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NIGHT AND MORNING.
"Was it a lie they told hip,
Was it ft pitiless hoax?
A sop for my soul and its Ion
Olllv to cniMi mwl pnnv !'
And a voice came down through the night
"They lied; thou hast trusted in vain."
Must I anish oil hand into darkness,
Blown out with a hreatli like a lamp?
Have I nought in the future to look to
Save rotting in darkness and damp ?
And the answer came with a mocking hiss:
"Thou hast nothing to look to save this."
What of thejjrave and its conquest,
Of df'ath and the loss of its sting ?
Was it only the brag of a madman
Who believed an impossible thing?
And the voice returned as the voice of a
"It was but a madman's boast."
Am I the serf of my senses,
Is my soul a slave without rights?
Are feeding and breeding and sleepin
My first and truest delights ?
And the cruel answer cut me afresh :
'Thou art hut the serf of thy ilesh."
Ls it all for nought then I travail,
That I long for leisure from sin ?
That I thirst for the pure and the perfect,
And feel like a god within ?
Th voice replied to my passionate
'Thy longing and travail is nought."
Then T bowed my head in my anguish,
Folding my face in my hands,
And I shuddered as one that sinketh
In the clutch of quaking sands,
And I stared, as I clenched my fingers
Out through the blank black night.
For life was shorn of its meaning,
And I cried : Oh, God ! is it so ?
Wtter the truth though it slay me,
Utter it, yes, or no 1
But J heard no answer to heal my pain,
Save the bluster of wind and rain.
And behold as I sat in my sorrow,
A quick ray shot from the East,
Another and then another.
And the dark clouds rolled away to the
As the groat sun rose from his rest.
And now, a the fair dawn broadened
Strong ami joyous and bright,
My whole soul sweentto meet it,
Hapt with a deep delight:
And a new voice rang down the radiant
, Rejoice, have heard thee: arise!"
From Good Words.
IN THE ABBOT'S SEAT.
Looking the very impersonation of
contented idleness, Frank Carew lay on
the hillside above the ruined abbey of
Furness, and pondered the embodiment
in canvass and pigments of the fancies
with which the June sunset had in
spired him. For three of the brightest
of Summer weeks the young A. R. A.
had occupied himself in multiplying
sketches of the abby ruins, until scarce
ly a feature of their beautiful decay but
was lodged in his portfolio. The chap
el was there, roofless, windowless, its
alter gone, grass grasping closely the
few gravestones that remained ; but as
majestic in its desolation as ever it had
looked in those days of Catholic pros
perity when the Cistercian monks of
Furness chanted prayei-s for the souls
parted from that dust over which their
feet were treading.
Carew lay dreamingly under his fa
vorite tree looking down on the gray
stillness of the abbey, and trying to give
substance to the shadowy fancies that
connected themselves in his mind with
the cawing of the black choristers op
posite. At length he started up with
"I have it I have it. Time, mid
night; the moon at- its brightest; the
ghost of old King Harry just stealing
into the chapel, and a crowd of rooks
perched on the sedilia, and cawing
curses on the robber who left the cein
tral niche of the three seats empty of.
an abbot. 'King Harry the Eighth Vis
iting the Abbey of Furness.' If my
right hand remembers its cunning, I'll
hold my own in tho academy next May."
A downward scramble among trees,
bushes, and bits of masonry, and Carew
crossed the arch into tho ruins. A light
laugh struck upon his ear.
He sprang up the wall and looked to
ward tho sedilia. Apparently tho scene
actually revealed was more satisfactory
than that for which the laugh had pre
pared him, for ho at once leaped down
into tho chapel and walked toward tho
stone steps to his left.
A figure, in no way ghostly, had al
ready risen from the central niche of
the three worn recesses that still adorn
the ruined chapel of Furness; and, with
great brown eyes bent shyly on the in
truder, seemed doubtful wjiether to re
main or not. This successor to the ab
bots of old days, wore as unpretending
ly tasteful a dress as an English girl of
eighteen summers could figure in, and
had a face of the order that one hesi
tates whether to call plain or handsome,
and ends by pronouncing signally at
tractive. A Madonna done in marble
might have had those tintless cheeks
and that look of seriousness,
"So it was you that laughed, Miss
Margaret," said Carew. "It's a sin to
waste such sweet sounds on the abbey
ghosts. I protest I'll paint you as Me
dusa if you go on keeping tryst and
making merry with the Furness ghosts
while every-day mortals like Frank
Carew can't get so much as a smile
"I've known the Furness and its
ghosts and legends ever since I was
able to walk froih our cottage to the
ruins," said the girl, somewhat coldly,
"fr. Carew and I have only been ac
quaintances for a matter of three weeks
"The pleasantest week in Mr. Carew's
life! I was thinking to have ended my
stay here in another three weeks or so,
but something the abbey specters whis
pered to me just before I intruded on
you inclines mo to make the three weeks
three months. Will you be as hospit
able as your friends the ghosts'?"
