Terre Haute Weekly Gazette, Terre Haute, Vigo County, 18 April 1878 — Page 2

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THURSDAY, APRIL 18, 1878.

VENUS, AFTER BURNE JONES. Pallid with too much longing, White with passion and prayer,

Goddess of Love and Beauty, She sits in the picture there—

Sita, with her dark eyes seeking Something more subtle still Than the old delights of loving

Her measureless days to fill.

She has loved and been loved so often, In the long, immortal years, That she tires of the worn-out rapture,

Sickens of hopes and fears.

No joys nor sorrows move her— Gone is her ancient pride, For her head she found too heavy

The crown she has cast aside.

Clothed in her ancient splendor, Bright with her glory of hair, Sad that he is not mortal—

Eternally sad and fair.

Longing for joys she knows not. A thirst with a vain desire, There she sits in the picture,

Daughter of Foam and Fire. —Lonlsei handler Maul ton, la the At hencum.

SEED-TIME AND HARVEST St. Mary's bell was ringing for even ing service in the dusk of a winter day. It had sounded ov«r the streets for more than its usual time, and the worshipers were gathered together, waiting for the clergyman.

Tne first sharp tones of the bell reached j. him as he stood in a shabby parlor of a large house in one of the narrow thorough-fares ot the great manufacturing town. He started and looked at his watch. "So late! I must go, Miriam. 'And you have not decided yet."

His companion kept her eyes steadily on the dark dreary wtreet. Crowds of workers were going home from the factories laughing and talking and jostling one another on the pavement. The winter twilight was falling, the sky was dark with cloud*. She did not answer the question that was spoken to earnestly, unless that look was an answer. The ,clergyman lingered, though the bell sounded sharp and fast. "Will you come to church?" )ie "••'asked. "No, no!" she answered in a low, stifled voice, and dropping her head upon her hands. At that moment the door was hastily opened. "I can't come in—my cloak is dripping

Miriam, are you Why, Mr, |"re"maine, I thought I was late!" "So you are, and so am I," was the quick answer, as he caught up his hat. "It is raining fast. Here is an umbrella," said the little dark figure at the door.

He took it with a quiet "Thank you, and they went out together, with hurried steps towards the church. "Will you wait for me after service?" he said, and his companion nodded her assent, as she'oassed in.

When she had thrown aside her cloak, the dim light showed a slender little fig ure, in a dress of almost Puritan simplicity. Gayer attire would have added no charm to the grave young face, so sweet and womanly, so eloquent of truth and tender strength. A stranger, a little keen-eyed man, who chatted in low tones to the pew-opener, observed her keenly as she passsd to her seat. "Is that-—?" he said, interrogatively, as if the person he meant had formed the subject of the conversation. "No sir! That is Miss Alice Gordon, the Vicar's niece. Shall I show you a seat sir?" J1, "Please," he replied, as he followed the woman up the aisle, glancing round at the ,, scattered congregation.

The bell had ceased at last and, as he took his seat just opposite Miss Gordon, Mr. Tremaine entered the chancel and

commenced the service. The little man's Ir. If keen eyes wandered to the clergyman, and rested fot a while on his pale face and the fi.*m, tender eyes and lips that told of hard work done, and of a soul sanctified and strehgthefined to endure.

Though the congregation was so thin, there was no hastening over the prayers by the clear, solemn voice and the stranger had full time to read the two faces that seemed to interest hiin no much. The first lesson was over, and he turned over the leaves of his prayer-book eagerly to the psalm that followed.

Through the dim church rose a voice, rich, pure, and thrilling, singing the grand old words. The stranger bent his head so as not to lose a note of that wondrous music. Other voices were singing—Mr. Tremaine's clear tenor, and a few faint trebles but above them rose that voice in the glad utterance of a rejoicing Soul.

