on DJLLAR PER ANNUM, INVARIABLY IN ADVANCE. TOWANDA : Gainrliiin Morning, Jatmarg 19, 183 U. tFrom Tbe Tribune.] THE FIRST DEEP 8 NOW. ST B. 11. J-TOnDjkRD. tn-en a ple.c-aiit day, IV-pite the cold and fnow ; A MiWoth slillnesr filled the air. And pictures slumbered everywhere, Around, above, below. We woke at dawn, and iw thv trees before our windows white ; T'.e;r limbs were clad with snow, like bark. Nor ;lut the under -idrs were dark,— Like bars a rams; the lieht. The fence was white around the house, The lamp before the d>>or ; The fence was glazed with pearled sleet,— drifts lav in the silent street. — The street w as seen no more ! I .one trenehe; had been roughly dug. And g:ant footprints made ; But few were out; the streets were bare— -aw hsit one pa'.e wanderer then 1 . And he was like a shade 1 ! -eemed to walk another world, \t iwre ail was still and blest: T l < '1 dlese sky, the stainleM enows— It eis a >K>n of repose. A dream of heavenly rest, A u-v sm th? holy night complete* ; For now the moon hath come 1 ta:. . n neaven with folded wing*. A free *r i happy soui uut sings. ">v Uu'.l tilings else are dumb! Stl 111 f b B1 f. ESTRANGED BROTHERS: U C Jiibc. CUaPTKR I. T ' - i Christmas moon was shining: on the sr. i u vh/ge of Uheriton. It lit up the long, -retred u st.'.ct. and made every object almost i' C'. i'.v . !-d>!e as at noonday. But in the - -at they uj.;>eared very different. A tca'.t ij'.ii-ct:: solemn. yet serene, seemed •. :*: ah things Tue quaint houses.witL r gl -roofs, tad oddly-e!u>tered chimneys, * i a> .! they I ro.dwi orer the reco'lectious :":uh T past times tliey had knowu ; and : ,-raud ! i .Lurch !o ked doubly reverend. • : r.-s: work glittering aKn:i its Nor . hurebe i uiadovi iad oa the boughs of the ' .re viar w .iio:i towered beside the doorway. T:.e Boonhfi hpwd lovingly ■bowl the grey wail* ; they too. on the white grave -• sui •. chanLvwd, ftkd amde each one a still, calm mule—happf aad lo!y. It was a nigh: apaa wh'ch though tfal act ttigfat gaze, and fed rising in tint* hearts siui ultar.eou- hope for earth aul asyirut.vu L?av?n. 1 ory vjutot was the place, as the moon went ou he way. ok. -g wr. r.er clear, chill >r "e vf gr-;-. A . re-re ts one house, iso :'v - • • ' vTs y a sor. what extensive aata of sua t a d garden. aboal which '** ' " • . . vN .. . I ; ,'.r.. .V . It *as a pr ■ :.vold fashion :d abode ; vn aru bus were few, save to the ■ :r-::r- a:: : : • rre> •:'xaru* penetrated ■ • • '-? eh itu'xrs. nnd played fan '•*• -'*"• - and doors. Into one lit . c.. rays csmn oc. a su..den. • I "-..gig .rin the Leavecs. es - ♦ - adaa if a p.' Voting liattreaa in I.the j-a'e Seht fell full ujton a utk * fa te-draped i>eit whecvin lay two toane • 0 ; the clu..-: by s- ;ne was •* v; I f quivering fell on his face. 4 t.'v • • --7 uent of which was so fuli of that eveu in sleep it did not T "l.* l f \ -1 ss. ve of rej - sc. 1! i> brot iter's • ate feateo were. >a the contrary. ■ p - .y .: ->.*: af acafataral eaha. He -i.. c . strzigh:. IfaosgfatM ( row.aud that aadre aoatfa, which to the pact ppnfiac v ' 1 • J y s a his aa shuost wotaaui.ke saeet il.Ttss. a. '•* -oy seetue-d apt illustrations of two : ~ : :u:ed Iviugs. The one all ac ".-:r ~ii :h ag'r.t ; if the life of the v - "• : * picture, that of toe second * ■ --e a poem. - u : -'".her was awake. Hi-> eye> "• Bqpd hazel, were tboochtfa.lv "•>- '• . >. -etvr.c face iwsdde hint, acd T 1 - a, as with a tender impulse, his I :: aside the cftaPariag Irown ' ' - 'woad forehead of the sleeper. ; "" v " i: - aek the white cartuiu. ar.d '''• - . y : c.uely -wenc strv'ch - -c: i _ ght - —at the foreground of ct clothed in a fairy robe of l ~'■ - the far stance, strangely dear " i • de wonder of the silent sea. **' ' k^- face lit np —clewed with a —artc-e. Unaltered prayers -* iicvl - .u>:-nc:ive hope—ciessed a falddea to his miavi - v thus gsire-i. and felt, and i a the striiaesis of that wit lery m.d -c .u.ss was brvdten. Uibniiag on ."