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P. Babrett Co., Fuhlishcrs, Hi. ' COME, THE HERALD OF A NOISY WORLD, THE NEWS OF ALL NATIONS LUMBERING AT MY RACK." VOL. 1. HARTFORD, OHIO COUNTY, KY,, JANUARY 13, 1875. NO. 2. ADVERTISING RA.TES. THE HARTFORD RALB UOUXT TABOR. ET JOBS BAT. On Tabor's height a rjlory came, And, shrined in clouds of lambent flame, The awe-track, hushed disciples taw Christ and the prophets of the law; Moses, whose grand and awful face Of Sinai's thunder bore the trace, And wise EHas, in his eyes The shade of Israel's prophecies, Stood in that vast mysterious light Than Syrian noons more purely bright, One on each hand and high between Shone forth the godlike Naxarene. They bowed their heads in holy fright No mortal eyes could bear the sight. And when they looked again, behold! The fiery clouds had backward rolled, And borne aloft, in grandeur lonely. Nothing was left, "save Jesus only." Resplendent type of things to bel We read Us mystery to-day With clearer eyes than even they. The fisher saints of Galilee. We see the Christ stand out between The ancient law and faith serene, Spirit and letter but aboTe Spirit and letter both was Lore. . . i i e t v Through wrlstes of eld a path was trod By which the sarage world could move I TTnwarit tfirnnirh law anil falti La luiB." I And there in Tabor's harmless flame The crowning revelation came. The old world knelt in homage due, The prophets near in homage drew. Law ceased its mission to fulfill And Love was lord on Tabor's hill. So now, while creeds'perplex the mind And wrangling! load the weary wind, When all the air is filled with words And texts that ring like clashing swords, Still, as for refuge, we may turn Where Tabor's shining glories burn The soul of antique Israel gone And nothing left but Christ alone. MARIA SAX0NBURY. BY MRS. HKNKY WOOD. AUTHOR. OF "IAST LTXSI," "VESXEE'S rniDE,' "THE MrSIET," 'T3B ZABla HEIRS," "THE CHASXISG3, "A LIFE'S SECELT," Ac, ic. CHAPTER IIL MARIA. 8AXONBCRT. The golden light of the setting sun was falling on a golden room. It is scarcely wrong to call it such, for the color pre vailing in it was that of 'gold. Gold-colored satin curtains and cushioned chairs, gilt cornices, mirrors, in gilded frames, gilded consoles whose slabs of the richest lapis lazuli choas vrit'i costly toys, paint ings in rich enclosures, and golden orna ments. Altogether the room looked r. Mass ol gold. The large window opened upon a wide terrace, on which rose an ornamen tal fountain, ils glittering spray dancing n tue suiiHcliu and beyond that terrace was a fair domain, stretched out far and wide-; the domain of Sir Arthur Saxon bury. Swinging her prctiy foot to and fro, and leaning back in one of the gay chairs, wax a lovely girl budding into womanhood, with bright features and a laughing eye, the youngest, the most indulged, and the vainest daughter of Sir Arthur. She was in a white lace evening dress, and wore a pearl necklace and pearl bracelets on her lair neck and arms. They had 'recently come home after a short London season, which had been half over when they re turned from the continent, and were as yet free from visitors. Lady Saxoubury was in ill health, and Mrs. Ashton, the eldest mnrried daughter, was staying with them while her husband was abroad. In a chair a little behind Miss Saxon bury, as if conscious of the ilirlcrcnce be tween them for there trai a distance nal Raby Haby. It was said the houce was frre 1 roni visitors, but he was scarcely re garded as such. Sir Arthur, in the plen itude of his heart, had invited him to come tind stay a couple of months at Saxonbury; tue couutry air would renovate him: he could have the run of the picture-gallery, and copy toine of its eheft f autre. And Kaby came. Sir Arthur's early secret was safe with himself, and he could only ex plain that his interest in Raby Raby was but that which he would take in any ri sing artist So the familr, even the ser vants, looked on him with a patronizing (ye, as one who had "come to pain t" Rabv Lad accepted Sir.Artbur's invitation with a glow of gratification the far-famed Saxonbury gallery was anticipation enough for him. Be forgot to think where the funds were to come from to make a suitable appearance as Sir Arthur Saxon bury' s guest; but these the painter Coram delicately furnished. "It is but a loan," said he: "you can repay me with the first proceeds that your pencil shall receive." Thus Raby went to Saxonbury. And there had he been now for half his allot ted time, drinking in the wondrous beau ties of the place and scenery and other wondrous beauties which it had been at well that he had not drunk in. The ele gance that surrounded him,and to which lie had been latterly a stranger the charms of the society he was thrown amongst once again, as an equal for the time being the Gratification of the eve and mind, and the pomp and pride of couruy me; an tuis was uut too congenial to the exalted taste of Raby Raby, and he was in danger of forgetting the stern real ities of life, to become lost in a false Elys ium. He was thrown much with Maria Sax onbury far more than he need have been. The fault was entirely hers. A great admi rer of beauty, like her father, and possess ing a high reverence for genius, the ex quisite face of Raby Raby attracted her admiration as it had never yet been at tracted; whilst his eager aspirations, and love for the fine arts, were perfectly con sonant to her own mind. His companion ship soon grew excessively pleasing, and ehe gave her days up to it without re straint, absorbed in the pleasure of the moment Nothing more: of all the people in the world, Maria Saxonbury was the last to think seriously of one beneath her. So, leaving consequences to take care of themselves, or be remedied by time, she dwelt only on the present. She would flit about when he was at work in the Die- ture-gallery, she would linger by his side in the gardens, one or the other of the lit tle Aehtons generally bcinc thoir coin nan- ion: in short, it seemed that the object of "KTaio'a l!r :..o . . 