The stranger, whose eves watched her through the service, saw how unconscious she was of her wondrous gift. He lingered a little .when the prayers were over but finding Miss Gordon did not move, he went out and walked back to his hotel, being weary with a long day's journey after a rough passage over the Atlantic. He had been absent from England thirty years. The sister he had loved above all earthly things was dead his home was broken up and forgotten and the only link that seemed to bind them to the old life was his youngest sister's only daughter, Mariano."

Miss Gor Jon did not go out with the others she passed into the vestry, where afire was faintly burning in the dusty grate. Mr. Tremaine had taken off his surplice and was waiting for her. "It's about Miriam," he said, quietly as he gave her a seat by tiie fire. He stood opposite her, shading his face with his hand. "She will go," returned his companion, -t ""5S& »n

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l°w voice.

4$ "Ah, it's a great temptation He A 1 stopped short, and a bright scarlet flush dyed his face. •'She wishes to accept Mrs. Warner's offer to night," said Aliee. "It will be a great change for her—Miriam is fond of change." "To-night! Miss Gordon, she ought not to go." "Why do jou say so?" asked Alice

Gordon, "A TIFLNE sppf#CHEM" replied MT. Tremaine, when th«^|car's eldest daughter

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place an mistress hir you, I know.

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"Who else can do so. Miss Gordon? I

am

so cruelly placed. I cannot say a word to keep her back from her first knowledge of the world she would grace so well."

Alice's look startled him. and he stopped hastilv. "Don't you klidw? Has net Miriam told you?" he continued.

Mrs. Warner's letter to-day has taken up all my thoughts," she answered, without looking up,.. "Miriam has told me nothing." 'We are engaged," Mr. Tremaine said, quietly—"only since yesterday."

A.l.ce had raised her hand as to ward of! the feeble flicker of the fire, and he did not sec the deathlike pallor that overspread her face. She rose up and leant her brow against the wooden mantelshelf. "I will tell Miriam of her father's |danger," she said. "Do you think he is very ill?" "He is dving," returned thejoung man, sorrowfully.

MLet

me put on your

cloak"—for Miss GorJon had taken it up with shaking hands. She tried to answer him, but the words broke off in an inarticulate sound and leaning back against the chair, she fainted quietly away.

When she came td herself she was still on the chair with Mr. Tremaine and the old woman that kept the keys bending over her. "I am better, she said, faintly, sitting up. "I will go home." "You cannot walk," urged Mr. Tr«mair.e, putting his arm around her, for she staggered as she rose. "I am quite well now." she returned, hurriedly.

Her white face and trembling lips told a different tile, though. But she pnt on her cloak and insisted on going home, so they walked together through the dripping lamp-lit streets almost in silence. "I won't come in till after tea," said Mr. Tremaine, as he opened the door for his companion. "Take comfort," he added, gently "death will only be a brighter life for your uncle, and strength and help are near to us in all our sorrow. if wc seek them."

She answered hirh by a look. Her dark, sad eVes haunted the young man's fancy as he walked homeward, thinking of his bright, beautiful Miriam.

"How late you are!" 6aid Miriam, looking up pettishly from her duties at the tea tray—for tea had begun when Alice entered the parlor. "Do come and keep these children in order. Frank had stolen all thfe sugar, and they are fighting like cats and dogs." "Do try to get a little quietness, Alice,"fcntreated her uncle, who was lying on a sofa by the fire "and can you get me some hotter tea, dear. This is quite cold.'*

In a few moments Alice's presence changed the whole abpect of things. She stirred the fire into a cheerful blaze, cheered the Vicar's heart by a cup of steaming tea, checked the children's behavior by a few firm, gentle words s—yet her own hesrt was breaking the while.

Miriam gladly gave up her seat at the tea tray, and sat aown in a low chair by the fire, and played with her cup and saucer. She was a handsome girl, with straight features, and Bright golden hair. A keen observer would have seen little character in her face, beautiful as it was but it lighted UD well'as she talked, and every feature was perfect. "Many people at church, my dear?" asked the Vicar. "About a dozen, A stranger was there, an ®dd-looking man." "Where is Tremaine?" "He's coming in after tea, uncle. Frank, ring the bell, my boy and Alice began to collect the tea equipage with deft fingers. "You haven't eaten a thing, Alice," exclaimed Frank.

