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4* \r ~~ " "" _ *r ' JT^III^p^l i^ewis m. grist, Proprietor, j ^n |nbcpcniienf Jfantilg ffetospper: Jar tjje promotion of tj? political, Social, ^griraliural anb Commercial Interests of tj?e jj>ont|>. |terms?$3.00 A YEAR, O ADTMCE. VOL. 18. YOEKVILLE, S. O., THURSDAY, FEBRUARY 8, 1872. NO. 6. " - ? 1 - -t!-t Jta ?riginal frfer f torn., =- ?===!< Written for the Yorkville Enquirer. ! j THE OAKHURST ROMANCE. {J BY iURS. HENRY DEAS. . 1 CHAPTER VIII. |t The family at the Grange were seated that j h morning around the breakfast table, when j ? Tom, the butler at Oaklands, made his ap-, pearance. I v "I beg your pardon, sir," he said, respect- j 0 fully touching his woolly locks to the master j j of the house, "but I found this letter on Mass y Brooke's table, and I felt kinder anxious, j, under the circumstances, to know if anything was the matter. It's uncommon for him to j, go off so early, and his bed ain't been slept in oil ? j an m6ui? , ^ "A letter to me ?" said Mr. Conway, taking i 8 it. "In explanation of his departure, I sup-! ^ pose?you say he has gone off, Tom ?" ! v "Yes, sir, and left Pedro behind." j ^ "He said nothing yesterday about intending | ^ to go away," remarked Minnie, while her j ^ grandfather opened the envelope. v "A note for Arly, inside. Tom, you can a carry it up to him?or stop. Gracious Heav- g en, what's all this?" c "Is anything the matter ?" asked Ethel, ti anxiously, as she noted the expression of the I old gentleman's face. "Wait?I can't tell you yet. I'll be back ^ presently; I must read this alone." And n hastily rising from the table, he retreated to his study, in such evident agitation and ex- ^ citement that the two girls sat looking at each s, other in dismay, while the faithful Tom stood y within the doorway, the picture of anxiety g on'! /JinfrAss and murmured a broken eiacula tion expressive of his hopes for his master's j safety. a When Mr. Conway had locked himself ift y his study, and carefully read and re-read the a fatal epistle penned by poor Brooke on the t eve of his departure, it would be impossible u to describe the mingled emotions of astonish- p ment, incredulity and grief that agitated his mind. He would fain have believed the 8 whole thing a delusion; but then Brooke e could not have taken such a step without suf- n ficient reason for being certain of the grounds ? he acted upon. y "That old witch was certainly distraught," groaned poor Mr. Conway. "Good God, why ^ couldn't the boy have come to me and told y me the whole thing ? I would have advised g him what to do." And then he read over j, Brooke's words, "Do not blame me for acting e precipitately or without cause in this matter; ^ the statement of a dying woman, confirmed c by a solemn oath, is evidence I dare not dis- ^ believe. I am perfectly convinced of its truth. c I have been strongly tempted, my more than a father, to confess my secret to you, and throw E myself upon your judgment, but I feared ^ your counsel might tally only with the wishes v of your heart, and I cannot trust sufficiently ^ to my own strength to resist such counsel." j a Then Mr. Conway broke*iuto a storm of in- v diguation. "Heartless! unfeeling! to desert h those nearest and dearest to him in such a manner! If this stuff w true, need anybody j| outside of the house have been any the wiser ? 0 whereas the affair will now be public talk, d Doesn't he know that it will almost kill poor h Aily ?' And then he softened into tears of J pity over the pathos of Brooke's farewell, re- c penting of his own harsh words just uttered, n and seeing nothing in the rash step "the boy" had taken but high-toned heroism and honor. v Meantime Arly had heard something of a r letter from Brooke, and a mystery of some c sort connected with it, and sent an imperative t message down stairs to find out all about it. c Presently Ethel came running up to his room. a "What is it, Ethel ?" he cried impatiently. 8 "Can't any one tell me what is the matter ? v Has anything happened to Brooke ?" ( "Indeed, dear Arly, I can't tell you. Grand- a papa is still in the library, and the door is J locked. I am afraid there is something wrong." J, "Do go down again, and find out. I must a know, Ethel; I can't stand the suspense." h So Ethel went down, and knocked at Mr. s Conway's door, and told him she was afraid s Arly would work himself into a fever of ex- I citement and apprehension if he could not find c out what had happened. ? "There it is,"said Mr. Conway. "Of course, f he will tret a fever, and I have no doubt it c will kill him in the end. So much for head- r strong folly aud rashness. I suppose I must c go up to him at once. Read this, Ethel, and e you will find out all about it. Where's that t note he wrote to Arly ?" r Ethel found the note and gave it to him, * and theu sat down to peruse Brooke's letter, a As she read it, a strange mist and blindness i' came over her sight"; a quick, sharp pain-like v a spasm crossed her heart, and with a low cry t her face sunk upon her hands. She sat thus c for a little while, like one stunned ; theu she took up the letter and read it through again f to the end. Yes, there it was, written too a plainly to be doubted ; Brooke was gone, no * one could tell whither, and she would probably never see hina again. He was gone, sor- ^ rowful and broken-hearted, with none to com- J fort him, and his home would know him no more. I Then the thought occurred to her that some t one might overtake him?perhaps it might ? not yet be too late for a messenger to be sent t after him. He could not be far