1 .1. " jliol uutv, nao iv ue wjiu inc artist-visitor. Even this night, when her jamer ana eister had gone out to dinner, the had excused herself: bIip wnnM rIhv at home with her mother, she said: but i.aay oaxonbury was in her chamber, and ilaria remained in the drawing-room with JUT. xtaby. It is probable that Lady Sax onbury, if eke thought of him at all, be licved him to be painting then. Was it in remembrance of some one else that Sir Arthur had named his Youngest child "ilaria?" But thev sometimea called her by her other name, Elizabeth. "Do jon admire this purse?" she sud denly inquired, holding out one of grass green silk, with gold beads, tassels, and elides; a marvel of prettinesa. Raby rose and took it from her, and turned it about in his white and slender hands. Those remarkable hands! feeble to look at, elegant in structure, always restless; so etrongly characteristic of ge nius, as well as of delicacy of constitution. "It is quite a gem," he said, in answer. "You may have it in place of your ugly one," continued Misa Saxonbury: "that frightful port-monnaie, of grim leather, I saw you with the other day. I made this for somebody else, who does not seem in a hurry to come lor it; so I will give it to you." A rush of suspicious emotion flew to his face, and her eyes fell beneath the eloquent gaze of hie. "How shall I thank you?" was all he said. "It shall be to me an everlasting remembrance." "That s in return lor tne pietty SKetcn vou save me vesterday," she went on? "One tou took at Rome, and filled in from memory." "You mistake, Miss Saxonbury. I said I drew it from description. I have never been to Rome. That is a pleasure to come." "As it is for me," observed Maria. "1 was there once, when a little girl, hut I remember nothing of it. A cross woman, half governess, half maid, who was hired to talk Italian to us, is all my recollection of the place. Last year and the year be fore, when ve were wasting our time in Paris and at the baths of Germany, doing mamma more harm than good, I urged them to go on to Rome, but nobody list ened to me. I have an idea that I shall be disappointed whenever I do go: we al ways are, when we expect so much." "Always, always," murmured Raby. "I long to see some of those features lam familiar with lrom paintings," added Mies Saxonbury. "The remains of the Cajsar's palaces the real grand St. Peter's the beautiful Alban Hills and all Rome's other glories. I grow impatient sometimes and tell papa there will be nothing left for me to see: that Sallust's garden will be a heap of stinging nettles I dare say it it nothing else; and Cecilia Metella's tomb destroyed." And thus they conversed till it grew dark, and the servants came in to light the chandeliers. Miss Saxonbury remember ed her mother then, and rose to go to her, to see why she had not come down. When Maria returned, the room was empty, and she fetood in the bow of the window and iookcu out. it was tue cus-, torn at Saxonbury House to leave the cur tains of this window open on a favorable night; for the moonlight Iandscape.outside, was indeed lair to iook upon. 31r. iiaby was then walking on the terrace: his step was firm and seif-poffcessed, his head was raised: it was only in the presence of his fellow-creatures that Raby Raby was a ehy and awkward man. He saw her, and approached the window. I have been studying the Folly all this time," he said; fancying it must look like those ruined Roman temples we have been speaking of; as they must look in the light and shade of the moonlight" "Does itf she added, laughing. "1 will go and look, too." ilisa saxonbury stepped on to the ter race, and he gave her his arm. Did she feel the violent beating of his heart, as her bracelet lay against it? They walked, in the shade cast by the house, to the rail ings at the end of the terrace, and there catne in view of the fanciful building in question. Lady baxonbury s tolly It rose, high and white, on the opposite lulls, amidst a grove of dark trees. I do not line tue building ty day, lie observed; "but as it looks now, 1 cannot fancy anything more classically beautiful in the Eternal City, even when it was in its zenith." "It does look beautiful,' she mused. "And the landscape, as it lies around, is equally so: look at its different points show ing out l ou have not seen many scenes more gratifying to the imaginative eye than this, Mr. Raby." "I shall never see a second Saxonbury," was the impulsive answer. "Take it for all in all, I shall never see but look at this side," he abruptly broke off, turning in the