JAH. 43 
THE BUBAL NEW-YORKER. 
C 
VANITY. 
The 6un comes up and the sun goes down. 
And day and night are the same as one; 
The year grows green and the year grows brown. 
And what is it all, when all is done? 
Grains of somber or shining sand. 
Sliding into or out of the hand. 
And men go down in ships to the seas. 
And a hundred ships are the same as one; 
And backward and forward blows the breeze, 
And what is it all, when all is done ? 
A tide with never a shore in sight 
Setting steadily on to the night. 
The fisher droppeth his net in the stream. 
And a hundred streams are tho same as one, 
And the maiden droamoth her love-lit dream. 
And what is it all. when all Is done ? 
The net of the fisher the burden breaks. 
And alway's the dreaming the dreamer wakes. 
jStorjr-Mlfr, - 
CIHDEKELLA. 
flow very ma ny adventurous spirits went out to 
Australia during tho prevalence of the gold fever 
some twenty, or more, years ago, and went out to 
die, will never bo disclosed. 
Amid others who went out was one Philip Gay. 
A sanguine, hopeful young man, who thought 
that while it might take the best part, of a life¬ 
time to make a fortune at civil engineering, he 
should pick up one in a year or two at tho gold 
diggings. How lull of hope he was when he sailed 
with some fouror five other young men who made 
up his party, some of his acquaintances remem¬ 
ber yet. He left his wife who was just as full of 
hopeful visions as he was. 
Of that party, Philip Gay was the Jlrst to die. 
His wife, Stricken with the news, led a sort of half 
dead, half alive existence for a year or two, and 
then followed him to the unknown land that Is at 
once so much nearer than that one of tho gold 
mines, and m much further off. The baby girl 
alone was left, the little Lucinda. 
The child was not utterly destitute. A few hun¬ 
dred pounds remained to her, and one relative. 
This was Mrs. Mutiro; whoso late husband, for 
sho was a young widow also, had been Mrs. Gay’s 
brother. 
Mrs. Munro was not left particularly weU off 
herself: at any rate, her Income was not large, 
and she had to be careful. Of course, being a 
provident and calculating lady, Mrs. M unro could 
not bo expected to burden, herself with the little 
orphan, Lucinda, and take her home to her own 
two daughters: she said so herself and her mends 
agreed with her. So the little child was sent to a 
plain school to be brought up In a plain manner; 
to defray tho cost of which tho few hundred 
pounds had to be trenched Upon. 
“ Tho money must bo made to go as far as It 
will," said Mrs. Munro, " and then we shall see." 
Lucinda was seventeen when the last pound 
camo to an end, and she was sent home to Mrs. 
Munro. 
*< And what on earth’s to be done with her I 
can’t tell," observed Mrs. Munro to her daughters, 
Elizabeth and Laura. “ We must keep her here 
' for a little while, Just to see what she’s made of 
and what she's fit for, and then get her a situa¬ 
tion of some kind." 
“.You can make her useful while she stays here," 
observed Elizabeth, who was three-and-twenty 
years of age, and very practical. 
A particularly welcome suggestion Indeed to 
Mrs. Muuro. Sho was no better off than some of 
her neighbors In the matter of domestics. Sho 
professed to keep two, a cook and a housemaid: 
but whether she was a bad manager and mistress, 
or whether she had the ill-luck to get a succession 
of bad. servants, certain It wua that the domestic 
department, wa3 generally In a state or ferment. 
The said servants were changed continually; 
sometimes there would be two; sometimes only 
one, sometimes none: and tho result was much 
dissatisfaction and discomfort. The two young 
ladles, fashionably educated, bristling to the lin¬ 
gers’ ends with occompllslnncnts, could not be 
expected to look after brooms and brashes, plates 
and dishes: and Mrs. Munro was often at her 
wits’ ends, and could not imagine what tho world 
was coming to. 
Lucinda Gay arrived at Milthorp Lodge—as their 
pretty country homo was named. It stood very' 
close to the little town of Milthorp; ten minutes’ 
walk from It. A gentle, timid, graceful girl of sev¬ 
enteen; with a fair, delicate, placid face, bright 
hair, and a steadfast look In her large gray eyes. 
« Dear, dear! tho very eyes of your poor father, 
my dear!" sighed Mrs. Munro, who in tho main 
was not by any means bad-hearted; and would 
pot have been short-tempered but tor her domes¬ 
tic trials. “You get more and more like him, 
child. Kiss your cousin, girls." 
