I suppose Mr. Linn was sorry. Her health 
had been failing for a long time, and she had 
been obliged to neglect her duty, and that 
fact helped to support him in his bereave¬ 
ment. lie never married again, and Annie 
grew up under the shadow of her father’s 
presence, and the tyranny of the two elder 
brothers, who were really prototypes of her 
parent. One of them was married now, and 
his bustling, active wife gave Annie a world 
of good advice, and set her face against 
Charles Mauson, and all belonging to him, 
with a praiseworthy pertinacity. 
There they stood in the maple grove, with 
the sunset streaming about them, and the 
black sorrow sweeping down over their 
souls like the heavy clouds that hovered 
above the radiance of the West. lie had 
been pleading so earnestly. But though her 
heart trembled beneath his words, and 
swayed towards him with old affection, his 
passionate language beat vainly against the 
fortitude with which her ideas of duty and 
right had armed her. 
“ You never loved me,” lie exclaimed, 
with all a man’s selfishness and cruelty. 
“ You are cold and hard—you can’t feel!” 
Hhe only shivered a little — her tears had 
crowded back upon her heart, and refused 
to flow. It seemed to her that they were 
slowly freezing there, and would press life 
out beneath the ice. 
" Why don’t you speak ?” he said. “ You 
see me going crazy before your face, and 
will not apeak a word to me.” 
“ I can’t Bay anything more,” she slowly 
answered. 
“ Then you give me up ? You cast me off 
as everybody else has done ? I have not lied 
to you—I never pretended that I was a good 
man; but you might make me what you 
please." 
“ O, Charley, Chailey!”—the utterance of 
the old familiar name was like a sob — 
“ if you cannot be all that you ought from a 
higher reason, no efforts of mine would 
avail.” 
“ They would—they would!” 
She eliook her head sadly, retaining all 
the while her forced composure, though in¬ 
wardly she trembled so that she could hardly 
stand. 
“ They have made you hate me," he ex¬ 
claimed. “ You look upon me as a monster. 
After all, how am I so much worse than 
other men? If the truth were known, half 
those sanctimonious people w ho abuse me 
have done worse things than—” 
She put up her hand pleadingly, and lie 
stopped. She could not hear to hear him 
attempt such self-justification. 
" O, Charles t” she said suddenly, “ for 
your own sake, for your mother’s, be true to 
yourself— make your life all that it ought 
to be.” 
*' What do I care for myself? As for my 
mother, she has a son to depend upon—I 
am of no consequence—no one will care how 
I end.” 
" You are breaking my heart. Do not 
make us all so miserable.” 
She wrung her hands with a sudden pas¬ 
sion which startled him. She was usually so 
quiet that, with his impetuous nature, ac¬ 
customed to give vent to every emotion, he 
had at times accused her of a want of feeling. 
"It is my heart which is breaking,” be 
answered. "Annie, don’t throw me oft’— 
don’t send me away utterly desperate.” 
" If you have lost every hope in the world, 
you ought not to be that. I can never be 
anything to you—my father wffll never per¬ 
mit it." 
“ And can you hesitate between us ? Is 
that your love ?” 
" My duty is stronger than my love,” she 
said, “ and I shall obey. Were I alone in 
the world 1 might well hesitate before I 
committed my happiness to your keeping; 
but I would do it — I would trust to your 
affection to me to lead you aright; but 
now-” 
“ Now you may do it. There is no one 
loves you as I do; you fear your father more 
than you love him; your brothers tyrannize 
over you. Only come with me—be my 
wife, and let us be happy in spite of the 
world.” 
" Do you think I could be happy with my 
father’s anger hanging over me ? ” 
" ne would forgive you in the end.” 
“ You know him better than to believe 
that. No, Charles; rather have patience 
and wait. Who can tell, if you did as you 
ought,worked hard and made yourself a good 
name, that he would not in the end yield ? ” 
" lie hates me too much for that. There 
is no hope.” 
The sunset was beginning to fade. Annie 
dared not remain, and she was growing so 
faint and weary that she longed to end the 
pain of parting. 
“ You are anxious to go,” he said, bitterly. 
"You grudge me even this last half hour. 
Do not fear, 1 shall never ask another.” 
“ You. will be sorry for such cruel words 
when I am gone,” she returned. “ Don’t 
make these last memories so bitter.” 
Then his wild love came up again, and he 
implored her with all the fervor of passion 
I 
1 not to leave him; but, though she wept in 
agony, her firmness was unshaken. She 
could die, but she could not take a step 
which she felt to be wicked. 
