740 
THE 
OCT. 23 
! itorg Utistfllaitji. 
WORK AND WAIT. 
A husbandman, who many years 
Had plowed his fields and sown in tears, 
Grew weary with his doubts and fears. 
“ I toil in vain ! These rocks and sands 
Will yield no harvest to my hands; 
The best seedB rot in barren lands, 
“ My drooping' vine is withering; 
No promised grapes its blossoms brin gj 
No birds among its brandies sing, 
" My flock is dying on the plain, 
The heavens are brass they yield no rain; 
The earth is iron. X toil in vain !** 
While yet ho spake, a breath had stirred 
His drooping vine, like wing of bird. 
And from its loaves a voice ho heard: 
“ The germs and fruits of life must be 
Forever bid iu mystery; 
Yet none can toil iu vain for me. 
“ A mightier hand, more skilled than thine, 
Must hang the cluster on the vine, 
And make the fields with kurvest shine. 
“ Man can but work; God can create; 
But they who work, and watch, and wait. 
Have their reward, though it come late. 
“ Look up to heaven ! behold and hear 
The clouds and ttumdorings iu thy ear— 
And answer to thy doubts and fear." 
ne looked, and lo 1 a cloud-draped car, 
With trailing smoke and flames afar, 
Was rushing to a distant star. 
And every thirsty flock and plain 
XVas rising up to meet the raiu 
That came to clothe the fields with grain. 
And on the clouds he saw again 
The covenant of God with men, 
Re-written with hiB rainbow pen. 
Seed time and harvest shall not fail, 
And though all enemies asBail, 
My truth and promise shall prevail.” 
-- 
INMATES OP LESTER HALL. 
(Continued from page 691.) 
lie smiled a little sadly and Incredulously, but 
made no other comment- After a momentary 
silence Bke spoke again: 
“ Dr. Carewe, if some one had deeply Injured 
you, would you revenge the Injury?" 
She turned towards him as she uttered the 
words, and looked up Inquiringly In his face. 
“Of what avail!" he said. “ Would revenge 
wipe out the Injury? Would not the noblest re¬ 
venge he to pardon the offender ?’’ 
“ is that your theory ?” she said, turning away. 
*• It is not mine!" 
“Yours!” he said, smiling. “What can your 
bright life have to do with revenge !—your life, 
which Isas cloudless as even 1 could wish it!" 
“ Even you!” she repeated, with some scorn. 
“ Even you ! What do you know of my life ?" 
“It Isa happy one, Is it not?’ he said, gently. 
“ It has no clouds to overshadow its brightness.’) 
“Has It not? You forget,” she Bald, coldly. 
“ You forget my brother!” 
She turned to him as she spoke, and saw, as her 
words fell upon his ear, that he started and turned 
very pale, hut he said nothing. 
** Avenging an Injury would not blot It out,” she 
said, “ but would It not be a satisfaction to know 
that It was avenged, and that the person was 
punished who deserved to suffer?” 
“I cannot tell.” he said, wearily. “You know 
what our great blind poet says of It: 
“ ‘ ltevenge, at first though sweet, 
“ * Bitter ere. long, back on Itself recoils.’ ” 
“Does Milton say that?" she said dreamily. 
“ Well, he may be right. But this Is a strange 
ball-room conversation, Dr. Carewe," she added. 
“ Let us chaDge the subject. What do you think 
of Mattie’s engagement? Do you approve ?" 
“Whocould do otherwise?" lie said, smiling. 
"They are admirably suited to each other; and 
while I think Mr. Edgar a most fortunate man to 
have won such a bride, Miss I-estcr Is also fortu¬ 
nate to have won such a deep, true affection as 
he has given her—such a perfect love 
“Love!"said Cecil, with a little sneer. Who 
speaks of love In this century or ours ? We arc 
far too sensible to credit Its existence.” 
“ You cannot doubt It," he said, half bitterly, 
half sadly. 
“ Ah! do not say such things,” she said, scorn¬ 
fully. “Such society-talk is not In your way. 
Why should I know more joy and less sorrow than 
those around mo ?’’ 
“ Your life should never know a dark hour If I 
could guard It," he said. “Ah! If It were but 
possible for me to keep them from you I” 
“What!" she said, with an attempt at gaiety. 
A cold, reserved medico like you, would you care 
to keep dark hours from-” 
She stopped abruptly, and something In his face 
silenced her. 
“lam not cold—I am not reserved—when you 
are concerned,” he said, with sudden passion. “ I 
would to heaven it were so! Why should a doc¬ 
tor he cold ?" he continued, mastering his agita¬ 
tion by a strong effort, and trying to speak lightly. 
