THE RURAL NEW-YORKER. 
“ Perhaps it will pain you, perhaps vex you, 
perhaps it is one of my foolish fancies.” 
" Perhaps you will tell me, and then I can 
judge. Be frank and fearless, utnl dou’t spare 
me.” 
"Dear Brandon, it is so selfish of me! But 
to speak with you will help me. Contrast our 
past with our present, and you may see what 
I mean; we are not to each other what I had 
hoped; I can’t explain myself very clearly, but 
it is as though something had risen between us 
—a shade of I know not what. We have been 
apart for long; you are full of self-reliance, 
wise and firm, and so I would have you; but 
there is some restraint that I can’t define!” 
"Ami cold or unkind'” 
“ You could not be. But you are more re¬ 
served—no, I cannot explain myself; but tell 
me, dear, is it my imagination, or is there 
a shadow?” 
He was silent a long time, and 1 thought ho 
was pale and cold, as ho gazed before him 
still and motionless; but he turned to me at 
length, laying his hand on my arm. 
“I Understand you perfectly; I know well 
what you mean: we are to each other distant 
relatives—not the brother and sister we once 
were. In old days wo had no secrets from 
each other; you know my every thought, and 
I knew yours; there was no trivial act of mine 
of which you did not hear; no fancy crossing 
my brain that you did not know; no dream in 
which you did not share; and now—even 
from you—I have my secrets.” 
“ I ilid not mean that; it would be unjust as 
well as foolish to expect that you should tell 
me everything, Brandon !” 
" Wei), if there bo a shade between us, Kate, 
it is through me it comes, not through you. I 
say i f—not that there is. Since old days many 
things have happened; there have been clouds 
on my way that can never, that will never be 
yours; but shade or no shade, bo assured of 
this, that in me you have a sincere and devot¬ 
ed friend. Do not fear speaking openly to 
me, even though l am reserved with you. Ah, 
my sister, if is better so!—how much better 
you will never know! I have had thoughts 
and visions that no one could share; J have mv 
secrets! You are open ns the day to me; I 
cannot be the same to you! Yes, I admit it; 
we ore not now as wo once were, and why we 
are not is butter left unsaid; the change is not 
with you, but with myself- But y ou are ever 
dear to me, you ever will be—and you will be¬ 
lieve that!” 
“Oh I dear brother,” I said, looking into his 
grave, earnest face, “ there is no shadow, save 
what my own exacting spirit created.” 
He sighed faintly, but soon relapsed into his 
own composed manner. 
“ Come, Kate, no more sadness ! We under¬ 
stand each other, my child. Now, tell me 
alfout Nevil.” 
CHAPTER IX. 
The early Spring sunshine was wooing back 
to life the leaves and flowers. Winter had 
brought no changes to me; but I had now a 
new interest in life. Its hours were brighter, 
and filled with a deeper happiness than I hud 
over before known, for had l not Nevil’s love ? 
We two lived for each other. Ho was almost 
every evening at Lovel House, and in my rides 
and walks I was certain to meet, him; and we 
galloped together over the moor or strolled 
through the lanes, “thinking and talking no 
doubt of the weather.” It was strange to look 
back on the time when I had not known him 
or even heard his name, and now he filled the 
first place in my heart. Ho was devotion 
itself, ami 1 found nothing in him that could 
change my love. 
But when I tried to read my own character 
and to know myself, I wondered how it was 
that he could love me. Surely I was the most 
selfish, discontented and exacting girl on 
earth. I had Brandon’s true affection, yet had 
found fault with it; and now, having this love 
—the crown of all humanity, the love that 
should fill life so full of joy and gratitude that 
no space bo left for discontent- even with 
this l was seeking for something not yet mine 
—something more beautiful, without which 
life was incomplete. It was wicked ingrati¬ 
tude, I knew, and 1 kept these vague longings, 
these unsatisfied desires, to myself. Novil ap¬ 
parently had no such thoughts as those, uml 
with all my faults 1 loved him. Where was 
the selfishness, the inconstancy of which my 
cousin had accused him ? 
Edith was yet with us; and since my en¬ 
gagement to Nevil she had not spoken of him, 
either in praise or disparagement, but rather 
avoided mentioning him at all. When ho was 
present, it was as if she thought it too much 
trouble to notice him, and carelessly overlook¬ 
ed him. When he addressed her, she would 
reply with some sarcasm, and ere he could re¬ 
turn it, become absorbed in her book, or uunt, 
or Brandon. Nevil looked at her curiously 
sometimes, as though inclined to lie annoyed. 
