DEG. 25 
fittrarg DflktKang. 
CHRISTMAS CAROL. 
ELAINE GOODALE. 
Oub walla are wreathed with trailing pine, 
And hemlock bought* are leaning 
i Dark where the blood-red berries shine. 
With leaves of Autumn's gleaning; 
Yet ah I bow pale the Summer's pride, 
How barren field aud fallow,— 
For why ? the year must be so wide. 
And Summer still bo narrow! 
Our chimney’s glow with geuerous heat. 
And all our lamps are burning. 
We list the music wild aud sweet. 
With dance and song returning, 
Yet oh! the vaster dark outside, 
How cold and dumb with sorrow f 
For still the world must be so wide, 
And joy,alas! so narrow! 
Our home throws wide its doors to-night. 
Our threshold laughs with greeting; 
With clasp as warm and step as light, 
The old-time friends are meeting; 
Yet ob ! the few who stand aside 
Bowed down by hopeless sorrow. 
And weep that hearts should be so wide, 
And love, alas! so narrow ! 
Nay, further press the strong desire. 
The questioning, swift yet tender, 
Afid lifted ever strangely higher, 
Divine a hollor splendor; 
On Christmas day, whato’er betide. 
We have no room for sorrow, 
For though man’s needs be e'er so wide, 
God's holp grows never narrow. 
-- 
INMATES OF LESTER HALL. 
(Continued from page 838.) • 
There was a silence then, during which they 
both watched Cecil as she stood talking to Mr. 
George, with a smile on her Ups and a shadow in 
her eyes. 
“ I know little or nothing of Cecil Lester’s his¬ 
tory,” said Mrs. Bray bum, earnestly, as she left 
the doctor’s side, " but there Is a turned-down 
leal In the book of her life on which is written a 
very sad story, belfeve me I” 
She moved away from him as she spoke; and 
Dr. Carewe left the drawing-room, and finding 
hla way to the deserted haU, threw himself into a 
chair before the fire and gave hlmseU up to a train 
of deep thought. 
Dr. Carewe leaned his head on his hands, and 
thought with au his might. Was Mrs. Brayburn 
right? Was CecU reaUy unhappy? If so, what 
was the cause of that unhappiness ? Could it be 
true that she did not love the gallant young lover 
who was so devoted to her? Could it- 
At this juncture a light touch on his arm broke 
the thread of hla reverie; and looking up with a 
start, he saw CecU standing before him. He 
started to his feet, and looked at her In silence. 
She was very pale, and her hand shook as she 
said, hurriedly: 
“ Dr. Carewe, may I speak a few words with 
you ?” 
“Certainly, Miss Lester," he replied, with a 
stiff bow. 
And without taking a seat, she went on in the 
same hurried, troubled voice. 
•* i have been wishing to do so ever since I came 
hero,” she said. “ But la a house like this it Is so 
difficult to find an opportunity. You think we 
shall be free rrom interruption here ?” she added 
glancing round with some apprehension. 
“ i think so,” he said, coldly. 
“ I was so eager to Bpeak to you," she continued, 
with a faint smile, “ that to-night, when we were 
acting, I dared to say one word to you. I hope— 
I think you did not hear It." 
•* I heard It, Miss Lester,” he rejoined, very 
coldly and steadUy, although his face was as pale 
as her own. 
“ Then you did not understand ?” she said, with 
a pitiful, repressed eagerness. “ It was not Guin¬ 
evere asking King Arthur to forgive her. it was 
CeoU Lester asking pardon of you! “Oh! Dr. 
Carewe,” she went on, passionately, as she clasped 
her hands in her earnestness, and drew nearer to 
him. “I have been so unhappy! I cannot tell 
you how I have suffered, nor what my life has 
been since I knew the truth! Not that the 
wretched mistake I made excuses my cruel con¬ 
duct, but-” 
Her voice failed her, and the beautiful head sank 
low In her shame and distress. 
“ it almost killed me to see how 1 had misjudged 
you I” she said, in a moment, and her voice was 
faint and broken. “ I know how you must despise 
me—I know how you must hate me-but"—she 
put her hand upon his arm for a moment—“ by the 
memory of the love you once gave me, forgive me 
now!” 
“You have chosen an unwise plea," he said, 
coldly. “ What memories oan that love bring to 
me, Miss Lester, when I think how you threw It 
aside— despised, mocked, scorned It!” 
