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Vague rumors also arrive from Arabia and the Hedjaz of a movement on a large scale among the Bedouin Arabs who have been ex- cited by the recent assassination of the Grand Shereef of Mecca, and who are also suffering from want, and have upon more than one occasion levied large contributions on some of the towns on the banks of the Euphrates. ‘ There is, moreover, the Greek frontier ques-, tion still to be settled, and there can be little doubt that it will be solved in the way least satisfactory to the Turks, who will probably now be compelled to cede to Greece, in addi- tion to the territory already partly agreed ,' upon, the valuable province of Janina. against the cession of which to Greece the Conserva- ' tive Government in England firmly protested. The strongly pronounced Slav and Hellenic sympathies of Mr. Gladstone and his adher- ents will now be allowed full play, and it will be curious to watch the attitude which will be adopted by Germany and Austria under these new circumstances. The Slav popu< lation of Bosnia and Herzegovina recently annexed by Austria complain bitterly of the treatment to which they are subjected by their new masters, and profess that if they cannot be independent they would rather be Russian than Austrian. Whereas, the late Conservative Government in. England was dis- tinctly committed to a German and Austrian alliance, as opposed to a Russian,French and Italian combination, the Liberal Govern- ment is no less distinctly committed to a Rus- sian, French and Italian combination, as op- posed to a German and Austrian alliance, and in addition to this, to a policy of protecting and freeing Christian nationalities in the East. The claims of Slavs, Greeks and Armenians will, it is to be presumed, there- fore receive their immediate attention. Indi- cations are not wanting that the German and Austrian Governments are already alive to the dangers of this change of front, and are seek- ing to detach Russia from France upon the old basis of a tripartite holy alliance. The disappearance from the political arena of Prince Bismarck’l great enemy, Prince Gert- ‘chakofl. may facilitate this rapprochement, ‘1 *but it will be found probably beyond even the German Chancellor’s power to reconcile the conflicting interests of Austria and Bus- sia in the Slav nationalities ; each will desire to control them. while England will strive for their uncontrolled ndependence. One of the first efforts proba- bly on the part of the Liberal Government will be to bring about the annexation of eastâ€" ern Roumelia to Bulgaria, and the hopes of i the Slavs are so highly excited in this direc-- tion that addresses have been pouring in upon 1 Mr. Gladstone, congratulating him on his suc- cess at the late elections. Meantime rumors are rife here of a change J in the Cabinet. The policy of the present Prime Minister is recognized by all patriotic and far-seeing Turks as totallylinadequate to the emergency with which he has to deal, and his method of conducting public affairs so far has not been such as to inspire confidence. It is earnestly hoped that before long he may be replaced by a man more competent to grapple with the present critical state of matters, sup‘ ported by a Parliament which should to some - extent share his responsibilities with the Prime Minister, and the names of Khaneddin and Mahmoud Nedim are in everybody’s mouth. We have been so long on the eve of important changes and great events that it seems futile to go on predicting them, but the impression is so general that the present sit- uation is too strained to last, that 1 should not convey a true idea of public sentiment if I did not refer to them. The most appalling accounts of famine and distress reach us from all parts of the empire and telegrams appealing for help are rain- ing in from the provinces. In Armenia es- pecially, whole villages are starving to death, and even money, if it could be sent to them, is of little use, for there is no corn to buy. The consequence is that this destitute popu- lation will be quite unable to pay any taxes, and a large diminution of revenue will of necessity result. Many parts of the country are almost given over to ‘ brigandage, peo- ple being driven to organized robbery as a. means of self-preservation. While Moslems and Christains are alike starving in Asiatic and in some parts of European Turkey, the Christian Slave of eastern Roumelia and Bulgaria are not backward in contributing their share of horrors. in the shape of “atro- cities." In the district of Kirjaldi, we have accounts of the male population of some of the Moslem villages being stripped and severely beaten ; of a hundred and four wo- l men and girls violated. some of whom were brutally mutilated and murdered ; of five villages burned, and of wholesale appropria- tion by Christians of Moslem property. In Bulgaria, the Moslem population is being starved and driven out of the country by the oppression and injustice of the local governâ€" ment. Serious riots take place betwcL-u the: ‘ Heels and Bulgarian inhabitants of eastern toumelia, the latter being determined, if pos- ble, to expel from the country by a process E ostraeism, their Greek coreligion- its. From Albania the news reach- 1 us that the population of the districts .bout to be ceded to Montenegro are in re volt. and are determined to resist to the utter- most by force the transfer of their territory ; from all which it is clear that the Eastern question will provide abundant occupation to the new Government in England as well as to the Porte The idea of an Anglo-Russian alliance for the settlement of the Eastern question is one so utterly novel that the Turks fail to realize the results which may accrue from it to the fate of their empire. They are thrown out in all their calculations, and have to provide for an entirely new political combination The most immediate effect has been a change in their attitude toward England. It has now become plain that the reluctance which has been shown to receive advice from the British Government, and the obstacles which have been raised to all measures of reform, have , contributed to the downfall of the late Conservative Administra- tion. Had Lord Beaconsfield’s Gov- ernment been able to point triumphantly to the efforts made by Turkey to carry out the spirit of the treaty of Berlin, and frankly to} enter upon the path of reform with the advice and assistance of England, it is possible that the elections