“ We are not all reserved; alas! some of us love 
hut too well.” 
“ Not wisely, but too well,” she said, with her 
light, scornful laugh, which cut him like a knife 
as it fell upon his ear. 
“Even so," he said with a smile. 
“ It Is very pleasant to be cold, though," said 
Cecil, toying with her flowers, and looking very 
beautiful as she nestled In the fleecy lace shawl 
wrapped around her. “ it saves one a great deal 
of suffering to have no heart I” 
“ True,” he assented. “ But one loses much 
joy. Ah! child,” he went on, suddenly changing 
his tone to one of the deepest tenderness, “why 
doyoutryto belle yourself thus? Why do you 
try to make yourself out so cold and heartless, 
when your own nature Is so noble and true ? Do 
you thtuk that I cannot read you aright ? Do you 
Imagine that I cannot see into that warm little 
heart of youra, and guess at all you are striving 
to conceal. Cecil, If I deemed you what you 
yourself say you are, should I love you as l do?" 
She made no answer. Her face was averted 
from him; but If he could have seen It he would 
have been startled at its ghastly pallor, and he 
might have heard the fierce, loud throbbing of her 
heart. As she heard the Impassioned words—as 
she noted the rich melody of his voice—as she felt 
(she could not see) the deep, earnest gaze which 
lingered on her face, she thought, with a sudden, 
fierce tilumph, that what she had striven for she 
was about to attain; that she was near the fulfil¬ 
ment of her vow—near the vengeance for which 
she longed. This man had tempted her brother 
to ruin, and shame, and death. She, Hex. Lester’s 
sister, had It in her power.to give Men pain and 
suffering—to make him know misery as acute as 
Hex. had suffered. 
While she was thinking thus he stood silent at 
her side. He had spoken those words impelled by 
the passion of the moment, and ore they were ut¬ 
tered he repented having spoken them. His love 
for her, great as It was, was touched by a great 
humility, and he could see Its hopelessness even 
when It mastered him most. And yet to have the 
right to love her—to hold her to hLs breast—to 
touch his lips to hers, Lawrence Carewe felt, In 
the madness of that moment, that he would 
willingly give his life! 
But had ho known the motives which had act¬ 
uated her In the evident favor she had so con¬ 
stantly shown him, how would ho have looked 
upon her ? Had he known that she had used the 
wondrous charm of her beauty and sweetness to 
ensnare and bring him to her feet, only to gratify 
her own wild desire for revenge, how would he 
have regarded her ? Who can tell ? lie himself 
was too noble to doubt her for a moment; he had 
Invested her—as men are apt to do those women 
whom they love—ay, and women also—with all 
nobility, all sweetness, all perfection—while In 
her heart she was cherishing a base scheme un¬ 
worthy of her! 
“Myremark was an Impersonal one," she said, 
with a slight smile; “ no more; so you might have 
spared that pretty speech, doctor.” 
He answered nothing ; but there came a look 
into his eyes, which she saw—a look of Incredu¬ 
lity and mortification, for her words, In their cold, 
languid scorn, seemed to chill him. Cecil saw 
their effect, and the languid, satirical smile passed 
from her Ups, as she turned to him with a touch 
of that winning sweetness which she used hut 
seldom, hut which had so much power; and al¬ 
though her Ups were white, she smiled as she 
lifted her eyes to his, while Lawrence Carewe’s 
glance returned hers full of passionate love, and 
appeal, and pain. 
For a moment she stood silent; something in 
that moment—some better feeling—was tugging 
at her heart strings and bidding her put aside the 
treacherous purpose. Why should she delude him 
thus ? and while her heart pleaded for him, It may 
be that It pleaded too for herself—what if, In hurt¬ 
ing him, she wounded herself also v 
lie drew a step nearer to her, and put his hand 
tenderly on hers. The resistless spell of her great 
loveliness was upon him, and he was powerless 
against it. Another moment, and he would have 
poured out at her feet the vast love that was burn¬ 
ing lu hts heart. The passion within him would 
have found utterance, but even as he laid his 
hand on hers there was a quick step on the bal¬ 
cony. His name was repeated In several voices, 
and Mr. Edgar, pale and agitated, stood before 
him. 
“ Lawrence, will you come ?” he said, quickly. 
“ Mattie has fainted, and—come—come, for Heav¬ 
en’s sake!” 
His agitation was excessive, and Cecil started 
forward, trembling In every limb. 
