THE OLD-FASHIONED BIBLE. 
JAMBS WHITCOMB I1ILEY. 
How dear to my heart are the scenes Of my child¬ 
hood 
That now' but in rnemVy J sadly review ; 
The old meeting-house at the eilicoof the wildwood, 
The rail fence and horses all tethered thereto ; 
The low, sloping roof and the bell In the steeple, 
The doves that came fluttering, out overhead 
As it solemnly gathered the God-fearing people 
To hear the old Bible my grandfather read : 
The nld-fashioned Bible— 
The dust-covered Billie— 
The leathern-hound Bible my grandfather read. 
The blessed old volume! The face bent above it— 
As now I recall H—Is gravely severe, 
Though the reverent eye (hat droops downward to 
love It 
Makes grander the text through the lens of a tear. 
And, as down hU features It trickles and glistens, 
The cough of the deacon is stilled, and his head 
Bike a haloed patriarch's leans as he listens 
To hear the old Bible my grandfather read ; 
The old fashioned Bible— 
The dust-covoml Bible— 
The leathern-bound Bible my grandfather read. 
Ah ! who shall look backward with scorn and de¬ 
rision 
And scoff the old book, though, it uselessly lies 
In the dust of the past, while tills newer revision 
Lisps on of ix hope and a borne in the skies '! 
Shall t bo voice of the Muster bo sillied and riven 1 
Shall we bear but a tithe of the words He lias said. 
When so lung he has. listening, leaned out of heaven 
To hear the old nude ray grand father read ? 
Tin old-lasliloned Bible— 
The dust-covered Bible— 
The leathern hound Bible my grandfather read. 
THORNS AND ROSES. 
Concluded from pnge 2IT. 
CHAPTER XXLII. 
BEFORE THE DAWN. 
Edith’s departure had been de’ayeda week, 
despite Nevil Verner’s opposition and entrea¬ 
ties. He had said angrily that she would 
have the marriage postponed until autumn 
with these silly delays,to which she had replied 
that she was quite willing to postpone it until 
the next century, after which he said no more, 
A new gravity had settled on her face, adding 
to its already glorious be luty; but outwardly 
her spirits were cloudless. 
The last week she would be with us at Lovel 
House had gono; to-day she would leave us; 
and I stood waiting for her in aunt Dorothy’s 
parlor, the little pony-phmton in readiness. 
“I wish you were going. Kate,” said aunt, 
“and I am afraid it will be very lonely for you 
after. Edith will have now duties, though 
Nevil Towers is not far away.” 
“I have walked t hrough nil the rooms,” said 
Edith,'appearing suddenly, “and no more will 
these old walls see the face of Edith Lovel. 
Will they see her, 1 wonder, as Edith Verner'fb 
“You'll write to us?” asked aunt Dorothy. 
“Someday I may even come to see you. 
Kate will invite me to her wedding, perhaps.” 
She said this merrily; then gravely bent 
and kissed aunt Dorothy’s forehead without a 
word, and in a few moments more we drove 
away. 
“I suppose,” said Edith, leaning back lan¬ 
guidly, “that I should have cried, for aunt did, 
but the thought of my happy future prevents 
my tears. ” 
“Ah, Edith ! how I regret that you have 
chosen such a future 1 You say you are selfish 
and mercenary; it is not so—there is much of 
the old Lovel spirit in you. If only you would 
be true to yourself 1” 
“I think 1 am doing very well,” she said, 
complacently. “ Your last appeal is like the 
others—vain. What wuuld you have ? We 
are well matched; he is wealthy, young, fair 
as a picture; as for me, 
" 'There is every ?race of heaven 
In my most angelic face. 
With the nameless flucr leaven 
Lent of blood unci courtly race.’ 
Won’t papa give me a welcome!” 
We were driving through the lane, and 
through the trees caught the glimmer of the 
church spire. 
“ Ah! Kate, do you know what I did yester¬ 
day? I went, not to strew flowers like a hero¬ 
ine, but to see his grave, 1 had no flowers; I 
did not go to cry; I felt more inclined to smile. 
I saw Braudon, but he did not see me, for I 
kept behind a tombstone. 1 saw him bare¬ 
headed; and when he had gone, I found that 
he had done what I would not do, and I took 
some of the flowers because of where they 
were, because of him who had left them, for 
I—I like Brandon. Poor Edgar!” 
We had now reached the station, where 
Nevil aud Brandon awaited us, and by the 
expression of relief the face of tbe former as¬ 
sumed on beholding us, I surmised that he had 
feared Edith’s causi ug a second delay. 
She greeted him very coolly; then devoted 
her attention to Brandon, whilst Nevil stood 
with an expression the reverse of pleased, pull- ( 
ing the leaves from a bouquet he held, and 
scattering them on the ground. Edith turned 
to me with both hands extended. 