would have resulted very difler- ently. As it is, the Eastern policy of the Conservative Government has been a com- plete failure. One of the strongest weapons in the hands of the Liberals has been the taunt that the Philo-Turkish party in Eng- land have been deceived and betrayed by their friends, and that the results have justified the predictions of those who called the Turk "un- speakable.” It is, therefore, feared here that a new and uncompromising policy will he adopted toward Turkey, and that a concerted action will he arrived at between England and one or more European powers, by which the Ports will be enforced into those measures of reform which the English Government has contenteda'tself hitherto with mildly recom- mending. In anticipation of this unpleasant contingency, the Ottoman Ministry are be- ginning to bestir themselves in the hope of deprecating any such interference. but in so vague and feeble a manner that I fear it will not be of much avail. The internal evils have got almost beyond cure, and they have been increased rather than mitigated by the financial measures which have been recently adopted. CONSTANTINOPLE, April 23.â€"The unex pected result of the Elections in England has produced a profoun sensation throughout the East. A belief has heretofore existed in Turkey, not unlike that prevalent in the Southern States prior to the war, when cotton was called King and England was supposed to be its obedient servant, that the existence of the Ottoman Empire is essential to the safety of British India, and that the policy of the English Government must of necessity be pro-Turkish and anti-Russian. The ad- vent to power of a new school of politicians, with a. programme opposed to the traditional policy of British statesmen. has consequently1 produced the utmost consternation and be: wilderment in official circles here. Tali alrmw'r m'rluuuur or dial). sToNE’s succnsn. (Correspondence of the New York Sun.) “ Aren’t you ashamed of yourself, and I a married women ‘3" “ The more 5 the pity,” the doctor rep lied with an expression on his face which, had Everard cared for or even respected the women before him would have prompted him to knock the rascal down. “The more ’8 the pity,â€"for me, at least. I’ve called myself a fool a thousand times for having cut off my nose to spite my face ” H-I lgnow he don’t.” and Josey shrugged her shoulders significantly; “ but so long as he kgeps Ine inrmorney, I can stand it." i But she saw nothing familiar in the out- stretched form, and never dreamed who it was lying there so near to her and watch- ing all she did. So many had left at Albany and so few taken their places that not more than half the seats were occupied, and those in the immediate vicinity of Josey and the doctor were quite Vacant, so the young lady felt perfectly free to act out her real nature without restraint ; and she did act it to the full, laughing, and flirting and jesting, and jumping just as Everard had seen her do many a time, and thought it charming and delightful. Now'it was simply revolting an‘d immodest, and he glared at her 'from undér his hat, with no feeling of jealousy in his heart, and disgusted and sorry beyond all power of description that she was his wife. Rossie had stood boldly up before him and 'asked him to marry her, but in her innocent fa‘ce there was no look like this on J oeey’s, â€"this look of recklessness and passion which showed so plainly even in the dim- ness of the car. At last something which the doctor said, and which Everard could not understand, elicited from her the exclaim- ation : “What‘do yofi mean ?" Josey asked, and he [gplied : 7 “ Yes, so-so; he is awfully afraid of his father, though, and I do not blame him. Such an old curmudgeon. I saw him last summer." “You did ? Where ?" “Why, at Amherst ; at Commencement. I went to the president’s reception. and made Everard introduce me, and tried my best to captivate the old mufi. but it was of no use ; he took a dreadful dislike te me, and ex- pressed himself freely to his son, who reported to meâ€"â€"â€"” “013, nothing; only, can't you get a divorce ? I don’t believe he cares two cents for ygg.” “And does he do that pretty well now a. days ?” “The mean coward to do that,” the doctor exclaimed, and Josephine ”replied, “No, not mean at all. I made him tell me just what his father said. I gave him no peace till he did, for I wanted the truth, so as to know how far to press my claim to recog- nition; and I made up my mind that my best plan was to keep quiet a while, and let matters adjust themselves. Maybe the old man will die ; he looked apoplectic, as if he might go eff in some of his fits of temper, and then won't I make the money fly, for no power on earth shall keep me from the For- rest House then." And when the conductor reached their seat and stopped before it and threw the light of his lantern in Josey’s face, he bowed very blandly. but alarmed suspiciously {It 1"". m- panion, who was making a. faint of getting out his purse. “ And you'll ride over everybody. I dare say,” the docmr suggested. and she answered him, ”You bet your head on that,” the slang dropping from her pretty lips as easy and naturally as if they were accustomed to it. as indeed they were. “Nonsense,” Josey answered, in a. voice she evidently did not mean to have heard, but which nevertheless reached Everard’s ear, opened wide to receive it, “Nonsense ! This one," nodding towards the conductor, "never charges me anything; we have lots of fun to- gather I’ll pass you; put up your money and see how I'll manage it. ” "My brother." Josey said. with a mischie- vous twinkle in her blue eyes ; and with an expressive “ all right,” the conductor passed on and took the ticket held up to him by the man whose face he could not see, and at whom Josephine now for the first time glanced. J ust then the door at the other end of the car opened, and the conductor appeared with his lantern and demand for tickets. “I shall have to pay extra,” said. “Y'su ate so long that I timgto get my tickets.” “ Is Everard greatly improved 1'" was the next question, and Josephine replied. “Some would think so, perhaps, but I look upon him as a perfect milksop. I don’t believe I could [all in love with him now. Why, he is just as quiet and solemn as a graveyard; never laughs, nor jokes, nor smokes, nor anything; he is fineâ€"lboking. though, and I expect to be very proud of him when I am really his wife.” Josey was all life and fun, and cauld scarce- ly keep still a