I 
before Rafe could realize that the lust link 
of her blood was cut off from her forever, 
she found herself alone in the world, with 
three graves on the hill instead of two, with 
her glorious voice, the few relics of family 
silver, and her father’s old music books. The 
house was mortgaged, and would soon be 
sold, beside. 
Mrs. Okmsisy took the girl to her heart in 
that kind, motherly way that kept out so 
much sorrow from her own; and when they 
came back from the flmeral, she insisted on 
carrying Kafe home with her until the 
plans were settled. 
“ It will do her good, poor child; she 
takes all this grief so cruelly I My brother 
was here, but he went back to New York 
on im/porig/nt business , and won’t return till 
Christmas Eve. So she needn’t see any one 
yet awhile,” and in the gray December dusk 
t he lady whispered a Jew words to old Han¬ 
nas (while Kafe was bidding good-by to 
her own room Up stairs) that caused that 
worthy and trusty creature to fail backward 
into a chair in open-mouthed wonderment. 
“ Thu world is a cornin' to a end I ” she 
years, and he came down with him for 
Christmas. He is passionately fond of 
music, and I promised them something un¬ 
usually good. After service, when you get 
rested, I’ve planned a nice birthday and 
Christmas surprise, and then you will see the 
gentlemen. It won’t be hard for you. John 
is not a hit alarming, and 1 am sure his 
friend is not.” 
Kafe’s eyes filled. 
“ What can I do for you, little fairy-god¬ 
mother V” she asked. 
“ Nothing but carry out my plans, and eat 
all the broiled chicken you possibly can!” 
she replied. 
Old St. Bede’s looked imposing in its hol¬ 
ly, as Kafe looked out at it from the choir 
loft. Garlands wreathed the brown rafters, 
Christmas mottoes blazoned the walls, the 
font dripped lillies, and ferns, and scarlet 
berries, the reading desk blossomed in white 
beauty, and the “ Peace on earth, good will 
toward men,” against the wall, back of the 
chancel, sent a deep thrill to her heart, as 
she knelt and fixed her eyes upon it. 
Already they were beginning to assemble. 
to “ pick up” the dishes, “ just you let ’em 
be. I’ll clap ’em together in no time, an’ 1 
! think the fire must be out in your grandma’s 
stove afore this. She’s slept uncommon 
long, poor dear, an’ she’s had a bad, rest¬ 
less night; the old pain got worse at day¬ 
break. 1 allers know when the sea gets so 
noisy like an’ the East wind rises, that she’ll 
he bad. You’d best run up, soil like an’ see 
ef she’s awake.” 
Kafe obeyed. It was very dark in the 
room; but she knew her way about well. 
Ever since she could remember that faded 
old face, she had found it here ; sometimes, 
by the north-looking window with the sea 
view, oftener up among the pillows in the 
high old Dutch bedstead, on which a gene¬ 
ration of Schaffkiih had been born and died. 
Kafe seldom remembered when that 
poor old body hod been outside the labur¬ 
nums by the gate. It had been a feeble, 
bed-ridden lift these twenty years, with 
pain and sorrow wearing their unmistakable 
traces into it; and now, at seventy, the 
querulous old face grew soft, and pleasant to 
none as to Kafe, the only living relic of a 
proud name and prouder generation left. 
Kafe had so often heard the troubles and 
woes of her grandmother’s life, that, she 
felt a deep, pitiful love for the helpless 
woman, and returned her clinging depend 
once and the exacting care that kept her too 
closeiy in the sick room, with a warmth and 
pathos that moved all who beheld it. 
To-night she crept up to the bed to listen 
to tho irregular breathing, and said “ Grand¬ 
mother,” in her kind, cheery way, that when 
the old eyes unclosed they might not mind 
the dark so much, and the fire that had gone 
out. 
Foi a moment Rafe stood there, then in 
the dark she groped nearer, till she found 
the hand with the wedding-ring on tho 
shrivelled finger—the ring worn to a golden 
wire—hanging down at the bedside. She 
raised the hand to warm it in both her 
own; thinking of the aristocratic, blood it 
held, and of Jiow she had heard the story of 
its many suitors, of how it had been kissed 
and worshiped* this same hand, once fairer, 
more tapering than her own, that had borne 
its share of life’s burden, and come to bury 
its all under tile grave-clods. 
