Waverley Library (Quarto Edition) (no. 104) (1881 11 08)
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The Only Young La Pal l i i A ous ae e i hen « Il a dies’ Library of First-Class Copyright No vels Published! Price, Buk 5 cents cach. Pitta i i rat Sek eve ©e e@ ease eeenaen tees — G Shadows on the SnOW. BY B. L. FARJEON. PART I, HOW THE SHADOWS APPEARED AT WARLEYCOMBE, AND WHAT THEY SAID AND DID. Our story commences in a quiet lane in the garden of Devonshire—in a narrow, quiet lane, where, in the summer, the flowered hedge-rows on either side shut out from view the pretty homesteads in their rear, and where, in the winter, the naked branches threaded the air with snow lines fantastically, and the sharp, thin twigs were whitely lighted up with pearl-drooping eyes of icicle. A quiet, narrow lane, luxuriantly dotted in the spring with violets and forget-me-nots, and in the drowsy summer, when the hum of bees could be faintly heard in the tangled bush of honeysuckle and wild roses, dreamily delicious with fragrant odors. A quiet, narrow lane, at the end of which came suddenly and quaintly into view a shallow reach of a noble river, with a taste of the salt sea on its lips, where the clear waters lay calmly in their rustic shelter, while on its bosom glowed the shadows of its gardened banks. A quiet, narrow lane, : wherein a thousand new graces perpetuall unfolded them- selves, and where Nature made holiday in every season of the year. It was the evening of a sharp, wintry day in December, so near Christmas that the sun threw — f\\\W\} iN a golden mantle on its holly- AAR My N crowned head, and welcomed its ' aN SAK advent with a fiery splendor. VANE ‘tre The elm.that had stood outside — | er Stephen Winkworth’s house for i more Christmases than Stephen Winkworth could remember, blushed crimson sympathetical- ly, and the tips of its branches caught the light of the glowing sun, and there imprisoned it un- til the greyer shadows usurped its place, The light touched the . form of Stephen Winkworth Limself, as he stood at his door, watching the decliinng day, and it lingered lovingly ata window above his head, at which a girl sat motionless, looking out upon the scene. Stephen Winkworth was by no means a pleasant figure in the landscape, and did not show _ in his face any sign of gladness, The happy season which brought joy to so many hearts brought none to his; for in all the three hundred and sixty-five days of the year he held no one in tender remembrance, Bitter, morose, and discontented, he stood on his threshold at war with the world and with himself, ‘‘ Ste- phen the woman-hater,” his V) \ At : REEY, ond Class Mail Rates. “Copyrighted in 1881 by BEADLE AND AD. PUBLISHED WEEKLY BY BEADLE AND ADAMS, 98 WILLIAM ST., N. Y. neighbors called him; they — [ : c | x hy aS i mel PRICE, 5 CENTS built was he, and blessed with good health; fairly well-to-do, also, froma worldly point of view. But with all these advantages, he had never been discovered in.any act of kindness, and not a human being in the world would have felt inclined to say: ‘‘God bless bim!” Only on one occasion throughout the year did he of his own free-will associate with his neighbors, and that was Christmas-eve. And only in one house in all Devonshire would he have been welcomed, and that house was Warleycombe Lodge, the residence of Reuber Harrild. Har- rild and he had been friends in their youthful days; and in one of their boyish confidences had pledged themselves never, if circumstances Moly mitted, to spend Cbristmas apart from each other. That Stephen Wink- worth had not broken his promise came from no active exercise of sentiment; it was more a mechanical than an affectionate offering to a — friendship which now existed but in name. The house of Reuben Har- rild was within view, and Stephen could see the reflection of the dying sun in each pane of glass that shone like a fiery eye uponithe landscape. No softening influence came upon him as he gazed upon this solemn splendor. ith deep-set lines in his face, and with form immovable, he poem like an image carved in stone—stern, impassive, relentless, and un- feeling. é : Toward him approached two persons, with that brisk motion of the body which betokens enjoyment of surrounding and in- ward influences, He was not conscious of their approach, but the girl at the window above saw them the moment they ap- peared around the winding path in the distance, and a look of eager love, of love without hope, of love in which there was pain, flashed into hereyes, With part- ed lips, and a flush on her usual- ly pale face which did not come from the sunset’s glow, she watched their forms grow larger and more distinct as they emerged out of the deeper sha- dows. From the younger of the two came a cheerful greeting to Stephen Winkworth. ‘Good - evening, neighbor. Fine weather for this Christ- mas!” ses The speaker was a good-look- ing man, some five-and-twent years of age, William Fairfiele by name. He was a farmer in the neighborhood of Warley- combe, and although compara- tively a new men in the local- ity, bad been cordially wel- eae ES Ie ———— = — Es —— Snare the society of his fellows. The farm he now owned had been bequeathed to bim by a relative who had stood to him in the po- sition of a parent; and William Fairfield, who, at about that time, was Jooking around for a _ pursuit, bt 4 he might as well try whether the life of a country farmer would suit bim. It threatened at the outset not to suit bim at all; he was na- turally daring, impulsive, and comed upon his own merits into ~ might have added man-hater also, for all the love he bore his Sex. His spiritual inflaence for unkindliness was very strong. t was enough to make one bad tempered to look at the swly wrinkles jn his face, and the peo le, without knowing why felt an inclination to snarl a each other when he was in their company. He was not an un- gainly man, and was still in the prime of life; strong and sturdily pes ae ““ HEAVEN BLESS YOU, MY CHILD,” MURMURED STEPHEN, GAZING FONDLY ; AT HIS DAUGHTER, ambitious; and after a trial ofa few months he had serious thoughts of seeking his fortune elsewhere, when he was thrown into the society of Reuben Har- rild’s daughter, Laura. Be- tween the two an attachment . had sprung up sufficiently strong to bind William Fairfield to Warleycombe had it been in- finitely less attractive than it was, and he was now regard- ed as permanently _ settled
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you certainly could have seen your face in it. ‘“ soe SHADOWS ON THE syow. capon his farm. William was accompanied by a singular- looking individual, scarcely five feet in hight, but with a head so enormous that 1t might properly have belonged to one of the sons of Anak. Attached to so short a body, the - effect produced was nothing lessthan startling. This man was an institution in the neighborhood; had come many years ago from nobody knew where, and had gradually worked himself into the confidence, and gained the love and esteem of every man, woman, and child for twenty miles around, with the single exception of Stephen Wink- worth. It was suspected, from a certain gutteral accentua- tion in his tones—especially noticeable when he was speak- ing rapidly—that he was of German extraction; but noth- ing more was really known of him than that his name was Bax, that he was a doctor, and that he practiced his pro- fession as much for love as for gam. He was not rich, but he always had enough, and he never accepted a fee from those he suspected of not being able to afford it. He was welcomed everywhere, and by everybody. He took an in- terest in everything. Women spoke of him as ‘‘dear Doctor Bax,” and husbands were not jealous to hear ; young men in love pressed him into their confidence ; and young women whispered their little troubles into his ear. He had a kind word and honest advice for all, and never seemed tired of doing good gratuitously: Now, one would have thought that the mere sight of such a man would have been sufficient to induce some sign vf cheerful recognition. Not so thought Stephen Wink- worth ; he evidently regarded the little doetor as an intru- -sidu, and did not care to conceal his feelings in the matter. But as for Doctor Bax, bless your soul ! sour looks had no “more effect wpon him than they have upon the Sphinx, and _ he returned Stephen’s ea recognition with a smile genial - enough to have melted all the ice in cyery water-butt in Devonshire. : **Fine weather, sir!” exclaimed the little doctor, rub- bing his hands ga and sniffing the air with most intense enjoyment. ‘‘ It’s finer than fine weather, sir; it’s glorious weather, glorious! Smell it.” Here he gave another vigorous sniff. ‘Take off your hat, and bow to it;” and, _ taking off his hat, he bared to the fresh air a poll as smooth as a billiard-ball, and as polished as Sper ine weather, sir! By the Lord! if one could live in such weather for fifty years, he would not be a day older at the end, and we doctors would have to move to another planet. It 1s life, sir, life—the true Elixir Vitw! If Old Parr had had such weather as this, he would have lived to a thou- sand. Not a day less, as I am a man and a doctor!” Stephen gazed upon the rhapsodist with cold, contempt- uous eyes. Far different from William Fairfield, who fol- lowed the doctor’s words with sparkling looks, and gay, - assenting gestures. . ““We a in a glorious climate,” proceeded Doctor Bax, _ with thorough enjoyment; ‘‘idiots abuse it, because it is the fashion to abuse it, and idiots will do whatever’s the fash- ion. A glorious climate! Show mea finer. Such a day _as this is perfect and appropriate. Christmas would lose half its charm if it were not for the snow, and the ice, and the life-giving cold air. ‘We breathe m youth in such weather as this.” | “You are a fortunate man, doctor,” said Stephen, with a little cynical laugh. se . - Fortunate! , Yes, I am fortunate,” quickly, and some- what gravely, responded Dr. Bax; ‘‘ but you mean in some hs mrad “No,” replied Stephen, in slow, measured tones, which formed a wonderful contrast to the impetuous utterances of the little doctor, ‘‘I mean in a general way. Fortunate in being able, or pretending to be able, to find so much good in things that are obnoxious to others.” cee t ** Fortunate, for instance,” rejoined Doctor Bax, gently, and with reverence, ‘‘in being able to find ‘tongues in trees, books in the running brooks, sermons in stones, and _ good in everything.’” ¥ —_ on Sled pee Stephen Winkworth disposed of the gentle reproach by 3. scornful motion of his hands. sages ae *‘T find the evening cold, and chilly, and damp; fav- orable only to rheumatism and bronchitis. _I see nothing fine in it.” = “Nothing?” inquired Doctor Bax, with an air of anx- lety. ** Nothing,” Winkworth. - : , ** Well—well,” said the doctor, rubbing his forehead, ‘*that can’t be your fault. It is an unfortunate inheritance not to be able to see good in things; but you were put in possession of it without being consulted, and therefore you are not to blame. The per Meroe point is,” continued the doctor, musingly, ‘‘who7zs to blame? You can’t throw it upon your father or mother, for they could not have known anything about it. We are all born with differently shaped heads; we’are not accountable for that. There is a great, deal in the shape of the head we come into, the world with. You see, if a child was’ born with two tongues, he could not help speaking double, could he? Rather ‘a comical idea, that. Ha—ha—ha!” Although the doctor laughed heartily at the notion, and was as heartily joined by William Fair eld, Stephen Wink- worth did not appear to see the comicality of the idea. ** You call yourself a philosopher, [should not wonder,” | he said, disdainfully. : “If philosophy means contentment with things as they are,” said Doctor Bax, rubbing his forehead again, ‘‘ then I say, yes, I am a philosopher.” ‘*From which I gather,” said Stephen, slowly, dwelling / on his words, ‘‘ that you have never experienced a heart shock that turned your blood from its natural currents, and diseased 1t. You are a happy man, contented with yourself and with the world.” ‘‘T am happy,” returned Doctor Bax, with humbleness, ‘and contented with the world; but I have seen misfor- tune, and I thank God for it.” “«‘ That is your cant,” sneered Stephen, ‘and of a piece with other human hypocrisies. You thank God for mis- fortune, and take credit to yourself for pretended humble- ness. You bless. outwardly what I curse outwardly and inwardly. It is wise in you—for the world smiles on you, while it turns its back even upon my shadow.” “<That is the view you take of it,” said Dector Bax, fly- ing to his new philosophy for consolation. ‘‘It is not your fault—it springs from your unfortunate inheritance, and I pity you for it.” ‘* Bestow your pity where it is more welcome. Look you, Doctor Bax—who is the braver, the more honest and genuine, of we two? You, who cringe beneath misfortune, and thank God for it; or I, who rebel against it, and curse it? AsIdo, as I shall, until I die! And so the world may go and hang itself, for all the love 1 bear it; and I might go and hang myself, for all the love it bears me! _— my philosophy. ‘A tougher one than yours, you'll — admit.’ | *‘A tough one indeed,” said the doctor, shaking his head | sadly; -** but I lay no blame to you for thinking thus, and I take no credit to myself for being different. That I am the happier of the two——” | . ** Of a piece with the rest!” interrupted Stephen, with a contemptuous laugh. ‘* It would be giving the lie to your professions if you failed to remind me that you oceupy the sunny side of the read.” . ** No—no!” eried the doctor, remorsefully, catching the subtle taunt conveyed in the reproach. ‘I had no such meaning in my mind, believe me. What 1 meant to ex-. a sympathy for you; but I am the veriest bungler! ot that I give you right either; you are as wrong as a wrong-headed man can possibly be. Here is our young - friend *—indicating William Fairfield—‘ engaged to be married to the sweetest girl in Devonshire——” ty. . was the positive asseveration of Stephen Ae } Stephen Winkworth interrupted him again. ‘* The sweetest, because she has a fair face.”
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‘+ « anra,”” ’ ! _—— — ‘‘The sweetest,” said Doctor Bax, warmly, ‘because she is good and pure. Suppose Wilham Fairfield thought as you do! <A pretty kettle of fish that would be! And nice ideas yours are to carry about with one at Christmas- time! I declare seriously, [ am sorry for you.” “*Tt is true, then, that you are going to marry Reuben Harrild’s daughter,” said Stephen, turning to the young farmer. ‘‘ You love her frantically, of coursé?” ‘I love her as she deserves to be loved,” was the simple reply. CeTicked by her pretty face!” sneered Stephen. ‘ Take eare that your doll does not deceive you! Watch her; never let her out of your sight! But be as wary as you may, she is no true woman if she does not play you false.” “Do not answer him, William,” said the doctor, check- ing the hot reply that rose to the young man’s lips. ‘‘ He does not know what he is saying; he, of all others, should not doubt the purity of woman’s love.” ‘*Love!” exclaimed. Stephen, with sudden passion; ‘‘a fiction! asham! adelusion! It is bought and sold. Be- eve in it, trust in it, center all the earnestness of your soul on it; and wake up one day from your dream, and see your idol defaced, dishonored, lying at your feet!” **No—no,” said Doctor Bax, earnestly. ‘* He does not mean it, William. Do not believe that he means it. He - knows that it is no delusion—he knows that it is all good and holy. Why, William, think of his daughter—” “Hush, man, for God’s sake! Do not let her hear you!” As Stephen, thus imploring, cast a frightened glance at _ the window above, the white face of the girl disappeared. Neither he nor his companions had been conscious of its presence there. ‘“‘ Dear—dear!” said Doctor Bax, as ne and William walked away; ‘‘ what an unfortunate inheritance has fal- Jen to that man’s lot! Come, Will, let us have a race to the house. Whoever gets there first has first kiss trom Off they set, running as fast as their legs could carry them, towards Warleycombe Lodge, where they arrived in a state of langhing breathlessness. Meanwhile, Stephen Winkworth, with the same bitter . feelings at his heart, stood watching their departing forms, without a thought in unison with the sacred peacefulness of the evening. The shadows deepened, and the reflection from the dying sun’s couch of fire grew darker and darker every moment; and as the night stole on, Stephen’s mood kept pace with its increasing sombreness. But a wave of gentler feeling passed over his face at the sound of a low, plaintive voice from the house. “« Father!” . ‘* My child,” said Stephen, in a tone so arene soft and sweet that it was hard to believe it proceeded from the ~man who had within the last few minutes conversed with such harshness. He turned to go in, but to his side had crept a figure so | wan, so pitiful, that unaccustomed eyes looking upon it for the first time would have filled with grief at the un- happy sight. A girl, dwarfed and misshapen, with a face on which a { . poignant grief had so firmly set its seal that an expression _. of gladness upon it seemed almost an impossibility. A rir] scarcely eighteen years of age, humpbacked and de- formed: and with little of the grace of youth about her to denote that she was in the springtime of life. One mark of comeliness was hers—her hair, which was soft and gold- -en—but as it lay against her ghastly skin, it seemed to - mock her with its beauty. As the man looked down upon her crippled form, a shudder of remorse passed through him, and he stooped to press his cheek to hers caressingly. “Well, my lass,” he cried, with an attempt at light- ~ heartedness; ‘we must make ourselves fine to-night. Reu- ben Harrild’s house will be filled with gay company, to welcome Christmas forsooth! As though Christmas could not go on well enough without their tomfoolery.” SHADOWS ON THE SNOW. - — — rents ——— Nothing buf a sigh answered him for a time. Presently: | ‘* Father,” said the girl, ‘1 wish you would not speak | so lightly of Christmas. It is the only holiday we have in all' the year. It is a good time.” ‘No time is good for me while I see oe thus,” said he, with deep emotion, as he smoothed the hair from her face. **T have no holiday while you are suffermg.” “Yes,” she answered, dreamily, ‘‘ it is wearisome—-weari-_ some. . But I am not quite unhappy, father. It cannot last forever. I sometimes feel contented with my pam when I think of by-and-by; and Christmas seems to belong to it. It is a good season.” *T could think so, child, if I saw you, as I see others, enjoying the time as they do. All seasons would be good to me—ay, even to me, whom all men hate A *¢ No—no, father!” she pleaded. ‘* All seasons would be good to me if I could see you as I see others of your age, happy and light-hearted—if I could see you as I have seen you in my dreams, as I should see — you but tor the blight that fell upon my life when you were —I thank God for it—too young to remember. Forgive me, child, for causing those tears. Let me kiss them away.” oT cannot be helped,” she said, with a kind of pitiful humor, casting a glance of compassion on her stunted shape. “Doctor Bax said [| could never come straight again. Not: all the king’s horses, nor all the king’s men, can make Humpty-Dumpty straight again. But I might be worse, far worse. I have my reason; I can see, and hear, and speak; all these are blessings of which I might have been — deprived. When I look at the sky on such a night as this, I feel that my tife is not as dark as it might be.” It was dark enough to the morose man as he stood by the _ side of his maimed child, tighting with his soul. **T could be happier—I know I could be happier, if you and the world were different to each other—if you did not regard it a3 your enemy. But that will never be, father, wilt it?” ‘No, child, it will never be. and lie to you.” 2 | **Yet you are good and kind to me.. Why should you love me so dearly and be bitter with all others? All men and women are not bad. See, father, there is my angel!” © She pointed up to a large, grey cloud, with white, fleeey wings, whey her imagination had quaintly fashioned into the figure of an angel. na | hever saw him so beautiful before. because it 1s Christmas. He is at his best Say that Christmas 1s a good time -and make me happy.” — “Christmas is a shy time, child,” he said, doggedly. — ** No—no! not lik 7 to say it from your heart. You are silent. If I were to say that I suffer more—far more than you can imagine— that my heart is torn to pieces with yain yearnings—you would strive perhaps to bring some gladness into my days. Ah, forgive me!” she cried, in an agony of remorse, as a spasm of pain escaped him; “I am ungrateful—ungrate- . You are all that 1s good to me—all that 1s kind. But — ful! I suffer so! Iam truly unhappy.” She rocked herself to and fro, and sobbed. ‘* Sit by my side, father. I must tell you my secret, or I shall die!” . i In silence he sat upon the door-step by her side, with face almost as white as hers. a quieter mood, she spoke again. ‘** Father, [am very much deformed, am I not?” ** Not to me, darling.” ‘*No, not to you, for when you look at me, your eyes are in your heart. . But»l am, in reality, very ugly, very uninteresting, deformed, and a cripple. No person in the world, seeing me once, would care to see me again. I know from myself. ng and uninteresting things. It is very sad.” lhe commiserating tone in which she spoke of her mis-— fortunes was very touching to hear. ‘*Tam not like any other girl I have ever seen, Theres } A Ten Ue ae e that! From your heart—I want you | Z do not care to look for a second time upon ; ae I cannot play the hypocrite 8 Bal % When she had sobbed herself inte. pl 4 pee a. 3
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*> 4 SHADOWS ON THE SNOW. is Laura Harrild now; she is very—very preity: When I look at her, I feel as glad as when I see the early primroses peep out of the ground, telling me that spring 1s coming.” _ Stephen’s features assumed an anxious expression at the mention of Laura Harrild’s name. «Tf you were to ask me my idea of perfect happiness, I should answer, Laura Harmild. She is young, beautiful, and good—and she loves, and is beloved. Oh, my heart!” There was such anguish in the poor girl’s voice, that every nerve in Stephen’s body quivered in sympathy as he supported her head upon his shoulder. “Do you guess my secret, father?’ she whispered. ‘‘'To my sorrow, dear child.” _ “Tcannot help it. I have struggled against it vainly, feeling how hopeless it is. I have always loved him, mis- _ erable girl that Tam! I do not know how it came, except - that he is so brave and strong and handsome, while I am nothing but a poor, ugly cripple. Is life worth having, I wonder, in such a shape as mine? If I were somebody else, and saw such a creature as myself, I should look down with pity upon her, and ask whether she would not. be happier if she were dead. I have seen girls, ragged, and without a shoe to their feet, and have envied them because they were strong and had straight limbs, and were free from pain— which I seldom am, unless I am asleep.” “«“They suffer much,” said Stephen, attempting to draw “consolation for her from the misery of others; ‘‘ they are ; * soften without a meal or a bed.” _. But they are free,” she cried, ‘‘ they arefree, and I am -aslave! Though they have not a shilling in their pockets, their hearts are sometimes light, and they smile and enjoy. -__Thave seen them—I haveseen them! What happiness there must be in poverty! You are arich man, father.” ‘“] have money, child. It is yours to spend as you wish.” ‘** Money cannot buy love. Money will not.make me dif- ferent from what I am, and it cannot bring sunshine into ~ourhouse. Are all homes like ours? There is no light in it; it is desolate and deserted, and it has never been other- wise within my remembrance. You and I are like two her- mits, shut out from the world. In what way has this come, and must it be always so? Surely there is something better in life than my experience has 5 me. Ah, yes, there _ #8 something better init. There is love in it, which I shall ‘ never—never have!” . She was speaking to herself now, while he sat watching her, humbly and in silence. Moroge and churlish as he was to all others, here he was a slave; and had he possessed the Sha he would have laid his heart in her lap, could it haye insured her a day’s happiness. _ “To-night is Christmas,” she resumed, *‘ and we shall go _ around to Mr. Harrild’s house, and see so many young peo- ple dancing, and laughing, and playing forfeits, while I shall sit ina, corner glaring at them, like the envious old . It could ne fail to soften the hard man’s heart, and he said, gent- Ay: ek ““Itis a good time, child.” And with his hand touching her neck lovingly, they went into the house together, . * * *, * ** *K * » At Beuben Harrild’s there was assembled on this evening _ as merry and lght-hearted a company as ever met within _ four walls. Genial faces everywhere; smiles and cheerful looks on all sides, from old and young; every person on his best ~ . behavior, ready to shake every other person’s hand, with as much amiability as can be expressed by the pressure of palms and fingers. And if such a thing as truth ‘exists, hearts accompanied the pressure. As for duplicity, double- dealing, suspicion of motives, artful maneuvering for selfish purposes, such qualities were purely mythical, good enotgh to put color nto dreams, but pay imaginative—almost comical to think of—as to any part they might play in the business of life. The business of life! What am I think- ing of? Business, to the rightabout! It is Christmas-eve, and the world is pleasant to heart and eye, abounding in sweet, and loving, and charitable thought. But, Iam bound to confess it, there was heart-burnin in the kitchen. For in that region of shining stew an sauce pans, in whose polished surfaces the genial reflection of a jolly time was cipanly visible, Samuel Meldrum (the man-servant of the establishment) had, by the merest acci- dent, tome plump upon Kitty Simons (the maid-ser- vant of the establishment), and had discovered her in the act of being kissed beneath the miserable pretense of a piece of mistletoe, by a retainer of low degree, who, being especially recommended by Samuel Meldrum, had been temporarily en. gaged to assist in the general joy, and had thus basely be- trayed the trust reposed in him. Now, Samuel Meldrum regarded the kisses of pretty Kitty Simons, both from and for, as his special prerogative, and most particularly and solely within his department at Christmas time. This act of the temporary retainer was clearly, therefore, an act of treachery, and as such was regarded by his patron, who, after treating the treacherous dependent to a ‘‘ piece of his | mind,” glared at Kitty with eyes in which love and jealousy, were plainly depicted. Pretty Kitty, busy at the dresser, whither she had demurely walked after the kiss under the mistletoe, was, of course, entirely unconscious of the state of Samuel Meldrum’s feelings—which was the reason why she furtively watched him from-beneath her dark eyelashes, and wondered when he was going to speak. But Samucel’s moral dignity was hurt,,and he preserved silence—more from not knowing what to say than from any other cause. ‘«They’re playing games up-stairs,” said Kitty, taking the bull by the horns; ‘‘such games!” “ Samuel only grunted. ‘‘They’re playing,” said Kitty, slyly, “I love my love with a A, because he’s amiable, and amusing, and a angel; and I hate my love with a A, because he’s aggravating, and absurd, and annoying; and his name ain’t Alexander, and he comes from Aberdeen, and I took him to the sign of the Ax and Anchor, and treated him to apples and anchovies.” — “And I don’t love my love with a We,” retorted Samuel, goaded into a full sense of his wrongs by the pretty maid’s attempt at reconciliation, ‘‘ because she’s wicious, and wile, and a wixen; and I hate her with a We, because she’s wulgar, and a wiper; and her name ain’t Wenus, and she comes from Wandieman’s Land, and I took her to the sign of the Wenomous Wampire, and treated her to winegar and water,” : The retort caused Kitty to smile to herself more slyly than ever; for the next best thing to a declaration of loye from a man you haye a liking for is a declaration of jealousy, and there was no doubt that Samuel was in a desperate condition. ‘The temporary retainer,* driven by Kitty’s distracting airs into a state of over-bubbling loye, listened to this quarrel with secret pleasure, and beguiling Kitty under the mistletoe, attempted to snatch from her tempting lips a repetition of the temporary bliss which had fired his soul. But this time he reckoned without his host. Kitty—sly puss as she was!—knowing that Samuel | was near, pretended to struggle with the poacher, crying out with affected indignation, ‘‘ How dare you, sir! What do you mean by it? Oh, Samuel, Samuel! Save me!” — Whereupon Samuel, his jealousy melting in the warmth of this appeal, flew to the rescue, and caught Kitty in his urms—where she lay panting, her pouting lips in a direct — line with the mistletoe, and looking altogether so lovely and bewitching that— Well, he did what you would have «
