JUNE 29 
THE RURAL NEW-YORKER 
literaq Httsdlauii, 
THE PORCELAIN CUP. 
Who watched the artist paint a poreetain cup. 
Did wonder when he (gathered brushes up 
And said, ” My task is done," 
That on the toy's tine rim, 
A border black and grim 
Contrasted hatefully with gentle tint 
Of pink and azure, blonde and beryl hint, 
And mocked those threads of aim 
That made the cup a prize 
To ravitth royal eyes. 
‘ Why leave this scowl of black ?” one dared inquire, 
The artist answered, "Olay must taste the fire, 
Aud by that teat ho tried." 
Snatched from Ha furnace heat, 
Transfigured and complete. 
The dazzling gift comes crowned with aureole gleam 
Its black all changed to gold! So—like a dream 
Heart said to heart that sighed— 
Grief nay be joy at last, 
When life’s fierce feast is past. r Observer. 
-» » » - 
GORA. 
(Continued from page 393.) 
“ Has it, Indeed, been so bad, poor child?” he 
said, wearily. “ Cora, I did not know, I did not 
imagine. You know I told you that I would do 
anything to make you happy; but I am power¬ 
less, no added, sadly. "Tell mo what I can do 
for you. You must know that even If t did not 
care, It. Is my duty to do what 1 can to contri¬ 
bute—” His voice faltered, aud he hesitated. 
“ I can hardly believe you care," she said, with¬ 
out bitterness now, but with an Intense sadness. 
“You have Judged me severely, and you have 
given me no chance of Justifying myself. Had 
you loved me-” 
"Ah, hush!” ho Interrupted, mournfully, be¬ 
ginning to pace up and down the little room. 
“ Yon cannot keep up that farce, Cora. You know 
that l loved you. You know that, Heaven help 
us both, I lovo you still." 
“ You love me!” she answered; “ you love me 
and believe me infamous?” 
As she spoke she turned to him, lifting her won¬ 
drous eyes, full of sorrow, and reproach, and love, 
to his, and putting one little hand gently upon 
t Is arm. For a moment, one moment only, he 
hesitated, then he caught her In his arms, and 
pressed his Ups passionately and repeatedly to 
hers. 
“No,” he said, tenderly, “I will believe only 
you, Cora. Will you try to forget the past, dear¬ 
est wife, aud let us begin anew ? Oh, my darling, 
my darling, whatever your faults, I have been ter¬ 
ribly harsh, and you have much to forgive; but 
It the ten Jerness of a urettme can obliterate my 
cruelty, I will atone for It.” 
in his arms, held close to his beating heart, 
Cora stood trembling and quivering, hardly 
daring to believe that the lost happiness was 
hers again. 
“ Will you forgive me, Cora ? will you pardon 
the madness which forced me to behave so cruel¬ 
ly ? Ah, my darling, If you could know what I 
felt Just now when I saw to what an extremity 
my conduct, my abominable harshness, had 
driven you ?" 
“Not your harshness, Alan,” she whispered, 
with her face bowed upon his breast and her lit¬ 
tle hands clinging to him with eager tenderness, 
“ my own pride. Ah, If l had prayed you to hear 
me, instead of being too proud to give you the 
explanation which was yours by every right, we 
might have been saved much suffering. Alan,” 
and she raised her eyes wistfully to nls, “ you 
will not refuse to hear me now ?” 
“ I do not want any explanation, darling wHe,” 
he said, tenderly, between the kisses which pour¬ 
ed thick and fast upon her throat, aud face, and 
hands. “ I will trust you all in all, beloved, and 
notbt ng shall ever part us again. That you were 
not happy I knew, but the real extent of your 
misery I never fathomed until to-night. Ilow 
can l excuso myself, sweetheart ?” he went on. 
“ My own excuse Is this.” 
He took from his pocket the little note he had 
found In the railway. Cora recognized it at once, 
shuddering aud drawing nearer to him as she re¬ 
called that terrible Journey. 
“ I never wrote it, Alan,” she said, earnestly; 
“ it is like my writing, I acknowledge ; but I never 
saw the note until Lord Almane showed It to me 
In the train as the reason for his presence 
there. Alan, you believe me, do you not ?” 
“ Fully, darling ; but there Is some underhand 
conspiracy against us, I feci sure. Did he—Lord 
Almane—think that you had written that note. 
Cora V” 
“ Yes, I am sure so. Alan, let me tell you all; 
do not refuse to hear all, I pray you ; you will 
not, dearest ?" 
“Not it you care to tell me, dear wife; but I 
want no explanations. You forgive me—that Is 
all I want now.” 
