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Wouldst know Why I wait Ere the sunlight has crept O’er the fields where the daisies are growing ? Why all night I've kept my own vigils, nor slept? ’Tis toâ€"duy is’the day of the mowing. Maud has promised to tell What the blush on her cheek was half showing. If she waits zit the lane, I'm to know all is well, And there’ll be a. good time at the mowing. The clock has struck six. And she morning is fair, While the east in red splendor is glowing; There's u. dew on the grass and a song in the airâ€"â€" Let us up and be off to the mowing. Muud’s mother has said, And I'll never deny. That a girl‘s heart there can be no knowmg 0h, 1 care not to live, and I rather would die, If Maud does not come to the mowing. What is it I see? ’Tie [L sheen of brown hair In the lime Where the poypiea are blowing. Thank Godl it is Maudâ€"she is waiting me there, And there‘ll be B. good time at the mowing. Six years have passed by, And I freely declare That I scarcely have noticed their going ; Sweet;1 Maud is my wife, with her sheen of brown mir, And we had a. good time at the mowing. my mind’s eye, with a freckled complexion (he hates freckles), and a frightened gasp be- tween each word, and a. wholesome horror of wine, and a general air of hoping the earth will open presently to swallow her up." , An “ ()h 1 Molly Bmwn, Why leave me pimng, All lonely waiting here for you.”â€"Old Song “ What ! Can you believe it possible a lit- tle uneducated country girl. with probably a snub nose, thick boots, and no manners to speak of, can cut you out? Marcia, you grow modest. Why, even I, a man, can see her in ” She won’t be different. Her father was a wild Irishman. Besides. I have seen her sort over and over again, and it is positively cruelty to animals to drag the poor creatures from their dull homes into the very centre of life and gayety. They never can make up their minds whether the butler that announces dinner is or is not the latest arrival ; and they invariably say, ‘No, thank you,’ when asked to have anything. To them the fish-knife is a thing unknown and afternoon tea the wild- est dissipation.” "A: shé is totally difiererft from all this ‘2" I‘ll‘llél‘lgl can only hope and trust she will turn out just what you say,” says Marcia, laughing. four Kaye later, meeting her on his way to the stables, he throws her ‘a letter from his solicitor. “ It is all right,” he says,and goes on a step or two, as though hurried, while she hastily runs her eyes over it. ” Well, and now your mind is at rest," she calls after him, as she sees the distance widen- ing between them. “ For the present. yes.” “ Well, here, take your letter." “ Tear it up ; I don’t want it," he returns, and disappears round the angle of the house. 7;" He msy want it,” she says to herself, hes- itating. “ Business letters are sometimes useful afterwards. I will keep it fog lgim.”_ Wfierinfi‘n-gera form themsewlves as though about to obey him and tear the note in two. Then she pauses. _ u _ She slips it into her pocket, and for the time being thmks no more of it. That night, as she undresses, finding it again, she throws it carelessly into a drawer, where- it lies for many days forgotten. . . . - -. t is the twentieth of August ; in seven days more the “ little country girl with freckles and a snub nose" will be at Horst Royal, longing “ for the earth to open and swallow her up." To Philip her coming is a matter of the ostperfect indifference. To Marcia. it is an vventâ€"21nd an unpleasant one. When, some three years previously, Marcia Amherst consented to leave the mother she so sincerely loved to tend an old and odious man, she did so at his request and with her mother’s full sanction. through desire of the gold that was to be (it was tacitly understood) the reward of her devotion. There was, how- ever, enother condition imposed on her before she might come to Herst and take up perma- nent quarters there. This was the entire for- saking of her mother, her people, and the landpf her birth. To this also there was open agreement made ; which agreement was in private broken. She was quite clever enough to manage a. clan- destine correspondence without fear of dis- covery ; but letters, however frequent, hardly make up for enforced absence from those we love, and Merciu‘s affection for her Italian mother was the one pure sentiment in her rather scheming disposition. Yet the love of riches, that is innate in all. was sufficiently strong in her to hear her through with her task. But now the fear that this newcomer, this interloper. may, after all her detested labor, by some fell chance become a recipient of the spoil (no matter in how small a degree) causes her trouble. Of late, too, she has not been happy. Phil- ip‘s caldness has been on the increase. He himself, perhaps. is hardly aware of the change. But what woman loving but feels the want of love ? And at times her heart is racked with passionate grief. -S. H. M. BYERé, in Harper’s Magazine for July. Now, as she and her lip-lover stand side by side in the oriel window that overlooks the gravelled path leading into the gardens, the dislike to her cousin’s coming burns hotly within her. Outmde, in his bath-chair, wheeled up and down by a. long-suffering attendant, goes Mr. Amherst, in happy ignorance of the four eyes that watch his coming and going with such distaste. MOLLY BAWN. Up and down. up and down he goes, his weakly head bent upon his chest, his fierce eyes roving restlessly to and fro. He is still invalid enough to prefer the chair to the more treacherous aid of the stick. “ He reminds me of nothing so much as an Egyptian mummy,” says Philip, presently; “ he looks so hard, and shrivelled, and unreal. Toothless, too.” “ He ought to die,” says Marcia, with per- fect calmness, as though she had suggested the advisability of his gomg for a longer drive. “ Die !