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2 had been a perfect deluge of tradesmen’s bills —an occurrence that had never happened be- , fore. The baker had sent in his bill, and the : butcher wanted ready money ; the upholster ers who had furnished Vale House pressed for a settlement in consequence of unlooked-for losses. Kate showed the bills to her husband. W hat does it mean ?” she asked wondermg ly. “ It means, my dear, that there is some sub tle agency at work against us—l cannot tell what. It means also that the tradespeople must be paid at once. Indeed, Kate, we should have been wiser had we waited till the legacy had been paid to us before we came here.” “ But is it certain ?” said Kate, a little anx iously. “As certain as fhte,” he replied; and then they talked a little more cheerfully about what they would do when the money was at com mand. That same evening Felix came home looking slightly preoccupied. He had seen one ot their oldest clients go into George Malcolm’s office, and the vicar of the parish, the Reverend Dan iel Hunter, had passed him with the coldest of bows. He also had an impression that there was something wrong. Ho could tell neither what it was nor why it was. Felix thought that there would be time to walk over to the Limes. He had a very beauti ful book that he had bought lor Violet, and he wanted to give it to her. It struck him, when he entered the drawing room at the Limes, that the three assembled there had been speaking of him, tneir greeting was so awkward, so constrained, so unlike the genial, kindly reception that had always been given to him hitherto. Mrs. Haye held out her hand to him, but her eyes fell* and her hus band’s hair-murmured words were inaudible; Violet looked embarrassed; and for the first time under that hospitable roof the young lov er felt ill at ease. When he had laid the volume on the table, Mr. Haye took it up. “This must have cost something,” ho said, “for it is very handsome. It would be better to save money than to spend it—we nono of us know when an evil day may come.” “I do not fear evil days,” remarked Felix, with all the sanguine hope of a young man. “The wisest among us may expect them,” Baid Mr. Haye briefly. Then the conversation languished, and Felix grew so uncomfortable that ho decided upon returning home. He had no misgiving—he thought he had called at an inauspicious mo ment—he had perhaps interrupted some do mestic conference. He cared o iiy to see Vio let. It' she would go to the gate with him, so that he would have time for a few words, all would be well. But when he had said good night to the two seniors, and asked Vioiet if she would walk to the gate with him, Mrs. Haye interposed. “It is too cold,” she said. “ Vioiet has been complaining of headache all day; she must not go out.” And the tone was so decided, so stern, that Felix could not oppose Mrs. Haye. He held Violet’s band one minute in his; ho tried to look into the depths of her beautiful eyes, but they drooped from his, and he could not see them. He left ter with a few words, feeling moro unhappy than ho had ever folt be fore. The night was beautiful; the wind soft and fragrant, the.sky calm and clear, tho moon ahming brightly. He smiled as he asked him self why ho should bo unhappy. What was there to make him so? Why need he feel de pressed ? Yet the very air around him was fill ed with whisperings—the night-wind full of aighs. . “I am growing fanciful,” he ea’d to himself; “and what tangible evil have I to grasp?” There was nothing but a cloud oi fancies; his prospects were bright enough. He said to him self ovor and over again that no one was so for tunate. Had he not a partnership? Had be not a certainty of calling the loveliest girl in tho county his wife? What had he to fear? Yet what was the strange dull pain that made his brave young heart tail him ? What caused the strange shuddering that cameover him? Why had he a keen and penetrating, a vague, . indefinite feeling of an evil day to come. He tried to repress it; he could understand women being nervous, but not men. For the first time he noticed that night a look of anxiety on his father’s face, and he asked what bad brought it there. “Shadows—nothing but shadows; fancies— troublesome fancies,” was the reply; yet it was strange the son turned away with a feeling al most ol' despair. Nor was the mystery lessoned when on the day following Mrs. Lonsdale, going on her dai ly round ot shopping, met the vicar’s Wife, Mrs. Hunter, who stopped to speak to her. “Thii is a very sad affair, Mrs. Lonsdale,” she said; and Kate, looking at her, asked quiet ly wbat.afiair she meant. She looked so entirely unconscious that the vicar’s wile was surprised. “ Have you heard no bad news of—of—any one?” she asked; and Kate answered “ No.” Thon Mrs. Hunter related some trifling little Story; and even as she related it Kate told her self that she was inventing it. With her hon est, straightforward eyes she looked at the vi car’s lady. “You are not telling me what was m your mind when you first spoke to me,” she said. 44 What were you thinking of, Mrs. Hunter?” But Mrs. Hunter, after laughingly parrying the remark, hastily said good morning in very embarrassing fashion, and walked away. Mrs. Hunter’s remark could mean nothing; yet the heart of tho loving anx.ous wife grew heavy within her. Bad news ? What sad news could there be affecting her or hers? And, if there was sad news about any one else, why could she not have said what it was ? She was the third who went home that day with a terrible sense of foreboding. Her pretty house seemed almost to oppress her. She wished that she had not burdened herself with a nursery-governess; as for the new silk dress, it no longer gave her the least pleasure. What was this cloud hanging over her busband and her children? Was it only neivous fancy, or was there evil looming in the distance? Sue was soon to know; and w.ion she did know it proved to be even greater than she feared. CHAPTER VII. “A MORE CRUELLY UNJUST STORY NEVER WAS TOLD.” “I am very sorry—l think it u ijust; but it is quite impossible to s-iy now it will end,” said George Malco m the lawyer. For the secret was known now—the shadow had become a substance, tho vague fancies had *>ll assumed a form, the airy nothings had be come realities so stern and so cruel that they had driven Darcy Lonsdale almost to despair. Mrs. Hardman’s heir-at-law, James Hardman, had given legal notice tnat he intended to con test his relative’s will on the ground of undue influence. Ho maintained—and nothing could Shake his opinion—that Darcy Lonsdale had taken undue advantage of his position, that he had influenced a weak-minded woman, and had persuaded her to leave him the half of her money. It was a clover ruse, advising her to send for another lawyer; but it would not help him. Mr. Lonsdale found that tho rumors about him bad been growing daily, that his friends and neighbors were all talking of him, while he himself had not tho faintest idea of the mis chief that was abroad. James Hardman had boon in Lilford—that ho knew, aud tho fact had foot interested him in any way; out he did not know that James Hardman had been silently j destroying his reputation, had called upon his old friends, and - had, in tho most subtle fash- i ion, insinuated that tiiere nad neon a conspir acy against him, and that be intended to dis- j puie tho will. Every one in Liffprd knew this < before the least rumor of it reached Darcy Lons dale. Ho went at once to Mr. Malcolm; but the honest lawyer had no cheering naws for him. “ J. am a lawyer myself,” he sai I, “ but I can Dover toll how a lawsuit may end; it may take the right turn, and again it may caae a wrong ODO.” “But,” returned Darcy Lonsdale, “Mrs. Hardman meant me to have the money, did sho not? That one broad fact no one can dispute.” “ I believe honestly that she i itended you to havo it. I know she did. Sue U ked to mo for somo time about the good it would do to you and vour children.” “Then what can there be found to dispute? She intended to give me the money, and she did give it—what is it to any om- ? ’ cried Darcy Lonsdale. “The law deals heavily with cases like this. James Hardman will plead that he is heir-at law, that ho is the rightful b. ir of the late Elizabeth Hardman, that bo ha i been brought up in expectation of receiving t.ie money, and that you have taken an undue advantage of vour position as her legal adviser and friend to induce ber to leave it to y >u.” “But,” declared Mr. Lonsdnie, “I did no such thing. I swear to you I n wer asked, in fluenced, or said one word to her about it. How dare any man say such a thing of mo?” “James Hardman has baen o ought up to believe that he would inherit t v- ive thousand pounds, and, finding six of it g.ven elsewhere, he is very angry about it, and s.ivs some bitter things.” “Hut how is it possible that any one who knows mo could