Saturday Evening Mail, Volume 9, Number 23, Terre Haute, Vigo County, 7 December 1878 — Page 3

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THE'MAIL

A PAPER FOR THE PEOPLE.

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LOST LOVE.

The heart of th« simplest woman I# a mystery unrevesled, And the love that seem* most transparent

Is most hopelessly concealed. We care not for love while we hfcve it, V» know not of love till 'tis lost We scatter Its treasure* broad-handed,

Nor reckon the ultimate cost. Lo! a hand comcs forth from the shadows— A touch that I knew of oldThat could crown the gloomiest fancies

With an aureole of gold, And I think how that hand, so loving, That craved but to lie in mine, Oft met an impatient gesture,

Or found no responsive sign. And from yonder painted canvas I catch the old. wistful look, So timidly, mutely Jealous

Of the love that I gave my book. And I only too well remember How I chafed at the dumb reproach, And swore that no thought of woman 8honld on my punoits encroach. Was I blind, or mad. or but heartless?

The facc and the hand are gone, The light of my life has vanished, I am utterly alone. The brain that her glances kindled

Is blighted and dead and chilled# And the gonreous dreams of the future Can never more be fulfilled. I loved as a man who is selfish 8be loved in a woman's way And man's love compared with woman

Is as darkness unto day. As a spendthrift scatters his birthright, I wasted the dower "he gave, And, too late, I find my ambition

Has followed her into the grave.

MARRYING WELL.

Bx MRS. R. B. EDSON.

CHAPTER VI.

In the little church Almy Barnard had stood a bride at the altar sat Lancelot Russell, his heart plunged in bitter grief. The church wa» filled as closely as on the day of the marriage but this time there were no eager glances, no shy blushes and happy smiles, but, instead, an oppressive silenae and an air of grave solemnity.

Without, all' was instinct with new. fresh life—the springing grasses and swelling buds overrunning with sweet prophecies. Within, the hush, and gloom, and silence of death.

In a oountry town, a marriage or death touches and interests every person somewhat. Some invisible, electric chord rues through the entire community, and the shock of gladness or grief is felt in a greater or less degree by all, and sometimes, too, we -fancy, by the great heart of nature, manifested in soft skies and gentle airs—in hush, and silence, and repose.

This fresh, tender May air seemed somehow strangely in harmony with the pure life and hopeful death of Esther Russell. Years before the husband of her heart bad gone out in health, to be brought back a mangled corse. Ever since she had been waiting quietly for her own release, content to go or stay, as He ordained.

To Lancelot she seemed gifted with perpetual youth. He could not think her really ill—she never complained, was never gloomy or impatient, and, though her oheek was pale and her step slow, he believed it some constitutional peculiarity, and when the shock came it drove him nearly wild.

Henoeforth all places were alike to him, he thought wearily, not realizing, in the freshness of his grief, how, by and by, Hadley would be thrice sacred to him because she bad lived there, and in death slept in the peaoeful shadow of itsiiills.

There were soores of homes open to him during the few days that it was necessary for him to remain, and tens of scores of hearts went out to him in sympathy. From childhood, Lance Russell had been a favorite, and when he went to the military academy, they all felt a thrill of pride, fully believing that he would rise to distinction.

This was two years before, and the reports which came back of him bad exoeeded even the sanguine hopes of his friends. There was In his manner a hearty geniality, mingled with a quiet firmness that attracted and Inspired both love and respect. He was brave and cool, yet never boastful. Looking in his handsome face, one felt its power and purity more than its beauty.

Another grief ttfen his mother's death weighed upon him. Since bis fifteenth year he had loved Almy Barnard, and fondly hoped, some day in the happy future, to call her wife. It was true he bad given her freedom of choice, but he WAS so sure of that choice—he thought! Loving her so fully and entirely, he fancied that love would hold her—that she could not stray away from him. The first check his faith had met was the sight of her on the steamer's deck, leaning on her husband's arm. That it was her husband be had known instinctively. Oh I the bitter, crushing agony of that moment I Could he ever forget it? And—oh! harder and more cruel than all—could he everceare loving her, were she wedded a hundred times? fie knew that he could not, and be cause a living sorrow is

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much fiercer than a

dead one, the grave lo his heart darkened his life more than the- grave on the hillside, so ft® ued and sanctified as it was by the dews and airs of heaven.

The day before he was to return to West Point he weut up to Deacon Barnard's. He had not been there since she went awav, and though he dreaded to go, something seemed to call him there.

