fitatrjr Stisadaitjr, 
WHEN YOU WERE SEVENTEEN. 
JOEL BURNS, 
When tbe hay was mown, Maggie, 
In the years long ago, 
And while the western sky was rich 
With sunset's rosy glow. 
Then hand in hand close-linked wo passed 
The dewy ricks between. 
And I was oue-and-twenty, Mag, 
And yon were seventeen, 
Your voice was low aud sweet, Maggie, 
Your wavy hair Was brown: 
Your cheek was like the wild red rose 
That showered Us petals down, 
Your eyes were like tho blue speedwell, 
With dewy moisture’s sheen, 
When I was oue-and-twenty, Mag, 
And yon were seventeen. 
The spring was in our hearts, Maggie, 
And a LI its hopes wero ours; 
And wo were children in tho fields, 
Among the opening flowers. 
Aye; life was like a summer day . 
Amid tho woodlands green. 
For I was one-and-twenty, Mag, 
And you wore seventeen. 
Tho years have come and gone, Maggie, 
With sunshine and with shade ; 
And silvered in the silken hair 
That o’er your shoulders strayed 
In many a soft and wayward tress— 
The fairest ever seen— 
When I was one-and-twouty, Mag, 
And yon were soventoon. 
Though gentle changing Time, Maggie, 
Has touched you fn his flight; 
Your voice has still the old sweet tone, 
Your eye tho old love-light. 
And years can never, never change 
The heart you gave, I ween, 
When I was one-and-twenty, Mag, 
Aud you were seventeen. 
--»»» 
OORA. 
CHAPTER XXX. 
(Continued from pugo 114.) 
Meanwhile, Cora and Lady Lucie Belmont had 
driven rapidly from one fashionable shop to an¬ 
other In search of wedding finery and presents, 
for Mrs. Colston’s favorite niece was about to be 
married, and the heiress was pleasing herself In 
making the young people happy by loading them 
with all kinds of ornamental aud useful gifts, 
“ I have so much money, Cora,” she said, balf- 
sadly, hair-jestlngly as they drove away, from 
one great inagastn. “ if I do not use somo of It, 
and make other people happy, of what good Is It ? 
You were a happy girl not to be an heiress, Cora; 
It must be so pleasant to be loved for one’s-self 
alone.” 
“ But Is there any reason that you should not 
he loved for yourself, Lucie 7” said Cora, smiling, 
“ And It would be so pleasant to make anyone 
you oared ror rich. I should not have Imagined 
that Alan had married me for money If I had 
been ever so rich.” 
“ A burnt child dreads the lire, Cora,” said the 
heiress, still a little sorrowfully. " I am inclined 
to put faith In the old saw : ‘ Men are deceivers 
ever.’” 
“ Not all, dear Lucie.” 
“ Of course not all, Lady Vincent," laughed 
Lucie, patting her companion’s hand lightly with 
her own. “ There are bright exceptions; my 
Mend, Sir Alan Vincent, for Instance." 
“Aud my friend, Mr. George Leeson,” said 
Cora, smiling; and, giving Lady Lucie a sly 
glance, she saw the color deepen on her cheek. 
“ He too,” said her ladyship, quietly, “ l be¬ 
lieve him to be loyal and true. Here we are at 
Marshal’s, Cora ; come and tell me whether you 
think sot'u or moonlight-blue will look best tor 
my dress; that Is a more interesting subject than 
mankind for you and me ! ” 
When Cora returned home she found that Sir 
Alan was there before her, and be came out to as¬ 
sist her to alight. Lady Lucy would not get out, 
as she was anxious to dispose of the numerous 
parcels with which the back seat of the carriage 
was covered, so that if Mr. Leeson expected to 
see anyone but his hostess when he came In to 
afternoon tea he was disappointed ; and it was, I 
suppose, the disappointment which made him 
quiet and absent while Cora and her husband 
discussed Mr. Marks. 
"I always thought we had met before,” said 
Lady Vincent. “ You remember, Alan, 1 told you 
I was sure there wus something familiar about 
him ; that momentary anger of yours almost cost 
you dear, Alan.” . 
" It cost me very dear, my child,” he said. “ It 
seems very awful that a man should cherish re¬ 
venge so long and bide his time. I n my opinion 
it was not so much his revenge as his advantage 
that he sought.” 
“ I suppose he quieted his conscience with the 
idea that he owed you some retaliation,” said 
George Leeson, as no rose to take leave. " But 
directly Lady Cora told me her story, I felt sure 
that Marks had something to do with It, and Lady 
liUClo and myself have long been on tho lookout 
for him.” 
