783S5QQ0W 500 200 600 | 300 Vol. XIX. STREET & SMITH, No. 11 Frankfort St. N HW YORK, MAY i \2, 1864 $2 50 PER YEAR, Invariably in Advance. No. 25. WEARING THE WILLOW. BY MRS. SARAH A. WATSON. Go, bring me a branch of the green-waving willow, That grows by the brook in the glen; T’ll make me a wreath, and I’ll wear it forever— My love is most false of all men. We stood by that tree, when the star-light was trailing Her robes in the vine-shadowed stream, And his face through the misty light smiled down upon me, Like a face that is seen in a dream. The stars heard his whispers, the wind caught his kisses, The brook sung a high solemn song, The willow tree quivered and shook in its branches, * All warning me something was wrong. Thoy were telling me that he was false—had I listened I should not be standing to-day, And weaving a crown of the green-waving willow, And my false lover gone far away. But hg is not worthy to be so remembered; Til carry it back to the glen, And the brook will laugh gleefully, bearing it sea-ward— O, most false of false-hearted men. DOCTOR WEST: 2 DORA’S LOVE. By Mrs. Mary J. Holmes. CHAPTER I. DORA’S DIARY. BrxcHwoop, June 12, Just 11 o’clock at night. t At last, old book, repository of all my thoughts—at last I am free to be once more alone with you. Daisy is asleep in her crib, though it was hard work to get her there, for the little elf seemed to have a suspicion that to-morrow night some other voice: than mine would sing her lullaby. Bertie, too, the dar- ling, actually cried himself to sleep because Auntie was going away, while the other chil- dyen manifested in various ways their sorrow at my departure. Bless them all, how I do love children, and howI hope if I am ever married, which I never shall be—but if I am, I hope I may have at least a dozen; though if twelve would make me twice as faded and sick- ly, and—and—yes, I will say it—as.peevish as Margaret’s six have made her, I should rather be excused. But what ridiculous nonsense to be written by me, Dora I'reeman, spinster, aged 28—so the Beechwood gossips said when the new minister went home with me from the sewing society. But I was only twenty- five last Christmas, or the family Bible fibs, and I don’t believe I look as old as that. Here Dora’s diary suffered a break, while Dora, glancing in the mirror, saw a graceful little figure, with sloping shoulders and fat white neck, the whole surmounted by a well- shaped head with masses and masses of red- dish brown hair, waving just enough to suggest an idea of the long, shining curls into which said hair might be easily coaxed. Low fore. head; piquant nose, with an undeniable curve’ which ill-natured people callaturn-up; bright, dancing, witching, and honest eyes of reddish brown, like the hair; mouth which did not look as if it had ever said a disagreeable thing; rows of white, even teeth, with complexion remarkable for nothing except that it was natu- ral, and just now a shade or two paler than usual, because its owner*was weary with the months and years of care which had ‘fallen on her youthful shoulders. This was the picture Dora saw, and nodding to the tout ensemble a little approving nod, and pushing behind her ears the heavy braids of hair to see if the style were becoming as some- body once had told her, she resumed her pen and diary, as follows: Where was I when vanity stopped me for an inspection of myself? Oh, I know; I had been writing things for which I ought to blush, and through which I ought toput my pen. So —__—_——_ But there’s what I said of Mar- garet’s being peevish; Tl let that stand, for she is, and it’s a relief to tell it somewhere, Poor Margaret! I cannot help pitying her when I look at her now, and then remember her as she used to be at the dear old home— so beautiful, so petted, and admired. Ah me,~ that was twelve years ago, andI was a little girl when Margaret was married, and we danced on the lawn in the soft September sun- light, with papa looking on, so happy and so proud; and then the bonfires they kindled and |. the bells they rang at nightfall in honor of the bride, Mrs. John Russell, Esquire. Alas! that when next on a week day that hell was X'8 OFEICH OF DISURICL COURT OF UNITED STATES FOR SOUTHERN DISTRICT OF NHW YORK, THE = DR. WEST IN HIS LIBRARY. iM Sree 7 dead with apoplexy, his affairs all in confa- sion, his property, which was reputed so great, all mortgaged, and Talittle beggar. Shall I ever forget John Russell’s kindness when, hurry- ing home from Europe, he came to me at once and said I should be his daughter now, should live with him and Margaret at Beechwood, where we came eleven years ago this very June—Margaret a dashing, splendid-locking woman who would not wear black because her bridal dresses were so much more becoming; and I a timid, awkward girl of fourteen, who. cried so much for the dear father gone, and the old homestead sold, that people said Z looked and acted older than my sister, the stylish Mrs. Russell. How glad I was when in the autumn Johnnie came and Margaret Jeft him so much with me, for in my love for him I forgot to mourn for father, and csme to think of him as safe in heaven where mother went when I was ten days old. Then those three delightful years at school, when I roomed with sweet Mattie Reed, whom I am going to-morrow to visit, No matter if there were three babies here instead of one whenI came home. It was very Wicked in me, very ungrateful to feel, annoyed, because I was so often expected to see that nurse did her duty, or in fact turn nurse myself to the wee litilethings. Icannot say that I was glad when Benny came, for with the advent of each child Margaret grew more delicate, more helpless, and more—I wonder if it is bad to say it—more fault-find- ing with her husband, who, though the very best man in the world, is not like—like—well, say like Dr. West. Here the pen made three heavy strokes through that name, completely erasing it, af- ter which it continued: I cannot tell why I should bring him up as a comparison, when I do notlike the man at all, even if the whole village ef Beechwood, including Margaret, are running mad about him, all but the young people, who sneer and call him stingy. If there’s any thing I hate, it’s littleness, penuriousness, which holds so sixpence. Don’t I remember our Fair last winter for the benefit of the church, and how the girls, without the slightest reason for do- ing so, said to me, “Now, when Dr. West comes in, you take possession of him. You are just the one. He thinks more of you than of all of us together. You can sell him that dressing-gown and slippers. Ask fifteen at first, and if he demurs, fall to ten. They were both given, so we shall not lose. Tell him, if necessary, how shabby his present gowa and slippers are looking, and how the ladies talk about it.” This was what they said, and I was foolish enough to follow their instructions. I didnot believe he would come directly to my table, and, I think now, the crowd must have pushed him there, for come he did, lcoking so pleas- ant and kind, and speaking so gently when lat, rung, it tolled for my dear lost father, found he said he hoped we should realize a large sum, fast to a three-cent piece and hugs a battered” and wished so much he could help us more. Of course, the gown and slinpers were thrust upon his notice, so cheap, only fifteen dollars, and, of course, he declined, sayin sot/o voce, “T would gladly buy them for your sake, if I could, but I cannot afford it.” Then I fell to twelve, then to ten, and final- ly to eight, but he held out firmly, notwith- standing that I told him how mean he looked in his old ones, patched and tattered as they were. I could see a flush on his face, but he only laughed, and said he must get a wife to mend his things. It was the very evilest of genius which prompted me to retort in a pert, contemptuous tone, : “Umph! few ladies are insane enough to marry stingy old bachelors, who would quar- rel about the pin-money!” I shall never forget how white he grew, or how quickly his hand went into his pocket, as if in quest of his purse; but it was withdrawn without it, just as that detestable Dr. Colby came simpering along, smelling of cologne and musk, and brandy. I knew, toa certainty, that he did not pay his board bills, and yet I felt goaded into askinghim! Just think of it, oh, my journal, asking him to become an ex- ample of generosity to Dr. West, and buy the gown and slippers. I'd take it asa personal favor, I said, putting into my hateful eyes as much flattery as.I possibly could, and he bought them, paying fifteen dollars right be- fore Dr. West, who said softly, sadly-like, “I’m glad you have found a purchaser, I did not wish you to be disappointed,” and then he walked away, while that Colby pa- raded his dressing-gown and slippers until I hated the sight of them, and could have cried with vexation. Still, when later in the even- ing, Dr. West