she interested him, and, at last, she
became his confidantu, and heard all those
doubts, and wonders, and suspicions of Valeria

. which he had never before breathed to mortal
ear. She encouraged him in his system of
espionage; she offered to help him, and, to give
her all credit, did so effectually. One or two

. 1 anonymous letters found their way to his club;
.he fancied that peo le looked with amused yet
pitying e s upon him: and Isabel sighed, and
said that aleria was foolish, and that the rev-
erend pastor of St. Gerdule’s was a Very hand-
some and fascinating oung man.

‘i‘Confound him! ’11 punch his head, the
sneaking puppy l” the poor Colonel used to
cry. “And as for her, I’ll shut her up, and
good  on bread and water, the ungrateful

. uss

“ ngrateful, indeed!” chimed in Isabel.
“Look where you took her from, and where

on have placed her. But don’t lock her 11

‘ {Thole Alfred. If we are wrong, and the woer
is Wrong too we shall only get laughed at for
our pains. y her with a little more liberty
now, and see what she will do. I have an ex-
cellent plan.”

: Forthwith she proceeded to disclose it. The
Colonel listened and hesitated. But she spoke
of hishonor, of his ancient name, of his age,

‘ and finally conquered. He left everything in
herhand, and went “out of town ” for a day or
15%, Without informin Valeria of his intention.
Soihavin iher trhin laid, and her lighted match
qmtfe ready to apply, Mim Isabel sat and waited
patiently till the proper time for the grand ex-
plosmn should arrive.

‘ It was not long in coming. Indignant as

, aleria was at the Colonel’s behaviOr, she felt
their sudden estrangement very keenly. You
may quarrel with all your friends, with all your
family, and manage to rub on through life v13”;
11

you cannot quarre. with your husband or your

~ . wife without feeling itin every nerve 0f 3’0“?

' . '4 Ways kind to her;

 

    
    
  

  
  

  

  

6 I; what V erla did. She went out

y. Even if there be no love on your part
toward the partner of your bed and board, 9V0“
if the same roof never covers, if the wide ocean
mm between you, it makes no difference. There
is the bitter pain, the aching sense of wrong
and, unfinieri the uneasy restlessness that can
neyer end til reconciliation comes, or you lie
quietly in our grave.

‘ Valeria elt this deeply; and when her first
, impulse of an er at the Colonel’s sudden and
unannounced e rture was over, she felt SO
{11711222323 :3 fhbr Orllll, so utterly forsaken, that
, or 3 must 1' ‘
Then “me mongbgsf 19 down and die.
0 one voice that w
. ready to utterwords that had the $111383
, ' soothe her.pain._ No one was watching her. her
husband had eVidently given u all care to} or
concern' in her movements. $hen one door is
‘ shut, another generally stands open; when a
, woman’s husband forsakes her, I am afraid

, . there is almost always some one near at h
, .p + (provided she be even moderately good-look”;d

“a ble) to pla the part of consol
‘ .5 tfim» {film 61! course, we auehiiglw
_ _ quite early in
the mo in; on foot, into a our-wheeled
. cm and drove \straig t to the  0f 

 

   
   
 

  
 

.Gerdule.~ Isabel, who had been on the watch
git-this movement with a delighted smile

I
e
I

of one friend who was al- '

 

and hurrying home, she dispatched Rosina, her
maid, to some chambers in the Albany, which
were all the “country” the poor Colonel had
seen since he left his home.

There was a morning service at St. Gerdule’s
Where altar cloths, screens, and unlighted wax
candles, formed a prominent feature of the cor-
emonies. From this service, the Reverend

Francis was retiring by a narrow gardenfimth 5 . . .
. . , -. .~  .  .._ 3' gard face bending over him that told him all.
that ltd llOlll the ( huich to the IU, toxy door. , Loving her to the last with an his bean and

Once in the hall, :1 servant met him with the
message that a lady wished to speak to him in
his study. He walked leisurely toward the
door, thinking of the only lady he felt the
slightest wish to meet, opened it, and saw her
there before him.

Valeria started up from her seat, and clasp—
ing the hand be extended, burst into a passion
of tears. Her heart was so full that she could
nOt lIt‘lll i—fiViIlg Way; and, us she was one of
the fortunate beings who can cry without dis-
torting their lovely faces, or making their love-
ly eyes and noses red, the rector (lid not object
in the least to the falling shower. He only
held her hand in both his; felt strongly tempted
to put his arm around her waist in addition;
2nd waited till she could tell him what troubled

er.

