SEPT, i 
□ 
“There is bo me thing- wrong about her," said 
Torn. “I say, look hero"—turning hlsheadaside, 
and looking at the sea, “ is she—thinking—about 
him ?” 
Now lor It, Pauline! 
Ilow can she shelter Klsle, comfort Tom, speak 
the truth, and reveal nothing? She hesitated, 
casting about In her in Indio r some way out of the 
slough of perplexity. 
“ She Is, then 7” said Tom. 
ills husky voice spoke volumes. 
“Tom,” said she, with her arm round his neck 
and her cheek laid on his curls, “ never mind her 
now. She Is so young, and she has never seen 
anybody. Don't think any more about It. But 
be to her Just as you used to bo, and don’t—try to 
—please her loo much.*' 
“Have I done that?" Said he, luting his head, 
amazed. 
“I think so, sometimes. Let her alone now. 
She will care for you some day." 
“ Are you a prophet, Pauline?” 
“ Yes, I am going to be a prophet for you.” 
“ What a shame It, was!" broke out Tom, after 
a long sllenee. “lie was always making up to 
you -” He stopped short. 
The arm round his neck pressed It a little tight¬ 
er, but nothing was said. 
“ 1 say, he Isn’t worth caring twopence about.” 
“Never mind him, dear.” 
“ You have been awfully good,” continued Torn, 
brokenly. “1 didn't know—1 never thought— 
somehow I forgot you. But you are not bothering 
after him, are you ?” 
She had borne much; but this from Tom—from 
her rougU-and-readyJoeund brother—-was the soft 
sun-touch upon ice, and her Up began to quiver 
like an Infant’s ere it cries. 
Tom looked hastily round, and rose with a sense 
of awe. 
He had never kissed Ills sister spontaneously In 
his life; but now, as he passed, lie rubbed some¬ 
thing Into her face, and though It was only Ills 
ear and a portion of Ids cheek, she understood. 
Then he went oil by himself, whilst, she remain¬ 
ed behind, for each was best alone. 
CHAPTER XII. 
The Process. 
A silent sea, a becalmed vessel, and two men 
lying on Its deck smoking. 
“ I have not yet made up my mind,” said Ileln- 
slcnt. 
Blundell.—“You mean to make It up before you 
die, l suppose ?" 
“1 suppose, yes.” 
“ Otherwise, you will have to make It, up pretty 
sharp afterwards.” 
“ Bah! there Is no creed In heaven.” 
“Don’t trouble yourself us to what there Is In 
heaven, my friend— you won't be there.” 
“ i'eujel l What do you mean v" asked the Ger¬ 
man, angrily. 
“ That’s about It. Ask him. lie’ll toll you. Do 
you Imagine he means to let you off after you 
have had all your share of the bargain ? Not hing 
of the sort,. All you have to do Is to go on the way 
you're going, and you will walk to the devil as 
straight us any lellow over did In this world.” 
“You Kngllsh !" broke out the German, passion¬ 
ately. “That is so like you, with your cold-heart¬ 
ed, Steel', supercilious speech ! "t ou have no minds, 
no-no perception; you are as hard arul dry as 
these boards. Thin Is right, and that Is wrong; 
and this you must do, or you must not do. You 
always want to dominate, it Is a crime, a—a 
wickedness to think for one’s self. In Germany 
wo say, I go my way, you go yours: both are 
good; we will meet at the end. Here It Is, it you 
go not my way, you go to the devil. 1 hate this 
narrow, this thin talk. It, is only lor a woman, 
who win do what her priest tells her. I would 
not make my life like yours for great w r orlds. 1 
would sooner be dead. " 
“ 1 did not mean to ofTcnd you, lleloslclit; we 
arc both saying what we think, you know.” 
“YOU do not think, that Is It. You are saying 
what is told you; what you think you most say. 
And why? Because you have been 111; you have 
had tno—what is it?—the nightmare. You will 
get better; you will shake It off. Who would ue 
frightened Into believing what his reason refuses? 
That Is childish.” 
“I believe you are right. My reason has cer¬ 
tainly not had much voice In the matter.” 
“ Why,” continued Uelnsleht, pursuing his ad¬ 
vantage, “listen to this. Look upon me. In Ger¬ 
many 1 am a very good Lut heran ; In Italy I am 
a Catholic; here I am anything, 1 meet with very 
good people, very nine people, everywhere. I 
enjoy my life. I take all that Is good, and trouble 
myself not more. Bur, you, you are sombre, mis- 
nntrope, miserable. You take no wine, no beer ; 
you go to no little parties; you have no books, no 
pictures, and you make yourself as unhappy as 
you can. You tell me I am to go to the devil. I 
say, you have gone to the devil already.” 
