386 
©ORE'S RURAL NEW-YORKER. 
DEC. li 
you made what you considered a sacrifice,” said 
the calm LoCY, “ fof you have not only decided 
to do what is heat for yourself, but made Rob- 
kbt happy and I believe saved grandpa’s life. 
He worried himself sick over it.” 
“ We won’t discuss what Is best for me,” her 
sister replied, "and the Joss said about Rob¬ 
ert's happiness the better." 
“You can’t hold him at arm's length much 
longer, Lind. When grandpu gets about again 
he will hardly foe) satisfied at your treatment 
of your future husband. You know, too, that 
It Is over a week sloce your promise was given 
and not a thought have you had about prepara¬ 
tions. Of Course you have written to Bob? 
That was bis answer ,that came this morning, 
wasn't It?" 
"Yes; have you any curiosity to hear what 
he says?” 
“ Where is he?" 
“I« California — has been gone over two 
weeks.” 
“ California 1” words fall to express the grati¬ 
fication In the tone. 
“ Too far off to be very formidable, isn't he, 
Lucy ?” 
She had unfolded and looked over the letter 
with a light In her eyes which contrasted 
strangely with the hardness In her voice, and 
which might have excited her sister’s suspi¬ 
cions bad her face been fully seen. 
“ It was not to be expected that he would I 
congratulate me on my very brilliant pros¬ 
pects,” she commented, but be writes, “ What¬ 
ever may be your decision in tbls matter, I will I 
make no complaint, trusting yon for tbe pres- I 
ent and the future os I have for the past." 
“.Is that nil? It took a good many pages to 
hold so short a message. Well, you are both 
of you a grout deal more sensible than I sup- 
posed. But you must let Robert see u little 
more of you. It Is really ohameful—the way 
you treat him.” 
“I have done all he could reasonably ex- I 
peot.” 
" What was that ?” 
“Grandma told him of my promise within an 
hour after It was made, and called me back to I 
repeat It In his presence. Ob, It was a very In¬ 
teresting little drama, I assure you," with a I 
wry face as she thought of It. " Grandpa said 
‘Lind has promised to marry you In a month,’ I 
aud looked at me In a very pathetic manner, as I 
If for confirmation. I satd, as I was expected 
to reply, * Mr. Delavan, 1 have solemnly prom¬ 
ised my grandfather that i will marry you In I 
one month, provided you will tako me.’ He I 
jumped up, took my band, and began: * Lorn, 
you know too welt my affection for you to make I 
sueh a proviso;' but 1 didn’t want to heur I 
more, for 1 was afraid he was going to shed I 
tears and be sentimental. I believe I pushed 
him away; at any rate, ho went away and sat I 
down by the window, so I couldn't see his face, I 
and grandpa said: * So you will bo bis wife, I 
Lind,’ and I replied, ‘In one month 1 will be : 
Robert's wife,' after which he let me go. I’m I 1 
sure I think, under the circumstances, f have I 1 
done all that could consistently be required of I 
me.” 
“You are a strange girl, Lind," and the con- | 
vorsatlon closed. Perhaps, with a woman’s | 
strange inconsistency she was slightly disap- I 
pointed at the prosaic manner In which the I 
whole affair had been conducted, although It ^ 
had resulted to her entire satisfaction. Her I . 
grandfather was of tbe same opinion concern- I 
lug her. She was quiet, respectful, reserved. I { 
There was no complaint to be made of her, and I , 
yet he said several times a day with Increased 
emphasis, " You are u strange girl, Lind,” and I 
apparently grew uneasy concerning her. 
" 1 have given you my promise,” was all she I t 
had to suy, “aud will hold myself In readiness I t 
to keep It," and so at last the day come which * 
had been appointed for her marriage. 
At her request no one but the immediate I t 
family was to be present. A new traveling I t 
dress, the only one she had procured, wus t 
donned for the first time, and at ten o'clock hi I j 
the foreuoon a strangely-quiet little group was I 
assembled In the front parlor. 
