Rensselaer Republican, Volume 16, Number 15, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 20 December 1883 — (ORIGINAL.) ASHES OF ROSES. [ARTICLE+ILLUSTRATION]

(ORIGINAL.) ASHES OF ROSES.

BY LILY M. CURRY.

- -PART I. =—? The old house stood alone, quite alone, among fields of snow, traced here and there with hedges of evergreen along paths else hidden; out from the lit;tie town, on a road which led southward to other towns as silent and uneventful. It was a rare old homestead, even thus remote from other dwellings—roomy, luxurious, with wealth’s conceptions and royal with welcome for friends. A rare old place for a visit—. at Christmas no less than at other seasons—for therein was never known a cold corner, never a chill spare room, an icy sheet, a frosted window-pane! A huge furnace in the cellar “sent” up streams of delicious which here and there found supplement in glowing grate fires ruddy as the setting sun. Great solace was evident in the rosy depths of flame great solace and delight, to the mistress of the house, the quiet, elderly woman who, for thirty years, had ruled here, alone for the most—part, especially until Clarice had come. Yet her life had not been tone of unhappiness; she, Lucretia Channing, at 60, could look back upon the past and say it had been ■well worth living. And Clarice would brighten all the later days—Clarice (no relative) whom she had adopted as niece a half-score years before, and striven to do for as she would for an own child. Sometimes Miss Channing’s only brother, older, not over-like herself, found time to run hither from the great city and spend a day or two, filled with hjs polities, his speculations, his lingering greed for gain. Little and bent he was, With many a cynical chuckle and nasty sarcasm, and seemed to delight in arriving when least expected. Yet he ever received his due of respect and deference—even they humored him by strict observance of his request that no carriage be sentto wait for any late train. There were__others who always came at the Christmas season; the Fieldings, Clem and Charley, children of a cousin, Victor Keene, a physician, and his wife Myra, also distant connections, besides a school-girl friend or two of Clarice. In the past there had also been Elmer Keene, now abroad, and Robert McClure, his chum and protege. Even though Miss Channing had not herself enjoyed this flood of youth and music and laughter, she would still have made them welcome for Clarice’s Baker- No-"moidrer "-eould--haYfiK»bee»-truer or wiser to Clarice than was sjie. She felt it no sacrifice when she took the girl to the city to spend’ a January, or to the seaside for a midsummer month. The remainder of the timein the two years since Clarice- had left school—they had spent happily enough by themselves in the great house out among its own far-reaching meadows. -Here they ebttld * bring»- the latest wonders of art, and enjoy them in restful leisure; here was home and its exceeding tenderness and peace. It was lacking two days of Christmas, and the house was filled with a quietude that presaged coming joys. Everywhere was the delicious evenness of temperature, from the great velvetcarpeted drawing-room to the smallest upper chamber,, through whose dormer window came the faint light of the winter sunset. And in her own apartment, facing the glow of firelight, Miss Channing rocked slowly to and fro in an ample chair, while Clarice stood leaning upon the low mantel, a sweet and gracious presence. Tall, with perfect outline, though slenderly built; fair, with a face -both-clftssie and tender,, and wondrous shadowy eyes, grat springs in the fuller fight. She leaned gracefully; her gray, close-clinging dress, was perfect in tail-or-fit, perfect in its one hue relieved only by the cluster of Jacqueminot rosee glowing on her bosom. Miss Channing rocked slowly to and fro ifi her favorite chair, still holding her favorite magazine—though she had not read for an hour. There was something in her countenance indicative of slow judgment, unswerving purpose,

A CHRISTMAS STORY.

—no thing unkind ly, however, or-cnieL Clarice recounted the preparations of the day in a cheery voice—a voice that seemed to have never thrilled with pain or passion. “The same as usual, Aunt; the front cahmber for Uncle Rowland, the pink room to Nettie and Nell, the Fieldings in the blue room, Victor and Myra in the gold room and Mr. McClure in the red.” ■ ■Miss Channing rocked more slowly. “Mr. McClure will not be here this year.”

