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jjsdadnistrator's and Executor's isietkei. ISt
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JOS PILINTING of every kind, In plain and ,
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• Han Blanks, Cards, Pampillets, , ilillheadl,
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line "an be executed In the most artlstie manner
and It the lowest rates. TERMS INVABIABLY.
MADILL & KINNEY, I
Otnee—Rooms formerly odeupled by Y. 3f. C A
14. J. ItAVILL.
AIRS. E. J. PERRIGO,
TEACDEIT OF rilk.,co AND ORGAN.
LPSYMS giver: •In Thorough Bass• and Harmony.
Cultivation of the volce a specialty. Located at A.
tinelt•a ;Muhl St. Reference: Holmes & Passage.
• Towanda, Pa., Starch 4,..1880.
JOHN W. CODDING,
ATTORNET-ATLLAW, TOWANDA; PA.
t - tilice over lilrby's I)rtio Store
r r aci.3.lAS E; MYER
l'.6ce with Patrick 1110 Foyle, 5ep.25,19
p EcK & OVERTON
D'A . 0 VZII TON. I *ZIT?. M. H%CK
RODNEY A. MFIRCUR%
Arro i rKy.ir.l.Aw, 4-1 -
.F. TOWANDA, PA.,
Solloltor of Patentg. Particular ait tent i co n paid
to hosiness in the Orphan& Collittliakt to the settle:.
wen: of estateg. ~ .1, •
(Mice to Nloutanyes Block , May 1,'79. '
OVERTON & SANDERSON,
TOW AI PA.
, E. OVEUTON. 3111 S. F. 5A1712E128014
W. 11. J - TWEIP,
ATTORNEY AND COCNSELLOIt•AT•LAW,
,Judge Jessup having resumed-the praeticeof the
law in Northern Pennsylvania. will attend to any
legal business intrusted to Mtn in Bradford county.
Persons wishing to tionsidt him. can_ call on It,
Streeter, Esq., Towanda. Pa., when an appointment
can be made.
ATTORNEY ANO COUNSELLOR-AT-LAW,
He L. TOWNER, M. D.,
lIV~iI£OPATIIIC PHYSICIAN A N SHAG EON
Cg IteMdrnce and Otltee Just worth ot, (tr.4Cor
Ida's, on :Main Street, A Hann:, Pa. j
'iONVAN - I)A., PA. tn.:14145
E. F. GOFF,
.Agcncg for the sale and purchase of all Itlndeof
E‘:,eurltles and for making loans fon Real! Estate.
All business will receive careful and "prompt
attention. [June 4. 1879.
Ai r H. TIIOMPSON, ATTOINEY
.• 4T LAW, WY/MUSING, PA. 'Will attend
to all business entrusted to his care in Bradroid,
Eullisan and Wyoming .Counties. Office with Esq.
Port. r. p1uv1944.
TTIBAM E; BULL,
ENG I NEEILING,4IIVEVINI: AND DRAFTING:
Whet , with G. F. Mason, over Patch S Traey
Main edreet., Towanda. Pa. A. 15.80.
ANGLE, D. D. S.
1 . )-19f1tATiVE AND SIECIIANICAL DENTIST
elafee ou State Street, second floor of Dr. Pratt's
pee. f apt 379.
TOW A N DA; PA.
N. C. F.Lsnntz
Di/0 Atry Svvi. Co
Ti,)lcN NV; 3iiX , -
errDAT.i-AT-T.Aw AND I% S. COMITIESIONSR,.
Ofi...,:::72;ierth Side Public Square
SASI W. BUCK,
ATTOS3,72 r-A ZLA
: ~ -? ,, ,7.
Olike•—•nuth ,!de Poplar street, Aippc,Mte , Ward
lion,. 1,..;0r. 13, 18:9.
D. 7 4:VIES & CARNOCIIAN,
SOUTH SIDE-OF WAED HOU S E
Oftice—Melsns• \la 4. L. Rent's
store, Vowatrtla. :.314 be consulted In German.
[ Aprlll2, '76.)
vr - rousry.AT.T.A• , , _ •
Otrit , e—wand door south et the First National
Bank Alain St., up stairs.
41lre . crrerDayton's store.
.14411 12, 1676.
S. M. WOODBURN., Physi-
L r and' Surgeon. Office at residence, on
'inttitreet, East of Main: •.
Toe,tn,tai Nay I, 1872 le
Teellk inserted on Gold. Silver, Rubber, and Al.
'uldato base. Teeth eitructed without ~.sin.
r, D..PAYNE, 31. D..
14. PUY faCIAN AND Stlitt;ZoN.
°awe over Moutanyes' Store. °Rice hours from 10
to 12 A. M., anti (mm l '2 to 4 P. X.
Special attention given to
li ISI'.ASES ' ~ rIFF ASES
n F and . or '
Till.: EYE THE. EAR
/1 W. ItA" A , •
Zee daylast Saturday of each mouth, over Turner
' 31.(iindon'fi Drug' Store, Towanda, ra. .
Towanda, Juue 20, 187 a.
F IRST NATI
Tow Artie.. re.
CAPITAL PAID IN
Otte 'unusual facllitlea for tbe train*.
aeliun of a general banking basilical.
N. N. BETTS, Cm&let.
Jos. rowELL, Prefildent.-J
Apts. H. FEET,
Tsscirsa .01 rotalro
(Regdeace Third street, Ist ward.)
(I` J ET YOUR
poi,c, at thettEPORTER OFTICE. aPP 011 0..... th e
C . ,Art HOW, TO*llllll6, Coked won iiiptFalt7
COODRICH HITCHCOCK, Publishers.
" With a Silver Lining."
CHAPTER. I. '
girl came singing through a field
of poppies as the sunset gilded the
Everywhere around her glowed 'the
deep intense scarlet of qic brilliant
blossoms. Above herVhead were
depths of purple shadow and amber
light, and over all brooded the dreary
stillness and tender hush that so
often fills tpe day's last hour.
