782 
©EC. 7 
THE RURAL NEW-YORKER. 
No man could be so false as to Invite another 
to his house If He Intended doing him any harm. 
I am quite easy about It, Violet." 
And he meant what he said; be Judged others 
by himself, and In his nobleness of hearf had no 
notion what meanness was. 
There was a great, surprise In store for violet. 
She had talked to her mother about her dress, 
and Mrs. Haye had said that she must have 
something very nice; but something " very nice” 
would be costly, and Francis flaye was hard to 
manage on such points. 
Mother and daughter were discussing what, was 
to be done under the circumstances, when a large 
box from London was brought by the carrier's 
cart to their doorIt was for Miss Haye—there 
was no mistake as to the address—and with some 
curiosity they hastened to open it. 
“It tsdirected in a lady's hand," said Violet. 
« What can it be, mamma ?” 
* “ We shall see. my dear," replied Mrs Haye. 
When it. was opened both ladles were speech¬ 
less with surprise. It contained three complete 
costumes—one for a garden-party, a most charm¬ 
ing combination of blue and white, with a taste¬ 
ful Parisian bonnet., gloves, shoes and everything 
t,o match—a dress that Mrs. Haye declared made 
her heart beat to think of the money It must have 
ost; then an evening dress of white silk, with a 
train of blue velvet and blue velvet trimmings; 
lastly, a full and most exquisite costume for the 
ball, of white silk trimmed with sliver fringe and 
sliver leaves. 
Mrs. U lye was amazed when she saw It. With 
It were white satin shoes, a fan, white feathers 
mounted In sliver, a sliver bouquet-holder, gloves, 
and a marvelous handkerchief of daluty lace. 
Violet looked at the treasures In wonder. 
" Who can have sent these, mamma ?” she 
asked. “ 1 do not. like to take them. Have you 
ever seen anything so beautiful ?” 
“If I believed In fairies,” said Mrs. Ilaye, "I 
should think that a fairy had sent them.” 
In her own mind she felt quite sure that the 
donor was Sir Owen, but she would not say so. 
violet had no suspicion—not even the faintest. 
She never thought of sir Owen. 
«it must be a lady who has sent them,” said 
violet. “ No man would have understood what 
was wanted. Mamma, should you think that It 
was Lady Kolfe ?" 
“I am really puzzled," replied Mrs. Haye. " We 
will call your father." 
Francis Haye came to the rescue, violet wea¬ 
ried herself In trying to guess, hut she could not 
divine who was her benefactor. When she had 
carried the ball-dress away, the husband and 
wife looked at each other. 
“It is Just as 1 said, Francis; but, mind, not 
one word! One careless word may spoil it. alL” 
And neither of them breathed a sound to violet 
of what they suspected.—To be continued. 
— - 
MALTA DE VERE. 
H. A. H. 
Thb day had been cold and stormy. A driz¬ 
zling rain, with now and then a flurry of snow, 
bad set in at early dawn, and still continued, 
with no prospect of abatement. 
Doctor Morand had returned from his evening 
calls, and, In dressing-gown and slippers, sat be¬ 
fore his cheerful lire, studying the glowing em¬ 
bers, as though he could see In their fiery depths 
his own futurity. 
Elton Morand was a bachelor, and the last sur¬ 
viving member of a proud family, and sole heir 
to Immense possessions. Proud and ambitious, 
he was not content to live a useless and Idle life. 
“ No," he said, “ I will win for myself a name 
befitting that of Morand." 
And now, to-night, as he sits In his luxurious 
home, and reviews the thirty-rive years or his 
life, a smile of pleasure flits across his face, with 
a consciousness that In all those years he has 
to the best of his ability, done what he thought 
to be right. 
Rising, he walked to one of the windows, drew 
aside the rich lace and satin drapery, and peered 
out. Into the darkness. 
The storm had increased in violence, great 
whirls Of snow and wind dashing against the 
house in all Its mad fury, then onward, moaning 
and creaking through the tall pines, compelling 
them to bow In submission before the blast. 
“ What an awful night 5" said he. “ I hope no 
poor mortal will have need of my assistance be¬ 
fore morning." And with a cold shiver, he turned 
ftnrt resumed his place by the Arc. 
But such was not to be the case,for scarcely had 
he seated himself when his servant entered and 
handed his master a small slip of paper contain¬ 
ing these words: 
" Doctor:—Please come as soon as possible; 
mamma Is much worse. Malta De Vere.” 
“ Two horses and the close carriage,” he said, 
hurriedly to the servant, who still remained 
awaiting ordersand do have them here quick¬ 
ly.” 
