OCT. 30 
72S 
f ittrarg HUsdlaitg. 
THE SONG-BIRD'S DEPASTURE, 
Abound the cedars and the lawn 
The evening mists are early drawn, 
On each its cobwebs guttering bell* 
At noon of Antumu’s cold breath tells: 
The woods their golden mantle wear 
To grace the passing of a year; 
Saddest of all, resonudB no trill; 
From blithesome warbler—all are still. 
The cuckoo long ago has Bed, 
The blackcap dulled his Bable head, 
The whltethroat sought more sunny dimes., 
The fearful swallow left betimes; 
O'er barren moor or stubble bright 
The wood-wren wings her silent flight, 
While many a whistle from the skies 
Marks where the plover southward flios. 
What guides these birds to warmer lands? 
I>ot.b chance impose such strict commands f 
Did mj riad races din before 
Survivors sought a foreign shore? 
Not so! Creative Dove impressed 
Upon thdr natures ills behest. 
And still, obedient, they observe 
The charge, nor from His purpose swerve. 
We grieve, butlastingsong would cloy 
Capacities of sober Joy; 
And though we mourn the silent bands 
Of birds which flit to stranger lands, 
Brighter the welcome we extend 
Next April to each well-known friend. 
And more we long ’mid Winter’s snow 
To hear new songs when lilies blow. 
INMATES OF LESTER HALL. 
(Continued from page 710.) 
CHAPTER XUL 
» i hate asked Carewe to dine with us this eve¬ 
ning,” said Mr. Daton, a few days after, as he en¬ 
tered Mattie’s houdolr, “ to celebrate your coming 
downstairs again, Mattie, dear—your first dinner 
with us for so long.” 
“I am so glad you have asked him. Uncle 
Henry P said Mattie, Bmlllng. ” I Bhall be delight 
ed to see him, and was Just wondering why he had 
not been to see us for so many days.” 
“ He has been worked to death l” said Mr. Daton. 
“He is getting to he quite a celebrated man In his 
profession, and very deservedly so. I am sure we 
have every reason to be thankful to him, and to 
Bpeak highly of his skill, have we not, Cecil?” 
“Every reason,” said Cecil, briefly. 
She was sitting on a low chair, with her hands 
crossed idly on her lap, aud her eyes fixed on the 
red gleam of the Are. 
“I hope you will he civil to him, my Lady Dis¬ 
dain.” said her uncle 6mltlng. 
“I generally am,” she rejoined, carelessly. 
“Indeed, yes. I think Lawrence finds favor in 
your eight, Queen Cecil,” Bald Mr. Daton. gaily. 
“And no wonder, for he Is morally and physically 
one of the finest fellows I ever met P 
“I did not know you value*?men by the length 
of their llmb3 or the power of their muscles,'* said 
Cecil, disdainfully. 
Mr. Daton laughed, as he glanced over at the 
graceful figure, and noticed the hot flush which 
rose In the soft cheek. 
“Nor do 1, my child,” he answered, gravely, in 
a moment. “Lawrence Carewe’s life would be 
equally noble In my eyes—equally grand and self- 
denying—U he were a hunchback! But I do not 
think that he would he so In yours, Cecil,” he 
added, smiling, as he put his hand caressingly on 
her shoulder. 
Cecil put up both her hands, clasping them over 
his, and drawing It down to her lips In silence. 
W hatever she was to others, to her uncle she was 
always gentleness Itself. 
“You line him bo much, Uncle Henry7” she 
said, with a touch of regret In her soft voice. 
“I like him—1 honor him deeply, and I should 
be very sorry that sorrow should come to him 
through any one connected witn me," he said, 
meaningly; and the flush died away In Cecil's 
cheek as she heard the words. 
She answered nothing, but touched her lips 
softly to his hand again, and her uncle read that 
mute carets to mean that hla interest In Dr. Ca¬ 
rewe was pleasant to her. 
“If she loves him I will gtve her to him with 
every confidence,” he said to himself, as he went 
down to his own den—the only simple, unadorned 
room In the superb house—where he wrote his 
letters, kept his accounts, and interviewed his 
niece’sBultors when obliged to do so. “But he 
must not take her from me; I cannot give up my 
Cecil." 
For Borne minutes after he had left the boudoir 
there was silence between the two sisters; then 
Mattie looked up suddenly and said: 
“ What do you mean to do, Cecil ?” 
“Todot Aboutwnat?” 
“ About Dr. Carewe ? 
“About Dr. carewe!" repeated Cecil, lifting her 
pretty eyebrows with a puzzled expression which 
was wholly assumed. 