The girl made a fair living picture
amid the glow and fervor of That
sunset scene as she moved thrOugh
it all with a certain' deer-like grace
peculiarly her. own, while her lips
sang for very gladness,' as the bird
carols its matin praises in the, dawn
of a spring . day. The song rang, out
sweet and clear Over the quiet fields;
it reached 'the cars of a group of
farm' laborers returning home from
their work, and made them pause and
listen, saying, smiling, to One another
as they stood : " 'Tis Miss Vera, sure
enough. God bless her.'" •
It came in its fresh, young melody
to , a man who stood on the white
level rolid beyOnd the corn-fields--a
old,and bent and withered with
age, with, a bard; cold face and dreary
eyes, whb leaned on hi'S stick and
shaded his eyes from the ,sun-rays,
and watched the girl coming swiftly
and joyously toward him as he ,sel
dim had watched any hunian thing.
As she saw him the music left her
tqfigne. Her step grew slower,, and
ay his keen eyes swept over her face,
stie half paused, apparently doubting
whether to speak or not. ' She knew
hi i fn well by sight, but hitherto he
had always avoided her.
"Singing again!" he said, in. a
voice as harsh and cold as his faee.
"Are you so glad ? • One never!Sces
you without a smile oh your.lips--'—a
'song on your tongue."
'She flushed slightly.
" Yes, -I An glad," ,she answered
. " And why,—Can . yon,tell me that?
have.yOu so ! tnah to lake you?"
" I liakerchealth, yofith,love. Are
they nOilife's fairest-gifts?" .
‘• So fools say." , • '
4 And wiserner, too, I-fancy," the
girl said gently. "But whether or
no; if they make one' glad should they
not be valued ? the old'seem so often
to think that the light-heartedness of
youth is a:J . eproach to thenisayes. I
woluler willy ?"
' , Do you mean that I think so ?"
he asked with a contemptuous smile.
" lenvy none their youth—not even
their gladness. I know how swiftly
the one flies, the other fades. There
is nothing good in life; the illusions
of yoi,i . tli ,are the' veriest vanity.
Sortie - iday you will Say with' me :
' Th !re is nothing left -,1 . i let meciirse
hea'vert - 'and die l'." !
' he girl's face grew i 'very pale'.; i .
' !. Oh never that!" she said sOtrow
hill -. " Never words! so- despairing
or so—wrong !" . I
- The last word was spoken gently
'and humbly. It was so daring of
her, she felt, to upbraid one so far
beyond her in years, in knowledge,.
in experience. ~ .
" Wrong !".= he said bitterly, as lie
stood and looked across the flaming
scarlet of the poppies to where the
last sun's rays lingered in the West:
" What do you know of
. wrong or
right—ol life—of tithe future; 'of 'app-:;
one of the thingaAnt lie„' hidden int
he heart of unfoyded .years, :'as the
color and fragrance of. the flower - lilt ,
"the closed bud. Listen !" and he
'laid his withered' hand on her' 'arm
and turned her bright „young face to
ward him. -" Listen, child I 41 was
young once,.aod glad and trustful 'as
you are. IV*, top, there .eemed
never a cloud - on the
,sky ; never a
pain in the heart; never an evil or a
rsin that could turn' ife to hell, and
• love to- hate, and joy to sorrow. But
Even as that cloud above us creeps
over the gun's radiance .and Covers
the sunset's gold, so 2 sittely did a
cloud of suffering darUn my fate,
destroy rifyillusions.' So surely will
a like cloud throW its 'gloom over
you, and every r creature like who
goes fOrth on life's journey with
blind eyes and credulous heart, to
learn as I have learned, that of all
things life holds the only thing that
lives, and enjoys; and 'prospers is—
. Evil !" -
She looked at him sorrowfully,
Ile was so old and sad and desolate.
His words hurt her; their chill darkth
ened her simple joyousness, even as
the cloud to which he pointed dark
ened the glowing color of the sky.
For a moment she was silent.
"To sai , such words, and believe
them," she said gently, " one must
have known great sorrow. Ido not
understand them quite. God is too
good to let mankind suffer more than
they can bear, more :than lle deems
just. But for you am sorry. I s t
s must be so terrible td know life has
no joy left; to turn from the sunshine
and dwell forever in the shadows."
A smile of terrible irony curved
'-One would look for no worse hell
hereafter. Do. I frighten yoil? -You
look quite scared and white. I can-,
not help it. I don't know , .' why - I.
have broken my word and spoken
even gently to u 'human being. s I
Vowed once never to. do it. I have
seen you so often and- almoi i t hated
foryou your fair fade and your light
step, but yotir voice, that is always
happy ; and as you came; the
fields just now some .impulse 'prompted
me to 'stay you. I$ your gladness
less V -
She' Shemiled wistftilly, and per eyes
rested on his face with , infinite pity.
" Not roes;',' she said gently. "Only
if l,uould but give you hack yonrs._.
o'er so little!"_
"• - no man's power,' still
leis in any woman's. The clouds are,
with me forever now.,. Go you forth
with the sun ; our Paths' lie wide
apart; for you life beginsr—the joys
it may hold aremitable ; for me
it ends—the joys 'Chas held are van
ity and vexation of spirit. Fatewell."
He turned abruptly away—a lean,
bent, aged figure, leaning heavily on
hisstick, with the evening light
tonchinf his scanty.silvered hair and
broWn ;trembling form. The girl,
moved by some suddea impulse, 1(4
Aril 1, 187.9
r • ,
Do not:Blinn me again," she said
imploringly. hive seen' you
often, and I live so near ; and they so
say you are ahrapi :aerie.' It must
be so sad." ' ; '
"Itis my own wi4," he said al-
Most fiercely. "As'for being sad
one need not come to eighty years s to
find life that." •
Half proudly,-half regretfully, she
turned away. As she did so, her
eyes rested on the pale soft tints of
the evening sky, from whence the
glow and fervor of sunset had faded.
" Look !" she cried eagerly, as her
outstretched hand pointed. upward.
"'Look ! 3 the cloud is there, but it
has a silver lining.
The old, man went on his way.
The girl moved Silently and sadly
along the quiet fields, and through a
narrow, shady road, and, across a
wooden bridge which brOught her to
her home. ,
A very simple little place it was;
a mere cottage, rented, of a miller
near by, and just large enough for
her father and herself. He • was - an
old and studious recluse, 4nd she
was his only child. He bad lived
here in this (Diet world-forgotten
vilage for a score of years, with only
his • books for companions since his
wife died ' , and lef, his married life
like a d r eam-,mere fir to hitn ever
afterwart. —so i•phor it was anct,iweet.