“What Is it?” she said, faintly. “Mattie 111! 
What is the matter ?” 
Dr. Carew glanced at her for a moment. All 
his composure had returned, and ho was Ills calm, 
cool, professional self again. 
“ come with me,” he said, “you may he of use, 
hut you must be calm and quiet, you know.” 
“ Yes, yes," said Cecil, rapidly, as they threaded 
tlielr way through the gay company In the ball¬ 
room, following Mr. Edgar, who led them out of 
the ball-room into Mattie’s boudoir, whither they 
had carried her. 
They had laid her on a couch, and Mr. Daton 
and her maid, both looking pale and startled, were 
by her side. Mattie was pale as death, and per¬ 
fectly unconscious. As she lay she looked like a 
sculptured marble figure In her rich white dra¬ 
peries. Cecil ran to her side and knelt down, 
uttering a cry of terror, for there, 11 owing from the 
pale lips, staining the purity of the 3llken robes, 
was a vivid, red stream of blood. 
By-and-by the guests dispersed, without having 
seen cither Mattie or her sister; and as they went 
they said among themselves, with hushed voices 
and awed faces, that. Miss Lester had burst a blood 
vessel and was dangerously ill. 
C1IAPTEK XU. 
CECIL’S A1TKCTIONS DISCUSSED. 
For several (lays Mattie Lester’s life was in 
daDger, and Air. Edgar wandered about the house, 
looking haggard and miserable, and very unlike 
the gay, handsome, triumphant young lover who 
had wooed and won her. Even when the imme¬ 
diate danger was over there was grave cause for 
anxiety, ana Ur.-carewe, was rarely absent from 
his patient for many hours together, ills devotion 
and care knew no hounds, and as pulmonary dis¬ 
eases were Ills speciality, both Mr. Edgar and Mr. 
Daton were quite willing to entrust their beloved 
Invalid to his care ; while Cecil, who was terribly 
anxious and distressed, looked upon him with 
the most complete confidence and reliance, 
forgetting entirely that he who, In great measure, 
was the saviour of her sister was the destroyer of 
that noble young brother of whom she had been 
so proud, and whose legacy to her had been one 
of vengeance. 
It was impossible but that they should be much 
thrown together during Mattie’s Illness, for Cecil 
was a very devoted nurse. 
Iu after time Lawrence Carewe looked back on 
those days as some of the happiest, in his life. It 
was so sweet to see Cecil’s beautiful eyes turn to 
him In appealing entreaty—to see how she trusted 
and looked up to him—to touch her little hand 
sometimes In their minist rations to the sick girl— 
to hoar her voice murmur some sweet broken 
words of thanks, or a fear that his constant atten¬ 
dance would fatigue him. 
No wonder that In those days hts love for her 
grew more and more intense—no wonder, too, that 
seelDg her so gentle and lovable In her care or 
Mattie, he even dared to hope for himself; and so 
went on, blindly loving her and hoping to ills fate. 
At length the tender care and skill lavished upon 
her had their reward, and Mattie Lester’s face was 
turned towards recovery; and once turned, she 
amended rapidly. Soon all danger was over, and 
the hearts of those who loved her lost their heavy 
load of anxiety and care. 
Mr. Edgar’s Joy at her restoration equalled the 
pain he had endured at her danger, and his grat¬ 
itude to the young physician, whose skill and care 
had been so greatly Instrumental in her recovery 
was vast and limitless. 
“ You don’t know what I feel towards you, old 
fellow.” he said, with a tremor In hla voice, as his 
two hands grasped M r. Carewe’s, and his pleasant 
blue eyes, with something suspiciously like tears 
in their depths, met his friends. “ I cannot find 
words to thank you—I have no worils. To strive 
to pay such a debt would be hopeless; but Heaven 
grant that the day may come when I can show 
you, In any way, my gratitude; and for the life 
saved you shall ask what you will, and It shall he 
yours." 
The eager, passionate words came from his 
heart, and Lawrence Carewe knew all their sin¬ 
cerity, all their truth; and though he smiled as he 
disclaimed all gratitude, his own heart throbbed 
with a sudden wild hope. 
“You owe me nothing,” he said, hurriedly; 
" hut If, In your generosity, you think that you do, 
some day repay It by saying a kind word for me 
to-” 
His voice failed, and a flush rose In his cheek as 
he faltered at the name of the woman he had 
grown to love, even as himself had said, “ not 
wisely, but too well.” 
