SEPT.8 
IN CHURCH. 
BT ANNIE L. JACK. 
At noon we walked demurely home; 
Thu mid-day nun was shining clear, 
But Kate was penitent and Bad, 
While I had much to hope and fear. 
The willows drooped their silvered bows. 
By river side, with elm and birch; 
But nature's beauties could not charm. 
For Kate and J hid smiled in church. 
My eye had often sought her face. 
While she, quite conscious of my gaze. 
Listened devout, as Christian should, 
The gray-haired pastor's prayer and praise. 
But from the window wo could son 
The robins on the tree-tops perch. 
With twittering love in every note,— 
Kate looked at me and-smiled in church. 
And whore’s thn harm ? 1 hotly cried, 
When the fair saint confessed her sin. 
If Heaven denies ur love and smiles, 
Why. who would wish to enter in? ■ 
For many frowns, on every band, 
Meet our sad eyes while here we search, 
Nor love we truth one whit the less. 
Because we uhanced to smile In church. 
■-♦ ♦ » 
A CITY WEED. 
I passed a graveyard in a city street, 
Where 'stead of songs of birds, the hoarse sad cries 
Of wretched men echoed from morn to night. 
Locked were its gates, and rows of iron bars 
Fenced iu God’s acre from tired wanderers' feet. 
All broken lay the slabs which l<ivo had raised; 
But on a mound where fell a patch of light, 
A bindweed grew; and on its flowers, with eyes 
O'erflowiug with a wint’ry rain of tears, 
A pale-faced, miserable woman gazed, 
Heart-sick with longings of the nevermore. 
And faint with memories of bygone years; 
A breezy common with a heaven of stars, 
And lovers parting at a cottage door. 
^torjj-CcIkr. 
PAULINE. 
(■Continued from page 143, last No.] 
CHAPTER XIV. 
Dot’s Revelations. 
Charlotte Jermyn was In every respect the 
antipodes of her mother. She was a bluff, down¬ 
right girl, whose sterling qualities could not fall 
to meet with a certain amount of appreciation; 
but, as these were unhappily accompanied by a 
deficiency lu the charms of grace and refinement, 
they were robbed of t he outward garb of attract¬ 
iveness ; and, although possessed of moro than 
one friend, she had never had a lover. 
The follies of her aunt were tolerated with 
cheerful equanimity. But to be tied down to Mrs. 
Wyndbam’s presence for the greater portion of 
every day or her Ufa, would have been to her too 
irksome an existence to have been borne. 
Hence the sympathy for Pauline, t,r»e unguarded 
expression of which drew forth her mother's re¬ 
buke In tho last chapter. 
Pauline was to be regularly domesticated at 
the Grange, would take the bottom or the table, 
act. In a manner, as hostess when Llie Jermyns 
came over, and would, In a word, completely un¬ 
seat Charlotte and Minnie from the niche to 
which their fond mother had In her dreams elect¬ 
ed them. 
With difficulty she had commanded her coun¬ 
tenance and her voice when informed of the down¬ 
fall of her hopes. 
She had entreated her sister-in-law to recon¬ 
sider the matter, had pointed out with consider¬ 
able fertility of imagination the evils Ukely lo 
ensue from the proposed amalgamation; but she 
could do no more; even she had not dared to sug¬ 
gest to Mrs. Wyndham that a daughtor of the 
house of La Sarte should take stops towards pro¬ 
viding for her own maintenance. 
At such a proposal, Camilla’s eye would have 
flashed. 
She had therefore been compelled to confine 
herself to affectionate condolence and ingenious 
prognostications of mischief. 
On the other hand, a few lines from Mra. Wynd- 
liam’s brother had settled the question. “ 1 have 
done my best for Tom, and of course you will take 
his sister." 
Mrs. Jermyn felt that “ of course" as her death- 
warrant, and gave up the contest. 
“ So then, my love, It really Is Co be, and we 
must all hope It will turn out for the best,” 6he 
had cried, trying hard to wring a smile out of her 
blank face. 
“ When a thing Is once decided upon, Camilla, 
you are too good a creature to think of drawing 
back." 
Camilla was too good—or too dense. She did 
not follow the Idea thus slipped In edgeways. And 
that effort had been Mrs. Jermyn’s final one. 