“Poor woman!” thought Dr. Morand, as he 
prepared to go forth on his mission of mercy, “ it 
is very doubtful If she lasts till morning; and 
Malta ! dear little Malta! what, will become of 
her ?" And as he entered the carriage, buttoning 
up hla fur coat, an Idea presented Itself to him. 
“ Yes; I have more than enough, while this poor 
child has literally nothing. I will adopt and ed¬ 
ucate her as! would a sister; sheltering her with 
a brother’s watchfulness from the cold blasts of 
this troublesome world.” 
»•*».**» 
Mrs. de Vere was the only child of Colonel and 
Mrs. Wallingford, and they, proud of their beau¬ 
tiful daughter, lavished upon her everything 
wealth could offer. But alas! In an unguarded 
moment she had given her heart to a man far be¬ 
neath her In social position, and one against whom 
her rather entertained the greatest dislike, know¬ 
ing him to be utterly devoid or principle, 
In vain he reasoned, entreated, and finally 
commanded his daughter to cease receiving at¬ 
tentions from August De Vere. It was of no 
avail; she turned upon all a deafened ear, even 
when told that, the moment she became his wife 
her claim upon them as a daughter would forever 
cease; this, like all other warnings, she passed 
by unheeded, and married the man of her choice. 
For a few years all went smoothly, until he, 
seeing no prospector a re-nnton with tUe family 
of his wife, gradually became more tyranlcal, 
until the poor woman was obliged to seek refuge 
elsewhere; while the man who had vowed to 
love, honor, and cherish her, was rapidly sinking 
deeper and deeper Into the pit of vice and degra¬ 
dation, ending ultimately In his death. And long 
years after, as she looked back upon ber shat¬ 
tered life. It was with that pangof remorse which 
only those who have suffered can feel. Her 
atonement now was In tho desire so to rear her 
child In the path of honor and obedience that 
she, unlike her mother, might never know the an¬ 
guish of heart caused by filial disobedience. 
It was before a small cottage, white as the 
snowdrifts around it, that Mr. Morand’s carriage 
stopped. 
The door was opened by a young girl of not 
more than fifteen; tall and slight with long gol¬ 
den curls, eyes of a violet hue, and a complexion 
of tho opal tint. 
Yes, Malta de Vere was beautiful, and so 
thought Dr. Morand, as he took the small white 
hand In his, tenderly asking after his patient. 
“ Oh! doctor, ’ was the shivering reply, “ mam¬ 
ma Is so very III 1 fear she will never be any bet¬ 
ter. After you left, she continued to grow rapidly 
worse.” 
Entering the cosy little sitting-room Into which 
the dying woman had been moved, Dr. Morand 
saw at a glance her stay upon earth was short. 
“ You have come," she said, faintly ; “lam so 
glad. Malta, dear, leave us; I wish to see the 
doctor alone.” 
Moving to a small stand upon which stood 
glasses and phials, he mixed a cordial, reviving 
In Its effects, and held It to the lips of Mrs. De 
Vere. 
“ I am stronger, now," she said, motioning him 
to & seat, “ and what I have to say must be said 
quickly. Doctor, I am dying. My moments are 
numbered; one link alone binds me to earth. My 
child. What, oh! what will become or her ? Who 
will care for Her when her mother has ceased to 
breathe ?” 
“ Mrs. De vere, with neaven's help 1 will care 
for your child ; and so long as I live and possess 
a dime she shall never want." 
“ Heaven bless you, my friend!” was the al¬ 
most Inarticulate response. “ I can now die hap¬ 
py.” 
In a few hours all was over. All that remained 
of Colonel Wallingford’s daughter had been con¬ 
signed to the dust, and as Dr. Morand led the 
weeping Malta back to the carriage. Lie gave or¬ 
ders to drive to Morand Hall, that being now the 
only place Malta De Vere could call her home, 
and tho only one she was destined ever to know. 
« * < 4 4 
Malta’s grief became lessened by time. Five 
years have passed since her bereavement, and 
the wound is gradually healing. 
Again Dr. Morand sits berore his cheerful fire, 
hut not alone; lxls beautiful and accomplished 
ward Is bis companion. She, busily Intent on 
her book, sees not the look of anectlon bestowed 
upon her, and not uotll her name has been spo¬ 
ken twice, does she look up. 
« This book is so Interesting,” she said, smiling, 
as she met the clear eyes of her guardian fixed 
upon her. 