•J wir cune se ieian strains of music. -v._„gh: skui oa two or three ohi ~'~uru<. :s. It was an ancient Es ' u v >; Of ;va:riarehai siusfdjeity 1 "- -v." uit'canvj, bad hytuc. which : "t wri: w.th the place aad the time. ' -7 T -• >: of the qctaial aac the peace "•?- • *.i ci ar sa: soaßdi.bM ' •v .i ae;*ai;ty w the wintry -C tic dark sky. w.th the s3toa •'> u. uaa Is. aro Uvcs. and with | . -_lrss Akoccl c'at slutn.-uc o*er fc -tke ! Listcu :o the watts!" - < je.'ore tfaw mfadtaei o*ce - . i sturbeslthe sieejwr from it a-t be w*. I - THE BRADFORD REPORTER. " Who calls ? Oh, Willie, is it you ?"he add ed in a sleepy tone. "What did you wake mc for ? Tisn't morning !" "Hush ! speak low ! Pou't vou hear the mu sic ?" There was a pause. Tlie two boys listened in silence. " It's old Giles*Headforth with his violon cello," at length broke in Laurence, " and John j Head with his cracked hautboy, and little— n "Ah, don't !" cried the younger boy, with a i gesture almost of pain ; never mind who plays. It sounds so solemn now, so " His words died away iu the iutentuess of his listening. "Queer old tuue. isn't it?'' preseutly said Lau rence, " and queer old figures they look, I'll be ; bound, standing in the street, with red noses, and frozen eyelashes, and muffled in worsted comforts up to the chin." He laughed, and theu yawned. " I think I shall go to sleep again. These fel lows dou't seem inclined to leave off. I shall be tired of listening before they are of playing, I , expect." " Keep awake a little longer, Laurence, dear," pleaded the other. " It's only for one night, and 'tis so nice for us to hear the mu sic, and look out upon the moonlight toge ther." " Very well.Willie," assented the other boy. nipping a fresh yawn in the bud, " aay thing to please you. old fellow." " There—put your arm round me—so," pur sued T\ illie, always in the same hushed, whia i poring tone, " and let me lean my head uj>on your shoulder. Now, that is pleasant. We love each other ; don't we, Laurence ?" Auvl the tender, childish face looked upward, askingly. " I should think so—slightly ! You're a dear old chap. Will, though you hiire rather odd old fashioued notions." He stooped down, and pressed a hearty kiss oa his young brother's delicate face. And then the two boys remained silent, watching the flickering m.>on-rays t and listen ing to the simple music without. * * * * * CHAPTER 11. There arc some recollections, oftentimes trivia! enough iu themselves, which yet re maiu impre.Nsed upon the mind through a whole life, outlasting the memory of eveuts far more striking and more recent in their occurrence. Laurence and William Carr grew to be men. went out into the world, and were battlers for fortune; and oue of them, alas! in fighting that hard fight, became hardened in uature. so that scarce a trait remained of the generous, loving boy of yore. His soul was chilled in the stony routine of that life which is so scrupu loudy practical—one might almost say. mate ria!—the life of a Loudon merchant, devoting I heart acd -onl to his calling, and to the auioi- Uoas of hit daaa. Hi* old instincts were al-j taost Tea . within him ; his old aspirations, his boyi>h predilections were crashed out. effaced, as th Jgh they had never beer.. And yet the co a. Luiri. money-getting man of tie world ne ver ivst the vivid remembrance of that Christ mas uigLt, years and years ag<\ when hi? lit tle brother lay with his head leaning ou his shoulder, and they listened together to the vi!- tagv wait*. * * • * * CHaPTEK lit. The brothers were separated now-—worse es tranged The world came between them, ar.d stilled the frank, free lore which each, though it, so widely u fferent away, bad felt for the other, ever dree the childish days when they had played a ecu: the old house at Chcritou. and prayed, night and morning, at their moth er'- knee. The two boys were left orphans before WiE Earn w.v- twenty y t ars old. and sith but little with which to begin life. Laurence's de>ires hail been ail for a life o? change, adventure, and travel ; but instead he was compelled to take the ouiy opening which offered to hint ; and. before i.is father's deati.. wa- established j in the counting-house of a wcaiti.y relative.