Saturday Evening Mail, Volume 5, Number 2, Terre Haute, Vigo County, 11 July 1874 — Page 3

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~.uuoi--uaand a paper pinky white, _«w dream nmU if heavenly dellgb i. mVto^T(0 tendU tfrt ft it! '«aronotirae.*

Tte 1 Do.

A Tv. tiki An*i silky «»*»,

Tied with the ftUthful eater,*! nThe bona** -Uk baa faded 4*"*: For woo his only love .t f» Bhedtif «lu»**wmert^

A single tear for atu :,-.!isjri" Barn An«l*nt ^WUlMesd and throb witfe^u^ta—^ open not«notlifrB--^i*^r That foreign sheet I«-""i"' bum

TwMTomV la*t leturi ve nw! Hewrltestnltof htsnrthi To those—he ne'er]Ntatu Hhouldr Bora it born ail. For they who tm .--sd

The line# with such keen pleasutv read, Whose love can never be replaced, or ace dead. i, j! Ancient near* with each delay. Thrust them in between the ban

They belong to Yesterday."

'Because I Loved Him. .?H.

Jfi 'S

Why is it thai when we stand gazing Kpellbound over a beautiful landscape,

feasting our eyes on a wide expanse af mountains, and valleys, and Mr mead ows, watching the fleecy clouds that sail above and the sparkling that dances over the precipice, we can often find no other words in which toex press oar heartfelt delight than, "It looks like a picture"?

jt

..

Or why la it thai a'narrmthV of the strange occurrences and experiences in some particular life so frequently eiicits the exclamation, "It sounds just like novel"? Are the productions of art, then, so much more beautiful than those of nature? Are the tragedies and comedies of life to be met with only in books? Ah, no! In each individual existence there is a story, in each house a skeleton in many a family, which to the careless outside view appears gay and happy, there are heavy heart*, sorrows that the world never dreams of, there are hardens borne whose weight la perhaps never suspected, even by those nearest and dearest to the sufferer.

No more striking illustration of this truth ever came under my notice than that which I am about to relate to you. There is no harm in telling the story now, Ibr it all happened years ago, and In another land.

In a quiet little village of Devonshire —or rather on the outskirts of the village, tor the park gates opened just where the last nouses stood—waa an a»dent, ivy-covered house, remarkable only Ibr its great age and the beauty of the grounds that environed it. From time immemorial it had been in the possession of the Morton fomily, and one generation after another had grown up within its wails, and then gone forth into the world, the socio to conquer name and feme, the daughters to grace other homes ana brighten other hearths. But wherever they roamed, the old home in Devonshire ever held the first place in alt their hearts. Many were the happy fiuniiy gatherings at Christmas-tide, and many a time, too, the scattered ones same together on that most mournfinl ooeasfon of all—a fonerai in the parish church for it waa a saying in all the country round that "A Morton may not sleep quietly hot hi St. Anne% churchyard." Yea, they all "came home" then? and It was on a bright, sunny day in

Morton, the head of the

June that Philip bouse new, came, lay down among the

came, with bale, ssd fitee, to daisies bis one only

child, the darling of his heart, his little

goKlen-halml Mav. He

three years

fore to a beaatlfui American girl, whom he had met during his travels in the United Slate*, and since that time had

never visited hi* ancestral home. Hy his orders the house waa kept hy Jfcithfnl •ervante in complete readiness for his return at any moment, hut still he waa a wanderer, new ha CI si many, now wintering In Paris, now staying the rfofee/w nicnle in beautiful Sorrento His sister, Mrs. Clifford, who lived but a stone** throw from the trail. f»f» Uapti&tm at his long delay. "Wlfl you never come home, dear Philip f" she wrote. "I miss you more and more, and my husband says my temper is becoming spoiled by fretting over your we want to show you our little Philip, who grow* move Bk* his errant nncie every day, but moat of ail we kmx to see our new sister. Oeme home, PhtUjfe dear vour little May will soon be old enough to know and love the dear eld home, and I etfte» ptetoi* to myself iter a* the great Itali wtn» her there,

lovely baby bos dow. When shall wafting to greet us as atveat»«r* And with many a donate, sisterly words did Margaret Clifford try to win Philip Morton to his home.

