DEC. 28 
FOREVER YOUNG. 
kbkk e. rbxford. 
I thought, when leaves were falling 
In (|uiet woodland ways, 
That, life was like the seasons, 
And lonesome autumn days 
Must follow youth’s bright summer. 
And 'tieath their pomp of gold 
The heart nust sit in sadness 
Because it groweth old. 
Then he, whose love I lean on 
Smiled down into my eyes. 
And though the leaves were falling 
I sawithe summer skies; 
He kissed me, and the blossoms 
Of summer-time came back. 
Dear heart, if love be with ur, 
What can the seasons lack ? 
HER MOTHER’S SECRET. 
CHAPTER III. 
[Continued from page 40!).] 
“I would not, marry lier now, If I lost my un¬ 
cle’s Inheiltance through It,” he went on; "but 
that I cannot do. The entailed estates are mine, 
though the personality and savings are all his. 
Hut still ho la good an(l kind, a friend that I must 
explain matters to him." 
“ But, he will njjver consent,” she cried. 
•• He will. He Is one of the most Just and gen¬ 
erous of men. In his youth he had some disap¬ 
pointment, In love, to which, In private, he often 
alludes. All I shall have to do Is to toll the truth. 
Then i must introduce you." 
»i am afraid that It is all very romantic, and 
that It will end badly,” she sighed. 
“ No, my dear; * all Is well that, ends well,”’ he 
said, cheerfully. “ 1 have already given him an 
Inkling of the truth. When he sees you, all will 
he decided.” 
And now, walking along the hedge, Koyston 
told her many a story of hla early life, drawing 
Edith herself out a little. 
But as she had little to say except about her 
mother and .lack, her discourse waa not very In¬ 
teresting. 
On this occasion they did not visit, the farm, as 
they did not, know what, might bo suspected ; and 
afer a long stroll in the forest, they slowly re- 
turned through their Garden of Eden. 
Reaching ilie oak tree, Boynton Yorkeslackened 
his pace, and tin ally stopped. 
My darling,” he said, pressing her to him, and 
letting her headrest upon his breast, •• all through 
our lives we shall remember this, our trystlng- 
place. Wherever we may he, we shall visit It once 
a year.” 
" 1 hope so,” she replied gravely, “ but we are 
not married yet, Koyston,” 
And the girl spoke with a coquettish gayety 
that was quite new to her. 
"My own darling, we soon will he!” he an¬ 
swered, kissing her warmly. 
But what, about tn unrua ?” she suddenly cried, 
consternation written in her face. 
“ She shall come to llvefwlth us,” he answered. 
“ I shall take you away altogether from this 
neighborhood ’’ 
“ Will you?" shouted a maniacal voice, and at 
the same moment a shot was nred almost point- 
blank at no great distance. 
Koyston Yorke fell forward on the ground, while 
Edith uttered a wild uiy. 
For one moment, t here dashed across the road 
what, in her demented state, she eould not swear 
to, but which she believed to be Jack; but It was 
Impossible to swear to him. 
Koyston Yorke lay still and motionless; his hat 
was off, and his face was blood stained. 
"Ob, speak to me, my love, my darling!” she 
said. “ Speak only one word !” 
There was a moan, and all waa still. Then 
heavy footsteps were heard, and some laborers 
came through the hedge. 
They were In the employ of Clayton, and looked 
around with a peculiar air of fear. • 
“ Help ! help!" cried Edith. 
They approached, and with that strange hesi¬ 
tation which laborers have to touch the dead, 
lifted him up. 
The wound on the face was co a lined to his ear, 
but the shot had gone so near the brain as to ren¬ 
der him Insensible. 
A rough litter was made, the men put their 
smocks on it, and the lovers returned to the 
house. 
Before the cottage was reached, Koyston had 
opened his eyes ana seen her. He gave one pres¬ 
sure or the hand that held his, and again closed 
his eyelids. 
As soon as the cottage was reached, Prentiss 
hurried off for the doctor, who was close at hand, 
and he pronounced at once that no vital part had 
been affected. 
"How aid It happen?” he asked. “It was a 
close shave.” 