She bad taken ofl that last heirloom of the 
Schaffers only that day; the costly hoop 
of diamonds that was once the guard of the 
wedding-ring, till it fell off lire thin finger. 
“ It shall bo yours some day, child,” the 
old voice had said. “You are not Schaf¬ 
fer enough to wear it, though. It was 
given to me by your grandfather on our 
wedding-day, and it. has been worn by all the 
Schaffer brides in regular succession. You 
must never wear it only as a guard to a wed¬ 
ding-ring, remember,” and Raff, bad count¬ 
ed the grdiftt lustrous gems, and tried the 
relic upon her own handsome, brown band, 
with a little flush of pleasure. 
Then the old lady, looking at her, had 
talked on. 
“ You are too brown for much of a beauty. 
In my day'the Monde was the prevailing type. 
I was a blonde, with the real German flaxen 
hair, (tho ivory miniature in the oaken chest 
was an excellent likeness.) It was a pity, 
but that the Schaffer blood was as good as 
the Rape. clement, after all t It is far belter. 
I’m glad you have enough of its sturdy Ger¬ 
man ruddiness to color the feeble American 
article. That is always negative, aimless, 
weak, despite its sweet tempers and fine 
qualifications P 
Only this afternoon she had said all this, 
watching Hake’s face as she read from 
Goethe awhile. For she was a stately old 
queen-dowager and could not yield her 
throne and scepter without a struggle, even 
yet. 
Rape knew how to sit and bite her lips to 
keep from saying spiteful things; and she 
was very glad 9lie had, afterward, even when 
she said to the girl—“ If your miserly old 
uncle had possessed a little of our German 
steadiness, he would not have scorned 
RicnAUD Schaffer before he knew his 
pedigree, and lost sight of the only heir to 
his fortune, as he has. Though I’ve no 
doubt he is dead now, and has probably left 
his money to some French institution before 
this. Although old Elihh Rafe was hut a 
year younger than l, and I am seventy. Not 
so old if it were not for my sufferings, and 
no one knows how twenty years in a room 
ages one! It’s best of course, I’ll not com¬ 
plain. There ehdd, (she seldom called her 
by the despised title,) run off to your books 
awhile. You’ve been a good daughter, 1’il 
sleep now. Put a mark m the place first,” 
Rafe quickly thought over all this as she 
lifted the old hand tenderly. She let k fall 
and ran out of the cold, dark room to the 
kitchen, where Hannah was singing that 
identical hymn over her dishes. 
“ O Hannah! Hannah!” she cried, in a 
shrill, horrified tone, “ she is dead, and has 
never said good-by;" and when Hannah 
turned the girl fell white and fainting into 
her arms. 
It was surely sol The eyes never un¬ 
closed. The querulous voice was never 
heard more, In praise or blame. And almost 
reiterated, as she always did at important 
epochs in her history. “ Who’d a believed 
it? El they could all come back again, they’d 
be as surprised ns enny uv us!" and she 
rocked with her apron over her head awhile 
—a characteristic performance of old family 
servants, while Mrs. Ohmhby went to the 
windows and examined the geraniums, cry¬ 
ing all the while for very gladness. 
Rafe, over-head, was taking leave of her 
quiet little room. All her life had been 
spent, here. Tho homely black furniture, 
the high, old black-framed mirror, the Dres¬ 
den vases on the old mantle! She was 
thinking that she was taking leave of it for¬ 
ever—and she was 1 
She smoothed the coverlet with trembling 
hands, dropped a tear on the faded pin¬ 
cushion and the rose geranium on the stand, 
and loll upon her knees at the old window 
looking out. to sea. All her life she had 
watched the stately ships, the birds, the 
shadows, till they were woven into her life 
and seemed part of it. 
