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ru MAY, At SARATOGA. ' Tour letter just received. It found me, dear, Up to my eyes in taking stock, and bent Half-double over ledgers, lists and bills, Tired, cross, impatient— wholly , discontent! But, somehow, when the mail brought in your note, , , A sudden brightness filial the dun old {date. I seemed to see your pretty", wistful eyes, And felt your lingers pat my f»ce. Such kind, sweet, petting words* Your poor old boy- Read, loved and blessed you. Ah, yon were so good ' • To write -t once! Our letters must have crossed. "-. '-.7.?: : :?-"•' -J. ' •'" I was not angry, dear. I understood Just how you felt at parting. If I dared I would have kissed you before every one. Some day I will, when it becomes my right; . Thea you will neither scold, nor pout, nor run. Ah, some day when my girl is wholly mine!— • But, until "then, of course, I must observe The finest shades of etiquette, for she, That girl of mine, is bouhd to never swerve From strict propriety. I'm glad you're pleased, . *; The truth is, I was anxious, dearest sweet, Afraid you'd weary of the rush and noise, x And sigh for something more of a retreat. The Wards are going up; and Arthur Black, And others of that set. Of course- you must fie civil; but mv precious, don't forget Your poor Jack here alone in dust and rust, And toil and ink! and, oh, my sweetest May, I am not jealous; I will never make •Rules for you, dear; but Black, I hate him so; He's such a puppy! Snub him for my sake. And write me every day, and wear my ring And keep my picture with you, pet; and then (Of course I am not jealous' I can bear To let you walk aud talk with other men. But oh, mv little love.be good and wise For God's sake, dear, Don't flirt with Ar- thur Black— Don't flirt with any one. I trust you, May; Good-night, gobdby. Be true to your poor Jack. KLLA'S FIRST BALL CHAPTER I. BEFORE. "There!" exclaimed Mrs. Morris, com ing with a rush into the room where her daughters sat at work, her florid face redder than ever, and puckered with vexation. "There! I've done ray best for you and this is the result." She let a couple of sovereigns fall from her hand to the table. "Papa positively refused to give me more; and how you are to get hew trimmings and gloves and slippers with that I should very much like to know." "You should have asked that of papa, not of us, mamma," cried Eliza Morris, pertly. "So 1 did, child," returned her mother, frowning at the recollection of what she had braved for the sake of her dressy, thoughtless daughters, "and the only an swer 1 got was that you should not have any more. That you are always wanting new finery; and on my word, girls, when papa opened his "account-book and shewed me what it had cost for your clothes the last few- mouths, I dared not press him more." Sophie, the next in age to Eliza, threw down her needle in a pet. •'What's the use of screwing and con triving as we have been doing, trying our utmost to look nicer than those Prices, if we shall bave to ,wear our old sashes after all?" and "What, indeed?" echoed her elder sister. "I can sponge and iron them out for you," said Ella Smith, their orphan cous in, who, having been taken into the fam ily out of charity, was expected to help in the nursery, teach in the schoolroom, and ply her needle nimbly whenever the Misses Morris called upon her to do so. "All right; I'd rather go shabby than not go at all,'-' cried Jane, who was not so particular as to appearances as her sisters "And I." retorted Sophia, "would rath er—much rather— stay at home than be sneered at by Mrs. Price and her conceit ed daughters." ?!■;'??? "yery well," said their mother, resign edly; "then you had better make up your mind to go "to Mrs. Wynberg's instead; one of you will have to do so, and why not all?"" "Mamma!" cried the tbree girls in tones of strong protest. "What do you mean?" "Just what I say; or to speak more correctly, it is what your papa says. He considers he was laid under great obliga tions to the late Mr. Wynberg, and insists that every attention shall be paid to his widow." "Ah! yes; of course; but that need not include giving up a pleasant even ing on her account," pouted Jane. "Mrs. Wynberg's is a child's party and carpet dance," said Eliza. "I hate chil dren's parties! you are always expected to wait on the "little urchins, and romp with them till your dress is torn and you are tired to death, and you arc supposed to enjovit!" "And Mrs. Wynberg is a stolid old Dutchwoman, whose friends must be like herself, fat and foolish, and unin teresting!" cried Sophia, with a grimace. "Besides, we did not receive ber invita tion until after aunt Emma's had been accepted. You know, mamma, you like us to go to Aunt Emma's, because she has everything in such good style." "So I told papa," her mother replied, still fanning her flushed face; "but he says he promised Mrs. Wynberg that one ■ or" two of you would go and help her to amuse her young guests, and you, your selves, must decide which it is to be." "One of us," reflected Eliza, looking at her sisters. "It cannot be me, for I have faithfully promised to go early to aunt Emma's," and help her arrange" the flowers on the supper-table." J "It's no use sending me, I can never get on witb children," said Sophia, just as decisively. "Nor I," "chimed in Jane. "If there's any attempt to make me the victim, I shall have one of my headaches? and go to bed." "You always are so frightfully selfish?" grumbled Eliza. "I don't see why Sophy or 1 should have to sacrifice our evening solely because you will not. Can't you help" us out of our strait, mamma? Do try!".- . ' .