OC HOLLAR PER ANNUM, INVARIABLY IN ADVANCE.
TOWANDA : *
Satnriwn fllorniitn, Hlnn 24, 185 H.
Stlcctcb l-lotirir.
bOOK AT HOME.
pj |0 „M you foi l inclined to censure
Faults you may in others view.
,Vk vour own heart, ere you venture,
If that has not failings too.
M not ft rrnlly vows lx> broken,
lather strive a friend to gain ;
gaitv a word in anger spoken
Finds its passage home again.
jin not, then, in idle pleasnse.
Trifle with a brothers fame ;
Cuard it as a valued treasure—
Sacred as your own good name.
Do not form opinions blindly—
Hastiness to trouble tends ;
Tho-e of whom we've thought unkindly
Oft become our warmest friends.
jsttltritb Kith.
MILLICENT AND PHILIP CRANE?"
r,Y THE AFTHOR OK THE UNHOLY WISH.
T'HAITER I.
The day had been wet and dreary, fit em
blem of its month, November ; and as the
evening postman splashed through the mnd.on
his rounds in a certain suburb of a manufactur
ing town in England, the family groups looked
from their warm, cozy sitting-rooms, aud said
tlicy would rather he had his walk than they,
in the wintry weather.
lie left letters at many houses, but not at
all. as lie would have done iu the manufactur
ing districts of the town ; and whilst lie is
knocking at tine door, that of a well kept,
jiretty house standing iu a small garden. Let
us glance into its front parlor, preceding by a
minute, the letter that will soon be there.
The family are at dinner there. Two ladies
only, (hie, young still, and handsome, sits at
the head of the table, the other, much younger
aud equally uell-looking, though in a different
style, >its opposite to her, facing the window.
Surely they cannot be mother and child ! It is
nut only that there appears scarcely sufficient
contrast in the age, but they are so totally un
like in face, form and expression ; the elder all
lire and pride, the younger all grace and sweet
ness. No, they are only step-mother and
daughter.
" Make haste, Nancy," said tin? young lady
to the servant in waiting, " there's the postman
coming here."
Her accent was exceedingly gay and joyful.
She expected, perhaps some pleasant news,
juxir girl ; aud the maid left the room with
alacrity.
"Ferine?" she questioned, as the girl re
turned with a letter.
"Not for you, tuiss," was the servant's an
swer. " For my mistress."
She put the letter on the tablecloth by the
side of Mrs. Crane, and the latter laid down
the -poon with which she was eating some rice
padding, and took it up.
" \\ iiom is it from, mamma ?"
"How can 1 tell,Millicent, before itisopencd?
It Wiks like sonic business letter, or a circular.
A large-sized sheet of blue paper, and no en
vvlope. It eau wait. Will you take some more
[wlding ?"
IMiilip sometimes writes on those business
•:wt.-."cried Miss Crane, eagerly. "Is it his
Land-writing, mamma ?"
" Tliilip ! nothing but Fhilip ! Your tbo'ts
tre forever running upon him. I ask you about
I'tiding, and you reply with Philip ! Were I
Mr Crauford, I should be jealous."
" No more, thank yon," was the rtjoindcr of
die young lady, while a smile and a bright
Mudi rose to Iter candid face. " Mamma, you
Lave never appreciated Philip," she said. But
"r elder lady had opened her letter, and was
dei'|i in its contents,
Nancy," cried out Mrs. Crane, in a sharp,
'"ity tone, as she folded the letter together,in
* 'at seemed a movement of anger, " take all
■ w ay and put the desert on. No cheese for me
j and Miss Millicent docs not care for it.
'• * quick. 1 want the room cleared. Ring for
■ ,rT| ct to help you."
