•JAN. 8 
25 
fitfrar]) fpistdlami. 
THE BABE AT BETHLEHEM. 
The night swept cool o'er Bethlehem's plain 
And folded close the distant hill; 
Alone the weary shepherds watched 
While all their drowsy docks were still; 
Above, the silent Btaiu moved on, 
Each in its own majestic way— 
Who dreamed the Son of Man hud come 
And in a Bethlehem manger lay ? 
No wondrous sign had idled the slty 
When sank the darning sun afar; 
No ominous clond with darkness came 
To pale or bide the Eastern star; 
No tumult filled the town or inn. 
Where travelers tarried on their way. 
Unconscious that the Son of God 
So near them in a manger lay. 
Along the surging streets of Romo, 
Through all the Empire of the W est, 
Nor sign nor sound the hour made known 
In which all nations should he blest; 
That night Imperial Gresar slept 
On regal couch his cares away. 
And dreamed not that the King of Kings 
At Bethlehem in a manger lay. 
Only where simple shepherds watched 
In fields which Ituth of old did glean. 
Was the wrapt song of angels heard, 
The sudden, mystic glory seen; 
And when the beavenlr light had ceased, 
The heavenly light had passed away 
The Bhephcrd entered Bethlehem 
And found the place where Jesus lay. 
No marvel that they spread abroad 
The saying that to them was told— 
» Lo, He has come !”—the Christ of God, 
The Saviour, promised them of old; 
No marvel that, with prayer and praise, 
Back to their flocks they took their way; 
The Shepherd of their soul had come— 
At Bethlehem in a manger lay! 
--- 
INMATES OF LESTER HALL. 
(Continued from page 851.) 
CHAPTER XXX. 
Meanwhile Ernest had opened the door or the 
r6om where Cecil was and entered softly, ao 
softly Indeed that she did not for a moment per¬ 
ceive him, and he had leisure to look at the beau¬ 
tiful wan face lying so wearily on the cushions— 
at the frail hand-, and the dark shadows under 
the luBtrous eyes. In a minute, however, Cecil 
raised her eyes and saw him, and Ernest coming 
quickly forward, knelt down beside her and 
pressed his Ups fondly and lingeringly on her fore¬ 
head, then he drew back a little and scanned her 
face eagerly. 
** You are better, my dearest?" he whispered; 
••and yet what a wau, white race this is—my 
snowdrop—my poor pale flower 1” 
“Ihave been 111, very 111,” she said, faintly. 
" Ernest, do not pity me; 1 deserve it all.” 
He looked at her In intense surprise. 
" Yes,’’she went on tlrmly, “ I deserve It all. I 
have something to tell you Ernest; sit down there 
please.” 
She pointed to a seat a few feet from her sofa, 
and, surprised and alarmed, Ernest obeyed her, 
and seated himself in silence. 
“WUl you be very angry with me?” she said, 
faintly, pale to her lips, aud evidently speaking 
under the strongest emotion. “ Will you ever for¬ 
give me, Ernest, for my bad conduct to you ?’’ 
“ My darling, as If 1 over blamed you—as If I 
* had any cause! It was not your fault that you 
were ill, love.” 
“ It Is not that—It Is not that, ” she said, broken¬ 
ly, hiding her faoe In her hands. 
•• What is It, dear ?” he said, gently. “ Rem em 
her, you must not agitate yourself. You must get 
strong as quickly as possible, you know, and we 
shall have a quiet wedding, without aU that fuss 
and bother, and I will take you away to some 
country which has bluer skies aud a softer climate 
than ours. How soon shall you be well enough, 
Cecil?” 
“Ernest," the girl said, suddenly lifting her eyes 
to his with a woe-begone expression, “1 shall never 
be your wife t” 
He started and paled; then, concealing his agi¬ 
tation, he said, calmly: 
“ Never is a long day, sweet. Dr. Collins assures 
me that you will he quite well In a few days.” 
