Saturday Evening Mail, Volume 7, Number 52, Terre Haute, Vigo County, 23 June 1877 — Page 6

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'yk

THE MAIL

A PAPEK FOR THE PEOPLE.

MY NEIGHBOR'S WIFE. ,i i%* \V are taught to love from childhood's

GflfH

'Tvas stamped upDn my mind My earliest article of faith $L

Andif I

love

I'm fcure to love his wife.

fady

IPS

mm.

Was love for human kind $•. •Jr j&t To love my neighbor as myself Is Christianlike they say:

rLtf.'Jto

my neighbor's wife,

How can I help it pray

gfitjr

The golden ruli I strive to heed

Wherever 1 may be, And do to other* as I would •&, That they should do to me And so one day, I thought 'twere well

If this precept I tried. And filled with generous thoughts, I teok or

But ah! this kind and simple act Uave rise to slanders high """v A host of furious tongues assailed-

My neighbor's wife and I. We are taught to share with liberal hearts, The blessings that we prizeTo smile with others when they smile,

And dry the mourner's eyes. And when one day I chanced to find My neighbor's wife in tear*, I whispered words of sympathy

Within her listening ears I drew her trembling jorm to mine, And klKs. 1 the icars away The act was can and lol there was

The very deuce to pay. Al*w: 'tis passing strange—^ I'm ure I can't see through it I'm told to love with alJ my heart,

Then blamed because I do it The precepts that I learned In youth Will cling to me through life I try to love my neighbor, and

Within Their Gates.

Toe Summer sun blazw down hotly enough upon the dwellers in cities, upon the inhabitants of baro, low lying countries. But far away in the cool regions that lie under the friendly shadow of those bills, that are so grand, and so remote and unfrequented that they hardly seem to belong to the rest of our island, all is freshness and delight. No paving stones are here to burn the feet, no white sands to give back Ibe fierce glare of the sun. Everywhere the preen livery or nature is tinged with living gold pleasant breezes blow on crystal streams, brown hill? near at hand melt into blue ones afar off sunny meadows skirt woods dark with shadow and glimpses of landscape are caught that might ravish an artist, if ever artist came to these primitive solitudes. The roads which traverse this region are mostly good and, whether fleeced by the shadows of waving woods, or sweeping past orchards where the fruit trees stand waist deep in luxuriant grass, or in front of the old fashioned country bowses, are always pleasant' highways for the trayeler.

Along one of these highways, on a Summer evening when the ilr seemed full of golden serenity, when the shadows were long and the day near its close, came :t man who did not belong to any holiday class of traveler. He was a pedestrian of jaded appearance, whose dress was covered witli dust, and whose lagging step proved that he had traveleel long ana iar, and he bore in his hand a small black valise. Dfespite this apparent fatigue, however, and notwithstanding that be was plainly little used to hardship, he kept steadily on his way,

glancing

rarely to the riglit or left, but

xing his gaze on the road before him and plodding steadily for *ard. He was young, six or seven and twenty, perhaps and he evid9Mtly belonged to the better classes, for "gentleman" was written on every look and movement. His dark face, of remarkably fine, clear outline, his lithe, tall, slender figure, his delicate hand and shapely foot, attested this fact in a manner which cculd not be doubted or denied. He wore no beard and

ho walked, his lips were com-

pressed rigidly, giving an expression of resolution, of defiant determination, to his face.

The sun was very nearly gone when he came to a fork in the hittbwav where throe ronds diverged toward widely different points. Having paused and looked vainl/ around for any trace of a sign post or tnile stone to direct his steps he sat down at the foot of a tree with an air of exhaustion. •There's nothing for it but to wait until somebody comes by who can direct me,'he said to himself. 'And I don think I ue«id push ou so very exhaustiuglv,' he added. 'Surely this place is remote nough. It seems to be the fag ond of a desolato wilderness.'

The tree stood on the strip of green that bordered the highway. He sat clown, putting his back against the trunk, and soon fell asleep from sheer weariness.