Clarice repeated the words in a wondering tone: “Will not be here; why, aunt, did you forget to ask him?” “No, I did not forget.” There was silence—the sheerest silence—then Clarice spoke in a low voice; “And you are not going to ask him?” “I am not.” “But why, aunt?” There was only calm and respect in the query. “Because, my dear, it is not advisable. It would have been hard to omit him had not Elmer been absent. Indeed, I think it happened most fortunately so.” “What has he done to forfeit our friendship, aunt?” “Nothing /especial, my dear. But, .caudidly 7 .it..,isysiiimg. man that he be not thrown in your society—don't interrupt, Clarice. Close observation, when we last met Mr! ihe fhaF lie might easily become too greatly jfir, terested in you. That is all I have to say, my dear.” “That is the only.reason, aunt? - ’ “The main reason. It is difficult to say wlhatxiovt of man he i»ay bo growing. Poverty is against him; poverty and a quick, passionate nature. He seems inclined to communistic notions. I have no sympathy with Communists or Socialists or Nihilists. That is all, Qlarice; and now I must go down and speak with Jane.” . Clarice went slowly out of the room and down the winding corridor to her own apartment; there she shut herself in and sat by the window to look upon the dusk and the white fields. “Aunt,” she said, speaking her thoughts aloud, with a tinge of bitterness, “youjyive spoiled my. Christmas; but I will not spoil yours, for you are an old woman—an old woman, and you have been griod to me. I will try not to show disappointment, but it is cruel, cruel!” ——— . . Hlie...xaid ao- -more?-dntfr-sat- thereiuthe dusk, thinking , very rapidly and trying to feel less grieved.' What would Christnihs be, now that he would not come? What were all the others, if that one earnest face, with its clear blue eyes, looked no response? That hopeful, handsome face, with its crisp chestnut locks at th e tern pl es! She had not seen him since October, when he had come out with Elmer, just before Elmer had sailed. They had corresponded at intervals. She

wondered if her aunt had thought of this. Her aunt was the last person on earth to pry into another’s correspond-ence-even to examining a postmark. Ah, yes, her aunt was nobly, just—to her! But to Robert —Robert, so brave, so honest, so full of youthis enthusiasm! Poverty? Yes, sore poverty was against him. Elmer Keene had told lier something once about a rich man having defrauded Robert, a rieh man who knew well tlu\t which he was doing when he took advantage of legal quibble and and a day's lapse to so possess what Robert should have gained—his mother’s heritage. But Robert had never learned the name or identity of the defrauder. Robert was peculiar in some respects. “Communistic!” she wondered if this were Communism, a great heart yearning toward all the oppressed, the suffering ones of efrth. If he were a rich man, or even fairly , fixed, she knew what he .would be do-

ing just now. He would be going and sending from house to house amongthe low, tlie ignorant, the sorrowing, with bread and meat and tenderness for sold and body, and blessings for the Christmas day so near approaching. Oh, it Wifs cruel! She rose and ; walked slowly to and fro. How calmly I her aunt had dismissed it! How es-i fectually! She knew too well the utter j vanity of reopening the subject. She almost regretted she had not let her heart cry out for him, saying, “-Aunt, for my sake, let him come.” I But he had never said that he loved | her, and should she be the first? Impossible ! face grew hot in the ; darkness. Still she could not give him up thus. She must see him once more, ! if only mice. She had ho thought of wronging her aunt’s confidence, for her I aunt had ever been just, and justice ■ begets-justice wherever its touch has : berih felt. But she would, write him ; to-morrow, in any event. He should ; know that if all else were different, she ' remained unchanged. - Thus resolved she went down to the i sitting-room, and as they sat at dinner, her face was unclouded and beautiful. Miss Channing had possibly forgotten the conversation and the evening ; slipped quietly away. But Clarice retired only to toss feverishly all night long and realize that she ■ stood face to face with her first trouble. She would not write, she deterinined, but telegraph instead, when on the.mor- ! row she went to town. It occupied her . mind to word out this message: 1 did not Know until a few hours since that you had not been asked this* year. My ! aunt has always attended to such matters, j and supposed it to be as usual. I cannot tell I you how pained I am—though were you here " I might convince you. Remember, thpugh other things be different, I am still the same, ! Answer this if possible, that I may know'you I believe me. J shall be in town some hours. Clarice.' i Y’es, she woulfl-say at least this much. ; He shouhl know that »he was his friend, if nothing ! ■ DART 11. . The morning had risen white as a sanctified spirit, and with love upon the shining fields. Clarice was eager to be off. “You must ’have the- carriage,”, said Miss , Channing. “I dare say you would pre- \ fer the cutter, but it would never hold your parcels.” Clarice gave gentle assent, and soon j

