NOV. 20 
THE RURAL NEW-YORKER. 
773 
fitatrg HUstcIlang. 
WHAT TEMPERANCE DID. 
My story, marm ? Well, really, now, 1 have not much 
to say; 
But if you’d called a year ago anil then ajcain to day, 
No need of words to toll you, marm, for your own eyes 
could see 
How much the Temperance Cause Has done for my 
dear John and me. 
A year ago we hadn’t flour to make a batch of bread, 
And many a night these little ono3 went supperless to 
bed; 
Now look Into the larder, marm,—there’s sugar, flour 
and tea; 
And that is what the Temperance Cause has done for 
John and me. 
The pail that holds the butter, John used to All with 
beor; 
But he hasn’t spent a cent for drink for two months 
and a year; 
He payB his debts, is strong and well as any man can 
be: 
And that is what the Temperance Cause has done for 
John and tue. 
He used to sneak along the Btreets, feeling so mean 
and low. 
And he didn't like to meet the folks ho used to know; 
But now he looks them in the face, and steps off bold 
and free; 
And this is what tin Temperance Cause has done for 
John and me. 
A year ago these little boys wont strolling through the 
streets. 
With scarcely clothing on their backs, and nothing on 
their foot; 
But now they've shoes and stockings and garments as 
you see; 
And that is what the Temperance Cause has done for 
John and me. 
The childreu were afraid of him—his coming stopped 
their play; 
But now when supper time is o’er, and the table 
cleared away. 
The boys all frolic around his chair, the baby climbs 
his knee; 
And this is what the Temperance Cause has done for 
John and mo. 
Ah, those sad days are over of sorrow and of pain ; 
The children have their father back, and I my John 
again! 
I pray excuse my weeping, marm—they’re tears of joy, 
to see 
How much the Temperance Cause has done for my 
dear John and me. 
Each morning when ho goes to work, I upward look 
and say; 
“Oh, Heavenly Father, help dear John to keep his 
pledge to-day ?" 
And every night before T sleep, thank Qod on bended 
knee. 
For what the Temperance Cause has done for my dear 
John and me. 
-- 
INMATES OP LESTER HALL. 
(Continued from page 757.) 
CHAPTER XVIII. 
Mr. Daton smiled, and began to read Mattie's 
letter to Cecil: 
“My dear Uncle Henry: 
“I hope neither you nor Cecil have been 
anxious at my silence; but in case you have, I 
will begin my epistle by assuring you that I am 
quite well, that Edgar Is quite well, and that you 
should hate had a let tor before If I had not waited 
until 1 could give you some definite tidings about 
something which has Interested uh greatly during 
the last rew days-” 
“What can that be?” Interrupted Cecil, from 
her seat by the tire, a little curiously. 
Her uncle continued: 
“You know under what deep obligations to Dr. 
Carewe we both He; und you will, I am sure, be 
glad to hear that wo have been able to bo of some 
slight service to him here. As the tale concerns 
us nearly, I will give It you In detail.” 
(As the reading continued, a faint color had risen 
In Cecil's face, and at the mention of Dr. carewe’s 
name a sudden interest had lighted up the groat 
brown eyes, and made the tender, mobile lips 
quiver.) 
“ It is altogether so strange and so sad a story,” 
continued Mr. Baton, reading off the closely-writ¬ 
ten pages of Mattie’s letter, “ that I hardly know 
how to begLn It. Edgar would tell It better than I 
can do, but he has been obliged to go out on busi¬ 
ness connected with It, and do not wish that there 
should be any further delay. You will remember 
that when I last wrote we were gotDg to spend a 
day or two at Monaco, as we were both curious to 
see the mysteries of the gambling saloons—at least 
I was—for Edgar had been there already. I will 
not enlarge on what wo saw—It was a brilliant 
but a very sad sight ; the eager, haggard faces, 
some flushed with triumph, others white with 
despair. While we were there a gentleman rose 
from one of the tables, and as he was about to 
leave the room, caught sight of Edgar, paused 
Irresolutely for a moment, then came up to us. 
‘“You are Mr. Edgar, I believer he said, ab¬ 
ruptly, and when my husband had answered In 
the affirmative, he went on quickly: 
•* 4 Am I mistaken In supposing that you are ac¬ 
quainted with a man named Carewe—a doctor, I 
believe 7” 
“ 4 You are not mistaken,’ said Edgar. * Law¬ 
rence Carewe is one of my best friends.’ ” 
44 4 You know his whereabouts?’ 
“ 4 Certainly,’ replied Edgar, in some surprise. 
