THE 
EW- YORKER. 
237 
RURAL 
TOM’S LETTER. 
Now Mollie, lay yoiir knitting down, 'tis after set 
’o sun, 
And soon the stars, like angel’s eyes, will peer out 
one by one 
From where they hide the whole day long, deep hid¬ 
den in the blue, 
And look upon the evil and the good»that people do. 
I’ve got a letter here from Tom—nay, wife you need 
not start— 
The boy is well, there’s nothing here to pain a moth¬ 
er’s heart. 
He says he's gathered in the grain, a goodly golden 
store; 
He says he’s paid the mortgage off and laid up some¬ 
thing more. 
Well, wife, tain't quite two yeras ago, one sultry sum¬ 
mer djy. 
When I was working in the fields and getting in the 
hay, 
A carriage drove up to the door, and there alit a 
chap. 
With laughing eyes, like yours, that looked from un¬ 
derneath his cap. 
He helped a little maiden out, with sunny, gleaming 
hair, 
And deep blue eyes that looking in you seemed to 
read a prayer; 
I tried to make out who they was, but wife, I did'nt 
know; 
I could’nt make the team stand still, and kept a hol¬ 
lerin' "Whoa,” 
I saw him point across to me, and heard him some¬ 
thing say; 
I could’nt make the words out, their heads were turned 
away; 
But then an idee struck me quick, just like a ray’o 
dawn 
Although I did'nt know the girl, I knew the boy was 
Tom— 
My boy who ran away from home so many years be¬ 
fore, 
Our Tom, whom we had mourned as dead a dozen 
years or more. 
I left the team a Btandin' still, and threw the whip 
away— 
The hull they might ha’ gone to smash, I would’nt 
ha‘ cared that day, 
I reached the house before ’em wife, but naught to 
you I said; 
Somehow, harsh words I’d said to Tom, kept poppin’ 
thro' my head ; 
I could'nt help but think perhaps. I’d been too quick 
to strike— 
rdtcarnH that men like horses, wife, is seldom two 
alike. 
They never stopped to knock at all, but open flung 
the door— 
"Well, father, I’ve come back,” Tom Baid, "to see 
yon all once more." 
I threw my arms around his neck, broke over all may 
rules. 
You did the same, we laughed and cried together— 
both like fools. 
When all was still we found the girl with blue eyes 
was Tom's wife, 
A little daisy he had won to brighten all his life. 
How well wo learned to love the bride; and when they 
went back West, 
They wanted the old birds to come and see them in 
their nest. 
'' Go and read the letter!” why I’ve read the letter 
thro’, 
Hold on, now, here’s a postscript, with perhaps a 
word for you. 
Good gracious! what a funny thing, it takes my 
breath away— 
" Tell mother,”—say wife look at me; is my hair 
turning gray ? 
And grandma call me grandpa, just to see how it will 
seem, 
Oh, wifo, I think I feel as big as Sheba’s famous 
queen, 
" Tell mother”—kiss me quick aud .lay your head up* 
on my arm— 
‘ God sent a little baba down to visit at the farm.” 
—ILL, Caby, Ju., in Cleveland Herald. 
OORA. 
CHAPTER X. 
Mrs. Colston was sitting In her dressing-room 
preparing for conquest—In other words, adorning 
her handsome, portly person for a party she was 
giving at her house at Brlxtoo. With Mrs. Col¬ 
ston, adorning was by no means a slow or unim¬ 
portant process. She was fond of rich heavy 
silks and vivid colors, and It was only by the ju¬ 
dicious advice of her maid that she was prevented 
from making herself a little ridiculous by her 
affection for crimson and purple. On this par¬ 
ticular evening she was looking annoyed and out 
of temper, and the patient ablgall had had much 
to endure during the halr-dresslng process, al¬ 
though she was at a loss to know what had an¬ 
noyed her mistress. The green satin robe, which 
had been sent home that afternoon, fitted to per¬ 
fection,aud had surely a sufficient amount of gold 
embroidery and heavy lace. Mr. Colston’s last 
present,—a handsome set of emeralds—was lying 
before her on the dressing-table, glittering In 
their soft satin bed, and it was hardly likely that 
that should have aroused her Ire; but It, ts cer¬ 
tain that slut did not appear at all on goad terms 
with herself, or the world in general, and for once 
she seemed anxious to gel rid of the Important 
business of dressing. 