— He so a !ear;:ed coDtejitment with his fate. To t>nr>3c -an object, be it fame, or wealth, seems an icl erer.t instimrt ia man's nature. It fii.s i. s • ■..Tg - v satisfies his restiessucss. and itisea- j -ibiy l it gratrfah-y m udters to t;,at vague • year, z for -:a w*.ch L- the iaevit'-!e • birtl'righ: of • ve-w man Mee the beginning of j the world. Lanrer. e. shut oc: from worthier as|k rat ions, found his ambition run higii—to be great .a the senaa ty which all thou-e around hint afenMl greatness. He wvtikl be rich. | He would acrk fc:s way to fcrtuae, to position, to . *r.ewc? Keeping that goal ever in view he would struggle thrvwgh eviry d.Ecnlty. f eve his way over every olsuf * but he wouid gain it at last. So he said to himself, siktiily. many time-, daring the weary time of proba tion. when ohfcarity and hard work appealed to >-e his arotted portion, then and always.— But tifaa dsrk perioi did cot !at long ; =: wa* not itkeiy that it should continue. He had tale-quickaess. vigor, ct.t r■ g ft rs verance. and aufaiiing health. His progress was rapid He d nd-0.l t'-.e tiii with footsteps >w ft a> trey were acd when his father died the oai aiaa felt easy oo the score of his eides; soa's prosr-ects and ultimate success. But mcar.while Wiiiaa Lai remained at h-xae, h s self-ontsed and deariy k>v ed studies; reading, dreaming his hours away ia j*.rfecs hapfkoess. From this conte-.t he was rmlely arouse-1 to the drra ! real ties of death a&t poverty. The jkeasant home awl the familiar faces which mad-. ;t so I.- ar. sceoxxt to s*.3e rxn ;;x. ac-.* left -.12 s:a.sGicg aiooe in ike bleak world. * clch was so Oew aad strange : like ooe who. reared ia aa Arcade, is oca sa-vdea tsrus: us te the E,dss of the fierce tarsw. of a battle He sewght ib brotiier —bet the two Estures. liar; is -a. fferent. acre docUy so oc*. * her. a Lie of active behaes had fcardtaeu the oc-e. newkfiag ft sore :I.aa ever stem acd BBOOA pfw- W. il - - w'fioic years of quiet re tgi'iwt'. i*d made the ther yc; red ad. rc ser.sa.v< A- _ free.' Ltcrtatt tie y-viagvr brotf-r xe*. , v . e.- . r - 1 --rervc:- PUBLISHED EVERY SATURDAY AT TOWANDA, BRADFORD COUNTY, PA., BY E. O'MEARA GOODRICII. ings of his soul ; the closest, dearest portion of himself. There was in William Carr. that in | explicable, intangible somewhat, which marks oue man among his fellows—the Poet—even though he be dumb to his life's eud. The man of business shrugged his shoulders, knitted his brows at ' William's strange fancies.' He did not comprehend—he did not care to do so. it seemed. The first step towards their es trangement was taken when William declined, geutlv and thankfully, but decisively, a situa tion iu the same house where Lawrence was now high in trust. " It is of no use, brother ; it would not be to accept it. lam not fit for such a rcsponsi , bility. It would be a wrong to my emplovers to burden them with my incapacity." j " You Will improve. * You may'jeave them to protect their owu interests, believe me." William shook his head. And in brief, the elder brother found the de -1 licate-looking youth immutable iu bis decisiou, and left him, with words of impatience and an ger on his lips. His heart reproached him for it afterwards He was not all encrusted as yet with the ossi fication of worldliness. The next day he again went to his brother's lodgings. But William was no longer there—he had left London, thev told him ; aud it was not till he reached his 1 own home that he received a letter of explaua- ; : tion : DFAR LACREXCE—I thought it best to go. Forgive me if you think it