opposite direction. "Oh, I don't care to look there. It is all dark. I only like the bright side of things." "Has it never struck you that these two aspects, the light and the dark of a moon light, night, are a type of human fortunes? While some favored spirits bask in bright ness, others must be cast and remain, in the depths of shade." "No. I never thought about it My life has been all brightness." "May it ever remain so!" he whispered with a deep eigh: but Miss Saxonbury turned to the pleasant side again. "What a fine painting this view would makel" she exclaimed. "I wonder papa has never had it done. One of your favor ite scenes, Mr. Raby, all poetry and moon light, interspersed with a dash of melan choly Some of you artists are too fond of depicting melancholy scenes." "We depict scenes as we find them. You know the eye sees with its own hue. There may be a gangrene over the glad dest sunshine." "Artists ought to be always glad: living as they do, amidst ideal beauties: nay, crea ting them." "Ideal! That was a fitting word. Miss Saxonbury. We live iu the toil and drud gery of the work; others, who only see the picture when it is completed, in the ideal. When you stand and admire some favor ite painting, do you ever cast a thought to the weary hours of labor which created it?" "No doubt the pursuit of art has its inconveniences, but you great painters must bear within you your own recom pense." "In a degree, yes," answered Raby. the expression "you great painters" echo ing joyfully on his car. "1 he conscious ness of iKissessingthat rare gift, genius, is ample recompense save in moments of despondency. "And yet you talk of melancholy and gangrene, Mr. Raby, and such like un pleasant topics! wardly great, men of genius, of imagina tive inienecu ajook at some oi our dead pools snd what is said of them." "the lives ol great men are frequently marked by unhappiness," observed Raby. "In Faying 'great men,' I mean men in "I think their fault lay in looking at the dark side of things, instead of the bright," laughed Maria. "Like yourself at present. You will keep turning to that gloomy point, where the scenery is all obscure, nothing bright but the great moon itself; and that shinc.4 right in your face." "They could not look otherwise than thy did," he argued, his own tone Found ing melancholy enough. "Well, well, I supposo it is the fate of genius," returned Maria. "I was read ing lately, in a French work, some account of the lile of Leonardo da Vinci. He was not a happy man." "He was called Da Vinci.the Uuhappy. How many of his brethren might have been called so?" "Were 1 you I should not make up my mind to be one of them; I should be just the contrary," said Maria gayly. "Fancy goes a great way in this life. And so," she added, after a pause, "you think some of the queer old temples in Italy must look like that?" pointing to the Folly. "How I wish I could see thcnil" "How I wish we could see them!" he murmured "that we could see them tn- -fgetheri" Perhaps he wondered whether he had said too much. She did not check bim only turned, and moved back towards the drawing-room, her arm within his. "We may see them together," she said, at length. "You will, of necessity, visit Italy; I, of inclination, and we may meet there. I hope we shall know you in af ter life, Mr. Raby; but of that there will be little doubt " Everybody will know you, for you will be one of England's fa mous painters.'' They reached the window, and he took her hand in his, though there was no necessity, to assist her over the low step; he kept it longer than he need have done. Not for the first time, by several, had he thus clasped it in the little courtesies of life. Oh, Raby Raby! can you not see that It had been much better for you to clap some poisonous old serpent? He did not enter, but turned away. Lady Saxonbury was in the room then, in her easy chair which had its back to the window. The tea was on the tabic, and Miss Saxonbury began to pour it out "My dear," cried Lady Saxonbury, a simple-hearted, kind woman, "where's that poor painter? I daresay ho would like some tea." "He was on the terrace just now," re plied Maria. "He must feel very dull," resumed Lady saxonbury. "1 fear, child, we.neg lect him. Send one of the servants to ask him to come in." "The "poor painter," lost in the antici pations of the time when he should be a rich one, was leaning against the railings, whence he had stood and gazed abroad with Miss Saxonbury, the purse she had given him lying in his bosom. Iu the labt few weeks his whole existence had changed, for he had' learnt to love Maria Saxonbury with a wild passion ate love. To be near her was bliss, even to agitation; to hear her speak, set his frame trembling; to touch her hand, sent his heart's blood thrilling-tlmrajrh Itirr veins. It is only these imaginative, un earthly natures, too sensitive and refined for the uses of common life, that can tell of this intense, pure, ctberealizcd passion, which certainly partakes more ol heaven than of earth. He stood there, indulging a vision of hope a deceitful, glowing vis ion. He saw not himself as he was, but as he should be the glorious painter, to whose genius the whole word would bow. Surely there was no such impassable bar rier between that worshipped painter and the daughter of Sir