The following text may have been generated by Optical Character Recognition, with varying degrees of accuracy. Reader beware!

Where the grain lies over the slipperv floor, And the hens are busily looking around, And the sunbeams flicker, now here, now there, And the sneeze blows through with a. merry soun . The swallows twitter and chirp all day, With fluttering Wings in the 01d brown eaves, And the whim sing in the trees which lean To brush the roof with their rustling leaves. 0h, a. jolly old place is grandpa’s barn, Wheare the doors stand open throughout the my And the c‘ooing doves fly in and out, And the air is sweet with the fragrant hay. 0 for the glad vacation time, When grandpu’s 1mm will echo the shout Of merry children, who romp and play In the new-born freedom of “ school let out! " Oh, the dear old barn, so cool, so wide! Its doors will open again ere long To the summer sunshine, the naw-mown hay, And the merry ring of vacation song. Such scaring of doves from their cozy nests, Such hunting for eggs in the lofts so high. Till the frightened hens, with a. cackle shrill, From theil hidden treasures are thin to fly. For Grandpa’s barn is the jolliest place For Irollic and fun on a. summer’s day ; And e’en old time, as the years slip by, Its memory never can steal away. FORREST HOUSE. ” Something told me I could not do Ever- ard a worse turn than to tie him fast in mat- rimony. You were not his stamp; not the one to hold him long; he would repent the act sooner or later, while his father would make life a burden to him when he came to know it. So I was particular to leave noth. ing undone which would make the marriage valid, and when you were man and wife I felt perfectly happy, untilâ€"I began to get interâ€" ested in you myself, and then I sometimes wished my tongue had been cut out, for I’ll be hanged if I don’t admire you more than any other woman I ever saw, notwithstanding that I know you ike a book.” “ Spare your compliments and keep to your story, and tell me why you have made no efiort to see Rossie all these years,” J ose- thine said, coldly; and he replied, “ Reason enough. I was not particularly interested in her then, and did not think an acquaintance with her would pay ; but later she has come before me in the character of an heiress, which makes her a. very different creature; you see, don’t you?” “ Yes. I see. Your sudden interest in her is wholly mercenary. Suppose I should be- tray you ? Are you not afraid of it?” Josephine asked. and in her blue eyes there was a look which the doctor did not quite 11ke ; but he affected not to see it, and replied, “Afraid? No, because telling is a game two can play at as well as one. You cannot afford to quar- rel with me, Joe.” The man’s face was exceedingly insolent and disagreeable in its expression for a mo- ment, while he glanced sideways at his com- panion, who made no sign that she heard him, but seemed wholly intent upon the game which was now growing very exciting. But then the expression changed. and he eentinued in his most winning tone : “No, we must stick to each other. and whatever good comes to me I’ll share re ligiously with you ;” she began faintly to comprehend him, and turning her eyes upon him, said: “Well, to return to first principles. Rossie is interesting to you now because fihe has money ; but she will not uSe it even for her- self.” “No l”â€"2md the doctor mused thought- fullyamoment; then he said: “I like the girl’s appearance, upon my soul I do! She is a, pretty little filly, and if I’d met her years ago she might have madeaman of me, but it is too late now ; I am sold to Satan, body and soul, and must do his bidding. How much is she worth, do you think ?” “And she will not touch the principal on account of some queer notions she has of giving it back to Forrest when she is twenty-one ‘2" “No, she will not touch the principal, nor more of the interest than is absolutely neces- sary," Josephine said, and ior a. few moments the doctor was silent and seemed to be in- tently thinking. When he spoke he said : “You say she is pious, or pretends to be, and if she does it is genuine ; there is no de- ceit in that face. I d trust it with my soul, if necessary. I tell you I like the girl. She is just the one to keep men from losing faith 1n everything good. I’ll wag er now that For- rest is in love with her, and that’s one rea- son he does not take any more stock in you. Is he ’2” and the doctor looked steadily at Josephine, who turned very pale as he thus probed her so closely. “The Forrest estate is variously estimated from two hundred to five hundred thousand. I should say, perhaps, two hun- dred and fifty,” Josephine replied, and the doctor continued : So far as affection was concerned she had none for her husband, but it hurt her pride cruelly to know that with all her beauty and grace she could not influence him one whit. or turn him from the girl she was sure he loved as he had never loved her. She gener- ally told the truth to Dr. Matthewson, who had some subtle power to find it out if she did not, and now. though sorely againsb'her will, she answered: "Then, why in thunder doesn’t he get a divorce from you and marry her? That surely would be an easy thing to do under the circumstances,” was the doctor’s next re- mark. “That is more than I can guess, unless he is too proud to endure the notoriety of such a procedure. Certainly it is no consideration for me which deters him," Josephine said; adding suddenly, as she glanced up the street: “There she comes now. You’d better declare yourselfi at once.”_ But the doctor knew his own plans best with regard to Rosamond, who was coming towards the croquet grounds with two of her pupils, Clara. and Eva Andrews. She did not see the doctor and Josephine until she was close upon them, and then simply bowing to them, she passed on, and was soon out of sight. That night as she was about preparing for bed, athick heavy envelope was brought to her room, directed in a. hand she did not recognize. Breaking the seal and glancing at the signature, she read with a thrill of wonder and perplexity the name “John Matthewson, nee Hastings,” while just above it were the words, “Your aflectionate brother.” “My brother.” she repeated. “what does it mean?” and for a. moment she felt as if she were going to faint with the rush of emotions which swept suddenly gar her. “Yes, he warships the ground she treads up°£:n 0f herbrother, personally, she remembered nothing. She only knew that she had one ; that in some way he annoyed and worried her mother ; that he was not highly esteemed by the For-rests. and that he was probably dead. Latterly, however, since she had gone out into the world alone to care for herself, she had often thought of him, and how delightful it would be to have a brother who was good, and kind, and true, and who would care for her as brothers sometimes care for their sis- ters. Occasionally, too, she