“ Then go 1" he exclaimed. “ I shall 
never trouble you again. You have made 
me utterly desperate—I have nothing to live 
for now.” 
“ Your mother—remember your mother.” 
“ I shall be better out of her way—I have 
been a curse to her all my life.” 
Then his mood changed. He clasped 
Annie for an instant in his arms, and before 
she could speak he was gone. The lust look 
of his white face, convulsed with mingled 
emotions, terrified her so unutterably that 
she had no strength even to pronounce his 
name. 
After a long time she rose from the 
ground, where she had fallen rather than 
sank from any will of fier own, and went 
slowly home through the chill twilight. 
For two days longer Charles Manaon lin¬ 
gered about the village, then disappeared. 
It was supposed at first that he had returned 
to London, but two days after his mother 
found a letter in the room which he usually 
occupied. It only said that he should never 
trouble her again—neither her nor any one. 
It was better that everything should end. 
At first she could not understand the sig¬ 
nature of the half-illegible scrawl. Gradually 
it broke upon her mind that the leave-taking 
meant suicide. She grew almost mad with 
the horror of the thought. 
The report went abroad, and everybody 
formed a separate opinion. But when the 
tidings reached Annie Linn, she could not 
doubt, even for an instant, that he was dead. 
Mrs. Hanson wrote to his city friends. He 
had not been seen; nowhere any tidings. 
She could do nothing. More than a week 
passed. It was a bright, delicious spring. 
The trees were all green; the croc Uses and 
snowdrops were blossoming in the little gar¬ 
den ; a colony of robins haunted the old 
apple - trees, and flew hi at the open win¬ 
dows, telling beautiful tales of their southern 
flight. But there was no peace in all its 
growing richness of beauty and life. 
It was the middle of the afternoon. Her 
father and brother were out, and Annie Linn 
stood in the side door, looking across the 
field toward the river. She saw a group of 
children rush wildly up the path she had 
last trodden with Charles Manson. Out from 
the nearest house ran several men, taking 
the path the children had come up, which 
led to the cove. 
Annie Linn stood motionless in the door¬ 
way, From the first instant she saw the 
wild race of the children, she understood 
wliat had happened. They had found the 
body; he had been drowned in the cove. 
Then the dreadful doubt whether it had 
been accidental, or the work of self-destruc¬ 
tion. She remembered his last words; but 
even in that hour of supreme agony, she 
could not see her way to have acted dif¬ 
ferently. 
She still stood there, while more people 
went hurrying down through the fields, and 
the excitement became general through the 
village. She heard some one passing through 
the next room. She must be alone, or her 
very reason would go. She reached the 
stairs—fairly crept up on her hands and 
knees, to the solitude of her own room. 
Perhaps an hour after some impulse forced 
her to the window. She looked out. Up 
the path came a train of men carrying 
something over which was spread a white 
sheet, that fluttered a little in the wind. 
Only a glance! then she fell to the floor, 
and lost everything for a lime in that blessed 
insensibility. 
The body wa9 carried to the old brown 
farm-house. The face was swollen and un¬ 
recognizable, but the widow remembered 
the clothes. It was the body of her son. 
The evening before the funeral of poor 
Charles Hanson, Annie Linn wandered out 
of the house into the fields—not towards 
the path which had formerly been her fa¬ 
vorite haunt; she could not even look to¬ 
wards that. 
She saw the old brown house on the hill, 
hut did not venture to approach nearer. 
Sonic one came out of the door and walked 
down the bill. Annie knew her in an in¬ 
stant—it was his mother. She did not at¬ 
tempt to avoid the meeting. She stood 
there, passively awaiting whatever might 
ensue, not even looking up as she heard the 
footsteps come nearer. 
“ Annie, Annie 1” called the familiar voice, 
which had an undertone so like his. 
There stood the widow, with her arms 
i extended. Annie fell into them with one 
cry, upon which the smothered grief of the 
past few days went out. It was a long time 
before there was a word spoken; then tears 
came, and broken whispers which made each 
heart dear to the other. 
“ They say you blame me,” Annie cried. 
"Child, my boy loved you; that was 
enough. 1 never blamed you—I never shall. 
We don’t care what people say — we under¬ 
stand one another now." 
" I wanted to see you—to come to you.” 
?boirt jtlisccllann. 
" I know, I know. You can do so now, 
Annie; your father will never object any 
more." 
