BIOOBE’S RURAL NEW-YORKER. 
“It means, Maggie, that I love Susan, 
and would make her my honorable wife. 
And by Hea ven 1 should do no despite to my 
proud blood! Her blood is proud, too. 
Margaret, that woman is your father’s 
sister.” 
“ Do you know what you say, Mr. Bray- 
ton?” answered the girl, collecting all her 
force, “ Do you know what you say?” 
“ Perfectly well.” 
“ Does Hi'S an know of her relationship to 
the family, to the IIkath ebstones,” she 
continued, her lip curling with haughty 
irony, as she pronounced the name. 
“She knows it, and has known it for 
years.” 
“ Who else is aware of this relationship?” 
“Old Hannibal.” 
“ And no one else? ” 
“ Not another soul, as far as I know.” 
“ Did father know ? ” 
“ Yes. Do you remember your Aunt 
Louise? ” 
“ Very imperfectly. She died when I was 
a little girl; but 1 have heard father talk of 
her so much that 1 seem to know her. Did 
you know her, Mr. Bravton?” 
“Yes, Maggie, and she was an angel, I 
don’t wonder she died young.” 
“ But. what had she to do with Susan? I 
beg your pardon, she must have been 
Susan’s sister. IlowdullI am. But, Mr. 
Bratton, I am not used to this kind of 
family reckoning.” 
“Dear child, 1 comprehend your position 
perfectly. Your Aunt LOUISE was two 
years younger than Susan, and the little 
slave girl was given to her from her birth, 
fora maid. A wonderful attachment sprang 
up between ( he t wo children from the first. 
As babies, they were only happy when to¬ 
gether, and this affection deepened as they 
grew to childhood and girlhood. Your 
father told ma the whole history of his sis¬ 
ter, and of her strange love for Susan, a 
long time ago. Site was made for love, and 
the world is unkind to such. Prom what T 
learned, 1 believe that her only happiness 
in this world came from her slave sister. 
She did not know that Susan was a slave, 
liable to be sold at any untoward change of 
fortune, till just before she died. The very 
day she (lied, she had a long, serious talk 
with your father; and, making him promise 
that he would use every exertion to free 
Susan, she gave him a diamond ring to be a 
perpetual reminder of his pledge. Colonel 
Heathekstg.ni: had then just left college, 
and a month after went to Europe, and spent 
t hree years in a German university. That 
you know about, of course. Well, while ho 
was absent, your grandfather’s estate be¬ 
came so encumbered with debts, and such 
Complications ensued, that Susan was sold 
to a New Orleans oottoil planter. In New 
Orleans 1 first knew her. and by a strange 
coincidence I found that this relationship 
existed; and Col. JIeatherstone learned 
of Susan’s whereabouts at the same time. 
When your father returned from Europe all 
trace of her had been lost. It is a long 
story, involving more wrong and suffering 
than I care to detail. But, in short, I se¬ 
cured Susan the freedom which she lost 
through a villain, and by strange paths she 
was led into her brother's family. 
" And now you wish to marry her ? ” 
“ 1 do. And why not.? ” 
“ 1 can give you no reason. Rut Susan 
will not relent from lior determination. 
She will uot marry you, and I sympathize 
in her decision. Susan cannot be happy in 
this world; it is too late for that. But, Mr. 
Bratton, 1 cannot understand papa’s hold¬ 
ing Susan a slave.” 
“ She was bought by his agent, and after 
she came t.o the house and he recognized 
her, she showed no desire to be free, and he 
let the thing drift.” 
“ Of course mamma does net suspect.” 
“No, and it is not necessary that she 
should. Better keep the whole thing from 
her.” 
“Yes, poor mamma; she has too much 
trouble already. She does nothing but wor¬ 
ry from morning till night.” 
“And now, little girl, what are you going 
to do? Tell me your plans, and then 1 am 
off. I can give you but an hour. I am going 
to Europe as business agent for a New York 
house, and T had hoped to take Susan with 
me. If she will not go, then I shall be as 
content as possible to know that she is with 
you.” 
“ We expect now to go to New-York. 
Hope’s brother is here, and has persuaded 
mother to think that the best plan. I ex¬ 
pect Harry home in a day or two, aud I 
think he will go too. There is nothing for 
a young man to do here. Ned Arnold 
talks of a business partnership. He thinks 
his father’s name will help them. I am 
ready for anything new, anything to help 
me forget the past.” 