«»thai all tbe people in the cam* to her with their troubles in perfect aas»r*»oe that while bar cfcar jndg-"4 meat would discern afonas wtpnrein their grMb tea of their own «aki kindly heart W her lobe their shorten would mako il! for human in! viae rneana of poarfblt. She by pneoepL and rtill mora bv example, the l«—on« taught bv her husband in tt»pol-

and it waa commonly that "the parson writes' and praaohea Che amnons. and Mr*. Clifford h'ne# them." They have not much to do with mysfcwy, thi*quiet,unaaeoming, bnt beloved, Kn

vet I ceul9 not refrain from this tribute to their nftcmorv. When I came to live in Mutoo, they bad both psssfid away, but left behind a pure and holy record.

Up the

We

She waa aaoU» woman, and worthy of greater trust and conlldenoe than thai dearly loved brother save her in those fc*ya. f9ie had now oeen Ibr several jwsam tin happy Wife of the He*. Waiter mm*4, a ^.^ diguided, atadkxM «nanf devoted to hit narodhial work, and iftflBned to b«ury himsplf during his lets1 tn hard study and meditation. eaw hiia in the pulpit, or in

urakouretn terd study aud who saw him in the the ordinary msetitmsef «\ery«digr life, could sppreHate the excellence of ^aadar or the dejAh of his /eeUnga, tor Ws inamwr was sUtely and waerved, l»t Msfgaret knew tt m. fVqr h«r he had alw^rs a bright smite, and to he* he tuwied i#r eyaipethy iai every low or aof» «mt la avery study and (Huauit. Mhe waa an intenlgwat, cnlUvsted, redned, large-hearted woman. There waa in her ofeameiar a wonder«ett eoanbUtstton of

Igeutleueaw of

moot, compsaidon fiw Hid wrong-doer—

'mmm

Between Margaret ClHftmi and her iwother there waa little resemblanoe, save in outward form ana feature. He lacked her sonny smile, her frank, outspoken manner, her msgie art of making all around her happy and content, yet thoae who knew him intimately loved him well. He waa an honorable. upright man. To die would have been far easier for him than to bring ever so light a shade on the old Morton name. He waa generous and amiable, yet some strange stories were told of his indo-1 ncdtable Will that would bend^ at no obKtaola, of a terribUv n* temper that at times had made tho young master," as tho old servants ana tenants still called him, almost insane. And when the news came that he had brought back a young bride from America, roore than o»e ventured to express a doubt whetlier she could be happv with Philip Morton, unless, indeea, she obeyed and deferred te him Implicitly.

Year alter year passed on, until three had flown since his marriage, and still the old house remained in solo possession of the servants, while the neighborhood had almost ceased to wonder at this prolonged absence. Mrs. Clifford spoke unreservedly of the frequent letters she received from her brother and from his wife, and joined heartily in the often-ex-pressed wish for their return.

Tidings came at the end of the first year of the birth of a daughter to Phili Morton, and the church bells

merrily, and a bountiful feast was prefer all the children of the pariah in of glowing intelligence, and it was easy to see that she was already his pride and his idol. But on her second birthday she died, in

pared for honor of little May. words of his child's

wrote in uty and

PI

'ft

down among the flowers in St. Anno churchyard, and then to remain permanently at Morton Hall. Mrs. Clifford mourned deeply for her brother's bereavement, and grieved that sho had never even seen the darling child. But most of all she sorrowed for the young wife—a stranger in a strange land—coming for the first time to her new home under such melancholy circumstances.

