Waverley Library (Quarto Edition) (no. 169) (1883 02 06)
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Se to exert a beneficial pted Through Love: |. ONE WOMAN’S ERROR. BY LILLIAN LOVEJOY, at eS oF ‘‘ BUYING A HEART,” ‘OnE LOVES ME NOT,” ETC., ETC. CHAPTER L THROUGH TROUBLED WATERS. ' “Wantep, a lady, about twenty-five, accom- plished, refined, and of eee appearance, as _ governess-companion to a yo lad ‘ of neglected education. She would be r equired superintend the studies of her pupil under e cient masters, and Tahnenne over her amusements ‘and demeanor. Liberal ee at ee and comfort- able home, A inclosing oo i Ply, “Mrs ae te: Mass.” The newspaper was s two days old (they gen- erally were before reaching the school room), and Ada Dalkeith threw it aside with a sigh, exclaiming, ‘‘I don’t suppose I should.do any good by answering it now. What is the good’ ' of trying to escape from my present life? I ‘shall always have to lead the same, or starve. _ Sometimes, if it could be done quickly, I think _ the latter would be the better alternative.” _ | She was very beautiful, despite the discon- . tented, wearied expression of her face just then, and the life so distasteful to her was that to which so many poor gentlewomen are con- demned—that of a governess. ‘Left an orphan when only ten years old, her relations had procured her an entrance ito a _ school, where she was to be trained for the life i+ for which she was destined, altogether regard- _ less of the question of ber fitness for it. Very hard had the poor indulged darling of ya quiet, refined country home found her new life, with its strict discipline of school routine _ and work, and she had rebelled against it with all the strength of her young will. _ But then, at least, she had companionship, and her bright, genial disposition made her a ees general favorite with her companions; so she often now looked back to that time with almost fond recollections when it was a thing of the _ past, and she was condemned to the solitude, _ combined with the monotony, of the school- _ room—the Hartford Home School. At eighteen, her education being completed, the relations had once more bestirred them- _ selves in her behalf, and procured her the po- sition of governess to the Hon. Mrs. Alford’s _ children. Then they impressed, with many - prudent admonitions, on her mind that the sit- - uation was a most desirable one, and that she was a most fortunate girl to be so comfortably settled. ‘Perhaps Ada was ungrateful to kind Dame Ae une; for, certainly, she felt the reverse of My ‘3 giatelar: for the places in which the lines had fallen to her, especially as time went on and <a brought no change or variety into her career. At first she had hoped that some wonderful stroke of Providence would manifest itself in her favor, and bring her the freedom for which _ she craved. It seemed so impossible that all _ her young life should slip by and bring not one _ single chance of the enjoyment she could have so well appreciated. But the days and weeks lengthened to months, the months to years, _ and still no change appeared, still the ‘same un- i ' sympathetic, mechanical life, until she felt at times that ber lot was unbearable. “How very discontented and wrong-mind- _ ed!” would say the comfortable and well cared- » for. A Weill, what bad she to make her contented? Will a sufficiency of good food, warm clothing, and housing satisfy the natural craving of a _.. young girl for all that makes life worth living for? And Ada possessed an unusual sbare of the capability of appreciating all this. She was very beautiful, and had had no one to feel proud of her beauty since the cld days when she bad been her father’s constant com- pein, to love and caress her, Egiic gaan Si dite oe 7 It was a necessity to her to have some. the need oP a naturally ‘Hodte nature poy a stronger to lean on and look to for guidance, But all this tad to be repressed. Daily she must occupy herself with tasks utterly uncon- genial, and hear constantly the sounds of the social gayety and mirth in which it was for- bidden her to join. But worst of all, there was not one person in the world to whom she could turn for sympathy and companionship. What wonder if she grew discontented and apt to fall into the way of entertaining a vast pity for herself? Lately the feeling of repul- sion to her life had grown stronger than ever, and she had determined to make a change somehow, A young girl she was no longer. Nearly eight years had passed since she left school. Hight years!—ah, how slowly and miserably they had dragged on, and yet now they seemed but a. few months; or, rather, as a perfect blank in her existence, during which she had vegetated rather than lived. She shuddered a little whenever she thought of the future, and almost wished that the nat- ural clinging to life did not force her to con- tinue toiling for the means to support it when it was so hopelessly wearisome and wretched. “ How I wish I could be a kitchen-maid, or menial servant of some sort!” she exclaimed, as a burst of laughter came up from the servants’ hall below. ‘I should not like the work; but they can enjoy themselves when they bave done; and I do so hate to be always alone!” Then the advertisement was read through again; and she held the paper a long time in her hand, looking earnestly into the glowing fire, as if she would read a solution to her ques- tion there. “ Comfortable home!” she mused; ‘I dare say Mrs, Alford calls this comfortable!” And she glanced round the small, bare apartment. ; The walls were decorated with maps; a book- case, containing very shabby, ill-used lesson- books, which leaned up against each other in the most disconsolate way, as though their en- ergy had been completely washed away by the constant bedewment with salt water which they experienced; and a small, evidently dis- cordant piano, occupied one end; while in the corner furthest from the fire was a hard horse- hair sofa, A blackboard, some stiff-backed chairs, and a plentiful supply of inkstands, completed the inventory. Ada turned from her survey with a look of disgust. “** A young lady of neglected education!” she continued to soliloquize, ‘‘I dare say she is a rough, ill-mannered hoyden; but ore would be better than five! ‘Liberal remuner- ation!’ That does sound inviting after two hundred dollars per annum for all that I do here. And then—ob, then, it would be a change, and I would give anything for that. Yes; I will answer it and take my chance.” Suiting the action to the word, she got her writing materials, and at once set about the task. It took a good deal of consideration—‘‘ For I may as well make the best of myself,” she reflected. ‘IfI don't praise myself, there is no one else who will.” She read through the list of her recommen- dations with a critical air. ‘There, that is all I can think of!” she said, closing the envelope, bed and sleep on it.” But sleep she did not for some time; her mind was too busy with dreams which just this slight chance of a variation had suggested. For long after she had loosened her long golden hair from its heavy coils she remained motion- less and lost in thought. ; It was a pity that there was no fond mother to look upon that fair picture with a sense of growing pride; for, in spite of her five-and- twenty years and her dull life, Ada looked very girlish still, and exquisitely beautiful. It seemed almost impossible to believe that she had never experienced the delightful feel- ing of = be oho enjoyment and innocent plea- sures “ And now I will go to eapan an Tstidias wo cameltoe of appreciat- ing The fall, rosy lips, even though they might betray a lack of firmness, were faultless. in outline, and her dark blue eyes looked ready to beam over with mirth and fun at the slightest provocation, while the delicate cut of her fea- tures, and the quick, varying expression, showed as clearly the presence of a sparkling) spirit of. repartee. She looked intently at her own reflection, “‘T was not created for a du!l, emotionless existence,” she said. “It seems that nature does sometimes make mistakes, after all. Ob, how I long for a time of. real life—not exist- ence, but real, happy life! I would give years and years of mine just to enjoy a few months in a whirl of love, admiration and excite- ment!” Several times during the next day Ada lost herself in a journey after the whereabouts of her letter, and was recalled by a confused jan- gle of discordant notes as apology for scales, or the atrocious pronunciation of French verbs, which aroused her to insist on more exactitude © —an effort which generally resulted in an ar- — gument rather trying to her peace of mind. In the evening she received an invitation to join the guests in the drawing-room—an invi- tation equivalent to a command, as if was coupled with the exhortation to bring down — some music. At first she felt inclined to refuse; but, after’ all, a few hours in the gayly-lighted, flower- — scented drawing-room was better than the soli- tude of the dingy school-room. | “It’s very kind of mamma to ask you down in the drawing-room, isn’t it?’ said Maud, at the tea-table. “I heard her tell Carcline that your music was such a great help that sho — should ask you down much oftener if only you were older.” ‘Then why do Grace and Caroline go down?” asked Ella, who was yet too young to know much of the conventionalities of society, and thereby drew down scorn on herself from Maud and Ethel, young ladies in their teens, © who piqued themselves on their knowledge of — the world, learnt from the gossip of their mother and elder sisters. ‘‘They are both © younger than Miss Dalkeith, and they go down every evening.” ue Btmpid child!” said Ethel. ‘‘ They are ‘out,’ and Miss Dalkeith does not ‘come out,’ because she is our governess.” “Well, I think it is very mean to ask Miss Dalkeith "after dinner,” remarked Tom. ‘‘ It’s no fun going when all the grub is over!” “Ob, but she sees all the ladies’ dresses, and | talks to some of the gentlemen!” said Maude. 4 ‘<It?s just like a boy, to think only of eating!” “ And just like a girl only to think of dresses — and gentlemen!” retorted ber brother, con- temptuously. ‘If I were Miss Dalkeith, Ti wouldn’t go at allif I wasn’t thought good enough for the dinner.” | Here perceiving that the argument was growing rather warm, Ada interposed, and in- timated that it was not well-mannered to ae cuss people when they were present. ? CHAPTER II. A CHANCE ACQUAINTANCE, — Ir was more than half-past nine before the summons came informing Ada that Mrs, Al- ford would be very glad of her ‘presence in the drawing-room, She lingered a few moments before the glass, arranging the last touches to her simple toilet. Nothing could be plainer. A black velveteen, high in the neck, and with short, tightly-fit- ting sleeves, light lace ruffles, silver necklet and bracelets, and a spray of Marguerites in | her bair; yet it became her to perfection, and she turned from the glass with an air of satis- faction. “ How absurd I am! There is no one to care if I look well or not; but I am glad that i arn, not ugly.” There was a confused hum of conversa’ jou er pe se parasol betokened so | as she entered nas room; ane for aw
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™% TEM remained unnoticed, and amused herself by lis- tening to the gossip of the ladies. “A most interesting story, and quite ro- Mantic,” she heard one old lady remark to Mrs, Alford. “So I believe,”’ was the reply. Never heard the full particulars.” “ He went away when he was about one-and- twenty,” continued the first speaker, evidently ready to give the unknown details, ‘‘on ac- Count of a dispute with his father about a young lady whom he wished to marry. The Old man threatened to disinherit him, and the lady very wisely released him from bis en- Zagement. He was, however, very head- strong, and would not see things sensibly, and 80 went off to the other end of the’world, vowing vengeance on his father and faithless lady love. There he seems to have consoled bimself with one of the aborigines, and return- ed as the repentant prodigal, only not so desti- tute, having made unheard-of wealth, either farming or gold-digging, just in time to secure bis father’s forgiveness and the inheritance to the family estates.” “Did he bring bis wife with him?” asked Mrs, Alford. **Oh, vo; fortunately not. She died, I be- lieve, a few months after their marriage, leav- ing him with one daughter, who has accom- panied her father to the Usited States. She has bad no education whatever, I believe, and although nearly eighteen, is quite untrained and most unfeminine; wears her hair closely cropped, like a boy’s, and rides all over the country unattended, followed by an evormous “But I have ’ dog, which frightens people to death.” “‘How shocking!” murmured Mrs, Alford, Casting her eyes on her own daughters, both Well-conducted, irreproachable young ladies, utterly devoid of any disturbing eccentricities, “She must be a great trial to her poor father! Iremember Hugh Dysart was always such a fastidious man.” “Oh, he has sadly altered!” remarked the other, shaking her head. ‘‘I fear, my dear— Of course this is in confidence,” “Of course—of course!” “Well, I have heard that the wife was a Very inferior person; naturally exercised a bad influence. Mr. Dysart is, I believe, actually “Quite contented with his daughter, and would Not allow her to be taught at all if it were not for the entreaties of his sister, poor Mrs. Tal- bot, who is terribly distressed about it.” ‘Poor thing! I can well imagine how she must feel it!” sighed the younger lady. ‘I know what it is to have the responsibility of young girls on one’s hands, even when they are Well-bred and ladylike. It must be appalling _ to have such a creature to deal with!” “In despair, she would have been willing have received Miss Dysart into her own home, at Lennox, and allowed her to share the instruction and care of her excellent governess with her own daughters, but Mr. Dysart would Dot hear of such an arrangement—refused ina most brusque manner, I belicve, and would Only consent that his sister should secure a desirable companion for his daughter, who at the same time should be old enough to su- Perintend her studies. But then he even stipu- lated that the lady should not be elderly, as he felt sure bis wayward daughter would not Submit to any one’s authority, and could only influenced by some one in whom she was hterested.” “Tt is almost incredible!” exclaimed Mrs, Alford, looking horrified. ‘‘ What will become of a girl so totally untrained?” “Ah, what indeed! I pity poor Mrs. Talbot with all my heart! It is such a bad example, and she has such a number of daughters to bring out!” ' Ada had felt no sense of dishonor in listen- ing to the above conversation; for although Mmparted under the seal of confidence, she Knew that it would soon be again repeated. Recalling the particulars related, and the advertisement she had answered last night, it Seemed that there was some connection be- tween the two. ‘‘A young lady of neglected education” certainly answered to the descrip- tion of M.ss Dysart. The lady to apply to was Mrs. T——, of Lennox, and Ada knew. that Mrs. Talbot lived there from the conver- sation she had overheard. Her train of reflection was interrupted by the entrance of the gentlemen; and music being asked for, her services at the piano were soon in request. The greater part of the guests were elderly married gentlemen; but Ada noticed one among them was young, and evidently an eligible match, judging from the endeavors of the eldest Miss Alford to attract bim to her, The gentleman was evidently not more than one or two-and-twenty, and seemed quite will- ing to accept the homage and attentions of the young lady so long as no great return was re quired, His chief characteristic struck Ada as being a superb indolence. Lazy eyes, a lazy, amused smile, a soft, lazy voice, and a sort of air which seemed to plead, in a touching way, “Do as you like, my dear fellow, only don’t let me be bored!” He was a handsome man, too, with a grace- ful, well-knit figure, and good features, which might have been perhaps marred by the care- less indifference of his mien to one who could read there the signs of really good abilities, only wanting a little energy to make their possessor a man of mark in the world. Presently Ada perceived that he was stand- ing at the narrow end of the grand piano, watching her as she played the accompaniment to Miss Alford’s song. ‘*Will you introduce me?’ he asked of the latter, as the song was finished. “Certainly,” replied the young lady, stiffly. Miss Dalkeith —Mr. Churton.” So Ada bowed to her new acquaintance in orthodox drawing-room style, although her beart was fluttering at such an unusual event. She was so seldom introduced to any but the lady visitors or married gentlemen, and was quite surprised at the novelty of this event. Before Mr, Churton bad had time to ex- change many words with her, she was recalled to the piano—this time both as vocalist and instrumentalist. ‘May I turn over for you?” he asked, keep- ing his position at her side. “Thank you; I play without notes,” she answered. ““Tbat’s how it should be,” he remarked, “even though it deprives me of the pleasure. Don’t you think it spoils the effect when one has all the external incidents, such as music- book, conductor’s baton, etc., forced on his attention?” “ Perhaps you would like to go a little fur- ther, to complete the whole idealism,” she said, laughing, ‘‘by dispensing also with the pres- ence of the instrument and performer.” “Tn this case, certainly not,” he answered, with a glance of unmistakable admiration, which had the effect of making Ada strike up at once the accompaniment of her sung. She was so little acoustomed to admiration, that the color mounted to ber cheek as though she were a young school-girl. “ What a lovely song!” he said, as sba arose. **T love quiet music. I wonder why so many ladies prefer noisy things?” “They are more effective, and it isn’t very easy to gain the attention of a lot of people who all want to talk.” “Effective or not, I don’t remember a single thing I have heard to-night except your song, and that will haunt me for a long time, ‘for ever and for ever,’”—quoting the refrain of the song she had just sung. ‘If you are stay- ing here, T shall beg you to do me the favor of singing it again.” “It is my home,” she said, simply. governess here.” He started with surprise, but quickly recov- ered himself. “Ab, then, I ‘shall have the pleasure of meeting you again, for I am staying here for a “T am PTED THROUGH LOVE. = week’s shooting, And that reminds me that the juveniles were very eager to show me a collection of caterpillars or some reptiles, only I didn’t feel inclined for the exertion. I think their intelligent interest in the wonders of na- ture ought to be encouraged, though; so, if you will permit, I shall come up to see them. Will you have me in your domain? I am a very good boy, and really have a great desire to see those caterpillars. May I come?” ‘*Certainly,” she said, laughing; “but I warn you that you will be victimized if you put yourself into the clutches of my pupils.” “Oh, I don’t mind,”—with an air of resig- nation. ‘I shall place myself under your pro- tection, and if my feelings are very much ruffled, I sball propose music, and you will soothe them with ‘ For ever and for ever.’ ” ‘*T think we had better choose something more lively,” she said, ‘‘or you will have a very doleful recollection of my performance,” “Not at all,” he said. “TI am delighted, if you will let mé say, with your music just as it is, and I don’t want to have any other recollec- tion than that of tonight. Itis too gooda one to change even for a better.” It was wonderful how many objects of inter- est that old school-room contained. Ada was quite surprised at her own want of perception in never haying discovered its at- tractions before. Somehow the old dreariness seemed to have vanished, and the dingy room looked’ quite bright as Mr. Churton entered into fhe chil- dren’s fyu in a lazy, good-natured way, ex- changing an amused smile with Ada now and then as Maud and Ethel, the airs and graces of their sisters tried to imitate, much elevated at the idea of having allured their visitor to their own domain. “Don’t you get very dull here sometimes?” he asked in a low voice, as the children retired to dress for the evening, and he found himself alone with her, “Dreadfully!” she answered, ‘+ Tt does seem a shame that you should have to be plagued with those little imps,” he said, compassionately. ‘Thank goodness, they are gone now. Mayn’t I have my song, Miss Dalkeith? You can’t think how I have been looking forward to it.” “Ob, I can’t sing now,” she said, hurriedly. “Tt would be so odd.” ‘““Why not? I am not going to let you off your promise so easily.” “But I didn’t promise.” “At any rate, you did not refuse, and you won’t be so cruel as to do so now. It’s just the thing to sing at this time. We will do with- out the piano, if you like, and then no one can hear.” So she complied, and somehow the words sounded very sad and strange as she sung them in a soft, low voice, and he lay on the hearth- rug with the red glow of the fire lighting up his dark, handsome face. “Thank you,” he said, as she finished. “TI like it better than ever. You will let me come again soon, won’t you?. It is so cosey and quiet up here; very different from the buzz down- stairs.” : Evidently be had forgotten that only a few minutes before be bad remarked on the lJoneli- ness of the place, and Ada did not remind him. And over and over again, when she walked with the children or was invited down to the drawing room, it seemed that she exercised a magnetic influence which always drew him to her side, and she felt that there was something which bad come into her life which had made it seem much brighter and gave her a sense of looking forward. But the pleasure was of brief duration, for Mrs. Alford soon discovered that Mr, Ralph Chuorton was very favorably impressed by Ada’s grace and beauty, and maneuyered that, during the few days he remained her guest, be should see very little of her interesting gover- ness, “It would. be so unfortunate for him to form an undesirable connection,” she said to
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_ her eldest daughter, ‘ Really, I am surprised at Miss Dalkeith. Hitherto her conduct has always been so prudent and unassuming.” Two days after the dispatch of the answer to the advertisement, Ada received a letter. At was a most unusual event for her who had ‘ no friends with whom to correspond, and, with trembling, hands, she broke the seal, nerving herself to meet with a refusal. but the first glance showed that her applica- tion had been favorably received, and that Mrs. Talbot would be glad to have a personal =: interview with her in town during the ensuing _- - week if she could manage to be there. _ With fluttering heart, she got through the morning’s lessons, and then sought her em- ployer to obtain the necessary leave of absence, and give notice of her intention of leaving, “Very good, Miss Dalkeith,” was the very _ ieyremark. “Iwill suit myself with some - _ one else to take your-place as soon as possible. _ But I scarcely expected that you would treat ‘ me with so little consideration, after being with us for nearly eight years.” Ada felt guiltily ungrateful, and yet could ‘remember receiving no further return for the | services of eight years than the quarterly re- _ ceipt of a check for fifty dollars. CHAPTER IIL a¥ A NEW LIFE. _ RatTHER more than two months have passed since Ada Dalkeith answered the advertisement in the Herald, and it is now the depth of win- _ ter, within a few days of Christmas. On the platform at the pretty little station _ at Lennox, a young lady is waiting for the _ Boston train, unmindful of the fact that the _ 3now is falling heavily, and covering her with a soft white vail. Equipped in a closely fitting ulster and derby felt hat, guiltless of trimming, she laughs de- fiance at the weather from her bright brown _ eyes and rosy lips. _ Presently, the piercing cold seems to make itself felt, and she enlivens herself with a brisk _ ran up and down the length of the platform, * closely attended by a huge St. Bernard dog, which shows unmistakable signs of approba- _ tion at his young mistress’s performance. ‘‘That’s better, Hector,” she said, giving him _apatashe nestled bis head up to her side. _ “Tt’s no easy matter for us to keep warm in New England, is it, old fellow? This isn’t much like our Christmas in New Zealand. I _ sha’n’t be sorry when the train comes in.” She leans forward to look for evidence of its ‘approach, but in vain; and whistling an air with marvelous sweetness and clearness of tone, she takes several turns up and down, _ The railroad employees look at her with some amazement, but they are beginning to - grow accustomed to the odd manners of Miss Dysart now, and to know that, strange as she _may seem, she is by no means a young person _ to be treated with scant courtesy. She is tall and graceful as a young Diana, and looks capable of the energy and prompti- aa with which one generally associates the name of that heathen divinity. — -—s * There it is at last!” she exclaims as the en- ___ gine’s shriek is heard and the lights loom ive the deepening twilight of the short _ winter afternoon. ‘Now, Hector, mind you are friendly, and welcome Miss Dalkeith prop- erly.” _. She holds up an admonishing hand, and the intelligent brute licks her fingers, looking up _ with eyes full of mute, yet faithful affection. _ The train comes puffing and roaring into the little station, and the young lady looks curious- dy at each car. A tall, slight form appears at one of the doors, and in a moment Miss Dysart is on the spot, eagerly welcoming the new arrival. _ **You are Miss Dalkeith, are you not?’ she exclaims impulsively, ‘‘ But do come into the _ waiting-room until the carriage comes; you 00k so cold. I thought it would have been e before this, I walked on because we— or and I—don’t like riding on a day like data rg ¥ Fs rs ; eae pelea =) , aE ie’, Li 7 ie © } ' 4 “ a mail s x this; but I mean to go back carriage.” ; ‘ During this stream of words she had helped Miss Dalkeith to descend from the car, and turned now to give instructions to the foot- man, who had just come up, about the disposal of the baggage. “And now,” coming into the little waiting- room, where Ada was standing over the fire, “if you are ready, I think we had better start, as we have nearly five miles tu drive.” ‘*Five miles!” exclaimed Ada, in astonish- ment. ‘* You surely did not walk all that dis- tance?” “Of course I did,” responded the young lady, coolly, ‘‘That’s nothing. I am fond of walking, and sometimes Hector and I walk nearly twenty miles in the day. In summer I generally ride.” ‘“Tt was very kind of you to come and meet me,”said Ada. ‘*I was quite astonished to see you on the platform.” “Did you know me at once, then?” asked Miss Dysart. ‘* You hadn’t seen me before?” ‘Oh, but Ihad heard you described, and felt sure it was the same directly I saw you.” “Ob, I suppcse it was Aunt Margaret who described me. I don’t expect she gave me @ very fayorable report.” “But you sro wrong,” said Ada, smiling’ “it was not Mrs. Talbot. I heard about you even before I had any intention of coming bere; and I think this” (and she playfully touched the girl’s short locks) *‘ andtyour com- panion helped me to recognize you.” “Oh, where is Hector, by the by?” said Miss Dysart. “‘I want him to make friends with you. Come here, old boy,” she contin- ued, addressing her favorite; ‘‘come and see Miss Dalkeith, and make her welcome.” But Hector would not obey, and only growled fiercely when Ada approached him, She started back in alarm. “He does not seem to like strangers,” she said. ‘‘Never mind; he will get used to me in time.” ‘Oh, but he always behaves well to people when I tell him,” said his mistress. ‘*Come here, sir!” authoritatively to the animal, who looked into her eyes with a questioning glance and crouched at her feet, ‘Now, be friends,” she continued. Hector,” kissing Miss Dalkeith’s cheek, give her a paw.” Still, the brute looked unwilling, and it was only after the command had been reiterated that he obeyed. ““T never knew him so disobedient before,” exclaimed Miss Dysart, looking vexed. ‘I do believe he is jéalous, because he knows that I mean to love you.” ‘Tam glad of that,” said Ada, looking into her companion’s bright face, and feeling that it would not be very difficult to reciprocate the sentiment. ‘‘I must be content with win- ning the mistress’s love so easily, and manage to gain the dog’s by dint of good behavior.” “T don’t feel happy about him,” said the girl, dvubtfully, ‘‘ Hector never changes bis mind, and I did so want him to love you.” “Well, we won’t grieve about him,” said Ada, cheerfully, and feeling that she could very well contrive to be happy without having much intercourse with such a formidable-look- ing monster. “What did aunt Margaret tell you about us?” asked Miss Dysart, after a pause. ‘‘I with you in the “ Look, “Now suppose she gave us—and especially me—a dreadful character?” ‘* Oh, I don't remember much that she said,” said Ada, evasively. ‘I mean to find out all about you myself.” 4 “Now, that is kind of you, I wanted to come and see you in Boston so much, but aunt Margaret got her own way in that. I had to be content with my victory in getting you at all. She wanted papa to get an awful, cold- looking creature, who would have irritated me to death, and I fell in love with you directly I saw your photo, Aunt Margaret said it was | absurd, but I declared that if they did not let et ¥ ont va ee . ar oe ry eee re (as ce % &, . 8 ae pression of the younger, blended with the Une are, rot ele ae is * = Err tk ; 5 Ae tgs oer. A me have youl would not learn a bit, and she knows I always keep my word.” “Perhaps I shall turn out an ogress, and tor- ment you evén more than the one you dread so much,” suggested Ada, es ‘‘Oh, Tam not afraid, I mean to try and make you like me, for you aren’t a bit like the affected or else stand-offish young ladies that, — aunt tells me to copy. I should like to be lik: you. Will you make me call you Miss Dal-+ keith?” putting her handsinto Ada’s. ‘It doest. sound formal. My name is Mona; what is yours?” ia Ada.” . ‘What a lovely name; and it sounds the right one for you! May I call you Ada?” ‘‘- Yes, Mona, if you like. I have not been called ‘ Ada’ now for nearly eight years,and it is fifteen since I have had any one to love me.” Her voice trembled as she spoke, for she was. touched by the girl’s impulsive and affectionate manner, and felt that it would be very sweet — to really possess her love. Poor Ada!” said Mona, ‘‘T shal} love you now, and so will papa, and I do hope that Hec- tor will too,” She was but a child, after all, in spite of her tall, womanly stature and slightly imperious manner, It was dark before they reached Dene-Chase, Mr. Dysart’s country seat and Ada’s new home,. and Mona took the new-comer at once to her room, ; “There is only just time to dress for dinner,” she said; ‘‘so I must go now, but I will send — Ellis, my maid, to help you,” A bright fire was burning in the grate, and — a profusion of wax candles shed a soft, radiant light over the comfortable, well-appointed room, Ada threw herself back on the lux- — urious couch, covered with a dainty, artistic cretonne, and gazed with unutterable satisfac- _ tion on her new surroundings. ‘Tt begins well,” she reflected, ‘I feel like a princess in a fairy tale, and am only afraid of waking up and finding myself back again at Enfield.” Mona was either not in the habit of devoting much time to her toilet, or had curtailed the process on this particular eVening, for to Ada it seemed as if scarcely a quarter of an hour — bad elapsed before she heard a tap at the door, — and a young, fresh voice call out, ‘‘May I come in?” Permission being given, Mona entered, look- _ ing very well in her evening dress. She — brought some flowers in her hand. ‘Wilk — you have them?” she said, half-shyly. “I got — them for your hair.” . “‘ How lovely!” exclaimed Ada. ‘‘ You are a good little dear!” D Mona was nearly half a bead taller than Ada; but the term seemed almost applicable just now, so much more childish did she look than when giving her orders at the station. i “Let me place them for you,” she said, grati- fied at Ada’s pleasure with her offering. — ‘There, now you look lovely !”—standing beck a few paces to gain the effect. ‘“ You are beautiful! Just look at us! Did you ever see such a contrast?” Ada did look, for they were just standing opposite to a long mirror, and the contrast was worth noticing, pores Each was very beautiful, but in such differ- ent styles. Perhaps at first one might not be inclined to admit Mona’s pretensions to beauty; — while Ada’s loveliness overwhelmed with its fascination at once. She wes so radiantly, gracefully lovely. Mona, on the other hand, was just a trifle masculine in appearance; — there was something almost too firm andvun- bending in her demeanor, or, at any rate, seemed so beside the exquisitely graceful and — truly feminine figure of her companion. But — if the perfect contour of the elder woman’s © features and form, the shimmering gold of ber — hair, and her soft, melting eyes had delighted — the eyes of an artist, the ingenious, noble ex- — +2 B 4a »S »
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Yo -— mistakable Pad of character depicted on er face and in her bearing, would have im- ety “pressed the student of human. nature very _ forcibly, ? Ada turned away from the survey with a rf laugh which had a slight ring of self-satisfac- tion in it. ‘¢ We had better go down now, dear, if you M Jare ready,” she said, ‘‘I heard a gong a few _ Minutes ago, which I presume was for din- " ner,” he “YT must first introduce you to papa and _ Cousin Janet,” said Mona, leading the way. “ Cousin Janet is a very distant relation of _ papa’s, who lives with us ‘to take care of me _ and play propriety. Aunt Margaret didn’t think it proper for me to live alone with papa ”—scornfully—‘‘ but she is a dear old Jady, and never interferes with any one.” Mr. Dysart was standing by the fire as they entered, but came forward to welcome Miss Dalkeith. He was a tall, handsome man of forty or thereabouts, and bore a striking re- semblance to his daughter; only the strength of will which found a marked characteristic in her face was wanting in his, which was rather _ %Marred by a certain air of irresolution and Nervousness. Miss Janet Kendal seemed, as Mona had Said, a dear old lady, and Ada saw at once it would not be likely to interfere with her. _-— * So you have kindly undertaken to reduce ‘My wild girl of the woods to order,” said Mr. Dysart, offering Ada his arm to lead her in to dinner, ‘I am afraid you will find her an ey? unmanageable little puss at times,” } “Oh, I am not afraid!” said Ada. §“So far, I have seen no sign of a want of civiliza- tion. we i “‘ Ah, they try to make me believe that she is something outrageously unorthodox!” he Said, with an uneasy smile. ‘‘I—I hope you Will give mea better account,” ; everal times during the evening Ada felt — perplexed to reconcile the actual Mona with Talbot’s account, which, truth to say, had well- “nigh appalled her. The girl was so self-pos- _ Sessed, in spite of her occasionally childish ) manner, and even seemed so well informed, __ that it was almost impossible to believe that _ She had received no education and had been __-aceustomed only to the society of a few New. Zealand farmers. A large portfelio of sketches stood in the drawing-room, which Ada soon learnt con- = ate Mona's work only. *T love to draw!” she exclaimed, ‘‘ And at dast papa gave me some lessons, He was a acts Very good artist himself at one time, and can ‘Paint beautifully now when he will. I can Only make little sketches; but it was my chief __. Pleasure in New Zealand, where we had no piano, Here I play when ‘Tam too tired to go u'sg > ee, or the weather is too bad.” “Don’t you ever read?” asked Ada, wishing to draw her out, and gain some ideas of ber ‘general capabilities. “Tt is so difficult,” she said. “Papa _ Wouldn't let me learn out there, and I didw’t , because we knew no one; but now lam ashamed, and have tried to learn; but it’s very vas Mibtome, and dull.” __ Her education was clearly deficient, after all, be en, and Ada’s spirit sunk as she contem- Ad, “platea the abyss of ignorance which must re- ene hes: itself after a little time. ____ But yet, if her work as teacher might prove my “onerous, the comforts and luxuries of her new home would be ample compensation; and Ada > exclaimed, as she sunk into her warm, soft pil- _lows, Ha Oh, dear, it isn’t difficult to feel good — and- charitable when one has everything so : alee I am in a heavenly state of mind, and could even feel amiable toward Mrs, aed: to-night. me * ¥, i © one she had pictured to herself from Mrs. | end,” ing into the pleasant morning-room, where she and Ada generally devoted a few hours of the day to study. _ Well, what is the matter?’ asked Ada. “Tt must be something very serious to make you pull such a sour face.” “It is something very serious,” said Mona, drawing a low stool to Ada’s feet and seating herself. “It is just this. Aunt Margaret and the girls are coming home next week.” “Is that all?’ exclaimed Ada, in surprise. ‘‘ Well, I think we shall be able to survive that calamity.” ‘All!’ echoed Mona, a little offended. You will find it not a little ‘all’ when we have her over two or three times a week peer- ing into and finding fault with everything. She makes papa so fidgety, that at last he really begins to think that she is right, and that he has done everything wrong.” Ada pulled a long face. ‘Well, it isn’t a very cheerful prospect; but I dare say it won’t be so bad, after all. Perhaps when Mrs. Talbot sees what an ac- complished young lady you are growing, she will be so pleased that there will be nothing left to find fault with.” “Not she,” said Mona, despondingly. ‘‘ She will make comparisons between me and Ma- rion, and talk about her excellent governess, Fraulein Buller, until I get in a passion and say something rude, and then she will either cry and say I am ungrateful, or look so contempt- uous that I shall bate her. Oh, I know her! I do wish they weren't coming.” ‘Weil, it is of no use to lament the inevi- table,” said Ada, cheerfully.. ‘‘Come, we will leave the reading this morning and go for a ramble, It’s a lovely day and we will walk off the blues.” ° “ That’s just what I want,” cried Mona, look- ing delighted. ‘‘I don’t feel a bit inclined to read this morning; only I felt a little afraid to propose another holiday.” “Am I such a dreadful ogress, then?’ an- swered Ada, laughing. ‘You are a dear, beautiful darling,” answer- ed Mona, kissing her affectionately. ‘‘Ob, Ada, I love you so much, and I know aunt Mar- garet will make mischief. You won’t let Ler make you leave off loving me, will you?” “Tt is impossible, my pet.” And as she spoke Ada felt that it was not possible. Did she not owe everything to this bright, impulsive girl? and surely she would never repay her with ingratitude. The six months had passed very quietly and pleasantly since first she became domiciled at Dene-Chase, Every one was very kind and seemed cap- tivated by her beauty and gragjousness—every one with the exception of Hector; he alone had always shown his disapprobation, and dis- dained to make or meet any friendly advances, But this Ada did not mind, and was quite content to keep at a respectful distance from him, wondering how Mona could feel so per- fectly happy with him only for a companion in the long rambles which she still at times took alone. But those rambles were very rare now, for . Mona preferred to spend the time in Ada’s so- ciety, and already the influence of the latter’s perfect breeding and repose was exhibiting its traces on the former’s manner. She had grown gentler, and the brusqueness of her tone was wearing off, giving place toa more dignified restraint, except when a child- ish fit of impatience caused a relapse. “ Our fate has arrived at last,” sighed Mona, some ten days later, as she rode up to the front entrance in company with her father and Ada, and saw a victoria rolling leisurely along the drive. A glance showed Ada the drift of her speech, and she sprung from her horse with a slower movement than usual, whispering to herself, “Now en the fight! sic unies how it will ‘Mis Koval as % mie She was a stylish looking woman, hd bar 6 the expression of one who never allows herself is to be taken at a disadvantage. _ Mona always said that aunt Margaret was . either incapable of feeling, or at any rate acknowledging herself wrong. ; ‘* Ah, there you are, Mona, at last!” she said, bowing coldly to Ada. “I quite expected to find you in, busy over your studies.” ‘We always ride or walk in the afternoon,” said Mona, brusquely. ‘ I hope you have not been waiting long.” ae “Not very, dear. But, Mona, my decor — child, do you really always spend the afternocn in enjoyment? You must try to realize your position. You bave so much lost time to make up for.” : Mona began to look very angry, and said, curtly: Me ““We arrange our days here so as to suit the a convenience of all parties concerned. Surely nothing more Gan be necessary?” ms “It is a case, my love, in which the conven-- . oy ience of others must give way to your welfare.” . Mrs. Talbot reflected, as she slowly andcom- RC. } posedly uttered these words, that it was ber | duty to see after Mona’s well-being, and dis- agreeable as it might,be to even hint at Miss — Dalkeith’s remissness, she muS8t not neglect it. ; Mona looked over at Ada with a gri and inquired how her aunt had onicven her journey abroad. a ‘Quite delightful. We spent the greater GO part of the time in Rome, 1 so wished, dear — “2h ies child, you had been there to share the advan- hic tage. Our excellent governess, Fraulein Buller was Such a treasure!” th spoke in italics, ‘‘She has traveled so much, 5% ? and knew how to direct the dear girls’ atten- ae %, tion to all that was most attractive.” sige ‘*So Marion and Amy. went to Italy for the wt sake of their education,” said Mona, perversely. _ “When I go I mean to enjoy ane I can’6 — understand people going through places of that a sort im the same methodical way as they wot oF go through their English grammar,” ' “My dear Mona, bow foolish you are! a woman should always have some knowledge | art. It adds greatly to ber attractions.” PY pla “Well, wouldn’t she get a much better . knowledge if she were allowed to study a litile — thoroughly according to her own taste than as she had it dosed out to her as her governess — sees fit? If I went to Rome I should like to devote myself heart and soul to the work, and find out what I really did admire, not what Le was told to admire,” “« My dear, as I said before, a ikaowodida ae: art makes a woman attractive; but if she de- votes herself entirely to it she is apt to grow eccentric, and eccentric women are never pop- ular.” 4 “ But what does that matter if she is happy pan in her devotion? To be admired is not to be happy.’ i “©You are too young yet to follow my mean- ing, my dear. Iam sure you agree with me, do you not?” turning to Ada. Ada avoided a direct answer, more thhougiy fear of offending Mona than through absolute agreement with Mrs. Talbot. Ada by no means aspired to a reputation for original opinions, and found it rather a relief to follow in the generally accepted ones of ' world than to have the trouble of forming nev for herself, ; Mona soon took an opportunity of qi b the room to change her habit, perversely ig- noring Ada’s admonitory glances, and sendit a comical one back in return, intended to con-— vey the impression that she would be more likely to offend by staying than going. — Mrs. Talbot at once began to discuss her ap- pearance and manner, making many enti ae quiries as to her progress, etc., which Ada re- sented, and quietly allowed her to see that ‘sh : intended to admit of no interference, _ “ Hugh, Mona still seems sadly brusque. | awkward,” mae lady, turning to her brot spair. Hor mii distresses me b
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yeasure. She is abel different from most girls of her age.” “Thave told you, Macesictt, * said Mr. Dy- sart, nervously fidgeting with his watch. cbain, “that I don’t want Mona to be like other girls. _ I want her to be original, true and natural, and _ then what else you like.” Mrs. Talbot arched her eyebrows with a look _ of contemptuous pity. * Well, original she most certainly is; and natural, too, if it is one’s nature always to be 3 ‘perverse and insist upon saying the wrong ye os Ihope, Miss Dalkeith, you will come _ Ship.” er to Hillside. Intercourse "with ber cousins will do much for Mona; and although my ~ brother naturally looks on "her with prejudiced eyes, I amsure it would be to his satisfaction if she would tone down a little.” _ “We shall be very happy to come. Mona will be pleased to have her cousins’ companion- ‘Ada did not blush as she told this fib, and i Jaughed inwardly at Mona’s face when she heard of the invitation. ‘ey % 4 a ‘ake in life. <5 It was a relief when the call at length was ended. Mr. Dysart breathed a sigh as the last sound of the carriage-wheels diedaway in the -* distance. _ He had been striding restlessly up and down _ the room, and now stopped abruptly in front of _ Ada, who saw he had something to tell her. _ He bad got into the way of making her his con- te; fidant, and as he was always forming fresh ’ plans which afterward occasioned him much _ doubt and perplexity, it was not seldom that he 7s came to her for advice. Riad Forgive me for troubling you,” he said now, in an embarrassed tone. ‘“ Will you give me your candid opinion of Mona?” -“Certainly,”—with some surprise. ‘But I thought you knew pretty well my feelings to- ; “ward her.” _ “Thope I do,” smiling with relief. “But, to tell you truly, Mona does show to disadvan- : tage before Margaret, who seems to have an ir- ritating influence on her; and it makes me feel thab perhaps I have been wrong to let her row up so differently from other girls.” — “But you could scarcely help it; and, after all, her originality is ber great ’ charm ,?— owing this always was welcome to him, nd she learns so rapidly now that it is of no sequence that ‘her education differs from a 1a] one.” “That is just what I basa: * he said, with tisfaction. “I wanted to keep her ignorant of women of the world—excuse me if I seem to disparage your sex. I know now there are _ exceptions. When Mona was born it was my ; t grief that I had a daughter; but the little ing grew and twined herself su closely round heart, that I could not bear the thought of becoming like atl the women I had known, ag determined that she should grow up with- ever coming in contact with them at all. /was possible while we were abroad; but we were home I began to see that I had le a mistake, and that Mona’s training searcely fitted her for the position she must I was perplexed and almost in _ despsir until you came; but now I think she may become all that a woman should be, with- out being spoilt by a woman’s follies and weak- ess,”” “Thank you for this confidence,” she said, ‘gratefully. “T will do my best; and the work ask no more, Some day, if you will let I will tell you whut it wes that Jed me to »mny only daughter such a training.” CHAPTER V. ; AN UNLUCKY CONTRETEMPS. Apa had a bad headache; and Mona, having d her comfortably on the sofa and dark- he room, roamed away to pass the morn- ecording to her own sweet will. After a to the stable. where her mare, Lady, al- ys look ig Wee he aee! ria tribute of fee ‘and | | other dainties, “Mona directed her steps, Bil lowed by the faithful Hector, to a favorite haunt, where she loved to linger and dream away the pleasant hours of sunshine. It was a glorious June morning, and the bend of the river where the rushes and wild flowers grew in such abundance was a delicious spot for such amusement. Among the trees was one—a silver willow— which leaned almost across the river, at whose roots a natural seat was formed, which Mona loved well, and liked to occupy and lazily watch the kingfisher dart quickly through the air in pursuit of his prey, or the swallows skimming over the surface of the rippling water. She had been seated nearly balf an hour here, when the sound of voices and the dip of oars roused her from the reverie into which she had fallen. Hoping that the intruders would soon retire, she remained quiet, and tried to recompose herself in her former attitude of entire repose. But some of the voices were familiar, and as a few minutes later she heard the ‘‘ whish ” of oars against the bushes which fringed the bank, a voice she recognized as Marion Talbot’s re- marked: ‘This is the identical place where the young savage we were talking about resides. Have you no curiosity to make the acquaintance of the young lady of energetic renown, Mr. Ralph?” ‘No, thank you,” responded a lazy but musical voice, which sounded as though its owner were stowed away snugly in the bows of the boat, enjoying the luxury of a smoke; ‘no, thank you; energetic young ladies are not in my line. I like repose for myself and other people. If you must make your visit, Charlie and I will wait here, and take care of the boat for you.” “Fie, you ungallant cavaliers!” cried a second girl’s voice, which Mona recognized as belonging to Amy, the favorite of her cousins, ‘Say, rather, you are too lazy to escort us!” “*T will come if Churton will,” put in an- other man’s voice. ‘‘Come, old féllow; it’s too bad to let the girls go alone.” . ‘Oh, you had better stay, Charlie,” said Marion, quickly. ‘We shall get on very well, and you would be dreadfully bored. Mona is positively disagreeable at times, and always odd.” “T think she is very nice,” said Amy. “She is awfully pretty.” “Pretty! Why, she is cropped as close as a Roundhead, and has absolutely no complex- ion!” “But think of her figure and eyes!’’ said the other, stoutly. ‘‘ They are exquisite.” “Well, if you admire amazons, I won’t con- tradict you; bib don’t Jet mamma hear you say so. She thinks Mona’s style lamentable, and that dreadful governess is ruining her.” ‘*Miss Talbot, we shall all have to take up the cudgels in the distressed damsel’s be- half, if you belabor her so unmercifully,” said the lazy voice again. ‘Then I think I shall join Marion, if only to see you bestir yourself,” said Amy. ‘You look so exasperatingly cool and lazy there.” “Resting after my Jabors,” he answered. “T appeal to the company generally if I haven't rowed like a Yankee.” ‘Weil, take your rest now, for you will have to pull away pretty bard when we re- turn. Wesha’n’t be more than three-quarters of an hour.” Then Mona heard the two girls leave the boat, and start off for the bouse. Sbe was malicious enough to enjoy the thought of their useless mission, and would not make her pres- ence known after the talk she had heard; not that the news was fresh to her. She knew that neither aunt Margaret nor cousin Marion liked her, but still the most amiable people are not pleased to hear themselves abused; and Mona, we know, was not always amiable. There ‘es silence for some time in the oe gene Font, of the riche Tuxury. My only grief is that we have to be- — gin our toils again so soon.” ; _ “Make yourself happy while you can, man. For my part, Iam not sure that the bliss is perfect, and have balf a mind to make an ex- pedition on my own account, and seek out the pretty cousin and her lovelier keeper.” “Whew! that’s where the wind lies, is it?” “Tt’s all very well to run them down; but they’re both very pretty girls. I saw ther riding the other day, and was bewildered to make up my mind between them.” “*A case of ‘how happy,’ etc.!” said the other, with a laugh. *‘] begin to see Miss Talbot’s wisdom in not allowing your escort. Gallantry to the visited rather than the visitors, eh?” ‘‘Why not? I hate to hear girls run down one another. You may be sure they’re jealous when they do.” “Dye think so? I believe yow’re right. But if you’re bent on exerting yourself instead of enjoying this rest, I must beg of you to let me off. Loud women are never in my line; and, by Jingo! the most bewitching siren of all couldn’t tempt me from the boat to-day,” The other laughed. “The girls are right, Churton. I never knew such a lazy fellow in my life as you are. But if you go in for repose, the govern ss would just suit you. Amy says she is awfully taking, and puts people on good terms with themselves.” ““Not a usual quality among governesses. Poor devils! I always pity them, but don’t care for a nearer acquaintance. I don’t envy this one with your fair virago of a cousin.” Mona’s cheek burned, and she longed to get away, but could scarcely do so without being perceived. “‘ How horrible those men are! she thought to herself. Unluckily for her plan of remaining undis- covered, a sparrow of unusual temerity perched upon Hector’s nose; and, awakening, he made a bound after the disturber of his repose, dis- hep as he did so the occupants of the at. “ What a splendid fellow!” exclaimed Ralph Churton, with absolute energy, as Hector _ turned away in obedience to the low call of _ his mistress, ‘I must have another look at bim.” He sprung from the boat as he spoke, fol- lowed by Talbot, and entered the nook which Hector had betrayed. With a “Whew!” of surprise be stopped short. Mona did look something of a virago then; but Diana surprised while bathing could not have looked lovelier in her indignation. Her eyes were full of angry fire, her cheeks flushed, _ and her hands clasped tightly behind as atic. stood up to confront the new-comers. “It's she, by Jingo!” said Charlie, pushing © by, and going up to her. “Please excuse this intrusion, and let us introduce ourselves. You — are Mona, I know, and I am your cousin, Charles Talbot. We were waiting in the boat. while the girls went to call on you. They will be so disappointed not to find you in.” a “Will they?” (coolly.) ‘We can walk up to meet them if you like; but I don’t think they are likely to mind much.” Charlie gave a glance toward Ralph, indi- cating that his state of mind was the reverse. of comfortable. Mona was not very entertaining to her guests (Charlie had introduced his friend) dur- ing their walk to the house, for she felt too ruffled at the conversation she bad overheard, — and that her retreat had been discovered, to exert herself to be gracious. On the lawn they met the two Missés Talbot, accompanied by Ada, who stopped skort with. hightened color as she perceived Mona’s com- panions. t “We were coming in search of you,” ‘eh fe Thate them!’” | said. ‘‘ Your cousins bave come to invite us to a picnic next week. ‘Where did hes eg the
