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

\Aan- "WREGKETD. AN consu:h0MANcn. CHAPTER VII. ' There was a long silence. What indeed could Dick say '1 How could he nerve himself to banish the sole ray oflhappl- ness and cr infort which now remaineu‘to him. He had long? rouge-£1, to‘ deceive himself, or to fancy that he could ever be more to Oliflvg, thanflaIdear-V and, valiiso friend {'but, “so long as she remained unâ€" married, he was her nearest and indeed her only relative and'protectorâ€"the only one in all the worlu on whom she could rely for. help.aud protection. Anrl he was qvite content with his place; but Olive married, with a husband and chil- dren, surrounded with nearer and dearer ties, was quite another person. Dick I had faced many a. temptation. fought an a battle with himself before, but Iilileve’i- one that was half so hard as this. When Olive, wondering at his silence, looked up at last, she was startled by the expression of his pale, stern face and com- pressed lips. “Dick, why don't you speak? Tell me what to do 1” she cried lmplormgly. Dick spoke at last, in a hoarse, unnat- ural voice-â€" r ’ “Nay, how can I tell you? You must choose for yourselfâ€" you know best what your heart tells youâ€"whether you care for him still or not,” he said. “Care for .him f"-â€" and Olive looked up and spoke with sudden passion. “Oh, that is such a mean, poor, inadequate phrase to express what I feel 1" she cried incoherently. “I love him, I tell you, as I never loved any one before- as I shall never love any one again. I sent him away from me once because i thought it was best for him, but I loved him all the time. I shall love him as long as life and memory last.” - “Then tell him so," Dick said hoarse- iy. “Ask him to come back to you." The col: r faded out of Olive’s face, her eyes looked scared and frightened, and her very lips turned white. “Tell him so,” she repeated. ins. low whisperâ€"“ask him to come back to me ? Oh, I cannot 1 He would think me hold -â€"unwomanly l" I She dropped Dick’s arm, and, walking to the window, stood looking out into the park, where the twilight was rapidly fall- ing and the mist creeping up behind the trees. A servant entered and announced that the carriage was waiting. and was motioned impatiently away. Dick stood on the hearth-rug watching her with anxious, imploring cyss, tut he did not speak. Far away i rough the silence came the sough of the wmd and the low moon of the surf breaking on 1116 shore, and stillOlive stood there with her hand clasped tightly over her heart, With her rich dress sweeping round her, and her diamond star flashing : n her heaving breast. “Dick, tell me, what can I say ’1 ’ Like an a; peeling cry the Words rang through the room and roused all Dick's better nature. He came a. few paces nearer and IOi ked steadily at the passion- ate, tear-stained face. “Shall I tell you wha‘. the Olive of the old days would have said, lacs ’3 ’ he be- gan, steadying his voice resolutelyâ€"“the Olive who thought and car-ad naught about propriety, or what the wmli would say ; lhe brave, tine-hearted Olive. who would have gone through fire and water for her friends? ' “Yes, tell me 1" Olive locked up eagerly, with a ray of hope in her face. Dick hesitated a moment. “Eh, but it's like taking the hem-t out .of my breast and telling: you to irample upon it I" he said, with an inef- fable saducr-ss in his voice. “But 1 would do more than that for you. Olive. Well, thrD,-lili8 is that I think the Olive of the old days would have said tn the man she had loved and eriiged”â€"bis voice, which had been very hoarse and broken at first, grew clearer every momen'â€"â€"~“ I made a mistake, and have found it out now. I senl you from me. and Iwronged you sorely ; but I loved you all the time. And now I have come to ask you to for give meâ€"to take me back to my old place in your heartâ€"to give me my lost happi- ness back again.’ ” There was an intensity of pain in Dick's voice which startled and vaguely troubled Olive; but she was too much Occupied with her own grief to heed it much just then, though she thought and sighed over it sadly enough afterwards. Alas, well might Dick look sad ! Did not those words. and the light which flashed into Olive’s face as she listened, seem like the death-knell of his own hap- piness? The color flushed into Ollve’s face, and a smile of ineffable tenderness played on her parted lips, as, with a quick impulsive movement, she caught Dick’s hand in hers, and laid her cheeks upon it, and kissed the rough brown palm. “Yes, I will go to himâ€"I will tell him what you say ; and I will ask him to for- give me 1" she cried. will take , me to him, will you not, dear '3” as is «- s- i!