It was over at last. The toldsor the green satin 
were arranged for the last time, the emeralds 
were clasped on the rounded arms aud still hand¬ 
some shoulders, and when the maid had handed 
her mistress her fan and lace-trimmed handker¬ 
chief, she rather anxiously awaited her dismissal. 
“ Hand me my gloves, Etiza,” said Mrs. Colston, 
adding, as the,order was obeyed: " Go up to Miss 
Sinclair’s room, and, if she Is dressed, ask her to 
com8 down to me for a few minutes.” 
“ Yes, ma’am.” 
And Eliza curtseyed; and disappeared. 
In a few moments Cora came In, and Mrs. Colt- 
son, looking up from her gloves, surveyed her 
young guest wit h very dissatisfied eyes. 
Cora was dressed with much simplicity, in 
fleecy black skirts, with black lace falling over 
her whlteshoulders and shading the fair, rounded 
arms. Her ornaments were of gold, quaintly de¬ 
signed after the pattern of ancient coin Jewelry, 
and the only adornment of her graceful head 
were the shining masses of her rich hair, which 
was drawn softly back from her pale brow. 
She was looking moat beautiful, and an Inno¬ 
cent satisfaction smiled out of her large gray 
eyes. 
“ Eliza says you want me, Mrs. ColstoD,” she 
said quietly. 
" Yes,” replied the lady, coldly ; “ I have a few 
words to say to you. Will you sit down 7” 
A little surprise appeared on Cora’s face as she 
took a seat, and sat quietly playing with her ran, 
until Mrs. Coltson should speak again. 
“ It Is very unpleasant for me to make any com¬ 
plaint, Mis Sinclair," she began, In a complaining 
tone, which made Cora raise her eyelids In sur¬ 
prise. " I should much prefer not to be forced to 
do so; but It Is my duty. Whilst you are under 
my roof I must consider myseir as your guardian, 
and, to a certain degree, responsible for your con¬ 
duct." 
Cora opened her eyes wide, and looked at her 
hootess, astonishment plainly visible on her beau¬ 
tiful, wondering face. 
“ You are very young,” went on Mrs. Colston, 
a little more complalsantly and fluently as she 
proceeded, “ and perhaps a little bewildered at 
the rank of those with whom you have been 
brought In contact, and been Intimate to a cer¬ 
tain degree. But. you must not set too much 
store on such pleasant attention from those above 
you. I am willing to believe that, blamable as 
your conduct Is, you have erred through Igno¬ 
rance only, not from any evil Intention.” 
“ Blamable — evil Intention — my conduct I” 
stammered Cora. “ In what way do you mean, 
Mrs. Colston?” 
“ 1 mean with regard to Lord Almane,” said 
Mrs, Colston, sharply. “ There Is no use pretend¬ 
ing Ignorance when the way you monopolize his 
attention Is the source of universal remark and 
censure.” 
Cora's eyes blazed with indignation ; but before 
she could speak Mrs. Coltson went on: 
“ Even his lordship has noticed, and com¬ 
mented upon the Indelicacy of your conduct to¬ 
wards him,” she continued, with Increased se- 
severl'y. “Even under other circumstances It 
would be unladylike, and unbecoming to a de¬ 
gree ; under the present, the manner In which 
you throw yourself at the head of an engaged 
man Is most shocking.” 
Cora rose, trembling In every limb, all her girl¬ 
ish deUeacy and refinement outraged, every 
nerve qulvoting at the course words ; bat again 
Mrs. Colston’s Interposition prevented her from 
speaking. 
"There Is no use In your flying Into a passion 
and adopting mock airs. You cannot deny that 
you have tried to lead Lord Almane on In every 
possible manner, and that Lady Lucie has been 
very unhappy about it." 
" I deny It!” said the girl, passionately, finding 
her voice at last. “ How dare you Insult me so ? 
IIow can you so cruelly take advantage of 
my position alone here ? If Lord Almane has 
said-” 
“ It!” mtsrrupted Mrs. Colston, rising angrily. 
“ Do you then accuse me of falsehood, Miss Sin¬ 
clair? Do you think I could assert It, were it not 
thecase?” 
" Then he has spoken falsely," returned Cora. 
