242 
THE RURAL NEW-YORKER. 
©ST.<3 
Mrs. Jermyn began the reply, her daughter 
finished It. 
•• is that Mr. Pinch ?” said Tom. “Tie has got 
a nice little horse. Do you think ho will offer mo 
a mount while I am here ?” 
Unparalleled audacity 1 sir John and Lady 
Finch, the people ot the neighborhood, to be 
sailed “ u peculiar couple,” their names Joked 
about, and their property coveted ! 
The angry color gathered on Mrs. Jermyn’s 
cheek, and she glanced round seeking support. 
Would Camilla not say a word ? Would Pauline 
not look abashed ? Was Charlotte acutally 
laughing 1 
None of them had any sense of propriety. Mr. 
Fennel had even turned to young La Sartc, and 
begun a hunting conversation, and Mrs. Wynd- 
Uatn was regarding them both with the compla¬ 
cency of a hostess who sees hei guest* asslml- 
lailng properly. 
Nor dl l the entrance of Dolly Finch improve 
matters. 
It was Dolly's way to love and he loved, to 
look kindly on the world In general, and to hall 
with rapture anything of a kindred spirit. 
This alone would have been sufficient to have 
lntured for Mrs. Wyndham'snephew the w annest 
reception; but, In Tom, lie saw Pauline's brother. 
Words cannot paint tho satlslacll m of bis 
heart. . _ 
Due Inquiries had hardly been made, he barely 
allowed himself time to express bis pleasure at 
witnessing the invalid recovered, ere be turned to 
To'ii. So lucky an opportunity eoukl not be made 
loo much or, ami, in headlong basic, to take ad¬ 
vantage of H. he bet hought him Of the very mount 
on which young La 8arte had been speculating. 
In less than live minutes it was placed at his 
disposal. 
As frankly was It. accepted. 
With Jus! a ‘ Thank you,’ and no more !” said 
Mrs. Jermyn, afterwards. 
During the visit little could be said, aud nothing 
could be done, to Interfere with the arrange¬ 
ments which were harmoniously completed under 
the Indignant, lady's very nose. 
"You’ll coino up to breakfast?” said Dolly. 
“Thanks. What hour?” 
“Ten, sharp. The meat Is in the lnclosure In 
front of the house." 
“I hope that frosty look In the sky will trlve 
way,” said Tom. “ Dow was the scent this morn¬ 
ing?” 
*• [—t wasn’t out with them,” said Dolly. 
He was looking at Pauline as he spoke, and all 
but Tom knew how to Interpret the looks. 
“ Got a cold,” muttered Dolly. “Nasty sort of 
day,” Then, with a happy thought, “What will 
you do for me to-day, Miss La Sarte ? ^ ou cured 
me splendidly last week, and I have come back 
for more of the same stuff.” 
Such spirit deserved 10 be rewarded, as It was. 
lie had secured the right io talk to her, and hav¬ 
ing thug begun, continued boldly. 
“ Miss La Sarto, you never come to a meet. We 
are going to have a big parly to-morrow. Won’t 
you come to broekiast with your brother, and my 
mother will drive you to tho cover afterwards? 
Hhe Is sure t.o go.” 
• •An awfully good Idea!” cried Tom. “My 
sister would enjoy nothing more. We’ll both 
come." 
“So very kind," murmured Mrs. Jermyn, for 
him. 
She was the only auditor. Mrs. Wyndham was 
entertaining Mr. Fennel, and Charlotte was oc¬ 
cupied with a study of the pair. 
“So exceedingly kind,” continued she, as the 
party soon after went Into luncheon. “I hope. 
Pauline, that, your brother will really appreciate 
guch an offer. I hope ho will understand why It 
was made. It would not, he amiss, I think, to 
give him a word of caution, a hint—” 
“The very thing lor the dear hoy. Is it not?” 
exulted her sister-in-law In the same breath. 
“Now there Is no need to fear he will be dull. 
Now we shall feel his visit, Is really provided lor. 
\Vhat could have happened more a propos ? Mr. 
Fennel being here, too! Quite ft gathering ol 
young men!" 
She was In ihe host of humors; her aside was 
conveyed In a happy whisper, Mrs. Jermyn’s In a 
surly undertone; but to neither did Pauline pay 
heed. 
She was planning how to get off tho promised 
engagement. Her head ached, but dare she plead 
that V Her aunt had not been Invited, but could 
she suggest that ? Dolly, alone, had asked her. 
She caught at this. 
She caught at It. but, to no purpose, her aunt 
was simply surprised. 
