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THE IOWA VOTER
T, & BARKER, Publiihsr. JLNOXVILLE. IOWA. A N E I E BY W. C. CAPKB8. JI*AB tbe golden gates of glory. Where Mweet wrat hn cUat Ike «Lonr (Of their risen Savior'r nasfioii, while the gloomy tar ill he trod Stands an angel, meekly gazing On a thou-aua sunj, bright bis?, in* Jn their orbe of bright mperual, 'round the burning throne of God. Qn her brow a wreath is twining, ftormed by angel band*, combining An tbe rarest flowers that bloom in ihe tMen land of rest And a harp, all bripht and golden, la her npirit-hand is liolden, Whtfr »he birikee it* quivering strings in an anthem to the blest. Svcr ever purer soul immortal, parsed ihe shininft postal Leading to the bright eanclurum, where the ©od head dwell.. in love And a joyouH shout filled Heaven, On that balray summer even, an angel bore her spirit to the wahwi of light above. How, amid the heavenly choir, Touched with pure seraphic lire, £|ng she ever of the glories of the bright Oeltttial shore As they break upon her vision, In that golden-hued Elysian, •Where the saintf, throughout all ages, (ball abide foreverinore. On my heart her smile once rested. Like a sunbeam, and invested Jtvery feeling of my brom with the warmth of love and truth And beneath the starbcams' glisten, With no ear but God s to listen, JSIVP.'M holy vows we pltelited, in that primrose morn of youth. But hersmilp in death soon faded, And a deep grief then pervaded tEvery feeling of my nature, as that smile had done before When we laid her 'lieatta the willow, Where a rock breaks off the billow, 'That would moan her irravu around, on the ocean's lonely shore. And now, since she has vanished. And my BOUI'H last hope is banisbed, most wander, broken-hearted, in a wlldenMM of gloom For no Miiile, by beauty blighted, Can relieve a heart benighted, •Or revive the love that slumbers in the of her tomb. Now, from her home supernal, Hear Ihe throne of the Eternal, •Where the uDjn-lc plead forgiveness for tj*e of mortals here Pray* she ever to her Maker, That my MIUI may be partaker Of the joys that bloom unfading in the courts of glory there. O'er my heart that prayer comes stealing. Like a spirit-voice, revealing All the glories thai shall f/reet me, when earth's fleeting scencSs are o'er And when life shall reach itaevea. Ma/ she bear my soul to Heaven. 'Where the vows of love here plighted shall be sealed forevermore. MISS UlHN'Ef. SHE lived at Caroline Place, Mcchlen burg Square and I had known her all her life not a very Ions life as counted by years, and yet long enough to her to make even those who loved her thank God when her sad story was ended and she had gone to her rest. What that story was I am going to tell you in as few words as may be. Miss Gurney was the only daughter of the senior curate at a neighboring chapel and as she was born at Caroline Place, so 3he died there. Her parents were not rich senior cu rates seldom are but the wife had a little property of her own, and they managed to keep a tolerably comfortable household, and do a wonderful amount of good in the neighborhood, which, as perhaps you know, is about as poor and ireary a one as can well be found in any respect able part of London yet I don't think any of those friends who sat at the curate's pleas ant tea table, or heard him preach at the chapel, cared whether his spoons were only plated, or his surplices darned in more than one place, even though they might not know that the money which would have bought silver and new linen had gone to feed the hungry and clothe the naked. In this home Catherine Gurney grew up, and as, when she was a wee girl of three, and I a clumping boy of ten, we were wont to run and play in Mecklen burg Square of an afternoon, 1 think I am justified in saying I had known her all ray life. Nevertheless, we never became friends until I returned from Paris to practice as a surgeon in her father's district, and found Miss Gurney a tall, elegant young woman of one-and-twenty, with a lithe, slim figure, lair skin, bright brown curling hair, very sweet, truthful gray eyes, and a voice whose exceeding melody softened the firmness of her mouth and chin. Of course I fell In love with her and, with the object of making her fall in love with ine, became so frequent a visitor that I might be said to have lived almost more in Caroline Place than at my own res idence in Guilford street round the cor ner. The first thing this intimacy taught me was the fact that Miss Gurney was in love too—not with me, but with a young lieu tenant in the Hussars, who used to visit at the house almost as frequently as myself. He was not aware of his victory himself, although he paid passionate court to her, and used to rave about her sweet face, her gentleness, her grace, when we walked up and down the square enjoying a nocturn al cigar before going our several ways home which walks were anything but a pleasure to me, for I did not like the man, and he