She tiny ornepvas very dear to him,
and to hi's child also. She loved to
think of the fair young mother who
had gladdened it for those two brief
years—to trace her footsteps in the
garden paths, her presence in the
_dainty rooms, her taste in the ar
rangement of the interior, and her
skill in the miniature garden which
she had planned and cultured, and
where pure white lily•cups and (Moire
de Dijon roses, and the scarlet glow
_of geraniums, and the flush of flower
ing creepers, coldred and embowered
the-tiny dwelling. To the girl the
whole place was always beautiful in
a Simple, quiet, dreamy way, which
had grown with her growth, and had
altered itself to her fancies; w hether
it lay like a fairy bride-eaker_win
ter, or a fragrant garden-w
summer, with azure and furple
winged butterflies sporting On the
flower-}Tells and , the velvet-coated
bees humming their endless songs'in
the hearts of the honey blossoms.
She and her father were always
together—always: companions -,and
friends to each - other—always united
in interest as in heart—always hiSep
erable in pursuits:both learned and
simple s , .
As the crossed the wooden bridge
now, sbe:stoed for an instant to lis
ten 14 the rush and music of, the
deep- mill water, and to toy watch it
break over the rocks, and dash in a
million foam-bells against the huge
wheel ; then, turning.her eyes in the
she ;saw a figure, sit
ting- at some distance up-the bank,
The sight was no uncommon one;
tourists ,t"aihl angler 4 • very often
found thar way here;_ and the deep
river was full of pike and other small:
fish. — l - ler eyes rested carelessly
enough on this man, sitting motion
-less and 4ttentii , ely there, with his
rod clasped hi, his hands and his gaze
; fixed on, tile-river before him. While
she watched she saw him suddenly.
rise, retreat a few steps,-;•and - then
I,..lwith a short, quick run take a flying
-the rock in the middle of the
water y evidently intending to take
his_seai there instead of fishing from
the hint. Whether he had measured
the distance, falsely, or whether his
.foot o.l„ipped on the slippery rock, she
could tell, but in a second she
saw him submerged in the rushing
depths, and whirled like a s straw. in
her own direction.
" Great heavens ! the mill wheel !"
She gasped, standing paralyzed for
an instant by the intense horror of
that thought. -
The current set firm and • strong in
that direction. In .1%, moment he
would be beneath the bridge on which
she stood, and Whirled onward till
the fierce waters.would suck him into
their whirlpool, and the cruel wheel
would hold him in its grasp. The
horror of the situation flashed thro'_
her brain like lightning. Without a
moment's pause, a second's - consider
ation, she stooped under the railing
of the bridge; which was so low it
was yithin two feet of the waterl
Holding on to one of the beams
'for support she let herself drop,-, and
as the water whirled him beneath she
seized the collar of his coat.and held
The strain on her power was-terri
ble. Her wrists were wrenched like
a pulley as they supported his weight
below and her own .weight above.
The sound'of the water in her ears
was like the roar of, a furious sea.
She cried aloud for help, with an ag
onized vraY.er, in her heart that. it
might reach the miller or some of his
laborers returning home.
The man waS quite stunned ; she
could see a deep reel gash in hislore.
head, which must have struck against
the rock in that fatal leap. A
ment more and she feared her
strength would fail—a moment more
and the river would hold two victims.
, instead of one! A moment—
" 0, thank God ! thank God!" A
shout in her ear—a strong clasp—a
belping.hand which seiz,ed the stiff
and': lifeless weight in her numbed
and straining,grasp. .A moment and
She was drawn back on the bridge,
with a face as white as death, and
with limbs that trembled like a wind
• ": 'Tis Miss yerta from the cottage,
as I live," said a voice. " Bless us
and save us, what a thing for a young
weak thing like her to go and, do.
Ws a mercy the two on 'em weren't
drowned like kittens! togefher!
Wasn't it plucky though, Bair,'
. The girl opened her - eyes,' and
nerved herself against . thei deadly
sickneps and faintness creeping over
" Thank yon for your, bravery,"
She said. " Him fortunate that you
were's° near. Is he safer -
"He looks bad.—nigh dead -I
should say, answered oue of the men.
" Oh, do take'. him to the cottage,"
she cried eagerly, as she raised her
self and staggered to her feet. 'My
father will reward you for your briive
TOVANDA, BIADFORD dOTINTY, PL, THURSDAY MORNING, SEPTEMBER 160880.
action. , Where would weire now
were it not for , you 7"
lier -unconsCious couplinir of the
man she had,saVed with her own self
—her anxious, compassionate gaze at
his; white still yoke—her shudder of
terror at the river as its noise 'truck
on her ear, all spoke of n-4s and
vivid interest—a , life ioused fibm its
quiet slumbers to an awakening,
%OJOS() deeper import;she had yet to
The men touched - their hats and
bent down to the prostrate, senseless
figure at their feet.. They raised hith
in their arms, and-, bore him to the
cottage, with its dash . Of summer
bloom and its'calm of summer peace.
As they entered, the girl lookCd
up it the sky overhead. The cloud
had floated, onward, and stood direetl
ly over her own home. There 'was
no silver lining to its sombre dark
ness now. ,
All night in the summer stillneas
came the song of the nightingale
from among the roses. All night
with feverish _restlessness" a man
tossed on his couch of pain. All
night - in the silver moon-rays a girl
lay awake and uneasy, with throb
bing veins, still strained and aching
from that terrible weight, with sleep
less eyes that would not close, and a
strange dull foreboding, in her heart
that - had'never chilled its glad young
beats before. :
"Was life really so sad ?" she won
dered. -" Did it hold pain so great
and woe so deep 4iat the heart turn
ed Lb bittepiess, and jbv to grief. and
love to hate ? Would the cloud
shadow her own life, too, since the
old man had told her that none could
~, 0 :-
Through all her dreams this one
thought ran, haunting her; saddening
her, chilling her natural joyousness,
disthrbing her natural gayety,'which
bad been hitherto the gayety), of a
child knowing naught'of evil, drread
ing'naught of pain.