“ 1 don't understand, my dear. Not go because 
Lady Finch had sent you no Invitation 7 Lady 
Finch knew nothing ot the matter. She has 
asked you there repeatedly, it was not in the 
least necessary that 1 should be Invited. To be 
sureyoue.au go. It would be quit* proper and 
suitable. You will wear your black and crimson 
dress. And, Pauline, 1 think you had better have 
the landau." 
Mrs. Wyndham was still engrossed with her 
subject, when Dolly sauntered up. 
••Wo shall see you to-morrow?” he said, trying 
hard in conceal Uls anxiety. 
“ Thank you, ye-es.” 
“ You will not disappoint—me?” he continued 
In a low voice, and wit h a sudden meaning and 
emphasis. M rs. Wyndham had discreetly with¬ 
drawn, and the moment was bis own. “I am 
sure you wouldn’t, if you only knew. I ought to 
have'sald ‘us,’ I suppose, but I was thinking too 
much of myself.' Miss La Sarte—” 
She knew not what she said, but she stopped 
him. 
She began to talk, smile, laugh insanely, and 
got him quieted somehow. 
This was absurd. This could not be allowed. 
A boy, a mere boy, with whom she had permitted 
herself to be lot I maid, with whom she had felt it 
gate to tie familiar, waB suddenly developing Into 
u lover! 
The girl was absolutely cruel In her contempt. 
Poor Dolly’s pretty, fair curia, his blue eyes, 
with iheir wistful pertinacious gaze, raised no 
feeling of pity, or kindliness, in her bosom— 
rather, they excited In It a spring of bitterness 
and disgust. 
Over her memory there rushed the recollection 
of a look, an eye. tho turn of a dark head—was 
she to blame ? She seemed to Bee before ber the 
man she could have loved, and the man whom 
she could not love she hated.—[To be continued. 
. - ♦♦♦■ - 
MY VERSION. 
BT QUOIN. 
“ love me, love my dog,” A wise adage, I dare 
say. I don’t at all mind their loving me, but I 
have thostrongeRt objection to their loving my 
dog—when, as in this Instance, my dog Is repre¬ 
sented by ruy wife. I am an old bachelor just 
returned Irnm my honeymoon, and l should be 
Intensely happy under such circumstances, were 
It, not that the men who, until now, have content¬ 
ed themselves with loving me (and It Is bare jus¬ 
tice to them to mention that they never made 
their affection for me unpleasantly conspicuous), 
have now taken to loving my wife, lean never 
go out wit hout the conviction that, on my return, 
j shall probably ffnd that Tom, Dick or Harry, of 
my bachelor days, has Just dropped in to see hlB 
old friend, aud that, finding me from home (T^ 
D. and H. cannot be taught to remember my club 
nights), tlm obliging visitor has remained to enjoy 
a gossip with my pretty wife. 
And the worst of it, Is, she Wees It ! She laughs 
and pools, and declares she is never sure of hav¬ 
ing a minute to herself; but she doesn’t care to 
have a minute to herself, or she could have it,, and 
would have It. Is " Not at homo” so hard tosay? 
(She has already caused U to be said to some of 
my relations; I know that.) 
But she is such a lit tle humbug (1 suppose all 
women are, to a certain extent,). 1 believe coquet¬ 
ry to be innate with her. In her Infancy she had 
her baby lovers, one of whom she would always 
contrive to render so sulkily miserable, for an 
afternoon, that the unfortunate lltlJe aspirant for 
her tavore would be put In the corner for " Tem¬ 
per” by bis nurse, while tho fair cause or the 
fault and punishment would play with the brother 
of the wretched victim before his eyes, lavishing 
on his rival her sweetest smiles, and behaving 
altogether with the grace of an angel. And as 
she grew up, my stars! now she grew in grace, 
grew in beauty, and grew In coquetry 1 At. fifteen 
she was the most tint shod little flirt, tho most- 
heartless little humbug, I ever saw. (is heartless 
too strong an expression? No. I veilly believe 
she had no such a thing as a, heart during our 
courtship. She could have had none, or she could 
never have witnessed my sufferings with Bucb 
consummate Indifference. It was not so much 
that I suffered because 1 could never And out 
whether she really loved me or not, as that I suf¬ 
fered because I could never feel sure that she did 
not love half a dozen others as well. Hateful and 
heartless! Then why did I marry iter? /don’t 
know. Don’t ask me.) 
