!»AY  4S  MOORE’S  RURAL  NEW-YORKER. 
SIDNEY  LANIER’S  CENTENNIAL  CAN¬ 
TATA. 
The  following  Is  the  cantata,  written  by  Mr.  Sidhey 
Lakieh  and  set  to  music  by  Mr.  Dudley  Buck,  which 
was  sung  at  the  opening  of  the  Centennial  Exhibition, 
May  10th: 
The  Centennial  Meditation  of  Columbia. 
I. 
Ebom  this  hundred-terraced  bight 
Right  more  large  with  nobler  light 
Hanges  down  yon  towering  years : 
Humbler  smilee  and  lordlier  tears 
Shine  and  fat),  ahlno  and  fall. 
While  old  voices  rise  and  call 
Yonder  whore  Umi  to-and-fro 
Weltering  of  my  Long-Ago 
Moves  about  the  moveless  base 
Ear  ticlow  my  restlng-iilace. 
■  I. 
Mayflower,  Mayflower,  slowly  hither  flying. 
Trembling  Westward  o'er  yon  balking  sea. 
Hearts  within  FurrmHI  (if.iir  Kiii^lund  sighing 
Winds  without  Bui  drur  in  vain  replying, 
ftray-Iipp’d  waves  about  the  shouted,  crying 
A’'o .'  It  Khali  nut  hr ! 
in, 
.lamestown,  out  of  thee  - 
Plymouth,  then— thee,  Albany- 
Winter  cries,  Yefreege:  Away! 
Fever  cries,  Yrburn:  Away! 
Hunger  ories.  Ye  Ktarve :  Away.' 
Vengeance  cries,  Ynur  yravrs  shall  stay 
IV. 
Then  old  Hliapes  and  Masks  of  Things, 
Framed  like  Faiths  or  clothed  like  Kings— 
Clhosts  of  Goods  once  fleslied  and  fair. 
Grown  foul  Bads  in  alien  Sir- 
War,  and  his  inostnoiay  lords, 
Tongusd  with  llUie  and  poisoned  swords— 
Error,  Terror,  Itage  and  Crime, 
All  in  a  windy  night  of  time 
Cried  to  mo  from  land  and  sea. 
No.'  Thou  Shalt  not  he ! 
V. 
Hark! 
Huguenots  whispering  yea  in  the  dark, 
Puritans  answering  yta  in  the  dark  ! 
Yea,  like  an  arrow  shot  true  to  his  mark. 
Darts  through  the  tyrannous  heart  of  Denial, 
Patlrnoe  and  Labor  and  solcmn-soiilcd  Trial, 
Foiled,  still  beginning, 
Boiled,  but  nut  sinning, 
Toil  Uirougb  the  stertorous  death  of  the  Night, 
Toll,  when  wild  brother. wars  new-dark  the  Light, 
Toll,  and  forgive,  and  kiss  o’er,  and  ropUght. 
VI. 
Now  I’ralse  to  God's  oft-granted  grace. 
Now  Praise  to  Man's  unilaunted  face, 
Despite  the  land,  despite  the  sea, 
1  was ;  I  am  ;  and  I  shall  be  - 
How  long.  Good  Angel,  0  how  long  ? 
Hlng  me  from  Heaven  a  man’s  own  song ! 
vti. 
“  Long  as  thine  Art  shall  love  true  love. 
Long  as  thy  Science  truth  shall  know, 
Ixing  as  thine  Eagle  harms  no  Dove, 
Long  as  thy  Law  by  law  shall  grow, 
Isiog  aa  thy  God  is  God  above. 
Thy  brother  every  man  below. 
So  long,  dear  Laud  of  all  my  love. 
Thy  name  shall  shine,  thy  fame  shall  glow  !" 
“  I  enjoyed  that.  It  was  great !"  she  said.  “  Did 
I  startle  you  7  Did  you  think  Olga  had  run  away 
with  me?” 
“  If  you  had  stumbled  you  would  have  killed 
yourself !”  said  Desmond,  In  a  voice  hoarse  with 
suppressed  emotion. 