"How hospitable?" will you join with
11. . i i ...
mem inviting me to remain? "
The negative was so disdainful, and
the girl turned away with so abrupt a
naughtiness that she was at the further
end of the chapel before Carew had suf
ficiently recovered from his astonish
ment to stir tongue or foot. In the twi
light glowed for a single instant the ap
parition of a dark-blue dress, ;i pale
cheek, and certain dark curls falling
with graceful decorum on the whitest of
necks; then sunlight and the shadow in
question faded away together, and with
in and without, the ruins all was blank
Carew walked toward the sedilia and
sat down where the departed aparition
had, ten minutes earlier, been meditat
ing. He sat for a few minutes thinking
silently, a queer expression of mischief
and perplexity working in eye and lip.
That barbed little arrow of a "No" evi
dently rankled in his mind.
"Doesn't care for the society of mor
tals, I suppose. The girl has lived with
ruins and legends till she is a sort of
embodied dream herself. If I were Rip
Van Winkle, or one of the Seven Sleep
ers, 1 might win a gracious word from
her; but being an every-day piece of
humanity her goddess-ship scorns me.
Such a 'No' from a mouth of eigh
teen summers! I'll paint that face
"Mrs. Wolfe," said Carew to his lan-
dlay.when the pair met next morning in
the spacious garden attached to the cot-
says that in- the wars of tho Hoses an
abbot of Furness bad a but I'll leave
the legend for Maggie to tell. It suits
her tongue far better than mine, and
she runs through it much more pretti
ly." "I'd rather hear it from you," said
"And I'd rather my daughter told it.
Tlu child's so jealous already of the
time you spend in the ruins that I'm
sure, if she thought I'd been saying
anything to you about the leirond. hi
come to me, crying, 'Mother, get a new
lodger. If Mr. Carew stays with us,
he'll be trying to find the treasure."
uiese are all the treasures I'm like
ly to find in the Abbey," said Carew,
opening his portfolio of sketches. When
bis companion had passed a couplo of
minutes in inspection and admiration,
he added: "Of course, Miss Wolfe does
not put any real faith in this nonsense
about abbots and rulMes."
"Sometimes she does sometimes not.
I've known her to sit for an hour at a
time in the abbot's seat there, trying
to think where tho casket could be hid
den, and then start up with a little laugh
at herself and hurry away. It's thinking
of her father and me that makes her
take these wild fancies, Mr. Carew.
Poor as you see my husband to-day, he
kept a better stable ten years ago than
Ivemiett does at his big house on tho
hill there; and if James Wolfe is now
a ruined man, James Wolfe has him
self to thank for it. I'm free in talk
ing to you, sir, for there's little to hide
from you after that scene the other
evening. Oh, but Maggie's miserable
about her father and me! T fiiiiiir im
fears sometimes that he'll bring us on
the parish before he's done; and the
thought's like a continual burning to
her. She wants to go and help in Miss
Fostlethwayte's school at Ulverstone;
and glad Miss Postlethwayte would be
to have her; for little as the child was
when we took her from boarding there,
she has learned almost all that the old
lady could teach her. Rut I can't part
with her she's the only being on earth
that can do anything with my husband
the only thing left mo to are for, or
that cares for me. And now, Mr. Ca
rew, I must run in there's eight
uuiuck siriKing, ana Maggie will be
wondering why I don't coine to help
her in getting breakfast ready."
"T wonder what tho girl thinks of
me," was Carew's self-reproachful ejac
ulation, uttered within hearing of no
creature but the rocks, as, after break
fast, the speaker walked down toward
tho Abbey. "What should a girl like
this Margaret Wolfe, dividing her
strange life between dreams of the
past and the miseries of the present,
know of the meaningless talk mon in
dulge jn toward girls whoso society
tage where he was slavimr. "1 think
your daughter has the strangest look 1
ever saw on any girl's face. ' Where on
earth did she ever pick it up?"
"In Furness here, Mr. Carew. The
lass has lived all her life but the first
four years in this very house; and the
old ruin is almost all the playmates she
ever had. When Maggie was scarce
high enought to climb into tho abbot's
seat she would sit by the hour under
the stone dragons in the chapel; and
now that she's three inches taller than
her mother she goes there still. In the
daytime, when we're both busy about
the house, she's content with now and
then taking a peep at the abbey from
the window ; but her first hour after
rising and another before it's dark she
spends at the altar-end of the chapel
dreaming of the jewels that arc hidden
"Oh, it isn't tho dead old abbots she
dreams of, then! What may these jew
els be. Mrs. Wolfe?"