“ With a slight start, turning to look at her. " Ah ! yes, of course. But”â€" with a rather forced laughâ€"-” he won’t, take my word for it. Old gentlemen with unlimited means and hungry heirs live forever.” “ He has lived long enough," says Marcia. still in the same slow. calculating. tone. “ Of what use is he? Who cares for him ? What good does he do in each twentyâ€"four hours ? He is merely taking up valuable roomâ€"keep- ing what should by right be yours and mine. And Philip"â€"-laying her hand upon his arm to insure his attentionâ€"“I understand the mother of this girl who is coming was his favorite daughter.” “ Well,” surprised at her look and tone, which have both grown intense; “ that is not my fault. You need not cast such an upbmid- ing glance on me.” “ What if he should alter his will in her favor? More unlikely things have happened. I cannot divest myself of fear when I think of her. Should he at this late hour repent him of his injustice towards his dead daughter. he mightâ€"â€"â€"” She pauses. “ But rather than thatâ€"â€"â€"" Here she pauses again; and her lids falling somewhat over her eyes, leave them small but wonderfully dqu. “What, Murcia?" asks Philifr, with a and- den anxiety he would willmgly suppress, were it not for his strong desire to learn what her thoughts may be. “ Philip, how frail he is 1” she says, almost in a whisper. as the chair goes creaking be- neath the window. “ Yet what a hold he has on life! And it is I give him that hold~â€"I am the rope to which he clings. At night, when sleep is on him and lethargy succeeds to sleep, mine is the duty to reuse him and minister such medicines as charm him beck to life. Should I chance to forget, his dreams BY THE AUTHOR OF “PHYLLIS.” :1‘_his‘dp.y and this I‘lqur‘ MUWINGI might end in death. Last night, as I sat by his bedside, I thought, were I to forgetâ€"what then ?” “ Ay, what then ? Of what are you thinkâ€" ing?” cries her companion, in a. tone of sup- pressed horror, resisting by a passionate movement the spell she had almost cast upon him by the power of her low voice and deep. dark eyes. “ Would you kill the old man 2” “ Nay, it is but to forget," replies she, dreamily, her whole mind absorbed in her subject, unconscious of the eflect she is pro- ducing. She has not turned her eyes upon him (else surely the terrible fear and shrinking in his must have warned her to go no further). but has her gaze fixed rather on the hills and woods and goodly plains for which she is not only willing but eager to sell all that is best of her. “ To remain passive, and then”â€"- straightening her hand in the di- rection of the glorious View that spreads itself before themâ€"“ all this would be ours.” “Murderess !” cries the young man, in a. low, concentrated tone, his voice vibrating with disgust and loathing as he falls back from her a gtep _or‘_t»wo_. The words thrill her. With a start she brings herself back to the present moment, turns to look at him, and, looking,j slowly learns the truth. The final crash has come, her fears are realized ; she has lost him for- ever. “ What is it, Philip? What word have you used ?” she asks, with nervous vehemencz, as though only half comprehending. “ Why do you look at me so strangely ? I have said nothingâ€"nothing that should make you shrink from me." “ You have said enough"-â€"with a shiverâ€" “too much; and your face said more. I de- sire you never to speak to me on the subject again.” “ What! you will not even hear me ?” “ No; I am only thankful I have found you out in time.” “ Say rather you are thankful for this lucky chance I have afforded you of breaking off a detested engagement,” cries she, with sudden bitterness. “ Hypocrite! how long have you been awaiting it t?” “ You are talking folly, Marcia. What reason have I ever given you that you should make me such a speech ? But for what has just now happenedâ€"but for your insinu- ationsâ€"â€"” “ Ay”â€"s]owlyâ€"”you shrink from hearing yourrghoughts Rut in~to vyprdsfi’ I 1 TTNbFfiq Ehoughts,” protests he, vehe- mently. '7‘ I may have wished it." confesses he, re- luctantly, as though compelled to frankness. “ but to comgnss my Vispfto~â€" " “ NZ) ?" Searchingly, drawing a step nearer to him. “ Are you sure ? Have you never wished our_gra.ndf_a§he_r figgd ‘2” _ “ If you have wished it you have mur- dered," returns she, with conviction. ” You have craved his death; what is that but unut- tered crime? There is little difiference ; it is but one step the more in the same direction. And Iâ€"in what way am I the greater sinner 7 I have but said aloud what you whisper to your heart.” y 7‘: Bé silent," cries he, fiercely. “ All your sophistry fails to make me a. partner in your guilt_." “ I am the honester of the two,” she goes on rapidly, unheeding his anger. “ As long as the accutsed thing is unspoken, you see no harm in it; once it makes itself heard, you start and sicken. because it hurts your tender susceptibilities. Yet hear me, Philip.” Suddenly changing her tone of pas- sionate scorn to one of entreaty as passionate. “ Do not cast me OK for a few idle words. They have done no harm. Let us be as we were." ” Imposmble," replies he, coldly, unloosing her fingers from his arm, all the dislike and loathing of which he is capable compressed into the word. “ You have destroyed my trust in you." A light that means despair flashes across Marcia’s face as she stands in all her dark but rather evil beauty before him; then suddenly she falls upon her knees. “ Philip have pity on me 1" she cries, pain- fully; I‘I love youâ€"I have only you. Here in this house I am alone, a. stranger in my own land. Do not you too turn from me. Ah ! you should be the last to condemn, for if I dreamed of sin it was for your sake. And after all what did I say ? The thought that this girl‘s coming might upset the dream of years agitated me, and I spokeâ€"Iâ€"but I meant nothingâ€"nothing." She drags herself on her knees near to him and attempts to take his hand. “ Darling, do not be so stern. For- give me. If you cast me 03, Philip, you will kill not only my body but all that is good to “Do not touch me.” returns he, harshly, the vein of brutality in him coming to the surface as he pushes her from him and with slight violence unclasps her clinging fin- gers. .. M..\..