FT~"— 
336 
MOORE’S RURAL NEW-YORKER. 
JUNE 12 
Modb were pointed plainly towards myself. I 
couldn’t endure him as an ordinary friend, let 
alone bis becoming a lover, and besides my 
whole heart belonged to Seth -dear Seth, 
so many miles away on the old farm. I am 
afraid my manner to Mr. Barnaul was far 
from cordial at that time, but it couldn’t be 
helped, and he was either too obtuse or too flat 
to perceive It. 
When the winter had nearly passed Mabel 
and Dora were married and left the home-neat 
—one for E irope, the other to a far-off Ameri¬ 
can city, 1 had managed to send an occasional 
letter to Srrrit.and through cover of grandma’s 
rather unfrequent epistles,received little notes 
from him, all true and honest and loving like 
himself. But as papa had forbidden corres¬ 
pondence, of course neither Seth nor I had 
much to comfort us in our separation beyond 
memory of the old, glnd hours. 
Meanwhile Ralph BARNAttnhad askod papa’s 
consent to woo and if possible to win mo for 
his wife. When my father told me about it 1 
was Indignant, and declared nothing should 
ever Induce mo to marry the foppish fellow 
who chose me merely for a pretty face and 
small degree of wit, I suppose. But papa asked 
sadly— " Ethib, not. even to save your father 
and your home from ruin, would you consent 
to marry Mr. Barnard ?” 
“ i cannot sec,'' replied 1 angr ily, puzzled by 
his question, “ what Ralph Barnard has to 
do with you or the ruin of my home! I detest 
the mau, and lie ought to know it, if he has a 
grain of sense 1" 
Our conversation closed at that time, hut 
later I understood how matters were. Mr. Bar¬ 
nard, senior, knowing hie son's desires, had 
urged my father to use his influence with mo, 
and as be was my father's heaviest creditor, to 
please him seemed a matter of policy to papa, 
as much for my future comfort as Ills own. So 
I was bothered and tormented day by day by 
Ralph's persuasions, and no less by the sight 
of papa’s haggard face. Mabel, and Dora bad 
learned finally all about the thing, and by letter 
urged me to consider papa’s wishes and be less 
wrapped up In my own happiness. To crown 
all, in some way, SETH heard of the young law¬ 
yer’s attentions, and grew jealous—a trait he 
had not hitherto suspected belonged to hla 
nature. 
Grandma wrote to me and I told her just how 
matters were standing, and sent loving mes¬ 
sages to Seth. But rumor, which reached even 
their village in some unaccountable way, in¬ 
creased his jealousy and made my noble Seth 
a most unreasonable creature. He made an 
excuse to come to the city and unexpectedly 
appeared at the house one afternoon just as 
Mr. Barnard was ushered Into the parlor. I 
can distinctly recall the flushed, wounded face 
of the man I loved,as hesaw me alone with the 
young lawyer, and noticed my hesitation as 1 
arose iu surprise to greet himself. Delight and 
love were held in abeyance by my natural shy¬ 
ness and unwillingness to act myself before Mr. 
Barnard. Seth remained only a few mo¬ 
ments; then, conscious of contrasting unfavor¬ 
ably with the fop who surveyed him coolly 
through bis eyeglass, be took bis leave and we 
parted coldly. 
Of course it was an angry and unreasonable 
Impulse which prompted a hasty line from 
Seth that night, refusing to hold mo longer to 
a promise which no doubt 1 regretted and all 
that; but it aroused a like angry Impulse on 
my part, and my pride rebelled against Injus¬ 
tice. So a cool reply from me placed Seth 
Brooks an«l myself as far apart as though we 
had never seen each other, and nothing was 
left of all the glad summer had promised, save 
two lonely, aching hearts which pride kept 
asunder obstinately. 
After that I didn’t care what happened, and 
after one more long conversation with papa, on 
my seventeenth birthday, 1 allowed, with a 
shiver of disgust . Ralph Barnard to place his 
betrothal ring upon my Auger. 1 pass over the 
noxt year, during which I was married, and had 
the satisfaction of knowing that 1 lmd eased 
poor papa’s circumstances considerably by my 
sacrifice. 