believe that I nave acted un fairly ? How can my old friends <nd neighbors believe it? I have lived aaioi; them all my life—they ought to know me better. I should not bedove such a scandal of any one of them” and tears of wounded pride and .vounded affec tion stoo 1 in his eyes. “Whan ate a mans friends worth, Malcolm, if they oelieVe evil of him so easily ?” . “Perhaps they do not ail believe it,” said George Malcolm. “Then why do they not say so? Why not say, ‘We have known you for years and we be lieve in you’? Why not say that instead of looking coldly on me? As I pass by they con verse about me in whispers and are startled when 1 meet them.” 7 “James Hardman has talked a great deal among them,” said Mr. Malcolm, slowly. “He has said some hard things of you.” “ But my old friends,” rejoined Darcy Lons dale, “the people! have lived among so long, how can they believe such slander?” “I.am not much of a cynic, but this I must say, that I believe our mislortunes are not al ways displeasing even to those we call our friends.” “But these people have known me so long.” Mr. Lonsdale could think of nothing so strong as that—no argument was so potent. He had lived among them ail bis life. Why did they not trust him as he trusted them ? “It any one among them hud i told me such a thing of another, I wouldn’t have credited it—they are only too ready, it seems, to : believe it of me. Malcolm, how in Heaven’s name ’amlto go home and tell this to my wife ? Am I to tell her that a blameless life, spent in the midst of people who have known me since I was a child, is ho shield against slander?” “I am sorry for you,” said George Malcolm; “I can say no more. Ido not believe it, and 1 shall stand by you through it all.” The two men shook hands, but Darcy Lons dale’s face wore a puzzled, wondering look. “Can it be a jest, do you think, Malcolm—a jest to try me ?” “No, it is no jest. Hardman will get the money if he can.” “ I would not take it unless I thought it was really mine—l would refuse to touch it; but I cannot do th it, for I am sure my old friend left it to me for the children. I must bo just to them. Great Heaven, 1 have kept a blameless name all my life, only to meet with this fate— to see my old friends point at me as a man who would cheat his client I I wish I had been dead before I had known this. Tell me what Hard man is going to do.” “He has placed the whole matter in tho hands of a London firm, and the trial will come on about the end of September. You must pre pare your defense and look up your witnesses.” “If my whole life does not witness for me,” said Darcy Lonsdale, with quiet dignity, “then tho words of no man can benefit me.” He dreaded going home — for the first time in his life he disliked passing through the streets of bis native town, for the first time he shrank from the glances and words of his old com rades. “Heaven help Kate!” he said to himself. “ How am I to tell her ?” But Kate knew already—such nows travels fast. It was no weeping, hysterical wife who clung to him, half mad with womanish fear ; a bright, tender face looked into his ; sweet, warm white hands clasped his, loving lips kissed him, a brave, bright voice cheered him with the mu sic of home-words. “I have heard ail about it, Darcy,” said bis wife. “Never mind—no one can injure you. You are innocent, honest, and honoraoie. Nev er mind what anyone says—Heaven knows the truth, and I love you all the more that you bear the blame so well.” Darcy Lonsdale was relieved to find his wife so cheerful, and they sat dawn to discuss their difficulty. “ Give the money back again, Darcy,” said his wife, “if I werj in your p.ace, 1 would not touch one shilling of it.” “If I did tnat, it. would look as though I feared inquiry, as though I knew that 1 had gamed it by wrong means, and remorse com pelled me to return it. It seems to me now that I am compelled, in justification of my own honor, to keep it—Mrs. Hardman certainly meant me to have it. Then there are the chil dren—l cannot rob them; I must not take from them what is really theirs.” “But,” said his wire, “if there should be a trial, and it should go against you “Thon I must bear it like a man, Kate. I have had many blessings—if it pauses Heaven to send me a reverse, 1 must not complain.” But, for all that, she knew that ois heart was sore and heavy, and that ha was disturbed by a hundred doubts and fears. She soothed him, comforted him, and did her best to encourage him ; but ebe could not persuade him to forget his trouble for a moment—it was always in his thoughts. Presently Felix came in, and ois glance at bis son’s taco told Darcy Lonsdale that he had heard tho whole story. Tae handsome young face was f'.ill of em?tjQiit He we.,: straight up to his father and laid his hand lovingly upon his shoulder. “Lot me help you, father,” he said. “No man shall say one word against-you while I live.” And the two men—father and son—shook hands. There was more, expressed in that si lent grasp than there could have oosn in a vol ume of words. “ You have heard the story, I suppose, Fe lix?” said Mrs. Lonsdale. . “Yes, 1 have heard it, and a more cruelly un just story never was told. Let ma help tofignt your battle, father. 1 should like to take every man who believes the story, or woo affects to believe it, and thrash him.” “My dear Felix!” exclaimed gentle Mrs. Lonsdale. “So I should, madre;” and the young, hand some face deepened with angry scorn tor every one who should harbor an evil thought of one so beloved. The love between father and son was almost pathetic in its intensity. Presently Mrs. Lonsdaie'said musingly : “What will Violet say when she nears it?” “Say ?” qried Felix. “She will bo indignant. She will agree with me, that any man wno lis tens to it ought to be shot. Wny do you look so strangely at me, madre ?” “I was wondering,” she said, “ whether this would make any difference to her or to her pa rents—l mean in respect of yoprself.” “Difference? No—yet I am wrong. Yes, it will make this one difference. She will love me the better, and cling to me the more. I have no doubt about Violet—my sweet Violet! It is the one thing needed to quicken her love for me with a now strange life.” He wondered wny Mrs. Lonsdale sighed. Why need any one sigh? Violet’s love, Violet’s faith, was his rock of refuge. To doubt ber would be death. “I havo no tear,” be said, throwing back his head proudly. “ Violet will love me now as sho has never loved me before. My only trouble is about my dear father, and what I can do to helo him.” They talked until long after midnight; they looked the evil in the face. If tney went to law, and the law was against them, what then ? They would bo dreadfully embarrassed for ready money. The nursery-governess must go. but they could remain at Vale House, and the partnership should not be dissolved. CHAPTER VIII. “not deserted by all the world.” The Autumn was come; the golden glory of Summer had given way to it. Tne luxuriant trees made the woods a picture. The yellow leaves lay in dank heaps, the corn had all been cut and carried, the fruit gathered; the gloam ing was longer, the sunset had clouds of deeper crimson. The little town of Lilford had experienced a social earthquake. The great trial of Lonsdale versus Hardman had been decided, and the verdict—no one but the twelve intelligent jury men who gave it knew why—was against Darcy Lonsdale; the will was declared null and void, and the whole of the property was to be given to James Hardman. That was hard; but hardest of all were the cruel things said by the plaintiff’s counsel. Darcy Lonsdale listened co them like ono in a dream. He beard all kinds of underhand mo tives attributed to him; he heard himself de scribed as a conspirator, as one who had taken advantage of his position to influence a weak minded woman. He listened to words which burned him, branded him—which almost rob bed him of his self-respect—wnich so com pletely bewildered him that, if be had been a weaker man, he would not have known whether he was guilty or not. The blameless life of which he was so proud, the blameless name' which he valued above all other blessings, were bespattered. As be listened to the cruel words, which fed like molten lead on his heart and home, he could have cried aloud that it was all false—he had lived in Lilford both as boy and man, and all his old friends knew that he was incapable of doing any creature a wrong or an injury. He called few witnesses. He might have made a far batter defense tnan he did but that he trusted so entirely to the notion that his own innocence must be patent to all men. The ver dict was against mm—unjustly so, some said, for the judge bad summed up favorably for him ■ and Darcy Lonsdale went home crushed and heart-broken. Those were dreary days in Vale House. “I shall never hold up my head again,” said Darcy Lonsdale, with a deep sob. “I shall never look my feilow-men in