An hour later he still slept—doubled up now in a ourlom position, with his head on the moss cushioned root of the tree—when the stillness of the road was broken by tke roll of wheels and the tramp of a horse's feet. The souuds mlghi have been heard for a uiinute or two before ths "cause of thein appeared. Then a white faced horse came into sight, proceeding at a sedate trot, and drawing a large gig, in which a middle aged man and young woman were seated. The former looked like a sub stantial farmer no doubt was oue he

rettv

and blooming, like in appearance

In the approaching gloom of the evening uelther of them observed that dark object under the tree, with his valise lying beside him but the horse. P*»\ng close to it, chose to be startled. He shied, and darted off sideways across the

™Wtoa!—Steady! What is the matter with you, Billy?'cried the farmer, pullin

ig sharply at the reins. •Some on® is

lying down there,' whis-

^Fhe start of the horse, the noise of the driver, conspired to awaken the weeper. Ho sprang to his feet and stared at the cause of the Interruption a curious look of alarm, a quiet alertness in every line of his face. •Who are vou? What on earth are yon doing theref' growled the termer, vexed at the contretemps. 'Do you see yon have frightened my horse?' •I beg year pardon,' said the young wan, haughtily. 'How w«wl to\now that a sleeping man would frighten your horse? I «at dqwn here to wail until I could meet with some otf*who would inform me whither these different

rC^hev*lead

jf%f

if.:

to several places—noneof

them very near at hand/ trawered the farmer, still indulging in a *eedv stare at his interlocutor. 'Night Is coming on apace. May I ask how you are trarel-

am traveling on

tfEX

foot—taking

talking tour,' answered the young man, Scurtly.

Silt

•Where do you come from?' •That is not of any consequence. But I like to know where I am going. Whither will that road take me?' •To Craig's Point—a long way off.' •And that one?' •Will take you to the foot of the mountains, if you've a mind to go that war.' Sh* I:. •-$ 'And this?' •To the nearest market town. It's nine miles away.'

The traveler looked down at his boots —thinking, perhaps, of the weary feet within them. Then he glanced at the fading glow on the western sky, and finally spoke abruptly: •Is there any house of entertainment near here where I could obtain food and shelter for the night?' •There's no regular house of entertainment nearer than the market town,' answered the farmer.

The girl beside him gave bis arm a slight touch at tbisjuncture, but obtained no response of any kind. The arm remained s.olidiy unmoved, and the keen gray eyes remained fastened on the overeat face of the pedestrian. •Then I must try my luck across the country—that's all,'said the latter stooping for his hat. 'I am obliged for your information,'he added, alter he had recovered this article, 'and I am really very sorry to have detained you. I dare say I shall find

some

farm boose or cot

tage homestead to take me in. Good evening. •Stop a minute,' said the farmer, quietly, and with the deliberate air of a man to whom time is of veiy small importance. 'If yoc have" no objection to mentioning your name and yonr occu pation, I will offer you a night's lodging in my house. It is quite near at hand and you might, perhaps, go farther and fare worse.' 'I prefer to go farther and fare worse, then,' answered the young man, haughtily. 'I give no account of myself at any man's bidding and, with thanks for your offer, I have the honor to wish you again gooi evening.'

He bowed as he spoke—it is doubtful whether honest David Owen e«er received so superb a salutation before— and turning, strode quickly down one of the roads which \ay i-eforehim htaagile, nervous figure passing soon cut of sight, in the blue shades of the gathering twi•light.

The two in the gig looked mutely after him, and a minute at least elapsed before either of them spoke. It was the girl and her tone bad an unconscious reproach in it. 'Dear father, how could you!' •You're a fool, Mary!' returned her father—not roughly, but good naturedly. 'I knew what you meant by pushing and pinching my arm but I suspected him somehow.' 'Suspected what?' 'I don't know. He'd not have been so peppery if all bad been square with him. Ana did you notice how he stared when he first saw us?' •I only noticed that he awoke suddenly out of sleep, and looked very tired. I fear you hurt bis feelings.' 'Hurt a fiddlestick!' rejoined Mr. Owen. 'A straightfoiward man does not object to telling who be is. Hold the reins a minute, will yon, Mary? See this trace!'

The trace had to be spliced together in an impromptu fashion as there were no materials ready to hand, it took some time to do it and it was verynearly dark when Billy's owner mounted again to his place, took the reins from bis daughter's band, and started off at a rattling pace again. 'Supper must be waiting,' he remarked, 'aud they'll all be wondering what has become of us. I hope we shall not meet that man. He took this road, and perhaps he iuay lie down for another nap, and make Billy break the other trace.'