away yet; i surely, something might be done. But then she knew her grandfather must have taken j all that into consideration; and besides Brooke, t if he wished to elude discovery, had no doubt s taken measures to avoid it. There were sever- ( al early trains from Oakhurst, going in differ- s ent directions, and by one of these he had 1 probably gone. With this last reflection how- t ever came a gleam of hope; everybody at i Oakhurst knew Brooke, and if he had taken ( the cars there they would perhaps be able to \ find out which way he had gone. If she could j only suggest something to her grandfather! i perhaps he was too worried to think. Per- j ( haps Arly might think of some plan ; he was j so thoughtful and clear-headed. And then j t her heart ached to think of Arly, and how he t would be crushed by this dreadful blow. She must think of him, now more than of herself, i By and by she heard her grandfather's steps i coming down stairs. He came in, and throw- j j ing himself into a chair, cried like a child. {i "Oh ! Ethel, my boy, my brave, noble boy !" he said brokenly. "That such a blight should I i have fallen upon his life." j1 "Grandpapa, is there no hope of his being I ] overtaken ? can't something be done ?" I ? "I shall have everything done that I can ; j tut I fear there is no hope of overtaking him. )f course, if he does not wish to be followed, le can easily avoid discovery. Ethel, do go ip to Arly ; you can do more for him than ;ny one else." Poor Arly! the news had come upon him j ike a thunder-clap, but he refused to take in he full extent of the calamity. Ethel found lira sitting upright on his couch, his face lushed and his eyes glittering as if with fever. "Why, Ethel, I don't give up?I don't doubt | ?e shall find him soon. And as for the rest j fit, I don't believe it. It is all an invention. I Jrooke not my brother! it is absurd. Don't j ou see, yourself, that the whole story is an mpossibility ?" "Not an impo8?ibiHy, dear Arly, though it 3 all very dreadful." "Not an impossibility ! why, how on earth ould such a deception have beeu practiced, md carried ou for so many years, and never i ave been found out? Of course, that old I mman was not in her right mind. I am as- i onished that Brooke should have listened to j ier. When it is all represented clearly to | im, I am sure he will be convinced. And re can soon find out what route he has taken, nd send after him. Oh! if I was only able to ;o myself! Nothing on earth could hinder i ae from finding my brother. Why don't you j alk, Ethel ? don't you see the reason of what have been saying ?" "I am afraid you are encouraging yourself o hope too much," said Ethel, gently. "To ae it all seems very hopeless." "What; you believe it, then ? I could not ave thought every one could be so blinded," aid Arly, with feverish excitability. "And J ou don't think he will be found, either, I j uppose." "I hope he may?I pray he may. Oh 1 j k -1" T rrtTTo ouortrfViincr T nnogpsq tr? he I nuuiugm, v.v.;....-b - f-~ , ? ble to think as you do, but indeed, I am afraid ou are encouraging yourself in a delusion, nd then the truth will be harder to bear in he end. If God has really sent this trouble ;pon us, we must pray for strength to bear it latiently." "Upon us. As if my trouble could be hared by any one upon earth. Oh! ray brothr, my brother." He hid his face for a moaent, then looked up with renewed confidence. But I am sure he will be found, Ethel, and ou will see that everything will come right." Ethel thought it best to let him hope while ie might; though her fear that his hopes rould prove delusive was destined to be conirmed. Mr. Conway went to Oakhurst, and, a as guarded a way as possible, made every i nquiry that could lead t.o Brooke's discovery, iut not the faintest trace of his whereabouts ould be obtained. No one had seen him ou he morning of his departure, and, as far as ould be learned, he had not taken passage on ny of the early trains. Every effort was aade to gain some information concerning iim, but in vain ; and when at last days and reeks had rolled away and all search had ?een baffled, they were fain to give up hope, nd even Arly was forced to yield to the coniction that his brother was indeed lost to i im. And now a gloom fell upon the Grange and Ls inmates, nearly as deep as that which had vershadowed it when Frank, Mr. Conway's larling son, the pride and hope of his heart, iad fallen in that fatal duel with Edward Eraser, and Kate Conway had deserted her j hildhood's home, the bride of her brother's I ?J auruerer. Arly gave way to no violent grief, but it ras touching to see how, day by day, his sorow wore upon him. His old, bright buoyany was gone, and a patient, hopeless resignaion took its place. He never murmured or omplained, but his pale cheek grew thinner ,nd paler, and his listless movements and abent manner showed plainly how deep was the round his gentle spirit had received. Mr. Jon way looked ten years older than before, ,nd though after a time he ceased to speak of Srooke, it was evident he was constantly in tis thoughts. Ethel, perhaps, felt as deeply 3 any the sorrow that had visited the house- j idd, yet hers was the office to cheer and con- j ole the Test. She was constantly with Arly, triving with'affectionate persistency to divert lis thoughts from the one sad subject that oppressed them, and she was rewarded by inding that he learned to turn always to her or comfort, and to talk to her unreservedly if his feelings, and of the thousand and one j aemories of the past so dear to his heart, be- J ause they were all associated with the brothr