“‘ The action is in itself sufficient. but the look that accompanies itâ€"hetraying us it does even more disgust than hatredâ€"stings her to self- control. Slowly she rises to her feels. As she does so, a. spasm, a contraction near her heart, causes her to place her hand involuntarily against her side, while a dull gray shade cov- ers her face. i‘YOUZVBVJéan," she says, speaking with the utmost difficulty, “ that allâ€"is at an endâ€"beâ€" tween us." r ‘V‘ri db mean that,” he answers, very white, but determined. “ Then beware !” she murmurs, in a. low, choked voice. VOL XXII. It is five o’clock in the afternoon, and Herst is the richer by one more inmate. Molly has arrived, has been received by Marcia. has pressed cheeks with her, has been told she is welcome in a. palpany lying tone, and finally has been conducted to her bedroom. Such a wonder of a bedroom compared with Molly’s snug but modest sanctum at homeâ€"a. very marvel of white and blue, and cloudy vir- ginal muslins, and filled with innumerable luxuries. Molly, standing in the centre of itâ€"una- ware that she is putting {111 itgs qtherubeautiqs to shameâ€"gazeé rouna her in her silent ad- miration, appreciates each pretty trifle to its fullest, and finally feels a vague surprise at the curious sense of discontent that pervades her. Her reception so far has not been cordial. Marcin’s cold, unloving eyes have pierced her, and left a little frozen spot within her heart. She is chilled and puzzled. and with all her strength is wishing herself at home again at Brooklyn, with JohuI and Letty, and all the merry, tormenting, kindly chil- dron. “ What shall I do for you, now, Miss Mol- 1y?" asks Sarah, presently breaking in upon these dismal broodings. This antiquated but devoted maiden has stationed herself at the farthest end of the big room close to Molly‘s solitary trunk (as though suspicious of lurking thieves). and bears upon her countenance a depressed, not to say dejected, expression. Like mistress, like maid. she, too, is filled with the gloomiest forebodings. “ Open my trunk. and take out my clothes,” says Molly, making no effort at disrobing, be- yond a melancholy attempt at pulling off her gloves, finger by finger. Sarah does as she is hidden. “ ‘Tis a tremenjous house, Miss Molly.” You stood before me like 1L thought, A dream remembered in a dreamy" CHAPTER XI. â€"-COLEBIDGE‘ “ Very. It is a castle, not a house.” “ There‘s a. deal of servants in it.” “ Yes.” Absently. ” Leastways as far as I canjudge with look- ing through the corners of my eyes as I came along them big passages. From every door almost there popped a heafl bedizened with gaudy ribbons, and I suppose the bodies were behind ’em.” “ Let us hope so. Sarah." Rising, and laughing rather hysterically. “ The bare idea that those mysterious heads should lack a decent finish fills me with the livliest horror.” Then, in a brighter tone. “Why, what is the matter with you, Sarah? You look as if you had fallen into the very lowest depths of despair.” “‘Not so much as lonesome, miss ; they all seem so rich and grand that I feel myself out of plaqe.” Molly smiles a little. After all in spite of the difference in their positions, it is clear to her that she and her maid share pretty much the same fears. “ There was a very proud look about the set of their caps,” says Sarah, waxing more and more dlsmal. “ Suppose they were to be uncivil to me. Miss Molly, on account of my being country-reared and my gowns not being, as it. were, in the height of the fashion, what should I do? It is all this, miss, that is weigh- ing me down." “ Suppose, on the contrary.” says her mis- tress, with a little defiant ring in her tone, stepping to the glass and surveying her beau- tiful face with eager scrutiny, “you were to make a sensation, and cut out all these super- cilioue dames in your hall, how would it be then? Come, Sarah, let me teach you your new duties. First take my hat, now my jacket, DOWâ€"~â€" u “ Shall I do your hair, Miss Molly f” “No,” with a laugh, “ I think not. I had one trial of you in that respect ; it was enough.” “ But all maids do their young ladies’ hair, don’t they, miss ? I doubt they will altogether look down upon me when they find I can’t do even that.” “ I shall ring for you every day when I come to dress for dinner. Once in my mom, who shall know whether you do my hair or not ? And I faithfully promise you, Sarah, to take such pains with the performance myself as shall compel every one in the house to ad- mire it and envy me my excellent maid. ‘See Miss Massereene’s hair !’ they will say, in tear- ful whispers. ‘Oh, that I too could have a. Sarah !’ By the bye, call me Miss Massereene for the future, not Miss Mollyâ€"at. least until we get home again.” “Yes, Missâ€"Massereene. Law! it do sound odd,” says Sarah, with a little respect- ful laugh, “ but high-soundng too, I think. I do hope I shan’t forget it, Miss Molly. Per- haps you W111 be good enough to remind me when I go wrong ?" A knock at the door prevents reply. Molly cries out, “ Come in,” and, turning,finds her- self face to face with a fine old woman, who stands erect, and firm, in spite of her many years, in the doorway. She is clad in n som- bre gown of brown silk, and has an old-fash- ioned chain round her neck that hangs far below her waist, which is by no means the most contemptible portion of her, “ I beg yéur paf‘don, Miss Massereene; I could not resist coming to see if you were q11itchmfogtab}e.” sh}; says. respectfully. ; “ Quite, thank you." refines Molly, in‘a de- gree puzzled. “ You are”â€"â€"-smilingâ€"“ the houspkeeper 2” _ “ I am. And you, my dear”~â€"regarding her anxiouslyâ€"“ are every inch an Amherst, in spite of yeur bonny blue eyes. You will forgive the freedom of my speech,” says this old dame, with an air that would not have dis- graced a. duchess, “ when I tell you 1 nursed your mother.” “ Ah ! did you ‘2” says Molly. flushing a lit- tle, and coming up to her eagerly. with both hands extended, to kiss the fair old face that is smiling so kindly on her. “ But how could one think it ? You are yet so fresh, so good to look at.” “ Tut, my dear," says the old lady, might- ily pleased nevertheless. “ I am old enough to have nursed your grandmother. And now can I do anything for you 1’” “ You can,” replies Molly, turning towards Sarah. whois regarding them with an expres- sion that might at any moment mean either approval or displeasure. “ This in my maid. We are both strangers here. Will you see that she is made happy 1’” 7 “Come with mars-grab, and I will make you acquainted with our household,” says Mrs. Nesbitt, pyompfily: _ A As the door closes behind them, leaving her to her own society, a rather unhappy shade falls across Molly’s face. A sensation of iso- lationâ€"lonelinessâ€"oppresses her. Indeed, her dlscoumging reception has