They drove rapidly along the darkening highway, but they saw no sign of the pedestrian with whom they had parted at the fork of the road. A dusk man* tlo ef twilight clothed the broad fields on each side. Over the infinite depth of blue sky a few stars were sprinkled when the farmer at last drew Billy up at his own gate. As he did so, Mary uttered a sudden, startled cry. •Father,' she exclaimed, 'look! What's that?—there!—on the eround?' 'What do you mean?' testily inquired Mr. Owen, whose eyes were not so good as her own, and whose patience was beginning to give way. 'Is it that confounded fellow again?'

Without answering, his daughter now sprang lightly out of the gig and ran forward to the gate, where, on the round—almost under Billy's feet, and mmediately in front of Billy's path—lay prone and senseless the figure of the stranger with whom they had parted half an hour before. 'It is the same man,' she raid, as her father oame more deliberately to her side 'and I—I think he's dead.' 'Not a bit of it,' Baid Mr. Owen, feeling the sti anger's warm skin and his feebly beating pulse. 'But he seems to be in a bad way from some cause or other—I hope it's" not whisky. Run to the house, Alary, and send somebody here. Whoever he is, he is lying helpless at our own gate, and we shall have to take him in now.'

Alary

and very quiet

in manner. She had nn

u,*....™. untied her bonnet, eo warm was the evening, and sat with an elbow on the wing oi no -5^ ana oue dark gloved hand pressing her face thoughtfully.

obeyed bis order literally. She

rau with the tieetness of a deer to the dwelling house. It was a low, substantial tenement, surrounded by its farm buildings, and looking on in front to a 'good garden and grass plot, which was almost entirely shut in hy trees. Auy dwelling place more solitary than this could not well be found, for not another one of any description was within sight.

One or two of the ont door men stood about the premises, waiting probably for the arrival of the master. Miss Owen said a hasty word of explanation, and sent them running to the gate. This was barely done, hen her young brothers and hef sisters ali came trooping out. •Is that you, Mary? How late you are! Where's father? Supper has been waiting ever so long.'

Amid tho children had come forth a voting man of four 'or five and twenty, one Alfred Hale. Mary, out of courtesy to him, now addressed her explanations tb himself, rather than to the young

PIIC Aiiiru ji ww-..—j to him, now addressed her explanations tfe bluise children. 'Perhaps you can help to bring htm in, Mr. Hale,' she said, 'If you would not mind the trouble.

One

hare to take Billy, and my lather is very tired.' •Oertainly,' he answered, with alacrity. 'Who is he? Do you know him?' •Not at all he's a stranger. We saw him lying at the bend, as I tell you, end then found him here at the gate, insensible. I thought he looked veiy fa-

it. strode off in the direction of the gate. T*»e two sons of the fitmily, David and Itom, well grown boya, darted off in his wake. The three girls plied their sister with all manner of

^^nTksk me ndw, Lory,' ahirsaid. 'Where's Nanny? We must see to the best bed room.' V\, .. •The best bed rocWP echoed laicy. 'Is he a gentleman, then?' •Ou, a gentleman, certainly.

The stranger revived, and was assist-

1—-

fanner. Whisky had nothing to do with his condition, as the latter found, to his relief. He bad only fainted from sheer exhaustion. Some refreshment was given to him, but he waa still so faint and weak that the farmer, all hospitality now, insisted upon his going to bed at once. •Is a room ready for him, Mary?* he asked. 'Yesjfather, quite.'

Mr. Hale was ready to help him up the stairs. The stranger held out bis hsnd to his host. •I thank you from my heart,' he ssid. 'You seemed to take a dislike to tue, I thought and therefore feel the more indebted to your goodness and hospitality.' •Dislike! Not a bit of it?' cried the farmer, heartily. 'Tut, man, go to bed and Pget

Presentlv Mr. Hale came down again and look his place at the supper table. He was an out-of-door master at a neighboring school, the school that had the honor of educating the young, Owens. When he came first to the district, some six months ago, he was at an utter fault for some suitable place to board at. No familv was found willing to take a gentleman in in fact, no faintly lived within reasonable distance and in sheer distress be applied to David Owen. Mr. Owen demurred at first he had never been accustomed to anything of the kind. But upon its being suggested to him by the master of the school (who had no accommodation in his own house) that it might prove of benefit to David and Tom to have their tutor in the house, and to be accompanied by him often to and fro, Mr. Owen consented. This young man, Mr. Alfred Hale, hoped to become a clergyman some time, but he had to work his way oa to it. So here he was, living at the farmer's bouse, almost as one of themselves

The boys did not care for him they thoaght bim sullen. Certainly be was a vcr /Hh-ut, se't contained man. Mary Owen hardly knew whether she liked

W!m

or n*»t. She oid not like him in the be would have wished tor it was indeed very evident, at any rate to her, that he had learned to love her very deeply. And she was not quite sure in her own mind that she should never love him she never, by word or look gave bim any encouragement tojhiuk so.

