APRIL 27 
THE RURAL WEW-YORKER. 
fittrarji HiareUirog, 
THE EVENING TIME. 
Together we walked in the evening time. 
Above ub the sky spread golden and clear. 
And he bent his head and looked in my eyes. 
As if he held me of all most dear. 
Oh! it was sweet in the evening time! 
And our pathway went through fields of wheat; 
Narrow that path, and rough the way. 
But he was near, and the birds snug true. 
And the stars came out in the twilight gray. 
Oh 1 it was sweet in the evening time! 
Softly hnepoko of th« d >ye long past. 
Softly of blessed days to be; 
Close to hia arm, and closer I prest- 
The corn-field path was Eden to me. 
Oh! it was Bwaet in the evening time! 
Grayer the light grew, and grayer still, 
The rooks flitted home through the purple shade, 
The nightingales sang where the thorns stood high. 
As I walked with him in the woodlaud glado. 
Oh! it was sweet in the evening time 1 
And the latest gleams of daylight died; 
My hand in his enfolded lay; 
We swept the dew from the wheat as we passed, 
For narrower, narrower, wound the way. 
Oh! it was sweet in the evening time ! 
He looked in the depths of my eyes, and Baid, 
“ Sorrow and gladness will come for us, sweet; 
But together we'll walk through the fields of life 
Close as we walked through the fields of wheat.” 
[Good Words. 
- ♦♦♦ - 
MR. OHETWOOD’S WILL, 
“ But, Dolores, how’s a fellow to live If he hasn’t 
anything?” 
“You knew all that a year ago, Guy; and Wil¬ 
liam told you how It, would he." 
« william is an old screw,” was the Impatient 
rejoinder; and Dolores made no answer. 
Sitting by the tire, brother and sister had had a 
long conversation on that wintry afternoon, and 
It was getting quite dark now—so dark that even 
the shabbily-furnished room looked quite cheer¬ 
ful, as the firelight, Dashed and nickered on the 
walls and on the fair face of Dolores Chetwood, 
sitting on the hearthrug, with great wistful eyes 
looking Into the burning coals, Guy looking Into 
the fire too, with his chair tilted back and a cigar 
between Ills Ups. 
“ If you didn’t smoke, Guy,” began Dolores; but 
he interrupted her, bringing the fore-legs of his 
chair down to term Anna again abruptly. 
“ Hang it all, Dolores, I can’t give up every¬ 
thing l” 
As yet Guy Chetwood had not given up any¬ 
thing, hut he liked to talk as If he had. 
“It was a great pity you ever thought of the 
Army at all,” said Dolores, a. little bitterly. 
“ Every one said nobody could live nowadays on 
ninety pounds and their pay.” 
“Every one is a fool! And pray what Is the 
difference between nowadays and thenadays? 
Why, Dolores, you are turning on me now, I do 
believe!” 
“ You are all I have, Guy”—and she looked up at 
him brightly—“ and we must never turn against 
each other.” 
“ Of course not. Where's William?’’ 
“ I don't know; he went into the town, 1 think.” 
“ To minister stern consolation to the afflicted,” 
said Guy. “ William, parson though he be, Is the 
last man on earth I would go to in trouble.” 
Dolores said nothing; she had no great love for 
her step-hrother herself, partly because he was 
hard on Guy, and partly because, child though 
she had been then, she knew and remembered 
how William had always disliked her own mother. 
Father aud mother were both dead, and to Will¬ 
iam Chetwood the name of “ mother ” never pass¬ 
ed Dolores' lips; 6he could not bring horseUto 
speak of the dead he had never loved through life. 
Aud yet he was kind enough to his step-brother 
and step-sister, and had done his duty by them 
conscientiously. All Ills life through he had been 
hard on Guy; he rather disliked the boy, who 
was hlgh-splrlted and too like his mother, who 
had come between him and his father. He rather 
liked Dolores, and respected her from the day, 
long before, when upon one occasion he punished 
Guy unjustly, and Dolores wound her weak, child¬ 
ish arms around her brother and exclaimed, with 
passionate earnestness and a look In her eyes he 
never forgot: 
“ William, Heaven Is just; a servant of Heaven 
ought to be Just too.” 