The next morning, Pauline having driven out 
with her aunt, a little episode takes place In the 
breakfast-room. All the other ladles are gathered 
there, when the door opens, and Dot, an Inquisi¬ 
tive eight-year-old piece of precocity, spoilt by 
her mother and snubbed by her sisters, strolls 
Idly In. 
Instantly there is a lull in the conversation, ror 
experience has warned all present that Dot Is not 
a safe listener. Mamma returns to the account- 
book on the table before her, Charlotte takes up 
her work, and Minnie goes away. This Is hard 
on Dot, who Is instantly possessed of a raging 
desire to know the extent of her deprivation, 
THE RURAL NEW-YORKER. 
“What is It all about?" peevishly demands the 
Innocent. “ What are you all talking about ? I 
know you wore talking, for I heard you outside, 
and you stopped when I came In. You never tell 
me anything." 
Charlotte.—“ Get away, child. You shouldn’t 
listen, and then you wouldn’t know whether you 
were told or not." 
Dot.—" I did not listen, I only heard. I’ll listen 
next time, and you won’t know whother I’m there 
or not.” 
“ You will only get punished, you stupid little 
thing. Wtiy are you not at your lessons?" 
“Mademoiselle is not coming to-day. She has 
a headache." 
“ Well, go to the schoolroom, then. Wo can’t 
have you here.” 
“ You are always sending me away," whimpers 
the child. “Mayn’t I stay, mamma? Mayn't I 
stay 7" 
An uplifted pen, enjoining silence, Is her only 
answer; whilst mamma's Ups move, in silent ad¬ 
dition of figures that will not balance correctly. 
Accordingly there breaks forth imperious whlno 
No. 2. "Mayn’t1 stay, mamma?" 
"Stay? Yes, poor child! why not?” The sum 
Is finished, and noted down. " Stay It you like,” 
replies Mrs. Jermyn, cheerfully. 
“ Oh, of course she may stay, and of course she 
may do whatever sho likes, and pry into every¬ 
thing, and carry tales, and make mischief, as she 
always does I” exclaims the sister, disrespectfully. 
" But 1, for one, decline to be pried Into. I sha’n’t 
stay it sbo does," 
“ Charlotte is so cross to me, mamma," from the 
plaintiff. 
" Charlotte, how can you be so cross to the poor 
child? What harm Is sho doing you ? And don’t 
you see sho Is not well ? ” 
Exit Charlotte, without reply. Dot, briskly, 
" What is it about, mamma?” 
" About, my dear?" 
" It's about Pauline, I know, for I heard them 
say her name. What ts it about her and Aunt 
Camilla? Do tell me, mamma. You might tell 
me." 
“ Oh, never mind, my dear. Little girls can’t 
be told everything." 
“ But I want to know, mamma, and I won’t tell 
anybody else. Do say, mamma. Mamma, do 
say." 
“My dear, poor Pauline has lost all her money, 
and kind Aunt Camilla Is going to take her to live 
at the Grange. That Is all." 
" But why are you sorry that she is come ? Why 
did you say you wished to goodness that she had 
been sent anywhere else? I heard you say that, 
mamma." And with the words the small cunning 
eyes (apparently a pair of her own, made down 
for Dot) search her through and through. 
" How did you know I was speaking of Pauline, 
child? You should not fasten down to any par¬ 
ticular person half a sentence that your ears hap¬ 
pen to catoli when you are coming Into a room. 
The greatest mistakes in the world are made In 
that way,” cleverly observes mamma, with an Im¬ 
pressive air. 
“Oh, but I heard you say Pauline." Dot nods 
her head to enforce the emphasis, “ So there 
wasn’t, any mistake. And I know 1 don't make 
mistakes—I never do. I heard you say It quite 
distinctly; and I want to know why. Because 
It’s tunny" (mysteriously) " that somebody else 
wishes the very same tblng, and lie wrote It, too.” 
