MQOBE’S BUBAL NEW-YORKER. 
JAM. 24 
ant. But Mr. Fei-hen understands how to take i 
care of himself. He has a clear head and a pro- ! 
possessing appearance; he could have made a 
very Rood support for two." 
After this, the old lady said nothing more on 
the subject. Martha struggled to suppress 
I the deceitful hopes which would obtrude them¬ 
selves in tier musing*; hut Anna would not 
rest until by means of her too confidant and flut¬ 
tering pictures of the future, she had wrought 
her friend to such a pitch of expectancy that 
she hourly awaited her prince with his golden 
chariot. The suffering condition of her grand¬ 
mother was the only damper to her secret ex¬ 
ultation. 
CHAPTER XI. 
Martha was sitting by her grandmother’s 
bedside, for the old lady was feeling weak and 
tired that day, when Anna came over again 
but not so joyfully nor so light of foot as when, 
some weeks before, she had brought tidings of 
tiie successful lawsuit: this time sbe held a let¬ 
ter in her bund. Martha motioned to her to 
be silent, and etep softly. Anna, herself, did 
not seem Impatient., or t o take much pleasure 
in imparting In* - intelligence. She laid the let¬ 
ter on tiie hed beside March a and stole quietly 
away. It was a letter from Fki.skn to the Hof- 
rath iu. With rather bitter humor be thanked 
his honored friend for the congratulations, 
lie wrotet 
Tim Inheritance into which I have come Is 
in a most promising condition. The house, 
thunkslo the combined efforts of the old cynic 
and tiie ZWJTYR family. Is in such a state as to 
render selllngsor repairing alike impossible. 
Not only the t rees in the garden, but the very 
floors and balusters have either been sold or 
used as firewood. Tho window panes even have 
been taken out, and the five years which it, lias 
remained untenanted have made it a perfect 
ruin. A good pari of the capital, which io the 
beginning was not a tenth part what family 
tradition would have it, had gone to pay law¬ 
yer's fees; mid the remainder hue been so bad Iv¬ 
in vested, that not a usurer will give me a 
quarter of its value. So it. is all over w ith mv 
plans for lioneflting mankind in general and 
myself in particular. Enough still remains 
for a prudent man to support a wife upon, to¬ 
gether with the help of a moderate law prac¬ 
tice, ir she understands how to patch her hus¬ 
band’* clothes and makes n hash to-day of the 
beef left from yesterday I was neither born 
nor brought up to this. Sec., Ac., &c." 
When Anna returned, Martha saw her in 
her own room ; she gave her back thecarcfully- 
folded Jotter, saying hi a suppressed tone, "It 
is best so, it is all at an end now,” and the hot 
tears 11owed fast, over the grave of her young 
love. 
“But, Martha," expostulated her friend, 
“it is only pride because lie feels that he Is no 
longer rich. You know a lawyer lias an uncer- 
tain income, and he has been accustomed to 
having so much money; but lie is nobler than 
he represents himself.” 
“ God grant, that it may lie so," said Martha 
with u sad smile. “ But he never loved me. Bo 
not distress yourself, Anna, I do not com¬ 
plain.” 
Her grandmother was st ill asleep when M ar¬ 
tha returned, and in the quiet of tho sick room 
the young girl bowed her head on the foot of 
l,he bed and wept long and bitterly. 
CHAPTER XII. 
A spring and summer had parsed very quiet¬ 
ly to tho now saddened and subdued Martha, 
who seldom left tier grandmother’s sick room. 
It seemed to her now as il her youth lay lar 
behind her in the past and could never more 
return- It was a gloomy November evening, 
about the hour when her grandmother used to 
give out the night’s work for herself and l! nsn- 
t.a, and put. apples down to roast, for them. 
Martha had always enjoyed the long, dark 
evenings when the lights would have to be lit 
early. The little spinning wheel no longer 
hummed merrily now, and Its industrious mis¬ 
tress lay In her grave. The mom wnsqultostlll. 