-./? I! "But Mrs. Morris shook her bead, and declared that in papa's present mood she dared not oppose his wishes. ' She . was sorry that one of her daughters must re linquish the gay party looked forward to with so much eagerness, for a humdrum, juvenile affair at Mrs. Wynberg's; and it was thoughtless, very thoughtless of papa to make promises on behalf of his daugh ters without consulting them, but ,then, they— Here Sophia broke in, impetuously: . "I tell you what you shall do, mamma; you shall send Ella instead." ■ "To your aunt Emma's? She has asked repeatedly how it is she never ac companies — "y'T7_Ti. 7yvT'.y_] ; 7 "No, no; nonsense, mamma. Ella would be quite out of place among, such fashionable people as they are; but she'd be a perfect treasure to Mrs. Wynberg. She can play country dances, make lemonade, console the children if they ' are hurt, and so on, and that is all she'll be wanted for. Let her go; a well-word ed apology for our absence and a pressing offer of her services, will set everything straight; papa need not know of the ar rangement until afterwards, and Mrs Wynberg will be, or ought to be, very much obliged to us." 58 Mrs. Morris' consent was soon obtained; as for Ella's, it was not thought neces sary/and when she ventured to remind them that she was a stranger to the lady, and inquired who was to accompany her, she was heard with impatience and en treated mot to raise any unnecessary ob jections. y7-7 f :7y7~: "I'll tell you what is an actual obsta cle," said Eliza, suddenly. "Ella can't go in that shabby black silk which has been her best _vcr since she has been here." .-.-"-•':"' Mrs. Morris put up her hands with a gesture of annoyance. "Another trouble! As if I were not worried enough before! If Ella goes to Mrs. Wynberg's to please you, you must lend her something to wear. Yes, I know that she is taller and more largely framed. I often wish she were not so big and awkward, there are so many of your clothes that she could finish wear ing out; but I dare say you can contrive something by lengthening and letting out, and — " But here the dissenting murmurs of her daughter made themselves heard. The Misses Morris resembled their father in face and figure. They were sallow, sharp-nosed, and under-sized; passably good-looking when well-dressed and in a good-temper, but utterly unlike their cousin, whom nature had gifted with a red and white complexion, and tall, com pact, well-rounded figure of a healthy, handsome English girl. "It's no use of talking such nonsense, mamma," said Sophie, sharply. "Ella could not wear our clothes even if we were willing to lend them, which we are not. How could we go out again in a dress that she has aired *at Mrs. Wyn berg's?" - ... . "Very well," was her mother's rather sulky reply. "You know I dare not ask your" papa for one for her, so that scheme "falls to the ground." i> But now Ella ventured to speak again. "If I must go, and I would much rather not—" ' "Don't be disobliging, child!" cried Mrs. Morris, reprovingly. "After all we ha ved one for you/it sounds ungrateful in the extreme to make a fuss when so tri fling a favor is asked of you." "If I must go," repeated Ella, "I do tbink I could manage it without troub ling anyone; I have a white muslin frock that was made for me to wear at the dancing-classes three years ago." "Is it very much soiled?" inquired Jane. "Not at all; I never wore it. Mamma's death coming so suddenly — " Her faltering tones died into a sob, and Eliza started to snatch away the breadths of silk on which her tears were falling thick and fast. Mrs. Morris heaved a sigh, murmured the words "my poor sister!" then rose to quit the room, saying in a low tone to her eldest daughter: "I must trust to you to see that Ella does not make herself ridiculous. Mus lin can always be ironed out, and if ber trimmings are too old-fashioned, make her take them off and substitute ribbons or flounces of your own. You have plen ty lyin£ about, I dare say." " Eliza promised compliance, but was too much engrossed in attending to her own affairs to think of Ella's until the last moment. Then a cursory glance at the dress, which had been carefully pinned up in blue paper, and a suggestion that its owner might be able to borrow some ribbon from Jane or Sophia, were all she vouchsafed. Papa would storm and rave if no one went to Mrs. Wynberg's; but he would not be justified in grumbling if bis niece's toilet was not of the freshest, seeing that he bad refused to honor any more drafts on his purse. In spite of bis refusal to purchase the odds and ends his daughters required, they were forthcoming. Mrs. Morris alone knew how; and she and her daugh ters, radiant with satisfaction at their own appearance, went off at an early hour to assist aunt Emma in the final ar rangements, as well as the reception of her guests, leaving Ella, like the Cinder ella in the fairy tale, to fold up and clear away the heterogeneous articles with which their bedrooms were strewn, be fore betaking herself to her room and at tiring herself for the ball. Unlike Cinderella, she fejt no desire to appear at it. In the life-time of her mother she had been a fondly loved and petted child; but three years of incessant , drudgery, and the chilling indifference, which is almost as painful to a sensitive spirit as absolute cruelty, had robbed her of the light heart and bright spirits that , had once made her the merriest of maid ens. She shrank from this visit as from an ordeal to which it was unkind to [subject her. She had never seen Mrs. Wynberg, she knew none of her acquaintances, and felt keenly the awkwardness of present ing herself at that lady's house as a' sub stitute for one of her cousins. But resistance was out of the question; todisobey would be to draw down upon ber luckless head such accusations of in gratitude that it was not to be thought "of. If Ella sometimes thought that her services amply repaid her relatives for her -food and lodging, and that she should feel happier and more independent as a governess in some family, she had never yet found courage to say so. Her dying mother had rejoiced to think that her child would be sheltered from evil be neath the roof of Mr. Morris, and remem bering this, sbe resolutely checked all ! inclination to repine. " y-T, '''■'-'-7 Weary with a long day's work, Ella i carried up stairs the tallow-candle by which she was to dress, and the frock, out of which the housemaid had good naturedly ironed the creases. It was an Indian muslin of exquisite texture, and looked nicer from having an ivory tint from lying by. . Luckily it had been made in so simple a style that, although not of the latest fashion, it did not look peculiarly antiquated; and it was also I fortunate, that Ella had preserved the little kid slippers and gloves that were to have been worn with it. Big and awkward though Mrs. Morris had called her, those little .slippers en cased the prettiest of feet; and her figure, though not as wasp-like as her cousins', had a natural