& 
.Vl-i 
ciiled passing of his hand over the close- 
shaven Scotch featured mouth and chin 
—“ Young lady, you are deeper in my 
debt than T can tell you. I find, too, very 
great improvements in your charges, (and 
they were sorry ones!”) he smiled a lit¬ 
tle, absently. “We can soon arrange our 
plans. My own will keep me strictly in 
town during the greater part of the week. 
The house seems a little dreary; it needs 
modernizing, which will take most of the 
summer The children have a worthy aunt., 
my only sister, a widow much older than 1, 
whom I have always wished them to know. 
She will come for housekeeper, and—I trust 
I may hope you find no necessity for any 
change in your plans. You have a home. 
I knew your father well. In tact, I noticed 
last night that you were worn and needed 
rest. While the children and their aunt are 
rusticating, will you think me unkind to 
say you need a vacation V And as 1 wish to 
get at repairs as soon as convenient, will a 
week be too soon for you to stnrt ? Of 
couse,” he said, a little hurriedly, “ since it 
is my own arrangement, and your time is 
still mine, I shall wish the salary to con¬ 
tinue, and shall insist that, it does. And 
when the arrangements are over, you will 
return, if you will We shall go to town 
this winter. My children must find they 
have a father.” 
His voice was husky, his back was turned. 
Geraldine's eyes swam over, she could not 
speak, as she tried to, he looked down at 
her homely face aglow with joy, and only 
smiled. "There, there,” he said, “never 
mind, Miss Meredith. Bless me! You 
are very like your father!” 
It was all arranged then, and she had 
gone up stairs. She felt younger; a little 
anxiety crept over her, as she busied herself 
in retouching her old dresses, thinking that 
she would do without her coveted silk for 
that suit the hoys must have, and her mother 
needed a new veil, her old one being too 
worn for Josephine's approval. 
The long months since she saw the group 
about the door seemed very far removed. 
At noon she heard the children coming in 
from their drive. The lather’s voice laughed 
out gaily as they came into the hall. It did 
not seem the same house. She sat thinking 
how glad his eyes grew as he spoke of his 
sister. She could fancy how estranged they 
must have been never to have heard her 
name from one of the little ones or their 
grandmother. 
Suddenly slits looked down to where the 
little station lay among the trees. “Going 
so soon,—and O, if it. was but, this very 
morning! It was only an hour to train 
time,—well, it would come soon ; she would 
wait; she was foolish to grow impatient!” 
Just then a servant, summoned her below. 
Mr. Keitii was in the library: lie had been 
opening Llie morning’s mail. She noticed 
he was more abrupt than ever, and did not 
look up as she entered. 
“ 1 find it best,” lie, said, “ to ask j’ou to 
take your vacation at once, Miss Meredith. 
The noon train is due in an hour. Can you 
he ready ? I will explain the rest by- 
and-by.” 
She was only too glad to go. She could 
not keep the tears back, from joy. She did 
not wonder at him, for he was so queer and 
odd, she thought. 
When she had hastily prepared herself, 
and taken an almost sorry look at her little 
room, with its comforts,—at the pale, gray- 
eyed face of the girl who was actually going 
home; had kissed the children and found 
Flossy sobbing, heart-broken, after her; she 
ran down to the luncheon slit* could not eat, 
and was in the carriage at last. Mr. Keith 
stood talking to old Thomas, the coachman, 
and Thomas was in a traveling coat. 
“ I see you are punctual,” he said, coming 
to the carriage. 
His face was grave, and something in it 
made her glad joy die out sickeningly. 
“ Miss Meredith,” he said, calmly, “ there 
is a look ou your face that told me when I 
first saw it, you could bear any trial better 
than suspense. Thomas is going with you. 
Don’t protest,—I know, of course, what is 
best. I wish I could tell you that there was 
no cause for this haste. You will find ill¬ 
ness in your home.” 
He paused and looked into the gray eyes. 