moment, but turned, and twisted, and tossed her head, and coquetted with the doctor, who, with his arm on the seat behind her, and half encircling her, bent over her, and looked into her beaming face in the most loverâ€"like manner. For an instant Exerard half rose to his feet, with an impulse to make himself known, but something held him back, and resuming his reclining attitude, with his hat over his eyes in such a manner that he could see with- out being himself seen, he prepared to watch the unsuspecting couple in front of him, and their flirtation, for it seemed to be that in sober earnest. “ Almost dead,” she declared herself to be, whereupon her companion, who was Dr. Matthewson, fanned her furiously with his hat, laughing and jesting, and attracting the attention of every body in the car. “ Ice, indeed ! Better say that last glass you took,” the lady retorted, with a loud, boisterous laugh, which made Everard shiver from head to foot, for he recognized Joseâ€" phine’s voice, and knew it was his wife who took the unoccupied seat in front of him, gasping and panting as if wholly out of breath. “There, madaxfi, I'did get you here in time ; though I almost broke my neck to do it ; that last ice you took came near being our ruin." c ‘ld laughing and discussing a concert which they had that evening attended. As there was plenty of room Everard did not move. but lay listening to their talk and jokes until another party of two came hurrying in just as the train was moving. The gentleman was tall, fine-looking, and exceedingly atten- tive to the lady, afair blonde, whom he lifted in his arms upon the platform, and set down inside the car. saying as he did so : It was after midnignt when Everard reached Albany,the second day after he had left Roth- s,,y. There the train divided, the New York passengers going one way and the Boston passengers another. Ever- ard was among the latter, and as several people left the car where he was, he felicitated himself upon having an entire seat for the remainder ofhiswnrney, and had settled himself for a sleep, with his soft .ravelling hat drawn o.‘er his eyes. and his valise under his head, when the door opened end a party of young people entered, talking FOR REST HOUSE. VOL XXII. BY MARY J. HOLMES. A MIDNIGHT RIDE . CHAPTER XXL Matthewson did not have The morning after Everard’s departure, Rossie had gone with Beatrice to order a black dress, which she insisted should be made long “ I am through with short clothes now,” she said to Beatrice. “ I feel so old since I did that shameful thing. that for me to dress like a child would be as absurd as for you to do it. I am not a child. I am at least a hundred years old, and you know, it would never do for an heiress to be dressed like a little girl. How could I discuss business with my law- yer in short clothes and bibs,” and she laughed hysterically as she tried to force back her tears; She had became convinced that for a few years she must submit to be the nominal owner at least of the Forrest prop- erty, and she had made up her mind to certain things from which she could not be turned. One was long dress- es, and she carried her point, and gave orders concerning some minor details with a quiet determination which astonished Bee, who had hitherto found her the most pliable and yield- ing of girls. The dress had been sent home on the very afternoon of Everard’s arrival, and without a thought of his coming, Rossie shut herself in her room. and began the work of transformation, first by twisting up her flowing hair, which added, she thought, at least two years to her appearance, though she did not quite like the effect, it was so unlike herself. But the long dress was a success, and she liked the sound of the trailing skirt on the carpet. and looked at herself in the glass more than she had ever done before in her life at one time, and felt quite satisfied with the taut ensembl: when she at last went down to the dining-room, where she was standing when Everard came in. ' THE NEW LIFE AT nornsm. His first impulse was to ring like any stranger at a door not his own. but thinking to himself, “I will not wound her unneces- sarily," he walked into the hall and deposit- ing his satchel and hat upon the rack, went to the dining-room, the door of which was ajar, so that the first object which met his view as he entered was Rossie, standing under the chandelier. but so transformed from what she was when be last saw her, that he stood for an instant wondering what she had done; for, instead of a child in short frock and white aprons, with loose flowing hair, he saw a young woman in a long black dress, with her hair twisted into a large, flat coil, and fastened with a comb. Taking his valise.which was not heavy, he started at once for the Forrest House, which he reached just as it was growing dark. and the gas was lighted in the dining- room. She Had been very lonely during his 11b- sence, and she was wondering where he had gone, and when he would return, when the door in the hall opened, and he was there be- fore her. For a moment she stood regarding him just as he was studying her ; then, forgetting everything in her joy at seeing him again,she went forward to meet him, and giving him both her hands, while a beautiful flush dyed her cheeks, said to him : Her' greeting was so much more cordial than Everard had expected that it made him very happy, and he kept her hands in his un- “ In all the world there is no one like little Rossie,” he said to himself, and felt his heart beat. faster with a thrill of anticipation as the train neared Rothsay and stopped at last at the station. “ I am so glad you have come back ; it was so lonesome here, and I was just thinking ab9_ut you.” , ‘ He was growing greatly interested in Bos- sie, and found himself very impatient during the last few hours of his journey. What had been done in his absence, he wondered, and was obi) more sucuuuflad to the fortune which had been thrust upon her, and how would she receive him, and how would she look ? She was not handsome, he knewY and yet her face was very, very sweet ; her eyes were beautiful. and so was the wavy. nut-brown hair, which she wore so becomingly in her neckâ€"and at the thought of her hair there came a great lump in Everard‘s throat as he remembered the sacrifice the unselfish girl had made for him two years before. “Dear little Rossie I” he thought ; “if I were free, I believe I’d say yesâ€"not for the money, but for all she will be when she gets older.” And then