was as unaware of that fact as of the other though now and then, when his jealousy had been roused by her friendliness with me, he would hardly speak to me for days together. And yet there was something pleasant about Lieutenant Scarsdinc. lie was tall and good-looking, and had a dashing sort of way with men, a winning manner with women, which most people found irresis tible. Miss Gurney was among the num ber, and I found it out after she had refused to become his wife. Before that she was even more easy and cordial with me than him but afterwards her manner had a sort of wistful tenderness when she spoke to or looked at him, which betrayed her secret to me if to no one else. I have heard since that she refused him twice. He came of a fast, fashionable family, and was well known to be the re verse of straitlaced himcelf. Indeed, a little way that he had, when he was alone with one, of making small, boastful allu sions to past flirtations with women who had believed in him, was in my mind one •of the most obnoxious traits in Lieuten ant Scarsdale's character. I don'l know whether be exhibited it to Miss Gurnev but I think, much as she loved liiin, she felt afraid to trust her happiness in hands so alien. Besides, she did not like to leave her parents, who idolized her so •he said "No," and Scarsdale, whose pas sion was of that sort which lives on the chase only, worked on her womanly pity •«*4tUUtpOtk«i krttt to let te wft lu* place as friend even though dismissed as lover. Of course you know what that came to. Mr. Gurney's health was failing rapidly, •lid Lieutenant Scarsdale was always coming to inquire after him, to see if lie could uo anything for Mrs. Gurney, and to bring Kate fresh flower* to cheer her. In fact, his attentions were unbounded, and a9 he showed to the best advantage, so it came to pass one day that he reaped his reward. Mr. Gurney had been worse, almost en tirely unconscious for two days, and Miss Guriiey was looking so white and wan with day and night watching, that I was fain at last to order her out of the sick room tor half an hour's rest, promising to take her place myself the while, She was very unwilling to go, knowing how her mother depended .on her company but just then there came a double knock at the hall door, and I put her gently out side the room, bidding her trust me to call her if she were needed. She must have been thoroughly overset for, after holding up so long and bearing more than half the burden of housework and anx iety, she burst into tears when I shut the door on her Poor Kate! those tears were ominous. In the course of twenty minutes or so Mr. Gurney, whose wanderings had grad ually subsided, sank into a sort of sleep and leaving Mrs. Giirney by the bed, 1 went down to tell Kate and get a cup of tea. The drawing-room door stood ajar, and as I was about to enter, I heard Scars dale's voice say in low, caressing tones: "Katie, Katie, darling, let mc be your comforter always. Hush! don't speak. Think how long I have loved you, and I know you love me a little. Give me your hand in token of it, my own, my pet." She was standing Dy the fire, her arm on the chimney piece and her gaze bent upon it—weeping still, I thought. The Sashed as was not yet lighed, and the firelight upon"the long, sweeping curves of her lithe fitrure, on the pure, pale oval of cheek and chin, the waving bands of gold brown hair. Hound all the fair womanly form it clung with a loving clasp and then it leaped out and flung a broad blaze on the dark, handsome face bend ing over her. But even as he spoke, she had lifted the slender white hand hang ing so wearily at her side, and stretch ed' it to him trustfully as a child might have done and his last words were said with his arms about her waist, and her sweet pale face hidden on his breast. I went away very softly, and did not ask for any tea that evening but when Miss Gurnev came up stairs about ten minutes later, there was a new, warm light in her eyes, which told me that even if the blow fell which would make her fatherless, she would not be left as one Utterly bereft of comfort. Mr. Gurney died a week later. I doubt if he ever heard of his daughter's engage ment and of course in that season of trouble nothing was said of it beyond the family but though his daughter grieved bitterly over her father's death, and work ed harder than ever to supply his place at home and abroad, she did not grow any paler, and the new liirht never left her eyes. Lieutenant Scarsdale called every other day, and I knew that in the midst of her sorrow there was a deep, wonderful hap piness in her gentle heart—a well spring of joy, which made her manner to all around more tender and winning day by day. About this time the Hussars were order ed to Ireland, and for some days after their departure the tender rose-color faded out of the girl's cheek and if one spoke of absent friends, there would come a lit tle quiver over the sensitive mouth, which told me of whom she was