“ I think it wise, Maggie, for you all to 
begin over in a new home. You are young, 
and will be happy again.” 
“O, I could be happy now, if Alfred 
. were only here to go with us. Mr. Bray- 
ton, this uncertainty is dreadful.” 
“ Poor Hope.” 
“Yes, poor Hope? My heart aches for 
her. But she is stronger than any of us. 
It will be so sweet to have her with us, and 
Ned promises that if we go to New York 
she shall give up her school in Chicago, and 
that we shall all be together.” 
“Susan will go, of course. But what of 
Hannibal?” 
“ O, we couldn’t do without Hannibal. 
We have had too many losses to lose him. 
He will go with us; and we shall hope that 
you, too, will be iu our vicinity very often.” 
“ God only knows where I shall be. I shall 
be satisfied if you are all safe, and I can 
know of that, and that you are still to¬ 
gether.” 
Mr. Bravton had only time for hasty 
greetings, before the final part ing with the 
old HHAITIERSTONK home. Susan refused 
to see him again. Sin; had been too long 
among the billows to willingly give up the 
litt le peace she had gained, for the question¬ 
able pleasure of a farewell, and so when her 
lover left her forever, she did not even al¬ 
low her eyes to follow him. Two days after 
Bratton’s departure, Harry came home. 
“O, Maggie! Maggie!” said the happy 
boy. after the first greetings were over, “ 1 
can ask nothing more, now that I have you 
in my arms once more.” 
“ Yes, you will ask many things more,” 
said Maggie, with a little of her old arch¬ 
ness; “you’ll be asking for your dinner 
within fifteen minutes." 
“ Bless the darling, she’s herself after all 
this cruel suffering. Be as saucy as you 
please; 1 shall never scold you again.” 
“Now don't tie rash, Sir Knight ! But 
let tin* tell you about Ned Arnold’s plans 
for all of us, you included.” 
When the long story was told, of all that 
had happened, which, indeed, took some 
days, interpolated, as It was, with tears and 
kisses, eating and drinking, and all subsidi¬ 
ary processes, Harry agreed to follow the 
family to New York, and see what could be 
done to build anew their fortunes. He 
made one condition, however. This condi¬ 
tion was explained one April evening, before 
the library fire. 
“Maggie, darling, you must be my wife 
before we go to New York.” 
The sweet face rested on Harry's shoul¬ 
der, and the lover tenderly smoothed the 
dark hair as he spoke. 
“ A modest request, Harry, for a man 
who was never going to ask anything more.” 
“ But a request that you must grant. No, 
Maggie; T expect to keep on asking as long 
as I live. You are my summer, and by the 
necessity of your nature, must always give 
to me." 
There was considerable more of this sweet 
talk, but the result was a complete surren¬ 
der ou the part of the little make-believe 
rebel, and immediate preparations were 
taken for such a step as would make future 
secession impracticable, to say t he least. 
Maggie deserves to have a whole chapter 
given to her wedding. Probably she would 
have, if the JIkatherstoxe fortunes had 
not been so low at that critical time. And 
then poor Alfred’s fate was so uncertain 
that all brilliancy was out of the question, 
even if money had been plenty. The affair 
could not be otherwise than sad. There 
were too many ghosts about, ghosts of past 
days aud dead hopes. So Maggie’s wed¬ 
ding must be described in a few words, for 
there was really little to describe. 
She was married on a sunny Sunday after¬ 
noon, when the blue April sky was full of 
promise for the coming summer. She wore 
one of her pretty home dresses, one that 
she had often danced in, in days gone by, 
but that had been put aside for the dark 
garments better suited to her sorrows, 
lliob I lace softened the outlines, and gave 
something of the quaint magnificence that 
in better days would so well have suited our 
beautiful Margaret. Her mother's bridal 
veil fell over her dark hair, and mingled 
with the folds of her simple attire. So she 
was given to Harry, with Ned and Hanni¬ 
bal and Susan for witnesses, and the sad 
mother, who sobbed as the ceremony went 
on, at the broken promises of her own 
bridal —[To be continued. 
-♦♦♦- 
Innocence.— What a power there is in in¬ 
nocence ! whose very helplessness is its safe¬ 
guard ; in whose presence even Passion him¬ 
self stands abashed, and stands a worship¬ 
per at the very altar he came to despoil.— 
Moore. 
