an) 
THOENS AND EOSES. 
(Continued front page (M2.) 
[n tho afternoon aunt and I went outside ; 
Edith remained indoors, lest the sun should 
spoil her complexion. When I returned to 
her, books lay on the table, music on the floor: 
and as I entered, she threw aside some embroid¬ 
ery, declaring that she was bored to death— 
that she could discover nothing very original 
about mo—and that she wished Brandon or 
Novil would come. 
“ I shall go and see Brandon to-morrow. 
Really—I feel inclined for a battle with Nevil 
now ; I wish he would come and give you a 
few of his airs and graces, or even Brandon 
would enliven us, for there’s a decided want of 
something now here.” 
“ There is a want of something new in your 
conversation,” I returned: “couldn’t you 
praise someone, or speak contentedly, just for 
a change ?” 
She stared at mo as if astonished, though I 
did not know why, as I certainly thought she 
might act on my suggestion. 
Neither Mr. Verner nor Brandon came ; and 
aunt said that Brandon might not wish to 
disturb us, and might think himself rather 
in the way, so l determined to go and see him 
myself, exercising Diamond for the fust time. 
Brandon was as a brother to me ; at least he 
had been so in the past, and 1 did not think 
that his affection would hare changed. 
Edith came into my room that night to show 
me how long her hair was out of its plaits, and 
askeil why on earth I sat staring out at tho 
sky instead of going to bed. 1 could not have 
told why ; 1 was musing on the past and pre¬ 
sent, and on the occurrences of the day : to¬ 
wards the future my waking thoughts had not 
traveled, yet my dreams were ull of it, and it 
seemed full of pain, w hils t L groped vainly in 
its shadows for my lost peace. 
CHAPTER III. 
Aunt Dorothy’s china dusted, and the fresh 
flowers duly gathered, I ga ve directions for 
Diamond to be saddled and prepared for me, 
aunt giving me directions as to how I must go 
to Kingston, mingled with messages for .Bran¬ 
don, and cautions against losing myself. Hav¬ 
ing seen my gallant steed iu readiness, I went 
in search of Edith, half hoping that she 
would accompany me ; and found her in the 
summer-house, its scat converted into a sofa, 
her hat on the floor, her eyes closed jus though 
in slumber. 
“ Art thou sleeping, maiden f” I asked. 
“ Whither away, cousin ?” she said, merrily. 
“ 1 am going to sec Brandon.” 
She opened her gray eyes to their utmost 
width, giving a faint, languid smile, as she 
said: 
“ Don’t you think you might as well run on 
to Newville und see Mr. Verner ?” 
“ Unfortunately, I do not know him.” 
“ You are really going to Brandon ?” 
“ Is it so very wonderful for me to visit my 
oldest friend—my almost brother—my kins¬ 
man f* 
“If it were kinswoman, I would say noth¬ 
ing. No matter ; you don't care for Madame 
Grundy.” 
“Certainly not. I was only trying to tease 
you, Kate. Remember me to Brandon, and 
tell him to come and see me.” 
“Will you not go with me?” 
“Nothanks! 1 went once, and by way of 
entertainment, Brandon brought me a lot of 
old relies to examine, until I felt bored to 
death.” 
“1 suppose ho did his best,” 1 returned. “I 
am going now, unless you will change your 
min d.” 
“No: but I’ll see you mount.” 
She drew her arm through mine, singing as 
we walked to my patient horse. She waved 
farewell laughing, whilst Black Diamond can¬ 
tered away. 
Drooping boughs of oak and chestnut touch¬ 
ed mo as I rode along the lone, to the intense 
arhmrati n of tho curly-headed urchins re¬ 
turning from school. Rising beside a stream 
was a black windmill, its huge arms motion¬ 
less; the miller’s cottage, with tall hollyhocks 
and lupins beside; and this being one of my 
landmarks, Diamond swept past, cleared the 
hedge in splendid style, aud bounded over a 
breezy common as though he enjoyed the 
freshness t if the ai r as i nuoh as 1 did. We can¬ 
tered through a village street, and thou, as we 
reached a white dusty high road, Diamond re¬ 
lapsed into his steady canter, and 1 caught a 
glimpse of the turrets of my brother’s home. 
Very soon I had passed through the park, and 
drew' rein a s 1 reached the lodge aud iron gates 
of the more private grounds. 
