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not 8. doubt, of me. ll: was a s in which to stand. I do no felt so isolated, so separate f during all my life. One autumn day I had be: the village, visiting the Wife who was a. gentle hypochon way home I met. the wife tion, if were pe -From that. day, as is to be supposed, my vigilance increased, bub mingled with this was a. fluctuating background of anger and pfity, according as I regarded ourselves or Lucy. I could not but feel confident that; she wronged Bertie in her heart. and that idea kept me indignant. But; this unfor- tunate, untruthful girlâ€"she, after all, was the person to be pitied. Again there was a momentary pause. “ I am sorry you should think I wish to deceive you, Aunt. Clare,” said Lucy, rather breath- lessly. Then another silence. “ I will explain my words, or my acts, whenever you please, aunt. as well as loan, but, I can not explain my looks; or at least I can not explain things which other people may see in them." “ Then that. is all ?” said I. “ Yea, aunt,” said Lucy, with some firm- ness; but she no longer ventured to look up to my face. Lucy looked up again, with great calm- ness. into my face. “You are very kind aunt Clare, but indeed it. is quite unneces- sary. You know quite as much of me as you will care to know. You heard ofâ€" of my engagement the very day it was made; what more can 1 have to tell '1” ' Lucy neither spoke nor looked at me; she went on sedulously at her crochet, and I thought Icould see her hands tremble, but she answered nothing. “You cannnt always keep up this guard,” said I; “sometimes for a. moment. nature will 13's.], and in that moment you will be- tray yourself. For your own sake, Lucy, I appeal to you. After the look you gave me yesterday, I canno longer be deceived.’ I exp-ected this, and was not discouraged. “My dear." I said, “you are still very young; I dare say you feel a certain pleas. are in being able to keep everybodyoaround you in the dark as to your real feelings,but this is a poor enjoyment at the best, and it will recoil chiefly upon yourself. Even now, at last, try to have confidence in me, Lucy. I begged you, when you first came here, not to restrain yourself unnaturally. I beg you not to conceal your real heart under a pretense, or to keep up those false appearances. In this house there is nothing but kindness and good intention toward youâ€"an honest affection and a true love. Even I, who love you least, mean you well. Lucy. I am a woman, and have had trials of my own; Ican sympathize, perhaps I canhelp you. Try to have confiden2e in - The next, Lime Lucy and I were alone I spoke to her. I had resolved to try, once for all, to set matters right, and in no unkindly spirit;ior even to herself this wretched deceit would bring nothing but. unhgppinesg. “Lil-cy," I said, “do vou remember how you looked at. me yesterday. Did you mean it?” “Did I mean what, aunt '3” said Lucy‘ lifting her eyes to me with the most. inuo‘ cegb eupriee_iq phe wqud. 311‘ “You have more to tell!” cried I anxious- THE NEW INMATE OF HILFONT. CHAPTER XXI at THRILLING STORY nine. of the 0UP at )RE Eh ! ah I What am I to say?” said the youth, looking at Lucy. “I Wanted to sell you upon my honor I didâ€"but you see it’s all my father. Eh .' what. the deuce in man to say if” r r I shopkeeper, who stopped to courtesy, and exhaust herself in inquiries after every member of our household. “ I’ve seen miss over again the stile Chis half-hour or moor,” said the woman, “ and lookin' ought. but Well. I thowt. to myself’, she’s after the ferns or the flowers, like the most. of them young ladies, but. 1 mynher think it’s a talk she‘s having wi' some un as pleases her. Young fol“ will be young folks, i’ the village or i’ the hall.” "By George, but I v on’t this time, though,” cried the young man. See here, ma’amâ€"it’s none of her doing. I will come to see her somehow, if there were a dozen fathers between us ; and if you choose to forbid me your place, I don‘t mindâ€"but I will see her. 1 am fond of hexâ€"and she’s fond of me. I won’t be put off any longer, by George. It’s all my old rogue of a. father, and nothing else, upon my honor. Lucy. I’m not. going to hold my tongue any more. She did not: speak, only lookedoab him with a significant look and gesture, Which somehow changed his mood. He stopped gazed at her, grumbled “Goad-by then,” and with a half-sullen nod at me, plunged through the trees, and Lucy and I stood alone, looking at each other. I was very angry.I confess, but; I was also deeply grieved. She followed me home with dark, immovable obsbiuacy whi not, have believed possible to It face ; keepingastep behind me a walking with a conscious air of mility and disdain, which wah tacit insult. It, was rather a mu: for the Wth stumbling so and nervous very pleasan said Lucy; ‘ “Say ubthing but good-morning,” said Lucy. Go awayâ€"go ! Do ynu hear me? Winnymido What_I LeI_l you?