“ How can I thank you for your friendship ?" 
said Cora, In a low tone, as he bent over to her to 
say good-bye. “ Can 1 do anything tor you, Mr. 
Leeson 7" . 
“ Yes,” he said eagerly. “ Say a good word for 
•he—•” Then he broke off, sighing heavily. “ No, 
It Is better not. 11 would be Impossible." 
And with these disjointed words he departed, 
mentally anathematizing the cruel fate which 
had made Luelo Belmont an heiress and himself 
a painter with a small Income, 
THE RURAL NEW-YORKER. 
CHAPTER XXXI. AND LAST. 
The marriage of Miss Andrews, Mrs. Colston’s 
nlcco and adopted daughter, was celebrated at 
the BrlxtOn mansion, with all due eclat. The 
crimson drawing-rooms were decorated with flow¬ 
ers; the breakfast offered to the wedding guests 
was of the most expensive and recherche descrip¬ 
tion, taxing Mr. Gunther’s resources to the ut¬ 
most. Mrs. Colston herself was conspicuous In 
ruby velvet and cameo ornaments, and the little 
fair lady lu ecru satin and lace, whom many of 
the guests hardly noticed at all, turned out to be 
Lady Lucie Belmont, the great heiress, whose 
name headed the list of names In the newspaper 
report the following day. 
When the bride and bridegroom had driven 
away and the guests had departed, Mrs. Colston 
and Lady Lucie returned to the drawing-room, 
and sat down to talk over the happy event, while 
they waited for the return of Lady Lucie’s car¬ 
riage, which had taken the newly-married couple 
to the station, where, It Is to he hoped, the 
officials were duly Impressed by the powdered 
servants and dashing grays. 
“I think all went off very well, my dear, don’t 
you 7” said Mrs. Colston, as she gave a satisfied 
glance at her handsome, portly person as It was 
reflected In the numerous mirrors hung round the 
room. “Emily behaved beautifully, did she 
not?" 
"All was vory nice, Emma," answered Lady 
Lucie’s gentle voice. “I hope they will be 
happy." 
“ I wish you would stay and dine with me, dear 
Lady Lucie,” pleaded Mrs. Colston. “ I shall feel 
so lonely to-night. Emily was so bright and 
cheerful.” 
“I would with pleasure, Emma," replied Lady 
Lucie, “ but I promised Lady Cora Vincent that I 
would spend the evening with her.” 
“Ah! poor Lady Cora! How Is she now? Is 
she bearing her trial more resignedly ?” 
“ Hhe Is bearing it well,” said Lady Lucie, a little 
coldly; “ but It was a bitter one. Hor husband’s 
love Is a great consolation to her.” 
“ I suppose so. Do you know, my dear, I always 
fancied, 1 may have been wrong, that she did not 
care much for Sir Alan.” 
“ Why did she marry him, then ?” 
“Oh, she was flattered by his preference, and 
pleased that such a distinguished man should-” 
“You are quite mistaken, Emma. I know that 
Lady Cora has been, and is, most sincerely at¬ 
tached to her husband.” 
“ Well, perhaps so. At any rate, my dear, ke 
was not her first love.” 
“Few of us marry our first love,” said Lucie, 
smiling. “ I agree with the poet, who says ‘ that 
tho last love’s the best.' ” 
“ Still I don’t think she behaved well during her 
stay here,” persisted Mrs. Colston. 
“ I am glad you have mentioned that,” 3 aid 
Lucie, quietly, “ as it gives me an opportunity of 
setting you right on that polut. Before Lord Al- 
mane left London he wrote me a letter, telling 
ine of Cora’s complete innocence with regard to 
him. It Is true that he loved her, and unaware of 
his engagement, she returned his love; but di¬ 
rectly ills relatlonswlth me became knowntoher, 
she refused to listen to any more protestations, 
as dishonoring to herself as well as to him. I am 
glad to be able to tell you this, Emma, because I 
think you were a little unjust to Cora.” 
11 Will you tell her that I am sorry that I mis¬ 
judged her?” said Mrs. Colston, readily. " It was 
for your sake that I was annoyed, Lucie.” 
“I know that, dear Emma,” and Lady Lucie 
rose and put out her hands In farewell. “ I will 
tell Cora, and now I must say good-bye. There 
Is the carriage, and it, Is Into already.” 
It was a very quiet party of four at sir Alan’s 
that evening, but none the less a happy one. 
Cora was at the piano, trying over some new songs 
and singing some old favorites, while sir Alan 
leant over her with lover-llke tenderness, and 
mingled his rich deep notes with her sweet con¬ 
tralto. 