wounded her more than she cares to confess even to her own heart. If they did not want her at Herst. why had they invited her? If they did want her, surely they might have met her with more civility; and on this her first visit her grandfather at least might have been present to bid her welcome. With careful fingers she unfastens and pulls down all her lovely hair unt11 it falls in ripâ€" pling masses to her waist. As carefully, as lingeringly, she rolls it up again into its usual artistic knot at the back of her head. With still loitering movements she bathes the dust of travel from her face and hands, adjusts her soft gray gown, puts straight the pale-blue ribbon at her throat, and now tells herself, with a triumphant smile, that She has got the better of at least half an hour of this detested day. N Ohrthat this hateful day were at an end I Oh for some way of making the slow hours run hurriedly 1 Alas, alas ! the little ormolu ornament that ticks with such provoking empressement upon the chimney-piece assures her that her robing has occupied exactly ten minutes from start to finish. This will never do. She cannot well spend her evening in her own room, no matter how eagerly she may desire to do so ; so, taking heart of grace, she makes a. wicked moue at her own rueful countenance in the looking- glass, and, opening her door hastily, lest her courage fail her, runs down the broad oak staircase into the hell beneath. Quick-witted, as women of her tempera- ment always are, she remembers the situation of the room she had first entered, and, passing by all the other closed doors, goesinto it. to find herself once more in Marcia’s pres- ence. “ Ah! you have come," says Miss Amherst. looking up languidly from her macmme, with a frozen smile that owes its one charm to its brevity. “You have made a quick toiletteâ€"" vnth s. supercilious glance at Molly‘s Quak- erish gown, that somehow fits her and suits her to perfection. “ You are not is.- tigugl z" V“ Fatigued !” Smiling, with a. view to con- ciliation. “ Oh, no ; it is such a little jour- neyfi? “ So it is. How strange this should be our first meeting, living so close to each other as we have done ! My grandfather's peculiar dis- position of course accounts for it ; he has quite a, morbid horror of aliens.” “ Is one’s granddaughter to be considered an alien .9” asks Molly, with a laugh. “ The suggestion opens an enormous field for reflec- tion. If so, what are one's nephew's, and nieces, and cousins, first, second, and third 7 Poor third-cousins ! it makes one sad to think of them.” “ I think perhaps Mr. Amherst’s incivility towards you arose from his dislike to your RICHMOND HILL, THURSDAY, JUNE 26, 1879. mother’s marriage. You don’t mind my speak- ing, do you? It was more than good of you to come here at all, considaring the circumstances â€"I don’t believe I could have been so forgivâ€" ingâ€"but I know he felt very bitterly on the subject, and does so still.” “ Does be? How very absurd! Amhersts cannot always marry Amhersts, nor would it be a. good thing if they could. I suppose, how- ever, even he can be forgiving at times. Now, for instance. how did he get over your father’s marriage ?” Marcia raises her head quickly. Her color deepens. She turns a glance full of dis- pleased suspicion upon her companion, who meets it calmly, and with such an amount of innocence in hers as might have disarmed a Machiavelli. Not a. shadow of intention mars her expression ; her widely-opened blue eyes contain only a desire to know ; and Marcia, angry, disconcerted, and puzzled, lets her gaze return to her work. A dim idea that it will not be so easy to ride roughshod over this country-bred girl as she had hoped oppresses her, while a still more unpleasant doubt that her intended snubbing has reeoiled upon her own head adds to her discontent. Partly through policy and partly with aview to show- ing this recreant Molly the rudeness of her ways, she refuses to answer to her question and starts a diflerent topic in a. still more freezing tone. “ You found your room comfortable, I hope, “ Quite all that, thank ~Qua,” cordially. " And such a. pretty room too 1” (She is un- aware as she speaks that it is one of the plain- est the house contains). “ How large every- thing seems! When coming down through all those corridors and halls I very nearly lost my way. Stupid of me was it not? But it is an enormous house, I can see." andâ€"all that 7’; ” Is it 7 Perhaps 50. Very much the size of most country houses. I should say. And yet, no doubt, to a stranger it would seem large. Your own home is not so ?" “ Oh, no. If you could only see Brooklyn in comparison! It is the prettiest little place in all the world, I think ; but then it is little. It would require a tremendous amount of genius to lose oneself in Brooklyn." “ How late it grows!” says Marcia, looking at the clock and rising. “ The first bell ought to ring soon. Which would you prefer, your tea here or in your own room? I always adopt the latter plan when the house is empty, and take it while dressing. By the bye, you have not seenâ€"Mr. Amherst?" “ My grandfather? No.” ” Perhaps he had better be told you are here." “ Has he not yet heard of my arrival ?" asks Molly, impulsively, some faint indignation stirriggjn her breast. “ He knew you were coming, of course ; I am not sure if he remembered the exact hour. If you will come with me I will take you to the library.” Across the hall in nervous silence Molly follows her guide until they reach a small ante-room, beyond which lies the “ chamber of horrors,” as, in spite of all her efforts to be indifferent, Molly cannot help regarding it. Marcia knocking softly at the door, a feeble but rasping voice bids them enter ; and. throwâ€" ing it widely open, Miss Amherst beckons her cousin to follow her into the presence of her dreaded guudfather. Although looking 01d. and worn, and de- crepit, he is still evidently in much better health than when we last saw him, trundling up and down upon the terraced walk, endeav- oring to catch some faint warmth from the burning sun. 1 His eyes are darker and fierc‘. his nose a shade sharper, his temper evidently in an un- corked condition; although he may be safely said to be on the mend, and, with regard to his bodily strength, in a. very promising con- dition. Before him is a table