‘ Go !” V “ You would have found it better policy to tell me frankly when I asked you,” said I. “ Now let, us get home; and I trust: you will be ready to explain everything there." “You must be mlstaken, I think. Miss Crofbon is not very well to-duy; I left her at home,” said Li “Bless you, ma’nm. I’m never mistaken,” said her informant ; “I’ve brown up three lassesmysel', and I knows the ways on ’em. I’ve gone to church thinklng my Mary was bad in bed, I have, and whenever my hack’a turned she’s made herseX’s as gay as a penâ€" cock, a purpose to see Ranf Smibhâ€" him as she’s married to nowadays. Bless you I knows ’em well.” “It does no: matter,” said I; “I must have an explanation of this, and immediabe 1y. Who is this whom you steal out secret,- lv to meetâ€"you, Lucy Crofmn, who are bound to another?” “Nay,” said I, “do not go. If it: is you Who have persuaded this young lady to place herself in so unbecoming a posinion. s:z~.y,and tell me, her natural guardian, what, this means.” Iconfess after this I hurried away with- out another word ; and anxious and in haste, took a. by-way, which led, by a long detour, into the wood. I went very rapidly, finding roots of trees and broken branches no bar to my tremendous haste. Comingatlast to a point which overlooked the high-road, Ilooked carefully down from among the trees, and saw, within a few yards off, at the junction of two roads, the same cab which I saw on Easter Monday in the street of the village. The little groom held the horse’s bridle, and kept up a close supervis- ion of the two roads; but either this byAway was unknown to him, or he could not see me. I was standing on the top of a mound deeply wooded, to the summit of which this school-boy track led : underneath, but a long way about, from the crown of the slope, lay the stile where Lucy was said to be. I wound my way cautiously down, to reach it if possible, unobssrved ; and before I reached 1 could perceive enough to con- firm the gossip‘s tale. Close by the stile, ready to plunge into the other side of the wood, and gain his vehicle unpercelved, stood a young man, of whom I could only say that he was not Bertie, and leaning upon him, with her arm 1!) his, stood Lucy Crofton. They were absorbed, apparently, in an anxious, half-whispered conversation, in which frequent pauses were made, to per- mit the stranger to look anxiously out into the road, to see if any one was coming. They did not suppose any one was coming by that concealed by-way. I almost felt it unfair to steal upon them so entirely un- suspected, and made a rustling among the branches before I reached them. to give them warning. At the sound they both looked round. Lucy thrust her companion away, with an imperative “ Go !” and the young man sprung across the path, but, finding me close upon him, and himseii discovered, paused and turned round to her with an eager. vacillating look, as if for further orders. There was no escape. Lucy turned round upon me darkly, with a trembling lip, which still curled in a strange travesty of the usual smile, and met my eye with defiance. “Were you hiding among thebushes,Aunt Clare?” she said, withetone of insult which was indescribable. I remem» bered it afzer, but was not cool enough to notice it a: the time. Lucy did notanswer me. She burned,and cried, “Go, Reginaldâ€"go !" with an eager gesygre of her hand. “You are wrong, however, about Miss Crofton ; pray don’t think of repeating it; in is quite a misnake,"aaid I. endeavoring to pass, and anxious to see {or my myself. “I ne'er was a story teller,” said the wo~ man. “but vhere’s moor fixings “asked of in the village ; it's but them than’s most. concerned thabne'er henrwhat all the world knows.” “What do you mean ?” cried I, in amaze menc. “You look down by the wood, ma'am,” aid the gossip, briskly ; “there’s a kind of a carriage there that’s moor times than one been seen by the hall ;and him that comes a driving of it you’ll see talking to miss on toother side of the stile.” ‘ake mowed me home With a. look or imovable obsbiuacy which I could : believed possible to that smiling taping a. step behind me all the way ; with a conscious air of mock hu- nd disdain, which wafi of itself a. nit. It, was rather a. rough road, in- :d by branches of trees and heaps of =uL down and piled on the Wayâ€"side Winter's fuel. I went on quickly, 1g sometimes with my excitement: rous haste. “ You do not find it WHU cry, first Lher ed, this dwe abse befo wer‘ by r and‘ asam, walking here. Aunt Clare,“ and DPODG haste to exasperate me alkmg mes with my :3 here. Aunt ( D be better, per} [h look of I could smiling ups to made ‘ heart. Thinking of these things, with my head bowed down in my hands, and my heart far awayâ€"havmg escaped out, of the troubles which sent me here, and growing calm in the sadness of my heart, I heard all at, once