ware, but left the diamonds and their fellow 
jewels safely in their meek retreat.—The 
Rural West. 
The Princess Louise will return to Canada 
this month. Her Royal Highness lias lent her 
beautiful studio in Kensington Palace to Miss 
Hilda Montalba. This lady, who has lately 
returned from Venice with her sister, Clara 
Montalba, is bus}- completing a picture began 
in the city of canals and palaces. It shows 
three Venetian girls hurrying home through 
the rain. Misty tints envelope the distant 
dome of San Marco and shroud the vistas of 
water and buildings, throwing into relief the 
brilliant tints of the Italian maidens 1 cos¬ 
tumes, and their bright faces. 
THE POPPY. 
The man who roams by wlM flower’d ditch or hedge 
Skirting the mead, 
Or treads the cornfield path—along Its edge 
May mark a weed, 
Whose ragged scarlet gear might well denote 
A roadside beggar 111 a soldier's coat. 
Hence ! terms misplaced, and t houghts disparaging ! 
Oh, l J oppy-flower! 
Thou art a Crcesus of the Held—its king— 
A mystic power. 
With emblems deep and secret blessings fraught, 
And potent properties that bailie thought. 
When thy hues catch, amid the growing corn, 
The traveler’s eye, 
“ Weeds! weeds (" he cries, and shakes his head In 
scorn 
But when on high 
The grain uplifts Its’harvest-bearing crest, 
The Poppy’s hidden, and the taunt suppress’d. 
So, when our early state Is poor and mean, 
Our portion small, 
Our scarlet-blushing moral weeds are seen, 
And blamed by all; 
But as we rise In rauk we win repute, 
Our faults gold-hidden, our accusers mute. 
- »«■+ - 
THOENS AND EOSES. 
CHAPTER IH. 
(Continued from page 675.) 
Sometimes, when I was in the cottage of some 
friend, he would enter, meeting with a recep¬ 
tion that showed that he was perfectly at 
home with poor and humble, and that they 
were at ease with liim. 
FIG. 483. 
I saw him often when he did not see me, thus 
gaining an insight to his character, though he 
puzzled me much. He led a good life, I was 
sure, but his melancholy was seldom lifted; bis 
gravity was undisturbed. 
I had once or twice visited Newville, and 
Mrs. Veraer was always pleased to see me, I 
being her favorite, as her son assured me. 
We saw a good deal of him, and for his sel¬ 
fishness I looked Ln vain. 
Edith laughed at his visits in his absence; 
and once in his presence said, with affected in¬ 
nocence, that he must have much more time 
on his hands now than he had in former days; 
to which he replied that by his mother’s desire 
he had given up shooting. 
Edith retorted that this was scarcely the 
shooting {season; he answered that he trusted 
his visits were ncft unwelcome, and Miss Edith 
might remember that in giving up the idea of 
shooting, he had given up many calls. 
Of my cousin’s character I could form no 
clear idea; she seemed all contradictions—now 
wild and sarcastic, now dull and weary ; now 
all mercenary and cold, and then showing me 
glimpses of true affection. 
She had a good heart spoiled by her educa¬ 
tion; a high nature unfortunately perverted; 
her faults might have been eradicated by 
careful training and a mother’s love. She dis¬ 
liked me, yet she delighted in teasing me; she 
liked aunt, yet loved to play tricks on her and 
utter sentiments that shocked the good, un¬ 
worldly lady. Nevil she treated with con¬ 
tempt; Brandon as she treated me. 
Nevil and Brandon came in the evenings, 
and we four played croquet: despite Ethel’s 
declaration that it was hideously old fashioned, 
and as much out of date as powder and 
patches; but aunt was opposed to such innova¬ 
tion as tennis or skittles, the very name of the 
latter grating on her ear. 
I was very happy—happy in a new joy 
which I did not then understand—which I 
could not define but which was one day to be¬ 
come clear. 
CHAPTER V. 
The change of Summer to Autumn had 
brought few changes to us, not interfering 
with our pleasant life; the woods, though their 
fresh green color had gone, were yet beauti¬ 
ful in the changing hues of Autumn, a few late 
roses were in the garden, and the days of the 
Indian Summer were as bright to me as those 
gone by. Edith was still with us; she had 
vacillated for two day’s between going and 
staying, on receipt of an iuvitation elsewhere, 
but finally decided in favor of our home, say¬ 
ing that she would like to see how it ended, 
though what “ it ” was she did not explain. 
Those about me seemed unchanged, but in 
myself I was conscious of a new feeling, only 
lately roused, against which my struggles had 
been vain. I knew that Nevil loved me, 
though he had never said it in words; but 
deeds are often more eloquent, and it was in 
act that be showed his love. Why, then, 
should I strive to crush my own love for him ? 