When my grandmother died, Setu sold the 
farm and attended to her last requests before 
going, no one knew whither, but too far away 
to be traced had anyone cared to trace his 
whereabouts. In ruy heart he was secretly 
loved as of old, but secret tears and longings 
couldn’t lmlp him now, poor fellow! And I 
was presently called upon to bear a fresh sor¬ 
row in the death of my father. It was a sweet 
consolation to hear him bless mo with bis last 
breath, as the nearest and dearest of his chil¬ 
dren, and I tried to And life more endurable 
with the thought, of how 1 had done all in my 
power to gladden his life, though I had miser¬ 
ably saddened mine in the effort. 
Three years passed, and what years they were! 
Twice I had been a mother, only to be made 
speedily childless again. Ralph lmd ceased to 
remember a slugle one of the vows he had been 
once so ready to take upon himself concerning 
me, and our property hud dwindled away rap¬ 
id!}'. Old Mr.B aRHARD seemed In noway In¬ 
clined to give us further assistance, and finally 
Ralph, under pretence of bettering his affairs, 
went to California, after placing me at moder¬ 
ate board with the family who had purchased 
tho dear old farm, aud who, because I begged 
so hard to board thero for ownotll's sake, con¬ 
sented to take a stranger into their family. 
And then another year rolled away. Ralph 
had ceased to write to me for weeks, aud my 
situation was embarrassing for want of means- 
Mabel and Dora— the former still on foreign 
shores, the latter sick and widowed In her 
Southern home—wrote to me cheering, hopeful 
letters, but I only longed to lie down and die 
and he laid beside dear, quiet grandmamma 
forever. 
One warm summer evening, after 1 had grown 
almost beside myself with despair, and had 
cried until my lids were swollen over my eyes- 
such failed blue eyes!—I went out alone under 
the stars and wandered down to the same mu¬ 
sical little brook where, years before, Setii and 
I had acknowledged our happy secret to each 
other. It was singing away In the starshine as 
merrily as of old and I longed to lie within the 
cool waters and see If the fever which fairly 
burned my veins could not be cooled. I sat 
down on the old moss-covered rock beside the 
brook and laid my head upon my folded arms, 
too tired to think any more, or tired to cry. 
Presently a voice startled mo. “She went for 
a walk, sir; most likely you’ll find her a catch- 
in’of her death out In the dew somewhere!” 
It had grown cloudy fora moment, and I could 
just distinguish a tall form approaching me. 
“ft Is my husband,” I thought., and rose to 
meet him. “O, Ralph ! where have you boon 
so long'/” t cried, and then leaned for support 
against a tree as a voice, not Ralph's, replied, 
“ Ethie, llttlo Erf uk, is It you ?” 
Seth told me afterwards that ho had caught 
me ".lust in time to save me from a bud fall, 
and that for nearly an hour I had lain in an un¬ 
conscious condition id the room that used to 
be grandmu's In the old house, while tho fright¬ 
ened inmates tried In every way to restore me. 
When I was able to sit up, I sent tbern all away 
but SEl'n, and from him I learned that for eight 
weeks I had been a widow, my husband having 
been killed In a fashionable gambling house. 
Hkth, returning from the mines where he had 
been overseeing the interests of his employer, 
had chanced to ho near the place where the 
impromptu duel was fought, and learned from 
the dying man, whom he was assisting in his 
last momeuts, his real name and my address. 
He had taken while in San Francisco an as¬ 
sumed name and thus my married name was 
saved from disgrace. “ And now," added Heth, 
*• 1 have come to be a brother to you, Ethie, 
and if you will forgive my hasty words of long 
ago. prove it by letting me serve you as of old 
when we were like brother and sister.” 
And he did serve me through the rest of that 
summer, relieving me from embarrassment and 
distress and remaining uear me unt il 1 had re¬ 
covered tny strength. Then one day he learned 
thut the sisterly love I gave ill m was not enough 
to satisfy bis warm heart, aud once more he 
kissed me as Ills betrothed. When Ralph had 
boen dead one year, Seth gave me a new name, 
and together wo went to .Mabel in her far-away 
home under Italy's skies. And now 1 am so 
happy all the time as the days go by, that tho 
recalling of all the past years cannot keep quite 
all the sunshine out of my heart, and .Seth says 
1 bavo made a rainbow by constantly smiling 
through my tears. 