“W'ell,  Buppose  I  had,"  sho  rctortod;  “who 
would  have  :ared7  My  fHonds?  Homo  would 
havo  talked  for  a  week  of  that  poor  .hiss  Hardy, 
ami  how  very  shocking  It  was,  how  very  dial  res.«u 
ing  for  Mr.  Desmond !— she  was  klllwl  under  his 
very  eyes,  you  know— and  how  careful  one  ought 
to  bo  about  accidents  on  horseback !  So  very  un¬ 
fortunate  !  And— and  what  a  pity  that  those  nice 
Tuesday  evening  receptions  of  Mrs.  Van  Cort- 
landt’H  will  havo  to  stop  now  for  a  Mmo !  such  a 
loss  to  us  all  1  As  for  my  aunt— well,  I’m  afraid 
my  poor  aunt’s  chief  despair  would  havo  boon 
caused  by  the  oddity  and  Impropriety  of  my  de¬ 
cease,  and  .she  would  never  be  altogether  com¬ 
forted  that  1  did  not  break  my  neck  more  deco¬ 
rously  and  with  a  (iropcr  escort.  You’re  not  an 
ollglhle  escort,  you  know!”  sho  added,  with  a 
reckless  laugh. 
“  Don’t  talk  In  that  way,  please,”  said  Desmond ; 
“you  don't  know  how  much  you  imln  me  by  doing 
80.  Surely,  my  pixu-  child,  you  must  believe  that 
there  are  people  who  care  for  you  In  another  way 
than  tliat.” 
“And  why  should  there  be?”  she  broke  In  pai^- 
slonately,  “Have  I  ever  oared  for  any  one,  my¬ 
self?  You  have  been  eruel  to  me  to-day,  after  a 
fashion,”  she  added  slowly.  “lam  sorry  I  ever 
came  Imre  with  you.  I  don't  think  I  am  over-in¬ 
clined  to  ho  roniiiiiMc,  but  .you  have  reminded  me 
of  what  I  had  almost  forgotten— that  I  am  young 
and  that  It  will  be  yours  and  years  before.  1  sJiall 
outgrow  the  need  of  heliig  loved.  What  good  has 
It  done  you  ?  \V  hat  havo  you  gained  by  li,  ?  'J'hls 
morning  1  was  ready  to  marry  Mr.  Ho.ss,  If  not 
with  any  great  joy,  at  least  without  any  great 
regret,;  and  now— now  you  have  forever  rubied 
my  conlentmunt.  1  never  shall  feel  aa  1  did  again, 
and  I  shall  goon  doing  now  what  I  would  have 
done  then,  hut  without  ever  once  shutting  my  eyes 
to  tho  fact  tJiat  1  have  missed  my  chance  of  hap¬ 
piness  ;  that  1  shall  dlo  without  over  having  lived. 
Why  could  you  not  havo  left  mu  alone  7  I  am  not 
going  to  ch.angn  all  my  plans  In  life  becaitso  of 
one  day  spent  with  you ;  why  need  you  have  taken 
tho  pleasure  out  or  everything  for  mo  7  Stop:  i 
know  what  you  are  going  to  say,  but  It  Ls  of  no 
use.  This  Is  our  last  ride  together ;  to-ntght  wo 
say  good-by.  I  may  marry  Mr.  Koss  without  car- 
irig  for  him,  hut  at  least  1  will  never  see  again  a 
man  I  think  I  might  have  loved  once;  that  Is,  if  1 
had  ever  had  a  heart  which  I  haven't!  Don’t 
answer  me ;  and  let  us  go  faster,  please !  I  want 
to  get  homo," 
They  put  their  horses  to  a  sharp  trot  and  rode 
on  for  several  miles  In  sllonco.  Behind  them  had 
rtson  a  watery  moon,  that  glimmered  with  an  un¬ 
certain  light  through  tho  sea  of  vapor  in  which  it 
dOitU'd.  Now  and  then  the  white  wall  of  a  farm 
house  suited  out  from  the  darkne.ss,  and  tho 
barking  dogs  made  a  da.sh  at  the  horses  as  they 
pns,scd.  A  dark  line  of  trees  against  the  sky  mark¬ 
ed  the  unilulailog  course  of  tho  Tiber;  now  and 
then  the  moonlight  glanced  through  their  branch¬ 
es  anil  cast  a  long,  shining  rellectlun  on  the  water. 
Strange,  tan  tostlc  shadows  fell  across  the  road, 
and  more  than  onco  the  horses  shied  vlolonlly  at 
some  mysterious  black  figure  lying  In  their  path. 
Before  very  long  tho  houses  succeeded  each  other 
at  shorter  intervals,  and  the  distant  city  showed 
a  pale  circle  of  Are  at  the  far-off  horizon. 