theface.” Tnat bis old friends should have believed this of him pained the brave, honest heart. He cud a long illness, from which it was feared at first that ho would never recover. It was a dreary time. The business fell away ; tho townspeople said to each other, with a grave shake of tne head, that they could not trust a man of whom sueb things had been said —they could not leave then: interests, as be fore, in bis hands. One after another tho old names disappeared from his books. Men he had known all his simple life fought shy of him, avoided bim—and the dreary time passed on. Felix worked bard, but it was like rowing against an angry current. There were some gleams or commri; one of them neither father nor son ever forgot. it was an evening in October, dark and chill. For the first time the invalid had como down stairs, and tho weight of anxiety upon him was like a weight of load. Those were days of strict economy in Vaio House. There was no tempt ing fruit for the feeble appetite, no generous wine to give strength to the feeble frame. The best medicine that the invalid had was the cheerifig kindly words of his wife, the love of his son. That evening Felix came home late from his office; be was tired, owing to tho hard work and ill fortune of tne day. He fought nobly with misfortune, but he fought in vain. His kind face brightened when he saw a letter for him. It must be from Violet. Who would write to him except Violet? And despite all bis sorrows his heart glowed as ho thought of her, hij boautiiul love. Ob, to escape, if only for one hour, and sun himself in the light of uer presence ! He saw her so seldom now. Ho was hard at work during the day, and the nights were too cold tor walks and rambles. He occa sionally went over to the Limes ; but the wel come that he received there was not of the warmest, and he could not see Violet alone. He took up the letter with a smile, and read it. It was not from Violet, but from her father, Francis Haye, saying that the marriage must be deferred for at least a year, as he was quite sure that, under the circumstances, Felix could not hamper himself with a wife. “Violet was,” he said, “of the same opinion, as he would see ;” and indeed there was a rose-tinted, sweet scented note from Violet—just a few lines—to tne effect that she thought her father was right. He laid the notes down with a feeling of burn ing pain, a thrill of passionate anguish that frightened him. Nothing on earth, no power of man, should take her from him. She was his own, and he would hold her until life was ended. Then he owned to himself that Mr. Haye was right—cruelly right—that without money, with an invalid father, a fading bust- NEW YORK DISPATCH, SEPTEMBER 29, IR7B. ■a nesia, he could pot take a wife. It was right to :o defer it. He must bo patient. After all, he ib bad not lost her, he reflected. She was still his n own. e . There came to him a mad desire to see her, ,s I to caress the golden hair, to kiss the lovely lips | that had on them the breath and the fragrance i; of roses, to clasp the sweat white hands in his 1 own, to hear the music of the voice that had no equal—a wild, msd longing. He read her note 1- through again to see if be bad overlooked some kindly word, to see if she had written “my a love.” Then he thought to himself that the little note was written tor her father to see—for e his faith in her was great; he could not believe that her love for bim was not as true and as s fervent as his love for her. I “Have you some good news there, Felix?" ’t asked the feeble voice of his father; and the o next moment Felix had repressed the emotion s so rapidly mastering him as he crushed the - .letter in his hand. o “ It is only a note from Violet, father,” he re -1 plied; and tho satisfied smile on his father’s face rewarded him. Darcy Lonsdale knew that while Violet was a true to his idolized son nothing else would hurt e him. They were alone, father and son—for Kato ” had gone to the nursery—when the hall-door ” bell rang. Felix said, cheerfully: a “ Here is a visiter.” “Few visitors will come here; wo have lost a a fortune, not found one,” said Darcy Lonsdale, s who had never spoken a cynical word before. K But it was a visitor, and one whom they were - both well content to see. It was Evelyn Les ter, with a basket of grapes and delicacies of . all kinds for the invalid, and, what was better still, with the light of love and kindness on her a sweet face, and with words of sympathy on her a lips. i As Felix saw hor bonding over his father, he i half wished for a moment that Violet had done , something like this—had came to seo them in - their distress. Then ho blamed himself for wishing that she were other than sho was. Vi- i olet was a goddess to be worshiped—Evelyn a . mortal woman. He saw his father’s face brighten as the girl’s a sweet voice soothed him with well-chosen i words. “1 knew you would come, Eve,” he said, a “ Felix, place a chair for her close here bv my r side; it is like breathing the iresh air of May to look at you, Eve. Now tell me, child, some -1 thing that will brighten me.” ; It was a pretty picture—the invalid lying on his couch, the girl with her.sweit face and 1 earnest eyes bending over him, and, watching 1 them at a distance, the handsome son; the fire - burned brightly, the lamps wore lighted, while r outside the north wind wailed mournfully. i Evelyn took up a bunch of ripe purple grapes, r “ I want to see you eat some of these,” she ■ said. “ Mrs. Lonsdale told me that you ate > nothing yesterday,” and taking tho grapes one by one in her white fingers, She hold them to i hts lips. How could he refuse ? He was so weak and [ feeble, he had been so completely crushed by i cruel words, that the girl’s simple kindness moved him. i “I have been heart-broken, Eve,” he said; “I , did not care to get well.” , “Yon will live it down,” she returned, gently; i “and those who have doubted you will be the first to feel ashamed of their injusiios.” I “You have never doubted me, Evj?” “Oh, never! How could I? 1 s.iould doubt • all tho world first.” 1 Th?u she rose from her chair an l knelt down bv bis side; she took both his h>iids—such i thin, worn hands!—in hors, and held them there. - . f “I came to say something to you, Mr. Lons i dale,” said she; “and now that lam i 're I have I hardly the courage. Promise not to be angry with me.” : “ I could not be if I tried, deer child,” he re- . plied. - - Hor face flushed, and the light despoiled in. her eyes. — >»-•• ■ 1 “You have known me ail my life,” she said— “have yon not? ever since I cama hero, a little ■ friendless child.” ■ ; “ Yes, it is true, Eve.” ■ “And you havo alwiys boon kind to me. I > have come to you in a score of childi <!i troubles, and you were always Kind to me. -low I want you to let me repay you for all your kindness.” She spoke so quickly that ho coul I not inter- ■ rupt her. “I want to help you. You know that • I have money, plenty of money, all lying idle— i lor 1 want none, and Aunt Jane will not touch i it. Do accept it; let mo give it to you. I shall never want it, fori shall never'marry. Do take it; you would make me happnr than any one in the wide world if you won -1. lam so . grieved and so sorry that I would go out and ■ work for you if you would let me. If you wiil not accept it, borrow it until you can repay me. Do not refuse me—let me help you.” ; Felix bad come near to her, liste.ung in won der to the passionals words. M-'. Lonsdale drew the fair head down nearer to him. ; “So you would give me all your fortune, , Eve ?” > There was a glad light in her eyes when she raised them to his. “I would—double my fortune i. I had it,” she replied. “And why, Eve—tell mo why you would be i so good to me ?” The rich crimson flush burned hut fair face; sho knew why, but she could, not tell him. “Because I love you all, and you are my i dearest friends,” she replied. i “And you would give it to me all without re i serve. Eve ?” “All, and more if I had it,” was her answer; • and then there was silence for so io minutes, > while the tire burned brightly a.i i the north ? wind wailed. : “My dear Evelyn,” said Darcy Loh lale—and . his voice was broken with emotion ’bow shall i I ever thank you?” An expression of perfect rapture camo over the girl’s face. “You will let me do it?” sho mod. “You have made me ono of tho happies girls in the world 1 ’ The thin hands clasped hors, the sunken eyes f looked tenderly into hors. t “Will I let you give it to mo, my learostEvo? r No—a thousand times no! It is not for the i money lam thanking yon, but tor ;.ue thought, for the intention. Yon have gii.ldened my • heart, you have gladdened my hl ?