"A king's ransom in pearls and ru
bies, Mr. Carew. The story my grand
mother used to tell mo forty years ago,
and that I often told Maggie when she
was a palrn justjiblo to understand me,
they imd pleasant for the hour, but
uon l care 10 retain for life? I'll talk
no more nonsense to this Diana of
eighteen. After all," Qirew baited, and
looked back through tho trees at the
cottage he had left. "No, not a wife,"
the painter muttered, walking on again.
"L don't care to take a wife away with
mo from Furness. A picture's all I
Enter the chapel when he might, Ca
rew failed to find its shadowy desola
tion brightened by the presence of Mar
garet Wolfe; and he had received from
London the canvas and other materials
that he wrote for, and had spent a day
or two in meditation over his projected
picture before he again saw her in the
One afternoon, toward tho end of
June, Carew had walked across the
fields to the ancient town of Dalton.
King Henry VIII, was by this time
hopelessly banished from tho painter's
thoughts; it was the fair form of Mar
garet that ho contemplated placing in
tho abbot's seat.
He had already sketched, rapidly yet
carefully, the sight on which his eyes
had rested when, on that never-to-be
forgotten evening of early June, bo
climbed to the window-gap of the an
cient chapel and looked toward tho se
dilia. Contrasted alike vividly with
the shadows that crept . along broken
tombstones and waving grass, and the
sun-set that touched with flame all the
sky above the ruins, the still figure of
Margeret Wolfe leaned slightly forward
from the niche it occupied; her serious
face and deep, dark eyes giving her tho
aspect of some ensainted phantom.
With that face and thoso strangely
beautiful eyes, as they appeared in tho
sketch that he had executed, Carew,
however, remained dissatisfied. Labor
as he might, his brush had failed to
catch tho expression that he had noted
upon the girl's face a something neith
er of earth nor heaven.
As in tho sweet June twilight tho
painter walked back from Dalton to
ward tho abbey ruins, his own faco
wore an expression curiously serious for
one who was ordinarilv nmonir tho
lightest-hearted of living knights of tho
brush. There was a presence in tho
little Furness town that loaded the
midsummer air with pestilence, and
turned men's thoughts from business
and pleasure to the terror and mystery
of death. As quietly as the darkness
that was entering with him, did Carew
pass forward into the ruined chapel and
toward the familiar nicho. Tho faco
and form of Margaret Wolfe, absent
from the place for a dozen evenings
past, looked out once moro on him from
tho sedilia, thoughtful and maidenly as
While Carew still stood hesitating
whether to go forward or withdraw,
sho ended his difficulty "by rising and
approaching him. "Good evening, Mr.
Carew," was her salutation offered
coldly, but without any trace of tho
constraint that, since their former dia
logue in the ruins had made few and
awkward the words exchanged by tho
embarrassed pair. "You have been to
Dalton have you not?"
"I have been there all tho afternoon,"
ho replied. "And you had better not
come near me."
"For fear of tho fovpr, you mean I
Wo havo it in our house already. My
father has been two or three times at
Dalton lately, and to-day he finds him
self too ill to rise. If you think there
is risk of infection in coming up to our
house to fetch your things, 1 will put
them together and send them to what
ever address you may give me."
"If I think there is risk of infec
tion I" returned Carew. "You had rea
son the other evening, Miss Margaret,
lor thinking me impertinent, but I don't
know what cause I havo given you to
fancy me cowardly."
Neither moon nor star had as yet
glimmered out on this Juno twilight.
Through the half-darkness of the ruined
chapel Carew perceived tho girl's eyes
bent on him with a look he know not
whether of anger, wonder or pleasure
that inado them shine starlike.
"Shall I bo much in your way if I
still stay heroV" ho asked. "I shall
need very little attendance most mat
ters I can manage for myself, and for
dinner I can walk over, when necessary,
to Dalton. Not much danger of my
carrying the fever with mo it's all
over the town already."
"Are you not afraid of taking it
yourself, Mr. Carew? If you come
back to our house to-iu'ght bow do you
know but it may bo never to leave it
"You evidently look upon mo as a
very nervous and fanciful kind of per
son," said Carew.
"If you were not fanciful would you
bean artist? I don't think you are
nervous, though; no ono who was nerv
ous would seek the company of that ter
rible fever. But really, Mr. Carew,
what good can you do by staving? It
is very genorous of you to wish it; but
what use will it bo?
"Who will nurse your father through
"My mother and myself, certainly."
"And do you imagine you two wo
men will be sufficient? Have you any
idea what, in a case like your father's,
the delirium will be?"
"Wo can get help from Dalton."
"The fever will prevent you. In such
weather as this, and in a town like
Dalton, there is certain to bo an out
burst of tho disease that will drive
everything into fright and confusion.
Don't throw away a volunteer helper,
Miss Wolfe; you may find it a difficult
matter to replace me."
The girl hesitated. "And your
sketching?" she said at last.