- s It was the evening'of the following day, and Angus Mar-riot was sitting alone in his lodging, laboriously practising writing with his left hand ; the business which had detained him in Newcastle was almost finished, and on the next day he intended returning to London. It was a very hot evening, and in the crowded street the heat was stifling and almost overpowering. The sun strained in through the faded morecn curtains and fell upon the shabby furniture, covered with dust and patched and worn with age and the ill-usage of former lodgers. Angus pushed his chair from the table, and glanced round the room with a sigh of disgust and wearinsss, then, walking to the window, looked outside into the street, and, soon wearying of that amuse- “And you, Dick, v ment, resumed his seat at the table, and ok n his en. ‘03,”, ghe wpoyk was slow and tediOu and he soon threw the pen aside. and 1., Ned his head (,n his hands. All at once a, longing which was almost irresistible came “vel- him for a. breath of the salt an~wind which blew over the rocks .at Huhoydâ€"ful’ a glimpse of Olivs’s bonny brown face 1 He bai been terribly angry and disappointed at her letter of fate- weu {he gpnld have stakodhxs life on, flinterfaith and. truth, be told himself ; and he had written, in the first glow. of his anger, an answer as cold and indifferent as Olive‘s own letter had been. But, with reflection, repentance had come. and he had determined on writing to Olive and entreating her to reconsider her de-. cision. Then came his accident, .and soon after he heard the news of Olive’s heiress-ship, and pride forbade him, to write and risk the chance of a second re- fusal. But the chance meeting With Dick Haythorne the day before had aroused all the old feeling in his heart. As he sat at the table, the vision of Olive’s sweet sunny face seemed to rise with tantalizing distinctness before him. He leant back in his chair, closed his eyes wesrily, and presently, tired out with the heat and fatigue, fell fast asleep and dreamed a happy dream, in which he was back at Holroyd, wandering about the rocks with Olive by his side. There came a low knock at the door by-and by, and he roused himself enough to answer sharply, and bid the servantâ€" as he thonghtâ€"entcr. But_ he did not open his eyes or luck up, till the soft rustle of a dress broke the silence. Then he raised himself, and, looking up With bewildered eyes, saw standing in the full blaze of the sunshine as he had seen her in his dream, Olive, in her blue serge- dress, with her little red cap crowning her shining plaits of hair. «3‘s;- He gazed at her for a moment in sl- lcnce. Was it the real Olive, or only a part of his dream '6‘ Should he wake up presently and find she had vanished 7 There she stood, the same Olive whom he had loved so well, as sweet and bean- tiful as over, yet not quite the same. There was an added dignity, a certain patient sadness in the face before him, which the old Olive had never worn. He started up from his chair. with an excla- mation of surprise. “Olive, is it you, really ’1" he cried. Olive stammered something,she scarce- ly knew what, in reply. She had lain awake half the night, fancying the meet- ing and planning what she should say and how she should best excuse and jus- tify herself to Angus ; but. the careful little speech which she had prepared alto- gether deserted her now. Something in Angus's slfered looks, in his bandaged useless hand, in the lines which pain and snxiety had written round his mouth, touched her keenly. She could only hold out her hands, with a mute appeal for pardon and reconciliation written on her quivering lips, her sweet tearful eyes. “Angus, will you forgive me? I have been so unhappy," she faltered ; and then. before he could answer, she was kneeling by his side, and her tears were falling thick and ‘ast on the poor maimed hand. “Oh, I never knewâ€"I would have come to you long ago, if I had only known l” she cried passionately. "Yes, 1 know ; that is just 'ike you, Olive ;" and Angus stroked her hair gently «â€"“but you need not grieve so much for me, dear ; I am getting used to it now, though it was a great trial at first ; and I am gottirg quite clever; I shall soon be able to write very respcct- ably with my left hand,” he went on cheerfully. “Look here 1" He took up the {spot on which he had been writing from the table, and held it out for Olive's inspection. She tried to look ; l‘ut the tears filled her eyes and blinded her, and she pushed it away im- patiently. A ngus looked at her