A man came out to my assistance, and after 
glancing at the horse, remarked that I was 
Miss Lovol, for he knew Diamond, Mr. Brim- 
don having broken him. Leaving Diamond, I 
went slowly towards the house, until among 
the trees T hoard the sound of a voice. A clear 
tenor broke the silence, and I listened, motion¬ 
less, whilst the unseen sang on: 
“There was something the season wanted, 
Though the ways anil the woods wore sweet— 
The breath at your lips that panted. 
The pulse of the grass at your feet.” 
Was it Brandon ? My heart beat as I 
waited for the “singing pilgrim” to draw 
nearer. 
“ I waited to watch you linger 
With foot drawn back from the dew-’ ” 
There was the rustle of branches pushed 
aside by a Strong arm, and the next moment 
I had clasped my old playmate’s hands. 
“ Welcome home, dear sister!” he cried— 
“ Welcome homo at last! How glad I am to 
see my little companion of bygone days—my 
flrst friend !” 
I turned aside, half crying, because I felt so 
happy that he was glad, and suspected there 
were tears in his eves too. 
Ah, me! no vision of how I should stand be¬ 
fore him, a humbled, sorrowful woman, in 
these very woods, threw its shadow on mo 
then! I was happy. 
“ You caiuo to see me, Kate ? That was 
kind ; it was like you. Not the flrst time you 
have come to Kingston, and many a castle 
have wo built together ; but you are changed 
since than.” 
“ Changed 1 repeated, 
“ Changed from the little one of my child¬ 
hood. We all change with time, we parted 
children, and wo meet—one a man, the other 
almost a woman.” 
There was a ring of sadness iu his voice that 
in a moment recalled to me his neglected 
youth, his many trials, and his lonely life. 
“ Dear Braudop.” 1 said, “ whatever out¬ 
ward change has come, 1 am to you the old 
Kate. Could I forget you, brother t Does a 
sister’s love lull ?” 
if there h.nl been restraint on either side it 
has passed away now, and bygone days might 
have returned. We were yet lingering in the 
forest-shelter, and i looked at his face. 
What hail 1 expected to see .'—the child with 
whom I had played—or a bent, worn man ? 
Edith's phrases had misled me, aud 1 saw a 
Brandon l had not pictured. Grave and quiet 
he was indeed, and there was a strange shade of 
melancholy in his face; but there was power in 
the compressed lip, intellect iu the lofty brow, 
truth and honor in the dark oyes; ho was bice 
a bygone Lovel, pictured at home, with his 
line face, his clear-cut features and bill form. 
Of Ids character as a man 1 scarcely thought; 
for to me he was the Brandon of early days; 
he had, X knew, the pride that keeps us from 
speaking falsely Or unkindly, from being mean 
or untrue—a different pride from that which 
we usually accept us such, and which is mere 
arrogance, t’erhaps, looking on him by the 
warm light of old affection, i made him all 
too faultless; but I know as we stood to¬ 
gether in the quiet forest, 1 believed that there 
were none on earth more noble than my 
brother Brandon. 
“Shall we go to the house ?” he said pres¬ 
ently, und we left the woods, he holding aside 
stray branches lor me to pass. 
“ How did you know where I was ” I asked, 
watching a broken blossom float down the tide 
as we paused on the bridge. 
“ I saw my friend Diamond, and knew you 
must have come. Something guided me to 
the forest; perhaps a bird to the right -aug 
Here." 
“ And you had npt forgotten me ? ” 
“ You left Aunt Dorothy well ?” he asked, 
and then l was sorry l had asked him had ho 
forgotten me. 
“ Yes, she is well. Edith arrived yesterday, 
and wants you to see her. Oh Brandon, how- 
good you have boon to Aunt Dorothy! She 
has told mo of your kindness, and I know 
what you have been, and are, to her.” 
He looked at me wouderingly. 
“ Js it so much to visit one so kind and gen¬ 
tle ? And you don't see tho selfishness of it 
either! ” 
We had reached the house', and he opened 
one of the long windows, leading the way iuto 
a st range, quaint apartment, with oak ceiling 
aud tapestried walls skins of animals, bronze 
statues, an inlaid table supporting a rapier and 
an ivory casket with jewelled clasps. 
“ This is my reception-room," said Brandon. 
“Are you not very lonely ?” 
“ Sometimes; but it can't be helped. I have 
no relat ions; aud Aunt Dorothy has settled my 
future for mo.” 
Thus lightly could he dismiss his owu who 
pitied so deeply the loneliness of others. 
“ My other room is all books,” he said,“ and 
very few care to enter it: my old housekeeper 
slums it, because of a skull I ouee showed 
her.” 
“And you like to live quite among books ?” 