“ That will not alter It, Ernest. Oh !”—and she 
clasped her hands together with a little cry of pain 
—•• will you not understand ? Do you not see ?” 
He started to his feet, his face growing ghastly 
white, Ills lips quivering. 
“ Cecil,” he exclaimed, suddenly—” Cecil, you 
are not going to throw me over 7” 
There was a moment's dead silence. Cecil had 
covered her face with one hand aud lay still, but 
trembling In every limb, while her lover stood 
there before her, looking at her with the same 
horror-stricken countenance. lie was the first to 
speak. He forced a laugh, and sat down again. 
“What a fool lam, Cecil, dear 1 Forgive me; I 
was mistaken, was I not 7 Tell me what you mean 
darling; I won’t startle you again, l don’t know 
what put such an Idea Into my head.” 
He drew his chair closer to her, and put out his 
hand, still a little unsteady. Cecil drew off the 
diamond ring she wore and put It in his hand in 
silence. 
“Cecil,” he said, hoarsely—” Cecil, are you jest¬ 
ing? It Is a painful Joke, dear; 1 cannot—I cannot 
bear it. Oh, great Heaven he started to his feet 
—•• I will not believe It 1” 
•• Ernest—Ernest, lorglve me,’’said Cecil, faintly. 
He took two Or three turns up and down the 
room lu angry perturbation ; then lie stopped his 
perambulations and came to her side once more. 
“ In plain English,” he said, calmly, “you mean 
to jilt me. It is a harsh word, perhaps,” he went 
on, seeing how she shrank and trembled, “ hut l 
THE 
RUBAI. NEW-YORKER. 
know no other word that Is applicable to these cir¬ 
cumstances. May I ask. Miss Lester, what has 
Induced you to change your mind 7” 
“ The fear of Inflicting a yet greater wTong upon 
you,” she said, very gently. 
“is that possible?”he said, bitterly, and Cecil 
shivered at the bitterness In hla voice. 
“You do well to be angry,” she said, sadly. “ I 
have deserved that you should be so, but It Is bet¬ 
ter that I should bear your anger, and you some 
suffering now, It It will spare you greater pain by- 
and-by. It 1 had been braver—If l had not been 
so seldsb In wlsnlng to spare myself suffering, I 
might have spared you a little. I do not know— 
Ernest, will you listen while 1 try to explain—It Is 
so hard—It Is so hard ? ” 
He sat down silently. Angry and hurt as he 
was, something In the girl's face and voice 
touched him. 
“ How can 1 begin ? ” she said, sorrowfully. “ It 
is all so sad, and I have been so wrong throughout 
Ernest, when I accepted you, 1 told you that I did 
not love you as you loved me, hut I did not tell 
you—I did not tell you”—a hot, painful color rose 
lnher pale cheek—“that—that—I loved some one 
else.” 
There was a short, embarrassed silence, 
“ Isee,” Ernest said, calmly, but his voice was 
hparse and inutlled; ” and I presume that this 
gentleman, more fortunate than myself, is to be 
made happy shortly?” 
“ i told you that I loved someone else,” Cecil 
said, brokenly ; “but I did not tell you that he 
loved me. Eruest, If I could tell you all, you 
would not he angry; I think you would be a little 
sorry.” 
“ I am sorry for myself,” he said, bitterly. “ Are 
you not going to marry him?” 
“ If I were to go down on my knees to him, he 
would not marry me; he woul d not love me—now 
—if i were the only woman extant,"shesaid, with 
a faint, bitter smile. 
“And you love him?” said he, Incredulously. 
“ Heaven help me! yes.” 
“ Cecil,” said the young man, after a long pause, 
“ If you are sure—It you have no hope that he will 
love you—will you not let me have a chance ?” 
“ Would you have me still ? ” she said, lifting her 
eyes to his. 
“ When a man Is starving he Is thankful for a 
crust," nesald, with a forced laugh. “ Cecil "—he 
fell on nis knees by her sofa, and took the little 
rlugless hands In his fond clasp—“you seel love 
you, I shall only be too happy to have you on any 
terms." 