Ursi’i.a sat behind the atovo asleep. She was 
so accustomed to cry for her dear old mistress 
whenever she sat. in this room, that now she 
was crying in her sleep. 
Martha was not asleep. Dressed in deep 
mourning, slio sat in her grandmother's arm¬ 
chair, her work lying idly in her lap. The sweat 
blue eyes, sadder fur now than two years ago, 
were looking up earnestly iuto the doctor’s 
face, he standing over, his earnest gaze bent 
upon her. It seamed to be u matter of great 
Importance of which tho two were speaking. 
It was of Martha'S leaving the dear, old house 
that they spoke, where tho orphan child had 
been so lovingly cared for all her life. It had 
been a month now since she had closed her 
grandmother’s eyes; and M ill she lingered, loth 
to part from tho place around which nil her 
recollections of youthful happiness were cen¬ 
tered. Tho place Itself looked as if It hud no 
change, for Martha’s loving heart had tenderly 
guarded her grandmother’s little possessions as 
sacred things, not to ho touched by careless 
hands. Now she could do so no longer. A young 
girl could not live bo unprotected, and she must 
choose now as to which of her relations sbo 
would go for the temporary home which they 
one and all most warmly offered her. Her 
grandniothor had died as she h.-ul-J! ved—oheer- 
fuliy and bravely ; her long illness had not im¬ 
paired her mind In the least. “I cannot pro¬ 
vide for your future, my darling child,” she 
said to Martha, who knelt weeping beside her 
bt a, ’'Care for the living belongs not to tho 
living, but to God. I can only pray for you. I 
do not leave you In poverty, ami I know you 
will not tie friendless. Our family has always 
kept together. Ho long as you fill your place 
usefully in your own family, I am sure you will 
never need to go among strangers. I am not 1 
troubled for your fut ure. God bids us pray for 
daily bread only. For daily bread, daily light, 
daily strength, that is enough. It was only the 
prodigal son who would have his whole inherit¬ 
ance at once, if all should not be as you would 
wish, yet is it as (Jon wills, and at the end you 
will see that all was right.” 
Tho doctor had shown himself a true friend, 
and had been a great coinfort to Martha, He 
had been untiring in his attendance, night and 
day, upon her grandmother in her il loess, and 
had loved and eared for her as an own son 
might have done, 
The old lady, towards the close of her life, 
had shrunk from seeing visitors, so Martha 
was shut off from the outer world for many 
weeks, and only the serious side of life had 
been open to her. The doctor had shared with 
her her attendance on her grandmother, and 
had thought, and eared for her like an cider 
brother since her relative’s death, lie, who 
had hitherto devoted himself so exclusively to 
III# profession, and hod a strange distaste for 
letter writing, business affairs and money mat¬ 
ters, had taken eh urge of Martha’s affairs, and 
evinced a prudence arid foresight which sur¬ 
prised even himself. Now, for tiie first time, 
when the time had come w hen she must, leave 
her old home, had he, to Martha’s unspeak¬ 
able astonishment, made something more than 
a brotherly request of her, and he was now 
standing before her. await ing her answer. Had 
she not been sojiubdued by sorrow and care of 
late, she would have been too much startled 
and amassed to continue tiie interview. What 
could she say to the doctor?-ho who was so 
good, so noble ; and yet she could not Jove him ! 
“ T will not press you, dear Martha,” said 
lie, and t he discovered for the first time a very 
pleasant tone in Ills voice; “you must decide 
for yourself, perfectly uninfluenced a life’s 
decision should not he a hurried one.” 
“I have tried your patience already too long,” 
said Martha, in a shy, hesitating tone, which 
he had never hoard from her before; hut. iu- 
deed, I do not. think 1 could make you happy." 
“ Leave me to think of that,” said the doctor, 
smiling. 
Hbe had, almost unconfessed to herself, ex¬ 
pected a more direct and eager response, 
though she had been quite in earnest in tier 
expressed doubt . 
“You are so good you have done so much 
for my grandmamma and for me.” 