" l saw no one,” replied Koyston Yorke, avoid¬ 
ing any look at Edith. 
“ But you. Miss Marshall, were present?" con¬ 
tinued thB doctor, a little curiously. 
“The shot came from behind the hedge,” she 
answered; “1 did not see It llred.” 
The doctor made no remark, though he had a 
very strong conviction of the truth. The reeling 
manifested by Jack Clayton towards Edith was a 
matter of general remark, while the tact of the 
THE RURAL NEW-YORKER. 
girl having been seen a good deal with her moth¬ 
er’s lodger, had also been commented on. 
The Clayton girls had made some rather Ill-na¬ 
tured remarks about Edith lately, which, as usual, 
never reached the Inculpated parties. 
The doctor, having given minute directions to 
Mrs. Marshall and Prentiss about the wounded 
man, left, promising to return next day. 
The lodger was put to bod, and waited on by 
bis own man; but before going up to her mother, 
Edith r btalned permission to see him. 
He was quite sensible and clear-headed. 
“My darling,” he salcl. In a low tone, “ I sup¬ 
pose there can be no doubt how It, happened 7” 
" 1 ’m afraid so," she answered. In a low, hushed 
voice. “ He must hare been mad." 
“ Well, let us say nothing about It,” he went on. 
“ When 1 am well, ho shall tecelve a lilnt,." 
“Now, Royston,” she asked, kissing Mm on the 
forehead—how sweet the word sounded, and how 
charming was that voluntary embrace!—“ can I 
do anything for you? Shall I write to your 
friends f 
"No, my darling," he answered, "It would 
needlessly alarm them. If t write myself to-mor¬ 
row, It will bo i otter.’’ 
And so they parted until next. day. when It was 
found that Jack Clayton had disappeared. His 
gun and cap had been found on the banks of a 
stream close at hand. 
Everybody was now convinced that, after at¬ 
tempting to murder Royston Yorke, he had com¬ 
mitted suicide. 
Uls relations went into mourning, and all com¬ 
munications between the Marshalls and the Clay¬ 
tons ceased. 
But Royston Yorke recovered rapidly, and as 
soon as possible took his departure foi London, 
promising to write soon. 
CHAPTER IV. 
A Sad Event. 
All pretty Edith’s color went, and she became 
a sad and thoughtful girl. Not only was the 
alienee of Royston Yorke Inexplicable, but It, was 
Impossible not to see that her mother was becom¬ 
ing weaker and weaker every day. 
At last Dr. Williams was obliged to confess to 
the sadly afflicted parent that her time was com¬ 
ing last.. 
" I knew It," she said, with a mournful smile. 
“You must prepare my daughter for the worst.” 
It was not a pleasant task, but., as the unfortu¬ 
nate girl had an tnkllng of the truth, it was tho 
easier to let her know that the Inevitable was ap¬ 
proaching. 
That evening, after a tew words rrom the 
doctor, Edith went Into her mother’s room with 
him. 
“ You must be brave, my little woman,” he had 
said. “There Is one thing above all others 
that la dangerous In her case—much excitement.” 
“ 1 will do my best,,” she answered, sadly. 
The poor woman was much wasted, but she 
still kept to her arm-chair. 
“ My darling,” she said, knowing by her face 
that she had been partially prepared, “you must 
not grieve too much ! As far as I am concerned, 
death will he welcome; all I think of Is you !” 
“ Mother, mother, mother!” cried Edith falling 
on her knees. 
“ Be calm, my girl!” observed the doctor, pat¬ 
ting her on the head. 
“Yes, my poor child; be calm, for you have 
much to learn,” said the mother faintly. “ I 
have hitherto kept my troubles from you. You 
must know them now, as even yet It, may not be 
too late to And your father.” 
“ My rather 1” she gasped. 
“ Yes; but, doctor, 1 am too agitated to speak ; 
will you kindly read out this written statement, 
and I will occasionally stop you to explain," she 
added. 
The doctor took out his spectacles, accepted 
the paper from her hand, and began to read :— 
“My maiden name was Alice Estcourt,; my 
friends were of excellent family, but my father 
died poor, leaving me to the care of a maiden 
aunt. 