Arthur Saxonbury. Alas for the improbable dream he was suffering himself to nourish! alas for its fatal ending! Three or four weeks more of its sweet delusion, and then it was rudely broken. Mr. Yorke, a relative of Sir Arthur's, and the heir presumptive of his estate, arrived at Saxonbury. He had been named Arthur Mair, after Sir Arthur. Raby Verner recognized him, for they had been at Christ Church to gether, but he had not recalled him to memory since, and had never known him as the relative of Sir Arthur Saxonbury. He was a tall, strong, handsome young fellow; but ere he had been two days at Saxonbury, a rumor, or suspicion, (in the agitation of Rahy's feelings he hardly knew which,) reached the artist that his visit was to Maria, chat she was intended for her cousin's wife. The 6ame evening, calm and lovely as the one when they had looked forth together at the Folly, the truth became clear to Raby. They were seated in the drawing-room, all the family, when Maria stepped on to the terrace, and the artist followed her. Presently Arthur Yorke saw them pacing it together, Raby having given her his arm. Mr. Yorke drew down the corners of his lips, and stalked out. "Thank you," he said to Raby, with freezing politeness, as he authoritively drew away Maria's arm and placed it within his own; "I will take charge of Miss Saxonbury if she wishes to walk." lie strode away with her, and Raby, with a drooping head and sinking heart, descended the middle steps of the terrace. He stole along under cover of its high wall anywhere-to hide himself and hia outraged feclings That action, those words of Mr. Yorke' s, had but too surely betrayed his interest in Maria. He came to the end of the terrace, and found they had halted there, right above him. He was to hear worse words now, aud he could not help himself. "Then you had no business to do it you had uo right to do it," Maria was saying, in a petulent tone. "He was not going to eat me, if I did walk with him." "Excuse me, Maria, I am the best judge. Raby wns in the position of a gentleman once, but things have changed with him." "Rubbish!" retorled Miss Saxonbury. "He is papa's guest; and he is as good as you. A gentleman once, a gentleman al ways." "I am not savins he is not a ccntleman. Buthe is no longer in the position of "He was born'and reared one; he will always be one; quite as much as you are," persisted Maria, in her tantalizing spirit. "Well, I don't care then, to nut mv ob jection on that score. But it is not agree able to me to see you walking and tailing so familiarly with him." "Just say you are jealous at once, Ar thur. If you think to control me, I can tell you" "Halloo, Arthur! Step here a moment" The voice was Sir Arthur Saxonbury's. Maria paused in her speech, and M Yorke unwillincly retired towards th drawin-groora. Raby, in the frenzy of tue moment, darted up the end steps, startling her by his sudden appearance. "Miss Saxonbury! will you answer me? rorgive me, he panted, as he laid his hand upon her arm, in his painful eager ness "forgive me that I must nsk the question! Has Arthur Yorke a rigte to take you from me as he did but now?" "Of course he has not, Mr. Raby. How can he have?" "I mean pray excute.me the right of more than cousinship?' She was half terrified at his parted lips, his labored breathing, his ghastly face, from which suspense took every ves tige of color, and she saw that she might not dare to tamper with him: that the kinder course, now, was to set his am bitious dream at rest. "Well, then," she whispered, "though of course he had not the right to interfere, and it was very bad tnctc. and I will not submit to his whims, $Or, yei the time may come when he will be to me more tlMt iv-eottera Hia hand unloosed its clasp of her arm. and Maria Saxonbury hastened towards the drawing-room. He watched her in, and then, when no human eye or ear was near, his head sunk upon the cold railings, and a low wail of anguish went forth on the quiet evening air. Too surely, though Maria Saxonbury might never know it, had tne iron entered into his soul. CHAPTER IV. TnE BLOW TKLLIXO HOME. In December, business took Sir Arthur Saxonbury to London. He paid a visit to the artist Coram, but he did not see Ra by. His easel and chair were there, but the former had no work in its frame, and the chair was empty. "Has he ebjured the art, or found an other studio?" inquired Sir Arthur. The great painter shook his head. "He has notabjured it A different art or pow er is claiming him now; one to which we must all succumb Death." "Death!" echoad Sir Arthur. "He has gone off very rapidly; in a de cline, or something of that sort I saw him two days ago, and I did not think, then, he would last until now. I wonder I have not heard of his death." ."What can be the cause of its coming on so suddenly? He was remarkably well when at Saxonbury. I saw no symptom of decline or any other illness about him then." "Do you remember my telling you. Sir Arthur, that a blow to the feelings would kill him?" Sir Arthur considered. "I think I do." "He has had it, unless I am mistaken. He got it at Saxonbury. ' "What do you mean?" inquired the bar onet. "I do not understand it, and indeed it is no business of mine, but when he came up from Saxonbury, he had certaiuly re ceived his death-blow. A suspicion has