Lancaster Examiner and Herald

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VQIiXLIV.
LANCASTER, PA., WEDMESDAY, JULY 6, 1870.;
NO. 34.
EXAMISrEB ^  HEBAM>.
PUBLISHED EVEB5 WEDH33DAY, At SO. 6 IffortH aueon Street, Lancaitor, Pa.
TEttM.S-Sa.00 A TEAB IN ADTAHCE.
JOHN A. HIESTAND Jk'.E. M. KLINE. Editors snd Proprietors.
THE CHUDEEK.
BY CIIAKI.es dickens.
When tbe lessons and tasks are al) ended,
And the school for the day is disralased. And lho little cues gather arouud me.
To bid me good night and be kissed : Oh. tbe little white arms that euclrclo
Mv ueck In a tender embrace! Oh, the amlles that are halos of heaven,
Shedding sunshine of love on my face. And when they are gone I sit dreaming
Of mv childhood too lovely to lust; Of love that ray heart will remember
Wheu itwakes to the pulse ofthe past. Erb the world aud Its wickedness made mo
A partner of sorrow and sin; When the glory of God was aboutme.
Aud the glory of gladness wilhin.
Oh. roy heart grows weak as a woman's,
And the fountains of feeling will flow, Whon I think of the paths steep and stony,
Where the feet of tiie dear ones must go: Of the mountains of aln hanging o'er them,
Of the tempest of Fate blowing wild; Oh! Uicre Is nothing on earth balf so holy
As the innocent heart ofa child.
They are Idols ol hearts and of households;
They are angels nf God In disguise; His sunlight still sleeps in their tresses,
Hts glory still gleams In their eyes; Oh '.those truants from liomeand from heaven,
Tbey have made me more manly and mild. Ami 1 know iiow Josns could Ilkeu
The Kingdom of God to a child.
I ask not a life fnr tbe deiir ones
All radiant, an others have done. - Rut that life may Imve justenongh shadow
To temper the glare of the sun. I would prav God to guard them from evil.
Rut my prayer would bound back to myself; Ah r a seraph may pray fora sinner.
But a sinner must pray for bimself,
The twig Isso easily bended,
I have banished the rule and the rod; I havo taught them thegoodnessofknowlcdge.
They bave tauuht mo tho Roodhess of God. Mv heart Is a iluiigeon of darkness.
Whore I .shut Ibem from breaking a rule; M.v frown is sullicieut correction;
Aly love Is the law ot tbe school.
I shall leave the old Iionse in the nutumn,
To traverse its threshold no more: Ah I how I sliall sigh for thedear ones,
Tlmt moei mo each morn at the door; I shall mias the "good niRh(a"andtbeklsse3,
And tlie gush of their Inuocent glee. The group on the green nnd the flowers
Tlmt are brought every morning to me.
I shall mi.ss lhem at morn and at eve.
Their anng In lbe school and the street; I shall miss the low hum of ihoir voices,
And me tramp of their delicate teet. Wiieu Ihe lessous and Umks areall ended.
And Di-at-h snyf*: "The scbool Is dismissed!" Miiy the little ernes gather arouml me.
To bid me good night and be kissed.
THOMAS TYLER'S TOMBSTONE.
Siisio Barclay was in the back yard oue Monday night, taking tbe clotlies from tlie line, when her father's hired men, Thomas Tyler and Samuel Dale, CiiiHo up the lane from tlie porato-tield. They botli looked at the girl, but if oither of them thouKht she made a pretty picture, llittiuij in and out araong the snowy linen, thcslanting sunbeams falling on her shapely form and comely face und shining bhick hair,he diil uot say so to his fellow; for, though Farm¬ er Barclay's hired men had ploughed and planted aud hoed sido by side throngh the spriug and summer <lays, and at night slept together in the big chamber over th<! kitchen, they were uot ou eoulideutial terms.. Samuel Dale, who had been ou the furm half a dozeu J'ears, Wiis je.ilousof tliogrowiug influence of a compnrative stranger, who, it seemed likely, would supplant him iu more ways than one.
Karly the previous spring, a well- dresseil, good-looking man. about thirty years of age, knocked at Farmer Bar¬ clay's door aud offered to hire out for the summer. The farmer took him upon trial—hands were scarce that year —and when his month was out, en¬ gaged him for the seasou. He was smart to work—as a man needed to be who could lioe his row with Samuel Dale—clever at contrivance and haudy with tools. He kept the farmer's mouth stretched with his jokes, though he seldom showed his owu whito teeth iu a laugh.
"Asharp-witted,wide-awakefelIow," said Farmer Barclay, "who pays for Iiis bread and bacon byliisgood company." The new hand was no less a favorite indoors. Susie Barclay, the farmer's only child, housekeeper and mistress— her mother was dead—looked with in¬ creasing favor upon the gallant stran¬ ger, who, when he was by, would not allow her to bring a pail of water from the well ora handful of kindling-wood from tbe shed, bnt performed these of¬ fices for her with a respectable defer¬ ence of manner, accompanying them with well-worded compliments and ad¬ miring glances, that was Tery flattering to the simple country girl. Meanwhile, Samuel Dale lounged on the porch or sat dangling his long legs from tbe kitchen table.
On the Jlonday evening when our story commences, the two men washed at the pump, aud Thomas Tyler, after carefully brushing the dust from his clothes and runuing a pocket comb through his crisp black curls, hastened to join Susie Barclay in the clothes yard, while Samnel Dale went out to the farmer on the porch.
Dale was tall and somewhat ungainly in persou, with a ruddy, opeu face, and a pleasant hrown eye. He was simple and straightforward in manner, had a sunny temper, and was houest through and through.
The old farmer was half asleep in his chair, and the setting sun shone full upon his jolly red face ami gray hair. "Father Barclay," said Samuel Dale, "1 want to know how much longer you aro goiug to let this go on ?"
" Eh! What Sammy?" said the old man, waking with astart. " You reck¬ on we'd better put it down to oats, don't ye ? The way we've been goin' on with that medder lot would spile the hest piece of laud in the State of Ohio."
" See here, Father Barclay," said the young man. " I h.ive that on my miud lately that leaves me uo heart for farm- work. Look yonder, will you? That girl has been as good as promised to me these three years, and we'd been man and wife before this, only you said she was too youug, ami coaxed me to wait u spell. Now look at her, will you?" The porch commanded a view of the green yard sloping down to the meadow hank behind the farmhouse. Susie's task was completed, and the greatround basket at her side w.as heaped high with tbe snow-white linen. Her com¬ panion was taking down the liue, when suddeuly, by a dextrous move¬ ment, he threw a coil over the girl's head. She struggled to free herself, hut it was plain tosee, by her laughiug, blushing face, .ind the yielding motion of her supple frume toward her captor, that she was no unwilling prisoner in his grasp. Thomas Tyler, holding the ends of tho rope in his right hand, looked toward the porch and showed his white teeth io a smile.
The sight was not agreeable to Sam¬ uel Dale.
"Do you .see that?" he said, angrily. " It's been going on for- weeks, aud he winding himself rouud the girl as he's tightening that rope rouud her now. Do you want to see her tied hand aud foot. Father Barclay, and never lift a finger to stop it?"
"Sho! sho! Sammy! what's come over ye, boy? You look as black as a thunder-cloud. Gittin' jealous, hey? AVhy the girl's fooUn' a little, that's all. Girls will be girls, you kuow, and Tom Tyler's a good-lookin' cliap, with a smooth tongue in his head for women folks. And, now I thiuk of it, he's always rouud the girl. You muststick up to her, Sammy. I can't do your courtiu' for ye. Show a little pluck, my boy. If Tom Tyler talks soft, do you talk softer. Women-folks like coaxin' and ilatterin'; and mebbe you haven't giv' Sue enough of it."
" I am no match for Tom Tyler at that game," said the young man, mood¬ ily. "Your daughter has known my mind these three yeara, and don't need nny soft words to tell her of it. And, Father Barclay, the foolings that's been going on for the last fortnight is a kind I can't put up with. I thought you inight have something to say about her throwing herself away on a fellow whose very name was strange to her three mouths ago; but I see you have no notion to meddle. She is likely to follow her own bent, I suppose, for all your opinion or mine. But there's one thing: she's played fast and loose with me long enough. I'll have it out with her this uight. She shall take her choice between us, and—''
He stopped abruptly, and turned up on his heel, for Thomas Tyler and the farmer's daughter were coming up the walk bearing the basket of clothea be¬ tween them.
That evening, when the supper-table was cleared away, and Mr. Tyler had gone down the road to the village Sam¬
uel Dale, afler some dlfacnlty—for the ] girl of late had been shy of his com¬ pany—procured an interview with Bu¬ gle Barclay.