had amused her- self with fancying how he would look if he were alive, and how he would treat her. But she had never dreamed of any one as hand some and polished, and elegant as Dr. Matthewson, who signed himself her brother, and had filled three or four sheets of paper with what he had to say. Very eagerly she singled out the first sheet and began : " DEAR SISTER Rosst,â€"â€"-You will pardon me for addressing you as M135 Hastings, or even Rosamond, when I tell you I am your brother, and have always thought of you as Bessie, the little girl who, I suppose, does not remember me, and who, perhaps, has not been taught to think of me very plealantly. â€"-Mm'y D. Brine, in Harper’s Young Peopul BY MARY J. HOLMES. GBA NDPAPS BARN. But, Rossie, I am a changed man, or I would not present myself to you, a pure, innocent girl, and ask for sympathy and love. I do not believe you care to hear all the events of my life' 1n detail, and so I shall not relate ‘thyem, but of a few things I must speak, in ‘order, that we may rightly understand each other. And first, your mother. I was a spoiled, wayward boy of sixteen when she came to us, and I was prejudiced against her by an aunt of mine, who, I think now, wanted my father herself. A step- mother was to me the worst of all evils, and I thought it was manly to tease and worry her, while I blush to say my father also-treated her so shamefully that at last she fled from him, as you know, and took refuge at the Forrest House, where she finally died. “I was there once to see her, and as you may not have heard the particulars of that visit, and I wish to keep back nothing you ought to know, I will tell you about it." Then followed a pretty truthful account of the encounter with Everard, the cowhiding. and the vow of revenge, after which the doctor spoke of his subsequent career. his change of name, his sudden conversion at a camp meet- ing, his life as a clergyman in Clarence, his backsliding, and lapse into his former evil ways, his few months’ study as a physician, his first trip to Europe, andat last his sojourn for the summer in Holburton where he met Everard Forrest again, and was asked by J ose. phine to take the part of priest in the play called “ Mock Marriage.” “ Then it was,” he wrote, “ that the devil entered into me, and whispered, ‘Now is your hour for revenge“ on the strip- ling who dared lay his hand on you ’ From all I could learn of the For- rests, or rather, of the judge, I guessed that he would rebel hotly against a. penniless bride in Miss Fleming’s social position, and that nothing could be more disastrous for Everard than such amarriage ; and yet I aided and abetted it, and took care that it should be al- together binding, and so gained my mean revenge. for which I have been sorry a thou- sand times,â€"â€"yes, more than that ; and if I could undo the work of that night I would do it gladly. But I cannot, and others sufler the consequences. You see I am notignorant of the manner in which Mr. and Mrs. Forrest live, and I am sorry for them both, and am laying bare my heart to you that you may know exactly the kind of brother you have found ; and that, however had he may have been. he is a different man now, or he would never intrude himself upon you. “ On my first interview with Everard in Holburton, I managed to get him to speak of you,and I half resolved to seek you and claim you as my own. But a sense of un- worthiness kept me back, I was not a fitting guardian for a girl like you, and so I still kept silence, and after a time went to Europe again, where I remained until quiet recently, and where, by a, long and dangerous illness. I was brought to a realiza- tion of my sins, and resolved to lead a new life. Naturally, one of the first and strongest desires of my new life was to find you. Mrs. Forrest, who wrote to me occasionally, had told me that you had left the Forrest House, of which you were the lawful heir; and as my health required a warm climate, I came first to Florida, after my return to America, intend- ing, in the spring, to spare no pains to find you. The rest you know. “ And now, Rossie, will you take me for a brother?‘ If so, please leave a line at - e of- fice, telling me where I can see you an when, and in all the world there will be no one so happy as your affectionate brother, “ JOHN MATTHEWBON, nee HASTINGS.” Rossie was not as strong as when she was a child, and any over-fatigue or unusual ex. citement was sure to be followed by a nervous headache, which sometimes lasted two or three days ; and as she read this letter she felt a cold, clammy sweat breaking out in the palms of her hands, while a cutting pain in her head warned her that her old enemy. neu- ralgia, was threatening an attack. That she believed every word of the letter need hardly be said, for hers was a nature to be- lieve everything, and it made her very happy to know that the brother who heretofore had been to her only a myth, was found at last. and such a brother, too. Then the question arose as to how Everard would receive this man who had purposely done him so great a wrong. Would he forgive him for her sake, and believe in his repentance 7 She would write to him the next day and tell him all about it, and her heart throbbed with a new and keen delight at the thought of some one to care for her, some one to lean upon and vise her and help her with that dreadful For- rest estate. And then her busy little brain plunged into the future, and began to wonder where they should live and how, for that she should live with her brother she did not for a moment doubt. Her place was with him, and she should try so hard to make him happy. and keep him in the new way wherein he was beginning to walk. In this state of mind it was impossible to sleep, and when at last morning came, it found her wakeful and unrefreshed, with dark rings about her eyes, and so severe a pain in her temples and the back of her neck that to go down to break- ifast was impossible. She had barely strength to dress herself and lie down upon the couch, where Mrs Andrews found her, after having waited some time for her ap- pearance. ' Very rapidly and briefly Rosamond told her the good news, which Mrs. Andrews ac- cepted readily. She had heard before that Miss Hastings had a. brother, if he were not dead, and having met the doctor the previous day and been much prepossessed with him, as strangers always were, she rejoiced with her young friend, but advised her to wait until her head was better before she risked the excitement of an interview. But this Rossie could not do. She should never be better tillvshe had seen her brother. she said, and a message was 'aceordingly sent him to the effect that Rossie would see him in her room whenever he chose to come. In all the world there was hardly a more accomplished and fascinating hypocrite than Dr. Matthewson, and so well did he use his powers and art, that if Rossie had had any distrust of him or his sincerity it would have been entirely swept away during the half hour he spent with her, now talking of himself as he used to be with great regret, and of himself as he was now with great humility ; now telling how glad he was to find his little sister, and then compliment- ing her in a way which could not fail to be gratifying to any woman. Then he spoke of her health, and was sorry to find her so frail and delicate, and asked her many questions about herself, while he held her hand and felt her pulse professionally. “Had she ever thought her heart at all diseased, or that her lungs were affected?” he asked; add- ing, quickly, as he saw the sudden start she gave 3 “ Ah, yes. I see," and the doctor looked very wise. “Bronchial trouble. no doubt, aggravated by our dreadful American climate. Excuse me, mignonne, if I confess to being more than half a. European. 