“ is It yes, my dearest," said he after a pause. 
••No a thousand times no," she said, when she 
could speak. “ Do you think 1 could he so Belflsh ? 
I hope there la a happier fata In store for you, 
Ernest, than marriage with a woman who could 
not return your love. No, do not try to tempt me, 
dear. You do not know how hard It la, how very 
hard tor me to be Arm ; but I hope some day that 
you will bring your wife to see me, aud—” 
“Never,” said Ernest, passionately. 
“ Never is a long day.” Cecil said, smiling—that 
sad, slow smile of hers, which was so luflnltely 
sad. “Time will tell, Ernest. It,would make me 
ao nappy, dear.” 
But Ernest was not so easily pacified, nor 
would he accept his dismissal. He Implored, en¬ 
treated, stormed In vain. Cecil listened In silence, 
and with many tears, but she did not yield. 
“ l cannot do you such a wrong,” she said, plU- 
luily, at, last. •• Be merciful to me, Ernest, 1 have 
suffered so much, and I have all my life yet to 
live and to suffer." 
“Merciful! Did you show me any mercy? Did 
you not buoy me up with hope unto the last? 
Would any man be patient under sued treatment ? 
l am made a laughing-stock to all my acquain¬ 
tances, aud I acn expected to acquiesce patiently, 
and to ‘grin and bear it.' The world Is not very 
hard on such sins as yours, I belleve,”he continued 
passionately. " It Is a woman’s privilege to change 
her mind.” with a harsh, Jarring laugh, “and the 
oftener she does so, and the more men’s hearts 
she breaks, the better for her reputation as a 
belie. i am not so lenient as society, Miss Lester: 
I have a plain word which expresses our con¬ 
duct. Shall I tell you what It Is ?—It Is perfidy. 
“Yes, perfidy,” he continued, seeing she did not 
Bpeak, “Perfidy—a plain, unvarnished, harsh, 
sounding word, but one which Is a true one here II 
ever it were so.” 
Proud as Cecil was, she bore his vehement re¬ 
proaches patiently; she felt that she deserved 
them—that he had Indeed been cruelly treated, 
and Ills auger was easier to bear than hla sorrow.” 
«* wfio is this man ?” he said, alter a long pause, 
during which lie had been pacing up and down the 
room like a caged lion, and at the question the 
not color rose In Cecil's face. 
••You have no right to ask me such a question,” 
she said, passionately. •' I have told you that this 
man can be nothing to me. Had you a spark of 
generosity, you would spare me such a question as 
that.” 
“ Generosity !” he said, hotly. “ Whaf use Is 
there In talking to a desperate man of generosity ? 
if l had been nere, Cecil,” clenching ills bauds 
vlndtcatlvely, “ 1 would show you how generous I 
could be.” 
“If he were here—even he, although he hates 
me, would have more pity than you have,” panted 
Cecil- “ it is easy to threaten, Mr. Eleaton.” 
“ l would to Heaven I could carry the threat In. 
to execution!" he said, passionately. “ Well, if I 
were sensible I should be grateful to him, ror he 
has done me a great service—Indirectly and un¬ 
willingly apparently—but a great service never¬ 
theless.” 
He turned away from her with these bitter 
words aud left the room, and It was many months 
ere these two, who should have been man and 
wife, met again. 
That evening ho left Thorn Lee, seeing only 
Mrs. and Mr. Edgar before he left; but as lie was 
taking leave of them, Lottie Tyrrell, In her 
pretty evenlng-dresa of lleeoy blue gauze, came 
Into the hall. Seeing them In earnest conversa¬ 
tion, she would nave retreated, but Ernest wen 
hastily to her side and took her hands In Ms. 
