r, o 
MOOSE'S RURAL iWW-YOBEB 
28 
A1, 
-a 
heart, she had hated him, because he stood 
in her way to an easy fortune, and had been 
careful to shun hint; now she was rather 
jdad to find him bowing over her hand as 
dcfcrenlly as though she were a countess, 
and made a sudden resolution to queen it 
over his heart if it lay in her power. As 
though robbing him of tiis bouses and lands 
were not enough, but he must be robbed ot 
bis heart treasures as well! 
Believing that if her story were true she 
must be really his half-sister, the young man 
felt constrained to greet her with cordiality. 
Thereforegood Mrs. Graver saw the strange 
picture of a beautiful young lady doing the 
amiable to perfection toward a young man 
whom she hated without any reason, and a 
young man treating with unusual kindliness 
of consideration a young woman whom he 
had every reason to hate but did not; while 
another young woman sat by silently won¬ 
dering if" it could he possible that any tie of 
consanguinity bound these two together, and 
what the result of it all would be. 
And Bun Graver, peering out at all three 
with his keen black eyes, saw further in his 
hoy wisdom than many another might have 
done, and didn’t like what he saw at all. 
Slipping away wlicu supper was over, and 
while the trio were holding pleasant con¬ 
verse in the little sitting-room, lie went off 
to find his woodchuck, unaccompanied by 
Joseph Lang well, thinking to himself that 
the young man should enjoy Miss Works’ 
society as long ns possible, but muttering in 
a manner almost provoked,— 
“ Joe’s a fool, Joe is. Now, he’s a goin’ 
on to talk pretty to that Miss Langwell 
who mebbe is what she says she is aud 
rnebbe ain’t, but who’s a regular hyena any 
way, and who ain’t no more tit to ’sociate 
with Miss Works than the fellows down to 
Kiixum’b. Seems like ns though Joe couldn’t 
see an inch afore his nose, nohow. Joe’s a 
fool, Joe is.” 
You see Bub didn’t hesitate to tell himself 
what his opinions were touching any person, 
nor did lie pretend to put those opinions in 
the most elegant terms. 
“ Fools and children tell the truth,” is a 
homely adage. True or not, one thing Is 
certain,—some fools and most children see 
the truth, in action or statement. We know 
one so-called idiot who would sec as quickly 
through pretense as the shrewdest of those 
about him; wc have known many children 
whose perception of matters and persons was 
as keen as intuition itself. 
One good result followed Joseph Lang- 
wei.i.’s visit at the widow Gravers: he 
visited Killuai’s less frequently again. 
Evening after evening saw him at the 
widow’s little cottage, while the idlcra at 
tho tavern wondered over ins absence. 
When Ids repeated calls on tho young ladies 
became known, as they speedily did, there 
was new cause for gossip. Joe was playing 
a sharp game, the busy tongues said. He 
feared Miss Lanowell would prove vic¬ 
torious, and establish herself sole heir, and 
so he meant to marry lier and slid keep his 
nest feathered. It certainly looked that way, 
1 admit; it looked so much (hat way, in 
fact, that Mr. Makepeace Lawmorw began 
to question within his own mind if the easy 
young man he had move than once pro¬ 
nounced a fool were not playing as deep a 
game as his own. And seeing how very 
winning his client made herself lo said 
young man, Mr. Makepeace I..vwmore felt 
considerably in doubt as to the success of all 
his schemes, and became so disgusted Menial 
tluit lie Held a long interview with said cli¬ 
ent one morning and threatened to abandon 
the whole enterprise if she didn’t stop such 
goings-on. 
She silenced him, of course. No man ever 
yet gained anything by threatening a woman 
like her. She was only amusing herself with 
this fool Lanowell. Why shouldn’t she? 
lie was their victim, any way; what hurt if 
she made him feel her power in other than a 
legal sense ? With such reasoning she 
wheedled and silenced the lawyer’s indigna¬ 
tion, and lie retired from the field vanquished. 