“ I was mad!” said CeoU, piteously, “ I was 
mad! Do not be hard upon me! My repentance 
has been bitter enough, Heaven knows—let It suf¬ 
fice I” 
“ i told you that I forgave,” he answered, avert¬ 
ing his face from the agonized entreaty In her 
eyes. 
“ i cannot be content with such a forgiveness as 
that 1” she said, passionately. “ Spoken in such a 
tone—given bo grudgingly. I want you to look at 
me kindly; 1 waut you to say, with my hand In 
yours, “ CeoU, I have forgiven—I will rorgeC " 
He made no answer, but the proud face softened; 
and creeping closer to him, Cecil put her trem¬ 
bling hand upon his arm. 
“Do you remember,” she said, tremulously— 
“ do you remember that night, and what you said ? 
THE RURAL NEW-YORKER. 851 
You said”—the sweet voice grew soft as music 
then—“Cecil, I love you as woman was never 
loved, and to wtn you I would give my life—my 
very soul!' Lawrence”—the beautiful face sank 
forward until It rested on bis arm—“ Lawrence 
I want to hear you say those words again!" 
For a moment there was a dead sUenee, broken 
only by the hurried breathing of the young girl as 
she stood bowed before him ; then, with a sudden 
passionate movement, he shook her from him, 
and turned to her fiercely as she stood cowering 
before him, pale and trembling. 
“ Love you!” he said. In a tone of bitter con¬ 
tempt. “ I never loved you 1 I clothed another 
being in your beauty! I gave It honor, and yon 
have none— 1 gave It a heart, and you have none— 
I gave It truth—you do not know the meaning of 
the word! I never loved you, I say! but now I 
despise your beauty, which has deceived me, and 
deceived that poor lad who loves you, and whose 
wife you have promised to be! Is this your allegi¬ 
ance? Is this your loyalty v . Shame, thrice shame 
upon you I” 
“Lawrence, have pity I” she moaned, faintly, 
“I am punished; mine was the sin, let mine be 
the punishment—but It Is hard enough to bear 
without such words from you! Ah! don’t you see 
—will you not believe—that unworthy as I am—I 
loveyou?” 
Her voice died away In a low wail of pain, and 
Lawrence Carewe turned from her with a passion¬ 
ate exclamation of anguish; hla face was pale aB 
death, and his hands shook even as hers did. 
“ I have never known a happy moment since I 
sent you from me I” she pleaded, faintly. “ VYll l 
you not say one word of pardon, one word of 
pity—” 
“ Silence!” he said, with sudden passion. “ si¬ 
lence! How dare you ? You, the promised wife of 
another! flow can I pity you ? How can I do any¬ 
thing but loathe and despise you! as I do—for 
your falsehood, your treachery 1” 
They were hitter words, but Cecil bore them— 
proud Cecil Lester, whose pride was as conspicu¬ 
ous as her beauty was great. She answered no¬ 
thing, but she shivered aud shrank away from 
him as if a blow had struck her. 
“Have you forgotten ?” he said, coldly, “ who 
you are 7 Has It escaped your memory that you 
are the affianced bride of a noble and honorable 
man, who trusts you as fully as I myself would 
have trusted you in that past, which I have for¬ 
gotten—which I will not remember!” he added, 
fiercely, 
“ But which, while I have life, I shall remem¬ 
ber 1” she said, faintly, as she ratsed her head 
and lifted her great, tragic, solemn eyes to his ; 
and at the intensity of anguish In her glance his 
angry words ceased, and the fierce gleam died out 
of his eyes. 
“ I thank you,” she said, In a moment, standing 
erect again, but steadying herself by the mantle 
shelf. “ l thank you that you have recalled me to 
my senses, Dr. Carewe. As you say, I am—the 
affianced—bride of a good man “-she smiled 
drearily as the words left her llpa slowly. “Dr. 
Carewe, will you not say good night ?” 
She held out her hand to him with a smile, 
which was more mournrul even than her grief had 
been. He hesitated a moment, then drew back 
slightly, and bowed low. 
Cecil started; there came Into her face a sudden 
wondering gleam; then her hand fell heavily to 
her side. 
“ It does not matter.” she said, with proud bit¬ 
terness In her voice. “ Go, Dr. carewe.” 