“Lottie!” he said, unsteadily, “I am going 
away, and I am glad of this opportunity of say¬ 
ing good-bye to you. it may be many months 
before we meet again, but I shall not forget how 
good you were to me the other day. Heaven bless 
yon, dear, and make you very happy." 
lie bent over her and pressed fits lips to the little 
hand he held, took a hasty leave of his host and 
hostess, and went away; but the next morning. 
In detailing hla departure to her sister, Mattie 
mentioned this little circumstance, and the first 
real smile which had been on Cecil lister's Ups 
for months played on them as she listened. 
“ I am so glad,” she said, gently. “ Lottie is 
doomed to heal the wounds 1 Inflict. When we 
were at Mrs. Brayburn’s. at Christmas. I thought 
Dr. Carewe cared for her, but I suppose t was 
mistaken Now, if only Ernest would fait In love 
with her I should be quite happy." 
“It Is early days yet to think of that,” said 
Mattie, playing with her watch-chain, and sud¬ 
denly becoming very intent on the setting of one 
of her rings, '• Apr opos of Dr. Carewe, did Uncle 
Henry tell you of Ms Intentions ? ” 
“His Intentions?” repeated Cecil hurriedly 
(Ernest and Lottie Tyr rell both forgotten), “ no, 
what Intentions 7" 
“ It Is very foolish of him,” said Mattie, vehe¬ 
mently. “ Uncle Henry Is dreadfully cut up about 
It, and even some of the newspapers nave said 
what a pity It was for such a distinguished man to 
throw himself away in such a manner.” 
“What is It? What la he going to do? You 
have not told me,” Cecil said, breathlessly, 
“ ne is going abroad Immediately,” said Mattie, 
In a tone of extreme dlsaatls'action. “ne has 
volunteered as surgeon In tMs dreadful Turko- 
Russlan war, and he Is to start almost directly for 
Turkey.” 
•• Oh,” said Cecil softly, and that was all. 
CHAPTER XXXI. 
A NEWSPAPER PARAGRAPH. 
The nine days’ wonder of Cecil’s broken en¬ 
gagement was long over, and several months had 
elapsed since that disastrous wedding day which 
had destroyed aU Ernest’s hopes, when we find 
Cecil and her uncle again In the house which Mr. 
Daton had prepared with so much pleasure for 
his nieces and of wMeh now he and Cecil are the 
only occupants, save when Mattie and Edgar 
come up from Thorn Lee to spend a few days with 
them. Latterly these vlMts had been few ana 
far between; Indeed, within the last few weeks 
they had ceased altogether, for Mattie had pre¬ 
sented her husband with a “son and heir," and 
great had been the rejoicings thereat. 
Autumn has come again, following Its elder 
brother Summer very quickly; the fire In the 
dining-room blazes away cheerily, waiting for the 
young mistress to come down and make tea— 
Cecil’s dally duty—for Mr. Baton, like a sensible 
man, likes Ms tea hot. and fresh, and strong, and 
consequently eschews that beverage when made 
In the kitchen. The dining-room presents a very 
comtortable aspect, with Its cheerful fire and 
daintily-appointed breakfast table. Mr. Baton's 
newspaper la lying ready to Ms hand, and a pile 
of letters lie beside hls plate, while Cecil, too, has 
her share of correspondence. 
It is very rarely that Mr. Baton’s appearance 
precedes that of hla niece, but on that particular 
morning becomes down flret, and has dispatched 
the greater number of Ms letters when Cecil 
enters, rubbing her little hands and smiling as 
she makes her apologies. • 
“so sorry, dear uncle,” she says, as she stoops 
and puts her lips softly on hla forehead. “1 don’t 
know how It is that I’m so late this morning ; It 
shall not happen again." 
“ It does not matter, dear child.” replied her 
uncle fondly ; “I hope I am not quite such a mar¬ 
tinet. There Is a letter here from Mr. Edgar: he 
is coming up by an early train and will be here to 
luncheon.” 
“Very well, answers Cecil, we shall be glad to 
see Mm. I want to see how he bears his new 
honors." 