quietlyâ€" hesifated a momrnt. “Dick fold you, I suppose," he said at last. “I can't tell you how delighted I was to see his brown face again yesterday. How vividly it brought back old times to me !" With a great effort, Olive rallied her courage, and looked up into his face “Yes, he told me that, and more,” she responded. "It is because of what he told me that I have found courage to come here tc-day- to ask you to forgive me." “I have nothing to forgive. You had a perfect right to change your mind,” Angus returned coldly. . “But if I had never changed ‘3” said Olive, with a great earnestnass in her voice. “If I had loved you always, even when you were thinking most hardly of rueâ€"what then, Angus ’1" "Then I am still more at a loss to un- derstand your conduct,” Angus answered. “But never mind now ; I was hurt and indignant at the time, for I had trusted you implicity ; but I am quite reconciled to it now. I can see now that it was all for the best.” He hesitated an instant, as he looked down at the stillkneeling figure ; his face changed, a look of unutr terable loveand yearning, flashed into his blue eyes, and he bentzhis head and kissed the soft dark hair. “Thereâ€"I have forgiven youâ€"we are friends again," he said lightly. “Get up, child; don’t kneel there on that dusty carpet. You will spoil your dress. ” He would have raised her ; but Olive pushed his hand away. ~ “Not yetvnot until I have tried to it would be for you to marry an ignorant country girl who had neither money nor influence, who would be a hindrance in- stead of a help to you; and not only that, but I was told too that you had re- pented your choice, that not lovg but honor alone hold you faithful to your vowa ; andsoâ€"I set you free.” ' Who told it to “Was it a “It was a falsehood i you i" Angus asked hotly. woman 1" ‘ - “Never mind who told rueâ€"let that pass, Olive answered quickly. “And now, you know all, Angus, will you forgive me, dear, or must I plead in vain ? ‘ Angus touched her hair gently. “I forgiveâ€"we are friends again," he said shortly. “Only friends?" Olive did not look up, her checks were flaming and there were hot tears of shame and disappoint- mennin her_ eyes. She rose from her knees as she spoke, and stood with down- cast eyes by his side. , She looked so sweet and gen‘le in the midst of her grief that Angus only by an effort re- strained himself from taking her into his arms and kissing the sweet tear-stained face. “Don’t tempt me, Olive 1 What more can we beâ€"now l" he muttered hoarsely. He turned from her as he spoke, ; but his agitated face and manner and the passionate glance of his blue eyes filled Ulive’s heart with a throb of intense de- light. With a little caressing gesture, she slipped her hand throughhls arm,and hid her face against his shoulder. “What ’1 All that we were before, and more still, Angus 1" she whispered. “Oh, if you knew how unhappy l have been, how empty my life has seemed lnce thenl Dear, won’t you listen to me? It is for my lifelong happiness I am pleadingâ€"the happiness I had thought was lost for ever," the girl cried passionately. But still Angus was silent. He stood looking down into her face with an in- tense questioning gaze. Was it pity or love which prompted the confession? he wondered. He know so well the strength and generosity of Olive’s nature that it was no wonder that he asked the quzs tion, and he revoltod against the idea of accepting a sacrifice which afterwards she might repent making. And she was rich and be was poor, though her wealth was scarcely the barrier to Angus which it would have been to many men. He cared for and thought very little about mr ney, and Olive the heiress was not one whit more dear and precious in his sight than the old Olive had been. He took both her hands in his, and looked down searchingly into her plead- ing face. “Your happiness l Olive, answer me this question honestly. Is it of your happiness or mine you are thinking 'i" he asked very gravely. Olive looked up with misty eyes. “Is it not the same thing? ' she asked, in reply. “I think my happiness is bound up in yours, Angus." And Angus, looking down into the quivering, half smiling face, and reading with wondering delight the sweet love- light which flashed into the girl’s eyes and transformed and beautified her, could not doubt any longer. He drew ter closely to his breast and kissed er. “Oh, my darling, how I have been wearying for you i" he whispered; and Olive clung to him in a silence which seemed too sweet to break. Angus never knew of Mrs. Oakley's treachery. Olive kept her promise of se- crecy faithfully ; and, though Mrs. Oak- ley can rarely be induced to visit Angus in his Northern hr ms, the two cousins are as good friends as ever. “I am afraid you are making a poor bargain, lLVe,” Angus said to Olive by- and-by. as she set by his side perched on the arm of his chair, with his useless hand held gently between her own. “I shall never do any good now i I used to think once that I might make a name which you would be proud to wear; but those hopes have faded nowâ€"since my accl- dent." “Never mind ; they will bloom again,” Olive cheerfully predicted. “I fear not. It is very doubtful, so the doctors tell me, that I shall ever be able to use my hand much again.