grace of its own, and look ed statuesque enough to please an artist's eye, with the folds- of muslin falling in such graceful draperie around it. Ornaments Ella had none, having' de clined to deck herself in faded ribbons or the gaudy artificial flowers with which the Misses Morris were fond of adorning themselves. Natural ones were not to be had; for though bouquets bad been procured from Covent Garden for her cousins, no one had offered to share their | roses and camellias with Ella; j but she twisted together some discarded foliage, and, made them into /bunches for- her 1 throat and her rippling brown hair. "' ' r . When ; Ella ' looked in her -glass she started back with a sigh and a smile. ' It was so long very long — since it had reflected anything so pleasant; but re buking herself for her innocent vanity, she went downstairs to have it revised by Bessie, j' the over- worked,' much-vilified housemaid, who ? was wont to tell ' her friends,' the grocer's assistant j and the policeman? that she would have left long and long ago if it hadn't been for, Miss Ella.?"** -*' '■* '• ' j '"*'*■. '"TT, v - Bessie stared at : her open-mouthed as she came gliding down the stairs in her white robe, a fan of white feathers— once her mother's — dangling by a silver cord THE ST t._U_ i SUNDAY GLOBE. SUNDAY, AUGUST f: 14,? ; 1881v; from her wrist, and a white crape shawl, also taken out of its wrappings for the J first time since its owner's death, thrown over her arm, to be folded around her in the cab the page had gone to fetch. ?•■'• •..- --' "I couldn't ha' believed you* could make yourself look so lovely, Miss Ella!" cries her humble friend, frankly, as she walks around her. "And yet you don't look the least bit like the other young ladies. I'm sure they arc as gay jas gay could be, but you're'more like , a picture, or a princess, or something quite out of the common." "I wish I were not compelled to go," sighed Ella. TTv'T ?■*'"'. ■/'? '" "Well, it's lonesome for you," ; sym pathized Bessie; '.'but if you're as good natured and obliging out as you are at home, I'll be bound you'll soon make plenty of friends. It's your first ball, isn't it, miss? Then dance every dance, and 'joy yourself all you can." ,■ •;: Her round, rosy face looked. in at the cab window to repeat her injunctions; and then the man mounted his box, Bessie bawling after him Mrs. Wynberg's direc tion, "No. 14S, Carlin Square." More pretentious vehicles blocked the way when he would have driven to the door* but after a brief period of waiting Ella was able to alight, and stepped into the wide entrance-ball; feeling very for lorn and awkward at the prospect of hav ing to introduce herself to the despised willow of Mr. Morris's old friend. As sbe slowly ascended the stairs she glanced at* a "pleasant-looking J elderly lady so imploringly, tbat the latter ac costed ber: .' TyyyV. "Are you alone, my love? Have you lost your party? Perhaps you would like to go in with me?" Ella thankfully accepted the offer; her name, which was being loudly pro nounced by servant after servant, had never sounded so plebeian as it did to night. "Miss Smith!" Oh, why was she not born to any other cognomen"? By the time she reached the ante-chamber, wbere the hostess was receiving her guests, she was— crimson,| emotion never flushed her delicate ' features— but pale witb annoyance at tbe false position I in which the selfishness of her cousins had placed her. ;??"?'*? '.''"'. But the warmth of her reception was reassuring. Both her hands ' were taken in those of the portly lady, who after one swift, searching glance at the fair young face of her guest, advanced with em pressement and thanked her for coming so early. ' • > ! Ella' hurriedly delivered her aunt's message, and was relieved to find that she was heard with a smile, and stopped before she had completed it. "Not another word, pray, my love! I am. immensely glad: to have you; and knowing how" many calls you have on your time, dared not hope you would be able to come to us so soon. I long to make mv son known to you, but unfor tunately" there is a press of parlimentary business just now. and he will not be able to join us yet; you will dance, of course?" ✓ "Thanks, but I would rather look on, unless—" ? , , Ella was going to add that she was quite willing to accept as partner any shy lad who wanted encouraging, but with a playful smile her hostess criod: I "'lndeed? I shall not let you sit still. See what dire offense 1 should give to the gentlemen if I deprived them of such an eligible partner. You must promise to keep a waltz and a quadrille for poor Marmaduke. I'll be moderate in my de mands, and not ask more." Ella's confession that she had not, danced since leaving school was drowned by a crash of music from a military band, and she found herself in a brilliantly lighted ballroom bowing to a gentleman who had been lounging near the door, and obeyed the signal of his hostess. "I shall ask you, Mr. Calverly, to take ; care of this dear child till Marmaduke ; arrives. Remember, I want her to thor oughly enjoy herself, and I know you can dance well, although one can seldom ; induce you to exert yourself." Laurence Calverly; had gone through , the introduction reliictautly. He was no ; ladies' man, and only came here to ob- , lige his friend Marmaduke; but his dis taste for his office vanished when Ella looked up and smiled. Her face 1 was so fresh and naive, her dress so elegant in its simplicity, and there was altogether such an air of purity about her, that his ; taste was gratified as it had seldom been , before. i-yTv, 7 :■•' Ella, on her part, felt the soft carna tion in her cheek deepen beneath his gaze; and yet there was nothing offensive , in the admiration it conveyed. He was , no mere boy, but a thoughtful-looking man of thirty, with features more expres- , sive than handsome, and a manner so , quiet and gentlemanly that all dread of him quickly passed away. The sets were just joining for another quadrille, and as he led her to her place more than one whisper of surprise at her grace and love liness followed them. . ■'■ : . CHAPTER 11. , AFTER. The next hour passed like _ delightful dream to the happy Ella. Little did her cousins know what they had lost by their refusal to come here. " The fat Dutch woman had proved a very gracious dame, who received her with flattering empress ment instead of regarding her as an in truder. As for Mr. Calverly, he would always be remembered as the kindest and cleverest of men one who bad de ferred to her opinions— hers!