“If anyone can show just cause why these I r 
parties should not be joined together in holy I t 
matrimony let him now speak, or else forever I a 
hold his peace.” The clergyman hurried I c 
through the usual formula, for the sentence t 
was usually a dead letter, but before tbe next I s 
one left his Ups came from Lind Osgood. I t 
“ i can," I t 
Every one started. The minister's Jaw aotu- I a 
ally dropped in the intensity of his surprise. s 
“ I promised to marry Robert Delavan on li 
tbls day, provided he would marry me. 1 leave I b 
It for him to decide after be has seen-this,’ - I g 
and she drew from the bosom of her dreBs the I 
certificate or her marriage to BOB Fishes, five I s 
weeks before. I s 
There arc some scenes which language does I a 
fall to express. This was one. It 
" Grandpa," Lind knelt at the feet of the old I o 
man, who had sank back upon the sofa and I t 
covered his face with his hands, “ when I made I 
my promise 1 did it feeling sure that you would I u 
never know how I had deceived you. Bob has I 
gone to California into business, which prom- t 
Ises him prosperity. I could not let him go 
away from me until all possibility of your oyer- 
Influenctng me was prevented. Loving you as 
I do, I was afraid to trust myself. Tbe oontest I 
had worn me out, and I was forced to decide a 
once for all. I met Bob at Dr. Blake’s, and 
we were married. Forgive me, grandpa, if you n 
can. If you cannot. I must try to lire in hopes 
hat some day you will.” 1 w 
t 
Her head was down upon his knee, and she 
Was shaken by sobs. 
“ But — but your promise, Lind,” exclaimed 
Lucy with an actual break In her unusually 
smooth voice, “ you promised to marry Robert 
Delavan.” 
“No, I said I would be Robert’s wife, and 
that I am.” 
“Well," her sister.slowly replied, "you arethe 
strangest girl, Lr»D.” 
“Won’t you speak to me, gTandpa.” 
" I wish l had died," came hoarsely from tbe 
old man;” It Is dreadful, but to think you could 
deceive me, trusting to my death to prevent 
your exposure. Ob ! Lind.” 
Robert Delavan interrupted. “Father, 
none of us thought you could live, aud you 
wrung the promise from her as your last wish 
on earth. She was already married, aud waa 
forced to promise or tell you the truth, and the 
shock of the last might have killed you then. 
Be just to her at least." 
He stooped and helped her to rise, and she 
grasped both bis bauds. 
“Thank you, Robert Delavan, for your 
manliness and generosity. I have misjudged 
you, for I felt that you bad no scruple in rul¬ 
ing my happiness. I have wronged you past 
forgiven cm*, but try to forget me." 
There was a sharp ring at the door. Tbehack- 
maD had been punctual as she had ordered. 
“Good-by,” she said with a great gaBp, “I 
am going to my husband." 
She seized her bat and shawl as she spoke. 
“ Have you not a word for me, grandpa.” 
“ No." 
She staggered as the bard, short syllable was 
uttered, but recovered herself, “Good-hy, 
then, grandpa, Lucy, Robert. If you ever 
want me I shall be glad to come to you again. 
I shall always love you, and pray that fiorue 
time you will understand and forgive iue,” and 
In a moment more she was gone. 
It took a long, long time for old Col. Endi- 
cott to recover from the blow, and his grand¬ 
daughter’s name was not mentioned for 
month*. He read one day a short newspaper 
item, which disturbed him strangely. 
" Robert Fisher of San Francisco, the re¬ 
cently elected President of the Board of Trade, 
will spend the month of October in Europe,” 
and tbe next day earn© a letter. 
“ I cannot cross the ocean without once more 
asking for the forgiveness you have withheld 
all these years. May I stop and see you in New 
York, grandpa, aud show you our Willie, your 
namesake and my first born ?" 
The reply was short, aud the old man’s face 
wus almost smiling as he wrote it. 
"Come, my dear grand-daughter. I forgive 
you, lor you ouiy took my advice, and proved 
your belief lu my old proverb. It was a very 
good sort of bird, too, and 1 want to see the 
little pledgliug." 