“ “Never mind." There were blinding tears in Ollve’s eyes ; but she bent her head over his hand, and the passionate drops fell unnoticed. “I am going to supply its placeâ€"to be your right band new. i shall be, or try to be, at all events, what Milton's daughter was to her father. You don’t think I shall make a very poor substitute for this. do you, dear 1" she went on, touching his hand gently. Angus smiled, and kissed her. “I am only wondering what you can see in rueâ€"what I have done to deserve my good luck. Only I doubt whether I ought to ac t such a sacrifice. The more I think" of it the greater it seems 1 You have beauty, wealthâ€"” “Beauty? In your eyes, perhapséin ‘no other,” Olive answered quickly ; “wealth, which is only a burden and. trouble to meâ€"oh. you don’t know how tired I get of all my grandeur some- times, how I long for the old free‘life l” “When you used to run about baro- footed on the sands.” There 'was a very tender look in Angus’s blue eyes as he called to memory his first meeting, with Olive. “Shall Ievor forgot the first time« I sawyou, I wonder ?. .You.were a: blue is lgushad looked up quickly-“how unwise justify myself,".she said gently. "Lls- gown, and you had a. red cap on your ten a moment, Angus. I loved you 3.1- head. Why, I do believe”â€"._and he look. waysâ€"ever since the first day we met-â€" ed down at herdress criticallyâ€"“it was but/never more truly and sincerely than when I wrote the letter which said good- bye to you i I was very simple and un- worldly in those days, dear, and I had ac cepted and returned your love gladly, and never dreamed that it might bring you harm , but, after you had gone, I learned â€"never mind who taught me”â€"â€" for An- the very gown you are wearing now 1 Am I not right 7" “Quito right. It is very old and shab- by now ; but I keptâ€"I think I shall al- ways keep it, for the sake of the memor- ies it recalls," Olive answered very sweetly ; “and I put it on to-day because I hoped it might bring back those mem- 'clusive. " orles to you as well, and I wanted you to think of me, my dear"â€" and the clear voice faltered and droopedâ€"“not as the, Squire‘s heiress, but only as the girl ‘ whose life you blessed and glorified with, your love, who asks nothing else now but) to devote that life t) you." Angus did not answer ; his heart was too full for words ; but he bent his head and kissed the clasped white bands which rested on his arm ; and, as Olive looked up into his face and read the unuttorahle love and reverence in his blue eyes, she felt indeed as if the full fruition of her. hopes was at hand. But no one thought of Dick, waiting patiently outside in the crowded street. It was the evening before Olive's wed- ding-day, a. golden August evening, with an opal-tinted sky and sea. Olive had come down to the shore with Dick, to take a last good-bye look at the familiar scene. The two cousins were standing on the rocks watching the sun set behind the sea. Olive had been very silent for some time. She stood by Dick's side, with her hand on his arm, and a thought- ful, far-a-way look in her eyes. How 1 could she be anything but thoughtful, standing as she did on the threshold of a new life. where unmen joys and sorrows unknown trials and responsibilities await- ed her. Dick was silent too. He had some- thing to say to Olive which he knew Would grieve her deeply, and he had brought her down to the beach on pur- pose that be might say it alone ; but he hesitated how to begin. “ Won’t you come with us 1" Olive had said to Angus, who had been present when Dick made his request. But Angus, after a quick intent look into Dick’s face, had quietly declined; and so once more, for the last time, the cousins took their evening walk together. Olive broke the silence at last. “ How quiet we both are l I think the sunset always makes one thoughtful, don't you, Dick 1 And it seems so odd to think that to-morrow"â€"she hesitated and colored b.ightlyâ€"“ I shall .be so far away. It will be winter, and the days cold and dark, before you and I see each other again." “ Perhaps it may be longer than that,” remarked Dick slowly. “ Oh, no, it won't l Angus ihas prom- ised to bring me home for Chrismas," laid Olive, with a decisive shake of her head. ,“ Many things may happen before Christmas. See here, Olive"â€"and Dick rallied his courage desperately. “ I may as well tell you at once, and get it over. I am going to Australia next month.” “Australia !"