wrong. I am not able to struggle with the fierce" multitude of money-getters in this dreary London. My old master Dr K. , has offered me a situation as classical tutor in his school. I have accep ted it. It is the best thing I see to do. Sso I farewell. Ever yours. WILLIAM." j " And my brother will be the paltry usher . in a country school !" muttered Laurence, as 1 he erushed the letter in his hand. " Gone. too. ! without consulting me, his elder, his natural adviser. It is badly done." And so the cloud between the brothers grew dark and palpable. They occasionally corre sponded, but each succeding letter, instead of j drawing them nearer together, seemed only to ' widen the gap. They did not understand" one ; another. Besides. Laurence was becoming a rich man. had become a ptartner in the het htm travel Lis owa road—and starTe."*- These hard, terrible word* the brother pa-- siooately uttered as tie trod tn* room to and fro. when he was a.oue. and after aga.D reading the letter. •" IVor Brother T.aartoce" : t ran'—' You-- letter, with it- brief announcement of your marra_>\ care roe great r' asure. r.;t or.-y for the ?ai- f its :.te:l _-erce. but because of the kind y maatter .n *. .vL you conveyed to me. 1* rhapf. ' r t'.er. it L at equal repr.wh to . both of c-. that the cordiality *a stracge us well as pleasant. Let mbe friends again, in heart. a~- in tame : we were so once—but it is a long w' ik xgx la our ne* baptd ess we m*v sarcly drown ai: .. ffetx-es. F r I i.- rat>~ and innately r-wes'ol the iof any lady in the far.d. I hare k-ved her. and she a>e. fer six year*. She is aa or l>bas t" a:>L ha* leer, a governess a", iu; : sse. We are rkb enccri. :oo* tsu>: --• Lacs* keep-'u-e. thoach on a modest scale. We art very happy ; I pray that yoc ray be the sam? with ray ce* sister to whom I brar to fer t affect ca:e regari*. Mary dm o.as me ii the sauce to touts* it, ray dear brother. Aad believe as? ever year* faihfnl.y, Wtuiii Cia * - Tbe daurhter of a cocttry shoj-kceper ar-i the daughter of the Evri of Tyafocd to call each other sisters ! Aad be ras -ioce this.— He w;il repent it; he xast. he .i.k H? ** • d:*gr*ee. * s am* to tse. He s=g .t -tr; l*ea an *.-i—L: s gk have r.r pei my p.t* But cew to marry she?" Sncb *ce"s d*joctol 'i ciamnt >®s **ic the k - pets. -e v *" T' - • 1 ; - " RE'SARDLESS OF DEXCNCUTION FROM ANY QCARTER." bride. In the course of the day he informed her that his brother had irremediably offended him, and that he would never speak to him or see him more. Lady Henrietta elevated her handsome eyebrows iu a momentary amazement then restored her features to their usual ex pressionless composure, and, without any re mark suffered her husband to turu the conver sation. • **** CHAPTER IV. Time passed on. The wealth of Laurence Carr increased yearly ; his name grew glorious in the ears of business men. His house was a palace ; his wife was jewelled like a queen.— He himself still borrowed daily in dusty city holes, w hence all his riches seemed to spring— and every year be became harder and more im passible, aud more devoted to the one aim and end of his life—money-gcttiug." It was his sole ambition now—he had no hope, no joy in anything beyond. There was no happiness in his gorgeous home, no tender ness in his majestic and aristocratic wife.— No one who looked on him would have im agined that he felt the warmth of love ; that there was any remnant of the generous warm hearted boy's nature still lingering in the old grim merchant—old before his time, bnt hard and cold, aud piercing as a steel poignard yet. But it was so. There were moments when his thoughts wandered at their owa will—when he remembered. The face of his mother shone on him sometimes ; and then wonld come a flash of memory—of the old childish days. And his two children. The boy he often pictured to himself as bora to continue the greatness of his family—as enjoying, like a prince, the