" It haa been on my mind to speak to you, Susie," he said, "for a week, but you would never give me the chance. You know how matters have stood between us these three years. We have kept company together ever aince I came to Barclay Farm, and though I've never asked you to name the day, I think you know my mind well enough. I am nota man of many words, and I haven't the wit to flatter you with soft speeches, but I love you, Susie Barclay. Will you take me for a husband this day month?"
"La, Mr. Dale!" said the girl, with a toss of her pretty head, "how you startle me! Take you for a husband, indeed! I am too young to marry this long while yet. I am sure I don't know my own my mind three days together. Aud I am afraid I shouldn't make you a good wife, and it's better for both of us to wait a while, and—"
He interrupted her: "Susie, I have courted you three years. If I wait longer, it will be to see another man carry you ofT in a month. You've known mo long enough to learn your own mind about me. Y'ou must take me now, or you must let me go."
" I am sure you are free to go if you like," she said, flushing; there's no¬ body to hinder you. Y^ou have no riglit Ul speak to me like that. I am not your servant, Samuel Dale. I never promised to marry you, and perhaps I never will."
" You tell me that," said the young man, bitterly, "after keeping me in hand all theseyears! Susan Barclay, are you goiug to play me false, that you may marrj' a man you never heard of three months ago ?"
" Who told you I was going to marry any oue?"
"Do I ueed to be told? Haven't I watched you since the day th.it man set his foot in vour fatlier's house? And because I trusted you, and thought you'd known nie too long to be taken with a newcomer, you carried on your courting before my eyes. Y"ou false, hard-hearted girl! But no, you never were Wia^ It's only that tliis smooth¬ faced coxcomb has bewitched you. Oh, Susie? cau't you tell hiin there's an honest heart that's loved you true these (liree years, and so with a frank word send him packing?"
"If it'a Mr. Tyler you aro talking nbout," said Susie Barclay, "you may set your mind atrest,, for there's noth¬ ing but friendsliip between us. He's never so much as asked me to marry him; but he's a pleasant, civil-spoken gentleman, that iloi-sn't eall people names behind their backs ; and I'll not stay here to be scolded, .Samuel Dale; and I'll die un old maid before I'll inarry the cross husband yon will make."
"Is that your last word to me?" he said sorrowfully. "Then I have my answer, aud Barclay Farm is no pluco for me, tliough I thouglit to spend my days here. It's inaniier.-i for the old love to go wheu the new conies in.— Well, good uiKlit, Susie. I wish you well, though you've giveu nie a soro heart to carry ; but curses on the man that comes between me and my girl."
Sheatoleasidclongglaiiei', and when she saw how his ruddy cheek had turn¬ ed pale, and his mouth set in a gloomy, resolute expression, her heart softened towards him. But she did not put her pity into words. She listened to his slow, heavy steps as he mounted the stairs to his chamber, till tbe gate open¬ ed with a sharp click, and she heard Thomas Tyler's tread as he came up the walk. Then she ran to the kitchen- glass to arrange the knot of pink rib¬ bons under her chin, and thought no more of Samuel Dale that night.
The poor fellow could not sleep for hia aching heart; and when, an hour later, his room-matecime in, whistling softly to himself, with his black eyes shining, Samuel Dale lay and watched him from between his half-closed lids.
The man took writing materials from his trunk, and was soon busily at work bending cloaely to his task. Ho ap¬ peared to be making a copy of a letter spread out before him; and when it waa completed, and he held up the two documents side by side, it seemed to Samuel Dale at the distance where he lay that his work was well done, for the copy might have been mistaken for the original. Mr. Tyler scanned the resultof his labor criticallj', nodded hia head once or twicein approbation, then locking the papers in hia trunk, betook himself to bed.
II.
The farmer waa twice aurprised the next day. Samuel Dale announced his intention of leaving the farm when his year was out, and his daughter, with smiles and blushes, informed him that ahe had passed her word, provided he was willing, to take Thomas Tyler for a hnsband.
"Why, Susie," said the old man, "you strike me all of aheap! Sammy Dale has been waitin' for you these three years, and you are as good as pro¬ mised lo him, you know. I've reckon¬ ed on you and him hitchin' horses, and carryin' on the farm after I was under the ground."
"Father, I never promised to marry Samuel Dale. Liviug together in the same house, I couldn't well help his keeping company with me; und per¬ haps I might huve thouglit sometimes I should like him well enough to take him for a husband; but that was before I met Mr. Tyler. I'll marry the man of my choice, father, or I'll live nnd die an old maid."
Then came coaxingand tears,andthe easy old man, who had never crossed his daughter's wishes since her mother died, yielded.
" Well, well, Susie, you must have your own way, I suppose," he said ; "and Tom Tyler's a smart fellow, aud right handy abont the farm."
He administered comfort to Samuel Dale in his own peculiar fashion :
" What's the use of taking itso liard, Sammy? There's likely girls besides Sue Barclay, who will have you forthe askin'. I wisii you'd make up your mind to settle down snug.mdciunforta- ble, und let things go on in the old track."
Samuel Dale shook his head. " I had best be gone," he said—" hest for her and best for me. I'd herightglad logo to-morrow, but you have always done the fair thing by me, and I can't leave you right iu the busy season. I'll alay till after harvestin', and then I'll be ofi: You don't know me, Futher Barclay. At thought of the trick that man has played, my blood runs lire and my hands itch to get hold of him. I might be left to do him a mischief, someday." "Sho! sho! Sammy, you don't mean
"I can't work days, norslcepnights, for the trouble that's on my mind. It ain't altogether for my own loaa. I'd muster pluck to bear it. Father Bar¬ clay, I must apeak out, though you'll say it's bad blood makes me talk ill of the man that's gained where I have loat. I have miatruated him from the flrat. He's as bold as brass, and his tongue runs like a mill-wheel, but it's little he flnds to say of his own affairs. And when you come dowu to it, whois he? and whero did he come from ? and what h.is he been about all his life?"
" Susie knows," aaid the old man ea¬ gerly. " He told her all about it—how he was born and broughtupin Connec¬ ticut, and his father died wlien he was a little shaver, and he'd kep' his moth¬ er an' all the children bv his earnin's, till tho old lady died and the children got homes with their relations; and then he came West to seek his fortune; and Susie says auch a good son is sure to make a good husband."
"Humph!" said Samuel Dale.
m.
" Susie,' called the farmer, tlie next Sunday afternoon, "have you been meddlin' with this book?"
He stood turning the leaves of the family Bible, that always stood on a round stand in the corner of the kitch¬ en.
" No, father."
" Well, somebody has. Here's a milk bill In the wrong place; and there's a letter I wrote last Sunday to Squire Cooper, and hadn't decided to send, and 60 slipped it in here somewhere, and it's gone."
Susie assisted her father to aearch for the missing letter, but It could not be found. Thomas Tyletwas busy again that night with hia writing after every one else m the house waa in bed, and the next day he took the farmer's old white horse and drove over to Leater's Corners. Susie followed him to the porch, and as he drew her under the shadow of the grapevine to snatch a parting kiss, she aaw the corner ot a let¬ ter peeping from his pocket, and took it slyly out. Before sho read the ad¬ dress he discovered bis loss, and caught
her hand so roughly that she cried out with the pain.
"Give me that letter," he said stern¬ ly ; and there was a look iu his black ej'es she had never seen there before; but a moment later he apologized for his rudeness, kissed the llttlo hurt hand, and made his peace as well as he could,
IV.
Before harvesting was over the wed¬ ding-day was flxed. A hired girl took the place of Susie in the kitchen, and she Bat all day at her clmmber window overlooking the golden fields where her lover was at work, making her wed¬ ding-dress. And when the corn-crib was full, and the wheat was in the barn, and tbe potatoes in the cellar, shecame to Samuel Dale and aaked him. In her pretty, coaxing way, not to leave Bar¬ clay Farm till after the wedding.
The poor fellow, whose heart grew sorer and sorer as he thoughtof his loaa, looked in her bright face with passion¬ ate, regretful tenderness. " I'll stay If you bid me, Susie," he said.
And now commenced grand prepara¬ tions, and the beating of eggs, the pounding of spioea, and stirring and shaking and shifting were sounds all day heard in tho great kltclien of the farm house, for the bride-elect and Betsy the hired girl made the wedding-cake. Only tho bride's loaf was ordered from Cleveland, for Susie Barclay declared she could not be married without a cer¬ tain wonderfnl structure, to be made with frosting an inch thick, and sur¬ mounted witll two sugar doves, their bills ineeting iu a conjugal kiss. Great was her distresa, therefore, when, the evening before tho wedding, ihe atsge failed to bring the expected box.
" Don'tfret, Susie," said Samuel Dale, who coulii uot bear to see a shadow on fhe dear face. " I'll ride over to Les¬ ter's early in the morning, and if it's lliere you shall have it hy ten o'clock."
Accordingly, he was up betimes, aud as the wagon rattled out of the yard the bride put her head from the win¬ dow.
