guag<i on earth, anrl sometimes she thought, there 
could lie nothing sweeter In Heaven. 
By and by another lover came a-woolug. He 
was the son of a rich man In the village. lie was 
proud, though just what he had to be proud of 
Gretchen could not understand. He could not 
play like Franz, lie could not sing such strange 
and charming songs as Franz could. He seemed 
to lack so much, she thought, when she compared 
him with her lover. His father had money, and 
was the great man of the place, but that was noth¬ 
ing to be proud ot. it merely happened so. 'I bis 
young man had never done anything to make him¬ 
self or any one else better. No one was the hap¬ 
pier because he lived. She thought no one ever 
would Ire, because, you see, slie loved Franz, and 
on that account, liked this new lover not at all, and 
used to laugh at Ills music and Ills shy, strange 
ways, 
“ I would not marry him If he had the world to 
put In his pocket,” said Gretchen. “ You are rich¬ 
er, with your music, Franz, than he with all ills 
father’s wealth.” 
And then Franz made his violin sing the sweet¬ 
est, and the saddest little song, she smiled to 
listen, and felt, the tears coming at the same time. 
She knew afterward, wliat he was thinking about 
then. 
Gretchen's father wanted her to many her rich 
lover. 
“ I cannot do It,” she said, llrmly. “Don’t urge 
me, father, for It can never he.” 
“And why?" he asked. 
“For many reasons,” she answered. “I do not 
love him. 1 never could. That Is one, and that Is 
enough. Send him away, father, before 1 learn to 
hate him.” 
“I know why you will not listen to him,” her fa¬ 
ther said. “It’s because of Uiat Franz. The good- 
for-nothing, idle fellow ! I’d like to break that vi¬ 
olin of his over his head. Now, listen to what I 
say, Gretchen. If you will nut marry the man I 
want you to, l will never consent for you to many 
Franz. Kemembcr that.” 
Ho left her, and site sat down by the window of 
her little room and cried for a long time, she 
could not marry Franz against her father’s wishes. 
She must give up her dream,—but she would not 
forget him or be untrue to bun. she would love 
him If she lost him. 
“ You had better do as your father wants you to,” 
Franz said, bitterly. “ I am only a poor musician, 
and he will never take back his words, be sure of 
that.” 
“But I can wait,” she said, and her face was 
brave and beautiful to see. 
“Ah, but the waiting may be so long!” Franz 
said. “ Ha /e you thought of that ?” 
“ I can wait all my life, if need be,” she said, and 
he knew she meant every,word. 
By and by Franz made up his mind to go to 
America. 
“ I can work there better than here, may be,” lie 
said. “ And it will b? just as easy to wait there as 
here.” 
Berore he went away he made a little song for 
her. It was such a sweet and tender one that, 
though he only sang it once, she forgot not a word 
or a note. Gretchen _had never heard anything 
like it before, and she saw' In It .another proof of 
her lo vur’s genius. 
“ Gh, it Is so beautiful, Franz," she said. “ The 
angels must have sung It to you.” 
“ You think It Is something wonderful because 
you love the one that made It.” lie said. “ It shall 
be your sung and mine, Gretchen, and I will slug 
It to no one else.’’ 
What long and lonesome days those were that 
came after Franz went away ! It seemed as If 
waiting tor a year of such ones would make an old 
woman of her. And they might have to wait so 
many years—hut she would be true forever, brave, 
noble little Gretchen! 
The years came and went. No more lovers came 
to woo. They knew that her Ueait was over the 
sea with Franz. Once In a while she heard from 
him. He was waiting, like herself. 
By and by lier father died, and then Gretchen 
was free to go and come as she pleased. .She was 
free to marry the man she loved, and sue would 
hud him in that wide, new world, and make her 
promise true. 
But where to go she did not know. When last 
she heard from him he was traveling about the 
country with some German singers, and he might 
he east or west, or north or south. Perhaps—and 
when she thought of that her heart seemed to stop 
beating—perhaps he might be dead. Who knew ? 
Stranger things happened every day in this world 
of ours. 
But site would seek for him. .she left her home 
and crossed the sea to the shores Franz had sought 
before her. He hail come to New York. She would 
begin her search there. And sue began it, and it 
ended fruitlessly. If he had ever been there they 
had forgotten him. 
Then she went, to other cities. Wherever she 
hoard of any German singers, there Gretchen 
sought, for her lover. But he was not. among the 
roving minstrels, lie seemed to have dropped out 
f existence. He had gone down in the great 
whirlpool called life, and she was alone, she reared. 