It; came out at last—the wretched little story
—in a very few words. She was tired of her
life. She would endure it no longer. She would
not tell her family of all she suffered, because
they would suffer also. She had no one on
earth to speak to, to confide iii—except him,
and would he show her some way out of such
unhappiness. into something like the peace she
used to know? ' ‘

That was all. I think it was quite enough.
Without any real thought of evil in their minds,
these two young people stood on the brink of a
pretty steep precipice, and scarcely. gave its
existence a thought. Valeria only felt that
here was one safe and faithful friend—that here
was a man with all the good qualities she had
missed in her first love—ii man who was as kind
to her as ever that first love had been. While
the poor rector only thought at that instant
that he would give his life to see her happy in
her ‘home and at peace with her husband once
again.

St. Senanus, we are told, avoided most suc-
cessfully the pursuit of the enamoured Kath-
leen, however much he may have regretted her
after her “eyes of most unhol blue” were
closed in death—that death to which he doomed
her. Had St. Senanus held Kathleen’s hand in
his for a quarter of an hour, his resolution
might ossibly have been shaken, and Kathleen
might liave escaped her watery bed. _ Our mod-
ern St. Senanus was not so wise as his predeces-
sor. The touch of those slight fingers was
magnetic, and by degrees other and more foolish
thou hts crept into his head.

“ hat a ity l” he whispered, soft] ,iscarcely
knowing Wfi’at he was saying, “w at a pity
that We two met so late—too late, Valeria!”

A flood of crimson rushed to Valeria’s face.
She half withdrew her hand from his, then left
it there, while her eyes drooped lower beneath
his gaze. Pardom him, deanreader. We all
know that he was in the wron , and that she was
unpardOnably weak. We al agree that they
both ought to bestoned with stones; but-still
“accidents will happen;” and that moment’s
eloquent pause was instinct with danger and
mischief. The clergyman bent lower, theJittle
hand was pressed more closely, an arm stole
softly round a slender waist, and, much as I

rieve to write it of my heroine, the clerical
fips were so near her own that a collision
seemed inevitable. That kiss was never given,
however: for at that very instant the study
door was thrown sharply open, and starting
asunder, with a thrill of horror, the foolish pair
saw Isabel before them, with t e Colonel lean-
ing on her arm, and Resins. and the terrified
and scandalized housekeeper in the background.

“ There!” saidtlsabel, quietly, “I think the
situation speaks for itself.’

There was an instant’s awful pause. Then
the Colonel’s face, which had been gray as
ashes, flushed with a v1v1d crimson. He sprang
forward to strike the young clergyman, but
staggered as he made the step, and fell heavin
into his arms, like a dead man. The young
man laid him down upon the sofa; theygath-
ered round him. with awful faceS' and in ten
minutes the doctor, who had been hastily sum-
moned from a nei hboring square, confirmed
their worst fem-3., t was a alytic stroke,

and the Colonel was liable to d e at almost ny
moment. His days were numbered; and a-
leria—poor, erring, foolish ,Valerial—was the
unhappy cause.

i /

\

I .

‘ .I' ‘ r.” .
.   sa- 4,.-

V...

 

81

CHAPTER XXVII.

To say that Valeria watched beside that dying
bed, by day and by night, is nothing. She
watched there, with tears and prayers, and
pleadings for forgiveness, that were pitiful to
see. It almost Svacd that, from their sinceri-
ty, they gained strength and power. For the
(lying man rallied at last, and saw the pale, hag-

soul, he knew how great would be her misery
after he had gone, and managed, with his fail-
ing powers, to say a gentle word to her: “ Poor
Vallie! never mind!” That was all—the last
words he uttered; and they pierced her heart
with fresh agony and pain. But, after all, he
had forgiven her, though she never, to her
dying day, can forgive herself.

They bore her away from that final interview,
feeble, and helpless, and ill. For weeks she
never left her bed; and when she recovered,
the grass was owing greenly over the heart
that had loved er so!

From her home of affluence and splendor,
Valeria returned to the Brompton shop, silent,
sorrowful, and subdued. She claimed no rank,
no advantage, no acquaintance, which her mar-
riage had given her. She saw Isabel no more;
and George Monair also passed from her
memory almost as if he had never been. The
death of Mrs. Moore, one. year afterlthat of the
Colonel, broke the last link that bound her to
the world of rank and fashion; and that world
I need not tell you, troubled its head very little
about her, when once her face was missed from
its easily-filled ranks.