there crept over himagaiu that undefineble sense of something lost which he had felt when Bessie 'said to him. There was a little hotel near by, where he passed a few hours, until the train bound for Albany came along, and carried h’m swiftly back in the direction of home and Rossie, of whom he thought many times, seeing her as she looked standing before him with that sweet pleading expression on her face, and that musical ring in her voice, as she asked to be his wife. How her eyes haunted himâ€"those brilliant black eyes, so full of truth. and womanly slott- ness and delicacy. He could ‘see them now as they had confronted him, fear- lessly, innocently, at first, but chang- ing in their expression as the sense of what she had done began t ' wn upon her. bring- lng the blushes oi sh , 'to her tear-stained face. “I would not marry you now for a thdusirfi tings the money." faée‘ Just then they stopped at a way station, and, taking his valise, Everard left the train, which after a moment went whining on, leaving liim standing on the platmrm alone in the November darkness. Oh, how Everard longed to shriek out that the girl who. if she proved troublesome, was to go from Forrest House, was the mistress there, with a right to dictate as to who would go or stay ; but that would be to betray him- self ; so he kept quiet. while Josey, growing tired and sleepy, began to nod her golden head, which drooped lower and lower, until it rested on the shoulder of Dr. Matthewson, whose arm encircled the sleeping girl and ad- justed the shawl about her. for it was growing cold and dump in the car. Josephine supposed so, though she had heard nothing of her lately, and Dr. Matthew- son asked next what disposition she intended to make of her when she was mistress of Forrest House. “That depends,” Josephine replied with her favorite shrug; ”if there is nothing objectionable' 111 her she can stay- , if she proves troublesome, she will go. ” He made up his mind, and neither Bee nor anyone else could change it. That we- man, coquetting so heartlessly with another m'an, and talking thus of him, should never even be asked to share his poverty, as he had intended doing. He would never voluntarily go into her presence again. He would return to Rothsay. tell his story to Bee and see what he could do to help Rossie, and then go to work like a dog for money with which to keep the woman quiet And when the day came, as come it must, that his secret was known, there should be a separation, for live with her a single hour he would not. This was his decision. and he only waited for the train to stop in order to escape from her hateful presence. But it was an express and went speeding on, while the two in front of him kept up their conversation, which turned at last on Rosamond, the doctor asking “if she still lived at the Forrest House.” “ Which you shall never be, so help me heaven I“ was Everard’s mental ejaculation, as_l_1e grognd hie teeth tpgether. CHAPTER XXII. RICHMOND HILL, “THURSDAY, MAY 27, 1880. The idea. of remaining in Rothsay and hav- ing an oversight of Rosamond was not dis- tasteful to the young man, and when he left Beatrice he went directly to his father's office. where he found Lawyer Russell, who made the same suggestion with regard to the guard- ianship and administration of the estate which Beatrice had dene. Of course it was necesâ€" sary that Rosamond herself should be seen, and the two men want to the Forrest House to consult with her on the subject. “Let me advise you before you decide. I saw Lawyer Russell in your absence. and had a long talk with him, and he thinks the best thing you can do is to stay in the office where you are, and accept the guardianship of Rossie and the administration of the estate. That will bring you money which you certainly can have no samples in taking. as it will be honestly earned. and must go to some one. You can still go on with your study of law and write your essays and reviews, and so have plenty of means to satisfy Josephine. if money will do it. I do rot sup- pose you will live at the Forrest House, that might not be best ; but you will be in the village near by, and can have a general over- sight of Rossie herself as well as her affairs. What do you think of my plan 7” “liter seeing and hearing what I did, I cannot ask her to live with melest she should consent," he said, and Beatrice could not say a word in Josephine’s defence, but asked what he proposed to do. Was he going away, or would he remain in Rothsay? A few days ago Everard would have answered promptly. ”N0. anywhere but here, in the place so full of unpleasant memories ;" but now matters had somehow changed. That coming home the previous night, that bright fire on the hearth, and more than all, the sweet young face on which the firelight shone, and the eyes which had looked so modestly at him, had made him loth to leave Rothsay, and go away from the shadowy firelight and the young girl with the new character and the long dress. He might have left the child Rossie in the hands of Beatrice and Lawyer Russell, knowing she would be well cared for, but to leave Miss Hastings was quite another thing, and when Bee questioned him of his intent‘ens, he hesitated a mo uent and was glad when, in her usual impetuous, helpful way, she said : They found her more than willing, and in due time Everard was regularly installed as guardian to Resamond and administrator of the estate. And then began a conflict with the girl, who manifested a decision of char- acter and dignity of manner with which Everard found it difficult to cope. She in- sisted upon knowing exactly how much the Forrest property was estimated at, where the money was invested. and when interest on such investment was due. This she wrote down in abook of her own, and then she made an estimate of the annual expen- ses of the household as it was at present con- ducted. “ Don’t you think that a great deal ?" she asked. The next morning to whom he told the ride from Albany. “ Father did not find it too much, and he was as close about expenditures as one need to be,” Everard replied; and Rosamond con- tinued: “ Yes. but I propose to reduce everything. ” “ What do you mean, Bessie 7" Everard asked, greatly puzzled to understand this girl, There was not much, but a. slice of cold hem was found, and some cheese, and jam, and pickles, and Axie made a delicious cup of coffee, and brought more breed and butter, and ofi‘ered to bake him a hoe cake if he would wait; but he was too nearly starved to wait