—you have given me the courage to get better, you have given ma hope. I shall be so murii tho better i for your coining.” i “But that is not the point !”she cried. “Dear . Mr. Lonsdale, do accept tho money. Ab, if you • knew how litle I care for it, and'l-.ow muoh I care for you—if you knew tho ploai.ire it would i give me, you could not refuse!” He drew tho sweet face down to his and i kissed it. , “My dear Eve, I would rather hive this of i fer made to me than any other. You havo re . stored some of my self-esteem, child, some of . my self-respect.” i Evelyn looked up in wonder, th ■ Felix had . bent down and kissed her band; he gazed at the sweet flushed face wuh .wondi •. “Eve,” be said, “yon are an ar. ;M. I shall never forget what you have said and done. I , shall never forget that you have given a de- • spending, almost despairing man,Hope.” And again there carno to him put a passing wish, a faint, floating desire, ths. ‘ Violet had > shown the same affection for the o; bat again ho checked the thought. Violot Wis a golden- l haired goddess, and goddesses did iot go about i making offers of their possessions to unfortun- I ate mon. Eve conld hardly be comforted because they i would not take her money. She did win one promise from Darcy Lonsdale, and that was I that if ho saw himself hardly pushed he would > borrow a few hundreds at least to go on with, i But, though sho had not succeeded in the one ■ great object of hor visit, she had at least done , good—she left more hopeful hearts behind her. i Later on, when Felix had soon Evo home, and Katie had listened with eyes dimmed by tears to tho story of her generosity, tho family sat round the fire' discussing the event. “X shall get well now, Katie,” said Darcy I Lonsdale; “yesterday I felt that it was a mat ter of indifference to ms whether I lived or 1 died, and now I havo hops. Somo parsons in i the world retain their old faith in me. I shall : get well, and, as Evelyn says, I shall live my trouble down.” 1 He had not been so cheerful smeo the first i shadow of tho cloud appeared; and from the ; depths of her heart Kato Lonsdale blessed the I generous girl who had done so muca good. •‘I wish,” she said to herself, “that Felixhad I chosen Evelyn. I should think of his future i with hope if ho were going to marry her.” , For in the depths of Mrs. Lonsdale’s loving heart there lurked some little fear of beautiful ; Violet Have. i So the Winter passed. Mr. Lonsdale rocov : ersd his health but slowly; the spring of bis life seemed broken—ho found living his trouble down moro difficult than he had anticipated. i He had withdrawn himself from 411 positions of 1 trust; be gave up his office as churchwarden, he : would no longer be overseer. “If they could believe that of me,” he said, 1 “I will hold no trust among them.” i And he did not. What busineis was brought : to his office he did, but he no longer mixed with f his fellow-men. Ho bad taken a loading part in all the business of the town; now he was ab -1 sent from all the meetings, and there was a r sense of remorse among his old friends—a slight 1 feeling that perhaps after all they had misjudged i him. Still he found life hard. There were times when the brave heart would have given 1 way but for the remembrance that the few near -1 est and dearest to him had trusted him. f Felixhad had his difficulties; he oal hasten r ed to the Limes as soon as possible after the re f ceipt of his letter. Francis Haye received him > coolly. i “ I do not wish,” he said, “to part you from ■ Violet—l do not say that the engagement must • bo broken off; but Ido say that the marriage 3 must not take place until you are in a better position to support a wife.” 1 There was nothing for it but for Felix to sub , mit; he had to trample down the wild longing, t the passionate love—and his sorrow educated 1 bim. He learned patience, perseverance, en i durance and self-control. Tho trial would have ” been easier to bear had he found that Violet 1 was distressed about it. He looked in vain for - some trace of sorrow on the lovely laughing > face—for some sign of regret; there was none. 3 She had written a very pretty note of condo lence to Darcy Lonsdale, and when Felix talked - to her she shook her golden head and said it t was very sad ; but, when he went to her with r his heart full of passionate love, passionate s longing and regret, and spoke about their mar -3 nage being deierred, she looked very gravely . at bim and said — t “It cannot be helped, Felix ; and after all -1 what does it matter ? What difference will g, few io years make? Bv not marrying now, we both ea rn cape the misery of living on limited means.” is But he was half mad with his misery, and was not to be put off with such words. He tools r, i her white hands in his, and held them in an is iron grasp. e ‘’Have you no pity to extend to me?” he is cried. “Hava you no word to comfort me? 10 Have you no heart ? That which is a relief to ;e you is deadly torment, deadly anguish, to mo. .a Oh, Violet, you would have been a truer woman y if you had clasped your arms around my neck, e if you bad laid your face on my shoulder and >r consoled me!” a The ring of passion in his voice frightened ,3 ber, 03 it always did ; she shrank with a scared face from the great love she could not under stand. a “I have to work and wait,” he said. “Oh, n my beautiful love, I would work for you as no e man has worked, if need should be! It is not that, but I had built up my hopes, and it is hard to see them all destroyed. I had bslieved 's that this year I should take my darling home to begin the life that would be joy for me. I s am young, and feel keenly ; it is a terrible dis •t appointment to me—a terrible blow. Ob, Vio let, help me to bear it! ” 0 She raised her beautiful, half-frightened face r to his. “ What can I do to help you ?” she said; “Kiss me.- I will not have a shy, coy, formal a kiss, Violet. Kiss me as though your heart an ‘, swered to mine. Say you are sorry for me, and that you wiil love me and help mo to wait. Say 9 ail this—my heart is hungry for it.” - She did as he wished. She laid her golden f heed on his breast and whispered to him that r she was sorry for him, and then she raised her r fair face and kissed him. In that moment be r welcomed sorrow, ho welcomed pain—it was all changed into untold bliss for him because it 9 won a little kindness from her. 0 “I shall bear it all now, my darling,” ho said. 1 “The waiting, tho suspense, the uncertainty, r the disgrace—l shall bear it all. I shall iemem- - ber these moments, and I shall bless the pain 1 that brought me this happiness.” A few moments afterward she looked up and gave a little low laugh. J “How strange it is!” she said. “After all, yon know I never quite promised.” Felix smiled. He was too happy just thou f to think seriously of her words. 9 “ I have given you tho greatest love, Violet, - that a man can give a woman. You will not give me ashes in return. I have n > fear—for ■ my heart rests on you. The only thing that I 1 deplore is that months must pass yet before I ? can call my darling my own ; yet 1 shall wait 3 and work in hope. All things come to him who J knows how to wait; and you will come, my beau tiful love, in time.” There was something pathetic in his deep a love and his great trust. 3 Ho left her that evening feeling happier than 3 he had felt for some time. Violet loved him. 3 She bad never been so kind to him before. He forgot that he had asked her for the kindness — I it had not been spontaneous. < .There is a silver lining to every cloud,” he J thought, as he walked home. “Bit for this trouble I should never have known how Violet l loved me. She was so shy and reserved before, now she is kind and gracious. Sorrow has been 5 my sun—it has brightened my love. 3 Felix kept his word. He worked hard and de nied himself much that makes h e bright, but the labor was one of love. Ho could not 1 see Violot so often as he had seen her—his days were entirely devoted to business—b it he want to tho Limes in the evening. On the part of i Franjis Haye there was a sort or armed nen- L trality. He watched the young lovers, he took care that they should not enjoy many but be did not take any activeproce.eiiejgs. H<j ’ was a wprdly man, and after all Felix Lonsdale 7 might accogipiish something out in ths world. The chances were, all things consid *red, in his • favor.. Felix had his c tho shape oi? ‘itdc love-lectors, inclosing violets, forget- ■> me-ndts, pretty leaves, or some rare -’o ver -let ters that m after years were like atrr/ns of half forgotten music to him. They were very simple 3 letters, but they were far more dear and pre cious to him than if they had contained gems of poetry and wonders of prose. The arrival of [ one of thorn brightened his whole day. How he , read and re-read it, pondering each word in his ; mind, to see how much it conveyed, and then locking the letter away at night with his treas ures. In what words of rapture h.i answered - Violet’s notes—for he had but one lova, Violet; • ono hope, which was to win Violet; one faith, i .which was centered in Violet. 