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SHADOWS ON THE SNOW. | —— ae ro a. * = 4 ‘a c ’ 5 ) ‘ ’ . ¥ ' : ’ $$$ ae A SOR SSR SNE a I : 3 7 done—kissed her once, and again, and again, and would have gone on for there is no saying how long, had not Kitty ran away to hide her blushes and delight. Eyery room in the house had such a bright look about it that there was no mistaking the time. Had Father Time himself suddenly appeared with his opera-hat under his arm, and (being an airy old gentleman) with nothing else worth mentioning on his old bones in the shape of garments, for the purpose of telling you that he had made a mistake with his glass, and that he was six or seven weeks too fast or too slow, you would have snapped your fingers at him. Not Christmas! <A nice thing, in- deed! As if you did not know better! As if every sauce- pan in the kitchen did not know better! As if the very sparks flying up the chimneys did not know better! Not Christmas! Ask Mrs. Ramage. Who was Mrs. Ramage? Mrs. Ramage was a Large woman, with a Large mouth, and a Large nose, and Large eyes, and Large limbs, and a Large way of asserting herself which there was no resisting. And fn Mrs. Ramage was merged Mr. Ramage, who was a little man, with a little mouth, and a little nose, and little eyes, and little limbs, and such a very little way of assert- ing himself that no one took the slightest notice of him. If by chance he was spoken of, it was as one who had vest- _ed the whole of his right, title, and interest in and to hu- man life in the wife of his bosom; who, indeed, had parted with it so thoroughly and completely that it might be re- garded as a sum which she added up, subtracted from, multiplied, or divided, at her pleasure. Not Christmas! Why, here was Mrs. Ramage, this tremendously solemn and magnificently large woman, act- ually laughing, and beaming kindly smiles upon poor little Mr. Ramage, who hopped meekly about her, and bobbed his little head in eestasy at her affability. ; Not Christmas! Ask the Woys and the Wymers, of Messrs. Wymer, Woy & ra teat the celebrated firm of at- torneys and solicitors which transacted all the legal busi- ness of the district. The firm originally. was Wymer & Woy; but a female Wymer, sister of the senior partner, haying in her own particular right become possessed of a sum of money which the firm was anxious to pass to its credit, would only consent to invesS it on the condition that her name was added to the firm. Being a strong- minded and bony old maid, her condition was acnbpied, _ and the title thenceforth was Wymer, Woy & Wymer. All the members of the firm were’ long, lank, and lean, and grew, as did their parchments, more shrunk and shriveled every term. Life to them was in a small way made up of happiness and sorrow, sympathy, disappointments, love, trials of affection, charity, and such-like trifles; but in a ‘much larger way it was made up of law. They talked nothing but law; they knew nothing but law; they breathed nothing but law. They played the game of existence (as though it were really a game) with cards of law, and they layed it so skilfully that they never missed the odd trick. _ Yet even they looked frostily pleasant, and thawed a little under the genial influence of the time; dimly recognizing that kindliness at such a season might possibly be an enact- ment of some old law of humanity which it would be well for them not to resist. And if there was a shadow of doubt on the subject—if any misguided person still entertained the most infinitesi- _ mal particle of disbelief.as to the fact—he had but to look at the face of Laura Harrild, and the thing was settled. There was nothing extraordinarily handsome about Laura —she was simply a dear, lovable woman, gemmed with the graces of a happy, innocent youth. Well-looking and _ well-formed, with a pure mind and a loving heart, a pleas- ant gladness rested on her face, and shed its influence on all around her. Such women are the roses of the world; bappy the man who has one blooming in the garden of his life! : “To think,” said Doctor Bax, as he sat dandling on his knee a privileged, curly-headed youngster, ‘‘to think of _ those two children going to get married in three months! 4 , & «Why, Mr. her?” The person addressed, a sober-looking man of fifty, gazed thoughtfully at Laura.and William, who were sitting among a group of young people, laughing and chatting oayly. ae ie continued the doctor; *‘three months! And to-morrow we shall be looking back to it, and saying it was only yesterday that they were married. Life, in- deed, 1s nothing but a breath of wind.” “*T beg your pardon,” interposed Mr. Wymer, who was close by, with the other two members of the firm; ‘I did not quite catch it, doctor. You were saying ? “That life was nothing but a breath of wind,” repeated Doctor Bax. ; ““No such thing, sir—no such thing,” exclaimed Mr. Wymer, warmly. ‘‘Life a breath of wind, indeed! Pooh- — pooh, doctor! you know nothing about it! If everybody took such a light view of it— I beg your pardon; you | smiled.” : “It sounded like a joke,” said Doctor Bax; ‘‘ taking such a light view of it, you said.” ices pak “« [never joke,” said Mr. Wymer, solemnly; ‘‘and ifI did, _ I hope I should know myself better than to select a sub- ject so serious. I repeat, if everybody took such a light view of life, what would become of all its most important — relations? What would be the use of making marriage — settlements in fayor of a breath of wind? What would*be the use of making one’s will in favor of a breath of wind? What would be the use of actions at law, writs of eject- ment, pleas, interpleas, rules nisi, criminal, prosecutions, chancery suits, and insolvencies? What, in short, would become of law?” w a “That is no breath of wind, I grant you,” said the little - Harrild, what on earth will you do ‘without 2 * doctor, good-humoredly; ‘it is a grim reality. But I. spoke metaphorically.” | “I beg your pardon. You spoke——” | ie ‘* Metaphorically.” AS ‘‘T thought I was mistaken in the word,” returned Mr. Wymer. ‘My dear doctor, you cannot be in earnest. — Metaphorically! Of what practical use is it to speak meta- phorically? Speak legally, and you are all right. Speak legally, act legally, live legally, die legally, and you can go to the other world with your title-deeds in your hand, and take possession. What I find fault with in people nowa- days,” continued the lawyer, illustrating his points with his forefinger, ‘‘is, that they diverge from the proper course of life. They are dreamy, sentimental, metaphorical, un- practical, and unbusiness-like. Now, there is no dreami- ness or sentimentality in law. You must be business-like . and practical, or you will get the worst of it. You must be wide awake, my friend, when you deal with law.” And Mr. Wymer emitted a dry, chuckling laugh, as though he were in the habit of dealing with many people who were unbusiness-like and unpractical, and not sutticiently wide 4 und who were therefore always getting the worst — of it. to ‘* But the uncertainty of- the law,” Doctor Bax ventured to remark. pa ze **That’s the charm of it,” replied Mr. Wymer, rubbing i.e his hands pleasantly with the geniality of his theme. . a ‘*I beg your pardon,” interrupted Doctor Bax, purpose- ly imitating the old lawyer; ‘‘you said that is the—" ** Charm of it.” * ‘Its uncertainty?” . “* Exactly. You never know where to have it. You may study it for a hundred years, and it may trip you up, after all. It is wonderfully and beautifully complex.” “There are cases which have lasted years, are there not?” asked Doctor Bux. . _ “More, sir, more,” replied Mr, ‘Wymer, gleefully. | “What could better illustrate the law’s amazing ingentlity, — 4 its inexhaustible fertility, than such cases? Think of the — ian study, the speeches, the learning, the arguments, that tes: have been used in a simple swt. Think of the briefs—” m4 Be ee 2 ¥ oP pe +. a sixty or seventy — : . i ‘ -§
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7 a - ee “‘The fees,” the doctor put in, with a ese look, Mr, Wymer, Miss Wymer, and Mr. Wo looked at each other, smiled, and softly smoothed the palms of their right hands with the fingers of their left, a sign of. satisfaction they were in the habit of unconsciously and simultaneous- ly indulging in when they were discussing a more than usu- ally agreeable topic. “$6 The fees,” said: Mr.. Wymer; -‘‘ yes, they follow, of course, for every laborer is worthy of his hire; and we are laborers, after a fashion.” “4 Ow | 6 ere .__- *How on earth,” asked Doctor Bax, with a spice of Belay maliciousness, ‘‘ did the world ever eet on without law- : *, ; ei yers?”’ ete “It never did; sir; Biblical records prove it. In the ' patriarchal days, men were born with legal minds, as they arenow, Abraham bought land, and was most particular ' concerning the trees, down to the very borders of the prop- 3 ee. Then look at Jacob and Laban. Do you mean to say cal were not lawyers? If Jacob lived in these days, he would reach the wool-sack, if he were not a Jew.’ ‘' He tricked Laban out of wool enough for a “thousand wool-sacks,” said Doctor Bax, making his escape quickly, Rud avoid the torrent of invective that would have been ured upon him for his satire. Contact with Wymer, ; Woy & Wymer somewhat jarred upon the tender heart of the little doctor; but a peep at William, standing at a _ window, with his arm around Laura’s waist, was enough to bring his spies again into perfect ae mony with the sea- gon. | The lovers were looking out upon the night. The snow- - flakes were falling lightly, and as far as eye could reach a field of purest white was spread before them. The window was in a recess, shut off from the room by heavy curtains, es!) that they were almost in seclusion. William was speak- ing to Laura in soft, loving tones, and her ae truthful face denoted how lov ingly she was following his words. _. ** Three Christmases, my darling,” said William, ‘‘ dat- ing from last year. What a contrast! Last year you and _ Thad net seen each other, and next year we shall be in our own cozy nest. Before I saw you, ‘I did’ not know what Shas ~ happiness there is in restfulness of spirit. It was impossi- 2 om ple for me to settle myself down; now I would be this, i now I would be that; something Within me always whis- -pering, ‘ Move on; don’t stop where you are.’ For months and months I thought of emigrating to the Australian colonies, and I used to devour the news of every fresh a *giseover? in the other part of the world. I dreamed night ~ after night of tremendous nuggets, almost too heavy to lift, aehm i and would wake in a a 'to find it all a delusion; At Rib tf _ length I quite mad my mind; there was nothing eee ‘ here to bind me to the old land; I would go out to the new. 4 By _ Away I posted to Woy & W ymer, and gave instructions to Ris. sell my farm; they soon found a purchaser, and the con- _-veyance was drawn. ‘up. Stephen Winkworth was the man who wanted to buy it, but happily I did not sign it tee aad to him, for at that precise time, my darling, Tr met Pes and I thought, * Why be in such a ur , William?’ nd when I discovered that you loved me”— 16 drew her loser to him—*‘ away to the four winds of heaven flew all ane of parting with my land. J had found my happiness Ai ca ‘6 She looked up into his face shyly and timidly. ** Does never a thought come into your mind, William, that it might have been as well for you if you had gone away?’ G “What a question, dearest! Asked to try me! Well, it _ is a small trial. Put me to a severer test, and see me ae smiling at you with perfect trustfulness—as I do now, loy- ing you, believing in you, though all the world were against me, _ * What I mean is, it See have done you good. are naturally impulsive— ee _. ** Yes,” he interrupted, with rapid shakes of the head, Paes “impulsive, self-willed, and obstinate.” You _after SHADOWS ON THE SNOW. “JT will not hear you say that, for it is not so, You are naturally impulsive, bold, manly, fearless.” He interrupted her again with a happy laugh. ‘‘Two sides to the shield. But eyes of love can’t see clearly.” ‘* And now you are going to settle into a quiet, hundrum life, perhaps not exactly suited to you.” ‘That is just what Stephen Winkworth said. When he went to the lawyers’, with his money in his, hand, six- teen hundred soyvereigns—and I told him I had altered my mind, and did not intend to sell my farm, he called me rash-headed; said that I did not know what was good for myself, that the bargain had been made, and I could not draw back from it. And there the money is to this day—at least, so old Mr. Wymer is telling me—and there are the deeds ready for signing. All I have to do is to go to the office, and write my name, and pocket the sixteen . hundred pounds. But were it a million times as much, it would not tempt me, if it threatened to part us; for your love, darling, 1s worth all the gold in the world ito me, and I do not intend to forfeit it by ¢ any act of mine.” ‘Tf you have found your happiness,” she said, presently, a delicious pause, “which I pray that you have—L will try that it shall be so, believe me—I have found mine. Tell me, William, what made you so eager to go to the gold colonies?” “They seemed to offer the most tempting lookout. But there was another reason. A friend of mine, who had been a scapegrace in his,younger days, had gone over, and reformed, and made lots of money.’ He wrote so eloguent~, ly about the mode of life there, and _ its freedom, and. the gold, that he fairly turned my head.” “Your friend,” said Laura, and hesitated. ‘*Yeosr?’ questioned William. et ** Was he simply wild and thoughtless?” “Tle was worse. He committed a great wrong.” *“ weirs” Mba 4 Sel Be ah: Galea eeagnh Oemaere need : ; ris y : “ obs Se arts “ : 4 YU “s ‘ Se icky to SERA Se ek Me Sepa ts hose ae DP Sde he ri of, ON (pee ad |
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\ ‘ hat man is; if he is in want, I can relieve him; if he is _ here for no good purpose, I must get rid of him, not hurt me, dear.” “ No—no—no!” she exclaimed, with strange earnestness, still clinging to his arm; ‘ you shall not, you must not, go. And see—it is gone! It was only a shadow, after all. We haye been standing here from the lights so long, that we have grown fanciful.” Leaying him, she walked into the room toward Alice Winkworth. Many of the guests gazed at the contrast presented by _ these two girls. One, lithe, supple, graceful, pleasant- looking; the other, deformed, maimed, and sickly. ¢ ty “a 2 PEE HWE GS sh te others. But the deformed girl was gazing wistfully at | which was raised pleadingly to his, ‘do I not know how ae him, and his nature was too considerate to treat her with | impossible it is for you to do a wrong? I only wish to | indifference. Seating himself by her side at the window, | prove to you how irrevocable is my resolution. Every man ee: ; -he saw for the second time the shadow of a man lurking | has a skeleton in his house, and I must not grumble ae _ about the house. mine. I would like to Jock it in an iron safe, and throy ‘«By Heavens,” he muttered, ‘‘ there it is again!” the key into the sea c ; hg ee For a moment he thought of running out into the **What—what!” cried Doctor Bax, who, coming into | a white plain and accosting the man, but he was restrained | the assage with the household cat upon his shoulder, by the reflection that Laura might be vexed with him for Heat: the last words of the incompleted sentence. **What doing so. - Other eyes than his were fixed upon the falling snow. _ Reuben Harrild had left his guests for a while to their own devices, and had retired to his study, where he sat gazing q dreamily out of the window. Old memories were passing We ks his mind, causing him to look older than he was. do you want to throw into the sea?” See ie ‘The key of the safe in which I would like to lock my skeleton,” replied Reuben Harrild, withasmile “Trying to get awa : from your skeleton!” excl: imed. : “3 Doctor Bax, tickling the ears of the cat. ‘‘ Pooh! ste bish! -As if you or any man could escape it! No—no,my __, Some lives, filled with vain strivings and mental struggles, | friend, it will stick to i ata you can draw breath, and, ure prolific of wrinkles; others, free from those wild storms | as likely as not, it will follow you into the other world, which are too frequently self-created, scarcely raise a fur- row on the face. ‘Too often, alas! are the pages of life blotted with tears; and Memory, as she scans the record, lives over again, with bitter brevity, the shedding of cach tear. Around Reuben Harrild hovered the ghosts of past _ joys and grief—overshadowed all by one pale specter whose intangible presence raised frowns upon his face and shame and sadness within his heart. Nor was his gloom dispelled by the appearance of the child whose pure spirit shed the __ Jight of happiness upon his life and home. Just now you have a house full of invisible bones. Iwar- rant you every man’s skeleton has stepped out of its cup- x board to accompany its owner to your Christmas party, and that there are a score of them jostling up against us, — a if we could only see. For curiosity, now,” he said, mo- tioning Laura and her father to the half-opened door of the — yoom where some of the elderly people were playing cards, and most of the young ones playing forfeits and making ~ love, *‘look at Stephen Winkworth there, sitting by him-) — self{—what a skeleton he has got! A perpetual day and 3 Ad ‘ . 2 + , . Be! eo - . Ki Bae s : ¢ a " t . - ‘ ees fet Sow o> =A cn e i Tela. i oi. Mat @ te yet A ee te ord . schoo a u , ‘v | Pree Cane : > Neate
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: ; 8 nightmare! It never leaves him. It perches upon his shoulder, like the bird of ill-omen we read of: *** Leave my loneliness unbroken! + Quit the bust above my door! Take thy beak from out my heart, And thy form from off my door!— ; Quoth the raven, ‘ Nevermore!’ And Stephen’s daughter, poor child! has not she a skele- ton? Heaven help her! her’s is the saddest of all, for it stands at the portal of a girl’s brightest hopes, shutting out the light. Look at little Mr. Ramage—Mrs. Ramage 1s his skeleton—and is not she an awful one, hanging around a man’s neck? And you, my dear,” he said to Laura, ‘‘ you have your skeleton, and I have mine—here—here!” and he ¥ smote his breast theatrically, and upsct the cat. ** Your skeleton, Doctor Bax,” said Laura; ‘ why, what kind of a one can that be?” A tearing, staring, horrible, malicious, wicked skele- ton!” cried the doctor, so loudly that the eyes of every per- son in the room were turned upon him. ‘‘ A fearful, hid- - eous, monstrous, hobgoblin kind of skeleton. I will tell -- you what it is—in confidence, so that ae shall hear!” ___ (he raised his yoice to its highest pitch). ‘‘I love you and sty you are going to marry another! If it be not true, may this kiss I am going to give you under the mistletoe be my ei. Deeb 2? ry - —-s« But Laura darted away, and the little doctor, pursuing her, turned all the card-tables topsy-turvy, and set the whole room in an uproar. be Oh, but it was a merry Christmas party, despite the a skeletons, and little Doctor Bax was the life and soul of it! Had an account been kept, it would have been proved that he kissed every female in the house at least half a dozen times over. He was, indeed, a privileged Don Juan. Even oe Mrs. Ramage submitted to the salute; and as for Miss Wy- -_mer, she stepped under the mistletoe like a willing lamb, 4 and smacked her lips. after the operation. Be % There were two or three cozy little rooms on the lower floor of the house, in which the guests found themselves almost by chance if they heme to stroll out of the larger apartment where the chief merry-making was carried on. - In one of these, an hour later, were Stephen Winkworth ra and his daughter. > ~~. Take me home, father,” said the girl. .‘‘I am weary of this; I want to be at home.” “I thought you wished to be here,” he returned, wistful- dy. ‘It is gayer than our dull house.” | _- **J know it 1s, but how can I be merry seeing what I see?” she exclaimed, fretfully. ‘‘I am like a baby crying for a toy which somebody else has got.” | -... *€ Child,” whispered Stephen, bending low, ‘‘ if William Fairfield loved you, you would be happy.” .. Po not speak of it, father,” sobbed Alice. - mever—never be! Love cannot be bought.” ‘ © But it can be won and lost,” he muttered, in atone so low that his words did not reach, her ears, ‘‘ If it can be -__- proved to a man that the woman he loves is false ght _ stepped a few paces from his daughter, and closed the door to prevent interruption. ‘* My girl’s. happiness may hang upon the discovery I have made to-night.. Shall I let the - opportunity, slip from me? . It was destiny that Jed me from the house an hour ago, to see—what?. Tosee this immacu- , late, spotless woman who is engaged to marry William eo ‘Fainficld, in the armsof another man, and to hear her make ae -an appointment with him at:midnight.. At midnight, by the Lord! when no third person is nigh to witness her dis- grace!” A low, scornful laugh floated on the air, unheard by the weeping girl... ‘This fair creature, so outwardly honest, this paragon of modesty and virtue, is like the rest “Opi ber shameless. sex, false—false to the backbone! Oh, my ladies, shame upon you! Not for, me, whose life has been blasted by your treachery, not for me to spare you! “Tt can own delicate hair; ay, every mother’s daughter of you!” bao There was a bitter, biting ring in the man’s muttered § tones, inspired by memories which was torture to recall. te Ur he, ' ; ; S i Ao: . . 4 cH ti + SHADOWS ON TH SNOW. ET would whip yow false bodies with whips made of your ** But for my daughter,” he continued, with a.glance at the bowed, distorted form, ‘‘ he should marry this paragon, and discover her treachery when it was too late. It would be of a piece with the rest, and would add one to the many. But my child loyes him! Oh, God! grant her some little recompensation for her life’s torture, give her a recompense for her long misery!” ‘Despite his unpitying mood, the prayer came from his heart. “You are suffering for my sake,” said Alice, raising. her head, and noting the signs of trouble in her father’s face. “‘T strive for the future to bear my pain alone. But I hoped this night was to be so happy——” - ‘Tt may be yet, child. I love you—I love you.” And he pressed her passionately to his breast. ‘‘ 1 would lose my soul for you!” e ‘Hush, father!” she cried, putting her hand to, his lips. ee I would, as truly as I live, to secure your happiness. We will not go home yet; we will wait another hour.” As they entered the passage, they saw Laura pass swiftly from the house, with tears in her eyes, and William Fair-- field looking after her with an expression of annoyance. Stephen was about to address him, but checking himself for a moment, allowed Alice to enter the room where the com- pany was assembled. Then he said: ““You don’t seem over-well pleased, William Fairfield.” ‘What business may that be of yours?” returned William, inan ungracious tone. ‘Attend to your own matters, and leave me to mine.” ‘‘ Hard words these, lad, upon Christmas-eve,” said Ste- phen, with no show of anger; ‘‘but perhaps I was in the wrong. I beg your pardon.” Humbleness did not sit well upon the man; but it was so unusual an exhibition in him that it stung William into remorse. | ‘It isI who should beg pardon, Mr. Winkworth. There is my hand. Do not refuse it.” ‘* Not likely I should refuse your hand, my lad, though many another man’s I might.” He paid no heed to the look of surprise with which William received this expres- sion of good-will. ‘‘ Can you spare me afew minutes? I haye that to say to you it may be well for youtohear. No, not in the house, with prying eyes about. What I have to say to you is private. Come into the open air.” He led the way, and in silent wonder William followed him. The snow-fall had ceased, and had left a thick, soft carpet upon the earth. The moon was shining forth, and the heavens were bright and pure in the light of the glori- ous prospect, beneath them. As far as the eye could reach every object was mantled in loveliest white. The tall trees stood like white sentinels of the night, erect and watchful. The sloping roofs sloped whitely down to the eaves, and the shimmer analy reared their heads whitely to the sky, the cowls upon them resembling the shrouded heads of the white monks bending in prayer. ats The solemn peacefulness of the beautiful night impressed its loving lesson upon both the men, and for a little while they were silent. ‘Do you wish to speak to me about my farm?” ‘“No, lad. Of something of far greater importance to your welfare. Though, for the matter of that, I am ready at any moment to fulfill my share of the bargain.. If you go to the lawyer’s to-morrow, you will find the money ready for you... You haye but.to sign your name.” ‘“Mr. Wymer has told me so a dozen times; but I have no intention now of setling my land.. You must be a well- to-do.man, Mr. Winkworth, to allow sixteen hundred pounds to lie idle for solong a time. I should not mind being in your shoes.” “So far as regards money?” ‘Yes; not in any other way particularly.” “‘T am better than well-to-do; I ama rich man. with your ponte, and strength, and talent, had my money, you could hold up your head with the best in the country. “Sn oe Et * - « a us , y iin Wika) > William Fairfield was the first to speak. Tf you, —