Guy was twenty-one, and Dolores eighteen; he 
had been In the Army for two years, and had seen 
and tasted the pleasures the world could give, And 
she had lived all her life lu the dull iltUe country 
town, and was sometimes a little discontented— 
that was all. But Guy was home on leave now, 
and It would have been cheerful enough, but that 
the young soldier had been living a little too fast, 
and debts wore beginning to be felt. The first 
cloud was leaving its mark on the freshness of fits 
bright boyish face, and Dolores thought Guy was 
changed; he was not so gay and light-hearted as 
he had used to he. They had had a long taLk that 
afternoon, aud he had told her a good deal, but 
not all. Dolores opened her blue eyes. 
“ Oh, Guy,” she said, with a little gasp ; and ho 
answered, sulkily— 
“ One must do what other fellows do; I couldn’t 
Isolate myself and live like a hermit.” 
“ I wish I had plenty of money,” said Dolores. 
“ It doesn’t so much matter for girls,” said Guy t 
“ They marry—at least the pretty ones do.” 
“ And what happens to the ugly ones ?” 1 
“Oh, you’ve nothing to do with that 1” replied £ 
Guy, looking down at his sister’s upturned face. ( 
“ You are pretty enough for anything, Dolores, i 
Why, when wo were quartered In Dublin last - 
winter, they were raving about girls not one half < 
bo much the thing as you.” 
“ Oh, nonsense, Guy 1" And Dolores flushed up 1 
to the roots of her hair at her brother's praise. \ 
Guy was right, though. Many girls would have 
envied the fair face that was lit up by the soft 
violet eyes that, looked dreamy and wistful 
through their long lashes. Very slight and deli¬ 
cate-looking was Dolores Chetwood, with a loWj 
soft voice, and silky brown hair that lay soft and 
even on her white forehead, 
Guy returned to his own woes. He was going 
back to his regiment soon, and he was sadly out 
of pocket. Presently Dolores took along look at 
his handsome, troubled face, as she sat gazing 
morbidly into the fire; then, with a little sigh, 
she got up, and, going over to the table, unlocked 
her desk and came back to the fire with some¬ 
thing in her hand. 
“ Guy, dear, would this be of any use to you 7 
I have saved a little—only ten pounds, though.” 
When sixpences had been all Dolores’s pocket- 
money, they had found their way Into Guy’s 
pocket—and it was Just the same now. A pas¬ 
sionate remonstrance on his part, a little persua¬ 
sion from Dolores, and there was no chance of 
the new silk dress she had been saving for, and 
Guy was the richer by ten pounds—and she loved 
him so that3he thought nothing of the sacrifice. 
“ You aren’t going to uncle Hal to-night, are 
you ?” said Guy, presently. 
“ Oh, yes, I promised him 1” said Dolores, J ump- 
Ing up. “ you will walk with me to the door, 
won't you, Guy 7" 
“ if you like ; hut how can you waste your time 
with that cross old man passes me. If he had 
money, It would be different.” 
“ Don’t be so mercenary, Guy.” 
“ Nonsense. If uncle Hal had anything to 
leave, he would be much better worth looking 
after. Does he ever say a civil word to you, Do¬ 
lores ?” 
“ Sometimes. Poor old man, he suffers a great 
deal—and that makes him,cranky." 
Dolores was Boon dressed and ready. 
“ Putsomethlng more on you,” said Guy, stand¬ 
ing In his thick great-coat, aud looking down at 
bis sister’s thin Jacket. 
“ I am warm enough. Come, Guy, It Is late.” 
Down the little street they went, and stopped 
at a small house at the other end, a dreary, two- 
storied house, with the light from the fire within 
flashing upon curtalnless windows. 
“ Look at him,” said Guy. “ He Is sitting by 
the fire. Dolores, I don’t envy your taking tea 
with that old chap.” 
Through the window, In the firelight, the figure 
ol a tall old man could be seen bending over the 
fire, holding out his hands to the blaze. 
“How dreary he looks!° replied Dolores. “Don’t 
forget to call lor me, Guy. Come at nine.” 
“ All right.” And Guy went humming up the 
street as Dolores disappeared wlthlu the door, 
which was opened by an old woman with a candle 
In her hand. 
Nobody ever knew anything about old Hal Chet¬ 
wood, as he was called; none In the pariah of 
Klblaney could tell how he lived, or what he did 
all the long days. A strange, sour, crabbed old 
man he was, with never a kind word tor any one 
—not even for his niece Dolores Chetwood, who 
bore with him patiently, and somewhat had got 
to have a kind of liking for the poor cross-grained 
old man. He was crasser than ever this evening, 
and was hitter and oynlcai to a degree. 
