JUNE 22 
fitaarg Utisccdang, 
THE COMING OF THE GRASS. 
Whence cometh the trrass— 
The sudden secret xrass ? 
From what deep world invisible. 
What subterranean citadel, 
What army of elfln-land. 
Comes forth that swiftly-marshalled band. 
That vision of unwarJike spears. 
Innumerable as the heavenly years ? 
How cometh the grass— 
The irresistible grass? 
We know not how, we cannot tell 
The moment of that miracle; 
We know not when, we know not how ; 
We know the earth was bare, and now 
That pleasantly our footetops pass 
Above the yielding emerald of the grass. 
Where cometh the grass— 
The all-abounding grass? 
Along the hills, the meadow sweet 
The river side, the village street; 
In forest nooks Its tassels wave; 
Its patient green enfolds the grave; 
Beside the cottage home doth press 
The tender, laithf id grass with mute caress. 
Why cometh the grass— 
The bright, untiring grass. 
That down the ages Uotli repeat 
With every year its idyl sweet ? 
To teach the truth declared for thee 
By gracious lips in Galilee i 
“ He careth.” Then when doubtsharrass. 
Heed thou the wise, soft whispers of the grass. 
t Illustrated Christian Weekly. 
■--- 
COEA, 
CHAPTER XXIV. 
(Continued from page 381.) 
The next day they returned to Paris, and were 
greeted at the entrance of the hotel by the ob¬ 
sequious Mr. Marks, who a few days later gave 
his master formal notice to leave. His savings 
and a small legacy lately received enabled him 
to leave service, he said; and sir Alan’s mind 
was too much occupied with other things to take 
much notice of his profound regret at leaving 3uoh 
a master, nor had he the faintest Idea that the 
legacy ot which he spoke was a cheque received 
from Lord Almane, In return for services ren¬ 
dered by the faithful and attached domestic. 
Thus It happened, that when Sir Alan and Lady 
Vincent returned to England, Spills was the only 
attendant they had with them, although Cora 
saw at the station the cold blue eyes and evil 
face, of her husband's late servant, and even that 
transient glance made her shiver and draw 
nearer to Sir Alan. 
“That man is my evil genius,” she said, pet¬ 
tishly ; and sir Alan glanced at her In some sur¬ 
prise. 
“ I beg your pardon,” he said, coldly. “ To 
whom are you alluding ?” 
** To Marks,” she replied, timidly, coloring at 
her momentary agitation, “ 1 have had nothing 
but misery since 1 saw him,” 
M You are fanciful,” was the quiet reply, as Sir 
Alan opened his newspaper and settled himself 
in his corner, nor did he speak again during the 
journey, except to ask whether she were cold, 
or when they stopped, to inquire If she would 
take any refreshment. 
Lady Vincent aud Marianna were at ltlvlngton 
Square to welcome the travelers, and a very few 
minutes suillced to show the elder lady that 
something was wrong between her son and 
daughter-in-law, and that something had de¬ 
stroyed the perfect confidence which had once 
existed between them. She saw that her son 
looked 111 and haggard, that Cora, notwithstand¬ 
ing a lorced gaiety, was the ghost of her former 
self, and evidently unhappy; but as days passed 
on neither volunteered any explanation, and she 
returned to the Bungalow much disturbed, and 
anxious In the highest degree; but hoping almost 
against hope, that the old love would reassert 
Itself again. 
At Christmas she paid her usual visit, and 
found that things had by no means Improved. 
Sir Alan’s manner, so haughty. Imperious, and 
cold, pained her terribly; while Cora seemed so 
reckless and dehant that she could hardly recog¬ 
nise her as the same person. One thing about 
her seemed uuchanged, and that was her devo¬ 
tion to the child, whom she seemed to Idolize, 
He was a bright, handsome little fellow, with 
shining dark-gray eyes, shaded by long dark 
lashes, the counterpart of his mother’s; while 
In shape and stature he seemed to have inherited 
the stately proportions of his father. But 
strangely enough, the child was more attached 
to Sir Alan than to Ula mother, whose passionate 
caresses and fierce love seemed to frighten him; 
and the tears came often Into Lady Vincent’s 
blue eyes when she saw Cora turn away from her 
husband and her boy with a yearning misery lu 
her eyes, which told or sorrow unutterable. 