“‘Then,’ pur.iuodthe stranger, ‘you can send 
him word that If he wants to see hta brother alive, 
he had better lose no time In making hla way here 
for Ills hours are numbered.’ 
“ 4 His brother I ’ exclaimed Edgar. 1 Do you mean 
Lionel Carewe ?’ 
“ Yes. 4 ’ 
*“ He Is here—and 111?” said my husband; 
44 4 Can you give me his address?” 
“ 4 There it Is.’ 
44 He wrote a few words on a card, gave it to 
Edgar, bowed, and walked away. When we 
examined the card, we found that the address 
given was that of the hotel where we were stayiDg, 
so we drove back at once and made Inquiries. The 
proprietor told us that, a man named carewe was 
there—very 111, dying, and In great distress, hav¬ 
ing lost everything at the gambling-tables. 
44 4 1 let him stay here out of charity,’ he added, 
with a shrug of bis shoulders. ‘He would give no ad¬ 
dress of hla friends; he said he had none, and only 
wanted to die In peace.’ We asked If a doctor had 
seen him. 4 Oh yes,’ was the reply, 4 but he said 
nothlDg could be done for him.’ 
“‘Can we see him?' asked Edgar, feeling rather 
indignant at the man’s manner. 
4 4 4 Certainly, if monsieur wishes, but he Is In a 
room at the top ot the hotel. Mlladl will not care 
to climb so high.’ 
“ 4 Will you come, Mattie V Edgar asked me, 
and of course I said, ‘Yes;’ so we went up to¬ 
gether and found the poor follow In a wretched 
attic at the top of the house. He was lying on 
the bed fully dressed; he had fallen there In a 
kind of stupor, on his return from that hateful 
Casino, and there he had laid for three long days 
and nights, dying, his only attendant one of the 
under-servants at the Uotel, who came to him In 
her spare moments. He was lying with closed eyes 
when we entered, his breath coming in faint gasps, 
and hla faco awfully worn and emaciated; but Ed¬ 
gar kaew him at once, and whispered to me, 4 It Is 
Lionel Carewe, Lawrence’s brother.’ Soft as the 
whisper had been he heard it, and opening his 
eyes, stared wildly at us. 
44 4 Lawrence,’ he said feebly, 4 who talks ot Law¬ 
rence-poor Lawrence ?’ My husband went up to 
the bedside, and bending dowD, spoke to him gen¬ 
tly and soothingly, and a gleam ot consciousness 
came into his eyes. 
“‘Don’t send for Lawrence,’ he said, faintly. 
‘He can do no good—I am dying; my hours are 
numbered now. He could not get hero In time,— 
and It would grieve him.’ 
4 4 4 Your brother would wish to be sent for, I ajn 
sure.’sald Edgar, earnestly. 'Let me telegraph 
for him, and meanwhile If we can be of any service 
to you, It will give us great happiness—my wife 
and l.’ 
“ 4 Your wife V he repeated, glancing over at me. 
4 Is that your wife ? Her face—I know It. What 
Is her name?’ 
“ 4 Mattie Edgar now; It was Mattie Lester,’ said 
Edgar, as £ drew near. 
■“Lester,’he repeated, with a start. 4 Had she 
a brother Rex. ? Poor Rex. Lester!’ 
44 Ills mind seemed to wander again for a mo¬ 
ment. We were just debatlug what we should do 
when he began again; ‘ He Is dead,' he muttered. 
4 He said I had led him on to ruin. Lawrence tried 
to help him. Ah! how my head burns. Red, 
did you say red ? and I laid on black. Ah I I have 
lost!’ 
“lie fell back exhausted and panting, and I 
remembered then that dear Rex. when he was 
dying, had complained bitterly of some one who 
had led him Into error, and I knew that this 
must be the man he meant. It was very dis¬ 
tressing to hear his mournful ravings, but we 
procured him every assistance in our power and 
medical advice, and we telegraphed for his 
brother. For a few hours he lingered. th« just 
at the last he regained consciousness and recog¬ 
nized Edgar. ‘It Is a fitting end for such a life as 
mine,’ he said, sorrowfully. ’Poor Lawrence did 
all he could to reclaim me; he has been so good, 
but it was no use. Well, li is over now.’ Then he 
told us his story brokenly and at lutervals, the 
old, old story of folly and sin, of hla terrible down¬ 
fall, how he had gone from had to worse, hosv he 
had succumbed entirely to his passion lor gam¬ 
bling. how he had lost everything—honor, health, 
aud reputation. He asked us questions about 
Lawrence; he Beemed glad to know that he was 
rising so rapidly In his profession, and then he 
would lie back exhausted and fainting and we 
thought the end was near. Once he spoke to me, 
asked me to forgive him for the wrong he had 
done to Rex.; and when Hold him that I owed my 
life to his brother’s skill and care, he seemed 
pleased, and said, reehly, ‘That Lawrence, poor 
fellow, had always to atone for his sins.’ Then he 
thanked us tor our goodness—it was so little we 
could do, that the words made our hearts ache— 
and gave us some last messages to his brother. 