aft er was leaning back among the cushions and listening with infinite satisfaction to the cringing snow beneath the wheels, as the carriage progressed toward Cattling. They crossed the railroad, and turned to the north again, the.sum Slanting Warmly through the windows, then entered the old wooden bridge, spanning a wide, frozen river. Having arrived in town, Clarice first dispatched her message, then went about some errands. When these were -dene —she returned—to—the office and found his reply awaiting her. With nervous haste she opened it and read: I will be in Cattling on Christmas eve, at the Depot hotel. She rode home in a quiver of delight. Tomorrow! He was coming to-mor-row—for her sake. He loved her, then —he loved her! “How bright you look, my dear,” her aunt said kindly. “I am happy, Aunt,” said Clarice, impetuously.

It seemed to her the great house had never looked s 0 beautiful as now, with its evergreen-wreathings, its luxury, its parted curtains, where the sunlight entered and blessed with abundance. She realized what a home it had been ami wliathaclbeen Aliss Channing's goodness through all these years. A goodness not to be set aside or forgotten through any cause on earth. Come what might, she would be grateful and honest But first she must see him. Come to-morrow ! Come to-morrow, quickly, when she should see him—on Christmas eve! But how to meet him? She had not thought of this. Thp visitors were expected in tfie morning. Robert from encounter unless Uncle Rowland should chance to arrive also by the same train—that of early evening. She hoped the old gentleman would come as heretofore—on Christmas day. She had no great love for Uncle Rowland. His fierce little eyes would ferret Robert out; his sharp, sarcastic;tongue make note of it to all the visitors. He confusion upon her. She did not fancy he liked her well. After another restless night, dawned another day of dazzling sunshine. The carriage,-sent down to meet the guests, returned with a merry crowd of six, one of the gentlepnen riding outside. Clarice was sincere in her welcome of dainty-blonde Myra, and rosy-cheeked Nettie and Nell, fresh from the life and light of the great city. She had i pleasant words and cordial for the j young men. Lunch -was waiting with all they liked best. There was good skating pn the river, and sleigh-rides in prospect. There was a new billiard ! table to be tried. In the evening there would be singing and dancing, and so ! she thought, said Clarice, they might manage a little sport. “We miss Elmer,” said Myra, sipping her coffee with dainty grace. “And Bob McClure,” put in Charley Fielding. “Isn't Bob coming?” asked Dr. Keene, glancing up from his salad. “No,” said Miss Channing, serenely, “I have not asked him.” In the interval of silence, Mvra glanced furtively at Clarice, but the girl’s face was utterly placid, even smiling without a flush or quiver.