a. sound that; startled mé. For the first, time I had left the door unlocked when I came into my secret place, and when I looked up with a Sudden start; and cry. Derwenb stood before me-â€"etood at first: amazed. wondering to find hxmself no answer, but went on quieLly; it. seemed a week before we reached Hiliom When we got there an last, I led her into the library, where I knew Denvem to be. We came in so hastily. Iexcited and angry. Lucy pale and obstinate, the: he perceivel at. once something had gone wrong. He punhed away the leLLer he was writing, and stood up astonished to look at. us. I could scarcely pause L0 take breach before I spoke. “Derwent,”saiil I, "you have pub the fullest, most unlimited confidence in this girl; you hove given her Ihe place of a child in your house ; you have even wiabed that, it should be she who should share the inheritance with your heir uf:er us. You sanctioned her engagement Ln BcrLie Nugenb, and gave her your blessmg. Did she ever tell youâ€"nay, did she ever give you the slightest ground to believe that her engagement Wllah Bertie was all a. fiction, and that, ahe has been pledged otherwise, and to another person, all the time?” I I was in my own private sanctuary, a. place which no one ever entered save my- self; whereI did. with tears and prayers, like a. sacramental work, the homelies: needful oflices. I was there, and my heart calmed Within me ; secondary troubles could not touch me there. And here I had come many a. day sinceâ€" many a dayâ€"my heart always more or less throbbing with that pang which never went aWEy. A little cradle, Where once, for an hour of that sweet life which was counted by hours, my child slept , a. little basket on the table, with the little garments laid in it. ;a. low chair, where some one had sat holding him;‘and nothing more but the Bible, which lsida. solemn calm upon my heartache when I read it there. I dropped upon my knees, with my head upon the chair~then I rose up, and took my seat there, and hid my face in my handsâ€"and God knows, when one has asharp stroke of this world’s common trouble, and has no secret happiness to fallback upon, it is well to have a. sacred grief, where one can clear one's soul from the dust of the ignoble overthrow. It calmed me like the touch of God. I could not; think ofLucy here. I could scarcely think of Derweut’s unkind tone and averted face. I escaped from all, to wander longing to the verge of that heaven where the heart. of my heart. and soul of my soul, born for God and not for me, fulfilled the dear life ordained for him at; the Lord's feet. 0 sweetest choristers, 0 holiest, innocents, how many hearts break for you. and yearn for you, night, and day, and hour and year, when no man knows thereof ! I think the Lord Himself could not bear it, if it, were not, that that hereafter which shall put the children again into Lhe mother’s arms is even now with Him. OPY. first Lher I remember well. the first time I fled for refuge and soothing to that room. It was when, glancing listlessly over a. newspaper, I saw, and. being fascinated, somehow could not help but read, one of those horrors of moral crime â€"a. baby killed by its mother. I could not bear it. I came here with the great sob of intolerable anguish gasping in my throat. \Vhy, Why, oh, compassionate God, give the living child to her who dared the boldest act of crime to make herself free of that burden? and to me, alas ! to me nothing but a. little grave '? Oh, thou terrible life, thou art but for a while lwho within thy limits dare answersuch a. question as this? this meant, and having dwell upon the troub absent, from my Lhougk before Derweut. realize were. When he did re: by my side, and threw and, touched by a. su4 and pity, and tender c!his loss was, fell into voluntary weeping, wh Derwent looked from me to Lucy, and from Lucy to me again. He saw me excited quite beyond all ordinary self-control ; he saw her dark and down-looked, yet preserv- ing her manner of tranquility; and I be- lieve in his heart he sided wiLh her quiet» nesa, and thought, so much self-possession could not belong to one who was in the wrong. Ilooked at; him, Scarcely believing my ears. But he had averted his face, and was placing a chair for Lucy, and bidding her sit: down; he would take care of her. I said nothing. I was thoroughly Wounded and mortified; too indignant to defend myself. Ileft the room hastily and went to my own. Then, fearful of interruption. I Went to a little inner chamber I had and fell upon my knees, in the greaL tumult and pain of my thoughts. The matter was changed: it, was no longer Lucy; it was personal injustice, cruel and bitingâ€"the first pang oi discord and alienation of heart bezween Derweut and me. "‘ What do you mean, Clare '3" he exclaim- ed in great, trouble and annoyance, and wimhfiaq impatient, half-pngry pone. “I do riot say anything about what I