Thun she prayed, poor little thing, and 
rising from her knees remembered the book 
of fairy legends where it had lain since that 
afternoon that seemed so far away, and ran 
up in the garret after it. Dear old garret, 
dear worn old blanket 1 She would never 
read here again; that girl in the dusk was 
dead forever, it was another self that buried 
her face in tiie blanket’s folds and sobbed, 
“ 0, grand mother, it’s better for you as it h i 
And after all, you had to die before the fairy 
godmother led the poor child out of the 
woods, you know!” 
When Rape went down stairs old Han¬ 
nah clung about her and kissed her so 
admiringly that Mrs. Ormsby had to get be¬ 
hind them and pull at her apron strings lest 
she should divulge the cause of her joy. 
When they were driving home, the lady 
slackened the whito ponies, (those ponies 
that scandalized the village so at first, until 
il, was found that they carried comforts to 
tho dying and needy, and then St. Bede’s 
forgave them and their pretty driver every¬ 
thing!) She threw the reins on the dainty 
little necks, then, and listened to Rape’s 
glowiug recital of the fairy story, and the 
good it had brought to her. Its pathos 
moved her to tears, and as she listened she 
drew Rape’s faee close to her own and kiss¬ 
ed it, wondering at the glory on it. 
“ I must tell John about this legend," she 
thought, “ it will fit in with bis notions of 
her. Only Rape shall not know that they 
have over met, until they meet again 1 Yes, 
I must tell John,” she thought as she tick¬ 
led the astonished ponies out, of a nap. And 
she did tell John. And John never forgot it. 
CHAPTER III. 
Christmas-day dawned clear and bright. 
Late the night before Rafe heard the 
arrival in the hall below as she dropped off 
to dreams. And that morning, which was 
her eighteenth birthday too,* she felt her 
^ury-godinotiicr’s soft kiss on her face. 
“ Come, child, and breakfast in my own 
little sewing-room with me. Eustace is so 
busy putting the Iasi, touches to the sermon 
that he doesn't give me an intelligible look, 
even when I ring the bell in his very 
ears. You will want to be m your place for 
a last rehearsal in a short time.” 
For Rafe was going to sing justthe same; 
she fancied it would please the family in 
heaven better this Christmas morning. 
She had been dressed a long, long time, 
so she followed at once, and as she sipped 
the chocolate from the dainty blue and gold 
cup, sbe wondered if her life would ever 
hold anything dearer than the lovely face 
that smiled into her own. Something more 
than usual gleamed in Mrs. Ormsby’s dark 
eyes and flushed the color to her cheeks, as 
she talked. 
“ You know how lazj r these men are 1 
Besides my royal brother was tired with Ins 
journey, so they won’t breakfast yet awhile. 
Eat heartily, darling, you must sing better 
than ever in your life, John has a friend 
whom he has known abroad these many 
She had seen Mrs. Onnsiiv’s ermines going 
down to the rectory pew; the square one in 
the corner out of sight from the choir loft. 
All the world outside lay white and still, 
and in spite of her lonely pain, a peace came 
into the girl’s soul as the rector in his white 
robes came into the chancel and a low, deep 
tone shivered thro’ the silence. Then the 
organist with keenly attuned harmony, 
drifted dreamily through a flood of melody 
that wrapped the souls of those below' in its 
own white, still glory. 
In the choral hymn, Rape sang with a 
sense of being cut off from time and reality, 
remembering only the promise to be, the 
coming of that “Peace on earth” before her. 
Through the Te Ikum her voice thrilled so 
exultantly that the children singingwithher 
paused silently to look into her lace. 
“ When thou tookest upon thee to deliver 
man, thou didst humble thyself to be horn 
ot'a virgin!” t he voice all hut sobbed behind 
the crimson curtains where hidden from the 
pews below, she clasped her hands together 
as she chanted gloriously — “When thou 
hadst overcome the sharpness of death, thou 
didst open the kingdom of heaven to all be¬ 
lievers 1” Then the victorious voices took up 
the chant. 