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SHADOWS ON THE SNOW. 9 I possess. Inherit! My daughter will inherit every penny lo bring a rich dower ph opty pepe It is hers now, while'I live. “She wi to the man who marries her.” iB Oi | ‘‘T trust she will marry ‘one worthy of ‘her,’ said Wil- liam, with Poe look at Stephen.) 9 nods alts “My child will bring what is better than beauty to him who wins her love. With riches, she will bring’a. faithful heart; with riches, she will bring a ‘soul stainless as an an eligi” OFA : ‘ . 4 j = _ There was no mistaking the meaning Stephen wished: to convey, and William Fairchild paused long before he could command ‘himself sufficiently to speak with coolness. “This is not'the first time to-day that you have uttered words to which I should not listen. What! do. you mean by them?” ee : Pair and soft, my lad: heart.” ** Speak plainly, then.” 10 #f “T will, Would you—would any man with his eyes open—marry a\'woman who'is playing a double game—a shameless wench——” r 199011 “ By Heaven——”"_ L “Hold off your hands, and listen to me. Icould be your father; William Fairfield, for the years I bear. Beistill and hear me out. From the depths of my own life I have that to say, which; if ‘you are not° utterly blind, will prove to you how false fair. ching, may be. When I have:done,: you can JU ge for yourself.” : ay r "otietrecnnts °r 3 ‘His stern impressiveness made its mark William’ Fair- field did not reply, | clenching his hands, and beating’ his foot impatiently Pathol hg They had wandered some little distance from the’ house, ‘and’ the notes’ of merriment: from within fell but faintly upon their ears." Otherwise; not a sound ‘but that of’ their own’ voices ‘broke the.*stillness of: the It is your interest [have at er | : * You know what I am”! Stephen’ said)“ youskndw the: estimation in’ which T’am’ held. - Tf any man,owoman, or child, in all Deyonshire were asked’ who in all Devonshire “was most disliked, most hated, most shunned; the ‘reply would beStephen Winkworth.’ If-any‘dumb apimal in Devonshire desired to show its dislike ‘to any person’ more: than all others; ‘it would be to Stephen’ Winkworth: © Chil- dren turn fron Eb i avoid’ him; not avhuman beige has’ a smile’ 6f welcome for him. ’ Were she to: be deprived of his wealth,’ and were’ he ‘lying’ parched and starving by the’ roadside, ‘no ‘one out of ‘love would, ‘forhis sake, give him’ a cap of milk--no one out of compassion would offer him a bed of straw té lie tipon. - Were Stephen Winkworth, to dié to-morrow, ‘iio oné but! the ‘whdertaker would attend his funeral, and even he would be glad’ when: the job was done.’ Not’ a teat ‘but’ those’ shed—by: his daughter would fall upon his grave.” HAD LB | ~The pictiire he had drawh was true.’ “He! spoke in his sual bitter tone, witha full coriseiousness. that) it would ‘be futile to’ endeavor to avoid the’ penalty he had ‘earned and i vited. . ' hole Betti “ Such is my futé,” he’ Gonitiiweal"**T Go Hot complain. I have brought it upon ‘myself, and 1° must bear it.” But it was, hot al 7s thus with me, William Fairfield.” “Tt was vats thus within my remembrance,” said William, resentfully. Hh FEO L Sonasstg “<< You speak the truth, lad! Yet I-once had a happy jrome—lI onee had friends. Friends!” he echoed ‘fiercely. ‘Had I my will, Iwould send the word to hell, toburn out its false meaning! It was one of these friends—vultures— ies—_call them what you will, who made ‘me what I am!” He took off his hat and bared his head ‘to the cold wind. In this man’s heart was raging a eae fire, the ‘fury of “which timé was powerless to’ dim. © The memory of an ear] wrong was burning within him as fiercely as when it was first, perpetrated. "For years had he been hugging it close, fanning it into a blaze which death ‘alone could ex- tia eee dei et sa de TPO dae have passed over me, like the rest of men, and ¢ but stood with his back against a tree, . on nemereremmeneceeneni i ee left their marks upon my frame. But fresh within me, as ‘in the howr it was done, burns. the! wrong which .set me against my fellow-men forever,and forever... When I forget it, maya palsy strike me dead!”), He stooped and took: up-a-handful of snow, with which he bathed his fevered head...No. sign. in. Nature sym- pathized with him. The white-orbed maiden shed, her pure light upon his form;;the soft whe snow enveloped his feet; graceful devices in tree and hedge met his eyes whichever way he turned, He stood alone,,in antagonism with the symbols of: loveliness and purity by which he was surrounded. bite uniehind ‘“* You, in the heyday of youth, you, with the dream of life spread before you woven in bright colors, as it once spread before me—you love. All men do, at sometime, in their early youth. Each man, in his time, sees a woman, whom he sets before him as an idol, and falls, down, and, worships, poor, blind fool! as though she were heaven-born,, ‘This woman to this man is a saint; angelic virtues dwell.in her; she is clothed in a-celestial armor of innocence, truth, and simplicity. Lin my youth came within this influence. 1 in'my youth set np within, my sdul a' painted sham, a/beau- tiful lie, and worshiped it with all the strength:of my man- hood. I haye read books wherein woman’s love is deserib-. edias a divine emanation—wherein a niche. in, a woman’s heart is said to sanetify a man’s life, and. make him. better and fitter for the life to come.. Woman’s.love! What.wom- an loves as aman too often.loyes?..; Her nature is too petty to comprehend the infinite tenderness of ,a, man’s, deyotion. The man.sees upon the face of the woman.he loves, smile which Nature gave her—a. smile of heavenly, sweetness, which intensifies the adoration in his soul; and this trick of the features, which she practises in his absence @ hundred times a day; he believes to be a heart+weleome to: him,, and for himalones I, who, before my marriage. went,courtix as. you have done to-night; would often meet her with. sucl a smile upon her beautiful, face, and my. heart would. laugh within my breast as the sunshine of her eyes fell.upon me.. This smile, thoughtd; is;the outcome of herlove. for me, and me alone;' the tenderness which I, beheld. init. is. the soulrof léve,.and ‘it is Lwho have given it birth, Thus I interpreted the magic silence. of ‘her greeting, and endowed it with spiritual life.’ ; Hd dadtd etaete s Beneath the spell of .thisbetter remembrance, his voice grew Baftemvwofi sdi wou : rod re at tu wii : F ‘She was all:imalltoame; she was-my life,.my hope, my ‘prizevin the world’s lottéry—the richest; dearest prize that ever fell to man’s:lot..,I was always a. scheming, money- ‘making’ man, but»after I ‘knew her. I, did not, yearn, for ‘wealth for myself—1 yearned for it for. her. Neaae resh sue- ‘cess I gained was doubly good, because,she woul I would rub my hands; gladly, and thank: God I ucceeded, — for her sake. J-whispered:-her name for luck, if 1 entered ! it. into a newspeculation,: With her image in my. heart, every step I mounted in the ladder of life brought me-nearer. to Heaven. I took this piece of clay, this image ef dust, . . I fashioned it, and planted. it, and beautified ity, I. filled her face with innocence, her eyes with love, her heart with faithfulness. My devotion: gave music to her. voice, sanctity to-hertouchy ‘And, I/loved her,.I loved, her‘as:man neyer loved before!) int tink foro! i sity teat i. There was such a depth of tenderness in the man’s voice and action that William. Fairfield, forgetting for a time his‘own happiness, impulsively movedto him, and wi have taken his. hand in pity; but Stephen. repulsed. him, and continued: ; ae “* We were married... There 7s a heaven upon earth for some men at one period. of life. Many of us can, remember a few weeks or months which shine out from the past)as though they belonged to ‘another and. a happier life. I look back to: the first: months of my wedded life, and marvel at myself. It is not ‘often that 1 am stirred, to, emotion; but ‘when I think of the glory of happiness which. was, mine during that brief space, and Jook at my home as it is shunned, deserted, cold, and joyless—I am lost in miserable
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| ‘through’ all her days ‘to a cold and’ cheerless winter. Let ‘had left my home on'w matter» of ybusiness, and: was! to. be absent only twenty-four hours. It was:the first might I had | my heart et with tender anticipation,] found that my ~ wife had’ fled+had fled with him IT called my frend. betrayed me; that he whom 1 trusted with -my soul’ had ~'playéd'the Judas. No letter was writtén to iguide..me: to this conélusion, ° My wife was gone, and that, wasenough; “my friénd was gone, and that wasenough. I had not been { 10 SHADOWS ON THE SNOW. Bargmann rte on recent nNOS VEIL NOE TU at aa eno oaean nena aly eee wonder, I had-a smile for all men then—ay, even for one whose name would blister my tongue were'l to mention it —for one the very thought of whom drives my blood. from its‘ natural channels,’ and! inspires’ me with: a maddening thirst for everlasting*revenge!? rier el bons ify his’ passion ‘he raised his*hand and struck the tree, | as he would have struck his enemy, had he stood, before Hita.2¢ Joa Sgber Di BION teoate jtodt '<*He'was my friend, and he satoat my hearth hke) my brother! He was'my friend, and was a witness of my love and happiness. He was my friend, and I lauded) him: to niy Wife and sung*his praises'in her ear in our moments’ of confidence, He was my friend, and he betrayed me. Curse his soul foreverand forever!” " —- rob} f Again he struck the ‘tree, and.waivedhis bloody hand Sor it o'the' Keantiful clouds: os es 6 ) sé] will hunt that man through all the worlds: What- - evér may be the'life we live when this is: done with-in whatevér sphefe or shape I meet him—he shall expiate the blight he edst upon me andmine! I pray that the power may be given hse thifsting' hope,' I should ‘not: believecin.1mmor- WOOL .4 4am Fares | yt fj ‘ tality!” : : v OG vy SV Git s ipowns * “The crimson’ blood dropping from his wounded handup- ‘on the snow seemed to William Fairfield a fateful -witness 0 the curse ofthe’ wronged man. Gazing upon it in fas- cination, a lurid light floated before his eyes, distorting his outward and ifiward sense of sight. i » «My wife ‘bore'me a child+a daughter—perfect: in form and tae as the day. This lovely and ‘wondrous eréatire opened out to mea new world of which ‘Phad hitherto no conception: | Higher and holier thought ‘than that by which I had hitherto been animated began to stir within nie; ’a’spiritual sunrise dawned upon my soul. T declare that I never returned home and) saw my darling ‘in her mother’s lap,‘ asleep, or drawing nourishment from her ‘bosom, without’ being ' impelled to: bless God for ‘his ‘goodness.’ Even as her little fairy fingers would -entwine ‘themselvés around one of mine,'so did my love for her en- ‘twine and grow about the roots of my heart... You would ‘scarcely believe, William Fairfield, were it not for my as- surance, that this exquisite bab ir i ym bright-eyed, ‘rosy-checked—and my daughter Alice are one. But for me she might have' been the flower of Deyon- ‘shire. ‘It was I, her father, who made her what. she is, ‘who have deprived her of life’s best seasons, and who, if ‘Jove’s light ‘do not shine upon ‘her, Have condemned her “ye reeall thé fatal day which led to my dct of madness. I ‘passéd out of thy ‘house since:my marriagé. Why didnot “my horse fall'down with ‘me and killume, instead of /bring- ing mé back tothe home I had left» honored and: happy? “But Aat some men call fate, others chance, others destiny, ordained that'l should live and grapple: with my, misery. For ‘when ‘my soperioy was over, and: D. reached: my:house, learned that she whom I loved faithfully and. tiuly had in my house five minutes before the truth flashed upom me, as might'a’ picture suddenly revealed." Fora moment ry ‘was dazed and’ stunted; then came the; despairing: reality. _ "The past: Pb spread out before’ me’ like amap, and: every ‘gl nee and word that had passed between wis, came, to me } with ‘a hew ns Sra Her love had been a simula- tion; \a cheats -Héen'td mea living lie, ‘and alla woman’s artifice had, been . er heart’ had never been: mine. She, had employed to conceal the truth. Too well' had) she: suc- ceeded. “What would you have done, William. | Fairfield, had you been stricken with such a blow? What would you n me! Iihave prayed for it on my knees! But +s and dishonored man. man’s speech,. and almost,imagined; he saw flyin the air,.the; dark.,shadows. of , the, peer _» of At) length I came upon them,; When a “Jost trace of them,, and, was pth doubt, as whi a ) Was MOVing away. | andthat I must, get, to, ther, 1 bution.,; It.was.mot long before I reached. th have done-had-you found your life’s happiness thus,.sudden- ly burned to ashes upon your household hearth ®’, ,, “He did: not wait for axreply, but-went on: 1. seg) | “The thoughts and..memories, which, clung about, me during those few’ moments would, make’ an ,epi¢.,, Amidst ther all, one picture struggled.to the foreground... J saw in. my faney:the face of my wife lying upon; the, pillow in the early morning—a face of child-like, angelic beanty—a facé which; could: an artist paint, and call, it, innocence, | would immortalize his. name through,all) ages,.,. She had fallen asleep in:myrarms but a few hours before, with words. 6f-love upon her lips; »1 gazed. upon, her with a heart full of worship...))lisaiw/her face; and 1b was -+heayen; to me. But her inner life was hidden from me; and now that,it: was laid baté in all: its«naked deformity, faith, loye, rehgion, belief in human goodness, fled from me affrighted. » 1 was ag one suddenly and unnaturally maddened. |,;Infuriated, I looked arownd,and saw her guile lying, in her cot-—her child! She opened-her eyes and.,smiled. npon,me, and as in that innocent smile I caught the Oiee alten take mother’s beauty, I raised her in my arms and dashed . her tothe! ground!” oo, 0) | base abnad aov To. bloM * The mémory, of the terrible act, raised., thick, bead: of perspiration upon: his face;,and again, in a wild, reckless manner, he scooped wpa handful of snow ;and.,seattered, it ever, dristheadd I nodW | od yorr eyaidt sind oalet wod wu ‘‘T scarcely remember what followed;.1 do, aa know whether leat, or drank, or slept; only, know that Ti fled - from the house, with the intention of pursuing them day and night; From, that moment,my life was.compassed by but one intense, maddening desire—to ort e and kill them. | 1.-was, soon psec, Bes track, and I flung money about like a madman, but still with, an, instinctive metho in, my madness.» I followed them from, place to place, through England, out of England into foreign countries, and. back, again. Hearing, that, I ;was in, pursuit, the schemed.and baffled me. I .was, always a, day too late; reached every spot. in which they, tarried in time to hear of their departure from it. But, they, could, not, forever es-. cape me; I knew it—I felt, it; Jere 0 AY side, and would: bring me to them, as sure_as there was a. heayen above uss: Kvery/sign that made itself, visible to me—in human face, in,clouds,,in trees—bid me pursue and kill them, and I never, faltered,never, wave a in my resolve. Pictures formed themselves for me, in the intcetn the plains as 1 dashed past, them in the train, or carriage; 1 the full, sunlight as, it, gleamed, on, clear, waters; in the 4 night, as ity shadows, the darkness around me~-pictures + which imaged: false wife and.friend, crouching before a des- : Se ee tua ts ps goin my. eyes, and made, me oblivious of all else. : sick ceorsictint Adi w sabe oe) _| William, Fairfield..shnddered. at the yehemence. of the i ined he spy fying through HRW AR BY Stephen. plus rhich way to turn, theirfaces flashedupon me, one night at i railway station... Despite all warning,cries, I jumped, with a, tri- umphant laugh upon the step of a carriage as the train I did not,think of my own danger as I was whirled along—+I on! ough phat i re there, (4, had \to, Tent: py, wa through, hundred deaths, , ‘The ote d Ehaen Which had. caught,sight of, their faces, was far in front of me, and with fientie, impatience Lw een | iwar slong the, side of the train. How, L escaped being dashed to pieces was a mystery, which, some, persons, would call a, providence, but, which, I recognized as the working-out gS A gE retri- 4 j MopMomheanaiee et eae gi Jas tan che carriage,in which they sat,.and, peering. 1n, 1 saw them nestling a by side. Wives crt fore the joment when in the glance came mutual Lhasa, went et tore at the door like a wild animal, but it was locked, and all my
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SHADOWS ON THE SNOW. ne) th strength, was pomerlan in open it. I shouted—I raved—I was truly mad; and all the while their, white faces—they were alone. in the carriage—glared at me,convalsed with | fear. Even at that dread time the beauty of my wite stabbed me,,and I groaned as though a poisoned dagger had been,thrust into my heart. It infuriated me the more, and L renewed my efforts to tear open the door—in vain. The engine.was before me,,.and almost.on the thought I found myself upon it, struggling with the, engineer, who strove to prevent my mad purpose, . I remember: nothing more. A, sudden crash—an. upheaving that heralded the violent ending of the world—the. flyimg ofa myriad fiery particles in the air—and then, oblivion... When I recovered my,senses.1 heard. that.a terrible accident, inexplicable to all but meé,,had occurred, and that my wife and her para- mour were killed, with a, score of, other persons. Upon earth’ I was never|to,see their. faces again,” -, ' , At. this moment William, looking toward the house; saw for the third time the mysterious shadow. on the snow. » In some unaccountable way it inspired, him with unreasonable resentment, and nothing but the strong interest. he took in Haile story would , Se deterred him from pursuing Wess duster al * Za x l fey G 7 3 : _. *" When I arose from, my bed of sickness Iwas a changed man, , 1 had:tasted the sweetness of life, and it had pois- oned.my.blood. I closed my door upon all. my former friends and associates; I closed my heart upon-all human- ity. The shadow of death was hanging over my house— for oh, William Fairfield! when in my despair I had dashed my, baby peanty tothe earth, I had, not. killed her; but I had maimed, deformed her beyond all mortal, eure, and -she grew into what you see her.now. She does not know that it is I who inflicted this bitter grief'upon her. Merci- fully it eh ree from her, as it has been hidden from all others until this night... It wassupposed that she met with an accident for which no human oS was accountable; but I, her father, made her what she is.. I, her. father, wrecked her youn ita tapon the rock of my despair; and I, her father, hour after hour, day after day, bear within me the seeds, of a remorse so strong and agonizing that I would tear myself limb from limb could I atone for the blight I have brought be my child.” The at had. grown very still; no sound of, merriment floated from the house. The shadow had disappeared. As William noted this, there stole into his. heart a suspicion which made himshudder, 9 =... ee “Do you wonder now that I am ntorose, sullen, unchari- table? ‘Do you, wonder now that I shun» my fellow-men— that I hate them, all, scorn, distrust them \? But not to excuse myself haye I 8 ken, Take warning ‘that. you are Spo not betrayed. Pap ty Aad It is the soul, not the face, |, of a-woman that constitutes the om poe of man. If you ask why I have told you my story, I may in some part truly _answer that,it is to,saye you from a fate similar to that which fell to my unhappy lot.” aha «To, save me!’ exclaimed William... 0 4) ; “Ay,” returned, Stephen; “you, love. Laura. Harrild’s face as, I loved the face - my yee | avait y fair neh Dean ful—-as was my wife. . Learn, from; me that every fair wo- manis ale isn dhataba so thirsts for admiration that ‘the love of one man will not suffice: her.” . _ ‘You wrong them—you wrong them,” murmured Wil- a ioqad asta L.. ear doi reams (239) Li) ef) % Believe’ six and. dream your dream, till 1t is too. late. This. woman.,that you, adore plays love and devotion to you when you are together; gives you honeyed words when you and she are alone; smiles, upon you, presses your hand, yields to your embrace—she does all this, I warrant; and yet to-night———” Hohl cosagat ‘E _ To-night ”? echoed William, looking around with a be- wildered aire. yyocgno, mews ott Jat at jal T This very, night,” said Stephen, in a tone hushed per- haps in compassion for the misery depicted in the young man’s face, ‘{ this. yery night I.saw her clasped in another man’s armse-) 4) fl «You lie!”. cried William, in an.agonized voice. ‘f You lie!) As;there is light in heaven!” HS et Hines “‘T speak the truth... By my.child’s life, I swear it!” It wasra solemn,oath solemnly uttered, and.it, was .ac- cepted as direct testimony by the younger man... He held up his hand mechanically in.a_pitiable appeal for silence, and Stephen obeyed.the motion. » In the brief few,mo- ments that ride all the glory, of the night faded away in William Fairfield’s sight. .The, moon. lost its brightness, the clouds their beauty, the white snow, its purity... Ste- phen’s whispered defilement had defiled,the place;and sea- son: » Yet a duty had to be performed—his manhood.had to be vindicated. . But first. he would make sure; perhaps he had mistaken the purport of Stephen’s aceugation. ¢..... . ‘* Repeat,” he said, in a set, dogged tone, “Sand »briefly, what you haye already said concerning; Laura, Harrild.” ‘« Two. hours. since, I saw her yonder,” said Stephen, in measured tones, pointing to the spot,.where William, had seen the shadow, ‘ pressing a man to her. heart with as fond affection as false, women can.show. . You, can besisay whether that man was William Fairfield.” ., 5 Aasl \hats It was true, then. He had not mistaken the meaning of the accusation. . But two hours since. . What was he doing at that time? With an effort he collected his thoughts. It was at that very time he had seen the shadow of the man on the. snow, and had called Laura’s attention: to 1t; and she had implored him not to go out, and had then left him for fully half an hour. . For whatypurpose?;.. To meet-her secret lover, to weep and smile over him, to yield; to his embrace. Had not Stephen seen them? , This.man, whom all.the world condemned and. looked upon with, ayersion, had proved his truest friend. Utterly blétted from his mémory was the pledge he had given to the woman of. his choice: ‘‘ Put me to a severer test, and: see -‘me;smiling at you with perfect trustfulness, as 1 do now, loving you, be- levying. in you, though all the world were against you.” He looked vacantly into Stephen’s face. 5 ..,.. ‘* Have you aunt ing Tone to,tell me?” of dank ““You will not be pleased to hear it; but you should know, for it may lead you to evidence that can not be shak- en.” { a ** Say it, then.” satan *‘T heard your fair woman make an 2 yt a to, meet believe?” eegi ees WA: "9 aot piped fail Tf love were false!;,.Was not. the proof strong enough? Already, in his heart, love’s pure spirit was. defiled... ‘‘ Oh,” he groaned, clenching his hands..in agony, ‘¢ oh, Laura—Laura! How could you thus deceive me?” .. . . He had judged hers Weak.as he. was, he had per Boe 4 Y t. her... The first wiveger of unfaithfulness—it, matte from what lips—had been to him a proof of her guilt. . ’ But. he would watch to-night:,.'To: this, amidst such. he moved mechanically.toward the house. confused wandering, his mind was settled; and, so resolved,, PEEP OLE AE Bae)
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" 4 \ a eee bd s ?- 7. = » = 7. A ——Se SS eS lS eS ee ! . ) e : _— ~ hn ae ie eee nemesis “Don’t grieve too much, my lad,” said Stephen,'as he walked b William’ ’s side; “ ‘she is not worth it. It is hard to bear; but it is better now than after.” «Be silent!” exclaimed William, moodil You have told me to-night that which may blast m Tite.” Yes; this man had poisoned the well which had Shab ened his existence. This man had made him doubt. _ He met Laura in the passage. Uneasy at his long absence, she had been looking for him about the house, never thinking that he had been out in the cold night for sucha length of time. Her face lighted up gladly as she stepped toward him. Could he not see that there only purity and innocence dwelt? Could he not look into her truthful eyes, and see the reflex of her stainless soul? No. Doubt and jealousy had blinded him. Maddened by what he had heard, he pushed rudely by her, and then, paris sudden remorse, stooped and kissed her, despising hit the next moment for the impulsive tenderness. 1 drove back the tears that had welled into her eyes, and, laying her head ‘timidly upon his shoulder, nestled fondly tohim. , aay have missed you evér ‘so long,” she said, sweetly, | ‘and poor Alice has been asking after you so anxiously, that she must have been afraid you were lost.” ‘6s Tac agi he said, with a fierce passion in his Voice, ‘do, «You thehtas me, William, a: replied the girl, shrinking : timidly from him. He observed the action, and peau it. ’** Answer me,” he said, sternly. “Do not shrink from me, or ‘evade my qnestion! You know T love fe tic ‘do ‘you! Sf 7 eo “Yes, William.” ‘Every ‘sharp word he spoke to her onahabe ‘eK as igh it were a hs aE s point. He was conscious of the suffér- ing he was icting upon ‘her by his own'pain'in the in- fliction, but he set his teeth close; and didnot flinch. ~ ay: You know how pérfectl: I love you, Latira. "You know. the hold you ‘have u on my Radick You know that Thad better be dead than live in | ihe belief that you loved me, and Miss Wymer contributed a small packet, saya atimy: ‘Six and eightpence. I niever! give ‘more; I “nevér'g Ve Tess) © od] pil. Re “Every oné; “from high ‘to love, gave wis: rite William ip ic being the last. it doudw vei r Bax gently nudged the young" Sis pe sul- lenly 1s some pieces of money into the’ ba His ‘un- gr Wione manner drew thé attention’ of the ittle ‘doctor upon him, and from William’s face -his’ wandered ‘to Laura’s. "The trouble’ depicted there startled him, but ihe eae immediate reference to if. 0°" his is good,” ‘said Doctor Bax, drawing’ the Pi a of the bag together. ‘‘I am a rich man, I am a happy. man, ‘Thank you, friends, in the name 'of ‘the poor.” AY do; “cart was waiting ‘outside for the doctors He stood at the side of the pony until William came from the hiphic, “Here you are at last,” he cried; « jump in.” ‘But William turned away, saying ‘he was not in the humor for company, Doctor, Pax laid his hand ently ‘upon the young man’s arm. y * That is just the. reason why company shoula hae forced upon you; unless, indeed,” naa the doctor,! with an up- urges you to shun’ ln friends spring i- ness, There are feelings so sacred us to Reread uae solit
