DEC. 8 
ing tree, beside a miniature cascade, and the 
leaves were fresh and green. This was one of 
my favorite spots; and I was thinking of 
Nevil, when, to my surprise. Edgar Dana ap¬ 
peared. 
“ How did you find me?” I asked. 
“ The gardener told me where you were.” 
He looked pale and tired, and leaned with 
an air of weariness against the tree. 
“ I meant to have called before, but General 
PoIwvti had a great deal of writing for me to 
attend to. Have you heard from Edith;” 
“ Yes, she has written once.” 
“ Does she say anything about returning 
Miss Lovel?” 
“She has scarcely gone yet,” I said smiling, 
“and we don’t expect her until Summer. I 
have read yourplay, and 1 like it very much.’ 
“Do you re lly ?” he cried, brightening. 
“It is worth something, then; it will suc¬ 
ceed 1” 
“I.cannot say that. I think it rather a 
poem than play; but my judgment may be 
erroneous, for really I don’t profess to be a 
critic. You should ask the opinion of some 
one else.” 
“ But whom could I ask, Miss Lovel ?” 
“Mr. Verner!” I suggested rather dubi¬ 
ously, because Nevil and Edgar had not got 
on very well, 
“No; 1 don’t know him well enough!” 
“ Then who could be better than Brandon; 
He lias passed nearly all his life in study; he 
has read a great deal, and he has a fondness 
for literature. He will understand this much 
better than 1 can.” 
“ I dou’t like to ask him,” said Mr. Dana, 
pulling leaves from the bough above him. 
“ Why not ? He is happiest when he is 
pleasiug others. I assure you he would be 
glad.” 
“ I scarcely—we have not made friends— 
a-” 
“ Do you know, I quite expected you to like 
Brandon, your tastes being similar/ Do ask 
him this, and you will thank me after.” 
“I’d rather not," he said, with the old nei- 
vousness. 
“You might be afraid of him. I can’t 
understand why you avoid him, for though 
grave, he is goodness itself, and he has shown 
you every kindness, hasn’t he ?” 
“Yes—oh, yes, Miss Lovel!” 
“You will understand me,” he said, in a 
ow voice, and coloring deeply, “ when I tell 
you that you were right—I am afraid of 
him.” 
“Afraid of Brandon?” I almost laughed. 
“ Is he so very terrible, then ?” 
“ Please explain yourself. Why do you 
fear Brandon?” 
“ Dear Miss Lovel, I don’t want to say any¬ 
thing that may pain you; only remember his 
father’s death, and you will see that I can’t 
make a friend of a—a man like that!” 
“A man like that ! Then you visit the sins 
of parents on children, and hold Brandon re¬ 
sponsible for his father’s follies ?” 
“ is it that you will not understand, Miss 
Lovel ? I cannot make a friend of Brandon 
because I fear him; as you know, I have rea¬ 
son,” 
“Will you, for mercy sake, be clear ? I do 
not know what you mean. You fear him —the 
gentlest of men ! You cannot make a friend 
of him whose friendship 1 would not forfeit 
for all that the. world could give !” 
His expression changed at once to fear and 
horror. 
“ Is it possible 3 T ou do not know ? I should 
not have said this. Forgive me, and I will 
go-” 
“ You must speak out now ! What is it that 
I do not know ? I implore you to tell me !” 
“ Miss Lovel,” he said, greatly distressed, 
“what I could tell you would only give you 
pain.” 
“Do you know something against Bran¬ 
don ?” 
“ Yes !” he said, very unw illingly. 
“ You must tell me ! I demand an explana¬ 
tion !” 
“ And I—forgive me—will not give it.” 
“ But I entreat you to tell me ! In Edith’s 
name. I ask it! It is cruel of you to leave me 
in torture !” 
“You do not know what you are asking, 
Miss Lovel! If you insist on au explanation, 
I must give it: but believe me, that had I 
known you were ignorant of his story, I would 
never have spoken. 1 thought you all knew 
it, and was surprised when I found how cor¬ 
dially he was received; but I could not, help 
fearing him, and shrinking from him. I sup¬ 
pose I am ijue'-rly constituted, but I did not 
like to take a hand stained with—stained with 
—blood !” 