John Montague stealing a look at his 
companion’s fat* li bred old face, saw it 
broken with emotion as lie leaned upon the 
cusions of the pow 
For Rafe, there was something divine in 
the services, aud at her closing solo she 
arose in her place with a feeling of new 
power. No one who heard that voice then 
could forget its Availing sweetness, its tri¬ 
umphant flow as sinking to slow, perfect 
chordings the ant hem closed, and white from 
its pathos, Rape knelt in her place awhile. 
Before she came back to the rectory that 
day, Mrs. Ormsby, watching for her from 
the window, told her guest the girl’s strange, 
sad story, adroitly withholding her name. 
“Her voice is, indeed, remarkable. For 
one so young, one of the finest in tone and 
quality I ever listened to,” Er.mu Rafe (for 
it was he who sat in the rectory library that 
afternoon,) said, enthusiastically. 
He was thinking of the darling of his 
heart, who had been under these Christmas 
snows so long, and as if to expiate his error 
and her own, he said, in sudden resolve,— 
“ Madam, you say this girl is penniless and 
alone. That she is capabl&of reaping golden 
plaudits from her voice, lean judge; it shall 
lie cultivated. Music robbed me of my 
choicest gift. I have no kin in all the 
world, or if there was one, a child, it is 
dead, and I cannot find where its grave may 
he. It is a painful story, Madam; 1 will not 
weary you with its recital. But I wi 11 place 
funds with you for this girl’s education 
abroad; you shall arrange all as you will, 
and I will be her banker. I should like to 
meet her, and—^ou have not, yet told me 
her name, have you ?” he asked. 
“ No, first of all, I must see to the dinner, 
and intercept Eustace in his nap. I will 
bring her to you soon,” and in more trepida¬ 
tion than she usually knew, Mrs. Ormsby 
hastened—not to the dinner, but to Rape m 
the hall, and drew her cautiously into the 
study. 
The Rev, Eustace looking a little alarmed, 
arose and contemplated the preserve closet, 
as his wife hurried up to him. 
“ Tell John it is his time now. Tell him 
he is in the library," she whispered, and he 
quitted the apartment in a wild state of won¬ 
derment as to whether “ he ” might mean an 
escaped murderer, or a Nonvegiau hear! 
Ten minutes later the library door opened 
and one pair of feet came across the hall to 
the study. 
Then the door opened, and Mrs. Ormsby 
whispered to Rafe, “ This is my Christmas 
gift, not the Fairy Prince, but your own 
uncle, Elihh Rafe. Child, you are out of 
the woods forever 1”—[To be continued. 
--- 
Every man has in his own life follies 
enough in his mind, troubles enough, with¬ 
out being curious after the affairs of others. 
THE WILL AND THE WAY. 
We .t'A faith in old proverbs full surely. 
For Wisdom has tracei what they teU; 
And T-.uth may be drawn np as purely 
From them as Ik may from a well. 
Let u;< question the thinkers and doers. 
And hear what they honestly say. 
And you']! find they believe. Bice, bold wooers. 
In “where there’s a will there’s a way.” 
Have ye vices that auk a destroyer* 
Or passions that need your control? 
Bet Reason become your employer. 
And yonr body be ruled by your *ouL 
Fight on. though bicoit j n the trial. 
Resist with alt strength that you may; 
Ye may conquer Sin’s host by dental, 
For “ where there's a wilt there's a way.” 
Have ye Poverty's pinching to cope with? 
Does Suffering weigh down your might? 
Or call up a spirit to hope with, 
jd dawn may come out of the night. 
01 *. much may be done by defying 
The ghosts of Despair and Dismay; 
And much may bo gained by relying 
On •• where thero’s a will there's a wny.” 
Should yon see afar off that worth winning. 
Set out on the Journe wl*h trust: 
And ne'er heed If /on. path at beginning 
Should be among brambles and dust. 
Though it is but by footsteps ye do It, 
And hardships may h inder „nd stay, 
Keep a heart, and be sure you’ll get through It, 
For “ where there’s a will there's a way.” 
—Phila. Saturday Night. 
-- 
NAMING BRIDES AND CHILDREN. 
Inculcation of an Alarming Heresy. 
BY MLNTAVOOD. 