I t Mr-. Crane's impatient moods shebrook
'! dilatory serving, and the domestics
:: Luew it. ,So that her wish, in this in
■ wee, was executed with all despatch, and
" and Iter step-daughter were left alone to
cher.
i have- never appreciated Philip, you say,"
' M -an, as the door closed. " Not as you
"J am aware. I have always told you,
• -oeent, that your exalted opinion of itiin,
r exaggerated love, would some time re
. a check. This letter is from his etnploy
hesitated Millicent, for there was
|, an j defiant a!K ] triumphant iu her
Another's accent and words, and it terrified
her '
... ' ias ' ,pou robbing them and has now
'"iiied. They warn me to give him up to
r! **, if ! ,c should eoine hiding here."
' hie first shock of this terrible assertion,
"flt ( ratie gasped for breath, so that the
••m il denial she sought to utter would
~,'. COmc - * or her confidence in her brother
, >tr " n g, and her heart whispered to her
j"' accusation was not true.
~ " Te is some mistake," she said recovcr
- l ,' r agitation, and speaking quite calmly.
"•"1 the letter," returned Mrs. Crane,
?[ 1, " ovp r the table towards her ; and
™ U( *' ker confidence aud her hoi>e
r o\< " Crane had been ten and her
eight, they were left motherless. Mr.
a .-hort lapse of time, married again
■,, " " did not talk kindly to the
''"lren, o r they to her. She used to say
"ft that they were so wrapt up in
-• -hi y had no love to give her. But
THE BRADFORD REPORTER.
tlio children themselves, knew that their new
mother disliked them, in her inmost heart ;
that had they loved her, with a true and entire
love, she c ould never have returned it—for who
so quick as children, in detecting where their
affections may securely be placed? To an open
rupture with the children she ucver came, as
she might have done had a family of her own
!>een born to her. She encouraged herself in
her antipathy to the children, and towards
Philip it grew into a positive hatred. He was
a generous, high-spirited, but tiresome boy, as
boys, who are worth anything, are apt to be.
He kept the house in commotion, and the
drawing-room in a litter, spinning tops on its
carpet, and breaking its windows with his in
dia-rubber ball. Mrs. Crane was perpetually
slipping upou marbles, and treacherous hooks
and fishing tackle were wont to entangle them
selves in her stockings and feet. She invoked
no end of storms on his head, and the boy
would gather his playthings together and de
camp with them ; but, the next day they, or
others more troublesome would be laying about
again. What provoked Mrs. Crane worse
tliau all was, that she could not put Philip out
of temper. When she attacked him with pas
sionate anger, he replied by a laugh and a mer
ry word, sometimes an impertiueut one, for, if
the truth must be avowed, Philip was not al- j
ways deferent towards his step-mother. She
had the ear of their father, not they ; and she
got the children put to school. Millicent was
eighteen and Philip sixteeu before they return
ed home, and then Mr. Crane was dead, and
the money, which ought to have been theirs,
was left to the widow for her life, and to them
afterwards—and she but twelve or fourteen
years older they were ! Mrs. Crane was charg
ed to pay them £SO a year each, during her
life ; an additional fifty to Philip till he at
tained the age of twenty-one, then to cease ;
and Millicent was to have her home with her
step-mother, until removed from it by mar
riage.
■" It's * wicked will,'' burst forth Philip in
the height of his indignation ; " my father
must have lost his senses before he made such
a will.'"
" We must make the best of it, Philip,"
whispered his gentle sister, soothingly ; " it is
done, and there is no remedy. You shall have
mv £SO as well as vour own. I shall not want
it."
" Don't talk nonsense, Millicent, returned !
the boy. " You'll want your £SO for clothes
and [KKrket-money ; do not flatter yourself that
deceitful old crocodile will furnish tlicm. Aud
if she did, do you think I would take the pal
try pittance from you ?"
Philip said he would go to sea, but Milli
ceut cried and sobbed, and entreated that he
would not ; for she possessed the dread of a
sea life, indigenous in many women ; and Phil
ip, who loved her dearly, yielded to her. Then
he said he would go into the army ; but where
was his commission to conic from ? Mrs.
