telt 111 at ease. When he laid the volume on the 
table, Mr. Uaye took It up. 
‘‘This must have cost something’,” he said, 
“ Tor it p 5 very handsome. It would be belter to 
save money than to spend It—we none of us know 
when evil day may come.” 
“ I <5o not fear evil days,” remarked Felix, with 
Cue sanguine hope of a young man. 
“ The wisest amongst us may expect them," 
said Mr. Huye brlelly. 
Then the conversation languished, and Felix 
grew so uncomfortable that ho decided upon re¬ 
turning home. He had no misgiving—bethought 
he had called In at an Inauspicious moment—he 
had, perhaps. Interrupted a domestic conference. 
Ue cared only to see Violet. If she would go to 
the gate with him, so that he would havo time 
for a tew wordB, all would be well. 
But when he had said good-night to the two 
•seniors, and asked Violet If she would walk to the 
gate with him, Mrs. Uaye Interposed. 
“It Is too cold,” she said. “Violet has been 
complaining of headache all day; she must not 
go out." 
And the tone was so decided, so stern, that 
Felix could not oppose Mrs. liayo. He held 
violet’s hand one minute In ills; he tried to look 
into the depths of her boautirul eyes, but they 
drooped from his, and he could not see them. Ue 
left her with a few whispered words, feeling more 
unhappy than be bad ever felt before. 
He sold to himself over and over again that no 
one was so fortunate. 11 ad he not a partershlp ? 
Had nut a certainty of catling the loveliest girl 
in ino county his wire ? What had he to tear? 
Wt what was the strange dull pula that made 
fats brave youug heart tall him? Why had ho a 
keen and penetrating, a vague, ludetluli.e reeling 
of an evil day to come? Lie tried to repress It; 
ho could understand women being nervous, Out 
not men. 
For the first time he noticed that night a look 
of anxiety on his father’s face, and ha asked what 
brought It there. 
“Shadows—nothing but shadows; fancies— 
troublesome fancies,” was the reply; vet it was 
strange the son tu rued away v> ith a feeling almost 
of despair. 
Nor was the mystery b asoned when on the day 
following Mrs. Lonsdale, golugon her dally round 
of snopping, mot me Vicar’s wife, Mrs. Hunter, 
who stopped to speak to her. 
“This la a very sad affair, Mrs Lonsdale," she 
said; and Kate, looking at her, asked quietly 
what affair she meant. 
She looked so entirely unconscious that the 
vtoar’s wife was surprised, 
“ Have you heard no bad news of—of—any¬ 
one?” she asked; and Kate answered “No.' 
Then Mrs. Hunter related some trilling little 
storv ; and even as she related It, Kate told her¬ 
self that she was Inventing It. With her houcst, 
straight-forward eyes she looked at the Vicar’s 
lady. 
“ You are not telling me what was In your mind 
when you first spoke to me,” she said. “ What 
were you thinking of Mrs. Hunter ?’’ 
Rut Mrs. Hunter, after laughingly parrying 
the remark, nastily said good-morning In very 
embarrassed fashion, and walked away. 
Mrs. Hunter's romark could mean nothing; yet 
the heart of the loving, anxious wife grew heavy 
wltUln her. Sad news? What bad news could 
there be affecting her or hers? And, if there was 
Bad news about anyone else, wby could site not 
have said what It was ? 
She was the third who went home that day 
with a terrible sense of foreboding. Her pretty 
house seemed almost to oppress her. She wished 
that she had not burdened herself with a nursery- 
governess; as for ttio now silk dress, It no longer 
gave her the least please re. What was tills cloud 
banging over her husband and her children? 
Was it only nervous fancy, or was there evil 
looming In the distance V 
sue was soon to kuow; and when she did know 
It proved to be even greater than she feared. 
CHAPTER VII. 
“ I am very sorry—1 think It unjust; but It Is 
quite impossible to say how it will end,” said 
George Malcolm the lawyer. 
Fur the secret wus known now—the shadow 
had become a substance, the vague fancies had 
all assumed a form, the airy nothings had be¬ 
come realities so stern and so cruel that they had 
driven llarey Lonsdale almost to despair. Mrs. 
Hardman's lielr-aHaw, James llardnm, had 
oven given legal notice that he Intended to con¬ 
test his relative’s will ou the ground of undue 
mnueuoe. lie maintained—and nothing could 
shako ills opinion — that Darcy Lonsdale had 
taken undue advantage of his position, that, he 
had influenced a weak-minded woman, and had 
persuaded her to leave him the half of her 
money. It was a clever ruse, advising her to 
send for another lawyer; but It would not help 
him. 