for hoe cakes, he said, and he took his father’s place at the table, and was con- scious of a great degree of comfort in and satisfaction with his surroundings, es- pecially with the sight of the. young girl who sat , opposite to him and poured his oofiee. and once or twice laughed heartily at some of his funny remarks. He seemed in excellent spirits, and though much, of it was! found ‘ Eom‘fio’s wake: he really was happier than he had been since his father’s death. His future,so far as Josephine was concerned, was settled. He should never attempt to live with her now. All the evening he sat with Russia, and piled the wood upon the fire until the flames leaped merrily up the chimney, and infused a genial warmth through the large room. And Rosamond enjoyed it thoroughly because 1t wasvdone for him. She would never have added a single superfluous chip for herself, lest it should diminish what was one day to go back to him ; but for Everard she would almost have burned the house itself, and felt she was doing her duty. “ That will never do, and will displease me very much; Iwiah you’ would live as you ought,and if it is on my account you are trying the bread and water system, I am here now and hungry as a fish, so‘you can indulge for once and order on everything there is.” , f “ Bossie,” and Everard laidOboth hands on her shoulders and looked her squarely in the eyes, “ Rossie, are you practising economy, so as not to use the money you think belongs to me ‘2" He divined her motive, for it was the fear of using the Forrest money needlessly which was beginning to rule “fier- life, and had prompted her to omit the usual dinner, the most expensive meal of the day, andhave, 1n- stead plain bread and butter, or toast and tea: and Everard read the truth in her tell- taledace, and said : “ I had lunch, as usual. I was not. hungry. I am never hungry now, and inst have tea. at mght." “ Tired ‘2 No ; but cold as a frog and hungry as a bear. What have we for dinner? And he turned to inspect the little round table laid for one. “Nothing but toast and tea. Why, that would starve a. out. Did you dine in the Qigdle of the day ?" ' Rosafiond colored painfully as she ans- wered: He was firymg to reassure her, and she knew it, and was very grateful to him for the kindness, and said laughingly, she put up her hair because she thought is suited the long dresses which she meant to wear now that she was a. woman of business, but if he liked it on her neck it should be worn so ; and then she asked him of his journey, and if he was not tired and hungry. so ;” and playfully pulling the comb from her head. he let the wavy hair fall in masses upon her neck and shoulders. ”There, that’s better; it gives me little Rossie again. and I do not wish to lose my sister.” “What is it, Bessie? What have you done to yourself? Pieced down your gown, or what, that you seem so much taller and grander every way,â€"quite like Bee, in fact ? Yes, you have got on a train, sure as guns, and your hair up in a comb; that part I don't like; the other change is rather be- coming, but I would rather see you til she drew them away with a. sudden wrench, and stepping back from him, put on the dig- nity she had for a. moment dropped. But the action became her and her long dress, and Everard looked closely and admiringly at her, puzzled to know just what it was which had changed her so much. He guessed she was thinking of that scene in his father’s room, but he meant to ignore it altogether, and. if possible, put her on her old familiar footing with himself; so, looking at her from head to foot. he said: he spent with Beatrice, story of the midnight Every day Beatrice came to the Forrest House, evincing almost as much in- terest in Rosamond’s education as Mrs. Mark- ham herself, and giving her a great deal of instruction with regard to her French accent and music. Every Sunday Everard dined with her, and called upon her week days when business required that he should do so ; and he looked forward to these visits with the eagerness of a schoolboy going home. In some respects Everard was very happy, or, at least, content, during the first months of the new life." He was honorably earnlng a very fair livelihood,and at the same time advancing with his profession. No young man in town was more popular than himself, for the people attached no blame to him for his father’s singular will, which they thought unjustifiable. There was, of course. always present with him a dread of the day which must come when his secret would be knownâ€"but Holburton was an out-ofâ€"the-way place, where his friends never visited, and it might be months or even years before Joseph- ine heard of his father’s death, and until that time he meant to be as happy as he could. Josephine did not trouble him often with letters, which he felt obliged to answer. He took care to supply her frequently with money. which he sent in the form of drafts, without any other message (1 she seemed satisfied. He had sold his orse, his stock was yielding him something regularly now, and with the percentage due him for his ser- vices as administrator, he was doing very well. and would have been quite content but for that undefinable sense Qfloss ever present with him. He had lost the child Bessie, and he wanted her back again, with the short gingham dress, and white apron, and cape bonnet, and big boots. and little tanned hands ; wanted the girl whom he had teased, and petted, and do- m1neered over at will ; who used to romp the livclong day with the dogs and cats, and teach even the colts and calves to run and race with her; who used to chew gum, and burst the buttons off her dress, ani eat green apples and plums, and cry with the stomach ache. All these incidents of the past as connected with Rossie came back to him so 'vividly, that he often said to himâ€" self : So far as Rossie was concerned it bid fair to be very successful. Mrs. Markham was both mother and friend to the young girl, in whom she was greatly interested. A thorough scholar herself, she had a marvellous power of imparting her information to others, and Rossie gave herself to study now with an eagerness and avidity which astonished her teacher, and made her sometimes try to hold her back, lest her health should fail from too close application. But Rossie seemed to grow stronger, and fresher and rounder every day, notwithstanding that all her old habits of life were changed. She had settled everything, and it only re- mained for Everard, as her guardian, to