AN EASTER LILY. 
BY BEHTHA SIBLEY SCRANTON. 
PALE, pale as any fair annunciation lily. 
With head drooped on the breast; 
As flower that ‘ncuth the night dew, trembling, white 
and stilly, 
Leans on the earth for rest. 
Thus, smiling, passed she into God's great resurrec¬ 
tion, 
A lily in her imnd, 
No more to learn life's woe, its pain and its correction, 
No more to understand. 
For her there dawncth ever, one white Easter morn¬ 
ing. 
That knows nor noon nor night; 
No pleading litanies, no tapers for adorning. 
The Lamb, there. Is the light. 
No diaunt of surpllced priest, no choir's thrilling 
vesper. 
No solemn pealing bell; 
“Is it well with the child?” they ask us, and we 
whisper. 
In meekness, “ it is well! ” 
•-♦4-f- 
EVERY-DAY LIFE. 
BY lead pencil, esq. 
1 heard John Wkess preach yesterday. 
I rather like his Positivist idea of God in 
Humanity. There is a great deal of need 
that there should be such recognition on t he 
part of those who have to do with Humani¬ 
ty. It seems to me the t endency is too much 
to concentrate ull conception of Divinity in 
a single personal being, and to overlook the 
Divine nature of man. For instance, there 
is too eager a search after men’s foibles. We 
are all of us apt to flippantly say, “ He is a 
good fellow, but-” Or, “She is a hand¬ 
some, accomplished woman, but-” and 
so on. How little looking after the kernel, 
the germ, the regenerative, the vital, the 
Divine force of each other’s characters! 
Why? Aye, why? Can any one answer? 
1 believe in the Divine! I believe in the 
Divinity of Man! I believe in the Divinity 
of Nature! I feel its power whenever 1 look 
into a human's eyes! I know that it ebbs 
and flows with every throb of the human 
heart! I know it gives vitality to all life! 
If not, what does? And if this is not Divine, 
what is? And il‘ it is Divine, why should 
we not look for it where we can best see and 
understand it—here, right close to and about 
us, in these kindred souls that lean upon, 
live in and work for and with us ? Can any 
one tell me why not? 
Thanks, John Weiss, for boldly uttering 
such humane and Divine doctrines! 
Worry, worry, worry! Fret, fret, fret! 
It is sad to see men and women spending 
their lives in unrest. I mean that they lose 
their vitality and rest fulness in anxiety and 
nervous apprehension lest the whole world 
shall go wrong if they do not watch it dili¬ 
gently. And they take every opportunity 
to communicate their anxiety to others. 
They lapse into a chronic soliloquy or wail 
over their own sins and shortcomings, and 
over the degeneracy and go-to-the-devil 
tendency of all mankind, but do not change 
their own sails one whit, nor do aught but 
whine over others. 
One of these came to me the other day 
with the whole moral law, full length, on 
the end of his tongue. I said, 
“ What have you done to-day that makes 
you feel yourself better than you were this 
morning ? ” 
“Alas! nothing," he replied. 
“ Then pray keep your lips closed and 
your tongue still until you have done some¬ 
thing that will cause you to respect your¬ 
self ; for until you do I cannot respect you.” 
That man has not spoken to me since! 
It is natural and charitable to cover up 
with the clods of the valley the sins of those 
we bury, and seek in their record the good 
aud true deeds they have done, aud emulate 
them. It is well. I often think that some 
men place the pearls which their friends 
have to hunt for, in an awful black setting, 
where they show the better by contrast, but 
are very minute at 1 lies best. But I do not 
object to this practice of proclaiming the 
best of any man or woman. It is always 
evidence to me that the bad in a man is seen 
and condemned by his most partial friends, 
when 1 find them select ing his good qualities 
to praise. They evident ly know wheat from 
tares, and appreciate it. So I regard it an 
index of a healthful condition of the body 
politic—that upon the death of a man, his 
good qualities are all his best friends desire 
the world to remember. 
“You sit as God, holding no form of 
creed,” I overheard a lady say to a gentle¬ 
man with whom she was conversing earn¬ 
estly in the cars. 