1 have lived abroad so much that I greatly prefer being there. and know the climate is better for me. Some day not far distant we must go there together, you and I, and I’ll take such care of The doctor did not wait a moment, and was soon at Rossie's side, bending over her, and telling her not to allew herself to be agitated in the least, but to lie quietly upon her pillow and let him do most of the talking. “Oh, don’t be frightened, and conclude you have either consumption or heart disease. I only asked because some members of our family far back died with a heart difficulty, and if I remember right your mother had con- sumption. But we must not let you have either of them. You do not seem to have a great amount of vitality. Are you never stronger than now. and do these headaches occur very often ?"_ He had her hand in one of his, and with the other was stroking her head and hair, while she answered that nothing ailed her except the headache to which she had been subject all her life, and 9. pre- disposition to sore throat Whenever she took cold. . you that people will hardly know you when you come back. I’ll have some color in these white cheeks, though I don’t believe I could improve the eyes.” It was the great desire of Rossie’s life to go to Europe some day, and she assented to all h r brother said, and wrote to Everard immedl tely after her interview with the doctor, and told him of her brother, and what a good noble man he had become. Then. as carefully and gently as possible, she spoke of the wrong he had done to Everard, and of which he was so very sorrg._ “’I do not suppose you can ever like him 9.51 do.” she wrote; “ but I hope you will try to be friends with him for my sake.” Accompanying this letter was one from the doctor himself, couched in the most concilia- tory terms, full ' of regret for 'the past and strong in good intentions for the future. “ I shall be so glad to be friends with you for Rsssie’s sake. if for no other,” he wrote in conclusion.“ She holds you in higher es- teem than any living being; so let her plead for me; and when we meet, as we some- times must, or Bossiebe very unhappy, let it be at least with the semblance of friend- ship.” Everard’s first impulse on receiving these letters was to go to Florida. at once and wrest Rossie from the fangs of the wolf, as he stigmatized the doctor, in whom he had no faith. “ I cannot forgive him,” he said, ” I; will not, though he were ten times her brother ; and I distrust him, too, notwithstanding his protestations of reform.” But he could not write this ,to Rossie. He said to her in his letter that if her brother was allehe represented him to be, he was glad for her sake that she had found him, and that he hoped alway s to be friendly with her friends and those that were kind to her. “ But if he were the archangel himself," he added, “ I should find it hard to forgive him for having removed from my grasp what I miss more and more every day of my life, ‘ and long for with an intensity which masters my reason and drives me almost to despair. But whatever I may feel towards him, Rossie, I shall treat him well for your sake, and if you can find any comfort in his society take it, and be as happy as you can." To Dr. Matthewson he wrote in a different strain. He did not believe in the man, and though he made an effort to be civil he showed his distrust and aversion in every line. If the doctor had repented, he was glad of it, but wished the repentance had come in time to have saved him from a life - long trouble. A boy‘s cowhiding was a small matter for a man to avenge so terribly, he said, and then added : It is no news to me that you are John Hastings, Rossie’s half-brother. I knew that long ago, but kept it to myself, as I did not wish Bessie to know how much of my unhap- piness I owed to her half-brother. Wholly truthful and innocent, she thinks others are the same, and if you tell her you are a saint she will believe it implicitly until some not of your own proves the contrary. She is very happy in your society, and I shall do nothing :to make her less so, but don’t ask me to endorse you cordially, as if nothing had ever happened. The thing is impossible. If we meet I shall treat you well for Rossie’s sake, and shall not seek to injure you so long as you are kind and true to her, but if you harm a. hair of Rossie’s head, or bring her to any sorrow, as sure as there is a heaven above us, I’ll pursue you to the ends of the earth to be even with you.” There was an amused smile on Dr. Matthew- son’s face as he read this letter, which showed him so plainly What Everard’s opinion of him was; A meaning smile, too, it was, and one which his enemy would hardly have cared to see. “ So ho I the young man threatens me,” be send to himself. “ I am so glad he has shown his hand, though it was foolish in him to do so, and proves that he is not well up in fencing. I wonder what he wrote to Rossie ; and if she will show me the letter.” Bessie could not show it to him, but when next_t_hey [pet it} per ro_om, shy said}? him : “ I have heard from Everard, and he says that he is glad I am so happy with you, and he will be friendly with you always, and I do so hope you will like each other. Have you, too, heard from him?” “Then I will not,” he answered, still more soothingly ; “but Bessie, it is folly to give way llke this, though 101‘ this once I am glad you did. For now I understand better the cause of these pale cheeks and irregular pulse, and am sure you need entire change oi air and scene, such as you can only find in Europe, where we are going in the spring. Think of a summer in Switzerland among the glorious Alps. I know every rock and chasm, and winding path there, and shall be so happy in seeing you enjoy them.” He was speaking very kindly to her now, and she gradually grew calm, and listened while he talked of Europe, and what they should see there, for he quite decided that they would go in the spring, and, as nothing in the way of travel could suit Rossie better, The