he so dearly loved. For Arly never ceased o think of Brooke as his brother, never could ealize that there was any change in his posiion, save what he had voluntarily brought .bout by absenting himself from home. One [lea had presented itself to hi3 raind from I'hich Ethel vainly strove to divert him, and hat was that he would die before Brooke ever ame back. "I know he will come," he would say; "I eel sure, that he will, one day, to see you all igain; but I will not be here to welcome him lome." "Dear Arly, don't talk in that way," Ethel vould reply. "If he ever does come, I hope 'ou will be the very first to greet him." Minnie found the dullness around her opjressive, and said she thought it very hard hat what had happened should make it as jloomy and sad as if there had been a death in he house, when after all, it was really nothng to them. "Of course, Ethel, it is bad enough, and ,'ou know I liked Brooke very much; but afer all, he isn't really Brooke, you know?that leems so queer!?and as he isn't Arly's broth;r at all, I don't see that he ought to grieve io about it. And grandpapa is so awfully sient, and looks so woe-begone, that I feel ac;ually afraid to open my lips. Sometimes I vish I were back at Summerfield; only I have iverything here so comfortable and nice, vhich I wouldn't have there." And Ethel answered reproachfully, "Oh ! Minnie, will you never cease to think continually of yourself?" Poor Minnie, that was her greatest misfor;une. She was never absent from her own ;houghts. On Mrs. Ransome's house in Richmond the lews of what had happened came with a ter ible shock. The good lady felt as if a great lersonal wrong had been done her, and was virtuously indignant in consequence. "I never heard of such an outrageous thing n ray life!" she exclaimed. "To think of Brooke Evershara beiug nothing but an imlostor! could anybody have believed it ? and ny daughter to have stood in danger of marry ; ing hira ! Only suppose she had actually become his wife! why, she would have had no name?would absolutely have been Mrs. Nobody! And to think of her trousseau being nearly ready, and everything. What will people say ? We will be the talk of the town. And I, who have always tried so hard to do my duty in life, to be the victim of such a misfortune; to have my daughter treated in such a way. I must say it's very hard. And to think of all the property going to that lit tie hump-backed boy. It's frightful to think of; it really is. I dou't see anything to be done, Clare, but for your papa to take you with him to Europe; then perhaps people will forget about it." "I am very willing to go to Europe, mamma, if you desire it; though I'm sure I don't care much what people say," Clare answered wearily. She was tired of hearing the subject discussed in that way ; it grated horribly on her feelings. "Not care what people say 1 I must say, Clare, you are very difficult to understand. I believe you are very glad to be out of it, for my part." "Not glad to be out of it at such a cost," said Clare. "I care enough for Brooke, mamma, to wish most truly that this misfortune Ko/1 not ViafnlIon Kim Vnn oftn't think me so utterly heartless as not to think of him." "I don't know about your being heartless ; I only know that this engagement of yours has been a source of enough trouble to us all;1 to me, at any rate." "I am sure that is no fault of mine," said Clare. "In the first place, you know you brought the engagement about; I doubt if Brooke ever would of thought of it otherwise." , "Yes, reproach me; I deserve it, no doubt. | That is the reward I get for trying to secure your happiness. But it is always the way. I Henceforth I shall let you alone, and I trust you may be the happier for it." "I trust so," Clare could not forbear saying. "Heaven knows, I have not been very happy so far. I don't mean to be disrespectful, mamma, but indeed, you goad me into saying it." "Oh ! you may say exactly what you please; I goad you into it, I have no doubt. I am a ; most cruel and unfeeling person, I am well aware; but I wash my hands in future of| your affairs; you may manage them as you please." And the much-tried lady wound up with a burst of tears. All of which was not particularly cheering to Clare, whose position at this time was cer a?: cm ? UXllliy a bijaug unc. kjnc wao uccyij ^ucvcu to hear of Brooke's misfortune, and compassion for him at first swallowed up all other considerations; but she was not absolutely indifferent to the opinions and criticisms of society, and it was very painful to her to think that her affairs would soon become a subject of general discussion in the circle of her friends and acquaintances. Every one would pity her, of course, and her soul revolted against pity. She hated the idea of going about and meeting people she knew, and being stared at and commented upon ; so upon the whole she was not averse to the idea of going abroad with her father for the summer months, at the end of which time she trusted the commotion excited by the affair would have blown over. Mr. Ransorae, who was a good-hearted man, was particularly kind and considerate to his daughter at this period, which was the more consolatory to her, as her mother chose to assume a peculiarly dignified and distant demeanor. He had sincerely liked and esteemed Brooke, and was heartily sorry for this sudden and unwelcome turn in the tide of his fortunes. "He doesn't deserve such a hard fate ; upon my word he doesn't," he said. "Of all men, he deserves to prosper, because he's such a fine, generous, warm-hearted fellow. I still hope he may come out all right in the end." Brooke had himself written to Clare, to tell i her the whole matter. In this letter, after making the needful explanations, he said, "It is some consolation for me to know that in breaking off our engagement you will ex' nAMlAMrtO * I A rv O 1 n KoTTrtn A +1, of TIT Vl 1 /-?Vl 1TAI1 TTTlll P"CUW Ul(J U JVIA ?