ac- quiesce in her wishes when he found that nothing which‘ he could say had power to change her mind. She had developed great decision of character, and so clear a head for business in all its details, that Everard told her, laughingly, that it would be impossible for him to cheat her in so much as a penny without being detected. He was intensely interested in this queer girl, as he styled her to himself, and so far as was con« sistent with her good, did everything she asked, proving himself the most indulgent of guardians-and faithful of administrators. Together with Beatrice he inquired for and found in Cincinnati 91 Mrs Markham, sleds. and the widow of an English curate, who seemed exactly fitted for the situation at For- rest House as Rossie’s teacher and compan- ion. All Rossie’s wishes with regard to re- ducing the expenditures of the household were carried out with one exception. Everard insisted that she should keep one of the horses, which she could drive, and the light covered carriage which had been Mrs. For- rest’s. To this Rossie consented, but sent away three of the negroes, and shut up all the rooms not absolutely essential to her own and Mrs. Markham’s comfort. In this way she would save both fuel and lights, and the wear of furniture, she said, and to save for Everard had become a sort of mania with her. And when he saw he could not move her, Everard humored herwhims and suffered her in most things to have her way. He had a cheap, quiet boarding-house in town, where he was made very comfortable by his land- lady, who felt alittle proud of having Judge Forrest’s son i." her family, even if he were disowned and pc )3. Blood was better than money, and lasted longer, she said. and as Everard had the bluest of blood, she made much of him. and petted him as he ‘ had never been petted in his life. And so, under very favorable auspices, began the new life of the two persons with whom this story has most to do. “ Nor will she,” Bessie said ; “ I am going to shut up most; of the house, and only use two rooms upstairs, one for myself and one for the teacher, and the dining-room down- stairs, and little sitting room off for any calls I may have. I can take care of my own room and the teacher’s, too, if she likes.” ” Why, Rosamond,” Everard said, staring at her in amazement, “ you don’t know what you are talking about; Aunt Axie cannot do all the work.” “Well, then, this is what I mean to do. First, I shall keep a strict account of the income and a. strict account of the outgo, so far as that the outgo is for me personally. You know I have two thousand dollars of my own, and I shall use that first,and by the time that is gone I hope to be able to take care of my self. ‘I am going to have some nice, mid- dle- -aged lady 1n the house as companion and teacher, and shall study hard, so that in a year or two at most I shall be able to go out as governess or teacher in some school. My mind is quite made up. There are some things I cannot do, and there are some things Ican, and this is one of them. I shall have the teacher and get an education, and mean- while shall live as economically as possible ; and I wish you to sell the horses and cor- riage, too ;I shall never use them, and horses cost so much to keep I like to walk, and have good strong feet and ankles,â€"great big ones you used to say,” and she tried to smile, but tuere was a tear on her long eyelashes as she referred to a past which had been so pleasant and free from care. “A part of the land is a park,” she went on, “and does not need much attention except to pick up and prune, and cut the grass occasionally. Uncle Abel told me so. I have talked with him ever so much, and he says if I give him three dollars more a month he can do all there is to be done on the grounds, if he does not have the horses to look after, so I shall keep him and his little grandson, Jim, to do errands and wait on the table and door, and Aunt Axie to work in the house, and send the rest away. ” “ You have convinced me against my will that I am at present the lawful heir of your father’s property; I have tried hard not to ac- cept that as a fact, but I am compelled to do so. You say that I am really and truly the mistress of Forrest House, and don’t mis- tresses of houses do as they like about the arrangement of matters in the house ?” Everard said “Generally, yes,” and Rossie went on : who seemed so self-possessed and assured in her long dress, to which he charged every- thi_ng new 03' gtarplingjn her conduct. _ Rdsamond hesitatéda moment, and then repligd : “ What has become of the child Rossie ‘1” )1 Tcefy me." She was beginning to seem like herself again. and Everard enjoyed himself so well that he staid until Mrs. Markham returned, and when at last he left, it was with a. feeling that he liked the graceful, dignified young girl almost as well as he had once liked the child Rossie. A few days after Everard’s interview with Rossie, Beatrice went to New York, where she spent the winter, returning home early in April, and bringing with her adark-eyed, dark-haired,elfishâ€"looking little girl, whom she called Trixey, and whose real name was Beatrice Belknap Morton. She was the daughter of a missionary to the Feejee Is- lands, who had brought his invalid wife home to America. hoping the air of the Ver- mont hills might restore life and health to her worn-out, wasted frame. Bee did not know of his return, and saw him first at a missionary meeting which she attended with the friend at whose house she was stop- ping. “You shall have the child Rossie again, Mr. Everard. I am glad you have told me what you have. It will make it: so much easier now to see you. I was always think- ing of that and feeling that you were think- ing of it too, and I am hep may to know that you are not I dont wish to be stiff and distant with you, and you may come as often as you choose, and Mrs. Markham need not always be p1esent- than; was as much my idea. as hers: but the long dress I must wear nowâ€"it suits me better than the short clothes which showecrmy feet so much. You know how you used to tease “The Rev. Theodore Morton will now tell us something of his labors among the Fee- jees,” the presiding clergyman said, and Bee who was sitting far back near the door rose involuntarily to her feet in order to see more distinctly the man who was just rising to ad- dress the audience, and who stood before them, tell, erect and perfectly self-possessed, as if addressing a crowded New York house had been the business of his