THE RURAL 
ER. 
Her angry gaze changed slowly Into a dull stare 
as she perceived my firm expression, and she 
sank into an arm-chair, where T knew she would 
sleep olT the effects ot her over-indulgence. I 
slipped the door ' ey Into my pocket, and retreat¬ 
ed, in my excitement carrying Willio as easily as 
an infant. Frank’s nurse looked thoroughly sur¬ 
prised when I entered her domain with my step¬ 
son sohhlDg hysterically in my arms; hut my re¬ 
cital did not astonish her. 
“I had no idea it was as bad as that, ma’am,” 
said nurse, “ for Martha keeps herself to herself, 
and seldom allows her fellow-servants Inside her 
rooms; but we all suspected she drank, for wo 
smelt spirits often enough.” 
«put why did nobody tell me?” I asked crying 
myself as nurse gently revealed the blue marks 
on Willie’s shoulders. “This child has been 
treated barbarously.” 
“ well, ma’am, we didn’t think It our place to 
carry tales so long as you were satisfied. Many a 
time have 1 told M irtha that Mas er WUlle didn’t 
ought to cry so much, but she always said she 
had your permission to punish him as she chose 
when he was troublesome.” 
I felt the reproach her words conveyed to my 
conscience, and I knew it was deserved. 
“ Get him some breakfast, nurse,” said I; “ the 
things were only- hall laid on the table, and ho 
has had nothing this morning. Now, WUlle, J 
want to know all about Martha—come, tell mam¬ 
ma everything.” 
“She hasn't been quite so bad before," replied 
the little fellow, looking up into my face, “but 
she Is always sipping some stuff from a bottle in 
her pocket, and It. makes her so cross. Last 
night she was angry because l waslo here play- 
lug with baby, and she scut me to bed without 
supper. She said that 1 took tales to the other 
servants, and that 1 had no business here; she 
told me you wouldn't have me touch baby be¬ 
cause I was only his step-brother, aud 1 was In 
blsway, and you'd be glad It I was dead—but 
that’s a story. Isn’t It?” 
He fastened upon me his great earnest blue 
eyes, just like my husband’s. I was crying fast- 
crying away all my unnatural hardness—and for 
answer I stoopel down and kissed hlrn. 
“ l knew it was a story,” said WUlle, “ 1 do 
like you to nurse me, mamma; It feels like 
granule.” 
•< DFi Martha dress you this morning, Master 
WUlle ?” asked nurse, returning with some bread 
and mll'c and a little minced chicken. 
“No, she si t up In the clmlr all night. Sho was 
asleep there this morning when 1 went to see If 
breakfast was ready, I had dressed myself, and 
I woke her up and told her so, I began to cry, 
and said she was tipsy when she stared so oddly 
at me, aud then she hit. me because 1 tried to get 
away to tell papa,” 
“ Master told me I was never to Interfere with 
Martha, but Just attend to baby,” satd nurso In¬ 
dignantly, “ else I’d have found out directly why 
he was screaming. Never mind, Master Willie; 
It’s nil right now.” 
“ Nurse, " suggested T, “ 1 think we could have 
Master WUIle’s little bed In here. I wlsU you 
could undertake both t he children, or, at least, 
try It for a!line, l an rely on you, and of course 
your wages would be altered, lie would not be 
much In your way." 
“ I am quite agreeable, ma’am,” said nurse. 
“ baby has taken wonderfully to Master Willie, 
and ho always does what l tell him; but I can't 
have that naughty cough in my nursery, sir, I 
tell you.” 
“ l don’t cough tor fun, nurse,” declared Willie. 
« I’ll try to keep quiet—I will indeed." 
m He lias a nasty hacking cough at nights,” said 
nurse to me, when WUlle, with the tears all dried, 
was playing bo-peep with baby in the berbeau- 
nette. “ It goes right through you, ma'am. 1 
doubt it he’s long tor this world alter all.” 
“ What a foolish Idea!" said 1 hastily, looking 
at the white face and slender frame, arid won¬ 
dering, with a sudden Hash of horror, if my lack 
of love was thus to be punished by Heaven. The 
womanly yearnings, crushed hitherto by jeal¬ 
ousy, broke down every barrier then. I was my¬ 
self at last, and my heart opened wide to take in 
my husband's child. 
I longed to soe and speak to Kendal again, and 
looked forward anxiously to bis return. I was sad¬ 
ly disappointed when Mr. Tudor came In to tell me 
that my husband, who shared his chambers, had 
heen summoned to Exeter on legal business and 
might be detained some days. He had sent a list 
of certain requisites, and these I packed at once 
and despatched to the station to follow him. I 
oould not bring myself to write one Uneof all that. 