“ He knows It is not so, and you know it too, 
Mrs. Colston; how dare you repeat such a cal¬ 
umny?” 
•* You use strong words. Miss Sinclair," said her 
hostess, with suppressed passion. “ You forget 
yourself straugely In speaking thus to me. 
Leave my presence at once, aud to-morrow, at 
some more fitting time, and when you are calmer, 
we will resume our conversation. It seems to me 
but too true,” she concluded, with scorn In her 
Lone and gesture, “ that Lady Lucie has Indeed 
cherished a viper in her bosom, and one who 
would strive to wound her In her tenderest affec¬ 
tions.” 
Cora left the room, hardly able to stand, from 
conflicting emotion; and when she reached her 
own room she let herself fall upon a chair and 
gave way to a passionate burst of tears. She had 
tiled so hard, poor child, to steer clear of tne rock 
or Almane’s passion for her, taking care In e 'ery 
way not. to give him an opportunity of speaking 
words she did not wish to hear; and now to be 
thus misjudged and Insulted seemed more than 
she could bear. Could It be true that Lord Al- 
maDe has spokcu so untruly, and that Lady Lucie 
whom she loved hud believed the falsehood? 
What could she do ? To whom could she turn ? 
That very night she would write to Harold aud 
confess that she had deceived him, and ask him 
to come back to her and nut leave her again. She 
would tell him that she had suffered Lord Almane 
to oaro for her, that she had loved Ulm in return; 
that during her stay at Mrs. Colston’s she had 
met him constantly,although she had never men¬ 
tioned tills meeting to Ilarold In any of her let¬ 
ters; and ho, Harold, would pity and forgive her, 
and take her away Bomuwhcre—away from the 
fascination of t he beautiful face, and low tender 
tones which had sounded so dangerously musical 
In her ears. She could never be happy again; 
hut she did not deserve to be so; her deception 
towards Harold could not he too aeverely pun¬ 
ished. 
She heard the carriages succeeding each other 
up the drive, and rose from her seat to go to her 
writing-table to make her confession to her 
brother. But she had scarcely prepared her pa¬ 
per and pen when a slight knock came to her 
door, and Mrs. Colston's maid said: 
“ if you please you will come down, Miss Cora ? 
The dancing has begun.” 
" Very well,” said Cora, quietly, as she locked 
away ber writing materials and bathed her eyes 
to efface the tear-marlcs from her eyelids. As she 
did so there came a dangerous longing over her, 
a longing to tell Lord Almane all, and receive his 
assurance that Mrs. Colston's assertion was false, 
and to have her misery soothed by his tender 
words and glances. 
When she reached the gorgeous, glittering 
drawing-rooms, which set Lord Almane’s teeth on 
edge with their bright colors and gaudy adorn¬ 
ments, she found them already filled, and dancing 
going on vigorously. 
Among the dancers she saw Lady Lucie, who 
gave her a little smile of greeting, which seemed 
cold and constrained to Cora: hut Mr. Colston, 
who came up to Introduce a partner to his pretty 
guest, prevented any more thought upon the 
subject, For three or four dances Cora’s time 
was fully occupied, and It was only at rare in¬ 
tervals that she caught sight of Lord Almane’s 
handsome, distinguished face, as he stood In the i 
doorway without an attempt to dissemble hls 
ennui. But just as one of Miss Sinclair’s part¬ 
ners had relinquished her, after a polka, hls 
lordship made hls way towards her, and ob¬ 
tained a seat by her side. 
“Atlast!" he said, with a sigh of content, 
“1 thought, you would be unattainable this even¬ 
ing, and was almost in despair. I hope your pro¬ 
gramme Is not quite filled up.” 
"No," she answered, lifting her restless shin¬ 
ing eyes, full of sorrow and pain, to hls; "I kept 
some free for you- I want to speak to you, 
Lord Almane.” 
"\Vhatlslt7” he asked, gently, noticing the 
sudden gravity of her manner. “ Are you 111, 
Cora?” 
41 1 am not ill,” she replied, "but am very un¬ 
happy. Let me speak to you quietly, Lord Al- 
maue, and you shall know the cause.” 
"Come, then,” he said, drawing her hand 
through hls arm, and leading her through the 
crowded rooms Into a smaller room opposite the 
conservatory, which as yet had not been dis¬ 
covered, and was empty and quiet. 