thinking. Also, if I was spending the evening there, I no ticed that her manner grew a little—just a little—dixtrait toward ten o'clock. She would turn her head as if listening to the postman's knock, and when it came at last, a bright, nervous flush would come into her face, her lips would part, and even the busy, quiet fingers tremble till the maid brought her in the expected letter. Then, after one little glance at the well loved writing, her hands would close ten derly over it, the sweet look of peace would come back to her fair face, and she would strive by extra cordiality and at tention to atone for her momentary dis traction. It must be said that, in pity to her and myself, I never tried her patience many minutes after the post came in. I am lingering over-long on this part of Miss Gurney's story, yet God knows it lasted a brief enough time. How soon he began to tire of his love I know not, but it cannot have been many weeks after it found its requital. It had come to be ar ranged that thev were to be married at the end of the 'first year's mourning. Friends had offered their congratulations, and once and again Mrs. Gurney spoke to me of the impending event, asking me some advice as to future arrangements, etc. I think she guessed in some way at my love for her daughter, though it was never alluded to, and so knew I could share in her anxiety for the one being left her. She was a weak, clinging woman, this widow-lady, kind-hearted and pious, but not gifted with much penetration or quick feeling and you may be sure I never let her know how the subject pained me. It was in this way that I came to learn by and by that Miss Gurney was not as, happv as heretofore. The mother would ask me some little question about the Irish mails, or whether the Fifteenth was still at the Curragh, showing that they did not hear as regularly as before and though I stayed purposely after ten on several evenings, and Kate would watch for the post as wistfully as ever, no knock came at tbe door and it was piteous to see the anxiou«, beaten look in her face as the rapid "rat-tat" passed down the street, aying gradually away in the dis tance. I used to set myself then to amuse and divert her but though she answered with ever-ready sympathy, the naling cheek and saddened voice showed me a wound too deep for friendly salve. And it was only three months since her en^th(?blow came at last. For more than six weeks her strength had been visibly failing so visibly, indeed, that it went to my heart to see the deepening billows under the gray eyes, the harrasaed.expee tant look in the white rose face. One day I was driven to mention it to her mother, and then it came out that Lieutenant Scarsdale's letters, which had been grow ing briefer and colder for some time, had of late ceased altogether, although it had come to them through a mutual friend that he was not only well, but flirting away as vigorously as ever in the merry city of Dublin. "I wanted her to write sharply to him," said the mother in her confidence, "or at least to tell him what people are saying bat the will not, Uf Elliott. She says that she knew he was light and changeable when she accepted him it was for that reason chiefly that she hesi tated before and when at last his impor tunities prevailed, and she promised to be to trust him through good and ill report, to b* and true to him even when he scetneu conge, u. true to her, and never to leave him till u* should bid her do so and so. Dr. Elliott she will not even write to him again lest she should seem distrustful or exacting neither will she let any one say a word of blame of him and all the time it is kill ing her." I saw it was and from my heart I cursed the nature which could wantonly inflict such pain on the trusting woman hood of her who loved him. More, I did all in my power to urge Mr3. Gurney into persuading her daughter to write once acain to her neglectful lover, if only to gWe him an opportunity of explaining his silence or asserting his freedom. "It may be that he is offended at some thing," 1 said "some lover's trifle which a word front her could blow away or it may be that he is anxious to force her to break off the engagement. The worst of men, Mrs. Gurney, will hardly have cour age to say to a lidy, 'I am tired of you— go your way and let me go mine.' They reserve that* form of speech lor their fitter feminine compeers and though their treatment of both is to all intents and pur poses alike, they retain sufficient grace or shame to prefer trying, by neglect or cold ness, to provoke the lady into giving them their rather than make the covp on their own account. In either case, per suade Miss Gurney to write it will possi bly be for her dignity, certainly for her happiness." In tbe end the letter was written—bow gently and tenderly, all who knew her na ture could guess and for tbe next ten days Kate Gurney went about among her poor people with a hectic spot in each thin chcck, and uiy, burning eyes, whose