42 
THI RURAL NEW-YORKER. 
JAN.45 
f itcrarn ®istfHans. 
# THE OUTCAST. 
Jobtlb him out from tlie warmth and light— 
Only a vagrant, feeble and gray, 
Let him reel on through the stormy night— 
What though hie home be far away ? 
With a muttered curse on wiud aud rain, 
He crept along through the muddy lauu. 
Lonely the pathway, and dark aud cold; 
Shelter be sought'ueath a ruined wall, 
Over his senses a numbness stole, 
Bound him Sleep threw her mystic pall; 
Then an angel came, with pitying tears, 
And lifted the veil of by-gone years. 
Gaily he sports by a rippling brook; 
Soft is the breath of the Summer air; 
Flowers adorn each mossy nook. 
Sunshine and happiness everywhere. 
He is Willie now, jUBt four years old, 
With his rose-bud lips and curls of gold 
Hark to the roll of the war like drum ! 
See the brave soldiers gomarohiug by ! 
Home from the baitlo young Will has come, 
Courage aud Joy iu his sparkling eye. 
And his pulses thrill with hope aud pride, 
For he soou will greet his promised bride. 
Now in the fireside's flickering glow. 
Calmly he’s takiug his evening rest; 
Fondly heklsBos his infant’s brow. 
Sleeping secure on its mother’s breast. 
(And the dreamer stirred, aud faintly smiled): 
He is William now, with his wile and child. 
The curtain dropped—the morning broke— 
Faint was the flush in the eastern sky, 
Moaning aud wretched the sleeper woke. 
Brushing a tear from his bloodshot eye. 
To his squalid home behind the hill. 
With a Baddeneil heart crept poor old Bill. 
-»->-•»- 
INMATES O F LES TER HALL. 
(Continued from page 36.) 
CHAPTER XXXIII. 
DYING AND ALONE. 
A scene of greater magnificence, of wilder grand¬ 
eur, of more utter solitude, eye has never seen, pen 
has never described—for It would be impossible— 
nor artist painted. Through the dense thickness 
of the pine forest the light pierced and shone on 
the innumerable paths so rarely trodden by human 
footsteps; beblud rose the great Carpathian range 
of mountains, snow-capped, and gleaming rosy- 
red in the light of the setting sun; above, the 
cloudless sklea were serene and steadfast. 
All was still and silent, save for tne splashing of 
the waters from some distant mountain-torrent 
or the rush of the wind through the pine-houghs 
swaying them to and fro: these sounds alone 
broke the dense mountain solitudes where Law¬ 
rence Carewe lay, his life’s blood ebbing slowly 
away, staining the grass where he had fallen and 
soaking Into the moss. For some hours—It had 
been morning when the brigands had made their 
attack, and evening was drawing near—he had 
lain there motionless, his face stretched up to the 
light, his eyes closed, where they had left him lor 
dead I 
They had left him tor dead; but life lingered in 
him still, feebly perhaps, a faint glimmer of vitali¬ 
ty which might easily die away, hut he lived, and 
now and then a long, shuddering breath showed 
that the hill robbers had been mistaken when they 
thought life was extinct. That hla wounds were 
grave and terrible there could be no doubt; but 
Lawrence Carewe was a man or vast physical 
strength, and where less powerful men would 
have succumbed, he lingered still, and when the 
life stream flowing from him ceased, consciousness 
returned In some slight degree; he opened his 
eyes slowly and looked up ward at the waving pines 
above his head. 
For some mtnutes he recollected nothing; then 
dimly, slowly, heavily, sense returned, and 
through the keen physical anguish he was suffer¬ 
ing came the yet keener pang of his Isolated and 
terrible position. 
To die there alone, without one near to close nis 
eyes: to hold a cup of water to his parched and 
blackened lips; to speak one word of consolation 
and comfort—the Idea was an awful and ghastly 
one, and as It came before bim, be shuddered 
through all his limbs. He had no fear of death; 
his profession had made him too familiar with It 
under every aspect for that, and life had not been 
such a very precious boon to him; but such a death 
aB this was horrible—horrible—horrible I Alone 
in his last hours, or it not alone, In oompanlonshlp 
too horrible to think of—of the beasts and birds of 
prey. 