" Ride fast, Samuel," ahe said, " and be sure and be baek by ten o'clock, or you'll misa the ceremony." •
"Confound the ceremony!" aaid Sam¬ uel Dale, for there was a limit to the loug-auflering patience of even this ex¬ emplary youug man; and then aloud, "All right, Susie, I'll be buck in good lime," and so departed.
At Lester's Corners lie found what he sought, and, pleased to think that now Susie would have her wedding-loaf, was leaving thedepotwhen the station-mas¬ ter called after him.
"There's a womau here waiting to take the stage to Barclay's," ho said, "will you give her u ride?"
Samuel Dale turned hack with reluc¬ tance.
" 1 dou't know how fo stop a min¬ ute," he said; " I agreed to bo back by len o'clock."
The man Ciillcd to somo one within, and a small woman, witll a pinched, careworn face, and thin, light hair, ap¬ peared at llie doorway. She was dress¬ ed ill shabby black, and her clothing was creased and tumbled and soileil by a long journey.
" Here's a gentleman will lake you to Barclay's, marm," said the man.- " Hurry up—he can't wait."
She looked timidly in .Samuel Dale's face, hut still stood fu the doorway.
"There's the box, air," .slie saiil; " would the gentleman kindly take the box?"
" Oh, that's all right," said the ofii¬ cial. " I'll aend it up by the stage. Oome, jump aboard."
"If you please, sir, I couldn't leuve it behind. I have brought that box a long way : I—I'll wait for the sfiigc."
" Wait theu :" he said, gruffly ; but Samuel Dale marked the woman's weary, disappointed face.
"Fetch along her traps," said he, ".md don't be all day about it, either;" hut half repented his kindness, for the box, unwieldy in its proportion and of no light weight, occupied ugoodly space in the wagon, and the woman betrayed so much anxious solicitude about its disposal as to somewhat impede tlicir journey.
" Is it quite safe, sir, do yon think ?" ahe inquired timidly, as tho wagon jolted down the hill.
" I should suy it was, marm, unless there's cbincv or glass, or some sueh brittle thing, inside of it."
"Oh, sir, it's a deal moro more pre¬ cious than that. It's a stone, sir—a tombstone. I have brought it all the w.iy from Simsbury to i.ut over my husband's grave."
" Do tell!" said Samuel Dale.
" Yes, sir, he died out here in a strange couutry, away from all his folks; and wheu I got word of it, it went nigh to break my heart fo think there wasn'tso much as a board to mark the spot where he was lying." She stopped to wipe away a few tears.
"Oh come, now!" said the young man : " don't you feel bad about it.— There's mighty kind-hearted folks in these parts,'specially'moiig thu womeu kiud. I'U warrant your man had good care and didn't want for nothing."
"Butyou see, sir, he diedof a linger¬ ing discaae, the letter said ; and the nursing and the medicine uud the doe- tors' bills took all hia earniuga, aud the town hud to bury him. And I sold 'most everything 1 had, and Simsbury folks they helped me, and ut last I got mouey euough together to buy him a tombstone, and I have fetclied it my¬ .self. There was nothiug to hinder, for I put my last little boy iu the ground— there's three of 'em, sir, lying aide hy side in Simsbury graveyard—two weeks before I got tbe letter. It's beeu a dread¬ ful hard journey, sir, and I never waa aix miles from my lioine in my life he¬ fore; but if I cm hear about my poor man's last sickness, aud the messages he left for me, and see that stone put up over his grave decent-like, I'll go home contented."
" Well, ao you shull," aaid kind- hearted Samuel Dale.
"If you belong in the.'-e parts, sir, perhapa you know Mr. Barclay—Mr. Peter Barclay?" " la it there you want to go ?" " Why, yes, sir : 'twas he who wrote nie the leltcr. My poor man died at his house. You didn't happen to hear about It, sir?"
" I reckon you've made u mialake in the name," said Sumuel Dale.
With trembling, eager haite she drew a letter from her pocket. It was soiled and woru ut the edges hy many read¬ ings. Samuel Dale stopped hia hoi-su iu the middle of the road, und his eyea dilated withastonishmentusheopened the letter aud recognized P'armer Bar¬ clays handwriting.   It read asfollows:
" Bahclav Farm, Aiigu.sl 12. " To Mr.i. Nancy Tiller .-
" Ki-;srEi-rED Madam—Thi.s is to inforni vou Ibat your late husband, Mr. Thomas Tyler, departed this life at my lioiiao the iiiuth duy of the present montli, of a linger¬ ing disease. Uo boro his suQerings with Chrislian meekness, und died at peace wilh all iiiiinkiiid. When near his lust hour he desired mu to write yon this letter. " Your obedient servnnl,
» Peter Barclay.
N. 11. The expenses of hia sickness hav¬ ing used all his earnings, he was buried from my house at the expense of the town."
The young man read this document with a puzzled face. He examined the liostmark and the signature. The n,as he pernsed it a second time, the paper shook iu his hand.
Tlie woman's anxious eyea never left his face.
" I hope it's all right, air. I haven't made any miatake, have I?"
He turned to her in a strange, excited way.
"Y'ou nre Mrs. Thomas Tyler?" he said.
" Y'ea, sir. I was a Billings when I wasagirl—Nancy Billings. My mother was-"
•' Can jou prove it?" he interrupted. " Woman, were you certainly married to thut man ?"
"Oh, my good gracious!" she aaid, " whal does he meau ? I nm a poor lone woman, sir. If my huaband was alive, you wouldn't dare to insult me ao.— Married, indeed! You ask Simabury folka, where I've lived all my life, and where my three children was born and lie buried, sir, and where I kept my Thomas like agentleroan till the money I earned in the paper-mill was used up. You ask Elder Bird: he married uasix years ago this coming moutli. AndI'm a lone widow, sir, that'a come to pay my last respects to my poor man's memory; and now you want to make out I'm not his honest wife, and so keep me from putting a stone over his poor grave."
"Be quiet, woman. There! stop your whining. Nobody wanta tohinderyou, and if it's a truestory you've told, here's a man will help you plant that stone with a good will. Now, don't get ex¬ cited again, but give me a straight-for¬ ward answer to my question. There's more depends on it than you think. I aak you if yon can prove by other
means than your own word that you are Thomas Tyler's lawful wife?"
"Why, there's the certificate, sir, that Elder Bird gave me, and I had it put in a gilt frame, and hung it up in the keeping-room till we broke up, and Thomas came west to get work, and was going to senfl for me and the child, only he took sick and died, and-"
"Where is that certificate, Mrs. Ty¬ ler?"
"Why, law, sir! how you do fluster a body with your questions! It's in the trunk right at your feet. I fetched it along, 'cause I like to look at it, and It makes me think of the day I was mar¬ ried to my Thomas."
" Then we are all right. Y'ou did a good thing, marm, when you brought that document," aaid Samuel Dale.— "Now, Mra. Tyler, I am going to help you through with thia matter. All you have got to do is to mind orders. I feel a deep interest in It, for I worked along¬ side of your man last aummer, and I'm bound to see that ho haa juatice done him."
' " I wan tto know ! Dear! dear! Why you didu't aay so before, sir? And I misdoubting you all the while! I hum¬ bly ask yourpardoUjSir, Andso you've kuown him all along? Only to think ofit. Then maybe you can tell me what carried him ofT. Y'ou see the letter don't give any particulara. Hoir did the dia- eeae take him, air?"
There waa a curious expreaaion upon the young man's face, but he answered her gravely:
" He was hard sick with it, marm, when I first knew liim." • "Not dangerous, sir?"
"Well, yes; J called him dangerous the first time I set eyes on him."
" I want to know! The poor dear! And yet he worked all summer, you say? I s'pose he kind o' pined away gradual. It waa an inward disease, wasn't it?"
"Clear into the heart, marm, and worked outward."
" Lord a massy! Did he have heart diae.iso? Jerushy Ann Billin'a, that waa Aunt Marthy'a aecond cousin's child, she had it awful. They said she used to have tremblin's and flutterln's and a clay-cold, corpsey feeling the heft- of the time. And she grew weaker and weaker, and her heart kind o' melted away inside of her. Dtd my poor man have any of these symptoms?"
" Well, no, it worked just the other way with him. As neur as I could judgo from appearances, marm, the heart inside of your husband got to be as hard us a nether millstone."
" Poor man! how it must have hurt! Couldu't the doctors do nothing to help him ?"
" Mrs. Tyler," saiil Samuel Dale, sol¬ emnly, " I've heard tell it was easier for a "black man to change his skin, and a wildcat her spots, thau for a fellow to get cured of thut disease. And your man had it hard. If a way could have been found to take the old heart out of him, and put a new ono in, it might liave done the husiue.ss ; hut the doctors in tlieaeJparLs ain't up to such tricks."