“That, must not influence your decision, Mar¬ 
tha. I should have done Justus much for my 
old friend if I had never seen you. What I leave 
done for you was simply the duty of a friend, 
one who lived In the same house with you ; an¬ 
other might have done II even heller." 
“ He has not a hit of sentiment," thought 
Martha, who had sometimes attributed his 
devoted attendance on her grandmother to 
other motives. “ Why cannot T tell him no, 
decidedly ?" 
“I have not concealed anything from you," she 
began again, looking down With a deep blush. 
“T thank you earnestly for the frankness with 
which you have told me your secret fallings, 
though they were no secret, to me. I also dream- 
oil once, M vrtha, though I may not look to 
you like a. dreamer, of a sweet bird which sprung 
up under my eye, and which I hoped might 
bloom for me in the happiness ol oOr mutual 
love. The drear** has faded, and the fault is my 
own, that ( did not understand how to unfold 
the hud. I am no sunbeam, Maiitii a— only a 
good, warm chimney fire. But If you will try 
il, dear Martha, T think the early love of your 
heart, and its disapppplntment, will not, he 
slgnes of faltering in your way, but steps l>y 
means of which we. v ill ascend to a higher arid 
better happiness.” 
“ You ate so alone—your life is so very lone¬ 
ly ; if my sisterly affection, my respect will sat¬ 
isfy you"—she stopped suddenly In alarm; in* 
Avould of course understand that, as assent, and 
she Jiad not meant that exactly. 
“ 1 am not so easily satisfied, Martha,” said 
lie, with a grave smile. " Your first, love I could 
not win, but the whole love of your heart is tiie 
only thing I think w*orth gaining. You could, 
and dare only bo mine with your w hole heart, 
with your entire life; no thought save that of 
God must come between tia two. tfhere mUft 
be no possible crisis In our lives, which could 
cause you, for n single moment, to regret the 
decision which you had made. It. must first, 
seem quite clear to you that your decision lias 
God’s blessing upon It—that It Is llis will that 
you should put your entire future life into my 
keeping, fto that together we may pursue our 
way In all humility and loveliness heuvenwurd. 
The loneliness In my heart and life must not 
influence your decision,” be udded more quiet¬ 
ly. “I am quite alone It is true, and 1 shall 
feel my lonoilness very keenly when you arc 
gone, and this door closed to me, but I have 
learned to live alone with my God, and by his 
help to HU the duties of ray profession, and live 
my life; I have learned, too, to love without 
hope, and not to succumb to despair. No, Mar¬ 
tha, you must not say ‘ yes’ out of pity." 
“Why should he ask me, then,” thought 
MAOTRA, “ if he does not need me?” 
The doctor ceased his quick walk to and fro, 
which more than his words, had betrayed his 
inward agitation, and said, as he stood before 
her, “ Now, Martha, 1 will leave you once more 
alone with God and your own heart. He will 
guide you, not according to my wall, but His 
own. We wiy always be good friends in any 
event, Martha," he added In his old, good- 
natured tone, as he lighted his lamp and said 
“Good night." 
Martha's lamp had burnt low* before she 
waked URSULA, whose sound sleep had contin¬ 
ued quite undisturbed hv the important con¬ 
versation which had been carried on lr« her 
presence. Martha still sat and thought. “Was 
there ever In all the world before, a maiden 
wooed as I have been?" she asked herself. 
“Who knows what I might hove been induced 
to say if he had represented ids love and his 
loneliness in sufficiently moving terms?—even 
if it had only been to please dear grandmamma, 
who, 1 know, would rejoice at it, even now 
though slit; is in heaven. Instead, though, he 
gives me to understand that he does not really 
need me, and is moreover so particular that ho 
will riot have me If I accept, him out of respect! 
And yet, in spite of all this, I cannot exactly 
say no!” t 
Poor Mahtiia slept at length, iri spite of her 
perplexities. The doctor was right; he was no 
sunbeam, at least not a very brilliant one ; hut 
her last thought as she fell asleep, and her first 
when she awoke, aths, “ Why cannot I say no V" 
[To he cont inued. 
SOME DAY. 