— as if they were as well worth hearing as his own. The attraction must have been mutual, for Laurence Calverly would not relin quish her to another partner, but per suaded her to sit out the next quadrille and spend the interval with him chatting and resting in the very pretty conserva tory; and when the strains of a favorite waltz made her cast longing glances to-' ward the ballroom, he led her thither im mediately, -y "You look," he said laughingly, as he watched her sparkling eyes wander over the brilliant spectacle, "you look as much amused and gratified as though this were your first ball instead of your fiftieth." " "And so it-is," Ella replied, "I haven't danced until now since mamma I came to live with my uncle." ■ •■*'■. "Where she is not happy," said | Laur ence Calverly, mentally, as he noted the cloud that stole over her face, but was quickly banished by a smile. • "This has been a night of pleasant sur prises," she' told him. .' •••"' . yyy'r "I hope you include me in the pleasant events." ' '■'■ >■ ''■ ' '■ *j : ■ •;■• , "Oh, yes;" she answered, ingenuously, "of course I do, because it ', has been Iso very good of you to take care of me. Left to myself among all these strangers, I should have slipped into the most ob scure corner and stayed there. did not expect to be so cordially received. j I was not prepared to find Mrs. Wynberg such an amiable woman, audi had ; been told that this would be a juvenile party,, in which my share was to be playing country dunces and amusing all the cross chil dren." ! - ryyiyviUi y.^ . "I am very glad you were misin formed," was the gay reply." Had the tale been true, I should not -have had the pleasure of making ' your * acquain tance,' for I have the misfortune to be reckoned too elderly - and useless for a calico ball or juvenile ; entertainment. M cannot cut faces out of orange peel, or make ? hideous grimaces, or sing comic songs, or do anything that would win me renown on such an occasion. .. Yes, I am ' , very glad this evening is not consecrated to the children, aren't you?" Ella smiled again, while she' answered in the affirmative; and as ' her? partner clasped his * arm ■ around her and ", they floated away together to \ the • strains of the "Premier Basier," he observed: "It was very good; of you to come. There were great fears entertained .that you would not." . '*".*' ?*.'?•? "But why?" asked Ella, so innocently that her colour rose a little. ; "Is it possible that you do: not know? Then keep your ignorance as long as you can, my deaf Miss Smithson. It is a very happy thought when we are able to fancy that we are sought only for ourselves." "But lam not "vain as to think that!" Ella replied, looking gravely 'into his eyes. "It is only for the, sake of my relations that I am received here at all, and I came with the understanding that I was ; to make myself useful to Mrs. Wynberg. :. I think she must have altered her intentions since she sent my, cousins their invitation; she could not have con templated at tbat time such a very bril liant affair as this is." '* *' : "It will not be sO pleasant by-and-by," said Mr. Calverly, "the rooms "are getting too full already. But excuse me ff I ask you to whom you are alluding as Mrs. Wynberg. Is it a pet name for our hos tess?" ' ■'•'•;*-?•.' •? ,: " Before the astonished Ella could reply the music bad stopped, and she saw the lady by whom she bad been received and welcomed coming rapidly towards her, followed by a dark, haughty- looking girl of her own age, but not ; half so lovely, nor so becomingly dressed, although there were diamond stars in her black hair, and diamonds glittering on her wrists and throat. yy. ' yyy7\ £?•?'?•> i ; * "Will you be kind enough to explain who you are, and how it is you have suf fered me to receive and address you as : Miss j Smithson?" the dame inquired; se verely. . ?, .. :■ "My name is hot Smithson, but Smith, and "I am the neice of Mr. Morris," stammered Ella, looking from one to the other. J ■ - •' x ■'■ ""1 do not number a Mr. Morris amongst my acquaintances," was the tart reply. "Why did you introduce your self to me as Miss Smithson? \ of Tarieton Crescent? . Where is Mrs. Lowndes? You came with Mrs. Lowndes; are you a .pro tegee of hers, Miss— Smith? Very strange that, she should bring anyone without apprising me of it." " "If Mrs. Lowndes is tbe pleasaqt elder ly lady with whom I came upstairs," Ella took courage to say, "you must not blame her at all. She saw that I was ner vous, being alone,, and — " "Alone! You came here uninvited and alone! : She must be- mad!,' said the aggrieved matron, turning to her com panion. : . -•' '*" '' '* "I am very sorry," murmured Ella, pale and tearful with shame, "but, in deed, Mrs. Wynberg, I explained to you as soon as I arrived how it was I came in the piace of my cousins." "I never heard any such explanation. You made some apology about your com ing so early, but I was "too hurried to lis ten, and my name is not "Wynberg, but Chetwynd." ' Not "Wynberg! No; and • this was not 148, Carlin Square— 53, Carlin Gar-, dens; the cabman, who was not: quite sober, having decided tbat a house lit up j for a ball must be tbe right one to de posit a demoiselle in ball costume ■??;*.,• ; If Mrs. Chetwynd bad treated the af fair as what it was— a mistake, for which: a tipsy cabman and her own servants, to whom Ella had handed her uncle's card, were most to blame, it would have been only just to the shrinking girl before her; but she was seriously annoyed. Miss Smithson, of Tarieton Crescent, was an heiress, whom her only son Marmaduke had encountered at the house of a mu tual friend; and his mother, eager to see him well married, had been anxious to cultivate the acquaintance of so eligible a partie! lt was exceedingly exasparat ing to find that sbe had been lavishing her civilities on an insignificant Miss Smith, who had no business there at all; and one of the unpleasant results of her error had been, tbat when the heiress did arrive she was treated so coolly as to be on the point- of leaving in a buff. To find that she (Mrs. Chetwynd) had been rude