Noav that everybody, simple or wise, is 
sticking a finger in the “ Woman Question,” 
and the world is about to be turned inside 
out, turning the men in and the women out, 
and society is to be revolutionized, I feel full 
of zeal to have a hand in the muss, and 
shoot my pop-gun at brides and christenings. 
I assume at the outset that the majority of 
women arc ninnies in one particular tiling, 
and with this amiable and “ womanly” as¬ 
sertion will proceed by saying that there’s 
nothing like being “womanly” in these wild 
days. No matter ivhat you do or say, if 
you’ll only stick a placard under the nose of 
the public that you are a “ womanly woman,” 
you may fight desperately for the eternal 
rights of the human heart, and of “ women” 
too, and not bo called “ strong-minded; ’ 
although if anybody had the unmitigated 
hardihood to call me “ weak -minded,” it 
wouldn’t be long before he found out that 
lie had made a mistake. I’m not much on 
soft-soap, hut I’m dreadfully familiar Avilli 
hot water, sharp sticks and vitriol. 
When I was in Chicago I met a young 
man who had hunted the great State of 
Illinois over to find bis sister. Ilia name was 
Stockton. Ho had spent the last five years 
in California, and while there ids only sis¬ 
ter, Loraine, had written him of her mar¬ 
riage, and of her removal to a large town in 
Illinois. By some accident, he lost the let¬ 
ter, and, having a. poor memory of names, 
forgot, and was unable to recall, the name of 
his sister’s husband. Although she was born 
a Stockton, christened and reared a Stock- 
ton, and did credit and honor to that very 
name for twenty-five years, she marries 
and is no mare. She might ns well have 
never existed as a Stockton, for all the 
good the name was to do her after marriage, 
or furnish any clue to her anxious brother. 
Now, for the life of mo, I can’t sec the 
necessity of a man swalloAving a woman, 
name and all, when she marries him. Neither 
can I see that it is any more a Avomau’s duty 
to give up her name than it is a man’s under 
the same circumstances, and especially when 
hers is a resonant., euphonious name and his 
is Smith or Jones. God gave the first hus¬ 
band and wife distinctive names. Eve didn’t 
sign herself Mrs. Adam, 1 know Of course 
I understand what a mucldlc of names 
Avoidd ensue if the wife discarded the name 
of her husband and insisted upon giving 
half the children her name and half his. 
But there is a medium in all tilings. And 
this medium course I strongly urge my 
countrywomen to adopt until something 
better can be clearly adopted It is making 
the marriage name a compound one, by 
joining tlie two names Avith a hyphen. For 
instance, Julia Willis marries Charles 
Howard, she trill write her name Julia 
W illib-Howard. By so doing ever}' body 
knows her maiden as well as her married 
name, and neither pride nor taste is offended, 
Avhile there is much gained and preserved 
thereby. In the matter of 
Naming Children. 
The first born son should be called by bis 
mother’s name, and the others receive her 
name also. Suppose there be three; their 
names are as follows:— Willis Howard, 
Annie Willis Howard, Georoe Willis 
Howard, and so on, if they number a dozen. 
As the country grows older, and families are 
established, the matter of family names will 
gain a new significance, and necessarily be 
of increased importance. 
I don’t advocate one sided affairs in any¬ 
thing ; and so long as sex makes two sides 
to humanity, different but equal, it is a foolish 
and unequal distribution for one to give up 
all, and tho other retain all. What if daugh¬ 
ters transmitted the father’s name, instead of 
the sons ? or what h the sons transmitted the 
mother’s name? The mere matter of that, 
would do away with the cowardly amt con¬ 
temptible willing of the hulk of parental 
property to the sons, as Is so often done, on 
the mere basis that hoys retain the fathers 
name in every event. If it is such an advan¬ 
tage for one to retain the birth-right name, 
girls should then most, especially be re¬ 
cipients of that advantage, as an offset, to their 
many disadvantages. 