--■ 
0L00HETTE. 
A LITTLE STORY OF A LITTLE SONG. 
“ Spinning was young Cloehette, 
Came a fond youth to woo ; 
She was a sad coquette. 
He was a lover true." 
Long golden lashes fringe a pair of soft blue 
eyes; and on the breath of the summer night 
Is borne, in a fresh, tender, young voice, the 
words of t he little song. 
The girl’s eyes know very well; that a pair of 
dark, masculine orbs are shining directly down 
upon them, striving to discover by flutter of 
lash or tremor of lid some answer to the ques¬ 
tion those same brown eyes ha% r e asked over 
and over in their dumb, mute language. But 
the white lids are quite unmoved, and the song 
goes on In the sweet, pure voice; 
“ Clochette, Cloehette, 
You drive me far from you. 
Cloehette, Cloubette, 
I come to say adieu !” 
“Well chosen, Miss Nelly,” interrupts the 
owner of the dark-brown eyes, bending lower 
as he adds, “You have selected a most appro¬ 
priate song for my last evening at Cedar Croft.” 
“You like It, then?” answers Nelly Allen, 
playing the accompaniment, softly, and contin¬ 
uing i ii a mocking voice, “ I thought It apropos; 
one who bears tho title of * flirt ’ can, I suppose, 
readily understand the feelings of a ' coquette ' 
as well 1” 
“You confound or transpose the positions, 
Miss Nelly.” returned Harry Rand, warmly. 
" 1 assure you it is with the deepest emotion of 
the ‘ fond youth ’ that I sympathise, for I, too, 
come to say adieu !” 
“Adieu 1"—and there is a pathetic tone In 
her echo of the sail word. Then, with a quick 
toss oT the golden head and a beaming smile, 
Nelly Allen changes the tone Instantly and an¬ 
swers wit h a little laugh : 
" And you think 1 really believe you are going 
away you, who have cried ‘ wolf ’ so often that 
no ope heeds any more? I regret that J can 
show no appropriate grief at the announce¬ 
ment, but Indeed I cannot get out a tear I 1 am 
not a bit sorry, for—you won't go !” And with 
a dash the Jittie white hands fly over the keys 
in a wild waltz. 
A cloud gathers over the dark eyes and the 
husky voice threatens a storm as it hoarsely 
whispers, "Yon do not care! And is this all 
you will say to me, Nelly? Am I to go with 
no other than those cruel words—you ‘ are not 
sorry ? ’ ” 
“Ok, hon voyage, and that sort of thing, of 
course,” laughs Nelly over her shoulder, rat¬ 
tling off in her waltz with a chaos of harmony 
which neither heard nor heeded now. 
“ ft Is you who are the most heartless of co¬ 
quettes, and I shall go and try to forget you 
forever—adieu ! ” and with these words Harry 1 
Rand stalks out of the room, as stately as a 
prince. The hall door closes with a bang; and 
as though it were an echo, the last chords of 
the waltz end now In a crash, while In the 
shadowy moonlight a fair golden head may bo 
seen pillowed on the piano desk. 
“ What else could I say? " she sobs to herself. 
“ Does he expect me to throw myself into his 
arms and tell him that I love him with all my 
heart, and will be bis wife, before he asks me? 
If 1 can’t be w-oocd I won’t be won ! Stupid 
fellow, to talk in enigmas and parables all sum¬ 
mer long! Why don’t he say out boldly.‘Nel¬ 
ly, I love you -will you marry mo ? ’ instead of 
looking unutterable things out of his big, 
beautiful browu eyes, and saying nothing when 
the time arrives to part but‘adieu?’ Oh, 1 
hate him—there ! " And a fresh burst of tears 
showers down on the white keys. 
Very cool and stately indeed Prince Harry 
stalk h off; but there Is a smarting wound be¬ 
neath his armor that stings and pains beyond 
relief. 
” That I should fall In love with so heartless 
a coquette! ” he mutters to himself as he paces 
up and down the garden walk. “ She cares no 
more lor me than she does for the rest of the 
foolish mothB that flit around the flame of her 
sweet, smiles and pretty ways. Girls are cruel 
creatures; they play fast and loose with a 
man’s heart, like a cat trifling with a mouse? 