^X be generous enough to feel in regard to my sufferings. On the latter I do not care to dwell, nor have I a right to force them on your notice. The reversion I have met'with is one too tremendous for me quite to realize even yet. I am bereft not only of ray position in the world, but of my very name; my nearest and dearest earthly ties are broken, and I will have to begin life totally anew. Under such circumstances, our future paths will be so widely separated that it is not likely we shall ever meet again, or if we do, that we can be otherwise than as strangers to each j other. You have my sincerest wishes for your happiness, which I doubt not can be much more effectually secured than it would have been by a union with me. God bless you, Clare, try to forget my faults, and in thinking of me occasionally, let your thoughts be kind, as of one who is dead and buried away out of your sight." "He never really cared for me," said Clare, as she wiped away the tears the letter had called forth. "Poor Brooke, if it were not for the dreadful misfortune that has led to the breaking of our engagement, I dare say he would be glad of the escape." Then her thoughts went traveling off in another direction, and she began to wonder if | there might really be such a thing as happi* } ness in store for her. Of course, she knew it t was selfish to be thinking of her own happiness just yet; but she could not quite help hoping that, now that she was free, Paul might come back some time to seek to win the love he had vainly sought before?or rather which, when he had found it, dared not disclose itself to him. That was the worst of it. He did not know that she cared for him ; he had believed her heart to be in her engagement, and he would ! noPdoubt think she must be crushed and bro| ken-hearted by the catastrophe that had be| fallen her. She was to sail on the sixteenth of May, J however, and had not much leisure to indulge j in reflection. Her wedding outfit came into I play, in the preparations for her tour, and she J could not help thinking, as she inspected and j arranged the various articles, what a different I purpose they had been destined for, and what j a strange and uncertain thing was worldly | prosperity, liable to be overthrown without a j moment's warning, in the most unexpected ; and improbable manner. Everything would be useful to her, except the silk destined for I her bridal dress, a heavy white moire, which i Mrs. Ransorae decided was too costly to be | wasted, and got exchanged at the store where ! it had been purchased for some plainer and j more useful substitutes. The sixteenth came, and the ship sailed and Ethel read the names of Mr. Ransom* ! and his daughter in the list of passengers in i New York paper, and showed the list to hei i grandfather. | "Heartless mince !" said the old gentlemar ! with a look of great disgust. "No doubt she'i gone off to enjoy herself, without giving i thought to that poor boy's trouble. I nevei ' had the least opinion of her; never." j Arly grew stronger as the syramer wore on I and Ethel was encouraged about him. Wit! his usual unselfishness he strove to bear hit burden as much in secret as might be, anc not let the weight of it fall too heavily or others. He did not suspect how fully his kinc nurse and gentle comforter shared it with him Since Brooke had gone, there was a vacancy in her heart that nothing could fill; yet sh< constrained herself to be always equable anc cheerful in manner, and none who witnessec 1 x ? -1 fa fKa tin ner irtuujuu iuuvcuicuu, uuu iuui?vk ?uv ?... ruffled smoothness of her brow, could gues how keen a pain she bore. Poor Pedro was now domesticated at th< Grange, and was rarely out of Arly's presence He still watched and waited for his master': return, and at the sound of every coming foot step would raise his head and gaze in wistfu expectation toward the door, only to croucl down again in disappointment at finding hi: hopes unrealized. Poor fellow, he could no understand the first deception ever practicec on him by the master he loved and trusted s< thoroughly. He was the only recipient o Ethel's secret?a secret until lately unconfess ed even to herself. She would fondle him an( stroke his shagy hair, and whisper to him when no one else was present, the confessioi that made her cheeks burn and her laahe; droop with shame and self-condemnation. Foi she did not know that this hidden love o hers, which had sprung up in her modes breast, was ofall things the boon which Brook* would most have prized and cherished, or tha the knowledge of it would have inexpressiblj cheered and consoled him on his lonely way. "Ah, Pedro! if I might have shared hi: fortune, whatever it is to be?if I might havi borne the humblest name he chose to take on/1 onnttiod Vii'o rrripf and lightened his heavi auu puwvuvu iuw MM v. . -Q ..? . ^ burden, how happy and grateful I would hav< been." CHAPTER IX. In the autumn came an invitation for Ethe to spend some time with one of her friends ii Summerfield. She debated the question som< time before accepting; but as Arly was nov pretty well, and both he and Mr. Conwaj urged her to make the change, she finally de , cided to do so. "I declare, Ethel, I wish I was going witl you," said Minnie regretfully, as she watchec her sister packing her trunk. "I