I felt. 
Mr. Tudor soon relieved my disquietude ns to 
dealing with Martha. After a brief interview 
between them, In which he acted for Kendal, she 
quietly accepted a monthis money In lieu of no¬ 
tice, and bestowed herself and her bi-longlngs In 
a cab, with a lew threats and Impertinences con¬ 
cerning myself and her late situation which 
highly amused the cabman. 
“ She’s v one 1” shouted Willie, clapping his thin 
hands for joy. " Won’t I have a good time now, 
mamma ?" 
Alter this Willie’s health did not seein to Im¬ 
prove, and, broken-hearted, i realized one morn¬ 
ing, as the rising sun wau parting the gray clouds 
In the cast, that all my Caro for my patient was 
in vain, A slight attack of pleurisy, anxiously 
watched by myself and a West-end physician I 
had summoned, had taken a fatal turn on the 
previous evening, and we had telegraphed direct¬ 
ly to ids father, who had proceeded to Ireland 
from Exeter. 
Closer my hoy clung to me with all his feeble 
strength. Baby was crying in the nursery,missing 
my presence there; but even his voice could not 
draw me from that bed-side. 1 would have died 
myself to save my other child, cut off in the very 
blossom of his days—a victim perhaps to the ne¬ 
glect which had left his warning cough unat¬ 
tended to, Tinspenkly dear had Kendal's son be¬ 
come to mo of late; his Innocent lips had prat tied 
to me or better things than my careless thoughts 
had hitherto heeded. 
Ono evening footsteps came hurrying up-stalrs, 
and I was quickly pushed aside by my husband's 
hand. 1 knew what his llrst-born was to him as 
I noticed hts evident distress, Ills emotion pained 
the child, who was placid himself with the shad¬ 
ow of coming peace. 
“Doctor Steune, tell me there Is hope—there 
must he hope—there must be hope!" appealed 
my husband to the physlclun, who stood at the 
foot or the bed. 
“I'm not afraid, papa dear,” said WUlle faintly, 
as Doctor Steane sadly sliook bis head. 
“But 1 cannot let you go, my poor little boy!” 
A solemn silence fell over us, broken only by 
my husband’s sobs ; ray own heart was too full 
to And relief In tears. 1 started convulsively when 
at the last there came a great cry, “ My mam¬ 
ma!” and the little arms were stretched towards 
me. Dow could I ever have willtully put away 
ray hoy’s tenderness ? J ust then T would at any 
cost have purchased a renewal of our term of 
love. 
The rest is all to me as a dream—a vision of 
frightened faces, morning shadows superseding 
the candlelight, and a little Ugure calm as the 
flowers on which the the sun wasj rising—an indis¬ 
tinct memory of stilled sobs, agitated whispers, a 
baby's crteB, and through it all a boy’s clear voice 
faintly recalling his dally prayer— 
■'Gentle Jesus, meek anti mild, 
Book upon a little otiild.” 
T knew I was forgiven as 1 stood in the stillness 
or the solemn room and tenderly looked myla3t 
look at him who would so soon be removed from 
our sight. The heavenly calm or little Willie's face 
spoke peace to my troubled soul; the lovothat 
had given him rest held pardon too for me. f 
could not bear to remain there long; ono mother’s 
kiss I gave him—a parting kiss that refused to 
pan—and then I left him as before, with the 
pure white roses strewn arouud him and the lilies 
on his breast. And my husband, who had fol¬ 
lowed me unperceived, took me in his arms with 
a fondness that had a new element In It. 
“Dear love,” said he, pressing bis lips to mine, 
“I have learnt all now; and what remains un¬ 
told I read In Ills eyes that morning as he looked 
upon you. Heaven reward you, my Mllllcent!” 
I put down my head upon bis shoulder and 
cried there for the first time since our sorrow- 
cried out all the feelings I had no words to tell. 
00 R A. 
“ I went to The Tryst and found you gone,” he 
said quietly, lowering his tone a little; and hav¬ 
ing handed tea to Mrs Colston and Lucie, In* cam.- 
back for his own cup. “lias your brother left 
England ?” 
“ Harold has gone to Rome,” she replied, trying 
to speak unconcernedly, and to prevent her hands 
from trembling as she poured out the tea and 
handed It to him. “lie had an unusually good 
opportunity of studying, and I urged him to ac¬ 
cept It.” 
