BY HAWLEY 86 CROSER.
Leaves—only
That autumL .te scattered round ;
Leaves—only dead leaves I •
That wither upon the ground ;
Shriveled by frost, and yellow and brown ; -
Trampled by feet of wayfarers down ;
Drenched with rain by night and day ; •
Rotting, and turning to mire and clay.
•
•
Leaves—only dead leaves • \ •
That covered the trees in spying with green ;
Leaves—only dead leaves
That darkened the sumnier's ahead;
'Weighing down branches io tbe ground;:;
Flinging their, &op., braad'shadowstroundl:
Crowning with glory the forest fair,
As the glory of woman's flowing hair,
Hopes—only dead hopes -
Torn from the heart by the storms of life ;
Hopes—only dead h'opes
Killed by sorrow And strife; . ,
Withered and chilled by the , cold' world's
frown ;
Cruihed and torn and tramiled down ;
Like forest.leaves . 'neath the winter's sky,
'The hones of our young life wither and die.
• _,.
Hopes—‘prilY dead hopes
That budded in life-spring fair and bright ;
Hopes—only dead hopes
That make our young hearts light ;
Spring will gladden the eartkagain ; •
Trees will-bud and leaves be green •;
Oh, heart 1 take courage—all nature cries,
Like faith and love, hope never dies.
DORA'S MISTAKE.
BY, LAURA M'NALL.
lAM, goipg,to marry you, Dora, and
take you home, with me next summer.
My pet, my-own, we will be as happy all
the -day as the birds that warble in the
woodland,',' and bending forlward the
speaker, a young man with ~ b londs curls
and grey eyes, gently clasped the waist of
the girlish form by his side with Ids right
arm, while his silken -mustache swept her
red-lips with suspickins nearness.
weal' I good looking young man,
this Dalton Somers . , 41 - n2SA spite of the
vascillating lines aro the -month.
which, told of weakness and insiiicerity,
there was a gleam of shrewd intelligen
in his eye, giving indication of, brain
power sufficient . .,ter . battle, successfully
with the world. Just now his feelings
were concentrated on the object of hts
love making, and.for the time being he
-was happy-in the success of his suit.
Dora Hampton would Ihaye been in no
wise remarkable to a chance observer.
Hundreds of girls passing , daily ou the
street were seemingly as fair' and interest
ing. -- She had 'a good complexion, abun
dant brown hair, and quite pretty large
eyes, which shone resplendent with love
and trust as she gazed into ner lovers
fact. Hers was a joy •too deep for utter
ance, too sacred for works. Her heart
was thrilled and filled with the ineffable
sweetness of a first love, noble and true.
Her girlish idea of manliSiess and perfec
tion was realized in -the person of the
man who stood her avowed lejver,-and no
shadow of future pain or, anguish dim- .'
fined the sunshine of the moment,. which
lived in her mind as a plemant Memory ,
lo:ig after she found her idol tohe merely
. 1
broken clay.
The sweet hurniity of her mein, the
humble acceptance hirinell, gratified \
ihe vanity and conceit of theman. He
'pew that he bad made a cOnquei3t which
was all his own. A hearty fresh and , pure .
had goneforth =to him. 11. It was in his
power either to 'crush it and: throw it
aside, bruiied and `bleeding or to guard
it with care 'through life. ° •
To do . him judo, he'meant to be true
tofthe trust reposed in hiia,aud to, tie e very
good and to his "little'-Dora," as
he called her but alas, forgood intentions,
when
. not backed up by , ,truili and con
itancy.•
Scarcely three Months after their en
gagemen ts, - a lady with a,rosier cheek and
more congenial mind , ydrossed Dalton''
Somers', path,aud Dora, if not
.forgotten,
was neglected: -
Happily e the city of in wine..
they resided, waaa, large one, and there
was room for-.-both, even if their paths
were divided, and Dorti,who, if leving;was
also prond,did not hesitate to tell him so,
and gave him back his freedom'. If her
heart was nigh breakiog with its load`of
anguish, when aheloubd . on ly the ashes
where she, had looked' for the , floweri;
if his &linty had turned her !Ont . ' into
bitterness and gall; she did not tell hid
so; she only bade him go and be happy
le could. If she had waited for him
ignify his wish: to beredeased, and as-
ed
.to it reluctantly,, lie would have
t satisfied, no matter ; what the effect
her but' to be coolly , dismissed by
irl Who, a few' months before, seemed
'ye him so . dearly, as tonished and stir!