Robert Delavan married the calm Lucy 
three mouths after her sister’s visit. Strange 
as it may seem, It was a love matoh, and the 
money was In the family after all. 
“I MUST NOT DIE.” 
AN INCIDENT OF THE LATE REBELLION. 
"They are bringing the wounded from the 
wharf—some of them have been kept lu a 
Southern prison, pa says, will you come ?” 
Thus, in eager tones, spake the little daugh¬ 
ter of Assistant Surgeon D-, of-Hospital, 
Washington. 
We responded, by joining at uuce the group 
of surgeons in the entrance hall. The suffer¬ 
ers were brought in upon stretchers, aud, as 
they were carried by, tbe ( hief surgeon ordered 
them to such wards as seemed most suitable 
for the particular case. 
Some of the poor fellows were in a fearful 
condition ; toes, fingers and limbs often a mass 
of corruption. We uttered kind words to the 
conscious, and tried to soften tbe sternness of 
Dr, G„ the head surgeon, by little soothing ap¬ 
plications of our own. 
The hopeless coses were always assigned to a 
room In the rear of the building, quite near 
the dreaded “dead house.” This morning It 
seemed to us the 44 hopeless ward ’’ would re¬ 
ceive nearly all of them; and just as we were 
thinking how hard we must labor in order to 
save some little token lor the absent frtends, 
G.’s voice reached us from the upper eud of 
the ball: “Take him to the rear, hopeless;” 
and in a moment more we leaned over a 
stretcher whereon a tall, broad-shouldered man 
lay, whose expression of countenance, us he 
heard the surgeon’s words, I shall never for¬ 
get. 
Dr, D., who stood next to us—the youngest 
surgeon in the building—turned down the 
slight covering and exposed a ghastly sight; 
a once powerful leg one mass or decaying mat¬ 
ter. The patient looked toward us, as he saw 
our pitying glances, and exclaimed in a low 
tone which rung through the hull: 
"Save me; I have a wife and five children; I 
must notdlel" 
“ We will do all we can,” I hastened to say us 
the stewards moved on. 
"Doctor, scould It be possible to save him?" 
" One chance In a thousand,” he answered. 
“Let ua ti 
“ You forg.'t that I am only an assistant here, 
and must obey orders.” 
I flew to Dr. G. "Can we try to save that 
man ?” I asked. 
“Useless; why spend time over such oases 
when we are so crowded ? He must die.” 
“Let him go to my ’pet ward,” I urged; 
“anywhere but among the hopeless. Please^ 
doctor, as a special favor.” 
“ Ah, you women hamper us with your plead¬ 
ings!” he answered half-orossly. “Put him 
where you please; only don’t ask me to sym 
natblze if he Is soon buried.” 
We weut back to the kind-hearted assistant 
who stood with his young wife leaning on his 
arm. 
“ Will you perform the operation ?” 
“ Yea; If I can get permission to do so.” 
Then came discussion, opposition, a vote of 
the staff, and after much trial tbe poor fellow 
was carried Soto tbe amputation room. 
“ Dr. D. must take entire charge of the case,’ 
said G„ with a shrug of the shoulders. “It is 
nonsensical, and I will have nothing to do with 
it.” 
The operation waa performed hi the most 
skillful manner wo were told, and Dr. D. said 
to us “ If I ever prayed In my life I did then. 
Not one encouraged me. They voted to please 
you, in my favor, and I gave myself up entirely 
to tbe work In hand and went on ; now if he 
will only live.” 
“Our man" gained wonderfully. Never did 
we feed a patient on brandy and water with 
more eagerness. G. stood by us, say 1 ng“ The 
end Is not yet.” 
Dr. D. came to request our presence In the 
“dead house”—he would like to show us the 
remains of the limb. We went out In company 
with two or three surgeons who assured us no 
case of the kind bad ever occurred here before, 
and Dr. D. was famous. We looked on calmly 
as he took “It” from the pile In one corner and 
listened In a dreamy way to an aocount of the 
“difficulty, science, transverse sonieihing”—but 
all the time we were hearing: 
“ Save me! I have a wife and five children ; I 
must not die.” 