But she has the prettiest and most, loving ways 
that ever beguiled man Into matrimony ; she has 
the sweetest sinlle, the most enchanting laugh, 
the most caressing voice that, ever drove man to 
distraction. (But those charms should be reserved 
exclusively for me, and they are not.) llcr face 
(l love ll) Is ns bright and sunny when raised to¬ 
wards Jack as when raised towards me. And yet 
Jack didn’t marry her. i t suspect Jack regrets 
that he didn’t; or why does he drop In so very 
often now 7) 
1 put It to any one. Can It be a pleasant thing 
for me, when 1 come home tired and—well, sup¬ 
pose I say cross—to find my wife sitting back In a 
low chair warming her feel by the tire (she has 
uncommonly pretty feet), with her hair done up 
with cherry-colored rlbons (she knows she looks 
best In cherry-colored ribbons, for Jack Is always 
telling her so), her lips parted and her blue eyes 
eager with suspense, looking full up at Jack as he 
reads to her? True, when l come In she beams 
at me, and makes room for my ebalr by her side, 
anil the book Is allowed to close, and the conver¬ 
sation (I ulwuys think conversation with three so 
stupid i) becomes general, till Jack finds out (what 
I am convinced he would never have discovered 
If 1 hadn't come in) That it is gelling late, aud 
takes Ids departure. The Instant he Is gone, up 
springs my wife, wheels my easy-chalr round to 
the fire, warms my slippers, seoreblug her pretty 
face sadly the while, rings for tea (I dare say she 
and Jack have had tea), and then, drawing a stool 
close to my side, clasps her hands beiore ber, In 
the old winning attitude that first took my heart 
by storm years and years ago, when my darling 
was but a child (a child, and what Is she now V), 
and says, "Arid now, dear, that that, stupid bore 
Is cone, toll me what you have been doing all 
day.” (Now what, I ask, is any one to say to such 
a charming Utile humbug ?) 
I had meanl to talk very gravely to her about 
her conduct towards my so-called friends (par¬ 
ticularly Jack), and I had even concocted a sen¬ 
tence beginning with, “You must, really think 
seriously, rny dear—” but It Is of no use, when 
things come to this pass. (I can’t look at her and 
scold her (and she takes very good care I shan’t I 
scold her without looking at her), so the subject ' 
drops, as all subjects do drop when she Is by, and 
I luxuriate In my easy ebalr and warm slippers, 
and, gazing on my pretty wife as she flits about 
the room like a household fairy as she is, feel that 
I am blest among men. (But this state of things 
is not calculated to last. The next evening finds 
Jack In his old place, his abominable face more 
undeniably good-looking than ever.) 
He Is fresh, open, and good-tempered Is Jack 
(why, in the name of fate, shouldn’t be be good- 
tempered when talking to my wife?), and his 
honest eyes (these fellows always have honest- 
eyes) express unqualified admiration of my wife. 
Mine! Let me say If. again, It does me good; my 
wife, Jack; a dozen times over, mine. Whlleshc 
on tier part has discarded the cherry-colored rib¬ 
bons, and has come out all over blue ribbons—I 
wish Jack wouldn't niter his taste In ribbons so 
often, It makes our bills high —and 13 altogether 
most bewitching. 
What am I to do 7 I can’t prevent her looking 
lovely—and I wouldn’t If I could. I can’t stop the 
supplies. I can't ship away t hose distracting rib¬ 
bons. Sooner than retort to such measures, let 
all the Jacks ever heard or thought of, drink my 
wIuor, read my papers (I wish Jack would read 
the papers a little more when he comes hero—lie 
knows nothing of politics), or sing themselves 
hoarse to my wlfe’sawoet accompaniment 1 (Still, 
If I could think of any half measure that would 
prevent Jack from giving us more than, say, five 
evenings a week of his valuable time, I should 
feel It a relief.) 
I have an idea! (I dare say ray wife does not 
think me capable of It, bull have.) Jack likes 
pretty women (I have a tolerably good proof of 
this every day ot my life); suppose 1 Introduce 
him to one. I know one who Is, strictly speaking 
(though I have never found any one who thought 
so), far more beautiful than my wife. I will tuke 
Jack there, this very night, and see if she can act 
as a corrective to tho blue and rod ribbons. I 
mention It to Jack, lie doesn’t see It, or course, 
(I never expected he would); but he consents to 
go with me, and he goes. She doesn't act as a 
corrective to the blue and red ribbons (of course 
she doesn't; he's much too far gone for that). 
Jack says she’s not " his style” (his style Is prob- 
ably at tho moment flirting furiously with Dick 
ol my bachelor days), and the evening la a failure. 