have done; for I have neither felt nor professed confidence in her,” said I ; but; you have; she owes nothing but kindness w you. Tell me that. she has disclosed the truth to you, and I will acquit her of all the rest.” ” What truth? Pray, speak plainly ; you amaze me, Clare,” said my husband ; “ what has Lucy done '3” “ I have only met, and spoken a few words to an old friend, Uncle Derwent,” said Lucy sceadily: “one whom I knew years ago, and have always known. Aunt: Clare does not love me ; she wishes to sep- arate me from Bernie; she watched me speaking to my friend, who happens to be a young man, and she has brought me here like a culprit to convict. me of ingrati- tude to yam: “ Indeed, Clare,” cried Dex-went. hastily, “ I am much surprised. I did not suppose you would let your feelings carry you so far. I must interfere to protect, Lucy now, for I cannot but. fear that. you have been vegy upjupt to_ her.” iSLODl then was “if CHAPTER XXII. k)ch thoughts, iL realizsd whs. past )“8 1de HS touched my very ving for my own oust of grief that 1 did not, mourn alone. After a whxle he rose up, and held me close. forgetting mo, as I did, everything Lhac had occurred out. or" this sacred room. 1 (11:! not know, and did um, mink what, he had come to say, and neither did he. He looked round with wistful, pilying eyes. full of a great tenderness. he saw my Blble on the Mable. the only other thing In the room,a.nd he knew in a. moment. my secret-the only secret I had ever had from himâ€"me secret. of ale“. “How long has this been. Clare?” snid softly in my ear. “Eve: sinca~” How could he askâ€"- must. have known. pan, and I was par soothe him insmntly xrom his thoughts ; r. the sight. of the gri that, 1 did not. mourn he rose up, and helfi And once more helookexi round the room, the water gliuering in his eyes. “And this has been in your heart. all this time: and you have come here every duy.”he said, slowly and sadly. l’nor mother! poor Clare!" Derwent shrugged his shoulders, rose up, and began to pace about the room in troubled consideration. “Take clandestine means, I suppose," he said; “either she must tell us who he is, and how he happened by accident to come here, and meet her at that stile, or else I must trust to my wits, and find it out for myself.’ ’ “But she did not say he came by accident” I exclaimed. Derwent thought she did, but I dare say he was wrong. Lucy would not have committed herself to a. falsehood so easily found out. I got up at length to go upon my unpleasant and undesirable errand. My rising startled Derwent; he came and I‘d me to the door, where he paused again, looking rather anxiouely into my face. And I did promise; but while he return- ed well pleased and satisfied, I went. away with a pang in my heart. He did not un~ derstand. He thought; I would be comfortâ€" ed, and forget, if these tokens were gone. Forget ! I would rather have died. I could have cried then; but he led me away, and locked and closed the door reverently and silently. Then he brought. me into my own dressing-room, and sat me down on a sofa. “Clare.” he said, “I came to ask if you would pinion me. I was very wrong, but Idn not, fear that you will pardon me now, and I am gladl found you as I did.” Then therewas alibtlepause. Whenhe re- sumed, it was in a. diflerenb tone. “Lucy says,” said Derwent, “that the person whom you found her talking to is an old friend, but will not, give me any further information. I want to hear all that. you know. I have tried to be content with the explanation she gives, but. it is not easy. I dare say he is an old friend: still Bernie would not, much like it, I dare say, am it seems our duty to understand all the circumstances. If it is not toomuch ex- ertion for you, my love, tell me what. you know." “Claire, I want you $0 do rfie a favor,” he said. I knew by instinct what is was, and held up my hands, begging him to spare me; but. heonly took myhaudsiuhisafi'ectionacely with great gravity and seriousness, and continued what he had to say. “I want a. promise from you, Clare. I know you will do it if you promise,” said Derwent. "I want, you to send nhesa thin us away. My love, think! is it, right? It is an idoi’sshrine a3 whichyou worship there.” “No,” I cried, out, of my very heart. “No; it. is at time fee: of the Lord." But Derwenc only shook his head. There is a. difference between men and women. Into that retirement, of mysoul he would notgo with me. “Prom- ise,” he said again, With the tenderesb pity and afiecbion in his eyes. So I even: away very slowly, collecting my thoughts, to go no Lucy, much calmed and uranquilized in my mind by the near touch of my sorrow, strengthened ty com- ing near it, composed out; of my angry thoughts. I felt, that I could go to her now with a milder manner and kinder in- tentions, and began almost. to hope that I did tell him simply and Without reserve; the letters, and Lucy’s half explanation,and the precautions she had taken that I should not see those she sent away ; the repeated visits of the cab ; the warning of the shop- keeper’s wife; the declaration of the young man himself, and Lucy’s authority oven him. Derwent listened with great atten- tion, and shook his head. He. was shaker in his confidence, and now distrusted he more than I did, leaping from one extreme to another ; for I knew that Lucy never would do anything to compromise herselr really in the eyes of the world. “ W'ho ishe ?