With the morning her father
ought thestranger's bide, and dress
ed his wound with some of the ,old
medical skill that he had not forgot
ten, though be had long ceased ito
practice as a physician. • It iyas then
that, for the first time,ithe young
man learned the story of Ids danger
and his rescue, and heard with min
gled wonder and admiration of 'the
heroism to which he owed his life.
" What can I say," he murmured
as the story ended, and the old man's
voice trembled with emotion over
the recital of his darling's bravery
and deadly peril. "No words, no
acts can ever repay such a debt. I
wonder you do not hate me, seeing
in my foolhardiness such risk to the
life you love so well !"
" She is my only ehild—my all,"
said the old man tenderly. "To have
lo'st 4er—iiell, there lives me no word
to paint the - agony of - that' thought.
And yet, Y would not have had her
do otherwise. In Leaven's sight are
not all lives equal ?" _ •p
"'There would have been none CO
mourn me," said his companion sad
ly , "tny existence is of small yalual
in comparison with what hers s(l.ems.l
"Ay, Heaven be Praised, she was
spared," was the fervent ejaculation.
" Buty-ou are over young to talk Of
being 'SO little missed or cared for 2"
" Nevertheless it is quite true.. I
am utterly friendless. My life has
,been iinrd, loveless, toilsome; it is of
small account to any one but myself."
" I hope you do not follow the cant
of the day," rejoined' the old man
sternly,. " and 'all9w there is no good
or desirable' thing in life now, and
therefore waste its fairest and fresh
eat years in the exhaustion of folly—
the lawlessness of Sin!"
" No ; I do not hold such views.
But to exhaust the. follies of life and
to follOw its lawlessness one must be
rich enough to reckon no +cost, \ or
vicious enough to stay for no better
impulse. I am certainly not the one,
for I am a poor man, and live by my
'wits. I hope I am nbt the other,
since, amid a life that has always
been hard, and a youth that has al
ways been lonely, I have still kept
faith in _heaven, and', pity for man,
and reverence for woman."
"'Have you arootherr
A dark shade clouded the frank
" She is dead," be said. ." As for
other relatives, my father has dis
owned me. I do not oven bear or
know his name. Brother or sister 'I
never possessed. I am. quite alone.
I believe I am entitled to be called a
gentleman. I gain 14 bread by
painting or doing illustrations for
periodicals. I life most of the year
in London, and have came - to this
village for a motithrs rest, as my
health has not been! strong of late.
There' is my histoity,,sir. It is all.my
"And quite enough," said the old',
man heartily, " Your face is too
frank, and open to deceive, and I am
quite'sure your heart is honest, too."
He shook bands cordially with the
guest so atrangel / y brought beneath
his roof, and then bade him come in
to the little sitting-room when he felt
- sufficiently rested.
"Yon will find Vera there," he
said in his genial, kindly tones, that
were so frank in their cordiality, so
trustful' in their welcome. "My
daughter, mean." "
"May I ask_ the favor of your'
name" said the young man, smiling.
"Mine is Keith Brandon. I do not
know whom I hive the honor of ad
"My name is Ashford ; it used to
bear the prefix. of• Doctor, buti have
dropped•it long/since," •
"thin not tO use it then ?" 1 qnps
tioned Keith. • •
If you wish, certainly. But most
of the people know ale only as Mis
ter,' or Mitister,' as they pronounce
it. Now, I really.must be off. Yon
are tat/re you are strong enough to
come down stairs?"
'-. "'Quite sure. by, gratitude alone
would give me strength, were. I not
all cUribos to scle one, who with a
woman's weakness unites a man's
. " You mat not spoil Vera's sim
plicity ,by Jine words and London
Joiouers t " said the Old man', whit
!MARDI? OF DENUNCIATION FROM ANY QUARTER:
sudden gravity, as he stood at the
door and looked back at the band
soine face and strong, erect; young
figure In the room beyond.
Do not be alarmed," l!l i ns the
gentle response. "I reverence the
simplicity and guilelessness of a
true woman beyond all earthly
"You Were no true man if you did
not," said Doctor Astifoid gravely,
and he closed the dooi and went
down stairs to Vera with his usual
calm face and tender smile.
',How is he ?" the girl asked ea
gerly, as she came up and kissed him.
"Much better. He is corning down
stairs presently. Me is anxious to
see you , and - thank Yon for! your
bravery. Oh, my dear—my liear, I
tremble now even at the thought of
it. If help had not come!"
" Wby trouble Svurself -over pos
sibilities, father," said Vera, gently.
"Help did come, and there is no
need to tremble. Your child is safe
here; find likely to plague you a good
while longer." • ,"
The old man smiled lovingly at
the bright; beautiful face.
"-May heaven send all fathers such
plagues!" he said tenderly. "What
hippy homes there would be, my
" You'll Intake me vain ' with so
muCh praise," she said merrily.
"Come along and have hreakfast. I
had - better send some up for the in
valid, I suppose."
"'lndeed no, Miss Ashf'rd ; the in
valid is here to answer for himself!"
At the sound of the voice she
turned; the sunlight waving over
lieridelicate face, the look of startled
wonder and . of glad surprise still
lighting her soft • shy eyes. They
lookeihit each other. - •
As their eyes met, as .theit hands
touched—as thOr lips opened in the
ohl,.trite, world worn greeting which
we use to strangers as to; friends., so
surely something . deeper awoke in
each heart--something sweeter spoke
in each -glance! Then their hands
loosened their clasp ; but the feelings,
started-into sudden life,,never loos
enecf their fast, sure links,
that'ime brief moment,. that one lin
"So you have found a sweet
Vera was standing by the' corner
of a little brown, .shallow brook,
fringed with tall bull-rushes and
waving Willow stems. She started
'as the words fell 'on her ear,. and
looked round at the speaker. The
old - man whom she had met in the
poppy-fields sonic three weeks be
fire, " the miser of the glebe," as the
villagers l / 4 . a1l called him, was stand-' .,
ing a short' distance off;, leaning on
his stick, and scanningilier with ma
licious eyes and sneering smile.
The girl's face flushed' slightly be
'neatli his scrutiny. 0
"What do youltean ?1' she asked
"You are still happy, are you
She . lifted her eyes to his face with
a drearny, wistful regard.