“He was wise not to take you. Rome Is neither 
agreeable, not healthy at this season." 
A momentary silence ensued. 
“1 did not think to meet you here to-day," he 
said then. “ How long are you to remain hore, 
Cora v 1 beg your pardon,” he added, quickly. 
“ Harold may be away, two, or perhaps, 
three months,” Bhe replied looking a little trou¬ 
bled and sorrowful. 
“ You are happy here ?” 
“ Mrs. Colston Is very kind,” she answered, qui¬ 
etly. 
“ Do you know what I felt when I went, to The 
Tryst and found it empty ?” he said, speaking In 
low, eager tones, as he bent slightly forward. 
“ Do you know what It costs me to meet you 
thus v” 
‘■Hush!” she murmured ; " I pray you do not 
speak thus, Lord Almane.” 
“Ah, forgive me,” he rejoined, quickly; “but you 
said we might be friends, and now, In your broth¬ 
er’s absence you must let me be your friend. Are 
you alone here ?” 
“ Yes. My brother took Marianna to Rome," 
she answered. “ She longed to see her country.” 
Again there was a silence, then, with a heavy 
sigh, the viscount set down his cup, and moved 
away, In a moment he came hack to her side. 
“ See,”he whispered, eagerly ; “ I arn Lrylng to 
do as you wished, Cora. Lueia Is happy, and you 
wished her happlncss more than mine.” 
“Notmore, ah, not more,”she replied, gently. 
“ 1 wish yours above all earthly things.” 
She spoke the last sentence In a low tone of re¬ 
strained earnestness; the dark, Handsome face 
lighted up. 
*• i will remind you of these words some day,’ 
he answered. " Cora, such love as I have for you 
oannot.be vain; since that, day when we parted, 
that night when I last held your haul In mine, I 
have known no happy moment. You area wo¬ 
man, and can forget. 1 can never no so.” 
Cora's face warned him that unless he wished 
her emotion to be remarked he must cease now ; 
but one question more he must ask. 
“ Did 5 our brother know of our love?” he asked, 
with repressed anxiety. 
“ Ob, no. Dow could he ?" whispered Cora, 
raising her eyes for a moment. 
“ Because Marianna knew of It,” he replied, 
and moved away from her, leaving Cora surprised 
and uneasy, and wondering why the old nurse 
had not told her.that she had discovered her 
secret. 
Lucie Belmont had been surprised and de¬ 
lighted with Cora's beauty; she had not a spark 
of selfishness in her nature, and not a particle of 
envy mingled with the honest admiration she felt 
tor the girl’s great loveliness. Besides, her trust 
in her cousin, her faith lu his love and honor, 
were too entire to allow her to ho Jealous; ond 
it. never entered her head that It was dnngeroim 
to either the Viscount or to the girl herself to be 
much In each other’s society. She had been 
drawn towards Cora on their very Drat, meeting 
by the. witching sweetness of the wistful, almost 
mournful eye3 which had met hers, and she grat¬ 
ified her desire lor more of the girl’s society In 
every possible manner. 
Almost against her will Cora found herself a 
constant, visitor at Lady Martyn's—a constant 
visitor and a most welcome guest. The old 
lady was charmed with her, and with the simple 
grace, the unconscious dignity, which character¬ 
ised her every movement—with the quiet repose 
Of her manner, the dainty simplicity ot her drest» 
which wero all so different from “the girls of the 
period,” for whom Lady Martyn entertained such 
a righteous horror. She was always kind and 
cordial to Cora, and the girl was pleased to escape 
from the pompous fussiness and glare ot the 
stuccoed Brlxton mansion for the quiet, harmo¬ 
nious calm ur the well-appointed West-end 
household, over which the stately old lady pre¬ 
sided with such perfect courtesy and high breed¬ 
ing. 
These visits had, too, a dangerous charm for 
Cora; although, arter that first day, Lord Almane 
had carefully avoidodany direct allusion to his 
affection lor her. It was pleasant, to her to see 
him, to hear his voice, to touch his hand, and 
feel tor one moment of greeting or parting its 
lingering pressure over hers; to note that, care¬ 
ful as he seemed not to alarm her or remind her 
of the past, bis voice softened, and took a lower, 
more caressing intonation even, when he made a 
trivial remark to her. 
Cora was too young to see the folly of lt—tlie 
danger of playing with edged-tools. She was hap¬ 
pier In his society than when he was absent.; 
and with an Imprudent disregard of the future, 
she gave herself up to the pleasure of the pres- 
sent. 