" Did ho dio eaay ?" aho asked in a trembling voice.
"There, don't you aak any more- questions, Mra. Tyler, and keep cool now. Y'ou'll need all the pluck you've got, ahortly. Do you see that square house, with tall chimneys, at the top of thehill. That's Peter Barclay's. They are looking for me, hut not you."
He drew a huge silver watch from his pocket.
" It! is time we were there," he said ; aud to hia companion's great iliacom- fort, and theiniminentperil ofthe pre¬ cious freight they carried, he urged the old white horse to a gallop.
Up the hill they weut ut a furioua pace. Tlie rapid motion was a relief to Samuel Dale in hia excited atate of miud. Perhaps he had restrained him self to the utmost limit, for afteraglauce at the box containging Mrs. Nancy Tyler's testimony to departed worth, and at that estimable woman in her widow's weeds at his side, he no longer refrained from giving outwurd expres sion to his satisfaction.
He shouted to hia horse and plied the whip without mercy. He whistled and sang, and brought liis|broad hand down, first upon one knee, and then the other, with a resounding blow. A neighbor called to him halfway up the hill.
" I can't stop," aaid Samuel Dale— " I'm going to a funeral, and tliere'Ube no fun 'till I get there."
Then he laughed long and loudly at his unseemly jest. A small hoy cleared the road to let him pusa, and ran in to his mother.
" Sam Dale lias heen gittin' awful drunk down to the Corners, mother," he reported. " He's laughin' ami sing- in' and drivin' old White like mad. He's got a women with him, and her bonnet's most oft", aud her hair flyln', and she holdin' on to the aeat with both hunds."
He drew rein at Farmer Barclay's front gate with a suddenneses that nearly pitched Mra. Tyler out of the wagon.
" Go into tho house without knock¬ ing," hesaid, "and wait in the entry till I cull you.   It won't he long."
He drove his horae Into the yard as one of the wedding guests came from the stable.
" Tuke hold here, Seth Wilaon," he i-.ried. " There'a a preoioua bitof stoue work in that bos that wants to be han¬ dled careful. It'sgoingtoseedaylight, too, in just half a minnte."
He was running for a screw-driver and a hammer, when Susie Barclay, in her wedding dresa, with white flowers in her hair, came to meet him :
"Oh, Samuel, has it come? Have you brought the wedding loaf?"
" I have brought it," he said, " but, Susie Barclay, your cake is dough."
He could uot wait to opeu the box in a regular way, but when a few screws were loosened, by the strenglh of hia good right arm he burst tho cover, and with a great noise of splitting wood the slad of white marble waa hrought to view.
At the aight, Samuel Dale's excite¬ ment reached ila height. Brandiahing a piece ofthe cover over his head, he danced around tlie open box, and to his companion's amazement and hor¬ ror out a pigeon wing over tho sacred relic it contained.
"Here's a aight for a man on hia wedding day!" he cried.   " Oh, glory,
hallelujah! come, up with it! Don't atand there, Seth Wilson, like a stuck pig. Now, then, move on. Forward, mar<;li ! to the tune—
' Corae, liasle to lhc weiiaiiig.'"
V.
Nancy Tyler, following her conduc¬ tor's directions, opened the door softly, and seated herself unobserved in the fartliest corner iu the dark hall. From the open door of the parlor came a con¬ fused sound of voices, and she heard the patter of footsteps overhead.
"Dear! dear! I have eome at a wroug time," sho thought, " for they have a house full of company."
Then there was a rustle of silk, and a pretty giri, with a wreath of white flowers on her heud, came tripping down stairs. She paused at the foot^— a door opened and a smartly dressed man, with bluek ej'cs und crisp, curly hair, came ferwurd, and giving her his arm the two entered the parlor.
A scream shrill and piercing resound¬ ed through the house, and Nancy Tyler, in her black garments, her widow's veil streaming behind her as she ran, rush¬ ed after them and threw herself iuto the man's arms.
"Oh, Thomas! Oh, my dear, dear husband! they told me you was dead!"
The change Iu hia face from amiling aelfcomplacency to astoniahnient and deathly parlor waa a sight to behold. He struggled to release himself, and puahed her rudely from him, but seem¬ ed for a moment to have lost the power of speech. " Thomas! Thomas 1 don't you know me?" ahe cried In pitiful tones. " It'a your own Nancy—your loving wife—come all the way from Simsbury to find you."
Upon this he found his tongue.— "What do you mean, woman?" he cried, angrily. " You are no wife of mine. It's a trick, good people—a ras¬ cally trick. She's some crazy wretch escaped from the asylnm. I tell you she's stark mad. Susie, you are not goinj; to believe her ? As sure as I am a living man, I never set eyes on the womau before to-day."
" Swear stronger, Tom Tyler," said a mocking voice, " for we've got your tombstone and your widow to prove you stone dead."
The man turued his fiijrce eyes, to see hia rival standing composedly he¬ fore him, supporting with one hand a slab of marble, upon which was Inscrib¬ ed in characteiB large enough to be read half across the room—
"In Memory
OP
THOMAS TYLER, ¦ who departed this life Any, 9,18—."
Even BamueLDale waa satlsSed with | the horror and abject fear pictured iu his face at this unexpected sight.
" In God's name, Sammy, what does tbis mean ?" said Farmer Barclay.
The young man rested his burden againat the table, and took Nancy Ty¬ ler's letter from his pocket.
"Read that. Father Barclay," he said. " Ee patient, neighbors. We'll have tho matter straightened out in a moment. Susie; poor Tglrl 1 It comes hard on you now, but you'll thank me by and by."
With a great efTort, Tom Tyler re¬ covered his self-assurance.
" Good people," said he, " don't be¬ lieve a word he says. It's a vile con¬ spiracy he's concocted to rob me of my good name. Everybody knows he wanted to marry the girl himself, and—"
" Shut up !" said Samuel Dale.— " Dead folks don't talk; and If ever a man haa been dead and dammed above ground, it's you, Tom Tyler."
Meanwhile, Farmer Barclay was reading the letter.
"Why, what's this?" he said.— " ' Died at my house—lingering disease —buried by the town;' and If here ain't my name to it! Sammy, Sam¬ my, what does it mean ?"
" It means just this, sir. The villain that's heen courting your daughter all summer left an honest wife and three children, counting tho living and dead, back in Connecticut; and because ho couldn't well marry the new wife till he'd disposed of himself to the old, he writes to her that he's dead and buried; and with his devil's wit takes your handwriting, that If she shows the let¬ ter itmay seem the genuine thing. But aee now how thia precloua raacul over¬ reaches himself; for when he thought, by calling himself a pauper, to keep the wife from ever following him up, he set on her aoft woman's lieart to the errand that'a brought about hia own deatruotlon ! and he dug hia own grave and carved his own tombstone when he wrote that letter."
Farmer Barclay's face was purple with rage. " Tbe scoundrel!" he cried —" the black, dastardly, double-faced, under-handed—Why, where is he ?"
Where, indeed ? Thomas Tyler had suddenly dlBappeured. Whether he had slunk behind the crowd of guesta gath¬ ered cloae about tho speaker, and thus gained the door, or had softly opened a wiudow and escaped in that way, no one could tell; but he was certainly gone.
The farmer, in hia righteoua indigna¬ tion, wouhl have followed him, but his attention waa diverted by the discovery of a heap of black garment in the corn- ner, and the chief sufferer in the semi- comic tragedy just enacted, poor Nancy Tyler, was raised from the floor in u dead faint, and borneintotlieadjoining bed-room.
The girl whose place she hnd so strangely taken thatmorniug bent over ber, and with gentle hunds removed the black bonnet uud put b.ick the thin,.scattered Iiair, and forgot herown disappointment aud mortilie.ition in pity for tlie other's anguish; for when Naucy Tyler came out of her swoon, it was to wring her hands aud cry out in distracted tones—"He wouldn't own me for his wifo! My Thomas wouldn't own me for his wife!"
" Sho! sho! now ! you poor creetur," said the farmer, trying to ailminister comfort: " he couldu't have heen much ofahusbund, anyhow; butit is hard yon should huvo the burying of him twice over."
He culled to his duugliter presently from the next room.
" Sue Barclay," said lie, " there's going to be a wedding liore to-ilay. Do you thiuk I'll have all these folka invi¬ ted, and that silk gown to pay for, and them good victuals cooked up, for nothin' ? Come, you've had your choice ofa husband, and a pretty mesa you've made of it. Now I'll have mine. Y'ou kuow who I picked out for you long ago, and you liked hini well enough till that amooth-tongued hypocrite turned your silly head. Sanimy, my boy, step up here: dou't be bashful. Just clear that corner, good folka. Par¬ son, you sha'u't be cheated of your fee this time. If Sammy hasn't the tin, I'll fork over myself. Come, Sue, are you ready?"