do thinl Mary Lawton might have asked me too." "They know you are going to school, Min nie; and besides, the Lawtons' house is no large. I dare say they will ask you somi other time." "Well, I hope so, I'm sure. I would like i change of some sort; it's awfully gloomy her* now and I shall be uo lonesome when you ar gone, I won't know what to be after. I be lieve I'll try my hand at a flirtation witl Arly, by way of amusement." "Minnie!" exclaimed her sister reproach fully. "Well, you needn't look so shocked. I cai say a thing in fun, can't I ? And even if I wa in earnest, where would be the harm ? Th fact is, Ethel, I believe sometimes you ar in love with Arly yourself." "You do not know what you are speakinj of," said Ethel with considerable displeasur* in her tone, for Minnie's levity jarred on he feelings. "You should notchoosesuch a them to jest on." "Jest 1 I'm not jesting. Why shouldn' it be so ? I am sure I have heard you lau< him to the skies dozens of times; and yoi know he thinks you an angel upon earth, s< you would just suit each other." "We are very fond of each other, Minnie but you know perfectly well the sort of affec tion that exists between us." "Well, if I were you I would try and cul tivate the other sort of affection ; I think i would be an excellent idea." "Perhaps I do not care about taking you advice on the subject," said Ethel, now realb provoked at her persistency. "Then, to return to the original plan ; wh; shouldn't I try ray hand ? Seriously speak ing, Ethel, I don't know that I could do bet ter than to marry Arly." "Marry Arly! Minnie, what are you talk ing about?" "You are very dull of comprehension, sistc: mine ; I am sure my words are plain. I say that when one takes into consideration Arly' immense property, it almost tempts one to pu aside the thought of the disadvantages at tending it?I mean, in the person of the owner I have arrived at the conclusion that it wouh ko Ktt nn moo no on nmlosirfthlfl t.hinc to h< l/v UJ uw "" O ? established as mistress of Oaklands witl Rawley Park, etc., etc., in the background.' "I don't think it is at all becoming in you Minnie, to speak in such a manner. In fact such a child as you ought not to discuss sucl a subject under any circumstances; and ii the present case, I think it is unfeeling, a well as improper," said Ethel, warmly. " Child !?what nonsense, Ethel, when yoi know I'm nearly sixteen. As for its beinj improper, 'tis no more than plenty of othe girls would think, if they didn't say it; am I can't see how you can call it unfeeling. Di you suppose Arley is resolved never to marry?' "I don't suppose any thing about it. I an certain it is a question I never would ask him Only I beg of you, Minnie, not to trifle witl his feelings, or act inconsiderately toward hin when I am gone," said Ethel, earnestly. "I you do, I shall really think you have n< heart." Whereupon, Minnie, with a gay laugh, bi( i ? ... i--x? i? ?J :r I ner sister not jeciure ner, uuu us&eu n out meant to accept as sober earnest every jestinj word she said. "There's no such thing as having a littli fun with you, Ethel, you're so dreadfully practical and matter-of-fact. Please don' | look so serious, or I shall really think I hav< been saying something horribly improper. ] promise to take care of your pet while yoi are away." "Promise to be a good girl, Minnie, an< always act kindly, and I shall be satisfied." "Oh! I will be as good as gold, never fear you have no idea how saint-like I shall be come. Now, Ethel, don't stare at me so; ! ;' really am speaking in earnest. I do promise <3 i I you to do all that's right." 1 i J With this promise given in Minnie's reck- c r j less, half-laughing way, Ethel was obliged to g be content; yet her sister's careless words re- s 1 ! curretl more than once to her afterward, bring- x 3' ing an uneasy feeling to her mind. j 1 i [ "I don't know how I shall get on without J t r you, Ethel," Arly said when she told him good- \ bye. "I half repent my advice to you about a , j going." i ; And her grandfather said, as he placed her 1 3 i in the carriage, 11 I j "Child, you are the sunshine of the house. 1 : Who will cheer us up when you are gone ?" 1 "It is pleasant to be missed," thought Ethel, . as she drove off. And then her thoughts r went traveling before her to her childhood's i home, which she had not seen for over a year. 1 Her journey was an uneventful one, and 1 she arrived safely at Sumraerfield, where the - warmest of welcomes was awaiting her. Her 3! old friend and schoolfellow, Mary Lawton, ; was delighted to meet her again. 2 "I declare, Ethel, it's a perfect age since you went away, or at least it seems so. How 3 j did you leave Minnie? Are you quite well -j yourself? You look so pale." I j Ethel confessed to being a little tired, but i! said she was quite well. Her friends, howevs! er, all decided that she was certainly thinner II than when she went away, and kind, mother1 ly Mrs. L awton declared that what she > j needed was a change of air to fatten her up, f! and that she did not mean to let her leave - them until the desired effect had been accom1 plished. , "Your native air will do wonders for you, ? I know. Are you glad to see Summerfield 3 again, Ethel ?" Mary asked, r "Y es, very," said Ethel, smiling through f the tears that rose to her eyes, for there were t such sad as well as pleasant associations con- 8 - nected with her childhood's home, that she 4 could not find herself once more in the well ^ r remembered places without a thrill of sorrowful regret and yearning for the past. 1 9 "We willhavesuch delightful times togeth2 er !" pursued