In the obscurity from which she had for so
brief a time emerged, the youn widow remained
withouta wish for change. he took her old
place as eldest sister in the humble household
without a murmur. She was the companion
of her mother, the delight of her father, the
faithful friend of her brothers and sisters, and
the ornament of her home. In the process of
time, John Grant gave up his business to a
younger man. Maria, an energetic, helpful

oung lady of nineteen, married “ Cousin

ohn,” to whom she had been engaged almost
from her childhood; and the whole family
removed to a pleasant farm in the country, not
far from the homestead of the Bruces, where
the colonel had wooed and won his bride.

There, changed by time, and most of all by
sorrow, Malcom Bruce‘ met his first and onl
love once more. He had been faithfulto his
early dream; he was faithful still. He wooed
no longer the gay and giddy Valeria, to whom
fidelity was but a name; but he won a grave
and beautiful woman, whose heart had been so
far softened by affliction, that it could feel for
the loneliness of his own.

Valeria, then, is happyi She still dwells con-
tentedly in her little ampshire home; and
Maria, with her husband and her children
(whose name would almost seem to be legion), is
her frequent and welcome guest. Her father
and mother dwell very near her home; her
brothers and sisters are all married and settled,
yet not unmindful of the arent nest, or of
those who shared it with t mm. The annual
Christmas gathering in Mr. Grant’s la e farm-
house is, 1 can assure you, a sight we 1 worth
seeing.

And Isabel—and George—and Mrs Monair?
The elder lady died long ago, and I only wish I
could tell you Something good of the unhappy

air who resided with her, but I cannot. George
Edonair-is still a “ man about town,” and next
season you will see him lounging in the club
windows, hanging about Tattersall’s, or canter-
ing down-the Row, as idle, as useless, and as
worthless a butterfly as was evor broken upon a
wheel, while lsabel still reigns the queen of so-
ciety, though younger women seek vainly to
take away her see ter and her crown. No retri-
bution has overta en her as yet. She eats and
drinks, and sleeps, and dresses well. She has
but two troubles in her life—her hair is turning
gray, and two wrinkles have made their up at-
ance under her brilliant eyes. But the air-
dresser and the perfumer can, I suppose, settle-
tbat between them. ,

So she goes on, the idol and the lawgivor 0f
the fashionable world, the cynosure of all eyefiv
the light, now and then, of some b0 :8 fint-hW‘
astic dream. A bad Wlfe, a false mend, a se-
cret foe, a fickle mistress, ad ' 111% 1119‘“er _
intriguing politician asucoegf‘fiza asbiona lo,
a aceful, a bean ' l, and mos emphatically
a nge‘rous woman! With her. however. 311d
her faults, her follies and her wickedness. V.
have no moreto do. x

mm.‘

 

 
    

  

  

 

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14 ‘Yhy I Married Him; or, The Woman in
Gray. By Sara Claxton.
15 A Fair Face; or, Out in the World. By
Bartley T. Campbell.
16 Trust Her Not; or, A True Knight.
Margaret Leicester.
11 A Loyal Lover‘ or, The Last of the Grims~
peths. By Arabella Southworth.
l 8 His Idol or, The Ill-Starred Marriage. By
Mrs. Mary ~ed Crowell.
'10 The Broken Betrothal; or. Love versus
Bate. By Mary Grace Halpine.
20 Orphan Nell, the Orange Girl; or, The
Lost Heir. By Agile Penna.
21 Now and Forever; or, Why Did She Mar-
ry Him? By Henrietta Thackeray.
22 The Bride of an Actor; or. Driven from
Home. B the author of “ Alonein the World,"
“ Clifton, ' etc.
23 Leap Year or Why She Proposed. B Sara
Claxton. ; ’ y

\York Girl' or,
By William Mason

By

By

 

24 Her Face Was Her Fortune.
nor Blaine.

25 Only a Schoolmistress; or, Her Untold
Secret. By Arabella Southworth.

26 Without a Heart; or, Walking on the
' Brink. By Colonel Prentiss Ingraham.

27 Was She a Coquette? or, A Strange
’ Courtship. By Henrietta Thackeray.

28 Syibil Chase; or, The Gambler’s Wife. By
rs. Ann 8. Stephens.

29 For Her Dear Sake; or, Saved From Him-
self. By Sara Claxton. ‘ l

30 The Donguet Girl ; or, A Million of Money.
By Agile enne.

31l A Mad Marriage; or, The Iron Will. By
Mary *

By Elsa ‘:

A. Denison.
32 Mariana, the Prima Donna' or, Roses
. and Lilies. By Arabella Southwort’h.

33 The Three Sisters; or. The Mystery of

‘ Lord Chalfont. By Alice Fleming.