“ Good-bye, my dear cousin,”she said; “ ere 
we two meet again there will be many changes, 
but I shall ever think of you with love and 
gratitude. Good-bye. Brandon, I shall see 
you soon; fare thee well for the present, kins¬ 
man mine.” 
These adieux ended, Nevil approached. 
“ I don't need to say good-bye to you,” she 
said; whereon he offered the rather dilapi¬ 
dated flowers, which she regarded disdain¬ 
fully, saying: “You have pulled the prettiest 
ones out. Brandon has filled the compartment 
with books and flowers, so yours are not re¬ 
quisite.” 
Nevil measured Brandon from head to foot 
in an angry stare, but my kinsman’s serene 
composure was unrulHed, he being happily 
unconscious. 
I returned to the quiet atmosphere of Lovel 
House, feeling that never again should Edith 
and I meet as we had parted. Quietly and 
uneventfully my years would glide away ; 
mine must of necessity be a lonely life, but it 
should not be a wasted one. For the love of 
those gone before I would lead a life “ worthy 
of their witness,” or at least I would try; I 
would do my best. 
In the midst of the preparations Edith found 
time to write to me—giving me a list of her 
purchases, and telling me that her presents 
were already flocking in, Mrs. Ilawdon having 
given her a magnificent family Bible. She 
had spoken of Edgar to the Danas, and had 
been requested by them never to mention his 
name again. “ But I shall do it nevertheless, 
as often as I can; they deserve to be pained!” 
and I knew her well enough to believe that 
she would keep her word. 
So the weeks went by, until the wedding- 
day was close at hand, and Mr. Nevil Vemer 
came to say farewell on the eve of his depart¬ 
ure. Aunt offered her congratulations and 
good wishes warmly; he received mine gra¬ 
ciously, then extended his hand. 
“Good-bye, Miss Lovel, We shall meet 
again, very probably; 1 trust as friends.” 
“ I don’t know why we should meet as ene¬ 
mies.” 
“ No. For Edith’s sake, I shall ever be in¬ 
terested in your welfare; if ever you need ad¬ 
vice or counsel, I shall be happy to give it.” 
“ I shall not trouble yon for advice or any¬ 
thing else, Mr. Veruer, thank you very much.” 
“Ah, Miss Lovel,” he said, with his forbear¬ 
ing smile, “ your pride leads you astray, but 
I bear you no ill-will. Good- bye.” 
“ Good-bye,” I said, haughtily, irritated by 
the lofty patronage of his tone; and thus we 
parted. 
CHAPTER XXIV. 
A day or two after Brandon came to say 
farewell, haviug accepted Mr. Hawdon’s invi¬ 
tation. 
“You will go to Kingston, won’t you, 
Kate ?” he asked: “ I should be glad to think 
it was not all deserted. You will find some 
queer books, perhaps.” 
'Ibis was that I might be less lonely, I knew. 
I watched him walk away iu the sunlight, as 
I stood musing in the porch. How should we 
two be in the future ? Would the love he had 
borne mo yet lie mine, or had 1 forfeited it ? 
It was little use my repining; ail my regrets 
could not undo the past, and as he walked 
away, he bore with him the sunshine of my 
life; what I had now was only a reflection 
from by-gone days. He could not know how 
I had longed to cry, “ Oh, brother, forgive me 
before you go away!” 
I went in at length, thinking how silent aud 
deserted seemed the house; how my footsteps 
echoed iu the hall; how like ghosts Edith’s, 
Nevil’s, Brandon’s face flitted from room to 
room; how their voices echoed iu my ears. It 
was selfish to let that feeling of desolation 
steal upon me, to stand sobbing, as 1 looked 
into the empty room, and thought how had our 
bright little circle broken, how one by one 
faces and forms had passed away. 
Nevil, once loved and loving, and Edith, my 
fair, bright Edith, were gone; Brandon, doar- 
est of all, was changed; Edgar, a simple, gen¬ 
tle friend, was cold and dead; and I alone 
remained sobbing over memories. Once again 
the dear evening returned. I heard the music, 
the low murmur of voices, the faint echoes 
from the outside world; 1 saw the glow of 
sunset in the western sky flooding room and 
figures with its glory. 
Oh, my happy past!—my brief, sweet Sum¬ 
mer dream! Selfish though I was, forgetful 
as I might be of the many things yet mine, I 
could not help stretching out my hands to 
these phantoms, and would fain have called 
them back! 
But at last I shook off my despondency, and 
it was time. Crossing the hall, I saw aunt 
Dorothy sitting quietly and contentedly alone; 
and blushing for my selfishness, I joined her. 
