MOORE’S RURAL NEW-YORKER. 
MARCH 13 
“Well, Sponse, T may be mistaken. If she 
appreciate* you according to your own esti¬ 
mate, she will undoubtedly accept you and 
thank you besides for your disinterested gene¬ 
rosity." 
“ [ don’t know about the thanks. Ada is 
proud-spirited and never would own I was lift¬ 
ing her up, however much she might feel it. 
Hut I won’t quarrel with you on this point 
now. I was going to say further, that I was 
Confident Ada really liked me -not to call It by 
a softer name. You just ought to have seen 
the swoct, happy smile she gave me the other 
day. and how politely she thanked me when I 
gave her a little basketful of raspberries, which 
I suppose she thought I had gathered for her 
myself—i bought 'em, though. Ob, yes, I'm 
sure she likes mo, and 1 don’t believe T could, 
do better than to marry her. I mean to ask the 
important question before I sleep, and to¬ 
morrow I will call around at your office and 
tell you when the wedding will take place, for 
1 don’t mean It shall bo put off everlastingly. 
What time will you be in ? " 
“Any hour after eight in the morning. But, 
Hponhe, It is time we were returning to the 
company." 
"Inn minute—just wait a minute. I have a 
word or two more to say on another matter." 
The young ladies were not at all curious re¬ 
garding this ’* other matter," and only solici¬ 
tous to make their escape unobserved. In their 
hearts thanking Mr. Sponse for the slight de¬ 
lay he had urged, they noiselessly but quickly 
left the spot and oonccaied themselves behind 
some thl.'k shrubbery. This they had but. just 
succeeded in accomplishing to their satisfac¬ 
tion, when tbo gentlemen were heard leaving 
the arbor, and a moment after they passed 
t hem on I helr return to the garden. As soon as 
all fear of detection was over, they emerged 
from thrir concealment, and, taking another 
and shorterpath, they reached the garden be¬ 
fore Mr. Sponse and Mr. Kingsbury made 
their appearance. 
It was late when the little company found 
themselves again In GreeDva'.e, but notwith¬ 
standing the hour, Mr. Sponse, contrary to his 
usual custom, accompanied Ada to the door, 
where they found .Telia and Mr. Habtland, 
who had arrived a few minutes earlier, waiting 
for them. As ADA passed into the hall Mr. 
Spon®, without ceremony or Invitation, fol¬ 
lowed and deposited his hat on the hall table. 
At this ADA turned to Mr. Habtland. “ Please 
walk in and stop a moment," she said ; “Mr. 
Sponse Is not going quite yet, and of course 
will be glad to have you remain while lie does 
in order to secure the pleasure of your com¬ 
pany on his return home. It will be much bet¬ 
ter, I think, as both of you pass over the same 
road. 
Mr. Habtland, believing he understood the 
cause of so unusual and urgent an invitation, 
was about to comply, when Mr. Sponse sprang 
to his side, exclaiming, “I must, beg you will 
not stay on in) account, besides—" He whis¬ 
pered something In his ear. Mr. Habtland 
listened smilingly and then, turning to Ada, 
said he believed iie must humor Mr. Sponse on 
that occasion by departing Immediately; and, 
after wishing the ladies “good - night,” he 
hurried away. 
Julia followed her sister and Mr. Sponse 
into the parlor, but almost immediately left, 
as the gentleman plainly stated he had an er¬ 
rand to deliver to Ada which required the 
presence of no third person. 
“ Well, we ore alone at lost, are we?" began 
Mr. Sponsf., as soon as Julia's departure had 
left them by themselves. 
“I believe so," returned Ada, rising from the 
soul she had occupied and placing herself in 
an easy chair on the opposite side of the room. 
" There, now, you make me change my seat,” 
and Mr. Sponse also arose and, taking a chair, 
seated himself close beside ADA. “You don’t 
think I can talk to you across the room, do 
you, and deliver such an errand as mine?" 
“ I think it very singular that you should have 
any errand to deliver that my sister may not 
listen to as well as myself," returned Ada. 
boldly. 
“Ah! that’s because it hasn’t quite got to 
your brain yet, what that errand is. You see, 
ADA— ahem !—you see, I’ve been thinking about 
having a talk with you about a certain impor¬ 
tant something for some time past, but did not 
fully make up my mind it was best, all things 
considered, until to-day, and now that I have 
decided, 1 hardly know how to express what I 
wish to say. As it seems to be unexpected to 
you, I desire to be guarded—that is, not too 
abrupt, for sudden joy Is sometimes quite as 
injurious as sudden grief.” Mr. Sponse paused, 
and Ada said: 
“ From the tenor of your preamble, I judge 
that what you have to communicate is of a very 
joyful nature." 