1  “  we  are  noarlng  home.  Do  not  go  so  fast,”  said 
‘  Desmond  suddenly ;  “  this  Is  our  last  ride,  remem¬ 
ber.  Must  It  bo  the  last,  Eleanor?”  hecrletllm- 
,  pulslvely,  laying  his  hand  on  iho  pommel  of  her 
I  saddle  aa  he  spske. 
■  “Theverj'  ^.><1,”  she  said.  “You  may  despise 
'  mo  now,  but  I  should  desplso  myself  were  I  capa- 
i  ble  of  giving  up  all  tho  convictions  of  my  life  on 
the  impulse  of  Hits  day.  1  made  a  mistake  of  Judg- 
,  ment  when  I  consented  to  see  you  again  after 
I  wlfat  had  passed  between  us,  and,  like  all  other 
mistakes.  It  brings  lU  own  punishment  with  IL 
"  ‘  Lot  vrhat  is  broken  so  remain : 
Tho  Koda  are  hard  to  reconcile.  ’ 
Do  you  like  t  hat  quotation  better  than  this  morn¬ 
ing’s?  And  what  do  you  t  hink  you  will  do  with 
yourself  to-morrow?”  she  added,  with  an  .abrupt 
t  ransition  to  her  customary  voice.  “  By  tho  way, 
are  you  going  to  t  he  races,  Hits  year  7  T  am." 
“  And  so  It  la  all  over,  and  henoofort.h  when  we 
meet,  we  moot  as  strangers,”  said  .l.ack.  slowly. 
“  Well,  It  was  a  pleasant  dream  while  It  lasted, 
only,  as  In  all  dreams,  one  must  wake  up  awhile. 
Excuso  me,  Mtss  Hardy;  not  having  had  tho  ad¬ 
vantage  of  frequenting  your  society  all  my  life,  I 
find  I  cannot  hope  to  emulate  your  chanulng  self- 
pos.sos.slon.  How  I  envy  you  that  pnilsoworthy 
habit  of  Holf-controll  It  Is  really  an  admirable 
triumph  of  good  taslo  over  those  dangorous guides 
— the  fHoilngs !  You  ask  about  Hut  races,  lam 
HO  Horry  I  cannot  say  that  I  am  going  ton ;  but,  wc 
poor  wroU'hcs  onnnut  always  afford  to  share  In 
the  amnsornonts  of  ourbcMors.  It  is  quite  par¬ 
donable,  though,  that  you  should  forget  this;  a 
young  lady  with  your  brilliant  prospects  can  hard¬ 
ly  be  expected  to  remomher  that  we  are  not  all 
blessed  to  the  same  dogreo.” 
Eleanor  did  not  nirswer;  Indeed,  she  scarcely 
heard  him.  “  it  Is  our  last  ride,  our  last  day  to¬ 
gether,”  she  thought.  “  I  must  never  see  him 
again.  T  dare  not  I  ThlK  Is  the  last  I  ime,  the  very 
last  time  of  all.”  She  thought  with  a  dull  .surprtHo 
of  the  change  wrought  In  henself  since  that  morn¬ 
ing.  “  t  wonder  If  wo  must  altogether  say  good- 
by  7”  sho  mused.  "  Surely,  surely  he  might  still 
go  on  caring  for  mo  a  little,  bo  atl.l  my  friend.” 
'J'hero  came  no  answer  to  the  (piosHon  from  out 
Hie  night  into  whoso  melancholy  depUis  she  gazed 
with  eyes  brimming  over  with  tears. 
“  Walt  a  moment,"  said  Jack,  reining  In  Ills 
horse  suddenly ;  “  those  two  lights  at  the  end  of 
the  avenue  are  your  gateway-lamim.  The  fare¬ 
well  to  Bohemia  must  be  said  now.  Miss  Hardy.” 
He  held  out  Ills  hand  and  claspiid  hers  Ilrmly  for 
a  moment.,  trying  to  iderce  the  darkness  with 
eager  eyes  that  could  not  bo  satlslled  witn  taking 
a  la.st  long  look,  “tsood-by,”  ho  said  slowly, 
“good-by  forever,  Eleanor!” 
I'he  trees  above  them  rustled  In  the  datkness; 
the  horses  drooped  their  weary  heads  together ; 
away  In  Hie  rnarshe-s  they  heard  the  desolate, 
piercing  cry  of  somo  lonely  night-bird.  "Good- 
by,”  he.  repeated  softly,  “good-by,  and  God  bless 
you,  Eleanor!  Our  paths  part  hero:  yours,  l  pray, 
may  pass  through  all  the  sunny  spots  of  life; 
mint}— well,  a  man  can  always  llnd  enough  to  do 
if  he  Is  willing  to  work.  PerhapB— who  knows?— 
I  may  even  learn  to  forget  you,  m  time,”  he  add¬ 
l’d,  with  a  short,  bitter  laugh.  “  What  do  you  say 
to  comparing  notes  with  me,  this  day  ton  years 
hence,  .Miss  Hardy?” 