He knew there was little or no hope of succor; 
the forest paths were but rarely visited; the 
dread of the banditti, who concealed themselves, 
In its wild recesses, kept all away, save, perhaps 
some poor charcoal-burner, who had nothing to 
fear because he had nothing to lose. Oh! great 
Heaven: It was a bitter and sore extremity 1 
He was suffering greatly too; he felt choked 
and suffocated, parched with burning thirst; for 
the fever or his wounds was upon him, and he was 
powerless to reach the water, whose cool splash 
fell upon his ear and tortured him with the torture 
of Tantalus. No wonder that a cry broke from 
him of unutterable agony aod suffering, a cry 
which fell unheard in the wild solitude where he 
lay dying. 
The settleg sun Bank to rest behind the moun¬ 
tains ; the moonlight Btole through the leaves and 
fell upon the white and ghastly face of the man 
Cecil Lester loved. 
The dawn broke in the east; the sunrise bathed 
the earth In Its crimson and gold, and heralded 
another day. Lawrence Carewe’s heavy lids 
raised themselves languidly, and his eyes watched 
the beauty of ibis wondrous awakening world, 
whicn he was so soon to leave, and ne said faintly 
to himself that It was tbe last sunrise he should 
ever see, and his thoughts flew back to Cecil. 
“ Will she ever know ?” he wondered, vaguely; 
“ and If she knows, will she care ? will she grieve 
a little ? wUl she be sorry ?” 
And as he wondered, his hand stole feebly to his 
breast, and sought and found a little knot of 
faded blue ribbon, stained now with hts heart’s 
best blood -tbe knot she had worn in the bosom 
of her white robe on that night when he had de¬ 
clared hla love, and she had refused It. 
••Oh, Cecil! ob, my darling!” came softly from 
the pale lips, and Into tbe dying eyes came one 
bright, sudden gleam of admiration and love- 
quenched almost directly by a terrible physical 
anguish, which turned Mm sick and taint. 
Then he remembered once moie the last time 
they had met. He saw her again In her wondrous 
loveliness, robed as ijueen < iulnevere, her shining 
hair falling around her as she crouched at hts feet, 
whispering,” Forgive! lorglvo f” He saw her as she 
came towards him through the dim flrellt ball, with 
haughty grace subdued to the softest tenderness; 
he could hear the low, sweet tones saying, “ I love 
you—I love you, Lawrence!” and he recollected 
how, when she bad held out her trembling hand, 
he had turned from her scornfully. Had she for¬ 
given him that scorn V he wondered, faintly. 
Had she forgotten all that now v Was she mar¬ 
ried ? Hid she love Ernest, and was he, Lawrence 
Carewe, forgotten ? And as he thought, his weak 
hand stole up again to the pocket book In wMch 
lay that Little bloodstained blue silk knot beside 
a photograph of Cecil, which he had seen one day 
In a shop-window' and purchased. If he could but 
And strength to open the pocket-book and take 
out the likenesB, It would help him through the 
dark valley. If he could die with his eyes fixed 
on the face of the only woman he ever loved It 
might make hla terrible solitude less terrible—Ms 
death less bitter. 
Very feebly—ah! how feebly—aud wltU many a 
pause, he fumbled lu the breast-pocket of the 
rldlng-coat he wore, and found the pocket-book ; 
drawing it out with an Immense effort, wMch ex¬ 
hausted him so much that he was obliged to pause 
more than once before he could open the leather 
case and take out the treasured carte. 