crossed me whether your lovely daughter had mil thin- trnln wilp it Vnjpr' rrf Sir Arthur, we are old friends it is a I thought only mentioned to you.' "I should like to 6ee him"," said Sir Ar thur. "Will you go with me?" They went Raby was ctill alive, but it was getting towards hia last day of life He lay panting on his huhible bed, nlone. A hectic flush, even then, lighted up his wasted cheek at sight of her father. Sir Arthur, inexpressibly shocked, sat down by him, and took his poor damp hand. "What can v-ou kavcbecnjdoingt your self," he asked, "to get into this state?" "1 think it was. inherent, murmured Raby. "My mother died in a decline." "You have had the best advice, I hope?" Raby made a movement of dissent. "A medical student, whom I know, comes in sometimes. I could not call in good ad vice, for I had not the means to pay for it" "Oh, my boy!" cried Sir Arthur, in a tone of anguish, as he leaned over him, "why did you not let me know of this? Half my puree should have been yours, for your mother's sake." "All the skill in England would not have availed me," he earnestly said. "Sir Ar thur, it is best as it is, for I am going to her. She has been waiting for me all these years, She told me my lot would not be a happy one. But it will soon be over now," he added, his voice growing fainter; "earthly tiain of all kinds has nearly pass ed away. Curious thonghts were perplexing Sir Arthur Saxonbury as he quitted the scene. If a rude blow to his feelings had indeed caused Raby to sink into bodily illness, and thence to death, and that blow had been dealt by Maria Saxonbury, how very like it was to retribution for the blow Ma rin Raby had dealt out to him! He was a strong man, and had weathered it, hut it had left more permanent traces on his heart than he had suffered the world to know. Sir Arthur lost himself in these thoughts, and then shook them off as a dif agreeable and unsatisfactory theme." On Christmas-eve he returned to Saxon bury. After dinner, hia two daughters only being at table, he told them of the ex pected death of the artist Raby. Mrs. Ashton expressed sorrow and surprise, Maria baid nothing, but her face drooped, and a burning color overspread it Sir Arthur looked sternly at ber. Her head only drooped the lower. "It has been hinted to tae that you tam pered with his feelings," he said, in a se verely reproachful tone. "Let me tell you, Maria, that the vain hab't of encouraging admiration whence it cannot legally be re ceived, always tends to ill. No right minded girl would condescend to it." "I thought Maria talked a great deal with young Raby," remtrked Mrs. Ash ton. "Hail ho been of our own order, I should have interfered; !ut I knew she could not be serious. He was only a painter." "She killed him," was the significant answer of Sir Arthur. And Maria Saxon bury burst into tears. ' Sir Arthur paid no more. He may have thought it was the provitce of women to inflict such wounds, ami of men to bear them. He knew not how far Raby'sown impressionable nature miht have been in fault, or whether Maria, in the exercise of coquetry, or vanity, hau unwarrantably drawn him on. It booted not to inquire now; the past could not be undone; neith er could Raby be brought back to life. One thing was indisputable; that beautiful as Maria Raby had been in tiie old days, beautiful was Maria Saxonbury now. It is impossible for some men to be near such beauty and not sutler from it once in their lives. Maria, vexed and angry with herself for the outburst of feeling, had dried away her tears as hastily as they came, and was going on with her dinner with what appe tite she might Sir Arthur went on with his, glancing at her now and then between his eyelashes. "When did Mr. Raby die?" asked Mrs. Ashton. "I do not know yet that he is dead," re plied Sir Arthur. "He was alive when I quitted London, a week ago; but it was certain he could not last long." "Did you see him, papa?" continued Mrs. Ashton. "1 saw him several times. 1" "You seemed to be very much interest ed in that young man, papa," was Mrs. Ashton's interruption. "I was so," quietly replied Sir Arthur. "I looked up to him as to one of a supe rior order." "Supcriorl" EOmewhat slightingly re marked Mrs. Ashton. JlYes;jmmy opinion. I bow to genius; I re3pecf "nortuTreTmtT3bTrLlJa l"ere ?be "opped. seated by Sir in both. Had he lived, I should have done something for him: as it is,.all I could do was to render hia deathbed a lit tle more comfortable than it might other wise have been." "Does he suffer much?" "I hope not. The doubt was, that he might towards the last. I invited Mr. Janson to come down for a day or two when all was over, and bring the account of his last hours." "Who is Mr. Janson, papa?" "A friend of Mr. Raby's. A young sur geon, who has been much with him in his illness; very kind and attentive to him. A gay. gentlemanly, pleasant young fel low ns ever I came across," somewhat warmly added Sir Arthur. "Papa, I ' think you evince a great lik ing for young menl" "Poasibly 1 do, Louisa. The having no sons of my own may have induced it It is not often, though, one meets with so charming "a young man as Mr. Janson." "Is he a gentleman?" "By birtb, do you mean? I never ask ed him the question. He is one in mind and manners, and that i3 enough for me. You were always