“ Yes,” Bald Mattie, quietly. 
“ What do you mean, Mattie ?” eald CecU. “ Are 
you speaking In enigmas ?” 
“Nay, there is no enigma,” said Mattie, quietly 
still, but with a pained expression her sweet blue 
eyes. “ You must know what hla feeling toward 
you Is.” 
“ Must IT” laughed Cedi, rising languidly. 
“ Of oouree you must P said Mattie, rising also, 
and speaking more vehemently than was usual 
with her. *• Oh 1 Cedi,” and she drew near her sis¬ 
ter and put her arm fondly round her, “ he Is too 
good, too noble to be trifled with 1 Do not wound 
bucIi a heart as hla l” 
Cecil looked down at her tor a moment with a 
Budden gleam of pain In her lustrous eyes; then 
she laughed lightly. 
“ My.dear little sister,” she said, gaily, “ do you 
THE RURAL NEW-YORKER. 
think every man who comes near 1 b going to be 
Idiot enough to fan in love with me7” 
“ Lawrence Carewe has done so," said Mattle> 
gravely, “ You know It, Cecil 1” 
“ He has never told me bo,” said Cecil, evasively. 
“As If It needed to be told in words t” Bald Mat- 
tie. “You know It, Cecil.” 
“ I do not choose to know It until he tells me so,” 
said Cecil, Impatiently. “Upon my word, lam get 
ting quite tired of the mention of hla name I One 
hears nothing else In this house from morning 
till night?” 
“ Cecil,” Bald Mattie, gravely, “I owe my life 
to him I” 
“ Nonsense, any other doctor would have done 
the same!" said Cecil, coldly. "He himself says 
so.” 
“Because he la all generous, all noble," said 
Mattie, gravely; “ Cecil, do not make him suffer 
as others have suffered. He Is worthy a better 
fate.” 
“ I cannot be responsible for his folly any more 
than I can for the foUy of a score of predeces¬ 
sors.” 
Mattie’s arm fell from Its clasp and she turned 
away. 
“ I do not know you, Cecil 1” she said. “ You 
are strangely unlike yourself 1” 
" Am I ” said Cecil, and Into her lustrous eyes 
came the old shadow ot pain as she put out her 
hand and drew her sister, half reluctant as she 
was, to her side. “ Am 1 1 How, Mattie?” 
“ You seem so cold, so heartless. Oh, CecU, it. 
is noc possible that you do not love him when 
he loves you so greatly !” 
“Does love beget love? she answered slowly. 
“ is that your experience, Mattie ? 
“ But he is so noble, so true,” said Mattie almost 
desparingly. 
•• Not nobler, not truer than many others,” said 
her sister, calmly. 
“ CecU, vou have no heart 1” said Miss Lester, 
Indignantly, as she withdrew her hand from her 
sister’s; hut CecU caught It again tn hers, and 
turned her face to Mattie with an expression of 
such hopeless, despairing misery upon it, that all 
her anger melted, and she put her arms around 
her sister. 
“ Oh, Cecil, dearest, what Is it?” she said, anx¬ 
iously. “ I did not mean to hurt you.” 
For a moment Cecil rested her head against her 
shoulder In silence, the great salt tears gathering 
slowly In her eyes, and her lips quivering with 
some painful thought; then she rose slowly, and 
loosed her sister’s gentle clasp. 
“ Let me go P she said, hoarsely; you cannot 
understand. I hardly understand myself some¬ 
times; but you need not pity Dr. Carewe,” she 
added, with unoonsetous bitterness. “ It Is Dot he 
who deserve? pity—or, at least, not he alone.” 
As she spoke she disengaged herself, touched 
Mattie’s check with her lips, and left her puzzled, 
and surprised, and touched, but without a clue to 
the truth; while Cecil, rushing to her own room, 
burst Into a passion of tears. 
Poor, unhappy Cecil! She was tasting evpn 
now the bitterness ot her error. Her reveDge hid 
recoiled on herself, and, although she knew it 
not, she waa laying the foundation-stone of her 
own misery In the fulfillment of her vow. 
CHAPTER XIV. 
THE VOW KEPT. 
I “ Will not somebody be charitable, and give us 
some music ?” 
Dinner was over, aud they were sitting in the 
small drawing-room opening into the conserva¬ 
tory, and a pair of tall footmen were handing tea 
and coffee with ponderous solemnity, while Mr. 
Daton leaned back la his armchair half asleep; 
and Cecil, looking wondrouBly beautiful in an 
exquisite deml-tollette ot soft Indian muslin, 
trimmed with a profusion ot lace, with no orna¬ 
ment about her save a knot of blue ribbon nestling 
in the lace at her throat, was sitting on a low seat 
by her uncle, her fingers clasping bis. 