feverish hunger it naif broke my heart to see. Ten days, and no answer came. I was dining there one night, and had not gone when the last post came in, bringing a sounding knock at the door which made us all start. She had been very pale, very quiet, all the evening but for once her patience tailed her. With a hasty word of apology she rose up from her chair and went out to the hall. We, left behind, could hear through the closed door the sharp ^lick of the letter-box, fol lowed by a minute of total silence then one hoarse, smothered cry—"Oh, my God! my God!" and a heavy fall. She was lying face downwards on the ground when we went out, the letter crushed in her hand, and no life or move ment in the blank white face and rigid limbs. I carried her up stairs to bed, and there she lay tor twenty-four hours, to all appearance dead as an unburicd corpse. Even when the strong remedies of one of the first London physicians, joined to my unremitting care, had brought her round in some degree, the only sign of life she gave was a low, heavy moaning before sinking back again into unconsciousness. Dr. Albatross told me, in confidence, lie thought Miss Gurney bad got her death blow and my heart echoed the sad fore boding, for Kate's mother, in her heavy trouble, had given me that crumpled let ter, and my blood boiled as I read the few words in which a heartless lilxrtine had crushed out this good and true-hearted woman's life. It was not more than a dozen lines, headed with tlie Scarsdale crest, and writ ten neatly and clearly, without one blot or erasure. It must have been the fruit of careful study, and have cost many rough copies to have produced so polished a work and after beginning "My Dear Miss Gurney," it went on to say that much grave thought, of late, had shown tin writer that it would be unfair to persuade his reader to leave her comfortable home for the constant change and misery of bar rack life, under the disadvantages of an income as wretchedly small as theirs would be that accordingly the dictates, of conscience obliged him to give her back her promise, a resolution to which he was the more compelled by the sense of his own unfitness, from nature and cir cumstances, to make Miss Gurney happy. After which he added the usual stereo typed expressions of regard and esteem for the woman he was betraying, trusted she would forgive him any pain or annoy ance he might have caused her, and wound up by signing himself, "Yours most sincerely" (Good God, what blas phemy!), "Guy Scarsdnle." Anu I, reading, wondered how He who rules above could permit so utterly base and worthless a scoundrel to cumber the ground for if ever an honest man longed to take such a coward by the throat, and choke the wretched life out of him, I did that day. We pit the letter behind the fire that same night. It was not well that, in the event of her recovery, Kate Gurney should ever cast eyes on it again. She lay between life and death for many weeks, hardly touching food, at times fevered anil wandering or else lying half unconscious, or with closed eyes and furrowed brow. During all that time I never beard,even in her delirium, one word of anger against the man who had wronged h«*i. All that ever reached our ears was the first cry of agony, and now and then the more pitiful reproach, "Guy, Guy, how could you? Oh, love, how coulu you?"—nothing more, not one word. Before she was out of danger Mrs. Gur ney broke down. Without her daughter she was like a feeble plant torn from its itick. Indeed, even 1, who knew so well Miss Gurney's uuiet life of usefulness and sympathy, failed to realize all she was to her weak and widowed mother, who hav ing leant on her husband till, like too many of our city clergymen, he dropped and died in harness, worn out by inces sant toil, had since his death clung with like impotent trust to her daughter, and that prop also removed, had sunk at once. From the day when Dr. Albatross told her that in all human probability her daughter would never walk forth in God's sunlight again, the helpless, harmless woman broke down and faded away and the first thing that roused Miss Gurney to the life still left her, was the cessation of the half-childish murmurs and wall ings which had borne witness to the mother's sorrow, and then the tidings that, removed from the room where quiet was so essential, she had taken to her bed—to die. Kate Gurney rose up from hers then, and never left her parent till she had kissed the trembling lips for the last time, smoothed the pillow under the gray head, and closed the sightless eyes in death. Then, when there was nothing more to do, she went back to her couch, and never left it again till two hours before she died. Of course, we doctors called this filial devotion utter madness, and asserted that it had cut off the one faint hope that per (Sect rest and freedom from agitation might have given for her ultimate recovery. I am not going into technicalities here it is enough that the long