Cora sank down on a low seat, growing very 
pale now when the moment of explanation had 
come, while the viscount took hls seat beside 
her, 
•‘What Is It?” he asked again, noticing her 
pallor. “I am sure you are III, Cora! Let me 
get you something, my child." 
Cora laid her hand on hls arm to detain him. 
" Do not go,” she said: " I want nothing—but 
truth." 
" Why this 3trange solemnity, dear Cora?” he 
asked, smiling a little, “Is It something very 
serious which occupies yon? Come, tell me 
quickly. I shall begin to Image all kinds of 
horrors, If you keep me in suspense.” 
"Perhaps you will think lightly of it," she 
answered; “ but I cannot do so. Oh ! be frank 
with me, Lord Almane. Has anything In my 
conduct since I met you here, In this house, 
deserved your contempt ? Have I betrayed by 
look or word the love which—Heaven help me— 
I could not help feeling for you?" 
"My contempt!" he repeated. “Cora—love- 
how-" 
"Ah, hush!" she interrupted. “A truce now 
to the fair words and sentences by which you be¬ 
guiled me once. I do not deny my love for you— 
It, In Itself, Is no sin; but were I to Indulge It, 
and allow you to speak of It, it would be so. T 
want, only that answer. Have I deserved that 
you should despise me and that even strangers 
should censure, In the plainest terms, my behav¬ 
ior to you?" 
" Who has dared to do so ?” he said, haughtily. 
“ Who has dared to remark upon your conduct or 
mine 7" 
" Many, it seems,” she answered, sadly. “ Even 
you yourself, It is said, have commented upon 
mine.” 
*• It Is false!" he replied, vehemently. “ Cora, 
you know It Is false. My darling, whoever spoke 
thus to you lied foully and utterly. Can you have 
believed for one moment such a barefaced false¬ 
hood ?” 
•• I did not know, I could not tell,” she faltered ; 
"I bardly thought It possible, but still-” 
*• Do you think that, loving you, I could breathe 
one word against your fair fame, my dearest?" 
went on the liquid musical tones, as he fixed hls 
dark velvety eyes upon her face. “ Against you, 
whom I hold as sacredly as I might my dead 
mother—upon you, whom, were It but possible, I 
would make my wife to-morrow t Cora," he con¬ 
tinued, with loving reproach, “ I could hot find It 
In tuy heart to be angry with you.” 
“You must not speak thus,” she answered, 
fatntly. " I ought not perhaps to have spoken, 
Out the thought almost killed me." 
"My poor, poor love!" he murmured, fondly. 
“Ah, Cora, why are things so hard for us?” 
Large tears had gathered In Cora's eyes, but 
she would not allow them to fall. 
“ Can you forgive me for the trouble I have 
brought to you, my child ?’’ he asked, tenderly. 
" Will the time come when you will wish we had 
nevei’ met ?” 
He rose and paced up and down the little room 
for a moment. Cora, a prey to almost uncontroll¬ 
able emotion, bowed her head upon the sofa-cush- 
lons, and tried to recover her composure, but it 
wa3 some moments before she was able to speak 
calmly. 
“ Do not let us blame ourselves for what could 
not be helped,” she said faintly. “ Go back to 
the ball-room now, your absence will be noticed,” 
He bent over her tor a moment, murmuring a 
few words of farewell, and left her. Cora sat still 
for a few minutes ; then she rose, pushing hack 
her hair from her brow with a troubled gesture, 
and started with astonishment when she found 
she was not alone. A young girl, In shimmering 
pale blue robes and sapphire ornaments, was 
standing beside her, and as 3he looked up she met 
Lady Lucie Belmont’s blue eyes, full of silent re¬ 
proach and sorrow. 
Neither spoke, bub Cora's head 3ank again upon 
her hands, and the silence In the little room grew 
almost oppressive. 
Suddenly her name, spoken by several people, 
struck on Cora’s ear. She rose In some agitation 
and alarm, and stood expectantly. Then simul¬ 
taneously she and Lady Luole moved towards the 
ball-room. 
At the door Mrs. Colston, with some consterna¬ 
tion legible on her face, was talking to a tall 
man wearing a loose traveling suit, and looking 
both weary and travel-stained, who was appa¬ 
rently apologizing tor hls Intrusion. 