“ Humph!” said Blundell, thoughtfully. After 
a pause, ne added, “ Heluslcht, did you ever see a 
man die?” 
"If 1 had not,”replied his companion, “that 
would be a strange thing. Seen It? Yes, once, 
twice, hondredsof times.” 
“In the war. I suppose; but 1 mean In cold 
blood." 
“ Yes, I tell you, yes. What then ?” 
“ When your own turn might be the next?” 
“And this,” said Uelnsleht, with Immeasurable 
contempt—“ this Is what a man comes to when 
he Is afT—raid! This Is what has taken the life— 
the—the ghost out of a man thirty years of age! 
lie has had one light, sight, ot danger, and he runs 
away Irom all tils friends- " 
"Confound you!" 
“Ah! take care. You most not, say the naughty 
l . 
THE RURAL NEW-YORKER. 
words. They are bad, ve-rle bad. You most take 
esre, such care, for you have your salvation to 
accomplish. Arc you sure now, quite sure, Blon¬ 
de!!, that the little smoke, the cigar, does not 
make all wrong? You had given It up a month 
ago, you know.” 
“ What has that, fool been Jabbering about 
now 7” Inquired Chaworth, with a glance at his 
friend’s face, as he met him turning away. “ He 
grows to be a nuisance.” 
“ I am the fool to let him Jabber.” 
“ A re you gnl ng below v ” 
“ Yes.” 
“You have beenat.lt again,”said Chaworth, 
seating httnscit in the vacant place, with a look 
of displeasure; “ you know the sort of temper he 
has, and you haven’t the sense to let him alone. 
What, Is the use of going about making yourself 
disagreeable ?” 
The German smiled. 
“ It’s so confoundedly unpleasant to be always 
having you two lighting,” continued Chaworth. 
“ H there’s one thing 1 hate. It Is to be with fel¬ 
lows who are always putting each other’s backs 
up.” 
“ I say nothing. It Is not my fault.” 
“ You have the most Infernal way of saying 
nothing that, ever man had. What Is lb about 
now ?” 
“Oh, wo talk,” said Uelnsleht, complacently; 
“wc talk, and compare. 1 give him a little of 
what you call chaff, and ho does not, like it,. lie 
Is dlllieulr. in please. But listen ’’—here he pulTed 
out a long, slow stream of vapor before proeeed- 
I ng—“ listen, Chaworth; It Is all to the good, To¬ 
day he Is angry, to-morrow he Is sorry; again he 
Is angry, and again sorry. Through It all tho 
words remain. He Is coming to himself.” 
As usual, the quarrel was patched up, and the 
three continued together, cruising among the 
northern Islands of the west coast, until the lat¬ 
ter end of October, when a long spell of bad 
weather made them begin to weary or t he monot¬ 
ony of their life. 
“Jack,” said Blundell, one day, when he and 
his friend were by themselves; “ what, do you 
suppose those people at Gourloch think of me?” 
“ IL Is dimculr, to divine, people's thoughts,” re¬ 
plied Jack; “ l never can bo sure of my own.” 
“It was very bad, you know.” 
“I can quite believe it." 
“ It was the oddest, thing your turning up just 
when you did. Five minutes later and I stood 
committed. Poor little thing! She was an un¬ 
commonly pretty girl, l can tell you.” 
“ You are not qutt.e come to matrimony yet, old 
fellow. But, however, If you hud cared in the 
least about It, yon could hardly have done better. 
A Scotch moor for the autumn months would not 
be a bad thing—not by nny means,” cocking his 
head sagaciously upon one side. “If you think 
ot It, we could call on our way back. You lert 
that open, you remember.” 
“ What should you say,” replied Blundell, with 
rather a foolish smile, “If It proved to be the 
other one I went back to see ?” 
"I should say,” replied Jack, coolly, “that It 
was very like you.” 
“Like me! How?” 
“ Knocking down your own schemes Is an 
amusement you have been addicted to all your 
life." 
“There was no scheme In the matter, it was 
simply this—they came In my way, and I had 
nothing else to do. Going about by one’s self 
without a soul to speak to-’’ 
“Your own fault, all the same,” observed Ills 
rrlend. 