“ 1 wonder you come to an old man for noth¬ 
ing,” he said, peering over Ills spectacles as they 
sat by the Are after tea. “Guy doesn’t trouble 
his head about me. He is a nice boy, Isn’t he ?” 
“ He Is no worse than others, uncle Hal,” re¬ 
turned Dolores, flushing up In hot championship 
of her brother. 
“ I knew It; he Is perfection of course, If all 
William says Is to be believed;” and the old man 
laughed softly to himself, In a sneering sort of 
way. 
Dolores lifted pleading pathetic eyes to the hard 
cynical face opposite to her. 
“Guy is all I have, uncle—could I be hard on 
him?” 
The soft girlish voice quivered a little. Mr. 
Chetwood, leaning forward, his hands resting on 
his knees, looked keenly at her for a full minute 
before he spoke. 
“ You would make any sacrifice for him, I sup¬ 
pose, child ?” 
“ I don't know," Dolores answered, gravely; 
" but I would do all I could for him, and he for 
“ I doubt the last part of your speech; from 
the little I have seen of that young gentleman, I 
doubt It exceedingly.” 
Dolores made no reply, but only closed her lips 
tightly and sat silent, the firelight shining In her 
eyes. Mr. Chetwood changed the subject abruptly. 
“ I have a friend coming to me to-nlgUt from 
London—I expect him every minute; he tele¬ 
graphed to say he would cross over by this morn¬ 
ing’s boat from Holyhead.” 
Dolores looked up In amazement. A friend 
coming to see uncle Hal 1 She did not know he 
had such a thing In iho world. Mr. Chetwood 
went on, talking quite eagerly, for him. 
“ ne is coming for a purpose, this Brian Man- 
nerlug. His father was the only friend 1 ever had. 
When we were lads wc would have died for each 
other, till a woman came lu the way. You are a 
child; you can’t know why I never spoke to my 
old friend Brian Mannerlng after he won the 
woman I loved. 1 never saw him again; he was 
| killed In the Mutiny In India, and so was she, and 
his last words were—‘ Tell Hal Chetwood to look ai 
after my boy.’ A brother-officer of his, who es- “ 
caped, gave me his message. But, Heaven bless “ 
me, that Is years ago! Brian was at school then a 1 
—he is thirty now. Time I was looking after him, T 
eh?” 
The old man told his story in short Jerks. Do- v 
loreB, listening, pitied him, for she fancied that v 
that little glimpse Into his past life showed her C 
why his heart, was hardened against the world. v 
“ Hb ought to bo here now,” said Mr. Chetwood, h 
looking up at the shabby little clock ticking on 3 
the chlmnoy-plece ; and even as he Bpoke a oar 
was heard driving up the street and stopping out- v 
side. A loud ring wont pealing through the house; c 
and then the door opened, and Dolores, looking 
up, saw a tall man entering the room, enveloped 
In a long ulster coat—a man with a dark rugged ' 
face and a short brown beard; and, as he came 1 
forward smiling, she caught a glance from a pair 
of pleasaut gray eyes. Mr. Chetwood held his 1 
visitor’s strong brown hand In his long white 
fingers, and looked him full In the face. 
“ You are welcome, Brian,” he said, slowly. “1 I 
haven’t seen you for ten years, lad, and time Is 
telling on us both.” 
Brian Mannerlng laughed a real mirthful laugh. 1 
*• You are looking first-rate, Mr. Chetwood—and 
I am not gray yetputting up one hand to his 
thick, short brown hair. 
"Dolores,” said Mr. Chetwood, “this Is Mr. 
Mannerlng—Brian, my niece." 
“ I have heard of you before," observed Brian, 
smiling, and looking down with his pleasant eyes 
atthe shy girlish face ; and Dolores, as he clasped 
her hand In his, wondered where he had heard of 
her, and when. Her brief questioning glance told 
him her thoughts, hut he only said, “ And your 
face Is what I thought, only-” 
“ Only what ? ” asked Dolores, laughing a little 
as she met his friendly glance. He laughed too. 
“ I will tell you another time,” he said—" when 
we know each other better.” 
“What sort of passage had you, Brian ?" in¬ 
quired Mr. Chetwood, abruptly. “ Was It rough ?’’ 
“Not very. We got Into Kingstown in good 
time.” 
“ You’ll sleep here, Brian—your room Is ready.” 