"I am very happy="
"And who is the'llandsome stran
ger who is always by your side now
I heard of your folly in nearly sacri
ficing your life for his. p • Of famine,
'woraan-like, yea will complete- it; by ,
giving that life to him hereafter, to'
guard or wreck as : he pleases:"
dashed on hira a look of such
startled pain, such .speechless anger,
as made the mockery of hiS own eyes
fade 2 .
"ou have nothing to ,do with my
ciacti s,". she said :.haughtily. " I
scarcely think you mean to insult
me, but your wordre, to say the
least of them, unwarrantable and in!
comprehensible." . .
He laughed. ' • . I
' '" I thought nothing; in .the way of
admiration was incomprehensible to,
woman. I scarcely suppose your
new friend has been with you so con-
stantiy and left you unaware of your
own attractions. - You must know
that you are beautiful."
" Yo.i are the first person who
ever, told me so."
" Is your lover so cold then, or so
blind ?;' i
"How dare you use such words to
me,"'she said, with sudden anger in
her voice, and a certain shame in her
pained young heart. "Tou have po
" Save my experiencennd your ig
norance." ! ,_ .
She shrank.away with a mofement
"You need not remind me of that.
If experience turns all fair and holy
thit'gs to bitterness and contempt, I
pray I may never exchange my igno
rance fur UPI .:
The keen eyes of the old man
sparkled with malignant — mirth. He
liked .to - rouse the gentleness and
calm of this girl's spirit to something
more akin to wrath and bitterness
than she herself was aware of..
" Keep that . ignorance, then, my
clear," he said-ironically, as she luov
ed away with a slight bow of fare
well. 4.Keep it with its twin sister
=content: When ion part with
them yost lffe's happiness goes too!"
made She no answer; but turned
away, hurt and pained; and left hini
by•the brookside in the evening sha
dows. .., .
But as she went homeward she
could not Tiirget, his words. They
had stirred her heart from its rest;
they had left , her with memories
whose innocent shame tortured her
as nothing in all her bright- life had
ever done before. Hitherto her
heart had leped to -the gladness' of
youth, the mere sense of living, and
enjoying,' the simple, innocent. life.
she' had known. • Now a new elenAnt
had 7 ariseri in that life; and through
the golden haze- of pure faiths and
trastfor hopes and fairy dreams -an
other face loOked back to hers, sm
other future met and paused 'beside,
her own. ;, , ' '
The old *ban's word 'tad shown
her thiti, and left her disturbed anal
saddened all at once. This strange
whose life she had saved, whose pres
ence had haunted her for these short
few: weeks, had growil unaccountably
dear, ,though no word of loch or
glance of , passion lad lived in his
speech or look. i i+o:
Bite 4bl - 114 know-s=how could elk
—the , conflict that he waged each
day, each hour,' that found him in
her presence. She could not guess
how bard it was to retain every word .
and every look that might betray his
o!1* secret. She did not know that,
being in his own sight a nameless,
obscure, toiling son of fortune, be,
therefore, deemed it dishonorable to
awalten either interest or regard for
himself in the girl's fancies, knowing
that to take, or seek• to take, her
from the shelter and innocence of
her sheltered life, and to ask her to
battle with him , through the stern
and sordid ordeal which his' own fu
ture represented, was a thing utterly
impossible to his generous impulse
and his chivalrous love. Therefore
be-guarded himself so closely, and
betrayed by no word or sign the
weakness that -at I times she uncon
sciously .tempted almost beyond en
durance. Therefore it was that be
said to himself as be wrestled with a
love that every day but streNthen
ed and increased : " t will leave her
unwooed. So best 1"
Perhaps some vague - hope of - a fu
ture when he might win her arose at
times in his heart. ,Some vision of
a female he might- : touch, a fortune
be might secure. Then, be told him
self, be might speak. Now -it look
ed to him unmanly to do so.
"She will never know," he
thought, "She is but a child still."
But do what he might be could
not forget her—could not care for
her less. With one look she had
shattered the serenity of his whole
previous life, and left to him a mem
ory that was precious - and painful
both -in one, : . and' had given - him,
slowg with its preciousneess, a wea
ry Zlf-colitest _that brought but lit
tle hope of peaceAut little care for
victory. For he loved_ her too well
to forget, and betireen them lay a
barrier that it would be the work of
years to overthrow, the fop of Many
a youthful love—poverty.
He had grown' accustomed to
shifts and straits for himself; to. go
without meals; to deny himself all
but the bare necessaries; to live frbm
. to mouth, toiling, winking.
struggling, fighting single-handed in
a great city's warfare ; but to ask her
to share* sued 'a life or risk Such
straits, with only -his arm do lead on,
hiss love to recompense, was what he
had not courage to dd.
He was her debtor. Could he ask
hetto take sbch recompense as this?
Could heireiiiy thus the noble-hero-
isni that bad risked life in his ser
vice without a thought of the conse
; kit the manhood in him rebelled •
at the thought. lie crushed down
the impotent de;ires that stung him
'to madness—the passionate longings
*hieh strove ever and always to tear
aside the mask of impassVveness he
wore—the regrets that no power of
his own could lull to rest. •
• "I thus leave her," hp .told
" I 'Onnot, dare not, 'stay here
longer. With each day my
' Even as•the words were on his
he met her face to face.
She was cominn , home with the old
man's taunts.stiefresh in ter memo
ry—with 'the shame his words had
awakened, still burning in her inno
As she Saw him the color flushed
from br - ovi to,throat. Her eyes drop
ped. The usual welcome died on
her lips unspoken.
-" I am glad I , have met your he
'said with his usual courteous gentle
ness. "I was about to' call at the
cottage to say Clrewell. I leave to
She started slightly. had he but
looked at her he would hive seen ,the
sudden pallor of the sweet face, the
flash at pain in the wistful eyes. But
he wailooking far beyond, to where
the, sun lays touched the river's quiet
breast with slanting bars of gold.
" is sudden, is it not?" she said
at length. •
Her voice sounded cold because of
its hard-won firmness, and her cheek
flushed, bs4. to warmth with sudden
" he answered, looking at
her face n'c l i!,:imit unable . to . meet the
eyo she steadiltStly averted,, " It is
sudden. lam grieved to go. I have
been SO, happy here. I, shall never
forget this place or '
A few moments later she stood
there alone, her eyes on. a retreating
figure, her hands clasped
her fast-throbbing lieart.