Vanquished, because slm divined his motives 
and bis fears, and passed a silent resolution 
very unanimously to make him, also, feel 
her power, when came the proper time. 
■Whether Joseph Langwkll was deeply 
impressed by her beauty, or deceived by her 
arts, is not quite clear. He seemed to be 
both impressed and deceived. He apparently 
took a good degree of pleasure in her com¬ 
pany, and quite satisfied her with the warmth 
of his manner. But he sought Miss Wores’ 
society the most frequently, and he always 
went home most content at heart from con¬ 
verse with her. They took long walks to¬ 
gether, somewhat to Miss Emxly’s chagrin, 
and somewhat to the consternation of certain 
village folk, who wonderingly queried among 
themselves “ if .Miss Works meant to throw 
herself away on that good-for-nothing;” and 
the more they walked and talked the more 
he felt that her womanly strength was a ne¬ 
cessity to him henceforth, and the less lie 
was impressed by Miss Emily’s wirmingness, 
if indeed he were really so impressed at all. 
I hope I have succeeded iu making plain 
to you that what this young man most deep¬ 
ly needed was a strong, up-staying influence, 
and that he was fully conscious of his need. 
If I have, his character i3 not a puzzle to 
you, and you can understand how in the 
reach of Faito Works’ silent strength he 
was his better self. She was his friend. It 
is a simple thing to tell; but it signified a 
great deal to him. If it cameto signify much 
to them both primarily, and secondarily 
much to others, in the sequence of events, I 
think an agency beyond human ken had the 
shaping of it all. 
Far be if from me to advocate indiscrimi¬ 
nate friendships between the sexes. By no 
example it were possible to mention would 1 
encourage regard on the part of young ladies 
for young men of doubtful principle. I here 
should lie even greater strictness on this point. 
A young girl, pure in thought and angelic in 
her influence, has a right to demand that the 
young man who seeks her society shall be 
pure In his practices and manlike inhispriu- 
ciples. To the had she should. resolutely 
close the door of .her speech. But there are 
some not bad at heart, yet objectionable in 
habit, may be, in the fallow fields of whose 
nature she may do missionary work. Her 
quick Intuition alone can tell her who these 
are; and it will divine rightly. Led by its 
divining, she should then imitate Faith 
Works’ example, not proceeding in lier own 
wisdom alone, but humbly seeking that 
guidance which only guides aright, and 
praying that God will crown lier labors 
with abundant blessing. 
chapter viii. 
Doctor Pills eintv’s testimony astounded 
JosEru Lanowell. As the family physi¬ 
cian, the doctor’s evidence that Mrs. Lang¬ 
wkll had never borne a child was clear and 
explicit, and not to be gunmyed. It was 
given with such apparent truthfulness that 
it. had more than legal weight. It convinced 
the young man, despite his long unshaken 
faith, that the ’Squire and wife were not 
his father and mother; and this fact 
pained him at first more than the fact 
which necessarily followed. Not being the 
’Squire’s son, he was no longer heir, whoever 
might be, and what lie was taking life idly 
on must go to another. But this did not 
trouble him so much at the outset as the loss 
of his paternity. Not until he came to think 
that life without money might mean life 
without Faith Works, — a cold, hard strug¬ 
gle without the strength he needed to hold 
him lip,—did he fully realize all that the loss 
of his fortune might bring. 
lie was despondent, then. Aud when the 
law declared, as it soon did, that the evi¬ 
dence fully identified Miss Emily Lang- 
well as ’Squire Lanowell’s daughter, and 
that therefore the title of all his broad acres 
and tho entire fortune accompanying, was 
vested in her, I think the young n*an was 
well-nigh despairing. Everybody pitied 
him. Sympathy is cheap, and Jois was a 
clever fellow. Everybody pitied him, and a 
few volunteered good advice. Dispossessed 
as lie would iu a few days he of all ills 
patrimony, ho should now cast about him 
for something to do. One or two even 
offered him a temporary home while he 
might perfect sucli arrangements as pleased 
him. A few of his former companions, iu 
mistaken kindness af heart, wishing to con¬ 
sole him, led him over to Killem’s and 
helped him drown in forgetfulness all thought 
of reverses. 