? indignantly protested against her
:uct,and then inconsistently. railed
,er as being false and inconstant JO \
• He declared that, she was-iealous,
born and :bad'tempered, and he - knew
she loved:him, and always ,would,
i if she niarried andtheenian
lora listaned to him and, then
iated as her ultimatum er firatdecie-
Le went forth angry an „ abashed.
`here was no apparent charge in Dora's
only she was a little quieter, and,bew
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I -.~.. ,
gan to develop a taste for literature, Peo
ple found out that she had not only a
mind Of a high order, but also sufficient
inteliigauce'and brain power to. ballast it.
She avoided Dalton Somers and seldom
saw although he threw himself in
her way whenever an opportunity pre,
sented itself. lie semmed to be .on the
, downward-road, and - runior waibusy with
the story 'of 'hie dissipation.
DQra grew very much ashamed. of her
love episode, and although , her heart was
einuty am:11011pin, lottngratplated herself
on r eschp i e.— Efei atigaiernen t had not
been generally known, and her friends
su,pp . o . Sed it,to.haie been only one of those
&Runoff-flirtations . with which society is
so fruitful. Now she carefully concealed
from her circle of companions the fact
that she had ever bedn acquainted with
him. '
'One day Dora entered' the drawing room
of amutuallriend - where - a small party
were. .congregated. ;Dalton Somers was
the topic of conversation. A young ,
a'stranger to 'DOra; as addressing the
group. He'and'SoMers'had been school
mates, and be emphatically de,llared that
Somers . was a man without a particle of
,pririciple; : that there was no good in, him,
and warming with his subject, no good
and pure woman would ever think of as
sociating with him and that she would
degrade herself below the level of a lady
in so doing.
A burning blush of shame rushed to
Dora's+ cheek at the , thought of the kisses
he had rained upon her lips, and she sat
miserably unworthy even to remain in
the presence of this man who bad point
ed out so thoroughly her own degrada
tion ' . ' •
. But the stranger, Albert Barton, was
:unawsre.cf thi pain he was causing, and'
after an introduction to Dora, thought her
,a;very loyely and interesing girl. .. •
lle, tall, dark and slender; with a
heavy silken mustache, : which concealed
the pride and hauteur abotit the month.
In conversation he was affable and agree
able, and well versed in the tender gal
lantries so acceptable to the ladies. There
was; moreover, an' ,air of the 'truth and
earnestness about everything which he
did which would convince one that he
was no idle trifler in the field of life.
Vora felt drawn :to., him no by some
i
magbetic power, and found his society a
' solace' to herempty heart.
The-admiration seemed to be mutual,
and in a very short time developed , into a
warmer feeling. And it came to pass
one beautiful) evening, . when the moon
lied silvered the earth with her shining
rays, that Albert Barton repeated toDora
almost the same words that Somers had
said to her a little more than a year. be
fore. Dora remembered with'a little feel
ing of pain that okher voice, and ,
.a thrill
of shame at the weakness of her heart,
-which could be so emptied and filled
again in 30 short a time crossed over her.
She was sure that there was no mistake
now, she had- found- an anchor safe and
iteaiifist. She ..was proud even of her
faith An him. Many- women would never
have trusted any ,on- again, but she , had
learned to 'distinguished the gold from
the dross. Her thoughts were iierrupt
ed by Barton who said, "Forgivi e me. if I
offend Sou. I.do not doubt pop, but : l \
want your Whole confidence. Have you
ever. loved - before ?:1" know you are young,
still you may have had a girlish dream
and fancied that you, loved some one ;
tell me darling:"
Fora moment Dora communed with
herself, had' she lo'ved Dalton, Somers ?