Eleanor  bent  low  down  over  her  saddle-bow  and 
played  with  the  mane  of  her  lioi-se.  "Do come 
and  call  on  me  to-morrow,  Mr.  Desmond,”  she 
said. 
Jack  burst  out  In  a  wild  laugh.  “  Call  on  you  7" 
ho  cried.  “  W  hat  I  you  want  mo  to  come  and  talk 
to  you  as  another  man  would  talk  ?  I’erhaps,- If 
my  anecdotes  are  amusing  enough  and  I  know  how 
to  keep  my  place— pornaps  you  will  oven  Invito 
me  to  attend  Hioso  Tuesdity  evenings  when  all 
Home  goes  to  the  Palaazo  Plnl  to  admire  Hie 
charming  Miss  Hardy!  Heavens!  Can’t  you 
understand  that  I  lovo  you  t  Have  you  lived  so 
much  In  a  drawing-room  that  you  do  not  know 
mere  are  passions  in  this  world?  lias  your  life 
been  a  parlor  comedy  for  so  long  that  you  have 
forgotten  that  men  are  made  of  Uosh  and  blood, 
tmd  not  merely  of  black  coats  and  equally  con  ect 
sentiments,  manners,  and  neckties?”  lie  dung 
her  hand  away  from  him  with  a  sort  of  coutompt. 
“.And  to  think  that  I  have  thrown  my  heart,  ray 
life,  my  honor,  at  the  feet  of  a  woman  so  little 
capable  of  understanding  their  worth!  Eleanor" 
— his  voice  grew  gentle  as  he  spoke  her  name— 
“have  you  never  known  what  it  Ls to  love?  / 
lovoyou-do  you  know  what  that  means  to  mo  ? 
Justthls— I  love  you.  Tomeyouaro  simply  tho 
one  woman  In  tho  world,  the  one  being  whoso 
viu, 
O  MubIc.  from  thia  hight  of  time  my  Word  unfold : 
In  thy  large  signals  all  men’s  hearts  Man’s  Heart  be¬ 
hold: 
Mid-heaven  unroll  thy  chords  as  friendly  flags  un¬ 
furled. 
And  wavct  the  world’s  b  -st  lover’s  welcome  to  the 
world. 
FOE  THE  LAST  TIME, 
BY  DUPU  FLETCHER. 
tCouCludod  from  page  .301,  last  No.] 
“  Fob  Joy  once  lost  is  puln,”  quoted  Jack,  ab¬ 
sently.  “  Well,  It  Ls  something,  after  all,  to  liave 
had  the  Joy !  This  morning,  when  I  woke  up,  1 
said  to  myself The  pleasantness  of  life  Is  not 
over  for  me  yet.  1  have  still  a  claim  on  It  for  one 
long,  perfect  day.'  And  now— 1  have  had  It;  my 
day  Is  well-nigh  past!” 
Eleanor  made  no  answer. 
As  they  rode  on,  the  twilight  ileepencd  about 
them ;  a  chill  crept  Into  the  evening  air;  the  color 
at  the  horizon  faded  to  ashes  of  rose;  a  long,  light 
wreath  of  mist  ascended  from  the  marshes  and 
stole  like  tho  ghost  of  tho  dead  day  about  the 
solitary  flelds.  The  scattered  pools  of  water  gleam¬ 
ing  dimly  through  tho  dusk  reflected  tho  livid 
tone  of  the  sky.  TJic  lucfTable  mehiooholy  of  an 
evening  In  the  early  .spring  tell  upon  them.  They 
did  not  speak,  but  listened  to  the  regular  cadence 
of  the  horscR’  feet.  That  part  of  tho  road  leads 
through  a  thicket  of  birches;  every  now  and  then 
a  branch  of  Hie  overhanging  trees  brushed  against 
their  races,  and  a  swarm  of  small  wlilto  moths 
started  up  from  under  the  leave.s.  Eleanor  sud¬ 
denly  struck  her  horse  sharply  with  her  whip, 
and  started  down  the  hill  at  a  mad  gallop.  The 
wind  blew  freshly  lii  her  face  nnd  there  was  ex¬ 
hilaration  in  the  very  movement ;  again  and  again 
she  urged  on  her  horse,  taking  a  wild  delight  In 
the  sensation  of  diusldng  along  In  the  dark,  not 
seeing  where  sho  went.  It  was  with  some  dJfll- 
culty  that  she  checked  her  e.xcltod  bor.se  at  tho 
top  of  a  long  ascent  In  order  to  wait  for  Desmond, 
who  hail  not  dared  to  follow  faster,  lOr  four  of 
frightening  Olga  beyond  all  conirol.  Eleanor 
laughed  gaily  as  he  rode  up  a  moment  after  her. 