ICindly meant, in this instance, mayhap,it 
was the unkindest thing possible to do. For 
the first time in mouths Joe Lanowell was 
carried home drunk,—au object of loathing 
to all good people, — an eralxxliod temper¬ 
ance sermon with a silent emphasis more 
eloquent than any words. God pity those 
who rob a man of his manly sensibilities, and 
make of him a brute! Tiiety are about the 
only ones who seem beyond human forgive¬ 
ness, aud I sometimes think that in undoing 
God’s own work upon humanity, they are 
putting themselves outside the reach of even 
divine mercy 1 
On the day after this.JosF.rii Lanowell’s 
latest lapse from manhood, he arose late, 
and with at first a vague consciousness that 
some dread thing had happened him. The 
world seemed dark, somehow. The old 
mansion was more lonely than ever. A 
weight pressed on his heart, us if life itseli 
were being crushed out. For good two 
hours lie sat there in the old family sitting- 
rsom, opening off the ’Squire’s sleeping 
apartment, which lie had occupied during 
the summer, and endeavored to recall what 
had occurred. 
He was a sad picture, then. For the 
time being memory, understanding, and even 
intellect were a wreck, and he was groping 
among the fragments. What a man was, 
stands out so clear and distinct when he is a 
man no longer, but only retains a man’s 
form, that the contrast is startling. Of all 
ruins ever looked upon, those of humanity 
are saddest 
Gradually the cloud lifted. From out the 
dim twilight of semi-unconsciousness lie 
passed slowly to the clear sunshine of com¬ 
plete realization. Sunshine, did I say ? Alas! 
no. Realization was far from being so bright 
as that to him. There was clear day for the 
head, but thick darkness yet rested on his 
heart. He was no more’Squire Lanowei.l’s 
son, to begin with. This old home was not 
his, nor was anything about it Ms. He bad 
no home,—nowhere under the blue sky 
could lie go after this day should pass, and 
claim any right to protection and love. He 
was fatherless and motherless iu a two-fold 
sense, now; directly he should be homeless, 
likewise, and no human being would care 
What became of him. 
None ? There was the little school teacher. 
Was she not his friend ? Once, may be; 
but she would scarcely be such longer. lie 
did not deserve lier friendship. Last night 
lie bad forgotten her regard,— bad sunk him¬ 
self so low that she could not take him by 
the band again. He woifid not insult lier by 
professions of penitence. lie had fallen; 
alone and unfriended be would suffer the 
consequences. What mattered it, any way ? 
lie was a poor, weak fool. Nobody cared 
lor him; be might as well yield up all good 
desires. It was easy to be a fool and die; it 
was hard to live and grow wise. Life was 
a wretched affair, make the most of it; lie 
didn’t cure when be saw its ending. 
Now these were bitter thoughts, I know. 
A week ago lie would not have entertained 
them for a moment. Then life was very 
dear indeed. Whatever might be taken 
away, something would be left to desire. 
Now all good lmd vanished. 
The day passed wearily. Whether he sat 
in the familiar sitting-room, or wandered 
about under the maples, it was all the same. 
The hours dragged slmv. Strive as he might 
to shake off the heavy burden that oppressed 
him, it still remained. Out under the dear 
old trees the birds sang sweetly as ever, but 
he heard them not. For him there was no 
more music in singing bird or waving 
bough,—no more soothing peace in the ten¬ 
der quiet of a summer afternoon. His whole 
being was a great unrest. Conflicting emo¬ 
tions waged warfare in Ms heart; all the 
bitterness of a life-lime seemed concentrated 
ill the disquiet present. lie tried to sit down 
and calmly plan out a future for himself: as 
well try to stay the licrco tide of Niagara 
while tracing a new channel for it to follow. 