So saying, Cecil takes up one of her letters, 
opens it and begins to read; while Mr. Daton, 
having finished his correspondence, takes up the 
morMng paper and turns to the foreign Intelli¬ 
gence. 
Eastern Europe Is pretty peaceful just now—the 
dreadful atrocities, the heartrending descriptions 
of the doings In Turkey, have ceased, and the civ¬ 
ilized world Is tolerably tranquil pro tem.: but Mr. 
Daton takes a very unusual Interest In Eastern 
Europe, and has done so all through the war, 
searching the newspaper columns for every scrap 
of news, and particularly desirous of seeing wheth¬ 
er any mention Is made of a certain physician, 
whose departure for the East had been com¬ 
mented upon, and loudly lamented, some months 
previously, several times he has seen the name, 
and always In connection with some deed of mercy 
and charity, and healing, wMch had more real 
courage In It than any feat of “ derrlngdo ’’ which 
the special correspondent reported; and he and 
Cecil had read these paragraphs over and over, for 
although no word of his Moce’s love for Dr. Carewe 
had ever passed her lips, Mr. Daton knew that she 
loved Mm as well as she did herself. 
The six months which have elapsed since we 
last saw Cecil Lester have made but slight change 
lnher. Her health ts completely re-established, 
for sorrow, thank Heaven! rarely kills, and the 
girl had struggled bravely with hers, which had 
not been the less keen because It was self-inflicted; 
and, although she would carry the wounds until 
her dying day, Cecil made no moan, and was gen¬ 
erally cheerful. 
People said that. Miss Lester was as beautiful as 
ever; and although she had lost much of her bril¬ 
liance, methluks they were not far wrong, she is 
always pale now, and the lustrous eyes have a look 
of dreamy sadness In their depths wMch was not 
there before; her manner is quieter, more sub¬ 
dued, and she never flirts now. 
That last, perhaps, is the greatest change of all, 
and one which surprises many. She Is always 
courteous and gentle, even if a little reserved, ana 
not one of her many admirers can boast of bavtng 
received any marks of her favor—not one of the 
many who have latd their hearts at her feet can re¬ 
proach her with having encourged them In the 
smallest degree. Nevertheless, cold as she Is, and 
proud as many deem ner, Cecil ts still very much 
admired, and she still retains her sovereignty—no 
one has been able to wrest it from her, for not 
one has equalled her In beauty and charm. 
Many pondered why she did not marry; some 
said, sneerlngly, that she was “waiting for a 
prince of the blood” at least, and that no other 
would find favor In her sight; and others, that 
she was too proud and cold to care for anyone. 
What would these have Bald, I wonder, If they 
knew how often and how tenderly Cecil’s thoughts 
traveled away eastwards, to where Lawrence Ca¬ 
rewe was doing Ms duty so nobly and so bravely ? 
wbat would they have thought If they had known 
the many sleepless nights, when her pillows were 
watered by passionate tears, shed for " what might 
have been J” Would they have thought her proud 
and cold, I wonder. It they had known that—for 
the sake of one man. who had given her scorn, 
who had rejected her proffered love with con¬ 
tumely—to save Mm one pang sne would gladly 
have laid down her life? 
“I have had a letter from little Lottie Tyrrell.” 
says Cecil, smiling, as she begins to pour out tea; 
“she is delighted with Switzerland—fills four 
pages with a description of the RlgM and Mont 
Blanc, and then In two lines of a postscript, which, 
as usual, contains the most Important part of a 
young lady's letter, tells me that ErneBt joined 
their party at Grenoble and has heen with them 
ever since. You see, uncle Henry, my prophecy w 111 
turn out true. Ernest was always fond of Lottie, 
and she will make a charming little wife for 
him.” 
Mr. Daton makes no answer; he Is apparently 
absorbed in Ms newspaper, wMch he holds before 
Ms face In a manner which looks very much as If 
he were anxious to Mde It from Ms niece; but the 
hand which holds It Is very unsteady, and Cecil sees 
that it Is trembling. _ 
CHAPTER XXXII . 