Mary, anxious to change the cur> rent of her thoughts. "Father gave me a r beautiful horse at Christmas, so spirited, yet 2 as gentle as a lamb, and you know there's old Gray?you remember Gray, don't you ??so we can ride out every afternoon. Then there is to be a pic-nic soon, at Meadow-bank, and of course we are all going. And everybody 1 here has been so anxious for you to come back. 9 "Oh 1 Ethel, I can't tell you how we have 3 missed you! I have your class in Sunday7 school, and I don't believe the children like 7 me half as well. By the way, you know the - Bishop is coming next month, and Barton Elliott is to be ordained." i "Is he ?" Ethel's interest was aroused by 1 this information regarding her old friend and t playmate. "Is he going anywhere afterward ?" "He will stay here and do duty for his fatht er for a time. You kuow I wrote you that e the old gentleman had been very ill, and he has not recovered yet. We have been having i Mr. Wells every other Sunday until lately, g but now we have only lay-reading. Our e choir is wonderfully improved, Ethel ; Clara Holmes resigned, and Miss Phillips has taken i her place, and she has such a delightful voice. Only think, they are going to make me or ganist when Barton gives it up; I am frightened at the idea of playing on the Sunday 3 that the Bishop is here, but I practice very a hard, and I hope I won't break down. You e must help us in the choir again while you are e here." "Very well; but I never did much, you j know." 0 "And now I have given you the village r news, you .must tell me something about youre self. How do you like Oakhurst ?" "It is a pretty, pleasant place, but I don't t go there a great deal, except to church ; I am 1 a good deal at home. There are a great many 1 nice people on the different plantations ) around; Annie Harris is ray most intimate friend. You would like her so much, Mary, i, if you knew her." <r "And Minnie goes to school still ? I should think she would consider herself quite a young - lady, now." t "So she does, but after all, she is barely sixteen you know, and she needs keeping back r a little. Her head is rather too full of com- < j pany and dress." 1 "At her old tricks, I suppose," laughed ? y Mary. "I do think it was comical to see how < . Minnie used to flirt even when she was a little ? - child. By the way, Ethel what was all that 1 about a Mr. Eversham that she wrote to ? - Lucy Elliott; you never mentioned it in your f letters." r "About Arly Eversham ?" 1 , "He is the deformed one, isn't he, who b lives in the house with you ? I meant about t t the other one." 1 "It was a very sad story," said Ethel, busy>. ing herself with her trunk that Mary might f 1 not catch the changing expression of her face, t 0 which she could not quite control. i 1 "There was a mistake in the name, or some- 1 ' thing, was there not ? I did not seethe letter, * on/1 T.nnw wno nnt. vArr clear in her account of it, but sho said Minnie wrote that it had i i caused quite a commotion, and made you all * 3 dreadfully gloomy." I s "We could not help being gloomy; Brooke was a very intimate friend, just like grand- 1 i papa's own son, and he and Arly were devo- t r tedly attached to each other." i r "They were not brothers after all, were ^ 1 they?" 3 "No, but Arly "never can realize that; he t ' loves Brooke just the same." s i "An old woman changed him as nurse t . didn't she?" i "Yea, that was her story." r i "Why, it was a real romance, wasn't it? 1 f And he went off, nobody knows where. Per3 haps he will turn out to be some very dis- p tinguished person after all. 1 Ethel could.not pursue the subject; it was e 3 too painful a one to be discussed, and she v J changed it to some indifferent theme. Mary e had plenty of questions to ask about her life o 2 at the Grange?did she ride much, had she i f nice books, was her grandfather very kind t and indulgent ? There was so much to talk I B about that a summons to dinner came before F t they expected it, and Ethel had to hurry ^ 1 through changing her traveling-dress, which d she had delayed, thinking she had plenty of * 1 time. The Lawtons were hospitable, warm-hearted i ; people, and their unfeigned pleasure at having * i- Ethel in their midst made her feel happy and r at home. In the evening several of her friends F [ropped in to see her, among them young Eliott. He, out of the whole number, was the tnly one who was not demonstrative in his ;reeting, and Ethel thought his manner contrained and almost cold, but she little guessed rhat a depth of feeling was concealed under lis forced calmness, or how hard he found it o steady his voice, as he uttered the simple eords, "Miss Ethel, I am glad to see you igain at Summerfield." Ethel had a cheerful evening, and went to >ed finding it hard to realize that so long a irae had elapsed since she had left Summer ield, everything was so familiar ana unshanged. She realized it more fully, however, the next lay, when, in walking out with Mary, she jassed by the cottage that had formerly been ler mother's, now occupied by strangers, and vearing a less trim and tidy look than it had lone in those days. The flower-garden had i neglected air; grass and weeds were growng in the walks, and the rose-vine that she lad trained over the front-porch was withered ind drooping. Mary told her that she beieved the inmates were very respectable >eopIe, but thought more of the useful than he beautiful, and cultivated vegetables in jreference to flowers. Then they went to the :hurch-yard, and Ethel stood long by her nother's grave, now marked by a costly stone >f pure white marble, in the form