to the very person with whom she wished to . ingratiate herself, and had been entertaining a stranger— nobody — provoked her to forget all the restraints of good-breeding; and her looks, her speeches were so caustic, that Ella was ready to sink with pain and confusion. She had one consolation, however; when Mrs. Chetwynd commenced to question her, Laurence' Calverly had drawn her hand through his arm, and when her trembling fingers would have slipped away from bis sleeve, he put his own upon them and held them firmly. "Another time, Miss— a— Smith, I would advise you to be more careful where you go,"" said Mrs. Chetwynd, loftily. " "This may have been a mistake, as you choose to call it, or it may have been intended as a practical joke; in which case I must be allowed to tell you that jokes of this description are imperti nent and un feminine." Ella was now stung into retorting. "1 quite agree with you, madam. You cannot regret what has occurred more than I do, but as 1 have not wilfully of fended you, I do not think I owe you any further" apologies than I have already made." With the stiffest of bows Mrs. Chet wynd turned from her, calling to one of the servants to see that a cab was sent for directly for this young person. "1 do not want a cab; I have no money," said Ella to Mr. Calverly, who still kept beside her as she , hastened from the ballroom. "1 only want to get away, and 1 can walk; yes, I can walk ! to Mrs. Wynberg's; someone will ■ tell me i where to find her. > Without replying, be carefully wrapped her shawl about her, and then led, her from the house. As soon as they had quitted it, and reached the silent street, her tears burst furtb, nor could she check them. She had been outraged, insulted, and in the presence of a gentleman whose good opinion bad suddenly become very precious to her. At last she found her voice. "Pray do not let me detain you any longer • Thanks, and good night." But he gently refused to be dismissed. "You must not ask me to leave you, Miss Smith? till I .have seen you . safely under the care of your friends. See, this turning leads us into Cftrlin Square; and I have just recollected that , Mrs. Wyn berg must be j acquainted with a, cousin of mine, who used to live at at— well, I think it must have been at No. 147— next door neighbors you see"' *'? ' , i This was rather 'unintelligible? but Mr Claverly made it a pretext for accompany ing Ella into Mrs. Wynberg's drawing- room. There they found a comely, elder ly woman, with her smooth" fair . hair banded under * a widow's cap, trying to amuse some forty or fifty.little creatures whom her love for children had induced the kind-hearted German vrow, to gather about her. '""■ .•■' ' '■• ■■?••::*•■ '.r.i-Ji ..... .," Ella forgot her own vexations in pick ing up and comforting a small- boy, who had fallen off a chair"; and while she was thus engaged? * Mr. Calverley drew Mrs. Wynberg aside, aiid gave her a sufficient account' of ? what ' had happened. ,; Her sympathies were still further | evoked by , the sight of Ella's tear-stained "cheeks; and she kissed the still quivering mouth, and gave her such a •motherly "' hug j that they nearly burst forth again; but *, with peremptory kindness she checked them. 7?: "Mem - leetle friend, you '; shall make the children dance for me, and mem herr here shall stay and help you; is it not so? 'As for me lam tired, and Jl- shall' take my fan and sit down and look at you with pleasure."? • J '-??= : .;** '..-?-•? To Ella's astonishment and secret joy Mr. Calverley promptly acceded to the ar rangement, and for a couple of hours he was the prime contriver of all softs of fun and'froiic, Mrs. Wynberg '■■■ laughing as merrily as the delighted children. When the last of the juveniles had been wrapped up, loaded with bon-bons, and delivered to the waiting, nurse, Mr. Calverley still stayed to drink coffee and eat German cakes : with : Mrs. Wynberg and Ella, and talked so pleasantly that the young girl gradually regained , her spirits. < , ■-....". ; •'You must come and see me , again, mem love!" cried the good-natured widow, ere she sent Ella away in her own carriage. J"lam so much alone," it would be very gracious of you to spend : one or two evemngs with me every week to read or sing to the poor old vrow, who has no tall sons, no little -loving dyughters' of her own to cheer her up in this foreign land." ■'■JA . --t- yyy y "I would come willingly," Ella re sponded; "but I always have so much to do." . y"y'y . . "*?. ? i Mrs. Wynberg nodded significantly. v - "I "understand— l have heard. I have a servant who used to live in your house. But I shall talk to. your uncle; he is my very good friend; he will not refuse to me "tbis one leetle favour!"..., .-..'. lyy 'As Ella went bomein the? luxurious carriage, wrapped in furs by * Laurence Calverly, and with her fingers still ting ling with his farewell pressure, she won dered, first, if Mrs. Morris would be per suaded to spare her occasionally; second ly, whether she would ever meet : Mr. Calverley there again; then took herself to task for dwelling on so unlikely an oc currence.' :,:.;:■::: , -J' J - • ! '&•; •-. The Misses Morris were too much fa tigued on the morrow, to enquire if Ella bad? enjoyed herself; and .their mother was very cross when Mr. Morris announc ed at dinner that he had promised Mrs. Wynberg the society of his wife's j niece every Tuesday and Thursday evening. "I don't envy you your berth, Ella," said Eliza Morris, with a shrug, "and 1 am extremely thankful we all slipped out of going to the old Dutchwoman's. She is penuriously : inclined, .and has seized the , opportuuity; of- getting her | letters written, and the newspapers read to her without going to the expense of hiring a companion." • ' ' : , n j "She is very kind, and I likelier," re plied Ella, warmly, -. <- : ... ■ "It would j be; all the same if you did not," grumbled Sophia. "You'll have to go, and those tucked skirts of mine will not be finished by the : summer, un less you get up an hour earlier to work at them." »•*.