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| and-artew toys;owhich he desir augaeatt While thiswas being done, the Roclancreplere. SHADOWS ON THE SNOW. 1 feelings with which, when our souls; are stirred me rem, only the spirit of nature can have: communion., When. I was a young man, I was at intervals fora brief space under such a spell. _ Then I would wander into the woods, where no human eye could behold me, and my soul would pour out its gratitude forthe heavenly happiness which melted me into worship. | William, when Iwas your age, I loved.” «And now?” questioned William, in.a tone whith ex- hibited no sympathy for his friend... His grief.and despair ' were overwhelming in their selfish force, and he had no room in his heart for other séntiment. | “And now,” replied Doctor Bax, with simple pathos, “*T am alone’in the world: Ah, no!” he cried, with swift correction of himself; ““how' cana man be alone when humanity calls out to him, ‘holds out lis hand, and says: “Give me of’ your heart; double my joy by sharing it with me; lessen my sorrows and troubles by sympathizing with them? No; lam not alone, though ‘thé woman I loved was snatched from me by death: Upon her grave I can lay not only sweet memories, but such daily duties as it is in my humble power'to perform, and which it gladdens her. soul to see, as she gazes upon me from the spirit-world with eyes of love.” rif “You are fortunate in your memories,” said William, moodily. “Tf I flad not the evidence of my senses, I should think that it was Stephen Winkworth who makes that remark to me, not the William Fairfield who has as true cause to bless his lot.as any man dare hope for. Yes, thank God, I am fortunate in my memories; they are the stars of my life, William, I have some visits to make, and you must ac- company me, Nay, I will not be denied. ou need com- panionship. Iam a dootor of the mind as well as of the body, and I can see that you are suffering.”- He- paused for a while, inviting contidence, and, éliciting none, con- tinued: ‘* Gloomy thoughts come to all men at times; and although I do not desire to intrude ‘upon yours against your wish, I shall not allow you to brood oyer youir shadows, and magnify them out of all reasonable proportions.” William started at the word ‘shadows,” and considered for amoment. It was but a few minutes past ten o’clock, and the a eiaeeit which Stephen Winkworth had told him that Laure place until an hour after ak ntil an hour after» ‘ht. . Doctor Bax was his true friend, and hé could not s i hake him off. without resort- ing to subi ‘He had amd return to witness the false girl’s treachery, if Stephen Winkworth had not lied to him. —eruted yatta | «T will go with you,” he'said.) ©) eet] vony _Away, they sped.to. the eetfacent village, the pony throw- ing up the snow merrily with his hoofs, as though he knew yon what errand, they were bent. _ Doctor ‘Bax lived in the heart of the village, and he drew rein at his house. A 4 Salt Fh ; ih wiidsit ftw 7 ' ati RY .- retty maid.ran out to hold the pony, between whom ‘and herselé an intimacy Of an, alfectionaty hatuse evidently ‘ex istec Shatag F ve +t : i g oY t € ‘J “th409 bs 4 aT - Come ing William,” said, the: doctor; “I want’ you to helpane.Bormaa to oonobive byt | ae | Upon the:doctor’s table was quite a number of parcels himself in. countihg ‘the: money he had» collected, at Mr. Harvild’s, adding tovit: the contents: df'a, money+box which,, took from!a cupboard, As he wrapped the money, in eS) yk sae, he explained the matter to, William. “T havea ' ; ul sticqp welbcongttitint. Whien ‘Lisneceed m ehecking, my extravagant whims, I put the money thus saved in this par- ticular: mionéy-box till Christmas!comes. I haye to en- croach wpon it occasionally, but. 1-do so-as seldom, as, possi-. ~ Tehane canght myself,” he saidy with a laugh, ‘*fan- Epa gcaeet aon tice ott of sheer-willfulness, for the pur- ' pose; Ido believe,/of adding to my store of savings. [ have U « 14071". a " ryt ‘d a 3 A ot fst, been fortunate this year—but not fortunate enongh—not had made with another lover was not to take - | but Lean, sive it to, him now. erfuge. Hé had time to accompany the doctor, } William.-to’ place:in. the: fancy sonictimes for useless trifles which I ¢an,} from. her, she will deyote herself to her. fortunate enough...There are so many, and one mam can do so.little.” . b5:i fy Winet ae Despite himself, William was touched, knowing how frugally the doctor lived. , Doctor Bax was not, blind. to this, better mood of his companion, but he did;not appear to openly observe it. BP ses aa ‘Is this your yearly custom?” asked William. |. «It is; and one of my best pleasures, We must be off now.” on ies They had not far to go. The doetor drew rein again at a hovel, from the small window of which a single rush- light could be seen. burning, He knocked at the door, . ‘* Who’s there?” cried a voice. keg ‘Doctor Santa Claus,” replied, the doctor, in a, loud, cheery tone, “ with medicine,” <a The door was, immediately, opened by a. poorly dressed woman, and the doctor entered with some parcels in his . hand. William. remained .outside, and presently Doctor Bax beckoned him in,, saying the pony would stand.. The room was very. scantily furnished, In one corner, on an old wooden. bedstead, a man lay asleep, and by. his side a child, also.asleep, On the rail at. the foot of the bed, se fixed that the child’s eyes should fall upon it when she | woke, was a wooden soldier, placed. there. by the doctor; and the parcels he had taken from the dog-cart. were on & bare deal table. The woman, who had, been ironing, and. who had paused in her work to admit her, visitors, was regarding the gifts with tears in her, eyes. pasate id _ T wanted you to look at.our child,” said Doctor Bax — to William. ‘‘Is she not a beauty?” ra The mother turned down..the coyerlet with pride and affection, to.allow. William to see the pretty creature. Doc- tor Bax stooped and kissed the child, and Willian was im- pelled to, do so.likewise. bce iste ** Has your, man complained, much to-day?” asked Dee- tor Bax. teal ik Ss Ai a aed a “Yes, all day long; he’s asleep now from. sheer, weari- ness; it'd take a deal to wake him. His, back has,beem paining him dreadfully, and all the feeling hag quite gone out, of his legs... He don’t know when Iam pau da them, poordear! Before he went, to sleep, he was, wishing for a Christmas dinner; it would be the last, he said, he should ever be able to eat... I didn’t, know what, to say, . Heavem - only knew where a Christmas dinner was to come from, God bless, you, doctor. “Come, William,” said Doctor Bax,. hastily,, ‘f we. must: be, moving again. Good-night. Some. time to-morrow I shall be here to see how your man is.” On the road, the doctor said: hirh “Unless a man chooses to walk blin persia eist dly through the world, hecan see everywhere about him\sacred and heanti- ful evidences of love. More among the poor BDA, pt | the rich, for, from the, very necessities ph, their, condi self-sacrifice—the, holiest form. in which. love cay shew it- ) self-is the more, demanded... ‘The poor woman,.wh ma Wwe have just left has not been treated by her husband with tenderness or consideration. While, he. was in health, he squandered his money.at the public house,and nevey-saved x- Ponept Sixmonths ago he met,with an accident, to his back, which ‘will, soon, end his days. Since that time /he has has worked unceasingly for him eir child. She Si be up half askin ea iP to Pra . the washing and ironing;she obtains {fromthe neighbors; and love will uphold her through all. When herman dies, after the first passion of grief at that lifting of a heavy load 1e child, whom she will work for with patience and cheerfulness, grateful. for the burden love imposes,on, her.” discs trast Rey Dr. Bax cast a furtive glance at, William, but the young man’s lips were fast seb; and the downward lines on his forehead showed that here. the doctor’s words had reached him, their meaning was lost upon him, | “ap Ep bie es This first, visit’ was. the key-note to all. that, followed. | They went: to places.of the existence of which William had ti had tion, — been unable to moe ep his bed, and. the, woman, with- owt murmuring, has work “ / F
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4 SHADOWS ON THE ‘SNOW. hitherto been ignorant, and saw scenes of domestic life which would have left a deep impression upon him, had the eyes of his mind been open to anything but the contem- plation of“his own misery. But he was almost blind to them, so dazed was he with grief. It certainly was not the result of special design—for William was not his compan- ion by premeditation, and he had his route carefully marked down—that, wherever Doctor Bax stopped, he elicited from the commonest and poorest of the poor and common people he visited sparks of human love which shone with a holy ight among the ashes of misspent and wasted lives. Even from those who had fallen very—very low, and who, snatch- ing the gifts he proffered, threw them aside out of his reach, and thanked him with assumed humility—even from crime, and shame, and sin, that laughed in his face, and mocked his tenderness—even from cunning ingratitude, “ which said, as it accepted his charity, “We have taken what you wished us to take; and now that you have shown ourself off, you may go”+even from the worst of these e did not depart without, with a better cunning than - theirs, evoking from their gutter-natures some gleams of human goodness which made them, if only for a few mo- ments, ashamed of their shame and degradation. - But if Doctor Bax intended to convey any lesson to his ~ companion—and kis frequent anxious glances at. William’s moody face evidenced a wish to do so—by admitting him as |, _™ | a witness to these scenes, his design was a failure. Their . —_— .! > = course, though devious, lay within a narrow 2ircuit, and wherever they went they heard the church-bells chiming |, the hour. Quarter after quarter was proclaimed, and William became more and more inattentive to the doctor’s errands, and more and more impatient for the coming of ‘the moment. which was to make or mar his happiness. The last visit was paid, the last parcel delivered, the last shil- }, ling taken from the doctor’s purse, and he and William . stood by the side of the empty dog-cart, ~ Jump up,” said Doctor Bat: William raised his hand, and listened. A church clock “was Sata it wanted but a quarter of an hour to mid- night. echanically William turned from the doctor, and commenced to walk in the direction of Warley- get ou on your way.” " “J have told you I must be alone.” - ' He did not speak’ roughly; his voice was cold, and | ~ there was ‘a'vacant ring in which it pained Doctor Bax to | 4 . Tr. “s _ ol Slag gy Gopteuane aney,AVintiem 0 pssst . 3 Good-night.” No. Ask me no further questions. “But Doctor Bax would not so lightly part with him. ~~ You distress me; I thought we were friends.” ; : William langhed harshly. The bitter emphasis placed _. on the word by Stephen Winkworth had robbed it of its od meaning. ) “‘The duty before you!” persisted the doctor. . ‘*Ts it a secret one?” A Pee 4S Gar ‘“‘ The knowledge of which is not to be confided even to i ie «<Not to be confided even to you.” - “Tt is no light duty, William.” ~~ | T wish to God I had died before it came in my way to - perform! I will say no more, and I can not stop longer with you.” ** One other question;” said Doctor Bax, almost implor- ingly, ‘‘only one. _Does Laura know of this?” rich man smiles, the poor rejoices. William, with no more force than was necessary, disen- gaged himself from the doctor, and waving his hand in adieu, plunged pant] through the snow. Doctor Bax gazed sadly after him until he was out of sight. **T hoped to have had a good night’s rest,”” he mused, as he mounted to his seat and slowly drove away; “and now nota wink shall I get—not a wink! ‘Confound all mortal- ity, Tsay. If men took a tenth part'jas much pains to make themselves happy as they take’ to: make themsclycs miserable, this would be the blessedest:of worlds. Asit is, I have no patience with it.” This being uttered in'a tone loud enongh for the pony to hear, drew-from that wise creature a determined pro- test; he stood stock still, and would not budge.an inch in response to hard words and impatient urgings to gct on. Not until Doctor Bax tried the soéthing system, and spoke to him in his usual mild and affectionate manner, would he allow himself to be coaxed. And even after he, had covered two or three hundred yards in. his accustomed ‘easy jog-trot, he pulled: up. again of his. own. impulse, to make sure, from his master’s gently spoken, entreaty to put on the steam, that all was right behind. ies William Fairfield walked so swiftly, that before midnight Warleycombe Lodge was in view. The night was cold, but he was in a hot fever. He looked toward the house the woman he loved, lay her head upon HE man’s shoul- der; and he bit. blood into his lips with ic combe. + Christmas bells, which pealed joyously over field and hill, ~~ “*¢Stop, William!” cried the doctor; ‘where are you go- | proclaiming the birth of peace and Jaye... To the high-born ij ET et oe | : a | and lowly alike they sung the holier theme, in the light of | _ “Thave an act of duty to perform,” replied William, | which earthly and sordid desires fade utterly away, _. “and I must be alone.” Dear bells! that bring. glad light to weary eyes, that ~ Doctor Bax hastened after the young man and arrested | whisper courage to despairing ri that instill hope into his steps. WEN hot oO iis fainting hearts—ring on, dear bells, and teach your lesson * An act of duty!” he said; ‘at this time of night?” anew. Humanity sits crowned in her throne of love, and _ * #€ Kt this time of night, and no other.” | [a heavenly glory shines about her han Ring on, dear _ - Teis troublesome walking through the snow. Let’ me | bells, the time has come, Forth into the places where mis- | beautiful lesson. The a of the world is stirred with tender memories. ‘The happy mother, aroused from sleep, whispers to her child lying awake by her side, ‘‘ Dearchild —dear child, the Christmas bells are ringing?’ The girl- woman, musing on the day that shall make her a happy wife, sings to her heart to the rhythm of the bells, ** Doar love—dear love, the Christmas bells are ringing!” ‘i l:c Ring on, sweet Christ- mas bells! The air is filled with your music, which’ traycls far across the snow-white land. oe forests of trees whose branches gleam with beauty, on to the furious seas, where the sailor, battling for dear life with the raging storm, thinks of what is dearer to him than life, and ‘cries to his mate in the midst of the darkness, “‘ At home, old boy, the Christmas bells are ringing!” .
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SHADOWS ON THE SNOW. 7 bts) They rang in, William Pairfield’s ears, and bewildered him. He was deaf to their tender whisperings; they jarred upon his.goul, and he strove, with a wild motion of his arms, to cast them aside, so that he might, reflect undis- turbed upon the treachery of the girl to whom he had given his heart. ; .., : This was his Christmas-eve! Next Christmas they were to have a merry party at their own house; it had been ar- ranged that night. If he proved Stephen’s tale to be true, where would his next Christmas be spent?’ He laughed in helpless derision. His future was blasted. What recked he now where or how his life was passed ? Mi J ‘Some short distance from Warleycombe Lodge, but with- in sight of it, stood an old gnarled tree, prolific in| queerly knotted excrescences and twisted limbs and branches. © It was so old that there had rotted away, at its ‘base, a. space sufficiently large to allow a man to seat himself easily. Here William’ mechanically rested; and ‘with a “weary body but active mind, set himself'to his task. of watching Reuben Harrild’s house. Above him spread. the’ fantastic branches of the tree, hung ‘about with icicles, and fringed with delicate and graceful traceries in snow. “Even in the midst of his rapt attention of the house he Could not avoid béing struck with their beauty, and at odd moments he turned his eyes upward to observe them, Preseritly a singular fancy crept wpon him. The branches assumed weird shape and‘ form: “Crooked twigs becamié transformed into grotesque figttres;perféct iW limb ‘and feature, and though there was not one athong them that was not out of ul reasonable proportion, not oné seemed ‘tonstrous. They were all pygmies, and sat or stood in unnatural attitudes —with ‘their legs twined under thém; ‘with their arms curled around their bodies, with their faces between their knees; here an elf, with his back to William, and his head turned over*his shoulder to gaze at him; there a dwarf, ly- ing at full length, and bending over toward him at a dan- gerous ‘angle.’ The wnfamiliar and curious figures were motionless for many moments; not’a limb; not a feature stirred; but at the end of that'time animation passed into their bodies. Motion came'to ‘their limbs, expression to their features. And of the hundreds of strange faces with which ‘the tree was filled, there was not one that was not directed toward him, there was’ not one eye that was not fixed upon his.” Some smiled with the familiarity of old acquaintanceship, others frowned with’ severe cause; and one old fellow, with a ¢reat-knot in the middle of his forehead, eyed him so sternly that he turned ‘away in anger at the delusion which he had ‘allowed to take possession of his senses. Ashe turned, his’ attention was attracted to the beautiful aoa of the ‘hedge-row which’ lined the boundary of Reuben ‘Harrild’s land.) It was nearly man high; and as he gazed into the tangled skeins of bare and naked bush, snow-lined in purest ‘white, he” saw a thousand startling pictures in the maze. Pee the in- terlaced vista he saw castles’ and rocks ‘with ‘the glow of sunlight upon them; po ricee & Soe into the of many suns setting with # glorious light wpon a dozen battle-fields, with shreds of armues flying from bloody —pur- suers; merging again into grave-yards lying in the light of pale, cold moons, which threw a_ glate upon a myriad white spectres in their winding-sheets, gauntly stretching out their attenuated limbs. Het deities And there—wonder upon wonder!—was the same stern old man with the knot in his forehead, eying him more seriously than ever, and, witlya monstrously disproportion- ate finger, beckoning him to approach. Whom did this old man resemble? His face was surely familiar to Wil- liam, Ah, yes! it was Doctor Bax. No;' Stephen’ Wink- worth, Wrong again. It was one of the worst of the per- sons to whom the little doctor had been: good that night, and who, crazy: with drink, had threatened to do them both an injury if they did not instantly run. Wrong again. It was the toy-soldier which Doctor Bax had ‘fastened to the foot of the child bed. © Still wrong. It was Alice, the deformed girl, with her silken hair cut short, Wrong once is \ 1 impulse. ‘the, Woman | other form, which antasy | more. It was an entirely strange face—a face he had never before looked upon. ; William rubbed his eyes; there still stood the grim oldman with his gigantic tmger, bidding him. to come. ) But now the figure was no longer alone. On every side . arose hundreds of white phantom shadows, inviting Wil- liam, with the same beckoning gestures, to: join their com- pany: As he watched them, with increasing | arnazement, their nunibers grew untilithe entire lands¢ape became filled with motioning snow-shadows; and glancing upward into the spreading branches of-the’ tree,’a: myriad: white faces’ crowded down upon him, urging him to rise. |\Compelled to obey, he stood upon his feet, and lookiig toward the house, found that it had disappeared, that'trees and hedges: had vanished, and that her was’ standing on;a great plain, — carpeted with snow as faras the eye:could reach, without @ single speck or stain wpon it to show ‘that-it Had ever sus- tained a habitation. Not one stationary object redred itself between heaven and earths, and, stranger still;although the plain was thickly thronged with ‘shadows gliding restlessly around him, and ‘although he was continually: turning this way and that, in his vain endeavor to: follow :their weird and ghostly motions; the surface of the:snow did not present a single mark to denote that it was trodden.) sq.) o And now.& miracle -oceurred:, «A «wild: excitement pos- sessed the phantom throng, ard, the ranks dividing, a fig- ure of surpassing loveliness approached. | It:was that ofa beautiful woman, with a crown of erystals ‘upon sher:head, A thousand stars of icicle gleamed about» hex! She was garbed in ‘robes of snowy” whiteness,’ which; hung loosely upon her form, ‘Her limbs and features were, faultlessly molded, and in her eye dwelt an expression of such heayen- ly love and goodness, that William was impelled to kneel to | her. But he was powerless; -hisclimbs refused: to obey his Closer and closer she ro Clear as spot- less crystal, she stood) before him, Justrously beautiful;: with a holy light invhereyes, » No stain ‘was oh her sonl—for he beheld it in-all its puritys»_And on her heart, with «a calm and placidsmile upon its lips, lay ‘the body of a sleeping child. : he : Rit7 Dei af Wilham, gazing with awe and wondér on the’ dazzling vision, felt a cold touch upon his arm, ‘and turned, in the expectation of seeing some new wonder. But he stood alone, within a circle into which no spirit ventured to in- trude, and a voice whispered into his ear the word: *¢ Waith!?? : L ogo at ‘tT Ons SGA ee OW +b _ He knew that the presence of an Invisible Shadow was about him, and that this wa the name of the spotless’ Wo man who stood before him. per wae cdi Breve 81 Again the vast throng of, white phantoms upheayed, and nan disappeared; again they glided ‘hither nd thither, in seeming: disorder; again their s, divided, and in the spot whereon, the Woman had. ood arose an- ich he shuddered to look upon... The for eled hair, with scowling. ed .an form ofa Creature with dishey 7 with blood-shot. eyes, with blanch It. was transparent th a dagecr in its breasts congo or the second time the cold touch came upon his arm, s} f and the yoice whispered: | ** Doubt!” | oi] | ; 7 4 Again the shadowy throng upheaved, and hid the fright- ful Creature from his sight. Again their ranks airiiad, and disclosed a new and awful figure, crouching’ to the ground, with tears streaming from its eyes. aap, haggard before its time, and utterly, utterly hope- ess, ward, in despairing appeal. pitiful faee, i and dead, ) e Ese For the third time William felt the cold touch upon his And in its lap, with pallid, the bleeding form of — © . | ivering lips, with trembling limbs. Its garments were polled, and light. . ly on its brows was fixed a crown, with sharp and jagged points. pressing inward on its forehead. _as-the first, and ] ing on its heart was a dying, child, with Old before its It raised its wasted hands, it turned its face heaven ay the form of.a once beautiful child, cold — . One eC a. ee. 4 a ae
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jae rie aac oa he Cae ier aN eternal cd - tom shadows ih a | a ~ faithful a 46 armthe touch that now chilled hitn’té the ‘latrow; ‘for the eae tiie thé’ voice Whispered in his ear ' Remorse!” ePre The moment the word was spoken, the tk ong Ket hae glided into their’ snow-tomb and’ vanished ‘from his sight. The snow closed upon them like the resist- ‘less wave of a) mighty sea, and the great plain lay naked in ‘the eye: of Heaven. But William ‘was not’ alone. Once sore the voice of ‘the Invisible Shadow ‘addressed him: ““ Blind and infatuated! of doubt and mistrust? Upon this’ holy »Christmas-eve haye you allowed to be defiled the love which hallows life? She whom you love; and who loves you with perfect faith- | This morning; Farth | fulness, is stainless and ) truthful. filled: your heart.’ This night, Doubt: oceupies its: place. Beware, lest to-morrow comes Remorse! .. Behold what you were, what you are, ‘and what you shall be, if you allow passion and unreason to blind you!” The ‘voice ceased, and William, starting forward in terror, threw up his’ arms with a wild, despairing cry. For the white plain was forming itself ‘into a vast valley, shelving into dept ths which appeared illimitable, and" into which: he was sinking. In ra he strove to save himself. Down, he sunk, lower and lower still, until he was dizaily fearful that each momént would disclose a frightful precipice, over which he would be hurled and dashed . to. pieces. although the soft, white snow enveloped him, .and. this terror encompassed his soul, he was sensible of the presence of shadowy spirits accompanying him in his) flight; and ever and anon, in the course of his descent there gleamed _ athwart his otherwise blinded sight visions which enthralled him. Blue eyes and brown; : faces wondrously beautiful; white hands that played about ‘his hair; lips) that. smiled and mocked; 2 bane for whom he ‘entertained ‘affection; his mother, died when he was young, and the | pretty child who was buried with her—one and all gleamed before his sight, like stars falling from heaven into the depths, It seemed to him that he continued thus to sink for days and weeks and years, ane that to, this horrible fate, he was -eond femnets AE a Kength the end came. Dark- ipuselt knew .nothing more, until he. font imself sarge bef rea house surrounded by way- ing fiel eaming in the.sun, Be musi- c whisperings of the waving sheaves fell melodious y upon bey ear's, 2 d he ey an Ee ae thee sense, cof fo a bri it Bpnge te e lous est, an d'then he ieee sce Pt i Lio el ‘his wit snide sai Seiten ‘sgig ‘stood; is’ own fi Jas that he saw around him.” Not’ ids isthe vidence of more eateful ’ ‘hus- Sot oat ahi i Tome ears married. att - ma inore bes pa its : lted' iy hi ant hg! ps ¥ tt an with ‘a a laa ee in her’ ce toward the distint’ WHA des é, ° Wonder upon fay tie He saw a man SS ae gm imself with a little girl upon his shoulders— and clappihge new tity hands at) her mother;'who!ran? to- ward them ‘with’ joyous’ ‘crie’;vand was’ taken ‘too her hus- band’s embiace. “And themthe learned that he was d:shad= ‘Ow; invisible, impalpabley: and'that hisother self had! tuken his place in “Latra’s’héart.|; He! accompanied them, and walked by theirside, listened to the! fond terms of : endear ment that: passed between’ them, a witness of their true and ection. The da passed and he saw them: in the evening, sitting by the ite wv SHADOWS ON | shouldey. ’ Upon’ this evening; when ‘the | ‘universal heart of man‘should be turned to love and charity, |, have you allowed to’ be sown within ‘your'breast’ the seeds But | 1, | Doubler what momo holy: 5 es sue 8 spring from the see Is you hag Ow. is might, ‘n beg within your heart.” | was | farm N : upon the landscar -leyed 2), Althoug ‘thbyteaniliew features were there, t ; m | pres of accustomed-unhappiness struck hi with. fear. is child and hets, by the | ris are her pretty face’ to himself’ and! Lawra—crowing | ow, her head resting upon his ! faith did’ not sanctify it: THE ‘SNOW. — He heard her speak’ in see accents of love; he comprehended the worship of her eyes as she’gazed upon her husband, and he groaned in’ despair at the thought that she had faded out of his place inthe world; een, thi another | filled ite” 2 “Shall I buy your, thoughts: ” asked her. husband, in reference to a sweet and pensive expression | he’ ‘obsérved in ts her face. : “‘ What. will, you, give for them, William?” , ') - He kissed her; she nestled closer to him... “Tam thinking. of the past,” she said, seo ‘gomething that is oftenin, my mind, yet. of which I haye never spoken. row Do you remember the last. Christmas-eve we baie in my father’s house before we were married?” “Surely, my darling . “Some hing seemed to come. between us ‘that aight, something that threw.a shadow upon. both our When you went away I was truly unhappy, and I did ot ‘sleep the whole of the night. How I sighed for the. fa come, so that I might see you and tall ou all., And when I saw you coming across the field, O William, Iran up. to my bedroom and cried for very happiness. For I feared that I might never see yon again, and the thought was like-death to me,’ ‘Do not speak of that night,” he said, “¢ the remembrance of my blind jealousy always: bangs pain tome.” ‘Tt brings pleasure to me, William, for it seemed to. me that, I needed that proof, of your trustfulness,.. I am in- deed; a happy woman, happy beyond the power of WOR 8. “Tam blest, in your loye, my. darling,” gt And lin yours,. dear. i thank God for it hburly and daily,’ In this way, without 0 one! idieperdant element, the. “feta of those two lives passed rapidly before the dreamer. . He saw them in their youthful wedded days, contented and blessed. Years eueae swiftly over. their heads, and children. grew around them, adding to) their happiness...Every day was not a day of joy. . Sorrow and.sickness came to them as to others, and he belield them weeping inthe chamberjof death over the lifeless form of one of their children, gathering con- solation in their bereavement from their mutual: affection, and from their firm, belief that Ie whose. all, eye watches, equally over all would, in-his-own good time, their darling again to their arms, And..so, through. the valley of the years, he followed the recor dof! their, honored. lives until they were gathered bak the fold of Him, whose children. live, through all .eterni: tir soisntab oils Again he heard the:yoiee of t (Pos init dkadew:'s _ Such lives.as these are the Smalad Faith \ : dew at sd healed chp eves beans oni douny but, ahi? show eet the-rich 1M arated fe homestead ; , in his any with weeds, uray king ou athe ie Could this ‘be, the metroniee «he )@X> -resently his second. self, came toward her; but,she was not, as before, taken to; lier husband’s embrace,,and, he,-made na ¢ | response to the yearning ¢ dook with which ever‘and.anon she raised her eyes to. his. din, Av END they walked. isis byrside to theixr, houses. |. traf any fy of Who» Rha wieat Langit 170 tie pe Hott 14 No!persony W illiam:” : d gutiomsod yrognit Sx | Youiare suite ofthat!’ 0) «| idorosat caer file '«¢ Tideed+indeed,” she! replied, with a v hetty ~ ‘“there has’ been 116 | person here.” 10 He received herassurance with a sneers:) soy 03 mrhiry ‘*We men are notya match for you: fair potiacse 8 She turned from him, sobbing, and: William: babsnicided what-an unhapp home was ‘here before’ him, darkened» by doubt, gloomed by mistrust. |“ Lovendid not: ag ter it; mit na