“Who wrote It? What do you mean v Wrote 
it to you 7” 
" Oh no; to her—to Pauline. He wrote, or she 
wrote—somebody wrote; but you tell me first, 
and then I will tell you,” 
" What am I tell you, silly one? You know all 
i said, it seems, already. But Dot, remember, that 
if you repeat it to any one—sisters, or Aunt Ca¬ 
milla, or any one—I shall be very, very greatly 
ill-pleased Indeed. It would be most unkind, most 
unreeling to say It again. Remember that. If I 
though 11 could not trust you, I should never have 
told you now." 
“Younever did tell me, mamma. You didn’t 
tell me a thing. I heard It all for myselt, and tho 
other one too, and I want to know why ?” 
A labored explanation, and then, “What do 
you moan about the other one? It was odd of 
Pauline to read out her letter to a child like you.” 
“ Oh, sho didn’t read It," Dot candidly allows, 
“/read It." 
" You ? How did you read It 7" 
“ 1 read It, because 1 found it. I found It In her 
room, under the dressing-table, when you were 
all at dinner. And I gave It to her afterwards." 
“ Oh, Dot, for shame! To read people's letters, 
and then come and tell what was In them! Never 
do that again, my dear; Ills a very naughty thing 
to do.” 
“it was only a little bit, mamma" (slightly 
abashed). ‘ It was only because It was about Mr. 
Blundell; and Roberts says he thinks Mr. Blun¬ 
dell is to come back to-day, and ihat we shall not 
be allowed to go through the farm any more. We 
do like to go through the farm so much, and he 
has been away so long. I wonder why he should 
come back at all." 
“ You are making some mistake, child. It could 
not be the same Mr. Blundell—or you have read 
the name wrong. Pauline Is not likely to know 
anything about this Mr. Blundell." 
" Somebody knows, who wrote the letter. Who 
was It wrote the letter?" 
“ Her brother—her brother, dear,” Impatiently. 
“He knows, then. He called him Blundell; and 
oh, 1 am sure It was our very own Mr. Blundell, 
because the letter said he was coming back, and 
Roberts said so too 1” 
“And was this all? I really think, Dot, you 
ought to tell me all you read—though I don’t ap¬ 
prove of your reading it, mind, and you must 
never do such a thing again—but you had better 
tell me now what you can remember, Just that 1 
may show you wliat a slliy little head you have 
got to take up such fancies." 
" 1 didn’t take up fancies.” Dot grows sullen. 
“I saw it, and l am sure I was right. It said he 
was on his way to Blundellsayo—oh, there! It 
said Blundellsaye, so of course it was him-•” 
" 4 He,’ dear, not ‘ him.’ ” Mrs. Jermyn corrects, 
coolly; but In reality she Is Impressed. "And 
what besides, Dot?" 
"Oh, just that. And then directly after—be¬ 
cause I was reading that, and T saw Just below, 
4 1 wish you bad been sent anywhere else.’ And 
I did not read any more—not a word. 1 wonder 
why lie wished Pauline had been sent anywhere 
else ? She has not been sent to Blundellsaye!” 
"William,” said Mrs. Jermyn, carelessly ad¬ 
dressing her husband at the lunelieon-table, and 
choosing a pause, when her words could not but 
bo heard by every one at table, “ did you know 
that M r. Blundell returns home to-day i I daresay 
we shall meet him to-night at Finch Hall." 
The moment for the remark was carefully cho¬ 
sen, and she was Inclined to think she had done 
well in making It. 
CHAPTER XV. 
That’s What I Think of Him 
It 1s half-past hIx o’clock lu tho evening, and 
the dressing-bell has rung at Finch Hall. 
Dolly was the sworn ouorny of bells in general, 
and of this Imperious courtyard bell—this harsh, 
noisy, Inexorable clang-clang—In particular. 
It never found him ready. It never found him 
ashamed. 
The present was an evening for indifference. 
There was nobody by to order him off; ho sput¬ 
tered a sleepy execration, blinked his eyelids, 
frowned, and looked straight In front of him. 
All was peaceful again, and the flickering fire¬ 
light wooed his outraged feelings to forgetful uess. 
Ills head drooped forward and hung upon his 
breast. 
Auou Uo hoard the sweet music of tho hounds, 
and the patter of hoofs. Now he la sailing over 
an empty field, the fox well In sight. He loses 
her! He clears a fence! Ill, ho Is down! Some 
one Is pulling hlin from under the horse, shaking 
him, shouting 1 u bis ears with a voice like a trum¬ 
pet. He starts to his feet and manfully grasps— 
the armchair! 