but I am thankful to say tUat Dr. Carewe came in 
time to see him. It was evening when he came, 
and Edgar and I were with him; he was dying, 
and hla weakness was extreme; but his face 
lighted up as his brother came In and knelt down 
by the bedside. 
“ ‘Lionel,’ he said, softly. ’Dear old fellow, do 
you know me?’ 
“•Yes—I am glad—you forgive me, Lawrence,’ 
came brokenly from his Ups. Then his eyes 
closed, a shiver ran through him, and all was 
over. Edgar took me out of the room then; but 
1 caught one glimpse of Lawrence Carewe’s face, 
and I could guess how deep had been his affection 
ror his unhappy brother. Dr. carewe stayed for 
the funeral, which took place on the second day 
after the death. He feels this very acutely, and 
looks wretchedly 111; still 1 think It must be a re¬ 
lief to blrnto know that ‘afterlife’s iltful fever’ hla 
brother sleeps well. If you can do anything, dear 
uncle, I know you will—he has been such a true 
friend to us that I should be only too glad if we 
could repay our great debt or gratitude In any 
measure. When you go up to town, do call. Cecil 
will be able to tell you what passed between her 
and our dear brother on his deathbed, which will 
explain to you the remorse which poor Lionel 
Carewe felt when ho was dying. 
44 Give her our love, and kind regards to Ernest. 
1 1 hope you are both well, and that Cecil is having 
some good gallops over the Downs. Write to us, 
both of you, soon, and tell us all home news. We 
are not tired of our exile yet, but we often talk of 
you and wish we could have a glimpse of you. 
“ Ever, dear Uncle Henry, 
“ Your loving niece, 
“Mattib Edoar.” 
The long epistle had reached its end at last, and 
Mr. Daton replaced It in its envelope. 
44 Poor Lawrence,” he said, sorrowfully. 44 Poor 
lad, he was'so fond of that ne'er-do-well brother. 
I shall never forget how he came to me to plead 
Rex,’8 cause,and how deeply he felt that his brother 
had led him astray.” 
There was no answer from Cecil, but Mr. Daton 
did not seem to expect any, and In a moment he 
spoke again. 
“ I suppose there Is nothing we can do to help 
him over hla trouble, Cecil ?” he said, wistfully ; 
but there was no reply. 
He rose hastily from his seat, and came round so 
that he cou’.i 3ee her face, it was lying back on 
the cushions of her chair, white and still, with di¬ 
lated eyes. 
“ Cecil,” he said, gently, touching her shoulder— 
“Cecil, speak to me, dear.” 
She looked at him In silence, with unspeakable 
misery in her glance, 
“ Cecil, are you 111, my child ?” he asked, bending 
tenderly over her. 
“ Ill ?” sbe said, feebly. 44 No; 1—am—notr-lll.” 
The words were spoken with an effort, and a 
pause between, each; she. tried to rise, putting her 
hand up to her brow with a gesture of pain; then 
she fell back, her eyes closed—Cecil Lester had 
fainted away. 
CHAPTER XIX. 
PENITENCE. 
“ Cecil, what Is the matter with you, dear ? You 
look anything but like yourself, and your pale face 
makes me quite anxious.” 
Cecil Lester and Mr. Eleston are standing In the 
dining room waiting for the horses to be brought 
round for their morning ride, and Cecil Is ready. 
She wears her bat and closely-flltlng dark green 
habit; In one hand she carries her whip—a dainty 
jewelled toy; the other lies passively in her lov¬ 
er's as he stands beside her, looking down with a 
shade of trouble in his pleasant blue eyes, on the 
beautiful face which looks so pale and so grave In 
the bright morning sunshine. 
“Anxious,” echoes Cecil, with a little smile, 
which is sad enough not to reassure him. " There 
is no need for anxiety, Ernest; I am always pale 
in the mornlDg, you know 
“Are you, my darling!” he says, fondly. 44 1 
don’t like It though; I like to see you with your 
pretty color In your cheeks.” 