Lady Lucie, In her dainty dress of ecru satin, her 
ornaments of pearl and diamonds, looked very 
fair and sweet; and George Leeson, from his seat 
at her side, watched her with very tender eyes, 
and wished that the satin and lace were cotton 
and braid, and that the pearls and diamonds were 
not In existence. In his eyes she was no longer 
what he had called her to Harold Sinclair—“a 
pretty creature, but ratber Insipid but the one 
woman In the world—“a daughter of the gods 
most divinely fair," his Ideal of all that was sweet 
and true, and womanly. What had wrought this 
change, when to all other eyes Lady I.ucle had 
not Improved 7 She was thinner and paler, and 
the sweet rose-bloom bad fled. Simply that 
George Leeson loved her—loved her with all his 
heart; yet loving hor, would not apeak, would not 
tell her so, because she possessed those broad 
acres and that long rent-roll which hed tempted 
Stanley St. Roger In the past, and had made poor 
Lucie doubtful and mistrustful In the future. 
Aud she! did she guess the love she bad In¬ 
spired? 1 think she did. I think she must. No 
woman can wilfully remain In Ignorance even If 
the man who loves her keeps silence. Now, as 
she sat there In Cora’s pretty drawing-room, she 
felt the earnest gaze of his eyes fixed upon her, 
and she knew that the color would rise lu her 
chocks and would not be prevented, and mat her 
voice when she spoke would havo a little nervous 
tremor, so she kept silence and held her peace ; 
and George, thinking he had offended her, kept 
silence too ; so that they sat apparently calm and 
appreciative listeners t,o the music, but In reality 
restless and 111 at ease. 
" You are silent, Lady Lucie,” he said, at 
length. 
“ I was about to make the same remark," she 
replied. •* Is anything wrong with you, Mr. Lee¬ 
son?" she added quickly, as he sighed. 
“Wrong? No unless it he wrong to long for 
things out of one’s reach,” he said, with a bitter 
sadness. 
“ Have you tried to reach them,” she said, lu a 
low tone. "Most things are attainable If one 
tries long enough. Don’t you remember the 
Italian proverb, which says that * he who would 
be Pope must make up his mind strongly to be 
Pope, and he will attain the triple tiara at last.’ ” 
*• Would that wishing could do it!” said the ar¬ 
tist, a little less mournfully. 
“ Nay, there must be action as well,” she an¬ 
swered, gaily, but In a troubled, uncertain voice. 
Softly rose Cora’s rich tones, filling the room 
with melody; and the words she sang, set to a 
quaint old melody, were these: 
*■ I know that this was life—the track 
Whereon with equal font we fared; 
And then aauow the day prepared 
The daily burden for the back, 
" But thiB it war that made mu move 
A a light as carrier-bird* in air. 
1 loved the weight I had to bear 
Because it needed help of Love. 
*' Nor could I weary heart or limb, 
When mighty Love would cleave in twain 
The lading of a single pain, 
And part it, giving half to him." 
As the rich tones died away, Cora lifted her 
eyes to Sir Alan’s, and he bent over her with a 
tender gesture and loving words, whose Import 
might bo guessed If they themselves were un¬ 
heard. With a stifled exclamation, George Lee¬ 
son rose and walked away Into the conservatory, 
a spasm of pain passing over his face. Lady 
Lucie sat still for a lew moments, then Cora rose 
and came over to her, smiling. 
" Has my song driven Mr. Leeson away, Lu¬ 
cie?” she whispered. “Will you not call him 
back? Dear, I think you care for him ; he is too 
proud to tell you how deeply he loves you.” 
“ Do you want me to take the lultlatlve, Cora ?’> 
was the half-laughing, half-tearful answer, as 
Lucie hid her burning cheeks on Cora’s shoulder. 
“ No, dearest, of course not; I only want you 
to give him enough encouragement to prevent 
him giving way to despair.” 
And Cora flitted back to the piano, where Alan 
had replaced her, and stood watching him as he 
played. A few minutes elapsed, and Lady Lucie 
arose, and soon tho pretty, creamy satin drape¬ 
ries disappeared In the same direction as George 
Leeson had taken. Lady Vincent smiled to her¬ 
self, aud Alan, meeting her glance, looked up 
laughingly into her happy eyes. 
i hope he will win her, Cora,” he said, softly. 
“ He Is worthy of her.” 
“She ts won,” said his wife, triumphantly. 