But whether he sang or talked; w hether lie 
road Tennyson, or watched me sketch; whether 
ho stood or sat beside me, her eyes rested on 
us with a gaze expressing literally nothing— 
neither interest, sympathy, nor scorn. She 
was a perfect enigma; Nevil said little about 
her to me, but he did not seem to like her auy 
bettor than she liked him. 
Mr. Edgar Dana visited us frequently, still 
retaining his place in aunt Dorothy’s favor; 
and Edith treated him with sublime patronage; 
not the patronage of a superior to an inferior, 
but that which sho would have bestowed on a 
school boy, and received his homage with 
amused good temper. Beside her, in many 
things, ho was a boy; and "bad be but loved 
wit h a boyish love,” it would have been a great 
deal better for him. His was a simple nature: 
but the stream was not so shallow as I had 
once thought; there were depths of passion in 
it which my cousin had not fathomed. Of 
whom did Mr. Dana make u friend but myself ? 
and why 1 did not know, for 1 had hoped he 
would choose Brandon. I always tried to put 
him at his ease, and do any little kindness that 
came in my way, but certainly 1 had uot ex¬ 
pected him to make me his confidaut, and lay 
the secrets ol‘ his mind before me; however, he 
did, and hud told me of his love for Edith, of 
tile old happy days, of the change in his for¬ 
tunes, and had ended by declaring that he 
would win her yet. In vain I shook my head 
at this; with a boy’s eagerness, and a man’s 
passion, ho would argue against me, always 
convincing himself. 
This Spring evening he had called at Lovel 
House, and meeting me in the garden had 
stop]ied to speak; as usual, he began aliout 
Editli and old days. 
“ Dear Miss Lovel,” he said, “ I can’t feel 
discouraged despite your arguments, for Edith 
loved me long ago, and though my fortunes 
changed, she will not 1” 
“ You forgot her relatives. You iove her, 
and say you will win her. All her life she 
has been accustomed to wealth aud luxury, 
and you can’t give her these. Would you 
otFer poverty ?” 
“ Poverty ! Ah, you are right! I am utterly 
beneath her—I can scarcely support myself— 
my life from day to day is a struggle—I have 
neither wealth nor position—and her friends 
are proud and high ! But I can’t crush my 
love; we were equals once, and I forget the 
change ! She loves me 1 know ! When 1 
think of the past—when life looked fair and 
bright—when I hud the right to call her 
mine—when friends smiled on us—ah, 1 can't 
help loving her as I did then, though now it is 
madness ! Will you advise me f’ 
“ The best advice I could give you,” I said, 
“ is—don’t come here. It is the old fable of 
the moth and the candle over again.” 
“To lie near her is my one glimpse of sun¬ 
light. and 1 can’t shut it out, poor weak idiot 
as I am ! And yet if to-morrow she would lie 
my wife, I would not, in my present poverty, 
ask her; I love her loo dearly to lot her sac¬ 
rifice herself! Yes, if I were brought to that 
test, I think I should stand it! You are the 
only one to whom 1 can say these tilings, and 
it is good to speak to you, though you are hard 
on me sometimes. Oh, if my poor old guardian 
had left u will how different all might have 
beeu |” 
“He would have made you his heir f’ 
“Yes, 1 think so; but his illness aud death 
were sudden, his affairs unsettled. He was 
very good to me, and provided for mamma— 
for my mother—until she died. Ho sent me 
to college, and then the Dana’s offered me a 
home with them, lie consented, and so 1 saw 
but little of my guardiau. 
I was with him when ho took the fever that 
ended his life. After his death no will was 
found, his next of kin stopped into the prop¬ 
erty, and 1 was penniless and friendless. He 
hud been very wealthy, too. A doctor in good 
practice, unmarried, and with simple tastes, 
ho hail saved a good deal.” 
“Who was he? ” I asked. 
“He was Dr. Lorituer.” 
“ Dr. Lorimer ! Why, Dr. Lorimer was a 
friend of my father’s ! What u singular coin¬ 
cidence 1 lie was a great friend of Brandon’s 
father, too!” 
“ Yes,” returned Mr. Dana, very quietly. 
*>It is uot many years since he died.” 
“It cannot be, because ho attended Bran¬ 
don’s father and was present at the funeral. 
How strange we did not know he was your 
guardian 1” 
“ There was no necessity for my mentioning 
it—but there is something I want to tell you— 
a special favor 1 would ask.” 
“ I will grunt it if 1 can.” 
“ You know that the one hope of my life is 
to win Edith. I would not offer her poverty, 
and I must Hint gain wealth and fame. 1 have 
much time on my hands, and sometimes I sit 
up at night working nl this.” 