wealth and luxury he "had labored to acquire. And the fair, gentle girl, whose progress to womanhood he had followed in his thought* ; whose birth softened his harsh heart to absolute tenderness. She it was who wQuld cling to him loviDely in after vears— whose soft lips would press upon the wrinkle; of his worn face ; whose gentle voice would always have the power to win him out of his harder, sterner self. If either of his children had lived. Laurence Carr might have been a different man ; bn: both these blessings which he had prayed for—dreamed of as the solace and delicht of his old see. were onlv granted to him for & very brief space, and theu left his sight forever. Tne blow rent his heart sorely. It was so deep a gr.ef, ever, that at first he forgot the check to bis ambition it involved No son of his would carry his name into future aees—no descendants of bis w ere destined to make ilius trion* the plebeian family he had first raised from obscurity. When this remembrance came it added to his affliction a something that was cold, stony, and almost defiant. Bereaved love mourns, bat blighted ambition erects its head in very importance of pride against the hand that chastise* Laurence's heart grew hardened He buried himself anew in h!s grim pcrsTits ; they seemed the be-ail and eud-a'i of u.s existence now. He said to him self that it was enoagh : he would make it enough. \ et. sp.te of all his inward protestations, he I'XiSe-I enr.ousiy. and sometimes with a feeling less seifi-o man envy, at the happy parents of blooming children H? would have given well rrgh a:! h ; s hard-won wealth for one sa?h boon as was so freely granted to many. Against his wLil he often found himself musing thus, sorrowful!y. yearmngiv. He would him scif With stern resolves ; the oae-haif of hi* nature woshi shrink into itself wh:!e the other looked on it with a sardonic kind of pitv. et again and again came these softening reveries. It *a< in the midst of one of them, in the twri.ght of a dreary I>e?eniber evening that he rouse-i Lv receiving a 'ett-r from William. It was the firs: knee mar.v vears. dnricg wh ; ch the stera eider brother suspended ail in tercourse. and Lad never soagfal to know what had become of the other. He had known somewhat, he* ever, for William bad com? to London, and had commenced th? new life o? aulborsh p, and Laurence had occasi'raal vxet his name ia pacing periodicals. Bat direct OMHtfNi between th? two had altogether ceased. He frowned as he recognized th? baud. F.'t aps. had s letter come at any other t me. he r."t;-ht nave r-. tamed it unopened.— 0-. roer !ye who prsv. prav fssr vonr fePew men who-' ,?.r*s are hardened. Oh. angels ! j.-Au for tne- -trive for 5. em ; for verily ;f there be a p .o? fx hi- weeas where God DORS not dweil and A here DO saving spark of J'vi": ty can linger, it uus? be ia the sterile heart <>: a wo-id-h*rdened ni*::. Laarvuc? fro* wed ; bathe tore the letter open, so sxa as tne xrraat had kft the room, and he read : I had almost sw ars never to ■!>:*•-*- you a?*", sftrr that -as* "tier you s-t I - that you va ie roe r.c\er sxc-3 >le you m- re : you tol*i me that you wid neither listen to me aor as ssst me. however stra-gtrt BV sore night be.— 1 forrot that you were my brother ahea I read these words ; the dev-i rc-c wit'.di etc, ail ~id att- -?i—t .-trsi""t'r ro _ht t A-; wittered ro? to : .ir.k f. oc'y sy -s ti ~- ap !•: roe. and loitei ia sty face, and, G d bles her. while her ey*< rested oa s>e. I o v alj Ml speak, nor tr tfaitk what was hissag a: my heart. I itii yvs this that yoa may judge w hat si costs me to write to y c oow. "I might starve." TTQ ST'! LJ - Csrr. *'-•> then I have learned T iiit starvat -y is !:ke— -1 Lave traveled very --ar It* utat-ost hrirk : it i *ori tx? Beta ag 7 which I " sor. --. it :h! Nt i-ag a.-? . .? inch t-.-wa-i* \ ' ~: thnesh-v-i ; •* •;>:-! aar-oy is tct wlthia fvt-t'tftart::: a : L -hevfa: • ? th: tg*t -f i i !.