“ I do not doubt It In the least, my dear," he re¬ 
plied, “ for I spoke twice before 1 could bring you 
back to this earthly sphere.” 
“ You did?” sheexclalmed; “ and I only heard 
you once. I must have been wrapped up In my 
story. But, gunrdy,” she continued, in her sweet, 
gentle way, “ It Is dull for you sitting there with¬ 
out anyone to apeak to. It was selfish of me to 
not think of this before.” 
Rising, she crossed the room to where Dr. Mo¬ 
rand was sitting, rolled a cushion to his feet, and 
sat down. 
If beautiful at fifteen, Malta De Were Is now 
superb; and particularly lovely she looks to¬ 
night, In her dress of black silk and velvet, and 
glittering jewels. 
The five years she has been under Dr. Morand’s 
guardianship have been improved, and the un¬ 
usually fine education she possessed at the lime 
other mother’s death,has received additional pol¬ 
ish. Now that all has been acquired, and her 
masters dismissed, she controls Dr. Morand’s 
household, and entertains the society In which 
he moveB, with the grace and air of one born to 
rule. 
To-ntgbt, as Malta site silently looking into the 
bright red embers, her mind Is evidently far aw ay, 
while she is silent, unusually so, for her. 
« Ouardy,” she said at last, hesitatingly, “ It Is 
five years since you took me In, a wanderer, and 
cared for me. My education, everything that I 
am, 1 owe to you ; and, dear guardy, 1 think now 
I ought to try and do for myself. 1 know I have 
been a great expense to you, and It Is my duty to 
repay as much of It as I can.’ 1 
She glanced up Into the face of Dr. Morand, 
while he, unable longer to restrain his mirth, 
leaned back In his large easy chair, and laughed 
heartily—more heartily than Malta had ever be¬ 
fore seen him do. 
•• Oh ! guardy 1” she said, her face flushing 
crimson, while her eyes tilled with tears, “ what 
did 1 say so terrible ? If you would only look at 
It as I do.” 
» My child,” said he, drawing the agitated girl 
to his breast, “ do you really care so little for 
me that you wish to leave me ?” 
“ Oh I no, guardy, It’s not that; but. I feel so 
dependent; and to-day 1 saw In the Times that a 
teacher isjust now wantedlu Legrand Seminary, 
and I am sure that I could meet the require¬ 
ments, If, guardy, you would only let me try' 
Please, guardy, do say yes.” 
Dr. Morand smoothed gently the bright golden 
head, with his eyes turned away from the sweet, 
childish face looking up so pleadingly Into his. 
He looked steadily Into the firelight, the one 
absorbing thought of his mind being how best he 
could weaken Malta De Vere's resolution. 
That she was sincere In her request he well 
knew, yet not for one moment could he think of 
his Idol, his Molta he had reared so carefully, go- , 
lng forth into tho world to earn her livelihood. | 
Could he, possessor of thousands, and without 
a relative In the world, remain submissive to so 
preposterous a piece of folly ? Never! 
“Malta," said be, tenderly, turning to tho 
bright, expectant face, “ tell me, my child, It 
your sole Idea In wishing to leave me ts because 
you feel yourself to be a burden ? l cannot part 
with you, my darling. You are the light of my 
home—of my life! Tell me, my child, do you 
love me enough to share with me through life 
my joys and sorrows? Is there In your heart no 
response to the groat love I bear you ? Will you, 
Malta, accept that love, and he my wife V" 
“Oh, guardy!" she faltered, with quivering Ups, 
“ I am not. worthy your gTeat love ! You for¬ 
get the difference In our positions. Choose from 
your acquaintance some one of wealth and rank, 
and let me go, as I have asked. I will not deny 
that 1 love you better than anyone else on earth; 
but, oh ! guardy, think what your friends would 
say! Please let me go away; do not ask me to 
do what my better judgment tells me would not 
be for the heat.” 
“ But I shall, Malta, urge you now, more than 
ever," he said, drawing the golden head still 
eloser to his breast. “ Oh! Malta, do not wreck 
both of our lives for the sake of pleasing society ! 
What do I care for the remarks of the envious ? 
Now, little one, which shall ltbe—‘yes,’ or ‘no ?’ " 
“ It shall be • yes,’ ” was the low reply; " and I 
will strive to bo all you would desire.” 
“ Heaven bless you, my darling ! for you bavo 
to-night made me the happiest of men!” 
Three months have passed since Malta De Vere 
pledged herself to be the wire or Dr. Morand, and 
now three days only remain before she will bo 
his—made his by vows pledged before Heaven 
and man. 