II. A

The strangar whom David Owen thus received within his doors was not destined to leave them for some time. Fatigue and unwonted exposure bad done their work. He tossed through the night aching in every limb and burning with fever, and when morning came was in a condition which made movement impossible. It was evident that he had caught a chill, probably from sleeping on the grass, damp with the night dews. Ill though ho was, however, he was able to prescribe /or himself, to refuse peremptorily to see a doctor, and to assure his host—who came in and looked gravely at him—that he should 'pull through' in a lew d&ySa

These few days proved of considerable duration. He was at no time in a critical condition, but he was certainly very ill, and only the native strength of a good constitution, and perhaps the good nursing and the pure air of the rural spot, brought bim safely through the fever wbieh attacked the foundation of life.

He gave Mary Owen and Nanny, the old servant, plenty of occupation, and the former plenty of food for thought, too, during the golden days and balmy nights of the two or three weeks following his arrival. Who was he? what was he? where did be come from? On all these points—even in the delirium which sometimes attacked him—be was mute, and left his entertainers room for the widest possible conjecture. Sometimes, when he was not himself, he would seem to be adding up incessant columns of figures, and would mutter in broken sentences abont bonds, stocks and securities, so that Mary fancied he must be a banker.

But his own words when he grew better did not bear this idea out. One day when R»r. Owen waa sitting in his room he told him his name was Shepard, and also, that be was traveling through the Principality as agent to a mining company.

But to this statement Mr. Owen shook his head when alone with his daughter. He's a stranger within my gatea, and I'll say nothing against him where curious ears can hear, or tattling tongues get hold of it,' he said, 'but I don't mind telling yon, Mary, that I do not believe a word of the account he gives of himself.' 'But what do you believe, father?' &he answered. 'What Is it that you think?' 'I don't know, lass. An instinct lies in uiy mind that he is not -what he makes himself out to be. How is it he never writes to anybody?—and has no letters?' 'He has been too ill to write.' 'Then he might dictate to us. Anyway, he is my guest'and as such shall be regarded and I don't know that anything else matters to us. But as to his being a common agent, traveling about to visit mines, he is nothing of the kind, rely upon it be is too much of a gentleman for that.'

Mr. Shepard gave no fuller account of himself. He only lay quiet and motionless as the fever left him, and the, languor of convalescence began to come on —watching Mary with a steady, intent which made her feel uncomfortable as she brought him bis food or moved about bis room. She had been his chief nurse throughout his illness, for her three younger sisters were heedless children, and her mother was dead, and old Nanny bad her bouse work to do, but it was only now that he began to appreciate what an excellent nurse she wss —so light of step, so deft of touch, so low of voice, so fair and pleasant to look up-

0,*How

of the men will

can I thank you enough for all

you have done for me?' he said one day, when she sat by him as be eat his dinner. 'You have been—you ore—so very kind to me.' answered she, almply. You are sick and a stranger—it would be strange if we did sot do all we could for you. Is your dinner what you like? Can I get anything else for yon?' •It is excellent,' said be, regarding it with the hungry eyes of a convalescent. 'But there is something else you can do for me, if you choose. You can oome and sit with me a little while this afternoon. I am horribly lonesome, and these newspapers,' pointing to some for which he had asked, 'are worse than my own society.'

So, later in the afternoon, when she had finished her work and arrayed herself in afresh, clean muslin, Mary, with her sewing in her hand, presented heraell In the invalid's room, and sat down to make herself entertaining. This was not very difficult to accomplish, since she had only to answer the questions whieh her patient Immediately proceeded to ask. Theee related chiefly to her family—her father, brothers, sisters, horse! f-but when his curiosity was satis

I TTTTTB A TTtRPAfteV EH IN QjlAIL.'

fied en these points^ Mr. Shepard went on to other subjects. He asked if tbey had many neighbors, and If theee neighbors often visited them, and whether the district, amid which chance bad thrown him, was not exceptionally lonely and solitary, finally he inquired if the young man he had seen on the night of bis arrival was one of the femily.