-â€":ha.t seems the first quesi more to 0p s, as Worn down. ‘lm net are heat an to the door ofthe )unLered me comi t. which contair nd. She went ( the drawing-root 1 to work just as Id enviable self-c and 1t bod 3.126 any 'ny n1 lor quietly ual he sun-y or (he (‘nptllro of the French For! at Lauishur: by [he American Colonlos In out alre‘ A remarkable celebration will take place next year, in which Canadians are lnterested. The year 1895 will be the hun- dred and fiftieth anniversary of the taking of Louisburg from the French by the Ameri- can colonies. With the seizure of the stronghold Cape Breton fell into British hands, and therefore it has special interest to Canadians who are now asked to join with New Englanders in commemorating the occasion. A visit to the histor‘c spot was recently made by a correspondent of the New York Post. He found the new Louisburg a bright-looking little town of about a thousand inhabitants, while the old town about three miles away, has few inhabitants except these who have passed over to the great majority. The road runs over a rocky approach between fields filled with heaps of stones. marking the first lines of defense of the great fortress, across causeways, by ponds and beaches. On one of the latter may be seen, at low tide, the remains of one of the French vessels sunk one hundred and fifty years ago; for here was the inner harbor, now almost filled with sand. Still further on. we come in sight of shingle-sided, whitewashed cot- tages, rickety wharves, and platforms covered with salt fish, while men in oil~ skins are washing out nets, etc.â€"this where the lilies of France one waved. The old- est house in the placeâ€"and it looks its ageâ€"â€" was probably built almost immediately after the siege. The whole point is covered with heaps of stone, which look almost as small as macadam, and there is enough of it, one would think, for most of the roads in Nova Scotia. Louisburg was begun in the year following immediately after thedeathofLouis XIV.,takingtwenty- five years tocomplete, costing thirty million livres, with a rampart of stone from thirty to thirty-Six feet high and fifteen thick, and a. ditch eight feet wide. There were six bastionsand batteries containing embra- sures for over 148 cannon. On an island at the entrance of the harbor was planted a battery of thirty cannon, carrying tWenty- eight-pound shot, and at the bottom of the harbor was a grand or royal battery of twenty-eight cannon, forty twu-pounders, and two eighteen-pounders. On a. high clifi opposite the island battery stood a. lighthouse, and Within this point. secure from all winds, was acareening wharf and a. magazine of naval stores. The entrance to the town was over adrawbridge spanning the moat, near which was acircnlar battery with sixteen fourteenâ€"pound guns. It. is hard to realize that the fortress city, cap- able 150 years ago of containing 6,000 troops within its walls, and which had 15,000 in- habitants, all told, should have so utterly, disappeared from the face of the earth Ghati scarceiy one stone is left upon another to1 tell the tale of its life and death. A if the lowest rate of postage were imposed when mailed in Canada, the several classes of publications mentioned would probably be printed in the Dominion. Sir A. P. Caron has promptly acceded to the repre- sentations of the publishers, and has fixed the lowest possible rate on their behalf. Another amendment. of an important char- acter made in the Postuoffice Act will allow newspaper publishers to enclose in their newspapers not only accounts and receipts, which is permitted at present, but; also printed circulars inviting subscriptions and the printed envelopes addressed to such publishers. The concession is, of course, confined strictly to the documents menâ€" ticned. from A CENTURY AND A al‘an l‘raversâ€" he wouhi he frans, that Derwe rt himself to set, affairs right, dor now should winepukthe JD ‘OD Thank you mos though an, ple you (TO BE I.., the - other day, After a. continuo! en hours, he awoke “l‘hat last Time to Settle. tare had confiered over in grave- bexy her head over th she let. me know her at Clare; I am much 'our gentleness and for- say I provoke a great . till tomorrow.” :OSTIN suit of mine is worn 7e heard you say obhes until they HALF AGO. ion ‘3 Martin sleep of h perfect ‘recies would i that Sucks 5.11