“And so it ts,—so it is; you are quite right, 
Ada. I suppose you know there is—to use a 
common expression—quite a pulling of caps 
among the young ladies in tills town on your 
humble servant’s account." 
“ Indeed 1 was not aware of it," replied Ada. 
“Not?—well, it’s true, though; but among 
them all—and indeed all the ladles I ever was 
acquainted with—I think there is no one who 
would make a more industrious and economi¬ 
cal wife than the lady I have selected—no one 
that I could like better, or make more happy, 
than Ada Clare. Ada, I offer you my heart 
and hand, and, as you are aware, that hand Is 
not quite empty.” 
"You are entirely too generous, Mr. Sponse. 
I could not for a moment think of taking ad¬ 
vantage of snob self-abnegation. 
“ It, is possible I am sometimes too generous* 
Ada; but that is a good fault,you know. In 
this Instance, however, I do not consider that 
I am too much so. When shall we be made 
one ?" 
Never! I cannot, accept of your offer. Mr. 
Sponse.” 
“What? Do I understand you to say you 
cannot accept my offer?" 
“That is what I said," returned Ada, coolly. 
Mr. Sponse mu*ed a moment, with a per¬ 
plexed look on his countenance; then, sud¬ 
denly brightening, ho smilingly turned to Ada. 
“My dear girl,” said he, "you have either too 
much humility In this matter or are too dis¬ 
trustful. I know your folk* are not as rich ns 
mine are, or a* / am, but, for ail that, I think 
you good enough to sit at the head of any man's 
table; and you ought to kuow me better than 
to think I would try to raise hones that 1 did 
not mean should be realized. I was not tri¬ 
fling; I meant fust what I said." 
“And, Mr. SpONBB. strange as it may seem to 
you, i meant }vxt what I said. 1 decline your 
offer." 
“ You will not accept me, then 1 Is that what 
you really mean?” 
" It to, sir.” 
“ How dare you? What reason can you have 
for troating a man of my position and fortune 
In tins way? You must be engaged to some¬ 
body else. Are you?" 
" Whether I am or am not engaged does not 
concern von. I refuse you simply and solely 
because I do not like vou, never did, never 
could, and mould riot it 1 could. 1 am sorry to 
speak so plainly lo you, Mr. Sponse, but your 
conduct has provoked rne to it.. T presume I 
am now understood !" 
Mr. Sponse sprang to ids feet, ids face 
glowing with Indignation. “So, Miss!” he 
exclaimed, “this Is the reward 1 got for wait¬ 
ing on you almost constantly from ‘pillar to 
post,' is It? This is the way you pay me for 
the presents I have given you ! 
Prencnte !—I don't thing or more than one 
now. What were they, ;;ir?" 
"Oli, yes! No doubt you have forgotten all 
about them: It I* just like the gratitude of 
women I There is that basket on ihe table and 
the raspberries that were in it . and I gave you 
the note* to “The Hose of Allendale, and a 
beautiful bouquci to carry to a party, that it 
took the greenhouse man a full hour to ar¬ 
range -r-" 
"That Is all, mrclu ,” broke in Ada. 
“No, ma'am! There’s that ring on your 
forefinger; to bo sure 1 did not give it to you 
with my own hand ; I got sister to give It to you 
as a present from her; for I knew you wouldn’t 
take it from me unless we were engaged; but I 
bought tt with my own money; paid five dol¬ 
lars for it—the more fool I.** 
Ada Immediately slipped the nog from her 
finger, took the basket from the table and a 
sheet of music from a little drawer in the same 
table. These she handed to Mr. Sponse, say¬ 
ing:—“There are the most of the articles you 
have mentioned, and as good as when they 
carno Into my possession. ) regret that l can¬ 
not also return the bouquet and berries, but 
any mm Unit will compensate you for your 
labor and loss I will gladly send you. You say 
you have ‘ waited upon me;’ J will now do all 
In my power by way of return. Mr. Sponse, if 
you are ready, It will give roc pleasure to escort 
you to the door." 
Mr. BpoNcJE snatched the art icles from Ada’s 
outstretched band, dashed the basket and 
music to the floor, but slipped the ring into his 
pocket. He then seized his hat and hurried to 
the door, closely followed by Aha, who sprang 
forward to hold It open for him to pas* out. 