Only Emily and her mother were at home. Mr*. Barnard was delighted to aee Lancelot, wad as she had a way of •ay I OR whatever waa in her mind, sbe told him ao at ooce. 'It is very pleasant to have such kind friends.' he said, with a faint smile, sitting down on the broad stone step firmly imbedded in the award, and watching the apple blossoms as they whirled atd drifted to his feet. •If only Almy was here now, St would wem like old times' she continued. •Somehow the sight of yon **ma to taring back thoughts of her—poor child! 'Isn't she well—Almy?' be aaked quickly, with a sodden start, and a slow eolorspringing lohlscheek. •Oh! yea, I expect ao. I call her ao to myself when I get to thinking of her away among at rang® re—you know ate was oar baby, Lance, and oer voice grew bosky and tremulous. 'Do you leave us to- morrow, iJDOtlotT' Emily aaked, more to change th* current of conversation than anything else tor, with a woman* natural Inatinct, ahe pitied and wished to shield him. •Yea, It is all the home I hare now, you know. Yet I have thought, these two or three days part, however, that I hare a great many. I shall never tor«et the warm hearts in old Hadley, be Miv life cast where it may,' be said, with JUB unsteady voice.

'It must be your home still, Lance— none of us are willing to give you up,* Emily replied with unusual feeling. •Emily,' interrupted Mrs. Barnard, •didn't Mr. Gordon say that Dora Johnstone's beau waa at West Point? Perhaps Lance knowa him. Dora Jobuatone'* the sister of Alray's husband,' she explained. 'What waa the young man's name Emily 'Lovering, I think/ was the somewhat reluctant reply, •Oh! Lieutenant Loverlng. Yes, I know bim well be is a noble fellow, too,' be said cordially. •You ought to go up with blm some time and see Almy, Lance. I suppose they are very stylish people very ilch, too, Mr. Gordon says. It was bard to have Almy go away so far, but I should be a very unnatural parent not to feel pleased that she had married "so well," though I really believe jttie deacon had ten times rather ahe had married some poor boy hire in Hadley.' 'How do you like our new minister, Lance?' Emily interrupted desperately, seeing how white he grew, and then paused, overcome with sudden confusion as she remembered that Lance had had but one opportunity of listening to the new preacher, and that upon the occasion of his mother's funeral. •Pardon me,' she said hastily, her red face (trowing several shades redder. •I have nothing to pardon, Emily, answered quietly. 'I am very much pleased with Mr. Ashcroft he has been very kind to me, at a time when one if* grateful for kindness.' 'Lanoelot,' said Mrs. Barnard, gather ing up her forces and returning to the charge with fresh vigor, 'I wish you'd ask this Lieutenant Loveringsomething about the Johnstones, if it ever comes right. I've heard they belonged to some great family in England. I told Emily to ask Almy about it when she wrote, but I don't think she ever did—did you Emily?' 'No, mother what difference does isftko •Why. I don't know as it makes any really, but it is something to say one ancestors were princes, may be. I ai going up to Riverbeck myself som time this summer, if the deacon can spare the money. I think of her so much, and the deacon makes me quite nervous, the way he prays for her, just as if she was unhappy and lonely, and discontented there. It isn't at all likely. Why, everybody In Hadley said Almy was a lucky girl to make such a match.'

How much longer she would have run on in the same strain it is not easy to determine, for Emily had given up in despair, when, to the infinite relief of both Lance and Emily, John Cranston came In. This created a diversion, and a little after he took his leave.

Mrs. Barnard was a kind hearted woman, who would not do a wrong thing for the world, and loved her family with the tenderest devotion, and yet she was weak and vain. Birth, wealth, and position were her hobbies. Her own girlhood was spent in hope—the hope of "marrying well." It was the pet dream of her life to live in state, and have a large retinue of servants to come and go at her bidding. But up to this time It had never been realized, and she had long since ceased expecting it for herself.

A

Emily was too plain and peculiar to be likely to realize her mother's de3ires, and so all her hope natu aJy centred in Almy. Is it any marvel that hur heart overran with satisfaction when, after so many years of hoping and waiting, the delightful dream was at last to be realized through her child? And yet, in spite of all, her tender mother-heart trembled a little with anxiety, though she over and over again assured herself that 'Almy couldn't help being happy with everything heart could wish to make her so.'