Mattie and Mrs. Auctley were busily engaged 
over some tntrtcate Chinese puzzle which Mr. Da¬ 
ton had brought home that afternoon, and the 
two young men. Mr. Edgar and Lawrence Carewe, 
were standing, coffee-cup In hand, talking, when 
Cecil uttered the remark with which our chapter 
opens: 
“ Will not some one be charitable, and give us 
some music?” 
“Take pity on yourself,” answered Sir Edgar, 
laughingly, while Lawrence Carewe went forward 
to take the empty coffee-cup from her hand. “ We 
have not heard the sound of your voice for ages, 
Cecil." 
“Have you not?" she rejoined, gaily. “I am 
not In the humor this evening, Dr. Carewe; may 
Mattie sing us something?” 
“ Not to-night I” the doctor answered, smiling; 
“ but she may play an accompaniment for you, if 
you will be so good.” 
“ I always play my own,” said Cecil, languidly, 
as she rose from her seat, and moved across to the 
piano. “Nevertheless, I will sing It you will 
promise to slog after.” 
“ Do you sing, Dr. Carewe?” said Mattie, quick¬ 
ly. “ Why did you never tell us, and how did 
Cecil find it out?” 
“ I guessed It,” Cecil answered, turning her lus¬ 
trous eyes on the doctor's taee with a little smile 
In their depths. “ You see I can read you. Dr. Ca¬ 
rewe,” 6he added, as he hent for a moment to 
open the piano. 
“Can you ?” he said. In a low tone, hut with a 
passionate tremor In Its low, tender note. “ Can 
you guess, I wonder, that which I dare not tell 
you?” 
She glanoed at him, and smiled again—a slow, 
lingering, sweet smile: then she turned from h<ni 
abruptly, and putting her white, Jewelled hands 
upon the keys, played a gay prelude. 
“What are you going to sing, CecU?" said her 
Bister, looking up for a moment from the carved 
Ivory toy between her fingers. 
“ You shall see," said Cecil, gaily ; and then to 
an air In whose gay strains ran an under current 
of sadness, sang the following words s 
“ ‘ Woman's faith and woman’s trust. 
Write the characters in dust ; 
Stamp them on the running stream, 
Print them on the moon’s pale Beam 
And each evanescent letter 
Shall be clearer, firmer, better, 
And more permanent, I ween. 
Than the things those letters mean. 
I have strained the spider's thread 
’Gainst the promise of a maid; 
I have weighed a grain of Band 
’Gainst her plight of heart and hand. 
I told my true love of the token. 
How her faith proved light and broken; 
Again her word and troth she plight. 
And I believe again ere night.' ” 
“ I don’t like that song, Cecil,” said Miss Lester. 
“ It. does not suit you either. Now, doctor, It is 
your turn.” 
“ Do you mean that as a warning, Miss Cecil?" 
said Lawrence Carewe, as she rose and relin¬ 
quished her place to him, and In his low tone there 
was a tremor of Intense feellDg. 
She drew back a little, and tbe beautiful face 
paled, and over Its loveliness came a dark shadow 
of pain, of tenderness, almost ot remorse. Then 
she Bmlled. 
“ As a warning, as a challenge, what you will,” 
she said, carelessly. “ Are they not true words?" 
“ It may be so; Heaven only knows [” he said, 
as, seating blmselt by the piano, he struck a few 
chords with the power and brilliance of a thorough 
musician. 
“ I do not know what to sing," he said, breaking 
off suddenly with an uneasy laugh, and his quiet 
face stirred with a deep feeling uausual to him, 
“ Let It be anything you like," said Mattie smil¬ 
ing. Dr. Carewe I feel angry with you for having 
hidden your talent from our knowledge!” 
He laughed again, and hla eyes went longingly 
to Cecil where she stood in her long, softly, flowing 
muslin dress and the little gleatu of azure silk at 
her white throat. Hla glance lingered on the pic¬ 
ture as he sang. 
Then the rich, melodious voice died away, and 
Dr. Carewe turned from the piano with a light In 
hla proud, gray eyes, and with a flush on his cheek; 
there was a momentary silence as he ended, dur¬ 
ing which he saw that the graceful, white-robed 
figure had disappeared; then Mattie said a few 
words of thanks and approval. 
“ It will rake a good deal to make me forgive 
you, doctor, ” she said gaily. “ You have deprived 
us ot a very great pleasure all these weeks. Mr. 