MY KBUN K. WEXFORD. 
SCfijjics. 
NEW GRANGE SONG. 
It is an ancient, farmer, 
And he is One of three ; 
He said unto t he middle man, 
*' We have no need of thee. 
"This man here makes his cloth. 
And sells it unto me ; 
He buys my wheat,, and thus we save 
The slice that went to thee.” 
“ Your eyes too dim ore Browing ; 
(Jet spectacles,” tald he, 
“ That you may sec some, higher grade 
Of wheat than number three.” 
The cunning middle man 
Laughed out, "Ha-ha! te-lic! 
Upon your back I’ll stand and fill 
My pockets from the tree!” 
Then turned that ancient farmer 
The middle man about. 
And, with some words of kind advice 
He gently kicked him out. 
OLD LETTERS. 
NEVER burn kindly-written letters; It Is so 
pleasant to road them over when the ink Is 
brown, the paper yellow with ago, and the. 
hands that traced the friendly words are folded 
over the hearts that prompted them, under 
the green sod. Above all, never burn love-let¬ 
ters. To read them in after years is like a 
resurrection to one’s youth. The elderly spin¬ 
ster finds in the Impassioned offer she foolishly 
rejected, twenty years ago, a fountain of re¬ 
juvenescence. Glancing over it, she realizes 
(.lint she Avas once a belle ami a beauty, and 
beholds her former self In a mirror much more 
congenial to her taste than the one that con¬ 
fronts her In her dressing-room. The “ widow 
Indeed "derives a sweet and solemn consolation 
from the letters of the beloved one who has 
journeyed before her to the far-off land from 
which t here comes no message, and where she 
hopes. One day, to join Mm. No photographs 
can so vividly recall to the memory of the 
mother the tenderness and devotion of the 
children w*ho have left, at the call of Heaven, as 
the epistolary outpourings of that love. Tim 
letter of a true eon or daughter to a true moth¬ 
er Is something better than an image of the 
features; il is a reflex of the writer's soul. 
Keep all loving letters. Burn only the harsh 
ones, and in burning them forgive and forget 
them. 
-♦♦♦- 
SPARKS AND SPLINTERS. 
Head-light— Bright eyes. 
The nicest thing in boots—A pretty foot. 
TRUtfHI.ES arc 1 ike dogs; the smaller they are 
the more they annoy you. 
Wnv is a recruiting sargeant like the wind? 
Because he blows where he ’listeth. 
Questionaulk When a man marries a poet¬ 
ess, does he fake her for better or for verse. 
What n hollow, empty thing employment, Is 
becoming—so many men have been thrown out 
of It. 
Brigham Young is getting particular. He 
doesn’t want, any women converts over thirty 
gent to Sail Lake. 
The straighten - up - Mary - Jane - and - sIjoav- 
your-breastpiii attitude lias superseded the 
Grecian bend In Peoria. 
“Where are the men of ’76?" shouted an 
orator. “ Bead,” responded a sad-looking 
man. The orator was surprised at the intelli¬ 
gence of his audience. 
“That scat is engaged," said a pretty young 
girl, on the Colorado Central. “To whom?” 
“A young gentleman," she poutingly said. 
"Then, where’s Ids baggage, f pray?” Her 
rosy lips opened like, rosebuds in spring; her 
face In deep blushes w as dyed, as she muttered, 
crossly: “You hateful old thing! Why, I’m 
hta Luggage 1" 
" Bomb iluy," we say, and turn our eyes, 
Toward the far hills of Paradise. 
Some dav, some time, a sweet new rest 
Shall blossom, tiowe.r-like, in each breast. 
Pome time, some day, our eyes shuT! sec 
The faces kept In memory. 
Some day thfte hand shall clasp our hands 
Just over in the Morning Iiffnds. 
• 
Pome day our ours shall hear the song 
Of tr urn|ib over sin end wrong. 
Some day, some time, but oh ! not yet. 
But we will Avait, and not forgot, • 
That, some day, all these things shall be, 
And rest he given to you and me. 
