4+ -—~ ivid an ramatic Story, by Harriet Sherburne "FOR HER FATHER’S HONOR,” Next Week. Office Vol. 44. HERE’S A HEALTH TO THOSE WHO LOVE US. BY FRANCIS 8. SMITH. Here's a health to those who love us, And a smile for those who hate; Kind heaven is above us, And we may trust our fate. If loved ones fly before us, And those who hate betray, God’s mercy still is o’er us On sorrow’s darkest day. Then a health to those who love us, And a smile for those who hate; Kind heaven is above us, And we may trust our fate. The love that in an hour Will plume its wings and fly Elsewhere to try its power, Is hardly worth a sigh. The hate that would annoy us Is only worth ‘a smile ; It never can destroy us, For heaven rules the while. Then a health to those who love us, And a smile for those who hate; Kind heaven is above us, And we may trust our fate. This life is but a bubble, *Tis ended in a day ; Then let us laugh at trouble, And drive our cares away. The world is full of sorrow, But has its pleasures too; Then do not trouble borrow, Life’s bright side only view. Then a health to those who love us, And a smile for those who hate; Kind heaven is above us, And we may trust our fate. > @~<«~ -—--—- [THIS STORY WILL NOT BE PUBLISHED LN BOOK-FORM. ] A FAMILY SECRET. By Mrs. Jennie Davis Burton. (‘A FAMILY SECRET,’ was commenced last week.] CHAPTER III. REPARATION, NOT REVENGE, The last week of August came. The intervening time went by very pleasantly and very quietly. There were summer entertainments of all kinds— lawn parties and dinners, boating excursions and pic- nies, riding and driving and walking, while a sprink- ling of city guests at the Dell, and the neighboring families who came and went, prevented any hint of tediousness or monotony. It was within a week of the wedding-day and a lull | hadcome in even thatroundof unobstrusive gayeties. The single event which was to break the brooding calm of the last seven days occurred upon the day when the party from the Dell, with a select few be- side, rowed up the river to pass the afternoon and evening with the Dedhams. It was understood that the bride-elect would not appear again until the joy- ful occasion, and not a single invitation sent out had been disregarded. People were taking a great deal of interest in this welding of family bonds; the curi- osity which regards our neighbors’ affairs as freely as though they were our own, was actire and eager. There was no inclination to pick a flaw in the en- gagement. The match was eminently a suitable one, the bride-elect perfect, the man of her choice was— ah, that was where the doubt came in. For a year past Mr. Hurlbert had stood, as regarded society, on debatable ground. Even now it was hard to accept his reformation in good faith. “And Irene is as much infatuated with him as the score who have gone before,” said Brian Dedham to his sister, bitterly. ‘‘Whatis there in the fellow to fascinate all women as he does? You are not the kind to break your heart for any man, but I do be- lieve she would if he were to treat her now as he has treated others. He never will, of course; there is too much at stake, in the present instance, to admit of any falling off in devotion. And she believes it real.” “She may be readily excused the belief. I defy any woman who does not know him for what he is, to distrust Austin Hurlbert when he wears that look. But she shall have his utter worthlessness exposed to her before she is his wife, I promise you that, Brian.” He looked at her wonderingly. **You know his motive,’ he said. ‘‘You know his contemptible perfidy. But he will marry her all the same, andif he does not break her heart outright after marriage she will never know him for the cold- blooded scoundrel! he is.” The possibility of heart-break was the very furthest from Irene’s thoughts just then. She was promenad- ing one of the shadiest walks upon her lover’s arm, their voices dropped to a tender undertone, their glances filling the conversational gaps that were as expressive as any words. Only perfect confidence makes silence endurable between two lovers. “And I am not to be thrust out of Paradise after all; I never am to leave the Dell,” broke forth Irene, after one of those momentary pauses. “If I needed one assurance to crown my cupof happiness I have itin that. Ob, Austin; it all seems too perfect to last; I am afraid 1 shall lose it yet.” “Lose what?’