over-fastidious, Louisa." Maria, meanwhile, said not a word. After the rebuff administered by her fath er, she could but show some sense of it: though, indeed, her thoughts were too busy to admit of her joining lightly in the conversation. Heartily sorry was she to hear of the death of Kaby Raby; and certain qualms of conscience were re proaching her. In the midst of all her vanity and her flirting, her laying her charms out for admiration, aud her lin gering iatcrviews with Mr. Raby, she had not lost her henrt to him. In point of fact, that vulnerable portion of the human frame was yet intact in Maria Saxonbury. Bat she bad liked him much. She had admired hia beauty of face; she had reverenced hia great gift, genius; she had sat most complacently to listen to his softly breathed words, and their scarccly ttliulied incme, tOVC." It had been very reprehensible. Maria had conveniently ignored that fact at the time; butshe was feeling it deeply now. Putting aside her vanity, her consciousness of beauty, her love of admiration, she was a noble hearted girl; and she was wishing just that she could recall Raby Raby to life, almost at the sacrifice of her own. That she had wrecked hia happiness, she had had some cause to believe; but to have wrecked his life Maria turned all over in a hot glow, and wondered whether she might yet dare to ask God to forgive her. "Why should some people's nature be eo sensitive?" she somewhat peevishly asked herself. "They are not fit to be in the world." No, they are not And many a one has had cause to know that truth besides Maria Saxonbury. She sat in her dainty dress of white, the jewels shining on her fair neck and arms sat ,in her old favorite attitude, after she went into the drawing-room leaning back in a fauteuil, her black satin slipper tapping petulantly the carpet. Not so much in petulance, possibly aa in sorrow, was that pretty foot moving. Life seemed to her particularly gloomy that evening; aa if it were to have no future. For one thing, she had been vexed by the non-arrival of Arthur Yorke. He was to have spent Christmas at Saxonbury, to have been with them that day, hut a let ter, telling of the serious illness of his mother, had come instead. Maria liked Arthur Yorke very well; quite sufficiently well to be grieved at hia non-arrival, and to feel it a disappointment And yet she did not love him. She did not love Ar thur Yorke any more than she had loved Mr. Raby. It ia a capricioua passion, one that will not come for the bidding; and, perhaps; the very fact of Maria s having gathered hints that she waa des tined to be Mr. Yorke's wife, had kept the love away. Sir Arthur Saxonbury had never said Maria, "All going well, I wish you to be the wife of Arthur Yorke." Lady Sax onbury had never said it. More than all, Mr. Yorke himself had never eaid it. And yet, that Maria knew that such was her- projected destiny, was certain. Sir Arthur Saxonbury wished it; there was not the slightest doubt that Mr. Yorke wished it; but neither of them had spoken directly to Maria. She was very young, and Sir Arthur, who would not for the world have pushed on such a project against her inclination, bad desired of Mr. Yorke that he should not speak at present "Givo her time to get a liking lor you first," he said And the advice was good. But the project had in some way, oozed out; and Maria knew it as well as they did. In fact, there was a tacit un derstanding that she did, between herself and Mr. Yorke. At present she was pleased to show off her caprices and her coquetries to him, as she did to others, secure in her own power. Lady Saxonbury, a confirmed invalid, suffering under an inward complaint, re clined in a fauteuil opposite Maria. Mrs. Ashton, who had always some work in hand for one or the other of her children, sat at the table between them, doing some thing to the lace of a little cap, and grum bling at her uneonscioua nursemaids for having allowed ittogct torn. "Ilaveyou heard the news about Mr. Raby, mam ma?" she suddenly asked. "Your papa told me," replied Lady Saxonbury. "What a 6ad thing that consumption is! But it must have at- tacked Mr. Raby suddenly. He was not ill when he was here."j "Very suddenly," returned Mrs. Ash ton, in a marked tone, made tart for the benefit of Maria. "He never looked strong," resumed Lady Saxonbury. "He hail a remark ably fragile appearance. 1 used tosav so to Maria. Who can that be?" The "Who can that be?" referred to the signs or an arrival. Wheels had sounded on the gravel, and the hall bell was now ringing. But no one appeared, and the occurrence passed oil" from their minds. The time went on to tea time, and the tea waited on the table for Sir Arthur. Never given to take n.ucli wine. Lady Saxonbury openly wondered what could be keeping him in the dining-room. "It is possible that, tired with hw jour ney, he may have dropped asleep," she suddenly said. "Go anil see Maria." Maria rosa listlessly, and proceeded to the diuing-room speaking as ehe entered it: "Papa, you don't come to. tea. We have been wondering" CTtTuemanr nrstramrrrr-tr Aiaria. tie rose as she spoke, and stood facing her, a beaming smile on hia coun tenance. A gentlemanly-looking man, young, with a remarkably winning ex pression of face, and frank manners. Sir Arthur rose also. "My daughter, Mr. Janson, Miss