It was a vignette—an ordinary, or rather a 
somewhat superior photograph ; and as he looked 
upon the lovely face pictured there a moan ol un¬ 
utterable anguish came from the pale lips. The 
photograph had been taken before any shadow 
had fallen upon Cecil s life, and It represented her 
bright and smiling, with sort laces about her 
throat, and a flower In her hair. Uow beautiful 
ah6 was—how beautiful 1 and he would never see 
her again!—he would pass out of her life, and be 
forgotten for ever! He might say now that he 
loved her; there was no one nigh co hear; and even 
her husband could not be jealoUB of the love of a 
dying man ; aud he let his dim eyes linger over 
the lovely, radiant face until a sudden blindness 
came over him; Ms lips moved faintly trying to 
frame her name—“Cecil:" u lifted Mmaelt ellgMy 
on his elbow, made one hi t effort to raise himself 
from the ground, then he fell back, his eyes closed, 
the hand holding the photograph fell nerveless at 
his side, and all was still! 
• «t m • • • • 
Whitewashed walla, hare and cold, a low-celled 
room, white, spotless draperies; In a little niche a 
figure of “ Charity,” and on the wall one picture 
representing the Healing of the Sick. Such was the 
scene on which Lawrence Carewe’s eyes opened, 
when he recovered, alter a long, long trance of 
Insensibility, to all outward things, during wMoh 
he had been conscious only of Intense suffering, 
burning pain, and Intolerable anguish. 
Now it seemed to him, In the intense weakness 
following on the long lever caused by Ms wounds, 
which had prostrated him for many weeks, that it 
must be all a dream —that for him tho bitterness of 
death was past, that he would And himself in 
that other world. 
He felt no pain now, only great debility, and a 
dreamy senBe of comfort fell upon him as he lay 
there; It was evening, the chamber waB in seml- 
darkneas, for the small swinging lamp gave but a 
dim light; all was very still. 
" so still, mo peaceful, when a soft-toned chime 
Broke rm the i.-yuuiug ailenoo for a time ; 
Then trembling into silence, seemed to cease 
In deeper Bileuue aud m >vu utter peace." 
As the little silvery chime rell upon Lawrence 
Carewe’s ear he started slightly, and turned Ms 
head on his pillows with a faint wonder In Ms 
feeble mind as to where he was, and how he came 
there; and at the movement a woman rose from a 
low seat by his bed, and came forward, bending 
over him with a smile and gentle word. 
" Where arn I ?” he said, faintly. 
“At the hospital at Estavla,”she answered. 
“ You have been very 111. You are better now, but 
you must not talk.” 
“ At Eatavla,” he repeated, faintly. “ How came 
I here ?” 
But the nurse, shook her head with a smile, put 
her Huger to her lips In silence, and gave him some 
nourishment, which Lawrence took passively and 
without resistance, for he was weak as a child; 
but as she turned away he put out one weak hand 
and caught her dress. 
■•Where Is It,’” he said, feebly, and the nurse 
looked at him questlonlngty without a word. 
“Didyou take It from me?” he persisted. “ Who 
brought me here 7” 
“ You were found almost lifeless in the forest by 
a charcoal-burner of the neighborhood,” she an¬ 
swered, gently. “He came to us for assistance, 
and we had you brought Mther.” 
There was a moment’s silence, but as she was 
turning away again he detained her. 
“ Where Is It?" he went on, as Impatiently as It 
was possibly to Mm In hla weakness. “ 1 had it— 
did you take it from me ?” 
Then she understood, and nodded. 
“J will give it to you," she said, gently; “but 
you must not talk any more.” 
She moved from the bedside, and in a moment 
returned with the photograph of Cecil Lester, 
which they had found between his lingers when 
they had discovered him senseless and dying in 
the forest solitudes. 
“ Is not this what you want?” said the nurse, 
putting It into his weak hand. ” 
And he thanked her with a faint Bmlle, and fell 
asleep again with the smile lingering on his face 
still. 
As the nurse had told him, he had been round 
In the forest by a charcoal-burner—a poor Magyar 
peasantr—who had brought the tidings to the lit¬ 
tle hospital which a holy sisterhood had estab¬ 
lished near a little village ou the borders of the 
forests and brought Mm to the hospital, where he 
had been tended with skill and care and his wounds 
dressed. 