The glow on Mary's ebeek deepened a little, and the white lids drooped over the blue eyes. 'No,'she answered. 'That was Mr. Hsle. He was a tutor at the school, and bad been admitted, aea favor, to reside with them, but he was not one of the family.' 'You mean be is not related to you,' said the gentleman, with a smile 'but perhape be belongs to you in a different manner.' 'He does not belong to us In any manner,' said Mary, blushing more vividly now. Of oourse she understood what be meant but it wasqn te true that the good looking young usher did not belong to her—though it was equally true that he would have very mucb liked to do so. 'He must have very bad taste, then,' said her companion. 'If you are as kind a mistreat as you are a nurse, I should ask nothing better than to belong to you.'

The girl lifted her long lasbesand shot a glance at bim. Badinage was a thing unknown in that rustic district, ana compliments were indissolubly connected with giggling and blushing and absurdity. Being sensible, and not altogether uncultivated, Miss Owen bad never even liked them, and now she wondered what this stranger meant. Was be In earnest, or was be laughing at her?

The stranger in question thought, meanwhile, that she made as pretty a

cture as he had seen in many a day— deep green foliage touched with gold outside the window by which she sat. forming a background for ber graceful head with its wealth of soft brown hair, her delicate, decided profile, and lovely Complexion. He w%s in a mood to enjoy any slight passing pleasure and it was more than a slight pleasure to watch Mary just then. 'Why do you look at me so?' he asked. 'Have I said anything that you do not like? Is there any harm in thinking

that

if 1 were Mr. Hale I should certainly belong to you? 'Yes, there Is harm,' said Mary, but then she really could not help dimpling into a smile 'because you aon't mean it.' 'Don't I?' said he, with a faint laugh. 'Perhaps I know more about that than you do. But indeed, there is no need to* say 'if I were Mr. Hale,' for I do belong to yoa by the right of treasure trove— that is, if you care to own me. When a man finds a piece of stray property in the public "road, it belong3 to him and you found me there.' •But the property does not belong t» him if somebody else comes forward aud proves that it is theirs,' said Mary, demurely. 'Somebody else may claim you. Perhaps if I looked over those newspapers lying there, I might find you advertised as estrayed, missing, or stolen.'

Never was a shaft more randomly sent never did one strike home with te.liug effect. Though the sol disant mining agent bad himself under tolerable oontrol, his change of countenance at those words fairly startled Mary. As he knew very well, he was not advertised in any of those papers, but still the allusion— 'I beg your pardon,' faltered the girl, who had spoken In mere sporting lightness.. 'I aid not intend—'

He interrupted her with a slight laugh, though his face—even to the lips—was still curiously white. "It is I who should apologize," he said. 'Your words mado roe realize, and rather painfully, that there is nobody in the world who cares whether I am dead or alive.' 'Surely you must be mistaken,' said Mary, sympathetically.

The handsome dark eyes looking at her began to touch her fancy—a thing easily touched at twenty« and which many a woman takes for her heart—to the ruin and misery of lier life. But— was it quite sure that Mary's fancy had not been touched by this good looking pftHenk of hers before?

The pale lips curved into a smile, more significant than words, at her remark. 'I am not miataken with regard to my friends,' said Mr. Shepard. 'It is likely, however, that I may have a few enemies who are kind enough to take an interest in my affairs, and—my movements.'

It is probable tbat the words were spoken recklessly—heedlessly. And as if to cover the indiscretion, he chsnged the topic. •This Mr. Hsle?—is he what people call a gentleman? Young fellows wellborn take situations in schools sometimes.' •I don't know that he is particularly well-born,' replied Mary. 'He Is to be a clergyman eventually.' •He is poor, no doubt?® ft '5 •At present—yes.'

Mary Owen remembered that incautious admission of the stranger, and pondered upon it. Had it any foundation, she secretly asked herself. Her interest in him, naturally enough, waxed greater from the mystery which surrounded him. He was far above the level of any of the men whom she had ever known, and yet be was thrown upon ber fatness" boipitaltty like the merest strolling vagabond. If, as ber father had remarked, he had only bad frienda to inquire after bim, or to write tof What to make ef it puzzled her exceedingly, and she considered the-prdb-lem more than was g6od for her, and shook her pretty head over it.