Crane declined to furnish funds for it At
length an old friend of his father's obtained
for him an admission into one of the London
baukiug bouses. He was then seventeen ; but
he was not to expect a salary for ever so long
a period after admission, and his £IOO a year
was all he had to keep him, in every way.—
" Kuough, too ! as Mrs. Crane said, and as
many others may say. Yes, amply enough,
when a young man lias the mora! strength to
resist expensive temptations, but very little to
encounter those which babble up in the vortex
of London life. From five o'clock in the even
ing, about which hour he left business, was
Philip Crane his own master, without a home,
save his solitary lodgings, and without relatives.
Friends (as they arc so called) he made for
himself, but they were friends that he had bet
ter have been without; for they were mostly
young men of expensive habits, and of means
superior to his. As the years weut on, debt
came ; embarrassments came ; despair came ;
and, in an evil hour, it was on his twenty-sec
ond birthday, Philip Crane took what did not
belong to him, and detection followed. Hence
the letter which the reader has seen address
ed to Mrs. Crane by the firm, in which they
gave free vent to the fullness of their indigna
tion.
Millicent sat with her eves and thoughts
concentrated on the letter ; and a slow con
viction of its truth came to her. "Oh Philip!
Philip!'' she walled forth, "anything but this!
I would have worked to save you from dishon
or—l would have died to save yon from crime.
Mrs. Crane ! mamma ! what he has taken
must lie instantly replaced."
" Not by nie," was the harsh reply. " You
will never find me offering a premium for theft.
He deserves punishment, and I trust he will
meet it. If he attempts to come here, I shall
assuredly give him up to justice."
Millicent did not answer, did not remon
strate, hut sat with her head bowed in her
clasped hands. She knew how resolute was
Mrs. Crane, where her dislike was concerned,
and she knew, now, that she hated Philip; she
had long susjected it. A knock at the house ,
door aroused Millicent.
" Mamuia," she exclaimed, starting up, " that j
is Mr. Craoford. He must be told this. Per- j
haps—when he knows—he will not —I am go-;
ing up stairs," she added, more hurriedly, as
she heard a servant advancing to admit the
visitor. "Do you tell him."
How many phases of thought pass through
the mind in an instant of time ! In the inter
val of Millicent's escaping from the room, and
Mr. Crauford's entrance to it, Mrs. Crane had
run over the matter with herself and taken her
resolution. She would NOT tell Mr. Crau'ord.
He was on the joint (within a few inonths.for
it was to be iti spring) of marriage with Milli
cent ; she desired the latter married with all
heart and wish, and certainly she would not
give information of any kind, which might tend
to stop that marriage. Mrs. Crane was a
vain woman, fond of admiration ; her head had
latterly been running on the possibility of a
second marriage ; she wanted Millicent gone,
that herself ami her movements might be left
without incumbrance.
Mr. Crauford entered, a gentlemanly man of
about thirty. His manners were pleasing, and
his ' ouuteuanec was handsome, but its chief
PUBLISHED EVERY SATURDAY AT TOWANDA, BRADFORD COUNW, PA., BY E. O'MEARA GOODRICH.
" REGARDLESS OF DENUNCIATION FROM ANY QUARTER."
expression was that of resolute pride, lie was
in business with his father, a flourishing manu
facturer of the town, and was much attached
to Millicent. People said how fortunate she had
been, what a desirable man he was, and what
a good match
He sat with Mrs. Crane the whole evening,
and took tea with her. Millicent never came
down. Mrs. Crane told him Millicent was not
well, and she belL-ved, had retired to rest.—
W hen he left the house, Milliceut came shiver
ing into the parlor, and crept close to the fire, for
she was very cold.
" Mamma, how is it ? What does he say ?"
" Millicent," said the elder lady, turning
away her face, which was blushing" hotly fur
her untruth, to tell which, was not one of
Mrs. Crane's frequent faults, " it will make no
difference in his attentions toward you. He
must feel the degradation Philip has brought,
but he will not visit it on you—upon one con
dition."
" \\ hat condition ?" asked Millicent, raising
her eyes to her step-mother.
" That you never speak of your brother to
him ; that you never, directly or indirectly al
lude to him in his presence; and should Mr.