Elizabeth and Laura did as they were told, and 
kissed Lucinda. They were both good-looking, 
snowy young women. 
Well, not to make a short story long, Lucinda 
Gay’s abode at Milthorp Lodge grew into a per¬ 
manency Little by little also, the work grew 
upon nor. From Unviug at first been required to 
help only In light duties, she found herself at last 
to all Intents and purposes a servant: kept from 
morning till night at hard work. This was the 
efToot of necessity, more than of actual wish or 
Intention on Mrs. Munro's part. The servants 
got worse and worse, each succeeding one that 
came In turned out to be more Incapable t han her 
predecessor; and who was there but Lucinda to 
fall back upon? By the time the girl had been 
there a lew months, she seemed to have settled 
down to this hopeless life of slaving In the kitchen 
and waltlDg upon others. Elizabeth and Laura 
playfully called her Cinderella: when In a very 
good humor with her, Cindy. 
Once, and once only, the girt remonstrated with 
Mrs. Munro. “I don’t like the life, aunt,” she 
said: “I never expected to have to do such 
things. Don't you think you could let me go out 
somewhere 7” 
“What to do?" asked Mrs. Munro. “ As serv¬ 
ant?” 
“Oh, no,’’—blushing painfully—“ not as serv¬ 
ant.” 
“But you could not. be a governess. You have 
no accomplishments.” 
“I fancy sometimes that I could make money 
by my drawings, aunt. No one In the school 
could draw as 1 did." 
“Draw I school J” repeated Mrs. Munro. “ You 
did not learn any superfluous thing of that kind 
that had to be paid for.” 
“Yes, I did. It happened In this way, aunt. I 
used to copy the girls’ drawings out of school; It 
was all my pastime; and one day tho master saw 
some that I had done, and ho asked to speak to 
me. Then he told Mrs. Chcshunt I had so decided 
a talent for the art ho would like to give mo les¬ 
sons for nothing, that I might, do him credit. 
After that, I always went In with the rest. Do 
you know what he said when I left, aunt ?” 
“ What did he say?” 
“That I might, rise to have a name In tho world 
of art if I practiced diligently.” 
“And how In the world would you live while 
you practiced If, Cindy?" demanded Mrs. Munro. 
Cindy looked distressed. 
“My dear, don't you.bo ungrateful. Kemember 
your your poor rather. Retook up flighty notions 
and schemes—and he paid for It with Ills life. For 
goodness’ sake, don't you turn flighty, Cindy, and 
follow hl3 example.” 
The tears gathered In Lucinda’s eyes, and she 
said no more. Like all people who have a good 
and tender heart. Ingratitude appeared to her to 
bo one of the very worst or sins. 
Bo from that duy she settled down to her lot, 
resigned outwardly If not Inwardly. All the spore 
momenta sho could snatch from her duties were 
spent In her own room, drawing In private. Eliz¬ 
abeth and I.aura went out to /Una and dances and 
entertainments. Poor Lucinda was never asked 
to go with them r she hud no toilette for It: and 
Lf at times ft longing for a little change came over 
her spirit, a sense of neglect that somehow did 
not seem light, shwsbut herself In with her paper 
and pencils and rorgot. the slight. 
And thus things wont on for about a twelve- 
month, from t.hetlmoof the girl's tlrst arrival at 
Milthorp. Day by (lay she seemed to bo separated 
more and more from her cousins; between her 
condition and theirs a greater and greater bar¬ 
rier grew. Lucinda would sometimes ask bersolf 
whether things were to go on thus forever. 
H. 
It had been a long, hot, .July day. The sun had 
gone down In a blaze of glory; a soft purple liazo 
lay low In the valleys. All the doors and win¬ 
dows of Milthorp Lodge were thrown open to 
catch the grateful cool of tho eventng. in tho 
largo, old-fashioned porch sat Elizabeth with a 
book: Laura lay back on the sofa Indoors, fan¬ 
ning herself languidly. 
Cindy, In tho Kitchen, had Just finished washing 
up and putting away the tea-things. Just now 
they enjoyed the services Ox a particularly inca¬ 
pable helpmate, who impeded work, rather than 
did It; and all the labor fell on Cindy. For many 
months now Mrs. Munro had not attempted to 
keep moro than one servant: her niece filled the 
place of tho second. 
Cindy took ofT her large apron, went out of 
doors, and ventured to seat herself on a garden 
bench under the wall behind the porch. Hue pos¬ 
sessed this one peculiarity—though they did call 
her Cinderella: that she was always nice and 
neat. Her dresses were of the cheapest materials 
—cottons, thin stuffs: but somehow she kept 
them fresh and well. Not a spot was on her nat¬ 
urally delicate hands this evening as she sat 
down; not a hair out of place on her pretty head. 