It breaks my heart, Walter," she said, to think of her driving up to that darkened, gloomy house. I have so often imagined what a gay, cheerful, rejoicing home-enming we should make it for them this is too, too sad. And Philip has not asked me to be at the ltall to receive them. What shall I do?" "Go, by all means, dear Margaret," replied her husband. "You eannot fail to give them some comfort, and I am sure your sympathy will be very precious" to theno in these first bourn of tb affliction."

these first hours of their lii

Many a sad face looked out the next morning from behind the closed blinds, tm the two carriages that had been sent moved and into the park. In the'first carriage 'rested the little coffin nothing could be seen of the occupants of the second, but when it drew up before the hall door, where Mrs. Clifford stood to receive the travelers, great was her surprise to see her brother descend from it alone. He mounted the steps with a sad face and a heavy, weary tread, giving but little heed to the regpectf&i greeting of the group of servants who came forward as the carriage stopped. Stunned, bewildered, at tMs apparition of Philip without his wife, Mrs. Clifford could scarccly command herself to meet him with composure yet the look of anguish on his aee warned her not to give way to her own feelings, and with a strong effort to rally her self-control and command her voice, she sprang to his side, welcoming him with a few loving words: "Oh, my [mor Philip, what a terrible hotne-com-ng for you, after all our hopes and plans! Ood comfort you, ttty dear one 1" and then she led him straight into the libra*?, where lay the little coflin. It was a grand room, that old library in Morton Hall, beautiful In all Its proportions, and. containing a priceless colleotlon of books, paintings and ^tuaqr.

filled every available space with most exquisite flowers all around the coflin were grouped roses, lilies and Jessamine. As she led poor Philip into the iwtm, a «tagi« my of sunshine stole through Mu-tiaHy-ciosed blind, and cast a rosy ight on the spot where the child lay in her ls«t dreamless slew. nWp sank into a seat and groaned aloud. Presentturning to Margaret, who waited pa* unta his words should coim, and her hand closely and affectionately. lie said, "Maggie, dear" (po he had called her wheh they were children tog*her,j

MM*y

was myall, and she is

[one now, pray for me, that I may not h* left long nehlnd." What ale you saying, Philip? Where

Kieanorf and why are yon here alone?" Eleanor! oh yea, Eleanor is eomlng. fO»e is not yet recovered from an illness ttehad sows tteta sinee, nnd was not strong enough to travel fkst, as did, I left her atNlce. Her sister, who joined us a few month* ago, to with her, and fsithftil maid, and t£«y JMtow we •oon."

Mm. Clifford listened like one is a dream. Philip spoke htrrrlediy and with evident emhamtsament. ft waa aaay to mm that there was something kept back—that a greater sorrow even than the death ofhlschQd w«s weighing him down hut he gave no farther explanet ton. Aa the day were on, his front only Increased, and Mrs. Clifford sft thrit her words of comfort fell on a deaf ear. fie was gentle and loving to Iter, roused himself sometltnestoinquire about her husband and her boy. and of tb« wel&re of some mutual friends. Theft he won Id talk of liuie May. giving the details of her in nam, ami tellirw of tier loveliness, her inMHoenoe and devoted aftodion tor himsel^ but jmw

"v

only one thing of you now—for the love you have always borne to mo and mine, serve your new mistress faithfully and gilently." There was an emphasis on the last word that the old woman could not foil to notice, but she made no replv.

Margaret Clifford sat alone with her brother the evening before the expected arrival of his wife, and resolved to make one more attempt to break the ice between them. She began to question him about the new sister die was so soon to greet:

Tell me more of Eleanor, Philip seem to know little or nothing of first, is she handsome?"

Almost the most beautiful woman I have ever seen. She is fair and tall, with golden hair. Her face has a great deal of character, her features are absolutely perfect, and her figure wonderfully graceful. Now, that

TEKRE HAUTE SATURDAY EVENING MAIL.