“ (Sir ! he has not injured you that you need 
traduce him 1” I cried, hotly. 
“ Unfortunately it is true!” he said, with 
sad compassion. “Doyou know anything of 
his father ?—does he ever speak of his death?” 
“ Not tome. I know the death w'as sudden.” 
“ Father aud son did not agree, and Bran¬ 
don benefited by that death. Yes, it was very 
“ I cannot misunderstand you; but look at 
Brandon’s life!” 
“ I have heard of men living lives of atone¬ 
ment, and unfortunately I know too much. 
My guardian was a firm friend of Brandon’s 
father, and he had the secret. I have told you 
that I w^as with my guardian when he was ill. 
He w'as often delirious, and in one of these in 
tervals I heard the name of Lovel, which im 
mediately attracted me, because I knew he 
bad lived in the same county as were Edith’s 
relatives, and he had known them well," 
“ Continue. lie said something?” 
“He had been muttering something, of 
which I could hear nothing, when suddenly he 
raised his voice, as if in entreaty, saying, 1 Go 
away, Brandon! What, strike him to whom 
you owe your wretched life!’ and seemed to 
struggle with someone. Then, pointing before 
him, he cried: ‘Too kite—too late! He is 
dead! Go away at once, Brandon. You have 
done enough!’ Then he fell back, sighing: 
* His own father 1 It is terrible! Don’t fear, 
I will keep the secret, for it stains your name, 
and the world shall never know this. What 
did you do with the dagger?’ Oh, Miss Lovel, 
1 fancy I hear his voice now! Thank Heaven 
I was alone with him. That night he died. 
Iu his desk I found a fragment torn from 
a letter. There were other torn pieces, but 
this w'as larger than any, and on it were 
these words; * Killed by my hand, the hand of 
his only son 1’ .My guardian’s lawyer wrote to 
Brandon, acquainting him with the death, and 
Brandon replied. I saw the letter, comparing 
it with the fragment I had, and found the 
writing exactly alike. The peculiar formation 
of the ‘a’s and ‘e’s could not be mistaken. I 
burnt that fragment. That flay, when I was 
coming here as secretary to General Polwyn, 
Edith was in the same compartment, and she 
spoke of her relatives, of Brandon, saying that 
he had never been the same since his father’s 
death. Is it any wonder that I fear him?” 
“ It cannot be true!” I cried. 
CHAPTER XI. 
“ I have heard that Brandon’s father was 
unkind to him; and the Lovels are thought 
hot and fiery,” said Edgar Dana. 
“ Yes, we are hot and fiery, but pride is also 
ours ! Does a proud man stoop to crime ?” 
“ I cannot say. Forgive me, and believe that 
to no one else w'ill I ever speak of this—on my 
honor I” 
“Your guardian did say that? You saw 
those words ?” 
“ Yes, I did indeed.” 
“Then please go !” 
He bowed and left me; and w'hen he had 
gone—when the echo of his footsteps had died 
away—1 fell on my knees, sobbing in agony. 
Oh ! why had memory been given me, for one 
by one words and scenes returned, piercing my 
heart as w'ith a thousand swords. 
There had been a mystery about Clarence 
Lovel’s death. Though he had been ill, his 
illness had not been considered serious, and 
aunt had told me that the announcement of his 
death had come ou her like a thunder-clap. 
He had not been kind to Brandon, I knew. I 
thought of the latter’s gloom and melancholy, 
which had so long perplexed me, and Edith’s 
words came back all too clearly: “ I saw him 
a little while after his father’s death, and he 
looked wretched; but there was no reason why 
he should break his heart over the loss of such 
a parent.” Aud the evening when aunt had 
told him he would lose his memory he had 
answered, “I wish I could !” Why did he wish 
it ? The shadow between us two—what was it ? 