doctor laughed a low, musical laugh and drawing hisisisterrtgo 111mZ said : “You cannot dissemble worth a cent. Don’t you suppose I know that Everard’s letter to you was not all you hoped it to be. He finds it hard to forgive me for having deprived him of something which his mature manhood tells him is sweeter, more precious, and far more to he desired than the object of his boyish passion And I cannot blame him. I am as sorry as he, in adifierent of course, end youâ€"-_â€"" 4% She had said all she had to say, but she kept on sobbing piteously, like one in mortal pain ; and hard-hearted, and utterly unâ€" principled, and selfish as he was, Dr. Mat- thewson could not be wholly indifferent to a grief such as he had never witnessed but once, and that was years ago ; but she who wept before him then was a fairâ€"haired Ger- man girl asking reparation for the ruin he had wrought. He had laughed at her, and, telling her she would make a splendid queen of tragedy, had hidden her go upon the stage and achieve her 'fortuue, then come to him, and perhaps he would make terms with her. But Rossie was a different creature. She knew nothing of such girls as Yula Van Eisner. She was Rossie, heiress of the For- rest propertyâ€"aud he walked up and down the room several times, and blew his nose vigorously, and made a feint of wiping his eyes with a perfumed handkerchief, and then came and stood by her; and puttting his hand on her bowed head, said to her : “Don’t,” she said, as he made an effort to soothe her. “Don’t speak to me, please. I must have it out now. I have kept it back so long. Oh I wish I had died when I was a little girl, and before I grew to be a. woman, with a woman’s love which Imust fight for my life. and never knew a. moment of absolute rest and quiet. Oh, why did you do it? Why did you separate'me from my love ? for he is mine and I am his. I was everything to him ; he was everything to me.0h, Everard just this once I will say what I feel. I love youâ€"I love you; and I cannot help it. I know it is wicked, and try to put it away. I bury it out of my sight; I trample on it; I stamp upon it; I think I have the mastery over it, and on the slightest provocation it springs into life more vigorous than ever, and I cannot conquer it.” “Don’t Rossie, give way like this, or you will drive me mad, knowing, as I do, that I have in one sense caused your sorrow. If I could undo it, I would, but I cannot. There is, however. a way out of it. Have you ever thought how easily he might get a divorce, which would make him free 2" “He would not be free’, and, lifting up her head. Rossie flashed her bright black eyes upon him indignantly. “The Bible would not recognize him as free, neither would I. and you must not speak of such a thingAto me.” He did not finish the sentence, f0 ' e broke away from him, and burying h be in, the cushions of the couch on which they were sitting, burst into an uncontrollable fit of weeping. she told Mrs. Andrews the next day of the plan, and wrote of it to Everard,ignoring alto- gether his right as her guardian to be con- sulted. But Everard did not resent it, though for a time he felt half tempted to say that‘ she should not go, for a strong presentiment of evil swept over him with such force as to keep him ‘awake the entire night. But with the morning his nervous fears subsided, and he could see no reasonable objection to Ros- sie’s going for the summer to Europe with her brother, whose perfect knowledge of the manners, and customs, and language of the different countries must make him a very pleasant travelling tompanion. Bessie had written that she should go diâ€" rectly from Florida to New York, and so Everard wrote her his farewell letter, and i sent her a. draft . for five hundred dollars, which he said she might need, as she would not care to be altogether dependant upon her brother. Rossie’s first impulse was to return the draft, but Dr. Matthewson advised her to keep it and not wound Everard by returning it to him. So Bessie kept it, or rather, gave it to her brother.and sent aletter of thanks to Everard, and another to Bee, telling her of her intended journey,aud biddingher good- bye; A With that subtle and mysterious foresight with which women seem to be gifted, and for which there is no explanation, Beatrice anticipated danger at once, though in what form she could not define. She only knew that she wished Rossie was not going away alone with Dr. Matthewson, but she kept her fears from Everard, and wrote to Rossie that she should be in New York to see her off. And when Rossie stood at last an the deck of the Oceanic, Bee was there and Everard, too, taking his last look at the face which would haunt him in the yearslto come, as the faces of the dead haunt us when we feel that by some act of ours interposed in time, we might have saved the life dearer than our own. Bea.â€" trice had said to him : “I am going to New York to see Rossie. Will you go with me ?” and without a. mo- ment’s reflection he went, and spent one blissful day with her, a day never to be forgotten, and when he drove with her in the Park, and watched the constantly changing expression of her sweet face, which had grown so pale and thin, that he was more than half reconciled to let her go, hoping much from the sea air and the new life she would lead. To the doctor he was polite and courteous,a.nd an ordinary observer might have thought them the best of friends, so that Ros- sie was satisfied, and would have been quite happy if she could have forgotten the dis- tance which would soon intervene between hem. On the whole, Beatrice was favorably im- pressed with Dr. Matthewson. who was so kind to Rossie and so thoughtful for her that she dismissed her fears, and half wished she, too, were going with them. She said as much to Rossie when they stood upon the deck waiting for the order to be given for all visitors to leave. “ 0h, I’d give the world if you were," Rosâ€" sie cried. “I should not feel as I do,â€"afraid, somehow, as if I was never to returnâ€"never to see you again, or Everard.” She was holding his hand in both hers as she spoke,and in that moment of farewell sheforgot everything except the presentiment that she was. going from him forever ; that their parting was final; and her tears fell like rain as she bent over and kissed his hand, and said : After this letter Rossie never wrote again. and though Everard and Beatrice wrote fre- quently to her, asking her to send them a line, if nothing more, Dr. Metthewson always replied, “ Shag is forbidden to write even so much as her name ;” and so the fall and win. ter crept on, and Rossie was first in Venice. then in Florence, and then in Rome. And then Dr. Matthewson wrote one day to Ever- ard, saying that Rossie did not .know of this letter, neither did he wish her to know, as it would only trouble her and retard her re- covery, but to be brief, he found himself straitened