“ I wish you had gone with Edith, 1 ’ she said; 
“ the change would have done you good. I 
am used to solitude, but you are not; and be¬ 
cause I have had my share of life’s enjoyments 
and pleasures it is no reason why you should 
have to give them up. Youth needs the soci¬ 
ety of youth, I know.” 
“ Dear aunt, I shall be very happy; only, at 
present, Kingston is in my charge, and L feel 
a responsible persou." 
Evening melted into night then came sleep 
and rest, a sunny morniug, a long, quiet after¬ 
noon. So passed other days; and at length 
there came a red cross on one—a letter from 
Brandon; just such a letter as he alone could 
write; and perhaps the most welcome part was 
that wherein he told ns when he would return. 
He seemed to have been so long away, yet in 
reality it was not long; but I wanted him 
back. 
I went as usual among my people, answer¬ 
ing their eager questions about Miss Edith’3 
wedding, and indulging in sober rides through 
lanes beautiful in the dawn of Summer. I 
rambled in the forest as of yore, and beguiled 
Nero—left as a guardian—into races through 
the grounds; and sometimes when I sat breath¬ 
lessly on the fallen trunk of a tree, the dog 
would lift his big, wistful eyes, as though ask¬ 
ing me for his absent master with a low whine. 
In my walks I missed the familiar figure; cot¬ 
tagers were like myself, and I had grown 
used to “I do wish Mr, Brandon ’udeome back! 
’Taint like not to see him! ” 
He would soon return now; flags floated 
above Kingston, Lovel House, and Nevil Cot¬ 
tage; the bells of the old church rang out 
merrily in honor of the wedding celebrated 
this day in a distant county. 
I wondered if, from the smiling guests, the 
mirth and gaiety of which she was queen, 
Edith turned one moment to think of that 
quiet grave; if Nevil would think to-day of 
the one but for whom he might never have 
won the lady of bis love. 
Brandon would remain a few days at Haw- 
don after bride and bridegroom had departed, 
then would return. Those days passed, to¬ 
morrow he would be in bis old place! 
To-day I went to tell the old house¬ 
keeper the good tidings, and she left me 
in his room among the musty books and 
crackling papers. The sunlight streamed in 
touching the carvings and figures, on the 
table a manuscript lay open, with a pen thrown 
across it; his chair pushed back just as he had 
risen, a riding glove dropped beside. Bo still 
aud silent was the place that I could hear the 
sound of the rocking trees—a fresh sound, like 
the dashing of waves against rocks. The whole 
room spoke of Braudon, and I caught myself 
wondering what if he were dead ? Would 
any one close that book, or lift the glove ? 
1 rose hurriedly, and straightened the litter 
of papers on the table; I replaced fallen books 
and then looked at the flowers I had brought 
—a cluster of purple pansies. Like me, he 
loved flowers, and they would breathe a wel¬ 
come to him in this dim, lonely room; they 
would show him that 1 had thought of him, 
they would waken his pity, and he might for¬ 
give me. Could they tell him of my sorrow, 
that 1 longed to speak to him, yet dare not; 
that 1 had not really doubted him; that the 
flowers, the books, and my hands, were wet 
with rushing tears? 
Why should the thought of Brandon bring 
me pain ? I was always crying, I was always 
discontented ; I did nothing save mourn, 
and I dashed my tears aside angrily. 1 ar¬ 
ranged the flowers and brightened the room 
a little, then left the household and gave Dia 
raond a gallop home such as he had not enjoyed 
for long. 
“You look more like yourself to-day than 
you have done since Edith left us,” said Aunt 
Dorothy, as, flushed and breathless, I entered 
the hall. 
To-morrow would bring Brandon—that was 
all I remembered. The evening passed very 
slowly ; but it did pass, and sunny morning 
dawned. 
I was turuiug over the old songs when he 
arrived, and I heard his voice as he hastened 
to aunt Dorothy; and then what did I do. 
Hasten to welcome him now that after my 
waiting he had come! I thought, What if he 
met me coldly and stiffly; aud then I ran away 
out through the hall to the garden, never 
stopping until want of breath compelled me. 
This was a nice, sensible way of acting; and 
now that I had run I stood aghast at my 
stupidity, and returned with a more dignified 
step, wondering what I should say. He sat 
in his old place. Tbe sound of his voice, the 
sight of the dear familiar face, sent my elabor¬ 
ate speech to the winds. I held out my hand 
saying the words that came straight from my 
heart: 
“Oh! Brandon, I’m so glad to see you! I 
missed you so much! ” 
The change had made him look brighter and 
younger, tall and handsome. He smiled on 
me “ like a prince.” 