“Thanks; but I have sent my traps down to 
the hotel.” 
“As you please; you would only have been un¬ 
comfortable here.” 
Dolores, sitting silent, wondered who Brian 
Mannerlng was, and what was the purpose he 
had come all the way to Klblaney. Looking up 
sbe encountered his gray eyes fixed half quizzi¬ 
cally on her, but the stnlle changed to earnest 
ness. 
“ Do I puzzle you very much?” he whispered, 
leaning his elbow on the chimney-piece and 
looking down at her. 
“ How do you know what 1 am thlnglng of ?” 
said Dolores, coloring. 
The clock on the chimney-piece struck nine, 
and was answered Immediately by a great clock 
* \tn the bar*} hall which boomed out the hour, 
echoed by another (somewhere In the region be¬ 
ta w-stairs, and a few minutes later two more 
clocks pealed out nine In shrfll trebles. Clocks 
were a perfect mania with old Mr. Chetwood, but 
Dolores always shuddered as she heard them toll¬ 
ing out the hour through the empty house. She 
got up now. 
“ Guy was to call for me at nine. Good-night, 
uncle Hal.” 
“Good-night, child”—taking her hand In his. 
“ So Guy is to meet you, Is he?” and again the 
sneering smile came about the corners ol his 
mouth. 
Dolores’ hat and| jacket were In the hall, and 
she went to fetch them. Brian came out with 
her, and Dolores, standing lu tUe light of the one 
i dip-candle sputtering and flickering on the table, 
beld out a shy hand to say good night. There was 
more pity than amusement In his eyes this time, 
* as he clasped her hand with a friendly pressure 
and said good-night, 
L Guy was waiting outside smoking, with his 
t hands In his pockets. He started as he saw the 
t tall figure or Mr. Mannerlng In the doorway. 
“ Who Is that fellow ?” he asked, as Dolores 
l joined him. “ By Jove t” he ejaculated, when 
she had finished her story. “ 1 wonder where he 
i comes from.” 
“Well,” said Mr. Chetwood, Impatiently, as 
. Brian came back slowly into the room, " what do 
i you think of her, lad ?” 
* Brian looked thoughtfully Into the smoulder¬ 
ing fire. 
“ I think, Mr. Chetwood,” he said slowly, “ that 
you ought to reconsider your decision.” 
; The old man’s eyes glittered, 
r “ I won’t,’ ’ he said, and then added, “ Are you 
disappointed ?" 
x Brian lifted his eyes frankly to Mr. Chetwood’s. 
[ “No—only It’s very hard on her, poor little 
thing.” 
3 “ She’s pretty, isn’t she ?" 
[• “ Yes," was the brief rejoinder; and then there 
. was silence between them. Mr. Chetwood was 
i watching the man’s face opposite to him, won- 
- dertng what he was thinking of as he sat smoking 
- thoughtfully. “Mr. Chetwood," he said sudden¬ 
ly, “do you think you are right lu this?” 
1 “I think I may do what I like with my own,” 
s was the answer. 
i “ And If I won’t keep to my part of the agree¬ 
ment?" 
- “You must, Brian; you wouldn’t be such a 
. fool.” 
i “It shall never he against her will, any way,” 
i said Brian, In a taw voice; and, getting up, he 
7 paced up aud down the dlmly-llghted room, with 
b his head bent and his eyes fixed on the carpet, 
s for fully five minutes without speaking; then he 
1 came back to the fire again, and stood In his old 
attitude, with one elbow on the chimney-piece. 
“ Your proposition Is unfair and unjust,” he said; 
“ It places us both in an awkward and disagree¬ 
able situation. For the sake or right and justice 
you ought to change your decision." 
There wa3 a kind of quiet earnestness in bis 
voice and manner that ought to have carried con¬ 
viction of the truth of hla argument. But old Mr. 
Chetwood was not like other people; he stood tip 
when Brian had finished, and laid one hand on 
his broad shoulder, looking straight Into the 
steady gray eyes regarding him. 
“ir you talked all night, Brian Mannerlng, It 
would make no difference; no argument you 
could bring forward would shake me one bit.” 
“ For my mother’s sake J” said Brian, in a low, 
deep voice. “If you have no pity for that child 
who was here to-night, do what Is right and just 
lor the sake of my mother's memory.’ ’ 
But harder grew the stern old face looking so 
fixedly Into his own. 
