CilCVUTlj, 
THE STRANGER ON THE SILL. 
Between broad Holds of wheat and corn, 
In the lowly home where I was born ; 
The peach tree leans against the wall, 
And the woodbine wanders over all ; 
There Is a shadowed doorway still, 
But a Stranger's foot has crossed tlio sill. 
There Is the barn—and as of yore, 
I can smell the hay front the opfli door, 
And see the busy swallows throng, 
And hear the poo woe's mournful song ; 
Out the stranger comes—oh, painful proof, 
His sheaves are piled to the heated roof. 
There Is the orchard—the very trees 
Where my childhood knew long hours of ease, 
And watched the shadowy moments run, 
Till my life has Imbibed more shade than sun ; 
The swing from the bow still sweeps the air, 
But the struugcr's children arc swinging there. 
There bubbles the shady spring below, 
With its bulrush brook where the hazels grow, 
'Twas there I found the calamus root, 
And watched the minnows poise the shoot, 
And heard the robin lave his wing— 
But a stranger’s bucket Is at the spring. 
Oh. ye who dally cross the stll, 
Step lightly, for I love It still; 
And when you crowd the old barn eaves, 
Then think what countless harvest sheaves 
Have passed within that scented door 
To gladden eyes that are no more. 
Deal kindly t^ith these orchard trees ; 
And when your children crowd your knees, 
Their .sweetest fruit they shall Impart, 
As if old memories stirred their heart; 
To youthful sport still leave the swing, 
And In sweat reverence hold the spring. 
The barn, the trees, the brook, the birds, 
The meadows with their lowing herds, 
The woodbine on the cottage wall— 
My heart st ill lingers with them all, 
Ye strangers on my native sill, 
Step lightly, for I love it still. 
THOENS AND EOSES. 
(Continued from page C90.) 
Lost to outward things, he read on, com¬ 
paring the text with manuscripts before him, 
until something in one of the papers puzzled 
him; he bent over it closely, then turned to 
the accumulation ou the table in search of a 
missing link. His hand touched something, 
neither book nor paper, but a little knot of 
rose-colored ribbon, and his pale face flushed, 
as, rising, he pressed it to his lips. 
“My books/’ he sighed, “you are dear to 
me, and 1 have made you my companions;but 
you cannot, you cannot give me human love! 
She was right,"’ he said, pausing by the old 
escritoire, “one Lovel must remain alone. 
But I dare not let this mood grow on me!” 
With an effort he resumed his search for the 
paper in the escritoire, and touching some- 
ting cold under the dusty heap, he brought it 
out, thou dropped it suddenly. 
It was a dagger with a carved handle—a 
blade marked, it seemed, with rust, 
Brandon’s face, if pale before, was livid 
now, and tilled with a dread and horror im¬ 
possible to describe; great drops started on his 
forehead; he looked at his hands as though he 
expected to see stains on t hem, and shuddered. 
“ Why this night of all others ?’ he groaned, 
“ can nothing blot out the past and efface that 
red stain from my memory at least ? Will it 
come—shall I be found? Oh! Heaven, do Thou 
have mercy on me!” 
The face bent on the trembling hands was 
convulsed with agony; the strong frame 
quivered from head to foot; and even the 
entrance of the old housekeeper did not rouse 
him. « 
“Brandon—Mr. Brandon! What is it?” 
“ Look,” he said, shrinking from her touch, 
“I came on this to-night! To-night, of all 
others!” 
“ Oh ! Mr. Brandon, why have you kept it ? ’> 
“To-night,” he repeated, “ this ghastly an¬ 
niversary ! ” 
“ Dear master, for the love of heaven, for¬ 
get it! ” 
Ah! Anna, the past is eternal, and my 
struggles are vain. But this, at least, shall 
go.” 
And as he spoke he plunged the dagger into 
the burning embers, then sank into his seat, 
laying his arms on the table, and there resting 
his head, whilst the old woman stood with wet 
eyes, whispering words of comfort. But at 
length lie looked up with his old melancholy 
smile. 
“ You needn’t fear, Anna. I could not help 
—just then. Leave me now.” 
He watched her as she walked away, meet¬ 
ing her backward glance with the same forced 
smile. 
But when alone, he walked to the window, 
and stood gazing out, with dark, weary 
eyes, and quivering lips, at the quiet glory of 
the Autumn night, as though he sought for 
peace! 
CHAPTER VI. 
Whex Winter had come, with “ his frosty, 
merry train,” we were necessarily much con¬ 
fined to the house, and therefore the days were 
more monotonous than had been those of 
Summer and Autumn; but in spite of this, 
Edith declared her intention of remaining at 
Lovel House, and had written home to that 
effect. She lamented to me that no rich 
suitor had appeared, though, she argued, it 
proved the world’s bad taste in thus neglect¬ 
ing her. I was rather surprised that she 
stayed here. 