The girl weut pale and red while the old man was speaking. She glanced shyly from under her long lashes atthe only lover left her, now that her idol hud turned to the basest cluy. Her heart only hulf weaned In these few mouths (tor the wily stranger had wou her through vanity, und not by any well-grounded esteem), returned at a bound to ita old allegiance.
She croased the room to where the young man atood abashed, and looking in hia face as only Susie Barc¬ lay could look aaid very sweetly: "Willyou take me, Samuel?" "Takeyou!" said Samuel Dale, aud testified hia readinessby uctions Inateud of worda.
"Sho! sho! .Sammy," said tlie farm¬ er, "that'll do. There! don't smother tbe girl. Now, Parson Bates, we'll be obleeged to you to tie that knot."
too heavy for you or me to lift, bnt' when    Samuel     comes    home     I'll ask him to step up and set it inside your door,   will that do?  Now' go right to bed and to sleep."
She Ut her candle, and climbed the stairs to ber room over the kitchen. Tbe space at the toplwas crowded with tables and chests and other articles be¬ longing to the upper regioiis of the house, for Mrs. Dale was in the midst of a thorough cleaning. Leaning against a bureau close to the head of the stairs stood Nancy's precious charge. She stopped to pass her hand over its pol¬ ished surface, murmuring some half- articulated words in her broken voice— then passed Into her chamber.
Half an hour later, when Samnel Dale returned from tbe poat-ofiice, he had an exciting story to tell. The de¬ pot at Lester's Corner's was robbed the night before, and the thief had been tracked halfway to Barclay Farm.
" So look out for your silver spoons, Susie," said her huaband, " for- the light-fingered gentry are among ns."
Then she told of Nancy's fright, and in her eagerness fo see that every door was fastened aud the house made se¬ cure for the night, quite forgot her promise to the poor woman up stairs.
Nancy lay waiting a long time, and when she slept at last it was a disturb¬ ed and broken sleep, from which she was suddenly wakened by the sound of a stealthy step on the stairs. She felt rather than heard it approaching slowly, cautiously, well nigh noiseless¬ ly. She rose in her bed, holding her breath to listen. Was itMr. Dale com¬ ing to fulfil his wife's promise? Wua it—oh horror! could it be—the mun whose face had frightened her at the window? And if he eame to rob the house, what did it contain half so vol- uuble U3 the precious charge to whicii she hud thut night for the firat time proved faithle.sa?
It muat huve been sotne such train of thought tliat paaaed through Nancy Tyler'a mind, and that cauaed the timid, weak-headed woman, who under ordinary circumsfancea would hardly have ventured to face a mouae, to ruah to the rescue of her treasure. She sprang from her bed and crossed the room at abound, and, throwing open her door, stood fuce to face with a man holdiug a durk lantern in hia hand. In surprise at her sudden appearance ho made a backward atep, lost his foot¬ ing- and caught at the nearest support. It was the tombstone. It shook-it tottered—it fell, and man und marble cai-ahed down the staira together with asoundto wake thedeud. A moment's stillnesa succeeded the uproar, follow, ed by the sound of voices and footsteps, a group of frightened faces appeared in the doorway.
The stairs wero strewn with frag¬ ments of the broken stoue, aud at the bottom lay the uiotionleaa body of a mau. lie gra.sped iu one haud Farmer Barclay's well-filled wallet, and Suale Dale'a wedding-apoona protruded from hia pocket. There was blood every¬ where. Tho atuirs, the walls and pieces of marble were sprinkled with it, and where the man's head lay was a )iool that every instant increased in size. He was quite dead, and they saw by a ghastly wound upou hia head that a aharp corner of atone had cloven his akuU.
When Samuel Dale turned the dead man's face to the liglit, he uttered an exclaiuution of honor, for ThomiLs Tyler's black eyes stared blindly in his own, unci his lipK, purling, showed the white teutli grinning in a ghastly smile.
Thoy liore away the body, und lelt a wouiun on the bloodataiued stairs grop¬ ing with feeble, moauiug cries for the fragmeuts of Thomas Tyler's Tomb¬ stone.—Xipp/neort's Marjazine.
LArSA'S MISTAKE. Laura had been making out n bill.
Miss IlAYnKN,
To LAURA Stetson, Dk.
Siitlii ovov-HkIrt p CH)
Paid out for aame _ -1 CX)
Uulllliig Hklrt, seven lilies rullles, corded ^
ou bolli Ncdea _ 5 (10
Belt, with Bjisli euds bruldcid „ 1 00
 %nw
For many weeks Nancy Tyler lay ill at Farmer Barclay's house, and in her fever and delirium the wild fancies of the sick woman's brain were all more or lesa counected with herill-fated jour¬ ney and the relic she had hrought.
Ill answer to her pathetic appeals the stone was pluced in her chamber, uud in imagination she traveled again and again in its company the weary dis¬ tance between Simsbury and the farm¬ house whereshe was lying. Now she was in tbe stone-cutter's shop, cousul¬ ting about the form aud the fashion of the monumeut, and bargining for ita loweat price in dollars and cents. She fouud comfort for hours in repeating tho in.scription, and the ill-matched rhyme of the epitaph gained marvelous pathos when uttered iu those plantive tones. But sometimes she cried out that the stone had fallen on her breast, and with its weight her heart was quite broken. * She crept back to life at laat, but her physical vigor never returned, and her mind, at ita best estate, none of the atrougest, wiis weakened and dis¬ eased.
They wcre very good to her at farmer Barclay's. Samuel Dale remembered thathe bud gained hia preaent happi¬ ness by file blow that raade this poor woinan doubly a widow, and the young wife waa grateful to her who by her timely coming reacued her from a fate ahe could not contemplate without a ahudder. Farmer Barclay e.xpreaaed hia good feeling by his favorite ejacula¬ tion, and more than onee turued from her bedside with a tear in his honest eye.
" Y'ou take cure ofth.it poor creetur,' children, aa long as she lives, ho saicl. " Don't you never send her back to Simsbury. Give her enough todo'round the house, Susie, to keep her mind easy, and a worm plaee in your chimney corner. She'll have a gloomy tirae of it, poor soul! stumbling 'round among tombatonea till alie'a at rest under oue herself."
So the farm-house became Nancj- Tyler'a home, and ahe lived her quiet, melancholy life, docile and harmless, never wild in her derangement; only as the country-people call it, " queer." The stone remained in lier chamber, for it waa a fancy of her bewildered brain that it wua still in her charge, and day and night she was painfully respon¬ sible for its safe-keeping.
Aud spring and snmmer and winter came and went again, and they were very busy at the farm.
Nancy carae to Mrs. Dale oue evening with a frightened face.
'•Ifyou please, marm I can't skim the milk to- night," she said.
"Why not, Nancy?"
" 'I'here's a man keeps lookiug at me through the window, marm."
Susie took the candle from her trem¬ bling hand and went into the paotry. She pressed her face close to the glass then raised the window and peered out iuto the darkness, but could see nothing. She smiled at Nancy's fooliah fears, finished the relinquished task, and re¬ turned to tbe kitchen.
"I don't see anything of your man, Naucy," shesaid. What did he look like?"
" He looked like a robber, marm."
" Law, Nancy! we don't bave robbers at the farm. Such a thing was never heard of. It was yonr fancy. And now you may go to bed. Y'ou are tired, I know, with your day's work."
Nancy hesitated. " Could the things he moved back into my room, marm?" she asked.
" Why, no Nancy: I don't see how they can. Y'ou can get along for one uight, can't you ?—we expect to get along.'most anyhow in house-cleaning time."
"I don't mind anything about the rest, lire. Dale, bul it is outside.'
f.Chi the stone!   WeU, Nancy, It is
Total	
"That's all," said the tired girl, let¬ ting her pencil drop, anil breathing a sigh of relief.
"I hope she will pay you to-night," mourued old Mrs. Stetson.
"She is well aware of our needs— none more so," was the sad reply. ".A.t tbe same time she carries her old hali¬ its of auviiig into her new life, for alie knows I shull not charge one-half the price a regular dress-maker would. She would have to pay Madame Jolifle twenty-five dollars at the least."
"Well it's a shame," replied her mother, "that you can't get tho regular price when you do your work aa well, aud better, in my estimation. Time waa when your father could have bought aud aold Walter Hayden, and now you must work your fingers oft'for ilia daughter, who has neither your ed¬ ucation, uor "
"Oh, don't mamma," pleaded Laura, with a little laugh that was partly hys¬ terical. " Y'ou only make it worse for me, culling up old times. Juat say it will all come right in thefall, as jiapa used to;" and with the amile still oci her lips, she turned the troubled eyea away, that her mother miglit not see the teara.
For poor, proud Laura, eariiiug a acant living for her motlier and herself, had a memory of the Haydens hidden in her heart.