Personal remarks are not agreeable," she answered, gently pulling his ear. Get your books, my dears. Over Pons Asinorum yet, Jim?'

Oh, do help us, Alice 1" exclaimed the boys, rushing for their books. I want Alice,"said Miriam, impatiently. Now, papa, may I go?"

My dear, you have my consent if you have your own," he answered. I shall never have the chance again, and it is only for six months."

What can I say more, dear? Go and enjoy yourself. It is very kind of your aunt to atk von." ••And I may really go?"

If you wish, my daughter." "You dear old father!" she said, bending down and kissing him. I knew you wouldn't say 'no.' I will make our old house radiant with trophies of my travels," she added, gaily.

He followed her with mournful eyes out of the room, and sighed heavily. Mi riam called her cousin hastily,

Come and read my letter, Alice Where has the girl goner Alice!" I am coming," she answered, running up stairs. Have you written it?"

Yes here it is. Have I put the proper quantity of thanks? Isn't it kind of her to promise to get my dresses? These things wouldn't do tor Paris." "No," said Alice, sitting down "I don't suppose they would." "Now what is it. Alice?" said Miriam, looking half defiantly at her cousin. I ought not to go, I suppose, in your opinion? It is hard I can't have a little pleas ure for once without everybody looking as if I were committing murder. ThereV John She stopped, with a little conscious laugh.

Well," said Alice. "Ah, you know! He told you, I suppose. But nothing is settled. Of course I wouldn't have that till I came home. But I suppose we shall make a mateh of it, unless—" "Unless what?" "Oh, I hardly know. I may see somebody I like better." "You shouldn't leave your father." "What do you mean?" asked Miriam, starting. "He is only a little ailing now, as he always is in winter." "He is dying, Miriam." "Dying!" All the warm color left her cheeks for a moment. "How dare you frighten me so? What do rots, itoean, Alice? Who said so?"

Can't you see he gels weaker and weaker? Oh, you must not go." "Who (trid you—John Tremaine? Ah, he did!" The girl's fair fa.ee flushed with mmftkd pain and rage.1

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he thinks to keep me at home, like naughty child by taring to frighten me. Papa is not worse wan he has been for years. You hare got up the plot between

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TH^I IFIKKE HAUTE WEEKLL GAZETO.

Are you going?" "Yes. Papa would not let me go if he thought he ought not, and John shall know I have a mind of my awn. It's perfect nonsense about papa. My eyes would "see any change quicker than yours or John's, who can't feel as I do. If I thought——" She stopped as she addressed the letter. Her better nature for a moment prevailed—only tor a moment. "It was a foolish trick to try to frighten mc like that. It was trick, wasn't it, Alice." "Think it so, if you please.'**

I know it was. But I must go, dear. Think! I shall see Paris and Rome and (Naples. Oh, Alice, it will be delightful. There's the letter. Do carry it to the post for me, dear. John will be here in a few minutes and, ifThe boys go, they will lose it."

Alice took the letter in silence, and went away for her cloak. She met Mr. Tremaine in the hall. "Going out, Miss Gordon?" "Only to the post." "Give me the letter." Has Miriam gone?'' "No. here it is. It must go tonight, and I fear I shall lose the post."

Is she really going?" "Yes," returned Alice, g-avely. He took the letter, and turned back into the street in silence. "Has he got my letter?" asked Miriam, who was waiting at the top of the stairs wben Alice went up. "Is he angry?" "Yes," said Alice. "I don't care. Hfc can't expect that I shall stay mewed up here all the tirre and humming a gay tune in defiance, she proceeded to the parlor.