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was behind the willow tree down by te | _ Tiver.” : Ss at Ne “Then you must have overheard us land?” _ said Amy, at once. : “Yes,” said Mona, truthfully, but with a touch of shame-facedness as Ada’s admonitory _ look informed her of the enormity of her pro- ceeding. “But I am forgetting to introduce you, Ada. My cousin, Mr. Talbot and Mr. Ralph Churton” (turning to the gentlemen With a haughty composure amusingly incom- patible with the childish fit of temper which had hitherto clouded her countenance). bs: “T have met Mr. Churton before,” said _ Ada. “But Idare say he has forgotten me.” «Indeed I have not,” said that gentleman, _ promptly. “I recognized you at once, and am delighted at finding that we are such near neighbors. I had almost given you up in despair when I found you had deserted Enfield. But 1 hope you will let me renew our acquain- tance?” “Tt is always pleasant to meet old friends,” ‘Said Ada. : é “And for me especially, since I was quite ignorant of having any in this part of the world. Do you still sing ‘For ever and for ever?’ he asked, taking his place by her side. “Tt has haunted me ever since Isaw you eo ane.” “Qh, yes, sometimes, But Ishall begin to think you sentimental.” “Think what you like, but I shall always believe it the loveliest song I ever heard. You ~ See, it has very pleasant associations.” ' His voice was very low and musical, and her heart throbbed violently. ; The cloud seemed to have partially lifted _ tow, and the party, somehow merrier as they returned to the river, making plans for the coming picnic. ' Ralph Churton kept by Ada’s side, and directed much of his conversation to her; but Now and then his look strayed to the tall, wil- lowy figure of the girl in front, whose com- -panion was evidently exerting himself to re- move disagreeable impressions. “She is a fine girl,” he reflected, “but not By Jingo! I sha’n’t forget her eyes when we broke into her retreat in a hurry. They would..be very fine if one could make _ them a little softer. No, fair women are my ‘Style; and, by George! Ada Dalkeith is the fairest of the fair.” CHAPTER VI. ie 4 - HOW WILL IT END? Tue day for the picnic was a glorious one; ie: th ' ‘ ss e 2 ; ‘ ‘my style. ips ‘~~ oak. » =<: 2a fe ‘Not a cloud in the brigbt blue sky, and the sun __ Shone with a genial brilliancy that promised to 4 _ do much toward the day’s enjoyment. It had been arranged that some of the party should _ go by water, and Charlie Talbot and Ralph _ Cburton had promised to row Amy and Mona, _ or rather Amy and Mona had resolved to row them, both young ladies being experts. Ada bad laughingly declined her share of _ the exertion, protesting that she preferred a _ comfortable seat and perfect laziness for this iis weather. __ “Quite right, too,” Ralph had said. ‘I ad- mire your taste, We will manage the steering and Charlie sball luxuriate in the bows Of eae Foot course you row stroke, Miss Dysart,” Thus everything was arranged for the com- ip é fort bly of one pérson at least, for he had the sat- isfaction of a place beside Ada, who was look- ing her very best, and of studying the magni- ficent brown eyes which needed but a touch of Me ee Ek — dull now.’ _ ‘It must be when you are quite alone,” said a, turni ; round to get a better look. i, it ng ae lovely place. You must be very Sa P - it,” he said, ‘and am never there more than Icanhelp. It's a pity, too, for the | poor old place to be so neglected. it weren’t 80 big I shouldn’t. care; but I can assure you it is very lonely for a poor bachelor. Don’t you pity me?’—to Mona. os “Why should I? There are lots of people who would be glad enough to keep you com- pany if you don’t like being alone,” **So there are; but then I’ve no one to en- tertain them, and entertaining most people is a bother. I hope you will take pity on me some- times, Miss Dalkeith.” ‘‘T should fear to bother you.” “That’s cruel of you. But my home is well worth seeing, they say. Ican answer for the picture gallery myself, if you like that sort of thing.” “That is a temptation; sol am afraid we shall bother you. Mona is quite an artist, and will enjoy your pictures immensely.” ‘“‘Splendid! Then it isa promise, You will give me the honor of introducing some of my favorites, Miss Dysart?” ‘Thank you.” Her eyes were fixed steadily on her oar, and he had to give up the attempt to win a look from them. They found the other gues's awaiting them at the landing-place. Mrs. Talbot eyed the group through her eye- glasses, and exclaimed, as they sprung on shore, ‘‘ You sure have not rowed all the time, Mona? and you, too, Amy? How very im- prudent! You will be over-tired all day, and you know that I don’t like exertion for young girls. J should never have allowed it.” She looked at Ada as she spoke, but that young lady did not need the look to know that the rebuke was intended for her. She did not care. Mrs. Talbot could not in- jure her, let her try as she might. ‘‘Hugh, how can you be so blind to that odious woman’s duplicity?” asked Mrs, Talbot of her brother, later in the day, as they were watching a group of young people, including Ada, Mona, Amy, Charlie and Ralph, setting off to explore the vicinity. ‘What do you mean, Margaret? If you al- lude to Miss Dalkeith, allow me to say that J cannot permit ber to be spoken of with disre- spect in my hearing.” ‘Of course you are infatuated, and cannot see how she is throwing herself at Ralph Cbur- ton, Amy tells me it was simply disgraceful in the boat; she engrossed his whole attention,” *“Yes; I suppose he admires her,” said Mr. Dysart, absently; ‘‘and of course it is natural that his attention should be acceptable to her. Quite natural—quite.” ‘Natural! I should think so indeed! He is the best match in the county, and she is a governess, without a penny, old enough to be bis mother, I say it is disgraceful!” “Once more, Margaret, I shall be excessive- ly annoyed at anything said further in dispar- agement of Miss Dalkeith. She possesses my full confidence and—and esteem.” He turned away with a ruffled air, and walked absently in the direction the others bad taken, Mrs. Talbot looked after him contemptuously. “Oh, the wind blows that way! A presum- ing creature! Well, of the two evils perhaps this is the least,” * Meanwhile the party was strolling under the picturesque old trees, gathering wild flowers, aud making the woods ring with their merry voices, ‘¥ Mona was strangely silent. She had linger- ed behind, and was now sitting at the foot of an old oak, her hands clasped over her head, and thinking almost sadly of her old free life in New Zealand. ‘ “‘Excuse me, Miss Dysart; the others have gone on, and I thought you would not like to be left alone. I hope I haye not disturbed “Tam just coming,” she said. “Thank you for waiting for me.” She gave another look round before going. “It is very lovely bere; but it brings back remorse which makes me sad.” theta RD? iat i, In a few minutes they were hastening after their companions, and she was laughing as , | gayly as the rest; but Ralph was contented, — | for he was satisfied that the bright eyes did look soft sometimes. aint “He would be a happy man who could | oe make those eyes look soft and tender for him!” he reflected, later on. ‘‘Sheisastrange girl, but she evidently doesn’t like me, I suppose she hasn’t forgotten those unlucky words inthe boat the other day.” SY eal Churton Court was a fine old mansion of the Queen Anne style, and Mona was delighted with the picturesque scene as she and Ada drove up the avenue one day, in accordance with their promise to Ralph Churton, ago) - “Tt’s a lovely place!” she said, with rapt gaze. ‘‘ What a disgraceful shame that he Wt ae not love and honor it as it deserves!” =~ ea ‘*He loves it well enough,” said Ada, smiling. _ ‘« Foolish child! don’t you see how proud he is _ really of it?’ Rsk “Then he oughtn’t to mind showing it,” said Mona, promptly. ‘It’s a sham, and I hate shams!” J een a ‘Well, you must not hate our host. Don’t he j hard on him, pet. Every one cannot be as honest. A and energetic as you are. Besides, he isn’t a sham, but really believes that he thinks every- _ thing a bore.” ya “What rigbt has any man to look upon life so, especially a man born to position like his? Oh, Ada! he irritates me so, and yet he make: me sorry. I feel he could do so much better if he would try.” deen ee ie “J think him very pleasant,” said Ada, — unconsciously lingering over the words. ‘“ His very listlessness of manner is charming!” “How can you think so? It ruins bh entirely.” LO oe For once, Mr, Churton seemed to bestir him. self, and even Mona could not complain of him, and owned that he was a good host. ~ He was ready to receive them in i ky when they arrived, and was already talking to Mr. Dysart, who had ridden and gone on i advance of the ladies, : : “Shall we begin with the house or picture first?” be asked, after refreshments had been — served in a splendid old wainscoted apartment which greatly aroused Mona’s admiration, — “ As you like,” said Ada. ‘We commit on selves to your guidance, sure of being in ed whichever it may be.” | pas Soci “Well, we'll do the bouse, then, and make our way to the picture-gallery,” he said, leading - the way. ‘But don’t expect too much, or you may be disappointed.” Pepsi A Slowly they made their way through each room, until at length the gallery was reached, the host proving a good conductor and — auditors very attentive. e Mona especially did not seem to lose one of all that was to be seen or heard, and thou she did not talk much, he could see that : was deeply interested. Phyo But the pictures seemed to hold her fairl captive, She stood in a mute, rapt attention t } fore the grand works of many of the old mas- ters, her countenance beaming with a deep, “easy expressible joy, atic Eee ‘‘ Papa, are they not glorious?” she exc “T feel that I scarcely want to go to Italy lest, I should find some to surpass these in love. But no, that would be impossible! Nothing will ever make me forget the impres- sion of my first acquaintance with art.” “Tam honored that I should have been the first to afford you this treat,” said an unmis- takably contented voice, which was no Jon; lazy, even to her critical ear, 5 HM Bed tay $e
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i a SS E > ee nae = Thoy ware sur. drawing to a close before half the objects of interest bad been inspected. ; “You must promise to come again,’ said Ralph, as she prepared to go. ‘‘I have en- _joyed your visit so much, and cannot tell you how greatly I thank you for coming. You have made me feel quite fond of the old place.” See “Then Mona will be happy,” said Ada, ae, laughing. “If you could but know, Mr. a Churton, how she troubles over your want of appreciation for it!” ing. ber engaged to Charlie Talbot if it weren’t for his mother. He i#a fine young fellow, and head over ears in love with her.” / _ And so it bappened that frequently during these visits Ada would allow Charlie to mono- La all Mona’s attentions, and Mona herself vas beginning to look upon her cousin as a very pleasant companion. But oftener the l'ttle group would not dis- : Bae and Mona, though retaining ber place by Charlie’s side, would address most of her con- -versation to Ralph Churton, A Ada never quite understood them, for, al- ough they were much together, Mona always ser so much fault with him, and indeed eir whole conversation generally consisted in lively raillery, half in fun, half in earnest. Crater was pretty well satisfied that Ralph looked upon Mona as a spoilt, beautiful child, who liked to feel the importance of lecturing -bim on his short-comings. *T needn’t be jealous,” she would think, bon § “ for I believe he likes me as well, even though Tam getting an old maid.” __ And she would look at her lovely face in the s, which certainly seemed to have grown ; ‘more beautiful than ever lately. __ And yet the change that had come over Mona herself was perceptible to all. She was wonderfully softened, and had given » many of the old eccentric habits, more from “the dictates of innate refinement than from taf derived from either Ada or Mrs. Talbot; would be difficult to recognize in the wv, es wy on ioe 5 a a oA Op uy ve ge “7? Se. y- > Sad | srk i “ia toners er dignified and, to strangers, reserved girl oyden who had whistled on the platform awaiting her expected governess a few By sh mytie 3% WE ase e Nae ee, ty tafe ee ee Use RS AN she Sle kh) el... 7, er" § pads SGC BS Pope aey rere, ; i 4 ore P ~~ a . ‘ ‘ z 7 P $ p ls . H s s s ’ . 8 rised to aid the et | neither was PE when he entered looking ‘Still original and aA as oe bight be in some matters, she had learned to respect the susceptibility of others, and no longer took a perverse pleasure fn running counter to the wishes even of aunt Margaret. The summer was very hot and oppressive, and as the long months of drought passed on, very great distress became apparent in the village. One day Mona returned from a long walk, looking troubled and weary. “*Oh, Ada!” she cried, ‘‘ this is awful! They have the typhoid fever in the village. The Browns and two other very poor families are down with it, and the doctor fears it is spread- ing. Ihave been there, and the dirt and mis- ery made me nearly sick and so wretched! It must be awful to be poor!” Ada stared aghast. ‘Mona, you have been in the fever-stricken cottages?” “Of course! Why not? help or they will die.” * But you—you— your father think?’ “That we ought to do our best to help in this trouble. Don't fear for me, Ada. I feel that I have no right to be living here in this Juxury, whil those poor wretches are wanting They must have Oh, Mona, what will the very necessaries and decencies of life. Ob, I hate it all!” “Come here, Mona, and lie down. I shall send for the doctor at once. You aretired and over-wrought, and I tremble for the result, Never go again without letting me know.” “‘Indeed, I cannot obey you,” said Mona, with an expression Ada knew well. ‘‘I have promised to take them help this afternoon, and must keep my word. I don’t think I shall take the fever, for lam very strong and healthy; but if I do, it is all the same, for help them 1 must. Oh, Ada, my heart bleeds for their misery!” ‘* Mona, you are mad! Send the poor crea- tures all you will; but it is wicked to risk your own life so.” “T think if would be still more cowardly to think of it now. Good-by, Ada! I don’t en- danger you, at any rate.” ** Mona, is that just?” ‘Forgive me, darling! but I am so unhappy, and just a little disappointed. I thought you would be so sorry for them.” “So Iam, dear; but I am still more fearful for you,” “Tt isn’t necessary; I shall take care of my- self. Good-by!” But, in spite of the protestation, Ada was nervous, and felt vexed with Mona. “Willful child!” she murmured; ‘I must go and speak to Mr. Dysart about it. Not that he can stop her now. I feel quite frightened. Good heavens! if she should bring the fever here!” All through the long, weary months of sick- ness Mona was indefatigable. The outburst was a bad one, for the village was thickly pop- ulated, and the disease spread rapidly through the poor quarters, But she was right in her estimate of her own strength; and a new friend, with whom this time of adversity had made her acquainted, the Reverend Nicholas Cranleigh, took care that she did not overtask herself. It was almost winter before the dis- ease was really conquered, and all danger con- sidered to be passed. Mona was enjoying the rare luxury of a day’s quiet with Ada; but somehow during these long summer months a.slight cloud had come between the two friends, and a day with Ada did not now seem to be quite the pleasure it had once been. They were almost glad of the interruption when the servant announced, ‘Mr, Ralph Churton.” He bad been away some weeks, and a rumor had reached them that he had been called to attend a funeral of some near relation; so that ale RN RL aa re Mc ss 32 aS sl Net le ETA A etn AR AON ip and harassed, with .a serious expression very unusual with him. | ‘““We were so sorry to hear of your loss,’ said Ada, as he took ber hand. ‘1 am afraid you have had a very hard time.” “Yes; it bas been that,”- trying to throw off his preoccupied air. “ Iam glad that it is over, and yet giad that it has come at last.” ‘Then your cousin was a sufferer, I sup- pose?” “You do not know? Ah, I forgot you are comparative strangers here, and therefore can have heard nothing about it. She had been insane for years.” ‘* How awful!” both his hearers exclaimed. “Tt was dreadful!” passing his band wearily over his brow, as if endeavoring to clear away disagreeable impressions. ‘ You may won- der that I speak so openly about it; but the matter was so public that I bad forgotten you knew nothing of it; but, if you will let me, I will tell you all the circumstances, I think it would be asort of relief. May I?” ‘*T shall be deeply interested,” said Mona, with that sympathetic look which was one of her cbief charms, and which always drew him to her side when he felt inclined to be serious, which, as we haye seen, was very seldom. | “Thank you; it is very good of youto say so, and I should like you to know the real cir- cumstances, fer any misunderstanding in such a matter would be unfortunate. Ethel was no real relation of mine, When my uncle mar- — ried be knew that there was insanity in bis — wile’s family, but would persist in having his — own way. Poor fellow! he was punished for — it, His wife died four years after their wed- , ding, a raving lunatic; his son became the © same when he was about fifteen, and remained in that state until his death; and the poorman died broken hearted when his only daughter — also succumbed to the family disease. Thank Heaven! poor Ethel was the last of them, and the taint is removed at last.” He spoke very gravely, and both his hearers _ saw that he was deeply moved. ‘ “Tt’?s an awful thing to get intoa family!” — said Ada, ‘‘The very knowledge of the danger must be enough to bring the disease itself upon one,” ‘*Tt has been a frightful warning to us,” be returned, solemnly, ‘I don’t think there is one of us who would run such an awful risk again. I, for one, would never marry into a family where there was the shghtest suspicion of sucha thing. It is a case where a man must conquer his inclination, however strong it may be.” “T think you are right; but it must be an ~ awful case for a man to choose a? “ Ay, indeed! ButIamafraidI have given _ you the blues. It is too bad of me to bring my troubles here. And yet I think it has done me good, I felt so completely knocked over.” He seemed really relieved by the confidence, and grew more like himself before the end of the interview, even brightening up enough to banter Mona on her robust appearance in spite of the arduous work she had gone a Dat of late. ‘“‘T have heard of your feats in the nursing , line from a devoted admirer,” he said. ‘‘ The parson is enthusiastic about you, at any rate.” “Mr. Cranleigh does not reserve his enthusi- asm for one subject. He acts and speaks with enthusiasm whenever necessary, and at all times; not as caprice takes him.” “Tg that last innuendo meant for me?’ he asked, with a grimace of mock humility. : “A's you will,” she answered, curtly, nob quite unaware that ber vexation was caused by his light manner so soon after he had seemed really touched and moved. Christmas was just near, and the great hall at Dene-Chase was being decorated for a large ball. Mona and Ada bad changed cavaliers; for Charlie Talbot was duteously assisting the — latter to fix up a troublesome wreath, while Mona and Ralph Churton, nominally as "far as” the latter was concerned, deooraiag a large