When Bart Hayden, the handsomest man in New Y'ork, some aaid, had gone away, only a year before, she had thought of him for montha after, nay, even till now, with quickened piilaes and heightened color. The Haydens were not wealthy, then ; but within u sliort time they liad come i nlo afortune, and it was rumored that youug Burt was also growing rich through lucky speculation.
It wua just nine months since the death of Lanra'a father. He had drop¬ ped down suddenly, while apparently ill the full enjoyment of health; and after the funeral, it was found that liia aflairs were in a very tangled condition. In fact, ouly asmall house wua left to the widow, through the consideration of ereditora, and that far from comfort¬ ably furnished.
Laura, the child of wealth and fash¬ ion, her father's idol, u delicite, thorough-bred, elegant girl, who hud hitherto sunned lieraelf iu the warm raya of prosperity, and hurclly knew whether she had a heart or not, prov¬ ed herself a heroine. Wliatever she could fiud todo, she worked at with all her heart. Plain sewing, embroider}', dreaa making, for wliicb she hud a tal¬ ent, and concerning wliich she had of¬ ten laughingly said, thatif slie had not been rich she might have heen famous; everything was undertaken willingly, and labored at uncompluiniugly. She accepted thesituation, though not witli¬ out some struggle with pride, and many secret tears.
" Well, I suppose I must carry the dreaa home," said Laura.
Mrs. Stetson thouglit of the time when a carriage was at the eall of her beautiful darling.
"Dear, can't I lake it?" ahe aaked, gazing at her anxiously. ." You look
" I am III—that is, my head aches; hnt the walk will do me good," Laura reaponded, trying to look bright. "It'a not far to the Haydens. Do you think I would let you carry home my work ? No, Indeed!" and she bent over and kissed her mother's forehead.
Out in the air she felt better. The nervous depressions from which she had suflered had gradually left her, as she became intereated in the eights and aounds about her. In gay and beauti¬ ful dresses, aome of her former ac- quaiutancea paaaed lier, a few with a nod of recngnition, but moat without noticing her at all—little stings there were, butshe held her bundle firmly, lifted her head a trifle higher, and paased bravely on. Turning a corner ahe came full upou an unexpected tab¬ leaux. A araartly dresaed boy, with a feather in his cap, kicked and atruggled with his nurse, who fiirmly pulled the obstinate child until her faee was pur¬ ple.
"Why, Lucy! Why, Benny!" ex¬ claimed Loura, for the girl was nurse¬ maid at the Haydens, and Benny the youngest hope of the houae. ' What's all thia ?"
"Deed, Misa, he'a awful," aaid the girl, nearly crying. " When he makea up hia mind, it's a tiger he ia, Miaa. Jest aee him now."
Laura apoke a few worda to the boy in a low tone, and he ceaaed struggling for a moment.
" We're all at aixes and sevens," said the nurse, " and the Missis is orful ner¬ vous. Mr. Bart's just returned from Callforny, without no warning, and brought a beantiful young lady with
him. I do suppose it's his wife from what I heard—and it quite upset the Missis, and made such a time! Now, Benny, there's that policeman; so you had better corae."
Laura heard, and for a moment, street and houses whirled around, so thatshe had much to do to keep herself from falling. The words rang in her ears— "I do suppose it'a his wife." The strange and sudden revulsion of feeling passed, however, leaving her deadly pale. Certainly, Bart had a perfect right to get married; a perfect right to forget her—of course, he had. Men had done such things. ever since the flood, and wonld, probably to the end of time. Over and over agaiu ahe said tbat he had uever committed bimself, aud yet her heart answered that he had.
Those words he had whispered—had dared to whisper, she said, to herself, with flaming cheeks. What is it but an avowal ? What a tingling memory it waa! She saw herself as abe atood at that moment, attired in exquiaite fabrics, tho acknowledged queen of the fete; and he, handsome and poor, had brought an answer to his question on her very cheeks—in her very eyes.
The blood burnt her face now; but aa ahe came in sight ot tlie noble dwell¬ ing, it receded, leaving lier paleand al¬ moat faint.
She stormed at herself for beiug so supremely fooliah; but the teara were very near her tired eyea, for all that.
Huge trunks blocked up the hull. A loud, cheery voice sounded, that struck woefully agaiust her heart; and the first person ahe saw was stalwart, hand¬ some Bart Hayden, juat coming forward as he issued his orders to the meu who were taking the boxes up stairs. What right bad he to look so radiant ? " Laura-my dear, dear Miss Stet¬ son !" exclaimed the young man, hur¬ rying toward her.
But Laura's face was like steel. She made u cold, little bow; and did not choose to see the haud he extended.
" Welcome home, Mr. Hayden," .she suid, iu a set, cold voice. " I cume to bring some—" she could notsay work, '^mething for your sister. I generul- ly go to ber room.    laahe there?"
He fell bac:k a little. Strange how the light went out of hia face.
" 1—I rather think she may be en¬ gaged," hesaid, iu a blundering, con¬ fused wuy ; there might have been a lit¬ tle auger iu the voice; " but—yea, per¬ haps you bad better go up," and he tui-iiecl on his heel.
" He didn't like to speak of his v/ife, und nn wonder," half sobbed Laura, to herself, a choking senaatioii iu her throat.
It was queer how tbe stairs bobbed about; but, perhaps, tlie thick drops on her lashes would explain it.-
" What In the deuce makea ner aet so oddly?" muttered young Hayden; theu in a tender voice, "poor little thing! it's pride, I suppose ; but ahe might have seemed juat tlie le.ist glad to see me, I think ; and then he kicked a box out of his path, and weut moodily to the door. Anne Hayden was alone. ".Sci glad you brought it," she cried ; "und ob ! doesn't it look beautiful?— Whut a fairy-fingers you are!" andahe aliook out the creamy satin M'itli ex¬ clamations ofdelight.
"Sit down, won't you? I'vo.somuch to tell you.   Bart hua come lionie."
" Yea, I know it; hut I caut wuit— nota moment. Itwill begetting dark, and—und—" .She grew desperate with fear that Anneshould seethe teara, and the trembling mouth ; nnd stooping, siiutelied up the bill, uud placed it in the liaud ofherpatroiiesa.
"Oh, so sorry! Suppose you wou't miiicI waiting for the pay till next week ?"
" We ure out of coal aud wood," said Laura, her cheeks crimson ; " and, in fact, we need the money."
" Dear  me!   Dear   me!   I   was  ao
thoughtless to spend every ceut;l had.
Butstop-I'llgo down and usk Bart."
Laura felt us if she conld sink through
the Hoor.
" Stop!" she said, detaining Anne hy a hold on her arm, her face quite white and proiid agaiu. " I cun wait—never mind. Of course, I can depeud upon it by Wednesday?"
" Yea. I'll run round heforo per¬ hapa. Must you go ? Y'ou don't know how much I've to tell you. Well, then, good-night."
Laura had uot worn her veil. The tears were running down Iier cheeks asshe hastily descended the ateps of the old palace-liko atairs, and Bart Hayden, who happened to be there, S!iw tbem. Oh! the humiliation to that proud apirit! She tiirew a half deliuiit glance at the handsoioe, pity¬ ing face; tlien, with a gesture tliat re¬ pelled him, for lie had eome toward her, she almoat flew down the street, nor haidly drew a breath till ahe was ut home.
How dreary and meagre It all looked! the few cheap dishes, tlie seuuty tuble- cloth, the half-covered floor, the faded wall paper, the worn out chintz on chairs and lounge.
"I'm dreadfully tired, mamma; let me lie down," she cried. In a suppress¬ ed voice, and threw herself ou the creaking old louuge..
" What la the niatler, my darling? I aee—she didu't pay, of courae; and not u stick of wood iu the house. Oh ! the heartlessnesa, the wickedness of those who are rich !   I thought—"
A loud rap. Laura hid her face. Her mother answered tbe call, and in strode Burt Hayden, almoat defiantly.
"At Icust vou will welcome me, Mrs, Stetson," he suid, the old flne ring iu his voice. Lauiu sut up, calra and cold again. "Anne sent this by me," hesaid, uud luid a sealed envelop on the table.
" When did you get home?" asked Mrs. Stets.111, as soon aa she.had recov¬ ered from her surpriser
"Only u few hours ago," was Burt's reply. " I brought Cousin Jack's wife Willi me; abe wua ordered home for her health, aud Jack<eouldu't leave ao I took Maltie in charge. Poor girl! I am afraid home ia not going to helji her mnch, or, iudeed, auythiug elae."
Laura made an almost impercepti¬ ble UKivement. She waa far from cold, now ; her very temples burned,
" Well, good night?" he suid, steal¬ ing u glance at Laura, aa he arose, after answering Mra. Stetaon's inquiries.— " I've done my errand, and Mra. Stet¬ son, you, ut least, will let me come, aometimes, ami talk with you, won't yon, for the aake of old times ?"