“ To Cecil,” said Mr. Edgar, quickly. “ Nothing 
would give me greater pleasure, old fellow, hut- 
do you think she Is worthy of such a heart as 
yours? She Is beautiful and very charming, but 
she is so fond of power—of admiration-” 
“ Beneath It all she has a noble heart,” said Dr. 
Carewe, warmly; “ and I shall hold him greatly 
to he envied who shall win her love." 
“ Then may it be you," said Mr. Edgar, cor¬ 
dially, us he again pressed his friend’s hand and 
went away to spend u happy hour with Mattie, 
who had been promoted to a couch In the boudoir, 
and who welcomed him with the prettiest blush 
and the sweetest smile Imaginable. 
Naturally their conversation turned on the man 
to whom they owed so much, and naturally, too, 
Mr. Edgar told his fiance of the doctor’s hopes 
and fears. 
“I don’t think Cecil would have him,” he said, 
dubiously. “She is so brilliant and so much ad¬ 
mired, and of course he would not be a good match 
for her.” 
“ Not a good match 1 Oh l Edgar, when he is so 
good, and noble, and true,” said Mattie, reproach¬ 
fully, “ I should think Cecil a very lucky woman 
If she married him." 
“ So should I, dear, as far as he himself goes, hut 
from a worldly point of view she would not be 
so.” 
“But, Edgar, I fancy that Cecil likes Dr. Ca¬ 
rewe,” said .Mattie, with a little smile into her 
lover’s eyes as he bent over her. 
“Do you, my darling? That would be good 
news l What makes you think so ?” said Mr. Ed¬ 
gar, drawing the pretty golden head on uis 
shoulder, aud settling himself comfortably on Hie 
low seat he occupied by the sofa. 
" A great many things. She had always been 
so charming to him,” said Mattie, meditatively. 
“ So gentle and gracious; and when he was stay¬ 
ing here, and when I was so 111, and when I was 
getting better, I used to notice several little tblngs 
which seem to say that she cared for him. Really, 
Edgar, I think Dr. Carewe has a very good chance 
of winning her." 
Meanwhile, Cecil herself—how fared it with her 
while her sister and her fiance were discussing the 
state of her affections, and while Dr. Carewe was 
resuming his usual practice with hts heart full of 
hope and love? How fared It? Not well I 
She knew, she felt sure, with a woman’s un¬ 
erring instinct in such things, that Lawrence 
Carewe loved her, and she knew, also, that she 
had striven to win his heart. She knew that for 
him, to gain that love, she had drawn upon her 
store or rasclnatlon, and spared no pains, and that 
her object in so doing had been, not Ms happiness, 
hut her own vengeance. 
She had that vengeance In her power now—It 
was possible to her to make him suffer even as her 
brother had suffered—to make him endure pang 
for pang, anguish tor anguish 1 
What mattered it to her, she said, scornfully, to 
herself, as she paced up aud down the apartment, 
pushing back her halrrrom her brow with Im¬ 
patient, levered hands, that he had changed his 
way of life—that people spoke of him now as de¬ 
voted, noble, and kind—if by bis example and by 
his influence h e had led her brother Into sin, and 
shame, and death? Should he not atone—should 
he not suffer for that sin? And bow? 
Through a cheated hope, which should end in 
desolation; through a love given, to he rejected 
with scorn, and contempt, and mockery 1 
That was Cecil Lester’s vengeance, and over it 
she brooded night and day, until her brain was 
dizzy and confused, and she had no power really 
to Judge between right and wrong. 
Sometimes softer thoughts would come to her. 
For that life which he had destroyed should not 
the Ufe he had been Instrumental In saving make 
atonement ? Should she relinquish her cherished 
purpose? should she spare him now at the last? 
But such thoughts as these were but e vanescent. 
Before her eyes once more would come the recol¬ 
lection of her brother’s death-bed; the remem¬ 
brance of bis dying words, of her promise—her 
vow given to Die dead, and sacred 1 And then she 
would take out the slip of paper, and con the brief 
words—cruel, heartless words—unlike, how vastly 
unlike, anything she had ever heard from Law¬ 
rence Carewe’s lips, yet written in his handwrlt- 
lng, and signed by his name; and as she read 
them the passionate, unreasoning anger and ha¬ 
tred filled her heart again, and the longing for 
vengeance rose high. 