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CORR ee rs Pats Biers ‘Pair of stag-horns, were sparring at one another. She was seated on the top of a pair Of steps, trying to arrange the evergreens to her _ Satisfaction, and he was supposed to be aiding ber. ip some way. His laziness over the mat- ter fmmediately in hand was the ostensible _ cause of the lecture she was giving him on care- lessness and indifference in general. | He listened with imperturbable good-humor » her words, often turning her argument, in ”: lazy, amused fashion, on herself. ' “Playing at ‘Benedict and Beatrice,’ ” said Ada, with a smile, following the direction of ber companion’s wistful gaze. “Not in earnest, I hope. _ that, Miss Dalkeith?” “IT hope not!” touched by his outspoken frankness. “Do you think she ever guesses?’—he had taken Ada into his confidence some time before. “Tell me, please, what you think?’—carefully area the berries from a beautiful sprig of olly. “T scarcely know what to think,” she said Yescuing the holly. “She is such a perfect _ Child in such matters. So far, I think she is - heart-whole; ‘but remember, ‘Nothing ven- ture, nothing win.’ ” “TJ shall venture as soon as I see the slight- ®st chance of success,” he said. You don’t think —_———_ CHAPTER VII. UNDER A CLOUD, Mowna’s face is very stern as she walks from the village swiftly in the direction of home. There isa set look about her mouth, and al- though the muscles of her face work painfully, 48 though moved by some uncontrollable in- ward emotion, there isno lack of strength or ®termination in her face. “ Shameful, shame- ful!” she murmurs. “I thought him careless, thoughtless; but cruel and unjust? No; I did Not think him that! Oh, how can I ever speak tohim again? Iam so utterly disappointed! But I will speak to him, though! He shall know how hateful, how despicable such conduct is! Those poor people! My heart aches for them. But papa will do something for them, They shall not suffer so!” *“Good-morning, Miss Dysart. You are More than usually energetic to-day. I assure you I have pursued you at full speed through the last two fields,” Mona’s heart stood still as she turned round and confronted Ralph Churton. She bowed coldly, and would have passed on; but he saw Something was amiss, and asked, eagerly, “Miss Dysart, why this manner? Have I been so unfortunate as to offend you?” _ “You have done nothing to offend m> par- ticularly,” she answered, speaking very slow!y and distinctly; ‘but I have made a discovery this morning which convinces me that I can- _ Rot honestly profess any longer to feel pleasure _ © your society.” “As you will,” he said, looking very dark _ 4nd angry; but adding, after a moment, with _ 8n attempt to turn it into a joke, ‘What new _ Time do you lay to my charge?” _ He tried to put on the careless mock-air of 4 humility which he generally assumed when she Sctured him; but in his heart he felt there that she had that on her mind which he would _ 06 be able to laugh away. Why should he trouble himself about the billy child’s fit of temper? She is really excessively rude, and yet he *annot bear her to think ill of him! She did not answer his question at first, and an _ he repeated it, adding: B, It is only fair that you should let me know _ Your discovery! The meanest criminal knows oo offense for which he is condemned! ‘You, : oe tl yourself on your justice, must see , | “Can it be necessary to explain when I tell ‘that Ihave just come from Lennox, and pare Shs utter ’ te > ae ae . oT a Pie 4 a eh ee ee b~ SA, 0 Ag Ae a AA LS ab la’ et) dade Pe _ Was something more than ordinary amiss, and. ae 2 reer. « 4, Ae ee heute. iy neste die ies tngk Soe ake ‘*T am as profoundly ignorant as ever, and cannot see what this has to do with the case.” ‘“‘Mr. Churton, you will not understand, and it is not my place to interfere with your man- ner of managing your own property; but Iam at liberty to refuse all acquaintance with a man utterly devoid of humanity and gene- rosity !” “That is strong! And I have right to know your reasons for this conclusion—a right I mean to exercise too!” His eyes glitter now, and he has a quiet look of determination which Mona has never seen before. For a moment she trembles before him, and wishes—ah, so much!—that.she had not found ouf all this miserable affair. She wishes he were not. so cruel, and for a moment cannot believe it; but then the recol- lection of the utter desolation that she has just witnessed recurs to her, and she steels her heart resolutely against all wavering. “‘T will tell-you, since you insist; and havy- ing said so much, I acknowledge the justice of your demand, But remember, it can do no good, for nothing can ever make me alter my mind, nor will you care to see me again when you hear what I have to say.” “Goon,” he said, moodily. ‘‘I daresay it is nothing much more heinous than usual. Tama fool to force myself on you when you bave taken so much pains to inform me that I am detestable.” **It is much worse than anything else that I have evér said before,” she cried passionately ; “for until to-day, although I was often vexed by your manner, I thought that it was but the outside, and that your beart was true and good, but now I find it is hard as flint. I find that the man whom I looked upon as being even culpably indulgent is the cruel owner of those dens which have been the origin of this year’s misery to scores of poor families, and that now, when his tenants are reduced to the last extremities through his neglect, he has seized their furniture and turned them out of house and home, either to take refuge in the poor-house or to die on the roads!” He flinched before the withering scorn of her voice, but again he tried to turn off the sub- ject. “On my word of honor, Miss Dysart, I know nothing of this: so your anger falls on the innocent! May I not be pardoned and taken into favor again?’ “T have nothing to pardon,” she said, at- tempting to go. “T pity your victims, and will find some way of relieving them, but I do not presume to do more.” “They are not my victims. I am not the tyrant you think. I could not tell you the name of any of my smaller tenants. Bryant has always managed the whole affair.” “ And can you urge that as an excuse?” she cried, turning round again and looking at him with eyes of indignation, while her lips curled seornfully. ‘ Are you not the one to know of these things? Is it not a solemn duty for you to look after the welfare of those poor creat- ures, your tenants? ButIforget myself. Itis not my duty to remind you of yours. I have explained, and the matter is at an end. Good- morning, Mr. Churton?” “You are eloquent,’ he said, ironically, and yet feeling the truth of her reproaches. ‘“ Re- member, Inever profess to sympathize as you do with the laboring man. I cannot regard bim as a hero; and I dare say these favorites of yours are like the rest of them, and that Bryant knows they are incorrigible.” “Tt is useless for you to keep me here, Mr. Churton. It isa subject upon which we are not likely to agree, and I have no wish to appear to dictate to you in any way.” “But T want you to look at the matter coolly, Miss Dysart. Iam not joking now. I do really value your good opinion, oe I PRE? ee MA. ERE “Gat Natee eo Tid crea . , om a Pt WviKix reg ‘ A att a, Gi eRe Baars ial Sal Oe or ¥ Hae Oe Pn rr Ee NANAK] Sa eg ork is ae ae eT slightest aptitude for that sort of thing. should be in an awful fix without him.” “*T do not ask you to do without him”—for- | getting her disavowal of asking bim todoany- — thing; ‘I only want you to look into matters, = and see that innocent people are not treated unjustly in your name.” , . “T will dothat, Miss Dysart; but I'daresay it is all right, and that he either did not know of their distress, or knows them to be unwor-— thy. I would do a great deal to win your good opinion, and my own, too, for that matter. For you make me feel that lam a brute. You - are the only woman whom I really ever tried — to please, and it seems that Iam never to suc- ceed.” i “Tam sorry you have wasted so much en- ergy upon such a worthless object. A little of € it directed elsewhere might have attained your — sr3 end. But I might have known that it wis not e to be expected that you would give up a part of your comfort to add a little to those who # have so much claim upon you.” a You will not alter your mind?” “Not unless you alter your conduct, Good- oa morning, Mr. Churton, and good-by,” EPs: ““Good-morning, Miss Dysart, but not good- by.” § She walked quickly on, and he stcod looking after her, with conflicting emotions on his face, which had lost its usual careless smile of imper-— turbable good-humor. 13, be ’ “She sha’n’t turn me off like that,” he said, — with a frown. “Ill make her care for me, — little witch! I am a perfect fool; and yet, by George! I felt like a blackguard when she looked at me with those great eyes of hersand = told me that I was a useless cumberer of the ~ earth. Somehow, I believe it’s true, It isn’t at all q' .e right. And those poor wretches, — too! Vii see after them, at any rate. She shall know that I can work when I will, and that I am not so contemptible as she makes me out. But yet I believe she does mind, let —__ her try to carry it off as she will; and what’s __ more, [knowIdo. I would doanything just | now for her sake, confound it, and she won’t =| see it!” + ore The thought of Ada came into his mind, and = he wondered how it was that he could ever = have thought her Mona’s superior. = “She is nice, and very lovely,” he thought; ‘“but Mona is—well, she’s Mona, and that’sall I seem to care about just now. Ah! Miss © Dysart, you may turn me off, but Imean to = exert myself in earnest this time, and fora | prize worth winviug, teo!” eS * Nigh fh pupa CHAPTER VIII. A CRUEL WRONG. In the dusk of the afternoon Mona drewa low chair to Ada’s side and told her all that had passed that morning. Ada’s hand grew very cold, and she said, in an odd, sharp voice: “How could youdo it, Mona? Youhaveno right to lecture people, He will never forgive | you!” a, 6 ea ‘I don’t want him to,” said Mona, proudly. “T shall never forgive bim. Oh, Ada,Iamso disappointed! Don’t you understand? Inever _ S thought he was like that.” . oer € ‘“‘He never tried to appear different. “You Soe have always been rude and overbearing to . him. I wonder he ever came to the house. But I thought your good taste would have pre- vented a scene like this. Just think how he must have felt!” hee “‘T don’t believe he feels at all. He is too hard-hearted and cruel. He liked to come over here because we amused him; but I don’t believe he is capable of feeling any friendship _ for any one!” oa. “Tt is false!’—the words were abrupt and = angry. ‘You have no right to judge people — so intolerantly. He can never come here again!” Fs be eter “T am sorry you are vexed about it, Ada. — * But I would rather he didn’t come. I never want to see him again!” f aa ae Me pe WR Lie pe tee, seers ‘ Ne; _ « e s sik ire
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40 There was a hysterical sob in her voice, but Ada did not notice it, and said: “Tt is selfish of you to have consulted only yourself in the matter.” ‘Ada, you are scarcely just to me now, What has come between us, dear? I feel that you do not love me now as you did, and I can- not think what Ihave done. Do tell me, Ada, for I love you, and indeed I need your love very much, for I feel so miserable.” Ada did not answer, but looked away into the fire. Were not Mona’s words true? Some- thing had grown up between them, but she , would not acknowledge that that something was jealousy. She only murmured to herself: ‘He cares for her opinion; can it be that he loves her? No, no, it cannot be! She is such a child, and he must see that she does not like him.” Mona lost no time in appealing to her father on behalf of her persecuted proteges, and grew eloquent as she placed their cause before him. He gave her permission to do as she liked, and promised to find employment for the men, and after his daughter had left the room opened bis mind on the subject to Ada. “T am so glad to find my child unspoiled by prosperity, Miss Dalkeith, and feel so grateful to you for the good example and influence you have given.” Ada’s heart glowed at this praise. Somehow, we are doubly grateful for a little encourage- ment when we feel that we are in the wrong. It is so grateful to be put into conceit with oue’s self, Ada began to review the past, and to think that, after all, she had done Mona a lot of good. It was absurd to reproach herself if she had been annoyed a little bit lately. Of course the freshness of their situation bad gone off, and Mona was trying. So she felt quite in- clined to pursue the conversation with Mr. Dy- sart, although not quite certain whither this beginning pointed, “TI promised once to tell you the story of Mona’s bringing up,’’ he continued, after a pause. ‘Would it fatigue you if I told you now?” “Not at all. I am very anxious to hear it,” : “Thanks; I want you to know it, for it will make you understand much that must seem very odd to you now.” He spoke rather hurriedly, and Ada noticed that he was even more nervous than usual, Passing his hand over his eyes, as though re- moving the mist which separated him from events of past years, he began: “ About twenty-one years ago I left Amer- ' ica vowing never to return, for 1 was young and hot-blooded, and had been betrayed by one to whom I had surrendered myself body and soul, I was madly, passionately in love, and would have sacrificed anything for her sake, But the infatuation did not last long when I found that I had been utterly deceived—that the woman who had sworn to be my wife turned me off with a laugh when she found that she would not have wealth if she married me. Well, I was a young fool then, for, be- cause one woman had deceived me, I made up my mind that there was no true, faithful wo- men at all—at any rate, in that class. “When I. bad been a short time in New Zealand I met Mona’s mother. She was much older than I, but very beautiful, and obtained great influence over me, so that partly from pique, and partly from a strange infatuation, I married her after we had been acquainted a few months, She was very passionate, and had an iron will, but I believe she loved me intensely, and would have made me a true wife had it not been for unhappy circumstances. It is needless to say that I was so guilty as to have married without feeling one scrap of affection. This sbe soon found out, and it maddened her. I shall never forget the scenes that followed. I . tried when too late to make amends for my earlier neglect, but in vain, She would have none of my attentions, and gave way to the 4 eee most violent outbursts of sain” which I soon found were hightened by habits of intemper- ance. You may well shudder. It was an awful life. After a year our little one was born, and within another the mother died raving mad, and breathing to the last threats of hatred and denunciation on me and her child. Sometimes I feared for Mona when I saw she had inherited her mother’s passionate temper. Do you wonder?’ “T do not,” said Ada, know?” ‘““No, thank Heaven! I have never men- tioned her mother’s name to her, for I wish her, if she ever thinks of her at all, to think of her as loving and gentle, and worthy of an af- fectionate remembrance.” ‘Thank you for this confidence, never learn it from me,” “JT can trust you. Ah, Miss Dalkeith, I am not an old man, and yet sometimes I feel that my life has well-nigh gone, and has been a wasted one.” “You must not say that,’ she said, really feeling sorry for him, thinking what he had suffered, ‘‘What would Mona do without you, and all of us? Believe me, Iam not un- grateful for all the kindness I have received in your house.” ‘‘T am proud to think you have been happy here,” he said. ‘* You have greatly added to its sunshine, and I am selfish enough to wish that we might hope always to keep you.” He looked wistfully into her blue eyes as he spoke, and Ada’s conscience smote her. ‘* But I will try to be grateful,” she reflect- ed. ‘‘AndI have been happy here.” “But does she She shall For some weeks Mona was strangely absent and unlike herself, and Ada felt that she had something on her mind, and pretty well guess- ing what it was. Nor was she surprised when, one morning, Mona came up to her with a more radiant face than she bad worn for some time. “T am so glad, dear! You were quite right and I wrong. I will never judge people again. What do you think has happened?’ Ada’s heart thumped against her side; but she said quietly, ‘‘What bas happened, dear? Please tell me; I am so curious, and cannot guess.’’ ‘The tenements at the east end of South street, in Lennox, are to be pulled down and new ones built. Mrs. Green has just told me all about it. Mr. Churton has been so busy looking into things himself. Only think! he has inquired into the cases of all the poor peo- ple Bryant turned out, and given all of them work to do, Oh, I am so glad!” “It is very nice,” said Ada. But her heart by no means echoed the senti- ment, She was seized with a sickening fear that trouble was near. “And now, I suppose, you have forgiven the delinquent and made friends again?’ There was a great lump in her throat, and she felt it would be a great relief to give one long, agonized scream, ‘*T don’t suppose he cares about my forgive- ness,” said Mona, bending down to look into a beautiful rose, so that the quivering of her lips should not be noticed. ‘‘ But I am glad he has turned out well after all. It mada me miser- able to think he could be so willfully cruel and unjust.” They were walking arm-in-arm round the garden, and just now a footfall sounded on the gravel behind them, and turning, they saw the object of their conversation. “The servants told me you were here,” he said, ‘‘I was bold evough to come in search of you. How do you do, Miss Dalkeith? It is long since I saw you. May I speak to you, Miss Dysart, or—” He looked very humble, and even ill at ease, ‘‘Tam very pleased to see you here again,” said Mona, looking herself rather confused. ==. ‘aapoletyols ‘May I be your friend now, or do you still intend to repudiate me?” She did not answer, but silently gave him her hand, which he wrung with fervor, saying: “T have much to be grateful to you for, Miss Dysart. Some day I will ask you for even more than your friendship, if you will help me to become worthy.” Mona blushed, and he saw that she partly understood his meaning. “Yes,” he went on, after they bad walked on a few steps; ‘“‘you have often made me feel ashamed of myself; but that last time you stirred up so much in my mind that I had to face the matter fairly. Well, I won’t trouble you with my reflections, for they weren’t pleasant; but I found out that I was something very like a scoundrel, and that I must either turn over a new leaf or forfeit my own self- respect.” “T am very glad you did think,’ she said. ‘‘But I am afraid my work will have to change now. , I shall have as much trouble in making you entértain a proper respect for yourself as I had before in destroying it.” “Do you think, then, I am worthy of any respect?” be asked, bending nearer to her. ‘Well, just a little,” sbe said, smiling. ‘‘ And bave I yours? I know your friend- ship will not go without it,” “Yes,” she answered, in a very low voice: but the ic Yes” sounded very emphatic for all that. Ada had hurried away, feeling that for her the world was coming to an end. Seeking out a secluded spot, she pressed her hands to her burning temples, making a sort of moaning, sobbing cry of pain. “Cruel! cruel! I hate her! She does not love him. She has never liked him. It is all childish vanity, and he— Ob, does he realiy love her? What could that child know of lovet And yet he was ready to lay down all before her, capricious and willful as she was! It was a mad infatuation—a wicked infatua- tion. that Charlie loved Mona? What right has he to steal his friend’s love? And then Mr. Dys- art’s revelation! He would never marry her did he know that. No; it was all wrong. Things could never go on so,. Some one must intervene.” Ada started with repulsion at the wicked thoughts which filled her mind, and tried to re- call all Mona’s love and generosity to her. She hurried indoors, and, choosing a retired path, met no one, but she heard Mona and ber companion still walking about and talking, and her face blanched with anawful agony as their voices fell on her ear. “Tt cannot—sball not be!” she said, clasping her hand so tightly that the nails pierced the delicate white skin, Two men were driving in a dog-cart to the station at Lennox to catch the night express. “You'll look after things for me, Cranleigh?’ said the one in a dull, despondent voice. “ And, old fellow, let me know how things go, and— about her. » “Twill. You mustn’t stay toolong. Re- member, work awaits you here,” “But Pm right to go now, eh?” (as though he would almost like to receive a negative an- swer), “Yes; I think so, It’s very hard for you, though.” “It is, confound it! I say, Cranleigh, drive round there. We've plenty of time.” “ All right!” Very few words were spoken until Ralph had got into the train. Then, with a hearty wring of his companion’s hand, be said in a husky voice, ‘‘ Don’t let her think more hardly of me than can be helped, and pray let me know about her.” He clinched his teeth, and as the train moved out of the little station he looked out of the window until the last trace of the place was far distant. Then, covering “Thank you,” he. said, holding out bis band | his face with his hands, he muttered, “It’s a a It made all wrong. Did he not know ~ |