The mother's reproving eyea were fusteiied upon Laura. Whut did the girl nieun by acting in this way?
"To be sure!" was her quick an.s¬ wer, "ifyou will eome to so humble a a place. You see how the wheel has gone inuud with ns. Poor Mr. .Stetson —" and the widow could get no fur¬ ther.
"Y'es, r heard," he said, pityingly, "long ago. Anne wrote me. But I ara not one of the fickle kind, Mra. Stet¬ son."
This was a reproachful glance at Laura.
" Good night!" he .said the next min¬ ute, and bowed to both women.
He had reached thedoor, when a faint voice called; "Bart!"
Y'ea, it was Laura's eager cry. Slie was aahamed of whatshe had done, aud heartily repenting.
Hecame back with half-suppressed eagerneaa iu his mauner, his glance wary, hut anxious.
"I waa juat a littlo rude to-uight," ahe aaid, lookiug dangerously beautiful In her humility.   " Please forget it."
" Indeed I will;" and he seized her pretty hand, his eyes radiant. " I un- dersand ! Oh, yes! I quite understand —you were always such a sensitive lit¬ tle creature! So you forgive me, eh?" he blundered.
" It waa you who were to forgive me, I believe," suid Laura, demurely, her lipa quiveriug, ready to cry and laugh, too.
" Mra. Stetaon, will you allow me to whisper?" aaid straightforward Bart, " Certainly!" said the old lady, her heart beating quicker. What was go¬ ing to happen? Had poverty done its worst for them. Was tiiere, indeed, briglit hope for the future?
Bart put hia full, abining beard close to Laura's ear and tlie second time said the mystic words, that had so long lingered in his memory.
Laura did not repulse him. He felt then that her heart belonged to him, that it had never gone out to auy other. So it happened that, after that even¬ ing, Bart Hayden kept calling, and that th6 widow invariably left the two young people together; and the end of it was, a brilliant wedding in less than a year. 	
THE POOE MUSICIAN  AHD HIS MATE.
One beautiful summer day there was a great festival in the large park at Vienna. It was almoat covered with the crowds of people. Among them were organ-grindera, beggars, and girls who played on harps. There stood an old musician. He had once been a sol¬ dier, but his pension was not enough to live on. StiU he did not like to beg'; and on this particular festival-day, he took his violin and played underan old tree In the park. He had a faithful dog with him, which luy at hia feet and held an old hat in his mouth, so that passers-by might cast their coins into it.
Many people went by nnd heard tlio old rausiciau playing, but they did not throw much in. I wonder they did not give hira more, for he was u pitiable object. His face was covered with scars reeeived in his country's battle.i, and he wore hia long gray army coat, und hud his old aword by his side. He had only three fingers on his right bund, so be had to hold the bow of hia violin with these. A bullet had taken off tlie two otbers, and almoat at the same time a cannon-ball had taken olf his left leg. Tile laat mouey be had, had been spent in buying new atriuga for iiis violin, aud he wua now playing witli all his strength theold marches he liad learned when a boy. He looked sad enough aa he aaw the multitudea pasa by in their strength, and youth, aud beauty; for he knew on Ihat very evening he would have to go to bed supperless, and lie on a straw coucii in a little garret room. It was late in the afternoon, his hopea were like tliesuu—they were both goiug down togetlier. He placed his old violin down by his aide aud leuned agaiust u tree. Tlie teara streamed down liis scarred cheeks. Not far off stood a gentleman in fine clothes, who had a kind heart. He listened to the old musieian, and when he saw that no one gave him anything, his heart was touched with sympathy. Looking into the hat, lie saw only two little copper coins. He then said : " My good friend, why do you not play longer?"
"Ob," replied the old man, "lean not, my poor old arm is so tired that I call not hold the bow; besides, I have hud uo dinner, and I have little jiros- pect of sniiper."
The kind gentleman then gave him a piece of gold, aud said, " I will pay you if you lend me your violin for one hour."
" Oh," said the niusiciau, "this piece of money ia wortii more than half a dozen old fiddles like luine.'^ .
"Never miud," suid tlie gentleman, " I only want to hii'6 it one lioiir."
"Very well; you can do what you will," said tbe owner.
The gentleman took the fiddle iu his hands, und then said to the old man: " Now, my mute, you talie the money, aud I will play.
The stran.ge gentleinun began to play. His mate looked at liira with great wonder; he was so stirred ihathecould hardly believe tlmt it waa his old vio¬ lin tiiat made such beautiful aounds.— Every nolo was like a jieurl. Tbe peo¬ ple, observing the strange aight, and healing sucb wonderful niuaic, stopped In curiosity. Every oue aaw that the flne-lookiug gentleniun waa playiiig for tbe poor man, but none knew who he waa. By and by they begun todrop money into the liut, and llie ohi dog seemed delightetl to receive ao many liieces of gold for his master. Tlie cir¬ cle of hearers became larger aud larg¬ er. Even the eiiachmen of tliesplendid carriages begged the people iuside to stop and hour tile iiiuBic. Gold, silver, unci copper were thrown into the hat by old und young; und it soon became so heavy thut the dog could hold it no longer.
" Empty your hat, old man," said the people, "aud we will fill it again."
The stranger kept on playing, and the people cried out, "Bruvo! bravo!" Even children seemed carried away will: rupture. At last he played that splendid song, "God bless tho Emperor Francis!" All bats aud caps flew ofl" their heads, for the people loved their emperor. Then the hour wius ended, and the musician handed back the vio¬ lin to the old man.
" Thank you," said he, " May God bless you !" and he disappeared in tlie crowd.
"Who is he? who Is he?" said the people. " Where does he come from ?" A person sitting inoneof thecoache said: "I know liim. It is-"Mexander Boucher, tlie great violinist. It is just like hiiu. He aaw the mnn needed help, und he determined to givo it in the best way he could,"
Tbe people theu gave three cheers for Boucher, and put more money in tlie old man's hat, Wheu he went home that evening he was richer than he had ever been before. When he went to bed, he prayed that God miglit bless good Boucher, so that when he should get to be an old man he might have gootl friends.
TEH ME,
Ilow to put the (incmtlon, Tc;acli mc. hiiiiiinlncc-blr.]—
You who win atl sw-i'elnt.-ss And never siiy :i word :
Ilnwrchall I come nenr lirr?
Tcocli me, wind of Mny— You who loy with api>l(..-l>loimjs
Nor brush the down uwuy!
Shall IslnBltorBiiy It?
Or do eyes tell beat? Xay, f t is already
A secret halrconre.sfled.
How to win the answer— For I'm scir... aim kiiovi-.s-
Tell me. dewundsuclslijiie, How yon opu uro.scjt
OXK
FOE THE LITTLE EOLKS.
LITTLE roc'KF.C IIAXDKKll- CIIli:i''.
THE ART OF BEING HAPPY.
They are a narrow minded people who look with contempt upon promi¬ nent singers becauae their principal huainess is solo.
Tlie art of being happy lies in the power of extracting happiness from common tliiuga! If we pitch our ex- pectationa high, if wc uro arrogant iu our pretensions, if we will not be happy except when our aelf-love is gratified, our pride stimulated, our vanity fed, or a fierce excitement kindled, then we ahall have but little aatisfaction out of thia life! Tiiewholeglobcisamuseum to those who have eyea to aee. Hare playa are unfolded before every man who can read the drama of life iutclli- geutly. Notgo to tbe theatres? AVick- ed to aee pl.aya ? Every street is a thea¬ tre. One eunnot open his eyes wUhout seeing uncnnacious players. There ure Otliellos, und Humlets, and Leara, and Fulstafl'a, Opheliaa, Eosaliiida, und Ju¬ liets, all nbout ua, Midaummer-uight dreama are performing iu our heavens, Happy? A wulk up uud down Fulton Htreet in Brooklyn ia aa good us a ]>luy. The childreu, the nuraes, the niuideiis, tlie raother.s, tho weulthy everybodies, the queer men, the unconscious buf¬ foons, tlie drolls, the earnest nonsense, aud file whimsical earnestness of men, the shop windows, the oura, the horses, thecarriages—bless us—there is not half lime enough to enjoy all that is to be seeu In these thiugs! Or, if the mood takes you, go iu und talk with the peo¬ ple—choosing, of course, fitting timea aud seasoua. Be cheerful yourself,und good natured and reapectfiil, and every mnn huausecret for you worth know¬ ing. There is a schhonl master waiting for you behind every door. Every shop-man haa a look of life diiferent from yours. Human nature puts on aa many kinds of foliage us trees dn, an is far better wortii studying. Anger is not alike in uny two men, nor pride, nor vanity, nor love. Every fool iaa special fool, and there is no duplicate. Wliat are trades and all kinds of busi¬ ness, but laboratories where the elherial thought is trnnamuled into some visi¬ ble shape of inatter ? What are work¬ men but translatoi-a of miud into mat¬ ter? Meu are cutting, sawing, filing, fitting, joining, polishing. But every article ia ao much miud condensed into matter. Work ia incarnation. Nobody knows a city who only drives along its streets. There ure vuulta understreeLs, ccllurs under houses, attics ahove, shops behind. At every step men are fonnd tucked awuy in some queer nook, doing unexpected things, themselves odii, and full of entertuiuing knowledge.