“ Well,” assented Blundell, “you know how It 
was.” 
"I say,” he broke out, after a pause, “you 
have not been talking about It to Uelnsleht, have 
you?” 
“ Who—I ? I talk to a beastly German! I say, 
let us get rid of him. He had too much again 
last night,.” 
“What did you bring him down upon us lor 7 
I never coulu endure the brute.” 
“Neither could I.” Chaworth knocked the 
ashes off his cigar. “ Let’s kick him overboard.” 
“ I’ll tell you what, Jack. Weil leave the yacht 
to Hud her own way back to Southampton, and 
you and i will be off to Paris.” 
"Done with you. And now what about der 
Deutsche ?” 
“ You ship him; I can’t. Make up some excuse, 
ancl you and I will have our things packed, and 
be off to-morrow.” 
Accordingly, BiundeU was arranging his papers 
in the saloon, with an open portmanteau by his 
side, when “ Yaha! yahoo.' I thought it was a 
toad!”—came from the inner cabin; and Jack, 
dancing out upon bare toes, dangled into his face 
a soft shapeless mass, which he held suspended, 
apparently by the legs. 
“ What on earth have you got there ?” 
“ Here, take It!" cried the apparition. 
“ Get out!” responded the other, drawing back, 
hastily. “What is It?” 
It was a dead rose—a rose which, Worn pressure 
and want, ot air, had not shriveled up, but was a 
sodden, discolored pulp. 
“ What Is It, then?” said Heluslcht, Inquisitive¬ 
ly. t he noise having drawn him rrora his retreat. 
As he spoke lie stretched forward a nose, which 
was ugly with the obtrusive, aggressive ugliness 
which Germany alone is capable of producing. A 
nose which had swept outward with a rush, and 
hesit ated, before deciding upon the upward move¬ 
ment which it had Anally adopted. " What is 
then the toad ?” said he. 
Blundell had turned away, as if annoyed by the 
Interruption. 
“ What a confounded row to make about noth¬ 
ing!” 
“ Where dlrl you And It.?” continued Heluslcht, 
looking Irom one to tho other. 
"It round me, I can tell you,” said Jack. “I 
was going to bed, having nothing else to do, and 
in the dark I trod upon the beggar. Here, Kalph, 
it’s for you.” 
“Ah!” said Uelnsleht, drawing in his breath, 
as a closer inspection revealed to him the nature 
of t he supposed wad. “ I see now. ft. is a little 
rel-lc, a treasure. It, has fallen Into the wrong 
hands, Blondell. You must take it, and keep It, 
and wear It hero—hero," touching Ids breast as 
he spoke. “ That Is where a lady’s tokens should 
be laid. 
“ Who mentioned a lady 7” said Blundell, keep¬ 
ing Ills temper with an evident, effort. Have you 
never seen me with a rose In my buttonhole? 1 
say, l have got a lot of work to do to-night; just 
go off, and leave me alone, Uke good fellow^.” 
It was past midnight ere tho work was Anlshed, 
and he went, on deck tor a breath of fresh air be¬ 
fore turning In for the night. 
A scene of wild und solemn beauty awaited him 
there. 
They had anchored In a narrow basin whose 
waters were seldom rutiled, and whoso depths or 
shade were at ibis time rendered still more in¬ 
tense, by t he single broad streak of silver which 
shot across the opening. 
All around, giant nJbuntalns, sunk In their end¬ 
less lethargy, rose into an empty moonlit, heaven. 
Parts ol them, ghostly In their brightness, stood 
out to view, but the greater portion was a vast, 
Indistinguishable mass, without form and void. 
No living thing stirred on land or sea. Not a 
sound vibrated on the ear. 
Tho solitary beholder of this sublime spectacle, 
Blundell, was notot a nature to view It with In¬ 
difference. 
II, was at this midnight hour, when free from 
the observation or bis companions, that lie bad of 
late sought,, at times, to recall the feelings which 
had lnAucneed him so powerfully a few months 
before. 
The suspicion that he was no longer Impressed 
as he had formerly been by the remembrance of 
the appalling scene, with which he had been 
wont to feed his imagination, had changed Into a 
certainty, lie hud used It, as the most potent 
means of exciting his bnllng energies into a rresh 
maintenance or the new life he desired to lead. 
It had palled at, length, and every t ime he would 
have tried the effect anew, It had proved to be 
the weaker. 