We both come away In a bad humor (not, an un 
common occurrence In rny case, by-tlie-bye), and 
bear with us Invitations to an approaching ball ; 
to which, of course, she will Wish to go. she does 
wish to go; she says It will be “delightful.” When 
the night, arrives, she appears In complete ball¬ 
room attire, like a- “Vision of light,” Jack 
very kindly remarks. 
Talk of her beauty (though It's really worth 
talking or) in her every-day ordinary dress (if any 
dress ever looked ordinary on her), what la It then 
to What. It is now 1 Well! She looks very lovely 
In her feathery whiteness, and I am very proud 
ot her, and should be quite willing to go to tbls 
or any other ball, and see her enjoy herself as 
much as she could, poor child! (were It not that, 
down-stairs, waiting for us, is—Jack.) 
Jack! In the rnnsf dandified “get-up." with 
the most irreproachable tie, and In his hand the 
most exquisite bonquetof white camellias. (They 
are not for me, but perhaps the next best thing 
to a present tor one’s-self should he a present for 
one’s wire.) I say nothing (chiefly because I have 
nothing to say), and we set, off. My Wife says, 
“ Should 1 inlnd going outside, because her dress 
does take up so much room?” I don’t mind, aud 
1 go outside. 
They (Jack and my wife) are dancing their sev¬ 
enth round dance. I feel that to-night either Jack 
or I will go mad (and that It won’t he Jack.) I 
make a last effort. I tell rny wife that I feel un¬ 
well, and hint that I should like to return home. 
She ts goodness itself. She Is so sorry i The heat 
or crowded ball-rooms Is the worst thing possible 
for a headache. 1 most, go home at once; I need 
not feel the least uneasy about her. Jack wlllBoe 
her home. (Will he? Not ltlknow it.) 1 sit on. 
There they go again, galop the eighth. (I wish 
people would take to dancing alone—hornpipes, 
for Instance—I could then be content to sit aud 
look on for any length of time. How young she 
looks, how unutterably ralr, with her blue eyes 
shining, and her soft hair pushed from her flushed 
cheek 1) 
The evening comes to an end at last, and I take 
my little wife home (and listen to her Innocent 
laughter and girlish glee, with a thankful heart, 
tor my darling is as open and as pure as the day. 
Still 1 must take some measures (for Jack's sake). 
Poor Jack t I think about it all the rest of the 
night, and 1 hit upon a little plan to show Jack 
that my little wife’s pretty ways and careless- 
lng manners are natural to her, and Inseparable 
from her, and are bestowed on others as freely as 
on him. 
I coax Dick (that is, I mention It to Dick, who 
jumps at the Idea) to come and spend an evening 
with us. He arrives about ten minutes before 
jack's usual hour lor appearing, and I put him 
and ray wife down at, the piano (which means 
that! do nothing of the kind, but that they es¬ 
tablish themselves at. that Instrument, and I don’t 
Interfere.) 
Jack arrives. Jack evinces astonishment, be¬ 
wilderment* discomfiture. Sitting back on the 
music-stool, accompanying without book, Tor ber 
blue eyes arc raised above the level of the music- 
desk, Is my wife, while over her leans Dick, sing¬ 
ing with the greatest expression tho burden of 
Balfe’s popular song, “Then you’ll remember 
me." Jack Is sulkiness Itself all night, and pro- 
voktogly proof against all my little wile’s at¬ 
tempts to flatter him Into a more social state of 
mind. He takes his leave early, and confides to 
me at parting that he thinks he shall go abroad; 
“ for after all, old fellow," he says, “ there Is noth¬ 
ing to be done In England.” I agree with him, 
and hint that. 1 would like to know In what part 
of the world he thinks there is anything to be 
done, when he replies, still sulkily busy with his 
great-coat* “ Ir.'s all one; I don't suppose there’s 
anything to be dODC anywhere.” 
l retort, “ Well, good-by, old chum, If you really 
mean It. I suppose when you come back, you’ll 
be l ringing your wifB with you—some foreign 
beauty, to startle the natives." 
Jack catches hold ot my arm, and in the tone of 
one who delivers a new Idea, says, “But what Is 
beauty 7” (rather good that, from Jack), “ and be¬ 
sides—nil women are humbugs.” 
So Jack goes off (and I cannot but feel heartily 
glad at Jack’s departure). Absence wlllne very 
good for Jack, I know. Whereas, for me! How 
happy | am as I resume the thread of my honey¬ 
moon, and feel that there is none now but I my¬ 
self to admire (l conveniently ignore Dick) the 
sweet face of my pretty wife! 