He produced a roll of manuscript, coloring 
as ho did so, his hand trembling.” 
“ I wrote—1 have tiled to write—a play, 
Miss Lovel, and hope to have it produced. 
What I want to ask is, that you would read it 
and give me your opiuiou. It may succeed, 
and there is fame.” 
The boy’s dream was so wild that I looked 
at him in pity and wonder, saying: 
“ Do not build your hopes on this. Remem¬ 
ber how many have failed before you.” 
“ Those who failed had no Edith to win. I 
must succeed, Miss Lovel,” he said, flushing 
again, “ I know I have talent, and writing 
verses and dramatic scenes was always my 
favorite occupation. Now, if my play is ac¬ 
cepted, and is successful, even my relatives 
would be pleased and proud of my fame. A 
friend of mine has promised to use his in¬ 
fluence with the manager of the Prince’s, so 
success is almost certain; but 1 may be too 
partial to my own work and blind to its de¬ 
fects, and thus I ask you to rend it.” 
“ I am willing to do so, and shall give a 
frunk opinion, but I fear you rate my judg¬ 
ment to highly.” 
“ But 1 fear you are hoping too much; even 
if this succeeds, how do you know that Edith 
either can or will wait, for some time must 
elapse ere you know if it be a success.” 
The sunny light left his eyes, aud his head 
drooped; he saw as well as I did the fallacy 
of bis hopes, yet he tried to shut out the vis¬ 
ion. 
“Do you believe iu truth and fidelity?” 
he cried, suddenly. “ Edith did not, of her 
own free will, break the vows that bound her 
to me. She will be true to me; I would stake 
my life upon her constancy. May I go to 
her?” 
" Certainly 1” I said, for I had heard Nevil’s 
step, and was eager to meet him. 
Edgar went away, and Nevil joined me. 
“ What had Dana to say to you!” was al¬ 
most his first question. 
“ Poor fellow, Nevil, he loves Edith.” 
“ Isn’t that rather presumptuous, Kate?” 
“They were ouce engaged to each other, 
Nevil, and 1 suppose ho cannot help it.” 
“ There is suoh a difference iu their posi¬ 
tions,” pui sued Nevil, “ and ho ought to see it. 
However, it's not our affair. He makes yeu 
his confidant? ’ 
“Yes, but I’m uot a very encouraging one,” 
Nevil smiled, and turned the conversation. 
“You have never yet said when you will 
really give yourself to me, Kate, and I want 
our marriage to be soon. Why' not? I have 
surely waited long enough.” 
“We have uot beeu very long engaged, 
Nevil.’’ 
“ What matter ? We know a ml understand 
each other, and, best of all, we love each 
other. Whac is it? You doubt me, after all.” 
“ Oh, uo, dearest Nevil! but marriage is so 
very serious. Suppose we did marry, and you 
discovered my bad qualities, if you were to re¬ 
gret that you had married me?” 
“ I never should, my love! Am I to go on 
waiting for ever? 1 can’t. I want you for 
myself, and you say farewell to the old life, 
uml begin the new with mo. Now, say you 
will soon enter your new home.” 
To b* Continued. 
Domestic Ccononu) 
CONDUCTED BY EMILY MAPLE. 
A DAIRY MAXIM. 
Ik milk and butter you would have—. 
A right delicious treat— 
Keep churn, aud bowls, usd mUk polls 
Most scrupulously sweat. 
With boiling water, day by day. 
Cleanse each with utmost car*; 
Then reur them at your doorway, 
To dry In open air. 
Twenty Uoldcu Rules. 
-- 
FACULTY IN HOUSEKEEPING. 
ANNIE L. JACK. 
There is uo position in life that needs so 
much inventive and retentive faculty as in the 
many little trials and difficulties of housekeep¬ 
ing. if “ order is Heaven's first law ” it is 
also the law of Horn*. Tho place when noth¬ 
ing is to bo found, the habit that is a series 
of careless acts; the uneven tenor of the ways 
of life, all conduce to make life what it ought 
not to tie. Five times the amount of w ork 
can be done if tkeru is a regular system in the 
doing, and any one who makes an apology fur 
untidiness, ought to oe aware of the fact that 
no housekeeper is blinded by it, for it is easy 
to understand that things can tie more easily 
kept in place mid less time be lost than is 
spent iu the searching for and picking up, so 
prevalent in careless households. My boys 
have a very bad habit of laying down coat or 
hat wherever it may chance to happen. 1 en¬ 
deavor to teach them that if each one would 
hang his hut on a nail, it would add to the 
tidiness of the room, and be less trouble to his 
sisters, while teaching tho habit of “a 
place for everything.” I know that natural 
characteristics have something to do with it, 
and that an innate neatness born in some 
children causes them to notice and care for 
their clothes more than others. But seeing 
the unhappiness caused by disorder in many 
families, I am forced to say that tidiness is a 
faculty that ought to b© cultivated by every 
housekeeper and taught to her sons and 
daughters like every other lesson or training. 