NOW, COIIIC NItARKB, XT VtST, AND REMEMBKR WHAT I SAY.

lnofhoMiot ono word. Only, when the carriage came in the evening to take Mrs, Clifford back to the rectory, lie said, as ho bade her good-night,

Oome to-morrow, Maggie, and stay beside my little May until we take her to tho churchyard you know sho has no

mother near And the next dav very sadly and quietly tho little child's body was laid among her ancestors, and then Philip Morton waited alone in tho old house for his yonsg wife to "como home." It was a strange, solitary lifo ho led for some w©ek«. He never went outside the park gates nor received a single one of tho numerous visitors, who, for old friendship's sake and from sincere sym pathy in his affliction, came to call upon him. He always welcomed the rectory family, however, and seemed even glad to see young Philip, his namesake, and to hear his merry voice, as ho rambled through the rooms and halls that little May should have made so bright. Of himself he never spoke of his wife seldom, though when her name was mentioned, it was always with affection and a certain pride. He received frequent letters from her and when Mrs. Clifford asked for tidings of her health, the reply was invariably, "She is better, and will come home soon but Margaret knew there was a mystery about It all. She would ask no questions, but waited, trusting and hoping for better days. At the end of several weeks Philip announced to the household and to ms Sister that Mrs. Morton and Miss Lawrence would arrive on tho following evening, and he begged Mrs. Clifford to come to the'ball to receive them. The old housethe

little child's 'body tb

Is a bewitch­

ing portrait, Margaret, bnt you will soon sec it Is not at ail a flattering but quite a true one."

But tell me more, Philip, dear. Is she quiet or animated, grave or gay I mean as to her natural temperament, for of course she is sad cuougU now without darling May."

Well, Margaret, you know ft Is hard for a man to give »u impartial description of his wire, and I must leave you to find out for yourself all you want to know. Yotf women are so quick to discern character that you will very soon know Eleanor as well naif you had been acquainted for years."

Margaret saw that he was evading her questions, Presently she said, And Miss Lawrence? You have told me very little about her. Is sho older or younger than Eleanor? When did she join you? and will she remain here per* manently I hope we shall be able to make her happy aiming us, but I almost fear she will find our quiet country lifo rather dull and monotonous after the gsvety and bustle of New York." "Mlie has many resources within herself," replied Philip, "ami la a very charnrfng girt. Show Eleanor's twinsister, and in appearance resembles her very strongly. They had never been separated for a single day until Eleanors marriagv, and ouukl not be happy apart. When Eleanor had that severe illness in Nice a few months ago, her unoeailng cry was for Fanny and aa soon aa my letters reached Now York, she came out to us."

Clifford, who had been listening intentlv for an hour pant, heard the sound of carriage wheels, and presently the traveler* euteml the hall, Philip leading hia wife and her sister following. At the Unit glance, Mrs. Clifford saw that Philip's description of Eleanor's beauty had nut been an eocaggarated una. Her deep mourning dreaa made her complexion appear even mere daaallngiy fkir her great gray eyea, with their long sweeping lasbea, were reta«l with a sweet, affectionate, but aad, expression to Mrs. Clifford's fiuse, and every movement ww8 full of grace.

Thank you so much for being here abe said, "and thwika, kind

to welcome ua, too. for all your while I waa to* lit pleese wel6ome my dear sister, too, for

qare of Philip

waa to* ill to be with him. And r«l 6ome

tn^sake."

Miss Lawrence, who

badIlngerwltogive some directions to Mm Morton's maid, came forward, and coidialiy responded to Mrs. Clifford's friendly gieetiup. .Tto» sisters ware marvenouwy alike in appearance but before the evening waa over, Mrs. Cllfkml decided In her own mind that the totally different expression and manner

of tho two would quite prevent any tlah-

Krof

her mistaking one for the other, nny Lawrence was evidently of a joyous, snnny disposition, though she did not talk much, and seemed to wish to keen in the background and make Eleanor the chief object of attention. Sho wore a look or content, of happiners and freedom front care, that attracted Mrs, Clifford instantly and before the time came to say "good-night," all the stiffnoss of a first meeting had passed away,

But Margaret was not quite so much charmed with her brothers wife, though she found her gentle, affable and affectionate. On her return to the rectory, Mr. Clifford was surprised te find that she talked gladly and freely of Miss Lawrence, but was almost silent when he asked for her impressions of Eleanor.