Other people shook their heads over it, too—to themselves her father, who distrusted his reticent guest, and Mr. Hal*, who was jealously suspicious of Mary'j attendance in the sick-room. But David Owen, though he probably knew Very little of Aran customs, was Arabian in his ideas of hospitality and the embryo clergyman nursed his jealous wrath in silence.

Thus the days continued to go on. Mr. Shepard improved rapidly in strength onoe convalescence began to set in. A sofia from the best sitting-room was moved up stairs for him and as be lay upon It In the old-fashioned large bow window, open to the balmy air, Mary would alt near, work in hand sometimes one of her sisters with her. more often not. The girls did not like the confinement of the sick -chsmber and believed thia sick gentleman had fallen at the ate for their especial benefit: for Mary nad little time now to see tbat they prepared their lessons properly for the dame's school to which they went in the morning. Meanwhile, his and Mary's intercourse was becoming quite easy, natural, and confidential confidential exoept as regarded his past life. 'What's that you are so busy oyer?' he ssked her one afternoon. •This?' holding up some new work. 'It Is a shirt for

TOOL'

•You dont mean to say you make all the shirts?1 Tartly so. The girls do the plain sewing add^ hemming at school, and I finish them.'

And you darn all the stockings?' 'Yes. Since my mother died the sewing has flrilen to me.'

'I should think yonr mother was a good woman—judging by yourself.' •She was indeed. Good and refined bow refined, bow good, you can never know. She was a lady born, and displeased ber family when she married my father. He was only a farmer. 'I am sorry to have alluded to her— forgive me,' was the hasty apology, a3 h« saw the tears In Mary's eye*.

She smiled at him through her wet eyelashes. •Do not be sorry. I like to speak of her. I will show yon her likenees some dsy it is painted in miniature. She was veiy besutifnl, with a soft, sweet faoe.' 'Just like you, I'll wager?' 'Ye—s,' hesitated Mary, blushing vio lently at having to admit it. conjunction with what she had just said. 'But I can never be half as nice looking as she wss or half as good.' 'You must let other people judge of that,' was the answer, given with a significant smile

And tbus, through the lovely days of closing Summer they sat ana talked, growing more confidential with one another each day his tone more unconsciously tender. He had taken to call her'Mary,'and had asked ber more than onoe why she did not call him by his Christisu name, Francis. Mary, blushing ever, could not in very snynees, bring her lips to do it. What caused the shyness? Merely the reticence of girlish modesty—of a well trained mind? Ah, no it was something more than that. Mary Owen bad learned to love. The stranger who bad taken refuge within their gates, and of whom they knew nothing, had stolen ber heart for all time. Had Tem Owen, who was very fond of fast speech, known the state of affairs, be might have said he would not give a button for old Hale's chanoe now.

One warm evening, when the whole of the family were sitting on the old-fa»b-ioned, capacious beaches outside the windows, the stranger appeared, unexpectedly among them. Tall, worn, shadowy, his graceful figure—and it was

graceful—appeared

Jips

in the doorway,

miling, hesitating, as if beseeching a greeting, be looked down apon them. They welcomed him warmly. Moved perhaps by his still wan looks, the farmer started up to give his arm to a seat the children buzzed about, eager to help, and put out their bands all congratulated bim on his recovery. All but Mr. Hale. That gentleman said nothing, and, amid so many wel comers, the omission wss not noticed.

Gradually, as if by instinct, the conviction of what this stranger was becoming to Mary Owen had been taking hold of Alfred Hale's mind. She was learning to love him—perhaps he was learning to love her. Had the tutor wanted confirmatiou of this, he had got it now. He caught the low, involuntary,

passionate sound that broke from her when Shepard thus suddenly ap-

Eer

eared be saw the rush ef crimson to face, the flashing light of love in tbs eyes before the eyelids had time to hide them.

Sitting back in the bench corner, Mr. Hale watched everything his reflections were very mnch more bitter than sweet. More forcibly and dearly than he had hitherto done, he realized the position of affaire—that this mysterious stranger had stolen from him the heart of his best love. There could be no mistake, none. He watched Mary's frankness with the stranger, and her solicitude for him—tbat ho should have a comfortable seat, that be should not sit in a draught, that be did not feel ex hausted and weak. More than this, he watched tho manner of the latter with her—that easy yet respectful familiarity of the well-bred man which even be, Alfred Hale, bad. not yet attained to. Why, they were as 'mnch at home with one another as though they had been acquainted for years.