A woman has so much to do with a man’s 
life, and can make home a paradise, or a fore¬ 
taste of the most realistic inferno. 
Regularity and routine are necessary parts 
of a housekeeper’s duty, and in ordering a 
meal or cooking it, there is nothing that re¬ 
quires more faculty. Men know nothing of 
the many irons that have to be in the fire of 
the kitchen at once. A woman of faculty can 
manage them without trouble, but once let the 
machinery get in a muddle, the routine lag a 
little, and everything goes wrong, and view¬ 
ing the matter from all stand-points, I am 
persuaded that there is more in faculty 
than in the manual labor—more than many 
women take the trouble to understand or 
demonstrate. A habit of order and look¬ 
ing ahead is of more value to children than 
half the education of the schools. It will 
give them a chance to get though lifeand miss 
many of its petty trials. 
SETTING THE TABLE. 
I was much pleased witli Mary Wager- 
Fishor’s article “Concerning the Table.” It 
is time, as I well know from experience, that 
the best servants do not set a table properly. 
In fact, I dispensed with the servants’ assist¬ 
ance entirely about my table, and performed 
„ that part of the work myBeif in order to 
avoid the jumping up for this and that while 
eating. But then, it is uot always the domes¬ 
tics who are at fault, for the mistress aud the 
“quick, bright farmers’ daughters,” however 
exact about other things, are often neglectful 
about this one matter. On some tables things 
are always lacking—a napkin, a fork or |a 
spoon. Think of putting ou one tablespoon 
for supper, when you know that two or three 
will be needed for the food which has been 
provided. And yet I know a lady (and she is 
not the only one I might mention) who does 
this invariably. She is neat, methodical, and 
an excellent cook, but her table is never set 
properly, and the indispensable table-ware 
is always in the closet, if one will only try 
she can easily remember the things which aim 
needed for a meal, and so avoid the getting 
up (which is always unpleasant) for this and 
that which should have been on the table 
before the meal was served. 
A Farmer's Daughter. 
DOMESTIC RECIPES. 
POT AO CAKES. 
Work cold mashed potatoes soft with a 
little milk and butter, knead in enough flour, 
with half a teuspeonful of baking powder 
sifted with it, to suable you to roll into a 
sheet hulf au inch thick. Cut into rounds and 
bake in a quick oveu till well browned. Rub 
a little butter over each before taking out. 
MACARONI. 
Break half a pound of macaroni into inch 
lengths and boil in salted water until tender, 
but not broken. Put into a pudding dish, sea¬ 
son with a large piece of butter, cover with 
grated cheese and set on the upper grate in 
the oven to brown. M. B. 
QUAIL ON TOAST. 
Dry-pick them, singe, cut off the heads, then 
the legs at first joint, split down back, draw, 
put into salt water for 15 minutes, drain, dry 
with a cloth, lard them with little pieces of 
bacon, and boil over a good fi re. If one does 
not care for the bacon dip each into melted 
flutter two or three times. Have roady as 
many slices of buttered toast as you have 
birds, and serve a bird breast up on each 
piece. Thin slices of broiled bacon are very 
good served with the quail. N. j. 
FARMER’S FRUIT CAKE. 
Soak three cups of dried apples over-uight 
in warm water. Chop slightly in the morn¬ 
ing and simmer two horn’s in two cups of mo¬ 
lasses. Add two well-beaten eggs, one cup of 
sugar, one cup of butter, oue dessert spoonful 
of soda, Hour cuough to make rather a stiff 
batter. Flavor with nutmeg and cinnamon 
to tho taste. Bake in a quick oven. 
TONIC. 
The following is a very good medicine for 
old people or children when they are not feel¬ 
ing very well and their appetite fails: One 
ounce of valerian, oue ounce of white root, 
one ounce of golden seal, one ounce of rim barb. 
Get this pulverized and mixed at the drug¬ 
gist’s. Put a teaspoonful into a teacup, fill 
the cup half full with sugar, then fill up with 
hot water. Let it settle. Take half of this at 
night aud the other haLf in the morning; cov¬ 
et the remains with hot water again; let it 
settle and take again iu the same way. 
Aunt Rachel. 
