I was weary, but not that I had believed you 
guilty for so many days. I am sorry, Brandon; 
will you forgive me? Do forgive me, for the 
sake of old times. I only seek your pardon.’’ 
“ What have I to forgive? I was not an¬ 
gry ; after all you scarcely did believe it.” 
“I don’t want you to Bpeafe like that; I onlv 
want you to say, I do forgive you, Kate.” 
“ I do forgive you. And I will tell you the 
truth of that story. I came prepared to tell 
you. We are left together the last, Kate, 
who were first together, and let us have the 
future clear. There may be much that you 
will not understand, because in those days I 
was a dreamer, and the dreams influenced 
me,” 
He leaned against the window, looking out 
to the garden, and I stood with my eyes fixed 
on the ground, watching the colors from the 
window come and go, now purple, now vivid 
green, now crimson. 
“You know that I was called home from 
school when quite a boy ; why I cannot tell 
you, for my father had many friends without 
me, I came home, from my peaceful and 
happy school-life, to the opposite of peace. 
Always 1 had had a love for books; even at 
school they called me a bookworm. There I 
had had many a dream of what u future mine 
should be, how I should be worthy of the 
name I bo: e; and I pictured my father filled 
with lofty aspirations, one who would guide 
and help me: and I ever felt that we Love Is 
should keep our name unsullied. I touch 
only briefly on these dreams; I returned home 
to have them all dispelled; to find that our 
name was a byword, that sin and shame be¬ 
longed to it. 
“ The scenes of riot and dissipation, how 
they hurt me after my life among students, 
refined and lofty I Home, with its old Lgends, 
its chivalric associations, seemed desecrated; 
it was not home to me. My father disliked 
me;and when I ventured into his presence, 
would order me away. I see my’self stealing iu, 
not from a wish to join in the merriment, but 
from a sense of duty, a forlorn creature 
enough, Heaven knows, to be bid begone, 
sternly and angrily, and soon I dreaded seeing 
him at all. I passed my days in reading in 
the forest or library, forbidden to leave the 
grouuds, lest I should go to aunt Dorothy, with 
whom he had quarrelled: at night I lay awake, 
listening to the noises down stairs, so lonely, 
so craving for affection where there was none. 
Besides the housekeeper who is yet with me, 
there was another servant—an old woman who 
had nursed me. She was very old ; her hair 
was white as snow, she could scarcely walk ; 
was like the pictures you see of ‘ wise women.’ 
All her life had been passed in our service, 
her father lmd been born and bred amongst 
us; and she was devoted to the family, and 
mourned its decay. From her I heard many 
a story and tradition connected with the house. 
I remember one night when we two—such 
strange companions—sat together, and I was 
dreaming of the future, believing that after 
all it was possible to redeem the glory of our 
name, I must have thought aloud, for she 
turned to me saying: 
“ ‘ It will never be ! For the Brandon- 
Lovels there is no future; the race is at end, 
and it will end shamefully ?” 
“And then she told me a strange legend. 
That upon our family—mine, Kate, not yours 
—there was a curse, to be entirely fulfilled 
when only father and son were left. Until 
now, there had been many Lovels, but my 
father’s brothers had died, and I was his 
only child; in us therefore, she said, the 
prophecy would be fulfilled, the old race 
would become extinct. The prediction was 
that the two last Lovels, would die by their 
own hand; 
1 Father and son shall die, 
Each stained with his own life blood.’ 
I smiled at this; she sighed, saying that 
one could fight agaiust destiny. You 
will laugh, Kate, at my superstitition, but 
this story made a strange impression on me. 
I brooded over it incessantly—I seemed al¬ 
most waiting for its fulfillment; and when I 
recalled my mother’s untimely death, my 
father's wasted life, the division between him 
and his son, the sudden deaths of his broth¬ 
ers, I did think there was indeed a curse on us. 
I read of such things in some of the old books, 
and had I gone on thus thinking aud believing 
I do not know how I might have ended; but I 
fought against my fears, and if I did not con¬ 
quer them T laid them to rest. Old Margaret 
died, and I found a friend true and sincere in 
Dr. Lorrimer. He attended my nurse, aud 
knew that I was really living at home, for 
the first time, haviug hitherto supposed that I 
was at school. 
CHAPTER XXVL 
“ Being at variance with mv father.” con¬ 
tinued Brandon, “ he had not ror * long time 
visited Kingston, but they were now recon¬ 
ciled. He took pity on me; marked out for 
me a course of study; advised me what to 
read, and I followed his advice. Mine was a 
strange life ; night and day I pored over 
books. Sometimes my father was in London, 
and at those times the doctor came to me, and 
took me with him among his poorer patients; 
then I began to go among our own tenants, 
and shy and gloomy though I must have been, 
there was never one who did not welcome me; 
never one. I see. when I retrace the past, 
that there were many mercies showered upon 
me. 