Crauford, in a moment of forget fulness, men
tion Philip's name before you, that you will not
notice it, but turn the conversation to another
subject."
" Aud is this restriction to continue after
our marriage ?" inquired Millicent.
" I know nothing about that. When peo
ple arc married they soon find out what mat
ters they may, or may not, enter upou with
each other. It is enough, Millicent that you
observe it for the present."
"It is no difficult restriction," mused Milli
cent. " For what could I have to say note
about Philip that I should wish to talk of
to him ?" She laid her head against the side
marble of the mantel-piece as she sj>oke, and
a sort of half-sigh, half moan escaped her. —
Mrs. Crane looked at her troubled ceuntenanee,
at her eyes closed in pain, at the silent tears
trickling down. " Aud for an ungrateful rake!"
she contemptuously uttered.
CHAPTER 11.
The weeks went on, several, and, with them,
the preparation for Millicent Crane's marriage
with Mr. Crauford. For once—rare occur
rence !—it was a union of love, and Millicent's
happiness would have been unclouded but for
the agitating suspense she was iu about her
brother. His hiding place had not been trac
ed, but it was the opinion of the banking-firm,
that he had escaped to America. And there
they quietly suffered him to remaiu, for his de
falcation had not been great—not sufficient
for them to go to the expense and trouble of
tracking him there. Millicent's days were anx
ious and her nights weary ; she loved this bro
ther with a lively, enduring love ; like as a
mother clings to her child ; so did Millicent
cling to him. She pictured him waudcring the
earth, homeless, friendless, destitute ; over
whelmed with remorse, for she knew that an
honorable nature, like Philip's, could not com
mit a crime and then forget it ; or she pictur
ed him revelling with dissolute companions,
sinking deeper into sin, day by day. Before
Mr. Crauford alone she strove to appear cheer
ful and happy, not wishing him, after his re
striction, to think she dwelt too much on this
erring brother.
One day, in the beginning of February, she
was walking unaccompanied into the town,
when a man, dressed loosely in the garb of a
sailor, wearing a large, shabby pilot-jacket, and
with huge I Hack whiskers, stepped up to her
aud put a note into her hand without speak
ing, touched his hat and disappeared down a
side-street. Millicent, much surprised, started
after the man and opened it
" MY DEAR SISTER.—Come to me this even
ing at dusk, if you can do so without suspicion
at home. I have been days on the watch,and
have not been able to get speech of you. I
am now writing this, hoping to give it to you.
if not to-day, some other. Be very cautious ;
the police are no doubt on the look-out for me
here, as they have been in London. lam at
24, Port street: the house is mean and low,
and you must come np to the top story,and en
ter the door on your right hand. Will you dare
this for my sake ? " P. C."
Millicent had unconsciously stood still while
she read the note, and her face was turning as
white as death. So intent was she as not to
perceive Mr. Cranford, who happened, by ill
luck to be passiug through the street—an un
usual part of the town for him to be in, at that
hour of the day. He crossed over the road,
and touched heron the shoulder, and Millicent,
whose head was full of officers of justice look
ing after Philip, positively screamed in alarm,
and crumbled the note up in her hand ; and
thrust it into her bosom.
" What is the matter ?" cried Mr. Crauford,
looking at her in astonishment.
" I thought—l—is it ouly you ?" stammer
ed Millicent.
" Only me ! Whom did yon expect it was ?
What has happened, Millicent, to drive away
your color, like this ? What is that letter you
have just hidden, with as much terror as if it
were a forged banknote ?"
" The letter's—nothing," she gasped, her
teeth chattering with agitation and fright.
"It must be something," persisted Mr. Crau
ford. " I saw a sailor come up and give it to
you. Very strange !"
" Indeed it is nothing," repented Millicent—
" nothing that I can tell you."
" Do you want to make me jealous, Millicent?"
he asked, in a tone that she might take for ei
ther jest or earnest.
" I will tell you all about it sometime," she
said, endeavoring to assume a careless, playful
tone. " I promise it, Richard."