“ it will soon come when we have had a canter 
over the Downs," she answers him, a little wearily. 
“You are only too kind and too careful about me, 
Ernest.” 
“Too careful of you, my darling?'’ he says, 
fondly," “Howcould that be?” I love you—do 
you know what that means, Cecil—I love you ?” 
She shivers slightly as she listens, but suffers 
him to draw her to him with fond tenderness. 
“There are the horses, Ernest,” she says in a 
moment, rousing herself and lifting her fair head 
from Its resting place against hts shoulder, 44 We 
wiugoand have a good gallop, and disperse all 
these blue Imps whioh ai’e troubling me.” 
“ Where shall we go ?” ask3 Mr, Eleston, as he 
gets into hla saddle. “ Will the Downs be too 
cold for you this morning, Cecil?” 
“Not a bit; there is no other place where we 
can have such a good gallop,” she answers, warm¬ 
ly. “I feel like riding this morning, Ernest, so I 
hope you are In the humor." 
“ When am l not in the humor for riding?” he 
answers, laughing, as they canter away. 
But Cecil’s enthusiasm soon falls her, and after 
an hour’s good scamper over the Downs she de¬ 
clares her self tired, and Ernest Instantly acquies¬ 
ces. As they ride slowly homeward, he notices 
that the pretty rose-flush which the keen air blow¬ 
ing over the Downs has brought into her cheeks 
has faded again, and that the beautiful race looks 
pale and grave. 
“ 1 don’t think I will put in an appearance at 
luncheon.” she says, forcing a laugh. “ My head 
aches. I will go and Lie down. Excuse me to 
Uncle Henry, Ernest.” 
“ Yes, love," he answers, ruefully. " But, Cecil, 
how shall I get through the afternoon without 
you ?” 
“ As best you can,” she aaswers, smiling; then, 
as It to atone tor the careless speech, she lifts her 
face to his, and he stoops and kisses her fondly on 
the forehead. 
“Your head is very hot, and your hands are 
very cold, my darling,” he says, anxiously. "I 
think you must be ill, Cecil,” 
“Ishall be quite well by-and-by,” she replies, 
as she goes up-stalrs, and he stands in the hall, 
watching the graceful figure until It disappears, 
when he sighs and goes In to his own luncheon, 
troubled, dissatisfied, but trying in his loyalty to 
Cecil to dismiss the feeling. 
The week which had elapsed since Mattie’s let¬ 
ter awakened her to a knowledge of the great 
error she had committed in thinking of Law¬ 
rence Carewe as the man who had been the min 
of her brother, has been a time of acute misery, 
of unutterable agony. That she had failed In 
her vengeance she heeded little. Who could 
read the description of the miserable fate of the 
reckless, dissolute gambler, who was Lawrence 
Carewe’s brother, and feel anger towards him 
for his misdeeds ? He had been sufficiently 
punished without her Intervention; but when 
she looked back upon the past, her heart was 
Ailed with the bitterest agony and self-reproach. 
She remembered how she had striven, how she 
had used all the fascination of her great beauty to 
win the heart ot Lawrence Carewe, and how en¬ 
tirely she had succeeded; how, when he had 
declared that love to her, she had repulsed it with 
contempt and scorn, and revealed to lnin the 
cruel purpose which she had cherished. How could 
she atone? 
Cecil rose from her chair, and began pacing 
up and down the room with quick, restless steps. 
How could she atone ? How—how ? She could 
not atone, she thought, wearily, but could she not 
win forgiveness? Surely, If she confessed, and 
told him how sorry she was, he would forgive; he 
was so generous and so noble he would not cherish 
resentment against her. 
“ Oh, my darling, my darling,” Cecil said, half 
aloud, as she sank Into her seat again, 4 4 You will 
forgive me.” 
“ My darling "—the word3 had escaped her lips 
unconsciously, involuntarily, and as she remem¬ 
bered, a burning blush covered her face from her 
white throat to the roots of her bronze-brown 
hair, and she hid her face on her hands with a 
movement of such pretty shyness and shame that 
It was a pity no one was present to enjoy It; but 
the hot flush soon faded, the Angers fell from be¬ 
fore her face, and showed it white, cold and 
mournful. 
Then as her hands fell on her lap, the gleam of 
the great flashing dlamond-tbe outward sign of 
her engagement to Mr. Eleston-caught her eye, 
and a sob broke from ber lips. She had forgotten 
him; her whole thought had been for Lawrence 
Carewe; her own suffering—and she suffered as a 
woman of a strong, passionate temperament only 
can suffer—was unheeded. She could only think of 
the man who had suffered so cruelly through his 
love for her, through the nobility which had never 
doubted her, and even when he knew all had 
never reproached her. He was her only remem¬ 
brance as she lay there; he—Lawrence Carewe— 
who had suffered a martyrdom through her. 