Why, Margaret, said he, "I expected a rapturous account of Philip's wife, of his exceeding happiness at her arrival, and yon can talk only of the sister, in whom I take just now only a little interest. Tell mo more of Eleanor herself."

So I will, Walter, when I am able to make up my mind positively about her. To-morrow you will be able to judge for yourself of her beauty, which I consider unquestionable ana after you shall have been with them all for a day, perhaps our united wisdom may be able to discover what is the true state of things among them. Walter, I feel that it is not a happv marriage. I cannot tell you why, but know it. La*t night there was not a single unkind word or look or hint of any trouble, but it is there, none the less." "Ah, Margaret, do not take trouble on interest very probably you are altogether mistaken, and after a second visit to the hall your fears will vanish, and vou will wonder how they ever could have arisen."

Heaven grant it!" replied Margaret. But each succeeding visit only deepened instead of eradicating her first forebodings. The outside was fair enough. fSlie and her husband were always welcomed heartily by Philip, Eleanor and Fanny, and the two families were constantly together. Eleanor's health was very delicate she was unable to make any exertion without suffering a terrible pain in her heart, but she rarely spoke of this, and bore it so bravely ami cheerfully that not even Fanny, who watched her closely, nor Philip* who was ever kind and thoughtful, had any idea of the extent to which her health was impaired.

The neighborhood rejoiced that the old hall was once more inhabited, and Eleanor and Fanny soon became universal favorites, though they did not join in anv gayety, for so few months had passed sinoe little May's death.

One bright summer morning, Mm. Clifford walked to the hall, to beg the family there to accompany her own household on an excursion to l)erby forest, where little Philip Clifford's birthday was, to be celebrated by a pipnic given annually to the children of the jiarish. Sho found

Fanny

Lawrence bustone her ex

seated alone in the picture-gallery, ly engaged in making a copy from of the old paintings. She laid aside brushed, as Mrs. Clifford entered, ig, S to-dav, dear friend)

claiming, "How very glad I am to see

ralways'like

to-day, dear Mend Your coming a sunbeam to ua all, ea* pecially to Eleanor and Philip and to tell you the truth, they are both in need

I, too, wish they looked happier dear Fanny, but we must hope that time will heal their sorrow and bring them brighter d,»y*. Whe^ shall 1 find them

In the library, I tlithlc *rid!aftdr you come

mean to

carry

As she approached the library, she heard a feint sob, then the impatient tread of her brother's step across the floor, and then the despairing tone In which Eleanor exclaimed, "On, Philip, will you never forgive me? Csn yon never love me? Must I suffer always— always? Philip, she does not care for you, she never did, she never suspected anything, (Mi, Philip, it waa because I loved you so dearly P*

Mr*. Clifford had stood for an Instant bewildered, spellbound then, dreading to overhear anything further, she stepped quickly forward, but not soon enough' to avoid hearing Philip say, coldly and quietly, but in atone that indicated to Margaret only too well the storm that raged oenettih, "Aak no more of me, Eleanor, than I have already granted. Be content with such mm appearance of aflbetioaaa 1 am able to assume before

world. And charge again, nev«#let fair susfor one instant wa injuoho^d has

your ISal bugHtJtor

i»oa», «n

had

«h« be-

for**—and "tils yotee ^ondarAiiiy low -«I should h»v her very h^jpy.**

TremHing, almost stnnad, Mrs. Cliffo rd now advanced, and with a strangely sufloeaaAjl assumption of ease greeted her brother and Eleanor, and playfully rsbaked tliem for being Indoors on such a lovely day. No traces appeared ©n either countenance of what had just passed. Eleanor's smile Was sweet and sad as ever, but she talked pieaaantlv, while Philip accepted, with cordial readiness, his sister's invitation for the picnic. They chatted awhile on indifferent topics, until Philip, asking his wife if she had any commissions to be executed tn the village, left the room, ordered bis horse and rode away.