A weaklier man would have had no chance of 
escape; but Lawrence Carewe’s great strength 
and Iron constitution, added to the constant care 
and attention he received at the little conventual 
hospital, aud saved Mm, and on that evening, 
when he awoke, the nurse dared to hope. 
All through that night he slept calmly, peace¬ 
fully, dreamle 3 Sly, with the smile on his lids still, 
the photograph lying upon his breast, held loosely 
between his fingers; and the kind nuns watched 
over him aud bent over him to look at the beauti¬ 
fully-pictured face with a smile and a sigh. 
" It la the likeness of the woman he loves.” 
they said softly one to the other, aud the color 
rose In the pale cheeks of the younger sisters as 
they looked; and ir at their heart there was a 
pang at the thought that such a love as this they 
had put rrotn them tor ever, who shall blame 
them ? 
They were greatly Interested In their patient: 
in their quiet, holy lives such an excitement 
rarely came to them. They themselves were of 
many nations—the greater number being Hun¬ 
garians; hut there were one or two soft-eyed 
Italian women; one bright eyed little French¬ 
woman, the life of the sisterhood, and one blue¬ 
eyed English sister, who had been Lawrence 
Carewe’s most constant attendant, and who was 
called sister Monica. 
The lives of these sisters led, far from the great 
world, were beautiful and blameless, but full of 
pathos. Many of them were women of culture, 
and position, who had left brilliant, luxurious 
homes to bury themselves In these solitudes, de¬ 
voting their lives and fortunes to the good of the 
poor peasant population of the neighboring ham¬ 
let. The hospital was never without inmates, but 
these were poor and Illiterate—scarcely removed 
from animals-and It was but rarely sucb a pa¬ 
tient as Lawrence Carewe fell to their care. 
More especially to bister Monica was commit¬ 
ted the care of the wounded strauger, for he was 
of her country. She could understand the ravings 
which fell from the parched Ups; she could 
answer Mm If consciousness returned; she 
could soothe him with words familiar to Ms 
ears, and well and nobly did the sister perform 
her part. 
The night wore on, the sick man slumbered 
softly, and it was only when the sun was high in 
heaven that he awoke once more, quite conscious 
this time, and able to say a few faint words or 
gratitude to Ms kind nurses, and the gentle nuns 
sent up a glad “ Te Demn" of Joy and gratitude. 
Still he was very til; tor days he lay in a pro¬ 
found exhaustion, from wMch at times they 
feared he would never rally; and this utter weak¬ 
ness brought with It a depression of spirits wMch 
made Lawrence Carewe feel at times as If he 
could weep like a woman. 
“ It Is a beautiful face,” she said, gently, looking 
at the photograph. "Your sister, perhaps?” 
“No,’’Lawrence answered, wearily. 
“Your wife, then?” 
••No; 1 am not married.” he answered; but the 
nun’s gentle curiosity was not easily checked. 
“ Perhaps one nearer and dearer than all oth¬ 
ers?” Bhe said,with a little smile. “Will you 
not tell me her name v I could write to her, you 
know. Bhe must be very anxious, very unhappy 
about you.” 
Lawrence shook his head, and turned away to 
Mde the tears which rose slowly In his eyes; he 
was easily moved In hls great weakness; but even 
grief seemed better than the apathy which had 
mastered him, and Sister MoMoa was not sorry she 
had spoken. 
“ TMnk how anxious she must be at hearing no 
tidings of you,” she said, gently. " You have been 
with us over six weeks now, and If you correspond 
with her she will have wondered why your letters 
have ceased.” 
“ We do not correspond," he said, faintly. 
“And yet yon love her very dearly ?” she said, 
simply. 
Dr. Carewe shaded Ms face with one weak hand 
for a moment; then he turned to her suddenly: 
“Yes, I love her," he said, passionately. “1 
love her so wildly that my last thought, when I 
lay dying in the forest was of her—the last sight I 
wished co see was her face; hut If I recover, I 
shall never be anything to her, nor she to me.” 