“ Malta," said be, that night, as they sat at din¬ 
ner, “ I have a surprise for you.” 
“ For me, guardy 1 What can it be ?”she asked, 
eagerly. 
'• Read this," he said, handing her a letter, 
“ and tell me what you think of it.” 
Without the slightest susplclou of Its contents 
she opened and read the following 
“ Dr. Morand— sir.—By the last will andtesta- 
mentof the late Colonel Wallingford, his daugh¬ 
ter’s child, and only surviving heir, inherits all 
bis vast estates, personal and real. Communicate 
with us at once. Bradley & Weller, Att’ys.” 
Malta’s face was a shade paler as she looked 
at. her guardian, while upon it, there was a bright 
and happy expression, as she said : 
“ For your sake, guardy, I am glad; for, after 
all, you will not marry a poor girl.’’ 
“ Malta," was the reply, “ my love for you now 
Is no greater than wnen I thought you penniless: 
and could I have had my oholc* I should have 
preferred that the fortune of Colonel Walllngrord 
had been given to public charities. However, 
little one, if it glveB you a greater feeling of con¬ 
tent, 1 will for your sake try and think of It with 
pleasure." 
The morning of Malta's bridal dawned clear 
and bright. The wedding was to be a grand 
affair; for Dr. Moraud would have It. so; and now 
that the hour has come, St. Mark’s la lllled with 
hundreds, eagerly Impatient tor the coming of 
the bridal parly. They come at last, passing 
slowly up tho broad Isle, to the altar, while the 
great org in peals forth one of Beethoven’s grand 
marches. 
Radiantly beautiful Is Malta De Vere as sho 
stands at the altar to take upon herself the mar¬ 
riage vows, as, with heart-felt trustfulness she 
clasps the hand of the man beside her, while the 
minister slowly repeats, “ What God hath Joined 
together let not man put asunder!” 
Together they kneel lu prayer, Invoking Heav¬ 
en’s bleBstng and guidance through lire, rising as 
the marriage belts merrily peal forth their con¬ 
gratulations. 
The vow of Dr. Morand, registered at the bed¬ 
side of death, and the second act In the drama of 
their lives have thus far been fulfilled. 
-♦ ♦ ♦- 
CLARA MORRIS AND HER HUSBAND. 
Her Statement to The Dramatic News. 
1 never loved Mr. Harriott, but 1 looked up to 
him as a man in whom I might have confidence 
and respect, l dl l not marry him for money, for 
I thought ho had merely a good business—not 
that he was wealthy. I desired to settle down, 
to beoomo somebody in a social world, outside 
the eternal work and anxiety of a theatre. Proba¬ 
bly two more Ill-assorted beings never were 
paired. To this day he Is an enigma to me. He 
has His good qualities, and I can see In lilm good 
traits which, apparently, nobody else can see; 
but he is, nevertheless, the opposite of myself. I 
am warm-hearted and Impulsive. He is cold, 
phlegmatic, Indifferent, and sometimes almost 
forbidding In bis demeanor toward me. 
Above all, he la selfish, and appears to think no 
more of me than of some useful article that can 
be used to bring in so much a week. Such a life 
Is killing me. I fool that i am gradually growing 
discouraged, and that., sick as I am at all times, 
this weight Is the most potent, In bearing me 
down. I sUall not leave Mr. Harriott, not because 
I ought not, but for the sake of the world’s opin¬ 
ion. 1 have taken my burden and I shall bear It. 
I must act. If 1 did not, heaven only knows what 
would become of us. ills business does not pay, 
and my earnings go to keep lr, up. And yet I am 
unfit to act. I am never out of suffering. Never 
a night, passes that I go on the stage that, I do 
not fed I would sooner die than end the play. As 
I sit here I am In agony enough to break down 
any ordinary woman. 
M any a time have I been lying on my bed won¬ 
dering If I could live another hour in such pain, 
and lie has come and urged me, almost foveed me, 
to go to the theatre, In spite cf the most, strenu¬ 
ous orders of my physician. And then I am re¬ 
proached by both the press and public for simu¬ 
lating sickness to make myself Interesting. How 
little they know Clara Morris! How little they are 
aware of the eternal struggle of my life, battling 
on through calumny and opposition, yet always 
ready to do my work ; always taking the abuse In 
good part and submitting to It. I never felt I 
could hate my husband until he told some Boston 
woman who wrote to the Sun that I made his life 
miserable, and that I was worn out, physically 
and mentally; for nobody knows my life better 
than he does, and no one Is aware how I have 
struggled for him better than himself. I am 
nothing but his chattel—his property. 1 feel 
that he looks upon me as no use If I play to poor 
business; It is not the business that terrifies me, 
hut what he will say at my drawing no more 
money. In Philadelphia recently the business of 
the week opened only fairly, probably better than 
any other house In town, but. still only fairly. He 
never spoke a word to me that week until Friday, 
when there was a large house, and then he came 
to my dressing-room, spoke to me affectionately, 
and wanted to know If there was anything he 
could do for me. How can I be expected to care 
for such a man? Yet, I do not suppose that, he 
reall7.es to himself that I notice all this or feel 
anything about It. Pure selfishness, that Is what 
It Is. I know I can’t he alone in these feelings, 
and that other people see him as I do. 