When he was playing with his son, the sorrow 
would be lifted from Sir Alan's brow, the gay 
smile appear upon his lips; and when Harold, 
wearied with a long game of romps, would fall 
asleep with his long curly head nestling against 
his sculptor-father’s silken beard, Sir Alan’s face 
would become beautiful with the expression of 
protecting tenderness which Illumined it. And 
Cora, looking on, felt like Eve banished from 
Eden, and turned away, clenching her little 
hands to stifle the cry of agony which rose to her 
Ups. 
Deprived now of all domestic happiness, it was 
but natural that Sir Alan should devote all his 
time and energy to his profession. He passed 
long hours lu his studio, and if he missed his 
wife’s presence, he never, by word or look, be¬ 
trayed that he did so. 
THE RURAL NEW-YORKER. 
Cora walked, rode, and drove as usual, ap¬ 
peared In society with a smiling face and gay de¬ 
meanor, and Mrs. Grundy, acute as she Is In gen¬ 
eral, failed to detect any skeleton In the sculp, 
tor’s cupboard, although a more miserable wo¬ 
man rarely hid her wretchedness under a smiling 
mask than Cora Vincent. 
Sir Alan’s house was a favorite resort of tal¬ 
ented and rising men of every profession, while 
the “ upper ten” delighted to go where the lions 
of the day could bo freely discussed and “ Inter¬ 
viewed.’’ On two evenings m the week Lady Cora 
was “ at home,” and on these evenings the draw¬ 
ing-rooms were filled with aristocratic and dis¬ 
tinguished visitors, who In their turn courted and 
“ feted ” the sculptor’s beautiful wife. On these 
occasions, Sir Alan’s courteous and chivalrous 
deference to his wife never altered; he Introduced 
his new friends to her; was cordial to her; and 
the guests said that they were a “ model couple,” 
and wondered a little that their Bohemian tastes, 
which were sulflclently prononces, allowed them 
to give such an example of conjugal felicity. 
Among these guests was one, however, who 
saw things more clearly, and who partly guessed 
how matters were. This was George Leeson, who, 
as a friend of Harold Sinclair’s, had retained a 
warm Interest in his sister. He was too Indolent 
himself ever to reach the top of the tree In his 
profession, and had never married, entertaining, 
so rumor said, a hopeless passion for Lady Lucie 
Belmont, who, though she had returned to Eng¬ 
land aud mixed In society, was still Lady Lucie 
Belmont, and retained undivided control over her 
broad acres and golden guineas. She and Cora 
met sometimes, but the old friendship of other 
days hml not been renewed. She. as well as 
George Leeson, thought Cora had married Sir 
Alan out of pique at Lord Almaue's neglect, for 
the Viscount’s love for Miss Sinclair had not re¬ 
mained a secret to the heiress, who had set him 
free on learning, by that chance conversation 
overheard at Mrs. Colston’s, that Cora was pre¬ 
ferred to herself. 
One evening, after an unusually brilliant as¬ 
sembly at Lady Cora’s, when but a few Intimate 
friends remained, Air. Leeson approached, and 
sat down In a low chair by Cora, who was sitting 
a little apart, and at a sufficient distance to pre¬ 
vent any conversation being overheard. 
“ You are tired. Lady Cora,” he said, gently. 
“ No,” was the listless answer. 
“Then will you come and show me that new 
orchid Lord Travers has been raving about ? I 
want to speak to you,” he added, as she hesitated, 
and something In his manner constrained Cora 
to rise and take his proffered arm. 
They passed down the room Into the conserva¬ 
tory beyond, and George Leeson made Cora alt 
down, and took a seat beside her. 
“ I am the bearer of & message and letter to 
you,"he said, quietly.," I do not think I am wrong 
In delivering it. It was given me last nlgnc by 
Stanley St. Roger, and this morning I heard—my 
nows wilt shock you, Lady Cora—so be prepared. ’ 
“ You heard what ?” she asked, quickly. 
“ That he left England last night, and that 
he did not go alone. That Lady Helen St. Maur 
accompanied him.” 
“ Her husband, her poor children t” said Cora, 
looking very pale and shocked. “ Oh t how dread¬ 
ful !’’ 
“ It Is very sad,” said Mr. Leeson, quietly. " I 
am an old friend, Lady Cora, may I take an old 
friend’s privilege ? Had Lord Almane anything 
to do with the present uncomfortable feeling be¬ 
tween your husband and yourself ?” 
“ He may have had. Yes, In a great measure, 
perhaps; but you, who know that Alan never 
loved me, must have known that his feigned de¬ 
votion could not last,” she replied. 
“ I who know that he never loved you ?” said 
Mr. Leeson, in surprise. " What, do you mean, 
Lady Cora ?” 