“ Nay, but 1 must tell you," she said softly; 
“ I cannot be happy without. I must tell you ; but 
not here—not here.” 
She shuddered ralntly as she glanced at the 
fragments of the broken phtal and tbe small, 
dark stain upon the carpet. Sir Alan put bis arm 
round her, and led her gently Into the studio. It 
was unllghted. save by tbe silver stream of moon¬ 
light which stole In through the windows ; hut, 
dimly as this light showed the surrounding ob¬ 
jects, It was sufficient tor Cora’s purpose, and, 
with her eyes hidden and her hand clasping one 
of her husband's, she told him all—from the first 
meeting with Viscount Almane In the crowd, to 
her last at the railway station at Amiens. 
“ You believe mo, do you not, Alan ?" she said, 
In conclusion. “ I never loved him, even when 1 
loved him best, asl love you; his treachery never 
made me suffer as one unkind word from you. 
No, no; I don’t mean any reproach. I never 
blamed you really, even when my heart was sore; 
I loved you too much ever to be angry, Ah ! do 
not, dear Alan, I am so happy; and there are 
tears in your eyes—I felt one upon my hand, and 
It hurt me, ah ! so much I” 
“ My poor little wronged wife!” murmured Sir 
Alan ; and for some minutes he held her to him 
In a long, close embrace, which seemed to bio* 
out the remembrance of the past. 
CHAPTER XXIX. 
When both were calmer, Cora disengaged her¬ 
self, and got a light. 
"Iam tired of darkness.” she said playfully. 
“ Come into my room, Alan, and I .will make you 
some coffee. You must want something, dear, 
after such a long, cold ride.” 
He submitted, smiling, watching her as she 
moved about, full of gentle, womanly atten¬ 
tions to his comfort, with a softened tenderness 
on her pale face which had long been a stranger 
there. Once or twice her Up quivered, and he 
guessed rightly that she was thinking of lier 
dead child; but when she came to his side and 
met the sad look with which he regarded her 
she bent over him with a little smile, infinitely 
sweet, infinitely tender. 
“ Are you not better to me than ten sons?” she 
whispered softly ; and Sir Alan could only press 
her to his heart, and kiss away the tears which 
had gathered in her soft, sweet eyes. 
“ I have a restitution to make to you, wife,” 
he said, after a time; “ aud when I have received 
absolution for my theft, I will entreat you to go 
and take some rest. Cora” he continued, “ on 
the night our little one was taken, this was 
brought to me, and I have had no opportunity 
of returning It to you.” 
Cora took the letter and recognized It Imme- 
dlrtely as the one which George Leeson had 
brought her from Lord Almane, and which she 
had entirely forgotten In the distress of mind 
she had endured since that period. Her color 
rose a little, but she put the letter back Into his 
hand saying, quietly: 
“ Shall we read It together, Alan ?” 
“ Darling, I trust you fully.” he said, tenderly. 
“ It will please me, Alan. It may throw some 
light upon those things we cannot explain.” 
“ Then read it to mo, wife.” 
Cora broke the seal and began to read, but In 
a few moments her voice failed her, and she 
broke down. 
With bis arm round her and her head resting 
against him, Sir Alan took the letter, and In his 
soft, grave tones read as follows: 
“ If I swore never willingly to see you, I did not 
swear not to write to you, Lady Cora; and al- 
tnoughyou may think it unpardonable presump¬ 
tion, it Is but fair to you and myseir to have some 
little light thrown upon what may seem to you 
inexplicable. Ever since the first moment I saw 
you I loved you; It was neither Infatuated admi¬ 
ration nor friendly regard; It was love ; and as It 
seems my province to bring suffering on those I 
love, so I fear have I brought Buffering on you. 