came back and asked me to go with him for ice cream, T answered saucily, “Thank you; I can’t leave; and, besides, I would not for the world put you to so much expense!” If he was white before, he was livid now, and he has never appeared natural since. I wish he knew how many times I have cried over that affair, and how I detest that pert young Colby who called and called until Mrs. Markham, across the way, sent in to ask who was so very sick. After that I took good care to be engaged whenever I heard his ring. Dr. West—-I wonder why I will persist in writing his name, when I really do not care for him in the least; that is, care as girls do some- times care for fine looking men, with good education, good morals, good manners and a good profession. If I could rid myself of the idea that he was stingy I might tolerate him, but—of course, he’s stingy, or why does he wear so shabby a coat and hat, and why does he never mingle in any of the rides and pic- nics where money is a necessary ingredient ? Here he’s been in Beechwood three, yes most four years, getting two-thirds of the practice, even if he is a homeopathist. I’ve heard that he gives liberally to the church, and he attends the extreme poor for nothing. So there is some good in him. IE wonder if he’ll come to say good bye. I presume not, or he would huve reserved that package sent by Johnnie and. brought it himself, instead. *‘Mrs. David West, Morrisville,” it is marked. Who in the world can Mrs. David West be? I did not know he ever saw Morrisville, and am sure he came from Albany. There’s the bell for midnight. I have written one whole hour, and all of Dr. West, except the ill-na- tured things I said of Margaret, and for which ‘I am sorry. Poor Madge, as brother John calls her, she’s sick and tired and cannot help being a little fretful, while I, who never had an ache or pain, can help blaming her, and I will. I’m sorry, sister Maggie, for what I have written about you, and humbly ask for- giveness. CHAPTER II. AUTHOR’S JOURNAL, It lacked ten minutes of car time, and the omnibus driver was growing very impatient and very tired of waiting for his passengers, when a noisy group appeared upon the piazza. Mrs. Squire Russell, pale, languid, drooping as usual, with a profusion of long light curls falling in her eyes, and giving to her faded little face the appearance of a poodle dog; Mr. Squire Russell, short, fat, hen-pecked, but very good-looking withal, and some half dozen little Squire Russells, clinging to and jumping upon the young lady, whom we recognize at once as Dora, our heroine, ‘You won’t stay long, even if Mrs. Randall does urge you ?’’ said Mrs. Russell, in a half complaining tone as she drew together her white wrapper and leaned wearily against a pillar of the piazza. “You know I can’t do anything with the children, and this hot weather makes me so miserable. I shali ex- pect you in two weeks.” “Two weeks, Madge. Are you crazy?” said the Squire’s good-humored voice. ‘Dora has not been from home in ages, while you have almost made the tour of the western conti- nent. She shall stay as long as she likes, and get some color in her face, She used to be rosier than she is now, and it all comes of her being shut up so close with these children.” “I think it very unkind in you, Mr. Russell, to speak as if I was the worst sister in the world and the most exacting. I am sure Dora don’t think so. Didn’t she go with usto New- port last summer, and wasn’t she more than once called the belle of the Ocean House?” John gave a queer kind of whistle, while Dora involuntarily drew along breath as she remembered the dreary time she had passed at the Ocean House, looking after two nurses, six children, and her sister Margaret, whose room was on the fourth floor, and to whom she had acted the part of waiting maid in gen- eral, But her thoughts were suddenly brought os ecm ase a a Se ene, mark. ‘‘You needn’t charge the loss of her roses to me either, John. No one can expect to be young looking forever, and you must re- member Dora has passed the bloom of youth. She’s in her twenty-sixth year.” ‘Twenty-six years! Thunder! That's noth- ing,” and Squire Russell tossed up in the air the little daisy crawling at his feet, while John- nie, the ten year old boy, roared out, “Aunt Dora ain’t old. She’s real young and pretty, and so Dr. West told Miss Markham that \ time she counted on her fingers and said s0 spiteful like, ‘Yes, Miss Freeman is full thirty. Why, they’ve been here eleven years, and she must have been nineteen or tweenty when she came, for she was quite as big #s she is now, and looked as old. Yes, she’s too far advanced for the new minister, Mr. Kelley.’ I was so mad I could have knocked her, and I did throw a brick at her parrot sqiuawking in the . yard. Dr. West was as red as fire, and said to her just as he spoke to me once when he made me hold still to be vaccinated, ‘Miss Freeman is {not thirty. She does not look twenty, and is perfectly suitable for Mr. Kelley, if she wants him,’ ‘«She don’t,’ says I, ‘for she don’t seo him half the time when he calls, nor Dr. Colby neither.’ “I was going to spit out a lot more of stuff when Dr. West put his hand to my mouth and told me to hush up.” There were roses now on Dora's cheeks, and they made her positively beautiful as she kissed her sister and the little ones good-bye, glanc- ing nervously across the broad, quiet street, to where a small white office was nestled among the trees. But though the blinds were down, the door was not opened, while around the house in the same yard there were no signs of life except at an upper window, where a head, which was unmistakably that of Dr. Wesi’s landlady, Mrs. Markham, was. discernible be- hind the muslin curtain. He was not coming to say good-bye, and with a feeling of disap- pointment Dora walked rapidly to the omnibus, which bore her away from the house, where they missed her so much, Squire John looking uncomfortable and desolate, the children grow- ing very cross, and at last crying, every one of them, for Auntie, while Margaret took refuge from the turmoil behind one of her nervous head-aches, and retiring to her room took to her bed, wondering why Dora must select that time of all others to leave her. ee CHAPTER II. DB. WEST’S DIARY. June 12th., 10 P. M. How beautiful it is this summer night, and how softly the moon-light falls upon the quiet street through the maple trees. On such a night as this one seemsto catch a faint glimpse of what Eden must have been ere the trail of the serpent was there. I have often wished it had been Adam who first transgressed instead of Eve. I would rather it had been a man than a woman who brought so much of sorrow upon ourrace. And yet, when I remember that by woman came the Saviour, I feel that to her was given the highest honor ever bestowed on mortal. I have had so much faith in woman, enshrining her in my heart as all that, was good and pure and lovely. And have I been misteken in her? Once, yes. But that ispast. Annais dead. I forgave her freely at the last, and mourned for her as for a sister, / How long it took to crush out my youthful love—to overcome the terrible pain which would waken me from the dream that I held her in my arms, that her soft cheek was against my own, her long, golden curis fallen on my bosom just as they once fell. I do not like curls now, and I verily believe poor Mrs. Rus- sell, with all her whims and vanity, would be tolerably agreeable to me were it not for that forest of hair. Hor sister wears hers in bands and braids,.and I am glad, though what does it matter? Sheis no more to me than a friend, and possibly not that. Sometimes I fancy she avoids and even dislikes me. I’ve suspected it ever since that fatal Fair when she urged me to buy what I could not afford just then. She thought me avaricious, no doubt, a reputation I fear I sustain, at least among the fast young men; but my Heavenly Father knows, and sometime maybe Dora will. I like to call her Dora here alone. The name is suited to her, brown-eyed, brown-haired Dora. If she were one whit more like Anna, I never could have liked her as 1 do—brown-eyed, brown-haired Dora. And she has gone te Morrisville, where back from Newport by Margaret’s next re- Anna lived. Is this Mrs. Randall, very grand, e and so hearing of Anna, What her inference SS EE I wonder, and will Dora hear of Anna? Of course she will. I knew she would when I made her the bearer of that package which I might have sent by express. Perhaps she will deliver it herself, seeing little crippled Robin, will be I ean perhaps guess, and hope I am prepared for it, Oh, Dora, you would pity me if you knew how much I have suffered, Only God could give the strength to endure, and he has done so until I carry my burden uneomplainingly. Will Dora see this Reed, Mrs. Randall’s brother? Whata blow that story gave me, and yet I doubted its truth, though the