She loved him; she did not attempt to blind her - 
self to that fact; tt would have been useless tryffig 
—she loved with a strength which she herself 
hardly fathomed—a power which would have 
made her suffer any doom, could she have given 
him back his peace, have obliterated her image 
from his heart! But was that possible? Ay, per¬ 
haps such a blow as she had dealt him might have 
killed his love for ever, hut he would forgive her. 
She had that hope still, and when she had his for¬ 
giveness she could bear the rest. 
She opened her writing-table, and dipped her 
pen into the ink. She meant to write to him; she 
dared not see him to ask his pardon, now that her 
loyalty and her allegiance belonged to another— 
but she would write. She drew the paper towards 
her, aDd sat for some minutes lost in thought; 
then she began to write, and her pen coursed rap¬ 
idly over the paper until she had finished the note 
It was a brief one, but Cecil had not dared to make 
It longer, and the few lines she had written were 
cold compared to the passion at her heart. They 
were as follows: 
“Perhaps when you see the name signing this 
letter you will cast it aside with contempt; but 
even if you do so I cannot help It. I have heard 
from Mattie the bitter mistake 1 made. Can you 
forgive me ? I know this Is asking much from you ! 
I think It is asking whatl myself in your place 
would not grant; but great as my sin was—my re¬ 
pentance has been as great—let that plead for me ! 
I am very unhappy. Forgive and pity ! 
“ Cecil Lester.” 
That was all she had written, and the paper lay 
open before her for a minute or two; then she 
stooped and put her lips passionately to the sense¬ 
less paper. 
“ He will touch you,” she said, softly, “ He will 
hold you In his hands—happy paper!” 
“ Only to know him happy," she said, pitifully 
“only that! I could bear the rest.” 
Very flushed and feverish was Cecil that night 
when she went down to dinner, wtth a bright hec¬ 
tic flush on each cheek, and a strange feverish lus¬ 
tre In her beautiful eyes. Her manner, too, was 
unusually fitful—sbe was petulant, and the next 
minute she atoned tor that petulance with a gra¬ 
cious sweetness all her own—she was gay, and 
the next moment there would be tears in the 
3weet, slumbrous brown eyes. Her uncle and 
her lover looked at her anxiously, she seemed 
so strangely unlike herself; and when—earlier 
than her wont—she bode them good night, Ernest 
followed her to the door wtth wistful tenderness, 
whlcn brought a quiver to her lip. 
The next evening, when she was dressing for 
dinner, the answer to her note was brought to 
her. One glance at the black-edged envelope told 
her from whom It came, and her fingers trembled 
as she took it and laid It unopened on the dressing- 
table, waiting until she was alone. Lisette was 
unusually long over her operations that evening. 
It was true that there was a dinner-party tnat 
night, and therefore an elaborate toilet was neces¬ 
sary, according to Llsette’s notions; but Cecil 
thought that she had never been so long before, 
and at last dismissed her with an Impatience 
which was unusual to her. 
Then her mistress took up the letter, holding It 
tenderly In her unsteady Angers, touching It pas¬ 
sionately with ner Ups, hardly daring to break the 
seal, longing, yet dreading to open It. When she 
mustered courage to do so, she saw that the 
answer was even more brief than her letter, and a 
film passed before her eyes. 
•* The wrong, the Injury were beyond all for¬ 
giveness.” she said, faintly. •• Dare I read ?” 
“You ask me to forgive,” wrote Lawrence 
Carewe. •* I would have forgiven you death itself. 
I can forgive your error; but If ever it should hap¬ 
pen to you to be loved again as l loved you, remem¬ 
ber my misery and be pitiful.” 
The answer was a generous one, but It cut Cecil 
to the heart, this was the heart she had lacerated 
—this the love she had betrayed. Very pale and 
grave was her face as she put the paper away In 
that secret drawer of her dressing-case, where the 
other paper had been hidden so long ; but when 
she went down stairs there was a softness In her 
manner which Mr. Eleston had never known, and 
which made him very happy. 
“ I really think you love me a little Cecil,” he 
whispered fondly once, and she gave him her hand 
and smiled, but she did not look at him, so that he 
did not see the misery in her eyes. He llttl e knew 
that she was trying, poor child! to atone to hi 
for the wrong done to another—to be » pitiful,” 