Edgar, why did you noc tell us how well he sang ? 
“ Because I dont Uke to be surpassed.” said he, 
laughing. “ Go on Lawrence; now that you have 
shown us your power, we wou*t let you off. You 
see, Cecil has escaped; quite overcome, but she Is 
quite within earshot In the conservatory, so go on, 
Uke a good fellow. Play U 3 something now—you 
play as well as you sing V 
Dr. Carewe turned to the piano again and began 
to play—playing he scarcely knew or heeded what, 
letting his thoughts run riot as bis fingers moved 
over the beys; pouring out all the tumult ofbls 
feeUngs on the senseless notes. M attle listened en¬ 
tranced where she sat, while Mr. Daton Biumbered 
quietly in his armchair. 
And the rich, tender melodies were finding their 
way to another listener’s ears, and to her heart; 
for without, to the conservatory. Cecil heard, with 
a quiver on ner Ups, and a wonderful Ught in her 
eyes, the prayer, the pathos, the entreaty he was 
pouring forth In music; and for the moment her 
evU purpose was charmed away from her, even as 
the melody of David's harp exercised the evil 
spirit from the heart ot the Israelltlsh king of old 
and her eyes grew humid and tender, and her 
color came and went, as she leaned her head on 
her hands, and listened to the music as It rose 
and fell, 
By-and-by it ceased—gradually dying away In a 
slow, mournful waU, and the musician rose ab¬ 
ruptly from the piano. 
“Thank you—thank you." said Mr. Daton, 
opening his eyes with a start, and rouslDg himself 
from his slumbers. “ Dear me, how well you 
play, Carewe I I had no Idea you were such a 
musician 1 Why, where is CecU 7 ” 
“She Is In the conservatory, I think.” said 
Mattie. 
“AH alone?” said her uncle. “That won’t do. 
Carewe, go and see after her, will you? I’U say 
good-night dow, as I have some letters to write." 
So saying, Mr Daron left the drawing room, and 
after a momentary hesitation, Dr. Carewe disap¬ 
peared in the direction of the conservatory, leav¬ 
ing Mr. Edgar and Mattie In that bUssful dual 
solitude which is so delightful when two people 
understand and love each other. 
The conservatory in which Lawrence Carewe 
disappeared was a double one—at least at one end 
of It there was a second division curtained off, 
and furnished with some pretty, luxurious loung- 
lDg-chalrs, a table, and a low couch. This inner 
conservatory was at all times a favorite resort of 
Cecil's; and it was here that Dr. Carewe found 
her. 
She started slightly as he entered, and laughed 
a little nervously as she looked up. 
“ How you Btartled me. Dr. Carewe!” she said, 
gaily. “You have made my heart beat dread- 
rully I” 
“Did I startle you?” he said, tenderly. ‘Ham 
very 60rry ; I did not mean to do so. Pray, forgive 
me!” 
She glanoed up at him and smiled, then moved 
aside her fleecy white draperies, and made room 
for him on the couch by her side. He sat down In 
silence, bis heart throbbing quick and fast. The 
silence lasted for a moment, then Cecil spoke. 
“How weU you play,” she said, carelessly, with¬ 
out glancing at him. “I had no Idea you were 
such a musician.” 
“That I have pleased you is only too great an 
honor,” he said, gently. 
“You are Decoming quite a courtier,” she an¬ 
swered, with some languid amusement in her 
manner. “ What has changed you so, I wonder ?” 
“ What?” he said, with Budden passion, turning 
to her quickly. “Need you ask? Do you not 
know, Cecil?” 
She laughed slightly, 
“Perhaps I can guess, but I cry you mercy, Dr. 
Carewe. I am surfeited with pretty speeches, 
false and true; at least,” and she turned to him 
with one of her sweet, bewildering smiles, “I can 
claim exemption from them from you.” 
“You can claim what you wlU from me, and It Is 
yours,” he said, while the passion In his heart 
forced Its way upwards to his throat, and made 
his voice tremble as he sat there by her Fide. 
"What I w!U7 Yon give me a wide margin, Dr. 
Carewe,,’ she said, while over her beauty there 
came for a moment a troubled shadow. “Are you 
sincere ?” 
“Sincere ?” he echoed, passtonately. “You know 
that I am. Tf It were my life you asked for, It Is 
yours—do with It what you will.” 
The words were brief enough, but the look which 
accompanied them said more than volumes could 
have done, and meeting that glance the rich color 
faded a little In Cecil’s cheek. 
“You take one back to the old chivalrous days,” 
she said, Ughtly; * but. you talk very foolishly, Dr. 