possi- bility nearly drives one wild, and shows me the real nature of my feelings for Dora Free- man, Let me record the event as it occurred. This morning Dora went away—went to Mor- risville, my old home, which she does not know, because, for certain reasons, I have not chosen to talk much of my affairs in Beech- wood. She went early, before many people were astir, but I saw her, and heard, as I fully believe, the roar of the train until it was miles away, and then I awoke to the knowledge that the world had changed with her going, that now there was nothing before me but thesame rmaonotonous round of professional calls, the tiresome chatter of my landlady, Mrs. Min- erva Markham, and the tedious sitting hefe alone, Heretofore there has been a pleasant excite- ment in watching the house across the street for a glimpse of Dora, in waiting for her to come out upon the lawn where she frolicked and played with all those little Russells, in seeing her sometimes steal away as if to be alone, and in pitying her because I knew the half dozen were on her track and would soon diseover her hiding-place, in wishing that I could spirit her away from the cares which should fall upon another, in seeing her after the gas was lighted going in to supper in her white muslin dress with the scarlet gerani- ums in her hair, in watching her window un- til the shadow flitting before it disappeared with the light, and I was left to wonder if the liltle maiden were kneeling in adoration to Him who gave her life and being. All this, or something like it has formed a part of my existence, but with Dora’s going every thing ehanged. Clouds came over the sun; the breeze from the lake blew cold and chilly; Mra. Markham’s talk was more insipid than ever, while the addition to my patrons of two of the wealthiest families in town failed to give me pleasure. Dora was gone, and in a listless mood I made my round of visits, riding over the Berkely hills and across the Cheshire flata, wondering if I did well to send that paekage by Dora, knowing as I did that it must lead to her hearing of Anna. 'I& was sunset when I came home, a warm purple sunset, such as always reminds me of Dora in her mature beauty. There was a still- ness in the air, and from the trees which skirt the hillside leading to the town the katydids were piping their clamorous notes. I used to like to hear them when a boy, and many’s the time I’ve stood with Anna listening to them by the west door at home; but now there was a sadness in their tones as if they were saying “Dora’s gone; Dora’s gone,”’ while the oppo- gite party responded, ‘‘and Anna too; and Anna too.” I had not wept for Anna since the hour when I first knew she was lost forever, but to-night, in the gathering twilight, with the music of my boyhood sounding in my ears the leng ago came back to me again, bringing with it the beautiful blue-eyed girl over whose death there hangs so dark a mystery, and there was a moisture in my eyes, a tear which dropped on Major’s mane, and which was shed for Anna dead as well as for Doragone. When I reached the office, I found upon the slate a handwriting which I knew to be Johnnie Rus- selt’s, and for a moment I felt tempted to kiss it, because he is Dora nephew. This is the way it read: ‘*Mother’s toock ravin’ with one of hex head my frame a cold, sickly chill, which rapidly increased as she replied, ‘Perhaps not; but this Mrs, Randall, whom she has gone to visit, has a brother at West Point, you know, Lieutenant Reed, the young man with epaulets, who was bere last sum- mer,” Yes, I remembered him well, for I did not like the way he paraded his military dress in church, apparently enjoying the sensation he was creating among the girls. It was not mo- dest, I thought, especially as I knew he had a citizen’s dress which he might have worn if he liked. ‘Yes, [remember him,’? I said, and Mrs. Russell continued, ‘* He has been in love with Dora ever since she was with his sister Mattie at Canandaigua Seminary. Dora has not yet given him a de- cided answer,’’ she said, ‘but she knew her preference was for him, and as he was to be at his sister’s, while Dora was there, it was natural to fear that it might all result in even- tually taking Dora away from Beechwood.” ‘*Tt may, it may,” I responded, in a kind of absent way, for my brain was in a whirl, and Iscarcely knew whatI did. She must have observed my manner, for her eyes suddenly brightened as if an entirely new idea had been suggested to her. ‘“‘Now if it were some one near by,” she con- tinued, ‘perhaps she would not leave me. The house is large enough for all, and Dora will marry sometime of course. Sho isa kind sister, and will make a good wife,” At this point, Squire Russell came in, and soon after I said goed-bye, going out again in- to the summer night, beneath the great, full moon, whose soft, pure light could not still the throbbings of my heart; neither could the long walk I took down by the lake, where Dora and I went one day last summer, There were others with us too, quite a number, for it was a pic-nic, but I saw only Dora, who, afraid of the water, staid on the shore with me, ‘while the rest went off in sail-boats, We talked to- gether very quietly, Doraand I, sitting on the bank, beneath a broad grape vine, of whose leaves she wove a sort ef wreath, as she told me of her dear old home, and how the saddest moments she had ever known were those in which she fully realized that she was never again to live there, that stranger hands would henceforth tend the flowers she had tended, and stranger feet thread the walks and alleys, and winding paths with which the grounds abounded. I remember how the wish flashed upon me that I might some day buy back the home, and take her there as its mistress. Of all this I thought to-zight, sitting on the lone shore, just where she once sat, and listening to the low dash of the waves, which, as they came rolling almost to my fect, seemed to murmur, ‘Never, never more!” I do not believe Iam love-sick, butI am very sad to-night, and the walk down tothe lake did not dispel the sadness. It may be, itis wrong in me thus to despond, when in many ways I have been prospered beyond my most sanguine hopes. That heavy debtis paid at last, thanks to the kind Father who raised me up so many friends, and whose healing hand has more than once been outstretched to save, when medicine was no longer of avail. As is natural, the cure was charged to me, when I knew it was God who had wrought the almost miraculous change. And shall I murmur at anything when gure of His love and protection? Be still, my heart. If it be God’s will, Dora shall yet rest in these arms, which fain would shelter her from all the ills of life, and if ’tis not His will, what am J that I should question His dealings ? CHAPTER IY. JOHNNIE’S LETTER TO DORA, Bercuwoop, June 13th. In the after- noon, up in the wood-house chaim- ber, where I’ve crawled to hide from the young ones, Dear, DEAR, DARLING AUNTIE: } | J aghes, eause auntie’s gone, and there’s nobody to tend to the young ones. Gawly, how they've ent up, and she wants you to come with some jim-cracks in a phial. Yours, with regret, Joun Russsty, JR.” I Bke fhat boy, so outspoken and truthful, but Dora would be shocked at his language. And se my services were needed at the big house over the way. Usually I like to go there, bus now Dora is gone, it is quite an- other thing, for ‘with ail my daily discipline of myself, I dislike Mrs. Russell. I have strug- gied against it, prayed against it, but as often as 1 see her face and hear her voice, the old dislike eomes back. There’s nothing real about her, except her selfishness and vanity. Were she raving with fever, I verily believe her hair would be just as elaborately curled, her handsome wrapper as carefully arranged, and her heavy bracelets clasped as conspi- cuously around the wrists as if in full dress for anevening party. To-nightI found her in just thie costume, with a crimson scarf thrown reund her, as she reclined upon the pillow. Sho was suffering, I knew from the dark rings beneath her eyes, and this roused my sympathy. She seems to like me as a physieian, and asked me to stop after I had prescribed for her. Naturally enough she spoke of Dora, whom she missed so much, she said, and then with a, little sigh, continued, “Isis not often that I talk familiarly with any but my most intimate friends, but you have been in our family so much, and know how neeessary Dorais to us, that you will par- tially understand what a loss it would be to lose. my sister entirely.” _ ‘*¥eg, a terrible loss,” I said, thinking more of myself than of her. ‘But is there a pros- _pestof lesing her?” Iasked, feeling through It seems to me you've been gone 2 hundred million billion years, and you've no idea what a forlorn old rat-trap of a plais it is Without You, nor how the Young Ones do rase Kain. They keep up the Darndest row--Auntie. I