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bat Sites = phe: Ua " <5 - by oe a eruel fate, and for her it’s worse; for she wiil -herat all. Poor little thing! what a fate for her! I shall go mad if I think of it much _ longer.” CHAPTER IX. A SUDDEN DEPARTURE. “Writ, this is an odd start!” exclaimed Charlie Talbot, coming into the room where Mona and Ada were sitting, the former busily engaged with painting, the latter fitfully trying to read. “ What is the matter?’ asked. Mona, at once. Ada did not speak at all; but a careful _ Observer would have seen that she was listening \ ' 8 the answer with painfully-strained atten- tion. } __ “Churton has gone off to Egypt, and left all __ his affairs in Cranleigh’s hands, It is rumored, _ or even more decidedly stated, that he will _ Yemain away several years.” Neither of his listeners made any remark. Ada’s hands clasped so convulsively the book that she held, that the binding gave way, _ While Mona looked up with an air of bewil- _ dered astonishment. “ Are you sure it is true?” she asked, at last. “Quite. And the oddest part is that he had just begun really to take an interest in the _ place, and had commenced all sorts of im-, _ provements. He was always an odd fellow, but this beats all.” ; “T cannot help thinking there must be some MInistake,” Mona persisted. ‘‘Perbaps sudden - business has called him away. Surely he Would not go away for an indefinite time just _ When he bas commenced so much.” 4 “But he has, though. It is incomprehensi- ble, and I only know that. we shall miss him _ @wfully. Eh, Miss Dalkeith? You say noth- - tog. Are you not surprised?” _ _ “Why should I be? Gentlemen who are at liberty so often take such freaks into their heads, Perhaps he was tired of the improve- Ment system.” Had she grown quite brutalized lately? She almost hated herself. Mona looked up, with a Proud, hurt look in her eyes; but she said nothing, and presently consented to Charlie’s _ .€ntreaty to walk with him in the garden. “Mona, you don’t mind this?’ he asked, _ abruptly. “Mind! Why should I trouble about Mr.. _ Churton’s movements?” she asked, proudly. | ‘‘Forgive me if I seem curious. But, ob, Mona, sometimes I felt jealous of him! He _ engrossed so much of your attention.” “Not so much as you do. Silly fellow! you are getting quite absurd.” “But you were always different when he _ Was with you, Mona. I do want you to care about me a little. Do you know I care about you very much indeed?’ _* “Come, Charlie, les us go in. out here,”? _ Yes, we'll go in now,” he said, after a _ Minute’s pause. ‘‘ But, Mona, I shall have to _ Speak out some day.” “Please don’t. It would be of no use.” , It is so cold ws - “Ada, dear, are you not surprised at this?” _ Said Mona, kneeling down by her friend’s side after Charlie had gone away. - _ “T don’t think about it, dear. Mr. Churton _ Wat liberty to act as he chooses, and you know My doctrine is not to worry about other peo- Ple’s doings. So don’t let us talk of it any more. The subject bas grown so wearisome, and I am so tired.” “Poor Ada! You look so. Have you a ‘ headache, dear? You are so pale.” “Just a little; but it isn’t anything worth troubling about, I want to be quiet only.” _ | Her voice sounded as though quiet had been a long and vainly sought, and Mona noticed its _ Rollow, weary tone. _ “Tam afraid you are not happy, dear,” she . “ Has any one been unkind to you? I aes tell me what you are worry- Rie ker gl ON 3 : é aie tw UGH LO ‘What isall this, Mona? It isso unlike you _ ihever understand it. .I was a fool to speak to | to make such a fuss about nothing.” Mona drew back, looking hurt. “JT am sorry that I trouble, I only wanted to comfort you.” ‘‘ And I am very cross,” she said, repentant- ly. ‘*Mona, you have been too good to me, and spoilt me. Sometimes I wish that I had never come among you.” ‘‘Now, Ada, that is teo unkind. “You have brought us nothing but happiness. We could not have spared you, anyhow.” Her loving words cut Ada to the heart, and she lay back and closed her eyes, as though seeking repose. Mona, taking the hint, with- drew. She wandered about for some time listlessly, and then calling Hector, set off for u brisk walk, “This will never do,” she said to herself, de- cisively. ‘‘If I have made a mistake, there is no need to publish the fact to the world.” Perhaps it was Hector’s doing, for Mona had certainly followed his lead, that they bent their steps toward Lennox, where the improve- ments had already commenced. Arrived on the spot, Mona thought she might as well visit some of her bumble friends, and tapped at the door of the cottage lying nearest to ber. A ueat, pleasant-featured woman opened it and greeted her visitor with evident delight. ‘“* Good-afternoon!” “Mrs, Fitch, may I come in?” “ Ay, do, miss! Your face is good for sore hearts, and sore ours should be just now when tbe master’s gone away to furrin parts, just as he was a-beginning to look arter things a bit.” “You bave heard the news, then?” said Mona. “Deed I have, miss, more’s the pity, too. He come here just afore startin’, and sees your picter on the table, and, would ye believe it, he went and_ stood a-lookin’ at it for nigh on ten minutes, and just afore he went he says, ‘ Mrs. Fitch, will you do me afavor? ‘That I will’ saysI. ‘Well,’ says he, ‘if you will. give me this ’ere picter of Miss Dysart; I’m a-goin’ away from all my friends, and I should like to take something to remind me of ’em.’ Well, miss, I couldn’t ha’ gainsaid him, he’d been so very good to me and my man; and it wasn’t for the sake of the gold-piece be give me, miss, believe me, for I was loath to part wi’ yer 'picter, but he did look so yearnin’ like, and I thinks maybe he haven’t the courage to ask you for one for his- self, and gived it him, You ain’t offended, miss?” ‘OF course not.” The tell-tale blood rushed to her cheeks, and after she had left the cottage her heart was much lighter, for ever and ever again the thought recurred, *‘He does love me, then, or why should he have taken my likeness. Surely he will come back soon? I cannot have been mistaken.” But the news is confirmed on every side. Churton Court is shut up, and its master’s ab- sence lamented by all, so Mona is at length obliged to give up her incredulity, and accept the state of affairs, She makes no complaint—indeed, she has no one to complain to just now, for the gulf be- tween Ada and herself seems to widen every day, and she would feel it impossible to confide in her even had she not resolved to stifle every recollection of her former hopes. “Twas a fool to think of him,” she said. ‘Of course he only looked on me as a childish, ignorant girl, very well to amuse himself with, but not worthy of serious thought.” Yet every one is very kind to her just now. All the old grievances of her life seem to have vanished to give place to the new troubles, the coldness of Ada, and his—well, not deceit ex- actly—but something very like heartless trifling with her affections. Charlie is generally at Dene-Chase some time during the day, and so long as he keeps off one dangerous topic, Mona is always glad of his | society; and Mrs, Talbot thequentiy diiten over | } i Ut ey A 7 % ‘ Fe, =. ¢ : ae aan + me 80!” to fetch her back to Hillside, where she is now = a great favorite. gry 6 There are no complaints and reproofs now. a Mona is not quite sure whether the change is. _ with herself or them, but enjoys the new state = of things without troubling herself as to thea cause, ; : But yet she is not happy. A shadow seems © to have fallen over her life, and a great blank into the long, bright, summer days. The sun — never seems to shine so brightly now, nor the birds to sing so sweetly as they did last year. pnt It is now nearly twelve months since Ralph Churton first crossed her path, What along year it has been! Charlie is just reminding her — of their first meeting, as they stand by the old — willow-tree where it took place. ‘“You looked so angry, Mona, and yet so ~ beautiful! I was bewitched at first sight! Do = you remember it?” ¥ WON ses ‘Perfectly. Mr. Churton came first, an@d — you followed to make peace. Iam afraid IT was very rude to both of you, Ada lectured — me dreadfully afterward, and said I should make every one think me detestable!” Si “‘Did she? I don’t think there was ever much danger of it, and Iam afraid that some of us care for you too much for our own peace of mind.” ‘ aa ; He had taken it into his head lately that — i Ralpb had gone away because Mona bhadre- ~~ fused him. : Ce taal “You bave worn the love of everybody; — even mother and Marion are obliged togive in, and I—well, I loved you from the first — minute. Mona, do you think I should he a | , very difficult fellow to love?” fe “No, indeed; I think you very nice, and love you dearly !” “Do you really? Oh, Mona, you have made me so happy!” : oes ‘*T mean as your sister, You are my dear — old cousin; that is almost the same asa brother, — you know.” eras ‘No; I don’t know,” he said, gloomily. “Its a very different thing, and I don’t want tobe : Soet your brother at all. _Mona, I want you all to myself, to like me better than any one else!” “Do you? But Tam afraid that cannot be.” Sbe would not look up into the honest eyes — which she knew were full of yearning, tender — love, for sbe could not trust herself. It was — such a temptation to accept this freely offered heart, whose sincerity she could not doubt, for — she was very lonely; and yet—no, she dar not. It would be cruel to him and cruel to he “Now, Charlie, don’t talk any more shape it,” she continued. “It’s of no use atall. | don’t mean to marry—at any rate, not for long time,” pees ‘Well, I'll wait for you any time!” he said, - patiently. 15 ian oh “But I sball never be able to marry you, Charlie. Do be sensible. I tell you it is use-~ — less!” . “T can’t help it, Mona. When I see you I must speak; and when I think of you I must. see you; and as you are always in my thoughts, naturally I am always here. I shall go om hoping until you show me it is hopeless.” ‘* How can I do that?” she asked, Sar pee ‘« By marrying some one else,” “ That is impossible!” ; a* ‘Then I shall go on hoping and asking.” ‘What babies you men are!” she exclaimed, = impatiently. ‘‘A woman can always hold her tongue if she was in trouble; you must cry out, and can hide nothing!” “po aoe “T thought you admired openness, and hated. concealment!” Fagg “So Ido; but this is a different thing. Oh, — Charlie, Iam so vexed with you! We might. be so happy, if you would only let us!” 5 “Tt is you, Mona, who spoil it. I will be as happy as a king if you will let me, and try — to make you bappy, too. NowIam miserable. Mona, do try, dear; I will be very patient i you will only give me hope!” ge mieth “T really can’t, Charlie! It is cruel to VE Ve
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“ited for the iouivad her large brown eyes softened, and he saw they were full of tears. “Forgive me!” he said, softly; “I won't ‘worry you any more!” 4 CHAPTER X. AT WAR WITH HERSELF. ADA was sitting conning a short letter very _ diligently. There were only a few lines, but _ he took a long time to consider them, and al- *Sihotigh her writing materials were ready at hand, she made many turns up and down the room before she seated herself to begin a re- ply. Just as she had done so, a nervous knock _ was heard at the door, and in answer to her _ “Come in,” Mr. Dysart entered, looking very -* pale and anxious. “ ie ‘*Excuse this intrusion, Miss Dalkeith,” he a, said; “T was too impatient to wait for an an- seemed so brief and abrupt, and left so much - unexplained, that I felt I could plead my cause _ much better in person! Have you considered 3 my plea?” - “Yes,” she answered; “and, Mr. Dysart, I am more than grateful to you for the honor you have done me; but I am very perplexed! Have you considered all the consequences of this step?” Considered!” be echoed. “Have I not dreamt of them day and night, even when I _ thought all pretevsion to your hand was hope- - less? Miss Dalkeith, do not smile at my ea- _ gerness! To you, perhaps, I may seem to be _ getting an old man, but I can honestly say that the love I bear you is strong and true as the youngest lover’s you might have at your feet!) Remember what my life has been! ---You know it all! I will not say that I never _ Joved before, for I did truly and passionately _ Jove the woman who ruined all my early life; but that love died when I found that she was ae false and heartless as she was beautiful! And, : as you know, my poor wife never held the i 4 ‘place that rightfully belongs to a woman in her husband’s heart! To yon, then, I offer —- not the first love, but the first love worth . Re oe for it is founded on esteem as much as ag on passion! This love has grown every day since you have been in my housé! I have tried to conceal it, knowing that it was al- most hopeless, and believe, that had I seen you y with any one else, I would have stood de and wished you all the happiness in life that is possible! But this has changed now! I feel that the impression I have been labor- _ ing under for some time must have been a false one! Will you come to me, Ada, and ve me that incomparable happiness of hay- g the right to protect you?” She covered her face with her hands, and all - seemed darkness within and without. te The berplexit of her mind was almost mad- ‘3 a Recollections of bygone hopes, ac- eo and words rushed through her mind, and ais It that she could not accept this offer, : it then she could not doubt the sincerity of Pim, Bat th and why should she refuse to make nae chim happy when all chance of her own felicity _ had vanished forever? so _ But Mona! She rose like a reproachful shadow, and Ada thought, “Can I bear to - have her always in my sight? How she will hate me when she knows that [ have taken ker ‘father’s love too!” Mr. Dysart was standing patiently before , waiting for an answer. Me was a very handsome man, and looked Pipw younger than he was; and Ada felt that _ it would not be impossible to be bappy with ‘I will not hurry you,” he said. ‘I donot ct you to give me much of your love now. be satisfied with winning it in time if will but accept mine.” is all so strange!” she murmured. Fas there are so many thi of. pr, were neangz ene at he - 'swer to my note; and after I had sent it, it’ £8 old to care for any one to take her mother's place now,” * I did not think that would bea hindrance,” he said, sadly. ‘* I know a woman does not care to marry a man who has a daughter nearly as old as herself; but I fancied that in this case there was a slight difference. have always seemed so deeply attached, and Mona would be very glad to have you in a closer relationship and delighted at the thought of being always with you.” f Ada smiled bitterly. ; Clearly he knew nothing of the gulf which had opened of late between the two friends. But why should she heed it? She would take just this one step more, and. perhaps then ths rough ways of her life might become smoother. As Mr. Dysart’s wife she would try in some measure to rectify the errors of Ada Dalkeith, and set her own tortured conscience at rest. ‘*T will raise no more difficulty,’’ she said. “Mr. Dysart, the honor you have done me isa great one, and I will try to be worthy of it. You shall never repent the goodness which made you take a homeless, friendless woman to be your wife.” He took ber hand, which she allowed to lie passively in his, and said, very earnestly, ‘* And you shall never repent this, the greatest of all your acts of kindness to me.” She shuddered violently as she said: ‘TI will try, Mr. Dysart, to make you a good wife.” All the old graceful lightness of her manner bad vanished, and he looked with tender ‘so- licitude into the pale, weary face. “JT must begm at once to take care of you, my Ada, You need it sadly. Darling, you must drop that old, stiff formula now, and re- member that Iam Mr. Dysart to you no lon- ger. It will be very sweet to me to hear my name from your dear lips; it isso many years since I heard it from one I loved. Try, dear, to forget that you are marrying an old man.” “T don’t want to forget, Hugh,” she said, pressing her hands together, as though to still some viclent inward pain. She would conquer herself and endeavor to make him happy, and did not draw back when he put his arm round her and said, ‘* Ada, we must seal our compact with a kiss.” She submitted to his embrace, and even re- turned it; but the repulsion she felt in her heart told her that she had committed a mis- take. “T am very tired ”—after a pause. ‘‘ Please let me rest now; and will you tell Mona?” ““Of course. I see already the delight with which she will hear the news.” Ada smiled sadly at his mistake; and when he had gone, leaned her head on the table and groaned, “ Has it ended thus? Oh, I cannot bear it! The punishment is greater than I can endure! And | meant to have acted so differ- ently! But now [have ruined the best and only friend I ever had! Mona, Mona! how shall I bear to see you when you know this? Ingrate that Iam! You were so generous, and offered me so much, and I have taken all— lover, father, and home! This will torture me to death or madness! If she would but marry Charlie, it might be all right! I would try to make Mr. Dysart happy, and I will—I will forget! But with Mona—no; I cannot live with her! It would kill me! I€£ she will not, we must go away, for I dare not turn her out of her own father’s house—the house she wel- comed me to when I was friendless and poor!” The picture of the warm, loving greeting rose before the miserable girl's mind until she loathed herself, and felt that she would do any- thing to break ‘the fetters that had been forged by her own weakness, Mr. Dysart was fairly astonished at Mona’s reception of his news. — He had pictured tohimself her joy; instead of that, she flung herself into his arms, with a burst of passionate, hysterical weeping. ‘Ob, papa, papa, then I have not even your affection any longer?” Sen as) ines this? 2 steno you loved ¥ eee SRE ge ha ver Fy oy Schiele on aia "TEMPTED. nROUGH LOVE, sg CE eee You | Be Dae cay a 4 Fx, ae NS Toes Kae too well to be jealous of her, or to fear that she would take my love from you. Do you suppose for one minute that even a wife could drive my little girl from my heart?’ “T am not jealous, papa, but I cannot be glad. It is all so sudden and strange.” How could she tell him of the change which had taken place? It was only something else to conceal, she reflected, bitterly; and added, with a mechan- ical smile: ‘‘This is not a very nice way to re- ceive your news. I shall soon get used to it, and hope you will both be very happy.” “Thanks, darling. And you? I cannot have my little girl think herself neglected.” ‘JT will be willing to share what was once mive entirely. It was very silly of me*to mind at first.” ; ‘“And remember, pet, your share is no smaller than it was before. Your poor old father’s heart has grown larger, that is all. It is all right now, eh?”’—looking anxiously at her. “ Yes, papa, quite—quite right. to see you looking so happy.” I am glad “ Ada, papa has told me all about it,” said Mona, feeling that a beginning must be made somehow. ' “I hope you will both be very happy. ” .. b “Thank you, dear!” There was an awkward pause, to break which Ada at last said: ‘*T shall feel quitea matron with my grown- up daughter.” Mona smiled. “ But I suppose I must not hope to noe my daughter long.” ‘“‘What do you mean, Ada?” in genuine sur- rise. ‘©Do you think I have not noticed?’—speak- ing playfully, while her heart throbbed vio- lently with a painful excitement. ‘I know some one who is very anxions to deprive us of you. Is he not to have his reward, Mona?” The girl flushed a deep crimson. ‘*Please don’t, Ada. He understands thatit can never be.” ; ““T don’t think he does,” said Ada. “I know that it would take a great deal to make him give up hoping; and, Mona, youought not to trifle with him. I think he bas a right to — expect something better from you.” ‘*Certainly he has,” said Mona, ‘‘I hope. that I would not trifle with any man who did me the honor of asking me to be bis wife.” ‘“You have allowed Charlie to think so dif- ferently, and now it is heartless to throw bim over. Iconsider that you are bound to accept bim.” “ Ada, I cannot think you believe this, it is 80 utterly untrue. I will not be in your way; but even for the sake of ridding you of my company I cancot consent to be me wife of a man whom I do not love.” She left the room, not daring a trust her- self there any longer. f ‘Feel herself regarded as an intruder, in- deed!” she exclaimed, bitterly. “She need not fear that; it is rather I who will have to feel that.” t She felt so insulted ard hurt that Ada should have tried so scon to make her under- stand the change in their mutual positions. c ‘‘ How can | ever bear it?’ was the thought _ uppermost in her mind. Perhaps her heart might have softened bad she seen the beautiful kneeling form convulsed in an agony of remorse, and heard the bitter ery, “It is useless; I can never undo what I have done, and now she is alienated more than ever! Oh, to get away—away from this hate- ful spot! "And he will surely take me hence, if | but ask bim!” She rested on that comfort. Her weak na- ture must have some support; and it was 4 solace to think that there was some one whose whole thoughts were devoted to her happiness; — and yet when he was near she had to school — ae to ee his bein or ar 2) aie
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'. tormented her. ' Yesolve. hos aR RN oe ; . : CHAPTER XI. ALL AGAINST HER. / THE wedding took place very soon, for Mr. Dysart would hear of no long postponement; and Ada felt that perbaps when it was over, and she was away, she might enjoy rest from the fever and remorse and vain longing which So the summer had not yet flown when Mona stood in her bridemaid’s dress looking from the hall-door after the re- treating carriage which was bearing her father and his new-made bride away. It was the first tine inher life that she had ever been separated from him, and there was & cruel feeling of desolation in her heart. The world had grown very dark lately, and it seemed almost incomprehensible. To her warm, impulsive heart it was awful to feel repulsed or deceived on every side, and to have the ne- cessity for concealment. She was in danger of growing hard and cynical. “T suppose I expected too much,” she would Say. ‘Aunt Margaret is wise, after all, and I don’t think her estimate of the world is very wrong.” Poor child! she did not dream that the little Corner which she knew was anything but the world. It was enough for her that she had come in contact with any part of it, and that that part had proved very hard and unplea;- ant, “But I won’t be conquered by it,” was her ‘‘No one shall see that I am misera- ble, and I won’t be miserable long, either. What if people choose to be false, why should Imind? Others contrive to be happy, and so willI. I am not so weak that I cannot do Without the love of one or two people, and Surely Tan not mean-spirited enough to cling 0n to those who want to shake me off? And yet to be forsaken by all!” _ At that moment, Hector put his nose caress- ingly into her band, as much as to say, ‘Don’t Say you are forsaken by all! Haven’t you got _™e? And you know I never thought much of your other friend.” Mona remembered the animal’s dislike to Ada trom the first, and now felt that it must have been his unerring instinct which enabled him to distinguish friend from foe. “ And yet, Ada, surely you were my friend? T cannot bear to think you quite false; and ector made one mistake, for he always liked that other one. Come, old fellow, we'll go for a long walk, and get rid of these blue feelings. Wait till I’ve changed my dress, and then we'll go to see some of the poor people. I daresay they may be false, as all the rest; but, at any rate, they don’t prosper in their false- hood; and when people are unhappy, one can forgive them a great deal.” “The wedding: bells were still pealing noisily as the faithful pair set off. and their harsh, Metallic voices jarred painfully on Mona’s sen- Sitive ears, _ “How unreal it all seems!” she thought. “I cannot realize what has happened! The same, and yet, ob, how different! It can never be the same again!” The visiting was not successful that day; for 80 wherever she would, only one topic of con- versation prevailed. : “Itt be a great change for you, miss,” said One old dame. “‘But your new ’ma ain’t quite Strange; so you won’t be mindin’ so much like. You'll find’ it lonely till they come back, _ though,” “T sba’n’t be at home. My aunt has invited me to stay with her,” said Mona. “That'll be more cheery for you. Dene- Chase is a big, lonesome place for a young lady like you, miss, and there'll be many as will feel _. the happier for seein’ you at Mrs. Talbot's.” Mona laughed and the old woman continued: “You'll not think me rude, I hope, but ’m an _ old woman, and it makes my heart light to see _ young people happy, particular such a dear young lady as you’ve been to us.” _ “Thank you, Mrs. Porter; it is very kind of You to say so.” . “And, miss, I would tell there’s not one in f oe ey ne oe a eee eae eee aie « cere. -22 y J agee ie ae. ee ip sb - rig “ the village but is pleased to think as you'll stay here for good.” “OF course Ishall stay! Isn’t it my home?’ “Ay, miss! But many young ladies is took from their homes; and it would be heart- breakin’ to see you go.” “ Ah, you needn’t fear! No one will take me, aud I have made up my mind never to 0.” “Not far, miss. But Mr. Talbot, I’m think- ing, wouldn’t like to hear you say that! He’s a fine young gentleman, and we all wish you may both be very happy.” **Mrs. Porter, this is quitea mistake. There is nothing between Mr. Talbot and myself. We are only very dear cousins.” She took her leave soon, and hurried away from the village, pursued by one miserable thought. Ada’s words, ‘‘ You have allowed Charlie to think so differently, and now you cannot be so heartless as to throw him over,” were ringing in her ears, bringing the horrible doubt that she might perhaps have acted un- fairly by him. ‘‘T am no better than the rest of them,” was the bitter reflection. ‘It is very hard that one should make such mistakes wben one really wishes to do right!” The days at her aunt’s passed very slowly, and Mona felt something like a caged bird. She would have insisted on returning to Dene-Chase had it not been for the fear of appearing ungrateful. Several letters had come from Mr. Dysart, and one from Ada; but such a cold, formal one, which bore decided evidences of letter- making rather than letter-writing simply. “Why does she write at all?’ reflected Mona, bitterly. ‘‘I would rather have no let- ters than one like this!” They talked of remaining abroad all the winter, but nothing was mentioned about her joining them, and Mona felt that it was meant to be understood that she should not do so. it galled the proud heart to think that she could not prevent herself dwelling on this, ‘‘No one wants me now!” was the sad, bit- ter cry which often went from her tortured, wounded spirit. But there was one, after all, who did want her very much, and sometimés the thought of his love almost brought relief to her. “Poor Charlie! I feel almost driven to take refuge in bis love. It would be so sweet to have some one to look after and care for me again. Mrs. Talbot was a shrewd observer, and saw much that. was passing in her niece’s mind; nor did she lose an opportunity of reminding her, in an indirect way, of the change which she would find at home after the newly-married couple returned. ““Of course, Mrs. Dysart was always very fond of you when she was Miss Dalkeith, and I don’t doubt that she will always be so; but still I feel sure, dear Mona, that you will un- derstand that a young married. woman, who is remarkably pretty, will find it awkward to heve such a tall, attractive daughter. Iam so afraid, my dear, that this will trouble you.” ‘What can I do?” cried Mona, fairly exas- perated at the plain expression of her own re- fleciions. ‘Would you bave me leave my father’s house and live alone?” “That would he very foolish; but I cannot help boping that these circumstances may help to decide a certain affair in favor of my dear boy’s happiness.” That everlasting subject again! Mona shrugged her shoulders impatiently, but was silent as Mrs. Talbot went on: , “Charlie offers you such a love as seldom falls to any woman’s lot, and knowing what a home awaits you if you will accept it, I won- der you can choose to return for good to your father’s,” “‘ Aunt, I would rather not discuss this mat- ter,” said Mona, decisively. ‘It is very kind ial ae of you to be so willing to welcome me into your family, but it can never be.” ‘ te ’ o 1 B. i shal was imparted, ; $ ; fe Pata: et i ee Peete caine | Kier ae beat ne, Sta Pama gone oe ire gO Laid rion te cay Sr nn eee ea see! Ser Mrs. Talbot said no more; but as she noticed the weary, worn look on Mona’s face, she felt: that time would do more than all her argu- | ments, “She will never bear life at Dene-Chase again,” was her confident reflection; and it. imbittered Mona’s trouble to feel this, too. Ob, how willingly she would have refuted those: innuendoes about Ada had she been able! But the truth was so clear that it was impossible to deny it. have loved each otber so dearly?” It was still harder when Charlie pleaded his own cause with a simple, manly earnestness tbat touched her very powerfully, or when Amy, whom she had really learnt to love, put her arms round her waist, and whispered, loy- ingly: ‘Dear old Mona, I wish you would always stay with us, and let us make you happy!” Meanwhile Ada and her husband were wan- dering from one place to another. Nowhere did she find the peace of mind so ardently wished for; and yet, when Mr. Dysart pro- posed returning home, she negatived the pro- posal with vehement decisiveness. Yet she was very gentle and affectionate toward him, and found some relief for her tortured spirit im the reflection that she had ministered to bis happiness. They bad been staying for some weeks at | Florence, and Mr. Dysart began to hope that she was really interested at last, and would set- tle down for some time. She was sitting alone in the hotel, when a card was brought to her, which sent the blood — in a rush to her face, to recede as rapidly, leaving her deadly pale. On the card was, “Ralph Churton,” ; “1 thought you were in Egypt,” she said faintly, as he entered. “So I was, until a few weeks ago,” he an- _ swered; ‘‘ but.a demon of unrest has seized me, and I am compelled to wander about from place to place, longing only for one spot, whic is forbidden ground to me.” ; “ And that is—” ““ Dene-Chase,” he answered, quietly. “Yes, — Mrs. Dysart; I need not mind you, for you must know what drove me away so suddenly from my bome. Am] not right?’ ‘‘T cannot tell,” she said, coldly. ‘ You were always erratic in your moyements.” ‘*T should have thought the cause was plain enough to you; at least, it will be when I tell you my reason for coming to you is to ask for some news of Miss Dysart.” ‘‘Miss Dysart is well, I believe; she was when I last heard,” ‘** And happy?” “‘She should be, as she is staying with her aunt, where there is everything to make her so.” Bib. Pi He started back as though he had received a sudden shock. “What would you bave me believe?” he said. ‘I cannot understand you!” “There is no mystery about it,” she an- swered. ‘ ‘“‘Then you mean that either Talbot and Mona are engaged, or will be so before Jong? - That he is brave enough to dare the dangerI was such a coward as to flee from?” ‘‘T do not say this, I know nothing of Mona’s plans, She does not make me her confidante.” — Ob, how she longed to throw herself at his feet, and, with tears of repentance, confess all, begging for mercy and forgiveness! But ske dared not. She could not recede now, and let him go away unenlightened, only feeling that never bad she loved bim so much, even in the days when she thought, his love was bers, : The sound of Mr. Dysart’s returning foot- steps sent. a thrill of horror through her frame, — “We must go away from here,” she gasped to herself. ‘‘Oh, is there no corner of. this world where a wreteh such as I jaay hope to find peace?” Before long her wish to be again on the move a j ‘ Pe a fae ' Pa) OA ele i pelt ater ei tae ee es ee aN 8 a eS: Ai Fae A gee ae “‘Oh, Ada! how can it be, after we —
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J eannot—cannot believe this, Mona! - “Need we stay bere any longer, dear Hugh? I think we have seen ali—and I am so tired of ‘the place!” ; \ “ Tired already, Ada? I had ‘hoped that you were interested. Where shall we go now?” “*Where you will,” she answered, listlessly, “only let us move from here.” ‘Shall we go home?” 5. “No; no; anywhere but there! I hate New England in the winter time, and it will be ‘worse than ever after being so long in this - beautiful climate.” '*Don’t you think, then,” said Mr. Dysart, hesitatingly— ‘*don’t you think if we are to pass the winter abroad we ought-to send for Mona? I fear she will feel herself so neglected.” Ada’s eyes fell, and she said slowly, ‘‘ Mona is so happy at her aunt’s, Hugh; it would be a pity to disturb her.” -‘*Do you think so?, Iam afraid for her, and - it isso long since we have seen her.”’ “As you like, Hugh. I am sorry that I _ ‘have not been able to make you happy.” “Don’t say that, Ada! I have been happier with you these last few months than I ever _wasin my life before. The only trouble is that sometimes I fear you are not happy your- self. Tell me, dearest, is this so?” BEND, LO ’she cried; “Tam very happy, and only want to go from ere because it is dull,” Ser" Well, darling, when and where shall it _ © Where you will but soon—to-day, if pos- CHAPTER XII. _ REAPING THE WHIRLWIND. ‘¢Mona, I can bear it no longer! Give me an g@pswer some way or other!” “JT have given you one, Charlie, over and over again! Itcan never be anything differ- ent!” ne It is so hard to give up after all this time! Why will you not have me?” 3 “Simply I don’t love you well enough to be your wife! That is surely sufficient!” “ Only tell me one thing, and I will ask you no more! Do you love any one else?” Her bonest brown eyes drooped before his, he saw that it was the truth as she said, - “T cannot tell you, Charlie, for I don’t know : myself. es 2 Then, Mona, why should I not hope? Sure- dy my chance is as good as any one else’s if _ you don’t care for any one?” _ “J don’t care for any one, Charlie; but once I think I did, and I shall never care for any Rees, one else again. Please don’t say any more now; I can’t bear it.” He took her hand in his and pressed it warmly, saying, ‘‘I won’t ask any more; but _ Ist me be your brother, Mona. You offered me that once, and I refused; but now I will be _ anything to you so long as you don’t send me quite away.” “Will you really, Charlie? Oh! you have made meso happy! Sometimes I do so want a friend to help me, and now I shall look to a At that moment a servant entered with a _ glanced hastily at the contents. _ Then she became deadly pale, and with trembling hands passed it to Charlie, who read: tea. danger ous accident has occurred. Your father and Mrs. Dysart are hurt, and she asks for you in- ru _ -cessantly. Come at reg It was some time before she could take in “the words, awful as they were in their plain- S ere message was from New York, and was from Mrs. Dysart’s maid. “I will go with you, Mona,” he said. ‘‘ Let ‘ine begin my brotherly work at once.” _ _ “Thank you; only let us be quick. Cousin _ Janet must come too, She is so invaluable in time of sickness.” ; _ She spoke with a forced calmness, numbed h suspense and eagerness to start. They sonia tiuat night, and nota moment was lost upon the road, but they found that they were eagerly expected; and as they mounted the stairs of the hotel to which they had been directed, Upton, Mrs: Dysart’s maid, came out and welcomed Mona. ‘“*T am so glad you have come! My mis- | love as you do, Mona, have mercy on me! Indeed I loved you too, and it was that which made me so cruel to you. I could not bear to meet you after I had betrayed you.” i She was growing fainter and fainter, and — | Mona saw that she could not bear this awful tress is conscious, but is sinking rapidly. I | | was going on in her own soul. feared she would not last until you arrived.” At those words, the estrangement of the | last few months seemed to clear away in a | moment, and Mona only remembered that fibe | woman whom she had looked upon as her | dearest friend was lying stricken down, soon to be separated from her forever. She trem- bled violently, and leaned on Charlie’s arm for support. “‘Courage!” he whispered. the great thing is to be calm.” “ Remember, after her father, who she heard was seriously burt, but in no immediate danger, she fol- lowed Upton into the darkened room, where Ada Dysart, the beautiful and winning, lay at the point of death. Mona shuddered as she entered, for she feared to see that lovely face disfigured and lacerated, but there was no cause for dread of that kind. The incompar- able features were lovely as ever, except for their pallor. Ada looked up as Mona entered. , ‘‘ Ah, you have come!” she cried. ‘I thought I should have died before I had told you all, and it was awful to pass away with such guilt on my con- science!” ‘Oh, hush, dear Ada! You must. not talk of dying; you must get well again, and we will be happy, as we used to be.” ‘Get well, co be a bopeless cripple? Nay, Mona, had I as much to make life happy as I have to make it wretched, I could not wish it.” “Think, Ada, of us—of my father! will he do?” “Poor Hugh! Ab, Mona; you will have him again now. I was very, very crue} to you, but I will give you back all that I have robbed you of, before I die.” ‘Please don’t speak so, Ada. It may not be so bad as you think. And you never robbed me of anything; for how could you help papa’s loving you! It was foolish of me to be so jealous. I see it all now.” “Mona, you cannot. Your pure soul would be revolted did you see all my wickedness, my ingratitude, but you must know it now, before it is too late. I feared to be too weak to tell you, and have written it all here.” She gave Mona a closed letter as she spoke. ‘‘ Read that, and it will tell you the whole story. Then, oh, then be merciful to me! I never meant to betray you, Mona!” Her hearer tried in vain to stop her revela- tion, seeing how palptully: excited she was be- coming. Ada continued: ‘I cannot think how I.could do it; but I loved him so, and it made me nearly mad.. You would not bave done £§#it, dear. You would have stood on one side, had he loved me, and wished us happiness, But I could not. Mona, in all your trouble you can- not have known such torment as I have en- dured since I sent Ralph Churton away, and let you think that he had played you false.” Mona was horror-stricken, This she had never for one moment sus- pected, and a deadly tremor came over her as she shrunk from the side of the dying woman. “You did this? Oh, Ada!” ‘Mona, Mona,” she gasped, < forgive me, for my punishment is more than I can bear. I am dying now, and you may think that is the rea- | son.of my telling you this; but indeed I must ! have told you soon anyhow. My secret was weighing me down to the grave.” “« Ada, I cannot! How can you ask me to forgive you? It is not my happiness you have ruined only, but his, too. What must you have made him think? And you say that you loved him!” “‘ Loved him! IT love him now; but I cannot ery : ‘ Jey . a oer cs What ; excitement any longer. A dreadful struggle Looking on the fair, agonized features, which had once been so dear to her, some touch of — the old tenderness returned, and she asked — herself how dared she let this poor tortured ~ soul pass away with the misery of pardon so — earnestly craved refused? But then could she forgive?