'No, ' only . here fancy had been touched ;
an impulse seized her' to. tell him the
whole story,,but iL van , shed Instantly at
'the remembrance of, his fords, "No. COQ
and pure woman would ever think of as
slo, elating with \ Dalton Somers, she would
degrade herself below the level of a lady
by so doing„" 'No, a thousand times, no ;
she could.never tell him the disgraceful
truth. Her head' sank lower on his
breast,..and her voice was almost inaudi-,
ble as she answered. "no" co his query. ,
prtissed her closer to him and said,
"1 lira 80 glad; I. want you all to . myself,
and it is happiness to know :that mine
are - the first lover's kisses that have been
pressed upon your lips."
That night bones- dreams were haunt
ed' with- restless visions. Now Barton
stood above her with uplifted knife, vow
ing vengence on her for her deceit; again
Somers gazed. at her with reproachful
eyes;. But the - morning light banished
the shadows and her compunctions or
conscience. - , •
They were to be married in a year, and
for, six months
,Dora was as happy as a"
queen ; than a shadow fell which nearly
marred the happiness of her life. Bar
ton. expected some 'friends on the : Euro
pean _,steamer and reaching the! wharf
before time he stood idly gazing ,around
\ when. he felt a toubh on ; .Ipok
ing,.he ; beheld a. man, whoini 41thiatigh
seedy and forlorn, lie recogniod,aoal- .
ton Smilers.
"Row do you- do, Burton,"'' he
hOldingotit a_hand.-.which Barton grasp
ed mechanically ; "I want to ;congratu- .
late you. I heard recently .
,that you are
going to marry Miss Dora Hampton.
Government. '
MONTROSE, PA.., OCTOBER 25, 1876.
Miss• Dora is a nice girl ; old sweetheart
Of mine, you know, and if she hadn't
gone back on me I
,wouldn't have been
such a poor shiftless devil as lam now.
But it is all in a life time I suppoaa she
told you all about our engagement."
:Engagement ! His Dora , engaged to
that man whom he detested ! She had
deceived him—promised to be' his wife
with a lie on 'her lips.,
His
His - first impulse was to,knock.Soniers
down, but he restrained wrench
ed'his hand'frotti his grasp,' and walked
rapi awav
' • •' •
.-- • .
Somers glanced af ter - him,,and mutter
ed "what's the „matter, with _.him? He
Always was odd., I wonder now if she
never, told him; if mile didn't I've had m y .
revenge," and 'putting- his' hands in his
pockets he sauntered to the nearest rest
aurant..
As for Barton, vvhen,he walked away
from the wharf, it seemed to him as if the
world had undergone a great change and
Suddenly become engulfed in 'darkness,
that Dora should have loved this man
above all others, and. when she Solicited
her tenderest confidence told him a false
hood,' semed incredible ;,,still he could not
believe Somers. He loied Dora' altnnst
like his own life; but' deciet in the Wo
man he loved and would make his wife
he sould not forgive.
He was a proud and resolute man, and
he mapped out a cor.rse, whibh he deter
in fined to pursue to the bitter end. He
returned to his lodging; packed his clothes
and wrote two notes, 'one to his mother
an one to. Dora., He kissed Dora's photo
graph, and then burned it. The first
train that went westward carried Albert
Barton.
Dora was singing a gay song when-his
note was handed to her,: but when she
had fi'ished reading it it fell from her
nervous grasp,..and She_ lay prone . In a
little heap upon the floor. The'note'ran
thus:
Donk—l. must say, first, bow could you de-
Ceive me in.regsrd- to• Dalton Somers? flow
could you—with your head on my breast—as
my promisee wife, deliberately tell me a false
hood ;les, look me in my very face and tell it?
You have injured me iu a way which I can
never fbrget or forgive. I leave the city on the
next train ; henceforward we are strangers.