Ah! but hearts are so exacting, and are often unhappy when they are aeem ed supremely happy. •I've got a letter for you, Emily,' John said, after Lance had left, and Mrs. Barnard had gone out to see if her marigolds and asters were coming up. 'From Almy she asked, reacbingout her hand.

But instead of giving her the letter, the presumptuous John took the hand, holding it very closely in both of his. It was not a small band, or a particularly soft or white one indeed, I am quite sure it was stained and hardened by daily toil but John didn't seem to think of that. It was altogether surprising and an aspiring Shanghai going past the open door, glanced in and gave an astonished 'Cut-ka-da-cut/ but the imperturbable fellow remained unmoved. •You know what I asked you the other night, Emily,' he said, a warm, honest color burning in his bronzed cheeks. 'But that has nothing to do with the letter,' she said, making an effort to withdraw her hand, She might as well have tried to draw it from a vise. 'I know it. But you want the letter, and I—I want you, Esally. and yon know it,' he said desperately, his face growing redder than before. •But, John, didn't I tell you that I couldn't leave mother?—«be isn't able to do the work—' •Now, just you look here, Emily. What I want to know is/do you care anything about a feller? I love you, Emily, and I want you to be my wife, mother or no mother!' •John!' •I don't care! I'm thirty-one next August, and I reckon that is about old enough. You are out of your time, too, and I don't see whose business it is if we can agree.' •Well, John,' she aaid, gravely and soberly, though her voice trembled a little, think, if I felt at liberty to marry anybody, I would choose you but now, when Almy has just gone away, I don't feel as if would be right for rae to leave them, too—that is,' she added relentlngly, seeing the disappointed look iu bis face, 'not just yet.' •Say in the fall, then,' be said, brightening. •Perhaps n«5Xt spring, John/ sbe amended. •Next spring! That is a year—and who knows where I shall be then?' his face clouding again.

How very little be thought or dreamed of what the next spring would bring to him—to all the country 'Well,' after a little pause, '111 try to make that do, if you Ml only say you care for me a little,' he said wistfully. •Why. John!' she said, with a look of snrprtae 'you don't suppose I would ttrooitse to marry you if I dtdnt.' •Bat you miebtlust my so,' Emily. •Well, then, I do like you very much, John,' sbe said very gravely. 'No, not like, Emily,' be whispered

^fi I love you, if that's any better/ she said, dropping her eyes, and looking very much like a full blown ps»ony.

The Shanghai, walking thoughtfully back across the great circular doorstone, chanced to oast another glance within. What he saw we, of course, cannot tell, but be at once began a series of the most startling *Ka-da cut*/ bringing Mrs. Barnard from among the marigolds, under the impression that there was a hawk somewhere about. John was Just going out, and to her anxious Inquiries

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rERRB HAUTE SATURDAY BVBNIN* MAIL.

regarding the supposed bawk, said be 'hadn't happened to see him, but be hadn't a doubt that there was one some where.' A very safe supposition.

In the meantime, Emily bad slipped up stairs for the double purpose of reading Almy's letter and regaining what ahe rarely lost—her own composure.

The letter was brief—much briefer than Almy's letters were—and constrained. Among other things she said: •I hardly think you bad better come as you propose, Emily. I don't tbfnk it would be pleasant for either of ua. When I go to housekeeping it will be different In regard to Lanoe, I think vou are mistaken—at least I hope you are. I was not promised to Lance, Emily. I was tree to choose, so do not let that disturb you.'

Then there followed a few words to the different members of the family, and the letter closed abruptly—'not even asking her to write again,' Emily said, aggrieved.

Thinking it all over, sbe could come to butone conclusion Almy had grown proud and felt above them. Well, she would not trouble her If she could forget her own flesh and blood for a little show and fashion and wordly advantage, she, at least, would not remind her of them by her presence.

Andso the first hard thoughts that had ever found place in Emily Barnard's heart sprang up against her absent sister, little dreaming bow much pain it had caused her to write that letter, and how she had cried herself nearly sick over it.

CHAPTER VIT.

When Almy came up, in answer to her husband's summons, she found him sitting with Emily's letter in his hand, his lips white with passion. He did not speak or look up until, after closing the door, she stood before him. She was alHrmed, and trembled so she could hardly speak. 'What is it, Kent? Do not be angry, please,' she said falteringly. 'I will write to Emily to wait until I get to housekeeping, and—' 'Then she will wait till doomsday!' he interrupted. 'O Kent! You just promised me—' •Promises are broken, it seems,' looking at her meaningly.