for money just now, physicians charged so abominably in Europe, and on account of Rossie's illness their expenses were, of course, much heavier than they would otherwise have been, and if Everard would make an advance for Rossie of a. few thousand dollars. he should be very glad. He was intending to leave Rome “ Good-bye, Everard, good-bye, and if it should be forever, you’ll never forget me, will you ‘2" These were her parting words, which, in the after time, he said over and over again, with a bitterer. heavier pain than that he felt when with Bee he stood upon the Jersey shore, and watched the Oceanic sailing down the hey. And so Rossie passed from their eight, and the next they heard from her she had reached Liverpool, but was greatly fatigued with the voyage, during which she had been sick most of the time. It was only a. few lines she wrote to Everard, to tell him she was safe. “ When I am stronger,” she said, “I will send you and Beatrice a long letter, and tell you everything. Now I can only sit by my window and look out upon the busy streets of Liverpool and St. George’s Hall right oppo- site, and occasionally there comes over me a feeling of something like home-sickness when I remember how far I am from America and the friends who never seemed half so dear to me as now, when I am so widely separated from them.” When Everard read this letter there came over him again a great horror of some im- pending evil threatening Rossie, and do what he might he could not shake it off. He thought of it by day and dreamed of it by night, and could he have found any good excuse for doing so, he would have started for Europe, and kept near the girl, who, it seemed to him, was in some imminent peril, though of what nature he could not guess. Some time in November a. letter came from Dr. Matthewson, dated at Nice, where he said they had been for two or three weeks, and where. as he expressed it, “ I hope our dear invalid is improving. Switzerland was not the place for her, and she seemed to grow weaker every day she staid there, so I hastened back to Paris, and then came here, where she seems very happy. but is weak as an infant. She complains of nothing but weariuess, and cannot get rested. Of 'course I have the best medical advice for her, and everything is done which can be to arrest the disease and give her some strength. The physicians have forbidden her reading or writing, even short letters, and I must do it for her for the present. I hope that neither you nor Miss Belknap will be needlessly dis- tressed. for I assure you there is no mmediate danger. and with proper care, such as she has now, she will, I think, be quite able to return to America in the spring. She is calling to me now from her chair by the window, and says. ‘ Tell them not to be troubled about me; that I walked too much in Switzerland and am not rested yet, but am so happy here in beautiful Nice, looking out upon the blue Mediterra- nean.’ " The next he heard from Bessie she was in London, and delightfully located in lodgings near Regent’s Park, and playing keep house, while her brother was the best and kindest man in the world, and she was very happy. Then they went to Switzerland, and Rossie’s letters were full of the enthusiastic delight she felt with everything around her. Of her health she seldom spoke, and when she did, it was not altogether satisfactory. Sometimes she was so tired that she had kept her room for twoer three days, and again a headache, or sore throat, or cold, had confined her to the- house for nearly a week; but she was very happy among the Alps. and wished that Bea- trice and Everard were there with her to en joy what she was enjoying. As the summer advanced, however, her letters were not so frequent, and the doctor sometimes wrote for her, saying she was not feeling well, and had made him her amanuensis. They were not to be alarmed, he said ; it was only a slight heart difi‘iculty, induced by the mountain air, which often aflected tourists in that way. He should take her to Southern France early in the autumn, and then to Italy as the season ad- vanced, and should not return to America till spring. early in the spring, and go to Germany to a. famous cure, Where the price were very high. , , Double the amount of money asked for was placed at the doctor’s disposal, and when that night Everard went to Elm Park to call upon Beatrice, he said, in reply to her inquiries for news from Rossie: ALAS, POOR nossm ! It had been a long, dreary winter to Ever- ard, and when the anniversary came round of the day when Bessie sailed, it seemed to him that he had lived in that year more than a hundred lives. And yet, in a , business point of View, he had been very prosperous, and money was beginning to be more plentiful with him than formerly, though he could not lay by much, for Jose- phine made heavy demands upon him. When she left Florida she did not return to Rothsay, where she knew she was looked upon with distrust by the better class. It was a dull, poky hole, she said, and she should enjoy her self better travelling, so she travelled from place to place during the summer and au- tumn, and in the winter went again to Flor- idaâ€"but early in the spring she came back to the Forrest House, where shelived very quiet-‘ ly, and seemed to shun rather than court so- ciety. She, too, knew of Rossie’s failing health, for she heard often from the doctor, and she expressed so much anxiety for her to Beatrice and Everard, hinting that they did not know the worst, that their fears were in- l creased, and suspense was growing intolerable, i when, at last, one morning in May, the mail brought to Everard the American Register from Paris, directed in a hand he had never seen before. Evidently it was sent from the office, and probably had in it the whereabouts of some of his friends who we: travelling in Europe, and who occasionally for- warded him a paper when they left one place for another. Mr. Evarte was still abroad, and Everard ran his eye over the list of names registered in different places to see if his was there, for that the paper had anything todo with Bessie he never dreamed. Indeed, she was not in his mind, except as she was always there, in a general way, and so the shock was all the greater and more terrible when he came sud- denly upon a little obituary notice. and read with wildly throbbing heart, and eyes which felt as if they were starting from their sockets. so great was the pressure of blood upon his brain : “Died, on the evening of April 20th, in Haelder-Strauchsen, Austria, of consumption and heart disease, Miss Rosamond Hastings, of Rothsey, Ohio, U. S. A.. aged nineteen years and ten months. Seldom has death snatched any one more lovely in person and character than this fair young girl, who in a strange land far away from home, passed peacefully and willingly to the home above, and whose last words to her weeping brother were : ‘Don’t cry for me, and tell them at home not to be sorry either. Heaven is as near me here in Austria as it would be in America, and I am _50 glad to go. ’ ” Everard could read no more, and throwing the paper from him he buried his face in his hands, and for a few moments gave way to such grief as men seldom feel, and never ex- perience but once in a life-time. He did not weep ; his pain was too great for tears ; neither did any word escape his livid lips ; but his frame shook as with an ague spell, and occasionally a, long-drawn, moaning sob told how much he suffered, While great drops of sweat gathered thickly upon his face, and in the palms of his hands. No other blow could have smitten him so heavily as he was smitten now. It is true he had felt a great dread lest Rossie should die, but underlying that was always the hope that she would come baok again. But all that was ended now, the little ray of sunlight on his horizon had set in gloom, and the night lay dark and heavy around him, with no rift in the black clouds, no light in the future. Bessie was dead, in all her freshness and youthful beauty ; Bessie, who had been to him a con- stant source of pleasure and joy, since he first took her in his arms, a tiny little girl, and kissed her pretty_mouth in spite of her remonstrauoe, “Big boys like 00 mustn’t tiss nittle dirls like me.” But Rossie was not there ; Rossie was dying far away over the sea ; and only Josephine met him in the hall, civilly and haughtily, as had been her manner of late, and taking him into the reception-room where Rossie used to come to him and vex him so with her long dress and new airs of womanhood, told him that she had an invitation to visit a friend who lived in Indianapolis, and who had in- vited her to spend the entire summer with her, and she wished to know if he could fur- nish her with money for the necessary outfit, and should she shut up the house again and let Agnes go to Holburton, or should she keep it open and leave Agnes in charge. He told her she could have the money, and said that if Agnes wished to go to Holburton they might as well shut up the house for the summer; and then he left her and walked rapidly down the avenue, thinking of the girl whose presence seemed to fill the place so completely, that once, when a bush near the carriage road rustled suddenly as a rabbit darted away, he stopped, half: expecting to see a figure in white sun-bonnet and high. necked apron spring out at him just as Rossie used sometimes to do when she was a little child and he a. well-grown boy. And she was dying then, when he was thinking so much of her, and she seemed to be so near him. “ Dying then and dead now,” he said to himself, just as a step was heard outside, and Lawyer Russell came n, stopping short in alarm at the white hag- gard face which Everard lifted to him. He had kissed her many times since as a sister. and twice with all the intensity of a lover’s burning passion, and once she had kissed him back, and he knew just where her lips had touched him. and fancied he felt their pressure again, and the perfume of her breath upon his cheek. But, alas, she was dead, and the Austrian skies were bending above her grave in that far-off town with the strange- suunding German name, which he had not stopped to pronounce. ' “ What was the name?” he asked himself. speaking for the first time since he read the fatal news, and reaching mechanically for the paper lying open at his feet. But his eyes were blood-shot and dim, and it took him some time to spell out, letter by letter, the name Haelder Strauchsen, and to wonder where and what manner of place it was where Rossie died, and if she were lying under the flowers and soft green turf she loved so much in life, and if he should ever see her grave. “ Yes, please Heaven l” he said, “I’ll find it some day, and whisper to my darling sleeping there of the love it will be no sin to sp eak ef then. I’ll tell her how with her life my sun of hope went down, never to rise again. " Then, glancing once more at the paper, he read a second time “Died, April 20th,” and tried to recall what he was doing on that day, the darkest and saddest which had ever dawned for him. Making allowance for the difference in time between Austria. and Ohio, it was little past midday with him when it was evening over there where Rosamond was dying, and with a shudder he remembered how he was occupied then. Josephine had written him a note, asking him to come to Forrest House as soon after lunch as possible, as she wished particularly to see him. As he walked up the avenue to the house, he had looked around sadly and regretfully at the different objects which had once been so familiar to him, and all of which had been so intimately assocrated with Rossie. It was a lovely April day, and beds of hyacinths and crocuses were in full bloom, and the daffodils and double narcissuses were showing their heads on the borders near the door. These had been .liossie‘s special care, and he had seen her so often working among them,trowel in hand, with her high-necked long-sleeved apron on, that he found himself half-looking or her now. “We shall never see her again." “What is it, my boy ? Are you sick ? What CHAPTER XLII‘ has happened? Tell me ?” he asked; and motioning to the paper on the floor, Everard answered. sadly. “Rossie is dead." “Rossie dead! No, no, Ned, it can‘t be true,” Mr. Russell said, and picking up the paper he read the paragraph indicated by Everard, while a tear moistened his eyelids and rolled down his cheeks. The old man had been very fond of Rossie. and for a few moments he walked up and down the little back office with his hands he hind him, and his head bent down, then stopping suddenly he gave vent to the ex~ clamation “By George ! uttered in such a tone that Everard looked up quickly and en- quiringly, and said: "What is it? What’s the matter 7" “Ned, my boy, look here. This may not be the time nor place to speak of such a thing, but hanged if I can help it," the lawyer replied, coming close to Everard, and con- tinuing, “I take it that you considered Rosa- mond Hastings to have been the lawful de- visee to your father’s estate}: “I knéw she was," Everard said ;and the lawyer wgntron i1} ,3 choking ygiqe 2 “Poor little girl 1 She rebelled against it hotly, and would have deeded it to you if she had lived to come of age,â€"thete’s noth- ing surer than that. But you say she’s dead, and she not twenty yet till June, and don’t you see, in spite of fate, the estate goes to her brother, who is her heir-at-law, and that‘s what I call hard on you. I know nothing of the man except what you have told me, but if the half of that is true, he is a scamp. and will run through the property in a quarter of the time it took to make it. Maybe, though, he has some kind of honor about him, and if Rossie knew she was going to die, you may be sure she put in a plea for you, and