“I was mistaken,” thought Myra. “She does not care for him,” Clarice Was thinking very hardthinking how she could manage to see him that night. He must riot be kept waiting until .the morning—he, who had come so far at her merest calling. No, she must and would see him, if she walked miles to do so. An hour later she had written a note and dispatched it to Cattling by the stable-boy, for av horn she arranged other errands. After that she found herself joyousat heart and keen as the others for skat- - - i-“ • y : in g on the river. At dusk the train from the city came thundering into Cattling, and a young iqan alighted, passing quickly through the station and crossing the road to the depot hotel. Having erigaged a room, with fire, he discovered a letter awaiting him. It was from Clarice and contained but a few words. He took it up into his room and there sat reading by the cylinder stove. “God bless her,” he said, as he reached the signature, “she must care a little. ” And what had Clarice written ? —I want-to see you so much;—but the coni-, pany has arrived, and I scarcely know what to do. Clearly, I cannot corrte to town ton’ght, nor do I know how long you can remain, You remember the little school-house half a inilo below Could yon drive out there at 6:30? I will run down and wait in the porch. / • . . It did not seem to her she had written boldly, unwomanly. She felt so innocent, so earnest at heart, that she had no thought of possible misconstruction. i ;—— ; McClure looked at his watch—it was not yet 6. He still held the letter with fond, firm clasp. “God bless her!” he repeated, and wondered if the Christmas past were half as much to her as to himself; if it were possible she remembered the flower she had given him —the crimson rose, her favorite blossom ? The luscious crimson rose that he had always treasured, even when it was ashes. “Ashes of roses!” he said, tenderly, and his hand sought the pocket next his heart, where the little package lay, of rose dust. He went down after a little and took a cup of coffee; then he obtained a horse and a clumsy cutter, in which to drive to the school-house. Not a bad horse, he said to hiiriself, though a little skittish at moments. He wished there were a bridge this side of the railroad trestle-work, so that he need not cross the track in town and reerpss a mile beyond the river. However, he enjoyed the crisp air and the pure, delicious mqpn-iise. The lights of the town twinkled faintly behind him; the distance widened. He was soon out on the open road beyond the river. He had reached the railroad and was sweeping swiftly onward, when the horse shied at an empty freight l car upon a siding, and, breaking from control, dashed into a snow-bank. But the boorish little cutter did not overreins, brought the animal, after a moment, into a moderate pace. They went on so, and slackened by and by at the school house, where in the little porch stood waiting a graceful form, warm wrapped in a long seal cloak, with a wide bonnet framing her beauteous face.. y He sprang to the ground with one glad cry, one word more he could not utter — “Clarice!” “I knew you Would come, ” she said, in a voice that thrilled him through and through. He tied the horse and stepped within the shadow of the porch. “It was so good of you,” he said; “so unspeakably good. I cannot thank you enough. ” “It was you who were good,” she answered gently, “to come as you have done.” “I was glad to come, more glad than I can tfcll> to find that you were my friend; that though all else were changed, you were still the same.” “I want you to believe that,” she put in, eagerly. “I do, I do.” His voice trembledr “In all my toil," my disheartening luck, my failures/ I have thought of you as true, steadfast. It has helped me.” Tears glistened in her eyes. “I am glad if I have been of any little help,” she said, softly, “or comfort. And that is what I wanted to say to you to-night —to-night—Christmas eve it is, you know; that I 'longed to help you in word or deed, or both. That I should not, would not, disguise iny friendship, for that were dishonest. It is true,”

she hesitated; “it is true that my aunt-—-’* . t ..... ”~~^That"your aunt dislikes rim,” he finished the sentence for her, and she continued quickly; “But she has been good to me — wonderfully good—for I am no kin of hers;, it would be heartless, wicked, were I to speak against her or deceive her. I could not do so. But why should I fear ?” “Ah, why?” he echoed, dreamily. -Tlten-a new energy came into his voice, - ""It lias done me good to be with you. Clarice, great good. You have given me courage, the sweetest Christmas gift. And, Clarice, if ever there come a day when I dare to speak, dare to tell you all that you have been and are to me ” The moonlight fell like peace upon her face. “Are you afraid of me?” she said softly. “Clarice!” “Robert!” “Oh, my darling, my own wife! Can you love me—is it true?” His arm encircled her and held her . safe, while slow tears of happiness gathered in her eyes and fell upon his shoulder. “New hope! New life!” he cried rapturously.vi“Clarice.lw'itl'winqßame and honor for your sake. The thought of you is like the thought of the angels in heaven, lifting me up out of my meaner self. I tread new heights; there is keen, sweet strength, within me!” —■■.- - “()li, hush, hush,” she whispered gently, “you make me ashamed of my poor girlhood. I have, done nothing, become nothing but yours!” “Mine, mine!” he reiterated. “ShallI tell you, dear, of the rose you gave me a year ago to-night? It has never left me; it lies upon Triy“heart, though it is only ashes—‘ashes of roses,’ sealed from the-air even.”’ “You cared for me so long?" “I always cared for you!” “And, now,” she said, after kmoment, “I must return.” He held her very close and murmured his tenderness. “My darling, my angel! My brave sweetheart!” He would not let her see aught of bitterness in his mood that she were going back to the music and merriment while he must return alone to the town and see her no more for weary days. “You will write me, Clarice?” .' 1 “Very often, Robert, and your replies.” ' She lay a moment in his arms then suddenly withdrew. “Goo t-night,” she said, “and goodby. ’’ He untied the horse and sprang into the sleigh, from which be leaned for one last kiss. “God bless you, Clarice, and make your Christmas happy. Good-night.” He knew she preferred that be leave her here. He might have driven her lo heF own gate, biff ft® farictßd Str® wanted to go back leisurely and grow composed ere facing the glad company. It was half-pas t 7, their usual dinner hour, when -she the drawingroom, apparently cheerful. She strove to do her part, and let none read her heart; none should know how sorely she missed the absent. Not one. As the evening progressed, the old house seemed to brim with joy. Here were swinging footsteps to slow waltz melodies, and chorused songs of college life, and shining eyes and crimson lips under the glitter and in the waymth of luxury, while only a few miles off, at the little town, a lonely soul would wage .fierce war in an hour’s short space. PAET hi. He drove back to the town—holding the reins carefully lest the horse would shy and plunge again down there at the •railroad crossing; drove, feeling new strength and purpose in life, new desire for life itself. His heart fairly ached with excess of ambition. Poor heart! So downcast of late and warmed only by the rose-dust resting always above it. His room was cozy after the outer keenness; he was glad to throw himself upon the bed and cover his face, to dream of . her by snatches. "Would the time ever come when he might call her to his arms? When the jewels she wore, the rich clothing be through him provided ? And all might have been so different but for the miserly old scoundrel who had robbed him with wanton avidity. “Scoundrel 1” he said, through his teeth. “If ever came chance to ro-