if 
presence  Is  perfect  Joy,  whose  absence  tho  world 
and  all  tho  glory  thereof  could  not  tempt  me  for 
an  Instant  to  forgot.  You  are  full  of  faults.  I  see 
them  and  love  them  for  your  sake !  You  are  full 
of  noble  qualities,  and  I  bow  down  and  worship 
t.hem  I  I  love  the  very  glove  on  your  hand,  the 
ribbon  at  your  throat,  tho  faded  ilower  you  have 
worn  and  thrown  away.  My  feeling  toward  you 
Is  no  dainty  devotion,  ready  to  fall  gracefully  into 
the  hackgrouiul  at  a  hint,  and  be  tho  pleasing, 
tenderly  remembered,  UghUy  forgotten  romance 
of  ji  setisoiL  I  love  you  as  a  man  loves  the  woman 
ho  would  make  his  wife -paasloiiaiely,  strongly, 
Jealously.  1  want  you  all  to  myself,  or  not  at  all ! 
Pardon  me  1  1  mean— I  wanted  you,"  he  added, 
“  I  am  speaking  of  the  p.asr.  Y'ou  need  not  tell 
mo  again  you  do  not  care  for  me;  1  know  It  now. 
I  will  not  go  and  see  you.  I  am  yoiu’  lover,  Elean¬ 
or  ;  I  cannot  play  at  being  your  friend.” 
Litt  le  llceey  cloucLs  had  been  flriri.lng  fast  across 
the  face  of  the  moon;  now,  aa  ho  ended,  th«-  wind 
blow  thorn  suildeiily  aparL  and  a  Hood  of  clear, 
soft  light  jiuurcd  down  on  Eleanor's  howed  head 
and  tlglit-clnspedhiinils.  .Somtiblrdln  tho  branch¬ 
es  above  them,  nwakenisd  by  the  sound  of  Des¬ 
mond's  voice,  gave  a  sleepy  twiner  as  It  lurnod  In 
llswarmnost.  Tho  horses  shook  themselves  and 
stamped,  Impatient  to  bo  gone. 
"Jack,”  Said  Kleauur,  In  a  meek,  small  voice, 
“  I  don't  think  It’s  very  kind  of  you  to  make  mo 
say  it— but  1  wish  you  would  como  and  sen  me  to¬ 
morrow— for,  look  here,  Jack-  -Pvc  been  thinking 
—I’m  sorry  for  what  1  said— and— and  1  ilon't  want 
you  to  come  its  my  .Mmd,  you  knnwl’’— 
MontMu. 
-♦♦♦ - - 
THE  EEWARD  OF  KINDNESS. 
Mbs.  Oobuam  put  down  a  letter  she  had  been 
reading,  and  looking  around  the  table  at  her 
blooming  daugUtors  and  two  tall,  handsome  sons, 
she  said  in  a  dolerul  tone : 
“Y'our  Aunt  Hahlna  Is  coming,  and  has  Invited 
herself  here  without  coromony." 
“  When  ?”  asked  Arabella,  with  an  Intonation 
of  intonso  disgust. 
“  .Sho  will  reaeh  hero  this  afternoon.  Wilber, 
you  will  havo  to  moot  her.” 
“  Sorry,  ma ;  but  l  promlsort  to  drive  Miss  Cald¬ 
well  to  the  park,  I  red  Ciin  go.” 
“Comuily,  I  will  go,”  Ercd  said  gravely,  though 
there  was  a  liol  Hush  on  his  forehead.  “  I  am 
very  fond  of  .aunt.” 
“Nonsenso  1”  said  his  mother.  “  You  have  not 
seen  her  for  foorleeu  years,  l  never  went  to  tho 
dotostablo  old  farm  after  your  I'alhor  died.” 
“Nevertheless,  I  liavo  a  vivid  recollection  of 
Aunt  Salijna's  kindness  while  wo  were  there." 