â€"and Olive's voice was full ofshocked surprise. “ Oh, Dick, surely you are jesting 1 You don't mean it really ’1" “ Ay, I do. And it is no new thing, lass ; I have often thought of going”â€" now that the ice was broken, Dick went on steadily enough. “ I am getting tired of Holroyd ; I should have been off long ago. if it had not been for you. And now that you don’t want me any longer”â€"â€"and for a moment the strong voice quivered a littleâ€"“ i can go at once.” “But I do want you 1" Olive cried plteously. “ Dick, don’t goâ€"â€"stay with me i 1 shall miss you so much i” “ You won’t miss me long. Besides, I have quite decided," Dick answered firmly. “ I took my passage in the Orient last week. Thereâ€"don't lock so grieved, loss 'â€"â€"and he patted her cheek caressing- lyâ€"“ and don’t try to pursuade me to alter my mind. Can’t you understand? I must goâ€"I can t stay here now i" For the first time a faint suspicion of the truth broke over Olive’s mind. She gave a quick frightened look into Dick’s face, the color flushed into her cheeks, and her heart throbbed wildly ; but it was along time before she spokeagain, and then there was an inexpresslble sad- ness in her voice. “ You know best. But. Dick, you are only going for a time? You will come back to me some day "l Promise !" Was it a foreshadowing of the future which made Dick hesitate, which brought that solemn, awed look into his eyes ‘3 “ Yes, 1 will come back some day," he answered slowly, “ if Heaven so wills ! I will come back and settle down in your cottage again, with old Margery for my housekeeper. I don’t thinkI could fancy living in any house but that ; so, even if you let the cottage to another tenant. Olive, during my absence, you must pro- mise to turn them out when I come home i” “ It shall never have another tenant but you i ' Olive cried. “ Old Margery shall live there and keep it in order ; and, when you come home, whether it be months, or weeks, or years, it will be ready waiting for you.” Dick smiled, but did not answer. is - as as a *- And the ship sailed, and'chk in itâ€" sailed with a fair wind and favourable weather, amid the good wishes of all. And day by day Olive, in common with many another anxious one, looked for ’news of its safe arrival, and'looked, also, in vain. _,The;weeks passed, and doubt deepened into anxiety, and anxiety into four, and tidingi came of a great storm which had broken :over the Pacific and strewed the ocean with wrecks ; and still no tidings come of rhejmisslng ship. But still Olive hopes and I waits. Dick will come back to her some day, she says; and so the cottage is kept swept and gar- nished, and Dick’s books are dusted, and his fishing-“nets hang over the little fence, and even his pipe lies on the table, ready for the owner’s hand. It is Olive‘s will. that this should be so. Nothing must be touched, nothing altered, till Dick re- turns. But the months and the years go by, and still Dick does not come. THE END. u<->«â€"â€"__ “ Well,"<said an Irish attorney, “if it plaze the court, if I am wrong in this, I have another point that is equally con- FUN-BEAMS. ,1. Professor (reading)â€"“ Entc Mephis- toI"([’urnlng to Mr. 0., who as just come in). “Good morning." (General collapse.) > “Remember the p0rter,”said the hotel highwayman t0 the parting guest. “I shall,” said the other; “ it was worse than the ale.” “What is a lake?" asked the teacher. A bright little Irish boy raised his hand. “ Well Mickey, what is it?" “Sure, it's a hole in a klttle, mum.” “ Before marriage," sbe pouted, “ you used to speak of my beautiful auburn looks, but now y)u call me redhead. ed.” “ My dear, ” replied the heartless man, “ marriage opxns the eyes. Before that event I was color-blind.” Pianistâ€"“ Which part of my rhapsody did you most enjoy 1 " lgnoramusâ€" “ Which part 7” “Yes; which move- ment?" “ Oh, the last one. ” “Ah, that is the presto.” “ Presto 2 What a queer name i ” “ Do you think so “I” " Yes. Up our way when-a man gets up, bends his back, smiles to the audi- ence,{and walks off, we call it a bow. " A colored lady came into the office of i the Attorney General, on Austin Avenue a few days ago, and