—could she ever — forget? Sbe must. She herself was not faultless, | and how dared she refuse pardon to a fellow- And then, after a few hurried inquiries | creature?” ‘* Ada,” she said, solemnly, and trying to steady her voice, which trembled with emo- tion, ‘‘I will try to forgive, Do not let us — imbitter these last moments, if they really be | so.” A look of peace came over the sufferer’s — face, and she grasped the girl’s hand convul- — sively, saying, ‘‘ Now I am at rest. There is only one thing yet, and you, who are so gen- erous, will know how to forgive generously. I cannot think you will deny me.” ‘What is it?’ said Mona, with sickening — dread, for she feared a further revelation. ‘‘Do not read that letter untill am gone; and, oh, then, when all is over, and you are happy, pray him to forgive me, too! There is a letter for bim also. It is not finished. I could not do it; but send it to him when Il am dead, And ob, Mona, never let your father know! He believed in my truth; Jet him do so always. Never let him know that I, too, was untrue. Promise me—promise!” Her voice grew very weak from exhaustion, and Mona would not bave dared torefuse this — request, even had she wished to do so. “T promise it shall be as you ask.” “May Heaven reward you! Kiss me, Mona, once again. Ob, that I had kept my vow, and made you some better return for your love! — It is awful to say good-by thus!” _Mona kissed her, and then a deep silence fell over the darkened room. At length the watcher thought she had fallen — asleep, and so indeed she had. But it was asleep from which there would © be no awakening; and Mona fell upon her © knees to pray for mercy on the departed, troubled soul. , It was long ere she could rouse herself to realize what bad bappened. All had been so — appallingly sudden. ; It was with a dreadful start that she re- flected that the news must be broken to her father, whom she had not even seen yet. They had only told her that he had been © seriously, but not dangerously, injured in the accident which had thrown him and bis wife from the carriage in which they were driving to the hotel, after leaving the steamer in which they had just returned from abroad. ; He took the news very quietly when they © broke if to him, as soon as the doctor pro- — nounced it safe for them to do so; but Mona — saw tbat be would never recover from the combined effects of the mental and physical — shock, and was inexpressibly touched by his helpless dependence on her care. ‘Poor father,. how he loved her!” she thought, as she saw him borne by the doctor and Charlie tv look on the features of his dead wife, For more than an hour he remained at the — bedside, his head sunk on his breast, gazing at the lovely, rigid features, and touching the — beautiful, cold hands with his, as though to recall the warmth of life to them. d Gently he smoothed back the sbining golden hair from the smoothed brow, and kissed the 2 unresponsive lips. A deep groan burst from his own, and Mon ! almost sobbed aloud as” she dat a! He
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, _ shall not reach his ears.” , She had never looked at Ada’s letter yet. _ * There was so much to do, and she dured not _ Open it until all the sa‘ obsequies were over. _ Mr. Dysart insisted that his wife should be - buried at bome, and there was much to do to - enable him, in his shattered condition, to join in the sad journey. * What a return!” reflected Mona, as the - mournful cavalcade rolled up to the grand en- trance, and she remembered how the one whom they now brought back with the church’s solema toll had last left it, amid the clashing, noisy marriage-bells. The recollection, too, of the first time that Ada had come, nearly two eat tee of. GS years ago, occurred to her, and she felt inex- _. Presssbly sad at the failure of all their bright ‘ hopes. : ‘Poor Ada! she is at rest now. But, ob, a how she has suffered! Indeed, I forgive you now, my dear friend! Oh, that you had been _ true, and I less uncharitable!” But now the worst was over, and Mona at last had sought a retired corner to read that revelation which was like a voice from the tomb, pleading with her to remember her vow of mercy. f She had chosen the old spot by the willow- tree; for though it was winter, the weather was quite mild. With a feeling of awe and a Prayer for strength, she broke the seal and read:— ‘“ When you read this, Mona, I pray that I may be Passed away forever from the life which my own ___ &ct has made so intolerable. Where to make a be- reins pigaing I know not; for I cannot tell when first z egan to give way to the wickedne.s which has blighted my life and almost ruined yours. Oh, Mona, | how can I tell you? How can I tell my generous darling of my return for her goodness and love to me? AllI can say, to lessen the evil, is that I must have been mad when I did it. “T loved Ralph Churton, and at one time believed that he loved me. ,1 searcely know, but it Seemed so then. Remember, darling, he was the . rst man who ever had shown any aed for my so- ciety. Even before I came to youl had met and, I believe now, learnt to love him. Then gradually Srew the conviction that I was mistaken, and that you—you whom I looked on then only as a dear, in- Hocent child, who would some day make Charlie Yalbot a loving wife—had more influence over him than I; that he longed for your love, and gave you is freely and whol Y i “At first I thought bim infatuated, for youseemed 80 to dislike him; and then, oh, Mona! came the aw- _ fultrial. Your father told me a secret about your -™other—a secret I promised never to di , and yet to explain I must even break that vow. He told me that she had died in an asylum, a victim to pas- sion and habits of intemperance. It was no more. There is no danger of heredi disease, an yet then I persuaded myself it was not so, You | now Ralph's opinion on Ne gars “Can you forgive me, Mona? { told him that your _. mother was insane, but nothing else, except that you must never know it. He scarcely spoke another _ word, but went; and I knew then what I had done. _ Oh, that I could have recalled my words! All hope - of his ever loving me was dashed away forever, and , Thad sinned to no . Iknew then that he had , hever really loved me, and felt as though my senses Were deserting me. , “When your father asked me to be his wife I hoped that by malting. him happy I might atone for : Some of the misery I had brought into his house, and have tried to do so, and believe that he was happy. _ I know not if I shall ever see you in life again, but if not here, I pray you, as you hope for mercy on your- ‘Self, to have mercy on me. Much asT have sinned, . Nave ga er 1 — and AW the fervor of a ~ ng woman I implore you orgive, and to hin, too, to forgive me, and, Bg hide hw fr i — ane: i. , Mona! two short years or even one, I did not think to have sued’to you for ardon. Had ny one told me that I should be so treacherous, I _ Should have laughed at them; but now mercy and Pardon is all that lL ask—your love was forfeited long go. And yet, oh! sometimes remember the time When I was your own dear familiar friend. . y “Apa,” ” The tears stood in Mona’s eyes as she finished, _ and “TI do forgive you, dear Ada!l—may _ Heaven have mercy on your weary spirit!” broke from her quivering lips. - “Amen!” said a solemn voice by her side, And with one bound she sunk into Ralph’s outstretched arms, oe He held her tightly pressed to his bosom for Some minutes, and she was contented to ease cher overburdened heart with a good ery on nat sympathetic breast. — hen at last, remembering se = wre Bed, oe ee Oe i 2 E : wy A Fie . never know. Whatever she may have done, it Rs herself, sho drew er t ak Sher a ytd eh a ibis ope } RS os ae ing very quiet and sad, and yet very happy. ‘Mona, it is all over now,” he said, taking her hand in his. “TI havelearnt all from this poor, unfivished letter, and have come to ask you to be my wife, Will you, darling?” “Yes.” He folded her again in his arms, and she yielded to his caress with a feeling of perfect rest and security!: ‘‘ And you forgive her, Ralph? You will not think hardly of her?” “No, indeed! Iwas much to blame for her mistake. Ah, my darling, I could not believe then that you would ever love me.” “Should I, then, bave troubled so ‘much about you?” ‘* Ab! I was so silly in chose days so 6) think that love was blind. I could not understand the love such hearts as yours are capable of. But, Mona, I think, I bopeI have grown better since your sweet influence first came into my life.” “Ralph, we will try to be very true; and I think perhaps this time of waiting has drawn us nearer. Ihave wanted you so, and could not understand why you had fled from me.” ‘And I longed to explain. My love, you have never been out of my thoughts, and henceforth shall never be lovg out of my sight!” THE END. The Great American Story Paper! patles Wee The Best Weekly of Popular, Entertain- ing and Useful Literature Pub- lished in America! Its Unrivaled Corps of Contributors, almost all of whom write exclusively for its publishers—embraces the following authors of world wide repute— Colonel Prentiss Ingraham, Albert W. Afken, ged Fred. Whittaker, ne Mayne Reid, Joseph E, Badger, Jr., Edward L. Wheeler, Charles Morris, Oll Coomes, @. Dunning Clark, Buffalo Bill, White Beaver, Buckskin Sam, T..C, Harbaugh, Philip S. Warne, William R. Eyster, Anthony P. Morris, Launce Poyntz. 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¢ ‘AGthebican Copyright Novels and the Cream of Foreign Novelists, Unabridged, FOR FIVE CENTS! The Patron bec ie Ever Aepsericas be nes 422 1 The Mssked B te Him? By Mrs. Mary Reed Crowell. SA, 2 Was It Love? or, Collegians and Sweet- hearts. By Wm. Mason Turner, M. D. By Bartley T. Campbell. 4A Brave Meart; or, Startlingly Strange. By Arabella Southworth. 5 Bessie Raynor, the Work Girl; The Quicksands of Life. Turner, M. D. or, Spite of Herself. By Sara C laxton. : 7 A Daughter of Eve; or, Blinded by Love, “4 By Mrs. Mary Reed Crowell. By Arabella Southworth. Ward. By the author of ' ‘ Clifton,” BPride and Passion,” etc. JOA Pair of Gray Eyes; or, The Emerald Necklace. a or, A Dangerous Game. Rie By Rose Kenn hers 5 11 Entangled ; By Henrietta Thackeray. 'E | 12 His Lawful Wife; or, ora hay the Child of Pas. : Adoption. By Mrs, Aun §, Ste tepheris. ete 2 13 Madcap, the Little Quakeress; or, The a Baral S ladet’s Woo y Corinne Cushman. " \% I Married Him; 3 or, The Woman in ray. 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By Alice Fleming. 48 In Patios 2 os ig spite te or, Jeannette’s Repa- aN hp Wioante eh nieeee or, Love at First t. By Arabella Southwort rth. = “ ec Cuban. Heiress 5 on fg Prisoner of La Vintresse. By Mrs. Mary nison, 51 Two sone Girls; or, =e Bride of an Earl. By Alice Fleming. winged Mee Messengers ves hoes ig All ary Reed Cro’ or, ek Ro- William Mason for a Hi omnes Hope, ‘a adie mance ¢ : ref Ring. By > Turner, M . See: The W e Bride of an Actor; or, Driven from | 3 The Giri Wite; 3 or, The True and the False, | | 57 A Brave Girl; 8S Heart to Heart; or, Fair Phyllis’ Love, | | 58 Whe By William Mason - : ‘6 The Secret Narringd? tr DEC in | 59 A Widow?’s Wiles; or, A Bitter Vengeance. Ber vy 2 ; W ide; or, Will She Marry | Ts 54 One Woman's Heart; or. Saved tro the Street. By George S, Kaime, 55 She Did Not Love Him; or, Stooping to Conquer. By Arabella Southworth. 56 Love-Mad 3 or, Betrothed, Married, Divorced and——. By Wm. Mason ner, or, Sunshine at Last. By Alice Fleming. Ebon Miasks or, The Mysterious Guardian. By Mrs. Mary Reed Crowell By Rachel Bernhardt. 60 Cecils Deceit; or, The Dianrond Legacy. By Mrs. Jennie Davis Burton, G1 A Wie kod Heart; or, The False and the True. y Sara Claxton. | 62 The miaitnne Brides or, Tre Dead Secret 9 Alone in the World; or, ‘The Young Man’s | a em | 73 Rose Michel; or, o | 75 ahe Black Lady of Panu. | 76 Charlotte Tem of Hollow Ash Hall. By Margaret Blount. 63 The Creole Sisters; or, The he Maavery, of the Perrys. By Mrs. Anna E. Porte 64 What rear Did; or, “The- Heir of Worsle sy Alice Fleming. 65 The ee secret; or, "Twixt Oup and Up i Juan Lewis. 66 A other’s Sin; or, Flora’s Forgiveness. By Rachel Bernhardt. 67 Forbidden Bans; or, Alma’s Disguised Prince, By Arabella’ Southworth. 68 Weavers and Weft; or, “Love Lond Hath Us In His Net.” By Miss M.E. Brad 69 Camille; or, The Fate of a Bahtette. By Alexandre Dumas. 70 The Two Orphans. By D’Enery. 71 os eee er tae ife. By My Young Wife’s 72 The — Widows. B Annie Th: Tials of a Girl. By Maud "Billo 74 Cecil Gantivnnatae”s Nog ik or, The Story ofa Broidered Shield. By Ouida. una. By J.S8. Le le. Mrs. Rowson, 77€ hristian eys istake. By the author of * ‘ John H ifax, Gentleman,” ete. 78 My Young Husband; or, A Confusion in the Family. 79 5, oe 7 ape Amongst Women. By the r of ‘‘ Dora Thorne,”’ etc., etc. 80 Her hs Lord and Master. 81 Winey ‘Tem le, Sister of Charlotte. 82 A Long Time Ago. By Meta Orred. 83 Playing for High Stakes. By Annie Thomas. 84 Whe Laurel Bush. By the author of “ John Halifax, Gentleman.” 85 Led Astray. By Octave Feuillet. 86 Janet's Repentance. By George Eliot, 87 2 Romance ales Poor Young Man. y Octave Feuillet. ‘ y 88 rs Trerrible Deed; or, All for Gold. 89 Po: Gilded Sims. By the author of * Dora actory B By. Florence mma Garrison J ones. Thorn,” etc, | 90 bal na > hmthons Daughter. By Mary OL a “4 silt. By Charles Reade. 92 Kileen Alanna; or, the Dawning of the Day. By Dennis O’ Sullivan. 93 Love’s Victory. By B. L. 94 The Quiet Heart, yh Oliphant. = Tae pes By coe Rachel a Bernhardt. athavine Ki 98 Alic 99 sg! wang Braces, leamodas By 110 ene seit Heb. By Charles Reade. 411 The Brother's or, Within Six Weeks By Emilie eriyears a barn, 112 A Hero. By Miss 113 Paul and * nga From the Freneh of Berriardin De St. Pie 344 ae In Trafalgar’s Bay. By Wal- nt and James Rice 115 The. aid of Killeena. By William sig tty. By Henry Kingsley. 17 Het Wwayside Cross3 ail ka Raid of Gomez. By Captain E. A. 118 The Vicar of wiahstela,. By Oliver Goldsmith. aie 4 foe h yet Sas - i. J As 4 119 Maud Mohan, _ By Annie Thomas. 120 Penatows of Warsaw. By Miss Jane 121 ihe “King of No-Land. By B. L. Far- eon. 122 Lovel, the Widower. By W. M. Thack- 123 rig Island Pearl. By B. L. Farjeon. 124 Cousin Phillis. 125. Leilas or, The Siege of Grenada. By Ed- ward Bulwer {Lord Lytton). 126 When the Ship Comes Home. | By Walter Besant and James Rice. 127 One of the Family. By James Payn. 128 The Birthright, By Mrs. Gore. 129 Motherless; or, The Farmer's Sweetheart, By Colonel Prentiss Ingraham. 130 Homeless; or, Two iRooare = Girls in New York, By bert W, Aik 131 Sister my aaa caneeey or, The Rivalry of Hearts. ns Mrs. Mary er Crowell. 132 Sold for Gold. By Mrs. M. V, Victor. 133 Lord Roth’s Sin. By Georgiana Dickens. 134 Did He Love Her? By Bartley T. Gere bell. 135 Sinned Against. By Lillian aveing 136 Was She His Wife? By Mrs. Mary Reed Crowell. 137 The Village on the Cliff, By Miss. Thackeray. 138 Poor Valeria! or, The Broken Troth., By Margaret Blount. 139 Margaret Graham, By G. P. R. James. 140 Without Mercy. By Bartley T.Campbell. 141 Honor Bound. By Lillian Lovejoy. 142 Pilse ine: from Love. By Mrs. Harriet rving. 143 Anducted 5 ot A Wicked Woman's Work. Rett Winw 144 Strange Marriage; or, Jokn Foster's A str “By Lillian Lovejoy. 145 Ewe martin Lives. By Mrs. Mary Recd Crowe sok A Desperate Ventu ‘or ve's oy Own Sake. By Arabella oy’ tet Mw ort ; 147 The teas of Hearts. By rae Cush- ; ve 148 Which wes the Woman ? or, Strangely Misjudged. Claxton. By Sara 149 An Ambitious Girl; or, She Would Be An Actress. By Frances Helen Davenport. 150 Love Lord of All; on, In Her Own at 50 Tet By alice May lem: 151 A Wild Girl. By Postage Cushman, 152 A ™fan’s Sacrifice. By Harriet Irving. 153 Did She Sin, By Mrs. Mary Reed Crowell. 154 Me Loves Me Not, By Lillian Lovejoy. 155 Winning Ways. By Margaret Blount. t She Cost or, Crooked Paths, 1 wrmes Sas Sone East 157 A Girl’s ene By. ao ga fat 158 x ou Mis ake} or; oung ; ms 1am beady By the Late 160 Buying a Heart. By Lillian Lovejoy. 16) Pearl of Pearls. By A. P. Morris, Jr. 162 A Fateftul Game} or, Wedded and Parved. By Sara Claxton. 163 re Ovecte . CONSAARS: or, False as Fair. By Philip 8. W 164 ry Seathing , Ordeal or, May Langley’s Mad Marriage. By Mrs. Georgians Dickaan. 165 A Strange Girl. By Albert W. Aiken. 166 A Man’s Sin. By Rett Winwood. The Hand of Fate; or, The Wreck of na Two Lives. By Arab della Southworth, 168 Two Fair Women. By Wm. M. Turner. 169 Tempted Through Love; or, One Women's Error. .B 7 Lillian Lovejoy. . 170 Piet ait arbaras Secret. 171 A pated Wrecker’ 3 ; ol verve Much Tribulations. Sara Claxto 172 Black Eyes and suintds By Corinne Cushman. iis b.wt The Mother's By Mary A new issue every week, Tas Wavertey Liprsry is for sale by all: News dealers, five cents per copy, or sent by mail on re- eeipt of six cents each. BEADLE AND ADAMS, Publishers, 98 William street, Rew. York.