pay, vengeance would be sweet. But the old villain would live on and prosper, while he, lie must even be shut out from the light and love of her darling face, "if No! he would not grow bitter. She loved him; she would be faithful. He would win all or die —for her sake. He ' would go back to the city in the morning; his return ticket was already purchased, and after paying his hotel bill a few pennies would remain. He Was just that poverty-stricken at the present moment. But Clarice should never know what ap effort he had made in coming to see her. He lay musing thus until the late train came in. a little past 11, and reminded him to go down and examine the timetable as to' his morning departure. A lounger or two remained in tlie warmth of the otherwise cheerless office. The landlord himself had been across to take in any traveler who might halt on h's way, and was even now returning with one, a little old man, at whose querulous voice McClure "started and buried his ’ face in a country newspaper. “A nice—a nice set of folks, not to have sent me the carriage 1” complained the newly-arrived. “A nice, careless, neglectful set!” His face, thin and clean-shaven, gave less token of age than his vocal quaver. His bright eyes, skimming the room, saw only the back of Bob erf's head. “But they were not expecting you tonight, Mr. Channing,” the landlord “What do you know about it?" was the sharp rejoinder. “I’ll give you a good room for the night. Mr. Channing—” “You’ll give me a team to drive out. A team I can drive myself and send in to-morrow.” It ended in his getting the identical horse that Robert had driven earlier in I the evening. And Robert, with face I still hidden in the newspaper, chuckled j audibly. The old scoundrel would i find it rare fun holding the skittish beast out there on the lonely road beyond the railroad_ crossing. The old scoundrel who had cheated and robbed him, and but for whom he might stand to-night by the side of her he loved, sweet Clarice ! He rejoiced at the jingle of the bells as the old man drove away. * * * He returned to his room and found it very cozy. He wondered if Rowland Channing would come to any grief. No, such villains al ways escaped. Yet if the old man be injured or meet liis death out there how shocked they would all be—even Clarice! He started nervously. He had not thought of this before. ~lt woulda greater shock than if she should learn what he had hidden from her as from the rest, that Rowland Channing was his crudest foe. Well, it was too late now; he had no money to hire a horse and follow; to speak to the landlord would be absurd, he would be laughed at. Besides, what cared he for the old miser? But Clarice! It annoyed him; he could not dismiss the reproachful voice which seemed dinning in his ears: “An oil man! an old man!” It bothered him so that he paced the room of a quarter of hour. He then threw off his eoat and Went to draw the curtain. How white and still the night! The wind was down and it was growing steadily colder. ‘.Fancy the old man lying senseless or crippled out there beyond What a Chrismas gift to be carried in through the fair sunlit morning to . Clarice, who had such., tender reverence for her elders! Pshaw! What silly thoughts! An upsettai would not injure the old miser {though the bones of the old were brittle) unless he were dragged or stunned. Five minutes later he was buttoning his coat closely about him and leaving the. hotel. It might be folly, merest folly, but ” something urged him out into the night; He thought of how he inight save distance by. striking southward direct and crossing the railroad bridge. The trestles would be slippery, but he was sure-footed. More than once he named himself simpleton, yet strode on southward in the white, increasing coldness. It was not a long journey to the railroad trestlework, having gained which he slackened his pace, stepping cautiously from beam to beam. He hoped no train was due, for the bridge was old and closesided; there would be no escape. The thought had scarcely entered his mind when a low murmur ran through the structure. He turned to look bael and was struck dumb. He stood so for a moment. “Good God!” he cried, but eouhl not move. A 'blinding light approached; the bridge trembled! With sudden, reckless strength he stooped, and laying firm hold upon a beam, slipped through the trestlework and hung suspended only by his hands. One word was on his lips; one name within his heart, “Clarice!” The crashing thunder above him lasted but a brief moment; then a stinging pain crept from his middle