’•  Dear  mo,  Fred,”  drawled  l.ucllla,  “  don’t  be 
senHmorital.  1  wish  the  old  thing  would  stay 
homo,  I  can’t  Imugluo  wimt  she  Is  coming  here 
lor.” 
“.She  Is  our  father’s  sister,"  said  Fred,  “and  I 
(iannot  llnd  anything  surprising  In  her  looking  for 
a  welcomo  among  her  brother’s  cmuiron.” 
Mrs.  Gorham  shnigged  her  shoulders.  It  she 
had  spoken  her  tlmughts,  it  would  have  been— 
••  Fred  Is  so  odd  1  Just  like  his  laHior.”  But  she 
only  said— “  I  may  depend  upon  you,  then,  to  meet 
your  aunt,  Fred  ?  I  will  see  about  her  room.” 
It  was  a  source  of  great  sausiaclion  to  Mrs. 
Gorham  that  hor  chllilren  were  all  like  herself. 
“  *  Greers,’  every  one  lixcopt  Fred,"  sho  would  say, 
congratulating  herself  that  the  blood  of  "Gorham 
pent”  was  not  transmitted  In  tho  features  of  Iter 
older  son,  Wilber,  or  any  of  the  three  girts. 
That  Greer  pride  meant  Intense  soinshness ; 
that  Orocr  heautor  was  of  a  cold,  hard  typo  ;  that 
Greer  disposition  was  t.VTannlcal  and  narrow¬ 
minded- -did  iiottroubln  MrK.  (iorham.  That  the 
stm,  who  was  “all  Gorham,"  was  proud  to  the 
core  with  tho  pride  that  knows  no  false  shame- 
that  ho  was  noble  In  disposition,  handsome  In  a 
frank,  manly  tyjio,  generous  and  self-sacrlllcing— 
she  could  not  appreciate.  His  Imnda  and  feet 
were  not.  so  small  us  darling  Wilber’s,  he  had  no 
fashlonablo  arfectatlons  and  no  “  Ureer”  look.  Ho 
hlsmoUicr  thought  him  rougli  and  coarse,  and 
his  sisters  declared  that  he  had  no  stylo  at  all. 
But  outside  tho  homo,  where  a  gremt  show  of 
woaltli  was  made  by  many  prlvatis  economies, 
Fred  was  raore  appreciated. 
When  lie  became  a  man,  and  know  that  his 
father’s  estate,  though  sufilclent  to  give  every 
comfort,  was  not  largo  enough  tor  the  extrava¬ 
gance  his  mother  Indulged  In,  ho  ntted  himself 
for  business,  and  took  a  po.sltlou  in  a  counting 
house,  thus  becoming  self-Bupportlng.  Darling 
Wilber  had  studied  law,  but  his  first  client  had 
not  yet  appeared,  and  Mrs.  Gorham  supporlod 
him,  trusting  Ills  tiiRclnatlnns  would  toucli  the 
heart  of  some  moneyed  belie.  Mi.s.s  Caldwell  was 
the  preHent  hope.  Shu  was  her  own  mistress,  an 
orphan-heiress,  nnd  very  handsome.  That  she 
was  proud  and  cold  In  manner  was  only  an  addi¬ 
tional  charm  to  Mrs.  Gorham;  and  LuclUa,  Ara¬ 
bella,  and  Corlnne  wore  enthusiastic  in  their 
admiration  of  “Cornelia  Caldwell’s  queenly  man¬ 
ner,” 
Nobody  suspected  that  Fred,  blunt,  straightfor¬ 
ward  Fred,  hid  one  secret  In  his  heart,  confessed 
to  no  living  being.  And  that  secret  was  a  love, 
pure  and  true,  for  Cornelia  CaldwoU— a  love  that 
would  shut  Itself  closely  away  from  any  suspicion 
of  fortune- hunting— that  only  di’ooped  anq 
moamed  thinking  of  tho  heiress. 
By  four  o’clock  Fred  was  at  the  station,  waiting 
for  Aunt  Sabina.  What  a  little,  old-fashioned 
llgnro  she  was,  In  her  quaint  black  bonnet,  and 
large-llgure  shawl.  But  Fred  kuow  hor  kindly 
old  face  at  onco,  though  he  had  not  seen  It  since 
ho  wfus  twelve  years  old. 
“  You  are  aunt,"  he  Siild,  going  quickly  to  meet 
her. 
Sho  looked  at  tho  handsome  face,  and  caught  a 
quick,  gasping  breath. 