I think any one might have looked into 
them and pitied them for the sudden cloud¬ 
ing terror they wore. Then they settled 
down like calm, steady waves of color, im¬ 
penetrable, with a firmness that matched 
the voice in which she spoke. 
“My mother, sir ? Is she alive?” the 
slightest questioning to the tone. 
He put a finger on the wrist that lay near¬ 
est him. 
“ Be firm ! I see you are. There is al¬ 
ways hope, until the worst. I say to you, 
as I would say to little Flossy there, God 
help you. Aye, he will, Miss-” 
Then they drove away. 
CHAPTER IV. 
They met, a species of forlorn hope, about 
Geraldine’s sofa, one morning toward the 
last, of those August days that followed. 
From a low, deathful fever, (brought on 
from overwork and anxiety when she 
came home to find those mute, uncomplain¬ 
ing lips forever still, and only one pair of 
little, sticky hands to twine, in a sickly way, 
about her ueclc,) she was convalescing at 
last, and that brave, steady smile bad, in a 
faint way, come to her lips. The same niglit 
little Fred had died, the hemorrhage had 
choked the life from those sick, patient lips 
of the mother, who long weeks had kept 
failing, fading from them all. 
The room looked familiar, and Mabel and 
Joseph ink out of place in their black dresses, 
to her eyes Little Clare, ou the corner of 
the sofa, sat. with his head in her lap. 
Josephine chere, wore a helpless smile, as 
she toyed with her jet. cross, prettily. 
“ Well, Geraldine, you see there is a 
necessity for decision now ” she said, coldly. 
When bad the time come that, t hat pale 
faced girl on the sofa, had not been at the 
home helm ? 
“ What plans had you in view?” she said, 
in her quiet, old way. 
“Plans? Why as far as anything much 
is concerned, I had not planned at all. You 
know the property will support us now, with 
the aid of a little outside affair, until Mabel’s 
marriage in the fall, when I propose to sell 
the house and travel abroad. There are 
parties enough to find, and we can divide 
the property then. Clarence will go with 
Mahkl, and you— Well, wecun arrange that. 
Col. and Mrs. IIilhijk are willing to come to 
us till Mabel’s departure leaves us free. 
They are people who have moved in our set, 
it is not like keeping boarders at all, you 
know, (she was a Darcy) and I sec; no rea¬ 
son why they should not come to us. You 
can do as you choose about teaching Clar¬ 
ence now.” 
“ You have arranged, then, for the leasing 
of ti»e rooms?” Geraldine asked, quietly 
“ Why, yes. I see no reason why they 
should not come at once,” Josephine said, 
carelessly. 
“ Shall you do nothing more ?” the inex¬ 
orable voice from the sofa asked again. 
“Just your old absurd way of thinking, 
Geraldine! ‘Do unything more?’ Of 
course not,. Would you have me turn nursery 
governess or sweep crossings? Would aiiy r 
gentleman of culture ” (here the white face 
on the pillow grew flushed a little) “ choose 
a wile from miehii class? 1 shall have the 
benefit of Col. and Mrs Hii,turn’s chuperon- 
ugc and friends, though surely 1 shall not go 
into society yet,” and she raised her mourn¬ 
ing handkerchief to her eyes languidly. 
“ Bo you prefer to go on planning, schem¬ 
ing, looking out for a marriage, combining 
fortune and position, shutting out love and 
its divine duty, dressing your body, starving 
your soul, keeping up this old heartless way 
of living, this wretched sham, and when, 
too, the very ones you fancy most deceived, 
most laugh and ridicule! Society! Col. 
and Mrs. ItlLnUR indeed! Fie on such 
short-sightedness! A man who would not 
marry me, Josephine, from a true position, 
however poor, should never take me from a 
false one, though very cleverly sustained ! 1 
wish you no ill. She was our mother” and 
the soft tone that, made her homely face 
something beautiful, came to her voice. “ I 
cannot hold to this life. I shall return to 
my former position next week. To urge me 
further will he quite useless; I am deter¬ 
mined." 