“ Time went on; little by little the manage¬ 
ment of the estate came into my hands; we 
should have been ruined had I not taken 
charge of affairs. My father’s dislike of me 
seemed to increase as I grew up, and my efforts 
to win his affection were futile. 
“At length, after an absence from Kings¬ 
ton, he returned, a wreck of manhood, worn 
with fever, a phantom of his former self. Dr. 
Lorrimer was summoned, and under his care, 
aided too by a once vigorous, though now 
shattered constitution, my father regained his 
health, but his reason was affected, and he be¬ 
came subject to fits of insanity. This was 
kept a profound secret; people supposed that 
he had been ordered perfect quiet; that he 
was leading a retired life also to retrench, and 
he needed no society when he had his son, 
some said. 
“You caunot realize the life I led—every 
hour an agony, waiting, watching, in despair¬ 
ing terror. People laugh to hear of a man 
crying, yet in those days I knew too well what 
tears were; I have walked all night long up 
and down the corridor, longing for death to 
release both father and son. Then 1 began to 
think that insanity belonged to the family; 
that I, too, would lose my reason. I confided 
these fears to Dr. Lorrimer, but he assured mo 
that such was not the case, and that he be¬ 
lieved my father would eventually be cured ; 
these fits were but temporary. 
“It seemed indeed that it would be so, for 
the lucid intervals grew more prolonged; and 
at length Dr. Lorrimer was enabled to leave 
my father in my care. 
“ I will only touch briefly on this part; if I 
could I would pass over it altogether. You 
may understand that when I say that whether 
he were delirious, can I call it ? or sensible, I 
dreaded my father equally ; his dislike had 
grown to hate; and he would show it by—by 
striking me. I was young, hot and fiery, as 
we Lovels are, but he was my father, and I 
thank Heaven I never once raised my hand 
against him. Perhaps I deserved it; I had no 
power to win his love. 
“ He began to regret his gay life, to wish to 
return to London, or to gather his friends 
round him again. At my request, Dr. Lorri¬ 
mer interfered, and told my father it could 
never be; that he must remaiu quietly here. 
After that—well, it matters little; I will pass 
it. Only those words which Edgar repeated 
to you—* Would you strike him to whom you 
owe your life V were addressed to my father. 
His hand was raised just as the doctor entered, 
in his horror saying that, and calling to me to 
go aw ay.” 
“ I left the room, stunned and hurt, so filled 
with shame and humiliation that a stranger 
knew this, that my heart almost broke. Dr. 
Lorrimer came to me and spoke to me most 
kindly. He feared that the insanity was re¬ 
turning, and it would be better to place my 
unfortunate father undo: - restraint. I remem¬ 
ber nim saying, ‘But for your care and watch¬ 
ing ha would not have lived. I wish I had 
known, but it must not go on. I will call to¬ 
night; as I return from Tilney, and we must 
think what had best be done.’ Then he left me. 
“ In the evening I was sitting in my father’s 
room, when the housekeeper entered, asking 
me to come down stairs whilst he slept, she 
having made tea for me. I went; a selfish act 
I have all my life deplored. I stood in the 
library thinking how ve had kept the secret 
from everyone; how little aunt Dorothy knew, 
when she laughed at my gravity, what was its 
cause. I could not bear to think of my father 
under restraint and I resolved to ask the doctor 
if we might not go abroad, and try what the 
change would do. 
“ I roused myself, and went up stairs again. 
The door was closed; I had left it open, but 
scarcely thiuking of this, I looked in. And he 
lay there dead, killed by his own hand. 
“I stood motionless; the words c>f the old 
prophecy ringing in my ears, and seeming to 
behold myself also driven by destiny to a 
death like this! The old housekeeper bad fol¬ 
lowed me, and her shriek partially roused me. 
I went in. I knelt beside him: I prayed him 
to speak. Dr. Lorrimer had called and, hear¬ 
ing Anna’s cry, rushed in, and bade me go 
away. But I watched him in stnpid wonder 
as he bent over the lifeless figure, still holding 
in its hund a small dagger. It fell, and f re¬ 
member stooping to pick it up, and staining 
my hands. There came a “blank; aud when 
consciousness returned, I was in the room i 
use now. The ghastly horror of that night 
never left me; it never will! Through the 
long hours I lay trembling from head to foot, 
speechless and tearless. 