covered with papers, from which he looks up ungraciously as the girls_(=:nter. ‘ ” I have brought you Eleanor Massereene,” says Marcia. without preamble, in a tone so kind and gentle as makes Molly even at this moment marvel at the change. If it could be possible for the old man’s ghastly skin to assume a paler hue, at this announcement it certainly does so. With sup- pressed but apparent eagerness he fixes his eyes upon his new grandchild, and as he does so his hand closes involuntarily upon the paper beneath it; his mouth twitches ; a. shrinkin gpein contracts his face. Yes, she is very like her dead mother. “ How long has she been in my house ‘2” he asks, presently, after a pause that to Molly has been hours. still with his gaze upon her, though beyond this prolonged examination of her features he has vouchsafed her no wel- come. “ And it is now nearly six. Pray why have I been kept so long in ignorance of her ar- rival ‘2” Not once as he speaks does he look at Marcia, or at anything but Molly‘s pale, pretty, disturbed face. . .- .. 1v “ She came bythe half-past four train. Wil. liams met her with the broughgm.” n “ Dear grandpapa, you have forgotten. Yes- terday I told you the hour we expected her. But no doubt, with so many important matâ€" ters upon your mind,” with a. glance at the littered table, “ you forgot this one.” “ I did.” slowly, “ so effectually as to make me doubt having ever heard it. No, Marcia, no more excuses, no more lies; you need not explain. Be satisfied that whatever plans you formed to prevent my bidding your cousin welcome to my house were highly successful. At intrigue you are a proficient. I admire proficiency in all things, butâ€"for the future â€"be so good as to remember that I never for- get.” . .. ... .. .. ‘ o 1‘7 Dear grandpapa,” with a pathetic but very distinct sigh, “it is very hard to be mis- judged l" “Granted. Though at times one must own it has its advantages. Now, if for instance I could only bring myself, now and again, to misjudge you, how very much more condu- cive to the accomplishment of your aims it would be ! Leave the room. I wish to speak to your cousin.” W gut not daring to disobey, and always with the same aggrieved expression upqn 1361‘ £309, Marci? withdraws. .- . 1 7] As the door, closes behind her, Mr. Amherst rises. and holds out one hand to Molly.» 7‘7‘ You are welcome," he says. qulétly, but Goldy! and eyidently speaking With an effort. Molly, coming slowly up to him, lays her hands in his, while entertaining an earnest hope that she will not be called upon to seal the interview with a. kiss. “ Thank you,” she says, faintly, not know- ing what else to say, and feeling thoroughly embarrassed by the fixity and duration of his regard. “Yes,” speaking again, slowly, and absent- ly. “You are welcomeâ€"Eleanor. I am glad I have seen you beforeâ€"my death. Yesâ€"you are very likeâ€" Go I” with sudden vehemence, “ leave me; I wish to be alone.” Sinking back heavily into his arm-chair, he motions her from him, and Molly, finding herself a moment later once more in the ante- room, breathes a, sigh of thankfulness that this her first strange interview with her host is at an end. “ Dress me quickly, Sarah," she says, as she gains her own room about half an hour later, and finds that damsel awaiting her. “ And make me look as beautiful as possible; I have yet another cousin to investigate, and something tells me the third will be the charm. and that I shall get on with him. Young men”â€"â€"ingeniously, and forgetting she is expressing her thoughts aloudâ€"“ are certainly a decided improvement on young women. If, however, there is really any understanding between Philip and Marcia, it will rather spoil my amusement andâ€" still I need not torment myself beforehand, as that is a. matter I shall learn in five min- utes.” “ There’s a very nice young man down- stairs, miss,” breaksin Sarah at this juncture, with a Bimper that has the pleasing effect of making one side of her face quite an inch shorter than the other. “What I you have seen him, then ‘2” cries Molly, full of her own idea, and oblivious of dignity. “ Is he handsome, Sarah? Young? Describe him to me.” “ Yes I Do go on, Sarah, and take that smile off your face ; it makes you look down. right imbecile. Short! Stout! Good gracious! of what on earth could Teddy have been think. ing 7” 7‘ His manners is most agreeable, miss, and altogether he is a. most gentlemanlike young man.” " Well, of course he is all that, or he Isn’t anything ; pm sfgul !â€"â€"-" “ Not a bit stiffish, or uppish, as one might expect, considering where he come from. And indeed, Miss Molly,” with an irrepressible giggle, “ he did say as howâ€"â€"â€"” “ What ‘3" icily. “ As how I had avery bewidging look about the eyes.” “ Sarah," exclaims Miss Massereene, sink- ing weakly into a chair, “ do you mean to tell me my Cousin Philipâ€"Captain Shadwellâ€" told youâ€"had the impertinence to speak to you aboutâ€" â€"-” v “ Law, Miss Molly, whatever are you think- ing about 7â€"Oaptnin Shadwell ! why, I haven’t so much as laid eyes on him ! I was only speaking of his young man, what goes by the name of Peters.” “ Ridiculou !” cries Molly, impatiently; then bursting into a. merry laugh, she laugha so heartily and so long that the Somewhat puzzled Sarah feels compelled to join. “ Short. and stout, and gentlemaulyâ€"ha, ha. ha ! And so Peters said you were bewidg- ing, Sarah? Ah 1 take care. and do not let him turn your head ; if you do, you will lose all your fun, and gain little for it. Is that a, bell? 011, Sarah ! come, despatch, despatch, or I shall be late, and eternally disgraced.” The robing proceeds. and when finished leaves Molly standing before her maid with (it must he confessed) a very selfâ€"satisfied smirk upon her countenance. “Lovely!” says Sarah. with comfortable haste. “ There’s no denying it, Miss Molly, Miss Amherst below, for all her dark hair and eyes (and I don’t say but that she is hand- some), could not hold a candle to you, as the saymg isâ€"and that’s a fact." A“ How am I looking, Sarah? I want a can- did opinion ; but on no account say anything dispgragipgii “ Is there anything in all the world.” says Miss Massereene, “ so sweet as sincere praise? Sarah, you are a charming creature. Good- bye ; I goâ€"le’c us hope -â€"â€"to victory. But if not â€"if I find