A flood of crimson mounted to the white temples. •Who is Lancelot Russell, the great irresistible, whom everybody Joves?' he demanded haughtily, with a little sneer of contempt on bis lips. 'He is my friend, and a gentleman,' she answered with flashing eyes. Her temper was rising. •See here, Almy, you will have no more letters from your conscientious sister, if sbe writes such stuff as this to you. I will burn them unopened first!'

She grew pale. There was something in his look and tohe that said he would keep his word. Not have Emily's letters! Not hear, as the days and weeks went by, from the old home in Hadley— of father and mother and Allen, and what they said and did, and how they talked and thought of her The thought almost drove her wild. How could she live there without them, realizing suddenly the gri a^ comfort they had been to her. 'Emily never mentioned Lance Russell's name in her letters before,' sbe said eagerly, crushing down the anger that was iu her heart. 'I did not suppose it would interest you, or I might have mentioned that, when I was a child, Lancelot Russell and I were very good friends, and later, when he went to West Point, he said that be cared a good deal for me but we were both young, and he knew it was not well to be bound by pledges that might be broken upon maturer thought, and so there were none made though I will not deny,' she added with a little touch of spirit, 'that our attachment was very sincere then and entirely mutual. Afterward I saw that it was only a childish partiality on my part, and I supposed the same on his. There, I have no more to tell,' she said proudly. •Forgive me, Almy,' tossing the letter in her lap, 'though I advise you to burn that and put a stop to any similar ones. We will dismiss the subject, if you

lease, which was not. after all, worth the words. I have just recollected an engagement—good morning,' and he bowed, still a little coldly, and went out. A few moments later she heard kim practising anew operatic air in the parlor, and remembered that Miss Tallmage bad asked him to assist her in it at breakfast that morning.

The languid days of summer came, and the flowers bloomed, and the birds sang, and tbe river rippled and flashed in the soft sunshine, but the wintry gloom and loneliness did not all leave Almy's heart as she fancied it would. The beautiful color faded out of her cheeks, and there were hollows under her eyes, and she grew nervous, fancying Kent contrasted her paleness with the brilliant, glowing beauty of Frances Tallmage. Certainly his eyes lingered oftenest and longest on her face, and sometimes she bad seen her eyes droop, those bewildering, alluring eyes, under his eager gaze. The German and French readings seemed to grow more and more absorbing, and the long twilights were passed tnostlv in the music room Frances Tall mage's jewelled fingers touching the ivory keyB with a subtle witchery that drew Kent Johnstone at once to her side.

Almy did not play Kent had proposed that sbe should learn, but no steps had ever been taken toward 'it. Sbe had a pore, sweet voice, but she knew only hymns and simple songs, and she bad not sung them of late. No one but Dora ever asked her now, and Dora was often away at Hudson. Once Mrs. Loverlng sent down for her, and she had made her a visit of a week, although it seemed to Almy little more than one long, delightful day. If only she could live there, she thought, how happy sbe should be! Mrs. Lovering was a widow with two married daughters living in Philadelphia, and one son, Ernest, at West Point. 8be was a thorough lady in heart and manner, and though she saw that Almy bad never bad .the advantages of polite society, it did not lower her in her estimation. Sbe knew that her heart was pure, and took her at ouco to ber own. As tor Almy, she almost worshipped the genial, accomplished, graceful woman who treated ber with as much deference and cordiality as she did the most distinguished of her friends.

One day in August there waa an excursion up Esopua Creek, and the Johnstones were to be of the party. Almy bad anticipated it with a little of her olden delight, but she awoke In the morning with a violent headache, and though ahe tried to get up, ahe was so diny that sbe was glad to lie back again.

Kent looked a little disappointed, but the sight of her white face touched his heart, and be at once declared that be would stay at home with ber.

How absurd I' Mrs. Johnstone said. 'You look as (fit were something serious Kent. It's not a very remarkable thing for a woman to have a headache. Jane can attend her.' •I shall not go and leave her to tbe care of servants,'be said hotly 'what would people think of me?*

Fortunately or unfortunately, I hardly know which, he did not know wbat •people' alroady said of blm and bis Intimacy with Miss Tallmage, to the neglect of bis wife. People never fall to see tbe mote In their friend's eye.

But to tbe surprise of all, Julia volunteered to stay at home with Almy, saying that she had not cared to go from the first, having been to Esopua Creek a dozen times already.