Perhaps my pride caused it, and made me dis¬ 
tant and reserved; he must often have thought 
me cold and haughty’, but it was not. in my’ 
nature to be very demonstrative in affection, 
nor could I give love or friendship easily, 
though the last kindness woke my gratitude. 
My world bad had a limited horizon; it was 
limited now; and my friends had been few but 
faithful. 
Looking back on the Summer months and 
Autumn weeks. I remember for how short a 
time I had known Nevil, and felt that we 
could not possibly’ understand each other, and 
was angry with myself; but I had kept my 
secret well: even ho could not know that I 
loved him. That his visits were principally’ 
to me everyone seemed to understand, and 
as far as aunt Dorothy’ was concerned lie was 
favored. I had not forgotten my cousin’s 
words, but I did not think him selfish; a little 
vain ho might be, yet who is without a blem¬ 
ish ? These, when Autumn days were passing, 
were my feelings; and whether Edith or 1 
read Nevil Vemer rightly’, time would try. 
A lovely Autumn evening—calm, dear, and 
still—and Edith and I were walking to and 
fro in the garden, she, as usual, speaking 
against Nevil Vemer. 
“Oh ! Kate,” she said, “I wish y r ou were not 
so obstinately blind to people’s faults! Nevil’s 
very’ conversation might show you what he is; 
but you are all disagreeable people here—you 
with ydur pride, Nevil with his conceit, and 
Brandon with his gloom! Why is he so dis¬ 
mal ?” 
“Is dismal the word, Edith ? I don’t, think 
it applies to Brandon. He may have reasons 
for his gravity.” 
“I did hear that his father- was unkind to 
him; but in that case, Brandon ought to have 
been relieved by* his death. I saw him a little 
while after it, and he looked miserable; though, 
if his father were unkind and all the rast, 
there is no reason why lie should break liis 
heart for the loss of such a parent.” 
“He was grave as u child,” I returned, little 
thinking bow her words would come back to 
me. “It is bis nature. He has never spoken 
of his father, and I don’t like to do so.” 
“I never heard Brandon speak of him either. 
I suppose he died suddeuly. My impression 
is that Brandon lias had a disappointment, 
long ago, and it has soured him. 
As she spoke Brandon appeared, but not 
alone, for Nevil Vemer followed him, at the 
kio. 484. 
sight of whom Edith tossed her head. 
“ Whatalovely evening, Brandon! ”shesaid, 
drawing him away, after extending two fingers 
to Mr. Vernor. 
Nevil and I followed slowly, and though I 
felt rather nervous, I wrapped myself in calm¬ 
ness as with a mantle, for I was too proud to 
make myself absurd. 
“You have not been to see us lately, 
Miss Lovell. My mother missed you very 
much.” 
“ I intend to call soon with Edith.” 
“With Edith!” he repeated, glancing to¬ 
wards that lady, w*ho was devoting herself to 
Brandon. “ How very unlike each other you 
two are; and I must say that you are my 
mother’s favorite. She knows, of course, that 
Miss Edith is pleased to dislike me, and that 
influences her—her love for me being one of 
her faults.” 
“ Is it a fault, Mr. Vemer ?” 
“ Some think so. A mother is blind to one’s 
imperfections, friends are not; y*ou are 
amongst them, Miss Lovell ? ” 
“ Amongst the friends or the fault-finders? ’’ 
“ The friends, I pray. You are very proud, 
Miss Lovell, and y*our esteem is hard to win; 
I have tried to win it, and if I have succeed¬ 
ed, I may gam what I value still more—your 
love.” 
“Just at this moment Aunt Dorothy called 
us in, and Edith came running to us. We 
returned to the dusky parlor, and how the 
evening passed, what I said or sung, I do not 
know, for I felt as one in a dream. 
Tenderly and lovingly did Nevil take leave 
of me, and that night my sleep was unbroken, 
for he loved me, and be had revealed it. 
Autumn went by, and chilly winds and gray 
sides foreshadowed the Winter. 
I persuaded Edith one day to ride with me 
to Mrs. Vemer’s, and after prophesying that 
we should be overtaken by a snowstorm, she 
consented, and we set out together. As we 
cantered over the common, I saw a man 
slowly crossing it, and wondered if he were 
Brandon. Hearing the sound of horse-hoofs, 
he looked round, and stood aside to watch us 
go by; he was, as I saw at once, a stranger, 
and as such I would have passed him, but be 
raised his liat, and Edith bowed. 
“Whois your friend?” I asked, as we rode 
on. 
“ I have seen his face somewhere,” she re¬ 
plied. 
“ Why did you bow?” 
“ He bowed to me. Oh, I remember! he’s 
the gentleman who traveled down to Royton 
with me, I know his smile, because it reminded 
me of aunt's gray cat.” 