fingea'up the muscles of his arm, as if a coal of fire had fallen upon his hand. He looked up into the nioonMt/isky again. It could have been but a locomotive, Ire thought, as he drew himself up with no 4?reat trouble, stronglimbed, athletic fellow that he was. Then he went on,. thinking little of his own late danger, even the pain of his hand where the red coal had burnt, He went on unshaken, following the track after leaving the bridge, and so coming at length to the crossing. ***** By the roadside; beyond, lay something dark, uncanny! That was all. He went slowly toward it, dreading

to face a death he might have pre- ! vented. Still he could not delay too long. ’’Heaven knew where horse and cutter had brought up! . He bent and examined the dark I i heap. He was not surprised; he had , known it must be so. else he would not have come following after. It seemed onlv natural. He had come neither soon nor late. He was in time, perhaps, andhis enemy lay at his feet. Was the old man worse than stunnedi? It mattered little, yet he could not reuse him. , There was a disiance of three miles between them and the great house,-or aiiy- habitation. Btit there was one thing, one thing only, to be done—to convex the old man to his home. He, Robert McClure, against whom those gates had been closed, must thrust himself upon them with unexpected tidings of calamity. And could the old man be left lying here alone? Alone, help- - dees,--unconscious^-la—the ; bitter- cold, • while McClure traversed that distance and returned with aid? If only he could manage so they might never; know who had brought Rowland Channing home.! But supposing the old man died without speaking ? It would have an ugly look. No, there' was but- one way. Let them put the meanest construction upon it; let them think, what they might; he would not shirk his duty. He must gather his enemy up in hi% arms, like a child, a helpless child, and !

Which is the best of all the trees? ■ ; r Answer me, children all, if you please! Is it the linden, with tassels gay. Or the willow there where the catkins sway? Is it the oak, the king of the wood, That for a hundred years has stood? The graceful elm, or the stately ash. Or the aspen, whose leaflets shimmer and flash? Is it the solemn aud gloomy pine, With its million needles so sharp and fine? Ah, no! The tree that I love best, It buds and blossoms not with the rest. No summer sun on its fruit has smiled. But ice and snow are around it piled; But still it will bloom and bear fruit for me. My winter bloomer! ray Christmas-tree'! Its blossoms are candles, all shining gay, Aud its bears its fruit in the queerest way! All ti<d liy ritfimns to everything. Big and little,'and little and big, =■ Dolls and trumpets, and' bats, Horses and monkeys, and dogs and eats.

carry him slowly on to the great house yonder-. « ■ <• The snow crackled beneath his feet; it was still growing colder. He smiled grimly, wondering what they would say.It must be midnight now; but the dancing and music would still be in progress. As he toiled onward he felt curiously indifferent to their possible opinion. Let them cavil as they might. He was doing his duty—tardily it was true, but his duty. . There were lights in the drawingroom, warm lights shining through heavy curtains. The rest was like a dream, his staggering upofi the sideporch and knocking heavily.

Presently some one peered forth half suspiciously. ' “I have brought Mr. Channing home,” was all he remembered saying, till he knew himself standing alone with Miss ■Channing and -striving to tell her about it. “I was at the hotel.” he said, “and learned they had-given him a skittish horse that I myself earlier in the evening. I feared an accident and followed on foot. I found him at the railroad crossing. It took a good while to carry him up.” “You carried him up from the crossing! Three miles!” said Miss Channing sharply. “Why are you standing? You are exhausted! Sit down at once.” She turned and filled him a glass of wine. Dr. Keene was attending to Cowland Channing in an upper chamber. All merriment was hushed and set aside. McClure sank into a chair and looked about him dazedly. He was in the long dining-room, where he had Often been before. And this was Christmas eve! . A ■ „■ A Miss Channing came bdek withthw wine, and stood regarding him with a curioud.expression. t 1 He lifted his hand, the warmth of room caused it to pain terribly.,. He saw her note the action. “It.is a burn,” he said, faintly, “a littie painful.” . “A burn?” “Yes- I crossed on the railroad bridge and ~ a stray engine overtook me. I had to drop through the trestles and hold by my hands. ” i He told it carelessly, half apologeti-