Wlmt load changed him ? “If there be a shade 
b tween us, it is through mo it comes. I am 
reserved with you: but it is better so—how 
much better you will never know ! We are 
not as we once were, and why we are not is 
better unsaid!” These were his words, and 
they echoed in my ears again; but he let! a 
good life. Was it indeed in atonement and 
expiation ? I thought my senses were going, 
my agony was too great for tears, when I heard 
aunt Dorothy’s voice calling me. She must 
not see a change in me or know this dreadful 
story, and I rose, straining every nerve to re¬ 
gain composure; and I retained it—I do not 
know how—throughout the day. 
But in my own room there were none to see 
me. and iu pain and misery 1 walked to and 
fro, thinking of what I had heard. Well in- 
d ed might there be a shade between us—black 
as night it rose; well indeed might he be mel¬ 
ancholy and sad, though wealth and honor 
were his. I fought against the thought—I 
shrank from it in vain; and through the night 
I shuddered m solitude, hearing only those 
words, “Killed by my hand,” seeing only his 
darkened face. 
I tried to sleep at last, and then the flash of 
the diamond ring I wore roused a new train of 
thought. There was my refuge—the true, pure 
heart that was my own, the faithful love that 
crowned my life; but oven the thought of him 
turned to bitterness. Suppose this story, which 
cast a stain ou our name became known, would 
Nevil turn from me ? and was this to be the 
test of his love ? 
The first ray of light woke me from a troubled 
slumber—from the brief forgetfulness to recol¬ 
lection; and I rose at once, gazing through 
the window, aud thinking how dimmed was 
the glory of dawn, I stole from my room and 
went quietly to the gallery, looking at the por¬ 
traits as I passed. The last of all was Brandon 
—Brandon as a boy; but a mist rose between 
it and my eyes, from which the tears fell quick 
and hot. I could not believe him guilty. The 
dear friend of my youth, the brother whom I 
reverenced above all, was not guilty ! 
Again I thought of Nevil; bis love would 
be iny shield; he would be true through sun 
and shade. 
When breakfast was over I gladly went out 
to the garden, for it was as much as I could 
do to appear composed and cheerful before 
aunt Dorothy, and I would not have her see 
me depressed. 
I must forget what I had heard, that was 
the only thing I could do; and I occupied my¬ 
self with the flowers, I read and talked, and 
the morning passed away. 
How long it seemed since yesterday! How 
slowly did the hours drag on! Try as I would 
to forget, my thought would go to Brandon 
and this story. Was it true? Could I believe 
it of him whose life had been so long linked 
with my own, and who had been to me the 
ideal of manhood; I had thought him as one 
of the old heroes of our house—that in him 
the virtues of our race were united, without 
its faults. 
I heard a footstep on the gravel, and knew 
someone must be coming. Perhaps it was 
Brandon himself; and I felt cold and faint. I 
need not have distressed myself. It was not 
Brandon, but Edgar Dana who appeared. I 
hoped he had come to tell me that it was not 
true, and I spoke calmly enough, resolved not 
to let him see that I had doubted my kins¬ 
man. 
“I will not stay,” be said. “I left you 
looking so pale yesterday that I feared you 
would be ill. Oh! Miss Lovel, how grieved I 
am that I told you! When I got home, and 
thought over all, I felt ashamed and miser¬ 
able. It was such a return to make for your 
goodness.” 
“ Blame me for demanding the explanation,” 
I said. “ 1 am not ill though. What you told 
me yesterday you have promised to keep se¬ 
cret, and I will yet ark another favor. Never 
—never speak of it again to me. Let the sub¬ 
ject forever rest—be as though you had not 
told me !” 
“Miss Lovel,” he said, with boyish eager¬ 
ness, “the sight of me, after the forbidden 
subject, can only bring you pain. If we don’t 
speak of it, we cannot help thinking of it, and 
it is better for me to keep away until you for¬ 
get. I can plead my duties as an excuse.” 
Before I could reply be was gone. Per¬ 
haps he was right. I understood and appre¬ 
ciated his delicacy, thanking him for it men¬ 
tally. 
As I had expected, evening brought Nevil, 
and I banished all painful thoughts. He was 
quiet to-night, and when I remarked on his 
silence, said that, he was tired. 
“ Oh ! Nevil, dearest, are you ill ?” I cried. 
“Out of sorts, anyway. But you needn’t 
alarm yourself, I shall be all right soon.” 