He made no answer—it may be that he could 
not trust himself to speak; hut even his Ups were 
white as 3he turned away from him with a slow, 
steady step; and there alone, Lawrence Carewe 
hid his face in his hands, and these words came 
from his Ups in a broken whisper: 
" If I had touched her hand I could not have let 
her go! I dared not—I dared not: 
The next morning, Christmas day, when the 
guests assembled at breakfast, one among them 
was missing; and Mrs. Brayburn showed evident 
vexation at Dr. Carewe’s departure. 
“ He was caUed away by some very urgent 
case,” she said, referring to his note; Is It not 
provoking ?—on Christinas day. I wonder how he 
will spend It!” 
“ Ten chances to one he wUl be coming back,” 
said Ernest, leaving the window where he had 
been standing, looking at the snow-covered park. 
“ It has been snowing heavily all night, and the 
snow is several feet deep in places.” 
“ Perbapj you will be a little more gracious to 
me now, Miss Herlot,” said Captain Tyrrell, as he 
sat down beside her. “ It Is an 111 wind that blows 
nobody good. ” 
“You—well, you wUl do very well for a make¬ 
shift, ” said Miss Herlot, saucily; but her eyes con¬ 
tradicted her words, and Captain Ty rrell’s appe¬ 
tite was lu no way Impaired thereby. 
Meanwhile, unexpected—and faithful as his ser¬ 
vants were, unwlshed-for— Lawrence Carewe had 
found his way back home. His cabman’s rat-tat 
at the door had disturbed his servants at their 
Christmas dinner, and .Tackson answered the sum¬ 
mons with an irate look upon his face, which 
changed to an expression of Intense surprise when 
he caught Bight of his master. 
“I beg pardon, sir," he stammered, “ We did 
not expect you to-day.” 
“ I suppose not,” said the doctor, grimly, as he 
passed Into his study, in which, fortunately, there 
was a good fire, and where he threw himself Into 
an arm-chair in an attitude of weariness, dissatis¬ 
faction and languor. 
CHAPTER XXVI. 
THB WEDDING-DAY. 
“Cecil, Madame Rudolph has sent to know 
which of these two silks you will prefer for your 
gotng-away dress? She thinks the lighter of the 
two is the prettiest.” 
She turned from the window as her sister en¬ 
tered the room and took the patterns from her 
hand with a languid Indifference which rather 
puzzled Mattie. 
“1 do not care, 1 she answered, “ tell ner to use 
her own judgment, It does not matter.” 
“Itmatters a great deal,” Mattie said. “You 
ought to be anxious to appear well, Cecil. The 
newspapers will chronicle all the details of the 
beautliul bride. 
“ My charms are of the past,” Bhe said. 
Oh! foolish child,” replied Mattie. “ Ernest 
says you grow more handsome every day.” 
She put her hand to her face and 3 ald drearily, 
“ do you not see the change In me ? A U ! you can¬ 
not deceive me,” she said with a sad smile. “ You 
need not be afraid to hurt me by speaking tbe 
truth; it doeB not matter now how soon ray days 
are ended.” 
“What do you mean, Cecil?” said Mattie gen¬ 
tly. “ You are a little paler and thinner, but—” 
“A little paler and thinner 1” echoed Cecil, with 
a bitter laugh. “ A veritable scarecrow youmean! 
Look here, Mattie!” 
She threw back the sleeve of her dress, and 
bared her arm. 
“It Is lucky ball-dresses are not made decollete 
this season,” she said. “ 1 am afraid 11 they were, 
I should disgrace my—my—husband—” 
The word was jerked out as If it cost her an 
effort. 
"But, dear Cecil,” said Mattie, gently, “you 
say you are not 111 and you are not unnappy ?” 
“ L’nhappy!” repeated Cecil, with a laugh— 
“ unhappy • Why should I he unhappy ? I am a 
very fortunate woman, am 1 not ? 1 am so happy— 
so happy !” she went on, clasping her hands, and 
beginning to pace up and down the room, so hap¬ 
py, that lor the last fortnight 1 cannot eat, or 
sleep, or rest, thinking of that bapplneas 
“ Cecil, dear Cecil, you frighten me,” said Mat- 
tie, gently, at a loss to understand this frantic 
outburst. 