“Jane Estcourt was very well off, and a Just 
but very hard woman. Who brought me up 
under very strict discipline. I had the best of 
masters. 
“ It, was distinctly understood that I was to be 
her heiress. 
“ That was all I knew until I reached eighteen 
years of age, when she Introduced me to a gentle¬ 
man about forty, of fair fortune, pleasant, enough 
In manners, but, to my girlish fancy, very old. 
“ t only wish now J had been wiser, and have 
allowed my elders to choose for me. Nor good 
comes from acting on the Impulses of love.” 
Edith found her cheeks burn, despite herself, 
while she gave vent to a little sigh. 
“ Mr. Linton came often to see us, and It was 
distinctly understood that we were to be married. 
“ I was passive In the matter, and he observing 
my gravity, considered that I lived a too moping 
style of existence. 
“ He Induced my aunt to allow me some 
pleasures, and she, delighted at my obedience, 
and willing in anything to oblige him, allowed 
me to visit some rather gay neighbors, of higher 
social rank than ourselves, but not so well off. 
“ Lady Seabrlght aud her daughters, by virtue 
of their connections, were Invited to very many 
places. 
“ We lived near a garrison town, and one day 
there took place a race ball. 
“ I was staying at their home for a week, so 
that there was no fear of my aunt or my affianced 
husband Interfering with my pleasures. 
“ 1 had been to many a dance before, but never 
to a public hall. 
“ Of course, at ray age, It was a delightful pros¬ 
pect ; and It was with difficulty I was persuaded 
to eat or sleep for several days before. 
“We drove to the hall, where our entrance made 
a great sensation. 
“ I must explain, m order that subsequent 
events may be better understood, that, though 
strictly select, It was very largely attended, and 
that one might, easily dance with anyone, with¬ 
out a chaperone knowing strictly how they were 
Introduced 
“ 1 had had several partners, and had sat down 
for a while, when a gentleman In uniform—an 
officer, of what regiment I did not catch-all 
were the same to me—was brought up to me by 
one of the stewards, who requested me to give 
him a dance. 
“ I was about to refer him to Lady Seabrlght, 
when I glanoed at his noble, manly face, all aglow 
with eagerness, and I yielded. 
“The dance was the treat of the evening. 
Lady Seabrlght was busy with her daughter; 
and as she knew well 1 had, through her many, 
acquaintances, did not trouble herself much 
about me. 
*• T thus obtained many dances with my part¬ 
ner, who gave me the name of captain Arthur 
Mortimer. 
“ Before wo parted, he had discovered my ad¬ 
dress—that Is, my auut’9; and yet, though he 
showed great eagerness to renew the acquaint¬ 
ance, when I left tho place that night I did not 
expect to see him again. 
“ Two days more, andl was going home to pre¬ 
pare lor my weddLng. 
“ Unfortunately, my whirl of pleasure had 
wholly disinclined me for home Joys, and the 
company of a good, sensible, middle-aged man. 
“ But such was my doom, and 1 saw no way 
of get ting out of it. When I returned to my 
aunt, I found her very gracious, and the pre¬ 
parations for the wedding going on'wlth great 
vivacity. 
“ To me everything was repellant In the ex¬ 
treme. But 1 waa helpless. 
“ We had an extensive garden to our house, 
whion opened on to the banks of a stream. Of 
this gate I had the key, and to walk on lt,s hanks 
with my dog was my favorite amusement. 
“ The place was shady and pretty ; and here I 
mused away a large portion of my existence, 
“ Four days after my return home, while 1 was 
seated on a bench beneath leafy shades, a boat 
came pulling up the river with two men In it. One 
was rowing the other watching the beach. 
“ Suddenly the boat made a dart In shore, and a 
tall, elegantly-dressed gentleman leaped out. 
“ ‘ Miss Estcourt!’ he said, warmly ; and 1 knew 
that i was in the presence of my partner at mo 
ball, ' Delighted to see you !' 
“ I could not. reply. My heart beat too acutely. 
It, was too romantic. It was such a change from 
tho hum-drum monotony of my existence. 