-*;> -g y . -v.- re . wouM haveccst ase. Bst t tst a rs*n ec* is swallow*';a greater 1 asa. yror help—l entreat yxi. I heseecr y->t to ass-st —?. Li-rsnrc. *e ar? brt-therrs ;i? c'gdrer of or? --thcr ; do z-'A deay tse.— Glv* tc x? as yrr: w £4 to a beggar—i *c re-: s'T*' ?v 315- tt? stres* 1 rare rre* Si- - v ,f to rr ; (< t c r* f, s i *th ? s I ? ' . K-.J*: : :i T!Fin to me. il fy child is dying for icant of feed.— ! I wait. WILLIAM CARR" Lanrence rose from his gilded chair and ; traversed the luxurious chamber whereiu he had sate stately and solitary. He opened the j door—there he paused. Then, as if with new ! resolution, he stepped forth into the hall. In a remote corner, which even the brilliant lamp failed clearly to illumine, he distinguished I a tall, thin figure—a pale, pinched f.ice, with | gray hair falling tangled over the broad brow. Did Lawrence see then the vision of the bright haired child, who slept 0:1 his breast one Christmas night long years back ? Who can tell. Howbeit, he retreated into the room before he was recognized, or even seen by his brother; and it was by a servant that he sent to W.l liam a small but k-avv packet. H? eagerly seized it, with a kind of smothering cry. almost like a sob, ar.d in the next instant had left Lis brother's house. The child was saved ; and then William had time to think on the sacrifice he had made to save it. IBs proud heart was torn at the re membrance that he had been a writing petition er in the hall of his brother's house, and had besn relieved at the baud" of his brother's lack ey. He could not know thnt Laurence, hard man that he was. had tried to face him, but coold not ; that he had watched him as he darted away through the street ; that he had thought of him often, since, with something al most approaching tenderness. He did not know this, so he strove aud toil ed with desperate energy, till he could give back Lis brother's gold, and then returned it with a brief acknowledgment. He added—"lt is best for us both to forget our humiliation, for you degraded both iu me. Let us be stran gers again." * * * * 9 CHAprrr. v. The returned money found Laurence Carr a mined man. Sudden pclitie&l tronbles abroad with the inevitable consequences—two or three mistakes in home commercial policy—Lad wrought this great change, and he was bank rupt. A day— two or three hoars ia that dav —saw the fall, saw the ruin to the climax.— The merchant prince was worse than penniless, for there were large debts which all his vast possessions, all bis accumulated wealth, would fail to satisfy. H|g wife, naturally incensed at his misfortunes, betook herself and her libera! jointure to the paternal roof, aud he remained alone to combat with ruin. Then came oat the finer part of his charac ter. With courage he encountered the host of difficult;?* that pre*sed crashicgly upon him With scrupulous 'some people call it Quixotic, integrity he gave up all he had, and simply an nounced h.s intention of pavin-cr off the residue of hU debts to the uttermost farthicc, if he lived. Then with proud and silent braverv he accepted a clerkship in some brother merchant's office, to- k a humble lodging, aad began ag-s;u the Lfe he Lad commenced ia his eariv youth. T.se worij—even the world of business ar.d money-get"ng—is net so wholly Lai as we read of in nov-is. Laurence received many . offer* of assistance, and one or two good hearts persisted for a long time in following him * Iti. tneir act.re fn?3i*..:p. Bo* he was not great enough to feel gratitude, or even to thorough ly appreciate their goodness. Hl* pride was but the p ride of a strong, bold, , man. He disdained sympathy, and sni.ea'y repO-'sed al; proffered generosity. Th? wheel of fortune had made a complete revolution. While depress:.g one brother, she elevated the other. Wflfian was . :uz into that rura trux. a flourishing author. He was sufficiently far from being we<hv. certainly. ?ut L? vi; at an eqnaitv ssfe d s tar.ee from want. And now. oh, beware ! ve w ho hastily write resentment—he felt a-though he would gladly return to his old r vertv f "if be could only recall the few ItnesfLe _au seut • awhile since to hi* cow rained brother. It was iocg before he d-re' to preach . him with attempts at reeonril'atioo. He felt k-e:.!y with anru"*h. the fresh bitterness h? hai house if added to the former estrangement If d?