didn’t mean to use that word, and I'll scratch it right out, but when you are away, I'll be dar—There I wasa going to say itagen. I'm a perfectly Dredfal Boy, ain't 1? ButI do love tell pa, nor Fish nor Nobody,—last night after I went to bed, I cried and cried and crammed the sheet in my mouth to keep Jim from hear- ing me till I most vomited, Ben and Burt behave awful. Clem heard their Prayers and rightin the midst of Our father, Burt stopped and asked if Mr. John Smith, the Storekeeper, was related to John the baptis. Clem laughed and then Ben struck her with his fist and Burt, who is a little red pepper any How pitched in And kicked Burt. Tne fuss waked up Daisy who fell out of bed and screamed like Murder, then Tish, great Tattle Tail, must go for Father who come up with a big Gadd and declared he’d have order in His own house’ You know the Young Ones aint a bit afraid of Him and Ben and Burt kept on their fightin tell Clem said ‘I shall tell Miss Dora how you act.” That stopped ’em and the last I heard Burt was coaxing Clom, _ “Don’t tell Auntie. Ise good now, real good.”” Maybee it’s mean in me to tell you but I want you know just how They carry on, hop- ing you'll pick up your traps and come home, |No I don’t neither for I want you to stay and have a good time which I’m sure you don't have here. I wish most you was my Mother though I guess girls of 25 don’t often have great strappin Bcys like me, do they? I asked Dr, West, and he looked so queer when he said, you, Auntie, and last night,—now don’t you| ‘Ttis possible but not common.” Why not, I wonder? Now, Auntie, I don’t want mother to die, because'she’s Mother, butif she should, youll have father, won't you? That’s a nice Auntie, and that makes me think, Last night mother had: the headache and Dr. West was here, It was afterthe Rumpus in the nursery and I was sitting at the head of the stairs wish- ing you was come home when I heard ’em talking about you and what do you think mo- ther told Doctor? A lot of stuff about you and that nasty Reed who was here last summer, She talked asif you liked him too,—said he would be at Mrs. Randall’s and she rather ex- pected it would be settledthen. Iwas so mad, I bumped right up and down on the stairs and said Darn, Darn, as fastas I could. Now, Auntie, I didn’t mean tolie, but Ihave. I’ve told a whopper and you can bite my head off if you like. D:’s voice sounded just as if he didn’t want you to like that Reed andI did- dent think it right to- let it go. So this morn- ing I went over to the office and found Dr. West looking pale as if he diddent sleep good. ‘Doctor,” says I, ‘do I look like a chap that will lie?” ‘Why, no,’’ says he, ‘“‘Inever thought you did.” ‘But I will,”’’ses I, “andIam come to do that very thing, come to tell you something Aunt Dora made me promise never to tell.” ‘John, you mussent, I can’t hear you,’’ he began, but I yelled up, ‘‘you shall; I will tell; it’s about Dora and that Reed. She don’t like him.’’ Somehow he stopped hushin’ me then and pretended to fix his books while I said how last summer I overheard this Reed ask you to be his wife, and you told him no; you did not love him well enough and never could, and how you meant it too. There diddent neither of you know I was out in the balcony, I said, until he was gone, and I sneazed when you talked to me and made me promise never to tell what I'd heard to father, nor mother, nor nobody. Inever did tell them, but I’ve told the doctor, and I ain’t sorry, it made him look so glad. He took me, and Tish, and Ben, and Burt, all out riding this afternoon and talked to them real nice, telling them they must be good while you was gone. Tish and Jim are pretty good, but Ben has broken the spy glass and the umberill, and Burt has set down on the kittens, and oh I must tell you; he took a big iron spoon which he called a sovel and dug up ever single gladiola in the garden! Ain’t they terrible Boys? There, they’ve found where I be and I hear Burt coming up the stairs one step at a time, so I must stop, for they'll tip over the ink, or something. Dear Auntie, I do love you ever and ever so much, and if you want my auntie and @ grown up woman I’d marry you, Do boys ever marry thei aunts ? Your, with Due Respect, JOHN RussELr. p. 8s. Burt has just tumbled the whole iength of the wood hous stares and landed plump, in-the pounding barrell, half fall of water, You orto hear him Yell, CHAPTER VY. DOBA’S DIARY. Morrisvitiz, Jane 13th, I was too tired last night to open my trunk; and so have now a double duty to perform, that of recording the events of the last two days. Can it be that it is not yet forty-eight hours since I left Beechwood and all its cares which, now that I am away from them, do seem burdensome? Whata delicious feeling there is in being referred to and waited upon as if you were of consequence, and how F en- joy knowing that for a time at least I can rest, and I begin to think I need.it; for how else can I account for the languid, weary sensation which prompts me to sit so still in the great, soft, motherly chair which Mattie has assigned me, and which stands right in the cozy bay window where I can look out upon the beauti- fal scenery of Morrisville? It is very pleasant here, and so quiet that it almost seems as if the town had gone to sleep and knew nothing of the great, roaring, whirl- ing world without. Not even a car whistle to break the silence, for the nearest station lie’s eight miles away, the station where I stopped after my uneventful ride of one hundred and thirty miles. There was Mattie herself wait- ing for me on the platform, her face as sunny as ever and her greeting as cordial. Her hus- band, Mr. Randall, is a tall, well-formed man, with broad shoulders, which look a little like West Point discipline. It was very silly in one to contrast him at once with Dr. West, but I did, and Dr. West gained by the com- parison, for there is an expreszion in his face which I seldom seo in others, certainly not in Mr. Randall. He looks, as I suspect ho is, proud—and yet heis very kind to me, treat- ing me with ag much deference as if I were the Queen of England. They had come in their carriage, and the drive over the green hills and through the pleasant vallies was de- lightfal. Icould do nothing but admire, and still I wondered that one as fond of society as Mattie should have settled so far from the stirring world as Morrisville, and at last I asked why she had done so. ‘It’s all Will’s deings,’’ she answered, laugh- ingly. ‘He is terribly exclusive, and fancied that in Morrisville he should find ample scope for indulging his taste—that people would let him alone, but they don’t. Why, we have only lived there three months, and I am sure half the town know just how many pieces of silver I have, whether my dishes are stone or French china—what hour we breakfast—when we go to bed-when we gel up, and how many dresses I have. But I don’t care, I rather like smalltown. It has nearly three thousand in- it, and then, too, Morrisville is not a very habitants, and a few as refined and cultivated people as.any with whom I ever met.” ‘Who are they?” I asked, and Mattie be- gan, “There’s the Verner’s, and Waldo’s, and Striker’s, and Rathbones in town, while in the country there’s the Kingslake's, and Crofton’s, and Bishop’s, and Waring’s, making a very pleasant circle.’’ I don’t know -why I felt disappointed that she did not mention Mrs. David West as among the upper ten, but I did, and should have ventured to speak of that lady if I had not been a little afraid of Mr. Randall, who might think my asssociates too plebeian to suit him. We were entering the town now, and as we drove through what Mattie said was Grove street, I forgot all about Mrs. David West in my admiration of the coziest, prettiest little white cottage I ever saw. I cannot describe it except that it seems all porticoes, bay-windows, and funny little places shooting out just where you did notexpect them. One bay-window opened into the garden, which was full of flow- ers, while right through the centre ran a gurg- ling brook, which just at the entrance had been coaxed into atiny waterfall. Iwas in ecstasies, particularly as on a grass plat, under a great elm tree, an oldish looking lady sat knitting and talking to a beautiful child reclining ina curious looking vehicle, half wagon, half chair. I never in my lite saw any thing so lovely as the face of that child seen only for a moment with the setting sun-light falling on its golden curls and giving it the look of an angel. The lady interested me greatly in her dress of black, with the widow’s cap resting on her grey hair, while her face was familiar as if I had seen it before. ‘Who are they?” I asked Mattie, but she did not know. Neither did her husband, and both langhed at my evident admiration. ‘We will walk by here some day, and maybe you can make their acquaintanee,” Mattie said, a3 she saw