perâ€" haps he will divide ; that’s the best you can hope for. So we won’t despair till we hear from the brother. There’s another mail from the north to-night. A letter may come by that. It ought to have been here with the paper. It’s a bad business all roundâ€" very bad. Rossie dead ; poor Rossie, the nicest girl and most sensible that ever was born, and the property gone to thunder l” The old man was a good deal moved and began again to walk the floor, while Everard laid his head upon the table in a half-stupe- fied condition. Not that he then cared especially what became of his father’s money, though the thought that it would go to the man he hated most cordially was a fresh shock to his nerves, but it was nothing to‘ losing Bessie. That was a grief which it seemed to him he could not bear. Certainly he could not bear it alone. He must tell it to some one who would not, like Lawyer Rus- sell, talk to him of money; and when it be- gan to grow dark, so that no one could see how white and worn he was. he arose and walked slowly up to Elm Park, sure of finding a ready and hearty sympathy there. “th Everard, thiit ié it ?7’ Beatrice asked, when she first met him and saw his white. haggard face. He answered her as he had answered Mr. Russell, “Bessie is dead,” and then seated himself again in the chair from which he had arisen when she came in. Beetrice’s tears were falling like rain, but Everard’s eyes were as dry as if he had never thought to weep, and there was such a fearful expression of anguish on his face that Beatrice Went up to him, and laying her hand on his head, said, pityingly : 1 “Cry ?” be repeated. “How can I cry with this band like redâ€"hot iron'ai‘ound my heart, forcing it up to my throat. I shall never cry again, or laughâ€"never. Bee, I know you think me foolish and wicked, too, perhaps ; half the world would think it, and say I had no right to love Rossie as I do. and perhaps I have not ; but the dearest, sweet- est memory of my life is the memory of what she was to me. I know she never could be mine. I gave that up long ago, and still the world was pleaysanter to me because she was in it. Oh, Rossie, my darling, how can I live on and lmow that you are dead !" “Oh, Everard, don‘t look like that. You frighten me. Cry, can’t you, just as I do ? Tears would do you goqd.” Then Beatrice did not attempt to comfort him, for she knew she could not, but she sat by him in silence until he arose and went away, saying to her at parting, and as if he had not told her before, “ Rosaie is dead ” ' He then related his dream to his brother. The spot was not considered a favorable one for striking oil, but the dream of the young man so impressed the superintendent that he determined to sink a well there. The result was awaited with intense interest by the two brothers. The drill, at the depth of 600 feet, struck a literal river of oil. The rich deposit spouted out of the earth at the rate of 2,000 barrels a day. The well became famous at once. It was given the name ofthe “Coquette,” because ofthe coquettishness of the young lady that resulted in its being drilled. Thousands of persons flocked to the farm to see it, and a. fee often cents a head was charged for a sight at it, pouring its wealth into Dr. Eg- bert‘s tanks. It flowed for fifteen months. Dr. Egbert made an immense fortu from it, and then sold a one-twelfth inter for $275,000. He gave $20,000 to the young man whose dream led to the discovery of the Coquette well. With this sum to start with, the fortunate dreamer in a few months made a handsome fortune. He returned to his native village. Still loving the young lady Hyde & Egbert’s had a brother who lived in an Eastern town. He was in love with a young lady of the place, who was noted in the neighborhood as a great coquette. - One night in the early fall of 1864 a troupe of Indians gave an exhibition in the village. The young man and the young lady in question attended it together. After he had escorted her home, he seized an opportu- nity that ofi‘ered and asked her to become his wife. She refused him. He went to bed dis- appointed and despondent. He had long en- tertained the idea of seeking his fortune in the oil regions, and before he retired that night he had determined on carrying out the idea without further delay. Before morning he had a dream. He thought that he stood in a wild mountainous place,alone and friend- less. Suddenly an Indian, hideous in war paint, sprang from a thicket and rushed to- ward him with his tomahawk raised. The dreamer was unarmed. He tried to save himself by flight, but he could not move. He had resigned-himself tohis fate, when another person appeared on the scene. It was the coquette who had rejected his suit. She had a rifle. She quickly placed the weapon in her jilted lover’s hands and disappeared. The lover covered the Indian with the rifle and fired. When the smoke cleared away the In. dian was gone. Where he had stood there gushed from the ground a stream of oil of great volume. It flowed down over the land in a miniature river. The young man awoke from his dream. It made a great impression upon him. He in- terpreted it as a good omen for him, not only in business matters, but in his love affair. Ho departed for Oil Creek next day, and went first to the farm where his brother was work- ing. One day the superintendent was show- ing his visiting brother over the Hyde & Eg- bert farm. Suddenly the latter stopped and looked about him with an exclamation of sur- prise.‘ _ PETROLEUM CENTRE, Pa.., June 21.â€"‘0ne of the most famous of all oil farms that were developed in the early days of the petroleum excitement on Oil Creek was the Hyde & Egbert farm, near this place. Dr. Egbert, of Franklin, and his partner had between them $1,000, which they paid for the farm. This was considered an immense price for it, as it had not yielded enough under cultivation to pay taxes. In 1864 they struck oil on it. They had several good wells, but none that compared with the great guehers that had spouted their 2.000 and 3,000 bar- rels a day further down the creek. - ”This is the very spot,” said he, “thatI saw in my dreamfi _ A Lover’s Dream ulnar he had been Jilted, and Ilne nappy Results that name of It. 