■-- 
RECENT LITERATURE. 
J list II o w. A key to the Cook-Books*. Bv MRS. A. 
D. T. Whitney. Boston : Houghton, Osgood fi 
Co. Price *1 00. 
The place this book alms to fill In the world of 
cook-books is well explained by the author, who 
says: “The Literature of Cookery Is already 
enormous. The name of the recipe books Is 
legion. 1 do not madly propose to add, as such, 
to the number. But what Is a literature without 
a grammar ? 1 do propose to make a little gram¬ 
mar of cuisine. I mean to take up the very A B 
Cof Its etymology; to give its parts of speech; 
to show the elementary principles of Its syntax. 
Then you may go to tho encyclopedias and librar¬ 
ies. All print will be open to you. With due 
and thaukful acknowledments to the books of 
direction that have helped me In more than 
thirty years of housekeeping to got my expe¬ 
rience, I must say chat in nono or them have I 
found what wuuld anticipate that experience 
with a sufficiently definite showing of ‘Just 
How.’ In no recipe that l ever mixed nj-, nao tto 
mysterious element of * knack,’ ‘gumption,’ been 
allowed, resolved, and measured with tho least 
attempt at precision. Yet it should be, more 
than—even Instead of—ingredient, weight, or 
proportion. Good guess and clever invention 
may compass these; the other Is the trade, the 
fumdling ,—that one must he apprenticed to learn. 
You cannot learn to knit by a pattern-book that 
tells you to “knit tour, purl three, cast off one;” 
you must be shown first how to hold your 
needles, how to catch your yarn and put It over, 
how to pick the stitch tnrougb. You could not 
make a garment by being told to " close the side 
seams, hem the bottom, gather the top Into a 
band," It you did not first know how to use 
thimble and needle together; how to run and 
stitch and over-sew; how to turn a hem and fit a 
band. 
More than half the difficulty and bewilderment 
of kitchen work Is from taking things wrong end 
foremost, or plunging into the middle, aud so 
making an anxious muss Of It, Instead of a clean, 
clear, successful process. I will save you, It 1 
can, the using of an unnecessary cup or spoon, or 
the hurry of a critical moment for wa nt of a dish 
or an Ingredient that should be right next at 
hand. 
There are In cookery, as in all things, three 
definite stages of doing; and they are the stages 
of the children’s play-rhyme:— 
One to umke ready ; 
Two to prepare; 
Three to so glambiing, 
And there you are !’’ 
it you can make ready and prepare, you can go 
slambang with the most delicious confidence. 
There are no fancy or hearsay recipes In this 
manual of examples. Neither uro there any so 
closely duplicated, or so superfluous, as ro perplex 
you in your choice, or be needless in your regular 
repertory. You may begin with “Yeast," and 
cook through to " cider Apple Sauce,” with per¬ 
fect reliance. Having done so, in such order and 
combination as you found convenient, you will 
have Ret forth from time to time, In your results, 
Just such a fair, Btmplo, palatable, and sulllclent 
variety or food-preparations as befits most family 
tables, from whtch you may form a comfortable 
blll-or-fare for the year round. By the same pro¬ 
gress, you have become, lu like degree, a capable 
journey-woman at your trade." 
be Dinner Year-Book. By MauiAx llAii- 
land. 71S paima. 1’rice $2.25. New \oik : Scrib¬ 
ner’s Sons. 
This book will be most acceptable to many a 
recurring question, What shall wo have tor din¬ 
ner? The colored plates (a now departure In 
cuisine literature) serve not only to embellish the 
book, but they illustrate the text. The author 
says, that there have been dluuer-glvlng books 
published, that Is, books of riutnua for company 
dinings. “Little Dinners" for especial occasions, 
etc., etc.; hut that she has never yet met with a 
practical directory of tblB important meal, for 