It was a pleasant day-dream, but the awaken¬ 
ing was exceedingly bitter. 
CHAPTER IX. 
The hot July sun was pouring its fierce rays 
through the stained windows ortho old dilap¬ 
idated places In the nolgborhood ot Rome, aud 
large and lofty astbe rooms within were.lt was 
powerful enough to be unpleasantly felt, espec¬ 
ially In one, which surely had served as an ora¬ 
tory in the old days of grandeur and magnifi¬ 
cence, for it faced the east, it was a vaulted 
room; celling as well as walls richly decorated 
^>'ith frescoes, whose colors hail farted and grown 
so dim with, passing years that even the subjects 
of the palptlngs could hardly bo discovered. 
There was a good deal o£ gilding, now tarnished 
and soiled, about the room; the noor was marble, 
and handsomely Inlaid,but It made but a comfort¬ 
less bed-room for anj one suffering and In pain. 
The furniture matched the room Itself for faded 
splendor and magnlOcenoe; the windows were 
uncurtained, but they needed but little shading, 
for the glass was stained with the rich colors and 
desigus of a bygone age—colors which, with all 
our progress and advancement, we cannot sur¬ 
pass now. 
The doors were thrown wide open, but they 
admitted no air, and Harold Sinclair, lying on 
the old couch near the open windows, sighed 
Impatiently as he felt the parching heat around 
him. 
Ills stay at Rome had greatly changed the 
young artist; almost from the earliest period of 
his residence there ho had fell the bad effects of 
the intense beat; but he had disregarded. In his 
professional ardor anl eagerness lo complete 
his studi -s, the growing langor and debility 
which were coming over him, and It. was only 
when lie was perfectly prostrate with the low 
fever of the. country that he recognized that he 
had been imprudent and careless. 
That he was very 111, no one who watched him 
could deny; he was dreadfully weakened and 
emaciated, and dark violet circles had hollowed 
themselves out under the blue eyes, and a Uectlc 
llush burned outlie thin cheeks. Ills companions 
and brother artists had been kind and attentive 
enough, hut durlug Marianna’s absence at her 
own home, a little village not far from Florence, 
Iliirold’s chief friend and nurse was a young 
Englishman, who was studying sculpture at Rome 
and who had delayed fils departure on purpose to 
be of use jo the sick man. 
Sitting beside him, with the volume of Tasso, 
which he had been reading to Harold, who had 
closed his eyes In weariness or sleep, resting on 
his knee, Sir Alan Vincent contemplated, sadly 
enough, the worn face, and thin white lingers, 
and unconsciously contrasted them with his own 
muscumr hand, no himself was an unsuaHy 
powerful specimen of the g6nus JiomO. lie was 
over six feetbtga, broad In proportion, and splen¬ 
didly built. As he strode through the streets, 
many an Ilall i n painter and sculptor turned to 
admire the stately proportions, and to mark the 
resemblance between him and the statues oi the 
brawny gladiators who had striven and wrestled 
in the arena of T he Roman forum. 
They liked him, too, as much as they admired 
him. They were pleased by Ids cordial, hearty, 
and yet gentle manner; the perfect straightfor¬ 
wardness and uprightness of every word and ac- 
i tion they could appreciate, though they might 
1 not feel Inclined to lullow his example. Harold 
had liked him specially; during the period of 
their acquaintance they had been great chums, 
and when he had fallen 111, Sir Alan had become 
his kindest a nd mo3t constant attendant. 
There were others, too, of his party who were 
kind and attentive. George Leeson, who bad been 
one of the chief originators ot the visit to Rome, 
had been especially so also, but Harold preferred 
sir Alan ; he liked to feel some one so strong and 
yet so gentle about him, he said. 
They were aroused, the one from his doze, the 
other rrorn his reverie, by the entrance of the 
doctor, a quiet, elderly Englishman, whom both 
men liked and trusted. Harold greeted him with 
a faint smile; but he was too weak even to 
Stretch out his hand In greeting. The doctor 
made lffs inquiries lu a cheery tone, hut Sir Alan 
Vincent, watching his face, saw that, as he pro¬ 
ceeded with his examination, a shade came over 
It, a shade ot sorrow, pity and regret. He 
waited a few moments, chatted about trivial mat¬ 
ters, all the time watching Harold’s face with 
close attention and then prepared to take his 
leave. 