'l‘IlE UOQUE'I E WELL. (To BE CONTINUED.) who had refused his hand, and learning that since his departure she hed‘ceased entirely to go into society, he proposed to her again. This time he was accepted, and he married the former coquette. Shortly afterward the well ceased to yield oil voluntarily, fell to a small “pumper,” and then became entirely exhausted. A few rotting timbers of the der- rick that stood above the once famous well is now all that marks the spot where the river of oil burst forth. Scandal fleeled 011 at the Tomb: Courtâ€"1 How Frederick M. Dori-lumen Run Away with His Friend'l Wifeâ€"Al'- reuled on l‘wo Charges. (New York Star.) A trio of Western peopleâ€"a wife, her par- amour and an injured husbandâ€"were in the Tombs Court yesterday. The wife was Mrs. K. Holden of Central City, Dakota. Territory, and the paramour was Frederick M. Derring- ton, from the same place. The couple, who had eloped from Central City, were followed to this city by the outraged husband. He claims that his wife had stolen 160 bonds of the La Grange Iron and Steel Company, valued at $6,000. Mrs. Holden is about middle age. was well dressed in a. suit of black silk, :2. large but lined on the inner rim with straw-colored spirred silk, and held a fan in an awkward manner, in imitation of a city belle. The husband had followed the pair to this city in order to institute civil proceedings in a case of crim. con. against 'Wington. Preliminary to these proceedings h ‘caused the arrest of Dorrington on a charge of grand larceny, for having stolen $6,000 worth of bonds and jewelry. He found Dorrington and Mrs. Holden boarding at No. 5 West Twenty-second street. A warrant was issued by Justice Morgan to arrest Dorrington and to search his room. At 6 o’clock yesterday morning Sergt. Jam es and Officer Hill, ac- companied by Mr. Holden, , called at the house of Mrs. Grames, No. 5 West Twenty-second street where it waslearned that the runaway couple occupied the same room, and every indication pointed to an improper intimacy. Dorring- ton was taken by surprise. and was disrobed when he answered the knock at his door. He was put under arrest, and was afterwards taken to court. Dorrington demanded an ex- amination, which was accorded to him, and he was paroled till the afternoon. Thomas K. Holden married his wife,Emma A. Colwell, seven years ago. He was then the owner of an iron foundry in Chicago and a man of considerable wealth. Much attached to his wife. he spent his money lavishly upon her. They went to Europe on a wedding tour, visiting England and Germany, return- ing to their home only to set out on a more extended tour two years afterward. They visited Egypt, Palestine, India and China, making a circuit of the world. On their re- turn to Chicago business grew dull, and in the general depression that swept over the country Mr. Holden failed. Mrs. Holden had wealthy relaitives and she possessed money in her own name, together with considerable real estate that had been transferred to her by her father in 1861." When Mr. Holden was in financial difficulty she loaned him money and mortgaged her real estate,advanc- ing him 352,500. Mr. Holden, it appears, was a divorced man when he married Miss 001- well, his former wife and three children being still alive. He sold out his business to Frederick M. Dorrington and went to Dead- wood, Dakota, to redeem his fortune, and it was in this way that Dorrington became intimate with Mrs. Holden. Mr. Holden soon enriched himself and prompt- ly transferred to his wife $9,000 worth of bonds. Dorrington is also a married man, having a wife and family in Nebraska. Mr. Holden made up his mind to visit Chicago and regain his lost property. On April 20 Mr. Holden, his wife and Mr. Dorrington met at Central City, Dakota, where Mr. Holden accused Mr. Derrington with having been intimate with his wife. “At this time.” said Mr. Holden, “my wife was. always seeing skeletons in Cen- tral City. Apparitions would come up before her and she wished to get away from there." That day (the 20th of April) Mr. Holden re- turned to Chicago, leaving his wife in Central City. Mrs. Holden said that Mr. Holden had told a lady friend of hers that he had given his wife to Mr. Dorrington. About the middle of May, Mr. Holden visited Central City to take his wife back to Chicago, and was told by some of her friends that she had gone to Michigan. when in reality she was living on Michigan avenue, Chicago, with Dorrington. Mr. Holden states that he went on Ito Michigan, where his wife’s mother lives, and was told that Mrs. Holden had just left to visit him in Chicago. Then it was that he thought his wife was. playing him false, and he put detectives on her track, and as everything was fixed to capture the run- away couple that night the game had flown. Mrs. Holden and Mr. Dorrington came on to New York and put up at No. 5 West Twenty-second street. Mr. Holden followed and procured a warrant for Dorrington’s arrest on a criminal charge. at the same time instituting proceed- ings in a civil suit for criminal connection. In the criminal charge Mr. Holden said that he had known Dorrington about two years, and Dorrington never lent him any money. He denied that he had ever said to any one that Dorrington could have his wife. â€"-Elia,s Rychell left Five Points, Ohio. eight years ago to seek his fortune. He lately returned wealthy, having been lucky at mining on the Pacific coast, to find that his brother had married the girl on Whom he had himself fixed his choice for a wife. He was greatly diseppomted. but she said that the husband need be no impediment, as she was ready to desert him. So the Californian went back to the gold fields with his sister-in-law, who left two children behind. â€"The richest parasols prepared for mid- summer are of white silk with lace covers, either black or white. There are also covers of Irish tatting over parasols of shaded red or blue silk, with linings of changeable silk and sticks of natural oranpe wood. “ Your husband spent a. good deal of money upon you ?” “ He naturally would.” “ Now you think that some one else natur- ally should?” “ You are no gentleman, sir I" “ Who paid your expenses to this city 7" ‘A I dld 1’ “ How long did you cohabit with this man Dorrington ?" Mrs. Holden became gxcited and vigorously fanned herself, but did not answer the ques- tion The question was put again and she faced the counselor with glaring eyes and said: “ I am a lady.” “ No doubt you consider it like a lady to run away with another man.” Mrs. Holden became a witness for Mr. Dor- rington, and said the bonds were her own. She was interrogated by gounselor Andrews, and grew very indignant and questioned the counselor’s right to put certain questions to her. It: was finally decided by Justice Morgan to discharge the prisoner as no crime had been eslgqblisrhedragainsfi him: Not far from the prisoner stood Deputy Sheriff David McGonigal with an order of ar- rest for Dorrington on criminal connection proceedings, and he took him into custody. Chlldren, make your mother happy, Make her sing instead of sigh, For the mournful hour of parting May be very, very nigh. Children, make your mother happy ; Many griefs she has to bear : And she wearies ’neuth her burdens, Can you not these burdens share ? Children2 makg your mother‘haippy; V Prompf obedience cheers the heirfi While a. wilful disobedience Pierces like a poisoned dart. Children, make your mother happy ; On her brow the lines of care Deepen daily, don’t you see them? While your own are smooth and. fair. ELOPING FROM CIIICAGO. MAKE YOUR MOTHER HAPPY.