With all her pain- a thrill 'of glad
ness mingled. •
• "The cloud has 'a silver . lining,"
shsaid softly. "He said Ile would
return." • "
A ml with the music of those words
in her memory, she passe( across the
yellow corn-fields and tooc
way home.' 1
. " I am sorry. 'young Brandon has
gone," said the old doctor that even
ing, as, leaning on Vera's -, • arm, be
paced up and down the little garden.
" I shall miss him very much.'
Ver: was silent.
"I wish I could have learned more
of his history;' resumed ,her father.
" He gois by his mother's name. She
never would tell. him his father's.
She bad been cruelly wronged and
driven from his roof with her infant
son, and only the charity uf stran
gers stood between her and starira
tion. From what Keith says she
must have been a noble woman.
" And she is dead' now ?"
" Yes, my child—dead-;—with' her
honor tarnished by a. cruel lie, and
her son's life darkened by an unmer
ited shame. It is very sad—very
" How clever he is I He has inch'
great gifts!" sighed the 'girl:wlth un
conscious pathos. .
"Yes, he ie both gi ft ed and ustoble.,
But be hullo poor, and .in the world
genius always suffers in the grasp of
poverty—it is a' mortal foe. The
zan who can dOwer genius With sue
.cess lives in a palace—the man who
owns it in. a hovel. . The one who
buys is grest, the one who creates
may want bread, or be thankful for
a beggar's crust. Yes,it is ', strange
but true." - ~ ~,... ,
"'There is not much happiness then
in the'.World ?"•questioneditbe girl,
I* wkont all ltilOwledge, • Ot.its miser.
ies, dna and woes were alike un
"My dear, there is happiness eve
rywhere who seek it aright ; -but it is
a word of many meanings, and. the
true meaning is only—there I"
, He pointed , up to the radiant heav
ens as they -stretched in cloudless
calm above his head. The girl's face
grew awed and pale as she looked at
him, then suddenly she drew his
arms around her and laid her head
upon his breast.
"iYou have made allmy life's hap
piness for me, " she said. "How
good you are—toi good !" •
"My love, note are that I" he said
tenderly. "Being` mortals, and be
ing. weak throughout sin within and
beset by sin withnin, how could it be
"Do you knoir anything of the
old man at the glebe ?" asked Vera,
presently. "He speaks to me some
times, but he is very hard and very
"I only know him by •Wb4t the
people here say," answered the fath
er. "That he is miserly and eccen
tric, and lives quite alone, save for
the old Witch-like woman who at
tends to his simple wants. I have
never exchanged words with him
since I lived here."
"I feel sorry for him," continued
the girl pityingly. "And he talks
so strangely tb me always. He seems
to resent the mere fact of being glad
and' light-hearted as an injury to
himself. He warned me one day
that every life had its .shadow—its
days otwoe and darkness and grief
—that mine would come too. If they
do---Papa, papa; what is It?"
The awful agonized cry that left
her lips was echoed by a groan of
mortal agony. The old man's feeble
form seemed to slip from her child
ish arms, and lay on the grass at her
feet like a felled log, inAhe grasp of
that terrible foe—paralysis.
The girl's shrieks quickly brought
the old woman-servant froin the
house, but their united strength was
unequal to the tvk of carrying that
helpless burden. Aid had to be pro
cured from the village, and medical
assistance summoned; but the old
doctor's great age rendered' science
of no avail. Ile lived for a-Week-un
conscious, then died in hischild's
Over her life the cloud and dark
ness of a great sorrow had indeed
It was all over.
The inner:Ll had taken place, the
I ew necessary arrangeinents had been
made, and Vera awoke from the; pain
and lethargy of grief to the startling
- fact that she was alone in the world,
, What little money her father ; had,
just sufficed to pay the necessary
penses of his death bed ; but for her
there was nothing save the cottage.
If .she lived in it whit,was she to do ,
to earn her daily bread—to support'
,herself and the faithful woman,
who had lived in .their service over
twenty years, and mourned her mas
ter's death as deeply almost as his
child ? .ii
To be poor wasinothing very torrl
ble to one who had never known
fiches •, but the necessity of dokkg,
something, of turning from dreams
to work, from dependence on another'
to dependence on herself • lone, at
first fell upon her With the cruel
sharpness of necessity, and a sense of
the bitter helpleSsness of youth and
The — rector'soWife advised . her to
become, a govirnees,, though she bad,
so Ili% a.ccomp4shments, and promis
ed to rite and interest'friends on
her bklialf. Vera bad never liked the
tussy, patronizing little woman, and
liked-her still less when she came full
of advice'and suggestions to intrude
on her grief. •
Human interests and human sym
pathy seemed alike indifferent to her
now.' It was so terrible- Au think of
'the love she had lost, the sympathy
and tenderness and care which luid
guarded her life so -long, and were
now fJrci , er tied beyond recall.•
It was about a week after her
father's death when, as she sal , alone
in the little parlor in_ the summer
dusk, old Pcgcas. the servant, entered :
" If you Please, Miss Vera," she
said, " there's a strange-looking lady
without, Who wants speech of you.
She says sho,tonaes from the Glebe."
The girlrinsed 'her ' , pale, sad face
froM her hands-.
" Tell her to' .come in here," she
said listlessly. " I will see her."
A. moment after, an old, bent,
witch like woman entered—a woman
with a brown, wrinkled face, and
hard, fierce -,eyes, and long, bird-like,
quivering fingers that clutched her
ragged shawras she spoke.
" Ypu wished to see me ?" said
" Ile bade me come," murmured
the old creature indistinctly. "He
bade,me haste and say he was ill—a
dying, he thinks—he would see you
at once." .
"Whom do- yon mean?" asked the
girl in wonder.
"My master—the miser, they all
call him Aye; and a miser he is,
sure enough, and gold 'heaped up
there like dust, and be stinting and
starving, and boarding all the time.
But he is ill now—very ill. lie
would see you at once."
Ske mumbled- and muttered the
words in strange, disjointed frag
ments as Vera sat gazing at tier, half
in Wonder, half in fear.- ~ 1
" He lies a dying," she repeated, as
though she had found, some inward
pleasure in the sound cif the words;
"and all the good ,gold heaped by
and no ne to gather—none to gather
--kith aid kin all dead and gone.