So great, had been the first shock, t hat by one 
mighty upheaval It had torn up the old lire by the 
roots. 
Then the empt y heart,, swept and garnished, re¬ 
mained vacant, with the door open. And now, 
alas! the banished spirit was on the watch, eager 
to regain hts loaf, possession. 
“It has been no fault of mine," and then fol¬ 
lowed tho bitter cry, the amazing accusation of 
the man yielding up the mastery, il It mas Cod's 
fault mho sent those men here / ” 
Tho struggle was at an end; he was vanquish¬ 
ed. Before he went to sleep, he softly undid the 
little window, picked up the rose, and let It float 
away upon the water. 
CHAPTER Xlll. 
The First Plunge. 
Thiskk are certain mornings in the year, on 
which it seems appropriate and natural to hear 
of a misfortune. 
On such a day the leaves are dropping rrom the 
trees, the wind moans dismally, over the plains 
• there hangs a dense white veil, ihe heavens above 
aro dark, and t he air Is chill. Almost, any event 
would be welcomed—almost any Llilng of any kind, 
to stir up, were it even to wrath, the stagnant 
pool of commonplace, which engulfs llfo for the 
time being. The postman has been. 
Has he Indeed ? Yuu turn your eyes from side 
to side—yow anxious, longing, letter-loving eyes, 
and they see nothing, stay, you are wrong; 
there Is one poor, ill-favored, thin, blue, marrow¬ 
less epistle; It lies on your own plate. 
Is that all ? 
Yea, verily. Toss It, aside, throw it from you- 
lt is a delusion, an impostor, a hill. 
Nay, but In that letter lies your fate, dear 
reader: lower your scornful, discontented eye¬ 
lids; give, I pray you, one glance, and think It 
not too small a matter for your notice. 
Therein—you start! Your lips open ! Your 
eyes dilate! 
Now, what Is the meaning of this? What has 
caused that sudden flusn. followed by so deadly a 
pallor? Why that trembling hand, that sinking 
Into the chair by your side, that blank, unrespon¬ 
sive gaze ? Are you stricken deaf and dumb ? Is 
there a ringing in your ears, a rushing at your 
heart—a lightning-flash ot perception that, one 
minute before, you had been happy. 
And the letter ts so short, it only contains the 
negative you had taught yourself to believe would 
never come; the failure that, with your talents 
and Influence, had seemed to be out of the ques¬ 
tion ; the death-blow to expectation, long as your 
life; or the curt statement, that a little toy you 
had amused yourself with had not turned out as 
well as had been expected, 
Some such trifle. And at length you And a 
mask wherewith to smile and repel intrusion—or, 
It. may be, only breathe to wonder and weep ; and 
through Novembers to come, when tire sky is 
gilm, and the earth dark, and the wind howls, 
you will sigh and whisper. “ It happened on just 
such a day as this!” 
So perchance will sigh Pauline, when the Ills of 
poverty have come to her, and she has learned to 
know something of its Btern pressure. When chat 
uninteresting envelope had been opened, and the 
few lines perused which conveyed the Intelli¬ 
gence that she and Tom were penniless, the brave 
girl had made light of the matter, if Tom, she 
said, could be brought not to mind—If he would 
lay his shoulder to the wheel, and work as a man 
should—It would signify little to either of them 
that they must from henceforth forego the luxu¬ 
ries, and coniine their wishes to tho necessities, of 
life. Neither of them oared for luxuries—they 
had no expensive habits—they would manage ex¬ 
cellently. She was only sorry that so much had 
been said about a trouble which was really not 
worth the sympathy expended upon It,. 
Poor, Rlmple, grandiloquent Paulino l 
What she would have done wit hout the shelter 
offered by her father's sister, Mrs. Wyndham.lt 
It would be Impossible to say ; and yet she could 
hardly be prevailed upon to accept It. 
So she is to live with Mrs, Wyndbam. 
Nothing or this relation has hitherto been men¬ 
tioned. To her niece she Is almost a stranger, 
their paths of life having lain In different direc¬ 
tions : and Pauline’s remembrance or her, if not 
altogether flattering, Is indistinct. At present, 
the lady Is staying with the Jermyiis at Harmony 
Court. 
The ladles arc sipping their team the drawing¬ 
room. Me, Jermyn, stout and fair, with rather 
too much capon her head, lounges In the easy 
chair by the Arc, By the table are tho two 
daughters of the house—Charlotte, tall, talka¬ 
tive, clever; Minnie, ordinary. 