A pretty black-eyed creature I knoiv says 
“these meek, submissive women have no 
idea of the amount of mischief they do in 
the Avorld, They think they must be weak 
to be womanly ” And Mary A. E. Wager, 
in her “ Women as Helpmeets,” advances a 
most ridiculous idea, that God created wo¬ 
man bemuse he saw that it was not good for 
man to be alone ! As if she was the result 
of an after thought , a sort of a supplement to 
creation, und created expressly for the bene¬ 
fit or comfort of man 1 And so nine-tenths 
of llie women tag along after tho men, giv¬ 
ing not only life, energies and talents for the 
welfare and promotion of the masculine gen¬ 
der, but adding also, to the funeral pile 
name, individuality and personal recognition. 
I am sure if I should marry a man and 
should so absorb him that be was no longer 
known, nor of any account only as “ my hus¬ 
band,” 1 should hate him, get divorced, leave 
him, run away, do anything to cut loose from 
such a contemptible, know-nothing, nobody 
piece of animal life. Ancl so, by a species 
of mental metamorphosis, if I were a man, 
I shouldn’t Avant a ghost a shadow, an echo, 
an appendix, a refrain, or a doxology, for a 
wife. I should want her to be so vital and 
individualized that whether her husband Avas 
dead or alive, absent or present, she stood at 
par value every time, and was her own sAveet, 
noble self and not me nor my dog. 
- +■*■+ --—- 
SMALL MEANS. 
The power of money is, on the whole, 
over-estimated. Tlie greatest things Avhicli 
have been done for the world have not been 
accomplished by rich men, or by subscrip¬ 
tion lists, but by men generally of small pe¬ 
cuniary means. Christianity was propagated 
over half the world by men of the poorest 
class; andtlic greatest thinkers, discoverers, 
inventors, and artists, have been men of mod¬ 
erate wealth, many of them little raised above 
the condition of manual laborers in pointof 
worldly circumstances. And it Avill always 
ho so. Riches are oftener an impediment 
than a stimulus to action; and in many cases 
they are quite as much u misfortune as a 
blessing. The youth who inherits wealth, i3 
apt to have life made too easy for him, ancl 
he soon grows sated with it, because he has 
nothing left to desire. 
-»»♦- 
SOCIAL EQUALITY. 
After all that can he said about the ad- 
van trtges one man has over another, there is 
still a Avouderful equality In human fortunes. 
If the heiress has booty for her dower, the 
penniless have beauty for theirs; if one man 
lias cash, the other has credit; if one boasts 
of*his income, the other can of his influence. 
No one is so miserable hut that his neighbor 
wants something be possesses; and no one 
so mighty but that be wants another’s aid. 
There is no fortune so good but it may bo 
r * versed; and none so bad but it may be 
bettered. The sun that rises in clouds may 
set in splendor; and that Avhick rises in 
splendor may set in gloom. 
-- 
WOMAN’S ENDURANCE. 
A student at Ann Arbor, having re¬ 
marked that men had more endurance than 
Avomeu, a lady present answered that she 
would like tosee the thirteen hundred young 
men in the University laced up in steel-ribbecl 
corsets, with hoops, heavy skirts, trails, high 
heels, pauiers, chignons, and dozens of hair¬ 
pins sticking in their scalps, cooped up in 
the house, year after year, with no exhilarat¬ 
ing exercise, no hopes, aims or ambitions in 
life, and see if they could stand it us well as 
tho girls. Nothing, said she, but the fact 
tliat Avomen, like cats, have nine lives, en¬ 
ables them to survive the present regime to 
Avhich custom dooms the sex. 
—--■*-*■♦- 
EXCELLENT HINTS. 
Make no vows of enmity while you are 
smarting under a sense of neglect or cruelty; 
pain speaks Avith little propriety. Busy- 
bodies are almost always idlers. The less 
business a man has the more he meddles 
with that of his neighbors. Make a note of 
this. Never suffer your courage to exert 
itself in fierceness, your resolution in obsti- 
nacy, your wisdom in cunning, nor your 
patience in sullenness and despair. What¬ 
ever parent gives hia children good instruc¬ 
tion, and sets them at the same time a bad 
example, may he considered as bringing 
them food in one and poison in another. 
A 