Yes, I loved you, but at that time I was bound to 
another; and although I would willingly have 
kept you In ignorance of my engagement to Lucie 
Belmont, you learned It by chance and rejected 
my proffered love rejected It with pain, Cora, for 
you loved me. 1 did not care for Lucie ; beside 
beauty such us yours, the few charms she pos¬ 
sessed were pale and dim. But, alas 1 she was 
rich; and my past life, even when I met you, de 
manded that I should retrieve my Impaired for¬ 
tune. By some chance she learned my affection 
lor you, and broke off the engagement to leave 
me free, she said. But I could not afford a penni¬ 
less wife, and, though I was free, I did not seek 
you, Cora. I went abroad; when l returned to 
England I found you the wife of a man who loved 
you, and I myself, If not quite forgotten, was re¬ 
garded with Indifference. My passion for you 
was as strong as ever, and when I saw you so 
beautiful, I vowed that you should be mine by 
fair means or foul. I knew you had loved me 
once; you should do so again. Accident, favored 
me; your husband Is Jealous, and though, Hea¬ 
ven knows, he has no cause, still It was easy to 
make hi in mistrust you. Your agitation when 
we first met was a favorable sign for me. He 
noticed It and wondered. Soon I received an un¬ 
expected ally, odc who hated Sir Alan Vincent as 
much as any cold-blooded cur could hate. I mean 
the seiwant, Marks. He had but one stronger 
motive^—his love of money—and this I willingly 
gratified. He kept me au eouranl with your 
husband’s actions and your own. By his 
connivance I was enabled to meet you unexpect¬ 
edly, and to follow you to Paris ; while by every 
means In his power, he Instilled the poison 
Into Sir Alan's mind. Soon it began to work, 
and then Ills coldness and harshness un¬ 
consciously assisted my designs. You were un¬ 
happy, my sympathy was not displeasing to you, 
and I began to hope at last. Now for the most 
humiliating part of my confession, Cora. The 
man Marks has one accomplishment: he Is an ac¬ 
complished expert, not In detecting, but In doing. 
He can Imitate any handwriting with perfect 
ease, and we called thlfi accomplishment Into 
play—1 once, he twice. This will explain the let¬ 
ter to George Leeson, which you thought Sir 
Alan had written, and which, by the agony It 
caused you to think yourself uuloved, almost won 
my cause. It explalus also the note he brought 
me train you, by which 1 was duped and deceived. 
He Is a clever conspirator, and although your hus¬ 
band’s appearance at the station at Amiens was 
owing to chance. It disappointed him by prevent¬ 
ing our lllght. Still he succeeded to a great 
measure, he obtained large sums of money from 
rue and satisfied whatever may be his dislike to 
your husband. 1 have told you all now, Cora. 
When you get this letter I shall have passed out 
of your life for ever. It I loved you selfishly I 
loved you well, and tor the sake of that love for¬ 
give me It you can. Had 1 loved you less 1 might 
have given you up more eaally; but l know now, 
that not only do you not love me, butjyour whole 
heart Is given to your husband. Be It so, he Is 
worthy of It; his only fault speaks of his love for 
you, and you must be unlike most women if you 
do not feel nattered by his Jealousy. Be happy, 
and tell him—the man you love—the husband 
you esteem and reverence so highly—that even 
were he poor, wretched, disabled, be Is still to be 
envied, possessed of Buch a treasure as your 
love.” 
" That Is all," said Sir Alan, softly, closing tho 
letter and placing It on the table beside him. 
“We can afford to pity him, Cora.” 
“Yes,” was the quiet answer, although her tears 
were falling fast.—falling at, the thought of that 
misspent, ruined life, which might have been no¬ 
ble; at the blurred and blotted history which 
might have been lair and stainless. Suddenly 
she lifted her head. 
“ What happy chance brought you home to¬ 
night, Alan?” she said. "I did not think you 
would return until to-morrow morning." 
“It was hardly a chance, my child,” he said, 
gravely. Then he added, in a lighter tone; “I 
hardly know why I came. I rode down to The 
Bungalow and told my mother all our trouble, 
Cora, and she scolded me so heartily for distrust¬ 
ing my sweet wile that she made me quite 
ashamed and confounded. So I rode back to im¬ 
plore your forgiveness. Thank Heaven,” and he 
clasped her closely, “ that l returned." 
“ What can have caused Marks to dislike you, 
Alan7” she said again, after a pause. “I did 
not think you had an enemy In the world but 
one.” 
“I really don’t know," said sir Alan, musingly. 
"I think Lord Almane must be mistaken In Im¬ 
agining such a thing; it wius the love of greed I 
suppose, and a natural Inclination to avlV. It was 
strange how you always mistrusted him, Cora. 
Perhaps some day we shall know more about it, 
love; but if we do not, we are content to let It 
rest, are we not 7” 
“I am quite content, Alan,” she answered, 
softly. “ Content to leave all In your hands, only, 
dear husband, If at any time you think you have 
reason to doubt me, you will come to me straight, 
will you not 7 and scold me as I deserve.” 
“ I will never doubt you again, Cora,” he said, 
tenderly. “ You have forgiven me, but I cannot 
forgive myself. 1 think tbe lesson I have re¬ 
ceived will be a lasting one, my darling, and my 
insensate Jealousy will be expelled for ever and 
aye.” 
CHAPTER XXX. 
Mr. Marks on the Tapis Again. 