1 So Winter wore away, and ge nd, lovely > Spring, heralded by snowdrops an I crocuses, came to gladden the hearts and souls of men. ) _—. ‘ CHAPTER IX. r “the great man of the county.” “ Sir Owen Chevenix.” Tho inhabitants of Lilford uttered the name with awe a id respect. 1 Those who had never seen Sir Ow n made a point ot talking about him; while those who . bad not only seen him, but talked to aim, were elevated almost to another sphere. Sir Owen was ' a man of note. He was that much-to be-envied person, a millionaire, and he had just purchased the finest estate in Loomshire. It was called Garswood Hall, and lay between Lilford and the 3 town of Old stone. < There had been great excitement about this ; property. It had belonged to Lord Garswood. who was chiefly famous for his great love of r travel. It was seldom that he spent two years together in England; and now that he had re- • solved upon living entirely in the East, Gars wood Hall, with the "grand estate belonging to ; it, came into the market, and the fortunate pur , chaser was Sir Owen Chevamx. i Sir Owen bad arrived in great state at Gars wood. Servants, carriages, horses, grandeur of 1 all kinds, had preceded him. Every one was 1 talking of him. The number of horses in his stables and of servants in his household, the r marvels of gold and silver plate at tae Hall, the wonders in the shape of magnificent furniture— i these things formed the staple of conversation 3 in every house in Lilford. Then came the drowning intelligence, he was not married— -3 this millionnaire on whom Fortuno had lavished her gifts; and the excitement rose to a great ? bight when this became known. Maids and 3 matrons took the greatest interest in him, the . grandees of the county waited upon him, fash f ionable mothers offered him advice about his 3 household, about the parties he intended giving, > and about the people he must invite, while the • squires were much interested m his stable and pack ot hounds. The younger ladies wondered r what he would be like, and which among them l would bo the happy one chosen as queen of l Garswood. 1 •He must marry; that was very certain—he could not live alone at such a place as Gara- 1 wood. The matrons looked mysteriously at each other, and said that it was to ba hoped - he would settle soon ; it wag so much bettor -for a mao to marry young. Sir Owen himself f made inquiries about the fairer portion of the population. 1 “ Havo you any pretty girls in this part of t the world?” be asked, one day, of Ciptain Hill, the sporting man par excellence of the neighbor l hood. L “I believe so.” he replied; “I have heard ■ people say so. It ia not mmy line, you under stand.” “Exactly. Well, it is in mine—and a very L pleasant line I find it. The only thing I i dreaded in coming hither was, that I should • find nothing but rustic beauty of tha milkmaid t sort. I have a decided distaste for it; and the • fact of the matter is, I am looking out for a beautiful wife.” r “It is a very sensible thing to do,” said Gap i tain Hill. i “It is all very well,” continued Sir Owen, I “ for philosophers to say there is nothing in . beauty. That is all a mistake; every woman » ought to be beautiful. I will go so far as this— J I would rather marry a woman with great beauty . and a thousand faults than a plain woman with 1 the virtues of an angel. I like something pleas- J ant to look at.” t And these ideas of the millionnaire were soon known throughout the neighborhood. Beauty 7 was at a premium ; the plain faces gave up the - contest. : Sir Owen Chevenix very soon became the groat i man of the county. He did not like Oldstono, i but ho did like Lilford ; he had little patience with the gentry, but he liked the sporting squires. He was so lavish in his orders, so ex t travagant in his expenditure, that tho trades -3 men of Lilford looked upon him as an especial ) gift of Providence, while his coming seemed to have given frosh life to tho county. 1 When tho month of blossoms came round, Sir 3 Owen was quite settled at Garswood. He had won golden opinions by not going up to town ? for the season. Now that he was a lauded pro -1 -pnetor, ho declared his intention of remaining on his land. Ho bad already attended ono or two meetings 3 of different kinds at Lilford, and he received a an invitation from Doctor Hunter, the Vicar, . to attend tho annual festival ot the school t children, held always in the month of May. At 3 first he had thrown it contemptuously aside. What had he, the sporting Baronet, as he > liked to hear himself called, to do with school children? He sent a check which caused the t good Vicar to open his eyes. Then, someone hav i ing told him that all the elite of the neighbor ly hood attended the/ete, ho went. In a field near tho vicarage the school i children played to thoir hearts’ content : while t in the Vicarage grounds the elite enjoyed them -1 selves in quieter fashion. Tno military band 3 from Oldstone was there, pretty white tents i were erected, there were croquet and lawn- - tennis, quadrilles for those wbolikod dancing, and archarv tor those who enjoyed shooting. - Sir Owen Chevenix, having heard that all tho - pretty girls in the neighborhood would be there, i decided on going himself. No one but Doctor and Mrs. Hunter knew of his intention, and i they had kept it a secret, intending to surprise t their guests. As a matter of course, beautiful e Violet Hayo was to be there. Evelyn Lester • had been invited, and the Vicar had discussed with his wife the advisability of sending an • invitation to Felix Lonsdale. « > “ There is a black mark against the whole 1 family,” said the Vicar, who forgot at times - that his Gospel was the Gospel of Peace, and 3 thought more of justice than of mercy. “1 do t not say that Darcy Lonsdale was guilty of that r which was laid to his charge, but there is a ? mark against him.” • “ Against the father, David, but not the son,” - corrected his wife. i “ You might as well try to distinguish be t tween husband and wife as between father and i son,” rejoined the Vicar. 0 “ There is another thing,” said tho diplo- - matio lady ; “we must ask Violet Haye. She 7 is, in truth, the greatest attraction we shall have to offer, and, as they are lovlW Ido not 11 quite see how they can be parted on such an y occasion” “ I shall do it against my wiil,” remarked the Vicar. I “ Well, that is far better than nob doing it at : all,” replied Mrs. Hunter. “It will be a kind l of test; if we see that people seem shv of Felix Lonsdale, we must not ask him again.” i So Felix received an invitation. If he had ' 1 known how and why it was given to him, ho > would have placed it under bis heel and have gone twenty miles in an opposite direction ; as it was, it gave him unbounded pleasure. Ho was to meet Violet; he would spend a whole : half-day with her ; he would see her beautiful and admired, yet with the proud conscious ness cbat she was his—all bis—his promised wife; and when ho reached that point in his . reflections he remembered bow she had raised her face to his with the laughing word% “ I have not quit© promised.” Still that meant nothing; there was no truth so sure as Violet’s. , The prospect of that ono day to bo spent with her delighted him. He sat up the greater part of the night, so that by his unusual holiday business mignt not suffer. It seemed to him that the tirna would never como when he would meet Violet. Nor had beautiful Violet Haye been unmind ful of the coming fete.. Her father had looked grave over the milliner’s bill when it was given to him; but Violet bad determined on being queen of the/ete. Mrs. Brown son, Mrs. Bauld ers, and Miss Stanley would certainly be there, perhaps even Lady Balfe, and she must be di eased suitably to moet those potentates. A beautiful costume of white muslin, rich lace, and blue ribbons was provided, with a wonder ful little bat that seemed to De made of feathers; and Violet decided that sho had never looked so well before. She pictured to herse’f an easy sovereignty. Eve Lester was the only one she feared ; but then Eve was never given to dress and flirtation. The mouth of May had never set in more beautifully. The world was all thrilling with new life, the green leaves were springing on the trees, the hedges pink and white with hawthorn, the violets nestling in the fields, the primroses growing in great golden clusters at me foot or • the trees; the air was fragrant with tbe odor of a thousand sweet flowers, all nature glad and bright. To be in the midst of all this beauty, and with Violet, was something for Fe lix to dream of. Lovely laughing May had given hor fairest hours for the fete ; every one was fail of con gratulations—the sunshine, the music, every thing was so beautiful. Felix saw nothing but the bright face of his love. They walked over the smooth green lawns together; and then Violet, turning suddenly to her lover, said: “Have you heard all the wonderful stories about tbe new-comer, Sir Owen Cnevonix ?” “I find but little time for gossip,” he replied ; “still 1 have heard that ho is wealthy, and liKes to spend his money freely.” Violet’s face had quite a light upon it as she continued : “People say that his plate is superb. Felix, I should like to eat my dinner off a goidon plate.” “It would be no better for that, Violet,” he replied, longing with all his heart to be able to make her such a present. “You know the say ing about the dish of herbs ?” “Yes, I know it, but I do not believe in it. How wonderful it must be, Felix, to live in such a grand house, to havo so much money and so many luxuries !” “ I know something that I would r ither have than all Sir Owen’s luxuries,” said Fe.ix. “ What is it ?” she asked, eagerly. “Your love, Violet.” And she know that he meant what ho said. <Tj b? c’ja ia Liln SAvrnSi BY W. T. One glorious evening toward the end of Sum mer, Leonard Wellborn was returnin < to Kings wobd House, the horns of his ancc.