But with it all she knew that, lu cherishing the 
vengeance, she erred moat deeply. She would not 
see—she tried to blind herself to the blamelessness 
and nobility of hla life. She said to herself again 
and again that It was but a mask to bide and cover 
base, dishonorable actions, of which the world 
Knew nothing; she shut her eyes to his frank, 
loyal, generous nature; to that tender patience 
and charity which thought no 111 and suspected no 
evil; which believed In her purity and good faith 
when she was so little trustworthy; and there 
were moments—rare, alas 1 and swiftly passing— 
when that faith rose up aud shamed her—shamed 
her to the very depths of her nature—but failed to 
turn her from her purpose.—To be continued. 
- - 4 > » -- 
A FAMILY OF CHAMELEONS. 
The chameleons nave long been an object of 
peculiar interest to scientific investigators, be¬ 
cause of their curious power of altering their ap¬ 
pearance to conform li> surrounding objects. Dr. 
Bacheler, of Mldnapore. India, has given In the 
Popular Science Monthly the result of numerous 
observations of a family of chameleons which he 
has been keeping. The chameleon does not change 
Its color always to match lt3 surroundings, but Its 
power to Mde Itself by a change of form Is no less 
wonderful. In a normal state of rest the color is 
of light pea-green, at times blending with yellow. 
The least excitement causes transverse stripes to 
appear, running across the back and nearly en¬ 
circling the body. These stripes occupy about the 
same amount or space as the groundwork, aud are 
most susceptible to change of color. At first they 
become deeply green, and. If the excitement con¬ 
tinues, gradually change to black. When placed 
upon a tree, the groundwork becomes a deep 
green, and the stripes a deeper green or black, 
and so long as they remain on the trees the color 
does not change. Placed on the scarlet leaves of 
the divcasna and among the red flowers of the 
acacia, no change was observed. But. its changes 
of ahape_are still more remarkable, sometimes 
It assumes the form of a disconsolate mouse sit¬ 
ting In a corner; again, with back curved and tall 
erect, It resembles a crouching Hon, wMch no 
doubt gave origin to its name, chamai-leon, or 
ground lion. By Inflating Its sides It flattens Its 
belly, aud viewed from below, takes the form of 
an ovate leaf. Tne tall is the petiole, while a 
white serrated line, which nius from nose to tip 
of tall over the belly, becomes the leaf’s in Id-rib. 
Still again, throwing ouL the air, It draws In Its 
sides, and at the same time expauds itself upward 
and downward till It becomes as thin us a knife, 
and then viewed from the side It has the form of an 
ovate leaf which lacks a mld-rlb, but the serrated 
line of the belly and the serrated hack stimulate 
the serrated edges of a leaf. When thus expanded 
It Uas also the power to sway Itself, so as to pre¬ 
sent an edge to an observer, thus greatly adding 
to Its means of concealment. Half a dozen chame¬ 
leons placed In a small tree, not three feet In 
diameter across the top, are very difficult to dis¬ 
cover, although one Is certain they must be there. 
-a-*-*- . 
NEW PUBLICATIONS. 
The Undiscovered Country. By W. D. Howells 
Boston? Houghton, Milllin & Co. 
If the claim made by Mr. Trollope la true “ that 
novels teach people, especially young people, how 
to talk;” then Ibis latest work of the well known 
author deserves the prior claim or teaching peo¬ 
ple, old and young, how to think on at least one 
suiiject which under the very ear of progress, In 
civilization and education, continues to absorb 
and mystify the credulous portion of the com¬ 
munity. A subject which In the interest of fraud¬ 
ulent pretenders and under the guise of spritual- 
Ism has become bo disreputable us to rank among 
the greatest humbugs of the nineteenth century. 
No one can read this book through carefully 
and not be strongly Impressed by the contrast be¬ 
tween the simplicity, truth, aud earnestness of 
Dr. Boynton and the Illusions he valuly struggled 
to grapple with. The results, so painful to all with 
whom he came In contact, cannot be too hastily 
passed over. 
on the other hand the beautifully drawn char¬ 
acter of Kgerla commands our highest, admiration 
and sympathy, showing an Intimate knowledge, 
and the closest observation of a woman’s nature. 
Many of the pages are Interwoven with a pic¬ 
turesqueness as treah and bright as the scene 
they recall. Nature’s tenderest moods seem to be 
crystallized in such perfection that, no artist with 
his choice of colors could approach. 
For those who appreciate the Honttmental there 
is a little of the most natural tailing in love that 
we can remember since our first experience. We 
heartily recommend the work for its pure, con¬ 
scientious tone. 
Jn the closing chapter the author tells us “ The 
grass has already grown long over Boynton’s 
grave. They who keep his memory think com¬ 
passionately of his illusions, if they were wholly 
Illusions, but they shrink with one Impulse from 