34 A Marria e of Convenience; or, Was
Be a Count By Sara Ciaxton.

35 All Against Her; or, The Winthrop Pride.
By Clara Augusta.

36 Sir Archer’s Bride; or, The Queen of His ,
Heart. By Arabella Southworth.

37 The Country Cousin; or, All is not Gold I
that Glitters. By Rose Kennedy.

88 His Own Again or. Trust Her Not.
Arabella Southwort .

39 Flirtation; or, A Youn Girl‘s Good Name.
By Jacob Abarbanell, (R pk Royal.)

40 Pledged to Marry; or. In Love‘s Bonds.

‘ By Sara (‘laxton.

41 Blind ‘Devotion; or, Love Against the 4
World. By Alice Fleming.

42 Beatrice, the Beautiful; or, His Second
Love. By Arabella Southworth.

43 The Baronct’s Secret; or, The Rival Hali-
Bisters. By Sara Claxton.

44 The On] Daughter or Brother ainst
Love . Alice Fleming. ’ “8

 

By

45 na- Hidden Foe; or, Love AtAll Odds.
By Arabella Southworth.

' 72 The Two Widows.

 

46 The Little Heiress; or, Under a Cloud.
By lbs. Mary A. venison.

47 Because She Loved Hill]; or, How Will
It End? By Alice Fleming.

48 In Spite oi‘Herseli‘; or,Jeannette’s Repa-
ration. By S. R. Sherwood.

49 His Heart’s Mistress; or Love at First
Sight. By Arabella Southwortll.

50 The Cuban Heiress' or, The Prisoner of
La Vintresse. By Mrs. ll ary A. Denison,

51 Two Young: Girls; or, The Bride of an
Ear]. By Alice Fleming.

52 The “'inged lilesseng‘er; or, Risking All
for a Heart. By Mrs. Mary Reed Crowell. _

53 Agnes Hope, the Actress' or. The Ro-
mance of a Ruby Ring. By William Mason
Turner, M. D.

54 One \Voman’s Heart; or. Saved from the
Street. By George S. Kaime.

55 She Did Not Love Him; or, Stooping to
Conquer. By Arabella Southworth.

56 Love-Mad; or Betrothed Married, Divorced
and By Wm. Mason Turner, .

57 A Brave Girl; or, Sunshine at Last. By
Alice Fleming.

58 The Ebon Mask; or, The Mysterious
Guardian. By Mrs. Mary Reed C‘s-owe“.

59 A ‘Yidow’s “files; or, ABitter Vengeance.
By Rachel Bernhardt.

60 Cecil’s Deceit; or The Diamond Legacy.
By Mrs. Jennie Davis urton.

61 A Wicked Heart; or, The False and the
True. By Sara Claxton.

62 The Maniac Bride; or. The Dead Secret
of Hollow Ash Hall. By Margaret Blount.

63 The Creole Sisters; or, The Mystery of the
Perrys. By Mrs. Anna E. Porter.

64 What Jealous Did; or, The Heir of
Worsley Grange. y Alice Fleming.

65 The Wife’s Secret; or, 'Twixt Cup and
Lip. By Col. Juan Lewis.

66 A Brother’s Sin' or, Flora‘s Forgiveness.
By Rachel Bernhardt.

67 Forbidden Bans; or, Alma‘s Disguised
Prince. By Arabella Southworth.

68 Weavers and Welt; or “Love That Hath
Us In His Net." By Miss M. E. Braddon.

69 Camille; or, The Fate of a Coquette. By
Alexandre Dumas.

, '10 The Two Orphans. By D’Enery.
' 71 MI! Young Wife. By My Young Wife‘s
usband.

By Annie Thomas.

73 Rose Michel; or. The Trials of a Factory
Girl. By Maud Hilton.

74 Cecil Castlemaine’s Ga e ' or, The Story
oiaBroidered Shield. By uida.

75 The Black Lady of Duna. By J. S. Le
Farm.

76 Charlotte Temple. By Mrs. Rowson.

77 Christian Oakle 9s Mistake. By the
author of “ John H fax, Gentleman,” etc.

78 Mg Young Husband; or, A Confusion in
t e Family. By Myself.
79 A ucen Amongst \Yomen.

'Bé the

ant or of “ The Cost of Her Love," " ilded
Sin," “Dora Theme,” “From Gloom to Sun-
light," etc.