Yes, it is best that I should go away now—go 
whore t shall never see her—never hear her 
again." 
A soft, strain of music floats out on the sum¬ 
mer breeze; and stealing closer to the vlne- 
eovered window, Harry Rand stops and listens 
to another verse of the song he characterized a 
short time since as “very appropriate." The 
voice la low and tremulous, aud tho words half 
sobbed: 
“ Silent was young Cloehette, 
Grieved In tier heart was she; 
For. though a sad coquette. 
None was so dear as he. 
Cloehette. Cloehette, 
I go for love of you, 
Olooliette. Cloehette.— 
8 he only said adieu! ” 
“ Oh !—ob !—oh! ” and sob after sob follow 
the last words, with the sweet head again fallen 
low'. 
Swifter than arrow from hunter’s bow there 
rushes through the darkness into the moon¬ 
lighted room a tall, dark figure; and kneeling 
beside the golden-fleecc-hid, tear-stained face, 
a voice whispers passionately ; 
“ Will you forgive my hasty temper and harsh 
words, Nelly, darling! And will you believe 
me when I say that I love you with all ray 
heart, and ask you to be my wife ? Let me kiss 
the tears away! Look at me, darling, and an¬ 
swer me trulyYou do care for me a little, do 
you not? " 
The tears are all wiped away—one by one; the 
blue eyes are lifted up to meet the brown ones, 
and Nelly answers arter a little while, saucy as 
ever: 
“ Now that you have ashed the question, sir, 1 
will answer, Yes. llow could I answer without 
being questioned, pray? Girls must be wooed 
to be won; we don’t like to do men's work, if 
wt do prate about ‘ rights.* " 
"But you acted so cold and careless of my 
wooing. How could I speak when you only 
mocked me ?" 
“ That is our weapon of warfare—our tongues, 
you know ! A lover must persist; a girl is never 
so nearly won as when she acts as 1 did. A 
lover must be bold. * Faint heart,' you know, 
and all that." 
“ Then the Romans were model lovers when 
they carried off the Sabine women, I suppose?” 
laughs Harry. 
“Certainly they were; aud didn't they win 
model wives? For who settled tho difficulties 
between the two peoples but the wives ?—some¬ 
thing the mou had never accomplished and 
never would have done till doomsday.” 
“ What a dear little Sabine you would have 
been, Nell,” says Harry now, by way of an at¬ 
tempt at playing Roman,closely embracing his 
fiance. 
"And what a lazy Roman you would have 
made—stopping, no doubt, iu the melee, to tell 
the young womau before you picked her up to 
carry her off, that you really meant to go back 
to Rome some day If she didn't come quietly, 
and then watching to see how she would take 
it, and setting her down if she objected." 
“That will do. 1 think—let’s change the sub¬ 
ject, Nelly,” answers Harry. “There! I'll let 
you go If you will sing me the last verse of the 
song I Interrupted,” 
While the blue eyes look up, now, into the 
brown ones, answering back all the devotion 
they see there, the sweet young voice takes up 
the strain again and sings: 
“ ‘ Let me,” he eald,' Cloehette, 
This little blossom take.’ 
Wept then this sad coquette 
As though her heart would break.” 
A “ break" in the medley occurs here aud the 
pause is fil led up by a sound written for no in¬ 
strument ever catalogued: and then two voices 
finish the little song together: 
" Cloehette, Cloehette, 
I know now you love me true; 
Cloehette, Cloehette, 
We’ll never say adieu.” 
{Aldine for April, 
Sabbath grading. 
A NAMELESS GRAVE. 
[Thoughts most appropriate for Decoration Day, 
and many days following, are thus beautifully ex¬ 
pressed by LONGFELLOW:] 
“ A soldier of the Union mustered out,” 
Is the Inscription on an unknown grave 
At Newport News, beside the salt sea wave. 
Nameless and dateless: sentinel or scout,, 
Shot down In skirmish or disastrout rout 
Of battle, when the loud artillery drave 
Its iron wedges through the ranks of brave 
And doomed battalions storming the redoubt! 