Mr. Lonsdale found that the rumors about him 
bad been growing dally, that hla trlends and 
neighbors were talking of him, while he had not 
the faintest Idea oi the mischief that was abroad. 
James Hardman had been in Lilford—that he 
knew, and the fact had not Interested him in 
any way ; but he did not know that James Uard- 
mau had boon silently destroying his reputation, 
had called upon his old mends, insinuated that 
there hail been conspiracy against him, and that 
he lutunded to dispute ttie will. Every one In 
Lilford know this beroro the least rumor or It 
reached Darcy Lonsdale, lie wont at once to 
Mr. Malcolm, but the honest lawyer had no cheer¬ 
ing news lor him. 
“ 1 am a lawyer myseir, ’ he said, “ but I can 
never toll how a lawsuit may end ; It may take 
the right turn, and again It may take a wrong 
one." 
“ But,” returned Darcy Lonsdale, “ Mrs. Hard¬ 
man meant me to hav j the money, did she not ? 
ytiat one broad fact no one can dispute,” 
THE RURAL NEW-YORKER. 
“ I believe honestly that she Intended you to 
have it. l know she did. She talked to me for 
some time about the good It would do to you and 
your children." 
“ Then what can there bo found to dispute ? 
She Intended to give me the money, and she did 
give It—what Is it to any one?” cried Darcy Lons¬ 
dale. 
“ The law deals heavily with cases like this. 
James Hardman will plead that he Is heir-at-law, 
that he Is the rightful heir at the late Elizabeth 
Hardman, that he had been brought up In expec¬ 
tation of receiving the money, and that you took 
an undue advantage of your position as her legal 
adviser and friend to induce her to leave It to 
you." 
“ But," declared Mr. Lonsdale, “ I did no such 
thing. I swear to you 1 never asked, lnilueneed, 
or said one word to her about It. How dc.re any 
man say such a thing of me ?” 
“ James Hardman has been brought up to be¬ 
lieve that ho would inherit twelve thousand 
pounds, and, finding six of it given elsewhere, 
he la very angry about It, and says some bitter 
things." 
“ But how is it possible that any one who 
knows me could believe that l havo acted unfair¬ 
ly ? How can ray old friends and neighbors be¬ 
lieve It ? 1 have lived amongst thorn all my life— 
they ought t-o know me better. I should not be¬ 
lieve such a scandal of auy of them”—and tears 
of wounded pride and wounded affection stood In 
his eyes. “ What are a man’s friend’s worth, 
Malcolm, if they believe evil of him so easily ?" 
“ Perhaps they do not all believe It,” said 
George Malcolm. 
“Then why do they not say so? Why not 
say, ‘We have known you for years and we 
believe In you ?’ Why not say that instead of 
looking coldly an me. As 1 pass by they converse 
about mo In whispers and are startled when 1 
meet them." 
" James Hardman has talked a great deal 
amongst them,” said Mr. Malcolm slowly. " He 
has said some hard things of you," 
“ But my old friends,” rejoined Darcy Lonsdale, 
“ the people i have, lived amongst so long, how 
can they believe such sunder?” 
“ 1 am not much of a oyule, but this I must 
say, that I believe our misfortunes are not al¬ 
ways displeasing even to those we call our 
friends.” 
“ But these people have known me so long.” 
Mr. Lonsdale could thtnk of nothing so strong 
as that—no argument was so potent. Ue had 
lived amongst them all his life. Why did they 
not. trust him If he trusted them ? 
“ If any oneamongst them had come to me and 
had told mo such a thing of another, 1 would 
not have oredlted It—an l they are ouly too ready. 
It seems, to believe It of me. Malcolm, how lu 
Heaven s name am 1 to go home and tell this to 
my wire 7 Am 1 to Loll her that a blameless life, 
spent tn tho midst of people who havo known me 
since l was a child, la no shield against slander 
“ I am very sorry for you," said George Mal¬ 
colm ; “ I can say no more. I do not believe It, 
and I shall stand by you through all.'' 
The two man shook hands, but Darcy Lons¬ 
dale's face wore a puzzled, wondering look. 
“ Can it be a Jest, do you think, Malcolm—a Jest 
to try me ?” 
“ No, It Is no Jest. Hardman will get the money 
If he can." 
“I would not take it unless I thought It were 
really mine—I would refuse to touch it; but I 
cannot do that, for I am sure my old friend left It 
to mo for the children. I imi3t be Just to them. 