As the girls drew near Mrs. Colston turned to 
them. 
“Ah! here Is Miss Sinclair,” she said, as she 
went forward to meet Cora and took her hand In 
hers. “ Come tills way, Sir Alan," she continued, 
as she led the way Into the room Cora had Just 
left, closing the door when they had entered. 
Cora looked from one to the other in astonish¬ 
ment. She saw that Mrs. Colston looked grave 
and compassionate, that the tall stranger seemed 
agitated; but tliere was nothing familiar to her 
In hls grave gray eyes and rugged, massive, but 
handsome features, and she waited in some 
anxiety for him to speak. 
Sir Alan saw a pair of lustrous eyes fixed upon 
him questioningly, and the carmine lips parted In 
expectation; and hls voice failed him when he 
attempted to Itnpaat the sad news he brought. 
" This gentleman has come from Rome, Cora,” 
said Mrs. Colston, quietly. 
" From Rome 1" said Cora, breathlessly, turning 
to him. “Then you bring me news of Harold. 
Do you know him ? He Is quite well ? Why do 
yon look at me so sorrowfully?” she went on, 
passionately, as she mot the pitying gray eyes. 
“I have come to bring you to him,” said Sir 
Alan, gently. “ He has not been quite well since 
; he went to Rome, and-" 
“You are hiding something trommel” And 
Cora sprang to hls side, and caught hls arm with 
both her little trembling hands. “ He Is 111, per¬ 
haps—no 1 no I no 1” and ter voice rose almost to 
a wall, In her agony of terror—" he is not dead— 
not dead?" 
“No, on my honor,” said Sir Alan, quickly. 
‘But he Is very 111, and he wants yon. i have 
been too abrupt," he continued, sorrowfully, as 
he saw the color fade and the large eyes close, 
and holding out hls arms received Into them the 
Inanimate form of Harold Sinclair’s sister. 
CHAPTER XI. 
By dint of traveling day and night Cora and Sir 
Alan arrived at Rome not too late; but the lat¬ 
ter’s first glance at Ilareld when they entered hls 
room showed him that the end was near. 
“So you have brought her tome, Alan?” said 
Harold, smiling, as he folded hls sister In his weak 
clasp, and turned hls blue eyes in grateful recog¬ 
nition on hls friend. “ Has he taken care of you, 
Cora?" 
But Cora, with her face hidden on the pillow 
beside her brother, could not answer; and Har¬ 
old let the first bitterness of her sorrow pass un¬ 
noticed, while he asked Alan about their journey; 
and then the young baronet went softly away, 
and left the brother and sister together. 
Inexperienced In sickness as Cora was, she could 
not fall to see that there could be no hope of Har¬ 
old’s recovery; and In that moment of sorrow, of 
grief unutterable, tbe girl lelt as It her heart must 
break with Its load of anguish. Harold had been 
so much to her—father, motUer, and brother in 
one—and he had loved her with suen an entire 
devotion that, In losing him, she lost all. it was 
no wonder that she gave way, although Dr. Cros¬ 
by, who had met them on their arrival, bad warn¬ 
ed her gently of the ill effects of any excitement 
on Harold. 
“I am afraid It Is hard for you, darling,” said 
Harold, softly, after a pause. “But Alan has 
promised me that he will be good to you, and take 
my place. Ah l you think no one could now, lit¬ 
tle sister; but you would not have always said so, 
you know." 
And he went on with tbe tender, consoUng 
words, until Marianna came In with a sharp re¬ 
proof to Cora Tor tiring ber brother, and an Im¬ 
perative injunction that she should go Instantly 
and change her clothes, and rest, 
“ I can rest here," entreated Cora, as she rose. 
“ Hal, do I tire you very much ? 1 utay come 
back, may 1 not ? 
"You must let her be with me as longassbe 
can, Marianna,” said Harold gently. “Why, what 
a dusty, travel-stained girl It Is! Go and make 
yourself presentable at once,and put a red ribbon 
in your hair, mademoiselle.” 
Tedious as young Sinclair’s Illness had been, 
hls sweet temper and patience had never tailed 
him, and he had greatly endeared himself to all 
around him. There was not one among hls ac¬ 
quaintances, not one among the servants In the 
CL 