By his side stands his father, observing, with a 
gentle yawn, " Wake up, Dolly. Time to dross." 
Heavily sighed poor Dolly now. 
There would be no turther respite. He Is still 
In pink ; his boots were splashed, and his cap and 
whip lay on the Uoor by Ills side. 
He must go, of course. Of course. He is going, 
no Is only waiting a moment. Where Is his cap? 
Kh? Thn voice growing ever more and more In¬ 
articulate. 
“Dolly, Dolly, Dolly! Time to dress, you 
know." 
“All right, sir,” with another sigh. "Lots of 
time." 
" Not. such lots, I can tell you. It Is, by me, let 
me see—It only wants a quarter now. And there 
are some people coming to dinner, you know.” 
“i’ll be ready," creeping to the front of the 
chair, In preparation for the effort of rising. “ I 
don’t take any time." 
" Well you had better be as quick as you can. 
I went down to the farm Just now," continued Sir 
John, “ and—" 
“Ob, I rorgot," broke in Dolly, calling his wits 
together. “I meant to tell you, Benson says we 
sha’n’t get those oats. Ralph Blundell’s come 
back." 
“ 1 was going to toll you that. I passed him 
outsldo the gate Just now.” 
“ Did you speak to him ?" 
“Oh, I gave hlrn a sort of nod. There were 
half-a-dozen of them In the drag—as disreputable¬ 
looking a set as usual. That one with tho long 
moustache, he was there. What do you call 
him? Harcourt? Chaworth—that’s it. lie was 
facing me. Blundell was driving, and that young 
cousin of his, Wllmot Blundell’s son, whom I sup¬ 
pose he has undertaken to lead to the dogs as 
fast as It can be done, was on the box beside 
him.” 
“ 1 hope you were not rude to him, sir?" 
" I was not rude to him. I don’t kuow what 
you mean by being rude to him. I Just gave him 
a nod like this,” repeating tho performance. “ I 
did not take off my hat, and salaam down to the 
ground before him—If you mean that.” 
Whether he meant that or not, Dolly did not 
explain. He was silent, gazing thoughtfully Into 
the fire, and after a few moments thus passed, 
the father continued, bringing his eyebrows to¬ 
gether and scanning his son’s countenance as he 
spoke, 11 You are not intending to call there, I 
suppose ?" 
“ l must, some time or other. You won’t; and 
If neither of us went, It would look so abominably 
uncivil." 
What do we oare It It does look uncivil ? We 
have no particular need to show civility to a man 
who Is the pest of the neighborhood." 
"I must Just call," said Dolly with decision. 
“ Don’t ask him here, unless you like. But every¬ 
body will call." 
“You will do as you please, of course. You 
usually do. But I shall have nothing to say to 
him." 
“ I cannot Imagine why you should make It a 
personal matter, sir. lie has never done you any 
harm that you know of.” 
“ lie won’t do me any harm, III take very good 
care of that. I’m not likely' to be harmed; but 
there are those who are, and not very far off 
either. I won't have you making a friend of that 
man, Dolly; so you need not think of it.” 
<57 
"Making a friend of him because I leave a 
card!" 
" Ay, making a friend of him. That will be tho 
next thing. You will meet him with the hounds, 
and you will be invited to Blundellsaye, and you 
will go wherever ho asks you, and do whatever 
he tells you—" 
“A precious fool you make me out!” broke 
forth Dolly, never moro Indignant than at a hint 
of this kind. 
“ Fool enough, If anybody asks you to play tho 
fool," unhesitatingly rejoined his ratuer. 
“Do you thlulc I have no mind of my own, 
sir?” 
“Mind of your own? No. If you havo any 
mind of your own, It Is kept for your mother, and 
sisters and mo. For tho rest, anybody may pull 
you about with a string.” 
This was too much—the young man (lushed 
with passion. 
“ That'B a nice thing to say to a fellow! It’s a 
beastly shame to say such a thing!" 
Ho rose to go, and the fathor's heart smote 
him. 