The small Iron gate, hidden by tho trees and 
shrubbery, was heard to open and footsteps r.o 
approach: and the postman came Into vtew’with 
his bundle of letters. 
“Well, 1 neverl” exclaimed Mrs. Munro, see¬ 
ing him from the window. “ What can the inaa 
he coming here so late for ? Postman,” she added, 
walking forth to the porek, “ what brings you 
forth at this time or night?” 
“An accident to a goods train, which blocked 
up the line, ma’am,” replied the man as he de- 
tatched a letter from his bundle and handed it to 
her. “ It has delayed the delivery several l^ours." 
She sat down at the entrance of the porch, near¬ 
est the light, put on ter spectacles, and opened 
her letter. It appeared to be rather a short one, 
and Mrs. Munro read It twice over. 
“I'm sure I don’t know what, to say about it:" 
she exclaimed, In self-soliloquy. “1 should like 
It well enough: but—I hardly know.” 
Elizabeth Munro, apathelieal as usual, went on 
reading, showing no curiosity. Laura came out, 
twirling her fan. 
“ Who is your letter from, mamma?” 
“Why, from Emma Allandeen. She says her 
brother wants a spell of country air, after his 
recent: lUncs3, and she was so happy here during 
her week’s visit to us two years ago, that she ven¬ 
tures to hope we will receive him. A hd here’s a 
little twisted note Inside from himself, aHklng lf I 
will he bothered with him for a mouth or two." 
“I should let him come.” observed Laura—who 
had a faint recollection of au exceedingly good- 
looking and attractive man in young Allardeen, 
was ever open to the prospect of a flirtation 
“But think of the trouble!" cried Elizabeth, 
too strong-minded to have latent views of lovers. 
“Itwould be quite a restraint to have to enter¬ 
tain a sick man for two months!” 
“ I don’t suppose he is III now. Lizzie," observed 
her mother. “ What I think of, girls, Is the extra 
work It would entail. And of all wretched, inca¬ 
pable creatures, that Susan who Is with us now is 
the worst.!" 
“Stuff!” said Laura, slightingly, iThere’s 
Cinderella.” 
“What, (lo you think, Cindy, dear?" cried Mrs. 
Munro, In a soft, coaxing tone. “ Would you 
mind a little moro trouble for a short while? 
What Is tho matter, Lucinda ?” 
Tho young girl had her speaking face turned to 
them, all eagerness and excitement. 
“ Is It William Allardeen the painter, aunt, that 
you arc speaking of V” 
“To he sure it is, child.” 
“Oh. hut ho la a groat man; a true artist, I 
went to see one or two of Ills paintings once; 
they were In a collection of pictures that was 
being exhibited. The school all wont. Aunt 
Munro, I would not mind what work I did for 
him; I’d never think of tho trouble.” 
“That’s all right, Cindy: 1 thought you’d be 
reasonable. Girls, I shall write my answer to¬ 
night, and tell him to come," 
And in the course or a few days he did come, 
this William Allardeen. A handsome, manly- 
looklng fellow. In spite of his recent, illness, of 
some thirty years. Well-ooru and well-bred, hn 
had some blue blond In Ills veins. And ho hail 
something better—a good, honest heart. 
IL? was not an amateur- llO painted for money. 
Perhaps It. would be better to say he painted for 
love—love of the a rt—and sold his pictures after¬ 
wards. Being entirely Independent as to fortune, 
he could afford time to do good work, and to do It 
well. Full of a beautiful enthusiasm, with an eye 
that was quick to see, a u car to near, and a heart 
to feel whatever was best worth seeing and hear¬ 
ing and feeling, was It any wonder that ho was 
sweet-tempered and charming, and that he 
brought Into the house aglow brighter than that 
of the summer sunshine ? 
Was It strange that, ere he hud been at Mll- 
thorp Lodge a woek, there should bo fluttering 
in the (love-cote? 
Laura Munro was beautiful, and she knew It., 
and meant to make tho most of it. Beautiful 
with mere physical beauty—the beauty of roomi¬ 
ness and coloring, of pink and white skin, bluo 
eyes and golden nalr. Hho was not going to 
marry a small Milthorp landowner, to superin 
tend his dairy, attend to her own bapios, vegetate 
within tho prosy doors of her dull homo from the 
tlrst or January to flic thirty-first of December, 
and have a new silk gown once a year—not she. 