Thou unknown hero, sleeping by the sea 
In thy forgotten grave! With secret shame 
I feel my pulses beat, my forehead burn. 
When I remember thou hast given for me 
All that thou hadst—thy very name. 
And I oen give thee nothing In return. 
-♦-*-♦- 
A GRANGER FUNERAL. 
The Staunton (Va.) Vindicator gives the fol¬ 
lowing acoount of the ceremonies at a recent 
burial of a lady member of the Patrons of Hus¬ 
bandry' : 
Early in the morning the Grangers, each 
wearing a small bouquet in Ills coat, com¬ 
menced arriving at tho Presbyterian Church 
where the funeral was to take place, and of 
which the deceased had been a consistent 
member. Among those who arrived were the 
designated pall-bearers of the Grange, wearing 
white baldrics, and and the marshals of the 
procession, who wore the orange-colored bal¬ 
drics of their office. The funeral sermon was 
preached, after which the concourse of per¬ 
sons, numbering over five hundred, proceeded 
to tho cemetery. The pall-bearers of the Order 
bore t.lio coffin, decorated with flowers, to the 
gate, followed by the family of the deceased, 
the lady members of the Order, the male mem¬ 
bers. and last, the procession of citizens. At 
t he gate the coffin was stopped, and the mem¬ 
bers of the Grange opened ranks and passed on 
each side of It to the grave, around which they 
formed a circle, the coffin being placed at the 
side of the excavation In their midst. The 
master of the Grange then made n brief ad¬ 
dress, followed by the chaplain, who repeated 
the Lord’s Prayer, the repetition being followed 
by all tbe members of the Order. The chaplain 
then road from the burial service of the Order 
some words of comfort to t he relatives of the 
dead, and a brief address to the members of 
the Order. A hymn was then very sweetly 
sung, during which the Grangers passed around 
the empty grave and breaking their bouquets 
apart dropped in tho flowers. The chaplain 
then read tho beautiful burial service, which 
ends with the twenty-third psalm,during which 
the coffin was lowered into the grave, and the 
lady members of tho Grange then passed around 
it, each breaking her bouquet and scattering 
flowers on the coffin, a very sweet hymn being 
sung during the time. The master of tbe lodge 
and the pall-bearers then advanced to the grave 
and throw In their bouquets, the master saying: 
“A good name Is better than precious oint¬ 
ment, and the day of death better than the day 
of one's birth. He shall go ns he came, and 
take nothing of his labor which he may carry 
In his hand.” He then took up a handful of 
earth and sprinkled it in tbe grave, which con¬ 
cluded the ceremonies. 
The Grange has set apart a day for planting a 
memorial tree, as It la the custom of the Order, 
at the grave. They also have In the summer a 
memorial day on which they visit the graves 
of the deceased members and scatter flowers. 
“ HALVES WITH GOD.” 
One day a gentleman gave a little boy, his 
nephew, a gold coin. “Now you must keep 
that,” said the gentleman. 
“ Ob, no,” said the boy, “ I shall halve It first. 
Maybe I shall keep my half.” 
“Four half,” said his uncle; “why it’s ail 
yours.” 
“No,” answered the child, with an earnest 
shake of the head : “ no, it is not all mine. I 
always go halves with God. Half I shall keep, 
und half 1 shall give to Him." 
“ God owns the world; He does not need it,” 
said Ills uncle. "The gold and silver and the 
cattle on a thousand hills belong to Him.” 
The little boy looked puzzled for a moment. 
He had never thought of this. Presently he 
said, “ Anyhow God goes halves with us. He 
let’s us share with Him, and don’t you think 
we ought to give back His part ?” 
That was the right feeling. That little boy 
felt grateful to God for all the good things He 
had given him, and it was the gratitude he felt 
that made him desire to “ go halves with God.” 
-♦♦♦- 
When all is over, and our feet will run no 
more, and our hands are helpleBS, and we have 
scarcely strength to murmur a last prayer, then 
we shall see that, Instead of needing a larger 
field, we have left untilled many corners of our 
acre—and that none of It 1 b fit for our Master’s 
eye. were it not for the softening shadows of 
the cross. 
---- 
An edition of the Bible is to be printed in 
London with all the proper names aocented, to 
show their pronunciation. 