of a cross. Hie turf was carefully trimmed, and a wreath >f flowers lately placed upon it showed that oving hands had been at work. "I come here very often and attend to it," Mtory said; and do you know, Ethel, Barton Elliott brines a wreath nearlv everv Sundav norning ? I did not know at first who it was hat did it, until once when I came earlier ban usual I found him here." "He is very kind?you are all very kind," aid Ethel, gratefully. "It is a great comfort o me to think that this is not neglected, since [ am obliged to live so far away." One of Ethel's first visits was to the kind Doctor Anthony and his wife. They were ejoiced to see her, and Mrs. Anthony exacted 'rom her a promise that she would spend at east a few days with them during her stay in Summerfield. The weeks that followed were pleasant onee .0 Ethel; she nee.ded a little diversion after the adness of the atmosphere in which she had ived for some time past, and the kindness and iffection of her friends were successfully exited to restore the cheerfulness of her mind, rhe rides she daily took strengthened and invigorated her, and tended greatly to enliven ler spirits, for there are few things more bracing and healthful for both body and mind ;han a long, rapid ride in the country on a iresh autumn day. The Lawtons were deighted at the change which soon became apparent in her, and declared, after a fortnight aad elapsed, that they would not have known ler for the same girl who had come to them coking so pale and thin. mi . !-i.J iL. T>:_1 ?_ _ !i ine lime apponueu iur me -Disnupo viou ;vas now approaching, and was to be one oi musual interest to the people of Summerfield, is their rector's son, known among them from a child, was to be admitted into Hoi; Orders. There was also an unusually large lumber of candidates for confirmation. The day arrived, and the little church was illed to its utmost capacity, many of the perions present not belonging to the congregation, lut all feeling a warm interest in Barton, to whom they were sincerely attached. The solemn and impressive service was rendered more solemn by the feeble movements and eroacia;ed appearance of the Hector, who himself presented his son to the Bishop, having made in effort to leave his sick room for the first ,ime since his illness. The face of the young leacon, always of a spiritual cast, appeared ;o glow with a holy and beautiful light, and ,hose who caught its radiant expression felt ;hat he was indeed fitted for the sacred office ;o which he had just been appointed. In the afternoon the rite of confirmation ivas administered, and the-newly-made clergynan preached his first sermon on the occasion. "How well Barton acquitted himself," Mary emarked to Ethel, as they walked homeward ogether. "Weren't you surprised at his eloquence ? He always seems so quiet." "Yes, I thought his sermon a very fine one." "Father says he considers him more talmtn/l linn \Y*? IT.IIintt T a>iaVi vd^nnM Innlf /UlfCU l/UUU JLU1 MtilVVVi ik 1IMU (IV VVM?%? ?vv? brward to having him always here, but father ays the Bishop told him -tha^Bapton deserved a wider field of action than "tfris^ and' that is soon as the old gentleman is strong enough ;o do duty again he means to appoint him to i church somewhere else, where he will get a jood salary, and become well known besides." "That will be an excellent thing for his amily, as well as for himself," said Ethel. "Yes, bat a great loss to us. We?I mean .he village in general, will miss him dreadfuly when he goes." Ethel glanced at her friend, and fancied, ?rora the warmth of her tone, that perhaps here might be a more special cause for her nterest in the young divine, and her regret at lis prospective departure, than she had hithsrto supposed. A few evenings later, as Ethel was returnng alone from a visit she had been paying to i friend, Barton Elliott overtook her, and prolosed accompanying her the rest of the way. "I shall be very glad of your society, and I lave no doubt the Lawtons will be delighted o see you," she replied, thinking that he vould not be unwilling to have a pretext for visiting Mary. "I don't know about going in at the Lawons, I only want to talk-to you," he rejoined, md I consider myself fortunate in finding his opportunity of doing so." Ethel did not know exactly what reply to oake to this remark, so they walked on. in sience for a little way, At last she said, "I hear there is some proslect of yourleaving Summerfield. Is it true." "Yes, I have a very good prospect before ne; better than I ever ventured to look forward to. The Bishop has kindly promised ae a church in R , where they are in need f a clergyman. It is of my future, Ethel, hat I wished to talk to you." She was a little surprised at his calling her Dthel, for he had not done so for several years iast; she noticed too that his manner was nerrous and hesitating, as if he was. laboring unler some embarrassment But she answered lim, very kindly, "I am sure all your friends must take an nterest in yonr future welfaite, and none do so core seriously than myself." "My salary will not be very large at first," >ursued Barton, speaking in the same nervous [ manner, "until 1 take priests oraers, wmcn i you know I will do in a year's time. After | that it will be increased." j "Yes," said Ethel, finding herself called I upon to reply. { "And then?it will be enough to enable me f to support a home of my own?not a very ; nice one?and we would have enough for our | wants." | " We?oh!" said Ethel, smiling archly, as i she fancied she had caught the drift of his ; words, "I think I understand you now." "Do you ?" said