asked McLeary, the Attorney General, if he had a list of the convicts General Roberts had pardoned out of the penitentiary. “ What do you want to see the list for? "v “I has jess marâ€" ried. a new husband, an’ I wants to find out all I kin about him." Arnold W. Pierce, an eccentric justice of the peace at New Troy, Berrien coun- ty, Michigan, has the following print- ed on his business cards: " Marriage ceremonies performed at all hours of the day or night. Especial attention given to claims of soldiers who were frightened or discouraged during the war. Ofice hours from one o'clock in the morning to midnight, standard time. “You would be surprised to see what a lot of wedding presents my .daughter had, ” exclaimed Mrs. Bascom to a friend who had been unable to attend the wed- ding. “ And so appropriate and tasteful as some of them were, tool You ought to have seen the handkerchiefs Mrs. Jones gave herâ€"lovely things, just as soft as woolâ€"and every one of them had her utensils marked in the corners." They were reading the old farmer’s will, and his nephew, the principal in- heritor, was paying the closest attention to its provisions. Presently the notary comes to the clause, “ I bequeath to the faithful servant that shall close my eyes one hundred francs." “Hi, hello there!" says the heir ; “ just read that again, will you 7 ” The notary complies. “ That's a hundred francs saved,anyhow," says the heir ; uncle only had one eye. Got the faithful domestic that time, didn't I f ’ The Peasant and the Dog._â€"â€"A Peasant who was Awakened at midnight by the Barking of a Dog under his Window threw up the Sash and called out: “How, now -â€"what is the danger? ’ “ There is none." “Then why do you Bark and Disturb my Slumbers 'l" “ For the same Reason that u play the Fiddle and keep me Awake â€"for Self Amusement." Moral: When the Piano next door becomes Unbearable buy your boy a Drum. Egypt in Winter. In his valuable and interesting article on the Soudan. or “The Land of the False Prophet,” in the March Century, Mr. E. R. Colston says that from Khar- toum to the lakes, on a c-;ol day, in De- cember or January, crocodiles of all sizes are seen sunning themselves on every sand~bank,as thick as logs after a freshet. Herds of buffaloes and gigantic antelopes, elephants, and giraffes come to slake their thirst at the water's edge, and the night is made lively, if not hideous, by the lion’s roar on the land, and the continual bellowing of the hippopotamus in every pool. At this time of year, he further informs us, the climate is perfection. just like the brightest and warmest October days in Virginia, and travelling then is perfectly charming. Everybody is in fine spirits, for water and pasture are plenti- ful ; laughter and endless chaff are heard from one end of the column to the other. A caravan of five hundred camels covers more ground than a large cavalry regi- ment, marching with a front of about one hundred yards where the wadies (valleys) are broad, and reducing to single file when crossing narrow defiles between gates of granite and basaltic clifi's. When evening comes, camp is pitched in some pleasant wad y, and quickly dozens of fires illuminate the valley. The large Seudan sheep, which follow the caravan, grazing as they go, supply a delicious roast added to the game killed during the day’s march, and the canned soups, meats, and vegeta- bles we used to carry in abundance. Af- ter dinner comes the unequalled cofi'ee, straight fromMocha, then pipesand plea- sant chat, while all around we hear the laughter and gobble of the good-natured soldiers and, Bedouins mingled with wild and barbaric songs, accompanied by the viol called kemengeh. Occasionallv, of a moonlight night, the Bedouins perform their national war-dance, with sword, lance, and shield, in mock attack and defence ; and even their great sheik con- descends to take part; while the beating of the darabukas wakes the echoes of the wady and the answering yell of the as- tonished jackals and hyenas. Game is found in porportion to the vegetation ;on the plains, ostriches and countless gazelles and antelopes ;;in the wadies, rock-par- tridge and grouse, guinea-fowls and hares ; on the high ridges, capricorns and wild asses. Among the fauna of the wilder- ness are some unwelcome specimens, locusts, serpent, and scorpions, the latter quite numerous and altogether too fond of nestling on one’s blanketsofa cold night, but quite unaggressive if let alone. Add to these the vultures, which stalk familiar- ly about the camp, picking up what they can find, and the jackals and hyeuas, . whose howls are heard in the night.