“Why, my dear cousin,” she said, when I 
one day expressed this surprise to her. there’s 
only home for me to go to, because papa likes 
us all to be together at Christinas: and its 
either home or Lovel House. I can’t stand 
Mrs. Hawdon's charity dinners and blauket- 
distributings. They are perfect nuisances, not 
to speak of the prosy people she gathers round 
her for so-called festivities; and I choose to 
stay here. Shall we go out ? Pm sick of the 
house! ” 
I agreed, and we presently left the house to¬ 
gether, walking through the village, with its 
cottages roofed in snow and the bright flame 
of cosy fires shining through the windows. 
There was an old woman whom I specially 
wished to see, and when we reached the 
crooked, one-eyed building that was her 
home. I proposed to Edith that we should both 
[ go in. 
“Not I. Kate! I have no fancy for these 
stuffy little rooms and ‘poverty’s counsel.’ 
You go as you like it, and I will wait outside;” 
1 went iu alone and fouud the old lady very 
ill and equally cross. A little cluster of win¬ 
ter blossoms brightening the dingy room had, 
she informed me, been brought by Mr. Bran¬ 
don himself, who had also written a letter 
for her to her married son. Musing on the 
peculiarly delicate kindness with which my 
kinsman was endowed, I bade farewell, and 
went out to the street, looking for Edith. 
At no great distance I perceived her talking 
eagerly to a gentleman who leaned on the 
gate of a cottage garden—“ that stranger” 
who had taken to haunting our daily walks. 
An uuusual feeling of annoyance stirred 
within me. I vent on, looking anything but 
amiable. 
Edith was not iu the least embarrassed or 
confused. She looked at me with her own cool 
self-possession, her expression unchanged. 
“ I hope you found the love-lorn one better ? 
Allow me to introduce you to a very old 
friend of mine, Mr, Edgar Dana.” 
Mr. Edgar Dana bowed, coloring slightly, 
and glancing halt-deprecatingly at me; but 
I returned his salute coldly, and looked at 
Edith with, I hope, some of the contempt I 
felt. Glances, contemptuous or otherwise, 
were thrown away on that young lady, for 
in return she gave me her sweetest smile, and 
extended her hand gracefully to the stranger, 
saying: 
“Good-by for the present, Edgar. We 
shall be very glad to see you at Lo rel House. 
Come, Kate.” 
She turned away, and I followed, so utterly 
bewildered that speech for some moments was 
impossible; and then, when I recovered, it was 
prevented by the appearance of Nevil Veraer, 
who had been riding behind us, and now 
pulled up to address us, inquiring, after the 
usual greetings, if lhat were Brandon from 
whom he had just, parted. Edith gave a 
side-long smile,” not wholly dissimilar to that 
with which Lara favored his foe—if contempt, 
mischief, and disdain had any share in it. 
“Don’t you know Brandon when you see 
him? That is a new admirer of Kate’s, who 
wants to carry her away. Aunt is broken¬ 
hearted,” 
“ Edith t” I exclaimed, coloring indignantly, 
and angry with myself for doing so; but she 
laughed, and Nevil abruptly bowed farewell, 
riding away. 
Edith set off at a rapid pace: but not being 
particularly anxious to overtake her, I did uot 
hurry myself. She waited just inside the 
gates of Lovel House, and as I advanced, 
louned against a tree, with a peel of merry 
laughter that made the garden ring; then 
cried, breathlessly: 
“ My dearest coz, you look just like an 
icicle. I think I have done you a great ser¬ 
vice to-day, so don’t be angry.” 
“ If you think I am angry because of your 
siliy statement to Mr. Verner, you are much 
mistaken; but I think you have beeu guilty of 
great deception.” 
“ If you are going to preach I arn going in.” 
And away she went along the avenue, I after 
her quietly, and entering the house, followed 
her upstairs, after announcing our arrival to 
aunt. 
Edith was waiting in the dressing-room, and 
studying her face in the mirror. 
“ Now for the sermon, Kitty. How have I 
been guilty of deception, joy of my heart?” 
“ Who is the gentleman you introduced?” 
“Your education has been strangely neg¬ 
lected if you never heard of the Dana’s.” 
“ Of course I have heard of them.” I re¬ 
plied. 
“ Good angel of my life! Edgar is a rela¬ 
tive.” 
“ He traveled with you; he has been here 
ever since; and you pretended that he was a 
stranger. That is deception pure and simple, 
Edith; but I will not be a party to any further 
deception, whatever it may be.” 