- tors, a.ter twenty years’ absence, sinco that, da.- when, in the full tide of youthful passion, he nad at tbe age of eighteen been rejected by Lucy Warner at the command of her father, who had forced her to marry bis rival, Howard Vere. Twenty years! And Kingswood had grown into a glorious demesns, with parks, and lawns, and terraces, and fountains, and vistas ; and as his carriage rolled almost noiselessly over the weil-kept road from the village station to his place, Leonard thought he never, in ail his wan derings abroad, had seen so grand a scene as stretched for miles along the road, its wide tree-branchos waving in the sunlight, its glimpsas of cool, shady spots, and glimmering water, being like bits of scenic poetry. It seemed almost impossible for him to rea lize he was at home again, and to dispel the il lusion that could hardly seem actual, he leaned back against tho leather-covered cushions to read again the last letter ho had received from Kingswood—a letter from his sister Honora, who was chatelaine and general supervisor—a letter that, upon its first reading, had startled him out ot the stern composure tho years had taught him—that agitated him as he thought that nothing again could do, as nothing bad done since Lucy Warner ha<s ceased to be for him. At first Nora’s letter dazed him, bewildered him, startled and. cruelly unnerved turn. Than, a week later, he had telegraphed the one word “Yes” to Kingswood. And now a fortnight later he was at the very gates of K rigs wood, and reading for tbe dozenth time his sister’s letter, in which she told him of M/s. Vere’s death in her native village, and bow, since her husband’s bad died and her parent 3 were so old and feeble, there was no one ia all the world to wnom she could entrust uer one child, her darhng, her idol, but him and his sister Nora, asking him if ho would accede to Mrs. Vere’s dying request, and, if so, to notify her by telegram. And after several days’ deliberation he had telegraphed “Yes”—“yes,” that he would take Lucy Vere’s child, the daughter tnat should have been his daughter, because sb : was Lu cy’s; “yes,” that he would be Lu y’s child’s best friend—her counsellor, protector. Then ho had conceived the notio 1 of going home himself to see this girl who was hence forth to be his especial caargo—this girl of whom he knew not a word, except th it she was named Violet Vere. Of her appear moe, her age, her manner, her impression on ills sister Nora, not a word had been said. So the carriage went bowling rapidly,smooth ly, along the drive to Kingswood, bearing Leonard Wellborn to his fate. For it was as sured from the very moment his surprised, ad miring eyes lighted on the fair, slender girl who stood x at ?4iss Nora’s side—such an angel facad girlf with not the least resemoiance to her mother or hor father; a dain;/-limned, clear-eyed girl, with scarlet lips that dimpled into a sweet smile of shy welcome as he took her baud when Miss Nora presented her, after her own quietly-rapturons greeting. So that was Violot—“Violet 1” And this man, who nad bowed ovor the fair hands ot England’s titled beauties, bad looked into tho sparkling eyes of Spanish aid Italian women, and exchanged gay jest with piquant Parisians, with never an increased qu ver at bis heart, came home to lay down his heart in un conditional surrender at Violet Vere’s feat— came home to experience such passionate love that almost torritied him with its power over him, and that, as the days went by, changed to shuddering fear, because he saw that there was no hint of reciprocity in tho clear, lovely eyes that never shrank from his own, in the pure taco that never blushed beneath his glances. “Taen, as if ia these mature days of his he was fated to experience ail possible phases of the grand passion, Rex Longdale came on the scene, and, after that, the sunshine lost its brightness, Kingswoood its beauty; tor eyes not sharpened by such love and jealousy as Leonard Wellborn’s easily read tho story of Vioiet Vere’s heart in those blithe Summer days. He was a handsome young fellow, this Rex, with a gay, dashing way about him that was pe culiarly fascinating to Violet’s morj reserved temperament; and many was the time that Leonard watched the two togetner with un speakable bitterness of soul, as he wondered how, in tbe name of all that was sensible, he ever could have been fool enough to imagine Violet could care for him—quiet, grave, middle aged—him, who would have laid down his life to make ber happy, but who could nut stand by and see another ono winning tbe love that ha so wanted to brighten his own lonely life. If only he could have known sometning ill of this man who camo every day a-wooing I If only anything would happen to change her sweet opinion of him ! And then he hated himself anew tor his jealous meanness, little dreaming that the distrust and detestation he felt for his favored rival was. not the outspringmg of jeal ous meanness, but the natural though intangi ble impression that was given from a nature that was really not worthy his nor Violet’s re gard. Because Rex Longdale was a rascal, because ho was an adventurer, and had skillfully and deliberately made his plans to secure Violet Vere and the dower he and every one knew would go with her from Leonard Wellborn’s bounty. The Knowledge came to Leonard Wellborn suddenly—knowledge that he hardly knew, while he learned it, yielded him more of pain when he thought of Violet, or mad delight when he thought of himself. At first, when the pale-faced, sad-eyed wo man who had come timidly to Kingswood, and told him Bex Longdale was her husband—that be had deserted her more than once to carry on his nefarious plans, but that she had so far frustrated him—wnen that piteous-facsd, pite ous-voiced woman went away, Leonard could barely restrain himself from rushing to Violet —Violet, who at the very moment was singing low, sweet snatches of music in the upper room, from whence her voico came floating purely down, so fresh, so glad, so free in its girlish happiness—and telling her of her lover’s in famy. But somehow his great heart felt such tender pity for her that he thought to leave her to her happiness a little longer, until Two hours later he would have forfeited his life not to have been so merciful, for there came to him at dinner, that was served just at the dusk, a pencilled note, full ot strangely min gled repentance, delight, and resolve—a note from Violet, that told him she had consented to the romance of an elopement with Rex Long dale ; that her dear, good friend must not be angry, but forgive them, when they returned; that she knew it was wrong, but she could not refuse her beloved; that when she came back Rjx’s proud, happy wife, he would see how she . would make him forgive her. Leonard Wellborn sprang from his Chair, jritU »face lite® a wu, ( “Oh. Father of Mercy! have pity on her! Save her—save her !” And two .dilutes later he was on his horse, galloping in Irantic speed to the nearest sta tion, to find that Rex Longdale and Violet had i left in the train an hour before—that already ' they were beyond his reach, beyond help, if so be that the telegram ho sent speeding after them was too late to detain them. That was a half-hour or bitterest agony to the man, as he paced to and fro on the deserted station platform, waiting in mad impatience for the answer to his dispatch—waiting for the next down train to take him—he hardly rea soned where, or for what. Then the telegraph operator gave a sudden, excited shout to him, as ho passed the window in his restless prom* nade. “The 4:30 is off the track, just a mile this side of the city—down an embankment—pas sengers killed and hurt I We’ll send a special engine with you, Mr. Welloorn, if you want to go.” Killed ! And a sudden, ghastly picture of his darling lying wnite and dead sent great quivers of anguish all over him. “But better so—better so, if it must be I” Two hours later, bo was searching carefully, hcart-sickeningiy, amid that awful harvest field of death, to find Violet—not dead, not hurt, but sitting, dazed and faint, a little off Irom t-ne terrible scone, looking on the handsome, still face of Bex Longdale lying on the green grass, with a haunting faced, trembling woman kneel ing besido him—a woman with clasped hands and pale face, full of tho despair of life. Leonard snatched the girl madly in his arms, • and she nestled there, with a little moaning cry—then pointed to the handsome do d face under the blue sky, and the woman beside it. And a great cry of thanksgiving went up from him : “ Violet—nay poor little girl!