-preate theu. it was -ureiy hopeless cc* Yet he tried. H? wr :e amain and again, and h - l-.tters were returned with their scilr un broken. H? lay iu wait often, and tsstjej to sprak to him—to rrasp hi; ban i. He cohily tit—:*: isiie. without a look. II- _* aiway* denied admittance at the do rv .. ■ *•_? after tint-.- ..? :l • r- or ... re tue former ro i.onare had hi; shelter. Or? !•:*? ter-ier. "es ; atitnt th.u W.'llaci had been eff- tun y repels?*l with La'f *.!.-. re : . ::ff* : * * *. "" Bat hi- ?i*-* t."c I" s a-i y*arr-g *"ver h_* I reti re, bre-iu.* th* •re--.-* -.-"u : n--* : ?f biilr r cutriZ-" i that *"th-"r'.- Pf>l*. rre-w th*.* he wr, f d'en frem hi* *r 'g* -retat? seote him with an intense, scarp re morse. Or.'v a nan can wfcollv *vropu.;h:z :. in a mhApride. William', own heart, diffe-! rent a* it wa. to'-d htn how great >"i* the barrier be had set between them. At l- nrth Wi'rer; ared hi* w f? ' - v -;u * th ro-tl- "f-n th-r * !ju:. There e'n re at Laaraaafe mafetam had ift m ;ea* K *l* * w -?•- :-te a fair 1* usr!. f s:-"n ' ;**<-•: v -xr T"> *A* n.u* . father, with gobies hair aad Iron *. *• t ~. i* be iii-i ~H- A >;T tcrrt ber V; H ; ro" said "' fa th"" and awtber. a* with :;:< ?v • t 1 watched her oa her *si. She led her fittSe br?t-*r by tie bad a*d three two before Laore>"C. a* he -.it ret: m z • ... ■* * ■' \ ?-i "" ; S" if*-'*" ■ ~ • Wf ir-. W.. e arei Alice." *i.i the re re tl_. . /. I .-.K-.g face. II ■ ku-.w them at or. v tkizi fa * p* s ad r-rcr re—'ct ore tbess ke'rt. Aixe -a" ' swtfaer? narere arei hs* m:•>?-* face ten" Inaa now. joapsßgly. ytanbzlr. Wtl .ret aad wife were r.reht. c? cooki u/ tare her fraa Ei 1" -. WON'T TIS IWI |. "JIT~ SA'I THF tdrt t ~re " "c are 1 "t : "■ n y~- jr'v *'■ us —3M JVI fctttaa Wi'tie ~ Ft|*s;?*"s stti " 5 ** -t. *:? VOL. XVI.—XO. 82. "Go home to your father," 3aid Laorenc*, in a harsh, constrained voice ; I have nothing: to say to you. Go home. I do not wish," I ' !e added in a softer tone, "to be unkind to : you, but—'out—you must leave inc." i Tne trsri stood drooping and tearful j tLa ; httle boy gazed up at him with wondering eyes. He was fuiu to es;ape from them, and so passed from the room. After that William grew hopeless. He had exhausted Lis stock of expedients ; all Lia pa tient endurance seemed in vain. He deapoir of ever softening.the obdurate heart Tune passed on, and Laurence wssnntroubl led by his brother. His persevering industry was working its own way, too, and he was &i -ready clear of the barren poverty he had at first exjH.rienced after his rain. Each succeed* ; ing year foand him advancing to ease again, if not to affiaeoce ; and he was stern, cold and unbending as ever. Another Christmartide drew near—forty five years after that Christmas when the inoou shone oa the little white bed at Cheriton. It was Christinas eve, and Laurence had been de tained Lte in the city, balancing some com plex'd accounts. It was past midnight as he wended his way homeward. It was & frosty night, and moonlight, and the suburban streets were quiet and alumbercua ; Laurence's foot step-, echoing or the'oav: men:, alone breaking the stillness. Somehow without his own v.h, almost iu spite of it, indeed, his thoughts turn ed back to old times, n:td there arose before him a vision of the quaint house iu the coun try where his boyhood had been passed ; tLo largo rambling garden, the big mulberry trees, and the wood near the village, where he and Wiilie had to gather