.Josephine, chere, arose, stately and grand, 
and swept her sable robes imperatively from 
the room. 
Mabel tried a word then: 
“ You know Victor is so soon expected, 
Gerry, dear ! Think of your possible re¬ 
conciliation !” she urged. 
The girl’s face turned to hers wore a sharp, 
almost pained, resentment. 
“ Don’t speak to me of him," she said. 
“ I would scorn Victor Lisle now" 
She had the usual satisfaction of turning 
Iter face to the wall and weeping alone that 
next half hour. 
“ It, was the weakness left, from the fever,” 
she argued to herself. But lien* was life and 
its duties calling to her; she had no time for 
tears. The realities of labor came crowding 
back so closely to her hands that tears could 
not drip between her fingers long. 
So that next week she went hack. 1 
think the second parting was a little harder 
to bear. Josephine maintained her angry 
coldness, and poor, weak Mabel dared not 
come out on the " other side.” Only the 
fair-haired child cried from an upper win¬ 
dow as he drew bis small fingers down the 
glass, for it rained dismally again. 
Mr. Keith was not at home when she ar¬ 
rived.' But there met her that next evening 
a sweet-voiced woman, her own mother's 
age, that called her “my dear,” and set her 
crying at. the touch of her fingers, untying 
her mourning veil. 
The children, too, developed alarmingly 
affectionate proclivities. They danced a 
species of triumphal Indian wav-dance about 
her, and carried her off captive to look at 
the improvements and the “ pretty new 
things.” 
And the house was like another place. A 
freshness in the very laces that superseded 
heavy draperies of the Elizabethan reign, at 
the casements; vines and sunlight might 
come in now. Everything rare, elegant, but 
home-like, from the Clylie on the mantle 
bracket, and the proof print of the Sistiue 
Madonna, to the airy great play-room where 
the children reveled in their German toys. 
“ And Aunt Keith is so sweet,—sweeter 
than anybody but you,” Flosby said, cling 
ing to the lonely girl. 
That next morning, awakening early, the 
calm still beauty of the place haunted her 
like a restful dream. The river and the hills 
were lessons. She sat and studied them for 
awhile, and she was glad that the time for 
leaving them and going into thelower house 
was yet far removed. 
That fall they went to the city. Here 
things were grander than Geraldine had 
even thought. The. house was fitted for 
Mr. Keith’s position, and his elegant sister 
entertained his few choice friends with that 
stately unpretension that mated well with 
the plain richness oi their home. 
Geraldine went out but little—now and 
then to a children's matinee, when Mr. K eith 
especially desired her—hut she was much 
alone fi'om lessons till the children’s early 
tea with their father, after their bed hour, 
when he went to his hooks, site found such 
quiet, comforting hours with Mrs. Ellery, 
his widowed slater, that she seldom loll her. 
And so unlike those evenings of a year ago! 
The friendship between these women— 
one middle-aged and sorrowful, yet glad for 
those whom she might brighten by her love, 
the oilier young, yet shut, out from much of 
life’s sweetest memories and deeds—ripened 
into something very sweet and tender 
Geraldine liked their seclusion. She 
seldom sivw Mr. Keith. Occasionally lie 
read or talked to them awhile. Once he 
drove with them, at his sister's request, to 
an art exhibition. He was the same , quiet, 
delightfully pleasant in his few entertaining 
words, and living a different man to his 
children, who worshipped him as a hero. 
Mabel's brilliant marriage came to them. 
Geraldine could not go. It was that, week 
when Mr Keith and his sister went home 
for a visit. Josephine thought it “ like her ” 
to prefer staying away, for Victor Lisle 
was there,—returned from Europe just 
before. 