Great Heaven, I nave kept a blameless name all 
my life only to meet with this fate—to see my old 
friends polecat mo as a man who would cheat hla 
client! 1 wish I had been dead before I had 
known ibis. Tell me what Hardman la going to 
do." 
" He has placed the whole matter in the hands 
of a London firm, and the trial will come on about 
tbe end of September, You must prepare your 
defence and look up your witnesses.” 
“ If my whole life does not witness for me,” 
said Darcy Lonsdale, with quiet dignity, “then 
the words or no men can bouerlt me." 
He dreaded going home—tor tho first time In 
his life ho disliked passing through the streets of 
his native town, for the first time he shrank from 
tho glances and words of his old comrades. 
“ Heaven help Kate I” he said to lilmsolf. “ How 
am i to tell her 7" 
But Kate know already—such nows travels fast. 
It was no weeping, hysterical wife who clung to 
hint, hair mud with womanish fear; a bright, 
tender face looked Into his, sweet, warm white 
hands clasped hla, loving lips kissed him, a brave 
bright voice cheered atm with the music or hotne- 
worda. 
“I have hoard all about it, Darcy,” said his 
wife. “Never mind—no one can injure you. 
You are tunoooni, honest, and honorable. Never 
mind what any one says, Heaven knows the truth, 
and 1 love you all tho more that you bear lhls 
blame so well." 
Darcy Lonsdale was relieved to find his wire so 
cheerful, and they sat down to discuss their 
difiluulty. 
“Give the money back again, Darcy,” said his 
wife, “lr l were In your place, I would not 
touch one shining or it." 
“ If 1 did that, It would look as though I feared 
Inquiry, as though 1 knew that I had gained It 
by wrong means, and remorse compelled mo to 
to return It. it Rooms to ine now that I am 
compelled, lu Justification of my own honor, 
to keep it—Mrs. Hurd man certainly meant me to 
havo It. Then there are the children—I cannot 
rob 1 hem; l must not take Iroin them what Is 
really theirs." 
“ But ." said Ills wife, “ if there should be a Dial, 
and It, should go agalust you?" 
“Then l must bear it like a man, Kate. I 
have had many blessings—If It pleases Heaven 
to send me a reverse, I must not complain.” 
But, for all that, she knew that his heart was 
sore and heavy, and that he was disturbed by;a 
hundred doubts and fears. She soothed him, com¬ 
forted him, and did her best to encourage him; 
but she could not persuade him to forget his trou¬ 
ble for a moment—It was always in his thoughts. 
Presently Felix camo In, and one glance at his 
son's face told Darcy Louvdalo that ho had heard 
the whole story. The handsome young face was 
full of emotion. He went straight up to his 
father, and laid his hand lovingly upon his 
shoulder. 
“ Let me help you, father," he Bald. “ No man 
shall say one word against you while I live." 
And the two men—father and son—shook 
hands. There was more expressed In that, silent 
grasn than there could have been In a volume of 
words. 
“ You have heard the story, 1 suppose, Felix ?" 
Bald Mra. Lonsdale. 
“Yes, I have hoard it, and a more cruelly un¬ 
just story never was told. Let me help to fight 
your battle, father, [should like to take every 
man who believes the story, or who affects to be¬ 
lieve It, and thrash him.” 
“My dear Felix I" exclaimed geutlo Mrs. Lons¬ 
dale. 
“ So I should, inadre and the young hand¬ 
some face deepened with angry scorn for every 
one who should harbor an evil thought, of one so 
beloved. The love between father and Bon was 
almost pathetic In Its Intensity. 
Presently Mrs. LoDsflale said musingly— 
“ What will Violet say when slit 1 hears It?" 
“Say?”cried Felix, “She will be indignant 
Sho will agree with me that any man who 
listens to It ought to be shot. Why do you look 
so strangely at me, t nadir f” 
“I was wondering." she said, “whether this 
would make any difference to her or to her par¬ 
ents—T moan In respect of yourself.” 
“Difference? No—yet 1 am wrong. Yes, It 
will make this one difference. She will 
love me the better, and cling to me the more. 
I have no doubt about Violet—my sweet Violet' 
It is the one thing needed to quicken her love 
for rne with a new strange life.” 
He wondered why Mrs. Lonsdale sighed. Why 
need any one sigh? Violet's love, Violet’s faith, 
were his rock of retage. To doubt her would bo 
death. 
“ I have no fear," he said, throwing back his 
head proudly. “ Violet will love me now asBhe 
has never loved me before. My only trouble la 
about my dear father, and what I can do to help 
him.” 
They talked until long after midnight; they 
looked tbe evil In the face, lr they went to law, 
and the law was against them, what then? 