-. " cVv-fti . ■ y-y .. ... .yy y-. "It's very thoughtless of pa," added Jane; "he ought to know that, with so large "a family as ours, we want Ella worse than Mrs. Wynberg does." - . ■ Ay; but in the course of a short time someone else learned to want Ella too; to think the hours he spent beside her j all too short, and to weary for . her coming, and grow uneasy if she did not make her appearance at Mrs. Wynberg's at the ap pointed time. '*-*■" - ?,H : j And so it came to pass, that, on her re turn from the widow's one evening, there was such a happy light shining in • her sweet eyes, that even her cousins noticed it and regarded her curiously. • •** "Why, Ella, you grow quite pretty! But what is that on your hand, a ring — an engaged one?". ■ . , < And the answer, though low and tremu lous, was proudly spoken: "Yes, I am going to be married." Aloud "My gracious!" from three or four ;* voices," Mrs. Morris's amongst tbem. ?• Wr; ki .-.-.. : , . Married! Insignificant Ella, the house hold drudge, about to enter matrimony could it be possible? * Whom was she go ing. to marry? Mr. Calverly? why he was very well -to do indeed, and moved in a circle quite above their own. j How long had she known him? And there were many and mingled feelings thrilling in the voice of Lanrence Calverley 's betrothed as she made an swer: . , ..'.;■■ , "We date our acquaintance from my first ball." y-WH-'i: 1 *" ':: Mrs. Mackey. I see by the foreign papers, says a New York gossiper, that there is some talk in Paris of the marriage of Miss Mackey, the daughter of the great California million aire, to a nobleman who was quite dis tinguished during the Thiers and j Mac- Mahon administrations. Mrs. Mackey, it is said, will soon leave Paris, and come to New York to live, her husband having bought j a splendid . residence on | Fifth avenue for half a million. She'll be missed in Paris, . no doubt, for she has been a Lady Bountiful to a good many people, I hear, in more ways than one. I remember an old friend of mine, a '49-er, once telling me about the Mackeys, and how they got their start in life, which led to such big results. Mackey used to keep a small saloon, and dealt' with the commonest kind of custom, and my friend would frequently see Mackey's wife about the place. '..-. She was very plainly dressed in those, days; a common J ging ham was good enough; and as for dia monds! why, you might as well have talked about buying the moon in those days, and it was sometimes hard lines to make both ends meet. But the mining excitement came, and Mackey was lucky enough to make a little venture with Flood, O'Brien, and some others, .who afterward "struck.it rich." He is now worth, they say, $30,000,000 to $40,000, -000, and i his - "wife, pat a recent enter tainment given abroad, literally blazed with diamonds.- I suppose when she comes here she will lead the fashion in New York' society. Sometimes? in the pauses of all this extravagent frivolity, however, slr no doubt . finds a moment or two to think lof the times, when, in her simple gingham, she used to help her husband serve the customers at the little bar in the far west. ; -' • •• '••<! vso Pocket- Handkerchiefs. , • Soon after the Germans took possession of the provinces ceded by France, they sent an Alsatian girl to prison for criticis ing the photograph of the Grand; Duke of Baden in disrespectful terms, and fined a Lorraine woman five thalers for mark ing her disapproval of a ' soldier's primi tive, habits with the exclamation, "What! with all our five milliards, they, haye "not got pocket-handkerchiefs yet!" Of course; French journalists did 'not omit to enlarge upon the tyranny of J the Ger mans,?'but they were discreetly silent when a Parisian .with , a grievance was punished for telling a friend that some body? was as "cowardly as Mac Mahon." A few months later he might have abused the Marshal to his heart's content with impunity." *,'■•,>.•:; 'T^yyyfT'-TiijTy. ', The Viscount de Rqtibal meets one of his old comrades, whom he has not seen for a year, 'during which time the latter has married beneath his station: < ■* .; '"I should be glad to see you more fre quently,',', says the friend, with an air of timidity, "but I rarely go out, and I do hot know whether you wish to visit my wife." ' ■■''■•'■' [yTi ' il 'V ■ ■■■■ I- ?Rotibal, who is not distinguished for ; tact,?: grasps his hand " cordially: \ "Bah! my dear fellow, a gentleman can go any where, you know, so long as the men are 'all right!" i '. ■ ... ■-, -: - -■ ■ .:■-■'■■ ■■■.:-■- ,■■•. y , ? YESTERDAY. Gone is the light of the wintry day, And another year has slipt away; The new year will rise in its turn, and set On weary hearts that would fain forget; .vi£; For"*where is the wizard can summon ©ne ray Of the vanished glory of yesterday— , Ty-'r7i'. Of yesterday. 0, to laugh as the children laugh? once more; O, to weep such tears as we wept of yore; .'." O, to revel one hour in the visons of youth, i When life meant conquest and love meant tr«tb So bhthtly the future shone day by day f. ? That we oast not a glance upon yesterday *" y.7. '. ■' t ' ■ Lpon yesterday. (•rf\-.'s™?, THE MILLER'S GRANDDAUGHTER ; BY E. G. .. "'-■■ ! The summer afterneon waned at last; the flaming sun declined toward the hori zon, and a cool, soft ; breeze, inexpressi- 1 ( ly delightful after the heat of the day,, began to blow. i Since early dawn > Lizzie Dupont ? bad been toiling at her needle, but now she threw down her j work, and leaving the old mill, stood on the rude plank, that crossed the millrace and 'looked eagerly over the fields. ;: '• '■'•"• <••'..-- ;? .'.'Oh! where can Dossy be?" she- cried. "That dreadful interest, which . must be got ready by. Saturday, has made me" for get her. ; I ought not to have listened to grandpa? :i I am sure something has hap pened to her. I • She never : was away so long before. I shall never forgive my self. What, what," she cried, suddenly clasping her hands, "if she . should be drowned?" : ' "'. . "... .,'??