She was waiting for the prince to come and array 
her in satins and luces and Jewels. But sho was 
not so foolish as to say this, even in whispers; 
and to all appearance sho was simplicity Itself, 
gi Ueless and unsophisticated as a child. For she 
Un tight tho prince had como In tho guise of Wil¬ 
liam Allardeen. 
As for Cindy, wo have seen what her ambition 
was—to oecorno an artist. Not that tho ambition 
hud taken any very tangible form as yet. Fortune 
lmd given this girl, who had never seen moro than 
two of tnreo really flncpictureslri her life, whose 
knowledge of the ml racies of art was conllneft to 
a tow engravings and photographs—an Instinc¬ 
tive love of rorm and color and a burning eager¬ 
ness to reproduce them, Tho creative instinct 
was strong within her. Bhe drew at first., as the 
birds sing, from pure love, with no thought of 
what might come of lu l p stairs In her own 
room thrre was turn bureau drawer tilled with 
pieces. <!ard-board, drawing-paper and what not, 
were covered with penelllngs, outlines hints of 
tho glowing life of tVe 'girl's heart and brain. 
There were crude attempts at color, too; hero a 
flower, there a spray or grasses; now a child's 
face, and then a bird with folded wings. There 
were glimpses of sunset skies; and there was one 
stretch or bluo sea, with a in no ship fading in the 
distance. 
The-comlng of Mr. Allardeen to the house was 
ft great event for this inexperienced girl. How 
good-looking he was I how noble 1 and what a 
pleasant expression sat on ills face! As yet Lu¬ 
cinda had not spoken to him. On account of Su¬ 
san’s Incapacity, she had to cook a great part of 
the dinner herself, send In tho breakfast, and the 
lunch—and, of course, as Mrs. Munro said to her, 
sho could not bo dressed to sit down with them. 
“My little niece, who Is hero to help tho serv 
ants," Mrs. Munro carelessly said to her guest 
one day, when Cindy was seen In the garden pick¬ 
ing gooseberries for dessert. “You knew, when 
you were a boy, that poor, mistaken Philip Gay, 
who threw up his business to go out alter gold, 
and died. That's his (laughter, she. has not a 
farthing in the world, and 1 give her a homo.” 
“Philip Gay!” repeated Mr. Allardeen. “What 
a nice fellow he was! I remember him well and 
hl3 kindness to me. One day I had been wicked 
and played truant iron? school, and he saved mo 
from punishment." 
That was all that was said. The young ladles 
were too fond of taking up Mr. Allardeen’s atten¬ 
tion themselves to allow him time to waste It on 
Cindy. 
One day Laura came running to him with a 
pretty affectation of simplicity. 
“Oh, Mr. Allardeen,” she said, clasping her 
hands, “lf you would only teach mo how to draw! 
I havo wanted to learn all my life. That which 
the stupid people teach us hero Is not to be called 
drawing. You should see my ridiculous efforts. 
Maybe,” she went on naively, dropping her eye¬ 
lids till the long lashes swept her chocks, “maybe 
I could appreciate your work better lf I should 
try my hand at It as you could teach me, and learn 
some of its difficulties.” 
Mr. Allardeen laughed outright. The very sim¬ 
plicity of the request amused him. Genuine to 
the backbone himself, he could never suspect him¬ 
self, he never could suspect, an fulness in others. 
“Very well, Mias Laura. It is a bargain. In 
return, you shall be my guide to all that Is beau¬ 
tiful and picturesque In this wild region.” 
“Oh, thank you,” she cried. “ I have been long- • 
Ing to show you some lovply scenery ever since 
you came, but feared you would think me intru¬ 
sive If I offered. ThereJ.-; a beautiful spot a mile 
off, called the Sunset Beacon; ir you like, Mr. Al¬ 
lardeen, wc will go there this evening.' 1 
Poor Cindy! For tho first time in her life she 
felt envy; she envied Elizabeth and Laura. This 
new nero or Theirs was no less n. hero lo her. As 
for loving him, sho would as soon have thought 
or loving a star or tho sun itself, f.o far did ho 
seem removed from her. But this man was the 
embodiment of all her dreams, lie did with easy, 
careless grace—tho ease and grace ol’ a god, It 
seemed to her—the very tilings that she longed 
to do. Ho conceived and executed those magnifi¬ 
cent pictures that tho world talked of amt gazed 
at. Ho lived tn the Ideal life that she longed for 
and dreamed of. It was hard to bo making tarts 
for dinner while Laura, jn the prettiest of morn¬ 
ing dresses, wandered over tlio hills, or sought 
out fairy nooks with her new drawing-master. 