Still Kent hesitated, but Almy knowing that he wished to

RO,

said softly:

'Please go, dear Kent I wish you would.' And so he went. Julia was an excellent nurse, if sbe chose, and to-day

she

did choose. She

closed tbe blinds, toning down the light, made some sort of hot tea which she gave Almy, and then sat down by the bed and bathed her head until the fierce pain grew dull and faint, and the Pa'n* ed, sobbing breath even and soft, and sbe sank into a quiet sleep.

It waa two o'clock before Almy awoke, a little feeling of giddiness still in her head, but tbe pain quite gone. There was no one in the room, and after a little time she slipped on her morning dress and sat by tbe window. The wind came in, in little fitful puffs, through the closed blinds, and a dreamy bush filled the air. She opened the blind a little way and looked across the river, wondering when they would come, and if Kent had thought of her much, and if he would have been any happier if Bhe had gone.

The door stood open, and the carpet was soft and yielding, and she did not hear Julia till she said close beside ber: •I wonder what you were thinking of so intently that you were deaf and blind to all external things.' •I was hoping Kent had enjoyed the day, and wondering if he had been anxious about me,' she answered, with a faint blush. 'I suppose be has a good many friends in the party.' •A good many acquaintances, perhaps. I fancy he will not leave Fraces for their society, however,' she answered, with a light laugh.

Almy aid not reply perhaps the same thought had been in her own heart. •I don't mind telling you a little family secret,' Julia said, after a pause, 'only you must never say I told you. You see, Frances and Kent were lovers once, and though he became jealous and they quarrelled, we—I mean tbe family—always expected he would marry her eventually. They were so well matched in everything—birth, fortune, education, and their tastes so perfectly congenial, that it seemed most natural they should choose each other. It was a great dis-appointment-to mother, forjudge Tallmage was her cousin, and she had set her heart on seeing the families united.'

She paused, a little alarmed at the effect her cruel words had on Almy. The poor child sat upright, her lips half parted, her face colorless, and a strange, unnatural fire in her eyes. 'Don't look so, Almy,' she said soothingly. 'I didn't think you would mind it. 'Of course Kent cares nothing for Frances now, only in a cousinly way.' 'But she is very beautiful!' she cried with a quick sob. 'Yes, Frances is bands6trio, but Kent is a man of honor and will not disgrace himself or you, however he may feel. So make yourself easy. I wouldn't have told you if I had thought you so sensitive. I thought girls like you considered the prize so much the more valuable if it was won from another.

The color rushed biokin a torrent to Almy's face, and a swift fire flamed in her eyes as she rose to her feet. 'God knows,' she said in a firm, clear voice, 'that I wish most devoutly I had not "won," as you call it. I have lived a living death ever since I came into this cold, proud house! And were I to choose at this moment, I would choose death rather than the life 1 live here. I count it no honor to bear a name at once so cruel and haughty.'

Then, her sudden anger exhausted, she sank back, weak, trembling in her chair, and broke into a wild, stormy passion of weeping.

Julia stepped out softly, perhaps a little frightened at the storm she had evoked, for she had never believed Almy possessed of much spirit, and perhaps satisfied with the cruel work she had done. Could it be that she bad staid away from the excursion just for this heartless purpose?

Left alone, poor Almy's anger, soon melted in mortification and regret. Sbe recalled the many whispered words and admiring glances, barely noticed at tbe time, but taking on new meaning and importance now. Sbe did not wonder so much at bis loving Frances, who was so brilliant and fascinating, and knew so much but why, oh! why had he crossed her life to blight and destroy it? Why had God permitted it—surely Be knew. And then vaguely across her consciousness came the thought of 'souls

Eer

urified by suffering.' She rememberfcd father had said once that God seemed to set some apart for that end—to 8how how white a human soul might become under tho refiner's fire. She thought bow grand and wonderful a thing* it must be to be 'purified by suffering.'

Then, vaguely and gropingly, like one feeling in the dark, her heart went out to Him, hoping that he would help her, somehow, to baar whatever it was best for her to bear, and that she might not grow hard or bitter under it. She knew she was not a Christian—that is, she had never been oon verted and taken into the church, like Emily, and she was not quite sure He would hear ber cry, but, like all other human souls In the bitter stress of pain or peril, she involuntarily lifted her thoughts to tbe All-Pitiful.

Tbe autumn days came again, but Mr. Johnstone did not return. Affairs were rather unsettled in the South, owing to the- approaching elections, and some were insane enough to prophesy war if the North won tbe elections. But the prophecy was scouted as wild and absurd by the great majority of both sections.