And prepared for a battle, I sat down beside 
the fire, whilst Edith looked fixedly at me. 
“ Madam Gravity,” she said, letting the 
shining coils of her hair fall down, “ I said he 
was a stranger that day, because, ages ago, we 
had agreed to be strangers; we are so now, in 
a certain sense, so it is not deception.” 
“ Ask yourself if you have been straight¬ 
forward. You mad 3 me believe you had never 
met this Mr, Dana before, Edith, and you 
know it.” 
“ Listen then, Kate, and I will tell you: 
Edgar was once on very friendly terms with 
my people, of course in the days when he— 
did not go gipsying, but had expectations. 
He was an orphan-ward of an old doctor in 
this county, but lived near us, society receiv¬ 
ing him favorably, as it was popularly sup¬ 
posed he would inherit his guardian’s savings. 
1 was a school-girl, lie a ‘collegian,’ and during 
holiday-time we were a great deal together, 
and as was inevitable, we fell in love. It 
was considered a good match, but we were 
absurdly young, and marriage then was out 
of the question. But there was an engage¬ 
ment, tacitly acknowledged, until the doctor 
died intestate, his property was claimed by 
the next of km, and Edgar’s fortune “scatter¬ 
ed was to wintry winds.” As soon as this 
was known there was a call to arms, a gath¬ 
ering of the clans, and a general uproar. 
Edgar was cut by his great relatives, and 
banished with the information that he was a 
clever young man, and the world was a wide 
field of labor for clever young men, especially 
if they wore penniless. Then he was sum¬ 
moned to my home, but we had no “ Lucy 
and Master of Ravensword” performances. 
Papa was very kind , very polite, and of course 
Mr Dana knew as well as he did that Edith 
could not be expected to regard a childish 
promise as serious; and it might be better if 
he ceased his Visits just at present. I had no 
wish to marry ] loverty, so I said 1 Good-bye’ 
and we agreed to be strangers. There was 
a farewell to the long letters, the homeward 
drives from dances, the walks, the foolish 
words, the stolen meetings-Oh ! cousin, 
for nearly a month I cried my eyes out! I 
never saw anything of Edgar until last year, 
when we met at the opera. Papa was very 
gracious to him, because I was then half en¬ 
gaged to that rich old Mortimer, who died 
after of apoplexy. You can imagine my 
amazement last Summer when Edgar got into 
the compartment; there was a tragic start 
on his side. We met almost, as strangers, 
and I gave him Lovel legends to prevent him 
speaking of old times. That is all, and now 
am I so wicked?” 
“What is Mr. Dana doing here?” 
“ He is secretary to General Polwyn.” 
General Polwyn was a retired Indian officer 
who was writing a history of the war. 
“ Does your father know?” 
“ Never thought it worth my while to tell 
him.” 
“ Then you are acting wrongly, and I can’t 
allow Mr. Dana to come here, after what you 
have told rnu,” 
“ Do you think 1 am mad, Kate? On my 
word, if I were dying of love for Edgar, I 
wouldn’t take him unless he were rich. Papa 
once said, “Don’t marry a poor man, Edith, 
for you would make yourself and him miser¬ 
able;” and it is true. Edgar’s poverty is on 
eternal bar!” 
“ Then why have anything to do with him?” 
“ Are you one of those stiff old things who 
call flirtation a crime? I can’t cut Edgar—I 
won’t! I shall tell papa, Kate; he knows me 
better than you do. He knows, and Edgar 
knows, that I shall go to the highest bidder, 
like a picture!” 
1 ‘ There is a wise proverb about playing with 
edged tools, Edith.” 
“ Do you suppose I could forget our posi¬ 
tions, or the difference between Miss Lovel 
and General Polwyn’s secretary? Thanks 
for the compliment you pay my common 
sense!” 
She was angry with me, I thought, and we 
dressed in silence; but ere we left the room 
she laid her lurid on my shoulder, saying: 
“ I wish, Kate, I were like you, and not 
selfish—not sordidly ambitious!” 
The unusual gravity left her. She pointed 
at her reflection iu the mirror, laughing: 
“ With that face I ought to win more than 
love in a cottage, even though 1 am only 
“ ‘ A penniless lass wl* a liuiii pedigree !'" 
I stayed behind a few moments; and when 
I returned to the parlor, I found aunt Dorothy 
looking slightly bewildered as Edith sang the 
praises of her newly-found friend. Later on 
she dropped me an airy curtsey, exhibiting a 
letter in her own dashing caligraphy. 
“ I have confessed all to papa, and have 
told him that you are afraid ho will object to 
Mr. Dana’s visits.” 