After reaching the outside, Mr. Sponse turned 
to Ills late lady-love; "I know now just what 
you are. Miss.'’ he said. “You are a regular 
coquette, and I wouldn't marry one, if I knew 
tt,ior any money or anything in the world. I 
shall never offer myself to you again, so you 
need not expect it,, and you will never have 
another such a chance so lung aa you draw the 
breath of life!” 
Ada smilingly said, “ Good night,” and im¬ 
mediately closed the door. 
-♦♦♦- 
NIGHT AND MORNING. 
It was a wild, windy night,, and the light 
snow filled the air with fine, cutting particles ; 
a night when a good fire and the society of 
friends become vitally essential to a man's 
comfort *nd happiness. 
Margaret Edgarton arose from her seat hy the 
scanty lire, and, opening the door, looked out 
upou tbo night. She stood a moment, then, 
with a shudder, closed the door and returned 
to her husband's side. 
“ Heaven pity those who ar* exposed to the 
storm this night," she said fervently. 
“ Amen !” responded her husband, in a deep 
solemn voice. “ Though we are very, very poor, 
Margaret, there are many even poorer than our¬ 
selves.” 
The man raised hia dark, serious eyes devoutly 
upward, and the fair youthful head of his pale 
wife leaned down to nis shoulders. 
“Yes. William, I tremble to think of the 
future. The rent due, our stay here only an 
act of mercy on our landlord’s part—oh, Willie!” 
The feeble voice broke down in tears. 
“ * Take no thought for the merrow what ye 
shall eat or what ye shall drink,’ Margaret. If 
It hadn't been for misfortune," and he glanced 
at the mutilated and bandaged arm which hung 
powerless at his side, “we might have been 
enjoying the fruit* and comforts of my labor; 
but tt Is all for the best, I suppose.” 
There was a short silence in the room, which 
was interrupt ed liy a rap at the door, 
“ Who can be out on such a night?" and Mrs, 
Edgauon started up hastily to admit the visi¬ 
tor. 
He was an old weather-beaten man of &ome 
three score years, shabbily dressed, and carry¬ 
ing in his hand a lean, meager bundle. 
In reply to her kind invitation, he followed 
Mrs. Eagarton into the house, and took a seat 
by the smouldering fire. After a few common¬ 
place remarks, the stranger said : 
“ It’s a rough night, friends, and the traveling 
Is none the best- can you lot me stay all night 
here? A man has juBt told me that It Is a good 
four miles to the village.” Mr. Edgarton 
looked at his wife, and In her sympathizing 
face read her consent. 
“ Ves, my good man,” herepiied, immediately 
“you can Btay If you will; but I’m afraid you 
will find our accommodations none of the best. 
Wo are vorv poor and destitute, but such as we 
have we offer you freely." 
“Could you give me something to oat? I 
have traveled far to-day, and have not tasted 
food si no© yesterday night! Food cannot be 
got now-n-tfayR without money." 
The eyes of Mrs. Edgarton filled with tears as 
she thought of the quarter loaf of bread—their 
earthly all which sue had reserved for break- 4 
fast. 
"Heaven will take care of us," she said, I 
thoughtfully, and, rising, she placed the scanty 
store upon the table. 
The stranger ate t he bread without comment 
and when he bad finished he seemed wonder¬ 
fully Invigorated, and conversed quite intelli¬ 
gently with Mr. Edgarton. 
"You have a bad arm there, sir; may I ask 
how It happened?" 
"Certainly; an unlucky fall from a high 
building has crippled me for life.” 
"You were at work on the building? A 
mechanic, eh?" 
"A bricklayer. The staging on a new ware¬ 
house where 1 was at work gave way, and I was 
precipitated some twenty feet." 
"The warehouse of Mr. Morgan?” 
“The same, sir. H was a sad accident for 
me, but I have tried bard to be reconciled." 
“ Well, tills 1 b a hard life; hard for us all! but 
if I'm to stay with yuU to-night, I may as well 
retire. It's getting toward eleven." 
The poor but clean bed appropriated to the 
stranger guest was made more comfortable by 
addltionaJ clothing taken from the couch of 
the poor couple; and the man, in apparent 
i hank fulness, bid them good night, and re¬ 
tired. 
They, too, leaning on the everlasting arm, 
took no t hought of the morrow, though it was 
to see them houseless and without food. 
Verily, that faith which Can thus sustain the 
soul in the most trying moments is no delusion. 
Morning came, and, to the unlimited surprise 
of Mr. and Mrs. Edgarton. their guest was mis¬ 
sing. Gone, and w hen or how they could not 
Imagine, but gone he certainly was. 