the amiable relatives refuse to ac- knowledge my charmsâ€"I shall at least know where to come to receive the admiration I feel I so justly deserve l” So saying, with a little tragic flourish, she once more wends her way down-stairs, trailing behind her her pretty white muslin gown, with its flecks of coloring, blue as her eyes, into the drawing-mom. The close of autumn brings to us a breath of winter. Already the daylight. has taken to itself Wings and flown partially away; and though, as yet, agood deal of it through com- passion lingers, it is but a half-hearted daily- ing, that speaks of hurry to be gone. The footman, a young person of a highly morbid and sensitive disposition, abhorrent of twilights, has pulled down all the blinds in the sittingrooms, and drawn the curtains closely, has lit the lamps, and poked into a blaze the fire that Mr. Amherst has the Wis- dom to keep burning all the year round in the long, chilly room. Beefore this fire, with one arm on the man- tel-piece and one foot upon the fender, stands a young man, in an attitude suggestive of melancholy. Hearing the rustling of a woman’s garments, he looks up, and, seeing Molly, stares at her, first lazily, then curiousâ€" ly, then amazedly, thenâ€"~â€" She is quite close to him; she can almost touch him ; indeed, no further can she go without putting him to one side ; and still he has not stirred. The situation grows embar- rassing, so embarrassing that, what with the ludicrous silence and Philip Shadwell’s eyes, which betray a charmed astonishment, Molly feels an overpowering desire to laugh. She compromises matters by smiling, and lowering her eyelids just half an inch. “You do hot want all the fire, do you ?" she asks. demurely, in a low tone: ‘ “I beg your pardon," exclaims Philip, in his abstraction moving in a direction closer to the fire, rather than from it. “ I had no idea I was, 1"” doubtfullymH am I speaking to Miss Massereene ?” "You are. And Iâ€"l know I am speaking to Captain Shqdwelll “ We are cousins, then,” says Miss Molly. kindly, as though desirous of putting him at his ease. " I hope we shall be, What is far better. friends." “ YAes,” slowly. “ That is my nameâ€"Philip Shadwell.” “ We must be ; we are friends," returns he, hastily, so full of surprise and self-reproach as to be almost unconscious of his words. Is this the country cousm full of freckles and mauvaise hunte, who was to be pitied, and lectured, and taught generally how to be- have 7â€"whose ignorance was to draw forth groans from pit and gallery and boxes? A hot blush at his own unmeant impertinence thrills him from head to foot. Were she ever, by any chance, to hear what he had said! Oh,perish the thought Iâ€"it is too hor- rible l" “You should not stare so,” she says, se- verely. with an adorable attempt at a frown. “ And you need not look at me all at once, you know, because, as I am going to stay here a whole month. you will have plenty of time to do it by degrees, without fatiguing yourself. By the bye,” reproachfully, “ I have come a journey to day, and am dreadfully tired, and you have never even offered me a chant; must I get one for myself ?’ ’ A little laugh from Molly somewhat restores his senses. “ He is short, miss. and stoutish, andâ€"and “ You have driven any manners I may posâ€" sess out of my head," replies he, laughing too. and pushing towards her the cosiest chair the room contains. ” Your sudden entrance bewildered me -, you came upon me like an apnarition ; more especially as people in this house never get to the drawing-room un- til exactly one minute before dinner is an- nounced.” " Why 57” “ Lest we should bore each other past for- giveness. Being together as we are every day. and all day long, one can easily imagine how a very little more pressure would smash the chains of politeness. You may have heard of the last straw and its disastrous conseâ€" quences ‘2” “ I have. I am sorry I frightened you. To-morrow night I shall know better. and shall leave you to your silent musings in peace.” “ No ; don’t do that I" says her companion, earnestly. “ 011 no account do that. I think the half-hour before dinner, sitting by the fire, alone, as we are now, the best of the whole day ; that is, of course, if one spends it with a congenial companion.” “ Are you a congenial companion ?” “ I don’t know,” smiling. “ If you will let me, I can at least try to be." “ Try, then, by all means." In a moment or twoâ€"“ I should like to fathom your thoughts,” says Molly. “ When I came in there was more than bewilderment in your face; it showedâ€"how shall I express it? You looked as though you had expected something else.” “ Will you forgive me if I say I did ?" “ What, then 7 A creature tall, gaunt, weirdâ€"-â€"â€"” H No.” “ Fat, red, uncomfortable ‘2” This touches so nearly on the truth as to be unpleasant. He winces. “ I will tell you what I did not expect,” he says, hastily, coloring a little. “ How should I? It is so seldom one has the good luck to discover in autumn a rose belonging to June.” His voice falls. “ Am I one ?” asks she, looking with dan- gerous frankness into the dark eyes above her, that are telling her silently, eloquently‘ she is the fairest, freshest, sweetest queen of flowers in all the world. The door opens, and Mr. Amherst enters, then Marcia. Philip straightens himself, and puts on his usual bored, rather sulky expresâ€" sion. Molly smiles upon her grumpy old host. He offers her his arm. Philip does the same to Murcia, and together they gain the dining-room. It is an old, heavin wainscoted apartment, gloomy beyond words, so immense that the four who dine in it to-uight appear utterly ost in its vast centre. Marcie in an evening toilette of black and ivory sits at the head of the table, her grand- father opposite to her ; Philip and Molly are vzs-a-vis at the sides. Behind stand the foot» men, as sleek and wellâ€"to-do, and imbecile, as one can desire. There is a solemnity about the repast that strikes but fails to subdue Molly. It has a contrary effect, making: her spirits rise, and creating in her a very mistaken desire for laughter. She is hungry, too, and succeeds in eatlng a good dinner, while altogether She comes to the conclusion that it may not be wholly impossible to put in a very good time at Herst. Never does she raise her eyes without en- countering Philip’s