They clung to one another a little closer 
after these words. 
"Y’ou mustn’t come to the house, to-mor¬ 
row,” the widow said. “ Come to me when 
it Is all Dver and they are gone.” 
"I have been wishing—I want to see—” 
"No, no. 0, it’s dreadful. I could only look 
once. Don’t, Annie, don’t." 
She hid her face for a moment to shut out 
the painful image her own words had called 
up—that pale, worn face, with so much of the 
tender beauty of age in it already. 
They had no words of comfort to speak to 
each other. It was very difficult to talk at 
all. But it eased their grief to stand to¬ 
gether, feeling that each understood the 
other's heart. 
Annie clung to her with sudden energy. 
" Don’t let them talk to you, I did love him 
—indeed I did,” 
“ I know it. You did what was right; ho 
one shall blame you in my bearing. I hope 
they’ll let my boy alone now. O, my Charley 1 
my Charley 1” 
She checked the spasm of grief quickly. 
I don’t believe he did It on purpose. He 
wrote me a letter. I think he meant to go 
away. I suppose lie wandered off towards 
the river that night—” 
A shudder completed the sentence. It was 
fuller of agony than any words or tears. 
The}' parted almost in silence, and each 
stole home, shivering with a chill that struck 
deeper than the pleasant coolness of the 
spring evening, and would not wear away 
for months and years. 
CHAPTER II. 
Charles Hanson had been buried a year. 
Then came the second great trial of Annie 
Linn's life. 
Janies Martin, having been left a widower 
a couple of years before, and finding himself 
alone in the midst of the comforts his money 
brought about him, cast about in the county 
for another wife, and, as fate would have it, 
he fixed his choice upon Annie. 
lie became a frequent visitor at the house, 
but as he had usually some ostensible busi¬ 
ness with her father, It never occurred to 
Annie that his visits had any connection 
with herself. I fancy he gave Mr. Linn a 
hint from the first; hut the old gentleman 
wisely held his peace, and suffered events to 
take their con**e, reaming that any 
daughter of his could me insane enough to 
refuse one of the richest men in the county, 
and in every respect all that any reasonable 
woman could desire. 
When the truth first dawned upon Annie’s 
mind, she was sorely troubled; but it w'ftfi 
difficult to know what course to pursue. 
Martin began to ask her to drive out with 
him, nnd as all the invitations were given in 
her father’s presence, she accepted them 
from him without the slightest hesitat ion. At 
last, people began to gossip and make re¬ 
marks. It was currently reported that tbo 
pair were engaged long before Marlin had 
found the courage to show her more than 
common civility. 
At length Martin made her an oiler of Ills 
heart and litind, with the air of a man who 
did not dream of a refusal, as was natural 
alter her father’s encouragement. 
"I am sorry,” (she was obliged to inter¬ 
rupt him in order to speak;) " 1 was not ex¬ 
pecting this. I cannot be your wife, Mr. 
Martin." 
He stared at her in astonishment for an 
instant, but could not believe her in earnest 
" Y’ou think 1 ought not to have spoken so 
abruptly, and want to punish me for it,” he 
said. 
“ No, indeed, 1 cannot marry you. I do 
not want to give pain, but please don’t talk 
of this any more, Mr. Martin. I shall always 
be your friend, but I can be nothing more.” 
“ But your father always gave me reason 
to hope,” he said, turning red and pale with 
mingled pain and mortification. 
"I never gave him any cause to do so, 
believe me. It was not until very lately that 
I ever dreamed your visits were intended 
for me.” 
“ But you will think differently—I will not 
take your answer now.” 
“ You must, Mr. Martin—indeed you must. 
I shall never change.” 
“ You don't think me worthy of you? ” he 
demanded, angrily. 
“ It is not that,” 9he answered sadly; “ I 
have no heart to give any man.” 
She grew so white that, for the first time, 
he remembered the talk there had been con¬ 
cerning ber and Charles Munson. That 
thought helped to check his rising anger; 
but he began to plead his cause again. 
She was very kind, but perfectly firm, and 
he was at length obliged to acknowledge, in 
his own mind, that she was perfectly serious, 
and that no persuasion could induce her to 
take her station in the world as his wife. lie 
sought Mr. Linn, and informed him of his ill 
success. 
“ She can’t mean it!’’ exclaimed the old 
gentleman, all the advantages of the match 
rushing more strongly than ever upon him. 
“ These girls never know what they want.” 