A great country like this, knit together by so many ties of interest and consanguinity, could not afford to go to war for an abstract principle. But be the issue wbat it might, Mr. Johnstone resolved to stand by rice and cotton, or fall with them.

Almy gave up tho last lingering hope of a separate establishment when this news came. •Well, perhaps It would not matter,' she said, as sbe buried this last hops with so many of its fellows.

Sbe bad been ill and a little low spirited for several days after this last hope died. To her, as to tbe great majority of ber staters, death seemed more probable than life In the approaching peril. Sometimes, too, it had seemed quite ss desirable. Kent impatiently said It was 'no wonder the grew dull and fSded,

moping

as she did/and rooks of other

women who were rosy and happy with as much cause tor 111 heslth ss she. As It It were a matter of choice with bet!

Meantime Kent flirted In a jesting way with 'cousin Frank/ as he called ber whom be declared 'a perfect prise tor a dull house.*

If you bad not been In such haste to marry, you might have won tbe prise/ his mother said in a low votes as she blm.

'I have not repented my haste, as you call it/ be flashed out. His mother smiled ironically. 'Ob! no how could you?' 'Then don't insinuate it,' be said moodily.

But after sbe bad gone, and he stood by tbe piano, watching tbe rich color waver in the passionate face of Frances Tallmage, ana saw the darkening, bewildering fire in those marvellous eyes lifted an instant to his face, a vague feeling of disoontent crept over bim.

And so the days went by, and December came. Latterly,

BS

If

if Almy's pre­

monitions bad somehow crept iuto bis heart, Kent grew tender and devoted to his sweet, pale faced wife, Sbe bad said to bim so many times, 'If I shouldn't live, Kent/ or 'if anything should happen to me, you know,' that be almost began to believe tbat she would die. Somehow the thought haunted him perpetually, and with it came a vague feeling of remorse. He knew ber life bad not been pleasant there, and be half regretted he bad not braved his mother's opposition, and given her a house of her own.

any thing should 'happen!' and shuddering at the thought, and in a moment of

self

condemnation be told Almy tbat if she wanted Emily to come she might write for her. 'Ob, Kent! may I—may I trulj?' she cried, with pretty, childish eagerness. •And won't they care?' •She shall come if you say so, dear/ he said fondly, ceressing tbe soft brown curls. •O Kent! I have so wanted to have mother or Emily with me when—when —$ou know because it would be such a comfort to them if I shouldn't live.' •I wish you wouldn't talk in this way, Almy,' he said nervously. 'Well, then I won't, dear/ she replied, brightly. •I don't like to think of such a possibility and I don't want you to.' •But, Kent, are you quite sure you should be sorry—that is truly sorry, I mean? You know I am not wise like you and—and—' she hesitated, thinking of Frances Tallmage, 'your mother and sisters. I don't believe I ever shall be like them, either,' a look of sadness creeping into her eyes. 'I think, Kent, I begin to understand wbat mesalliance means. Perhaps if I should die they would forgive me, one is so much tenderer toward the dead than the living, and—' choking back a little sob, 'I think sometimes it would be better, perhaps for all of us.' •Almy, in heaven's name, stop!' Kent exclaimed, rising and pacing the floor nervously tho tenderness and love he still felt for his young wife struggling in his heart with its pride, and the waywardness of a passion that had latterly sprung up in his heart. Would it be better, as sbe said? a faint thrill, almost a shudder, running along bis nerves.

Then his better nature asserted itself, and drawing the curly bead down upon his bosom, be kissed the wet eyelids, and said, truly and sincerely: •It would be very terrible to me to lose my little girl, and it pains me to have her talk in this way.'

The pained look that lurked nearly always In the soft gray eyes quite vanished for a moment, and a faint, tremulous oolor flickered in tbe transparent cheek, as one little hand fluttered shyly up to his neck with a pretty, nestling motion. •Dear Kent/ she said softly, 'I will never be so foolish again.' And when a little later he went down, leaving ber to write to Emily, her heart sang like a bird.it was so joyous. It would be so nice to hav6 Emily—dear, quiet, patient Emily—that tbe terrible dread and fear that had oppressed her so long, sleeping or waking, seemed all at once to have lost half its weight, and then—she could not help saying this to herself—if anything should happen, it would be so much easier for them' all to bear. It would be so terrible to die and never look in one of the dear home faces again! And the 'Dear Emily' she had written at the top of a dainty, gilt edged sheet of note paper grew blurred ana strangely dim.