life. “,Yes, I have. I lost her when you put on those long dresses and began to meet me in such a formal way, with thatprim, old duenna always present, as if she was afraid I was go- ing to eat you up. Mrs. Markham is very nice, no doubt, but I don't like that in her. It may be English propriety, but it is not American. I‘m not going to hurt you, and I want sometimes to see you here alone and talk freely and cozily, as we used to talk,-â€" about your cats, if you like.I don’t care what, if it brings you back to me, for you don’t know how I long for the child whom I used to tease so much.” _ He stopped talking, and' Rossie was al- most beautiful, Wlth the, bright color in her cheeks and the soft light in her eyes, which were full of tears, as she said, impulsively, “ Lost her, Mr. Everard! Lost me! No, you haven’t," Rosamond said, her eyes filling with tears, which shone like stars, as Everard went on: “ It was a noble, unselfish act, and just like you, and I don’t think a whit the less of you for it. I know you did not mean it that way, as you assured me so vehemently. I am your brother. You have known me as such ever since you can remember anything here, and my little sister was very dear to me, and I miss her so much now that I have lost her.” “ I mean the high and mighty air you have put on toward me. Why, you are so cold and dignified that one can’t touch you with a. ten- fobt pole, and this ought not to be. I have a. right to expect something difierent from you, fiossie. I dare say I can guess In part What is t e thenm 319W giwmwtlfinking, of that Hay‘yoiTc‘ame to me in father's room and said what you did. But for Heaven’s sake forget it. I have never thought of it as a thing of which you need feel ashamed. You had tried every way to give me the money, and when that idea was suggested, you seized upon it without a. thought of harm, and generously offered to marry me and then run away, and so reinstate me in my rights.” Was it her Theo, whom she had sent from her to the woman in Vermont, more willing than herself to share his toils and privations in a heathen land ? That Theo She did not know at all what he meant, and looked at him wonderingly as she took the proffered chair, and said, “ What state of things 7’ What do you mean ‘2” ~RoSsie’s face was scarlet, but; she did not speak, and he continued : “ Sit down Rossie. I am not going just yet. Now that I have you to myself for a few moments, I wish to ask how long this state of things is to go on .9” - “ Yes,” and he blushed guiltily, and felt half vexed with her for standing up so straight and digified with he1 hands holding to the back of a, chair while he explained that the Ludlow mortgage would be due in a few days, and asked if she would like to have it renewed, as it could be. or have the money paid and invested somewhere else at a. higher rate? He had forgotten to mention it the previous night, he said and as she had expressed a. wish to know just how the moneys were in- vested, he thought best to come again and consult her. Rossie did not; care in the least ; she would leave it entirely to him, she said, and then waited, apparently for him to go. But Ever- ard was in no haste, and passing her a chair he said: One day as he was looking from his office window he saw Mrs. Markham going by for the long walk she was accustomed to take daily. He had seen her pass that way fre- quently with Rosamond at her side, but Ros- sie was not with her now ; and though Ever- ard had been at the Forrest House the night before, he suddenly remembered a little mat- ter of business which made it very necessary for him to go again, and was soon walking rapidly up the long avenue to his old home. Aunt Axie let him in, and went for Rossie, who came to him at once,â€"»evineing some surprise at see- ing him again so soon, and asking, rather abruptly, if there was more business. She had been such a rest, such a comfort to him, and in one sense she was a comfort now. at least she was-a study, an excitement and a puzzle to him, and he always found himself looking forward to the visits which he made her with an immense amount of in- terest. Every Sunday he dined with her, and walked with her to churchin the evening, and sat in his father’s pew, and walked back with her and Mrs. Markham to the house after service was over. and said good-night at the door, and wondered vaguely if women like Mrs. Markham always went to church, if they never had a headache, or a cold, and were compelled to stay at home. Occa- sionally, too, he went to the Forrest House on business, asking only for Rosamond ; but Mrs. Markham always appeared first, coming in as if by accident, and seatingherself, with the shawl she was knitting, far off by the window, just where she could see what was done at the other end of the room. After a little, Rosamond would appear, in her long black gown, which trailed over the carpet as she walked. and exasperated Everard with the sound of its trailing,for to that he charged the metamorphosis in Rossie. It was the cause of everything, and had changed her into the quiet, dignified Miss Hastings, to whom it was impossible to speak as he used ‘ to speak to Bessie. WHOLE NO. 1,143.â€"N0, 52. CHAPTER XXIII. BEE’s FAMILY. “ Let me do that,” Bee said, as she saw how the exertion of raising her arms made the invalid cough; and drawing off her gloves. her white hands, on which so many costly jewels were shining, were soon arrang- ing and twisting the long hair which, though mixed with gray, was very glossy and luxu- riant. “ You have nice hair, .and so much of it,” she said, and Mrs. Morton replied : “Yes, it is very heavy even yet, and is all I have left of my youth, though I am not so very old, only thirty ; but the life of a. mis- sionary’s wife is not conductive to the rota-in- ing of one’s good looks.” 7‘Was it 90' very dreadful 1" Bee asked, a little curious about the life which might hav- been her own. “No dreadful, but k‘hard; that is, it was very hard on me, who was never strong, though I seemed so to strangers. I could not endure much, and was sick all the way out. so sick that I used to wish I might die and be buried ; in the sea. Then Trixey came so soon, and the care of her, and the food, and the climate, and the manner of living there, and the terrible home-sickness l Oh, I was so homesick, at first, that I should surely have died, if Theo had not been so good. He was always kind, and tried to spare me every way." - “ Yes, I auf sure he did,” Bee said ; feel- ing at the same time a kind of pity for Theo, who, for six years, had spared and been kind to this woman, after having known and loved heiBeatrice Belknap. 