“Did you hear me, Uncle Henry?” Cecil says. 
“Whydon’t you answer? Don’t you think It 
would be a very suitable match?” 
"Yes, yes, my dear,” answers Mr. Daron, hur¬ 
riedly. putting down the paper, and desperately 
attacking the dish before him. “Can I give you 
some of this, Ceell?" 
■•No, thank you," she replies, slowly, seeing 
how Ms kind old face has grown pale and how 
Ms eyes avoid meeting hers. “ Have you finished 
with the paper, Uncle ? May 1 see It ?" 
There is a moment’s silence, during which Mr. 
Daton looks over helplessly at Ms niece, and holds 
the paper tightly In his hand. 
“ May I see it?” she repeats gently. “ Uncle, 
do not be afraid. I can bear it, whatever It be l” 
She rises from her chair, and going over to Ms 
side, kneels down beside him, taking the paper 
gently from Ms shaking hands. He puts his arm 
around her in silence, and draws her closer to 
hint, as If by Ms tenderness he wishes to 30ften 
the blow to her. 
Cecil smiles, although her eyes are dim, and she 
turns ner cneek confidingly .against Ms shoulder 
for a moment; then she draws the paper nearer 
to her, and the eager eyes run rapidly over the 
columns in search of the name wMch Is so dear to 
her. They do not seek It long; quickly the para¬ 
graph she Is searching for is found. Cecil Lester 
looks at it In helpless silence for a moment, then 
she turns feebly to ber uncle: 
“l ncle Henry read It to me!” she whispers, 
low. I caunot—1 cannot see It 1” 
Very low and Tremulous Is the old man’s .voice, 
as he reads. He loves her so dearly, and he knows 
what these tidings may be to her. 
•• ‘it Is with the deepest regret’— so runs the 
paragraph—‘that we announce the death of Dr. 
Lawrence carewe, whose departure for the East 
we chronicled some months ago. TMs gentleman 
after rendering very great services during the 
late disastrous Turkish war, had started with a 
friend on a tour through the Principalities, and 
after having escaped scot-free through the peri¬ 
lous war campaign, lias mot a terrible death in 
the MU country on the other side of the Car- 
patMan range on the borders of Moldavia, 
Traveling through a dense forest district with 
Ms friend captain Moray, late of the-Lancers, 
and their attendants. Dr. Carewe’s party was at¬ 
tacked by the bill robbers who mrest those parts, 
and were overpowered after a short and despe-. 
rate resistance. Dr. Carewe and three of the band* 
were left dead In the forest; the rest were taken 
prisoners, and but one escaped. TMs man, after 
suffering terrible hardships, arrived at the nearest 
town of Belgrade, where heat once laid the matter 
In the hands of the authorities, wbo sent a troop of 
soldiers to reconn cltre, but wltnout success, and 
nothing was found but t be unfortunate men who 
had been the prey ot the vulture and the kite, and 
were beyond reeogMtlon. The unfortunate gen¬ 
tleman whose sad tate we deplore was in Ms thirty- 
fourth year, and had already attained no small 
degree of eminence In Ms profession. He was un¬ 
married.” 
“It may not bo true, my darling,” said Mr. 
Daton, tenderly : and although Ms blue eyes were 
full ot tears, he strove to speak cheerfully. “ There 
may be some mistake. 
Cecil shakes her head. 
*• i have no hope!” she said, in a hollow tone. 
“He Is dead! Oh, lncle Henry, do you think he 
knows now how much I loved Mm?” 
“My poor, poor child !” said the kindly merchant, 
broaenly, tears running down Ms wrinkled cheeks. 
But Cecil’? eyes are dry and burning, aud have an 
expression of intolerable pain. 
“ it may not be true, my child,” says Mr. Daton, 
tenderly. You know bow often—how very often— 