May God forgivc you; I never. can. •
`Dora's -mother.fOund''.her 'lying on the
floor, and for days she was quite ill, but
she , this finally better, With hee return
ing health she determined to find him
even if she had to seek the world over,
and on her knees to implore his forgive
ness. Bitterly she wept ov=er her fully in
not telling him- the trivh—arid if weep
ing 'could:have , palitated . her -crime her
tears would certainly have wiped it out:
She had one clue to aid her in her
search. She would go to his mother's.
She easily found this good lady,.and told
her her whole history and the fault she
had. committed. While Mrs. Barton
Chided her for not. telling the truth, she
blamed her sonfor expressing himself too
hasty,. Sh,- greatly consoled. Dora with
bright pictures for the future, and prom
ised every assistance in her power. For
the pr sent she advised silt-nee. -'Albert
had gone to San Francisco but When. his
u rate'co ,, l , ll down and he
his
time to
think, he would repent, of his hasty ae.,
D.pra r.-turned to watch and wait
but it was only., for a short,: time. A few
-Weeks after her visit-- to llre.-Bartvn she
. was.suiptiged to find that,.lady at'. her
door dressed fir a - journey. \he . had
received a. telegram stating:that 'her son.
was lying very ill-in San Francisco.
Pura begged., .t h at, • she.. .upght go,. too,
and at last .wrung u reluctant,-
. consent
from her mother and .Mrs.. Barton.
After days of weary travel they , reach
ed'hitn, and found him in a' situation of
greatest danger. lie Was rapidiy sink
ing, and the physicians said there Vail no
hope. was continually calling Dora
in his delirium. He Ik.emed to'recognize
her as soon is she took her place by his
side, arid her presence \acted like a nar
cotic, for, after passing her hand across
his-forehead a few times, he sank-into a
deep deep for hours, and when he awoke
it was to live. °
When he grew strong enough to listen
to her, Dora begged his forgi,veness.which
he readily accorded, calling himself a
brute, itc. As soon as he was able to go
out they were married. - Dora has two
children now, a boy and a girl, and above
everything else she strives to teach them
never, to prevaricate in the slightest de
dree. As for niotheis-in-law she says she
oes not knoW what other people think
of theirs, but hers is the dearest itbe .
world. - .
. A Test ot. Merit—TouristAre there
any inns in thisvillage, my little man ?"
Small native ! —!'Ees,:siei-there.be the 'Fox
and _Lion,' in Middle_ street, and the 'Cab=
biers' Arms',dosiininthe 'lend." TOur
ist=--"Which is the'beit - otter S.
dunno, sir, butilather - alluagitadruiik' at
the 'Ca bblers.a.nclon
A goqd placf.'for watch ni#ers—The
School of. Desi4n.
Mock-turtle—Kissing in company and
fighting afterward.
ALBERT BARTON.
IVC'`Z PROMIS.Pi,
ANIYHOW IT - WAS.K.EPT:
rpsE FIRST time , I saw Thornton Kirk
.1 I. looked upon him as a quiet, iniddl&.,
aged mad, reticent and .inclined to.rno
rosenesa, perhaps, but .oue in 'whbin.iliad
no-interest Whateter. , . •'• - •
He was the principal of . a classical
school, about a stone's throw .from my
father's door and 'of course quite engross.
ed with his onerous duties: I was hoUse,
keeper, danghter, and companion to.my
father; and quite as mush taken up with
my duties as the still man who passed
and repa4seil our gate, every• morning,
noon and night, was with. his.
I can hardly believe it myself, but'had
I heard, any morning, - that Thornton
Kirk was dead, that he had met with
some su4en shock that had hurried- him
out of the world, I should only have
said, "How sad 1"
,std gone on steadily
with my work, with Ou t. even so much as
one regretful sigh in' 'my heart.- This,
was at first, not when I knew him—hear
en help me I.—as I 'came to know tam
afterwards.
He had opened , hisichool . in the spring
and when Autumn came on, and the
evenings begauio grow longer, he used
to drop in .and talk -with my father upon
all sorts of learned subjects, which 1
neither understood or cared to understand
while I sat quietly at my work • .and at
Net his occasional calls grew to be
.night
ly ones; until my father would' as soon
have expected to see me missing from my
accustomed place, as to have_ seen eight
o'clock arrive *ithout brtnging our—to
him at least—pleasant neighbor. •
"A wonderful man, this Mr. Kirk,"
my father said to me ,
as we sat tinomen
tartly expecting his footstep in theporch
one evening.