Alice came down presently, before John canr.e back, and she sat down by the boys, keeping them quiet over their lessons, and holding little Mary in her arms. The Vicar went to bed early, and Alice soon followed with the four children, leaving the lovers alone. John wai pacing the room when she came back at supper-time, and Miriam was seated in her favorite low chair, looking painfully disturbed, and with her hand shading her eyes. Not a word was said of Miriam,s going till after supper, when Alice, as her custom was, sat down to the piano to sing. Suddenly Miriam called out, in an unnatural voice: "Alice, oh, Alice^stop! I cannot bear

Alice Hastily rose up," ItartleJ at her cousin'* ghastly face. "I thought I saw my mother in the room," she said with a shiver. "It was only fancy, 1 know. John, I wish I had never sent the letter."

Is it too late to change your mind?" asked Alice. "I must go—I cannot give it up," answered Miriam, as the color slowly came back to her face.

Next morning Miriam was packing with Alice's help, and they were considering the merits of a blue cashmere that was very becoming to the fair hair and brilliant complexion of the Vicar's daughter. She had put it on and fastened some white lace round her neck, and stood at the glass looking at the effect.

Come here, Alice," she said and her cousin crossed the ro»m and stood by her side, looking at the reflection of their two faces in the glass *1]

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They were a gfeat contrast to each other. By Miriam's white skin and exquisite complexion A lie: looked pale and sallow and to-da* there were dark rings under her heavy eyes, and her lips had lost their pleasant smile. "Never mind." said Miriam, gaily, smoothing her cousin's thin cheek. "Goodness is better than beauty," she added with a laugh, "1 think John is a fool—don't you, Alice?"' '•No, I don't." said Alice, gravely, begining to foid some dresses. "I do. It he weren't, he would have fallen in love with you. But men are all alike—a pretty face is all they care for." r" ••One would think that yod did not love Mr. Tremaine"'said Alice "Well, I'm afraid I don't. My beau ideal is somebody very handsome and rich—not a poor curate. .But n'importe Don't, for goodness sake, fold like that, Alice." Whatever are you about?" "Miriam—Alice!" cklled out the Vicar's faint foice front the foot of the stairs. "Come down, girls—your uncle wishes to see you."'»»*~ iv i\

Their Uncle! "Wait a moment," said Miriam, running back to smooth her hair. Alice went down to the parlor where she found the little keen eyed sallow man who had been in church the night before.

I am your uncle," he said—"ycur mother's brother." "Uncle Henry, from America?*' "Yes, I am the last of them all. And this is Miriam," and he turned with a delighted face to speak to his beautiful nteoe." "You are like your mother, my dear. She was my youngest sister, and my favorite one—you are the picture of her," he said. "Your uncle will stay here for a time,' said the Vicar, in a low voice, to Alice. "Will you go and look after dinner, my dear?""

A lice qyietly left the room, leaving Minam in the midst of a livelyjconversation with Mr. Hay don.

Alice was busy in the kitchen when John Tremaine came in with the cloth-ing-club accounts. He sat down by the glowing stove, talking over parish business with Alice, wlio was director-in-chief of the district meetings, Dorcas society, etc. She rolled the crust and listened, and gave her advice concerning the manifold little trouble* that beset a parish. John had just risen to go into the parlor and be introduced to the visitor, When Miriam came in, radiant in the blue cashmere, and laughing merrily. "Oh, Alice, such a delightful mistake! Uncle thought you were engaged to John!" she exclaimed, not seeing voung clergyman for the Then, on perceiving John ed: .. "Why, John are you learning cooking in addition to your other accomplishments? Do you know our respected uncle has been settling you two in life most comfortably? He thought you «n®JJ suited to each other till papa undeceived him." .....

the

moment,

she exclaim-

How very foolish!'' saw Alice, her face slowly flushing. John Tremaine followed Miriam innlenoe from the kitchen. Her gay words IMHI struck him strangely. Some day, oi course, A Ike would be engaged and mar rUL and the light ot another home. ts himself—hardly

Despite himself he can ied o« theittougtot and awoke with dim pain to the knowledge that, if Alice, inatead of Miriam, had been going, what a much greater blarfk would have been left—how much mr« she would have been missed. He had •proposed to Miriam in a momeatofpassionate admiration of her beaut v.and jflready. without really knowing it, he was beginning to regret it.