Kent met his mother in the hall when he went down. Why not tell her at once, be thought, about Emily Barnard. Expecting opposition, he almost regretted his promise but how could he have done less?

Surely

Almy was entitled to

some indulgence now. he said, feeling rather pleased with his own maguanimous part in the matter. 'Mother, Emily Barnard will probably be here next week Almy wishes to have ber. I thought I would mention it to you/ speaking with a careless indifference he was far from feeling. •Indeed!' the thin nostrils suddenly dilating. 'Perhaps you had better send on for the entire family probably she would like to have them.'

A swift flame shot to his eyes, but he did not answer. Mrs. Johnstone saw it, and changed her tactices. Generally she could manage Kent, but when that look came into his face Bhe always paused— it was the better policy. 'Have you sent for Miss Barnard yet, Kent?' she asked presently, In a quiet, suave tone. 'No Almy is writing now.' 'Well, perhaps it Is a good idea, although it rather surprised me at first, as I baa not known it was contemplated.' •It was not—tbat is, I have juiit told her sbe might write, think she Is entitled to the privilege of having a little voice in tblh matter/ •Certainly. And, by the way, I have just ordered the carriage if sbe will have tbe letter ready in half an hour I will mail it.' 'Thank you/ he answered in a pleased voice, the fir® fading out of bis eyes. And be ran baak up stairs. •Almy/ looking in at tbe door, 'Mother is going out and will mail your letter If you wlfl have it ready in thirty minutes. •Ob! yes/looking up with a bright smile. 'Then sbe don't—don't care about it, abont her coming here?'Almy asked with eager hesitation. 'Certainly not but it would be just the same if she did/ his lips setting themselves together firmly.

Mrs. Johnstone, standing In the parlor door, smiled oddly as the words came distinctly to her ears.

The mail left Riverbeck that afternoon. All that night there was hurrying to and fro in the great house, and muffled voices, and moving lights and shadows against the window curtains, and two angels stood waiting on the threshold— tbe angels of 14 fe and Death. But just ss the faint gold of dawn flamed in tbe east, a faint cry broke on the waiting ears, and with a glad smile tbe angel of Life sped away. But bis companion still lingered, until by and by the faint wail grew fainter, a shadow settled slowly over tbe faces Just now tinged with dawn, and •UoflJy from that hushed and darkened room Two angels Issued."

But it was many days before the white tecs on the pillow came out of the shadow of tbe dark angel's wine. It bad pansri so near in taking the little life at Almy's side, that it had brushed and almost stilled her own heart.

But as tbe fluttering pulse grew stronger and tbe great peril passed, Kent Johnstone began to grow nervous, an­

ticipating the momentary advent of."Emily Barnard. The letter bad bad ample time to reach her and bring an- /, swer but none came. ,''V

The littie heir of tbe Johnstone name was robed in white fcilk and buried in the family vault before its young mother bad kissed the soft lips, or even knew tbat her baby was dead, the doctor strictly forbidding tlie least excitement.

Kent was vaguely conscious of a dull feeling of disappointment, hardly amounting to a regret, certainly not to grief.

But Dora roused from ber usual indolent indifference, and wept softly over tbe little lace lying unconsciously upon its satin pillow, and kissed the white cheek, and thought bow grieved poor Almy would be, and kissed it yet again, this time more tenderly and reverently, for ber sake. A«id when she wrote to Ernest a few days after, she told blm of tbe little life that had so soon flickered and gone out, and how sad it seemed that Almy could never look on the face of her child. And then she told him how very ill Almy was, and thatsAc did not think she would ever be well again.

As it happened, Mr. Gordon was at West Point wh6n Lieutenant Loverlng received the letter, and, knowing that he was a neighbor of tbe Barnarcls, ho told him wbat Dora had written.

And so it came to Hadlt one day .casting a sad shadow over the village where Almy had been loved so well, but falling with crushing weight upon the inmates of the farm house, whose pet and idol sbe had been always.

By and by, Almy began to beg to see ber child, and when the truth could bo, put off no longer, Kent told her. She uttered a low, pitiful wail, and turned ber face to the pillow. He began some words of consolation, as people will, but she looked up with such a look of mute agony in ber eyes that he was silenced before she said: •Please don't. I cannot hear you now, my heart aches so!'

Kent walked nervously about' and finally went down stairs, a vague wonder coupled with a little feeling of vexation that a 'woman should always make such a fuss over just a few hours' old baby! He couldn't oomprehend it!'