He left her as she spoke, for he was in pur
suit of hasty business ; but as he walked on,
he pondered over what he had seen, and Milli
cent's agitation ; and repeated to himself that
it was ' very strange.'
Evening came, and Millicent, arrayed in the
plainest garb she could muster, a cloth cloak
and dark winter liouuct, and making an ex
cuse to Mrs. Crane that she was going to spend
an honr with some friend who lived near
started forth to meet her brother. She knew,
perfectly well the locality of the street he had
mentioned, Port street, but never remembered
to have been in it; it was tenanted by the
very poor, and partly let out iu low lodgiug
houses.
As she turned rapidly into it, she saw, bv
the light of the dim evening, that jit was an
unwholesome, dirty street, garbage and offal ly
ing about, in company of half-naked children";
squalid men were smoking pijies. and women
with uncombed hair, tattered clothing, aud loud
and angry tongues, stood by them. Millicent
drew her black veil tighter over her face as
she peered for No. 24.
To turn into the house and up the two flights
of stairs, was the work of a moment. Peeping
out of the door indicated, and holding a light
iu his hand, was the same man who had given
her the note. He retreated into the room be
fore Milliceut, and held the door open for her.
She stood iu hesitation.
" Millicent, don't you know mc V he whisp
ered, pulling her in and bolting the door lie
hind her. And whilst she was thing it could
not be Philip, she saw that it was. For one sin
gle instant he took off the black curls, like a
sailor's, and the false black whiskers ; and his
own auburn hair, his fair face, with its open
gay expression aud its fresh color, appeared to
view.
" Oh Philip ! dear Philip !" she exclaimed,
bursting into tears, " that it should come to
this I"
He sat down beside her and told her all.—
How the temptations of his London life had
overwhelmed him,its embarrassment had drown
ed his reason and his honor, and, in a fatal mo
ment of despair, he had taken a bank-note
which he could not replace. Not for an hour
since had he known peace, and had it not been
for the disgrace to her of having her only bro
ther at the felon's bar, he should have twenty
times over given himself up to justice. He had
been in hiding ever since in poverty, aud was
now in scanty clothing, for his clothes, what
few he had brought with him when he took
flight, had gone article after article to procure
food. He had made up his mind to leave the
country for Australia, if Millicent could help
him with the passage-money, the lowest amount
that the lowest passenger could be conveyed
for, and clothe hiui with a few necessaries for
the voyage.
" I would not ask it, Millicent," he said,
" for I do not deserve help from you ; I would
not, on my word of honor, but that that coun
try holds out a hope of my redeeming what I
have done ; and for your sake, if not for my
own, I would endeavor to redeem the past and
atone for it, for I well know the 6evcre trial
this has been to you. Large fortunes are made
there by the cultivation of land—don't look
incredulous, aud stop me, Milliceut, they are.
If I can gain money, ray first step shall "be to
refund what I took, and perhaps in time, Mil
licent—you may acknowledge a brother again.
Should this luck not be mine, I can at least
work honestly for the bread I eat, work and
rough it—and I have had enough of crime.—
Here work is deuied me, for I may not show
myself in the face of day."
Millicent, good, forgiving and full of love,
promised with alacrity, all he wished. She had
not the money at command, but determined to
procure it. After her own wants were supplied
out of her yearly £SO, she had always forward
ed the remainder to Philip, and latterly her
spare cash had been spent iu making prepara
tions for her wedding.
" I will come here to-morrow evening, Phil
ip," she said, " and bring what I can with me,
that yon may be getting some clothes togeth
er. I will get it all for you in a few days. Is—
is there nowhere else that we could meet in
stead of here ?"
"Of course there's not," he answered. "It
will not do for us to be meeting in the street,
lest the officers should catch the scent. No
thing will harm you here, my darling sister.—
If the house is poor, it is honest, aud the way
to it, though filthy with poverty, is not de
praved."
" No, no, there's nothing to harm mc," she
pleasantly acquiesced. " I will be here again to
morrow night, Philip."
The next evening circumstances apjioared to
favor Millicent. She was invited without Mrs.