how I leaned back for a last glance at the two figures beneath the trees. ‘There is West Lawn,” Mattie cried at last, - in her enthusiastic way, pointing out a large stone building which stood a little apart from the town, (To be Continued.) OR, THE TRIALS OF A PUBLIC SCHOOL TEACHER. By Mary Kyle Dallas, CHAPTER LIl,—(Conrinvmn.) MARK GRAHAM’S JOURNEY. And now, for a moment, let us leave the inmates of the court of justice staring, with all theix might, at the new actors who had just appeared upon the stage, and return to Mark Graham on the day of his parting with Winnie. : He had started immediately upon his journey, but owing to the similarity in the name of a village in an adjoining county, had wasted some time, and arrived at —— just a week before the day of the trial. It was latein the evening when the train stopped at the rustic depot, and alighting, he found a stage ia readiness to take passengers to the only place in the village dignified by the name of hotel; and the driver, a long-limbed Yankee, with a inquisitive pair of eyes, which lost none of their sharpness by being set ob liquely in his head, stepped up to him with the words, “Backon you ain’t goin’ to stop atthe Frank to-night, stranger |’ “The Frank ?”” Iv.was the name of the hotel which figured in the etory which Winnie had told him; and conveying to the driver his intention of going directly thither, Mark Graham éntered the stage, ensconced himself in the farthest corer, and fell at once into a deep and unhap- py reverie. He had told the truth when he said that the batilo with himself had been a mighty one. Even then, thoughts of what might have been had Rothwood never sought to win the treagure he most coveted, arose in his mind, tempting him to hate his rival, and to refuse to serve him. He was todgcod to allow these feelings to gain the ascendancy to-rule hima, and make him swerve fromthe path he had xesolved to take, but he was only mortal after all, and hecould not be happy. “Happy |’? j : It seemed to Mark just then as though hoe should never now an emotion of happiness\in all his lite again } It was night when he reached hi stinstion, and stopped at the very country hotel at which some nine or ten years before Ralph Rothwood and Aurelia had tarried, to which the injured husband had come, from which his remorseful brother had gone forth to wander in the dark woods, thatnight of all others. Once, as Mark Graham glanced up at the windows of the build- ing from the stage, which had some difficulty in mak- ing its way over the stony path, the absurdity of his at- tempt seemed so glaring, that he wondered at his own folly in engaging the task, Ten years! Surely the dark deed was wrapped in oblivion by this time! Sure- ly the real perpetrator of the act had no need to fear de- tection now. Perhaps even he might be dead; or if, as sometimes seemed to him probabie, Aurxelia herself had been the murderess, she was too crafty to leave a loop- hole for the observer’s eye—she had covered all with darkness; and that night, which ten years before, wit- nessed as darka deed as had been ever chronicled, would never reveal its mystery until all things are made plain at the dread judgment day. Yet, despite all rea- soning, a sort of instinct bade him proceed— something whispered you shall be guided to the right path; and to this, though almost despising himself for what ho could not but believe a weak submission to supersti- tion, Mark yielded. The door of the wayside inn opened to recoive him, and ke stood in the midst of a group of travelers lately arzived by another stage, and eager for rest and supper. Amongst them the old Jandlady bustled, ail importance, her cap strings flying, and hands deepin the pockeis of her white apron. ‘My old man is away,” she said. “It’s a busy time; folks stoppin’ here until the house ain’t big enough to hold ’em, and we have had to put our own boys, and the helps and the peddlarsin the barn. But ‘taint his fault; he was seut for to New York to be a witness in a murder case, and that’s a thing that can’t be put off now, can it ?”” “Bless mel’? cried @ young lady, in a bewitching traveling dress, who had arrived under the protection ots country cousin, allfeet and biushes, ‘‘Bless me! has there been a murder committed here ?” “Not here exactly,” said the old lady, “butin the wocds yonder; and the gentleman that is supposed to bave committed the wicked act was putting up here at the time. I don’t bolieve it though, for a prettier young man never breathed. ‘Not one todoa murder,’ says I, ‘when husband told me about it, and mind you get him eff if you can.’ Though he wasn’t what he ought to be in some things, after all.’ With these words the landlady bustled away to busy herself about supper, and left Mark to ponder on her words. There wasvery little in them to be sure, but they were on the subject of his previous thoughts. Atter supper, when all the other guests had retired, Mark still sat beside the fire, waiting for a‘favorable op- portunity to speak with the old lady. She gave him one presently, for with her knitting in her hand, she came into the parlor soon after, and took her seat ina great rocking-chair, directly opposite to the seat Mark occupied, nodding at him socially. *-You ain’t so tired as the other folks, I reckon,”’ sho said. ‘‘P’raps you are used to traveling. Come from the city ?”’ : “From New York,’’ said Mark. “Ah! there’s whére my old man is now,’’ said the landlady; “and I wieh [ could see what he was a doing, 2nd whether that jury bad convicted the poor young man or let him go, If they don’t acquit him thoy’re a pack of geese, and I wouldn’t like to be them, for is “ill be murder, and considered such inthe other world, I'm eure, if he’s executed !”’ “Then you think him innocent ?” said Mark. ‘Think 1’? cried the old lady. “I know it! Though, mind you, he was here with a young lady who wasn’t his own lawful wifé! We didn’t know that when he brought her here, gf course; and she—bold ereature— was married to his own brother! That’s bad—and he was wild enough; and drank moré wine than he ought to have done, But murder! Bless you, murder wasn’t inhim! I’ve geen him just as gentle as 2 woman with children; in fact everybody—even the very dogs liked him ; and that’s a test, I reckon—for dogs are knowing creature, And, while he was here, hej amped into the river, and gaved the life of Patsy Baker’s boy, who came near drowning while he was in bathing, Murder} No, murder wasn’t in him, Itell you |’ “I’m interested in the little I have heard of this story,”’ said Mark, ‘Will you tell me all you know about a aah ; “T will,’ said the old lady. “Tig ear often enough—a beautiful woman, Ti ieiedia ta te she was pretty, coming round & young fellow, and making him do what she chose. -She came from foreign parts: 3 and was a picture to look at; but nobody ever know who she was or why his brother married her. The long and short of it was, she was young and light, and Mr. Ralph was nothing but a boy; and they went off to- gether. Wo'd heard that, but we'd never seen ’em, an how should we know that the handsome couple the called themselves Watking, and stopped here a yo torward, was them. They d been here a week, when, one morning, as they were at breakfast in their own room, 2 gentleman, with grey hair, rode up to the doer, and said to me, short like, ) ** ‘Ralph Rothwood is here, I suppose ?” ** Gor’,.no sir,’ Tanswered. ‘Chere’s no ene stop- ping here but Mr. Blum, from Milldown, and a young couple, Mr. and Mrs, Watkins.’ s* ‘Those are the people I wish to see,’ he said. Lam Oliver Rothwood 1’ and he stalked past me, and straight into the room where they sat at breakfast, and I heard something fall, and the lady scream, and then there was & talking and I went to tell'‘my husband, *¢ ‘Law, Dolly,’ said he, ‘if itisn’t Squire Rothwood; and them pretty young folks are his brother and his wife, that ran away from him a year or more ago, I’il bet a great apple!’ “The elderly gentleman was there about an honr— certainly not more, and then he came out and rode out, and in a few minutes Mr. Ralph, as it seemed the gen- tleman was, came tearing out of his room. and away through the hall-door, and down the road like mad, and said I to my husband, he looks as though he was fit to kill himself, for if ever remorse was on a man’s face, I saw it on Mr. Ralph’s that day ! “Ho never came back. Next day we heard of the murder, and that Mr, Oliver’s young brother was half distracted, and was up there at the homestead, calling himself the wickedest sinner on earth, and praying his brother for one look or word to say he forgare him. “And, after the funeral, they do say, they found a will, leaving the whole property to his wife and his rother, made before they were so wicked; and we were told Ralph Rothwood woulkin’t toucha penny, and that it was divided amongst some sisters. Bui, madam went up there, and lived some time, though folks, of course, wouldn’t associate with her. So she sold the property, and moved off. Lord knows what became of ter—no good, I expect. But I saw her a month ago, though my old man says it was ali my fancy.” “Saw her?’’ asked Rothwood. Where?’ “Ia this house,’’ said the landlady. ‘A month ago, one stormy night, the stage came here, and in it was an elderly lady, as I took her to be, dressed ali in black. She ordered 2 room and mounted right away, and while she talked never took her veil up—never so much as let us seo her hand, for she kept her gloves on. We fixed her a room of course, and sent up her supper. The keeping down her veil was one funny thing, and another was that she had no baggage with her. When Sally went in with the tray she found the lady still with he: veil down, and she arked her, so Sally says, whether Martin Jay lived where he used to. Sally said, ‘Yes,’ and the lady said that that would do. The minute Sally’s back was turned she locked the door, and the girl came down half frightened to tell about it, for you must know that what the common folks hereabouts believes to be an old witch lives at Martin Jay’s.” “A witch ?”” The old landlady leughed. “it’s only & poor, decrepit creature, that peetends to tell fortunes for money enough to keep her pipe filled and her bottle full. She’s Martin Jay’s mother, anda miserable broken down body, half the time tipsey, end! never as much like other people as she used to be since her grandson ran away. She seta good deal by him, they said, and his going has sort o’ driv her crazy. Martin Jay is up to New York now, on the same: busi- ness my old man has gone on. Well, as { was telling you, the lady asked about old Martin Jsy, and next morning early I was in the garden, and I saw her com- ing out of the door, her veil was up, and the memens she say me, which I suppose she didn’t expect at that hour in the merning, she pulled it down,..But Ed seen her, and though she was altered, and thinner, and had wrinkles on hor forexead, and something in her eyes that was notin there when I saw her befere, [knew her. It was the lady that stoped at our house with Mec. Rothwood. I’m sare of it, and my old man can’t make me believe that I was mistaken. She never eame back, but she left more than we should have charged her, on the table. Whoever she was, she came on parpose to see Martin Jay.”’ “Lor,” said the old lady, looking at the elock, ‘‘its past my bed-time, and to-morrow is baking day. Shall I show you your room, sir, or will you sit longer?” Mark went to his room, and laid awake many hours, revolving in his mind the steps which it would be bess to take, and early in the morning started off toward the cottage inhabited by Martin Jay. It was a low roojed shabby dwelling, with a patch of garden behind it, and one of the two windows stopped up with bits of board. A fiat stone propped up with four bricks did daty for a step, and in ‘some places the boards were ripped off. The whole place had an air of squalor and poverty, and not 2 living being was to be seen. Mark opened the rickety gate of a paligg fence which enclosed a couri-yard, where a few radishes contended the field with a great many cinders, and passed up the board path which led to the door. To his knock there was no answer, butas Mark Gra- ham listened, he fancied he heard a faint groan, and acting on this belief, pushed open the door and looked in. Within the apartment were a few pine ehairs, a fable with one leaf, a broken stove, andabed. Within this bed was a bundle of rags, or so it seemed to Mark. But even while he looked at it the supposed bundle moved, and from its midst arose a wrinkled face, covered by wild, unkempt locks, of grey hair, and a voice harsh ag voice could be, uttered the words, ‘Whoever you are, if yon hope to be saved, stop a minute and give a glass of water to a peor old exeature too bad with rheumatics to help herself. I’ve been alone for these two days, and too sick to move half the time. The Lord bless ye, and the Virgin make yer bed for that game,’’ she continued, as Mark filled a broken cup from a pailin the corner and put it to her lips, “There's nothing but water in the house, nor like to be, for the neighbors would never think of coming near ae A bad set—-a bad, uncharitable set, the whole of om.”” ‘ Ralph Graham bent over the wretched bed and locked atthe old woman. Her face was flushed with fever, and there was a wild look in the eyes that frightened him, About her withered neck hung a4 rosary ef black beads, to which was suspended a cross, and a ruda crucifix was fastened at the head of the bed. These tokens, together with the words of the old woman, proved that she was a Roman Catholic, and her Lrish accent was so different from the nasal twang of Martin Jay that he felt impelled to ask, ‘Are you Martin Jay’s mother ?”” “The saints forbid!’ cried the woman, “I was mother to the girl that married him thirty years ago— not his. Uf he was my son, i’d feel lower than Lam —an’ thet’s low enough. There’s no geod in Martin Jay, an’ he’s gone how on an errand that won't make his soul the better.” “Where is he?” asked Mark. : “it's no concern of yours!’ retorted the old womaa. “But Blood money never brings luck, Ah, heney! you'll be a good friend to. an ould body, and give her a bite to ate, won’t you? It'll turn to feathers in the bed yo’ll rest omin heaven, and ye’ll never lose #, I’m half stharvin, an’ that’s the truth, or I’d not say ti. If it was only some green stuff from the garden I could ate it, ButiI'm not able to move for the rheumatics.’’ Promising to return soon, Mark left the cottege, and prooseding to the village store, purchased some food and hastened back withit. The old woman’s protesta- tions of gratitude were many, and she devoured the food given to her with a greediness which proved thas her story was no false one, When she had satisfied her hunger, she laid back upon her rade pillow, and began to finger the beads of her rosary, and mutter some prayers, But suddenly breaking off, she said, asthough remembering Mark’s question: 2 “His mother! Och, no} not the mother of sueh as he. I’d never own him if Iwas. Would he care ifI stharved while he was gone? Not him! He thought I didn’t hear ’em; but I’ve sharp ears enough. He's gone to swear & man’s life away.”’ ‘Ralph Rothwood’s?’? asked Mark. “Saints between us an’ harm! how did ye know that?’ cried the old woman. ‘Yis, it’s there he’s gone, and what he'll say will hang him; an’ there’s never wan o’ mine so mean as to take blood money, and to lie 2 man’s life away that’s innocent.’’ Mark Graham bent over the old woman. : “Tie?” he said. ‘Do you believe he will give false evidence?” : ‘sBelave t about it?’ cried the woman, her tone altering. ‘‘You’re & kind to me, but I’ll noi say the hard word abouf Nora’s », busband it he was bad to her. Your own’s your.own, good or bad, if it’s but by marriage. I'll keep never What would a poor crayther like me know peggy Sete Sp a le mg letting on. Though if it was only the lady, I’d be carried to the judgehimself if I couldn’t walk, before she should do it, the Lord purtect us!’” And she fin- gered her beads and muttered her prayers again. Mark was not to be silenced; every word increased - his curiesity, : “What iady ere you talking of?” he said. “None you know,” replied the old woman. “I saw her sitting there with her black veil, and heard her words through the crack of thedoor. That’s the way I took these pains and aches; and him to send me so far for whiskey in all the storm, only to get the house to himself and the lady. I didn’t go, though; I came back andlistened ”’ + W?hag did you hear ?’”’ asked Mark, : Wha would hang both of them,” replied tha o3d woman. ‘But, look ye, it’s naught to ye. I’d not dis. grace Norain her graye by hanging him! “No good ever came to usfrom her. I remember! Iremem- ber!” ‘sHad you ever seen the lady before ?’”’ asked Roth- wood, **Had I?” cried the old woman. ‘Ah! but the other time was the worst! Their’s blood blacker than her clothes in her breast! She waa old lookin’, an’ her pretty face had no good looks left in it. ButI knowed her by the eyes—avil eyes they are, them same—in 3 minute. Only for the boy I’d have——’”’ She paused again, and Mark only said, soWell.’