Whether Victor Lisle thought anything 
about it as he sipped the rare old wines that 
graced the marriage breakfast, is of little 
moment lie said to Colonel Milder that 
“ Miss MkredUju was the handsomest lady 
he had seen in idl his travels,” which was 
true And then, Victor Lisle was a con¬ 
noisseur, you know. 
Then he sent in his card often after that. 
CHAPTER V. 
So the winter bad gone! They were go¬ 
ing back to the dear old home that early 
April, when suddenly little Flossy became 
ill The same set, while face that watched 
so many besides, kept constant vigil here. 
By night and day her care was unceasing. 
“ I can bear fatigue better than you. You 
have the house and the boys,” she said, to 
the sweet-faced woman, who crept in every 
hour. 
And the little life wavered and trembled. 
Till ihe child’s voice plead for violets in her 
fever, and called Geraldine to see the 
“ pretty river” in her delirium. 
One thing she found now. The strong 
man was a helpless child. He stood and 
gazed with w hite, horrified face at the little 
fever-flushed one, and said,— 
“Will she die, my little Florence?” till 
Geraldine crept up to him. 
“God will help you! You told me so 
once, sir, remember that now,” she said, lay¬ 
ing a. baud on his arm. 
Then when she came out to him that mid¬ 
night, she grew suddenly beautiful as he 
raised his head from his arms. 
“ God has lielped you. She will not die, 
Mr Keith. She has opened her eyes, and 
wants you.” 
“Yon have saved her, next to Him!” he 
said, reverently, “no mother could have 
done more.” Then he w ent in alone. 
After that, sitting one night in the dusk, 
she made a sweet picture, though she did 
not know it; Flossy nestled in her arms, 
that look of mother-love that she had, even 
when she tended her dolls, on her plain face. 
.Mr Keith look a turn or two before the 
open door; listening, noiselessly, to the sing¬ 
ing. He went out with a soft, new light on 
his face. 
As the result of that smile, the day before 
they went to the country, that quiet little 
man in grey, sent for Miss Meredith. 
He stood on the liearth-rug, as usual. 
Geraldine was not long in keeping him 
waiting. It was probably some business 
instructions, as she knew they would see but 
little of him this coming summer. 
“You sent for me,” she said. He gave 
her a chair silently. Then he walked back 
to his place. 
“Yes! to ask you to be my wife—my 
children’s mother, for they have never had 
one,” he replied, in that brusque, Scotch way 
of his. Hastily he went on, with a tremor 
for his even voice wavering through it. “It 
is not my habit to say much. I make no 
passionate avowal. I recognized your force 
of character the first time I saw r your face. 
To-day I respect you more than any woman 
in the world; yes, and I love you, and will 
make your life as bright as 1 can. Do not 
reply suddenly to me. You have not thought 
of this, long ago 1 fancied it would surprise 
you. This is my future work,—your happi¬ 
ness, if you will let it he so, Miss.” 
She felt a quick, sharp pain, for despite 
the coldness of the man she was forced to the 
conviction of a terrible reality that, rested 
under his impenetrable manner, and to pain 
him was the bitterest thing she ever had 
known. Yet she dared not, would not 
build on the false ground she had left in her 
heart. 
Bbe arose, perfectly white, and much as 
he pitied himself, he pitied her far more. 
“ I shall not conceal the truth from you,” 
she said. “ I have not overcome an old 
love; I cannot marry, sir.” 
Then, without a look, she went up to 
think upon her plans. In spite of herself 
she recognized the delicacy of the man that 
made her situation still as free, and change 
an impossibility. She did not leave the 
children. Bhc bad all the summer to think 
upon her future. She never saw Mr. Keith 
after that, save once, when he met her in 
the carriage with the children in town. 
“ You are looking thin, Miss Meredith,” 
lie said, glancing up at her; “you should 
rest. Will you go home for a change?” 
“ I have no home. My married sister is 
abroad. Josephine and little Clarence are 
with them. Our house was sold last month.” 
He looked at her without a word. 