" I saw my husband’s letter to you,” she went 
on, in a dreary monotonous voice, “ the letter in 
which he said that ‘ out or pity for my lonely po¬ 
sition and evident penchant tor himself he was 
going to marry me.' ’’ 
"You are dreaming, Cora,” said her companion. 
Do you not know Alan Vincent better than to 
imagine him capable of such a thing ? He never 
wrote those words In his life to me. Why, I have 
his letter still, the one he wrote in reply to my 
congratulations; and short as It Is, It Is easy to 
see that he loved you dearly when he thanked 
Heaven for giving you to him. Who showed you 
the letter, Laly Cora ?" 
"Lord Almane,” she said, tremulously; and 
then, unable to repress her desire for a Mend, 
she told him all that had happened In Paris, 
without any reservation or concealment whatso¬ 
ever. 
Ho listened with deep attention, and heard her 
In silence to the end. 
“ There is some conspiracy here,” he said then. 
"There Is some underhand business which we 
must discover, Lady Cora. You were all duped— 
you, your husbaud, Lord Almane himself. De¬ 
pend upon It,” ho added, Impetuously, " whoever 
rorged the note from you to Stanley was the 
writer of the letter porportlng to come from Sir 
Alan. Take courage, my poor child, all will come 
right, yet.” 
She shook her head sorrowfully. 
"1 have given up all hope,” she said, lu her sad, 
sweet tones. “ He will never believe In or love 
me again. Circumstances were against me, I 
grant; but it was easy to make Mm doubt. No ; 
he never really loved me!” 
“Utswaa Jealousy in love, Cora,” said George 
Leeson, cheerily. " Trust mo, all shall be well 
yet; and when you have him at your feet again 
you will forget ail your trouble In the Joy of that 
* reconciliation which Is the feast of love.’ But 
I must go," he concluded; "and I am forgetting 
my commission.” 
He took from his coat pocket a sealed letter, 
wMch he handed to her. As he did so, Marian¬ 
na appeared at the entrance to the conservatory, 
and, as Cora concealed the letter in the little 
embroidered pocket suspended at her waist, she 
came eagerly forward, her old, wrinkled face 
showing signs of terrible perplexity and distress. 
At the sound of her footstep Cora turned, and 
seeing the troubled face, rose rrom her seat. 
The old servant seemed In the utmost excite¬ 
ment, and began a hasty explanation In her 
own language, which she always used when 
distressed. George Leeson was but an Indiffer¬ 
ent Italian scholar, and he had distinguished but 
one word, bambino, when Lady Cora uttered a 
faint cry, and rushed away, followed with al¬ 
most equal rapidity by the old nurse. 
CHAPTER XXV. 
" Oh! doctor, save him, save him to me; he is 
all I have In the world.” 
“ Dear Lady Cora, how gladly would I do so, 
but your dear child la beyond all human skill." 
And the kindly, gray-halred physician, who 
had a young married daughter and a little 
grandson of his own at home, felt his eyes fill 
with watorat the passionate sorrow in Cora's 
tone as she implored him to save her child. 
Some three or four hours had elapsed since 
Marianna had summoned Cora rrom her inter¬ 
view with George Leeson, and they had been 
passed in terrible anxiety and suspense; but It 
was over now. There was no need now for anxiety 
—no need for suspense; as the gray dawn had 
broken over the eastern sky, Harold Vincent’s 
fair soul had fled, and the form which lay clasped 
to Cora’s breast was no longer living or breath¬ 
ing, but a form of lifeless clay. 
All the efforts of the physicians who had been 
summoned In all haste, had proved unavailing. 
The child had been attacked by the most 
terrible species of croup, and after a few hours 
struggle with death, had passed away with a 
smile on his face, and a sweet up vard glance of 
the gray eyes at his father’s mournful face as he 
bent over him In speechless grief. 
“Hush!” sail Cora, hastily. “HeIs better; 
look, he Is going to sleep. Ho la not suffering 
now.” 
No, he was not suffering; he would never 
suffer again. The sleep or which the poor young 
mother spoke was the sleep of death, and one 
glance at the grave faces of the medical men 
showed sir Alan that It waa so. 
But Cora did not know it; to her (he stillness 
of the little limbs, the sudden peace which had 
fallen over the little face, were not signs of 
death, but of sleep and freedom from pain ; and 
she looked up at the physician with a faint little 
smile and a prayer In her eyes that he should 
confirm her hope. 