“Morning found me overwhelmed with 
grief, agony and despair, yet perfectly calm 
Dr. Lorrimer promised to keep the secret. He 
gave a certificate, but I did not read it. Ex¬ 
pressions of condolence flocked in, people sup¬ 
posing that my father had had a fit. None 
knew the truth. 
“ When, after the funeral, I returned to my 
lonely home, realization came. I closed that 
room up for ever, but I could not shut out the 
picture. He died in Autumn. Winter and 
Spring were like a long delirium. Dr. Lorri¬ 
mer was called elsewhere, but ho wrote often 
tome. I wrote to him all the thoughts that 
tortured me. You remember the sentence 
which seemed to prove me guilty ?” 
“ I remember.” 
“I did write it; but as Edgar told you, he 
saw only a fragment, and the full sentence 
was, ‘ Had he been killed by my hand, the 
hand of his only son, I could scarcely feel 
more remorse, because I should not have left 
him.’ My good friend tried to console, but I 
was in darkness. 
“ Almost mechanically, I continued to go 
amongst my i>eople, and in one of ray lonely 
walks I entered the little church to rest. 
There was peace before its quiet altar; and, 
oh! Kate, as I knelt there, I opened my heart 
to Providence, and spoke to Him as to a visi¬ 
ble friend. When I left the Church, Oue who 
calmed the waves of Galilee had calmed the 
tempest in my spirit. 
“ I knew that I must banish the thought of 
my fa flier’s terrible death, and I resolved not 
to think of it. There were paths of honor to 
which I had once aspired—I bad onco thought 
to hold—like many of my race, among hero 
and statesmen; but had I tried now, inquiry 
would follow me; some hand would lift the 
veil, some eye pierce the mist shrouding my 
father’s death, and dishonor would rest on his 
grave. I could try to lead a good life, to make 
atonement as far as I could, to aid the poor, 
to live uprightly and purely. This life, I 
thought, would be as acceptable as that once 
pictured, but which I must resign. 
“Those poor, simple people who welcomed 
me, who thanked me for what little I did, 
never knew how grateful I was to them—how 
I thanked them. No one spoke of my father 
to me, and I gave myself little time for 
thought; on the anniversary I occupied my¬ 
self from dawn to dawn. 
“Then peace was mine. Aunt Dorothy, 
Edith, Nevil, liked me, and were very kind; 
and you came. One night—the anniversary— 
I found the dagger as I searched for a paper. 
The mere sight of it brought back that dread¬ 
ful night; the prophecy echoed in my ears 
again. But why say more ? 1 conquered my¬ 
self. You don’t wonder now that fwas start¬ 
led when you asked me that question. I was 
quite prepared when Edgar told me, after 
knowing who had been his guardian. I told 
him a little of my story; poor boy, he liked 
me to the end. I have made all clear now, 
Kate, have I not ?” 
“Oh, Brandon,” I said, “I can never for¬ 
give myself! How little did I know what 
you have suffered 3” 
“ Don’t be troubled, dear; I have conquered 
my cowardice!” 
“ There is no one like you, Brandon; your 
life has not a stain! What you have been and 
are, to me no words can ever say; to find wbat 
you are to the poor I need only listen to their 
blessings. How cruel I was !” 
“Never, Kate! Shall we bury that past ?— 
will you help me ? We will begin a new life— 
bi-other and sister as of old. I will lay aside 
my sorrows; the dread of human malediction 
has left me because I have labored to win a 
Divine blessing. Let sorrow and fear go: fancy 
we are in the past, before we knew either.” 
“Oh, yes! let us begin again! I have no 
secrets from you, and you have none from 
me.” 
He colored slightly, and his manner puzzled 
me. 
“ I wronged you in the past; have you for¬ 
given me f” 
“Yes, Kate, oh, yes!” 
“Then why are you so strange! Do tell me, 
Brandon. Do let us be open with each other. 
You have a secret from me yet.” 
“Is it wise to tell you? I will; I will have 
no secrets from you now.” 
I gazed at him silently, looking, I am sure, 
bewildered, bat bow looked I, when he drew 
from his breast a little knot of rose-colored 
ribbon that had once been mine? 
“ It is only this, Kate; that I love you, not 
as a brother. My happiest hours of childhood 
were spent with you, and when you returned, 
and I saw you standing in the old forest, the 
boy’s affection waB changed to the man’s 
warm love. I could no tell you then; I kept 
my secret. You loved Nevil, but I was dear 
to you also. Ob, my sweet sister, your loving 
words were priceless to me! You trusted me, 
you called me brother, you were the sunlight 
of my life. The flowers you left me, a token 
of your presence, a sign you thought of me— 
but why do I continue? I never had a dream 
so wild as this, that I could win you. You 
were not for me, old in sorrow, grave and sad. 