“it runs in the family, Kate. There was a 
Brandon Lovel in the good old times, aud 1 fol¬ 
low in his footsteps. But tell me about your¬ 
self.” 1 spoke of my school-life, aud he listen¬ 
ed wilhu faint smile; of himself he said but 
little, and 1 could not speak of his father: it 
was a subject too painful, though l caught my¬ 
self contrasting the revels of the past with the 
perfect repose of the present. 
“You will come and see us, Brandon, and 
find out the pictures on the tiles for me 1” 
His whole faeo brightened, and he laughed. 
“ You remember even that ? Oh 1 yes, I will 
come.” 
We walked out together, ami Brandon assis¬ 
ted me to mount. I looked back just before 
the trees hid him from sight; he was standing 
where I had left him, a lonely figure, looking 
after me as I rode away. 
On arriving home, I found Edith in very 
low spirits, and aunt was endeavoring to cheer 
her. 
[To bo continued] 
-♦ ♦ ♦- 
A great many persons become insane from 
sleepless nights that Hop Bitters would have 
prevented. —A d v. 
omcivile Cconomij 
CONDUCTED BY EMILY MAPLE. 
LITTLE HELPS. 
MAY MAPLE. 
Not long ago Mrs. M. Wager-Fisher rec¬ 
ommended the assistance of men as hired help 
in the house—when it was inconvenient to 
find girls, or women to aid in the work of the 
household. Thus was a good suggestion, and 
works well in some localities. But I believe 
in most country places it would be quite as 
diffi cult to find men or boys to go iuto the 
house to earn a living as it would be to find 
capable girls. In fact, 1 think it would be eas¬ 
ier to hire girls to go out upon the farm to 
plant com, dig potatoes, etc. t 
Occasionly one will “come down” to the 
work if his wages are likely to be a little more 
than ho cun get at anything else, or a little 
more than double what girls would receive. 
But there is a certain class among farmers, at 
least, who have not yet reached the middle 
round of the ladder that leads to “comforta¬ 
ble circumstances,” and these are scarcely able 
to hire a domestic, and yet they need some as¬ 
sistance. 
“Oh!" says the young housekeeper, with lit¬ 
tle three-year-old hanging to her skirts and a 
baby of three or six months in her arms, “if I 
could only havo some one to take some care of 
baby and amuse Madio, bring in wood, and 
au occasional pail of water, and feed the chick¬ 
ens”—for who ever saw a farm-house without 
its groups of chickens—“and do a hundred 
Other little odds and ends of chores that do 
not amount to much taken singly, but when 
added to numerous other cares, become really 
burdensome.” And the young farmer fre¬ 
quently feels that the barn chores are a heavy- 
tax upon his strength when he has followed 
tho plow or harrow from early morning till 
set of sun, but as yet he feels unable to pay a 
man $15 or $20 dollars a month and board; so 
he plods on as best he may. 
Now in almost every State there is an or¬ 
phans’ asylum, and these houses or State pub¬ 
lic schooLs, us they are often called, are fre¬ 
quently filled with friendless children of both 
sexes whose ages range from infancy to fifteen 
or sixteen years. They are not children who 
have been sent to the institution for bad be¬ 
havior, though we do not doubt there may be 
now and then one who has somewhat the dis¬ 
position of a street Arab, but they are home¬ 
less and friendless, and need parental training, 
that they may make noble specimens of man¬ 
hood and womauhood. Now. if these faun- 
el's, who are overtaxing their strength, both 
indoors and out, knowing their inability to 
hire, and having no children large enough to 
assist about the “chores,” would each take one 
of the friendless ones into their family and pa¬ 
tiently teach him or her what would be re¬ 
quired from day to day, the burden would, 
much of it, slip from the shoulders of those so 
much overtaxed. And any healthy child of 
12 or 13 years can earn its board aud clothes 
and not be overworked either. Aud if the 
child Is treated as a sou or daughter, he or she 
will very soon take an interest in the work, 
that no hireling would over think of doing. 
And very soon you will find your little assis¬ 
tant will grew into just the truly efficient 
I help that you so much need. Let us help the 
helpless, and in so doing help ourselves. 
# 
ECHOES FROM EVERY-DAY HOUSE. 
ANNIE L. JACK. 