“ Very well,” I said. “If your father ap¬ 
proves, I have no more to say. 
For some days after our encounter with Mr. 
Dana, neither Edith nor myself had been out, as 
the weather was cold and stormy, Nevil had 
not called lately, and I was wondering if he 
were ill, when Brandon came, and he behoved 
that all at Nevil Towers were well. 
(To be continued.) 
for lUornrn. 
CONDUCTED BY MISS HAY CLARK. 
OLD-FASHIONED ROSES. 
They ain't no stylo about ’em— 
Anti they’re sort o’ pale and faded 
Ylt the doorway here, without ’em 
Would be louesomer an ! shaded 
With a good ’eal blacker shudder 
Than the morning’ glories makes. 
And the sunshine would look sadder 
For their good old-fashion’ sakes. 
I like ’em cause they kind o' 
Sort o’ make a feller like ’em j 
And I'll tell you, when 1 find a 
Btmeli out whur the sun kin strike ’em 
It alius sets me thinkln* 
O’ the ones that used to grow 
And peek In through the chinkin’ 
O’ the cabin, don’t you know ? 
And theu I think o'motlier, 
And how she used to love ’em, 
When they wuzu't any other, 
'Bess she found ’em up above ’em ! 
And her eyes, afore she shut ’em 
Whispered with a smile, and said 
We must pick a bunch and put ’em 
In her hands when she was dead. 
But, as I wuz a saylu', 
They ain't no style about ’em, 
Very gaudy er displayin’, 
But I wouldn’t be without ’em. 
’Cause I'm happier in these posies 
And the hollyhawks and sleh 
Than the huinmiti’ ’at noses 
In the roses of the rich. 
SUMMERING. 
(Continued from page 689.) 
In the hotel tuning room were gathered the 
usual variety of the human species. Atthe table 
next us was a group of three, whose manners, 
jewels and generally over-fed condition pro¬ 
claimed them unfortunates with more cash 
than brains. The two ladies were especially 
below par. Such hangs! Only nabobs could 
have afforded bandoline sufficient to keep 
them in position, and alas! they trifled sadly 
with some of the proprieties. 
After dinner we visited the new Mountain 
House, which stands farther south over¬ 
looking the same view as the old Mountain 
House. From there wo went on to Sunset 
Rock, Haines Falls, and other points of inter¬ 
est. As we neared the town which was the 
limit of the day’s travel, something was said 
about temperance, and Miranda remarked 
that she was quite ready to lecture that even¬ 
ing if we would procure a place for her. We 
proposed she should rehearse to us, and she 
immediately begau. 
“I conduct my lectures after the Socratic 
method, ’ she said, whereupon she directed her 
questions to our driver, and as they were 
quite out of his line, his answers were prepos - 
terously wrong. Site proceeded with scientific 
explanations and elaborate arguments, discov¬ 
ering to Mr. Q. such a knowledge of his inter¬ 
nal structure and of chemical combinations and 
effects that the whole situation was infinitely 
funny to the occupat ts of the back seat. 
“Sugar is composed of carbon, oxygen and 
hydrogen,” said she. “Oh, you can’t come 
that on me!” interrupted her incredulous 
hearer, “ I’ve seen ’em make sugar lots of 
times, and they never put any such stuff as 
that iu it!” Miranda had been teaching 
chemistry and physiology and was Pres dent 
of the Juvenile Temperance Union, so she was 
“ up ” on her s ubject, and with merry peals of 
laughter she went on through the physical 
and moral phases of the theme much to Mr. 
Q.’s amazement and our amusement. 
She emphasized her elucidations with many 
earnest gestures, the effect of which was 
hightened by the very demoralized condition 
of her gloves, which, though in a normal state 
when we started, had suffered untold things 
from their wearer’s clambering up rocks, 
picking new botanical specimens, and from 
the stage, which had beeu newly varnished for 
the occasion. 
At the conclusion of the lecture we found 
ourselves near our journey’s end, and once 
more in the pleasant little town lying sur¬ 
rounded by mountains, we dismissed Mr. Q., 
who proved himself the model driver to the 
lust, fur he possessed the proverbinll i extor¬ 
tionate spirit which characterizes the class the 
world over, ami though an agreement liad 
bee i made for the distance, he assured us there 
was a misunderstanding. The guileless Mir¬ 
anda had not detected the far-eff odor of that 
common species of vermin whose proclivity in 
such cases is distinguishable only to those who, 
to speak elegantly, have cut their eye-teeth, 
but Abigal and I had begun to reason within 
ourselves anil were not surprised nor so ready 
to be persuaded. On principle I declared for the 