dark ones regarding her with the friendliest attention. This also helps to reassure her. A friend in need is a friend indeed, and this friend is handsome as Well as kind, although there is a little some- thifig or other, a suppressed vindictiveness, about 1118 expression, that repels her. She compares him unfavorably with Lut- trell, and presently lets her thoughts wander on to the glad fact that to-morrow will see the latter by her side, when indeed she will be in a position to defy fateâ€"and Marcia. Already has she learned to regard that dark-browed lady with distrust. “ Is any one coming to-morrow .9 asks Mr. Amherst, apropos of Molly’s reverie. “ Tedcastle and Maud Darley.” “ Her husband ?" “ I suppose so. Though she did not men- tion him when writing.” ” Poor Darley l" with a. sneer; “ she never does mention him. Any one else ‘2” “ Not to-morrow.” “ I wonder if Luttrell will be much a1- tered,” says Philip; “ browned, I suppose, by India, although his stay there was of the shortest.” " He is not at all browned,” breaks in M01- ly, quietly. *' You know him '1‘" Marcia asks, in a rather surprised tone. turning towards her. “Oh, yes, very \Qéll,” coloring a little. “ That is, he was staying with us for a short timeratBrooklyp.” “ Staying with you 5’" her grandfather re- peats, curiously. It is evidently a matter of wonder with them, her friendship with Ted- castle. “ Yes, he and John, my brother, are old friends. They were at school together, alâ€" though John is much older, and he BaySfâ€"f" Mr. Amherst coughs, which means he is displeased, and turns his head away. Marcia gives an order to one of the servants in a very distinct tone. Philip smiles at Molly, and Molly, unconscious of offence, is about to re- turn to the charge, and give a lengthened ac- count of her tabooed brother, when luckily she is prevented bv a voice from behind her chair, which says : “ Champagne, or Moselle ‘1” “ Champagne,” replies Molly, and forgets her brother for the moment. “ I thought all women were prcjudiced in favor of Moselle,” says Philip. addressing her hastily, more from a view to hinder a, recur- rence to the forbidden topic than from any overweening curiosity to learn her taste in wines. “ Are not you ‘2“ “ I am hardlyin a position to judge,” frank- ]y, “ as I have never tasted Moselle, and champagne only once. Have I shocked you ? Is that a very lowering admission ?” Mr. Amhei‘st cough; again. The corners of Marcia’s mouth take adisgusted droop. Philip laughs out loud. “ On the contrary, it is a very refreshing one," he says, in an interested and deeply amused tone. “ more especially in these de- generate days when most young ladies can tell one to a turn the precise age, price, and retailer of one’s wines. May I ask when was this memorable once ?” “ At the races at Loaminster. Were you ever there? I persuaded my brother to take me there the spring before last, and we went.” “ We were there that year, with a large party,” says Marcia. I do not remember seeing you on the stand.” MAI‘ING LUNIBER FRONI STBA“' We read in the Oshkosk. (Wis.,) Northwest- em : “ A gentleman of Busnell, 111., re- cently exhibited some samples of lumber that have attracted much attention amon the lumbermen, and which, if it possesses all the virtues that are claimed for it, is certainly one of the most important inven- tions of its kind ever brought to notice. If it is a success it will form a new era in the art of building. To make hardwood lumber out of common wheat straw, with all effects of polish and finish which are obtainable on the hardest of black walnut and mahogany, at as little cost as clear pine lumber can be made tip for, is the claim of the inventor, and the samples which he produces would go far toward verifying his claims. The process is as follows 2 He takes ordinary straw board; such as is usually manufactured at any paper mill is used for the purpose. As many sheets are taken as are required to make the thick- ness of lumber desired. These sheets are‘ passed through a chemical solution which thoroughly softens up the fibre. and com- pletely saturates it. The Whole is then passed throuin a succession of rollers, dried and hardened during the passage, as well as polished, and then comes out of the other end of the machine hard. dry lumber, ready for use. The inventor claims that the chemical properties hardening in the fibre entirely pre- vents water-soaking, and renders the lumber combustible only in a very hot fire. The hardened finish on the outside also makes it impervious to water. The samples on exhi- bition could hardly be told from hardwood lumber, and in sawing it the difference could not be detected.” WHOLE N0. 1,094â€"NO, 3; [TO BE CONTINUED ] Swinburne is meditating on the Shakes- pearean age and literature. \Vlmt he will bring out of it is a. question hard to answer. Poets of his class should confine themselves to something below the Shakespcrcau stim- dard. His voluptuous style is not in ac- cordance with the unapproachable manner of the poet of all time. a 7 Biography is now the rage. N0 books take so well as the lives of great men and the sayings apd doung 9f t_hosemof lesser note. A parody on Stanley‘s “Through the Dark Continent” is shortly to be issued under the title of “Through the Light Continent,” a. book written by Mr. W. Saunders on the United States. It will be looked for with much interest. Mrs. Oraig, better known nsDinah Muloch, author of “ John Halifax, Gentleman," and other works such as “ Felix Holt. the Radi- cal," has been writing fiction for more than twenty ygm‘s. ._ u .1 y..