It was a strange, mournful sight, that silent, 
solemn group gathered round the fair young 
root tea tul the dead child. Cora still wore her 
evening dress of gold-colored silk and lace, which 
looked strange and out of place at such a scene, 
and by the morning light; diamonds were gleam¬ 
ing on the rounded throat, In the little ears, and 
on the slender arms which clasped her child; 
the flowers In her halt- had faded, and her grace¬ 
ful head was bowed over the little lifeless form. 
Sir Alan stood beside them, ills face bearing an 
expression of angulsb, and the two medical men 
stood apart, talking in under-tones; while Mari¬ 
anna was kneeling by her mistress, tears falling 
over her wrinkled face. 
“ Why do you cry, Marianna?” said Lady Cora, 
softly. “He Is better now; but he is cold,” and 
she gathered the child closer to her breast. " Give 
me a shawl to cover him. Why do you look so 
grave, Dr. Gray ling ? H arold Is better. ” 
"Yes, he is better,” said the physician, gently. 
“ He is quite well, Lady Cora. My child, he is 
freed from all pain and suffering now, and you, 
who loved him so dearly, would not wish him 
back.” 
Cora lifted her eyes to the grave, gentle face 
wMch bent over her, with a vacant gaze of terror. 
“What do you mean?” she said, piteously. 
“ Harold is better. Is he not ? See, he Is so quiet. 
He could not lie so still If he were suffering.” 
"Neither does he suffer, my poor child; he 
will never suffer again. Let me take him from 
you.” 
But she drew him closer to her and clasped the 
white jeweled arms more tightly around nlm. 
Then she rose and stood upright with & faltering, 
uncertain movement, which made Sir Alan put 
his arm around her to support her. 
" You do not mean that he is dead?” she walled 
forth. " Oh, Doctor Grayling, he is all I have In 
the world. Save him to me—save him to me!” 
“ He is past all human skill now, Lady Cora. 
Your little son Is dead.” 
As the words came slowly and unwillingly from 
the doctor’s Ups, Cora uttered a cry of anguish; 
then, stooping, she pressed her lips again and 
again passionately to the cold brow and closed 
eyes, and, parting the curls from the child's fore¬ 
head, she cried out: 
“ It cannot be! Heaven would not be so cruel. 
I will not—I will not let him die I" 
*• Hush, Cora 1” said, sir Alan, gently removing 
the boy from her arms aud laj Ing him on the lit¬ 
tle white cot. “ Our little one is happy now; I 
loved him too, you know, and yet 1 am willing to 
give him up when it Is for his good." 
She looked up at him vacantly, but said noth¬ 
ing ; Sir Alan encircled her with hls arms, and 
held her tenderly within his embrace. It was 
long now since hls lips had touched hers, and 
even in Ms anguish and bereavement a thriU 
passed through Mm as he bowed Ms head over 
her, and touched her brow with hls bearded lips, 
murmuring some tender, pitying words. Cora 
stood still and motionless for a moment, watch¬ 
ing Marianna, who, with tender hands, had laid 
the cMld on the bed, straightened the little 
limbs, and folded the little lifeless hands upon 
the breast. 
When all was over, Cora disengaged herself 
quietly from her husband’s arms, and moved 
with an unsteady, faltering step towards the bed. 
Then she stooped over the child, pressed a long, 
long, lingering kiss on the baby mouth, and left 
the room with the same mechanical movement, 
the same stony glare In her dark, lustrous eyes. 
“I need not say how deeply 1 sympathize with 
you. Sir Alan," said Dr. Grayling, as he prepared 
to take leave. “ Poor Lady Cora!—it Is a terrible 
trial for you both. I will call in the course of the 
morning to see how she is.” 
"Thank you,” said Sir Alan, quietly, as he 
went down-stairs with the physicians, return¬ 
ing almost immediately to the room they hai 
left. 
It was empty. The little form was lying still 
and motionless on the white bed; but Marianna 
had left the room to go to her mistress. 
CHAPTER XXVI. 
Sir Ajlan knelt down by the bed and contem¬ 
plated the marble features, shaded by the clus¬ 
tering fair curls, until hls eyes grew misty with 
unshed tears. Why had this terrible trial fallen 
upon him ? Why had this child, In whom he had 
so greatly delighted, been taken from him ? What 
had he done to merit, to require such severe chas¬ 
tisement ? 
a wlft as thought the answer came to him. Had 
hla harshness to hls wife not fully deserved some 
punishment ? Might she not have been less gMlty 
than he Imagined ? Did not hls pride, hls jeal¬ 
ous Intolerance, hls refusal to hear any explana¬ 
tion, merit soma little correction ? Was It for 
this end that the boy was taken ? Many a soft¬ 
ening thought came into Alan Vincent’s heart as 
he knelt by hls dead child, and thought of the 
child’s mother, hls wife, to whom he had meted 
such a harsh measure, whom he had judged with 
such a harah judgment. 