anxiety and double shock bad affected heart and spine equally and the dictum went forth that, though she might lire for yean, so she might die at an/ moment, and in either case she could never walk abroad again, never rise from bed or sofa in this world, I think I see now the patient smile on her wan face as she said: "God's will be done. I suppose it is for some good, since He wills it. I am glad He has taken my mother into his care, now mine is useless any more." I wonder could any onlooker count up the amount of good done by that help less woman during the eighteen years she lay on her sofa in the little parlor at Caroline Place? Fain would I have made her my wife, when I thought the first sharpness of her sorrow had come to wear off, but I never got my prayer uttered. She di vined what 1 was going to say, and stop ped me by a word whose exceeding gen tleness only added force to its decision. It was then I knew that her life was to be saared to the memory of the man who was to have been iier husband, and whose desertion had made him dead to her aa though she were his widow in deed. The justice of this world generally re gards jilted women with a sort of scorn ful pity, nearly allied to contempt. Miss Gurney's misfortune seemed to procure her even a larger share of affectionate re spect than hau ever been her lot. Her couch was drawn into the window where stood her work-table and flower stand, and where day after day she looked out on the high dead wall of the Found ling grounds, and the stunted trees grow ing in the railings ouuide.it. When I pitied her on the dullness of her prospect, however, she only smiled and said: "Why, I can watch the leaves bursting into green, and turning to gold as the year goes round, and 1 hear the birds singing in the branches, and the laughter of the children at play in the Foundling grounds. You must not abuse my win dow, Dr. Elliott." Also, when pressed to move her home to a pleasanter locality, she always gave the aunif answer: "All the happiness of my life has been bound up in this little house. It would be very ungrateful to leave it for another because the happiness has gone awav be fore me." And so Miss Gurney held her ground from girlhood to womanhood, never stirring. Wealth came to her through the death of a relation, and she spent it freely on the poor who had so long blessed her name and the poor came to her now that she could no longer goto them children to be taught, maid ens to be counseled, widows to be com forted, orphans to be cared for—all came to Miss Gurney, and went away nappier and better for her gentle ministration. That little sofa iu the window was the Jordan wnere many a destitute wretch was healed from want and misery and sin. Ay, sin, for none were too depraved or too guilty to be reached by Miss Gurney's mercy. The rector was her guide, I her prime minister and between us, as the years went on, we provided her with work enough to do and to spare. Sometimes I feared she was wearing herself out but one could not see the white, wistful lace, and wasted form in its long black djres.t, without feeling that any work would be blessed which led her to the home for which her bruised spirit craved. That home was reached at last. Nearly twenty years had passed from the day of that fatal letter, when I was called to attend an Invalid nobleman at the West End. He had been ill for some time but a crisis in the disease had come on, and the family surgeon called in my assistance to his uoble patient. The first day I went I was received by a young and very pretty girl, whom I im agined to be my patient's daughter until she introduced herself as Lady Scarsdale, with a merry littly laugh at my mistake and then, though the name struck me painfully, I never guessed at its belonging to any one but some distant relation of the young lieutenant of former days, till on being taken to the sufferer's bedside, I recognized at once in tbe stern-looking, bearded man the individual of all others whom I most despised. He did not recognise me at all. From a thin, pale, fair-haired man, I had grown into a burly, bald-headed, gray whiskered old fellow, as unlike my former self as possible and as for my name, that was too common to attract attention. It was not pleasant for me to be attend ing Lord Scarsdale but he was in a very bad way, and I had consented to give my services before I knew who required them besides, the illness under which he labored was supposed to be my specialty, to I could not in conscience throw up the case. You may be sure I said no word to Miss Gurney of my new patient. I soon found out that Lord Scarsdale's home was anything but a happy one. II* had married thus late in life a young and giddy girl, whom he loved warmly, but with a jealous, moody, exacting affection, which rather repelled that attracted its object. She had indeed fallen in love with him for the name of his past conquests, ami for the fascination of manner he still re tained but the marriage had