So wait, my friend ; though years move slow. 
The happy time will come, we know. 
-♦ « » 
A BEAUTIFUL ANSWER. 
When the Emperor of Germany was lately on 
a visit to a village in a* distant portion of his 
dominions, he was welcomed by the school 
children of the place. After the speaker had 
made u speech for them, he thanked them. 
Then taking an orange from the plate, he 
asked! 
“To what kingdom does this belong?" 
"The vegetable kingdom, sire,” replied a 
little girl. 
The Emperor took a gold coin from bis pock¬ 
et, and holding it up, asked, “And to what 
kingdom does this belong? ” 
“To the mineral kingdom, sire,” replied the • 
little girl. 
“And to what kingdom do J belong, then?" 
asked the Emperor. 
The little girl colored deeply, for she did not 
like to say “the animal kingdom,” as he 
thought she would, lest his Majesty should he 
offended, when a bright thought came, and Bhn 
said with radiant eyes: 
"To God’s kingdom, sire.” 
The Emperor was deeply moved, A tear stood 
in his eyes. He placed hi • hand on the child's 
head and said most devoutly: 
“God grant that I may be accounted worthy 
! of that kingdom." 
■-♦♦♦- 
THE HEROIC MOTHER. 
We see a household brought up well. A . 
j mother who took alone the burden of life when 
tier husband laid it down, without much prop- 
j erty, out of her penury, by her planning and 
industry, night and d:,y, l>y her wllfulness of 
love, by her fidelity, tiring up her children ; and 
life hasslx men, all of whom are like pillars In 
tho temple of God. And O, do not read to mo 
of tho campaigns of I'lrsnr; toll me nothing 
I about Napoleon's wonderful exploits; I tel! 
you that, as God and the angels look down up¬ 
on the silent history of that woman’s adminis¬ 
tration, and upon those ineii-hullding pro¬ 
cesses which wept on in her heart and mind 
through a score of years, nothing exterior, no 
outward development of 1 ingdoitiH, no empire- 
building, can compare with what she has xlone. 
Nothing can compare in beffuty, and wonder, 
and admirable nous, and divinity Itself, to the 
silent work in obscure dwellings of faithful 
! women bringing their children to honor and 
' virtue and piety. I tell you, the inside is larger 
t han the outside. The loom Is more than the 
I fabric. The thinker is more than the thought. 
Tho builder Is more than the building.— 1{. I". 
Beecher . 
-*-*-*-- 
SABBATH DAY SUGGESTIONS. 
One of the Illusions is that tho present hour 
i is not the critical, decisive hour. Write it on 
; your heart that every day is the best day In tho 
year. No man has learned anything rightly 
until lie knows that every day is doomsday 
Enter non. ■ 
A GREAT soul is known by its enlarged, strong 
j and tender sympathies. True elevation of 
j mine does not take a being out of the circle of 
those who sire below him, but binds him faster 
to them, and glwe them advantages for a 
closer attachment, mid conformity to him.— 
Dr. ('banning. 
Thousands more would find it easy to love 
| God if they had not such miserable types iff 
Him in the self-seeking, iiupul : c-driven, pia- 
' posoless, faithless beings who arc all they have 
for father and mother, arid l o whom (heir chil¬ 
dren arc no deurer than her litter is to (he un¬ 
thinking dam. 
Ha is ihe interjection of laughter; Ah is the 
interjection of sorrow. The difference betwixt 
them very small, as consisting only hi the 
transposition ol’ what is no Bubs'antial letter, 
but a barn aspiration. How quickly, in tho ago 
of a minute, In the very turning of a breath, is 
our mirth changed Into mourning! 
It Is no disgrace for such w*bo have tho gift 
and grace of extemporary prayer sometimes 
to use a. set form, for the benefit and behoof of 
others. Jacob, though he could have marched 
on at a man’s pace, yet lie was careful not to 
overdrive tlifc children and ewes big with 
young: Let ministers remember to bring up 
. the rear in their congregation, that the mean- 
1 est may go along with them in their devotions. 