Crane, to take tea at a friend's house, and no
thing would be easier, she thought, than to go
out ostensibly to pay the visit, and run first to
Philip. So she attired herself in the same dark
cloak and bonnet, and when ready, went in to
say adieu to Mrs. Crane.
" You are going very early !" exclaimed the
latter. " And what a dowdy you have made
of yourself, Millicent ! I thought that old
coal-scuttle of a bonuct was discarded last win
ter."
" It is raining fast, mamma."
" Is it ? I hope you have got your dress up.
Where's Nancy ?"
They went out together, Miss Crane and
Nancy. Soon Millicent dismissed the latter,
saying she wished to proceed alone, but that
Nancy need not mention this to her mistress.
The girl promised ; she was pleased to have
an hour for herself, and went gossiping off to
some of her acquaintance, and she only thought
her young lady was going to steal a walk with
Mr. Crauford.
Millicent walked swiftlty, heedless of the dirt
and the rain. It was a windy night, and as
she was turning the corner of the ally, which
led from the broad, lighted street to Port-st.,
her umbrella, a light one, turned inside out. So
Millicent had to make a stand there, and bat
tle with it.
On the other side of the wide street, picking
his way, that he might not soil, more than ne
cessary, his eveuing boots, was advancing a
gentleman, likewise under of an umbrella. He
glanced at the fignre opposite, struggling and
lighting with hers, and a smile at her efforts
came to his eyes aud his lips ; but it was
speedily superseded by astonishment, for as
the figure threw its face upwards, in the cou
test with this obstinate umbrella, the rays of a
street gas-light fell on it, and disclosed the fea
tures of his own betrothed wife. It was Ri
chard Crawford
Millicent and the umbrella disappeared down
the alley, and Mr. Crauford, after a short men
tal debate, strode after her. He traced her
into Port strict, and saw her enter the house
No. 24. Mr. Crauford, his senses turned up
side down with wonder and perplexity, took
his standing within the entrance door'of one
opposite and watched.
It was half an hour before she came out,
and she went quickly up the street iu the rain,
without putting up her umbrella, fearful per
haps of another collision with the wind. Mr.
Crauford came from his hiding-place, and kept
her in view till she was knocking, heated and
out of breath, at the house of their frieuds,
where he had likewise an invitation. He went
up, as she stood there waiting for admission,
but said nothing of what he had seen, not a
word : he had resolved to watch her future
movements and pursue the matter up. But
he was pointedly cool to Millicent, and did not
sec her home in the evening. He was a proud,
vain man, and to have any doubt or suspicion
cast upou his future wife, was to his spirit as
wormwood. And yet to donbt Millicent
Crane !—open, honorable, right-minded Milli
cent Crane ! Mr. Crauford was sorely per
plexed, and worried himself on his sleepless
bed that night.
Several days elapsed before Millicent got to
gether the necessary money for her brother,
borrowing iu secret, a few pounds from one
aud a few pounds from another ; for Mrs.
Crane she did not dare to ask or coufidc in,
aud nearly every evening she contrived to see
him. But never did she enter that low street
and its No. 24, but she was watched by Rich
ard Crauford. He made inquiries. A hand
some young sailor, just come off a voyage, was
lodging in the honse, and the young woman
came to see him—Richard Crauford could not
fathom it, but his heart waxed w roth against
Millicent.
One evening, when the time of Philip's de
parture was drawing near, as Milliceut was
returning through Port Street, from one of
those stolen visits, she heard a haughty stride
behind her, and the voice of one she knew well.
" Millicent! Miss Crane."
She was obliged to turn, shaking all over
with apprchensiou and debating how she could
account for her appearance in such a locality.
"What have you been doing here?" de
manded Mr. Crauford. "Tell inc."
" I—Richard—it was an errand. 11 is done
now, and 1 am going home."
" You can have no ligitiuiatc errand in this
part of the town," lie retorted, " and your vi
sits here of late, have been pretty frequent.—
Will you impart to me the cause of your ex
traordinary conduct, Millicent?"
