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 h<Tuse
where once he was a clerk ; while William still!
remained poor and obscure, with no prospect of
his circumstances improving. And when the ■
breach between two brothers or friends once ;
exists, difference of worldly position fatally, j
icily increases it.
Laurence married brilliantly, choosing his !
wife from a noble, but impoverished family, j
who were glad enough to ally their aristocrat
ic poverty with his wealth, merchant and pie
bian though he was. It was while oa his
wedding tour, with his haadsome but some
what yasu bride, that he received a letter
from his brother, forwarded to him from Lon
don.
' From William—my brother." he remark
ed. explanatorily. a he opened it ; " in an
swer. I presume, to the announcement of mv
marriage."
Tue frigidly high-bred lady responded 1 y a
slight bend of her long neck, and busied her
self with her chocolate and muffins, while her
husiHind perased the letter. When be had
finished, he refolded it carefully, and placed it
in his i*xket, then turned ;n silence to bis
breakfast. His wife never noticed any pecu
liarity in Lis manner : she was one of those by
whom it is seliom considered good ton to be
observant of other pe-Np-Ic's emotions, even a
husband's La dy Henrietta Carr was serupo
,ous in her attention to ;uch points of etiquette.
Oue more loving than she was might possibly
have divined how much was concealed under
the pale face, the beat brow ar. i the remarka
bly quie: v ce of Laurence Carr that morning
Ou? more tender might even have drawn the
secret disturbance forth, aad pleaded the cause
of the absent offender, instead of leaving the
wrath to feraieu: hiddecly in the stera man's
breast.
" I will never forgive him—never, never !
I w.Il never look on his face again. I will Le
ver give him help—we are strangers from tats
hour. I>et 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.-
<o am married—not to a peer's dinghter ; no.
Laureuce. with you alone will rest a 1 the bril
haacses ard of sif? : 1 only ask for
a Eitle quiet—l am easly coetroL My w.fe
vou may remtiaber ; *e a., knew Ltr waen we
were kv? at sch-.vl—Mary Ei. ?t. :.o,tl. :ag
her father *as a vi'iage tradesman, had th
ed>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 *<rc sou* of Inar>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