“ I am coming round this way In the evening,” 
he said; “ will you give mo some coffee If I look 
in 7 Good-bye until then." 
Sir Alan followed him out, and In the lofty, 
marble vestibule of the old palace, both men 
paused. 
“You think him very 111, doctor?” said Sir 
Alan, in auxlous Inquiry. 
“ Yes,” the other replied, with a grave shake of 
the head; “I fear there is buj ltttlo chance of 
rallying. Has he no friends—no relatives who 
would come to him ?” 
“ You do not think It. Is so bad as that 7” ex¬ 
claimed the baronet, greatly shocked. “ Ho Is so 
young; sorely there must be hope.” 
“ 1 have hut little,” was the sad reply. “ I do 
not say there Is none; but It Is a very faint 
one,Sir Alan. I think he ought to send for his peo¬ 
ple. 
“ He has only a sister, I believe,” said Sir Alan, 
mournfully. 
“Why is she not here?” said the doctor, 
quickly. 
** she does not know he is ill,” was the answer, 
‘lie seems passionately devoted to her. and anx¬ 
ious to avoid giving her any anxiety. Even yes¬ 
terday be insisted on writing her a few lines, 
pleading press ot work, and not saying one word 
about his health.” 
“She should be sent for,” said the physician. 
“If she cares for him. It Is cruel to keep her In 
Ignorance ot his danger, Sir Alan. As his friend, 
you ought to send for her.” 
“ 11c is afraid of the malaria for her as well 
answered sir Alan. “Must I really broach the 
subject to him ?” 
“I tillnk It Is your duty to do so,” was the re¬ 
ply. “Try to alarm him as little as possible. I 
wUlcali again this evening.” 
Sir Alan returned to Harold’s bedside, trying In 
vain to show no trace of his discomfiture and 
sorrow at the doctor's tidings. To him, In the 
Hush of health and strength, it was terrible to 
think that this man, whom ho had known a few 
weeks since, well and strong as himself, should 
be dangerously 111, sick unto death; and notwith¬ 
standing all Ills efforts, hts f mo was very grave 
and disturbed as ho returned to the sick-room. 
Harold was lying with closed eyes, and a sor¬ 
rowful expression on his face, although, during 
his Illness, be bad been generally cheerful. 
lie did not speak when his friend entered; but 
when Sir Alau arranged hts pillows with a ten¬ 
derness and lightness of touch tow women could 
have excelled, he opened his eyes, and smiled. 
•• What a fellow you are, Vincent,” he said, 
looking at him with wistful wonder and admira¬ 
tion in his eyes. “ Such a giant for strengtfi, and 
yet with such a gentle touch. Why Cora's own 
little fingers could not be gentler.” 
His words gave the baronet the opening he 
needed: but tor a moment ills voice faltered so 
that he could not speak. 
“ What’s iho matter, old follow 7” said Harold, 
in his faint voice. 
“ Nothing, of course,” was the quick answer. 
“ 1 wonder you don’t send for your sister, Sin¬ 
clair ; It would be so much pleasanter for you to 
have her than a great clumsy fellow like me.” 
“ It would be selfish to bring the child to Rome 
at such a season,” said Harold, musingly. 
“ But the great heat Is dying away,” said Sir 
Alan. “It will soon he cooler, and I think it Is 
hardly fan- to keep her In Ignorance of your ill¬ 
ness.” 
Sir Alan was a had dissembler. As ho spoke, 
his earnest gray eyes avoided Harold's glance, and 
the color mounted to his usually pale efieek. 
Harold was too quick not to note the uneasy 
manner; but, ror a morneat, ho did not reply. 
«Are you getllug tired of your sick-room at¬ 
tendance, Alan f” he said then, a lttUo wistfully, 
but with a great deal of affeotlou in his tone. 
The baronet flushed deeply, as he answered at 
once; 
“ By no means, Sinclair! hut—” 
"lku-iw, old fellow,” Interrupted the invalid. 
There was a short silence. 
“ That’ was an ungrateful speech of mine,” said 
Harold In a minute. •• Forget It, Alan. Never 
had anyone a kinder, truer friend than you have 
proved yourself.” 
“ Nonsense," was the reply. 
But Sir Alan put his strong hand ou Harold’s 
and his slender, weak ringers closed over It. 
“What has Dr. Crosby been saying to you?” 
said Harold with a faint smile. “Did ho tell you 
I was dying, old fellow ?” 
“I shall begin to think that you are raving if 
you talk such nonsense,” said Alan, with an im¬ 
patient movement. 