? “Nothing,” muttered the old woman. “It’s nought to you, though yon’ve been good and kind to me, and may yo never want! You’re better than the people here. They'd not feed me wid the bits they give the pigs, bad luck to’em! Butthey’re afeared o’ me! They calime he witch; and, sure, I curse ’em for it, an’ we're aven, Will ye give me the wather agin ? The Lord bless ye!” *“Shali I bring you a doctor ?” asked Mark. “A docther! I’ve neught to pay a docther wid!” £230 the old woman. ‘st will pay him,’ said Mark. Aside from the impulse which always prompted him to relieve the distressed and suffering, he had an object jm gaining the good will of this old woman, whose words had already given streveth to his vague suspi- cions. It Aurelia Rothwood had so recently visited Martin Jay, he could not but believe them in league with each other, for, if the old man’s evidence had not beon false, there would have been no need of such an interv.ew. Perhaps she would listen to persuasion if he proved himself her friend. Porhaps her testimony might be the means of saving -Winnie’s husband from an ignominious death. There was a noble heart beneath Mark Graham’s bosom, Even while the thought that Winnie was an- others, rankled in his breast, and made him sad be- yend all sadness ho had ever known, he would have suffered any torture to ensure her happiness. He lett the little cottage, and made his way toward a rather pre tan'ious residence of red brick,on the door of whieh glistened a brass plate, bearing the name and title of Dr, Bell; and finding the phyzicianin his office, told his business, and invited him to accompany bim . to Martin Jay’s cottaze, The doctor put his hat on in an instant, ©1ll go with you,” he said. “But I tell you, your be- nevolonce is certain to be thrown away in this case. That iil-conditioned old woman isn’t worth saving; gho’s too bad and too old, and such a life as she leads with that brute, her danghter’s husband, ugh! it makes my blood run cold to think of it. People have offered hera place in the. almshouse, but she only cursed them forit. Sometimes I fancy the stories they tell about her are half true.°’ They had walked tast and the distance was not a long one, 80 that these words brought them to Martin Jay’s dwelling, and ere long they stood beside the old wo- man’s bed. The doctor stooped over her. “Do you feel very bad, Aunty ?’” he asked, “Bad as bad can be,’’ replied the old woman. ‘Can’t you do something for me?” The Goctor nodded. “Vil send youa lotion, Aunty,’? he said. *My boy shall bring it up in an hour. How old are you?” pee “flow old! Och! its eighty years in sorrow I’ve spent in this world.” “Bighty (’? The doctor pursed up his lips. “Well, ’Usend thelotion. Good-bye.” He turned toward the door. : *She’ll not live two days,” hasaid to Mark. “Not a week at the farthest, poor old wretch! Well, you’re right to hetp her, after all. No one can tell what any of us may come to. Of course I shan’t trouble you about my visit, or what I shall send her.” And the doctor hurried off. ~ “Death !’? Mark had not thoughtof that. Death might indeed seal those lips before their secret had been uttered, and the truth might never be revealed. Ho turned toward the dingy room and iooked at the old woman, who was lying gently enough npon her pillow. She lifted her eyes and met his. ‘You are 2 good man,’’ she said, ‘an’ me prayers “lil foller ye. Bat sure, Ihave it in my mind that ye came here for something. "I wasn’t just chance brought . ye 5 As did ye know where Nora’s husband was gone ?”? “T heard it at the hotel,” said Mark, “and there I heard of you. You are right, chance did not bring me here, but hope.” “Hope! Its a funny lader to a hole like this,’’ gaid the old woman. ‘*Shatl I tell you what I hoped?” said Mark. **Yell me, honey,’’ said the old woman. *T hoped that you couid help me save Ralph Roth- wood’s life,’ said Mark. ‘‘Why I hoped it Ican hardly tell; but that woman has been here. She has been here, I believe, to bribe Martin Jay to perjure himself, and could this be proved, only this, I should be thankful. But you know more.” ‘TY know more! a poor craythur like me! You're wild, honey. There, go away and let me sieep.’’ “Can you slesp with such a secret on your soul?” asked Mark. “Can you sleep when your words could prove Raiph Rothwoed innocent of his brother’s mur- : oe your silence might doom him to the gal- Ows 29 He uttered the words solemnly, and watched to see their effact. be old woman started violently. i ‘Are ye Satan ?”’ sheasked. ‘Ye know more than itsright to know. But I’ll not spake till I’m on me death bed, and then I must confess for me goui’s sake. Therd, I don’t know anything. Til not tell it if I do. Go away! go away!” She clutched the dingy beads about her neck, and muttered over them, eyeing Mark meanwhile with sus- picious glances. Plainer and plainer seemed the truth to her listener. This woman knew all. She could point out the actual murderer of Oliver Rothwood! Her evidence would blot out that of the bribed witnesses. and of Aurelia herself; but the time was very short and the woman very obstinate. Perhaps there wera personal motives, which would tie her tongue. This very Martin Jay might be the culprit, and cruel as he had been to her, the ties of Kindred and association wonld prove too Strong to be overcome, andthe words would never be uttered. Only one course remained, and this to Mark seemed acruelone. He might, perhaps, so act upon the old woman’s fears and superstitions as to extort a confes- sion from her. It was a hard thing to do, but the thought of Winnie urged bim on. : **You will confess on your death-bed !’’ he gaid. “T will,” said the old woman. ‘The rainute I’m over this I’ll thrivel to a place I know of, an’ there 1’ll find ould Father Murphy, an’ tell the whole to him;—sure the seal of confession isn’tito be broke—an’ my soul ’1L be the betther, an’ no one harmed !”’ we you know what the doctor said to me?” asked ar “What did he say. 2’? queried the old woman. “That you. could not live a week!” The old woman started up in bed, and stared at him with glittering eyes. ‘Did he say that ?’* she sorsamed. ‘Notlive a week, an’ no praste near—not one to be fonnd for miles; an’ T must die wid the guilt on me congcience! Och hone, an’ niver get the burden off me sowl! Och, but it’s terrible to die widout absolution |” Mark Graham stooped over the dying woman. “God can abselve the sinner even at the eleventh hour,” he said. “Turn your thoughts toward Him. No man can stand between the repentant’s soul and -He who made it; no man has power to pardon you. God alone can ease your soul of this burden, and he wili listen without favor, The | priest is only mortal like yourself, and your prayer can reach His ear as well from this poor bed as though you lay upon acouch of down, beneath a palace roof,” The old woman turned her eyes upon him eagerly. “T wish I could think that,” she said. “I’d be glad #o belave it. But rich folks that must die some day like meself, gathers up their skirts when they pass the door, as they might if ’twas a pig-pen; andit’s little da- cent people have had to do wid us this many a year; and why would them that’s above all listen toa confes- fion from the likes o’ me? No, :since the praste isn’t here, I’ll die wid it unsaid. Me sow! will take no good from tellin’ it widont the praste. Wather, if ye plaze. I wondher what putit in the head of a gentleman like ye to be so good to a poor old crayther ?” “Have I been kind to you?” asked Mark, “Kinder than kindl”’ said theold woman. ‘May the Lord bless ye!” : “And if you could do me a service, would you be willing to do so?’ asked Mark. “Would I? The Lord knows I would!” said the woman. ‘Wut I can do nothing, I’m a poor, wake crayther on her dyin’ bed, widout a penny and widout a friend but yerself.”’ “Yet you can do a great service,” said Mark. “I? Tell me thin; but it’s jokin’ si ae i “No,” said Mark, “I am in serious and unhappy earnest. Listen. This Ralph Rothwood is the husband of a lady who has been dearer than a sister to me. She will be forever wretched if her husband meets so shameful and eruel.adesth, and I also shall be misera- ble, for her happiness is my only object in life, Balph Rothwood is, as you have admitted, innocent of this murder. Your confzssion, written down by me and at- tested by a witness, would doubtless save him. And believe that an act of mercy such ag this would be would stand you in good stead in the world to which we areall hastening. If you keep silence, you algo are @ murderess—the murderess of Ralph Rothwood—of the husband of my dearest friend.” The old woman threw her long arms over her head. “Aven me dyin’ bed can’t be in pace,”’ she said. ‘i'Troth it?s bard—hard enough. But how can [ turn agin meown kin. The lady desarves no botther; but the boy—ock, the poor boy! IfI was sure he was dead! If I was but sure of that—an’ if he wasn’t he’d not have kept away so long! Wait a bit; mebbe my roind ‘ill make itself wp afore long, Perhaps it’ll come tome that the boy is dead; and no great harm could come Nora’s husband only fora bit iva lie. Wait @ bit; night’s comin’, an’ I wantito sleep.” She turned heavily away from him as she uttered these words, and scon her breathing proved that she slumbered; and Mark Graham, sitting by the narrow window, watched the sky, and wondered what the fu- ture might bring forth. So long and so heavily did the old woman slumber that at times her watcher feared that she would never wake again. But as the sun went down, turning the panes of tue cottage window to sheets of burnished gold, she opened her eyes and looked upon him. “Dm ready,’ she said. ‘I’ve prayed to the Virgin, and she’s given ma a drame; an’ in it I saw the boy in grave clothes, an’ be that token I know he’s dead—dead and could; an’ I'll tell ye ail I know now, for it can’t harm him.’’ “We must have a witness,’ said Mark, “otherwise the testimony will benefit no one.” “Do as ye like,” said the old women; “but if ye don’t be spsedy, death’ll be afore ye. I feel him now; his hands as could ag ice, and his breath is chill, an’ ho’s bendin’ over mo closer every minute. Go, and come back soon.”” : * Ig there a lawyer in the village?” asked Mark, “Two of them,’ said the old woman; ‘the one’s not far beyant in the white house wid grane shutters. an’ Attorney Clare is his name, Ye’ll see the house from the hill.”’ Mark remembered if, and putting on his hat, went forth in search of the lawyer. Hefound a little, weazen old man, with lank grey hair straggling over his shoul- ders, crouched beside a desk, in the midst of parch- ment, red tape, and sealing-wax, who looked around upon him with an elated grin, and nodded as some goblin might have done. Altogether, he was the queer- est little man to be met with on the face of the earth, and as sharp as he was odd. He understood Mark’s business with very litile ex- planation, and prepared himself to accompany him by changing his office coat for one of obsolete fashion with swallow tails and great brass buttons, and bidding his clerk to accompany them, set forth upon the walk with necessary implements tucked under his arm. ‘‘T always thought the old witch had something on her mind,” he said, ‘and I was right, it seems. I hope’ she will say enough to do you some good, for I knew Mr. Ralph Rotnwood as a boy, and he was, though wild, afine young fellow, inoapable of his brother’s murder, ifl know anything of human nature. We never sus- pected any ene in the neighborhood; but fancied that some highway robber had been the culprit, for every article oi value was taken from the body. He had been shot in the back of the head, and stabbed afterwards, sir. As for Mr. Ralph, he had run off with his btother’s wife; but it was the general opinion that it was all the woman’s fault. He was a mere boy, and no one knew anything of her—no one She was not what I call a lady, sir, though she was very handsome. ‘Lhere wasa badlook about her, sir—a very bad Icok. Ah! here we are atthe house. Not too late,1 hope.’? And so speaking, the litile attorney pushed open the door of the miserable dieliing, and the trio entered. Remrencnes CHAPTER LITIt. THE OLD. WOMAN'S CONFESSION, She lay upon her rude couch, staring with her faded eyes at the door. As the three men entered, she lifted her head, and glared atthem, one by one, Then she fell back upon ner pillow with a hollow groan. “Tt’s well ye came,” she cried, ‘for me time is short. I’ve been thinkin’ over an’ over. A lie is no hangin’ matther, isit, misther lawyer ?”’ *No,”’ replied the attorney; “though I wish it was, my good woman—T wish it was.”’ ‘Trit was ’d never tell ye what I’ll tell to-night,” gaid the o'd woman. ‘‘For I’d not hang Nora’s hbus-. eand, though he’savillain, But the boy’s dead, rest his sowl, an’ harm can only come to the lady, an’ she desarves it, for she was the ruin iv the lad. ’It’s her that did for him; an’ may she never know pace--amin., There—what ye want to know is about Squire Roth- wood’s murdher. Sure it’s on me sowl this many a day, heavy and black. I koowed her well. Her eyes was like two stars, an’ her hair like a raven’s wing, an’ her cheeks like roses. She was a purthy lady, an’a bad one.’’ «Whom are you speaking of?’ asked the lawyer. “Squire Rothwood’s wife, She that ran off wid Mas- ther Kalph.’’ said the old woman. ‘‘Mes grandson, Mike, run mad about her. ‘I’d do ought for her,’ he gaid. He was but a slip iv a lad then, an’ worked in thesquire’s garden; and’ I was vexed to hear him, for I never liked her; sbe was never kind to the poor, but looked at us a3 though we was the dust beneath her feet. Whin she wint off wid Masther Ralph, I said I thought no betther iv her. It was a year fiom that time, I was sittin’ there forninst the fire, whin the door opened, an’ in waiked me lady, bould ag brass. She looked about her, and saw Mike, makin’ a pipe from a corn-cob; an’ says she, 6s (Mike Jay, I want you; my horse has had an acci- dent in the road yonder, and I want ye to look at him.’ ‘An’ Mike, blushin’ like a girl, got up and went af- ther her. Me ould mind misguve me, an’ I rose up an’ follered ’em, so they didn’t sse me; and they went in- to the woods, an’ I went there too, an’ hid me behind some bushes. There was a horse there, wid a lady’s saddle on it, but they niver looked at that’ She stood opposite to him, an’ looked at him, an’ says she, ** ‘Mike Jay, you’re no coward, You’d not faint at the sight ef blood ?’ “Says he, «No; there’s none 0’ the coward in me, I hope.® ‘Says she, * «You’re not fond of working, an’ you like money ?” ‘Says he, © «Who don’t, me lady 2? ‘Says she, s¢ Will you earm some, an’ do me @ service at the same time ?” ‘sSays he, AS ST WaLL @ “Then takes out @ pistol from her pocket, an’ says she, ss «Take f, and wait here to-night, an’ when you see him that used to be my husband riding by, shoot him; an’ I'll give ye this now, and four times more whin you bring me this back dipped in his blood!’ an’ then she took her two hands full of gold picces, an’ poured them into Mike’s, ‘‘An’ Mike got whiter than a sheet. s* Tf *twas anybody but the squire,’ hegsaid. ‘The squire’s done me no harm; an’ he’s good an’ kind.’ ‘Says she, ss <¥Te’s me worst enemy; an’ I’ll love ye Mike Jay if ye ria the arth of him.’ ‘*An’ the boy’s face was red again, an’ says he, ** Cnly to have a kind look from yer beautiful eyes I’d killa dozen men! It’s betther than gouid!’ an’ she that wouldn’t have touched him wid her gown as she went by, pus ont her little white hand for him to take, an’ let him kiss it! © ‘7')) belady up there again,’ she said, ‘if he dies to-night, an’ you shall never want; an’ you’ll be the genrons triend I have,’ saysshe ‘Remember that, Mike ay. ‘An’ then she sat down along sideo’ him, an’ winton talking, talking, till she’d have come over Safan him- seli—the Lord purtect us—an’ it war all the same if I could but remimber it. But the words isn’t in my mind, only the sinse iv thim; an’ a!l I know is she made him take his oath to kill the poor squire, and promised him no end of gould an’ favor, Wid that she went away, an’ Mike went home to get powder an’ ball for his pistol, an’ I afther him. Whin I was in the house i/seen himon achair, at the shelfof the cup- board yonder, where he used to keep a tin can iv pow- der, fillin’ his pistol. “ ‘Mike,’ says I, ‘forthe love of the Virgin, what is it your about todo? Whatisit the ladyaxedofye? Re member yer soul, The priceisn’t to be paid wid gould for that same.’ : 2 ‘Says he, ***No matter what I’m doin’, granny.’ "Says I, . s**It’s blood your goin’ to shed—don’t deny it, Mike. What else would ye fill the pistol for ?’ ‘Says he, ** ‘The lady’s horse is hurt, an’ she will haye him shot to rid him in his misery.’ ‘An’ I never dared to say a word, for Mike was hard to dale wid whin his blood was up, an’I saw’ it risin’, But I thought mabbe I can save the squire, an’ I slipped away an’ hid in the woods again, an’ then I saw Ralph Rothwood wanderin’ up an down, an’ heard him curse himself for a tracherous villain, By-and-bye he took himself off; and no sooner was he gone than Mike comes from bebind a tree an’ falls to watohin’ and watehin’, an’ mebby it was an hour or more, until I heard the tramp of horses hoofs, and seen the squire ridin’ along, woeful an’ pale, wid his head bent low and the reins hangin’ low like. I calls to him. ; ‘« ‘Squire, squire, take care, there’s inimys ferninst . “But he never heeded, but rode on as th ough he was aslape. An’ he was close to the three where Mike stood an’ [ calls agin, : : ‘¢ Squire, for the love of heaven, you'll be shot dead in a minute.’ , ‘And stillhe didn’t heed, an’ be passed Mike, an’ | years, there was a smoke an’ a noise, an’ I saw the squire on the ground an’ Mike over him. That’s the last I knew, for I think I fainted. “Whin I went back to the house Mike had been there an’ had taken away his clothes an’ the can o’ powde’, an’ I’ve niver seen him since that day. He’s dead be- like, but every word I've told I’ll swear to on the crass, for its as thrus as goapell, as my soul knows this many That’s the first time I seen the lady here; the last was a month ago, It rained, an’ Martin Jay an’ me was alone together here, an’ the door opened an’in she walked. I’d never told him what I’d seen, for I’d not have thrusted him, he was that mad wid Mike. But whin I seen her I crys out, for though she’d altered, an’ ten years was gone I knowed her, Says she, *