“ No,” he said, slowly, “ not even If your eyes 
were ten times as like hers. Good-ulght, Brian; 
you have upset me, lad.” 
They shook handis, and Brian left the house and 
walked slowly down the empty street, where 
nothing but the echo of his own footfall was 
heard as he wended his way to the hotel, as It 
was called. But it was tang before he went to 
bed; he sat smoking and thinking till the night 
was well-nigh morning. 
It was the day of Guy's departure; he had left 
that morning after breakfast, after a stormy In¬ 
terview with tlie Reverend William, who express¬ 
ed his mind pretty freely, without stopping to 
weigh his words, or soften any of the hard things 
he felt it was hla duty to say to the hot-headed 
young fellow who faced him In Ills study with no 
sense of regret for the errors he had committed 
and the debt he had faUen Into, but only exas¬ 
perated beyond measure by William’s stern re¬ 
proofs and still less welcome advice. 
“You must mend your ways and give up all 
your extravagances, or-” 
“ Or what 7” burst out Guy, hot and passionate. 
“ Or I will stop your allowance,” was the with¬ 
ering rejoinder; and Chen they parted with a cold 
hand-shake, and Guy, angry and agitated, went 
to say good-by to Dolores. 
“ Guy darling,” she sobbed, as he held her In 
strong young arms, “you will be prudent for my 
sake—won't you, Guy ?” 
“ I will try, Dolores—1 will indeed. Good-by, 
dear; don’t cry. I will give up smoking, or any¬ 
thing In reason; there—I promise,” 
With tearlul eyeB Dolores stood at the window 
and watched him going off, sitting on the car and 
looking back smiling to the loving face watching 
him; and then William came lu : with a stern 
look on hla hard features, and repeated what he 
had said to Guy, and more besides, to Dolores, 
who defended Guy and gave way to tears. 
“It Is all your fault, Dolores; you encourage 
him In everything, and you are as much to blame 
as he la. From a child you havo taught him to 
set my authority at naught; and when he goes to 
the dogs you may blame yourself.” 
And William, having glveu vent to his feelings 
by a Just exhibition of hla wrath, left the room 
again, leaving Dolores to spend a long, unhappy 
day. It was the afternoon now, and the red sun, 
golden and hazy, was sinking behind the town. 
Dolores was sitting In the window that looked out 
on the straight, narrow garden, bending over her 
work, turning and remaking a dress. She was 
very miserable, and tears rolled down her cheeks 
and fell upon her hands. 
It wa3 three weeks since the night when Brian 
Mannerlng had so unexpectedly arrived, aud 
whenever she went to U nele Hal’s he was there 
too; and then Dolores had left off going, and had 
spent that last week all with Guy. William s 
speeches that morning were still rankling and 
smarting, and she was feeling very disconsolate 
Indeed, wtien the door opened and Brian Manner- 
lug was shown In to see Dolores, her hands over 
her face, sobbing piteously. He was touched at 
the sight of her distress, and yet, when, covered 
with conrusion, she brushed away her tears and 
stood up, all her work slipping off her lap and 
lying at her feet, he only took her band and held 
It for a moment, never looking at her downcast, 
quivering face, aud then gravely gathered the 
scattered reels on the floor, and laid the dress 
she had been busy wltn on a chair, giving her 
time to stop the sobs that were coming wan 
every breath. 
“You must miss Guy very much,” he said, 
gently. 
Dolores lifted her wet eyelashes and looked up 
at him gratefully. 
“ Yes," she replied, with a little sigh. A gleam 
of the setting sun touched her hair and lay across 
her sad face. 
“But you mustn’t rret,” said Brian, standing 
back In the shadow, so that only the outline of 
his face was visible, and looking keenly down at 
the sad, wistful eyes gazing out at the garden in 
the sunlight. “Brothers cannot be always at 
home, you know. ” 
“ I know.” And Dolores smiled at his simple, 
honest words. 
"Can you come down to Mr. Chetwood?” he 
asked, presently. “ He is not very well, aud he 
wants to see you.” 
“1 will come now," said Dolores, wondering a 
little why ho spoke so gravely; and she went 
away to dress, leaving him standing In the win¬ 
dow, from which the bar of sunlight had laded. 
"Where Is he ?” Dolores asked, as they entered 
Mr. Chetwood’s house. 
“Up-stairs. He did not get up at all to-day.” 
« I will go up to him now.” 
“ Stop one moment,” he said, laying his hand 
over hers as it rested on the balusters and then 