7 “ Yei, Trixey was named for you. It was kind in you to call,” Mrs. Morton said. and now she sat upon the side of me bed and be« gau to bind up her long black hair, which had. fallen on her neck. “ I doubt if you rem ember me, Mrs‘. Mor- ton, as you only saw me once, and that for a few moments, before the Guide sailed from here six years ago. I am an old friend of your husband’s. I met him in Paris first, and many times after 1n America. Perhap a you have heard him speak of Miss Beatrice Belknap ?” There was a great difference between these two women ; one, bright, gay, sparkling, full of life and health, with wealth showing itself in every part of her elegant dress, from the Indian shawl which she had thrown across the chair, to the sable mufi which had fallen on the floor ; the other, sick, tired, disheart- .ened, old before her time ; and, alas, habited in the same brown alpaca in which she had sailed away, and which had. been so obnox- ious to Beatrice. The materiel had been the best of the kind, and after various turnings and fixings, had been made at last into a kind of wrapper, which was trimmed with a part of another old brown dress of a different shade. Nothing could be more unbecoming to that thin. sallow face, and those dark, hol- low eyes, than that dress, and never was How Beatrice’s heart yearned over these little ones who had known only poverty, and how she {longed to lavish upon them a part of her superfluous wealth. There was a stir on the bed; the sleeper was waking. and a faint voice called: “ Trixey, are you here?” “ Yes mamme. I’ve rocked brother to sleep,” Trixey said, starting up, but holding fast to the baby as a cat holds to its kitten. “There's a lady here, mamma. corned to see us," the child continued, and then Mrs. Mor- ton reused quickly, and turning on her side fixed her great sunken eyes inquiringly on Beatrice, who stepped forward, and with that winning sweetness and grace so natural to her, said: l “But he buyed me some yed sous," Bun- chie said, sticking up her little feet, encased in a new pair of red morocco shoes, the first she had ever had. or probably seen. Bee could n61: repress a smile at this quaint form of speech. and she asked : “And do you take care of baby 1 Is there no nurse ?” , “We had Leath over home," Trixey said, “ but she couldn’t come with us. ’cause we’re so poor, an’ papa has no moqeyfl ” And your name is what 2’" “ Trixey everybody calls me but papa, who } sometimes says Bee ; but that ain’t my very ‘Jname. It’s ever so long, with many B’s in it,” was the reply, and Bee’s heart gave a. great bound as she said: ‘- Is it Beatrice ?” “ Yes, an’ more too, Beatrice somethin‘.” " Beatrice Belknap, perhaps,” guessed the lady, and the child replied : “ That’s it, but how did you know 7” and the great eyes, so very black' and inquisitive, looked wonderingly at Bee, who answered : “ I am Beatrice Belknap, the lady for whom you were named, and I've come to see ybu. I used to knbw your father. Is be well ?" ‘ . ' “Papa? Yes'. he’s very well;bnfl mamma,’ and thé chili! put on a". very wiaeand ubnlidefii tial look as she added in a. whisper, “mammals shifiiess all the time.” “Yes, 'that’s ma,â€"on the bed. She’s sick; she’s always sick. Tum in, but don’t make a, noise. ’cause I’s tryin’ to rock baby brother to sleep, like a good ’ittle dirl." “ An’ I’s dood, too,” chirped the dumpling in the high chair. “I’ve climbed up here to det out of the way, an’ not wake mammn an’ make her head ache, an’ papa’s goin’ to bring me some tandy, he is. when he tums from the meetin’.” in,” and she went in and found a little girl of five years old, with black hair and eyes. and a dark. saucy, piquant face, seated on a low rocking chair, and holding in her short, fat arms a pale. sickly baby of four months or thereabouts, which she was trying to hush to sleep. Near her. in an arm chair, sat a round, rosy -cheeked little girl. who might have been three years old though her height indicateda child much younger than that. On the bed, with her face to the wall. and apparently asleep, lay a woman, emaciated and thin, with streaks of gray in the long. black hair floating in masses over the pillow.- Bee thought she must have made a mistake, but something In the blue eyes of the chubby girl in the chair arrested her attention, and she said to the elf with the baby in her arms : There was no mistaking that blue eyed, fair-haired child for other than Theodore Morton’s. and Beatrice stooped down and kissed her round rosy cheek, and asked: “ What is your name, little one ?” “ Mamieâ€"Mamie Morton; but dey call me Bunchie, ’cause I’s so fat. an’ I’s mamma’s darlin’, and was tree ’ears old next week," was the reply; and then Bee turned to the elf, and laying her hand on the jet-black hair, said : “Is Mrs. Morton harmâ€"Mrs. Theodore Morton ‘2” 'Where was his wife, Bee wondered, and when the meeting was over she drove to the house of a clergyman whom 'she knew kept a kind of missionary hotel, and from him learned the address of the Rev. Theodore Morton. It was not at an uptown hotel, but at a. second-rate boarding house on Eighth street, where rooms and board were cheap, and there on the third floor back, she found Mrs. Theodore Morton, the school-mistress from Vermont, who had so ofiended her taste with spectacles and a brown elpeca dress. The landlady had hidden her go directly to the room, where she knocked at the door, and then stood listening to a sweet. childish voice singing a lullaby to a. baby. Again she knocked, and this time the voice said. “Come had been spare and thin, with light beard and safiady hair; this man was broad- shouldered, with we11~deveioped physique, and the hair. which lay in curls around his massive brow, was a rich chestnut brown, as was the heavy beard upon his cheek. It could not be Theo, she thought, as she sank back into her seat; but the moment she hesrd the deep musical tones of the voice which had once a power to thrill her, she knew that it was he, and listened hreathlessly while he told of his work in those islands of the sea, and by his burning eloquence and powers of speech stirred up his heaters to greater interest in the cause. He loved his work because it was his Master’s, and loved the poor, benighted heathen, and he only came home because of the sick wife and little ones, who needed change of scene and air. {cannula on nun um.)