" Would you care to tell me the story 7 ” she said, 
gently. “ Sometimes It Is a relief to confide In an. 
other; aud In your religion the great consola¬ 
tion of confession 1 b denied to you. Would you 
like to tell me about It?” 
“Would you care to hear?” he said wearily. “If 
so, i will tell you, my sister, although it Is a 
common story enough.” 
“Tell me,” she said; with a little smile and a 
stilled sigh. “Even common stories are uncom¬ 
mon here you know.” 
“I hardly know how to begin,” he Bald, with a 
slight, weary smile. “Shall I say ‘Once upon a 
time ?’ ” 
“ AByou will,” she answered, touched more by 
hls attempt at gaiety than by Ms mournful sad¬ 
ness. 
“Once upon a time,” began Lawrence Carewe, 
w ther sad smile, “there lived a man who 
had chosen medlqlne for hls profession, had de¬ 
voted himself to It with more than usual Interest, 
who lived for little else, who eared tor nothing 
else, for he had lew relatives, and none for whom 
he cared. One day—an unlucky day for him—he 
i went to a dinnerparty and there he met a girl, 
with whom he fell hopelessly and Irretrievably In 
love—hopelessly, for she was a reigning belle, of 
high position, and hardly likely to accept a strug¬ 
gling physician for a husband! But he loved ner, 
and madman that he was, he fancied at limes, 
that he was not quite Indifferent to her. It 
seemed to Mm, poor Idiot, that she gave him 
sweeter smiles and gentler words than she did 
to others, and he dared to hope; he dared even 
one night when they were alone, to tell her that 
he loved her.”—To be continued. 
-- 
THE EYE-OPENER. 
A swindle practiced frequently on farmers, and 
occasionally on others, was illustrated the other day 
in the United States Circuit Court In Indiana, In 
the case of Woodbury and others against Klstler. 
A couple of agents of the “ Windmill Pump Com¬ 
pany,” of Chicago, agreed with Klstler to send 
Mm certain machines Tor which, on their receipt, 
he would give his note for $540. The note was 
drawn, so as to have It ready to send on when 
the goods should come to hand. One of the agents 
kindly furnished an envelope, ostentatiously In¬ 
closed the note in It aud. having sealed It, 
handed It to Klstler. Wnen the latter, getting sus¬ 
picious, opened the envelope a few days later, lo! 
it contained some waste paper, wMch the swindler 
had adroitly substituted for the note, which he 
atterwardssold to'lnuocent” parties, In the persons 
of Woodbury and others, who In turn brought suit 
for the amount of the note. These, tn the charac¬ 
ter of " Innocents,” of course expected a favora¬ 
ble verdict; but the sympathies ol the Jury were 
so strongly In favor of the gulled Klstler that they 
rendered a verdict In hls favor, We navi-, within 
the year, seen accounts of similar verdicts In like 
cases In many parts of tho country, especially in 
the West. Swindles of this sort are quite common, 
the mode of carrying them out differing, of course, 
a trifle lu each case. The *• Western Medical 
Works,” of CMcago, are Raid to use notes almost 
Identical with that employed by the “ Wladinlll 
Pump Company,” so that it is by no means impossi¬ 
ble that both concerns are “ worked ” by the same 
“ parties.” 
Here are tbe names of a few more “ parties ” tn 
this city, to whom the Post Office refuses to de¬ 
liver letters or money orders on the ground that 
they are conducting their business In a way which 
gives reasonable cause for suspecting them of dis¬ 
honesty. You see the Post Office doesn’t like to 
call a spade, a spade, right out, or a swindler a 
swindler—It prefers to use more euphonious lan¬ 
guage. Gray, W., 506 Fifth Avo.; Hall, J. U. & co.; 
Hamilton, Thomas J., alias Dr. Mattlson; Hamil¬ 
ton, J. B. A Co.; Harris, .James, care of Mr. 