" Richard," she cried, with tears of agita
tion, " you have known me for years ; you
have chosen me for your wife ; you cannot
suspect of me anything wrong !"
"My wife ; yes, I did choose vou. But do
you think a wife, actual or promised, should
hold a disgraceful secret and keep it from her
husband ?"
" I trust, Richard, when I am your wife—
that we shall have no concealments from each
other," she panted forth. " I will not from
you."
" Will yon tell me what brings you to this
place of an evening, and who it is you come to
visit ?"
" Later I will tell you—if you allow me,"
she answered. " I may not now."
" What d> you call later? When wc are
married ?"
" Yes."
" And not before ?"
" You would not hear me, Richard," she
returned, her mind reverting to his interdic
tion, " and perhaps not forgive inc."
" You must thiuk my confidence in you will
stretch to any limit," he haughtily rejoined,
" A man does not usually marry with a doubt
on his mind. I must know what this mystery
is, and without subterfuge."
" I may not tell you now," she answered iu
a deprecating tone ; " I do not know what
the cousequeuces would be. I will ask per
mission."
"Of your sailor friend at No. 24 ?" he re
turned, his lip curling with ineffable scorn.—
And Milliceut could not suppress a cry of ter
ror.
" O, Richard, don't ask me ! don't try to
fathom this ! On my word of honor, as your
future wife, I am doing nothing wrong ; noth
ing disgraceful ; nothing of which I need be
ashamed."
"If you wish nic to believe this, you must
tell me what it is, aud let me judge what you
call " disgraceful."
"Indeed, I cannot to-night. But—perhaps
to-morrow night—l will if I can."
" Very well," ho replied. " I will afford
yen the opportunity to-morrow night. And
he continued to walk by Millicent's side till
she reached her home. But he did not offer
her his arm, and observed a stern silence.
" You will conic in ?" she said to him, when
the door was opened.
" No. Good night to you," he answered,
and turned and strode away. It seemed as if
he had but constrained himself to walk with
her for her protection.
The next time Millicent saw her brother
she spoke of Mr. Crauford, and asked if she
might impart the secret to him.
" You could not betray it to a worse man,
lover of yours though he is," was Philip's re
joinder. " lie is one of your cold, upright
men, Millecent—who would deem it deroga
tory to his high mercantile character not to
deliver me up to justice if lie knew I was here.
When I am gone, I and the good ship which
will bear me out of danger, then tell him."
" That may not be for a week or fortnight,"
she observed.
" Before a fortuight, I hope. I shall go by
the first that sails from Liverpool, and yon
shall have notice of my departure. But, Mil
licent, if yon think the delay will cause ser
ious unpicasantucss between yon and Richard
Crauford, tell him at once. I will risk it.—-
And better that a worthless vagaltond, as I
have proved myself should be sacrificed, than
that your peace should be endangered."
Millicent's heart sank within her ; but she
VOL. XVI.—NO. 50.
felt that her duty to her uufortuuatc brother
must le paramount over all things. She re
flected, too, that Richard Crauford loved her,
and hoj)cd she should find little difficulty in
appeasing him when the time for declaring all
should come. Besides* she believed that he
could not hint at such iu his high and haugh
ty sense of honor.
Ife sought her that evening. He had watch
ed her to the old haunt, and he watched her
out again, and then strode after her and over
took her in the street as he had done the pre
ceding one.
" I said I wonld afford you an opportunity
of speaking to rac to-night," he begun, without
any previous salutation, and in a tone almost
of repulsion. "I am here to do it."
" And I cannot yet, Richard. You must
accord me a little while longer ; a few days."
"Not a day, not another hour," he burst
forth. "If we part to night without full con
fidence between us, wc part for the last time."
" Richard," she uttered, clasping her hands
together and lying them on his aria in her agi
tation, "do not be so harsh with me, do not
be so cruel! I assure you, as I would assert
it in the hearing of heaven, that ray going as
I have done to that house in Fort street, is no
just cause for your breaking with me. You
taught me to love you. Richard ; if you de
sert mc, you remove all I now have to live
for."