Mr. Hay don was charmed with his beautiful niece, and the ikne slipped quickly bj till the boys and Mary came home from school. "And these are my nephew*?" asked Mr. liajdon. "They are not Mary's children," said the Vicar, with a sad smile. '•Ah, I forgot—Miriam is the only one she left." He turned to his niece, and added, "Thank Heaven, 1 have found one left to remind me of those I loved! You will make an old man's fif* happier by your mere presence, my dear." "But I am going away to-morrow,

un,"Goinsaway!"

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"Can you be spared, my dear?" "Oh, yes," she answered, carelessly "Alice is mistress here."

Her tone and manner provoked a glance from the mild Vicar, that made Miriam add, hastily— "I don't like housekeeping ar.d with that the subject dropped

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"Oh, Alice," wrote Miriam from Paris, "this life is too delightful! How shall I ever sink back into that humdrum existence at home? It seems like a dream here, where such vulgar thing is Dorcas meetings, and Surday schools, and wash ing days are unknown. Aunt Warner is so kind, and we get on capitally. However can papa think so hardly of her? She is aaorahle. I have been to the Louvre to-day. Charmed, of course! One of Aunt's friends, theComte de Rahord, was with u«. He speaks little English, and I less French, but we^ are very good friends, and he is truly delightful. One of the old nobility, his man nerw are grace itself. Poor John! How gauche he would look beside him." In another epistle she said, "The Comte de Rabord has just gone. He is teaching me French, and we are reading Racine tpgether. Ah, Alice, I think sometimes what a pity it is that my six months will have an end. I am so happy here!"

Many more letters,filled with sentences like these and vivid descriptions of the Comte, found their way to the house in the busy 6treet, and were put away with heavy sighs in Alice's desk. Meanwhile life went on in the great town. Mr. Haydon settled down in the Vicar's house. With unflagging energy Alice went about her daily duties, though the color had left her cheeks, and her lips were taking the sorrowful lines that speak of hidden pain.

A little romance happened in the dead of the dreary winter. There had been a destructive fire in the town, and a concert was got up for the sufferers. Among those who enrolled themselves as performers was a wealthy merchant who had lately settled in the neighborhood with his mothei. He was unmarried, and very good looking, with a fine bass voice, ana proved a great addition to the little band of performers. A friendship sprang up between him and the Vicar's family, and his kindness to the children, his thought for the invalid clergyman, and his bright, genial manners made him a favorite with all.

After diplomacy on his part worthy of Machiavelli, it was arranged that there should be a duet between him and Alice, whoot course was to 6ing at the concert. Mr. Willis professed great difficulty in learning his part, and made almost daily visits at the Vicar's to practice it with Alice.

Despite»his better nature, John Tremaine became intensely irritated at finding the big. handsome merchant so much at home in the Vicar's household as he

He got sulky over it at last, to Alice's great amaaement, who had never seen such a display of temper from him before. "Your head is full of the music," he exclaimed, pettishly, one morning, when Alice made some mistake with the accounts of the children's club. "I beg your pardon," he added ha*tilv, seeing a wondering look in Alice's sofl eyes. "I am afraid I'm getting old and bad-tem-pered." "Haven't you had a letter from Miri am lately?" she asked gently.

John's face crimsoned. He had hardly thought of Miriam for two weeks. The night of the concert came, and Alice dressed and came down into the parlor to wait for the rest ot the party. Her uncle Henry was there, and came to meet her with a'smiie, and put a little case into ner hand "Will you wear this to-night, dear?"

Ii was a brilliant diamond sta^ for the hair. Alice fastened it in her soft dark braids, with a childlike pleasure at its beauty and her uncle's kindness. Very charming she looked in her simple evening dres.-, with a white cloak over her shoulders. John called for the beys, for the Vicar had consented to indulge their vehement desire to hear Alice sing. "Won't Willi* be more betwitched than ever?" whispered Uncle Henry, slyly, as John looked admiringly at Alice. "I dare say," he returned dryly feeling inclined to wish Mr. Haydon at the North Pole.