gone. Bettor for than yourself, dear Eleanor. You are

Eo

to see you, and I greatly fear you do not take sufficient

care of yourself. Let me be your physician for the moment, and question and prescribe for you. TpL! rite first whether you sleep well." "Sleep! I do not kn

W*®** what it is to sleep. All night I try to sleep, but seldom do

easy doee for half an hour at

a time, waking only to suffer more thau go I will wa

speak to Philip

said. "And Fanny, too, knows absolutely nothing of all this. Promise me not to say one word to her."

Margaret could not withhold the promise so eagerly demanded. She stroked the golden hair that lay in her lap, and tried with gentle caresses to quiet the torrent of tears that now burst from the poor burdened heart.

Let me be your friend, dear, and God grant that I may be of some comfort to you."

Presently, Fanny Lawrence came into the room. She said nothing when her eyes rested on her sister's drooping form, but sitting down beside her, took her

anything but the present. Soon or recovered her composure and when Margaret rose to leave, she bade her a smiling farewell.

Fanny offered to accompany Mrs, Clifford port of theM ay home and as they walked down the avenue together, she exclaimed. "My poor Eleanor! What can make ner so unhappy? Dear Mrs, Clifford, there Is no use in trying to hide from you that there is a dark sorrow among us, though I know xot what it is. They exclude mo from their confidence on this subject, yet I know how unutterably dear I am to my precious Eleanor, As for Philip, he is a mystery tome. I would gladly accept him as a brother: and when we first knew him, he was all kindness. Not that he i* unkind now be treats me always as an honored guest, but ho never wises te be with me, to drive or walk with me, nor does he seem to be interested in mv occupations. Of course I know that Eleanors society, so lovely and attractive as she is, must make blm rather Indifferent to mine but he might like me just a little, for her dearsake. And besides, why should I not speak openly to you, whoso interest in them must be as great as my own? You must have seen ero this that he and Eleanor aro not all-sufficient to each other. Ah, Mrs. Clifford, there is a skel ©ton. Its exiatenoe among ua has never been hinted at, but there it in. To me it is a spectro more ghastly far than the ghosts that are said to wander in the old east gallery."

MI

I wish, eh so them brighter il

of sunshine tbia uioruing. earnestly, tltat I cbuld see and happier! Of course much oflhcir sadness is attributable to our little darling's death, but that Is not all. I cannot bear to leave them now, though my father writes constantly of my return to America. Eleanor looks so miserable when I speak of it that I dare not fix on any time for our separating, yet sometimes I think she would interest herself more in other people If I were not here, and that would do her Mod."

will not deny, my dear Fanny," replied Mrs.Clifford, sadly, "thatlam deeply grieved by all I cannot help seeing anuhearing, intangible thou My brother and Eleanor are not but they do not mean us to know why is so, and they do not ask for our sympathy. All we can do is to pray for peace to oome to tlwm, and to wait until the cloud shall pass awa

MI

an

it home as a momento of

tills dear old place." Mrs, Clifford only paused to tell Fanny of her plans for the excursion to the forest, ana to gain her glad consent to ao company the party, and then went on to search for Philip and Eleanor.

Eointedand

neip seelgh Is. banpy, why it

ms

kpwdon for iiiy

waa building a cattle that moment, but it and I descend to "A* if talkto descent1 gentlemen nffer sneechesasUKR! either, for you, w] hi caatle on the

tho a!

demolish' nary thii ua he «Ur New »ueh nn

have

«, m. ground—since every Englishman's home is his castle—to waste time in constructing unsubstantial edifices in the air."