" Fine words, flowery sentiments," he re
torted, " but tliey possess more sophistry than
reason. Ido not desert you, nor do I wish
to do so ; I ask but for your confidence, Mil
licent. If you will not give it me, you drive
me from you."
" I will give it you, Richard—after a lit
tle while. I would give much to be able to
give it you now."
" What prevents you ?"
" Have confidence in me," she implored,
evading his question ; " accord me yet a few
days' delay. I)o not see me before then, if
yon would so wish it. But cherish 110 harsh
ness against me, for I do not deserve it."
" I am not a fool, Millicent," lie Iritterly
said. " You ask to be freed from my compr
uy that you may pursue these iniquitous visits ;
it is impossible that they can be for any good.
And it is equally impossible that you can be
called upon to indulge in any line of conduct
which may not be told to your,future husband.
I think a species of madness must have overta
ken you."
" Sorrow has overtaken me," she murmur
ed, " nothing else. Can you not understand
Richard ? There is a secret iu this matter
which is not mine."
" What if I promise to keep ? What is en
trusted to you may lie entrusted to me."
" May I trust him V* she asked herself.—
With perfect safety to Philip ?"
"Ifit—iuvolved criminality!" she hesitat
ed, looking at liirn, and speaking timidly.—
" Criminality in another," she hastily added,
" not in me. Would you promise to keep it
then ?"
" I am not in the habit of being made the
confident of crime," he imperiously rejoined.
" I did not know that you were."
And Millicent felt that her momentary hope
of telling him then must not be indulged.—
She stood, looking the image of trouble and
despair, her cheeks pale, and her eyes cast
down. Mr. Crauford may be forgiven for
mistaking the signs for those of deceit aud
guilt.
" Then you refuse to tell mc, Milliecut
Crane ?" he resumed.
" For the present ; for a few days. I have
no other resource. Indeed 1 will tell vou la
ter."
" Xo," he said, " I shall never give you an
other opportunity. Wc part now forever.'
'• Oh, ilichard you cannot mean it ?" she ut
tered, her voice shaking with emotion. " Sure
ly you will not cast mo off, and we so near
the time of being mau and wife !"
" I will send you your letters back to-mor
row," be coldly rejoined, " to-night it is too
late ; and I desire that you will return ine
mine. Adieu. Your way now lies one road
and mine another."
• " But it must not be," she sobbed clasping
h's arm in her anguish. " I am to be your
wife ; yon have said it."
" Yes," he answered, remaining quite still,
and not seeking to push her hand away. "If
you will explaiu your conduct, and I find you
have done nothing unworthy the future wife
of an houorable mau. Can you do this, Milli
cent !"
She pressed ljoth her hands upon her throb
bing temples, and again debated the question
with herself. Her brother's safety ; and her
own happiness and the good opinion of Rich
ard Crauford ; should she risk the former for
the latter ? Mr. Crauford watched her counte
nance and its signs of despair.
Slowly she removed her hands, and raised
her eyes to his, and essayed twice to speak be
fore she could get out the words.
" Were appearances against you, Ilichard,"
she said, " and you bid me wait and trust you,
I would wait for any length of time, and trust
you—l would wait for any length of time and
trust you still ; for years, if you so wished it.
I only ask for a few davs."
" Then you decline to explain," he answered.
" That is your final answer ?"
"Itis so ; against uiv will. It is obliged
to be."
" Farewell to you," he sternly rcjoiucd.—
Henceforth we are strangers."
He strode away rapidly in the direction of
his home he had prepared for Millicent, and
she .sought hers with a bursting heart. Two
days after that, Philip quitted the town for
Liverpool, and in about ten more, Millicent re
ceived news of his departure for Melbourne.
She then sent the following note to Mr. Crau
ford :
" The time has now come when I am releas
ed from my obligation of secrecy. Give tne
an opportunity of clearing myself in your mind,
whatever you may then decide as to our future
I am ill and unhappy ; do not continue to
cherish resentment against me.
" MIT.T.UXXT CHAM;"