The cab came up at that moment, and in the slight bustle Alice dropped the flowers from her dress on the damp pavement. "They are spoiled," remarked Mr.Tre' maine, picking them up with great de light, for the exquisite white blossoms were Mr. Willis' ^ift. "Oh, I am so sorry!" exclaimed Alice, in real distress. "Mr. Tremaine is jolly cross to-night," said Jim to Frank, sotto voce as they walked to the concert-room. "He isn't half as nice as he used to be."

The concert was a great success. Alice's songs were the great "hits" of the night, and she was almost bewildered at the applause that greeted her appearance upon the platform, and the encores that followed. Two people saw nothing but her sweet calm face the wkole evening, and both of them wondered now and then at its intense sadness when the smiles that came so readity were gone and her Upa were at rest.

The day after the concert was rough and stormy. Mr. Tremaine had to at-

on«, and only Mr. HanAon and the Vfcar were in the parlor. Me. Gordon had a flush of excitement on Hue white cheeks, and uacle Henry gnaeted the voung clergyman gaily. "We have just been talking about another, lover, fremaine. You hava a comrade in a affliction, nsy dear fellow." "Oh—indeed

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Mr. Willi* has Keen to see me" 'today," said the Vicar. ^He asked premission to propo«tc Alice." "Indeed!" "It will be a greet thiag for her," observed the Vicar. -"When I am gone, there will b« somebody t.» take care of her, dear child." "Miss Gordon has accepted him, then?' asked John, quietly.

That the question," said uncle Henry, looking at the young man's face. We^ don't know." Alice went off to the night school without enlightening us on the matter but of course she will say •Yes.'"

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"For six months, with papa's sister abroad. It will be delightlul." Mr. Hay don looked from the Vicar's white face*, and around at the children, with a glance which even Miriam could not mistake.

Mr. Tremaine did not continue the subject. He gave his report of the meeting he had attended to the Vicar, and hurried away. The postman met him as he went down the steps and gave him a thick letter. He put it in his pocket without caring to see from whom it came and walked rapidly along the streets, heedless of the ram that beat upon him. Miriam was utterly forgotten in that hour of terrible pain. He knew the truth now: he knew that he loved Alice with all the depth and earnestness of his nature.

He walked on till he reached the room where the night-school was held. The gas was glaring through the uncurtained windows and the buaz of voices floated out. He stepped over the threshold and stood inside the door, tor a moment looking at the face that he felt was dearer to him than life. Alice was bending over a desk at the top of the room, teaching some big hoys the mysteries of arithmetic. How patient she was with them, and how their rough faces softened at her gentle words and the voice that was perfect music! She passed up and down the ibrms very quietly, without any display of authority, but keeping all those unruly wills :n order by force of that rare power over others which is the secret of true dominion.

Mr. Tremaine passed round the school, speaking to the teachers. The work was over before he reached Alice's desk. He waited till the boys had gone and the room was empty, but for a few teachers packing up their books. Then he crossed over to Alice, feeling that he must know the truth. "I don't think I have seen you to-day,' she said, looking up at him with a smile. "Have you been homer" "Yes," he said, picking up some books from the table. "They tell me you are engaged, Miss Gordon. May I w'ish you all happiness?"

Her face wai bent over the desk, and he could not see its pain and trouble, or understand the feeling that kept her si lent. it so?" he whispered hoarsely, forgetting all, sure that he had lost her, and the lite that might have been. "Oh, Alice'"

Something in his tbne, expressive of anguish similar to her own, made Alice look up, and her voice trembled over the quiet answer— s. r. "I am not engaged to Mr. Willis

Their eyes met for a moment. Then Alice moved quickly away, and began gathering up the remaining books and «lates, her cheeks ffushed, her hands hot and trembling. In that glance she had understood, and he too, that they were all in all to each other. Both remembered what parted them, after the first wild joy that knew no other thought than that of being beloved.