If Josephine chere felt a disappointed 
pang because Victor Lisle, at the last mo¬ 
ment, changed his plans and staid in Ameri¬ 
ca, no one knew of it. 
Geraldine received glowing letters from 
Mabel hi Paris that fall. 
“ Josephine is a belle here,” one of them 
said. “ She has suitors enough to distract 
one. But— entre nous —she has a penchant 
for (must 1 say it?) Victor Lisle. I cannot 
tell why lie does not come abroad. He 
probably will join us this winter in Paris.” 
Once, unseen herself, Geraldine saw bis 
face. It was at church one Sabbath, that 
they spent, in town. Aunt Ruth noticed 
that the prayer-book closed in her trembling 
bands. Only a moment. In the Litany her 
voice came out clear and firm. That dark, 
fine face, was just as haughty as ever. And 
Geraldine left the charm lost that it once 
had for her. 
Going home she found her mind dwelling 
on those words of hers, that April before, 
“ 1 have not overcome an old love." But 
she found, after all, that she had. 
The golden summer slid away. Already 
the leaves were turning on the maples in the 
drive, the Catskills gathering filmy splen¬ 
dors, the river sifting opal tints. It would 
be very hard to go. And one evening as she 
came in from a walk alone, she sat down in 
the dark suddenly, and sobbed. Must her 
life never hold its measure of joy,—that joy 
that other women had, she wondered ? Then, 
too late, she knew that it had held such glory 
of true loving, and that she, with her own 
proud, mistaken lips, had sealed its fruition. 
“1 was a fool! Victor Lisle, if you 
came back to-day, I would not many you,” 
she said, aloud. 
Some one who had long known the secret 
of her life, was sitting in the dark library, 
across the hall, and heard those words. 
CHAPTER VI. 
Not many months later, crossing the pave¬ 
ment to a carriage door, Geraldine sud¬ 
denly found her hand taken in a quick, im¬ 
pulsive grasp. 
“ Geraldine ! And to think that we have 
met at last!” 
Her lips whitened a moment. Then a look 
in her eyes caused Victor Lisle to drop 
that gloved hand, that years ago he had held 
in his own, and stammer an apology. 
“You did not go abroad?" she asked, in 
her even, quiet way, a moment later. 
“No, I shall not go abroad again, unless 
— unless, — (I am cured of my wandering,) 
unless you go with me, Geraldine ! ” and 
the voice she knew so well sunk to its old 
familiar sweetness. 
She held her left hand out now. Un¬ 
gloved and firm it was. Carelessly, unmis¬ 
takably, slie smiled up at him as he held 
back the door of the silken lined coupe. 
From her womanly face—where no trace 
of anything that had past looked out at him 
—his eyes fell lower, to the hand with the 
new wedding ring upon it. 
Just then Flossy looked from the window. 
“ Your other glove is here, mamma. You 
dropped it on the cushion,” she said. 
A strange, inexplicable look came to the 
man’s face. Something like a baffled, lost 
pride returned to the eyes that never left 
them afterward. 
“ I understannd,” he said, coldly; “ it was 
my mistake.” 
Then he smiled into the strong gray eyes 
watching him so steadily, and closed the 
carriage door with his usual stately bow, and 
a controlled, “ You have my congratula¬ 
tions, Mrs. KErra.” 
So the carriage and that firm, womanly 
face with its settled happiness on lip and 
smile, passed on again and out of sight. 
But Victor Lisle never married Joseph¬ 
ine, chere. 
jibe dlataralist. 
GLEANINGS AND NOTES. 
To Prevent Moles Entiti? Corn. 
An Ohio correspondent says this can be 
done by taking a single shovel plow and go¬ 
ing once between every row of corn. He 
has done it repeatedly, and found It effectual. 
It leaves the ground in good condition also. 
Killing the Pen Weevil. 