Sax onbury.'' Maria remembered the name Janson in connection with Raby Raby; and not possessing a perfectly easy conscience on that score altogether, left the room again aa quickly as she could. Sir Arthur fol lowed her, bringing his guest to the drawing-room. Raby had died the day following the departure of Sir Arthur Saxonbury from London. He, Sir Arthur, had paid a visit of nearly a week on the road. Mr. Jan son waited to bury his friend, and then availed himself of the invitation to Sax onbury. "Did he die hard in much pain?" in quired Lady Saxonbury, when they had been speaking of him some little time. "Quite easy in all ways," replied Mr. Janson. "He appeared to think he was going to hiirest," Continued next week. LOVE-MAKING IN CUBA. A Very Pretty l'ictnre or the Pro cess Koiuauce ofthe Ozotea. Havana Letter to Chicago Tribune. Last summer two sisters, who lived im mediately opposite there in that low house used to come to the terrace nearly every evening at sunset 'They were about 18 and 15 years of age, and both very pretty. The eldest, Lola, was a black-eyed, raven-haired beauty, with the well-grown, well-developed form so common among Cuban women and so rare among Cuban men. The youngest, Pancbita, wa3 more delicate in make, with flowing e!tetttut-hftr aud blue ejes the blue ofthe pervenche and a com plexion of the purest white. There is something peculiarly lovely in a fair skinned Habanesa; the perfect oval of her face; her long almond-shaped eye; the total absence of rose-color in her check, make her a type of blonde beauty unknown to Northern climes. The orig inal, I believe, is to found in Andalusia, whence came, also, the fairy-like feet which distinguish Cubans generally. The pretty sisters used to pace the azo tea with a nonchalent grace which it was enchanting to watch; Lola, with a cigar in her mouth, puffing vigorously; both nodding and making signs with fingers and hands to the young people, also smoking, on the roofs around. Sometimes Pancbita would indulge in a paper ci garito, and it waa very pretty to see the dainty fingers hold it a moment to the coral lipsand then the light smoke curl up round the delicate little nosel A week or two passed thus in a few simple salutations and a pretense of taking exer cise, when I discovered that a young gen tleman, who frequented the roof ot that three-storied house on the right, REMAINED SUSrlCIOl SLY STATIONARY in a corner of his azotea during the whole time the sisters remained on theirs. Soon I was certain that Pancbita smoked her cigarito with an embarrassed air, very different from her former natural, thought less grace; then it waa evident that she lingered a moment behind her sister when they prepared to descend, and never failed to casta parting look in the direction of the stationary young man. At last I surprised signals with fan and fingers, and then blown kisses from the admirer, and soou all the evidences of passion that a tall individual on a house-top, withhis silhouette distinctly drawn against the sky, can dare to give. And then, when Pancbita was fairly out of sight, Pepe descended also, and, half an hour later, w.ould be found in the street posted out side her parlor window, waiting patiently for a stray smile or word from hia lady love 'within. You see how convenient the windows are constructed in this country for love making, reaching down to the ground, without glass, and only the perpendicular iron bars, six inches apart, to defend them, there is absolutely nothing to pre vent the tenderest conversation between the gallant on the side wall: and the belle inside the grating, or rcja, aa it ia called. It is, then, outside this reja. that the Cuban lover begins hia courtship, aud SIGHS ni3 PRETTY XOTUIXGS "Alma de mi viva" (soul of my life). "Cucullo de mi corazon" (firefly ot my heart), etc. to the willing, cochantcd eara within. After a period of out-door love-making, longer or shorter according to the ardor and sincerity ol the wooer, he requeata to see papa or mamma, and begs their permission to be allowed to continue his courtship in-doora. If ho is considered a suitable match, he ia asked how long a time he intends to pay his ad dresses before he determines or ia able to marry. If hia term be too lon, he wi,i probably not be permitted to visit at the bouse; but, if all in right ami smooth, gracious leave ia given to come every evening. From 'that hour the young lady's society belongs exclusively to him; he and she sit side by side iu the parlor, whispering and gurgling together inter esting objects to those who dove them; great borea to those who do not Such was the course of rejKr's and Pnn chita's loves; at the end of three -months TIIE VZUVViO TOOK TLACE. although they were in truth but children, he not 19 she just 15. One evening at o'clock, I saw from iny ozotea the pretty bride, attended by her ister and a bevy of fair young girls, accompanied by papa and mamma and-a crowd of lrienda, set off for the church She returned with the bridegroom, the happiest, loveliest creature 1 ever gazed on; and there was music, and dancing and feasting, aud laughter, all night long in the brilliant house. Alas! a year later, all waa dark neo and teara within tbat same house! A babe had been born who had died of lockjaw when six dajs old one-half of the