Cool, dispassionate calculation was an utter 
impossibility, 
lie could only come back to the same bit¬ 
ter conclusion for all Ms attempting^,— 
What mattered it ? If there were no future 
whatever, even that might be best; and if 
there were,—why, let it take care of itself. 
And so with a !* rd . reckless feeling in his 
heart he took his way, as the afternoon wore 
to a close, toward The Corners. Anything 
but this dreadful burden of wretchedness 
and unrest. He could not make himself 
worse than he already was, and lie might 
forget. So thinking he strode steadily on 
down the long avenue of trees, with a look 
on Ms face that was pitiful to see. 
It relaxed a little as he neared tho old 
school-house. She had been a good friend,— 
little Faitii; in there she bad said true 
words to him. AU, yes! In there,.and out 
in the fields, and on their long twilight ram¬ 
bles. A good friend —little Faith, and be 
loved her. But what mattered it, again V 
lie lmd not deserved her friendliness, — she 
never could love him now, if once she might. 
And the hard look settled yet firmer in 
his face. 
He was passing the school-house when a 
sudden impulse prompted him to look in. 
He would like to sit there once more as lie 
had done when a boy,—he would like to 
picture the little mistress again as he saw 
her there once. The outer door was closed, 
but cot locked. It was an hour past the 
time for closing school, and doubtless every 
one had gone. He lifted the latch and 
stepped In. The inner door was open, and 
lie started back In surprise at another picture 
of Faith Works which he would remember 
lo his dying day. 
She sat leaning against her high desk, 
peering away into space, her wcndrously 
beautiful eyes liquid with tears which slowly 
coursed tlieir way down her cheeks. Some 
great sorrow must have come over her, silent¬ 
ly mastering her life. The still pain in lier 
face was more terrible to see than any writh- 
ings of anguish. 
All the young man’s 'better nature rose in 
him at the sight. Touched even to tears 
himself by a sympathy that took hold of bis 
whole being, lie passed quietly across the 
floor and bent down beside her. Startled 
by his presence, she could utter no word, 
but leaned lier head upon the desk and tried 
to conceal her emotion. 
He could not speak, at first. lie knew 
not what to sny. Here was the one he had 
always esteemed so strong, all a-tremorwith 
a strange weakness. It was beyond Ms 
divining. But his own wish and want shone 
out when he did find words. In getting so 
near her he had not gotten away from him¬ 
self. 
“ If those tears were for me, Miss Works,” 
lie trembled forth at length, “ I believe they 
would be my salvation.” 
She raised her head then, quickly. Had 
lie so soon read her secret? It was as much 
maidenly shame that dyed lier cheeks crim¬ 
son as the tears she had shed. Her eyes 
looked into his with a keen, searching 
glan.ee, and sank under his earnest gaze. Ilo 
mistook her movement and went on to ex¬ 
plain, forgetting that he had intended to 
learn the cause of her own unhappiness. 
“You know what has happened,” speak¬ 
ing slowly, and with forced calmness. “ You 
must know how I. am poor and friendless,— 
how to-morrow I shall be homeless. No¬ 
body cares for me.” She cast another search¬ 
ing glance into his face. “ Nobody cares for 
me. Even you, my best friend of late, will 
despise mo when you know how my weak¬ 
ness has again degraded me.” 
“Bcb told me,” she said, simply. 
lie dropped hi3 head upon Ms hands, 
shamed into momentary silence. After a 
little lie asked, brokenly,— 
“And can you bear my presence more, 
after it?” 
She was coming back to lier womanly 
self, now, and her answer had in it some¬ 
what of her accustomed strength, softened 
by a tenderness which did not escape him. 
“ One can bear much from one’s friend. 
I do not despise you, but 1 pity you most 
deeply.” 
Should she tell him how deep lier pity 
really was? Should she prove it by ac¬ 
knowledging that her tears were indeed for 
him ?—that she had wept because her friend 
had weakly fallen once more when she fan¬ 
cied him growing strong? If her tears 
would indeed be his salvation, should he not 
know they were his? They were hard ques¬ 
tions which her heart put to her maidenly 
reserve. 