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SHADOWS ON THE SNOW. aes 17 —— —.. In the evening, the wixe crept humbly, beseechingly, to her husband's #1dé..-! 4° bo dest iil’ Jeo) “ William,” she said, timidly, ‘is this to goon forever?” “<It is for you to decide,” he replied, morosely.. © ‘‘ What can Ido?” she cried,. “ oh, what can i do?) Why .lo you still continue to doubt me?” . * Why do you give me cause?” “Heaven knows: donot!» You shave an: evil | spirit in your heart, and Iam weak and powerless against it. » ‘By the memory of our dead child; Ihave beentrue and faith- ful to you in deed and thought! Oh, William!our' past life has been very, very miserable. |\ Let it go, and all, our misery with it. Do not darken the days to’ come; there is io cause; indeed—indeed, there isino; cause! Cast from sour heart the doubts that beset you, anddo not: entirely wreck our future, I love: you | still, despite: your unkind- fessi” an in Of course,” he said) bitterly; “amy unkindness—throw it all upon me! Like all you'women! But I am not»yet quite blind. Stephen Winkworth was right; you are all false alike:?? crit soicw by } . * William—William!” she cried, tears of anguish in her eyes; “‘you have broken my heart!” ~ But he left her abruptly, without reply+left her to weep over the cold ashes of her love. i Thus passed'the years): Thinner and paler grew the wife—more morose and haggard grew: the husband; until the hour arrived when she lay wpon her bed of death, her wan face looking up to his, while the angel of love and the demon of doubt still fought their battle within his soul. ‘« Kiss me, William,” ‘she said; slowly. and. painfully. “‘T any sorry, yet-glad, to leave yous’ ‘Ourlife has not been what I hoped 1t would be. How happy we were before we were. monatiedastian: the adeamidid days! future was! But all my dieams:died ¥ ars, long years ago. It is too late‘now to: endeavor to bring them to life; but we shallmeet agairn—in the Hereafter, when all doubt is: cleared’away. In that good time yow will know me better, . and will love me again, as in the old days, will you: not?” _- He choked back the spasms that arose to his throat, and, ina sudden agony of remorse, knelt bythe bed and laid his. hand imhersition) oj o4 dope HOMIE 929 i ‘Thank God!” she saidy with glad light im her voice, as she ‘held:his hand,to her wasted breast,.and. then: raised it foebly tovher lips. .<‘ It is allover} life was very'hard to. bear. wi Teike Bee I gave you all Piss Yaa RE but you took youts from:me, and) it was my life—my life!) When I am gone, think of me ‘sometimes with: love »in your. thoughts. : book, William, look!’ she arose.in’ her bed: and pointed out.of window; “there is father’s house. The. show] is falling; \is, it (Christmasy then? ‘Beautiful, shadows: are amoving’ allysaround, ». Kiss me, William, for: the last—last time.’ Ah,yomy love—my)lovel”»\ {i es [44 With thatlast-kiss spiritual beauty passed into, her. face, . and her soul winged a way to the bosom of our Heavenly episittie 2. WRUIN Moule yd omen vido odj—vili 7 «Such ives:as) these;”:said: the. Invisible Spirit, ‘are. the a de rob esate x ay x0} Fax ti aaible For the th ad | he as home changed, | All now was’ vs Asdeathly stillness, reigned | throughout the house, and, sitting» by) himself, with, eyes thats the ground, William:beheld a, prematurely. old, greyel man. qU nfriended,, uncared for, he-mourned, cnd-vasted fou Brooding! Over hat: might héve been, listening for whatche shall never heit—for the tender voice ofthe roman whose heart he:had ‘broken, for | the: pretty prattle of children, and: the ete crambling of; theix:lit- tle feet: searching for the home-lights which. ‘he | himself extingtished) and which shall neven shine again; stretching forth his hands to. the years that are.gone, and, gazing de+ spairingly at the dead: flowers which might have bloomed for him until he closed his eyes upon the: world,, “yaai finvas “And for the first time) the spirit.spokes ja. yiycd buy ‘<The story you have heard this night from the lips of a | How: bright the | ‘illiam ; : hard, bad man is:true. But if.one sin, must all be guilty? Your life is now sanctified by the pure love of a pure wom- an. Oast it notlightly from you, | Live, and. be blessed with the:angel,, Love... Live, and;,be cursed with the deyil; Donbt.: The-choiceis before you... You have xeceived. you: warnings”?! of beblod ai-ag sahaoi a hin amid banes The voice ceased, and William, starting to his feet, rub- bed his eyes in amazement, and looked about him. It was a dream—surely a dream, for no spirit-faces were in the twisted. limbs. and. branches of. the tree. The ,hedge-row beyond was very beautiful, but ne beckoning shadows were there. The stars shone: inthe frosty heavens, .and.the moon threw a soft, tender light upon the snow-fields smil-, ing/ in her-faces.. The night: was, very lovely; all, Nature was in repose... He looked toward Laura’s. honse, and there—— , ie ive Lapiey pads For a moment his heart stood. still,,and then, his body throbbed with maddening pulses. Stealing out from, the house, he saw afemale, her form throwing a long Shadow on the Snow. He could not mistake the step, the graceful turn of her neck, as she looked: warily around... , her form meeting hers—the Shadow of a man upon the Snow! As the two-met, William pressed forward in mad excite- ment. He saw the tenderest kisses passed between them; he saw them clinging to each other in fond endearment; he saw his Laura lying in another man’s arms, and he sank to the ground witha bitter cry. A. blight had fallen on. his life, ’ Cis OB PART IT. " s THE SHADOWS ON THE SNOW RANGES, ot English firesides, our. takes us, on a dark and .cheerless night, to, a small, st. icebergs, near, "mid tracks of shosphorescent fly, ‘seasons change, and glowi aspirations fade away asd, are lashttbteees jin Abe gulf of furious eddies, is stripped in its turn, o by every sharp nook and — ib edie ‘ ' ‘ o~ grows more frantic in its vain endeayors to. escape into the oe a premacy, 4 ae mi r scorn, its, wild, shrieks, knowing full, well that. when, i the, Old ,World’ and, this that) we ,call.the, News... The thoughts of one man at least,’ sitting, inthe tent with his face hidden in his hands, are traveling toward the. beauti- ful Jane in Deyen, which teems with pledsant) and, one ter* ribly.bitter memory—to, the’ narrow, quiet lane, in) the garden’ of England, wherein were culminated his life’s hap-
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ee? ee DS. dk er — _ tho set themselves the task of tracking t country have the ‘nobler physical - more worthily exercised. “These SE, a ee 18 SHADOWS ON THE SNOW. piness and his hife’s great sorrow. Again the scene rises before him: Again the old familiar faces. shape themselves in the air, and visit him with loving looks and smiles: Again a tearfully happy face is resting.on his breast, and loving eyes seek’ his: © Again the fond arms are thrown around him, and a tender form is folded to his breasts: And then he wakes, and looking up with a bitter smile, shakes off the dream in anger. » . Within the tent'a party of men are seated’ before a miser- ably scant fire. The ¢canvas—the only roof between them and heaven—scarcely sereens the:.. from the inclemeney of the storm; and:strong and:h.rdy asthe, are, they huddle close together for warmta, and greedily. watch the dying embers before them. The mon «ze rough-looking fellows, with great beards:and strong .imbs, an’. 2 decided assertion of physical strength in »very movment of their bodies. Each has a’short black pipe in his: mouth, which he puffs vigorously ‘and »with a will; and all are: alike attired) in rough “pea-jackets, *moleskin trousers, and » water-tight knee-boots; their billycock hats are on the ground or on the wooden.stretchers upon which they rest at night. Al- “they are m ‘as can be; although the country, for miles around; is knee/ deep, and in some places:man-deep, with snow; although a heavy drift:without is raising’ barriers: almost: impassible; although their last handful of wood is burning:dn the: fire, and they know they can obtain no more;‘although ‘they have not three days’ provisions. in their tent—no craven fear disturbs them. If they-have to die, they will die like men, as others have done before them. Some three or - four weeks ago they had set off on the track of a party of miners, wlr0, it was whispered, had discovered 4 new gold- field.» Stealing out in the dead of night, lest they them- selves should be:followed, they had plunged into a portion of the country which they didnot hope to find other than barren, inhospitable, shat ineapable of sustaiming ,human life. . With the indomitable courage and apnarent reckless- ness which form part of th.. gold-digger’s character, they f “8 men: before them, and di ing the-locality of their workings» No pluck in the world can beat: the pluck of the gold-digger.. He snaps his fingers at obstacles from which other men would shrink affrighted; he sights with the barrenness of nature; u uering, opens up country which, but for his hardi- hood ‘anddaring, would remain, with its treasure, forever shut-out from*the knowledge of mankind. There is no pioneer so brave;.so/persistent, so enduring. In no age or qualities of man been n the ‘Australian colonies the gold-digger is the pioneer of progress) 9 en; bound: together for the time by’ an almost brotherly tie, differed widely in character and’ appearance. Each might have moved, and probably did, ina different grade of life in the Old Country; but so small a matter as one being born ee common laborer was here ofno account, fora gold-digger’s career levels all stich “distinetion, »-Their great. beards made their faces so many distinet puzzles, physiognomically; but there was that about their appearance, action, and -conversation which in some measure served as' an index to their several characters, One was known as Gentleman George The nickname conveyed no satire, and none was intended when _ it was bestowed.’ Gentleman George was a gentleman of ood breeding, a handsome fellow enough, with laughing lue eyes and the strength ofa Hercules. Opposite to him, squatting upon ‘his blanket, was Cornish ‘Tom. He had been a -digger for twenty years, and had mined in California, New South Wales, Victoria, and New Zealand. He might‘ have made a fortune a dozen times over, for he had had’ fully that number of chances. But. the careless fellow had never taken the golden tide at. its flood. ~ ‘There was no rest for the sole of Cornish Tom’s foot. No sooner did he-hear of a ‘“‘new rush” than he caught ‘the fever and was off to it. Many were the rich claims he had abandoned, to be among the first on a new gold-field. Bexs esperate a condition as men well’ Hundreds and thousands of miles of bush and plain had he covered on foot, in the blithest of spirits, to discover, more often than not, that, he had been following 4. will+o’-the- wisp. Yet he was:always hopeful, always sanguine. Free- handed, simple-minded, hard-working, and restless, he was the type of a class which will be easily recognized. by those who are acquainted with life on the gold-fields. ‘The third of the party was a young man remarkable chiefly for his' reticence and furious love of hard work... He hoarded his gold like a miser.. The vain opposite of Cornish Tom, who flung his money about wit Driver spent never a shilling in waste, and was so consist- ently steady and saving that he: frequently brought upon himself the contempt :of:his comrades. party was William Fairfield, Yes;: maddened by what: he. had witnessed on! that fatal. Christmas night, William Fairfield, with as little delay as possible, had signed away his farm to Stephen Winkworth. He wrote but a few. words:to- Laura... They were these: ‘« Twasvoutside your houserlast /hight, and saw all. I leave you with a grief at my heart which time can ‘neyer remove. May your future be, happier than that: I see be- fore me. Farewell!” ito And, without waiting for explanation or replyj he triv- eled hastily to Plymouth, and, took passage in & ship,about to sail fom Nek Zealand. Commonplace readingythis; but life, for the most) part, is. made,up of. commonplaces, and ordinary events require :but; ordinary language :to “express thems» o*: us. cil Hitidool ox As he sat by the miserable fire on this cold and bitter night, his ee naturally—for death stared him in the face—again and again traveled back to his last Christmas- eve at Warleycombe. «Indeed, he was forever dwelling on the fatal time.|| He would. lie awake, night after might, wandering through the maze of the past..'\\Even in the midst ‘of his ste <i the memory, of some small’ incident: which had given him pleasure would arise in reproach against him. At times he would wonder what she was do- ing at the moment of his thought; and he would set his wounds bleeding by recalling her face, so innocently beau- ‘tiful; so sweet. to gaze upon, so-fair, so false. He encour- aged these memories, though he extracted from them noth- ing but the most:exquisite misery. | ; One maddening doubt continually haunted him. .Had he been rash in judging Laura? No, ‘he would.indignantly rales ii was it possible he could have’ been mistaken? Had henot the evidence of his senses? Had not his own eyes been witness of her faithléssness?. But still. he wan- dered: back to the theme, and still the doubts remained. _. Whew!” whistled Gentleman George, at the subsidence of a great blast of wind, which shook the tent. perilously; “*T hope we shall not be blown away! We're in a pretty eo as itis, but that-would make it. tem times. worse. Just take a peep out-of-doors, Willy, and see what it looks likes? aso 1L uu, ‘Willy—the only name by which William Fairfield was’ known—went tothe door and cautiously opened it, and holding it fast, for fear that it might be blown out of his hand, ‘et in a gust of wind that raised the dying embers of the fire into a deceitful blaze, and caused his mates to shout. to him to close the door, LY duoits Stepping out quickly, and closing the door after him, William, with his keen sight, strove to pierce the darkness. In truth, it was a bitter night, A heavy wind was se yp the snow before it fiercely. The clouds hung black anc thick in the heavens. The tremendous ranges which hem- med in the little band of men were snow-clad from base to summit, and the flying drift, blowing into William’s face, almost blinded him. Suddenly William made a step forward in the darkness, Wiping his eyes clear of thesnow, and shading them with’ his hand, he peered before him intently, in search of some familiar object. resumed his seat. utter recklessness; Dick The fourth of the. What he sought did not meet his gaze, and hastily stepping into the tent, he fastened the door and —
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SHADOWS ON THE SNOW. : 19 ' “ Well?” asked Gentleman George, for the disturbed éx- pression on William’s features invited inguiry..¢) | i “Did you see the fork this-afternoon?” William abrupt- ly asked. : His mates turned their eyes upon him. “Yes,” was the reply. The fork was @ tree with a quaintly-formed limb branch- ing out of it, which stood about a hundred yards from the tent, «* Are you sure you are not mistaken?” *¢ Certain.” | * Well, it has either been blown away, or the snow has covered it. If it-has not been blown away; 'there must be twelve fect of snow where it stands.” . ‘The fork of the tree stood about that hight’ from ‘the ground. ' i A low whistle broke from the lips of the three men, and Cornish Tom, knocking the ashes‘out of his eutty pipe, re- filled it with nrore than tstial cate and deliberation: They followed his movements, knowing he had ‘some thing important to say. Pressing’ the tobacco” into the bowl of his pipe with his left thumb, he said" taal “T reckon we’re in fora tight job.” ‘We've about. three | day’s grub in the tent, and there’s no getting any’ more within twenty miles: of ‘this. The snow-storm’s going’ to last,-and I’m blessed if I see how we’re going to fight it out | in this gully... We'll ‘have to make ‘our way out of it.” “And leave behind us a claim that’s aturning out an ounce of gold to the tub!” “«« THat’s so.” HY.O}1 ~ “With the chance of never being able to find the place again!” ~ ** Right you are.” help forit. T'was onée told by a Pp eh that places like these aré showed in at this season of the year sometimes for months together.” » . No,” they-all tepliedy tt .todt Yo Ile ot How vitor’ “The men thee have made trd¢ks, then, knowing it would be death to'stop:'’ We'll Have to follow their éxam- gully.” S eins ) _ «T-wonder if they’re well off for provisions,” speculated Gentleman Geor, ey) sin rf “Txid ol “It’s all very well,” said Dick ‘Driver, speaking» very slowly, ‘‘ to say that we shall have to follow them; but it against which # mass of accumulated snow was heavily ressing; “‘ there’s a big drift setting in; the old tracks are through his mind, #1 cs only answer Gentleman George and Cornish Tom gave to this was @ steadier puffing at their 5 Hho They were well aware of their danger, but they did not care to talk oyermuch about it. Indeed, every man of the party | of you.” | do you mean by presuming to know better than ‘you want to upset the but one had; before: this time, grasped the fnll extent of the peril—every man but William Fairfield. He had not clearly realized it until this night, and now it came upon him with terrible force... Never to get back! .To be buried here, and lost to. the world forever}. Never to see dear Devon again! Never again to:see or liear.of; Lama! An intense and burning desire seized him to see and speak with her; for he loved her still—loved her dearly, It wus maddening to think he should never look upon hex face again. Re al “*Would it have been ‘better for me,” he thought, dis- tracted by remorseful doubts, “not to have seen? It would, for I should not have known; I should have been blessed and happy; and now Pm Sond 2 751 He went again to'thé door, and; heedless of the almest blinding snow, stepped ott. Tle strained: his gaze across the hills, as if hé hoped by so’doing he could conjure ‘wp Warleycombe ‘in the distances And if he could have done so—if at that’ moment a vision of what was passing there had dawned upon’ him; what would he have’ seen « and heard?” sULISTY He would have’ seen Lavira +e ae listlessly ‘at her fa- vorite window, overlooking the garden, now radiant with nature’s loveliest. gifts. He would have ohserved how thin and pale she had grown in ‘the few months that Had ‘passed since Christmas. He would have seen her gazing with wistful look far—far beyond,:as though she too were striv- ing to annihilate space, and look again upon the form of the man she loved; for she had ‘not turned her Heart from him, and had he presented himself to her,\ she would have taken him to her breast, and wept cver and forgiven him. He would have seen her father” enter softly, ‘aad stand by her side, with his hand on“her shoulder He wenle have heard Reuben Harrild BAYT) SEE Se OEE ae a “<The old wound, child?” ‘e red 1 ‘The old wound, father,” she answers, sadly; ‘it will — never—never he healed.” prgaleratent Ser ei Mense oS 3 “Child—child!” Reuben Harrild cries, “he is hot worthy ; ° - Tit itty She lays her fingers on his lips. ~<a ene ‘He is mistaken, father, and has misjudged me. He will know it,soon, perhaps does now, and thinks better of me. Oh, that he were here that I might tell him] forgive © him! eal? . And, later on, when Laura was alone, William ponta a have seen her on her knees, her prayer being that her lover i. should return-to her, or thatshe should die an he possessed. the tie et ae of clairvoyance, he might have turned to another home—that of Step. en ink- worth, There he oa haye seen. poor cripple fo uye) win ing sick on her bed, and Stephen standing by in Doctor Bax, also, being present, looking Mees t gi than of.old. “hae P netapsaceeter eet, ‘May children never make faces, at. medicine. ain,” says the little doctor, in a cheerful voice, ‘if you Pare ie something better to-day, Alice. We shall haye you pres- _ ently running about the house as lively as a.cricket.” Ao Weary smile passes over, . A ROGER IT) «7 shall never get well “peg es ae a 5 aatipen j » Lam. j Me 52: 53 ats ‘«* Nonsense, child, nonsense!”. exclaimed Doctor Bax; ‘what do you mean by flying at. me in. that waa What ido? Do harmacopq@ia ?” Le seats ‘There is only one thing that can make me better, doc- tor,” says Alice, it eben sp ire pare Winkworth bends eagerly forward. ‘‘ What is that one thing?” .cries the doctor, yivaciously. 5 Give ita name, my dear, and it shall be yours ina twink- ing. aeepha m dik She shakes herhead in sadness. [ut ‘““You cannot ‘get it for me,” she says. . “ If William Fairfield would come back and comfort Laura, t would — gladden and do me good.” She presses her hand to her _ heart as she speaks, and looks toward Stephen, who turns
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_ she’s an angel, my dear, and, so,are en ee a ae , C ae ee ¥ ‘ Se, ae ot st oe hE re ————) ie ‘cold, cant he was fain to rejoin his. mates in the tent. Mada a _ them, and I don’t know, “in to get rid of "mo; and'I was not sorry to: ~ eally; soci Wea stout hearts, and: we shall bevall aight. At all | events, we: won’t stay here. till we're, so snugly snowed. in “We'll start to-morrow morning, and | -eut our waysout ofthis,” heard ‘vou 4 20 SHADOWS ON THE SNOW. from his ¢hild wath eee doctor? © = “Very sithappr ‘child;” replies Doctor: Tani in: atone of infinite compassion; for words have passed between, him and Stephen Winkworth which make him more’ than _,sus- pect the deformed girl’s seeret of: her hopeless love, “You really do not ‘know, doctor,” she asks, ‘ what made William Fairfiel€ go away so suddenly?” «* How on earth should I know?” cries Doctor Bax, iras- - ‘Some confounded mischief-maker had a hand: in dare sdy. » And yet that he should have so conducted himself! lt is ‘unaccountable, most unaccountable. « Lwas in his company last| Christmas-eve until, nearly midnight, and if [ had had the most remote suspicion,of what was passing in his mind, I would neyer haye left him—neyer! I haye lived in) this, miserable world a good. many, years, my dear,;and the longer I live the more it puzzlesme... How such a young man—generous and noble-minded, as I be- lieved him. to be, could.so basely desert that sweet girl—tfor you!—is the most in- comprehensible piece of folly it has ever been my bad: for- tune to be mixed up_in, ise my word, I belieye the world and. everybody in it have Bone crazy. Good-by, my ; 1 will see you to-morrow,’ r Bax leaves the house, HBR Hes head w ith an air. i gr reat, yexation.. * * ba the oF * William Fairfield saw ‘nothing but, the desolate ranges; heard nothing but, the shrieking of the sto and a terri- ble and hopeless despair gathered about, he heart. He baloe} searcely keep his senses at the thought of dying un- in this wild spot. But he could not bear the presenti- «J have never been much of. a believer i have got ments,” Gentleman Peppers was saying, ‘* but * the idea in my head that if we don’t get out of this to- morrow, we shall never get Ant ut of it alive. We oonld Be Peep the snow aw wy ‘fora pris ong time, but without for a fire, ’d defy t i ie eliy to keep _ himself from be 3 h fo: to, eat.” ; rea a iis near! at oat grumbled Cornish Pas te ea e ne for a oii of Barrett's tt “ ‘Two dn’t igi b a brass farthing, if we had plenty 0 » ; pie goat forks. at im said Gentleman au ay 1 ing 1 t G ibe LH m mene ‘a eae bv a Catia nd te « a vi nar Te its, “most “expressive serise” by e ptizzled any of. them ‘to impa fiat ‘information ey to id anon teatat were LA yee _to low 's ékis th But for forcible figures of creat heey é gold-fidlds ‘the: see was an rpatuable oF ey Lats -TAIOGRL ¢ ftiltj rom x dt hoxgeke aT ash Yt seen. ry r’ ten! has sy and though I don’t write’ ‘to if theyjare ‘alivey I can’t of tien ate h. @ ‘time as/ this. Ti never of yours, "To Ca EAGER | aoago vw > ot none,” said Cornish esx Lwcomically! . thinki OTT ay ent f a pret y William aco his head. site i ihe o © You havey I know, Dick, ” Beit oe routed ‘6 for ve seen you reading their letter: s—and have envied: you, mate. You see, I was’ a scape-grace at home; = they were glad ut:T should like to soe their dear old: faces again, if t ey are alive.” “And so you will, Geerge,” but you are not going the right | wa: way about ity, We that we can’t escape. Laura is) very, unhappy ) , Willie?” bee ‘Gentleman, Gonos a Hoy ob | said Cornish 'Tom, energeti- ‘Hark!’ cried William, starting to his feet. not hear that ery?” They, all. listened. attentively; no, sound reached: their ears but the moaning of the wind. ituat ‘« It’s hard for a.man to hear anything,in,such.a gale: ts this,” said Cornish Tom. ‘‘ Great. Lord, what is that?” They rushed. to, the door, A deadening roar, drowned the shrieking-and moaning of. the, wind, and, looking out; they beheld a sight which made them hold onto one another in awe and wonder—an. avalanche, slipping from the summit of one of the loftiest ranges! Down—~down it thundered, throwing out, huge | snow-spray 8, eatixy one sufficient to bur y a hundred men. . Down the steep side, of the mountain it rushed, increasing in, volume. with. every foot it rolled, and detaching great masses of snow and ice, which leaped over each other with awful velocity, until wf thundered into the gully.. A roar of ten thousand evil spirits;, an angry rush as of a) giant army of white monsters, filling the. air with terrible, sights and sounds; and then the avalanche spread. itself a a terrific thud at the base of the mountain... The lookers-on, with white faces, held, their breaths, all thought of their own perih gone in the awful grandeur of the scene. ‘+ We shall be bloma te ice- blocks,” presently, said. Gen- tleman George, asa deep sigh of relief escaped him, ‘‘if we stand here much longer. Thank God, we are cat under itt” With a feeling of devout thankfulness. in ‘their, hearts, they went into the tent, and, scraping up the scattered em- bers of the. fire, huddled around it in. close RomEPARION- ‘Do you shi To ai divert his thoughts from the conor Nan, of the dread peril which surrounded them, Gentleman CRATER ybe- gan to talk,of his gold-field adventures, in which all einad with eager interest, having the same object in yiew as /him- self, h man, had, something worth, listening to,to nar- rate, but the most famous authority among them was. Cor- nish Tom, and he spoke of his experiences‘on, new gold-fields with an eloquence and power of language atrange from: the bearded lips of so rongh a man... “You have been to every new rush in the colonies, I do believe,” said Gentleman George. vile tron “* Pretty well to all of them, mate. (It has, been a kind of mania with.me..»Mayhap,I shall neyer go.to another.” «¥ owwere.one of the first ‘ot Maduaney Gully, I’ve been told, Tom.” |» Cornish: Tom’ sface suddenly orew pensive, and. he gazed | into: the dyi embers in the huge, fire-place, murmuri | ** Little Liz—little Liz!” in.a voice so soft.and sweet,.1 at their hearts were drawn more closely to this mate of their whose hfe was: known to contain many affecting, episodes. ‘Little Liz!? echoed Gentleman ee fon ay thetic. ara “s oe es to do with ,.Madma ae Gals, ¥> Tom?” : ) } A jndtoves ery gy smnatel!? fe dy 9M . “After the awful | ‘sight we 1 bare just eeu Tom,” cad Gentleman nena cb? ‘none of us; J am,sure, are! in fe hu- mor for sleep. ell us the story of Little. ALia.”* britany Cornish Tomewassilent for awhiles: %) fs, foo 5 d jut — “TLtewall do either; me nor you, any; harm, mates,’ ’ he | said; still gazing at.the dying embers, ‘* to. recall the, mem- ory of that dear ¢ angel at this time) Ten. a itaes mates; I will tell you\the story. i Drv twontt They»-did, not. speak, after this pes Ace Cornish Tom, anto whose. manner anton hangs acct had stolen, atti commenced the Ne of. Hi saognin 1 sx, Reger. suerte ta pinata g gecke i Ww ie the Victorian, gold-fever, wast at) its. hight, pate were mad with excitement—neither more nor less Dowas as Mad as the others, although. /came to,the eolon deal Californias which wassuffering fromthe same,kind jer, andwhieh; was, pretty: mad,,too, in its Wap But Viet oria ' beat it hollow; for one, reason, perhaps, because, there was —,