“ Can you spare me bait an hour this morning, 
Vincent?” said George Leeson, appearing at tbe 
door of the dining-room, where Sir Alan and Lady 
Vincent were sitting at breakfast. “ Excuse such 
an early Intrusion, Lady Cora, but I have business 
of Importance.” 
“Sit down, and have some breakfast,” said the 
baronet, as they shook hands; and Mr. Leeson 
went across to Cora, who sat before the urn, 
looking very pretty aud fair in the soft black 
dress, relieved at the throat and wrists by deli¬ 
cate white frills. She gave him her hand with 
the old gracious sweetness, so different from the 
proud, cold manner she had worn for so long. 
“Thanks; I have breakfasted already; but I 
will take a cup of coffee, Lady Cora, If you will 
kindly give me one. You are rather late people!” 
“Not generally,” said Cora, smiling. “To¬ 
day Is an exception. Where do you think we 
have been since last week, Mr. Leeson ?” 
“ I heard you were away; I concluded you were 
staying with Lady Vincent at.The Bungalow." 
“ No,” said the sculptor; “ we have been as far 
as the Eternal City and back. Spent two days 
there, just to renew old association, and cstmo 
back.” 
“Rapid traveling,” said Mr. Leeson, smiling. 
"Why did you not take a Cook’s tourist ticket?” 
“ How do you know what we did ?” said Sir 
Alan, smiling; “also, we’re not millionaires, Mr. 
Leeson, whatever you may be.” 
"Oh! Alan,” said Ills wife, laughlugly,“ how 
can you he so absurd ? I wanted so much to go," 
she added, turning to Mr. Leeson, with a little 
sadness stealing over her face, “and Alan In¬ 
dulged me, but he could not spare any longer 
time." 
" I met an old acquaintance of yours, Vincent,’’ 
said the painter, as he stirred his coffee. “ Quite 
by ohance, the other day, I found that he lodges 
In the same house as myself in Elm Tree Walk.” 
"Indeed: Who Is that?” said Sir Alan, looking 
up, with some curiosity In his face. 
“ Your ex-footman, Mr. Marks,” was the quiet 
reply. 
sir Alan started. 
“ I am very glad to hear It,” he said, heartily. 
“Now we will come to the root of the tree, I hope. 
You did not make yourself known to him, Lee¬ 
son ? ” 
“Oh, no, of course not; but we had a tew 
minutes’ conversation, lie Is secretary now to 
some new assurance company, having purchased 
bis secretaryship with some of his Ill-gotten 
gains, 1 suppose. Take my word tor It, Vincent, 
that the man will receive his deserts yet—mur¬ 
der will out, you know. He la us mild and gentle 
as milk-and-water, and looks quite benign and 
trustworthy In a suit of superfine black; but the 
cloven foot peeps out, lu spite of all." 
“I’m afraid one may soli one’s hands by 
contact with such a scoundrel.” said Alan, 
savagely; but mcellog an alarmed glance from 
his wife's sweet eyes he subsided and gave her a 
reassuring smile. "1 should tike to know if he had 
any other motive but cupidity (or his treachery." 
"So should l,”said the other; “and tor that 
pursose l have Invited him to luncheon at my 
rooms at one. Will you come? 1 won’t ask you 
to sit down with the feUow, but you can have an 
explanation Instead ol a luncheon." 
"01 course I will come. You need not be afraid, 
little wife; l won’t strangle him. I won’t even 
touch him.” 
“ I have a message for you from Lady Lucie 
Belmont,” said Mr. Leeson, coloring a little. 
“ She wants to know, Lady Cora, If you will go 
out with her this morning. I believe tbe object 
Is one especially delightful to the fair sex—shop¬ 
ping. I know Marshal and Snelgrove’3 names 
were mentioned. 8he will call for you at twelve.” 
"It Is almost that now, Cora, so If you are 
going, go and get ready. Will you have a cigar, 
Leeson, while we are waiting?” 
Cora went away: and returning just as Lady 
Lucie's carriage arrived, the ladles drove off to¬ 
gether. 
Half an hour afterwards Sir Alan Vincent and 
Mr. Leeson got Into a hansom, and drove to Elm 
Tree Walk. It was one of the quaint old streets 
down by the water, overlooking tbe broad river 
as It flowed calmly on, and Inhabited principally 
by artists of all kinds and students, who lived a 
merry sans jaeon, Bohemian life, which George 
Leeson liked, notwithstanding his veneration for 
“Burke’B Peerage” and “Baronetage,” and 
which was not without a certain charm for Sir 
Alan himself. 