Eleanor sat quite still, taking no part in Fanny's badinage, but listening intently to Philip's mact auty-apoken t*pliea.

5

-1

And now the scene of the day's foativttfta waa mmm. The chndren listened -to a kind but wisely brief address ff°a*Jttr. CUparifc sang tfyum, and thon (fispersed^ foamuso ihemaelvea in the forest until the bugle should summon them to partake of the feast, which the set about be made .... .X adorning the tables with tho ferns and wild flowers that grew in proftiaion in the woods but ever and anon, had any one been watching, she would have been seen to turn very pale and press her hand to her

beguiled by

little Phil and two or three of the other children into setting out for "a good

k-1 long ramble," They persuaded her to go to the lake, where could always bo found wry beautifttl mosses, ana then "it would be so cool and shady them."

Fanny consented, saying, however, to Phil, "Bun and ask your uncle Morion if ho will not go with us. Ho is sitting all alone yonder, under the great eak

toe. Phil ran away, but In a moment returned with his uncle, who said, "I do not believe your little people will enjoy their ramble so well if a staid old gentle-

man like myself is added to the party

-•'•v *. v.. ...w.w so I will waft here until your return, ana if I had lost my consciousness at all. Oh, I then we will have some games together to

Margaret, it is dreadftil, but there la no kelpt Everything has been tried in vain. I have walked and ridden and worked until thoroughly exhausted, but I cannot secure one good night's rest. Often and often I spend the midnight hours !n walking up and down my room or sitting at the window in the silence, wondering why all the world should be at peace and rest while I keep watch alone." .She poured out these words hurriedly, almost unconsciously and then, catching the look of grieved smprise on Mrs. Clifford's face, she seemed to recollect herself, and throwing herself down by

Pfa

&

finish up the day." Fanny urged him did not intend to accompany lier,ycfshe saw awistftd look upon his Ihce that, seemed to say he refused against his using, as she so often aid, conduct, she sauntered away

Fann dm no farther, seeing he

will. Musing, as she so often did, on his •nit strange oondi with ner young companions depth of the wood.

into tho

rhillp Morton stood motionlem, watching ihem until they disappeared among the trees, and he Board a shout of delight from Phil Clifford, who had gone before as .pioneer, and now announced tluit "the lake" was in eight. It was really only a pond: but aa Fanny camo out from the densely shaded wood-path and stood beside it, she thought that in haef fairer spots. Tho

all her wanderings she hacf seen few Tho treesgrew almost close to tho water's edge, in a complete circle,. it in like a clear, polished mirnot a ripple disturbed its calm ngingto the old trees and

framin ror, an surface. Clinging around their trunks were beautiful mosses, and many varieties of exquisite ferns abounded also. The children at once began to gather their treasures, while Fanny sat down on a great mosscovered stone, and thonght how good it was to live. It was one of thaw days when we exclaim,

Now the heart Is so fall that a drop overfills It We are happy now because God so wills It."

hand and pressed it to her lips with fond affection, then began to talk softly to Fanny sat and dreamed of many pleas-

ly and pleasantly away, wl dren played ana frolicked, now at her ride and now almost out of her sight and hearing. At last they came with a petition that they might all go back ana beg the whole party to meet at tho lake. There wonfd be plenty of time before dinner, and many of the children had never seen "tho lake'' at alL Fanny would not disappoint the eager little eager group, and away they ran, leaving her in the completest solitude she had ever known.

But the deep silence was uot long unbroken. In a few moments she heard

ling,

happened? Speak quickly I Eleanor! the children! I charge you, tell mc, Philip I" she cried, for no sound came from nis white lips.