Barton with a radiant look. "0, Ethel, may I hope?would you be content with such a life? My future will indeed be blest if?" "Stop," said Ethel in dismay. "I did not know?pardon me, Barton, I was wrong in saying that I understood yon. I don't know exactly what you mean." "Mean! why I mean that I love you from my soul, Ethel, and that a position and a salary will be of very little value to me, unless you consent to share them with me." And Barton, holding her hand tightly in his, which trembled a good deal, looked at her so imploringly that Ethel could hardly bear to answer, "Indeed, Barton, I am more grieved than I can tell you, but?it cannot be." "Cannot be," fee echoed. "Then you cannot learn to love me?" "I shall always like you very much?as much as any friend I have; and I hope we shall always be friends," said Ethel. "And nothing more ?" "Nothing more, Barton. I am so very, very sorry for this," said Ethel feeling greatly troubled by his look of intense pain and disappointment "It is entirely unexpected, I never imagined such a thing for an instant" "I have loved you for years," said Barton, I sadly, "but I never dared to tell you before. Oh 1 Ethel, I feel as if a blight were cast over my whole life." 1 "Please don't say that; you can't think j how badly it makes me feel, almost as if I had done you some wrong. Think what a j field of usefulness lies before you, and how 1 much good you can do." j "How much more I could have done, if? 1 but there is no use of speaking of that now j Just now when you answered me in tha I bright way, I fancied that you really under- I stood me, and it made the disappointment I more cruel." 1 "No, it was all my mistake. I thought? 1 you will not mind my saying it ?" A "No?I cannot mind anything you say." M "I thought you were alluding to Mary Lawton." "Mary Lawton ! I never had the remotest JH , idea of such a thing." .JH "I don't know what gave me the impression , but I had it, and it made me so glad." 9 "Glad," Barton echoed drearily. "I feel as II noining couiu ever wane luc giau uu uim world again." ? They walked slowly on, Ethel looking, as fl sha felt, nearly as unhappy as her rejected lover. Her gentle heart was grieved at the wound she had been forced to inflict upon him, and she began to wish heartily that she had jgfl i never come on the visit to Summerfield. ** But the mischief was done, and there was 'iflj , no helping it; and after a while she began to , And something to say, trying to lead his thoughts away from the subject that was so painful to them both. He forced himself to answer her, but it was chiefly in monosylla- ' jjj bles, and she was glad when the uncomforta- v,3ful ble walk came to an end, and they reached Mr. Lawton's gate. Viffl "One word, Ethel," he said, detaining her as she was about to enter; "can you give no hope /" jfcF** "No," she answered gently. "I cannot give you any. Please try and forget that this eveJr |?flB happened, Barton, and be happy some other ' W Easy counsel! when he had just put all his Jfl happiness to the stake and lost it Poor Bar* ton, lie walked away in the twilight with heavy heart It was a cruel downfall to hifj^jl^l hopes; from his boyhood he had loved Ethel* and looked forward to the time when he might win her for his wife. He had so cherished dream that she would one day share ab&j^^H lighten his labors in the path of duty he Haqy^^H marked out for himself that.now, the sweet delusion being fled, that path looked vexyir^^H dreary and desolate to be trodden alonfe*. Gould he tread it alone? Would he be able to fulfill the solemn vows he had taken himself, and conscientiously perform his doijpr>j9B with this bitter grief and regret lying at bis heart ? Would not the constant vain yesjrn* ing after, an unattainable happiness come fe- : tween him and the sacred requirements of his ^ Such a tempest of longing and rebellious grief rose in his heart, that he was almost frightened. With such feelings, was ho in-,^BM deed fit to bo a clergyman ? He went aside' into a solitary place, and casting himself dowmj^^H wrestled alone with the strong spirit that so nearly overcome him. Fervently he ptayefl^^H that he might learn to view his disapjftffcn|^^HH ment'in a right light, that this, or any oth&fl|H trial* miodit, never come between himaalf "??? ""b""? the God to whose service he had devoted luttfl^^H self. More then en hour thus passed befoa^^HB he felt sufficiently calm to proceed on his waj^^^H but he conquered in the end, and the peaoeffl^^^H stars, as he walked home beneath their Bgjj^^^^H looked down upon a spirit chastened down in utter humility and self-abaaem^^^^^H yet resigned and submissive to the Jfl To none did he ever betray his hopes, and in his unselfish home-life, changing gentleness and considerationJflH^^^^H ere, no trace remained of the temnd^^^^^^^J so shaken him. Ethel soon after this received^^^^^^^^^^H Minnie which caused her some said her grandfather had been feelli^^^^H^^H of late; his spirits were also very bfuBH^^^^^H appeared anxious for Ethel to retux$lg||^^^^H| Minnie said, he had not bidden her sayacP^^^^^B on the contrary appeared pleased she was having such an agrearfSgj^^^^^^H Ethel was not sorry to have so goodjfcs^^^^^^H for leaving Summerfield without iiui?jqpQ^^^^H| and in two days after the reoeipt of was on her homeward way. She reached Oakland in safety, from her grandfather's coachman Conway was pretty well; but on he^MQfl^^^JH the Grange sne found him looking and was thankful she had not put ing. Arly was much as usual) her with a warmth that went am truly delighted said Minnie. "It's again in a [to be