"Is he ?" I answered quietly. "I am
glad you enjily his visits.'
- "He must liave studied hatd all his
liter and such a- memory as he has ! I
wonder he was never married." _ • •
"A qui•er wonder. 'should .think,
•when he 14 9I1C1) -a stern. harsh man. One
would bd . afraid to,. dove lest he
should wither _ one with' a look," I au : -
. wered, laughing..
It seemed. sOredjoulons to think of any
- woman smiling: into :,epee,. 'arid -: to
imagine him in the character Of a lover.
"Yon don't know Itirn then ; 'that is
my father allsWeli , d - shortly. •
• He was irritated-to 'have his .favorite
so misunderstood, as - he called - it. - -
In a few moments ;Mr. Kirk entered;
but we had no sootier settled forlhe even-.
etig, than a call came. for my father, who
was_ a physician, to visit a .patient'a mile
distant. I thought of course that our
visitor would go home; but.. my father
urge-1 him so to remain, saying that he
would be.back in an . hour, that he con
sented, ard we were lett alone.
I never was so thoroughly embarassed,
and; I-believe frightened, in my life, as I
was to think of that . man'm being on my
hands for an hour. • I . would-sooner hake.
faced a tenipest. ye had never exchhtl6 -
ed a dozen 'Words, apart from the &our
-teSies of the day, and it was absurd to
.think of my attern i ‘ting-toen . tertakn such
a-)va,lkingfthetionaiy. as he was. I.conld
haye.cried, but I must not.; or I could
have laughed, but i. dared not.
At any - rate, I cared nothing for his
opinion; which was a: blessed, comfort to
me. So [broke the ice, by . saying, "I am
arffa,id you, will have dull time of it, Mr.
Kirk,, for. lam as stuPid as an owl upon,
all yont ‘olOgies' and scientific researehesk
but I can'tell you how to make bread, or
to knit 'stockings or anything in that line;
if : you , ' . •
.A.nd,l can read - to you a novel, if you
like," he Said, .with .au am usedidek upon
his face; "so don't be' vexed - that I haVe
remained." • . •
My face fluebed. He bad read illy die
cotraiture, then.
"Not if you will read what I like so
much," I said ; "but ,I am. afraid you do
it to please me, and not yourself: • -
"What pleases von will please me and
besides, if •I can, I want to convince you .
that I am not .a bear that eats people,hoyt
ever Walsh I may seem." "
I laughed heartily. "
"In truth I' 'have taken you for one,"
answered,-"but I give you my hand as
a pioot that I will think differently , after
this." • •
Such a startled earnest: look, came into
his eye% then ! It made me tremble, it
Was so searching. _ •
'• '"lf you vour band, promise
to be my friend, my true, never-failing
friend--whitth is what ;I . need more than
you can dream of- —I take it more gladly
than I ever _took a woman's band before,'
he said solemnly.
With that k)Ok in - his eye,• though it
half frightened me, I could not resist.
"I promise, I said faintly; "bitt - yori
will get tired of me Arbon, you. know .ime
better." .
"I have been studying you.foi moiib t "
he Unswerid, as *he Timed' my . hand in
his. • •
That evening was the beginmg of a
new life fOr me; and . I . soon found that
he was ignite as well, versed in the liters
ture which a woman likes as in the more
V.0,..:331NQ.44
abstruse which men delight in. Hew
n r ,
from the moment our hands crossed, y
friend, and helper, in the - truest, defliest,
sense ; of the word ; and I meant to be the
same to him. I, tried to keep it before my
eyes,thatit_wiis to be his womanly friend,
nothing more, that I was to stand by him
always. Audl remember of vaguely wish
ing that some disgrace , might, come upon
him, that I might prove my sincerity by
still keeping My , vow ; but by•and-by,
something.cameintc s r my heart for him
'which changed me wholly; and because
I fought against it with despera.teemergy,
it held me with a
,closei grasp. .