“ Well, Dolly, It, was. I ask your pardon, and 
let me see I was wrong as soon as you can. I 
don’t wish to sec a son of mine tied to his mother’s 
apron-string any more than you do. Choose your 
friends, bring them here, and so long as they are 
respectable, and gentlemen, they shall always 
have a Welcome. But take my advice—it Is only 
my advice, rnlnd—aud have nothing to do with 
Ralph Blundell.” 
Blundell’s reappearance was commented upon 
at the dinner-table that evening, with the alac¬ 
rity a new topic must ever Inspire. 
There was a large party, but although Mrs. 
Jei myu had opined that he would bo present,, 
none of (ho others had expected for a moment to 
meet him. It was years since he had been seen 
at Finch Hall, where sobriety and decorum had 
always prevailed, and where an Irregular life was 
less likely to meet with toleration than at, any 
other house In tho neighborhood. 
Nevertheless the event was Interesting, oven to 
the hosts. They know Ralph Blundell, and had 
done so slaoo Ills boyhood. Lndy Finch asked 
after him In a maternally sad voice. She could 
not help fueling grieved whenever she looked 
across to that deserted, lonely house. Hho re¬ 
membered the two brothers, such (luo, manly 
boys, always together, and so rond of each other 
that you never saw them apart. 
Their poor mother was so proud of them! Sho 
used to say her sons were bettor to her than any 
daughter could have been. As loug as sho lived, 
everything had gone on smoothly at, Rluudollsaye. 
The poor young men! They had been left bo en¬ 
tirely without restraint afterwards, that ono 
ought to have the deepest pity for them,—one 
ought, to make the greatest allowances. 
Tho gentle creature being well out of her hus¬ 
band’s hearing gave free vent to the feelings her 
compassionate uatura prompted, 
At the other end of the table, the tone adopted 
towards tho same subject was different. 
Had there not. been something strange about 
Ralph Blundell lately? What was It? Had he 
been off bis head 7 llad he never been at Blun¬ 
dellsaye since his brother’s death? Where had 
he been v Was lie all right now ? 
It was not without emotion that, Pauline heard 
the name bandied from one to the other. 
There waa no need for her to speak. No one 
Imagined that a stranger could have any remark 
to make on a subject that had so purely local an 
lntoresc. They did not trouble her with It; but 
adapting himself to her presumed taste, a little 
man on her left hand, who had been appealed to 
as an authority more than once, th us addressed 
her— 
“And I suppose croquet Is qulto discarded for 
lawn-tennis now ?" 
“ I suppose so,” said she, absently. 
“ Are you a groat player ? ” 
"A—a what?" 
“ A great, lawn-tcunis player. The ladles about 
here are uncommonly good at it.” 
" Are they ? Which ?” 
He stared a little. 44 Oh, that one in pink down 
there, Is one of our best hands. She and her sis¬ 
ter play splendidly. It Is the greatest fun In the 
world having one of them for your partner; you 
have nothing to do but to stand still with your 
bat. In your hand, and let her run about! You 
are sure to win.” 
A sympathetic smile disguised her Inattention, 
and he proceeded easily. 
“ I don’t say that. I never can hit the balls 
when there are a lot. of people about, and every¬ 
body seems in a fuss and bustle, l can play 
splendidly by myself. At least I could, if it 
weren’t for that nuisance of a net. Don’t you 
think the net is a nuisance ? I don’t see but that 
wo should do Just as well without, It. No one 
wants a game to be such desperately hard work.” 
“ No, certainly," replied she, catching the last 
sentence. 
“ I often go out and have a round when there Is 
nobody by,” he continued, confidentially, “and I 
hit every time. Ton my word 1 do. I never 
miss. People say to me sometimes at parties, 
‘Fennel, how on earth don’t you play better? 
You are always at It.’ But they never see me 
when 1 am by myself, you know. It puts me out 
playing with other people.” 
"Yos?" 
“ It was Just the same at croquet. I could play 
It splendidly, If l was let alone; but people used 
to get In one’s way so awfully. And then 1 never 
could find my ball, for somebody always must 
needs aend It somewhere Just when n was want¬ 
ed ! l used ic say to the people, 4 My good people, 
if you would only have tho goodness to let me 
alone, I could get through my hoops well enough; 