Grampps, 363 East Church street; Hards, o. W.; 
Herrick, D. P. ft Co.; Hubbell, W. F.; Jones Albert 
W„ alias It. M. Boardman ft Co; Kosoor.h, It J., 
alias Mutual Stock Companies, Nos. 1 and 2 ; Law¬ 
rence & Co.,alias Adams, Brown & Co., and Allen, 
Jordan ft Co., as well as Barnes, Garrison ft Co. 
aud W. D. Duff & Co.; Lee, W., care o f Mr. Shep¬ 
herd, 213 Third street; Lee, W„ care of Mr. liuff, 
127 Broome street; Llndauer, Charles F., 184 Mer¬ 
cer street; McCall, W, T.; McCaulay, S. A., 35 
Broadway: Marc otto Company, 22 Church street; 
Martin, George, 172 Franklin street; Mattlson, Dr, 
alUu> J. J. Hamilton, (this twofold Individual Is 
noticed above under tl, also;) Nassau Banking Co.; 
Nathan, B , 17a and 83S Broadway; National Bank¬ 
ing Co.; Noe lice, Charles D. J., 2 as Grand street; 
Perkins, Howtt, li Park How and 2u7 Greenwich 
street: Porter, VV,; Hand, B., 62 Harrison street: 
Rand, S.,care of .Mr. Warren, 78 Christie street; 
Russell & Co ; Sliver Mining Co *, Smalley,c. ft Gale, 
32 Broadway ; staudaid Sewing Machine Co alias 
Alfred Cately (noticed under U); Taylor ft Co.; 
Thatcher, Belmont ft Co.; Tomlinson, James A.; 
TuUy, J. F., 1215 Broadway, alius Bell, 0. ft Co ; 
uplugton, G.*; VCoder 0 , clriaoo, 68, Tl, 73 Broad¬ 
way, alias Martinez ft Co.; Webb, Samuel, 126 and 
207 Broadway, alias Wilson. W. 8 ; Wright, T. 
Potter ft Co ; Williamson ft Co.; Zsosch, Theodore, 
33 Park Row aud s«i Broadway. This comprises 
the black list for this city until New Year’s. 
There will be lots more during the coming year; 
for new “ sUearers” are always ready to "fleece " 
the credulous everywhere, and doubtless most of 
the old hands will appear under new names, so 
that it will take some, time to identity mem. Next 
week we will begin the ll.it of exposed rascals 
elsewhere. Again we urge our friends to prevent 
any of their acquaintances from throwing away 
their money by seudLng It to such swindling con¬ 
cerns, at least until wo hall have finished our list 
—some years benee. Of course, we have too high 
an opinion of our readers-that la, If they are not 
the sort who merely borrow the paper—to Imagine 
lor a moment that any or t hem would be roollsh 
enough to bo guilty of such a stupidity. 
-♦ »+- 
MAGAZINES FOR JANUARY. 
The Atlantic Monthly.— contents—The Por¬ 
trait of a Lady. XL— S 1 V.; Y r e Tombe of Ye Poet 
Chaucer— Westminster Abbey; Smith ; Getting 
Married tn Germany; A Winter Journey In Colo¬ 
rado; The Wives of Poets, 1; A Symposium of 
Sixty Years Ago; sociology and Hero Worship 
— An Evolutionist’s Reply to Dr. James; Within 
the Gate—L. M. C.; Friends: A Duet I.—111. 
Sara Bernhardt; A Look Ahead; The Long 
Dream; Illustrated Books; Zola’s Essays; Some 
Political Novels; Books Tor Youn; People ; Horace 
Bushuell; The Origin of Religion; The Contrib¬ 
utor’s Club; Books of the Mouth. 
Dknveb.— The city or Denver ends the plain 
travel. After the loDg Journey through a region 
where the waves of civilization seem to die away 
among tho alkali plains and antelopes. It la a 
strange aonBallon to And one’s self onoe again in 
a full-grown and prosperous town, with Pails 
fashions tn homes and people, and the look of 
thrift that usually comes only with time. It needs 
the Iron wall on the west, to persuade one that he 
Is on the very front of civilization, and that what 
be sees about him has been scarce a score or 