? he asked, smilingly. ‘Be more ex- plicit, my darling. Is it your happiness, the Dell, or your humble servant you fear losing? The last you are sure of at least, and if that does not include the first, it should. For the rest, Uncle Noble is hardly, likely to turn us off, considering the fact that we are his nearest kin. He is just unreasonable enough, if our interests were not henceforth to be identical, to turn off one and lavish all his favor on the other; but that is out of the question now. He is somewhat fanatical in his netion of hereditary rights; he will P.O. Box 2734 N.Y. Entered According to Act of Congress, un the Year 1889. 2y Street & Smith, in the Office of the Librarian of Conyress, Washington, D. O. 31 Rose Si. New York, March 28, 1889, HHH) Hy e) yy a | Ht NINN . NR A 1 KG “ \ ii ———— **T SENT FOR YOU. I HAVE THE PLEASURE OF PRESENTING TO YOU MY WIFE, MRS. RATHFORD!” Entered at the Post Office, New York, as Second Class Matier. _ Three Dollars Per Two Conies Five Dollars. Year, No. 91, 7 ii i ) G if Mj yy a) (YY Yip O 7 1 wy wa ‘i ) ELEANOR PUT HER HAND ON HER SISTER’S SHOULDER, “SUE EASTMAN IS DOWN STAIRS.” love in his heart cried out to be recognized, he would heed only the voice of rage which swelled and rumbled in his brain, and he had sullenly looked after her until she was out of sight. Once she had turned her face toward him, and there was that in the slight movement of her hands which seemed to beg him to take counsel of his better self, but he had not opened his lips or given Teese sign, and she had gone out of his sight. Then he roused himself and moved sullenly toward the house, but a sudden thought of how he would be questioned about Ruth, made him turn away and cross the fields to a piece of woods where he knew he would be out of sight. He could not bear human companionship at that moment. Out in the woods he flung himself on the soft leaves and gave himself up to the rack of self-torture. And there he lay until dusk came on, when he stole out of the woods and took unfrequented paths into the country beyond, finding a dismal pleasure in feeling that he was a sort of out -ast. And he walked until he was weary and foot-sore, taking a kind of credit to himself for even that, as if there was a merit in self-torture. But the exercise was better for him than lying on his face, letting his humiliation and jealous rage suggest thoughts which lacked only opportunity to convert themselves into evil acts. It had even come into his mind to make this his final departure from home. He knew he would thus cause comment and distress, and it entered his thoughts that he might be believed dead. If so, would not Ruth regret refusing to give him her promise? But, after all, that was not nearly as seductive as the thought of going away and making a fortune, and then coming back to show them all what a mistake they had made in treating him as they had. Perhaps he would have had no little difficulty in specifying in what respect he had been ill-treated, but he did not force himself to particularize, and it was enough for him to make an assertion to himself to believe it. As always happens, the exercise he was taking dis- pie the more dismal thoughts from his mind, and e began to find his greatest pleasure in dwelling on the success he would have in New York, and how, when success was achieved, he would return to Swanzey. : He could easily picture the chagrin of Ben East- man and of the directors of the bank; but when he tried to fix Ruth’s part in the future, he found himself somewhat at a loss; he wanted her to feel badly, but he wished to benefit by her repentance. The pleasantest picture he conjured up of the future was of his return from New York, rich and powerful, Ruth still single, mourning him, refusing to even look at Ben Eastman, as the cause of all her trouble, and begging him for his forgiveness, which he would give magnanimously. But when he h ness, it also came into his mind that it would bea very unpleasant thing to go away from her, leaving her free to marry Ben if she wished. Not that he would yield, not he; but he could not help dwelling on Ruth’s goodness and gentleness, and, as he dwelt, it came over him thatit would be better, if it were possible, to go away at peace with her. It did not occur to him as a possible thing that it would become his manhood to yield without any question as to his being right or wrong; he only tried to think of some plan whereby he could become reconciled to Ruth without any loss of what he was pleased to style his dignity. He was willing to admit that he had not been as calm as he might have been in