“ Pray how did you happeu to be this way ?” 
l faltered, at last, 
“ You gave me your address ; but,, as 1 found 
that, your auut was rather startled and doubtful,’ 
he said In a merry, boyish, laughing way, * I con¬ 
trived to steal a march on the enciny.’ 
“ ‘ Why, sir ?' I asked, trying to look Indignant, 
“ ■ Because, since the hour 1 ffrst, saw you, your 
Image has never been out of my eyes,' he said In 
a tone which left very little doubt, of his sincerity. 
“ * But, sir,’ 1 cried, as he took ray hand, ‘you 
must not talk to mo In this way. I am engaged 
to be married ' - 
“ ‘ Married!’ he exclaimed, really turning pale, 
and tottering ; ‘explain yourself ?’ 
“ Well, l don’t know why, but 1 did, and told 
him all ray sorrows—from losing my father to 
wed a man old enough to be rny father. 
‘••It shall never be I’ he said, emphatically. 
* You shall not throw yourself away tn this way. 
1 am wholly dependent on my father at present 
for everything except, a small allowance. If I 
were to marry out of my sphere, or Indeed any¬ 
body but the person he selected for me himself, 
we might cease to be friends.’ 
“ * Excuse me, I said ; • what Is the use of talk¬ 
ing thus?’ 
* * My dear young lady, not only have your 
beauty and charms won my heart, but. It bleeds 
for you. It, is a crime to unite ago to youth and 
beauty. Apart from the consideration that 1 love 
you with a deep and ;sudden passion which will 
never die, 1 beg you think of yourself. Better to 
marry one who will be devoted to your will, to 
your slightest wish, than with a master,’ 
“ ‘ I cannot listen to you, sir,’ I said, In deep 
confusion. 
“ I do not, ask you to decide now. You have a 
month to reflect. Meet me here to-morrow, I im¬ 
plore yuu,’ ho said, holding my hand In his. 
*• Need I say I consented, and tho next day, 
and the next day artcr. At the end of a fortnight 
I had agreed to elope, and to contract a clandes¬ 
tine marriage, tho maddest, worst thlug a girl 
can do." 
Here the doctor, after waiting to watch his pa¬ 
tient keenly for a moment, gave her a tonic.—[To 
be continued. 
-♦-*-*- 
NAMING THE BABY. 
T. A. G. 
No minor social occupation is so fraught with 
vexation. With the first little visitor the office Is 
not a difficult one. Courtesy to mamma or papa 
or grandparents readily settles a choice. But 
with the seventh or eighth, when several well- 
grown daughters are to be sultod, or where there 
is an inclination to propitiate declining aunts or 
uncles, with a view to the traditional “sliver 
spoon,” the task becomes a complicated one. 
If It Is a girl, mamma Is now sedate enough to 
repudiate romantic appellations. If It Is a boy, 
papa may wish to patriotically name one son af¬ 
423 
ter a President, though Returning Boards might, 
create some distraction in even thl3 little mat¬ 
ter. 
That Is an Interesting family group, just met on 
an appointed evening to decide what the latest 
chubby arrival shall be called. It la a girl, and 
consequently euphony Is of vital consideration. 
Now begins a buzzing, amtd laughter and pout¬ 
ing, which for a long time 1s anything but to the 
point. At last a sister gains the floor; she Is an 
authority In matters of home taste, and Is listen¬ 
ed to with comparative attention. 
“ The letter II," says she, “ combines elegantly 
with our surname Initial G; how would we like 
Henrietta?" 
For a few minutes there is no formidable dis¬ 
sent, and It really appears as If a good start has 
been obtained. But, alas! the dictionary dis¬ 
closes that, If la merely a variation of narrtet,, a 
name that has already received a baptismal 
shower in the group. 
Equally ha itllng and discouraging results attend 
further efforts, when It Is suddenly remembered 
that Gua, who Is at home from college, has not 
put, In an appearance. “ Of course, he can help 
us out.” 
They Invite him down stairs from his "horrid 
law books,” and a valuablo member of the con¬ 
vention he proves. lie starts off gravely with a 
lot of classical names that no one will Indorse, 
Is snappishly told, “If ho can’t help he needn’t 
hinder.” Ho seems rebuked; endeavors to amend 
matters by calling off a score or ho of actresses! 