They wondered over the circumstance, but in 
the trouble and anxiety of their utter destitu¬ 
tion the stranger man was soon dismissed from 
their thoughts to make-room for their own im¬ 
mediate affairs. 
Ten o’clock was the time given them by the 
landlord for removal, and with heavy hearts 
they prepared to go forth. Through t ne kind¬ 
ness of a neighbor, they had been allowed the 
use of the building for the storage of their 
little furniture, and a room In bis tmuse until 
Mr. Edgarton’* health should be sufficiently re¬ 
established lo admit of his performing some 
light labor. 
Nine o'clock pealed from tho bell in the 
neighboring church tower—but one short hour 
of home life remained for them. 
Fifteen minutes later there came a quick im¬ 
perative knock at the door of Mr. Eugarton’s 
house. , . „ 
Mrs. Edgarton sprang to open it, aDd a w ell- 
dressed iuuu put. a large packet into her hand, 
and turned hastily away.* 
The package was addressed, in a bold, mascu¬ 
line hand : 
“ Mr. William Edgarton." 
William tore it open, and there dropped out 
two papers, one being an official, tho other a 
private seal. He examined the former and 
found it to be a deed, conveying to him and his 
heirs a certain piece of land with a lurge and 
handsome house thereon and all its appurton- 
ances. . , , , 
Transfixed with surprise, lie broke the seal of 
the latter, ami a hundred pound note met his 
eye, accompanied by these brief words; 
" Last night you treeiy gavo your all to a poor 
and destitute way farer, who now bogs you to 
accept tho accompanying deod and money, In 
reward for your noble kindness. A conveyance 
will come immediately to take you to your new 
residence. When you are fairly established 
there, your friend, the writer of this, will do 
hitnsell the honor of calling upon you. 
Respectfully yours, 
"Howard Mougan.’’ 
William Edgarton looked at his wife as he 
finished reading, and both burst luto tears. 
Weil did they know the nuino of Howard Mor¬ 
gan—It was that of one of the wealthiest men in 
tho city; the upright and high-minded but 
singularly eccentric old bachelor. It. was in hi* 
employ that William Edgarton had received 
the serious injury which had disabled bis lcIt 
arm for life, yet, Strange to say, ha had never 
Been the rich man, his business being transacted 
principally by an agent. He had now no 
doubt that his visitor or the previous night w as 
none other than Mr. Morgan. 
True to the promise contained In the letter, a 
conveyance came lor the Edgartons, and with¬ 
out hesitation t hov entered and were driven to 
their handsome aiid pleasantly situated house. 
They found it prepared Tor immediate occu¬ 
pancy -even to the burning of the plentiful 
tires and the smoking breakfast upon the 
table. 
They had scarcely had time to admire the 
1 rich taste which had furnished the spacious 
rooms wlieu a ring at the door announced a 
visitor. It was the old way-farer of the night 
before. 
He received all the grateful thanks the be¬ 
wildered Edgartons tried to make to him, and, 
taking a seat upon the sofa, he drew them 
down ou eoch side of him. 
He was well dressed now, and Mrs. Edgarton 
wondered that she had not not iced the extreme 
kindliness of his countenance on the preceding 
evening. , . , 
“ My good friends," he said, taking a hand of 
each, “I'll begin to explain a little of this 
mystery. 1 had heard of the misfortune of one 
of my workmen, through my agent, and that 
hts family were in desti Ute circumstances. 
Before I could trust myself to do anythiug for 
you 1 wished to ascertain the true state of 
affairs, and last night’s experience satisfied me. 
When I find charity and erne goodness any¬ 
where, 1 am determined that they shall be 
rewarded even In this world. And now, Mr. 
Edgarton, I am in want of a deputy manager, 
and I propose the situation to you, whenever 
you shall be able to endure the fatigue. The 
salary is tw o hundred pounds a year, and per¬ 
haps your pretty w ife can manage affairs com¬ 
fortably on that, eh, Mrs. Edgarton ?" and the 
old man cast « good humored look Into tier 
tear-wet face. 
That wa* a happy day for Mr. and Mrs. Edgar- 
ton. It was also a happy day for the charitable 
Mr. Morgan, and no doubt the angel who 
records the good deeds of man wrote many a 
shining line against his name that day. William 
Edgarton assumed the post offered him In tils 
patron's establishment, and faithfully were hts 
duties discharged) and more than satisfied w as 
his employer. 
Mrs. Edgarton grew to be the merriest, 
blitheBt. little woman to be found anywhere. 