It was early in the new year, and Almy, wrapped in warm shawls, had been carried down to tbe family sitting room. Sbe had been ill four weeks, and ber physician was afraid she would gradually sink into a quick consumption—a sort of languor seemed to hold her senses and powers. For the first week or two she bad asked often about Emily, and wondered that 8he did not come. Since then she had mentioned her name, and Kent hoped she had ceased thinking about it. She was just comfortably established on the sofa, her face a shade whiter than usual from the exertion, when Jane came to the door and beckoned Kent out. •There is a woman at the door asking to see Mrs. Johnstone—Mrs. Kent Johnstone—and I thought it advisable to speak to you first/ Jane Baid, as soon as the door was closed. 'A woman! What sort of a woman ?t he asked, surprised. •Mr. Johnstone must judge for himself/ was the careful answer of the girl. •Good heavens, if it should be Emily Barnard 1' he muttered under his breath, as be went toward the door.

His first glance confirmed bis fears—it waa she. The perspiration started to bis forehead at the thought of escorting her in and introducing her to his mother and sisters and Miss Tallmage. But ho was outwardly oalm, and shook hands with her—noticing how largo hers wore, and that sbe had on lisle thread gloves aud in answer to her eager inquiry for Almy, told her that 8he

'M

waB

convalesc­

ing slowly, and hinted that it was not advisable lor ber to see company. 'I shall see her nevertheless/ was the firm answer. 'Ob! certainly,' he said, wishing her at the antipodes. 'Let me go in first and

^f/^came back in a moment and beckoned her to follow bim, which she did, leaving Jane in a great fever of curiosity to know who this coarsely dressed, red faced woman could be, who sailed Mrs. Johnstone 'Almy,' and spske with such an air of authority.

Emily Barnard was not handsome at any time, and now her face was of a. dull purple, owing to the extreme cold and her rapid walk from the railway station. Her hair was short in her neck and of a dead black. Owing to Its color tbe freckles—of whioh she had a liberal supply upon her forehead and nose—' seemed of a brownish black. Aud, to Kent's horror, she bad on the samo •striped delaine' she had worn at his wedding, a voluminous 'Bay State' long shawl, the lower corner falling below her dress at the back, and a white straw bonnet, of tbe last year's fashion, trimmed with plaid ribbon.

Mrs. Johnstone drew aside ber skirts, as she went past ber but Emily did not see this—she saw only one thing distinctly in all the elegantly furnished room, and that was the deathly looking face on tbe pillow. 'Ob 1 Almy! my precious darling! sho cried, covering the thia face with kisses.

Mrs.

Johnstone and Julia looked In­

tensely disgusted, Dora a little annoyed and surprised, and Miss Tallmage simply amused. Perhaps the ill concealea chagrin and vexation in Kents face added to her enjoyment of the tableau. .But Emily waa not naturally very demonstrative, and after the first flush of sorrow and surprise at her slBter altered looks had subsided, she arose toher feet, and turning to Kent, asked: 'Why have you kept Almy's Illness from her own family, Mr. Johnstone? 'I beg your pardon, Miss Barnard, but Almy herself wrote for you to come to ber. She was taken ill tbe night following, but we had not beard from you.' a have bad no letter from Almy for over two months/ •Yet the letter was mailed to you.

At that Instant both Mrs. Johnston© and Emily Barnard glanced up, and their eyes met. ,, ..J •Yes, I ace, it miscarried,' Emily said carefully: but Mrs. Johnstone knew by tbe meaning look in ber eyes that sho guessed tbe whole truth instantly, and sbe hated her accordingly.

Then, as quietly as if sbe had been at home, she took off ber bonnet and shawl-carefully folding tbe latter-and laid them on tho marble table, turned, over tbe top of ber lisle thread alovesand put them in her pocket, and drawing a chair before the sofa, sat down as composedly as if she bad been in tho old kitchen at Hadley. [TO BE OONTI2*UBD.]

Cared Of Brl«k!n|.

"A young Mend of mine was cured of an insatiable thirst for Liquor, tbat had so prostrated bis system that he was unable to do any business. He was entirely cured by the use of Hop Bitters. It allayed all tbat burning thirst took away tbe appetite for liquor made his nerves steady, and be has remained a sober and steady msn for more tban two years, and has no desire to return to his cups, and I know of a number of others that have been cured of drinking by it" —From a leading R. R. Official, Chicago, Ills.

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