I knew that .I`' loved him. • I.ktiew then
that; whatever his soul might, ansiter,
Mine had found . its manna, its bread of
earthly life. I think I could have killed,
any one who should dare to come between
us pind fear that I had a rival—for what
did I know of his life ?—was my torment,
day and night. .
He was so much aboye me, that I was
sure he never would 'stoop to lift me up
beside him; but with an insaneliepe that
I might overtake him, I, too' '
with my wo
man's brain, oegan to climb up the dizzy
mountain on which he atood. I pursued
the studies which I ktiew he liked best,
and with such energy that I was surpris
ed at myselt. "A woman does 'not know
what she is capable of' doing until her
heart wakes to love, and then, Are is not
too much.fo`r her to walk through, if, in
so, doing she may reach the heaven i!hirth
--at•leasti* in her imlginatlon—lies be
yond.
In the meantime, days, weeks, and
months went 'hp, 'and • our lives were
outwardly unchanged. I would not have
had him know for a thousand worlds,
what was-in my heart; I should have felt
disgraced for ever • and he seemingly did
not. He was kind,' thoughtful, .and at
tentive, but not more; though sometimes,*
when our eyes met, ithere wad a look in
his which thrilled I,me through and
through..
Of his early life or family I kriew noth
ing ; and I would not hake asked to save
my soul. And it was b the merest ac
cident that I heard one "mornink in Sep
tember, that he had been telegraphed for
. by some one in' Lancashire.
. ...
~'"If it should be his intended wife," I
said ; and without giving myself time to
think - further, I hurried on my: things,
and went out for a walk. I was afraid
to see him leat . l could not keep a Strong
hand on my. heart..
.• .
.
When I returned, I - found . that he' .
left a not.P . for m e, Scrawled Orion . a piece
of paper :--
. . .
"I cannot wait to see you, but if I
send for yolk don't fail me."
Whativer it meant; I had nothing to
do but wait : and that I did, trying to keep
my nerves steady for whatever . might
happen.
In a week this telegram came : ,
"If you are not afraid. I want. you
Come.''
Then the directions where and how to
find him..
"I am not afraid and am coming."
To my surprise my ! father did.not ob
ject to my journey, tut i seemed to hurry
me off, though he would mit`i,-open his
lips about Mr. Kirk.
The distance. • was only two hundred
miles but it seemed interminable'; and
when at last I stood upon the Asylum
steps, where be had directed me to meet
him, '1 - was too lull of acsious fear to
think: of anything save my desire to see
him, and know: that he was safe.
The servant took me into .thee.parlor,
and he.'was sent for. He answered , the
summons in-a moment :
.and though his
face was whits Auld worn, the thankful
look in his eye, as he saw me, quite re
paid me for c oming.''
1
1 "I Shall never forget this,7 . - he said, as
his hand, closed over mine. "Come with
ins. -
led me througb a, number of dim
corridors and up long flights 'Of stairs,
until he come to a sick Ward, before
.which lie stopped.'
"If yOu love me as I pray heaven you
do, be strong now," he said. And we
entered.
• There was a bed there,. and fastened
upon it lay a beautiful girl,.her eyes wild
and maniacal, so like and yet's° unlike,
the man beside Me, that I started bank
in surprise: ,
"This, is my child who has been mother
lee, and here, for ten years. A week ago
they thought she would die," he said.
huskily.
"Your' child 1 Oh, why did you - not,
tell me:?" I cried, dropping on my knees
beside her, and kissing the -wild , lips a
hundred times. "She shall not itayhere
another - day. Oh, thank heaven, can
help you at-last I" -
:.`A week'afterwards we started for home
taking the poor girl Nith -us ;' and -as
soon as lire arrived,
,L.found father had
cainied a room to be 'fitted up expresily
for.her home:.-Thornton : /Kirk had told .
him all circumstances. Alice soottle•-•
ix:meted,' and 'now she la my daughter as;
well as Thornton's.
What part of:meeoh is most dista3tt
ful to loyere ? The third person.