“ Frighten you! Well, 1 frighten myself some¬ 
times," she said, with a laugh. “ 1 wonder ir you 
ever felt so when you were going to marry Edgar, 
Mattte? Did you sleep well at night, I won¬ 
der? or did you spend all the hours pacing up and 
down the room as I do, until my strength falls, 
and I fall from very weakness? Did you feel 
sometimes as it you must scream out loud, or that 
you would go mad? It Is all happiness, you 
kno v, but sometlmos I have that feeling; It comes 
up In my throat, and threatens to choke me ; and 
I have to run oat of the room, afraid you should 
notice It. But It is all happiness—all happiness- 
all happiness, Mattie!" 
She fell on her knees beside her sister, and hid 
her face on her lap, clinging to her with quick, 
nervous hands, and choking hack her sobs with a 
wild, passionate vehemence, which alarmed Mattie 
dreadfully. 
“But, my darling, If you are not happy it Is 
not too late," she said, gently. 
“1 tell you that I am nappy!” said Cecil, 
fiercely—“ happy as the day Is long: How could 
I be otherwise?” 
She sprang up as she spoke, and rushed out of 
the room, leaving Mattie startled and pfczzled at 
the dreadful agitation she had evinced, and with 
a vague fear at her heart that something was very 
wrong with Cecil—a fear which she imparted to 
Edgar, with tears In her eyes, over his dressing- 
room tire that evening. 
“ 1 dare say she is a little nervous and hysteri¬ 
cal,” said Edgar, calmly. “It la quite natural, 
little wife; but I really don’t think there Is any¬ 
thing else the matter with her. I daresay she 
feels leav lug your uncle, she Is so much attached 
to him, 1 ’ 
But Mattlo was not satisfied; her quick woman¬ 
ly instinct told her that Cecil was not 111 only, 
but intensely wretched—and she watched her 
closely. 
The wedding, at Mattie’s earnest request, was to 
talce place at Thorn Lee. Mr. Edgar had been so 
kiud and cordial that Cecil had acqulesoed without 
difficulty. 
"A wedding Is always so much prettier In the 
country,” Mattie said. “ l hate city weddings— 
stately, pompous affairs!” 
So It was settled that Cecil should be married 
from Thorn Lee, which was a great old spreading 
mansion, affording ample accommodation even for 
the large party of guests who were to he gathered 
together for the occasion. 
The wedding was to he a brilliant one, for was 
not the bride a reigning beauty, aud the bridegroom 
rich and noble? No trouble, no expense was 
spared to make It all that it should be In magnifi¬ 
cence and splendor, and the wedding was to be 
preceded by a dance, which wa3 to serve to Intro¬ 
duce the guests one to the other, and put them on 
a friendly footing.—[To be continued.; 
TRIPLET MAXIMS. 
Three things to do—think, live and act. 
Three things to govern—your temper, tongue 
and conduct. 
Three things to cherish—virtue, goodness and 
wisdom. 
Three things to love—courage, gentleness and 
affection. 
Three things to contend for—honor, country and 
friends. 
Three things to hate—cruelty, arrogance and 
Ingratitude. 
Three things to teach—truth, Industry and con¬ 
tentment. 
Three things to admire—Intellect, dignity and 
gracefulness. 
Three things to like—cordiality, goodness and 
cheerfulness. 
Three things to delight In—beauty, frankness 
and freedom. 
Three things to avoid—Idleness, loquacity and 
flippant Jesting. 
Three things to wish for—health, friends and a 
contented spirit. 
Three things to cultivate—good books, good 
friends and good humor. 
#or Mmtmt, 
CONDUCTED BY MISS RAY CLARK. 
THROUGH THE “ HOLY DAYS.” 
DOHA GOODALE. 
Glad the light of Chriatruaa comes. 
Merry is tbe Christmas feast. 
Through a thousand happy homes. 
North and South and West and East; 
Blithe the song the traveler sings. 
Blithe the wish the reveler says. 
Lifting hearts to happier things 
Through the Christmas holidays. 
Other dear desires were ours. 
Few fulfilled and many lost,— 
Though we catch. In rarer hours, 
That which we have louged for most; 
Life hath found a fuller measure, 
When we tread forgotten ways, 
In the sudden stress of pleasure. 
Through the Christmas holidays. 
In the future we shall see 
Much to promise and forget,— 
There are tendencies that be 
Which we cannot fathom yet; 
Still a song the traveler sings. 
Still a toast the reveler says, 
Tvifling with familiar things 
Through the Christmas holidays. 
TO FRIENDS'. 