Mr. Morgan spends many a delightful evening 
at their house, holding their bright-eyed little 
Howard on his knee, ami telling him pleasant 
9tories of the great and good. 
Blessed be charity! 
j&ibkth Reading. 
THE EMIGRANT LASSIE. 
As I came vranderlnK down Glen Spean, 
Where the braes arc green and grassy. 
With my light step I overtook 
A weary-footed lassie. 
She had one bundle on her back, 
Another in her hand. 
And Bhe walked as one who was full loath 
To travel from the land. 
Quoth I, “ My bonntc lass ! ’’—for she 
Had hair of flowing gold, 
And dark brown eyes, and dainty limbs, 
Right pleasant to behold— 
“ My bonntc lass, what aileth thee, 
On this bright summer day. 
To tiavel sad and shoeless thus 
Upon the stony way ? 
" I’m fresh and strong, and stoutly shod. 
And thou art. burdened ao ; 
March lightly now, and let me bear 
The bundles as we go." 
“ No, no !" ahe said, “ that may not be ; 
What's mine ts mine to bear; 
Of good or ill, as God may will. 
I take my portioned share.” 
“ But you have two. and I have none ; 
One burden give t,o me; 
I’ll tuke that, bundle from thy back 
That heavier seems to be.” 
“ No, no!" she said; u tUit, if you will, 
That holds—no hand but mine 
May bear its weight from dear Glen Spean 
'Cross the Atlantic brine!” 
" Well, well! but tell me what may be 
Within that preclou* load 
Which thou dost bear with such fine care 
Along the (lusty road ? 
“ Belike it is some present rare 
From friend in parting hour ; 
Perhaps, as prudent maidens, wont. 
Thou tak'st with thee thy dower.” 
She drooped her head, aud with her hand 
She gave a mournful waver 
“Oh, do not Jest! dear sir!—It Is 
Turf from my mother's grave !" 
I spoke no word ; we sat and wept 
By the road-side together ; 
No purer dew on that bright day 
Was dropt upon the heather. 
[Good Wordt. 
SOMETHING BETTER THAN RAPTURE. 
It Is good for man to have holy and quiet 
thoughts, and at moments to see Into the very- 
deepest meaning of God’s word and God’s 
earth, and to have, as it were, llenven opened 
before his eyes ; and It Is good for a man some¬ 
times actually to tod ids heart, overpowered 
with the glorious majesty of God, and to feel it 
gushing out. with love to his blessed Saviour; 
but it is not good for him to stop there, any 
more than it was for the apostle*. They had to 
leave that, glorious vision and come down from 
the Mount of Transfiguration and do Christ's 
work; and so have we; for, believe me, one 
word of warning Bpoken to a little child; one 
crust of bread given to a heggarman, because he 
fs your brother, for whom Christ died ; one 
angry word checked, when It is on your lips, for 
the sake of Him who was meek and lowly'of 
heart,; ia short, any, the smallest endeavor of 
this kind to lessen the quantity of evil which is 
in yourselves and those around you, is worth 
all the speculations, and raptures, and visions, 
and frameB, and feelings in the world; for 
those are the good fruits of faith, whereby 
alone the tree shall be known, whether it be 
good or evil. 
-- 
BEARING TROUBLE. 
There are persons who emerge from affliction 
and trouble and vexation, purified like fine 
gold from out the furnace. There are others— 
and they are the more numerous—who are 
embittered and soured, and made despondent 
and apathetic. We think the latter belong to 
the class that try to stand alone during the 
storms of life, instead of looking above for aid. 
Whan one can truly say, “ He doeth all things 
well," the sting Is taken out of affliction, and 
courage Is given to bear what the future has in 
store. This we think makes the great difference 
between these two classes. 
-- 
In a world like the present, one of the grand¬ 
est occupations is that of giving condolence. 
We ought all of us to study this holy science of 
imparting comfort to the troubled. There are 
many who could look round upon some of 
their very best friends, who wish them well, 
and are very intelligent, and yet be able truth¬ 
fully to say to them in trouble, “ Miserable 
comforters are ye all." 
--♦-*-*- 
There is seldom a line of glory written upon 
the earth’s face but a line of suffering runs 
parallel with it; and they that read the lustrous 
syllables of the one, and stop not to decipher 
the spotted and worn inscription of the other, 
get the lesser half of the lesson earth has to 
. I give, 
__-■ 
A Good Maxim—I t is more moral to believe 
ourselves to be bad than to imagine ourselves 
to be good. 