It was strange that Mr. Marks should have 
chosen such a locality, unless his choice could be 
accounted for by tbe hope of meeting no one 
among the Bohemians who would recognize him 
In his former career. Perhaps he had a lingering 
fancy for Bohemlanlsm himself, notwithstanding 
his snug, respectable exterior. Anyhow, there 
he was, lodging In the same house as Mr. Lee¬ 
son, and behavlBg with exemplary politeness and 
amenity to all. 
George Leeson’s studio possessed an unmis¬ 
takable air of bachelorhood. The floor was 
strewn with rugs and mat3; the furniture con¬ 
sisted of sundry large and comfortable arm¬ 
chairs: there was no small display of bric-a- 
brac, principally cblna, of wondrous shapes and 
sizes; while an odor of tobacco pervaded the 
apartment. 
Throwing themselves Into two of the above- 
mentioned arm-chairs, Sir Alan and his friend 
waited for the advent of Mr. Marks. 
Punctually at one o'clock Mr. Leeson’s servant 
threw open the door and announced: 
“ Mr. Marks.” 
The host went forward, with careless ease, and 
gave him a courteous welcome; but Mr. Marks 
bad caught sight of a tall figure standing by the 
window, and recognized at once the stern, hand¬ 
some face of his former master. 
" Allow me to Introduce you to my friend, sir 
Alan Vincent,” went on George Leeson, without 
appearing to notice the sudden pallor which 
overspread his visitor's face, “he Is anxious to 
make your acquaintance.” 
*“ You do not seem equally anxious to make 
mine,” said the baronet, advancing; “how is that, 
Mr. Marks?” 
For a moment the man seemed non-plussed, but 
he soon recovered his self-possession, and mur¬ 
mured some few words about “ natural surprise 
and pleasure," wblch Sir Alan returned with a 
careless nod. 
“ I hops Lady Cora Is well," went on Mr. Marks, 
with a hypocritical smile; “ and her ladyship, 
your mother.” 
“Very well, I thank you,” said Sir Alan, 
haughtily, with difficulty restraining himself. 
“ But you mu3t be aware that I did not come 
here to exchange greetings with a rogue—I speak 
the word advisedly. I came here to obtain a 
little Information on a subject which I need not 
define further.” 
“ I do not undertand you Sir Alan,” replied 
Marks,shlfting bis blue eyes uneasily fr om the mat 
at hi3 feet to sir Alan's face, and Sir Alan’s face 
to the mat again. 
“Are you sure ? have you forgotten ? The oc¬ 
currence Is not so very distant. However, I will 
refresh your memory. May I ask you why you 
committed daring forgeries In my name and my 
wife's You had, It is supposed, some other mo¬ 
tive save the money you received from the 
person who employed you at the time you were 
in my service. You may spare yourself further 
falsehood; he himself Is my Informant." 
The man hesLiated, hut he saw that he was ’ ”- 
tected; and was acute enough to know that such 
a thing would never be publicly brought against 
him. 
“Yes, I had another motive.” he said, with 
apparent frankness ; "1 entered your service 
in order to gratify ray dislike to you, Sir Alan.” 
“1 am nlghly honored!” said the baronet, cool¬ 
ly. “What have I done to Incur such an unfor¬ 
tunate feeling ?" 
“Both dislike and revenge.” was the reply 
" I have owed you a grudge for a long time, Sir 
Alan. I have had a most ample, if not complete, 
revenge. Do you remember,” he went on, com¬ 
ing a little nearer, and speaking with the evil 
gleam lighting up his face, “ oue evening, a cold 
winter’s evening, about three years ago or more, 
when Miss Sinclair was crossing the common at 
Plerpont with a matd, she was addressed by a 
passer-by, who offered to escort, her home, and 
only asked a kiss In payment? He would have 
got It, too, had you not approached." 
The man’s face darkened as he proceeded. Sir 
Alau went white with anger, but did not Inter¬ 
rupt. George Leeson, beside blm, clenched his 
hands, and was heartily glad that he had pro¬ 
mised no oue not to administer chastisement to 
Mr. Marks. 
“You took the man by the collar and threw 
him Into the dit ch, with as little ceremony as If 
he had been a dog, and left him lying there, on 
a bitter winter night, without giving him an¬ 
other thought, T daresay. If you recollect the 
occurrence, I daresay you have not forgotten 
what the man called after you as you went away. 
You heard him and laughed. You did not always 
laugh, Sir Alen ; 1 have seen you look very mlse* 
able, and I remembered then that l owed you a 
grudge, and that I had sworn to ‘pay you out.’ 
Your turn came at last. I lost sight of you for a 
time, but when I found you again was even 
with j an, i think. I had not a very pleasant half 
hour In the ditch, but you have had many a sleep- 