turned out worse than ill. He had drunk out pleas ure to the dregs, and now only wanted rest and quiet for the remainder of his life. She was beginning hers, wilful as a child, restless as a kitten, and desperately fond of love and admiration. Of course he was furiously jealous men who have been false and fickle all their lives never believe in the fidelity of oth ers and in consequence he made himself so disagreeable to his young wife, that she took to flirting in real earnest and at the time I was called in, "Scarsdale's jealousy and his wife's beauty and frivolty" had become a by-word with the inhabitants of Belgravia, male and female. Some one else had become a by-word, too, in con nection with Lady Scarsdale, and that was a certain Captain Swinburn, of the Tenth Royals, who came to the house pretty well every other day, and seemed to be work ing on little Lady Scarsdale's vanity with impunity, now her lord lay 111 in bed. Of course it was no business of mine, and I ought to have been rather glad of a break np in the home of one who had shown himself such an utter blackguard in days gone by but somehow the affair troubled me. I could not help liking tiie pretty, childish little wife, who with all tier nonsense and vanity seemed innocent enough at heart. Besides, like most En glishmen, I object to seeing a man's household goods tarnished and destroyed. I did not know how frail were the Lares and Penates In this case, or perhaps Miss Gurney had inoculated me with some of her mercy, for I confess to feeling terribly shocked and grieved when, one wet win ter evening, as I was on my way home from Lord Scarsdale's for the last time— he haviqg been pronounced cured, and able to go out again intr the world on the morrow—I encountered a shivering, half sobbing female in the street, who asked me which was the turning to the South Kensington railway station, and whom I recognized as Lady Scarsdale! When she recognized me she fainted. 1 took her into a chemist's shop, aad there it cime out that she was in the act of leaving her home and husband forever. "He was cruel he did not love her he hated her ways and she had written to tell him she had gone, and would never go back—never!" It all came out in floods of hysterical t*ars and this much more, that "Captain Swinburn was waiting for her at the South Kensington station, and had promised to take her to an aunt of his—some lady living in Jersey, I think. In plain words, half in innocence, half in wilfulness, she was rushing into irre trievable ruin. I don't know all I said to her, nor yet half. It was of very little avail. I know I found myself insisting on Lord Scars dale's trust and love with an eloquence that astonished myself, and finally threat ening to take her straight back to him un less she would give up her project, at least for the night. It was an awfully hard task. She sobbed and wept, and would gladly, I know, have returned home but for fear of her husband. "He was so harsh and for her own people, they were worse, and would simplv hand her over to his jus tice" (she shivered at the inere idea) "and Captain Swinburn said his aunt was so kind." Then I spoke my mind to her, and si lenced any further mention of Captain Swinburn'* aunt, though when she saw how far she had gone on her downward path, it only increased her terrified refusal to trust herself to her husband's mercy. 1 was at my wit's ends. It was getting late. We were near tho station, and Captain Swinburn might ap pear at any moment looking for the run away, in which case mv influence would bewtV or Lord Scarsdale might have got the letter left for him, and ave acted on it in a way to prevent his wife's return. In despair what to do, my thoughts fled to my only woman helper, Miss Gurney— yet how to disturb her in such a cause! In the end, and more as if acting by the pressure of some unseen force than my own will, I found myself and uiy cap tive en route for Caroline Place anil there 1 left Lady Scarsdale cowering over the dining-room fire—her guilelcssness proved by the docility with which she had let me bring her to this out-of-the-way place —while I went up to Miss Gurney and told her my story. I had resolved on concealing Lady Scarsdale's name, and had cautioned that young lady against betraying it but in the flurry of my mind I had forgot to provide myself with another, and, lo and behold! as soon as ever I got excited in my tale, out slipped the real name. Miss Gurney turned as white as death, and put her hand to her side. For the moment 1 thought I had killed her, and could have killed myself for so doing but she rallied quickly, and then there was nothing for me but to tell the wltole truth, anu apologise for haviug br u»'ht Lady Scarsdale. She looked at me with a sort of divine reproach in her eyes, and said simply, "I thiuk it was God seat you. Now bring her to me, while you go and tell her hus band where she is." Without a word I obeyed, and when I Irud led Lady Scarsdale to the couch