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SHADOWS ON THE SNOW. ’ : 32 more of it. The strange sights I sawand thestrange stories I could tell, if I knew how to do it, would fill a dozen | books, ... . ; , Ay In my time I have lived all sorts of lives and have worked with all sorts of mates, picked up in a rough-and-tumble kind. of way, which was about the only way then that mates picked up each other. One day you did not know the man that the next. day, you were hob-a-nob with. .Lhad some strange mates, as you may guess, but. the strangest.I ever worked with, and the one I liked.more than all the others | put together, was Bill Crickett, . Bill was as thin as.a lath and as tall as a May-pole, and had come to the colony under acloud. I don’t mean by that,that he had done anything wrong at home, and was sent out at the expense of the Gov- ernment, like a heap of others I mated with; but he was obliged to.run a! from England for ‘a’ reason I didn’t sri when I picked him up, ‘but which I learned after- ward. 2h ie He had brought his wife out with hin—a poor, weak, delicate creature, who died soon after he landed; leaving behind her a baby, a little girl, the only child they had. | This child Bill left with some people in Melbourne, and came on to the gold-diggings to try his luck. I was work- | ing at that time in Dead Dog Gully, near Forest Creek, which was just then discovered, and Bill and me came together as mates, A better one, to do his share of the. work, and a little bit over, I should be unreasonable to wish | _for.. I neyer had anything, to complain of. On the con- | trary. . He neyer shirked his work, seeming to like-it more. than anything else in the world. And once, when... was laid) up with colonial fever—some of you have had a touch of it, I dare say, and know how it pulls a man down—he nursed. me with the tenderness of a woman, and worked — the claim without a murmur, Those are things one doesn’t | easily forget. Soon after J got well our claim was worked | out, and we had to Jobk elsewhere for another; for every ange of Dead Dog was taken up, I remember well the night KeyPart d. We were sitting in our tent, Bill ‘and me; W) th our gold before us and our revolvers at full cock on the table. We had to look out pretty sharp in those’ - days, mates. Many’s the:man who has been robbed and dis- posed of, without any one being the wiser; many’s thé man. that has been murdered; and thrown down deserted sltafts. finger things were done on the diggings during the first fit’ of the fever, that human tongue will never speak of! Mur-, der will out, they.say; that isn’t quite true. “I’ve Seer séme. sights that made me shiver to think of, the secréts of Which | will be only known on the Day of Judgment.) 7°") ‘Well, we were sitting there, with our gdld before’ us. Our claim had been a rich oré, and we had three hundred ounces to divide, after all our sprees—and we had a few, “I can tell you! 5, bang Sega alate Saad: acivter “Tom,” said Bill, as he sat looking at the gold) ‘*«if T had had as much money as that when I was in ‘the’ Old) Country, I should never have come out to the gold-fields, and my dear. wife would not have' died.” OSH £, ° «¢ That’s more. than you can say ‘for a) certainty,’ I’ an- wered. “ A a" gris Mash) aesatt (i i 4. fyFos 2 wr Nee Not a Bit of it,” he'stiid: “iy wife’ would have’ been ‘alive, and we should have been living happily" together. [ll tell you how it was. ‘I was'a contractor in’a small way at home, and had lots of uphill work, for TI ¢ommenced ‘with nothing. While I was courting Lizzie, an old hunks of a money-lender wanted to ‘marry ‘my girl. She chad-a nice time of it, poor lass! with ‘her father, on one side, ‘trying to persuade her'to marry the old hunks, and me, on the other, begging her to be faithful to me. But T had no need to do that. There was‘only one way out of the difficulty; we ran away, and got married without their Meee ved as happy as the days ‘were’ long, and should havé remained so, but for the old money-lending thief. ‘To spite me for taking the girl from him, he ‘bought up all spite me for t oh Fat Mee epee: Moire big my debts—about three hundred pounds’ worth—and almost drove me mad, | And one morning I'caught the’ villain in ered the pretty the act of insulting my Liz. I didn’t show. him. any, mer- ey; I beat him till he was sore, and then I’ kicked: diim: out of the house. The next day the bailiffs were om the Jook- out to arrest me for'debt, and I had to run for-‘my liberty. He sold me up, root and branch, and turned my wife into the streets, and we came together to Liverpool, where Liz- zie was confined: I tried hard to get work, but couldn’t; starvation or the workhouse was, before us. All my chances. at home were gone, and there was nothing for it but emi- gration. I shipped before the mast, and a friend assisted me to pay Lizzie’s passage in the steerage. . A fortnight af- ter we were out at'sea, she told me that the doetor who at- tended her in her confinement had said that a long. sea. voyage would ‘probably be the death of her. His words came true; she died within the year. So, you see, if I had had my share of that gold at home, I could have paid that d—d old ‘scoundrel, and my wife would not have died. I want to get a heap of gold, and go home and ruin him. I should die contented then.” fibro He arose, and walked up and down the tent, cursing the man who he believed had killed his wife... “I tell you what, Tom,” he said, after a bit, ‘ ; “Yes, Bill.” 1 TOTS? darci4 re sGhiy OLT “Stop héte, then, till Tome back, and ‘don’t leb any- ‘body in but me.” ° He went out, and vetirned in about ten minutes with a gitar ss Sirl int hie aries 1! ott soy oalsse Lire _ “Hush!” he said, stepping softly. ©‘ Speak low. She’s asleep.” pe ' ; : with ft eur 3 awe “She wash’ above'six years old; butishe was to pretty, pected and looked so like a little angel—such as I never to'see under my roof—that I fell in love with her’ at once. Of course, I was a bit surprised’ when he’ brought her in, and he couldn’t help observing it.as he laid her carefully, upon my stretcher. ; This is my little girl, Tom,” he said, answeringi m look. »‘*If I ever go to heaven, I shall have her to tha for it. She is my good angel.” | isd ‘< Where are y u come from?” J asked, after we had cov- airy with a blanket. = | Eo dive He looked cautiously round, as though he feared sonie one was in hiding, and then, sitting opposite me at the tn’t just’ as Wwéll go to the -
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SHADOWS ON THE SNOW. table, rested his’chin on his hands, and said,.in a) whisper: **Pve found it, Tom!” Ow ba (lit otist ¢ Cay ‘There’ was such ‘anv awful, glarein ‘his eyes, that J felt quite scared as I asked him what it was:he had found. ** Pvev found the place where:the gold comes from,” he said, in the same sort of hoarse whisper, ‘I am,.on it, Tom! 1 knew. I:tshould: findvit:at last. | Look ‘here!’ ; First going to.the door, tor see that no ore could get.in without warning, he*pulled:from his breast-pocket anugget of pure gold that mustvhave! weighed near upon seventy ounces, and five orssix others, from fifteen to twenty ounces each. » Lord! how my heart beat as I handled them,;and | how I wished I'could drop across some ofthe same kidney! Idon’t know how it: iswith you, mates;:but, although. I don’t believe I value the: gold much whén I’ve-got it, there’s no pleasure in life.so great to meas coming suddenly upon a rich patchy! D think the’ sight.of -bright-shining gold_at the. oe of a cdark shaft>is: onevof the prettiest in the world. 67) Bet 00 OLD Dison Ts that good enovigh for you?” he’ asked as he:put the nu Bets back into his’ pocket. en fed ont only ) _ ‘Tlaughed. . joer : ~ ey a ma Pe “ 1o7 k ff Any more where th a] came from, Billp2'2*".0' Gace __* More than. you couli i i “I stared’at ‘him,’ believ- ing Bs had gone mad. “It’s true.’ “How are you doing?” 'T can’t make tucker, Pi “My Tuck’s'dead ott.” Tts dead in now,” said he; “Pve come “to fs fifty ounces a day in your pocket. What do you say? $0 mates with me, again?” ee ~ "That was a nice question, wasn’t it; to put to a!Hard-up Tigpee, monk an ounce of gold in his match-box? - “Will I, old fellow?” I cried. “Will I not! When shall we start?” | . “Stopja.minute, Tom,” he said, gravely. _ ‘‘ I’ve some- thing to say, to Yous first, I want you for a mate again, and shall; be glad to haye you; but we’ve got to strike a bargain, You see my little girl there?” 4. ohare IT nodded. wns a NGEEY la pr |» She is the blood of my-heart... [ am like a.plant, Tom, which would wither if deprived of God Almighty’s blessed dew.» She is my dew. If,anything was to happen. to her I should wither, and rot, and die. I.want you for my mate, ‘because I believe you to be,honest and true. ad Iam going to show you a place where the, gold _grows—a. place which, of :my.own free will, I would not. show to another man in the world.,,, [haye, hunted it and tracked it, never dreaming of the, danger I have, run.. But do you:know, ‘Tom, that since hpare had my little pet with me’’——and he laid;his hand, oh, so-gently!, upon. her recklessness and. courage scem,to,have gone cleanout of somes » For it is beediteshem long now, not my own,,, And I think, what will become of her if Ldie before my tume—if |, I should slip down a shaft,.or it should tumble in om me, or I should fall illof a fever, or anything should happen to me that would deprive her of a protector? ‘These thoughts haunt, me night and day, and, presentiments come over me sometimes that fill me with fears I can’t express, , “Tomy listen to me. |The place Iam, going to, take you to will make you rich. -few'months' (though there.is another inthe. secret, but he won’t peach, for his own sake), we shall get at least. fiye thousand ounces—perhaps double-as much;, there’s no.tell- ing whether we shan’t drop across,a mountain of gold. Now, lay your hand upon your ‘heart,.and swear by. all, you, hold dearest that if anything should happen;to me, you. will, take care of my little darling, and, be, a.second father to her when -L am gone?!” _ 't Lbentvover the dear little one’s face+1 can feel her sweet |; breath againupon my chieck++and (kissedy het. | (She stirred in her sleep, and smiled. "Them said: » :« oo That kiss is a sacratient; Bill, By, _ will be a second father to your little -girl, should she) need ‘one, Sohelp me God!”: |. iy _° ) He took my hand, and. the big tears rolled down. his ill you Now, | again. “So, when I was ‘rea cheek—‘‘ all. my | If we,can, keep,it to ourselves for ja | 4 y u stock. of ase visions. ‘Then. I set to, workin earnest, The whole place you rls, all. that’s/holy, 1] beard, Jtwas full fixe minutes before,he was calm enough to speak. , ta! . ** Now I'll tell you all about it, You remember my leay- ing you to go to Mélbourneé, after we had worked out our claim in Dead-dog Gully. Well, when'I ‘got there, I found that my little girl was’ not being well’ treated: . The people she was living with had taken’ fo drink, and liad neglected her. And my heart so grew’ to her—TI cin’ see my’ Lizaie’s face in hers—that I made up’ my mind ‘néver to ‘leave lier 'y to start, I brouglit ‘her away with me, and “we’ve tivelat together, sinée that time, I don’t’know how many hundredsof miley:”. / nb Lasist manage it?” T asked, “in ** ‘How. in the world did you wonder... “ The little thing couldu’t walk.” wigs ff And. if, shie could,” he, answered, “do you think. I would have letjher blister her pretty feet? My darling! Manage it, Tom? Sometimes I carried her, and I got her odd lifts, now and then, upon the drays and wagons going our way.. ‘There was never a drayman or ‘a \agoner that refused to give my little girl a fide, aiid that wasn’t'sorty va of them, splendidly, mounted, dressed in red ret ch hs ToT ing’ their Well, my girl hand. hsped my pet, playing with the fringe of his red silk ‘sash. * ¢ d 6 m not. going to harm Nee : eyre i ieee ts | So I bought a wheelbarrow.” ' ¥ ‘ ** A wheelbarrow!” Leried, more and more, surprised. ¥ g Pr, the gold was aperey and I gut up my tent, Wigs ; deep down, I'll lay 4 kedd ae looking at me, He me working, , My. mind was made upin a minute. J took ~
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- bless you Tom!” » : ES, j t thie ‘worth a dozen of the'one we’ve beenworking/in, and» Jooked upon them witha careless: eye. » Now and. again in SHADOWS ON THE, SNOW. him for my mate, 'so that my secret might be kept, and We worked together till the day before'yesterdays” \s) {5 fv ‘What has become: of him?” I asked.bov oalq-ori ‘* Oh, he’s there stillj getting gold, but not asamuehvas he: ‘Hit if he'was’one of the right sortio* For know a gully I don’t intend that he ‘shall puta pickin ite: No, Tomy, that’s for you and me.’ .T haven’t'parted from him withont good teason?) My (little' darling ‘never ‘liked. him: from! the first, and would never let him kiss hers; Then there’s Rhada-{ manthts———” © ) THe Y t te lia to dun “* Riiadamanthus!” sed hits voiveod 3 3 to ened 1 “Don’t be’ seared, Tomy It’soonly va dog, that: was) oe tome by a drunken: scholar=-or, ‘ratlier,: given .to jizzie in’ thé bush—on the condition that we were always» to'call him Rhadamanthus—which Wwe do, thougly at. first it was a jaw-breaker! “Then, as I say, there’s Rhadaman- thus. He'won’t‘let this‘mate of mine that was come’ near him; snaps ‘at him; snarls like the very devil if he tries to) pat' him on the head.» .That’s'a kindof: instinct I) belieye:|. in.’ And Liszie’s is/arkind of» instinct that Id ‘stake. sal-: vation on.) But Iypubup with the fellow till: a week) ago,, He wanted’ Lizzie 'to’kiss him, and:she wouldn’t. He tried to force her, and I came*wpon them when she: was’ strug- ling in his arms, saps! gal to me for help. ‘I helped, her—and helped*him; ‘to’ the soundest: thrashing. he ever madé acquaintance ‘with: Ibroke with shim’ then and, there, and came‘away in’ search of you, pretty certain I ei be able’ to ‘find yous “You’re “pretty: well known, o &6 And ‘Rhada——»” “Manthus. Out witht, Tom! butter soon.” | ~ ** Where is le?” Ur _ “Outside'in the bush, a couple of hundreds yards away, keeping watch over’the wheelbarrow. I want to start tight away; we'll have to be careful that: we’ze not followed,” «Pm this minute, Bill,” Isad. ‘Vl just take my blankets and tools: I’ leave the tent wp; it’ll keep off suspicions? 9 7 [wasn’t long getting ready, and Bill, lifting his little girl from the ‘bed, held her, still asleep, tenderly to his breast, and led ‘the:way into the bush, where Rhadaman- thus-and the wheelbarrow were waiting for us. - Rhadamanthus, the taggedest' dog that ever breathed, with the most disgraceful tail.'that ever wagged, fixed his eyes a me in a) kind of way that said: ‘Now, what sort of a chap'are you?” We laid pty little Liz: in the wheelbarrow, making her snug, and covering her.up warm. Her face, as’she lay asleep in the wheelbarrow, had. a curi- ous effect upon me—made me choke) a bit, as. I’m doing now. ‘When she wassnugly tucked in, I kissed her, and a sweet and new’feeling crept into my heart as once more she smiled’ at my'kiss. la . s6Jt’s a trick of hers,” said Billy “¢shé always smiles, in her sleep when any oné kisses’ her that she likes), God — It'll, come as easy as- ‘All right, mate,” said I. i ; Rhadamanthus sidled:up to me, and licked my hand:: We travelled the whole of that night, taking it in turns to wheel’ Liz, who slept soundly: all) the: time. » Rhada- manthus trudged along by ‘our’ side; watching his child mistress with true affection im his eyesinye ) sh) It was @ beautiful ‘starlit night;! and everything about us was quiet and peaceful. ‘Thevscenes through. which, we sassed were full of strange; beaty' téime, who had hitherto the distance we saw’ a camp-fire' burning,’ with the diggers ihag nous ity and occasionally weheard thetinkling of Hells on the necks of horses which stumbled about with hobbles on their feet, while their drivers were, sl8eping *be- tween the shafts of the wagons, walled round with canvas, Teuut ult -leaves:) > i cyeyt yf ye) ts ne rie moot a, of the track of men as much as we could, and met with no obstacles on the road that we didnot 3 asthenia! easily: overeome,).,;We had to: lift, the..wheelbarrow_ over. fallen, logs sometimes,..and,once over. a creek, and we did. it gently,; without disturbing..our little one.. That walk. through the solemn and levely woods was to me very much like .a prayer... When we made, our way through the tal straight trees of silverbark; when I Jooked up at the won- derful brightness of the heayens, which, filled the woods with lovely light, among which the shadows played: like living things;; when upon a distant hill I saw-a_ flock’ of sheep asleep, with the moon shining, clear upon them; and when I gazed at the peaceful and beautiful face of the child asleep in the barrow—I could scarcely believe that’ it was not all a dream. The rememberance of that night’s tramp has never left me, and its lessons remain. Too often, mates, do we walk through life, blind to the signs; »\ » During the day we camped, and took it in turns tosleep, and on the third night we came to the end ofvr journey. We had had three or four ‘hours’ héayy uwphill-work, but I didn’t feel tired ‘a bit. ’ My body Was as light’as my heart. ‘* Over that range, Tom,” said ‘Bill, and we’re'there.” _ ‘It was the steepest of all the ranges, ‘and took us @ time getting to the top, and then, looking down, I saw a great natural basin, shut in by high cliffs. You would have thought there was no outlet from) it, unless you elimbed over the hills which surrounded it; ‘but when yousxgot down, . you discovered a number of artful little turns: and owind-) ings, which’ led “to gullies and ‘smaller ‘basins: which) you could not diseern from the hight’. °00/ ) We had to awake little Liz, as» there was: some danger wheeling thé barrow down so’ steep an incline. She jumped out quite bright, and‘let me carry her some. distance, | 1f she had been my own child, I could not have felt more ten- der toward her. Presently Bill pointed out ‘his tent, and said he should not wonder if his old mate were sleeping in it. Sure enough, when we were within six: yards .éf the tent, he rushed out with'a revolver in: his hand, and fired at Rhadamanthus, who had sprung at him the moment he made his appearance. Te W sevrty “Lie down, Rhad!” eried Bill, pushing the dog away » with his foot; ‘and you, Ted, drop that: revolver, or VL wring your neck for you!” ‘ Almost on the words, Bill leaped at. the fellow, wrested the revolver from his hand, and sent him spinning adozen ards away. It was not done amoment too soon,forI be- ~~ lieve he was about to fire on tis. He was a desperate-look- © ing fellow, was Teddy the Tyler.. .A. white-faced, white- livered, flat-footed bully. I heard some queer stories about him afterward. t ioe kot tice 40004 Wee You murdering villain, you!’ said Bill, as Teddy. the Tyler rose from the ground with an evil look, and tight- — = Rett ** Do ‘you knew, you might. haye shot my e girl?” Ci ot X rte omwial aby: Tey 7 ret Liz was clinging te her, father, trembling in every imb. iviy Hered} TE seagate ** A good) job if I had,” muttered, Teddy, the, Tyler. |. . Bill) strode quickly up to him, and. seizingihim by the irre gt him to the ground by, dint.of sheer muscular strength. © 5 1 ieee fist RiEP | ephipee ate 04 ‘If ever again you raise| your hand,” he said, between his clenched teeth, “against me,,or my little.girl,.or.my. mate, or my oe as much as lift your finger ;against, them, say good-by.to the world. Vl break,your infernal backfor = you, as’stre as:the Lord’s in/heaven!?) 4) |...) 7 - : ‘* What do you bring loafers into the gully for?” growled Teddy. pit Le O tt ns mt 8 hlod 5 * That's ay business,”” answered Bill... ‘‘I,,discovered = this place, and I’ve aright to bring a friend. , j This is my mate now. Call. him loafer again, and Vl Tneck sth ugly teeth down your throat; keep a civil tongue in your head, and,T'l not interfere with you. I make yow a present of this gully, every,inch of it,” Teddy’s. face, brightened. ‘‘ I know. where there’s a, richer one—ah, you may stare, but you'll not put your foot in it. To-morrow I shall take my tent away, and, you.can work here till you, rot,ifyou like. I don’t think you’re fool enough to get, the place rush-
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6°T gee 2A \ ed, for that would put an end to your little game. Pick wp the revolver, Tom, and stick it in your belt. It’s mine. And throw out of the tent everything that belongs to’ the thie I carried his blankets and clothes out to him, and threw them at his feet... f “« 'Phere’s something else in there belonging to me,” he said.’ “‘ My neckerchief,” a I found it, and flung it to him—a bright-colored necker- chief, which he slung about his neck sailor fashion. The light of the moon shone upon it, and I noticed particular- ly the combination of bright colors in which it was woven, As he gathered up his things he had a parting word to say, and he-spit it out with foam about.,his lips, like the hound he was. ~ “Pll make’ this the worst night’s work you have ever done! You,shall cry blood for the way you’vye seryed me! By this, and this, I swearit!” : _ He wiped the foam from. his mouth, and. flicking it. to the ground with, a snap of his fingers, walked slowly away. iuvow | sas a . - We took no further notice'of him, but, putting the chain on Rhadamanthus, we went into the, tent,’and lay down till morning... pis ro ruy | _ We were up with the lark, and out... As we passed along the gully, I noticed that Teddy the Tyler had) put up.a sort: of mimi, and that he was asleep under it. if _ Now, then, Tom,” said my mate, ‘“I’ll show you, some- vhing that: will open» your eyes... That, fool there knows nothing about it. Idiseovered the place three weeks ago, and. held my'tongue, having my doubts-of him.” considerable rise in the land, Bill leading the way through more than one heavy clump of, timber on, the jother’ side. We might have walked half:a.mile through’ thick clusters of trees, when Bill clapped his hand ,upen my, eyes, and told me to close them: Welmight have walked a, hundred yaids farther, when he took his hand away, saying we were there. ‘ot Pinae: ” ‘Tt was a'strange-lookingispot, — hidden by wood- owthw piece of land that appeared to have been scooped ont éf thechills, in 'the'exact shape of a saddle. “Look around you,”' said’Bill; “see the hills, every one of thém, shelving’ downinté' this “holds: Look ‘at the veins of quartz—auriferous, every bit'of it—all running down to one point. Here’s a piece of the stone’’picking it up with gold in it. | Here’s aiiother, ‘with more’ gold init: hat’s‘evidence.: New take your fossicking knife, ind dig wp some: of the: earth! at the trunk of that! tree with the large spreading roots. Dig into the rootsi) I thought a8 much. You can! see the gold im it without spectacles, The stuff there'll yield an ounce to the tin dish.” Why’is the gold dust ‘at: this spot? Because it has slid down the hights withthe rains, ahd the roots of that tree have caught some of it in its descent, and held it: fast in crevices. his hollow beneath us contains all the gold that has béen washed. for ages off these golden hills, and it | is all oursall ours, every ounce of it!” ‘He was on the ground, showing me proof of his theory in small lumps’ of gold that he dug out here and there. “Tom, kneel down here by my'side, and I’ll tell you why E worship it.” He held it in the palm of his hand, and gazed with glowing net upon it. his educating her; I see this making her fit to hold her own with the } st lady in'the land; I see it bring smiles to her lips, roses to her cheeks; I see her doing good with it; I see her, the light of my days, removed from the hard trials that make life so sad “to many; I ‘see life-long joy and pepppiees i it for thy pretty Liz—my pretty, pretty Liz _ He let the gold fall to the ground, and ‘hid’ his face’ in his hands. I understood then hew perfect love can be. SHADOWS ON THE SNOW. ie, We returned to the old gully, and carried away our tent and all that belonged to us. Before night we had. our fire-place built, and our tent fixed in a spot where it would be secure from floods.| The next day we set.to work, ,.. Bill was a true. a ape |The hollow. was, heavy with gold. . We did not find a regular gutter of it, though Bill said if we sunk deep we should be sure to. come wpon one; but within a few feet of the surface, and, sometimes almost on the surface, we lighted upon rich pockets, of gold. Talk of jewelers’ shops! This dirty hollow took the shine out of ail of them. And as day after day went away, and our bags of gold got heavier and heavier, we laid plans for the future. We were to go home and buy a farm; Liz was to be educated and grow into a beautiful young woman and get married, and we were all to live together and take care of the children. came to this part of the story! For we spoke freely before her; it was all settled, and certain. to, come,true. Those five weeks that we lived together were the happiest of my life. “Liz was like a starin our tent, and made expr thing, bright and beautiful. We all worshiped her-—Bill) me, and Rhadamanthus—anid lived in her,.so to speak, .. The tricks she played, the stories she had to. tell, the discover- ies she had made, gladdened the days, and drew our hearts closer and closer to her. oO BEiG eis sii ; One day she saw a rockexactly the shape/of agoat’s face, and we had ‘to go with herand ohaketon ity‘ Goat’s ock;” another day she picked “up ‘a: beautiful. erystal,, which she declared was a charm to keep everything bad, away; anoth- er day she found a new wild flower, which she prattled over in the quaintest and prettiest fashion; ‘another day'she dis- covered that Radamahthus Was a fairy who had changed iGoueieg dete endiefithe gully me,walked.ovenacpretty. | himself into a dog to take care of her. ill ] The faithful, rag+ ged beast! She announced the amazing’ discovery to him in the most impressive manner, kneeling, before, him, and putting his paws on her shoulders, thé while he looked into | her faeey and blinked inieonfirmations « nd f A baize partition separated ‘the compartment in, which she slept from ours, and one night, when I s+heard her,’ be- fore going to bed, lisping her prayer that God would, bless her dear father, and dear Tom; and Rhad,s,my thoughts — went back tothe time when.I, too, prayed .before,I, went to sleep: On Sundays Wwe would take a walk, and.Bill,..in the evening, would read a chapter from a/ Bible he had— which him, nor Ij! nor Rhad)awould ever have thought; of but for ourdear little angel.. Those, Sundays,,with Bill, and the little girl, and: the:ragged, faithful dog, are never out of my mind, +I wish).L1 ad always spent my Sundays. in the sameway. Dis one tot yp roried| - “During this time we had only seen Teddy the Tylerjonce. About @ fortnight after we had started-working; he strolled upon us): Avtin dish with nearly a pound-of gold in it.was lying on the ground, and:he threw a wofully;covetous look at it. He had his pick and shovel hanging over’ his shoulder, and'walking past) us, he, stuck his. pick im the ground, and rolled up his shirt-sléevesy.) gor Golo aa Bill, following him, took the pick and shevel, and pitch- ed them a dozen yards off. ine ** oth bois [Ae ‘I told you you shouldn’t come into this, gully,’ said sa sec | rie <5 “T mean to fight for it, atall events.” baud ‘‘'That’s fairly spoken,” said Bill... ‘* Fight you shall have, and if you whip:me, we'll give you this gully,and. get an- other, ''Tom,'come and. see fair play.” | aera: To it they went. But Teddy might as ‘well have stood up against @ rock as against my mate. . Bill was the strong- est man I ever knew, and he. gave Teddy such an awful thrashing that he threw up his arms in less than a quarter of an hour. fi ho ldo elfod “Had enough, mate?” asked Bil, Teddy shouldered his pick, and strode away without a word, throwing a devil’s look behind him ashe went. ..., *« He'd murder the lot of us, Bill,” I said, 4‘ if we, gave | him the chance.” ) sy fit e How the little one laughed when we ‘*I¢'s as-much mine as yours,” replied Teddy: the Tyler.