* T ".; "y Lizzie Dupont had not always been a resident at the old mill, dependant on her needle, for support. She had once been, and. that, not so long ago, the petted daughter of a merchant prince ?in , New York. ' But her father had failed and died soon after, of a broken ' heart; and Lizzie would have starved, if it had not been for her maternal grandfather. "Come to me,',' he had written, "I am old and poor; but we will share our crusts together; if you have grown up to look like your dear mother, you will jbe the apple of my eye." So Lizzie, ignored by her father's" rich relations, had found .refuge in this secluded spot. * Refuge and peace, hut hardly, happi ness. In the days of her prosperity she had ' become acquainted with a young Englishman, the son of a titled family, and had plighted her troth to him. Just before her father's failure, Ross Dever eaux had sailed for England, intending within six months to return and claim his bride. But from that day to this, Lizzie had never heard a word about him. At first she thought her letters had miscarried, and in the faith . and | trust of young heart had continued writing.' | But at last and after having discovered the heartlessness of her ' father's relatives, she began to believe that even Ross might be selfish also. "1 am poor now, and he deserts me," •• she said. "God help me! It is, I suppose, the way of the world." . • Lately a new trouble had come upon her.. Her grandfather had been . failing all winter, so that _ man had to be hired to work the mill, and this bad brought them into debt.. Already there was a mortgage on the mill, for the grandfather had never been a prosperous man, and now the interest bad fallen in arrears for nearly a twelvemonth. The holder of the mortgage was a cruel, avaricious man. He had often threatened, to turn out the little family, if, bis interest was not paid; and two "weeks before he had served a written notice that if the arrears were not forthcoming by the next Satur day, be would be as good as his word. Every day since Lizzy bad risen by can dle-light and worked until bedtime? ' "If I can only get tbis embroidery done for Mrs. Watson," sb; said, "by that dread ful day, I may raise part of tbe money, at least, and then, perhaps be will wait for the rest." 7 But this afternoon a new and greater trouble bad come. Dossy, her little pet sister, bad been missing all day.' The child often spent the mornings playing in the woods, but invariably returned to the noontide meal. On- this occasion, however,- she did not make her appear ance; Lizzy was alarmed, and would have gone to seek her; but the , grandfather took it cooler. "She has stopped at some of the neighbors'." he said, "she will be home for supper, don't fret, dear." Liz zie, thinking of the coming , Saturday, had allowed herself to be persuaded that all was right, and had gone back to her work. But as the afternoon wore on and no Dossy came home, she grew seriously alarmed. At last throwing down her needle, she came out as* we have seen. "Oh, Dossy, Dossy!" she cried, when she had scrutinized the landscape vainly in every direction, "where are you? If God will only spare you, dear— if he will give you back to us • alive, I will never repine again at anything." ' lV: '. But where was Dossy? Was she really' lost? , '7yTyy.--, : " :":•-: To explain this, we must go back to tbe afternoon before, and look at Dossy, as she sat in the old-fashioned garden, swaying to and fro in a grape-vine swing, puzzling over the troubles of the family. She was watching a bobolink : that : sung in the heart of a lilac bush, -end talking to herself the while? „ 7 " What a nasty, ugly old man that land lord is," she' said; "and he made poor Lizzy cry so the other day, when he was here. He says he'll drive us from our home. Why, then," with sudden con sciousness, "we'll have ' no place : to live in, and I shall never hear you sing, bir die; nor have my flowers, nor my kittens. Oh, me! Oh, me"!"? . .. ' ,?' J She sobbed a little, then' shook off her April tears and then fell to thinking in earnest. If they. only, bad -> some money. What if she could get some! She pucker ed her brows into a frown. Just then some market carts rolled by. laden with produce, ©ntteir way to the neighbor ing little town. On the front seat of one sat an old woman with a basket of flow ers on her knees. A sudden thought flashed on Dossy and the puckered little brow cleared up. Why couldn't she ' sell flowers? Her garden was full of them, especially of pansies, such pansies as were not often 6een. ' ..- ■■7vT:?Ty,_TT.ly._'.ij 7 She jumped from the, swing so quickly that she landed head- foremost -, in the grasses below. ? But nothing daunted she regained her feet and began \ picking off the golden-hearted pansies and English daisies by handfulls.' She would do it; indeed, she would? and make ever so much money; and they, wouldn't have to leave the mill? and grandpa and j sissie wouldn't cry any more. She fell to work arranging her bouquets for 'the morrow, her eyes fairly dancing with delight. Sbe put them' together quite' tastefully,; and by the time the summer moon stood over the pines she had a long row set 'up amid the. evergreens, that the dews might keep .them fresh.' . In the morning • as soou as breakfast was over, she would set off. Dear, innocent Dossy! she had not the least doubt that she would succeed," and she slept. but. little that night in her ex citement. ' Over and over she; rose from her little bed, and stole on- tip-toe to the window to look down on her treasures. ; The morning dawned cloudlessly, and breakfast over, Dossy ran down to the garden, crammed her posies into Lizzy's market basket, and taking it on her chub by arm, trudged away, < fortunately un noticed. On she sped, past the long, long lines of fences, and down into "the very heart of the town. 'Her. ? cheeks were crimson, her breath came •in gasps, she almost stumbled from fatigue; but at last she reached the market-place, and -then stopped ■in a - little - corner, where the ' shadows fell, cool, and where an old blind woman was selling laces. \ Here, feeling a sense of safety and companionship from the presence ef the blind old creature, she sat down and began with deft hand* to arrange her flowers in front of her. What a picture ." she made in her ? snowy white dress, with itssfcort puffed sleeves; her eyes ablaze, her amber ringlets blown. al»out by the morning breeze,' framed, as it were, by a border of yellow daisies and golden-hearted pansies. At the silvery call of her sweet bird-voice piping, "Who will buy my pansits?" : one and another pedestrian looked back, a few smiled, and seme stopped and . purchased. Presently \ a farmer, who had just such a little one j at home, bought one of her nosegays, and paid for it with half a dollar. Dossy was in raptures. Then ~ another gentleman came > aloag, this time a r comparatively young man, tall and dark, and with a bronzed face. ;. yy. ? ! ?'J ? "Won't you buy , a bunch of * pansies, sir?" said little Dossy. *, ■ - The stranger, who had not noticed her before, stopped and looked for the sweet, piping voice. - :-?