“No ; I sit as man , believing what is, 
doing what is to do, ready to learn the truth, 
but not williug to shout Eureka! and shut 
my eyes to all that may follow. I cannot 
comprehend the merit there is in professing 
a blind faith, or iu asserting that ‘what I 
believo to-day I shall always believe ’—in 
other words, assert the infallibility of my¬ 
self or my teachers, or both; for, alas! I 
have proven these teachers and myself to 
be so fallible! ” 
And so they went on—the one the repre¬ 
sentative of Faith in Abstractions, the 
other of Faith in Works; the one straggling 
to hclicve right, the other to do right. 
Which was nearest Heaven? 
MONASTERIES IN ENGLAND. 
After a suppression of three hundred 
years, monastic life has revived again in 
England, and its spread is one of the most 
remarkable signs of the times, t'nder the 
spirit of religious toleration the various an¬ 
cient orders of monks, the Benedictines, 
Dominicans, Capuchins, Augustinos, Cis¬ 
tercians and others have established them¬ 
selves in various parts of England, and have 
evinced the ancient aptitude of the Roman 
Church for securing choice localities. One 
of the most noted of these modern English 
monasteries is that of Mcunt St. Bernard, 
in Cham wood Forest, Leicestershire. It was 
begun in 18J15, and for some time there were 
only five monks, who lived on a little farm 
ami tilled the adjacent land. In 1812 the 
present extensive abbey buildings were com¬ 
menced. They are in the plain, early Eng¬ 
lish style, but with the church, cloister, 
chapter-house, refectory, dormitory, guest¬ 
house. lavatory, kitchen offices, etc., with 
massive walls and buttresses, long and nar¬ 
row windows, high gables and roofs, with 
deeply arched door-ways, the pile presents 
an imposing appearance. A clock-tower 
with a chime of bells remains to be added. 
The monastery owns now three hundred 
acres, nearly all of which is highly cultivat¬ 
ed, The labor is all performed by the monks, 
who have made the domain profitable, sell¬ 
ing the farm produce at a good price. The 
lives of the recluses are toilsome and abstem¬ 
ious. They are not allowed to speak to each 
other except in the presence of the super¬ 
ior ; t hey eat no meat or animal food except 
milk and cheese; their daily round is toil, 
prayer aud sleep. They work on the farm, 
feed the pigs, make t he butter and do their 
own washing. No woman is permitted to 
enter the sacred ground. They have made 
a garden of the three hundred acres. At¬ 
tached to the abbey is a reformatory insti- 
tut ion for boys. The order is the (’istorcian, 
a branch of the Benedictines; and three 
hundred years ago this order had one hun¬ 
dred and ten monasteries in England, the 
remains of which are now among the most 
picturesque ruins iu that land — Tintern, 
Netley and Fountain abbeys among them. 
Is the old round to be run again ?—Hartford 
Vo u rant. 
--- 
SINGULAR CAUSE OF THE DECREASE 
OF PEARLS. 
Mr. Frank Buokland writes in Land 
and Water: In passing over Mogbridge, 
near the junction of the rivers Black water 
and Conner, Sutherlandsiiire, Scotland, a 
gentleman who was with mo told me that 
that part of the river we were then crossing 
was once celebrated for the number aud 
quality of its pearls, but of Into years they 
have diminished both iu quantity and 
quality. The reason assigned for this was 
remarkable; according to the local theory, 
“ the building of the bridges diminishes the 
number of pearls iu the river.' Iu former 
times bridges were uot very numerous in 
Soothmd, and the cattle passing the rivers 
by means of the fords, trod upon the mus¬ 
sels, aud so injuring their shells, causes them 
to form pearls. After the bridges were built 
the cattle no longer went across the fords, 
but over the bridges. The mussels not be¬ 
ing any more injured, ceased to create the 
pearls. There was formerly an old man at 
this place who gained his living by collecting 
these pearls. The poor follow was blind, 
but nevertheless he continued his occupa¬ 
tion as pearl-catcher. He used to wade into 
the river and pick up the pearls off the bot¬ 
tom with his toes, his wife standing on the 
bank, tolling him in wliat direction to go. 
When he had tilled a bag that he carried 
round his neck, with the pearl mussels, he 
brought them to the bank for his wife to 
open. A pearl the size of a pea was worth 
£1. 1 was very sorry to hear of the very 
t ragic end of this poor man. He got out of 
his depth, fell into a deep hole in the 
and was drowned. 