Mr. Shepard shone to advantage that evening. None could mistake bis superiority. He talked as a man of society —ana of good society and charmed them all. The tutor, uneasy both in mind and body, presented it palpably and Mr. Shepherd, detecting this, resolved to take a little amusement out of him, and behaved just as though he had some right of proprietorship in Mary.

How much of this was assumed for Mr. Hale's benefit, of course be could not know. That the stranger, aware of bis jealeus scrutiny, was in pure mischief endeavoring to torment him as much as possible did not enter his imagination. Yet. in a great measure this was so. Though after a manner in love with Mary's beaux ycux. and inclined to make himself agreeable to her, independently of jealous school-masters, there can be no doubt tbat the presence of the school-master gave a zest to the affair vrhich was highly agreeable to Mr. Shepard.

Nor was this the only cause of offense given tbat evening, when tbey went indoors the farmer asked Mr. Hale for "some music," and the latter produoed a flute, with the sound of whiob Mr. Shepard had already grown wearily familiar. At sight of it he shrugged bis shoulders, said a few words aside to Mary, shook hands with her snd her father and wished them all "good night."

But the whispered words and the movement of departure were net lost on the tutor. He rose to bis feet with so quick a movement that his chair fellback with a crash to the floor. 'If it's my flute that is driving you away, Sir,' be said, in a quick excited voice, 'you need not disturb yourself. Mr. Owen will excuse me if I decline to plsy tonight. I do not wish to make myself disagreeable to any one, not even those'—he flashed a glance of wrath and love at Mary—'who take up with new friends and throw away old ones.' •My good friend,' said the stranger with the quiet, supercilious air of a man of the world, 'I am sorry tbat you should construe my departure into an offense to yourself but it is out of my power to say anything to your observations exoept— good night!' •You'll say something in reply to them at another time!' said the teacher, clenching hisband, as be followed bim into the hall. and sterneyes, that

I have but one reply'to make to those who are insolent to me,' be said scornfully 'and that reply, I tell you frankly, it will not be well for you to force me to give to yon! I have no disposition to give it either. Neither you nor your music can be of the least importance to me, Sir. Stand aside, if you please, and let me pass.'

Mr. Owen, who had opened the room door, watched him as he went up the staircase. 'What is the meaning of this, Hale?' he asked. 'You were quarreling, were you not, with our guest?' 'He deliberately insulted me. The moment I got out my flute 'Nonsense!' You took offense where none was given. Why couldnt you let the r"*n go in peace, whether he liked .your muse or whether he didn't? •It is not only the music,' replied the angry teacher, who bad a great fault of not being able to keep his temper. 'It is not tbat alone.' 'What is it then?' •ii-it-it is seeing the way Be go# tita with Miss Mary—whispering to ber, and giving her his arm just to oome in-doors.

You don't know who this man is that you have brought Into your house, Sir, and I warn you tbat you had better take care of your daughter.' 'Mr..Hale! how dare you?'cried an indignant voice in the rear and they turned to face Mary, her fhir cheeks glowing, her brighteyee flashing. 'Whatever my father may choose to say to you, I say that you have no right to speak in this manner of me or hirm' •For all we know, the fellow may be a disreputable character,' panted the tutor, almost beside himself. 'He is not a fit companion for your daughter, Mr. Owen he has no business to be here.' 'If this house were hot your temporary jme. 1 should say you hr* *—1business to be here,'

ou had no

to be here,' nasnea Mary, her own temper roused for once. Not for herself but —how could she hear slighting imputation upon him?

Sbe took ber bed candle as she spoke, and went up to her chamber. r. Owen, a

man fond

of peace, looked after her, and

then at the angry faced tutor. •You have ruined your chance with Mary, young man,' he quaintly observed* •It is not I who have mined my chance •Not that, as I believe, you ever bad anv.' •It is that man who has ruined it,' criea the desperate lover, disregarding the interruption. 'She has not been the samesinoehe came. 8he——* 'Stop!' again interrupted the farmer, laying his band impressively upon the other's arm. 'I refuse to hear more of this. It is true. I know nothing of the man exoept that he is my guest, a stranger under my roof but I have perfect confidence in Mary—perfect." You must understand that.' 'Many a man has h»d perfect confidence in woman, aud* lived to repent it.' •Be silent, Mr. Hale: You don't, I think, know what you are saying.' •I know tbat yonr daughter as good as ordered me out of the house, Sr. For the present I will go. We have a week's holiday at the school, as you know it begins to-morrow, and I will take It. I bave business at a distance.' •So much the better,' said the straightforward farmer. 'You will come back, I hep.\ with your temper cooled.' •And I trust, Sir, that the next time your daua bter finds a man to love her she will treat nim a little better than she has treated me.'