Mrs. Wyndhatn In the arm-chair opposite, toys 
with the screen which her stilt delicate com¬ 
plexion renders necessary, IT she is to enjoy dear 
Selina's charming fire. The laeo at t he back of 
her little head Is costly, diamonds sparkle on her 
fingers, and everything about her is rich and val¬ 
uable. 
Perhaps we may now suspect why she Is Inva¬ 
riably “dear Camilla,” and “your dear aunt,” 
and “ our dear guest,” In Mrs. Jermj n’s lips ; and 
wby It Is only when mamma’s back is turned, and 
papa’s too, that Charlotte Jerinyn crouches 
down to halt her bight, and minces about the 
room, simpering and grimacing, talking nonsense 
In a finely accentuated voice, and cackling a little 
artificial laugh. 
How angry mamma would belt she knew ! 
It Is very wrong, very undutiful, to laugh at 
one’s own relations. It Is extremely absurd to lie 
at the catch for small defects, so kind, so In¬ 
dulgent an aunt! What wuuid Charlotte and 
Minnie do without AuntCamllla who treats them 
as it they were tier own children, and takes thorn 
to town, and makes them all those beautiful pres¬ 
ents? She hopes that none of her children wilt 
ever be found uryjrateful. bin: cannot answer for 
others ; Camilla of course knows best, about her 
own relations, but—and tUe head is shaken por¬ 
tentously. 
They are discussing tho new arrangement, you 
understand; and Charlotte has been incautious. 
Mamma cannot conceive w hat, she means, Is 
really astonished that a daughter of hers should 
be found wanting In respect. She considers that 
Pauline is quite In luck, quite in tuck to rind such 
a charming home. After such a sail misfort une, 
such a miserable business altogether, to have 
fallen on her feet as she has 1 No hardships, no 
privations, only the kindest and most generous of 
or relations waiting to receive her with open 
arms! 
“ And kill her In a week !” breaks out. the re¬ 
bellious daughter. “ You need not look so Indig¬ 
nant, mamma. She will do It with tho best In¬ 
tentions. Oh, yes, she will call her * my dear,’ 
and 1 my love,’ and beg her to take care of her 
health, and insist on ner going out every day in 
her carriage, and not, walking too far, and not 
reading too much,and not doing anything else In 
tho world than sitting by her side, listening to the 
ceaseless clatter, clatter, clatter from morning 
till night.” 
“Charlotte! I Wo were just, having a 
little discussion about your domestic affairs, Ca¬ 
milla, explains Mrs. Jerinyn, as her sister-in- 
laws's entrance rather alters the. nature of that 
discussion, and annihilates the response she had 
begun. " Minnie, a footstool for your aunt. Cold, 
dear? A little shawl for your shoulders ? Min¬ 
nie will fetch one In a moment. What were we 
saying ? Oh, It was about your future Inmate at 
the Grange. I only hope, my dear, that it will 
not be too much for you; the charge, I mean, the 
complete charge of a great girl like that! And 
such a risk as living together always is! You 
must let us know—that we shall insist upon—if 
It does not answer, and some other plan must be 
adopted. We shall feel ourselves responsible for 
the comfort of the Grange, as it was toe who in¬ 
troduced you to the neighborhood.” 
Mrs. Wyndbam has had this tact impressed upon 
her memory rather oltener than she cares for, 
already; but she Is in the habit or considering 
Selina > good creature, and makes allowance for 
her anxiety on a point where anxiety cannot but 
be flattering. 
Mrs. Jermyn runs on, * It ought to be consid¬ 
ered in the light of a trial, not to he permanent, 
unless all goes on smoothly. If It suits, well, if 
not, dear, you promise to take us Into confi¬ 
dence ?” 
Selina is really too kind. Of course It, is a risk, 
and Mrs. Wyndbam cannot hut feel nervous ; but 
still, what else could she do? She could not al¬ 
low the poor dear child to starve, and her own 
nearest relation too, her dear brother's child. 
Camilla Is not to be outdone on her own special 
ground; when these two get together, every 
second word la accentuated. 
“I suppose,” responds Mrs. Jermyn, wincing a 
little under the last observation, " that she has 
not been much out into the world—that she Is lit¬ 
tle more than a great girl ?” 
“ As tall as Charlotte, my love, and looks older, 