But he made a violent struggle for composure, and said, as ettfmly a» he could, "I wive come to take you to Eleanor. She is ill. It is her heart, 1 think and, Fanny, she has been talking very will not be alarmed, soon. We have taken her to the cottage on the edge of the wood, and I would not have left her, but she eutreated mo to bring you to her quickly."

nniTj

strangely, out you will not She will be better

These words, uttered disjointedly and hastily, fell like thunderbolts on

ly

ty.

As she spoke. Philip Morton rode up

the avenue, ami seeing the sad, agitated Mrs- Clifford quickly stood beside Imut, 'and with a kind embrace led her into the little passage. "Dear Fanny she has revivoa, and hafaaakedsOveral times for you and Philip. But I dare not hide from you, my love, that the pliyalciaa,. for whom we sent fmhu little or no the disease ha* 1

both

expression Margaret and Fanny wore, exclaimed,. Fanny, what is the matter Is anything wrongat the house Has Eleanor I been talking to you?" Then, aa she looked utterly surprised, he added, lightly,

mean have you and Kleaftor I

been making cach other unhappy and! homesick by ono of your long talks though we have never about America? I want you to be hat* tetenee, and^that now her. wrens py here with ua, Fanny, though I fear ^uite ekfcftuated. I teg yon thh dear, the old toll is but a dull, gloomy place before yOBi nee b«r, bee&asefortnvaaloe for you. If my little May had y^^ oakn, The J**texspated to us—" But now hb voice foiled element

him entirety and wising his sister a hasty gpcd-£yc, he rode on toward the

rendexvoua, every foce wasi

rated with gark mote sedate portion of the cempany fol lowed tn their own vehicle*. Mr. and Mrs. Clifford in their chaise, with little

Mr*. Clisiford thought she had never seen tbe sisters looking more lovely, Fanny waa all animation and merriment, and even on poor Eleanor's usually saa fitce a bright amlie of pleasure beamed. Philip ww very silent, though he tried to throw aside his air ot preoccupation. But Ida thoughts were evidently for away and when Fanny laughingly rallied him on hla abatraction. saying, "If you wece my husband, Philip, you should not be permitted to he building castles in the air tn the presence of two such agreeable companions," his fece flushed scarlet, but he only replied,

poor 1 not

Fanny's stricken heart, but site did allow herself to think. Her one idea wife's to be with Eleanor and grasping Philip's arm, she flew, rathef-than walked, through the wood, and in an incrsdibly short time they reached tbe cottage door. The children had all been sent to tho their homes, the preparations for feast hastily abandoned. On the green sward stood the table decorated so taste-

but all waa Fanny moment

still. "Still as the grave, thought, as she paused finat the door, not during

Bat

iy love, that the physician* re sent fmm^di&tclv. giyee hope of rett$v*itf. ho say» lan beeuincreasingfotTeara,

niav

hasten thoond, jvhile

vepr 4

right, each one seemed resolved to went together into the little banish for a few hours at least all care parlor wher®, on a low couch, hastily and sorrow. The school children, tn the with cushions and shawls, lay seventh heaven of dollght, were safely Meanor Mortbn. Every ray of color disposed of in large hay-wagons deco* *«d left her fece. It was strangely Mr, lands ana banners. The I

a"d

mllyIf

her beautiful eyes shone out like

stars. She was quite conscious, but too weak to do more than smile, as Fanny knelt beside her and laid Tier own white face upon the pillow.

After a little time, however, Eleanor's strength revived temporarily, and she whispemi, "Call Philip. I mart speak now, or it will be too late."

Fanny and Mrs. Clifford tried t»per* suade her that conversation at this time, even with her husband, would do her harm but she looked eagerly toward the window outside which he was packing restlessly up and down, and begged again and again that he might oome to her.

At hurt, finding that resistance to her*4 request excited her as much as It could do, Fanny went out, and softly, "Philip, will you come?" [COSCLUDKD 01' TUIKD PAOM.1,^

Jl«8f

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