Ah, it ids finerld4 fine world r
u Is he really - ill-?"
"He Heti, a dying," she repeated.
"He bade ine come; he would have
nc, doctor- r none-only you. Are you
"Yes, I will follow you."
"Indeed, Miss, and you don't go
to that:heathenish place at this time
of night alone," interposed old Dor
ms who was still lingering near the
"Who will harm her t you ?"
the old" civ " - Not be,
81.00 per Annum In Advance.
.3 ) •
the Old miser-=he is a-dying.. Alsekl
the good gold . ! who will have it
And nodding her head and matter;
ing half aloud, half to herself, she
turned and went, out of the open
door, Vera following, and old Dor
cas, staying oply for a shawl to wrap
around her, started in pursuit.
Along the quiet roads and through
the dewy fields they moved.slowly
and silently, Vera bewildered by the
strange summons, the old women each
engrossed by her own thoughts.
It was Some twenty minutes before
they reached the .obsolete, neglected
looking abode known as the Glebe,
and then the old crone wised, took
a key from het dress and unlocked
the door, which creaked hideously as
it opened. Then she led the, way up
the weed-covered, tnosnrown paths,
and to the back entrance of the great,
gloomy building, which was almost
falling to pieces with long neglect.
Quite silently and half-awed by the
weird, intense stillness that brooded
everywhere, Vera and her companion
followed. Through the old dim kitch
en, dreary passages and carpetless
rooms they passed, till at last, point
ing to a door beneath which a, faint
ray of light streamed, the old woman
bid Vera enter.
Whispering to Dorcas to remain
outside, but within call, the young
girl opened the' door and . moved
quickly and almost noiselessly across
the shadowy chamber. -
_ It was a gaunt,musty,d_reary room,
very bare and very. told ;, even the,
summer heat that r eigned without
seemed chilled here, and Vera shiver
ed as she stood beside the .great
funeral beds'ead, and lqoked 'down
on the withered face aW gray with
pain, and lined _with the - weariness of
great age. He glanced). up as the
shadow fell across him. ' • '
" You have come? '
That was all
,his greeting. Vern
touched his restless, feverish hands
with her-coo 4 sfim, fingers.
" Yes," she 'said ; "you ' sent for
me ?" '-. _
" .find you could humor an old
man' fancy even in your grief?"
' "I was sorry, for yon—are you
" My, hour has come, I suppose,"
he said grirnly: "I do not complain;
I lave'already_lived fifteen years be
yond man's allotted span. Do you
wonder why I haVe sent for you?" .r.
+97ou need- help, or - nursirig,
"Ilelp—nursingl 'No stich woman's
follies for me I 'NO, girl, I sent for_
you for far different .reasons. Let
me loOk at you first. A h, there is a
change The shadow has fallen, has
it not P' .
The pale lips quivered, the,beanti
ful eyes filled with tears. • _
" Cau you ask ?" she said sadly.
" I 'was a true prophet, you see.
On the;whole, I am sorry--Ahe glad,.
ness suited you better. Now, a few
words will tell pin.' why I sent -for
you here to-night, You are poor and.
you are alOne ?"
- " Y 64," she said, sorrowfUllY, as he
" I_ know all and L. hear all, you
see-the old man miser is` neitherso
Wind nor so deif as folks say. :Well,
you can :be rich—aye, rich as any
lady in the land ; you can have every
thing your heart, desires, everything
that'woman loves, if yOu will. Does
the projedtealjure you ?"
" No ?" He laughed his, - ; short,
caustic laugh. " Well, you are dif
ferent from most of your sex, then—,
for-gold they would sell their very
souls. Let me paint the' 'other side
,I_?icture. In the life before
you, you will be poor, nameless, at
the mercy of women more pitiless,to
the weak and dependent of their own'
sex than any man would have the
heart to be; you wilt drudge and
slave and toil; you will rides all sym
pathy, kindness, forbearance; you
will lose your beauty and your youth
in the ceaseless effort to gain yoUr
daily breatla life of Eardshipsf
wl•ich you cannot dream, and — tti`r•
tures you cannot imagine opens out
in your future: On the other hand, I.
would offer you peace, wealth, honor,
the power to benefit others. Ah !
that touches you. I see—the oppor
tunity of doing endless good, of win
ing happiness, of bestowing it as you,
please. All this I give you with-gold
—for gold is the compeller of. all
things good and great, the key that ,
unlocks all doors and opens them to
fame, success, greatness. Nay, do
not speak yet. I, have neither-kith
nor kin ; I will give all I have to you
for no other reason
_save that your
beauty and gladness attracted me
long ago by their very , contrast to
my own decrepitude and hard-heart
edness. I mean to make yoii--my
heiress; but first I place these two
alternatives before you—poverty and
degradation, or honor and wealth,
with but one condition attached.! ,
" What is that?" • I
" Wait a moment. I wish Lconld
paint the power better than I do."
L Why did you 'not use it better
yourself," she interrupted: " If 'the
gold was yours, had you not the
porrir also ?" r.
His face grew dark and stormy.-
" My lite turned to bitter bas—my
love to hate long since; ask no more.
The condition with which I saddle
this legacy is very simple. A woman
young, fair, wealthy, .. as you will be,
has the world at her feet—can choose
her lovers where she will. Of all
you may choose l'withhold one—it
is the sole condition attached to
wealth that a queen might envy."
• "Who is that, one ?" she asked,.
flushing hotly beneath his keen
glance, and painfully embarrassed by
a conversation so strange as this. -
I _ 4 Ile 'goes the name of Keith
Brandon. Nee was once my. son.',
She started as though a knife had
stabbed her;- every 'flask of color left
her face.*White, quiv.ering and Mute,
she stood there with 'theatrangeness
and horror' of t , those words thrilling
through every, fibre of`-her frame
"Your son And you could - wronie
him thus Po
"I Was wrong," said. 'the old man s
fiercely:. "I 'should
. have saki his
Mother was my witoil; She'married
me for my geld--benee' its anise;
shb never loied ine; 'she"turned my
life 'Mahal; shes;-"
"Oh, hush l bush S"' sobbed the
girl. -"lndeed, - you are *wrong; :she
Stas maligned, slandered, and you be•
toyed too easily. Could 'a guilty
- mother bear such a 8011 - Could his
_eveq_metnory of her be aa fond, sized
pure, and tender as it -Isleere she in
deed what you 'believed ? Oh, listen,
and for once !Jive mercy. Isknow..
him, be was heie so short a time ago;.
all, that old ;fad s story of his youth
and suffering I learned. Oh, if you
could but see :him; heir him, you
would know you wrong hits. If hon
or everlived in mortal man it lives
He stared at her aghast. --
"What do you know ?"- tae saki:
"How - dare you champion one whose
very name I, ibhor—whose mother's
memory has' poisoned all good, or
glad or holy things within me for
thirty 'weary years?"