It is pleasant to read in the pages of the 
Rural such kind little words of encourage¬ 
ment as those given by “ Olive.” “ Every -Day 
House ” is a real home, where live a large and 
happy family, each bust with whatever his or 
her hands find to do. The boys help the girls 
in many a task that would be otherwise disa¬ 
greeable, aud the girls, in turn, help their 
brothers over many a rough place. It is a 
busy home, yet, withal, there is rest there, 
and omong the trees aud fruits and flowers of 
that quiet hillside, strangers, after a few days’ 
visit, generally say: “How restful this home is! ” 
To be busy and helpful is one of the greatest 
charms life can have, and yet how few under¬ 
stand it. I do not mean a life of drudgery) 
but of earnest work, varied by recreation that 
will keep the mind as well as the body em¬ 
ployed. 
Just now to the ruralist it is a time of 
comparative leisure, and let us hope that every 
reader will take advantage of the many ex¬ 
cursions to visit, if but for a short time, other 
and new scenes. The contact with kindred 
spirits, the rubbing against each other, and 
the interchange of ideas are calculated to do 
good to all of us, and let the weary wife and 
mother leave her charge if but for a. week—the 
work would go on, dear friend, if you were 
dead. Let the loved ones miss you for a few 
days while you see the beauties of Nature and 
of Art. We cannot all visit the Yosomite Val¬ 
ley, but wo may see Niagara at little cost, and 
hear the wind and see the prospect from some 
mountain top. Or, if not, go to the nearest 
town, not on a shopping errand, but to see 
anything that has been collected for your in¬ 
struction. Visit museum or art gallery, or at¬ 
tend some good concert or lecture. It will 
brighten your life, and be long remembered 
in your future. 
DOMESTIC RECIPES. 
PICKLED ONIONS. 
Select the small white onions, remove with 
a knife all the outer skin so that each onion 
will be perfectly white and clean. Make a 
strong brine (one that will float an egg), put 
the onions in and let remain three days. Take 
out and cover with hot spiced vinegar. 
W UIPPBD-C REAM PIE. 
Sweeten a teacupful of veiy thick, sweet 
cream and make as cold as possible without 
freezing. Line two small pie-tins with mod¬ 
erately rich crusts prick in several places to 
prevent blistering and bake in a quick oven. 
Flavor the cold cream and whip as you would 
eggs for frosting. When the crests are cold, 
spread on the cream and if you like to add 
a finish, put bits of jelly on top. 
FRICASSEED CHICKEN. 
Cut up and put on to boil in a small quan¬ 
tity of water. Season with salt, pepper and 
an onion if liked. Stew very slowly until 
tender, then add a half pint of rich milk or 
cream and thicken with batter and flour 
rubbed together, add a little chopped parsley 
just before serving. Have toasted some thin 
slices of bread, arrange on a platter and pour 
over the chicken. Long Island. 
WILD GRAPE JELLY. 
In the matter of jelly the wild grape is to 
the housewife of the Western plains what the 
currant is to her sisters of the East. The jelly 
is nicest when about one-thinl of the grapes 
are still green. Put them, stems and all, into 
a preserving kettle and add sufficient water 
to cook soft, stirring occasionally. When 
done, strain and boil a few minutes or till the 
water is boiled out; then add sugar, a pound 
to a pint of the juice. If rightly done a few 
minutes will make it. Mrs. A. E. S. 
--- 
Preserving Blue Fish, etc., for Winter Use. 
A friend calling upon us was asked his 
method of salting down fish, which he gave as 
follows : Know that your fish are just out of 
the water. Split open, remove entrails, and 
cut out the back-bone so that every particle of 
blood is soaked out in the brine. Do 
not scale. Put the fish into a weak 
brine and lot stand over-uigkt. In the 
morning pour off the water and cover 
with another brine. After a few hours take 
out the fish very carefully and lay on a board 
to drain—tipping up the board so that all of 
the brine rims off. Now put a layer of clean 
coarse salt in tbc bottom of the cask you are 
to pack the fish in, theu a layer of fish, then 
one of salt, and so on, until all are in. The 
last layer should be salt. In a. few days you 
will find the fish covered with a clear brine. 
Keep in a cool place. The fish must of course 
be kept under the brine. One essential thing is 
to handle the fish as little as possible from 
first to last. 
-♦ *-»- 
QUESTIONS ANSWERED. 
CHIPPED BEEF. 
Please give directions for cooking chipped 
beef. s. G. 
Ans. —The beef should be first covered with 
boiling water to freshen, then pour it off, 
frizzle in a spoonful or more of butter, dredge 
with a little flour, add new milk, from a half 
pint to a pint according to the quantity of beef, 
and simmer 10 minutes. Just before takiug 
from the tire stir in tho beaten yelk of an egg. 
- 
Paralytic, nervous, tremulous old ladies are 
made perfectly quiet and sprightly by using 
Hop Bitters, daily.— Adv. 