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“hand, Bill; Pll search for our darling till I drop.” “* Dare say,” said Bill;. ‘* we won’t give 1t to him.” Jn eleven weeks we got eleven hundred ounces of gold, and then a thing happened which makes my blood turn cold to speak of. I started one night to get a stock of pro- visions. We used to start in the night so that we should not be discovered, and when we made our appearance at the cattle station early in the morning for meat and flour, the people there didn’t suspect we had been traveling all the previous night. I was pretty well the whole day returning, for I had to be cautious, to prevent being followed. Within half a mile of our gully I met Bill, with a ghost’s face on him, and look- ing as if he had gone mad in my absence. unning toward me, he said, wildly: “Tom, for God’s sake, answer me, quickly! Have you seen Lizzie?” **Not since last night,” I said, with an uncomfortable feeling at Bill’s wild manner. “¢ She’s lost—she’s lost!” he screamed. “Lost!” **T’ve been hunting for her the whole day. Oh, my pet, my darling! if I don’t find you, may the world be burned, and all that’s in it!” , I was almost as mad as he was, for you know I loved the little thing as if she were my own daughter. ** Keep cool, Bill,” I said, as quietly as I could, though I felt my words trembling with the trembling of my lips: “if we want to do any good, we musn’t lose our wits.” “‘T know—I know!” he said, beating his hands together; “but what am I to do—what am I to do?” ““When did you miss her?” «This morning. I got up at daylight and left her sleep- ing inher crib. She was asleep, and I kissed her before i went out. Ishall never kiss her again—I shall never kiss her again! Oh, my pet—my pet!” And he broké into a passionate fit. of sobbing. awful to see, I waited till he was a bit calmer, and then I told him to goon **T came back to breakfast, and she was gone; and Rhad was off his chain, and gone too. I’ve been hunting for her all the day. Oh, God! tell me where she is!” “Tam glad the dog was with her,” I said. It was ‘* How long _is it since you were at the tent?” ‘Not an hour ago. But all this talking won’t bring her back. Let’s goon searching for her. Perhaps she has climbed over the ranges, ae is lost in the bush beyond.” “She could never do it, Bill; she hasn’t strength enough, the dear little thing, to walk to the top of these hills. Now, Bill, I am cooler than you are, and I intend to keep cool. Although I’d give my legs and arms rather than any hurt should come to our pretty darling ”—I_ had to hold myself tight in here, to keep myself from breaking down—“ I’m not going to let my feelings run away with me. If Iam to help you, I must know everything. Let us go back to the tent, and start from. there. Here’s my He grasped my hand, and we ran to our tent. The first thing I did was to examine the dog’s chain. It had been unlocked in the usual way, and the key was lying on the table. « That’s plain proof,” I said, “that Liz herself let him loose, and took him out with her. Had she all her things our «« Yes; her hat and mantle were gone, and also a little | ‘basket she used to take with her, to fill with wild flowers.” You see,” ae ene. went out flower-gathering. Now, which way did she got : Naturally, J considered she would take the road she . knew best—the one that led to the gully Bill first worked in. There was a ereek on the road, pretty deep in parts, and the dreadful idea struck me that she might have fallen in. All this time Bill was behaving in the wildest manner. He took every little thing that belonged to her, and kissed ee — i Re ee eae Pe AEE Cea ees -she has fallen in? SHADOWS ON THE SNOW. : 25 them wgain and again. He called her by name, as if she could hear him; cried to his dead wife, as if she were standing before him: and altogether was about as useless as aman well coulu ve. Then, taking a chamois-leather bag filled with gold, he threw it on the ground, screaming: “To the devil with all the gold! Devil gold—deyil gold! why did I come here and lose my pet for you? Oh, Lord! take all the gold, and give me back my child!” “Come along, Bill,” I said, without appearing to heed his ravings, for that, I knew, was the best way; ‘‘ I am going to the creek to look for her.” ‘‘She hasn’t fallen in!” he eried. ‘* How do you know It’s not true! My pet is not drowned! No—no!” ‘< | don’t say she is drowned,” I said. ‘‘ God forbid that she is! Behave like a man, Bill, and keep your senses about you, or we may as well give her up altogether.” I was bound to speak in that way to him, and after a time I got him to bealittle more reasonable. Then -we started for the creek, calling out “ Liz—Liz!” at the top of our voices, and whistling. in the old familiar way to Rhadamanthus. No sound answered us, and the solemn stillness of the place, when we were not speaking, fell upon my heart like a funer- al pall. on the bank to consider. ** Bill,” said I, ‘she can’t be drowned, thank God! Rhad can swim, . and if he couldz’t have saved her, he would be somewhere about. Be- sides, her basket world float, and we should see some signs.” And then a thought flashed into my mind. ‘Bill, have you been to Teddy the Tyler?” ““Great Lord! Do you think -——” , “T don’t think anything. Let’s go and see him.” We walked to Teddy’s tent, calling and listening to imaginary answers as we walked. It was late in the evening by this time, and Teddy was sitting outside his tent smoking his pipe. He barely looked up as we ap- proached, but I noticed that he hitched close to him with his foot an axe that was lying on the ground. ‘“‘Good-evening, mate,” I said, by way of commencement, though I felt more inclined to spit in his face than be civil to him. We tracked the creek from one end to the other, and then I sat | Bill shook with excitement, and there was a dangerous gleam in his eyes. ° . Teddy did not reply to my ‘* Good-evening,” but sat still, smoking. He had his eye on the axe, though; I didn’t miss that. : we ‘Are you deat?” I asked. 7 , ‘“No,” he snapped. ‘‘ Are you?” ** Look here, mate,” I said. : ‘* And look you here, mate,” he interrupted; ‘‘ I don’t want any of your ‘Good-evenings’ or any of your company. What are you loafing in my gully for! Dll split your skull open if you stop here much longer!” ‘“‘ We've come here for a purpose,” I said; ‘I am going to ask you a question or two—that you'll have to answer, my lad, if you wish ever to answer another.” } “You can ask a thousand,” said Teddy. ‘‘Fireaway. You won't get me to answer one.” : ‘We shall see. We are in search of little Liz. She hasn't been home — allday. Have you seen her?” i Teddy gave us both a sharp, quick look, and did not answer. Bill never took his eyes from Teddy’s face. ‘Have you seen our Liz?’ I repeated. ‘‘ Has she been here to-day?) Still no answer. . Without any warning, Bill made a spring at him; but Teddy was on his legs like lightning, brandishing the axe over his head. Bill. avoided the blow, catching the handle on his arm, and, closing with Teddy, had — him on the ground in no time, with his knee on his chest, and his hand | : Coa at his throat. “Hold off!” Teddy choked out. throttle me!” = < ‘* Answer that question,” said Bill, with set teeth; ‘if you don’t Tl ~ kill you!” ‘*She hasn’t been here to-day,” the fellow gasped. ‘Have you seen her anywhere, you devil?” ‘* No,” was the sullen reply. ‘““You may get up,” said Bill, rising. ‘‘ Let. me find that you are lying and I’ll tear your heart out!. Markme, Teddy the Tyler! If I discover that you have seen my child to-day, and have been telling us lies, you shall do what you threatened I should do, and what I am doing, God help me! You shall cry blood, Come away, Tom; the sight of him turns me sick.” “Take this madman off or he'll We had a weary night of it. We searched in every likely place; wa lighted fires on every rise, so that they mizht catch the child's eye, if she
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5 = \ i oy, is ae gyraDOWws were anywhere near; but when the morning came, we were as far off finding her as ever. What puzzled me most was the absence of Rhada- - manthus. We could find no trace of him. If anything had happened to _ the child, I thought, the dog’s instinct would surely have led him home to the tent. We trudged back, sore and disheartened. We had not es eaten a morsel the whole night. Bill, I believe, had not put food to his lips since he first missed little Liz. He hadn’t even smoked a pipe. I “em _ was thinking to myself, what shall we do next? when my mate, who had ____ thrown himself on the ground, whispered to it in a voice so low that he seemed to be afraid of my hearing him: ‘*The old shafts—the deserted shafts—we haven’t looked there for her tt !. The idea that our little girl might be lying at the bottom of one of the _ deserted holes, dying perhaps, made me dizzy for a moment. We turned out of the tent in silence, and recommenced our search, Bill ( Cae were lying there. But I discovered nothing. “Let's go to the old gully again,” said Bill. a - The sun was rising over the hills, bathing them in seas of gold and pur- _ ple, and the laughing jackass was waking everything up with its gurgling - laughter. Teddy the Tyler was not out of bed, and I went down the shaft he was then working. The noise disturbed him and he came from his tent,half dressed, and with a death-like scare on his face, asked us what we were up to now. . It’s only fair to tell him,” said Bill. ‘‘ We’re looking for my child. And now, mates, something happened that I have thought of over and 9 z - over again with wonder. I wasa better man then than I am now, for I had the impression of those peaceful and happy Sundays, with the read- __ ings out of the Bible, and the quiet walks with little Liz full upon me. _ And I believed at that time that God Almighty had sent some little birds to assist us to the end of our search. ~ - We had got away from Teddy’s gully, fully a mile from it, and were __-passing a cluster of gum-trees, upon one of which half a dozen laughing ' 3ackasses were perched. As we passed they set up a chorus of mocking inughter, which so grated upon me, that I threw my stick at them, and 4 sent them flying away. Going to pick up my stick, which had fallen sume distance off, I observed an abrupt ‘turn in the ranges, leading toa chasm in the hills which neither of us had ever trodden before. But for * ‘these birds, we should not have discovered it. Icalled out to Bill, and he followed me into the deelivity. “Here’s ashaft sunk,” I said; ‘‘ some one has been prospecting.” = “The shaft was about twenty feet deep, and, holding on to a rope that I ‘fede a stump of a tree, I lowered myself down. Before I reached the ™ ‘pottom, I saw that our search was at anend. There lay our little Liz, with her face turned upward, as though she was sleeping. I could not oN __ distinguish her features, and indeed I wasso startled that I did not pause Rie 280 think or look more closely. sak Liz!” I whispered. —— No answer came, and I called to her again. All was silent. 2 “The rope to which I was clinging was not long enough to tie aslip-knot by which we could raise ner. Another and a longer rope was in Bill’s hands above. I climbed into the sunlight, and taking sie rope from Bill, prepared to make a sling of it. _ Bill allowed me to take the rope, and looked at my fear-struck face ‘ with 2 a terrible twitching of his features. He was trying to utter words, but for a moment or two he had lost the power. With a sound that was like a shriek and a sob, he regained it. “For the good God’s sake, Tom, don’t tell me she is down there!” ee “She is there, Bil No—no! What are you about?” pa flung my arms around him, to prevent him springing down the shaft. Bere Bill, this is an awful moment, and Lizzie’s life may hang upon our : _ keeping steady. As you love your dear little one, don’t give way yet awhile. She wants your help to raise her. Do you hear me? she wants _ your help.” Ay,” he replied, vacantly. _ “Tam going to tie this rope around her. Will you stand steady here ‘above, and raise her, while I support her below?” ae He nodded, and made motions with his lips, as though he were speak- at ete ing. But no sound came from them. 4 _ “¥or our precious darling’s sake, Bill,” 1 said, as I prepared to descend / again, ‘‘be steady, lad.” -_ I tied the rope around her slender body—ah me—ah me! the pretty little hands that did not respond to the touch of mine—the soft face that rested on my shoulders! and slowly—slowly, we brought her to the surface, where I tenderly set her down. ‘ She was eae The angels had taken her from us. Ae « si eet =A ON ; trembling like a man with the Peay at every hole we stopped at. I THE SNOW. As she lay with her eyes turned blindly to the sun that was smiling on the hills, and bathing them in light, I could scarcely believe that she was dead. In her innocent young face the roses were still blooming, and in — her pretty little hands were grasped a few of the wild flowers she had been gathering. I stooped, and kissed her pure, fresh lips. Then I turned away, for blinding tears were in my eyes, and a darkness fell upon me. “Oh, my darling—my darling!” I heard Billsay. ‘‘ You are not dead —you can not be dead! Look at me, speak to me, my pet! Throw your | arms around my neck.” And he pressed her to his breast, and kissed her many times. ‘She is only sleeping! Feel her heart, Tom; it is beating! Feel—feel, I say!” I placed my hand on her heart, to soothe him; alas, its pulse was stilled forever. “‘ Bill,” I said, solemnly; for it was an awful thing was the sight of the dear SES lying dead upon the grass, ‘‘do not deceive yourself; ‘she is dead. She has gone to a better world than this.” : ‘‘Dead!” he cried, springing to his feet, and looking wildly upward. ‘Then strike me dead too!” pr He threw himself beside her again; he clasped her in his arms, nursing ~ and rocking her as he would have done if she had been sleeping; he ‘ called her by every endearing name; and suddenly became quite still. E ‘“Tom,” he said, presently, in a strangely quiet and eager tone, ‘‘ look at this mark on my child’s neck. What is it? Great God! what is it?’ I loowed. It was a discolored mark, and I shuddered to think that it might have been caused by the grasp of acruel hand. But I would not madden him utterly by a whisper of my suspicions. | ‘Tt is impossible to say what it is, Bill, without evidence.” ‘“‘True,” he replied, still more quietly; ‘‘ without evidence. Rhad?”’ ' The absence of the dog had been puzzling me. That he would not have voluntarily deserted little Liz was as certain as fate. ; ‘« Stay here with my child,” said Bill. ‘‘Iam going tosearch for her dog. He loved my Liz, and was faithful to her. He would have laid down his life for her.” He disappeared in the bush, and within ten minutes I pes him call out that he had found Rhadamanthus. He stepped from the shadows of => the trees, and placed Rhad atmy feet. Poor Rhad! He was dead—shot Nias through the heart. " 4 eo “You see, Tom, he’s been shot. Who did it? We want evidence. Whoever killed the dog killed my child.” cyber B I knelt and examined the dog’s body. Three bullets had been fired into . it, and there was something in the dog’s mouth. Forcing the jaws open, is I took it out, and recognized it immediately. It was a piece of the colored silk handkerchief I had thrown out of the tent’ to Teddy the Tyler, the = first night he came to the gully. The dog had evidently torn it away in. 4 a desperate struggle, for shreds of it were sticking between his teeth so — . firmly that I could not drag them away. . ‘There has been foul play here, Bill,” I said. ee ‘*T know it—I know it. What is that between his teeth? Faithful 14 Rhad! It is part of a handkerchief. Oh, I know without your telling me! But whose handkerchief—do you hear me—whose handkerchief? Speak the name. Out with it, man!” oe ree “Teddy the Tyler’s,” I said. it ig I had no time to add another word, for Bill was off with the speed of =| the wind in the direction of Teddy’s gully. I hurried after him, but he was too swift for me, and I lost him. When I reached the gully, neither Teddy nor Bill was in sight, and though I searched for an hour I could see nothing of them. Not knowing which way to turn to look for them, — I hastened back to where our dear dead Liz was lying, and carried her in — my arms to our tent. My first impulse was to put everything in order. I tidied up the place, and arranged our darling’s bed, my scalding tears ty almost blinding me asI worked. Then I laid the body on it, andcovered it up, all but the face, which was still bright with roses soon to fade. — About her head I scattered some wild flowers growing near our tent;and on her breast I placed the Bible, our only book. This done, I went again — in search of Bill, with no better success than before. I was fullof fears, but was powerless to act. All 1 could do wasto wait. My nextimpulse was to bring Rhad’s body home. I did so, and placed itatthefoot ofthe bed, on the ground. The hours went by, and Bill did not appear. fat ee Noon was past, and still no sign. The sun set, and stillno sign, Half a dozen times at least I went to Teddy's gully, only to find it deserted. i What was I to do? What could Ido? I would have gone to the cattle- F ee station, where we pur chased our food, but that I was loth to leave our” ; darling alone. It seemed like deserting her. No; I would wait till the — oun morning. Night coming on, I lighted a candle, and sat in the dim mec ook i ‘4 % keeping watch—for the living and the dead. It was an awful—aw eee time. Sounds without warned me that the weather was changing. Dark clouds were in the skies; the wind sighed and moaned. I knew the — ; signs. A storm was coming. It came sooner than I expected, bursting upon us with fr a ha fur y—one of the most terrible storms in my re - Where's: Uy + ae pee a Ae” ate es KO ras a rene ; ‘ — = — “=o oe ‘ ¢ has a in ae “y y.
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membrance. The rain poured down in floods, the thunder shook the hills, the lightning played about the peaceful face of little Liz, and cast - alurid glare upon the flowers and the Bible on her breast. I knelt by ' the side of the bed and prayed, keeping my face buried in the bed- clothes, and holding the dead child’s cold fingers in mine. I may have knelt thus for an hour, and the storm raged on without abatement. Then I raised my head. My heart leaped into my throat. At the door stood my mate Bill, haggard and white, with blood oozing from between the fingers which he pressed upon his heart. It was but a vision, and it lasted but a moment; but so terrible an impression did it leave upon me, that I ran into the open air for relief. And in that moment a voice fell on my ears: ; ‘Liz! My pet! My darling!” } The voice of a dying man. But the darkness was so thick that I could not see my hand See me. ‘ _ ,“ Bill!” I eried, ‘‘ where are you?” I received an awful answer. A hand stretched itself from out the darkness, and, clutching me with a strength so fierce and resistless that Bay 2” I had no power to resist, forced me back into the tent. The candle was still burning, and by its light Isaw my dear old mate standing before me, grasping with his other hand the lifeless body of Teddy the Tyler. Bill’s hand upon my breast relaxed, and the body of the murderer slid from his grasp, and lay ina heap on the soddened ground. “Liz!” whispered Bill. ‘‘ My Liz! Life of my life! My pet!” ri ’ He saw her in her bed, and a ghastly smile of joy played about his lips. oe He staggered toward her, and fell down dead. Within twenty-four hours five hundred men were in the gullies. They helped me to bury Bill and little Liz in one,grave, and to put a fence ~ around it, ‘are My story is done. > For some time after Cornish Tom ceased speaking, there was silence i in the tent. The stcry he had told had deeply affected the men, and their minds were occupied with thoughts of little Liz, and the tragic end of her father. But at the end of an hour, the full sense of their own dan- ___ ger forced itself upon them, to the exclusion of every other subject. The fire had burned itself out, and there was not a stick in the place they could use for fire-wood; the cold was intense; and their situation was growing every moment more perilous, “Dick,” said Gentleman George, ‘‘ before Tom commenced his story, you fancied you heard something. "What was it?’ to “Men crying out,” replied Dick Driver. , “Perhaps,” said Cornish Tom, “‘ the men from the next gully. What do yousay, mates, to going to look for them? No one’s in the humor a for sleep, and the moon is rising, so that we shall be able to pick our way. : Who’s for it?” , ty They were all for it, glad of the opportunity for action. It was re- solved that all but William should go, and that he should be left to take care of the tent. They calculated to be back before sunrise, when they bs would commence in serious earnest the task of cutting their way out of the region of snow. They took some long poles and ropes with them, and ; in a few moments William was alone. > Standing by the tent door, he watched his mates treading their way rs carefully along until they were out of sight, and then he set himself to i the task of getting together the things they should need to take with t them in the morning. This occupied him an hour, and then he threw himself upon his stretcher and fell into a doze. Lying thus, a strange fancy haunted him. Cries for help, sounding from afar, traveled to- wards the tent. These cries, growing fainter and fainter, until they died away altogether, formed part of his dreams, and it was only when they ceased, that he roused himself and listened, in doubt whether they had actually been uttered. The wind had lulled, and, hearing no sound, he dozed off again, to be again awakened by a faint cry. Yet when he went to the door, he heard no sound. Nothing but the snow-covered peaks and hills could be seen. No sign of human life was visible, and he shuddered at the fancy that he was alone in the world, and that he would never look upon mortal face again. As this fancy grew upon him with the strength of conviction, the scene reminded him strangely of his last Christmas-eve at Warleycombe. He looked around, almost expecting to see the queer faces and the shadows of his dreaming. The hill down which the avalanche had swept was before him; the faces he had seen at Warleycombe were not there, nor the tree paneath which he had fallen asleep, but he saw—the white plain undulating! His fevered fancy peopled its surface with sniow-elves and . shadows, staring at him with glittering eyes and beckoning him to .ap- hie ge one in a dream, iGarisad of all control over his will, he walked toward them until he was some distance from the tent. The shadows a continued to multiply in numbers and waved him onward. As he ad- a vanced toward them they retreated, but beckoning him still to come. ; ie SHADOWS ON THE SNOW. hea ae Ee ge He seemed to be drawn forward by an invisible power, until, overcome by nervous excitement, he sunk, half insensible, to the ground. | ‘My life is over!” he groaned. ‘ Hope has departed from it; love has melted out of it, The woman J adored was false?” _ No!” eried a thunderous voice; and the word was echoed and re- echoed a thousand times by the surrounding hills. Then, as at a word of command, the echoes suddenly ceased, and, like a bell-note upon the rarefied air, clear and sweet, stole another voice which smote him with - mingled pain and pleasure. ‘‘No!” it said; ‘“‘the woman you loved was faithful. She is pure as , the snow which may be your grave. Miserable man, you have destroyed and withered her young life. Tear from the Rose of Love the Parasite Doubt, and awake from your dream!” The voice ceased, the shadows faded into thin air, and William arose” from the ground, writhing at the possible truth contained in this delusion ; of his senses. He had wandered far from the tent, and he was about to Ne turn thitherward when a dark stain on the white surface caught his eye. — He moved forward, and saw, stretched upon the gronnd, the bodies of twomen. He knelt and tried to rouse them. In vain; they were insen- sible, perhaps dead. The cries he had heard were real; and had proceeded from these two men. He could see plainly their pale faces in the moon- gleam; and one, bearded as it was, struck upon his memory like that > oan an almost forgotten friend. One by one he dragged the men, still benumbed, to the tent, and, with- cy ns out success, tried by every means in his power to restore them to. con- sciousness. He searched in their pockets for means of identification, On — one he found a match-box full of gold and an empty pipe; om the other — he found a pocket-book. As he knelt over him to take it from his breast — and looked into his face, the same impression of an old familiar associa- tion occurred again to him, and he passed his hand across his brow in the endeavor to trace the connecting link to the fancy which enthralied him, — The next moment he opened the pocket-book. 4 Was he dreaming still? He started to his feet, aglow with excitement, Nad for in his hand lay the picture of Laura Harrild, with her truthful eyes” directed to his face. With,trembling hands he opened a letter, the char- ies acters of which were familar to him, and with a despairing cry he dropped into a seat. . All was clearly revealed. This man lying at oe a feet was Laura’s brother. It was he to whom she was bidding farewell — on Christmas-eve; and, as William read, his eyes ame blurred arr repentant tears. He remembered Laura’s agitation on that evening as — they sat within the curtained recess, when he told her the story of his friend who had forged his father’s name. Now it was explained. Some years ago, long before William was acquainted with Laura, her | brother also had committed forgery, and had brought disgrace upon his _ father’s name. Reuben Harrild never forgave his son, nor would he _ allow his name to be uttered m his house. To all inquiries he returned but one answer—that his son was dead; and so the years rolled on, and — to all Laura’s entreaties for forgiveness for her brother, Reuben Harrild turned a deaf ear. Wearied with his unsuccessful efforts to obtain his — father’s pardon, Arthur Harrild resolved to emigrate, and to trust to time and his own better life and repentance to heal the wound. Onlast d Christmas-eve he bid Clara a secret farewell. Through the window of — the room in which the merriment was going on he watched for the form — of his father whom he had wronged, and whom he might never see again, and with good resolves in his heart bid adieu to his native land, in gs hope that his future life might redeem, in his father’s eyes, the wrong - he had done in the past. As William read on, an agony of remorse fell upon him, and the words he had heard the shadows speak in his dreams bore a new significancé. Yes, she was pure—she was true. She loved and had ever loved him faithfully. The belief iSyet a se of com- | fort to him in the midst of his misery. “I have not seen him,” Laura wrote in the letter, “since the night you bade me farewell. He witnessed our parting, and misconstrued it. tor-\- give him, dear Arthur, for you know I never spoke to him about you. Daily I reproach myself that I did not tell him: a woman should have. 20, secrets from her lover and husband. But my heart aches sorely at the thought that he should deem me untrue.” : “Forgive me, Laura,” murmured William. ‘‘forgive me! And, oO God! pity me for the blessing I have thrown away, and the wuhapennieny I have brought to her.” Ad “If you should meet him,” the letter went on, ‘ for he has gone to the = colonies, speak to him, Arthur, dear, Ask him to write to me. If he ‘ should have ceased to love me, I must bear it; but my heartishis,andIl ~~ shall love him forever. Tell him all about yourself and about our sa ikatt ing that night, and if he is in error, undeceive him.” “taht Then she bid God bless her brother and prosper him, and bring him home again safe and well, and prayed that he might be reunited to their father once more, . When William reached the end, he bowed his head and buried his eh’ in his hands. He had thr own away this precious love, he had wronged