talking to Ruth, though, in view of his provocation, he was disposed to fully forgive himself for that; but he could not see that he had been anything but right in demand- ing the promise he did of Ruth. “ISN’T IT DREADFUL? OH, WHY WILL MEN DO SUCH THINGS ?” He did not acknowledge it to himself, but he had an instinctive feeling that quiet, gentle Ruth would never come to him and ask his forgiveness for her contumacy ; but he did think that if he but gave her the opportunity she would meet him more than half way, and so preserve to him the appearance of having had his own way. This is what he decided to do then. He would take a few of the little things Ruth had from time to time given him, and would carry them over to Ruth and solemnly return them to her in the morning, feeling sure that she would not go to meeting with the others. He would not retract an iota of what he had said, but he would be ready to forgive her at the first sign of repentance, and he would be a lenient judge of what constituted the first sign. He did not abate a jot of his hatred for Ben, but he felt a great deal happier when he had come to the eonclusion to go see Ruth on the morrow, and he turned his steps homeward in a great deal better frame of mind than when he had left there. It was quite late, and he was hungry as well as tired; but he knew he could get something to eat without arousing suspicion that he had eaten noth- ing, and he would let them think that he had been with Ruth, for he knew they would assume that to be the case. A night’s restful sleep only disposed him the more toward his plan of effecting a reconciliation with begun to admit to himself thatin | any case Ruth-was necessary to his perfect happi- | Ruth, but he made up his little package of gifts to be returned—not very precious from a money point of view, but precious enough to Reuben—with a feel- nk that he would certainly bring them back with 11m. And it was quite likely that he would, for without saying as much to himself, he was nevertheless of such a mind now, that he would stop very little short of apologizing, rather than not be reconciled with Ruth. If there had been more time he might have been more obdurate, but this was his last day at home, and he could not think of letting it go by with the chance that Ruth might come to him. It was quite true that. he had said he would never give Ruth another opportunity to say that she loved him, but he was angry then, and he was calm now. Besides, he knew perfectly well that Ruth would never remind him of that, and he made up his little package with great cheerfulness. His father wanted him to go to meeting on this, his last Sunday at home, but Reuben told him he was going to see Ruth, and the old man went off with Aunt Tilda without any further word. Reuben waited until he was sure that he would not be likely to meet any stragglers on their way to meeting, and then set out for Ruth’s house, with his heart beating rather more violently than he could account for. At the gate he stopped and drew back witha sudden flush. Sue Eastman was coming his way. He would have retreated out of sight had that been feasible, but it was not, for she had seen him and had nodded and smiled, so that he had nothing to do but await her approach and let her get well ahead of him, be- fore he started. It was very unpleasant to meet one of Ben’s rela- tives at such a time, but the best way wasto puta bold face upon it and conduct himself as circum- stances made expedient. Perhaps he dreaded meet- ing Sue less than he would have any other of Ben’s Rove: for he had always liked her. She seemed to ave a faculty of putting him on good terms with himself. She might be sarcastic and sharp with others, but to him she had always been most con- siderate. Nevertheless he did not know what her attitude toward him would be now, supposing that she had been informed by Ben of what had occurred; there- fore he waited for her with some perturbation. Her tone and manner when she spoke, however, set his mind at rest. Both were as friendly as ever they had been, and as free from the sharpness which made her dreaded by others. Indeed, if there was any difference in her tone, it was rather in the direc- tion of increased friendliness. “How be yeou, Rube?’ she asked, stopping as she came to where he stood. ‘Aunt Tildy ain’t at home, I s’pose ?”’ “No, she’s gone to meeting. her ?” “Twan’t about nothin’ particular, Rube,” she said, flushing and looking a trifle conscious, whereupon Reuben could not help seeing that she was avery fine-looking girl. “Ts it anything [can do for you? Won’t you come in, Sue?” He would have liked it better if she had refused, but he could do no less than ask, since it seemed that she had come over with a purpose. “Only for a minute, Rube. Were you going out?’ and she looked curiously at the package in his hand. It was his turn to flush, and he did so unmistak- ably. Sue noted it, and her eyes flashed under their long, dark lashes. “Yes,” he answered, with a poor assumption of ort “T was going out, but there’s no great urry.” z “Going to see Ruth Stratton, I guess, ain’t yeou? Would if I was yeou, Rube.” “What d’you mean, Sue?” “Oh, well, ’tain’t none of my business,” she an- swered, ina pitying way. “I guess if Aunt Tildy ain’t in, I'll be going.’ “Wait a minute, Sue! that?’ **T hadn’t no business to say it at all, Rube. Itjust slipped out.” “But you meant something. What was it?’ “There, now, Rube, what’s the use taking it like Did you want to see What did you mean by ~~, “SUE,” HE SAID, H®ARSELY, “IF YOU ARE A FRIEND OF MINE, YOU WILL TELL ME WHAT YOU MEAN.” that! It’s no more’n natural for a man to go see his sweetheart, is it ?”’ “That wasn’t what you meant. what you did mean?’ “No, [ won’t. Nobody could ever say that I was a mischief-maker.” She turned as if she weuld go. Reuben sprang out of the gate, which he had been holding open, and laid his hand on her arm. All the jealous fears which a night of peace had allayed sprang into vigorous life at once at the first breath of suspicion. : “You have no right to go without telling me what you mean, Sue. I wouldn’t treat you so.” i She turned to him with pity and distress on her ace. “What good will it do for me to say anything? If I can’t say anything pleasant I’d rather not say any- thing at all. Yeou’d better not ask me, Rube.” “But I do ask you,” he said, hoarsely. ‘‘Look here, Sue, you’ve always been a friend of mine, if you are Ben’s cousin——” “Ben’s cousin!” she interrupted, scornfully. ‘““Yeou don’t suppose that because he’s my cousin that I think everything he does is right, do yeou? I don’t, Rube Whitcomb, and that’s what I—. But there, I won’t say anything. If I don’t see yeou again before yeou go, good-by, Rube. And I’d like yeou to think yeou have one good friend in Swanzey. Good-by. Won’t you shake hands ?” She seemed very much affected, and perhaps it was not all acting. Reuben took the hand she held out in her agitation, but it was only to restrain her from going. She flashed a singuiar look at him as he held her hand, and made no effort to withdraw it from his rasp. . “Sue,” he said, hoarsely, ‘if you are a friend of mine, as you say, you will tellme what you mean. J have a right to be told.” “Don’t ask me, Rube. I'll be sorry if I tell yeou.” It was singular, but even then, while his heart was racked by jealousy because of Ruth, he was pleased with the consciousness that here was a woman, beautiful, too, and feared by most others, who yet was almost submissive to him. The sense of controll- ing the will of such a one as Sue gave him a master- ful feeling. He became more peremptory. “T must ask you. You must tell me. What is it, Sue ?”’ “You will hate me ifI tell yeoun, and I do not want yeou to go away feeling so toward me.” “T think I shall hate you if you don’t tell me.” “But it isn't much, after all.” “Never mind. Tell me.” “It’s more suspicion than anything else, and you’ll hate me for telling yeou.” “No, I won’t. I must know.” “Besides, Ben is my cousin, after all,’ she said, as if to herself. . “Will you tell me or not? Talk of hating you if you do tell me! I shall hate you if you do not tell me.” “But I may be all wrong,” she persisted, as if to further madden the wretched man. He flung her hand angrily away from him, and turned from her. “Do as you please,” he said, sullenly. “Why. Rube,” she cried, ‘‘I will tell yeou, if yeou must hear it, but I thought yeou’d be happier not to have me.” ‘Happy !’’ he exclaimed, scornfully. “Well, it’s only this, Rube, if yeou will have me speak.” “T’ll never forget you if you will be my friend now, Sue. It may seem like nothing to you, Sue, for you have never been in love maybe——” “Never in love!” she cried, vehemently, and then stopped suddenly. ‘Well, ree I never was, but if I had been, Rube, I would be true to theman I gave my loveto. It doesn’t seen nothing to me, Rube. If I didn’t feel sorry for the way yeou have been treated I wouldn’t have let out what I did, so that yeou could make me say what I don’t want to.” “You will tell me then, Sue ?”’ “Yes, I will, and I don’t care what comes of it. I’ve known yeou these many years, and I know how true- hearted you are, Rube. I wouldn’t say such a thing any otber time, but I can’t help it now, when I think it allover. I always did like you, Rube—I didn’t Children Cry for Pitcher’s Castoria, Will you tell me mean to say that, but it’s said and I won't take it back.. But we always was friends and I won’t see yeou put upon. Is’pose Ben will be fit to put me out of the house if he finds out I told it.” “He shall never know from me, Sue. you came when you did. Now tell me.” He drew her to the side of the road and flung him- oe down on the grass, while she sat down by his side. I am glad (TO BE CONTINUED.) ———__—-O-4+ [THIS STORY WILL NOT BE PUBLISHED IN BOOK-FORM. | EDRIES LEGACY: FROM THE STREET 10 THE STAGE - By MRS. GEORGIE SHELDON. Author of “ Brownie’s Triumph,” ‘* The Forsaken Bride,” *‘ Sibyl’s Influence,” ** Geoffrey’s Victory,” ‘ Witch Hazel,” etc. [“*EDRIE’s LEGACY” was commenced in No. 12. numbers can be obtained of all News Agents.) CHAPTER XXI, EDRIE’S FAREWELLS. She returned after a minute or two with the purse in her hand. It was a pretty little affair with silver clasps, which Professor Reiffenberg had purchased as a gift for her when he gave her, that very morning, the money that she had earned by singing in his choir. “You do not know how rich I feel, Doctor Field,” she said gayly, as she held her purse up before him. “T have earned two hundred dollars during the last ten weeks, and it is such a delightful sensation. Now, please state the amount of my indebtedness to you, and give me the pleasure of paying the first bill I ever paid in my life from my own earnings.” The young doctor regarded her with a smile of pleasure, mingled with tenderness. She was very pretty standing there before him with that little air of triumph, that flush of pleasure on her cheeks, her lips smiling, her eyes gleaming with delight over possessing two hundred dollars that she had earned herself. Her form was filling out into beautiful proportions, her face into a perfect oval, while her hair, which was now growing with lovely luxuriance, lay in soft, glossy rings all about her white forehead, making a pleasing contrast ae her pure complexion. Doctor Field thrilled with sudden pain, a feeling of desolation sweeping over him. He loved this fair girl!—day by day she had been twining herself about his heart, until she had gradu- ally made him her slave, and now, at the thought of her going away, to be gone so long, he felt bereft, rebellious. aire and took her pretty hands—purse and all —in his. ; ‘Miss Brown—Edrie,” he said, in atone which he tried in vain to keep from trembling, ‘‘I cannot take your money—this first money of which you are 80 proud—and worthily, of having earned; but you can give me something else—if you will—that I should value far more highly than even a fortune, were it in your power to bestow one upon me.” Edrie glanced up in surprise when he began to speak, but as her eye met his, so eager, so full of the love that throbbed in his heart, her head drooped, the flush of gladness faded from her cheek, and an expressien of pain settled about her mouth. “It is your love, my darling, that I crave,’ Waiter Field went on, his voice growing more tremulous with suppressed feeling, ‘your dear heart that I would win, and mine is nearly crushed by the thought of your approaching absence. I could not let you go without telling you this and asking you to give me some hope that I may claim you when you come back—that you will be my wife. Look up, Edrie, and let me read in your dear eyes the love for which I yearn; speak and tell me that I have not sued in vain.” . For a full minute there was not a sound in the room, save that of the ticking of the tall, old-fashioned clock in the corner. The young girl stood before her eager lover, abashed, confused, shrinking, while he gazed upon her with a look of love and yearning that is beyond description. At last, when the silence was becoming unbearable, Edrie lifted a pair of troubled eyes, and said, ina pained voice, as she released her hands from his clasp: “Oh, Doctor Field, why have youtold me this!—I am sorry—I——” “Sorry !’ he interrupted, in a quick, startled tone, “Pray, pray do not say that,” and his face grew white with a sudden fear. “But I must—I cannot tell he how sorry——” “Why ?? he cried, catching his breath, sharply, and feeling asif some one had dealt him a cruel, unex- pected blow. ‘‘Because—you have been so kind to me—I owe you so much and—I cannot bear to give you pain,” she faltered, brokenly. “Cannot bear to give me pain,” he repeated, me- chanically, while his eyes searched her now down- cast face with alook of misery that it was well she did notsee. “Then do not, dear,” he pleaded; ‘tell me that you will love me—that I may have that one hope to feed upon during the long year you are away.” “T cannot—I cannot! why, why did you have to say this to me?” she almost sobbed, unnerved by the sound of the misery in his voice. “Cannot? Oh, Edrie!’’ Walter Field cried, with white lips. “Is it because of your hopes, because of the brilliant prospect before you—because you can- not give up the fame and glory that await you for the quiet routine of domestic life? Darling, I will wait. You shall have your fill of the fame and glory tirst. I will be very patient, 1f you will come to me in the end—by and by, when you are sated. with the homage of the world—only give me the treasure of your love and your promise that I may ultimately claim you as my wife.” “No, no; I cannot,’ she replied. ““Edrie—oh, why ?” he reiterated. “There can be but one reason—I do not love you,” she returned, sadly, “Darling, love begets love. You have not known until now that J love you, and so, of course, your heart has had no opportunity.to respond to mine. Let me win you,” he pleaded, growing more and more earnest. ‘I will not even ask you for any promise— T will not bind you, only let me hope that you will think about it and try to love me, and I will wait as long as you bid me. Do not leave me in despair; let me have but acrumb of comfort to feed upon until you come back.” His voice was full of importunate supplication ; his face was white with the agony of despair at the thought of losing her, and she could see that he was trembling with the mighty effort which he made to control himself. It was all Edrie could do to refrain from bursting into a passion of tears. The cdnsciousness that she must inflict perhaps a death-wound upon this true ana noble man pained her as she had never been pained before. She believed that he had saved her life by his skill and by the unwearied attention he had bestowed upon her; but for him she might not now be living, sbe might never have had the bright prospects which made the future seem so attractive and de- lightful. But she knew that no happiness could ever grow out of a union contracted merely from a feeling of gratitude and a sense of obligation, while, too, she was conscious that her heart’s best love had long ago been given to Harold Sturtevant. “T must not give you any hope,” she said, brokenly. “T should not be true to myself—I should be doing you an irreparable wrong if I should. You have been very kind to me, Doctor Field,” she continued, after a moment’s pause, during which she strove for composure, ‘and I shall always remember you with gratitude. Forgive me that I cannot help wounding you, but I never suspected that you enter- tained more than a merely friendly interest in me, and—I trust that you will absolve me from any in- tentional wrong.” “Do not blame yourself for anything,’ he said, earnestly, seeing that she was deeply pained; ‘‘it is only I who have been at fault, and i must suffer for my presumption. But,’’ searching her troubled, face eagerly, “you are very young, Edrie. When you have seen more of the world—when you come back to America after your year of study and travel— if you are then heart-whole, may I try again to win you?” Her face grew suddenly crimson when he'‘spoke of her being “heart-whole,” and her pretty brown head drooped still lower to hide her confusion, “Pray, Doctor Field, believe me, it can never be as you wish,” she said, with such deliberate earnestness that, like a flash, 2 suspicion of the truth came to him. He felt sure that, /n the past, she had met some one who had had power to move the depths of her nature as ho could never hope to do. “Forgive me,” he said, gently, recovering his mental equipoise with an effort.. “I will never annoy you by mentioning this subject again.” “Thank you,” Edrie said, giving him a little smile of gratitude, while she stifled a sigh of relief that the trying ordeal was over, adding, hesitatingly: ‘And now if you will allow me to cancel that bill Ae His face grew hot instantly. “T cannot take your money,” he said, curtly. Back “Surely, Doctor Field, you will not allow me to aoe ie ESE — ic Basa