It is kindly syuiputhy with hnniun life that enables one to secure happi¬ ness. Pride is like an uusilvered glass, through which ali sights pusa, leaving no impresaion. But symputhy, like a mirror, cutchea everything thut lives. The whole world makes pleturea for a mirror heart. The beat of all is, tliat a kind heart nud a keen eye are uever within the sheriff's reach. He may sequester your goods. But he irunnot shut up the world or confiscute liumun life. As long us these ure left one muy defy Jioverty, neglect of friends, and even, to u degree, misfortune and sick¬ ness, and atill find hours brimful every day of innocent ami nourishing enjoy¬ ment.—Henry  Ward Jlcccher,
Without intelligence men know not what government means, and so can¬ not be goverued reasonably, and by such motives as our form of govern¬ ment requires. Without morality mau has not a character aafe for the family and neighborhood: regards not tlie rights of his species; therefore morality must be enjoyed by the State, and is essential, like intelligence, lo the sup¬ port ofgood government. Without re¬ ligion a man has no idea of the source audsacredness ofthe government; fear¬ ing not God, he is likely to disregard mun.
Just one litlle pocket handkerchief- such a pretty one—v,-liite, with a'bor- derof red leaves, und tiny red flowers all overtbc middle.; all liemnicd round the edge, too, bo pretty! but O, itiniule so mucli trouble for poor Plillopenu!
Philopena was a little girl who had only oue pocket handkerchief at home, unci tliat was an old one, pretty dingy, with a liole neur the midille.
I can't imagine how I'hilopenu hap¬ pened to do it. I really can't niider¬ stund it, but it cume about in thia wuy: The hull wua pretty cold that moruing, und all the children wlio came to the sewing scliool hud been standing by the registers to get wuiin. By and iiy they all went to their seals except two,, aud oue wua I'iiliopenn, and the other wus JIaggy Brown.
The little pocket handkerchief lay on the table beside Ihe great work basket full of comfortable and pretty garments fnr the girls ti> muke, nnd then lo have for their own when tliey were done.
Think of it, girls; just one littlo pocket hundkerchief lying riglit out all by itself. And the girls in the chisises were busy unfolding their work, au.l the teachers were busy watching the girls. Nobody .w-ua near but Muggy Brown, anil she hud just turned to look out of the window at u man going clown street wilh a hand organ on hi.s back, and Maggie hoped there miglit Ue a inonkev <m the organ. And, as I said before,'Philopena had only one pocket hundkerchief ut home, and that wua so old, with a hole near the middle.
Think of it, girls! ¦What would yon havedone? Butit is wliat Philcipenu did, that I have to tell; and all I can say is, that just then she started and hurried to her clasa ; she pusaiMl close by the table and the little i)o<;ket lianil- ' kerchief, and ufter that the hundker¬ chief was gone. O, how could Philopena do it? Juat then the Lady Superinteni^ent came along, and then up came Kitty Doolittle; and Kitty said, very politely, " If you please, ma'am, I left my handkerchief in thccliiss last time, My teacher s.i.vs it was put in the basket, and I could usk you for It,',
"O yes," .said tb« lady, "it is right here, I tliink. W.is it a red und white oue?"
" Y'es, ma'am, red and white. I Iicmu- med it myself, and my teacher .said I could tell mother I had dono it almost as well as ahe could."
" Why, where is that handkerchief?" said the lady. " I sav.' it here a mo¬ ment ago, and now it is goue."
Tlien ahe saw Maggy Brown standing close by. But the ludy never thought of auch a thing aa MciL-gy Brown taking the hundkerchief; but Maggy heard what she said, and felt aa if she miyhl think .so, and her honest little face clouded over, and the tears came into her eyes aud rolled over her pink cheeks a great many limes that morning.
Philopena heard all the lady had saicl, and saw poor Maggy Browu's tearful face, but ahe only sut still, and Kitty Doolittle, in the next seat, was crying over her lost hundkercliief.
Philopena heard Kilty's leariier say that if tliere had beeu another liund- kerehief, slie ahould have hud it, but tiiey were all gone, and she was very sorry.
Philopenasewcd so very industriously that morning, that her teacher told the class she wus a iiuttern to them all, and they muat try to do as she did ; and () how Philopena felt Iheu! Ker face burned und grew redder thnn the leaves on the handkercliief, hut she sewed away faster than ever, and all the time there was the hundkerchief hidden awuy under her little bib upron.
Now the Lady Superintendent knew very well that a hanclkereliief could not go off without hands, so she asked sev¬ eral teachers if they had seen it: but nobody knew anything abont it—that is, nobody but Philopena knew any¬ thing about it, and every time she saw the superintendent and tlie teachers speaking together, abe felt ua if they muat be talking :ibout that handker¬ chief. And then she sewed awuy faster than ever, so that with her hurry uml her hot little hands, she broke her needle. She went to drop it down the register, and there she heard two ladies talking, and one said,
"Well, we shall find It, I .am sure none of the girls would touch it,"
Philopena went back to lier .sewing, and O how slie wished nobody had touclied it.
When tlie school was out that morn¬ ing, Kitty Doolittle, her eyes red Willi crying, was wrapping herself up in her plaid shawl, and Maggie Brown, her pleasant smiles all goiiu,w.ispuIlingon her blue mittens, uud close by was Philopena, putting on her liood, with her-hunds up high over he.icl- Smne- thing white dropped on the floor, and the next minute Kitty Doolittle .shout¬ ed,   •
"Oh! oh! here's mypockot-huiiker- chief!     I wonder liow it cume here?"
Kitty's teacher cume along,  I she
wondered how it came there; aud she told the Lady Superintendent, and she wondered too. Kitly Doolittle went home happy, because she had founci her Iiaiidkercbief, uud she did not puzzle any,more about where il could huve been all the morning. Maggy Brown was glad because now nobody could think she hud it. And Philopeiiu— well, how do you au|ipciseshe felt? How ahonld you huve felt, if vou hud lieen in her place? She would hnve felt u great <le:il belter thun she did, if she had spoken out bravely uud told the whole truth. She did nut huve coura.ge to do that, but she was very thuiikicil indeed to have the handkerchief safely back aguiu iu Kitty's pocket.
II was a terrible weiglit off Piiilope- ua's mind, forlhathandkerchief would have been very he.ivy fnr her fo curry home. She never would have tukeii any pleasure in the border of red leaves und uU the tiny red flowers in tlie mid¬ dle.
The next week there wcre ever so many pocket hundkcrchiels in the great work b.isket, and the teachers gave oue to each liltle girl who had not already had one. Philopena's teacher said,
" Y'ou haven't been here but twice,
Philopc;na,   we  haven't  given  you u
handkercliief yet, have we?"
And Philopena, almo.st elinked, .said,
"No, ma'uni,"  speaking very  low,
indeed.
Aud then lier teacher handed her one with just such a wreath .if red leaves arouud it, aud the same tiny red fiow- ora in the middle.
Philopena almost .screumed when she saw it, and her poor, litlle fuce burned just as it did llie week before.
That waa another chuiice for Philo¬ pena to speak out; but her little heart waa too sore to do it, forall through fhe week she hud been thinking aud tliink¬ ing of the wroug thing she had done. She was sure she felt juat as ,sorry as if she had spoken.
She muy live to hevery old,.md have many strange thinga happen to her— but so long us she lives, alie will put aside templation and do right, just by remembering liow wicked uud sorry unci terribly unhuppy she feltabuut—luking the pocket hundkercliief,—iiVf/t Cor piorul.   	
The premium lazy man doea all his reading in the autumn, because tbe season turns the leaves.
Turu wliitlier-soever we will, we fiud the belief in immortulity. In every nution ever kuown, in every race Ihut hua ever lived, in every age of this chunging world, we find it. Every language knowu to man us now or here¬ tofore spoken among tlfe babblers of this earth, is constructed in uccordance with it. In all ages mon in dying \vxve looked on death as siinply the soul's pultiug ofl" its tabernacle. There are bx.- ceptions, but they are so few Ihiit they hardly attract our attentiou, and do not destroy the practical accuracy of our statement. The belief in immortulity is one of the universal convictiona of the race.
Jerrold said one day that he would make a pun upon anything his friends would put to him. A friend asked him whether he could pun upon the signs ofthe zodiac; to which he promptly replied, " By Gemini, I Cancer."