“ He claims acquaintance with you because 
he chanced to be your railway companion 
once?” 
“ I don’t know. Perhaps he is a book-agent 
waiting orders. What a fuss you make!” 
I was not making a fuss, only her bow had 
struck me as being very cordial to a stranger. 
On arriving at Newville, we found Airs. Ver- 
ner alone, and Edith seated herself at the 
piano. 
We two had spoken together under cover of 
my cousin’s music, All's. Vemer suddenly 
seized my hands, looking earnestly at me and 
speaking softly. 
“ Kate, you know that my son loves you— 
he does indeed! From the first he admired 
you. He is the best of sons, and will you not 
think well of him. 
What could I answer to the mother pleading 
for her son? 1 could not say, “I love him,” 
for woman’s pride forbade it. 
“ Are you angry, Kate? He tells me you are 
proud—that he scarcely dare speak of love to 
you. You must not tell him thut I said this. 
I could not help it, because you hold his 
happiness in your hands.” 
“We have known each other so short a 
‘time,”I urged. 
“ It is many months since you met, and you 
surely don’t, doubt him? His goodness, his up¬ 
right life, his kind heart, may surely plead—” 
She broke off, for Edith, rising, declared 
she was tired of playing, and joined in the 
conversation. 
When our visit came to a close Mi's. Verner 
gave me a kind smile; but her eyes were sad, 
for she did not see that 1 loved her son, and 
perhaps thought with him that I was cold- 
hearted. 
Riding home, Edith asked me if I \ffere not 
tired of hearing Mrs. Vemer sing her son’s 
praises? 
“ It is provoking to see anyone so blind,” 
she said; “and how meekly she worships 
Narcissus!” 
“ I wish you would talk of anything save 
people’s faults?” I said. “You often say you 
are bored. Did it ever .strike you that you 
might be boring?” 
“ That’s like a Lovel!” she said, with perfect 
good humor. 
But it was one of her virtues not to be easily 
offended. 
We passed Kingston and curiously enough 
the stranger to whom Edith had bowed was 
gazing through the park gates, as though lost 
in admiration; hut as we passed he looked 
hastened to restore it, and she smilingly 
thanked him, then inquired if lie were 
going to see Mr. Lovel, for that was his 
residence; but the stranger was merely 
admiring the ground and had not the 
pleasure of knowing Mr. Lovel. 
“Nothing but meetings, Kate!” said 
Edith, as we rode on. “ I dropped 
my whip purposely; hut you need not 
look shocked! I want amusement. 
“Edith, do you think this right?” 
“ Don’t get excited, love; calm your¬ 
self. He may be a prince in disguise, for 
love tales often begin on the railway; 
it’s the fashion now-a-days.” 
There was a light in her eye, a smile on 
her lips that puzzled me: but of the 
stranger we said no more. 
I thought, often of All's. Verner’s words 
and of Nevil’s love, which was now ap¬ 
parent to us all, and, seeing it, Edith 
( refrained from speaking against him, 
though she provoked him as much as 
ever. Why did she dislike him? He 
was so kind and gentle, and “the best 
of sons. ” 
Was I obstinately blind to his faults, 
as Edith said? Was I mistaking for 
gold mere false, glittering metal? It could 
not be. I loved him because he was good, be¬ 
cause he was kind; but who can tell why they 
love? “ Is human love the growth of human 
will?” 
Brandon often came to see us, and we spoke 
of bygone days together, to aunt’s delight, and 
even Edith’s, as sho liked our grave kinsman 
though she ridiculed his gravity. One even¬ 
ing in particular of those many Autumn even¬ 
ings I remember, when ho came earlier than 
usual, feeling, he said, dull and looking very 
pale and weary. 
“You stud)* too much,” aunt said, “and it 
is not good for you, because it makes you sad 
and absent minded. You’ll lose your memory 
soon.” 
“ I wish I could,” lie replied, in a tone that 
struck me and fixed the words in my mind, 
whilst Edith laughed and stared. 
“Don’t study too much,” I said, when he 
was going, and we stood in the porch. 
“Oh, no! But my books are my friends. 
Good night.” 
fig. 487. 
“ Good night,” I echoed, and he was gone. 
***** 
Brandon Lovel rode home rapidly through 
the lane, carpeted with fallen leaves, over 
the bleak common, through the quiet village; 
until lie reached home. Crossing the hall, he 
entered a room lighted by the flame of an an¬ 
tique lamp, and the red glow of the fire, and 
throwing down whip and gloves, he stood 
gazing before him in reverie, unt il his glance 
fell on an open hook lying on the table; some 
passage attracted him, or perhaps from mere 
force of habit he sat down, and, leaning his 
head on his hand, began to read. 
[To be continued] 