na Nagel Oe "dae Seat TR ee cee whipatatb tn chee « VOL. 44—No. 21. leave America burdened with a sense of obligation to you,” Edrie returned, with quiet dignity. aR “No,” he said, ina tone of apology, after thinking a moment; “that would not be quite generous, would it? Well,” with a’sigh for his blighted hopes, “I will make out a bill, and you shall go free as far as Tam concerned.” He took out his memorandum-book and wrote rapidly for a minute or two, then tearing out the leaf, he passed it without a word to her. Edrie glanced atthe figures, and then flushed crim- son again. ° He had charged her the nominal sum of twenty- five dollars! ; For seven long weeks he had attended her with un- tiring patience and faithfulness, often visiting her twice a day, and occasionally even three times. What was twenty-five dollars for all that? Far too little, she was painfully conscious. She had expected to give him at least one hundred dobiareonecait of the precious money she had earned—and she would have thought it none too much. “It is far too little,” she stammered, lifting her tear-laden eyes to him. 4 “You must allow me to be the judge of that, if you please,” he replied, with tremulous lips. The sight of her tears almost unmanned him, and his heart yearned for her with mighty yearning. ‘You for- get,” he continued, making an effort to smile, and speaking more lightly, ‘show many times you have given me pleasure with that glorious voice of yours. I feel as if I were your debtor, rather than that you are mine.’ “No, indeed, Dr. Field,’ she returned, earnestly ; “you forget that, but for you, my voice might have been silent now.” “Then the world will owe me a greater debt by and by,’ the young man said, stillsmiling; ‘‘only’-—imore gravely—“‘let ne caution you, Miss Edrie, to take the best of care of it and of yourself; your constitution would not stand another such strain as that from which you have just recovered.” Edrie looked down at her bill, then up at him again. “Please let me give you more,” she pleaded, with troubled eyes. : “Not another dime,’ he retorted, decisively, and then, in a tone of mock reproof, ‘‘And don’t you know, young lady, it is not proper to haggle with your doctor about his bill? Don’t keep me any longer; I have patients, who will wonder why I tarry so long.” Edrie counted out the money and passed it to him, a bright tear-drop falling upon one of the crisp new bills as she did so. Walter Field felt that he would have partsd with many times that amountif that tear-drop could have been crystallized, so that he could preserve it as a memento of the beautiful girl whom he so dearly loved. °* ‘ “Thank you,” he said, carefully rolling the bills to-, gether, crushing the tear within them, and putting them in his pocket. ‘And now I must go; I will not say farewell to you, however, just now. With your nermision, I will see you on the steamer on Wednes- ay and bid you God-speed.” The Pavonia was advertised to sail at noon on Wednesday. At an early hour Professor Reiffenberg and his wife called for Edrie, and then the last farewell had to be said to Mrs. Graham, and the young girl felt that this separation from the kind woman was almost the hardest trial that she had ever experi- enced. “TJ shall never forget your goodness to me,” ghe said, with a burst of tears, as she threw her arms around Mrs. Graham’s neck and hid her streaming eyes upon her shoulder. The woman had seemed like a mwother to her, in her care, her gentleness, and patience all through her illness. She had. tried to come to some settlement with Mr. Graham the previous evening, but neither he nor his wife could be persuaded to touch one dollar of her earnings. “We shall always look upon you as our other daughter,’ Mr. Graham had said, with his genial ainile, “and ‘feel as much interest in your future career as if you really belonged to us.” They told her to keep her money and buy her first concert dress with it, and then they would not let her talk any more about it. So now, as she said her last good-by, it seemed alinost like parting from her own mother and leay- ing her own home. Mrs. Graham folded her close in her arms, and kissed her tenderly on cheek and lips. “T know that you will not forget us,” she said, “and you may be sure that our best wishes and hopes will follow you. But let me give you a little message to think of while you are so far away from us.”’ “Do,” said Edrie, lifting her tear-wet face to look into the lovely eyes that were bent so kindly upon her. “