Margaret Ciiappellsmitii, New Har¬ 
mony, lud., writes the American Entomolo¬ 
gist that she never plants a pea with a live 
weevil in it. She keeps the peas two years; 
then, of course, the weevil is dead; and she 
takes care that they do not escape before 
they die; hence instead of having a bug in 
every pea, and eat ing os many hugs as peas, 
the latter are free front the insects. She 
dries her seed peas, puls them in bags, and 
hangs them up in an airy place, taking care 
to tie the mouth of the bags close. About 
Christmas the peas are put into bottles and 
corked up, and kept until the second spring. 
They then grow readily. 
Lime for Worms. 
J. Y Dillon, Denver, Col., writes:—In 
1805, my seed wheat being smutty, I washed 
it in a solution of vitriol, and a part of the 
seed was dried ready for the drill, but the 
day being cloudy, it became necessary to 
mix a part of the seed with air-slaked lime 
in order to dry it. I was particular to stake 
the ground where the lime was used, to see 
whether there was any perceptible difference 
in the growth. All came up nicely, but I 
soon noticed that a part of the field was be¬ 
coming spotted, and on examination found 
the wire worm devouring the part where no 
lime was used, while the strip where ihe 
lime was used was not disturbed. All 
through the season the difference in the two 
strips was noticeable as far as the field could 
be seen. I am satisfied that lime used on 
the seed is a preventive of their ravages. 
Tin: Canker. Worm Moth. 
A. G. Percy writes :— The male moth of 
the canker worm only, has wings. The fe¬ 
male can crawl up the body of the tree by 
great effort. I have seen her fall back many 
times before ascending one foot from the 
ground. 
Mr. Schenck is wrong in saying “ for 
large trees, nature, in about three years, will 
provide a remedy, in the shape of an antag¬ 
onistic. insect, which preys upon the chrysa¬ 
lis of the worm while in the ground;” for 
there are old orchards in this town (Arcadia) 
that have been stripped of their leaves by 
the said worm, five years in succession, and 
would have been the sixth year, if they had 
not put. :l ring of tar around the body of the 
tree to prevent the female from ascending to 
its branches. The male will be seen several 
days before you can find a single female, and 
are much more numerous, and will, many 
times, stick so thick in the tar that the fe¬ 
male will walk over them, and gain access to 
the limbs above. 
The males will begin to appear very soon 
after the ground is thawed three inches 
deep, and can be seen flying about soon 
after sunset any evening after they have 
changed into the winged state, if the atmos¬ 
phere is warm, but as soon as it begins to 
freeze they cease to fly in a short time, and 
hide under the bark of the tree or in the 
grass. 
You will scarcely he able to find a female 
in eight or tea days afterward, when they 
will begin to appear in large numbers; so 
much so, that after mild nights you will be 
able to gather nearly a quart of them at the 
bottom of a large tree, having become un¬ 
able to ascend, by reason of the tar that 
sticks to them. 
To Destroy Currant Worms and Huetb. 
As a preventive against these depredators 
Mr. Richard Dopp communicates to the 
Rome (N. Y.) Sentinel the result of las ob¬ 
servation and experience for some years. 
He says nothing is so effectual in keeping 
worms and bugs from all kinds ol trees, 
shrubs and bushes, as green cedar brush, cut 
In small pieces and sprinkled under the cur¬ 
rant and other bushes; and to keep bugs 
and worms from fruit trees he recommends 
fruit growei-s to tie cedar brush around the 
trunks ot the trees. There is something 
offensive about cedar to all bugs and worms, 
and they do not approach it. He remarks 
that lie has never yet discovered a worm’s 
nest on cedar brush, and that cedar brush is 
also effectual in warding off mosquitoes and 
flies. A horse may be rubbed with the 
brush in the morning, and flies will not 
bother him that day, or until the odor wears 
off. Bo a person may lie down in the woods 
to sleep, cover himself with cedar brush, 
and not be troubled by flies, mosquitoes or 
bugs. Our readers can easily try the remedy, 
in any of these cases, when the proper time 
arrives. 