" Miss Annie seems to, at all events.” 
" Nonsense! She wanted to tease you.” 
" I never saw a girl show less inclination.” 
" I will talk to her,” returned the old man, 
in an imperative way. " I shall see you to¬ 
morrow—it will be all right.” 
Mr. Martin went his way, divided in his 
opinions, and greatly chagrined at the prob¬ 
able overthrow of all the pretty castles in the 
air lie had lieen industriously rearing during 
the past weeks of blind obscurity. 
" What's this Martin tells me?” demanded 
Mr. Linn, abruptly entering the room where 
Annie still sat, her thoughts going hack to 
the previous year, whose narrow round had 
swallowed up the brief summer of her life. 
" He says you refused him.” 
“ I did, father,” she answered, trembling a 
little before his power, but retaining the com¬ 
posure and courage which she had gained 
from sorrow. 
" 1 should like to know why ?” 
She took his arm and drew him to the 
window, pointing toward the distant grave¬ 
yard, bathed in the soft light of evening. 
"Because, when you laid him down there 
to rest, you buried my heart there also.” 
The old man’s arm fell to his side. She 
went out of the room in silence, leaving him, 
for the time, so much shakon that he could 
not pursue the subject, either by argument 
or threat. 
CHAPTER III. 
Three years more had gone by. Mr. Linn 
was grown an old man, anti, as lie neared 
the grave, his rugged nature began to soften. 
He turned from his sons’ coarseness, and 
sought, coinfort in Annie’s affection and gen¬ 
tle ministering care, which did not fail him; 
and, cheered by her presence, lie went on 
toward the moment when bo put off hu¬ 
manity and its trials, like a worn-out gar¬ 
ment that the eager soul despLsed. 
The brothers were greatly dissatisfied with 
the will—Annie shared equally with them. 
It would have been quite enough for her to 
have beOn left in their care. What did she 
know about the use of money? It was of 
co avail to grumble, however; tbo matter 
was settled. Her elder brother was coming 
to take possession of the homestead, and as 
Annie could in no wise regard it her duty to 
live with his wife, she made preparations to 
depart. YYbile she was meditating upon 
her plans, old Mrs. Manson came, to her. 
“ I thought you considered yourself my 
daughter,” she said. 
" I do. I have no one left but you." 
"Then come home, my daughter; my 
house is j T our rightful home now.” 
So the matter was arranged. Annie set¬ 
tled quietly down in the dear, old brown 
house — dearer even than her childhood’s 
home, from its associations with Charley’s 
memory—as if she hud been indeed the 
widow’s child. 
It was the first spring since the funeral 
took place from the farm-house. Annie was 
twenty-four years old. She had been out 
for a long walk, and it was already twilight 
when she ascended the hill. She passed 
through the yard, and as she reached the 
outer door, Mrs. Manson’s voice reached her 
ear. She was startled — it sounded as if the 
widow was giving way to hysterical emotion. 
" Mother!” she called out, ** mother!” 
" There she is!’’ the old lady exclaimed. 
" Richard, go and tell her — don’t let her in 
without—she’ll die. O Annie, Annie 1 ” 
She rushed into the hall before the fright¬ 
ened girl could stir; she caught her in her 
arms, weeping, and trying to speak, while 
Richard followed, little less agitated. 
" A letter, Annie,” he said, trying to con¬ 
trol himself. "We’re all mistaken; Char¬ 
ley-” 
" Is alive.” 
The Avoids died on her lips—power and 
9ense forsook her in the agonizing joy of 
that moment. 
When she came to herself, Charley Man- 
son was supporting her—was calling her 
name wildly. It was no dream. He was 
there—alive—as she had sometimes dreamed 
might be the case, only to throw aside the 
thought as impossible in her quieter mo¬ 
ments. 
It was very natural, improbable as itseems. 
After writing that letter to his mother, he 
had hurried to Liverpool and shipped to Cal¬ 
ifornia without seeing one of his old friends. 
The body which had been found was indeed 
dressed in his clothes—things Charley had 
given on his arrival home to a poor tramp. 
He was some stranger, a drunken wanderer 
whose name never transpired. 
Charley had not for a long time written 
back, and when he did the letters never 
reached their destination; 90 that he arrived 
that day in the village to find himself re¬ 
garded as comfortably disposed of for five 
years past. 
There is nothing more to tell. Business 
had prospered with him; his early habits 
had been flung aside, and the true nobleness 
of his character shone out without a stain. 