“ She loves him already. If he will but speak, 
she ts his. Oh, that tiresome money, Alan! It 
Is always In the way, somehow. There is either 
too much of It or too little. Sing something, 
Alan.” 
“ What do you want me to sing, Cora?” he 
said, merrily. “ Something appropriate ? * Si 
tu savais,' for Instance 7" 
".Don’t be absurd!" she replied, petulantly, 
atoning for the petulance the next moment with 
a kiss. 
Sir Alan hesitated a moment, then he played 
a soft, dreamy prelude, and his deep, rich voice 
rose softly on the stillness, reaching the conser¬ 
vatory, where George Leeson and the heiress 
stood together. And tho words he sang were 
these: 
“ Ask mo no more. The moon may draw the sea ; 
Tho cloud may stoop from Heavon and take the 
shape, 
With fold to fold, of mountain or of cape. 
But, oh ! too fond, when have 1 answered thee ? 
Ask me no more. 
Ask me no more. Thy fate aud mine are sealed, 
X strove against the stream, and all in vain. 
Let tho groat river take mo to the main. 
No more, dear love, for at a touch I yield. 
Ask me no more.” 
» * « • ♦ 
George Leeson, standing with Lucy Belmont in 
the shaded conservatory, in a perrect grove of 
ferns and flowers, heard the words, and glanced 
down at Lucie’s face, as she played with some 
starry blossoms of stephonotia which she had 
gathered. A pretty rose-color had rtBen In her 
fall* cheek, and the white flowers trembled In her 
little flBgers. as Sir Alan's words reached her : 
” ‘ Let the great river take me to the main 
No more, dear love, for at a touch I yield.' " 
“ They are very happy," said George Leeson, 
at last, to break the silence, “ Do you not think 
so. Lady Lucie ?” 
‘•I am glad,” she answered, softly. " 1 rejoice 
that It Is so. They have passed through the thick 
of life's battle aud have not escaped quite un- 
soarred; now, as long as they have each other 
they will be happy.” 
" Having each other,” said Leeson, meaningly ; 
“ yes, they can be happy." 
*• Happiness Is uot always out of our reach, Mr. 
Leesou," she said, very hurriedly, the rose-color 
deepening Into crimson as she spoke; her eyes 
persistently dropping upon her hands* “ Some 
people do not care to reach It." 
"Do not care?” he repeated eagerly—" do not 
care ? Some people dare not; happiness la too 
high for them—too far above their heads.” 
“ Too high 7 If so, it is because they do not 
try to reach It,” sho said, softly. 
•' Do not try,” he rejoined, quickly, catching 
her hand In his, and looking eagerly Into her 
downcast, blushing face. " Lady Lucie, do you 
know what you are letting me believe ? Do you 
know that you are letting me think that the mad, 
presumptuous feelings I have dared to cherish 
towards you are not displeasing to you ? Ah j 
Luclji, forgive me! I love you so dearly. I have 
loved you for so long and so hopelessly, I 
can hold my peace no longer. Send me from you 
it you will—hate, despise me for my presumption 
—but the secret Is out now—I love you t" 
He had dropped her hand at the flrst move¬ 
ment she made to disengage It from his clasp; 
and now, as she did not answer, he turned away 
from her, covering his face with his hands. She 
stood by him silently for a moment—not doubting 
his love, the ring of passion In his voice was too 
genuine for that—but almost fearing he would 
T 429 
deem her unfeminine If she told him too readily 
that his love was returned. 
“ Perhaps I wish you to believe It, Mr. Leeson,’> 
she said, at last very softly. “ Perhaps that 
which you call mad presumption Is very precious 
to me. Perhaps”—as he turned and caught her 
hands, full of flowers as they were, In his, press¬ 
ing them, stephanotls and all, to his Ups,—" per¬ 
haps, I, too, have a secret I wish to let you share. 
Perhaps—no, not perhaps—I love you, even as 
you love me." 
With that Lady Lucie’s fair head sank on tho 
artist’s shoulder, and the kisses ho had been 
pressing on ber hands were transferredjto her 
face. I will not even say that she did not return 
one of them. 
So the " lady of high degree" was happy In tho 
honest, steadfast, love she had won. “ At a touebi 
she had yielded,” and she was his own for ever. 
* * ■* « • 
A few months after a paragraph appeared In 
the flrst sheet of the “ Times”—that portion of 
the newspaper so dear to feminine readers, which- 
caused no small excitement among tho " upper- 
ten.” 
" At St. George's, Hanover Square, George Al¬ 
fred Leeson, Esquire,, to Lady Lucie Matilda Bel¬ 
mont, only child of the late Earl and Countess of 
FernhJll.” 