- With the exception of the venerable Mr. Collier, now verging on his hundredth year, no one has done so much to elucidate the great English dramatist as Mr. Cowden Clarke, who has just issued “The Shake- spearean Key." It is republished in this country. A work with a preface to it by Mr. John Bright will be it sensation indeed. It is en- titled “Free 'l‘i'ade in Land,” and is from the pen of the late Mr. J oaeph Kay. Of course the title was enough to enlist the Quaker member in its behalf. A very useful work is announced in Engâ€" land respecting the laws of quarantine and the preservation of health in diiferent coun- tries. It is by Sir Sherston Baker, :1 well- known writer on international law. One and. All is file title of a. new weekly penny paper about to be started in London. Englgmrl. A 11110 pditor‘is Mr: George R. Sims. A memoir of James Dm , of Dunbar, author of the “Fifty Years’ Struggle of the Scottish Covenanters,” is soon to appear. It will be a work of great interest. A Scottish writer of considerable note, Mr. John Ramsay, is dead. He at one time worked as a carpet weaver, and contributed to the Edinburgh Litcrm‘y Gazette. He also Wrote “Wood Note; of a \Vanderor.” He had reached the remarkable age of seventy-seven. Mr. Ewald, a Wellâ€"known political writer, has in press two volumes with the title of “ Representative Statesmen,” commencing with the great Straflord and coming down to the present time. .x in. Henry James, jr., has astory called “ The Diary of a. Man of Fifty,” in the July Harper. It has been hinted that the story is not abon himself, as he is too young for that by nearly cane-half. We see that many of the literary men of America have gone abroad this summer. Is it not strange that so many should be seekers after health and pleasure at the same time ?., “ White and Black in America,” is the title of a. book by Sir George Campbellâ€"the mem- ber of Parliament who took Lord Lorne to task so sharply respecting the Canadian tariffâ€"which purports to give the results of his observations during a tour of the United States. It is interesting at all times to read of the sayings and doings of the great master minds in the literature of the past, and a volume has recently appeared which is calculated to afford the highest degree of gratification in that respect. The book comprises the selected correspondence of the late Macvcy Napier, who, while editor of the “ Encyclo- pedia Britannica” and of the Edinburgh Review, necessarily held correspondence with most of the literary men of the day. These letters are remarkable as bringing out in the frecst manner the expressions of the various writers. Here is an instance. Lord Brougham, speaking of EMacaulay, says : “Why will Macaulay fancy that alusaious style is fine writing ? and why will he disgust one with talking of men’s blue eyes, etc.” How amusing after this to hear Macaulay say: “ Brougham’s absurdities are merely pitiable while he confines himself to his pen." Again, Brougham expressed surprise that Macaulay had praised Lord Clive, “ for," he said, “ I have his own letters in his own hand to the contrary.” Lord Jeffrey, the giant of the Edinburgh Review, speaking of Tom Carlyle, remarked in reference to a paper Napier wanted for the Review :-â€"-“I fear Carlyle will not do. that is, if you do not take the liberties and the pains with him that I did, by striking out frequent- ly and writing in occasionally. The misfor~ tune is that he is very obstinate, and, unluck- ily, in a place like this he finds people enough to abet and applaud him to intercept the operation of the otherwise infallible remedy of general avoidance and neglect. It is a great pity, for he is a man of genius and in- dustry, and with the character of being an elegant and impressive writer.” Only think of the author of so many works which have elicited world-wide praise to be spoken of in this manner by one so capable of estimating the merits of a writer. Jcfi'rey, writing to Napier, said of the late Mr. W. 0. Bryant, the American poet, a re- view of whose poetry he had promised :â€"â€"“I have done nothing with Bryant. He is a Felicia Hemans in brooches.” \Vriting of Brougham, whose pohtical works he declined to review, he said :â€"“The books are not first- rateâ€"meritorious and valuable, perhaps, but not admirable.” Strange he should thus have written of the man who did more to assist him in writing up the Edinburgh than any one else. In one of Lord Brougham’s letters this singular incident is mentioned :â€" “When Princess Charlotte died, the Whigs, knowing I was acquainted with the Duke of Kent, got me to write and urge his losing no time in taking a wife, to keep out the Duke of Cumberland, whom they then disliked and feared far more than they have 511100 done. I have his answer, acceding to our request, stating his difficulties, chiefly pecuniary, but when he came over he presented me to the Duchess, and good humordly observed that I had had a hand in the match." Her Majesty Queen Victoria was the only child of the Duke of Kent. How admirably the arâ€" rangement was carried out. Macaulay being asked to review “ American Notes,” the book Dickens wrote after visiting the United States, the first time, he thus unbosomed himself '. “ It was impossiblefor me to review it ; 110): do I think that you would wish me to do so. I cannot praise it and I will not cut it up. I cannot praise it, though it contains a few lively dialogues and descriptions ; for it seems to me to he as a whole a failure. It is written like the worst parts of “ Humphrey’s Clock." What is meant to be easy and sprightly is vulgar and flippaut, as in the first two pages. What is meant to be fine is a great deal too fine for me, as the description of the Falls of Niagara. A reader who Wants an amusing account of the United States had better go to Mrs. Trollope, coarse and malig- nant as she is. A reader who Wants informaâ€" tion about American politics. manners and literature had better go even to so poor a creature as Buckingham. In short, I pro- nounce the book, in spite of some gleams of genius, at once frivolous and dull. There- fore, I will not praise it. Neither will I attack itâ€"first, because I have eaten salt with Dickens ; second, because he is a. good man and a man of real talent ; third, because he hates slavery as heartily as I do, and fourth, because I wish to see him enrolled in our blue and yellow corps, where he may do excellent work as a skirmisher and sharpâ€" shooter.’ â€"The telephone is speeding on the good work. A telephone has been placed in the Congregational church at Mansfield, !Ohio, the wires leading to the houses of several aged and invalid persons. It surmounts a floral decoration on the table in front of the open platform, where it is hardly seen. The speaker pays no attention whatever to it, yet every word uttered in the auditorium is easily heard in the rooms of the dwellinga which the wires reach. The first message from the minister was from Scripture: “The word is nigh unto thee.” “His words runneth ‘very swiftly," OUR SPECIAL ()0 LULVIN‘ LITERARY