"I knowlim," the girl said very ,
gently. "I heard this story from Inas
" Yea know him ?. Are you mad?" .
" He washere but a short 'time
sgo—surely you knew—the stranger
whom you saw With me was called.
Keith.llrandon- s -if that 14 your son's
names the stranger was you son!" '
‘ 4 My son P'
He fell brick -on his pillow; the
damp dew standing bead like on his
'aro* ; his . face gray with the ashen,
hues of death, and the fierce agony
that was rending his heart.
" The draught—quick," he gasped.
Vera seized the bottle to •Which he
pointed and poured out - the, quans
tity directed into a glass; very ten
derly she supported him and wiped
the damp, cold sweat fyom his brow
and adjusted his pillows with atoueh
widely different from die old crone's
rough s handline.. The I ' draught re
vived him. • Tie gray' hues faded
back, and were replaced by color
more life like. 'For some moments he.
rested back on the pillowaf with
closed eyes and lips, his hands;pluck
ine restlessly at the quilt. Suddenly
helookeikup at her:
"A. wind girl!" he muttered. "
good girl , If heaven had sent me
such a daughter I might have been a
different man."' •
• " Efeaven sent you a son," the girl
answered gently. " Jlow have you
played a father's. part to him?"
• ;." Peace !" he shouted :fiercely, as ,
he raised himself agaiii.'with sudden -
strength. y " Peace girl What I did
was right—l had proofs, proof, •
she pever • loved me No, it wasifer,
goli'i she eased—for gold. Aye, and
I dr'ove her forth, to perish or not as
she pleased, while the gold for which
she sold herself remained with' me, I
denounced her with its cerse • ' I *Rd
,her neither her, nor her child should
touch' it. H-a! hd,! it is mine,still—
Vera shrunk from him with au den
hares. . .
"Can you• not turn your thois s lits
to softer things V" she asked. 1' Is a
rleath-bed the time fot auger—the
place for revenge ?"
" You arel a good girl—yes ; " he
muttered in 'Vie old! rambling way.
" But is what you say true ;' do' you
indeed know my son ?" •
"I know Keith Brandon, as I told
soii before." -
" That man—that man," he went
on muttering, "withthe bright, hand
some eyes, the frailik young face; he
spoke to me once, so courtedusly, so
kindly, and I—l for once was weak
enough to wish be was my son." .
you - not see' him—Lbear his
story yourself'!" asked Vera beseech
ingly. "I pray it now for yo ur own
sake, and for his. .May I not seed ?
I know where' hp lives." ,
.' No—a thousand times - tiO i" he
shouted fiercely; raising .himself on
the pillows with the old angry light
flashing into his hollow eyes once
more.'S If I saw 'him 'I might be
lieves I should be ag ain deceived.
No, girl—no! As I have lived so
will I die—wifeless, childless. Let
my will stand ; the wealth is yours!"
"I will not take it—not one single
shilling or it all," strid.thegirl haugh
tily. , "It is yptir son's byevery ngilp
--by every law.- To him does it jests
ly bel,cog. A poor recompense at
best for a neglected youth, a toil
some, hopeless nianhood, an alien
" You plead fer him with rare elo
quence," said` the old man, with that
strange sarcastic smile curving his
lips once more. " Well, remember,
It is in '-sour power to beggar him.:
If you refuse my wealth I shell not
will it to him any the more. -If you
accept it I withdriw my condition."
"Are yoa a man and can talk
thus?" pried the girl., flushing and
quiVe_rhigkvith the shame and tiumilia
tion enforced upon her. " You-must
know that;.with condition or not, it
is equally impossible for any one to
do him justice Save yourself."
Foy she knew her undeclared lover
well enough to be: only too certain
that her riches would be a barrier
ten thousand times more formidable
than his poverty, and that this hate
fel wealth could• hever come to him
through her. And she was right.
With sudden tenderness she passed
to the old mail's - 'side and bent Over.
him. "Listen!" she said. "It is
not for:me to counsel or advise, for I
am young and ignorant, and a
woman ; but this I must say: Xou
tell me you are ill—dying. Well,
can you die' with your conscience
burdened by a sin to one- who is in
nocent-and good? Can .you meet
your, injured wife, and know that yea
have left ill ppverty'and degradation
and need, her still more injuted sons
for he—what has he done that yea'
should be so unforgiving ? Think
hew, even if your son. had erred, or
your wife bad wronged- you, that
One who suffered death at a traitor's
hands bade us forgive until seventy
Limes seven." •
-As her voice fell hushed and sol
emn across the silence of the dreary
room, as the hot tears dimmed her
sad young byes with the intense pity
and longing that filled her aqui, the
old man's iron calm forsooklam—the
long sealed fountain of softness and •
tenderness; was brokiin up.
Dowu his furrowed cheeks'the
slow, salt tears of " age were silently
coursing ; into his heart some old for
gotten memory crept of the wife he
had loved, of the little babe whose
innocent eyes had smiled on him,
whose waxen fingers had touched his
" God forgivs mei"' he murmured
in sorroviful,.broken words. "Per
haps I have wronged them both
When mowing dawned it• saw a
great wrong rectified, a great sorrow
healed. ,J t saw - father and son recon
ciled ; isaw a• vrife's name honored
and blessed by, the .dying breath of
the man who for forty—years' had
Wronged and doubted and neglected
her.; it saw two young loveriluind in
hand, kneeling beside that 'coact of
pain until the sari rose In triumphant
glory, and for both 'living and dead
there dawned the tieace of 'a perfect
the -Year Arotindi