80 Her Lord and Master.
Marryat.

81 Lucy Temple, Sister of Charlotte.

82 A Long Time Ago. By Meta Orred.

83 Playing for High Stakes. By Annie
Thomas.

84 The Laurel Bush.
“John Halifax, Gentleman.’

85 Led Astray. By Octave Feuillet.

86 Janet’s Repentance. By George Eliot.

87 The Romance ofa Poor Young Man.
By Octave Feuillet.

8'8 A Terrible Deed; or, All for Gold. By
Emma Garrison Jones.

89 A 'Gilded Sin. By the author of, “Dora
Thorn," etc.

90 The Author’s Daughter. By Mary
Hewitt.

By Florence

By the author of

l

91 The Jilt. By Charles Reade. -

92 Eileen Alanna; or, the Dawning oi the Day.
By Dennis O’Sulllvan.

98 Love’s Victory. By B“ L. Farjeon.
94 The. Quiet Heart. By Mrs. Oliphsnt.

95 Lattice Arnold. By Mrs. Marsh.

96 Haunted ,Hearts- or, The Broken Be-
trothal. By Rachel ,ernhardt.

0'1 Hugh Melton. By Katharine King.

 

 

98 Alice Learmont. By Miss Mulock:
99 Marjorie Bruce’s Lovers. By Mary
Patrick. r

100 Through Fire and Water. By Fred- I
erick Talbot. ~

101 Hannah. By Miss Muloek.

102 Peg XYofllngton. By Charles Reade.

103 A Desperate Deed. By Erskine Boyd.

104 Shadows on the Snow. By B. L. Far-

neon.

The Great Hoggarty Diamond. By

W. M. Thackeray.

From Dreams to “faking. By E.

Lynn Linton.

105
106

107 Poor Zeph! By F. W. Robinson.

108 The Sad Fortunes of the Rev. Amos
Barton. By George Eliot.

109 Bread-and-Cheese and Kisses. By
B. L. Farjeon.

110 The Wandering Heir. By Charles
Reade.

111 The Brother’s Bet; or Within Six
Weeks. By Emilie Flygare Carlen.

1 12 A Hero. By Miss Mulock.

113 Paul and Vir inia. From the French 0!
Bernardin De St. ierre.

114 ’Twas In Trafalgar’s Bay. By Wal-
ter Besant & James Rice.

115 The Maid of Killeena. By William
Black.

1 1 6 Hetty. By Henry Kingsley. '

l 1 7 Bald of

The \Yayside Cross or, The
Gomez. By Captain E. A. 

118 The Vicar of Wakefield. By Oliver
Goldsmith.

l 19 Maud Mohan. By Annie Thomas.

120 ghaddeus or Warsaw. By Miss Jane .
1'.

orte
121 The King or No-Land. By B. L. Far.
jeon.

122 Love], the Widower. By W. M.Thack-
eray. ’

123 An Island Pearl. ByB. L Moon.
124 Cousin Phillis.

125 Leila; or, The Si
ward BuIWer (Lord Ly ton). .

126 \Yhen the SM}: Comes Home. By
Walter Besant and ames Rice. ‘

127 One of the Family. By James Psyu.
128 The Blrthright. By Mrs. Gore.
129 Motherless; or, The Farmer’s Sweetheart.

By Colonel Prentiss Ingraham. 

130 Homeless; or, Two Orphan Girls in New
York. By Albert W. Aiken.

1 31 Sister against Sister; or, The Rivalry ot'
Hearts. y Mrs. Mary Reed Crowell.

132 Sold for Gold; or, Almost Lost. By Mrs.
M. V. Victor. ,
133 Lord Roth’s Sin; or. Betrothed at the

Cradle. By Mrs. Georgiana Dickens.
134 be}? He Love Her 1 By Bartley T. Camp-

1 35 Sinned Against; or, Almost in His Power.
By Lillian Lovejoy. ‘

1 36 “'as She His Wife ? By Mrs. Mary Reed
Crowell. .

137 The Village
Thackeray.

133 poor Valeria! or, The Broken Troth.
By Margaret Blount. '

139 Margaret Graham. By G. P. R. James.
140 Without Mercy. By BartleyTCsmpbell.

141 Honor Bound; or.SealedtoSecrecy. By

Lillian Lovejoy. '

142 Fleeing irom Love. By Mrs. Harriet
w Irving. Ready August lst. .

143 Abducted; or. A Wicked Woman‘s Work.

on the CHI. By Miss

By Rett Winwood. Ready August 8th. ’ "

A new issue every track.

Tn: WAY!“ Lunar is for sale bysll News-
dealers ilve camper copy, or sent by mail at w
ceipt of six cents each.

BEADLE AND ADAMS, Pom
% William street, New York.

e of Grenada. By Ed- .

 

 

'i

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ix" ’