rally, and as he ceased a sharp cry fang through the room. Clarice was standing in the ddqrway, witii terror in her lovely eyes. She came swiftly forward, “You did that! To “save him! Victor told me. Victor knew, but I never did, how you were wronged!” Her'cries were half-hysterical, and Miss Channing interposed. “Clarice, my dear, go and see about a room for Robert, and ask Victor what to do for the burn.” She had called him Robert! Clarice wheeled like a. flash and went out. She must have felt now that her aunt would be just.

Drums and whistles, and guns and whips, Crying babies and flying ships: Every conceivable kind of box, With a.ll conceivable kinds of leeks; Tigers and elephants swinging in air. Singular fruit for a tree to bear! But so it blooms and bears fruit for me. My winter bloomer! my Christmas-tree! Elm and linden may both be fair, But they have no elephants swinging in air; Ash and maple may gracefully grow. But they have no fifes nor whistjes to blow; The oak may be king of the forest wide. But he has no parcels with ribbons tied. No guns, no rattles, no books, no boats, No pigs, no lions, no cows, no goats. No dolls,_no cradles, no skates, no tops, ’ Nor oranges, candy or lollipops. Nothing that’s pretty, and nothing' that's good, and bark and wood. So the tree of all others thilt’s best to me "Is my winter bloomer! ray Cliriktmas-treel

“How did you come to be in Cattling ?” Miss Channing asked after a moment. “I had come on business,” he answered quietly. “I was telegraphed to come. ” ’Ah? And Rowland was your enemy ? . You consider that he defrauded you ?” “I have always known it,” said Robert, urthesitatingly. “And yet you brought him home,” she 1 mused aloud. “Will you tell me why you- took the trouble to think of his safety ?” Robert waited'—a moment, then answered, with softened voice, “I thought of Clarice.’' . “You thought of Clarice? You love Clarice?” “I love Clarice,’-’ he repeated, with infinite tenderness. “It is very plainly to be seen,” said the lady, dryly. “We will disquss it to-morrow. Good-night.”’ And she swept from the room. .n. to him and led him to, his chamber, but htrhad grown faint and could scarcely see her face. ' Dr. Keene came in and dressed the wound, and Robert fell asleep and slept heavily. . When he awakened the sun was sinning sweetly on dear familiar walls, and there was strange peace in the young man’s heart. Rowland Channing had come to himself and was seeking an explanation of the affair. “I fancy that beggar of a McClure - ’ z

was mixed up somehow in the matter,” he whined petufanJTy. Miss Channing gave him a swift rebuke: - ■ “Rowland, the young man carried you in his arms for three miles —and saved your life.” . / There was a moment’s silence, then the little misen sneered as* usual. | “Ah, did he so?” Miss Channing went suddenly out and sent for Robert to come to her own apartment when he should have breakfasted. He came at once. i “Sit down,” she said; “I want to i talk with you. You are very like your [ father. Bid you know I knew your father years ago? Ah, yes, we were ■ friends—the best of friends.” She rose and unlocked a cabinet,. i deep in a recess of which she sought and found a tiny box. Then she came back to her rocking-chair. “What do you suppose there is in this box?” she asked, smiling grimly. E After a moment’s hesitation, he an- ■ swered, with reverent tenderness; ■ “Ashes of roses!” Miss Channing sprang to her feet. “How could you know?” she cried. With touch as reverent as had been his speech, Robert drew from his pocket thtik sealed packet held ever precious, the dust of the rose that Clarice had given him long before. No words were spoken for a space—no sigh fell on the silence of the room! The sunlight came golden through the window lace; the snow-birds cheeped without. ' Then slowly arose Miss Channing and spoke with trembling voice: “I have made —a mistake—a great mistake! I have wronged you. Let it pass—and let us be friends. I think Clarice will like to speak with you. I think she may explain better. So saying she left the room. And a moment later Clarice entered saying softly: “Aunt has sent you a Christmasgift. Will you take it? It is I.”

“YOU ARE VERY LIKE YOUR FATHER. DID YOU KNOW I KNEW YOUR FATHER YEARS AGO?"

MY CHRISTMAS TREE.