They would be dreadfully embarrassed for 
ready money. Tbe nursery-governess roust go, 
but they could remain at Vale House, and the 
partnership should, not bo dissolved.—[To be 
continued. 
HOW LONG! 
Ip on my grave the summer grass were growing, 
Ur heedless winter winds across it blowing, 
Through joyous J utio or desolate Docembor, 
How long, Sweetheart, how long would you remember, 
How long, dear love, how long? 
For brightest eyes would open to the summer. 
And sweetest smiles would greet, tlmsweet new-ocmer. 
Ami on young lips grow kisses for the taking, 
When nil the summer buds to bloom are breaking,— 
How long, dear love, how long f 
To tho Jim laud whero sad-eyed ghosts walk only. 
Where bps are cold, and waiting hearts are lonely, 
I would not call you Iron) your youth's warm blisses ; 
Fill up your glass and crown it with now kisses,— 
How long, dear love, how long? 
Too gay, in June, yon may be to regret me, 
And living Ups niay woo you to forget, me. 
But. ah! Hwccthoart, 1 think you will remember. 
Wlion winds arc weary in your life’s December,— 
So long, dear love, so long 1 [ L. O. M. 
--■ 
“ROUNDING- ON AN OLD OHUM.” 
One line evening at tbe end of June a girl and 
two young men were standing under the porch 
of a quaint old Ivy-covered house—called Ashton 
Cottage—that Blood on the bank of the Hudson 
not rar from Feelcaklll. 
The trio wore laughing and cha tting as gaily as 
children Just let out of school. Judging by an 
occasional shout for “ Will," they were evidently 
waltinglor somo one else. 
Tardy Will—a broad-shouldered young fellow 
of about elght-aml-twenty, rather above the mid¬ 
dle lilgbt, and not by any moans good-looking— 
soon made bis appearance. His hair and board 
were almost, red ; his features largo but regular ; 
his hands and feet well shaped, though not small ; 
ho bad a hearty mellow voice, and one of the 
Hottest and moat genial smiles t hat could be seen. 
He camo along struggling Into Ms well-worn 
coat—explaining to Ms companions that he had 
just, stayed to give a helping hand to Mr. Sinclair, 
who had corno upon a tough bit or ground In the 
kitchen-garden, which had been too much lor tho 
old genUoman’H strength. 
The four then took their way to the river, on 
boating purpose intent, as evidenced by tho nau¬ 
tical costumes of the males. 
“ I say, Devalne," said tho youngest or the 
three rnon, a bright-looking young fellow of 
about seventeen, “ 1 wonder when 1 shall be able 
to sport a silk bat ? 1 kuow, though, what I shall 
buy out of my first quarter’s money,” 
“ When do they begin giving you a salary, 
Frank ?” asked Will. 
" After Christmas." 
“ Well, Frank,"said the girl—a tall, finely-built 
brunette, whose large, thlckly-rnnged, dark-gray 
eyes, slightly retrousse nose, magnificent teeth, 
and deep dimple on either side the large, but 
handsome mouth, made up as nuo a specimen of 
girlhood as one would wish to see—“ do tell ns 
bow you intend to astonish—•" 
“ The natives ? Ah, you needn’t pull up short, 
Miss Conny I Girls are such humbugs. You 
know you can talk slang as well as any fellow 
when you like,” was the saucy and voluble re¬ 
ply of her brother Frank. 
“Do you plead guilty to tlio soft Impeachment, 
Miss Sinclair ?" smilingly asked tho handsome 
Devalne, with a certain tendresse In Ms voice 
which brought a tell-tale blush into Conny’s oval 
cheeks. 
“ You haven’t told us yet, Frank, what you are 
going to buy,” said Will, after a quick, pained 
glance at the girl’s face. 
“ Why, I mean to get a pair of patent-leather 
boots, a blue satin tie, a pair or yellow kid gloves, 
and a silk umbrella.” 
A peal of laughter greeted this confession, and 
great was the chaffing Frank bad to stand, espe¬ 
cially from tho handsome Devalue, who In ills 
white flannel boatlng-sult looked, ns Frank truly 
said, “ no end of a swell.” Ills finely-set head, 
with Its short dark curls, was bent with that gen¬ 
tle deference so flattering to a woman, towards 
the girl whom be contrived to monopolise—by 
which arrangement Will and Frank were com¬ 
pelled to follow ; and although many a gay re¬ 
partee was laughingly exchanged over the shoul¬ 
ders to the two behind, still there were opportu¬ 
nities for a remark now andtUen, commonplace 
enough lu itself, but which in Dcvalne’s tone and 
manner gave it subtlo meaning. 