where lay the pure-spirited woman she had supplanted, I went away on my er rand. I'nfortunately I was too late. Lord Scarsdale, feeling better, had risen, gone to his wife's room, found tbe note there left lor him, read it, und having ordered out the carriage, had been driven off to Ihe Great Northern! Of course I could do nothing but wait his return, and that did not take place till six o'clock in the morning, when he came in, pliant, fierce eyed, anu ghastly, after his fruitless pur suit. I saw In his face my task would be no easy one. He would not listen to a word. His wife had left him, and should never re turn. 1 argued, I pleaded, I urged her youth, her innocence, the fact of my having saved her, the sin of throwing her back on her self. He was impenetrable, and declared his intention of immediately taking steps to procure a divorce, and thus give his wife the freedom her own letter said she craved also he would advertise her parents of their daughter's misconduct. Of course I knew what alone would be the result of such treatment on a wilful, impulsive girl of nineteen and failing all else, I took higher ground, reminded Lord Scaisdale of our earlier acquaint ance, and asked hi in, with .sufficient con tempt, if he had ever sinned against faith and honor that he was so stern in his judgments. He started at that, reddened hotly, and said, "I remember your name now. I thought your voice familiar, and I excuse your manner because you are right but don't speak of that now. She was the only good woman that ever loved me, and I was worse than a villain—a fool when 1 left her. Let that pass my life has been sufficiently cursed since then, and I have heard she died long ago—God bless her! You say I sinned I did, and my sin lias found me out. So may it do with my wife and now, doctor, good-by, and leave me." What was I to do with him I was not going to bring my gentle friend's name again into the discussion, or let him know Bhe yet lived and mourned him. I had simply said his wife was with a lady friend and now, irritated by his obstina cy and by old recollections, I fairly lost my temper. He lost his also, and so we parted. In utter dispair I went back to Miss Gurney. Lady Scarsdale was there, sub dued and penitent enough now, and eager to return and ask her husband's pardon, which Kate, judging from her own gener ous nature, had persuaded her was await ing her. It seemed cruel to undeceive the child, and knowing what a fitful, impressiona ble little creature she was, I shrank from the result of her discovering herself a disgraced woman. Yet I had left Lord Scarsdale writing to bis lawyer. Ln my dispair I told Miss Gurnsy tbe ease was hopeless. To my surprise, almost mv terror, she, who had never risen to her feet for nearly twenty years, sat up, and saying, "Then I must take her to her husband, for noth ing is hopeless under God," stood up all white and trembling, like a spirit. I sprang forward to catch her, thinking she would fall but only steadying herself by my arm and silencing all my remon strances, she crossed the room to her bed chamber, herself put on her bonnet and clonk then taking my arm again, and holding Lady Scarsdale by the hand, went down to the cab which was in waiting at the door. It was useless to try to dissuade her see moved and spoke with the decision of one inspired, and when seated in the cab did not even lean back, but held Lady Scarsdale's hand tightly, and only said: "Pray, pray that 1 may not fall on the way!" I saw her own Ups aioving silently »11 the Journey. When we reached Scarsdale House we were told his lordship was in the library, and accordingly I tea the two ladies into the dining-room which adjoined the former apartment, and lett them there. The wife sank down on a chair at once, crimsoned and trembling with fear ana shame but Miss Gurney kissed her reas suringly, then turned and walked straight to tho library door, knocked gently, and without waiting for an answer turned tho handle and entered. Lord Scarsdale was writing, with his back to the door. He must have thought it was a servant, for he said harshly "They are not ready yet, William but Miss Gurney crossed the room, and lay ing her hand on his shoulder, said very gently: fcOuy, I hate Come here with your wife to ask yoa to forgive her and take h4r home again." If it had been a voice from the other world, he could not have sprung to his feet more suddenly. She stood still before him, tall, pale, and pure, looking in her deep mourning dress, with the light in her loving eyes, and the wavy line of gold brown hair under her black bonnet, so little aged, so little altered from the or phan girl he had last held in his arms ere he went to Ireland twenty years ago, that his facc blanched as he gasped out: "Kate! is it you? And I thought you hail died. Good God, how you must de spise met And yet you can forgive—" Her patient mouth quivered a little. u Nay," she said simply, I forgave ilavelong rou ago, Guy, and for that