“ O Mbs Works,” he responded, “ I do 
not deserve sucli friendly consideration. 
And yet if you drive me away I feel that I 
shall go to the had altogether. I am so 
weak,” he said despondingly. 
“ We are all weak,” — remembering lier 
scarce dried tears. 
“If you were only weak enough lo love 
me!" lie answered,speaking almost involun¬ 
tarily. “ I think I could grow strong in that 
love. But I am not worthy any one’s lov¬ 
ing.” 
“ Unworthy people arc sometimes loved,” 
her cheeks taking on even a deeper crimson. 
“You are not unworthy. You may be 
everything noble and true, if you will." 
A sweeter hope than the man ever knew 
was born within him as he heard these 
Words. Looking up suddenly he saw in her 
eyes such a depth of tenderness as thrilled 
him through, and he knew his love was an¬ 
swered. 
“I will,” lie made haste to say, a new 
gladness iu his tones. “ God and you help¬ 
ing me, I will,” and lie took her hand and 
kissed it, scaling Ids vow. 
“ God helping you,” she said, reverently. 
“ I can do very little—I can only pray for 
you." 
“And may God hear your prayers,” he 
replied, fervently. 
“ And yours ?” 
“And mine. I will pray for myself, 
henceforth, that your strength may be mine.” 
“ God’s strength, you mean,” correcting 
him. 
“ It is the same thing. Your strength 
comes from God ; and I feel now, as I never 
felt before, that mine must.” 
“ I must go away to-morrow,” he said, 
presently. “ I must go out to fight the world 
and myself empty-handed. It would not be 
much for some men to do; hut as for me—I 
may sink in the struggle." 
“ You will not, only have faith." 
lie smiled then. 
“ I could have faith while away, I think, if 
I could he sure of having Faith on my re¬ 
turn.” 
She did not answer, but smiled a little and 
looked down. 
“ If I come back a man,” he continued, 
“ will you not reward me for coming? Can 
you wait and pray while I pray aud work ?” 
“I can and will,” she answered, beaming 
on him one of her illuminating smiles. 
They went out ere long, under the light of 
a sunset that was a benediction. Both were 
content. It was not that Faith Works 
trusted him so fully, but she trusted God. 
Believing his desires for a nobler life were 
sincere, she felt that God would hear her 
prayer aud his, and fulfill them. And Jo- 
SEi’U Lanowell felt within him the first 
stirrings of a new manliness, and, no more 
desponding or reckless, was prepared to go 
forward in a new strength, to work out noble 
things for himself and her. 
lie pledged another vow, when they parted 
at the widow Graver’s gate. 
“ 1 will try by every means in my power 
to become more worthy of you,” he said, 
taking her hand for the last time, it might 
be, in years. “ As a beginning, I now sol¬ 
emnly declare that not one drop of intoxi¬ 
cating liquor shall pass my lips henceforth.” 
“ It is a good beginning,” she made answer. 
“ Take courage, and the ending will he also 
good. All good angels help those who help 
themselves.” 
“ I have one good angel at least,” looking 
tenderly into her now radiant face, “ and I 
shall believe she is c-vcr helping me. Under 
God, I believe you are my savior.” 
“ Y'ou are worth saving,” was her tender 
reply. 
Then they parted and went their several 
ways,—9lie to her little room, there to seek 
divine blessing on them both ; lie to the old 
mansion on the hill, to prepare for going 
boldly out into the world on the morrow.— 
[To be continued. 
-♦♦♦-- 
SITTING IN SUNSHINE. 
“To sit in sunshine, calm and sweet, is an 
excellent thing for an invalid.” 
These words met the eye of Mr. Stephen 
Strongway, as he glanced over the pages of 
a book, taken at random from the table in 
his wife’s parlor. 
“ To sit in sunshine calm and sweet.” 