With thia final thrust Mr. Alfred Hale disappeared for the night. And the next morning he went off lor his vreek*s tool-

•!foy go with him!' cried David and Tom, flinging up their caps. 'Father, he has lately ieen as sullen as a bear.

III.

After Mr. Hale's stormy departure, the time flew on quietly and serenely in the Owen household. Though daily growing stronger, and showing himself loss of an invalid, the stranger still lingered within their gates, and gave no sign of any intention to leave. 'You are welcome to stay with us until you are quite strong and well,' Mr. Owen had said to him more than once for he re-

KIt

rded few things more sacred than the ws of hospitality. might be tbat the attractions of Mary detained him it might be that (supposing he hid some motive for concealing himself) this out-oi-the-way spot of the earth was to bim a haven ef safety. At any rate, here Mr. Shepard stayed.

And, now that he was among them, sitting at their board just as the sullen tutor had been, they all grew to like bim very, very much. With the farmer he conversed on the affairs of the world, so remote from them David and Tom got bim to go fishing and to give them all sorts of welcome information the three young girls wore violently in love with him, and avowed it. But for the mystery that did in a degree surround him, the farmer eould bave made a iriend of this attractive man.

Tbey were now In the delicious days of September. The whole earth in its warm beauty seemed to have put forth its attractious for this especial spot. At least, so thought Mary, as she and her sisters lingered out ef doors in the pleasant air, bv bush and brake, in the garden pertaining to the house, or under the fine mountains, Mr. Shepard ever by her side. Come what would, no days of her future life could ever bring a similar

The week passed happily. W4th the commencement of another, David ana Tom went to school again. Tho tutor bad not oome back. Instead of tbat, the master to bis great wrath, iscoived a letter from bim, saying tbat the business he wss endeavoring to traosaot was delayed but that he hoped to return to bl* post sbortly.

A few days yet went on days of sweet serenity, of perfect happlneis. At least they were so to Miss Owen. Then came an announcement from the farmer tbat be should bave te go on the following day to the county town, on business connected with his farm. He asked Mr. Shepard if be would like to take the other seat in bis gig, and go "vith bim. Mr. Shepard, thanking him

aVJ?

lis

kv,

Tl /I

for

after dark. It Was more

the offer,

declined and th* farmer started the next morning before daybreak. Tbey aid not expect him home nptiL da

than a

two

hours' journey even for Swift Billy. Mr. Owens' visits to the large towns were when toe did go he liked to make the most of his stay there.

What, then, was the astonishment of two of the girls, Eleanor and Gwendolln as tbey sat at work on the bench outside the window in the afternoon, to see their father approach from the direction of the stables, wbitber be had evidently driven

at onoe

t/,

to leave his horse and gig.

What could be the meaning of his early return? Tbey asked it one of another, these two simple hearted girls but they did not dare to ask it of bim. For on Mr. Owen's face lay an expression of gravity rarely seen there, of in tense trouble. •Where is Mary?'he began. •Gone over to Nitron, papa, to take some cold meat and a few eggs to poor old Jenny Thomas. Is—is anything the matter, papa, tbat you have oome back so

Shepard-Is he out also?' returned the former,

leaving

and entered it. What took place during tbat interview was known to themselves only. In a very short while-only a ouarter of an hour, as it seemed to the children waiting below—both of them came forth from it. Mr. Shepard bad his black valise in his hand apparently packed for traveling. ^r«m very sorry for this,' said the farmer. in a low tone, as he held out his hwnrt- 'I would not turn any one willingly from my gatea who has been a guest within them, as you have. But you perceive how it ia. Your own safety renders it imperative.' «I thank Jyou with all my heart, Mr. Owen. I am glad you know the truth now it has sometimes been on mv mind to tell It to you, unquestioned. Perhaps we may meet again—in another country [Qmtinued on Seventh Page.}

\&jt

JJleanor's timid ques

tion unanswered. •No, I think he is in bis room. Without another word Mr. Owen proceeded to his

guest'schamber,

knocked,