Why did I tell you, only to forfeit my brother’s 
privilege—nav, do not cry! Why cry for me? 
I must go, sister; let me still call you by tbat 
dear name; when we meet, let it be as though 
I had not told you this.” 
He turned hastily to leave me, but I caught 
his hand, and sobbed out wildly through my 
tsars: 
“ Stay, Brandon—brother — dearest love, 
you must not go!” 
He looked at me wonderingly, but I held his 
hand in mine, and pressed it to my heart. 
“Brandon, oh, Brandon don’t go! I love 
you, and though I only know it now, I alway: 
have loved you, always!” 
I looked back upon my past, aud like a star, 
ever casting a clear and steady ray, constant 
and unchanging from my very childhood, firm 
friend aud tender lover, I saw him who clasped 
me now to his spotless heart. Ob, it was good 
to be here! I wept indeed bitterly at first, but 
at length sweet tears of joy and rest came to 
me. He was mine at last, and now I knew 
what had been wanting in my life; whyNevil’s 
love bad never satisfied me. As the dove re¬ 
turned to the ark, so I, poor, weary pilgrim, 
had found my heaven, m 3 ' resting-place. He 
was my hero, my king, my knight without 
stain. I raised my head to gaze on his den r 
face; the shadow had left it, never to return, 
and from the grave of past sorrows what 
glorious flowers of joy now sprung! 
As I look up a moment from these pages, as 
a moment my pen stops, 1 meet the calm, dark 
eyes that tell me of a love that never faltered 
through good or ill, through sunshine or 
shadow, a love that will bo mine when earthly 
life is fading, that will shine upon me when 
eternal life begins 1 
How long we stood in the tranquil light of 
the old window I never knew; the sunbeams 
streamed down on us, the scent of flowers stole 
in; earth was filled with new beauty. 
He laid his hand on my head, and the act 
recalled the beuign aud gracious influence he 
had ever had upon me; what had I done to 
deserve such love as thus! 
‘ Shall we tell aunt Dora?” he said. 
And then we went downstairs to the sunny 
parlor, where his chair was placed by mine. 
Aunt looked up as we entered. I knelt at 
her feet, and Brandon whispered to her. I 
have only a confused recollection of what she 
said or did, of what I said or did, but through 
all I saw my Brandon. 
We were quiet at length. I sat beside him, 
and aunt Dorothy looked at us with her hands 
folded. 
“ After all,” said Brandon, musingly, “ the 
old prophecy is not fulfilled; the lot has m >t 
fallen on any one.” 
Aunt laughed, then suddenly turned to me 
with uplifted finger. 
“ You remember the day when you told me 
that Nevil loved Edith?” 
“ Perfectly.” 
“ And what you said ? ” 
“ I remember.” 
“ Well, my dear,” she said, as Brandon laid 
his hand on my shoulder, “ I really did not 
believe you theu, but I Eee now that 3 *ou were 
right—that you were destined to remain all 
your life Kate Lovel!” 
[THE END.] 
-- 
PURCHASING PICTURES. 
Never be iu a hurry to buy a picture. 
This is the initial rule of the young house¬ 
keeper who desires to make her home attrac¬ 
tive. Pictures stand alone. A dozen other 
articles of adornment or use may be put aside, 
thrust into quiet corners, draped with this or 
that, or even entirely hidden. A picture 
once put on the wall is a decorative land¬ 
mark. It asserts itself loudly and persever- 
ingly. Whatever you miss seeing in a room, 
you never miss the pictures. 
The first goldeu rule of the picture buyer is 
not to buy a daub. Daubs which are cheap 
are so generally, and ugly. They have also the 
ill-gotten and most annoying merit of putting 
all other tasteful and quiet arrangements of a 
room out of harmony. One bad, thunder and 
lightning, red and blue and yellow nightmare, 
on canvas, will do more to make a room look 
hideous than any other articles on the prem¬ 
ises. 
What you buy, let it be good. A single 
fair engraving of some famous picture; an 
autotype, or a chromo lithograph from the 
works of an acknowledged master, will do more 
to beautify your parlor or your bedroom than 
a dozen muddled, ill-colored, ill-drawn trans¬ 
scripts—so called—of local or other scenery. 
Art is a very coy goddess, and must be 
courted gently. Entreated with kindly 
speeches, she will enter into a man’s house, sit 
down b 3 r his fireside, and make a palace of a 
pitman's cottage. Married abruptly, she will 
make a home, in sheer contrariness, a glaring 
horror of tints aud designs which are enough 
to giv3 any ordinary brain a headache for a 
fortnight. 
-- 
It is easier to suppress the first desire than 
to satisfy all that follow it.—Franklin. 