reason I come to you to-day to ask you to for give your young wife, who has been very Foolish but not guilty, Guy and who has promised me lo confide more in her husband's love for the future. You will let her do so if I ask you, dear, will yoa not?" He could not speak. Shame, and per haps the senso of what he had thrown away, held him silent. But he knelt down and kissed her hands as though she were a queen. She let him kiss them, and then just touched his bowed head with her slight fingers, saying something very softly, which only he heard. Five minutes later Lady Scarsdale was weeping out her repentance in her hus band's arms, and I was leading Miss Gur ney back lo the cab. Her hand was pressod on her heart, and the shadow of a great pain was in her face but she never spoke the whole way, and when we reached the door I had to carry her up stairs to her couch. There was no color in her cheek when I laid her down, and her eves were closed, but when I went to ring the bell for wine or other restoratives, she put out her band, saying Dr. Elliott." Yes, my dear." Don't go. It—is ended now." Oh, my friend! how could you "Hush! I could not help it. Don't scold mc now, but ask him to be very gentie with her,and say What?" (I could hardly hear.) Hay I prayed God to bless then both." They were the last words she ever ut tered. After that her head fell back, she sighed once or twice like a tired child, and so died, with a smile on her palo lips to the end. I took her message to Lord Scarsdale. I believe he has respected it, for his wife is a very happy and discreet woman now. They wanted to make a friend of me, but that might not be. I am only a plain medical man, but I loved Kate Gurney from uiy soul, and I believe Lord Scarsdale was as much her murderer as though he had put a knife ia her tender heart twenty years ago. We two can never break breau together. —I'htodvre Gift in Galaxy for November. Hoarding* Now that wen re all talking flnanfiA, it is a good time to talk it philosophically. A curious faith in a very old fallacy conies under our notice. It used to bo considered that wealth was money that the more money a nation had the more wealthy it was, and tenrs were shed over the suppose! impoverishment of a coun try when money went out of it. It must be a lingering taint of this ancient super stition that leads the St. Louis lie/niblic/in to extol hoarding. "A money that is not worth hoarding," it sayB, "ought to be got rid of by the Government. 'Hie habit of hoarding good money is a natural virtue rather than a vice." What are we to say to such talk as this from a leading journal of the great West, where the rich harvest of capital is plowed in and not hoarded! But if anybody in the West is to avow such a doctrine, it ought surely to be St. Louis—a city whose growth and enterprise have been checked by the miserly illibcrulity of her rich men. Her millionaires have ever been given to hoarding, and by their niggard ly policy have made her the sec ond instead of the first great trade center of the West. But apart from these exceptional cases, this vast American civilization is a grand demonstration of the sound political econ omy, as well as the sound ethics, of Christ's parable regarding the invest ment of the talents. The lord of the estate denounced the man who "was afraid and went and hid" his talent in the earth, as a "wicked and slothful" fel low, and the language was hardly too strong. Hoarding is a trait of barbarism. Just so far as nations rise above barbarism, just so far they abandon hoarding, ana no farther. War, another and the great est exhibition of barbarism, is the great modern excuse for hoarding. The war like nations cannot do banking. Ger many, France, and all the continent of Europe are constantly subject to war, with its devastations, its financial desas ters and its rupture of all contracts. Great Britain has not felt the terror of war within the four seas this 300 years. The inhabitants of the continent do not dare to bank, and hence they hoard. Long peace, on the other hand, has given to the British people confidence to put their money in bank. What is the result? Great Britain is, to day, the banker, the strong arm, of the world. It is her capi tal that is subduing the world, her politi cal system and its natural outgrowth that are supplanting all other political systems, her morals that are making the world Christian. She may say witb tri umphant confidence: "Let me supply the canital of the world, and I care not who shoulders its needle-guns." Let us cease to glorify France for paying her milliards out of the old stockings. Let us rather commiserate her that her contin ued wars have made any other bank but the old stockings unsafe, and that, when her talents come out from their napkins, it is not to found colonies, build railroads, erect school systems and civilize the world, bat invest it ia war loans and to liq uidate the gigantic ransom of a nation'* captivity.—Sprijigfield Bepublicon.