He helped her to put the school appliances away in silence, and brought her cloak and put it on her. The rain was over, though clouds still hung overhead and the night walk was performed in utter silence till they reached the Vicar's door. "I am going away to-morrow," said Mr. Tremaine in a low voice, "I shall get Darrell to do the work." "Are you?" answered Alice. "Yes—I can't stay here. Good-bye— God bless you, Miss Gordon!"

Good-bye," she said, faintly. And so they parted. It was late that night before Mr. Tremaine thought of his unopened letter. It was from Miriam—a thick packet. John broke the seal, recognizing, in some amazement, his own letter enclosed. "I have made a mistake," wrote Miriam. "It is better you should know it now than hereafter my liking was only a girlish fancy. I have learned what love means since I have been abroad. Forgive me. It is better for both that we should part." The rest of the letter was lost upon the reader. He could only realize that he was free—that the terrible mistake he had made would not ruin his life—that he might be happy

'et*

Saturday was always a busy day in the Vicar's household. The boys were at home frOm school, and there was Sunday's dinner to prepare, and the mending of the week to do, in addition to the regular daily duties. Alice, who always managed to have odd jobs for the boys in rainy weather, sent them into the gar ret to sort out tome packets of old journals, and, then with little Mary at her tide, hemming a handkerchief, began to look over the big basket of clean clothes. The Vicar was lying down in his room, and Ur.cle Henry waa reading to him, so Alice had leisure to think. "Somebody come," lisped Mary, jumping up from ner footstool, at the sound of the hall-door opening. "It's Mr. Tremaine Allie."

He shook bands with Alice, looking into her face with an ernest questioning glance that made her shrink and tremble. "Look," he said, handing her Meriam's letter "this came yesterday."

He sat down by the little work-table watching her as she read. The startled glance of her soft eyes, the exquisite color tinging .eheeks and brow, satisfied him. She put the letter down and took iup her work again. "£he is in Naples."was her murmured remark.

He bent a little towards her, trying to see beneath the drooping white lids. "Alice—Alice," he said, gently, "it sua oitter mistake."

She glanced up now, and they looked into each other's eyes—a long, tender look,that said more than words could say—andf Alice dropped her work upon her lap, and put her right hand—that faithful, loving hand—in his. "Till death us do part," he said solemnly and thus they were betrothed.

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her aunt's vapid talk thia morning. They were expecting the Comte de Rabord. and she was restlessly waiting to receive him. Poor girl I She had told John Tremaine she had learned what love meant. Ah, true love Miriam could not understand the feeling she mistook for it waa pride and gratified ranity and intenae admiration for the handsome Frenchman. •He must speak to day," she thought, with painful longings to hear the pleasant words.

flu*hed,

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I Km going to ben)ftrri*d again.' "Married!" Miriam echoed the word.' "Yes—why not? I am not too old, and I hare five thousand a year." ••Who is to be the happy bridegroom?,' asked Miriam, sneeringly. "You kniw him, my dear," and Mrs. Warren looked up with a gay laugh. "He will be rather a young uncle, but qu'importe? You can go back to the parish and your faithful curate." "Who is it you are talking of?" asked Miriam, hoarsely. "My intended husband, tha Comte dJT Rabord. Why, haven't vou guessed his reason for coming so often to us? I thought you were wiser." "You are joking," her neice returned, wildly "I don't believe It" "It is true. We shall go back to England next week. You shall be my brideamaid, Miriam."

Miriam started up aud left the room not daring to trust her voice. Mrs. Warner calmly took up her embroidery, while a smile of gratified malice played around her cold Hpa. If Miriam had been less selfish, leas vsin—if she had not taken every opportunity to outahine and ecliose her aunt—Mis. Warner might not have labored so earnestly to wis the handsome Comte, to whom money was still more dear than beauty, and Miriam might yet have been happv in her own way but she had sown in blind selfishness, and the bitter harvest wns waiting to be reaped.