—it moans sal vation for you 1 That is his wife besido him ! Poor little Violet!” And in after days ho gently, patiently won her—this scarlet-lippod, gray-eyed girl, who knew that she never had loved truly that other, with bis plausible words, who knew that to Heaven’s mercy she owed her salvation, and her promise of future happiness as Leonard Wellborn’s wife. HUMOR OF ThFTo UR. BY THE DETROIT FREE PRESS FI 3 ND. AN EXHIBITOR. An individual who was seeking to pass into the fair grounds without the formality of hand ing out a ticket, was ordered to provide himself with one, when he explained: “Why, I’m an exhibitor.” “What are you exhioiting ?” inquired the of ficial. “ I’m exhibiting this ’ere ruined suit of clothes, which cost me thirty dollars, a rib frac tured in a rush to get a street car, a wallet here without a cent m it, skinned ankles and knees, and about four hundred spots where I’ve been stepped on by the crowd.” “Can’t pass in on tnat—get your ticket,” cried the official. “Hain’t that enough?” “No, sir.” “Then I’ll exhibit a little common sense, and go home,” continued the man, and be fell bac'; and headed for the c ffy. HOW IT WORKED. A couple of young mo a who entered the fair grounds together, Tuesday noon, were in want of a meal, and the one who had his hat slanted over the most said: 1 “Now, you wait right here till Igo round a litt'e and s?o what I van see. 1 want to find an eating stand where the feller is near-sighted, and than we’ll have dinner.” “What if ho is near-sighted?” asked the other. “ Why, then we’ll get some twenty-cent pieces off on him for quarters. You never traveled, William; you’d let folks beat you out of your boots.” The cute one disappeared, and when he re turned at the end of half an hour bis hat wasn’t slanted over half as much, and his face wore a cheap look. “Well, did you find a near-sighted man?” asked William. “ Yes.” “And* did it work ?” “Worked too blamed well! I handed him a half dollar to change and ho swore it was only a quarter, and beat me out of two shillings 1” SCRAPS OF STATE FAIR HISTORY. The following expressive sentences were picked up on the State Fair grounds during tho Week by our special reporters, and are now given in a Jump for the benefit of the now board of officers: “ Why doesn’t some one kill the manager of this ’ere thing ?” “Why diduff the fools provide more gates ?” “Why didn’t they have a turn tab.e for fat folks to turn around on ?” “Whoever saw such a miserable race track ? It isn’t fit to drive a<cow on !” “Did the men .who manage this thing ever hear of street-sprinklers?” “No! blast ’em—they never heard of any thing but hogs I” “That grand stand business is a dead swin dle on the people! The crowd ought to tear it down!” “When’s that race coming off? Here it is two hours behind the time published! Where in blazes are them Judges ?” “Git off’n my dress, I say! I thought all the swine were in the pens out there.” “Stop this pushing and jamming or I’ll mur der some one! Nice old hen-coop this is for a crowd I” “ Pickpockets! Police ! Let me out! Lot me/in! Cuss such a race track! Blast this board of officers 1 Somebody kill that big loafer over therel” THE HUMORS OF MARRIAGE. SOME OF THE PECUEIARITIES OE MARRIAGE LN ENGLAND. (From All Hie Year Hound.) Considering tbe frequency with which it is studied, it is rather strange that the marriage service should bo. of alt tha services ot the Church of England, the one least understood by the people. A certain rector on entering bis vostiy one Sunday morning, was thus addressed by his clerk : “It you please, sir, that man as was pub lished last Sunday don’t want to bo put up no more.” “ You mean the soldier, whose banns have been published once; but why not ?’’ “ Weil, sir, the colonel’s lady says he’s not to be mimed; so I suppose,” he added, drily, “she’s the colonel.” “ But what does the man say ?” "Weil, sir, he didn’t say no ditfarent.” When service was over, the lady in question came into tue vestry to explain. “Oiil Mr. F., I’m so glad you left off pub lishing that nian’s banns, for he has no business to think ot marrying.” “Indeed, and why not?” “Why, because he has not enough to keep a wife upon; and, besides, what do you think he said to ma ? I sent for him as soon as ever I heard what ha was about, and I said to him, ‘ What can you ba thinking of ? What have you got to keep a wife on ?’ ‘Nothing, ma’am,’ be said; ‘Then how on earth could you go and ask that woman to marry you?’ ‘Oh! ma’am,’ he answered, with an air of injured iunoceuce, ‘1 didn’t do that ; she asked mo.’ ” One would have supposed that this man’s prospects of matrimony were at an end ; but not so, for scarce a month had elapsed when the olers appeared with— “lf yon please, sir, that man what Mrs. M. stopped wants to be put up again.” “Oh! oh! then the woman has been too much for him, after all.” “at’s not the same woman, sir.” And the worst of it was there was no Mrs. M. to interfere this time, for she was away ; how ever, rate was still unpropitious to the would-be bridegroom, for scarcely bad his name been entered in the book, when the clerk came hur .rying in. "Have you put that man’s name down, sir?” “Yes, just this moment.” “ Ah 1 ” in an accent of regret, “he don’t want to be put up now I” “ Wliy not 'I ’ “The woman won’t ’aye him.” This was his last appearance. Probably the double misfortune ol losing both the woman that had asked him, and the one he had asked, was too much for him, for be never applied again. There are some women, taough, who are so resolved to marry that they are quite sure to catch some one, if not the one they at first intended; witness the following story re lated by a clergymen to whom it happened: He had married a woman of uncertain age to a young soldier from the adjacent garrison, and after entering their names in the register, asked the man whether he wished tor a mar riage certificate, whereupon the bride thrust herself forward and said, "Yes, I shall require a certificate,” evidently regarding it as a sort oi conveyance to her ot the man she had succeed ed in obtaining. Armed with this title-deed, she marcbed off with her property, and then the clerk threw this additional light on her conduct. “She meant to be married, sir,” he said, “she did. Why, when she came to mo to ar range for its being to-day, I toid her there was no time unless she got a license, and that would be expensive, ‘i don’t care,’ she says, ‘what it costs me; I will be married tills time. Why,’ she says, ‘l’ve missed twice alore. The first time I had the banns put up and all, and then found the man had a wife already 1 Tnen I was out-asked with another, and fixed the day, and came to church with my friends, and he never came. So this time I won’t be disap pointed.’ ” Perseverance certainly does wonders; but the curious part of the affair was that the bride, going next day into the barracks square, and being asked to pick her husband out of some dozen or so of soldiers of the same regiment, didn’t know him. WAKING UP THE BABY. BY M. QUAD. Just at dusk, the other dismal day, three children, the oldest of whom did not seem over ten years old, were huddled together on the rickety steps of an old honse on Beau bien street. A pedestrian peeped over their heads to read the npmber on the door, and the children looked go foigWnefl that he asked < “Children, where are your fashar and mo tn er ? “father’s been gone way off for ever so long, and mother goes o.it to wash and hasn’t got homo yet,” answered the oldest, a girl. “And you are all alone?” “Yes, sir, but baby is in on the bed. He’s been asleep an awful long time, and we can! wake him up. If wo could we’d play hide and seek and let him find us.” “Is the baby sick ?” inquired the man. “We don’t know, sir, but we can’t wake him tip; I touched him and touched him, and Char ley lie tickled his feet, but little Sandy never moved once. I guess bo is awful sloopv. Don’t you think you could wake him up ?” '" “I’ll try,” replied the man, as he went in, and when the girl had lighted tho lamp h» followed her mto a bedroom in which there was neither carpet nor furniture. Pushed back against the broken wall was a poor old straw tick and a sin gle quilt. Ho bent over to look at the child, and