----- 
BRIC-A-BRAC. 
BY C. IT. E. E. 
There was a thoroughness about practical 
Jolting In the middle ages. When Pope Adrian 
died the Roman people, who despised him, deter¬ 
mined to testify their pleasure. They accordingly 
adorned the door of his physician s bouse with 
garlands, adding the Inscription: “ To the deliv¬ 
erer of Ills country.” Ra ther rough on the doctor 
though! 
Bays Locke : Converse with books Is not the 
principal part or study. There should be Joined 
with It meditation and discourse. Converse or 
reading, Is as collecting the rough materials: 
meditation is chooflng and fitting them; discourse 
Is observing the syrnetry of the parts, and noting 
the effect of the work. As we seldom hear of 
Locke now, I thought 1 would mention tbls. 
We know the value of a kiss with great minute¬ 
ness, but few know the value set upon various 
parts of t he human body. 1 lound what follows 
In a buccaneer’s log-book, one of ihe hoys who 
prowled about tuo Autlllcsand made things un¬ 
commonly sultry lor aged gentlemen and beauti¬ 
ful maidens, vide almost any dime novel. 
“Any man is to receive tor the loss of a right 
arm cno pelces of eight, or six slaves: ot a left 
ann 500 , or live slaves ; of a right or lelllegthe 
same as lor a right or left arm ; of an eye or fin¬ 
ger 100 pieces of eight, or one slave. The cap¬ 
tain to have In the division of spoils five times as 
much as a seaman, and the mate twice us much.” 
I think I should have preferred to have been ye 
caplt&yne boldo. 
If anyone Imagines that Tweed Is tho only 
frank thief In the world, I rancy 1 can dispel the 
Illusion, producing my example from quite an un¬ 
expected quarter. An Arab of Jebel Hauran was 
being questioned, 1 quote :— 
“ What brought you to the Detr when you saw 
us there ? ” 1 asked 1dm—“ To strip you,” he 
cooly replied.—“ Aud why did you not do it?” 
—“ Because Mahmud was with you.”—“ But why 
would you plunder us ? We are strangers, and 
not your enemies.’’—“ It is our custom.”—“ And 
do you strip all strangers ? ”—“ Yes, all we can 
get hold of.”—“ And tr they resist, or are too 
strong for you ? “ In the former case, we shoot 
them from behind trees; and In the latter wo 
run,”_•• How do the people of your tribe live ? 
Do they sow or plant ? “ No, we are not jel- 
latn.'—“ What do you do for aUvlng ? ”—“ We 
keep goats, hunt partridges and steal.”—" Are 
you all thieves 1 “ Yes, all! ” 
It was Byron. I think, who exalted fertilizers 
to poetical bights when be wrote, “How that 
red rain hath made the harvest grow;” and when 
one Btops fifteen minutes for contemplation, or 
wrestles mildly with the Rule of Three, It may 
be clearly demonstrated that there can be no pos¬ 
sible use for commercial fertilisers. And here Is 
my proof: 
Scientific writers assort that tho number of per¬ 
sons who existed since the beginning of time, 
amounts to 36,027,613/275,075,846. These figures, 
when divided by 3,0i*5,ooo— the number of square 
leagues of land on the globe—leave 11,320,639,733 
square miles of land, which, being divided as be¬ 
fore, give 1,134,622,976 persons to each square mile. 
Let us now reduce miles to square rods, and the 
number will be 1.853,174,600,000, which, being di¬ 
vided as before, will gtve 1263 inhabitants to each 
square rod; which, being reduced to feet, will 
give about five persons to each square foot of 
terra Jlrma. Thus It will be perceived that our 
earth Is one vast cemetery— 1263 human beings 
lie burled on each square rod—scarcely suflluleut 
for ten graves. Each grave must contain 128 per¬ 
sons. Thus It Is easily seen that the whole sur¬ 
face of our globe has been dug over 128 times to 
bury its dead, and is, consequently, rich In fertil¬ 
izing material. Selah! 
Three score and ten Is not a very green old age 
if, as astronomers assert, the period of time in 
which this earth will be Inhabitable, Is as a min¬ 
ute to eternity of tt3 actual existence. And yet 
some people really forget that they were ever 
young. 
There she stood, tho apple of their eyes, trem¬ 
bling with suppressed weeps. Their frowns deep¬ 
ened as the mother wiped her glasses preparatoi y 
to reading a letter found In the girl’s pocket. It 
began, “Angel of myexlstance.” 