One day Luelnda was bending over the site wpan 
on tho lira, stirring a custard slowly round, and 
trying to recall tho blltho content of her school¬ 
days, when Mr. Allardeen paused Outsido tho 
open window and glanced In. Ho stood In tho 
shadow of tho climbing honeysuckle, that mado 
tho window like a lovely plot urc In a green frame. 
Lucinda's checks were flushed, her hair lay hack 
from her forehead, In her soft gray eyes t here sat 
a troubled light, and sho seemed thoroughly un¬ 
comfortable. 
“It Is very warm to-day, Miss Cinderella.” 
Cinderella! Even ho, then, recognized her low 
position and could gtvo her no bettor namo than 
this mocking one. Tho flush on her cheeks deep¬ 
ened to crimson; her eyelids wero lowered tohldo 
tho tears in her eyes. 
“ Yes, It la,,’ she humbly assented. 
“ Wliat a shame!” ho thought, as his quick eye 
took note of everything and tho young girl’s tired 
face. “Do you like Using all this, Miss Clndcr- 
ella •••" 
“I have to do It," sho quietly said. “Thoro's 
no one elso." 
“ Where’s Busan ? I should think she might he 
over that hot lire Instead or you.” 
“Susan'sIn tho back garden, picking the peas 
for dinner. My aunt tried to teach her to cook, 
but Susan could not learn. I caught It up direct¬ 
ly," sho said. 
“And therefore you have to do It. I wish you 
could como Into the garden and sit In those shady 
glades Instead. That would be better, would It 
not, Miss Cinderella?” 
“ Oh, yea. But"—Ills tone was so unmistakably 
kind, so sympathizing, that she took courage to 
finish the sentence she had begun—“why do you 
call mo Cinderella?” 
Mr. Allardeen paused In surprise. “Is not Cin¬ 
derella your name?" 
Sho lifted the stewpan off tho Ore, for the cus¬ 
tard was completed, ancl turned her tearful eyes 
on him, shaking her head. 
“Your aunt and cousins call you Cinderella and 
—and Cindy. I never supposed It, was not your 
name." 
“As I am hero amidst, the cooking and the 
saucepans, they call mo so. My name Is Lucinda.’ 
“What an awful shame!” thought Mr. Allar- 
decn again. “And what beautiful eyes!—Just 
like poor Gay’s, i remember his.” 
“ Well, you must pardon me for the error I fell 
into, Miss Lucinda. 1 am very sorry.” 
“ It would not have mattered. Only I—I thought 
you did it to mock me.” 
“ Mock you 1 No, 1 should certainly not do that,. 
L hope 1 should not rnock anyone, least,of all you. 
Do you know that, I was weU acquainted with 
your father?” 
“ Oh, were you!” she answered, her eyes smil¬ 
ing brightly through her wet eyelashes. “If he 
had but lived!” 
“Ah! tf he had hut lived! You would not bo 
doing what you are doing. Do you never como 
out in the garden for relief—say.at tho cool of the 
evening?" 
“ 1 used to; but just now there’s a great deal 
to do. Sometimes arter dusk I can snatch a few 
minutes there. ” 
“Because I was thinking that If you did come I 
might, have told you many little things about your 
father. He was my good ’friend when I was a 
boy." 
“How 1 should like It! Yes, perhaps some 
evening I may he able to come out and listen to 
you," 
“Ihope you will. He was my friend; and 1 
should like, tr I may, to be yours. Ho, tho man, 
was kind to me, the lad. I, a man now, would 
servo his child. ’ 
Mr. Allardeen lifted his hat and walked away 
lie began to think ho might bo hindering her. 
What a terrible shame It was that so gentle, deli¬ 
cate a girl should have to spend her days at thlB 
rough, unlit workl" he thought. “If poor Philip 
Gay, who was essentially a gentleman ami had 
loved to smooth the path or all around him, could 
but rise from his grave and witness it! And for 
them to call her Cinderella!" 
From that (by Mr. Allardeen sought opportu¬ 
nities to speak to tho girl; many a time did he 
halt, as now, outside tho open kitchen window, 
which looked to the side of the house and tho 
more retired part ot the garden. Once or twice 
he had found her outside at dusk, and they had 
paced the shrubbery together for five minutes, 
talking of her late father. The appellation, Cln- 