“ That would he a beautiful existence indeed, 
taken only in a physical sense; while to sit 
all the time in menial sunshine—” 
Mr. Slrongway dropped his head upon his 
hand, and a sigh stole almost unconsciously 
from his lips at the thought. 
He was worthy of Ms name—a strong man 
mentally and physically, and with nil a 
strong man’s impatience of, not lo say con¬ 
tempt for, weakness, of whatever form. 
Mrs. Strongway was a delicate creature— 
loving, trustful, and timid. She was over¬ 
whelmed by her husband’s contempt of 
weakness, and shrank from exhibiting her 
affection towards him; and she and her chil¬ 
dren drooped under the chill which the 
shadow of his stateliness constantly kept 
upon their home. 
But now Alicia, Ms wife, was ill—dying; 
and his thoughts were turned to softer strains, 
and the sentence, “ To sit in sunshine, calm 
and sweet, is an excellent thing for mi in¬ 
valid,” struck home to his inmost soul. His 
wife had never lmd any sunshine of home, or 
of love, in which to bask; but lie resolved 
that it should he so no longer. 
Alicia’s early home at the sea-side was for 
sale; and if she wished it, lie would pur¬ 
chase the old House, ns a summer retreat in 
future years for herself and her children. 
Iu fitturo years? Nay, what had the grave- 
faced family doctor told him only that very 
day 1 lie dashed the tears impatiently from 
Ms eyes. The doctor must be mistaken. 
Alicia could live i It was not too late to re¬ 
pair the ravages his coldness and unkindness 
had made. Even as ho thought this, a hol¬ 
low cough struck upon his car, uml his wife 
crossed the hall and entered the parlor. 
“ Alicia,” lie said, “you are very ill.” 
She looked up at him, and her soil brown 
eyes filled with tears. 
“ Yes, Stephen.” 
“ Our doctor has been with me to-day, 
dear. He told me that you were dying.” 
“ Yes, Stephen.” 
And the brown eyes looked into his wist¬ 
fully, as if saying, “ Do you care V ” 
“ You knew this, Alicia?” 
“I have known it for sometime — long 
before he discovered it, Stephen.” 
The question was on his lips now:—“ Do 
you care, Alicia ? ” 
The sofl eyes filled once more. 
“ Oh, Stephen, 1 dread to leave you and 
our dear children. I love you so 1 I may 
say it without offending you, now that you 
know I am dying.” 
“ God forgive me,” lie cried. “ Have I 
then been so unkind that you feared to tell 
me of your love till now ? ” 
" You have not been unkind, Stephen,” 
she hastened to say. “Only—I think men 
do not quite understand a woman’s heart 
sometimes. It is so necessary for us to love, 
and to he loved, and to show that love, Ste¬ 
phen, and to have it shown, that-” 
“ That I see it all, my darling, and know 
now exactly just how great the mischief is 
and how it has been done,” said her hus¬ 
band, clasping her to his heart. “ Forgive 
me, my darling. We will go from here at 
once, to your old home, where wc first, knew 
and loved each other, and I will see if I can¬ 
not bring the lost roses back to these cheeks 
and the lost light to these brown eyes. Kiss 
me, Alicia, aud you shall ‘sit in sunshine, 
calm aud sweet,’ in future, if 1 have the 
power to bring it round your path.” 
lie kept his word. And did Alicia die? 
On the contrary, she disgraced her physician 
forever by growing strong, and well, and 
healthy, and happy in the calm, sweet sun¬ 
shine of her husband’s love. It never waned 
again. And she and her children have lost 
ail their fern 1 of him, in this strangely altered 
state of tilings; while all who have busi¬ 
ness dealings with him of late can scarcely 
recognize the once stern and haughty and 
masterful man. 
“ To sit in sunshine, calm and sweet,” is 
indeed “ good for an invalid ”—it is good tor 
all. Reader, if in that blessed heart-sunshine 
you sit to-day, thank heaven humbly for the 
gift; for some there are on whose darkest 
paths no ray of radiance, no glance of tiue 
affection ever falls. 