newly born children of Cuba fall vic tims to this terrible malady and tbe young mother lived bnt a week after its burial, carried off by a galloping con sumption, a complaint extremely common in the island I may say frightfully so. But see, while I have been telling yoa this episode ofthe azotea with its melan choly termination, the sun haa sunk be low the horizon. How soft and tender is this twilightT There linger still some golden streaks of the verge on th e horizon , .where the sun went down they are the lost splendors of the dying day. As I gaze, the hues change and fade: The last still loveliest, till 'tis gone and all ia gray. For the Hartford Herald. A PICTURE FROM LIFE. A young man just entering upon life. "The only son of his mother, and she was a widow. He had sisters, fair and gen tle girla, who labored hard with the needle to earn a comfortable support for their old mother and themselves. And this young man did he not labor, also, for the same laudable purpose? Waa it not hia ambition to lessen the load of his sister3, and "by the sweat of hia brow" make hia mother's journey down the hill of life pleasant and peaceful? Alas! no. He thought it waa degrading to work. He did not scruple to wear clo thing earned for him by the industrious hands of his slaters. He saw the graver of care tracing wrinkle upon. wrinkle, day after day, on the once smooth brow of bis mother. He knew that he was filling her loving heart to overflowing with sorrow. He saw that hia sisters were growing pale and sad-eyed from the shame he brought upon them. Rut tbia young man did have an ambi tion. He loved to boast of his drunken fol lies and scrapes. And, oh! how he delight ed to go home under the influence of liq uor and curse and bully the poor defence less women, whose greatest misfortune was that they were hia mother and sisters. He was a model young man: one of the kind of which the great men of earth are made! The years rolled on, and our model young man grew older, but no better. All of the hours of the day, and many of those of the night, were spent loafing about the barrooms and groceries. His comjmnmna wore only thxr drunken, and idle, and vicious of the neighborhood. Want pinched sorely those poor women at home, and fiom them he wrung their hard earnings, which he squandered in debauchery on those no better than him self. One night, in a den of drunkenness, kept by God forgive him! one who professed to enjoy tbe religion of our Lord Jesus Christ, murder was done. Our model young man and one of his fellow-loafers, while drunk, became involved in an al tercation, and the worthless son of a wor thy widow stabbed and killed his adver sary. He was arrested, tried, and convicted; and to-day is serving out a lengthy term in the State-prison. The disgrace brought upon the honorable name borne by her dead husband, the father of this felon, killed the mother. The shame and dis grace brought upon than by their brother, drove the sisters from the neighborhood; and it is the neighborhood gos.ip and be lief that they are leading abandoned lives in the city of Evanaville. Reader, this ia no fancy sketch. These things really occurred, and in a communi ty not more than a hundred miles from II art ford. Let ua be thankful that our own community contains no such model young men. And. ohl men of Hartford: good, christian, civilized men of Hartford: continue in the name and for the sake of yoilr mothers, wives, sisters and daughters. continue to refuse wicked and money loving men the privilege of opening in our town dens of evil that will make drunk ards, devils, and murderers of our fathers, husbands, brothers, and sons! Hartford, Ky., January 1, 1874. A Kitchen Fire Started with $1, IOO in (Jreenbitclts. Milwaukee News, Dee. 25 th. H. Grote keeps a saloon and boarding house at 193 Second street, and, to all ap pearances, ia doing a good and prosperous business. He ia a thrilty individual, and ia given to operating somewhat in stock horses. He doesn't keep, as a canal thing, a vast amount of money about the hou?e. Day before yesterday, having a note against him that was rapidly ap proaching matnrity, he obtained some thingover $1,100 With which to satisfy it Wrapping up this comfortable sum in an old uewspaper, he stowed the bundle away in a bureau drawer, and where he intended to let it remain until it was want ed to liquidate the claim against him. In hia family ia a girl, a sister of hia wife, named 'Jleli.t Mtrclinck, a bright little la??, about nine eara ofage. A part of 'Melia t duties ia the kindling ofthe ma tutinal lire, and yesterday morning, as usual, she waa the first one stirring in the house. Not having enough inllamable material handy, she remembere'l the roll of paper in the drawer, and getting it out put it in tbe rtove. where she soon had a neanlitul lire in full blast When the roaster of the establishment arose ho missed the money, and a little inquiry demonstrated the" fact that that $1,100 had gone "where." In the elegant Jan cuage of the late lamented James Fiak, Jr.. "tbe woodbine twineth." The state ofthe atmosphere in that boanling-houso can be better imagined than described the fire was immedialely extiaguWied, but as it had been under good headway J.. it lauf irvst Itrtura llin Rtnri aft1 empty of money aa a reporter': peckct-book.