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AtS Ps uae . ™ cc. | b ~ <i cae iM a io” 7. eee CT PB ~~ ide ee ve 7 _—) = et ~~ wily, iw aes « «4 ae wed * we a 4 * Es “3 — i - oa ce an at p- et ar) fs are a m e a F rf =I rs , £ - Be - SBS SHADOWS ‘ON THE SNOW. % ions. Going to the door of the tent, the drift whizzed past him in blind- ing particles, and the mournful wail of the wind was like a dirge for ‘bright Lopes blotted out forever. ae ‘‘T shall die here,” he thought, ‘‘and she will never know. Oh, shad- _ ows, that visited me on that night and this, would that I had listened and believed!” : ; And he fell upon his knees and raised his hands in an agony of plead- ing for forgiveness, while the drifting snow covered his form in a soft, _ white, pitiless shroud. PART?’ Til, CHRISTMAS AGAIN AT WARLEYCOMBE, ANOTHER year has gone by, and it is Christmas again at Warley- combe. The curtain has dropped upon the tragedy, or, as some will have it, the comedy, of thousands of human lives, and a myriad hopes d fears have culminated, and been engulfed in the mystery which sur- $e iksbrsowe have been quieted, and ambitions set at rest since Father Christmas last smiled upon the pretty Devon lane, and a few old faces hat graced Warleycombe Lodge for several successive Christmases, aoa kindly on the younger ones, are missing this year from Reuben Seen Har rild’s Sceiaht on this Christmas eve—Mrs. Ramage as large, vert Mr. pane as little, as ever. ap c sion ance ns, must have been born very old. For them, time i still; they have neither gained nor lost a wrinkle. 2 Dr. Bax is there, as genialasever. He has not changed a whit, and, yut that during the past year he has made himself more loved, Father ‘Time would also seem to have stood sti | for him. ~ Some men never grow old; the goodness of their lives scares away es, and their faces are as pleasant to look upon in their old age as an their youth. . And Stephen Winkworth and Alice are among the guests—sad and silent sharers of the festivities. Both father and daughter show the im- “press of the year that has fled. A new grief seems to have fallen upon them, and Stephen’s eyes are constantly wandering, apprehensivély, to pee taaor face, : was standing in the curtained recess where she and William sat t Year. _Her thoughts were dwelling sadly on that time, and.as she ¥ WW rj n. rcs father, who had been silently observing her, moved to her side, 1d passing his arm around her, begged her nc * to srie\ v. _,‘I try not to, father,” she said, ‘laying her head Vn her father’s breast, Sad sobbing quietly; ‘‘ but I can’t help feeling unhappy at the difference between this Christmas and the last.” “J wish,” muttered Reuben Harrild, “‘ that William Fairfield had been at the bottom of the Red Sea before he had ever thought of coming to Warleycombe!” Do not Jay all the blame upon Walliams," said Laura; ‘‘ it was chiefly r fault. MO _ “Your fault that this man deoaived you!” _ “What if I deceived him first? What if I had a secret which he should have shared, and which I withheld from him? Yes,” she continued, “quickly, stopping the remark that Reuben Harrild was about to make, ~ must tell you all. You must unseal my lips, father. If not out of love for me, in the cause of truth and justice you must let me speak cars without reserve.” “Goon, Laura,” he said, gravely; ‘‘I think I may trust you.” —- * ¥oa will listen to me patiently, will you not?’ she asked, sweetly. bid want to. remind yaa of this time last wear when I came to you in aad I kee Tam ine right. forgiveness for Arthur——” Pinca He arose Gees to his feet, but Laura caught his hand, Father, I came at that time to ask your x 5 Spel? Pica | & bod: j AMAL Py 3 + a ‘ Xv 3 aed Tn : acta. arate Ch: A bigness Ob a eta pure ad he had wrecked his life and hers by his Zea. suspic- of ik ry sy 4. ¢ r ~y ’ =) preg ae a s x baat Pod $i ; os " Pay hye, jah" OR ee at a OE SE , Ye oT Be on : e* @ STS sg thet _ Dr. Bax, passing at the moment, swiftly drew the curtains, so that they were shut from observation. iy: “Arthur was out in the cold the whole night, father,” Laura contin- ued. ‘‘ William and I were standing where we are standing now, and I saw Arthur’s shadow on the snow.” “But William did not know?” questioned Reuben Harrild, with a hot | flame in his face. ‘“No, William did not know; that is the a of my unhappiness. William saw Arthur’s shadow, and wanted to go out to it, but I begged — him to remain, fearing a discovery might be made that would distress you; and although William noticed my agitation, I dared not explain the cause, for you had enjoined silence upon me. Arthur had come to wish me good-by; he was going to the colonies the next day. It almost broke my heart to part with him, and I begged him to see me once more at midnight. 1 hoped that I might prevail upon you to forgive him, and I came to your study to plead for him, but you would not listen to me. Arthur watched you through the window, father, and bid you good-by in his heart; he loves you, indeed—indeed—and has never committed a fault since that which estranged you from him.” Reuben Harrild’s countenance twitched convulsively, Ana he disen. gaged himself gently from Laura, and turned his face from her. ‘* At midnight, last Christmas eve, | wished him farewell. He bid me, if at any time you would allow me to speak of him, to give you his dear love and duty, and to tell y.ou that all through his future life he would endeavor to atone for the one great fault of which he had been guilty. Father, think of him with love, and forgive him.” **Go on to the end, child,” said Reuben Harrild, quietly. ‘*T have never seen William since that unhappy night. He wrote me a few words, saying that he had witnessed our meeting (of course he did not know—how should he?—that it was Arthur), and he went away be- lieving I had deceived him. I did blame him a little at first for doubting me; but I have thought since that I was more in fault igs he. I should have had no secrets from him who was to be my husband.” Fasc ‘* And I have been the cause of all your unhappiness,” Reuben Harrild said, drawing his daughter to him! My child, if I had knewn——” ‘*-You would have forgiven Arthur?” she asked, in a whisper, as she lay upon his breast. ‘* Yes, child. God pardon me! I would have forgiven him.” ‘“« And you forgive him now, father?” “Fully, freely, my dear daughter,” he said, pressing his lips to hers. “Tamso happy. I can bear my own sorrow better now; it seems light already. Before I goto bed to-night, I shall write to Arthur and tell him the good news.” Her grief seemed almost to pass away as she spoke, and hand-in-hand they left the recess. ‘T have sometimes considered "—Doctor Bax was addressing the Woys and the Wymers, who, with other of Reuben Harrild’s guests, were standing around him—'‘' [ have sometimes considered whether my ex- periences or yours are more full of romance——” Mr. Wymer interrupted him in astonishment. “I bég your pardon. | Did I mistake? Yes, surely! You did not say romance?” “4 ‘Yes, I did, Mr. Wymer—whether doctors or lawyers meet with more _ romance in their careers?” i “You amaze me, doctor!” exclaimed Mr. Wymer. lives.” He raised his hands and eyes, and his partners followed suit. ; ‘Full of romance,” said Doctor Bax, with a most positive air. ‘Ah, you may shake your head, but it is so. Werel a maker of stories, in- stead of a mender of bodies, I should need no incidents or characters that do not come within such an experience as yours. Have you not, by “Romance in our way of argument, held the strings of some such case as a poor person Rabe coming suddenly into possession of a great fortune?’ ‘* Yes; but that is not romance, it is reality.” “Where do you get your romances from, if not from reality? Con- template for a moment the passions, the emotions fe ‘*T beg your pardon,” interrupted Mr. Wymer; ‘1 do not quite follow $ you.” *“ The fruition of hopes long deferred,” continued ag not — heeding the interruption, *‘ deferred, perhaps, until the flowersithey are called upon to gather lie withered in their hands. Passion is dead; the years have flown; yesterday, when they were young, they were poor; to-day, when they are old, they are rich, and what was then a garden is now a graye. tune may have brought together two loving hearts——” {beg your pardon,” said Mr. Wymer, determined to stop the flow of such sentimental nonsense, ‘‘ | distinctly decline to contemplate any thing — It does not come within the of the sort. I have nothing to do with it. . Yes, ei I scope of the law. ‘Loving hearts, indeed—pooh—rubbish! repeat—pooh, rubbish!” ‘. Doctor Bax’s anuability was not ruffled. He knew that there was a Contemplate another instance where the sudden good for: ut ae
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’ oy - whom this wealth is likely to make famous. Bax said? he reached the garden walk that bordered Warleycorabe Lodge. SHADOWS ON vein of tenderness in the lawyer's nature, despite all his endeavors to hide it. A “You, yourself,” said the little doctor, ‘‘related to me an instance of a young girl being suddenly and strangely enriched by the death of a rela- tive in Australia who had never set eyes on her. You, yourself, told me how this child had a devoted mother, and a father, a blind musician and a composer, an artist living in his art, and drawing joy from it, and Is there not in this simple record sufficient material for a fine romance. Is there not——” Mr. Wymer put his fingers in his ears. “‘T can see no romance in the story. Itis reality. Some realities are pleasant—some unpleasant. This happens to be a pleasant one to the per- sons interested, their heirs and assigns. That is all that can be said for it. Besides, what occurs in the Antipodes, where the natives walk about without any clo——” “Ebenezer!” etclaimed Miss Wymer, in an awful voice. “YT beg yourpardon. I was saying that what occurs at the Antipodes, where everything is topsy turvy, scarcely comes within the region of fair argument. I have heard of the most astonishing occurrences there —most astonishing!” “Truly,” remarked Doctor Bax, ‘‘ wonderful things take place there— very dreadful things too. JI read inthe papers afew days ago that at some gold-fields discovered in New Zealand, forty men were found perish- ing in the snow, and that most of them died from the long exposure and the trials they had gone through. What is the matter, Laura?” Her trembling limbs would scarcely support her as she tottered out of the room to the street door. How cruelly, bitterly like to last year every thing was outwardly! Upon this spot William had kissed her, and bid her good-night; and she might never see him again. What had Doctor ‘Forty men perishing in the snow!” Her brother or her lover might be among these men. There was horror in the thought, and a faintness came upon her. In truth, she did faint dead inthe arms of Doctor Bax, who had followed her into the passage. ‘‘Poor dear! poor dear!” exclaimed the doctor. gazing at the white face lying on his shoulder. ‘‘It is a sad Christmas for you, my poor Laura! Come, cheer up, my dear,¥ he said, as she opened hereyes,; ‘‘we can’t have you fainting away like this. Idiot that lam! I might have known——” “You know nothing more, doctor? He is not among them?” ‘* Not he, indeed, the misguided young man! Come, now, you are bet- _ter;, the color’s returning to your face. That’s right—that’s right.” ‘Tam well, now, doctor. It was very foolish to give way, but,” with a pitiful aeare of the lips, ‘‘Iam not as strong as I was. Go inside, dear doctor, Don’t let me make everybody miserable this Christmas eye. Very well; if *-ou will not go in without me, I suppose I must ac- company you.” Smiling almost cheerfully, she took the doctor’s arm and rejoined the guests. They were happy enough, especially the very young people of the party, who laughed and frolicked as though life from this night forth was to be nothing but a long holiday. But there was one present who was supremely unhappy. It was worse than death to Stephen Winkworth to look upon the form of his crippled child. His misery was complete, for no ray of hope fell on the heart that was cold to all but this child. Day by day he had seen her wasting away. She bore her lot uncomplainingly, and in silence. In this lay his chief unhappiness. If she had confided in him as of old—if she had complained to him of her sufferings—it would have afforded him some consolation. But no; the bond that had united them was loosened. She choose rather to suffer insilence than seek hissympathy. Haplessindeed is that mortal whose life is passed without the light of sympathy and love! He had watched his daugheer the whole of the night. Scarcely a word had passed her lips; not once had he seen her smile; not once had she looked toward him with affection. He could endure it no longer. “Alice,” he said, in a hoarse whisper, leaning over her chair,‘‘ I wish to ~ speak with you alone.” Without a word she arose to obey him. It was a strange fashion of hers that she should wear her hair loosely; and, as it hung down in heavy masses, it almost concealed her deformity when she was standing in re- "pose, ‘*Come into the night, * he said. He felt stifled in the house, and he experienced a sense of relief when The girl stood patiently before him, uttering no word. Alice,” he said, “‘ why do you not speak to me?” ‘“What shall I say, father?” she asked, in a WOANy tone. ' “Say,” he returned, with heaving breast; ‘say anything! Why do you avoid my look? Why do you torture me with your silence?” _ The suffering tone in which he spoke was not yithout its effect. A THE SNOW. softer light came into her face—a light in w hich eo ama dwelt for him and for herself. “Father,” she said, solemnly, taking his hand, ‘‘look up to the stars. Look out upon this scene. Not in my dreams have I seen a grander pic- ture. The Divine Lord, that shaped the world, that gave us eyes to see, and ears to hear, and mind to understand, is looking down upon us now. See! the earth is so pure—the trees so lovely—the sky so bright! If Heaven be as beautiful as this, how blest is immortality!” es ‘* Well, child?” he said, awed into a quieter mood. Fi ‘Well, father,” she returned, ‘‘ we are sent into this world to enjoy its blessings. Weare here, not to repine, not to murmur, not to scatter seeds of unkindness, but to live and be grateful. If any of us has sorrow é to bear, it must be borne. My lot, Heaven help me, is hard enough.” = ““Ttis, child—it is,” he groaned, remorsefully. ; ‘* Why do you make it harder?” “Alice!” “You have asked me to speak, and there is that in my mind must Pe ie said. If it grieve you, you have brought it on yourself. My heart cries. K4 out against you! I can not help it—I can not help it—it isa power With- in that moves me. Since last Christmas a new light has shone upon me. Wit Father!” she exclaimed, turning her face suddenly to his, “ you have Me never in all your life spoken to me of my mother!” Stephen staggered, as though a bullet had struck his heart, and a dead- — ly shudder passed through him. $s ‘‘T never saw her—I never saw her picture. I have often wondered — As if I shall know her when I meet her in heaven, or if there issomething ; that will shut me out from her love in the next world, as death ban at : in this. Father, speak to me of my mother!” “Tecan not, child—I can not,” he murmured, hiding his Sasa in bis hands. “*T so yearn for love—for human love—for love with light in it! It 4 F: seems to me that I can no longer live without it. Yqurlove—forgive, oh, forgive me!” and she wound her arms around his neck, and drew his eae Z _to her bosom, ‘‘your love hurts me. It appears to me unholy, for you take it from all others to bestow it upon me. Do you think that, when 1 — see the want of sympathy that exists between you and all around you, i 3 am not grieved? Do you think I do not suffer when I see good men and. ie women smile ot ges each other, and not upon you? When you shut your- es self out from man’s good-w ill, you shut me out also. ‘Your life is not a — blessing, father—Heaven pardon me for saying so—it isa curse? It was part of bis bitter punishment to be compelled to acknowledge the truth of her words. His life was a curse, blighting every thing with which he came in contact—blighting even his child’s happiness. - ‘ Alter it, father—alter it!” she continued; earnestly. of the world. Live in it and be of it. Forget what I told you last year of my—my love for William Fairfield. Nay, do not touch meforamo- — ment!” She shrunk from him and hid her face, and did not speak for a eat little while. ‘‘I have conquered that love; and I pray with all my heart = that William may come back and make Laura happy. I have been silent to you. I have not been what I was; for my heart has whispered to me . r that, you were in some way the cause of parting William and Laura. | do nct ask you to tell me anything; but.if you can remedy any hi ’ you ine vena do so at once, if not for her sake, for mine!” ge wi 5 a i oe ‘ ui . to comfort baie ‘‘T strove to bring love into your life, Alice,” he murmured, humb} “You can do so yet. You can make my life brighter if you will gil 7 me the happiness of seeing that men respect you. You can bring a ligh ‘« into it that has never yet illumined it, if you will speak to me of my _ mother in such tones as a daughter may listen to.” te * ‘“‘Child,” he answered, in agony, ‘‘I can not speak of her. me what I am.” ‘How long has she been dead? It must be a long, long time; for she has been dead to me all my life. In what way did she wrong yout” ‘Silence, daughter!” he cried. ‘‘ You must not question me!” ‘*T dare not now be silent,” she said, firmly. ‘If she wronged you have you never, never forgiven her? It is awful to think ae she hi aS = {pee She ing! ‘Bless me, father, in my mother’s name, and say that you forgiv ar her!” By She knelt upon the snow, and raised her hands in an agony of ple ing. Could he gaze upon the poor, maimed child, whose life he wrecked, and not relent? Slowly the tears came into his eyes, slowly — the flood-gates of his heart were opened, and the memory of happier ; times—of times when he was a better man—stole upon him with soften-— i's ing influence, Blurred in the moonlight, he saw the form of his ia ter Lage as aes Dae his hand upon her head, he re you!” £9 se SF es a li > eae be ees
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Bs eee Mae > * i * PET * ', ‘I would, Heaven help me!” ; inh uae. _ There was certainly something very extraordinary the matter with lit- | _ “Dear friend, give me your hand. Laura, your brother was here last tle Doctor Bax. He had been called away from the house some time Christmas, was he not?” ; since, and having been absent for nearly an hour, had just returned; and | “ Yes,” sighed Laura, “he was here.” “ And from this window you saw his shadow on the snow,” sald Doctor Bax, waving his handkerchief across the window. ‘‘T did. Look, doctor, look!” Laura gasped, for at this moment the shadow of a man darkened the snow plain without. 54 “Keep up your courage, Laura, Donot trembleso, my dear. Reuben — Harrild, if that were your son, come to ask his father’s pardon fora — fault committed in a moment of rashness, and deeply repented of—if, réscued almost miraculously from a dreadful death, he should have trav- eled back over stormy seas to the home of tx youth, Sgt contrite, __ when Laura, who, struggling to forget her sorrow, was playing forfeits ? with the young people, raised her eyes, she observed him regarding her in the strangest and most inexplicable manner. The moment their eyes met he turned his away; but presently he was looking at her again, and “60 str angely, that she could not avoid asking if anything ailed him. __ “No, my dear,” he replied, with singular eagerness, ‘‘ there is nothing the: matter with me, you little puss, eh?” - * T don’t know,” said Laura; ‘‘ but you look as if——” “ Yes, my dear, as if——” j ified——” ‘ Asif you had seen a ghost.” purl “ Ha—ha!” exclaimed the doctor, laughing so loudly that all eyes were | | “It is he—my Arthur!” cried Reuben Harrild, as the shits advanced, turned upon him immediately. ‘‘That’s as good a thing as I’ve heard I am very—very thankful. Dear friend, you have made me your Y years. A ghost! What do you think, Mr. Harrild? Do I look to | debtor for life. Come, Laura, let us welcome your brother.” ‘as if I had seen a ghost?” **Upon my word,” said little Doctor Bax, as Laura and her father left a & don’t believe in ghosts,” replied Reuben Harrild, smiling. the room, ‘‘ this promises to be the most glorious Christmas-eve in my Ha!” said Doctor Bax, taking Laura’s hand, and patting it gently. remembrance.” “You don’t believe in ghosts. Now, that’s singular. Ido; I see them In his excited state, a desperate step was clearly necessary. “ nd There were two musicians present—a pianist and a fiddler. Giving often.” them a hurried order, Doctor Bax capered up to Miss Wymer, and asked Puts, aa eee sth a Wrmes, staring hard at Nis Pais doe for the honor of her hand for a quadrille. iv «“ rte Ses AONE Denti ed 8 Miss Wymer solemnly rose, and granted it to him; and in a moment, be- wr, ‘Not at all, Tsay again, Iam a believer in ghosts, I never pass a fore anybody knew how it had all come about, everybody paired off, sets purch-yard at night without seeing a hundred of them,’ dodging around t a ee a ’ 3 ar ’ “a e tombstones. I do believe that if I went outside at this moment I Wake tartadd, ant pgeneral quad he opmiebed Shira ees eee Cre nek, a apltde e MARL SL LEAT WE quadrille. Those who couldn’t dance in the room, danced in the pas- : id pop pe we ss Sekote ROT ee EPS : e ‘sages; those who couldn’t dance in the middle of the floor, danced in am pope oat eseieh d Mir, Raaage, nooks and corners; the very kitchen was invaded. : ; And every figure was encored by*the little doctor, and danced twice se May I venture toask,” said Mr. Wymer, with a glance at his part- Saeeiie In his set. were: Miss Wymer and himself, tops; Mr. Wymer and Mrs. ; ‘pletion I suppose. ie Ramage, bottoms; Mr. Woy and a very little girl in a blue sash, and’ Mr. s : a On, Fa see Doctor Bax, with a.chuckle, “there are varieties ng are Ce ek pee is to say little. As for Doc- i ghost docular andthe ghost dejected: the dolesome and the sprightly; tor Bax and Miss Wymer, the simple word Flirtation conveys no idea ue sober and the rakish,” 3 : ate 4 ‘ ; t ee —“Tbeg your pardon,” said Mr. Wymer, somewhat scandalized at this ns depres nero Reine ir cin ae bers bee wed woe ink bie _ Asvity. while the sides were performing their figures, she not objecting, buf , “ Beg away, my dear sir; Tamin gs humor to forgive anything. But seeming to enjoy it, was a sight not to be forgotten. 1) __ to please you, I will be more serious.” He led his friends to the window. Sure such another quadrille was never danced before. It came too am a creature of impulse, my cate Mr. Wymer; one moment I am | goon to an end—that was the general opinion. When it was over, Mr. , the next I am sad.” Wymer offered his bony fingers to Doctor Bax, and they shook hands ‘Sanguineous temperament,” suggested the lawyer. cordially. Precisely so. Therefore I ‘will not ask you, nor you, friend Harrild, “I beg your pardon, Mr. Wymer,” said the doctor. “Your opinion you, my dear Laura, to excuse the changeful vapors of my varying | ghout ghosts, now?” ood, That sounds rather poetic, Mr. Wymer.” “Doctor Bax,” replied Mr. Wymer, with an scicteh which made Ican not say. Poetry does not come within the legitimate scope of | his face look absolutely young, “allow me to say that every member of y ties.” our firm is proud of your friendship. You are a most wonderful man, You are mistaken, sir; your life contains much poetry. ButasI was | sir.” , | will not ask you to excuse me for wandering to personal ex- ‘*You’re another!” cried Dr. Bax, poking Mr. Wymer in the ribs. ence—an episode in our family history. My father—it is forty years Laura was weeping on her brother’s breast, while Reuben stood close, ce he died—had a brother Frank, from whom, years before his death, | holding his son’s hand. parted in anger, and whom he never saw again. Upon his death bed ‘Dear sister,” said Arthur, ‘‘but for your sweet counsel this happy fae of that brother troubled him greatly. I was not very old at | reunion might never ech been. Do not weep, Laura; there is a great time, but Iremember well his words. ‘If I could but see Frank!’ he | blessing in store for you.” : rmured; ‘we. have had so many happy days together. We slept ** Arthur,” she cried, stretching forth her trembling arms, “you did together, and went to school together. He loved me, I am sure. If I | not come home alone?” id but see my brother Frank!’ And he turned to nie, and bid me ‘No; a friend accompanied me whom I have learned to love—a friend — e! nly never to nurse anger against mortal man. ‘Your uncle and I | who, on the long voyage home, spoke and thought of nothing but the = arreled,’ he said, ‘and parted with unforgiving words, If I could see | wrong he had inflicted upon the girl of his heart. He saved my life, ow, and press his hand, and exchange a loving word, I should die | dear; but for him I should have perished in the wilds; and he has com? a 7 £ have never forgotten his words, and through all my. life I have | with me to ask your forgiveness. You will forgive him, will you note. er let the sun go down upon my wrath.” He loves you perfectly, Laura,’ and has been very unhappy. Thank God! tor Bax still held Laura’s hand, and aid not appear to heed the cu- thank God! this moment recompenses for all!” 4 y inquiring look Reuben Harrild cast upon him. - At her feet knelt William Fairfield! She raised him to her breast; and There are mysteries and miseries in all families,” the doctor contin- | on that blessed Christmas-eve, under the solemn splendor of the starlit “Tt is wonderful the suffering man inflicts upon himself. Reuben, | heavens, the lovers were reunited, never more to part in life. had a son——” * * * * * * * x * * held her breath. | It was later than usual before the Christmas party broke up. A hap- Yes, Thad a \ da) ” said Reuben, gently. “Go on, doctor.” pier company had certainly never assembled within four walls. There ‘A son. ertiony you have not seen for years. You parted from him ‘in | was gladness around all, and every one appeared to have grown suddenly © ger. He went abroad. What if he should be dead——” younger. Even Stephen Winkworth’s countenance wore a satisfied ex- ihe “No—no, Doctor Bax!” cried Laura. ‘‘Donotsay that? For mercy’s pression, and, much to the astonishment of the guests, he was biter aa ri sake, do not say that!” | to smile upon two distinct occasions. ‘What if he should be dead?” said Doctor Bax, firmly. ‘‘ What if he ‘“‘ Where is your skeleton now, Doctor Bax?” asked Laura, as ‘she, wile ee d have died, unforgiven! If it were so, Reuben, would you not give | liam, and Alice stood by his side; ‘‘the skeleton you were grumbling & at i you possess to beable totake him once more to your heart; as you | last year?” s to do in the old days, ' when = was a curly-headed boy? d | ‘Gone, my dear! x ‘re the good sa gayly; “hiding ses
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ame. 4% # 5 Fe rak as that I may. not get at him. Ah, William! | _ before you sleep to-night, fall upon your knees and thank God for the good he has bestowed _ upon you! As for you, my dear, if I were not _ anold man, I would run away with you, will nilly and marry you to-morrow. But as it is, 1 suppose we must make the best of our lots, and go on in the same humdrum way as ever. Stephen Winkworth,” he said, as Stephen. A. approached, “ will you let William have back — a his farm?” : epee. Yes,” said ‘Stephen, with a tremor in his '__-woice as his daughter kissed his hand; ‘‘I have been wanting to offer it back, but I did not - know how todo it.” “Then everything is settled,” said Doctor . Bax; ‘and, ex¢epting that woe, are all very - much happier, this Christmas might be last Christmas, and the year that has passed might have been a mistake. A mistake, however,” he » added, gently, ‘‘ which will not, let us hope, be , set down to our disadvantage when our life’s aecount is balanced in the ledger of old Father ime, i His dog cart was at the door, ready to take him on his regular Christmas visit to his poor friends. How he got into his overcoat is a mystery, for everybody at once tried to assist him on with it, and the result was laughing confusion. Laura’s fair hands tied his cravat round his throat, and Laura’s lips were pressed to his cheek. _A most ot eae hush fell upon the guests, who were hatted and cloaked and be- muffled, and who yet madenostir to leave. Mr. _ Wymer looked at Doctor Bax and fidgeted in the strangest manner—which brought soft twinkles into the doctor’s eyes, “T beg your pardon,” said the lawyer, { weeny “have you not forgotten something?” : . “* Possi ly—possibly, my dear sir, Can you give it a name?” “Your bag—for the poor!” - With beaming face and tearful eyes, Doctor Bax produced it magically. No wizard, whether of the east, north, south or west, could have - done the trick more neatly, for not a soul was able to discover where the bag came from. He opened its mouth and held it out. No need to ask or urge. Willing hands and hearts con- tributed, and Doctor Bax was ready to declare most solemnly that the paper packet which Miss Wymer dropped into the *bag contained more than the usual rat dont fee of six-and- eight-pence. But had hedone so, Miss Wymer would probably have declared that she had made a mistake. So he wisely held his tongue. “Do you not find it lonely,” suggested Mr. W: er, ‘‘driving by yourself in the cold air?” ‘I might do so to-night,” said Doctor Bax; “I confess I should appreciate the company of a kindred soul to whom I could talk as ie drive along to my friends. William, of course, can’t come. William laughed, and shook his head. “I beg your pardon,” said Mr. Wymer twitching a button off his glove; “if I might be allowed to—” . Doctor Rax held out his arm, and Mr. Wymer sedately accepted it, though he was so long and the doctor was so short that they formed a queer conjunction, and they walked to the dog- cart together. The doctor waved his hand and drove off; Mr. Wymer being compelled to hold on tightly, for the pony was in the maddest of humors, and kicked up his heels in rare fashion, ted An hour afterward, Laura and William were _ « Standing at the door, looking out unon the night. He told her of his dream on last Christmas eye, and was pointing out to her the spot where he had seen the shadows. “ They have taught me a lesson I shall never forget, darling,” he said. ‘ My love, strength- ened by faith, can never yield again to doubt. Tell me once more, Laura, that you forgive me for the sorrow I have caused you.” ; ‘‘T have nothing to forgive,” she said, sweetly: - Tam so perfectly happy. The sorrow of the past year was hard to bear, but its fruits will be sweet. And, oh, William, I shall never _ think with any other feeling than gratitude of _the Shadows you saw last Christmas on the : = > Snow!” ——$—————— ee [THE END.] (SHADOWS ON THE i as ree ae SNOW. Half-Dime Singer's Library on NEE BRntecaialee = » § S : . STANDARD DIME PUBLICATIONS. — 1 Wxoda, Emma! and 59 other Songs. intl il creatine Se den BEADLE AND aarp: their lists the fol 3 Tue Garnsporo’ HaT and 62 other Songs. lowing highly desirable and attractive text-books, __ 4 Jonnny Morean and 60 other Songs. prepared expressly for schools, families, ete. Each 5 [tu Srrimke You Wirs A FEATHER and 62 others. piso contains 100 gel ad ape oe Tat > 7 >, COMPTrisii; e€ an 6 Grorcz THE CuarmeR and 56 other Songs. ina ramas aaa sitations, (burlesque, comic 7 Tax Bevte or Rockaway and 52 other Songs. and otherwise.) 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‘The Fireside fay 2 Was Sze His Meine ‘By M Mrs. Mary Reed Crowell. . : Furmne From Love. Harriet Irving. le 3 Dip Hx Love mi By Bartley T, Campbell. 4 A Srranux Woman. By Rett Winwood. 6 Two Grats’ Lrves. By Mrs. Mary Reed Crowell. 9 Toe Wark or Hearts, By Corinne Cushman. 4H Tue Fatse Wipow. By . Jennie D. Burton, 12-138 Lost ror Love. By Miss 'M. E. Braddon. 14-15 ‘Formers or THE Sea. By Victor Hugo. f - 16 THe QuapROoN. By Catharine A. Warfield. -:17-18 Unctm Sms. By J. 8. Le Fanu. _-—-: 19-20 Drap-Sma Fruit, By Miss M. E. Braddon. i 21-22 Lrrrte Kare Kirsy. By ¥, W. Robinson. _- 23 Sowine THe Winp. By Mrs. Mary Reed Crowell. -- 2425 Birps or Prey. By Mrs. ME. Braddon. Bon oe Tat Boy or Norcorr’s. By Charles Lever. -—s- 27-288 CxARLoTTE’s INHERITANCE. By Miss Braddon. 29 A Grru’s Heart. By Rett Wiuwood. — 30-31 Rep as A Rosze 1s Sue, By Rhoda Broughton. 82 ‘Tra: Liny or St. Ernz. By Crow. ae 33 SrRaN@xLY WeD. By Mrs. Jenny Davis Burton. $4 Tu Gresy Brewer. By M. E. O. 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By Mrs. Oliphant. 130 Taz Best or Huspanps, By James Payn. A new issue every week. For sale by all newsdealers, price ten cents, or sent, postage paid, on receipt of twelve cents. ' BEADLE AND ADAMS, Publishers, 98 William street, N. Y. Waverley Library. 1 Taz Maskep Bripg. By Mrs. Mary R. Crowell. 2 Was It Love? By Wm. Mason Turner. 8 Tae Girt Wire. By Bartley T. Campbell. 4 A Brave Heart. By Arabella Southworth. 5. Bessie Raynor. By Wm. Mason Turner, M. D. 6 Tue Secret Mareen, By Sara Claxton. 7 A. DaveutTerR or Eves. By Mrs. Crowell. 8 Heart to Heart. By Arabella Southworth. 9 ALONE IN tHE WorLp. By author of “ Clifton.” 10 A Parr or Gray Eyres. By Rose Kennedy. 11 Enranctep. By Henrietta Thackeray. 12 His Lawrvunt Wire. By Mrs. Stephens, 18 Mapoar. By Corinne Cushman. 14 Wuy I Marrrep Him. By Sara Claxton, 15 A Farr Face. By Bartley. T. Campbell. 16 Trust Her Nor. By Margaret Leicester, 17 A Loyan Lover. By Arabella Southworth. 18 His Ino. 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