<-*?' * "Please, sir," said Dossy, holding up a posy, "only twenty-five cents.!' ?'.':? The young man flashed a keen glance at Dossy, and drew near, smiling. J "To be sure I will," he said pleasantly, ' if only for the sake of your bright eyes. Twenty-five cents, you said, I think," and he drew out his purse. ?••(*? ? "Yes," said Dolly, apologetically, im agining he thought the price too" high. "You see I must have a good deal;" and she shook her curly head with a grave, important air. "For Lizzie must have the money by Saturday, or we j will be turned out of our pretty, home." As she finished she tendered to her auditor the prettiest of her posies? which she had just selected for him out of her floral store. - •-...■ The stranger, all this time, had been looking curiously at her. The color went and came on his face, his lips trembled, and he showed other signs of. emotion. "Tell me, my dear, what is your name?" he cried, earnestly. ' ; : He drew close to . Dossy as he spoke, and seemed to be looking into her face as if for some half-remembered or, half fancied likeness . . ? y'y. "Dos3y," she answered, "it is Dossy Dupont." His answer was to catch her in his arms and kiss her again and again, his voice trembling with- excitement, as he cried, "Dossy, my little pet Dossy,. don't you know who I am?" But Dossy struggled from his embrace, smoothed down her curls and answered haughtily: - "I asked you to buy my pansies, sir, not to kiss me." The stranger broke into a joyous laugh. "And I will buy them," he replied, "every one of them. But don't you really know me, ! Dossy? I am Rosa Devereaux. Why, you have sat on my knee many and many a time." ?-? X*K * j Dossy at this, stared at him curiously. Then she uttered a gleeful little shout and sprang into his arms. "Oh! I know," she cried. I remember you. Won't Lizzie be glad. Won't she stop crying now?" Ross Devereaux's swart cheek crimson ed. "Take me to your. home,", he said, "to your sister. Is she here?" ! "No," answered Dossy, "we live at grandpa's, at the old mill, out of town, you know." ' "Let us go at once, then. No need to sell pansies any . longer," cried Ross Devereaux, eagerly, setting the child on her feet. "' Lizzy Dupont stood, as we have said, gazing across the meadows, heart-broken about Dossy's prolonged absence. . Sud denly two ; figures appeared, emerging from the woods beyond the direction of the town." She gave a great cry of joy, for one was certainly Dossy. But who was the other? Who was the tall, hand some man, who held Dossy by the hand? Could it be— no, it was impossible — and yet vy,y77y'T7yy,yyTyV^^y At this moment, while she was still uncertain; while her Keart leaped into her throat, and then stopped beating, wbile she felt dizzy and about to fall, and had to clutch at the railing, Dossy's companion dropped the child's hand, darted forward, for he had recognized Lizzy, and came hurrying over the mead ow, waving his hat. He reached the stile, was over in a bound, and the next instant was at Lizzy's side. .*,» "Thank God! 1 have found you at last?" hecried, clasping her sinking form. 'Poor, timid, darling! Did you think 1 had deserted you?" — r What. Lizzy would have replied, if anything, we do not know; but he gave her no chance; hurriedly, as if life and death depended on it, he went on to tell his story. : -. '}/'•? . "Not one of your letters ever came to hand," he said." "They were intercepted, as I discovered at last. I wouldn't men tion how, under other circumstances; but you, at least, ought to know the' whole truth. The fact is, darling, that while my parents were eager to welcome you as a daughter, I bad a cousin, an ambitious girl, who had always lived with us, and who, it seems, wished to marry me; not, of course," he added, quickly, "that she loved me, but merely to secure the title and position. We'll, .to make ■ a long story short, she bribed the postmistress at the village to give her your letters, so that I never heard a word from you or about you, till at last, in despair,- 1 came over, "before I intended, to solve the mystery " "Come over?" said Lizzie, faintly and guiltily, conscious how she had misjudg ed him. "To be sure," repeated Ross Dever eaux, frankly. "Ah! little skeptic, you doubted me, did you?" "Indeed, indeed—" began Lizzie. But he stopped her with a kiss. "Then it was," he went on, "that I heard for the first time, of your father's death. But no one could give me any in formation as to your whereabouts. I did not know your relations 'in New York, but I found out their names; but it was a long time, and one was at Saratoga, and another at Newport, and a third at Vir ginia Springs. Before 1 could do any thing came the news of my father's death and a summons 'home, 1 . for I am, you know, his heir to both the I title and es tates., When I had been at ; Devereaux Hall for a \ week or so, * the postmistress came up, trembling and penitent, fT I was now Sir Ross, and she had discovered by this time that my -cousin was not to be Lady Devereaux. .'Then the vile plot was revealed. Darling, ever since that I have been wild to discover you. j I hurried up my business and left England at once. But for a long time I was foiled.*' YoHr city cousins, on whom 1 had relied, could not tell ; me where you had gone. All they — and they told it with evident confusion that your mother's father had sent for you, and that it was in this State, and they 'thought; in this part of it- " So I have visited every * square mile in this and four other counties, and light ed yon Dossy by accident, ?to-day. 1 did not even know your grandfather's name." I There was "much" more to tell, details with which we will not tiro the -'reader, eager questions ' and as eager replies. Lizzy could hardly credit her happiness. Dossy danced around, shouting in glee. ; If you ever visit .England, and ? should ever go to the ■ neighborhood of ■ Dever eaux Hall? you will hear everybody talk ing [of . the beautiful > ■■ Lady j Devereaux, whom ii Sir Ross :. brought - home from America. Should you see her, you will recognize, as we did, in the gracious mat ron the Miller's Granddaughter. '