Arrived at fo end of the avenue, they turned 
to the left, along the bank, until they came to 
where tbe high wall of Van Twilier House threw 
a welcome shade on tho river path, a little 
way beyond the angle, of the wall was a seat, and 
fronting It were wooden steps leading down to 
the river. At the foot of these a boat was moored, 
and In this they were soon all seated; Frank 
steering, William Mostyn, and Harvey Devalne 
rowing. As the boat shot, out Into the stream, 
upon the bosom of wjtleb tho Knnllght rained n 
golden shower, Conny trailing her firm white fin- 
gers through the cool water, felt, although sho 
seldom met. the gaze of the dark, dose-set eyes 
opposite. Tbe. bright summer evening, the charm 
of tho surrounding scenery, the beauty of the 
man himself, the very lull of the plashing oars— 
all served to feed the feeling that hud stolen Into 
Conny’s heart since her acquaintance with this 
fortnight-old friend, whom William Mostyn had, 
to his own bitter after-regret, Introduced. 
William Mostyn was the son or a near neigh¬ 
bor of the Blnelttlrs. Ue aud Ms brother had 
come to the neighborhood only two years before, 
shortly after the death of Mrs. Mostyn, which 
hod had such an effect upon her husband as to 
compel him to give up the care of Ms business 
entirely to Ms sou, aud to leave New York for the 
quiet of the country. The titndatrs being tbelr 
closest neighbors, an Int imacy had sprung up be¬ 
tween the families. 
William Mostyn, although a day never passed 
without seeing Mm at Asluon Cottage, had never 
known what Ms feelings were towards the beau¬ 
tiful girl who always treated him with the 
same frank familiarity as she would have done 
au elder brother, until, lu an evil moment, he 
took the young Journalist, Harvey Devalne—who 
had run up by Invitation one Saturday afternoon 
for a pull on tho river—with Mm to his friends 
the Sinclairs. 
Before Harvey Devalne lift that nJgbt poor 
Will knew that love liadlaLn slumbering, In lt-s 
own security, In Ills heart—goodness knows how 
long—only to bo awakened by the sight of Its 
birth in blH friend and conny. 
When the boat neared t be landing-steps again, 
tbe summer moon, radiant In the starry heavens, 
was flooding everything with Its silver light. 
Devalne was the first to spring on shore and 
help Conny out, Will and Frank staying to secure 
the boat. 
No word was spoken by the two who went on 
before, and the silence became embarrassing to 
Conuy; still not for worlds could she disturb 
tho “ charmed hush” by any commonplace ob¬ 
servation, As though divining her thought, her 
companion’s voice harmoniously broke the still¬ 
ness— 
" ‘How sweet the nioonlialit Bleeps upon the oank !’ ” 
She smiled back Boftly— 
“‘Look how the tloor of heaven 
Is thick lnlulcl with patines of hriKht Hold.’ ” 
In low melodious Btralns he stM continued 
quoting— 
“ 1 In such a uiuMits Dlls, 
When tho sweet wind did neiHly kiss Die trees 
And they did make no uolso-!' ” 
“ I’m jolly hungry, 1 can tell you 1 What have 
we for supper, Conny ?" shouted unsentimental 
Frank. “ I shall take tho short cut through 
hereand, culling the action to the word, he 
plunged Into tho long Trugrant grass and made 
straight, ror the house, followed by the rest. 
Arrived at thedoor, Will hold out Ills hand. 
“ Good night, Conny." 
“ Won’t you come in and have some supper, 
Will—you and Mr. Devalne ?’’ 
“ No, thank you, Conny,” was the lialt-sad re¬ 
ply : “ my father Is al 1 Mono, so I’ll not stay. I’ll 
Just go lu and say good night to your father and 
mother.” Saying which, he generously left the 
two together, although the actor magnanimity 
cost him a hard struggle. 
It was Devalne’s turn to hold the shapely hand 
which thrilled to his touch. 
“ Good night, Conny." How sweet her name 
sounded to herself pronounced, for the first time 
by his lips. 
“ Good night, Mr. Devalne.” 
They stood lu the shadow of the porch, and as 
hand clasped hand Harvey Devalne’smoustached 
mouth touched Conny’s dimpled check. 
“ Good night, Mr. Klnclalr. Good night, Mrs. 
Sinclair.” Will's rather loud leave-taking star¬ 
tled them apart I then with a decorous hand¬ 
shake they all separated. 
• * « « M 
“ Mother, I’m going across to hear the whip. 