nuts. He and Will! —there he frowned, and sternly refosed to dwell on the retrospection. He walked quick ly on, with his lips sturdily compressed and brows knitted, resolved to shut his mind on all softening influences ; but he could not— the thoughts came again, and would no: bo repulsed. He lifted his eyes to the sky in J the myriad stars were shilling down on him with a kind of smile—the same smile as that of long ago. * * * ' Ha could cot rieep that night. He lay very quiet, but with a world of busy thought fluttering about Li* Leart, striving fvr entrance. The moonlight streamed in through a cra-.k in the blind, and lit up the dreary comfortless room. Laurence closed his eyes suddenly. Tne moonbeams brought a remembrance with them that no would nut welcome. There can e a sotmd of music outside in tho frosty eight. Tne waits. And ti.ey piayed the old. old tune two bovs had listened to v.-ars afro at Cheritoa. Very strangely it soended on Luurence'* ears—strangest of ail it seemed so tV mh.ar. W.th a mv-ttrious, irresaiible power the sweet, solemn -train smote on Lis closed heart, ar, d even befor., he recognized it, he ha* 7i -1 i it:- its . •:*. ant. *.* •-■ndorlng the while left the fc-.-t tears LuLLllug thickly ia Lis eyes. And then came thronging the recollections of the olden cays—vanished the intervening year like an obscuring smoke, leaving clear and viv". i the memory of the happy, innocent time. wi.---u he was a boy. and V.v.ie wus Lis dear brother. Tae pleasuai home, the kind father, uni—geatiesl thought of ai!—the mo ther*!, had been wot.: every night to hung over aer boys in their little white bed, and l.rgeringiy kiss them ere they went to sleep. IT.* pia.uly La rti-vm >erci all—the childish face w;:n its golden curl-—he opened h?l eyes, almost expecting to see it on tne pillow beside him. No ! the moonlight only fell on his own thin wrinkle: hand, worn and shrivelled with the troubles and the earns of well nigh sixty YP 2.75. Frvyerfiii thoughts, long strange to him alas 1 came irstiiKtivelT to Li* mind, and he ne&ri. low and soft, bat clear, and blending w.th the music :tj ;i.e street, the voice of us mother, sound.: g us of . i when she read to ~.-LT l.'ii? 5*0115 from He board solemn, slow. sweet, the Divine wfrds—" And ccmman hmtnt I .tave w.th you, that Tt lore one another."" He saw the dear mother's eyes as they re-t -r-d on ner hot with such an infinite Teaming tec-iemess .n their depths. He could tel. a. w, what mat earnest look meant. He could guess, :-:o. sc n thingof >• hat were her though:*, wnru often in her :. i :1-L carrel* -_e w rid :rs iittle W. l.e el se to ..er tide, and tfcea *Lv:;-:;:e."' I V: ':,-'hi>h w.V a W* bV -.-i. ;nrr : W... - L-_ve :: er =J" • -'J darlings. "" The - dt ased—the a : r was dnl—bat -here Vii music *t... in tn _-irt . f Laurence C—T. C*r_fnus D*y at CLiriv-z was d-awisg t-o 'st. Tm tvtn ?g bells were rtngng—- tn- tcur-:. c. a? iky 1 * murmur . . - . i.-iting ou o_!y two en -- i. Yv' -3 Carr Ls-i cone to hvt at Chant:- L. t: o! i hnu-e. It Tt ft-xtnis-z i.:cr-i ; there wvr- the sumr -vary pane-i *in 1 quaint ta-Kfl, and 7>• .'!•£ -.2 - - -u. . * . . "2- .- *"-1 cat 1 n. with the nre xof C* bejoori. oeh >i * t" e 'v m • " * - nr :v;n now. At he j.;. - . i . the oak-paaaelled rev i,r -.it \V ..in an-i hi- wife, w.th tnir i: . *x e **r er-e .c nt tretu. ng ue "A n" in *- i . ire z .ny n w r j ,u.-t n.- ao*t g .v n tne ro. e, . - r -.x cv.-.os ~t.>. the ■ y priatsr aai dnwiagv seatteml oa lbs. ta ble, aad tae grwehl grewps of wiater few- rs iawii as ax-*u ew: to nave laeen —.S7W A "*•- r.ete-i reside her father . rmi j--y*rt m-r - • r t t el* t- *i: r> * tg tOWatfii V *st fTOT* a: i uaocrhta aad tr*--e.-d i.-s-.k mas; many ryars Hr * :Vs •;-;* were f ieJ nn _nfx:e ; "*• rid wf f .arrttg * it ?;*d n: / • t —'e**- -- * - z nt . T t~ ' ■ ■ r e i-j-ri- .*Qii -.o *-j *-ar" ' tie e'; -u-r-* * ! ?•' *■ *•: >- i- " * * r ; ■ 7.s