“ I am getting a full account of Edith’s wed¬ 
ding,” said aunt Dorothy, folding her hands. 
“It has been very grand." 
“ Very,” said Brandon. “Edith looked 
beautiful, and so did the bridesmaids.” 
“ What did they wear?” I asked. 
“Idon’t know,” he replied, shaking his 
head. “ Something white, but I forget the 
name, though Lady Dana told me.” 
“Linoleum?” I suggested, gravely. 
“ It might have been, only I thought that 
was used for floors. The presents were legion, 
so were the guests; and don’t laugh, I had to 
make a speech at the breakfast. ’’ 
Aunt and I did laugh at his dismayed face. 
“ What diil you say, Brandon? ” 
“ I don't think I knew very clearly then, 
and I’m sure I don’t now. Everybody cried, 
then laughed; so there was at least variety. 
Nevil looked well and spoke well. I saw 
Edith in her traveling-dress — a privilege 
accorded to very few.” 
“Did she break down?” asked Aunt Dor¬ 
othy. 
“ Only then. She asked me when I was going 
away, and then, poor girl, she cried. Nevil 
came up and asked what was the matter and 
she laughed, 
“Did Mr. Hawdon like Nevil?” 
“ Everyone did except Cecil Hawdon, a rela¬ 
tive, and he and Nevil were always disagree¬ 
ing. They did it perhaps for our amusement, 
for Edith seemed to enjoy it. I seem to have 
been living on bride-cake and orange-blossoms; 
and one of the many little Hawdous confided 
to me a wish that there would be a wedding 
every week.” 
He continued to answer thus aunt’s many 
questions until the subject of the wedding 
was for the time exhausted. Before he went 
away he gave me his hand.” 
“ Thank you, Kate,” he said, simply, and I 
remembered my flowers. 
CHAPTER XXV. 
BRIGHT MORNING. 
I supposed that some days would elapse ere 
I saw my kinsman again,and therefore I might 
have prepared myself for another period of 
quietness, until he had attended to the business 
accumulated during his absence. I caught 
myself listening for his step, and longing for 
him with a feverish, impatient longing quite 
new to me. He was “so near and yet so far,” 
and I could not have gone to Kingston now, 
as I had done once. The excitement was over; 
he had returned to his old student-life; and we 
had drifted asunder. I had lost a great deal; 
why should I nope to keep him i No one knew 
how I wandered from room to room, almost 
speaking to the voiceless pictures; all was so 
strange, so lonely, an ! added to my loneliness 
was the fear that Brandon had grown to dis¬ 
like me. 
I was by myself in the long drawing-room, 
arranging, merely to pass the time, its orna¬ 
ments ; the day was hot and sultry, there was 
not a cloud in the blue crystal of the sunny 
sky, when I heard his voice, and knew he was 
asking for me. This time I did not run away; 
I went to meet him, but a sudden faintness 
seized me and 1 paused by the old stained 
window as I heard his step on the stairs; then 
he was beside me. 
“ I seem to have been away a long time,” he 
said, “yet—why, how ill you look! Kate, what 
is the matter- Are you in trouble? Ah! my 
sister, do you regret Nevil?” 
“Regret Nevil! Oh, Brandon, how little 
you know me.” 
“ Forgive me. But you look so pale. Won't 
you trust me?” 
“Brandon, only lately have I known wb< t 
it is to wish for death; not through solitude, 
but because you are changed to me. I know 
i deserve it, but it is none the less hard to see 
your love go. You are the only one left me; 
all others are gone; and I am losing you.” 
“ Have I been unkind or cold?” 
“You were cold ouce; before Edgar Dana’s 
death.” 
“Has any coldness on my part power to 
wound you so?” 
“You know it has. Why do you smile? 
Brandon, you must understand me. You 
know what Edgar told me?” 
“Yes," he said, the old shadow darkening 
hi s face. 
“And you remembered how I had questioned 
you that day in the forest; you were cold to 
me because you thought that I believed you 
guilty.” 
My voice died away in a husky whisper. 
“1 remember,’’he said, quietly; “I confess 
that it was a* first painful for me to meet you, 
when I knew what you knew. I did think 
that you believed me guilty. Edgar told me 
all the generous words you had said, and yet I 
thought you only defended me that a stranger 
might not think ill of me. I do not blame 
you; but, I had wished you above all others 
to thiuk well of me. I could not help, when 
we met, a feeling of sorrow, of almost shame. 
But cold to you! believe me, my love for you 
can never change; and if I wounded you, I 
ask vour pardon.” 
“ Braudon, hush. I did believe it.” 
“Yon did?” 
“Yes; but oh! it was not for long, my own 
kind brother! indeed it was not for long. I 
questioned you, because I was selfish, because 