Carewe. Your Ufe! what 9hould I do with such a 
gift, and what payment could I make you for it?” 
She spoke lightly and carelessly, with all her 
old languid grace and some little amusement; but 
as she spoke she turned her face towards him and 
smiled Into his eyes, and the color came and went 
In his face, while mad words rose to his Ups In re¬ 
ply, words which It required the strongest effor t 
to restrain, hut which he cheeked-he dared not 
speak them yet-although the room seemed to 
turn round about him, and a mist seemed to hide 
her from bis sight. 
Cecil saw his emotion and guessed what was the 
purport of the words he would have spoken; she 
felt the burning glance of his eyes, as they dwelt 
upon her; she aould hear faintly the beating of 
the passionate heart, as he sat by her side, and she 
knew that her triumph was at hand—that the 
words which Mattie's Illness had arrested on his 
Ups on the night of the baU would be spoken now, 
spoken with tenfold passion In proportion as his 
love had grown since that day; and she would 
not spare hlm-spare him through whom her 
brother sinned and fell? Never—Nay! though 
she had seen nothing unworthy In him, though 
even In her eyes he Beemed noble and true beyond 
all nobility and truth, she would keep her vow— 
he should suffer, pang for pang, “an eye for an 
eye, and a tooth for a tooth I” 
SUence feU upon them as they sat, the death¬ 
like calm which often precedes a storm; and In 
that silence a chill fell upon Cecil—a strange, 
sudden foreboding, as she remembered the words 
he himself had spoken to her: 
’’ Revenue, at first though sweet. 
Bitter ere long, back on itself recolla." 
And as she recalled them, an involuntary shudder 
ran through her, and shook her from head to 
foot. 
He turned to her quickly, with swift anxiety. 
“ You are cold—you shivered !” he said, hurriedly 
“May I get you a shawl?” You wlU not return 
to the drawing-room yet ?” 
“ Oh ! no, I am not cold," she answered, with a 
smile. “ Did I shiver? It was your fancy! I am 
not cold. See—feel my hand I” 
She put out her hand to him, and touched his 
with her slender, jewelled Angers, and at the 
touch his calmness fled—he caught It In his, and 
raising It to hl3 Upa. covered It with wild, passion¬ 
ate kisses, which burned Uke Are on the soft flesh, 
she bore the caress in silence, then she withdrew 
her hand from his slowly, and turned slightly 
away. Could It be that she loved him ? 
“ CecU,” he said, brokenly, “ Cecil,” 
For a moment she answered him nothing—per¬ 
haps in that moment she felt a pang of compas¬ 
sion for the suffering she was about to cause ; but 
If she did, she conquered it, and turned to him 
with a smue of bewUdertng sweetness, and said, 
softly: 
“ Well ?” 
“ Y’ou are not angry ?” he said pleadingly. 
“Angryshe repeated. “Why should I be 
angry ?” 
“Why?” he echoed, passionately. “Great 
Heaven, Is It true—Is it true that you will listen to 
me?” 
He took her hands In his once more, he hent hla 
head low over them, and laid his lips upon them 
In one long passionate kiss ; In the silence she 
could hear the rapturous heating of his heart, the 
heavy breathing- as they came from hl3 Ups, and 
she sat, silent, pale Indeed, with a strange, fitful 
pallor, bearing his kiss, his touch, that her triumph 
might be yet more perfect—her revenge yet more 
complete! 
“CecU,” he said, In a moment, mastering hla 
excitement by a strong effort, and speaking with 
some degree of calmness, “ it Is no new thing to 
you to have poured out at your feet the whole 
love of a man’s Ufe and heart; it 13 no new thing 
to you to hear that I love you with all my heart 
and soul, and strength. I have had no hope until 
now. I know myself to be so nnwortby or you— 
that I have fought against that love for my life. 
I have struggled—Heaven knows how valuly—to 
conquer It. But now: oh! my darling, you do not 
repulse me—you do not send me from you—you do 
not reject that love, and my happiness seems 
greater than I can Dear.” 
“ Does euch love exist now-a-days?” she said. 
In a low tone, as she turned her eyes upon him for 
a moment. “ Has it. not died with the poetry and, 
chivalry of the past?” 
“I know not," he said, wildly—“I care not. 
know only this—that I love you as a woman was 
never loved; and that for your love, to win you as 
my own. I would gtve my lire—my very soul [” 
“Oh I hush,” she said, quickly and tremulously 
“ No woman Is worthy ot such love as that.” 
“ Worthy or not, it la thus 1 love you, Cecil, 
ne said, passionately. “ Who says you are not 
worthy ?” 