The current number being largely devoted to 
the publication of the yearly Index ,the following 
one, the “ Com Number,” to that particular sub¬ 
ject, necessitates encroachment on the “ Literary 
and Woman’s Department;” succeeding issues, 
however, will be continued as heretofore, with 
the exception, we hope, of improvement. 
in the lBsue of January 8th, we will give an 
article on a Table spread with Illustrated cut to 
assist In making, also one on Window Furnishing 
—Inexpensive Screens, <Cc. 
Occasion is here taken to extend thanks to all 
friends of the Rcbal who have shown their In¬ 
terest both tn deeds and words. 
It is with exceeding regret that we announce 
the continuance of the story, " inmates of Lester 
Hall;” the calculation was to end It before or at 
the expiration of the year, hut It has been Impos¬ 
sible to carry out our Intentions, owing to a short 
allowance of space which has at times been una¬ 
voidable. Rat Clark. 
-»♦» — ■ 
SOME RECOLLECTIONS. 
BERTHA A. WINKLER, 
Mt first Chrlstmas-cake—and I vowed It should 
be my last—bad proved a miserable failure. There 
It stood, lead heavy, at zero In the pan, with my 
burning face teaming with anger and despair up¬ 
on it, l concluded In l>ud thoughts that Christmas 
caused more worry than cheer to some folks. 
“Why, Auntie!” chimed In a childish voice, 
" Its ilways Tria’mastseor of touree, sus’ ’magine 
what’s turnin' then! Oh! doodness me!” Here 
the vision of “ doodles and beautiful tings ’ was 
contemplated with an exhaustive sigh and I good- 
naturedly resolved to try again. While the sec¬ 
ond cake was In vigorous progress and little 
“ hopeful ’’ was skipping around the table in high 
glee, some recollections of my own cnildhood 
brought before me the vivid contrast of the past 
and present life, in the old world and the new. 
My first Christmas-tree was a mere wisp sus¬ 
pended from the celling over the table. A few 
nuts; a very small rrult-cake; half a dozen gln- 
gersniips ; a gaily-colored neckerchief; and a pair 
of new shoes was all Saint Nicholas brought. And 
yet, what a world of wealth was mine in the sole 
possession of that handful! How often I opened 
the little pine chest for a look at my treasures and 
counted howmany weeks-remember—they might 
last; though each week lessened the heap consider¬ 
ably. That day, queens on their thrones never 
felt more royal than I did on the platform of the 
Sabbath-school, declaiming the chapter of the 
three wise men of the East, in the full magnifi¬ 
cence of my new shoes. But the mills ot the gods 
ground very fast that time, for, just as 1 felt my¬ 
self, exulting in the proud smile of parents and 
teacher I finished with, “ and they presented unto 
him gifts; gold, and—and a pair o/ new shoes.” a 
confused vision of big words, new shoes, and 
laughing faces floated before,me and later In the 
day I divided my fruit-cake, the last of my wealth 
among schoolmates who promised not to tease me 
about that declamation. 
My next Christmas was equally memorable 
being tn the western wilds of the new world with 
scarce a crumb to eat. Mother said we could not 
expect Santa Claus to come away out there ; he 
might possibly send a letter and some things In a 
box. That day and the next the post-office clerk 
and baggage-master were vainly besieged by two 
persistent little dutch.magplea as the latter, quite 
out of patience, called Sophy and me. In spite of 
all, however, that same official found us both 
standing on the platform In a driving snow-storm 
as the evening train rushed up to the station. He 
held the glaring lantern in front ot our races for 
a moment, then gently hustled us off the platform 
and as gently promised that if Saint Nicholas’ 
box came he would send his boy wljh it In the 
morning. Wide awake in onr little trundle bed 
we talked the matter over; Sophy wisely suggest¬ 
ing that the expected box might not be large 
enough to hold the tree. Accordingly the early 
dawn round ..us,harmed .with£a^hatchet,. wading 
through the snow tn search of a tree. When moth- 
*w.was; recelvlng/,the .box^at^the from, -toor, ;we 
were.tugglng.the.tree.lffiat.the back. .We.crowded 
around,in.breathless.interest asthe.box.was open¬ 
ed. “.Dresses.and.shoes,iI_hope,'mother, mur¬ 
mured. “Dolls, I ’spects,".Sophy.,said. “Books 
rather,” I shouted, as the lid flew open and eager 