tho first glance showed him that little sandy was dead. On ilia window-sill wore some pieces of bread and a cud of milk, with which the children intended to feed him. The dead child's band clasped a rag doll made of an old calico apron, and its thin little feet and pale face were evidences that it had known sickness .nd hunger throughout its brief life. While the cbd.irea waited for him to open his eyos and romp with them, and drive the gloom out of the bouse, the angels hid whispered to him, and his eyes had unclosed to behold the splen dors of Heaven. “W m’t he wake up?” asked one of the chil dren, standing back in the shadow. “Children, you must not come in here until your mother comes !” ho said, as no left the room. “ Won’t he be afraid to wake up in tho dark?” they asked. “Ho will sleep a long time yet 1” be whis pered. not daring to toll them the truth, and as he went out they put tho light in on tho bed room floor, that little Sandy might not find the darkness around h.m when his sleep had ended. Poor things 1 They know not and they could not see tho crown of glory on tho dead child’s brow—a crown whose light all the shadows of earth can nover darken in the least. MERRY TRIFLES. FUN, WIT AND VISDOM DEFTLY LINKED, (From the Burlington ffuwtz-rrje.) Wo have our eye on the “coming man” of 1879. And wo know what he will come for. The dog tax. Tire envy of the masculine side of the Sunday School at this season of the year is the boy whoso hands show up the blackest with walnut jmce. There is only ono thing that is more wearing and annoying and depressing to a man than having to wait for a train, and ta.it is, when the train don’t wait for him. Hie surviving officers of the Mexican war now resident in Philadelphia have organ ized an Aztec club. Good. Hit Dennis Kear u-.y with tho nastiest end of it. The religious papers of England are discussing the momentous question, “Ought clergymen to wear uristjiclws?” We think7as cold weather comes on, they shod Id, and on flays, of extreme severity they might add a pair of trowsers and a thick vest. . lhere has been tans far comparatively little shooting at Princeton College this term; but two faro banks have been established in tha theological department, and tha layout for the new bar in connection witn the dog-pit is said to be the nobbiest l ung in all the educational institutions of tho United States. We have often wondered why the god Pau always wore the legs of a goat when he was in full dress, but we suppose that it was so that ho could stand on his bead an 1 thus thoroughly disguise himself when a neighbor with a shot gun came down the block, looking for tho man who was playing the flute. “ What a piece of work is mm ! How noble in reason ! How infinite in faculties 1 In form and moving, how expressive and admira ble 1 In action, bow like an angel ! In appre hension, how like a Go! 1” And yet, somehow or other, he never looks that when ho is backed up to a peanut-stand taking in a tail-pockat cargo of peanuts. The acting assistant-doorkeeper of the United States Senate says he knows the very desks and chairs that ware used by Webster, Clay, Calhoun, and other eminent senators, but he won’t point them out for fear the relic-hunt ers would chop them up. Wise old man. It’s singular that nobody ever thought of assum ing that knowledge before. Wo don’t care about seeing the old chairs, anyway. We know where Washington’s little hatchet’is. Eli Per kins has it. They had been engaged about fifteen minutes, and she nestled her head a little closer under the shadow of his monumental shirt col lar, and whispered, “And now what are you going to call mo, Algernon?” “Birdiel” bo whispered, rapturously, while his voice trem bled with tender emotion, “always and ever, nothing but Birdie 1” And she fairly cooed with delight. He kept his word; although, with the growing precision of middle ago, ho has boeoma specific, and does not deal in sweeping gener alities any more, and so it was that day before yesterday a neighbor going m the back way to borrow the ax, a cup of sugar, and the cistern pole, heard him call her an old “sage-hen.” We once knew a man who was always praising his wife. On the corner, down tha street, at the post-office, at the race track, in the skating rink, at the theatre, in the sal that is, at choir meeting, ho was always telling what a happy man lie was, just because ho bail such a splendid wife, and he talked every man he met into a perfect frenzy of envy about her. Well, one Winter morning, when it was not yet too light to make one appear overly ostenta tious, we sneaked into that neighbor’s yard to stoat a fence board for kindling, and had to wait beiore wo could safely obtain it, until that man’s who came out and sawed a couple of armfuls of wood, shoveled out three snow paths, fed and groomed the horse, and cleaned out the cow shed, and when she went into the bouse and wa heard her call to her husband that the sitting room was warm enough for him to dress in if ha wanted to get tip now, we were so amazed that we forgot what wa were waiting for, and went back and kindled the fire with a corn-cob and a pint of kerosene. WHAT IS TUCKING ? AN ANXIOUS INQUIRER AND AN ANGRY EDITOR. (From the Reno, Nev., Gazette.) A botbered-looklng citizen came into tha Gazette office yesterday nfternoon and respect fully asked to be lot look at tae dictionary. He sat down and anxiously thumbed Webster a woile. “ W hat arc you looking for ?” asked a report er, seeing that the stranger had failed to sinks the trail. “Wed,” Baid the men, in a burst of confi dence, “you see I’ve only been married a short time, and my wife’s gone up to Truckee on a visit, and she's written to me to look in the botto u of her trunk for a lot of ‘ tucking ’ and send it to her. Now, what I want to know is, what in blazesis ‘tucaiug?’ It ain’t m the dictionary.” “Tucking?” said the reporter, briskly, “why, tucking is the stuff the girls make by poking a sort ot short turned fish-hook through a holo, and catching tho thread and drawing it back again.” Then the editor spoke up contemptuously and eaid that a man who was so ignorant as that ought to hold his tongue, What tho re porter had described was crocheting. Every body ougnt to know what tucking'was. The ladies in making it used a little contrivance ehap d like a mussel, with thread wound up inside of it. Tucking could be purchased, ho believed, for tea or fifteen cents a yard, and why intehigent girls should waste a whole day in making what they could get for a short bit was more than he could understand. In an swer to a question from tho admiring reporter, the editor said that he had been told that tuck ing was used in trimming tbe under garments of the fair sex, but why things should be orna mented which a fellow would get licked for try ing to loos at—or perhaps shot—was beyond his comprehension. The married stranger said the editor was mistaken. Tnat tho article he mentioned was not tucking—it was tatting. This he knew for a fact. The editor observed that when a man cams to the Gazette office for information, the editor, when he gave it, didn’t like to be told that ho lied. It the stranger wanted to avoid trouble he had better get out and go to the devil. As the editor had grown red in the face and his eyes were blazing, the married stranger cough ed feebly and slunk down stairs. In the meantime, what is “tucking?” The Last Straw. THEY’RE GENEROUS BY THE SAD SEA WAVE. Down ou Nantisket Bsach arrivals by tue Boston boats are taken to the different hotels in long om« nibuses drawn by two uorse?. The late of one, loaded witn nineteen passeuyers, on the Jerusalem Hoad the other day, is thus told by tue Boston Commercial Bulletin; The driver managed to get nearly to the top of a small hill, when tue horses, pausing for breath, were drawn backward by the weight “all in a heap” at its foot. The freight got out, but got in again at the hill top. Their mishaps were not at an end, however, for in going down the other side, the horses couldn’t keep ahead of the “bus” behind them, which ran upon their heels, and ended m throwing one lengthwise astride a stone wail, and making the other a con rused mass of bushes, dirt, harness and quadruped. Our informant, who extricated himself from the entangled mass of humanity inside, refused to ride further, and walked a mile to the boat-landing. While waiting there he was asked by a panting farmer who arrived soon after, “If he was one o’ them that rid in the stage?” Upon answering in toe affirmative, a demand was made by Rusticus of a dollar for damage to his stone wall. This was the last straw. During the performance at a country theatre one night last week, says a theatrical cotem porary, tho house was suddenly plunged into dark ness. The manager rustfed round to the gas-man, and asked frantically, “ Why, where is the gas ?’* “Please, sir.” answerecHhe madw»& “ it has just-* gone qut,”