Papa, who Is a clergyman, at once calls him to 
order; the graceless creature then suggosta sev¬ 
eral winners of the turf, Irrespective of gender, 
and Is hustled our, of the room. 
After auother long review of good names for the 
baby, Interspersed with bad ones tor Gus. a first 
name flnds favor -Pauline. Homebody, however, 
has yielded privilege, with distinct understanding 
that said somebody must, bo allowed to supply 
the middle or second name. 
Papa likes Pauline because It Is the feminine of 
grand old Paul. Mamma Is delighted because no 
hideous nicknames dlsflgure It. Good; Pauline 
was a happy hit, 
A nlne-yoar-old chap has been present all this 
lime—a great, ally of t he exiled Gus. Hts partic¬ 
ipation tn the debate has been frequently snub¬ 
bed; now ho has hts revenge; ho has written the 
letters F. G., In the boldest capitals, and Is dis¬ 
playing them, with a broad grin, to the assem¬ 
blage. 
“ Charley, what are you laughing at?" ts tho 
hatf-dozen-tongoed interogatory. Charley ma- 
lirkuisly explains: “A fellow In my class says 
the way the circus down spelled pig with two 
letters was, * P G.;’ left out ‘I,’you know.” 
Doesn’t, he get a withering scowl from “ some, 
body,” who had set her heart upon tmogene for the 
second name? But It Is soon evident that P. I. 
<; will be too much flOrk for a eh listening. Well, 
they begin over again ; hut with what perversity 
a humorously disposed vowel will sandwich itself 
between consonants at. such a time. L. A.G., J. 
I. G., E. G. G., B. A. G., D. O. U., anrl a host of 
other wretched combinations Intrude and spoil 
halt of the progress. 
For a time It, seems as though the little darling 
Is destined to wait, until she will be old enough to 
choose an entire name for herself. 
“Let's try a lottery,” at last suggests a tired 
one, “ let the llrst name drawn be the one; then 
when baby grows up she may add a middle name 
which she can adopt ir she dislikes tho one that 
falls to her now. 
Not, an unreasonable Idea ! all agree ; now they 
mean business. Each one writes out a selection 
the slips are folded and put into a hat, the hat la 
well shaken, and held for baby to draw from ; she 
grabs hair a dozen slips at llrst,, seeming bent on 
furnishing herself with as many names as a 
Princess Royal, ir she is to have a hand in It. Af¬ 
ter a good many false dives she manages to pick 
up a single paper, and before she can stuff It into 
her mouth It Is captured and unfolded with 
breathless ceremony. 
It, is In Charley’s hand writing—It is read aloud, 
hear It: 
FATTY. 
All that time consumed, and such a conclusion! 
Why wasn’t, he sent, to bed an hour ago 7 
Never mind, .girls; don’t, look so dismally dis¬ 
gusted. When have you before heard papa laugh 
so heartily 7 Don’t mamma’s loving eyes brightly 
glance forgiveness at the happy, rollicking nlne- 
year-ohl ? He Is holding his mischievous brown 
ringlets for “ Fatty” to pull, declaring, between 
kisses, he has won the sweetest, blessedest, 
fattest pet of a sister In the world. 
A DREAM. 
Thoughts run wild sometimes In waking hours; 
and what an extreme range they will take In 
sleep, every dreamer knows. Bethought, him¬ 
self possessed of a lovely valley, with fields all 
fenced around with living green hedges, with 
sweet May blossoms perfuming the air, and all 
manner of pretty songsters fluttering from their 
nest, where there were the smallest loves of 
eggs In some, and In others, the dearest little 
creatures with their mouths open, expecting the 
rustle in the twigs, was the parent birds coming 
with food. Then he thought he came to his home 
where Ills own family were'all awaiting his ar¬ 
rival to puss breakfast through their sweet little 
mouths, and the fresh laid eggs, the delicious 
butter, the ham, the wing and breast of the 
chicken, the bread, etc., were all the produce of 
his beautiful soli. 
After a while he thought he went around where 
the mares with their stylish, showy, playful foals 