He thought of Cora again as he had met her 
first In her sweet girlhood, with her bright beauty 
untouched with care ; Cora lying motionless In 
hl3 arms, as he carried her out of the room where 
her dead brother lay; Cora, with her sweet, 
grateful face raised to hls as they stood together 
by Harold Sinclair’s grave; Cora, trembling and 
tearful, accepting the love he offered her at last. 
And then, as hls wife, beautiful, and to all ap¬ 
pearance happy, holding her child In her arms, 
gay, laugMng, triumphant; queening it in society, 
feted and courted by all; in Paris restless and un¬ 
easy ; at Amiens cowering at hla feet In her hu¬ 
miliation aud abasement; and now white, hag¬ 
gard, despairing, with her baby lying dead upon 
her breast. 
“ Oh! Cora—Cora !" broke from hls lips, as he 
bowed Ms head in hls hands, and hls frame shook 
with the tearless sobs of a strong man’s agony. 
At lost he had given way, the strong wall of 
coldness and reserve he had erected between hlm- 
Belt and Cora had broken down. If there could 
not be perfect love and confidence between them, 
could there not. be peace ? Could not this dread¬ 
ful reign of outward defiance on her side and In¬ 
difference on his be over ? At least they could be 
friends. He would go to Cora, now that she was 
softened by trouble, and ask her to forgive Ms 
harshness, hls cruel judgment of her, and he 
coaid help her to bearthetr joint affliction. 
He rose slowly from Ms knees and stooped over 
the lifeless form, pressing a long tender kiss on 
the little lips where Cora's had rested but a short 
time before, and quietly opening the door, went 
out and closed it alter him, 
As he went down stairs a housemaid, with 
swollen eyes and tear-stalued face, was sorrow¬ 
fully performing her morning work. She looked 
at Sir Alan mournfully and pitifully as he passed 
her, looking worn and haggard, still wearing hls 
evening dress, and the ready, easy tears came to 
her eyes again. 
He went down Into the dining-room, hesitating 
whether to seek hls wife now or wait a little until 
Dr. Grayling came, and, la this state of indecision 
threw Mmself Into a deep leathern arm-chair, 
and bent hls face upon hls hand. 
A light tap at the door aroused him, and at the 
mechanical "Come In," wMch he uttered, the 
servant he had passed on the stairs entered, hold¬ 
ing a letter In her hand. 
" 1 beg your pardou, sir,” she said, huskily, 
" but I found this on the stairs. It Is directed to 
my lady, I think, but she will not let anyone in. 
Will you keep it, air. please ?” 
Sir Alan stretched out hls hand and took the 
letter. The next moment he had dropped It upon 
the table as If it had stung him; and the pallor 
of hls face grew yet more Intense. 
“ Oh! sir, you are lit. Let me get you some¬ 
thing," said the maid, startled aud alarmed. 
" There is no necessity,” said Sir Alan, with an 
effort repressing all emotion. *• Tljank you, 
Peters; I will give Lady Vincent her letter.” 
The girl curtseyed and disappeared, leaving 
Sir Alan gazing at the letter which lay upon the 
table with fierce, agonized eye3, and a face from 
which all softness had departed. 
“ Even now,” he said, bitterly, to himself— 
" even now—ah, Heaven ! when I was trying to 
forget the past—when 1 had begun to hope-” 
He rose from hls seat, and walked up and down 
the room with hasty but uncertain steps, pausing 
now and then to look with fascinated eyes on 
the fatal missive, as It lay on the table before 
Mm, 
"Shall I open It?” he soliloquised. “I have a 
right; and yet-no, I will not open It. It Is 
here, and she loves him.” 
Again the restless pacing to and fro; again the 
mental struggle whether he should open the 
letter Lord Almane had addressed to hls wife 
Again he decided that he would not. 
“ How did It reach her?" he said to himself, as 
he contemplated It. “ It has not been through 
the post. Are any of the servants In hls pay? 
Has she seen him again? Does she meet him? 
Is she false as uimself ?—false, while I—Heaven 
help me!—1 love her still." 
And hiding hls face In his hands, Alan Vincent, 
the eminent sculptor, the successful man par ex¬ 
cellent of the day, broke Into tears at the shatter¬ 
ing of his hopes, and cried like a cMld over the 
i wreck of Ms happiness. Ah! me— 