Nevil’s visit did not give me the comfort 
for v hich I had longed, though why I could 
not tell. He had seemed weary aud languid. 
Perhaps I was journeying to a new sorrow. 
The next evening brought Brandon, and 
how easily and calmly we met, without change 
in our greeting. For a moment the feeling of 
dread and faintness laid chilled me, but his 
dear, kind voice drove it away as clouds before 
sunlight; he bad been so long associated with 
peace and sincerity in my mind that the 
meeting over which I had sighed brought re¬ 
lief. 
As he sat with aunt Dorothy, moving the 
chess-pieces to and fro, I studied his face by 
the light of what I knew; the power of the 
firm lip, the eye with its piercing light, the 
straight, broad brow, every feature was famil¬ 
iar and dear, but need there he a cloud upon 
him ? It was no fancy caused by Edgar Dana’s 
story; the shadow had been seen by me before 
I knew that. And what wore his secrets, to 
cast so deep a gloom upon him ? Yet it had 
faded sometimes, the smile I had known in 
bygone days, that trembled on the lips and 
flashed in the eyes, had swept away that sad¬ 
ness, but ob, bow rarely ! 
“ You do not look well, Kate,” he said, when 
ho was bidding us good night. “Don’t give 
Diamond too long a holiday. I have brought 
you a new book—a good one.” 
How ashamed I felt: how his kindly interest 
pained me when I remembered what I had 
thought of him ! 
Spring went by, and Summer, rich with 
flowers, crowned with stars, aud robed with 
sunset glories, had returned. Spring bad been 
darkened for me by Edgar Dana’s revelation, 
but outwardly I was unchanged to Brandon— 
my affection had never for a moment faltered, 
even though my trust had been shaken. 
Mr. Dana had kept his promise to me. We 
say very little of him now, and I knew why 
he kept away. Once ho had called to ask 
about Edith. 
Edgar’s revelation must have had a greater 
influence on my mind than 1 had first sup¬ 
posed, and caused me to look on the world 
with a jaundiced eye, for I thought even Nevil 
strange. 
I saw him often, and spoke as fondly to 
him; but he was silent, and weary, and cold. 
Or was it not my imagination? Troubled by 
thoughts of Brandon, depressed aud sad, it 
was only natural that I should fancy things 
which could not exist; or Nevil might have 
some trouble which he could not tell me; so I 
tried to express in deeds the sympathy I could 
not in words.” 
“Nevil, have you some trouble that you 
can’t tell me?” 
“ Why do you think so?” he said, surprised. 
“ You are so silent; not like what you used 
to be. I have even fancied something had come 
between us.” 
“ AVhat could? Surely you are growin r fan¬ 
ciful, my dearest girl. I may have annoyances 
but how am I changed to you?” 
“ I cannot put it into words, Nevil.” 
“ Can’t you? Don’t you think you were un¬ 
kind to doubt me, for what you say means 
only that? AVhat cause have I given you to 
do so ?” 
“Forgive me, dear; I had no thought to 
pain you; I only meant to be ojjen aud can¬ 
did.” 
“Then, love, state your complaint openly 
and candidly.” 
“ I thought you were troubled, or that I had 
vexed you in some way. Imagination, per¬ 
haps; but tho least coldness ou your part 
wounds me a thousand times more than could 
that of any other.” 
“We are moping too much, perhaps. At 
least, put thoso idle fancies away, Kate.” 
To be Continued. 
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- »♦» — ■ 
The Sunday newspaper is published, but 
you need not read it. The Sunday excursion 
is advertised, but you are not compelled to 
go upon it. Your neighbor may employ the 
day over his business accounts, but that does 
not affect the question of your duty. He may 
spend it in idleness at home or in tho enter¬ 
tainment of friends, but that does not close 
the church doors to you. The command is: 
“ Remember the Sabbath day to keep it holy.” 
You can obey the command.—Chi’istian 
Weekly, 
AVhat sunshine is to flowers, smiles are to 
Immunity, They are but trifles, to be sure, 
but scattered along life’s pathway, tho good 
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That God is above all, and behind all, and 
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tiny blade and trembling petal, and in tho 
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