"Doctor," said 1, "If he lives, you have saved 
him, and that is worth living for.” 
“You saved him," replied the doctor. "No 
one else would have gained permission for such 
an operation;” and then and there we called 
him “ our man." 
He gained slowly but steadily, and we left 
him to take our place as patient, only to hear 
on our recovery that “our man " had gone 
home to his family. If Ills eye should rest on 
this paper, he will doubtless remember who 
hold up the doctor’s little daughter for hlin to 
kiss, because “ she was so like his own." 
As for Dr. D., we are quite sure he is doing 
good somewhere; and should he read this he 
will learn bow much he was honored for his 
bravery. For a young practitioner to fuce the 
opposition of all his associates Is no trifle; but 
to perform a difficult and peculiar operation, 
with critical eyes upon one, with only one 
ohance in a thousand of saving life. Is evidence 
of a noble heart as well as a clear head. 
Sabbath Reading. 
LOOKING FORWARD. 
BT NEWELL LOVEJOY. 
Some time in the earthly hereafter. 
An angel will whisper to me 
And say, with a face fall of pity, 
“ Thy loved one Is passing from thee." 
Tbe new year-aye, and sooner— 
May find me to life alone; 
In my bosom tbe blossom of sorrow, 
On my lips a grief-laden moan. 
I am nerving myself for the hour 
When God’s message shall sound In my ear; 
I am praying for strength from my Maker 
To pass through the trial severe. 
But alas, when tbe Heavenly Sower 
Shall utter the words that bring woe. 
Be tt sooner, or later, I shall be 
Still unready to hear them, I know. 
Ah ! t’wlll prove to have been do fancy. 
The throbbing* that then stir my heart; 
The sobbings—the terrible sobbings— 
That ever of grief are a part. 
But as by her couch I sit holding 
The baDd growing Icy the while; 
My eyes resting on the dear features 
Lit up with so saintly a smile; 
1 shall know, after all. through the darkness 
That lends to the beautiful day, 
That never shall end, since Immortal, 
My mother is wending her way! 
Ann Arbor, Mioh., Nov., 1876, 
OUR LIVE8. 
DOUBTFUL COMPLIMENT. 
Eli Perkins tells this characteristic story on 
himself and bis lecture experience in his new 
book: 
One day, writes be, as the Chicago, Burling¬ 
ton and Quincy Railroad train neared Burling¬ 
ton, Iowa, I sat down by an old farmer from 
near Ottumwa. Corn bins lined the road and 
millions of bushels of corn greeted us from the 
oar windows. Sometimes the bins full of golden 
grain followed the track like a huge yellow ser¬ 
pent. 
Looking up at the old Granger, I asked him 
whsre all this corn came from. "Doyou ship 
It from New York, sir?” 
" From what ?" he said. 
“ From New York, Blr." * 
" What, corn from New York ?’’ 
“ Yes, sir," I said. "Did you import It from 
New York or did you ship It from England?" 
He looked at me from head to foot, examined 
my coat, looked at my ears, and then exclaim¬ 
ed “ Great-1” 
I never hoard those two words sound so like 
"darned fool” before. 
A moment afterward the old farmer turned 
his eyes pityingly upon me and asked me where 
I lived. 
“I live iu New York, sir.” 
“ Wbar ?" 
" In New York, sir. I came West to lecture.” 
“ What, you lecture ?’’ 
“ Yes, sir." 
“ You?" 
“Ido.” 
"You lecture, do you? Well, I’d give ten dol¬ 
lars to hear you lecture.” 
I never knew whether this was a great com¬ 
pliment, or—well, or what it was. 
OUR DUTY. 
We are but faint-hearted crusaders; even the 
walkers, nowadays, undertake no persevering, 
world’s-eud enterprises. Our expeditions are 
but tours, aud come round again at evening to 
the old hearth-stone from which we set out. 