Cora Vincent and her husband were among the 
guests at that wedding, which, Indeed, had been 
delayed a little to allow her to he present, for 
little Harold had a tiny successor In the nursery 
now, and the rooms he had filled with childish 
mirth and the patter of little feet are no longer 
sllont, although he ts not forgotten. 
“ .So you have got your wish, wifle mine," said 
Sir Alan, when they had returned from the wed¬ 
ding, and Cora gilded to his side In her soft robes 
of shimmering moonlight blue—she had put off 
her mourning for the occasion. “A re you satis¬ 
fied with your manoeuvres, little match-maker ?’ 
“ Quite," she answered earnestly, leaning her 
fair cheek, a little pale still, on his breast as he 
drew her within his arras. “ I.ucle Is very happy 
She has the best husband In the world but one, 
(an adoring upward glance here Into Alan’s face), 
“and their ruture may be briefly summed up like 
ours, dear Alan, In the words with which we used 
to flulsb our fairy tales, “They lived happy ever 
after.” 
♦ * * « « 
And the same newspaper which chronicled 
George Leeson’s marriage, told all who cared to 
know It that the Eax’l of St. Maur had succeeded 
In obtaining freedom from the ties which bound 
him to the worthless, beautiful woman who had 
been his wife, and Lady Helen Sf. Muar was free 
to wed with the man for whom she had given up 
all. 
Can It be said of them, I wonder, that they 
“lived happy ever after?” I think not—I fear 
not. They that sow the wind must reap the 
whirlwind, and such seeds that they had sown 
could bring forth no Bweet or pleasant fruit. As 
soon as It was practical after the divorce, they 
were married, and as viscountess Almane, Lady 
Helen found many a foretgh salon open to her, 
many a titled and distinguished foreigner, igno¬ 
rant of her story, and ready to receive, with open 
arms, the beautiful and charming " vicomtesse,” 
with her rarieeante toilet, her high-bred manner, 
her queenly grace. It was but a few, and they 
were very close observers, who detected the false 
ring of her laugh, the real bitterness underlying 
her light and careless manner, and none know 
why, when she bent over a child, her lips trembled 
and her eyes softened. 
“Perhaps mtladl has lost a ohlld?” said a 
great French lady, gently, one day. 
“I have lost four,” said Lady Helen, passion¬ 
ately, thinking of the four little children who 
had once been her pride and delight, whose very 
memories gave her a shooting pang now; of her 
son who would be heir to a fine title and noble es¬ 
tate, and wno would never know bis mother, 
and If he knew of her could hut despise her 
sin and her shame. 
But when such thoughts as these came to the 
unhappy woman, breaking In unwelcomed on the 
few quiet moments her gay life allowed her to 
take, did they humble her and make her peni¬ 
tent? did they make her strive to do her duty to 
her husband and to the little child which came to 
her after a time ? No : whenever the unpleasant 
Intruders came, she dismissed them promptly, 
redoubled her smiles, flirted, danced and laughed, 
and was the queen of every.dec, the belle of every 
ball. 
And he, the man for whom she had renounced 
her husband, her children, her position, and for 
whom she had sinned so deeply—w hat. of him ? 
Would he pass his lire in foreign cities, a passive 
spectator of his beautiful wife's triumphs, 
haunted continually by the recollection of a pale, 
pleading face, lighted by lustrous eyes, which 
was still so dangerously dear to him, whose 
misery he had once attempted ? 
Lord Almane became a sadder and wiser man! 
He still thought of Cora Vincent often, and heard 
of her sometimes, when a chance meeting with 
an old home acquaintance allowed htm to hear of 
Sir Alan's artistic triumphs and of his domestic 
happiness. His feeling theu was not envy but re¬ 
gret—regret that he, who had once such happi¬ 
ness within his reach, should have passed It by— 
that he who had once possessed Cora Sinclair’s 
love should have sold It for the chance of wealth. 
But a gentler influence has taken possession of 
the viscount now, and his life may bo purified 
aud ennobled yet by his love for his little child. 
She is a pale, delicate, puny little girl, but for 
her sake he may find courage to load a better life 
and to retrieve the past as far as It may be re¬ 
trieved, the baby-fi tigers may lead him to a high¬ 
er path, and r.he clear trust and Innocence shin¬ 
ing In her sweet eyes make him wish that tho 
page of his existence was not so sullied and 
blotted. Let us hope It may be so. 
Of one more personage In our story we must 
make passing mention—I moan Mr. Marks. 
George Leeson was rlgUt In predicting that that 