So the old miracle of love had done its work. 
EVERY-DAY LIFE. 
BV LEAD PENCIL, ESQ. 
To-night, as I eat by the grate, Miss 
Crowfoot came in to call. I looked up 
from my paper, and with a bow consigned 
her to the tender mercies of other members 
of the family. Bhc had just made an ac¬ 
quaintance and commenced to detail some of 
the said acquaintance’s peculiarities. One 
was that of telling every guest how many 
spoons she has; where she got them; what 
she paid for them; how and when she lost 
one; who took it; how such a plate was 
nicked; the care it is to be compelled to keep 
servants; how many servants she has; what 
they say and do; what they don’t do that 
they ought to do, Ac., &c. 
" Well,” said I, opening one of my eyes 
enough to let in a little of the fire-light, 
“ what has all that to do with your and my 
happiness or pleasure ?” 
“ Only this,” replied the Crowfoot, " that 
since life is made of trifles, these perturba¬ 
tions of character are ingredients in its com¬ 
position and help to flavor it. So, why 
should we not analyze them ? If the repe¬ 
tition of them, though seeming simply scan¬ 
dal or gossip, helps us and others to watch 
more closely our own acts, habits of thought 
and conversation, will it do more harm than 
good to retail them? I think not; for it 
helps to direct introspection and shows us 
where to place sentinels over our own ac¬ 
tions and words.” 
The Crowfoot, you see, was a sort of a 
social phllosopheress, and while she seemed 
simply to skim the surface of Society, she 
replly got a good deal of cream in what ap¬ 
peared to be froth. 
The Princess sat in her chair with a dark, 
fathomless light in her eye. Beside her sat 
John Tempest, faithless in many of Ins 
beliefs. 
"Heaven!” said he. "What is it? Do 
people, who pray to he taken there when 
ihey die, have any conception of it? Is it 
possible for the finite mind to conceive what 
it can never realize? I indulge in no dreams 
of Heaven nor of a future. 1 have no time. 
I was not created to do it. I have only the 
present; and only this space of time is mine; 
and it 1s nil that I have to do with. Do you 
sup]lose I am goiug to be so foolish as to 
neglect Now to dream of or imagine To¬ 
morrow ? I’m not. I can’t see reason nor 
philosophy, nor religion in so doing, Heav¬ 
en ! Let no man attempt the sacrilege of 
telling me what it is, because no man knows, 
and no man can conceive any other than 
the Heaven adapted to his own highest 
wants and aspirations; and, Princess, what 
may be a heaven to you might not be to me.” 
"So? Y’es, I suppose,” said sho, musing 
" If 1 knew there was to lie no future for us, 
1 should sip sweets I dare not taste now. 
And I don’t know why I dare not, except 
the dread of an undefined and indefinable 
Something that might happen to me in con¬ 
sequence." 
“ What sweets?” asked Tempest. 
That question was not answered. I tried 
to conceive what sweetness iu life there 
might he which a belief in a Future and 
a blissful Heaven could prevent one from 
tasting. I did not conceive any. 
“ What is Marriage ?” 
Loving, legal and moral union. 
“ What is Divorce ?” 
Separation of hearts and the dissolution 
of legal contracts with, and the annulling of 
moral obligations to, each other. 
“ Now-, Esquire Pencil, is it In the nature 
of men and women to love each other till 
death parts them? Is it not true that the 
hearts of men and women hunger after 
Other food just as their stomachs require a 
change of diet ? Is it any more a merit for 
the heart to find joy and content in the love 
of one person for thirty-five years than it is 
that the stomach shall be satisfied the same 
time with sirloin steak alone as a diet? I 
tell you, when we study social duty and 
marital duty, and seek to establish social 
laws and reform social evils, we are as apt 
to start from wrong premises as is the physi¬ 
cian who administers the same kind and 
dose of medicine to all bis patients, regard¬ 
less of the disease or their respective physi¬ 
ological structures. It is easy to mako arbi¬ 
trary laws; but it is not easy to enforce 
guch, especially if they conflict with the 
natural laws of our being. They are sure 
to be evaded, if not defied.” 
I give this as a specimen of the way men 
and women talk to me in this Every-Day 
Life of 1869. I record it as a part of the 
Social Phenomena of the time. Let men and 
women look at it in print and study it in the 
light of their own hearts and moral instincts. 
These are questions Society is grappling 
with and must solve—is solving. How does 
the reader cast his or her vote ? 