Half of the walk Is but retracing our steps. We 
should go forth on the shortest walks, per¬ 
chance, lu the spirit of stirring adventure, never 
to return—prepared to send back our embalmed 
beans only as relics to our desolate kingdoms. 
If you have paid your bills and made your will 
and settled all your affairs and are a free man, 
then you are ready for a walk. 
Be what you are; this Is the first step toward 
becoming better than you are.— J. C. Hare. 
pearcth for a little time and then v&ulshetb away.— 
James lv„ it. 
For what Is your life ? With James, llfe.for 
a few years bad been one of great events. *Hls 
life began as a child of a poor man, consequent¬ 
ly It was necessary that the eon should labor 
with his own hands. We first hear of him as 
being one of Christ’s disciples. He, being one 
of the twelve, chosen to “ oonie out from the 
world" aud “ be separate,” was bidden to “ go 
preach the gospel.” From this time his life 
was blended with that of Christ, walking 
with Him, talking with Him, working for Him. 
Ami after passing through the great closing 
scene of the Saviour’S life, the death aud res¬ 
urrection of our risen Lord, he is still teaching 
the Word of faith aud works, for, he tells us, 
“Faith without works Is dead.” 
We find James one of the deepest of writers. 
His religious sentiments seem to he one grand 
Inspiration from the Tkroueof Grace. And he, 
after all hls varied experiences, asks, “ For w hat 
Is your life?" Yea l we would repeat It, What 
Is It? 
A gasp, a faint fluttering breath, and li/e is 
begu i. A life of Innocence, filled to the brim 
of Time with childhood’s experiences; some 
joys, some pains—the bitter Intermfngled with 
the sweet. A youth of like pleasures aud sor¬ 
rows, a longlug desire Tor things lu this life, 
both great and good. Manhood—a struggle for 
fame, a grasping for wealth and a place among 
the renowned of earth ; success and failure, 
now ambition and greater zeal. Middle life—a 
thought to the future, a loDglng regret for the 
past, a hastening on towards the tomb. Aye- 
hope for this life gone. Passing away written 
upon the brow, the hair silvered o’er and the 
heart numbed with the cares of life. The tongue 
palsied, the feet tottering; the weary, woru- 
OUt body would fain lie down and rest. A wear¬ 
iness comes oh apace, the eyes grow dim, the 
breath is faint, the bosom heaves a loug-drawn 
sigh ; another rainl, fluttering gasp, and like a 
passing meteor, the life once known is known 
no more. 
A life I—Given, received, spent and taken. 
The sequel: an Eternity. Reader, what will be 
tbe great uueudlug sequel to your life and 
mine ? May it be a shoal rich from the harvest 
garnered in Heaven. Ray Hulburt. 
GREENWOOD CEMETERY. 
At last I have seen that far-fauaed “City of 
the Dead,” Greenwood. 1 drove out this after¬ 
noon with some young friends; gay friends, 
too full of life and fun. As we entered the 
gate the bells were tolling, while up one of the 
wiudiug paths slowly moved a long train of 
carriages bearing some new body to its long 
rest in this 6ileut city. We drove rapidly 
through the shady avenues, past lakes and 
fountains,—everywhere, In fact. At every turn 
some tomb would be pointed out to me, and 
then such expressions as “Lovely," “Exqui¬ 
site," “Beautiful," would follow. To me how 
harsh they seemed! How they jarred with my 
thoughts! 
It seemed so heartless speaking of the mar¬ 
ble and granite above, whose whole weight 
was unable to orusb out the sorrow beneath. 
To me It seemed like mockery. The beautiful 
scenes are always clouded with a mist of tears. 
Nearly every person we met was clad In the 
garb of mourning. How could those frivolous 
words come so easily when all around aud 
about were only the graves of loved friends aud 
cherished hopes? Ruth More. 
Just as a mother grieves over her child’s 
weakness and faultiness, but still loves him 
most tenderly, so God will cherish his own, 
notwithstanding all our frailty. 