After the first discovery of the Frenchman's fickleness, her heart went back to home and the love of John's strong, earnest nature. There, at least, she had gained a victory and won the heart her gentle Cousin coveted. So, with wild desire for home, she hurried Mrs. Warner's preparations, and counted the moments that must pass before she crossed her father's threshold.

She parted from her aunt at Dover in sullen coldness, and set out on her solitary journey. How changed were her thoughts since she had traversed that same war a few short months before. Then all the world lay smiling before her, and only home was dreary and barren now the only spot of light was the old house, and all the world was dark and bitter. It was growing dusk when she reached her native place and drove rapidly through the streets. There wasa light burning in her father's room and in the parlor soon she would be welcomed back again. Her heart beat wild* ly as she went up the steps and into the familiar entry. The servant had come out at the cabman's ring she lifted her hands with a sharp cry on recognizing Miriam, and stepped back.

Miriam hurried by her and entered the parlor. Alice was sitting near the lamp, working at some black material, uncle Henry »as opposite, with his head leaning on his hand, and John Tremaine waa talking in a low voice to the boys, who looked up at him wi.h tearful eves. They all started up at Miriam's entrance Alice came hastily to meet her, and put her tender arms around her cousin. "Oh, that you had she said, sorrowfully.

Miriam pushed away the clinging arms, and with a ghastly face went hastily up to John Tremaine. "Where is my father?" she asked, looking at him wildly. "He was taken from us yesterday," answered the young clergyman, sadly. "And yeti never sent—you never told me. How dared you!" she exclaimed, and she turned fiercely on Alice. "You chose to take the place ot mistress hare and steal his love from me was not that enough without keeping me from him in his last hours?" "We telegraphed." said .her uncle gravely. "Remember. Miriam, you kept us in ignorance of your wanderings. We last heard from you in Naples, and thither we sent for you. It was sudden, At the last." "Didn't he ask for the? Oh, that I had been here to soothe his last hours I He must have longed for my presence. Did he leave no message?"

They looked at each other in silence. In the utter weakness of those last days, the Vicar had clung to those nearest to him, and Miriam had been forgotten aa memory had faded and this life grew dim. "And you took care that he should for* I get!" she said bitterly, to Alice. "Heaven kept him even from the sorrow of your absence, dear Miriam," returned Alice, gently. "His death was perfect peace."

Miriam's grief was terrible in the first shock but like all her sorrows, it was soon over.

When the Vicar was laid in the quiet cemetery, and the blinds were drawn up, and things went back somewhat to their old quiet, Miriam's trouble passed, and she began te think of winning back John ,jj Tremaine, who as vicar de jure, was not 'j| a very undesirable parti, nothing better offering. But Miriam

and

A

FI I I "j

ray dear," said her

aunt, looking up from her embroidery,. with a cold smile on her handsome face.. ...

headache, aunt," returned!

Miriam, playing restlessly with the trim* mings of her delicate morning dress. 'Poorchild! Come here, Miriam—II have some newa for you." "From England?" ahe said, starting.

I

Hi chateaux

Espagne were shattered at a blow, and her eyes •pened to the real state of affairs, which nobody had cared to tell her. Some days after the funeral, Miriam'was up stairs looking over her dresses, when she heard John's step crossing the entry to the parlor. Hastily settling her hair in the most becoming manner,

deciding that black mae'e her look fairer than ever, Miriam went softly! down stairs, intent on joyfully surprising^ her ci devant lover. Her entrance waa a surprise certainly, though not in the way she had intended. They were standing by the hearth, Alice's head resting on her lover's shoulder, and he* was looking down tenderly as he tried tcf comfort her. She started away atff Miriam's entrance, and hasMly left thef room, her face flushed with mingled feel-f ings Miriam looked in painful, mortified amazement at John. "I made a great mistake as well a* jou, Miss Gordon," aaid John, witl grave calmness. "Thank heaven