But she was not the woman to give up her search 
and sit down hopelessly. “ No news is good news,” 
they say. .so long as she heard nothing of him she 
could hope. And while hope lasted she would 
search for him. 
So she went hither and thither—east and west, 
and north and south, she listened to the violins 
n many an orchestra, hoping to hear ills among 
hem. She did not care to see t he players. That 
as not necessary. She would recognize the voice 
his instrument when she heard It. But she 
tened In vain. 
So a year went by and at the end of It, she found 
erself In a great Inland city, with money almost 
•ne and courage sinking low. 1 low was her quest 
be kept up longer ? Slie could work, hut when 
he worked her search could not go on. 
“ Oh, my Franz!” she said sorrowfully, as she 
eaned her head upon the wlndow-s that night, 
THE RURAL NEW-YORKER. 
and listened to t he roar of life as it singed to and 
fro in t he streets below her. “ It. indy be we have 
be?n near each other, and yet are never to meat 
again. It may be thou art dead. But thou hast 
not forgotten me, wherever tliou art.” 
So beautiful and strong Is loving woman’s faith ! 
By and by the babel of life grew still. As she 
leaned out In the moonlit air, the Impulse came to 
her to sing. Ah, it had been long since she cared 
to do that! And she sang—sang the utile song 
Franz had made for her. soft and low, at rlist, 
with a quiver In It, as if her sorrow haunted Its 
notes and could not be shaken off; then, as the 
memory of the old times came bade, and she 
thought of Franz, playing under the shadows of the 
pines,,and seemed to hear Ills violin again, speak¬ 
ing to her like a voice out of Heaven, and falling 
like a balm upon the unrest of life, her song grew 
clearer and sweeter, and the night, was like a great 
soul that lislens In Its stillness. 
The song ended. Then from a window high up 
In the great tenement-house opposite, came the 
sound uf a violin. It was like a voice that erics 
out In gladness that is almost unutterable—glad¬ 
ness so deep that It. Is half a pain. The long, trem¬ 
ulous tones came floating to her on the-wind, and a 
voice in each chord seemed calling, calling, while 
over and above the voice a melody wound Itself 
like a vine that Is full of beautiful flowers. 
“ Oh, my Franz i" cried Gretchen. while her face 
was pale with sudden joy. “ Oh, my Franz! J 
have found ttiee! That is thy voice speaking to 
me. Thou hast not forgotten thy song, and now 
thou art answering it." 
Down the long stairs and across the street she 
flew like a hint that hears its mate. I p the stabs 
of the house In which Franz dwelt her feet climbed 
swiftly. Love lent her wings, and her body seemed 
light as her heart. Her soul kept crying, “ Franz, 
I have found thee at last.” 
“Gretchen,Is it thou?" It. was Franz's voice, 
in the language of the fatherland, that spoke when 
her feet were at the door. 
“ It 1 j thy Gretchen," she cried, and then he saw 
her at t he doorway, with the light of woman's love 
shining in her lace, and ha dropped the Uolin, 
stretched our. his hands toward her with a rapture 
too deep for wards in his poor, pale face. 
" oh, my Franz!” and then her anns were about 
his neck, her tears arid kisses mingled on his face, 
“ I had thought that 1 must die witUout seeing 
thee again,” he said. “ But It seemed as If I could 
not. It will not be so hard now, since thou art 
here to hold my hand.” 
•• Thou must not say that, my Franz,” she said, 
and her eyes were so full of rears that she could no 
longer see Ills face. “ Thou must live for me.” 
“ if I could,” he whispered. “ But I fear It can¬ 
not be. liven love like thine Is not strong enough 
to conquer death.” 
“ Bring me my violin.” he said. And she brought 
it and raised him up In bed, so that lie could play. 
He touched the strings softly and lovingly. In low, 
uncertain chords. Presently they fashioned them¬ 
selves Into the melody of the song he had made fur 
Gretchen. oh. it was so sweet, so sad. She felt 
the teal's falling down her cheeks like rain. 
All at once the violin fell from his hands to the 
floor, and a string snapped apart with a sound that 
was like a slurp cry of pain. 
“ It Is the end, Gretchen,’’ he said, faintly. “ Let 
me hold thy hand, dear, and wilt thou kiss me?” 
She bent above him and drew his head upon her 
breast, and kissed his tlfln, cold cheek. A lone¬ 
some wind was blowing through the room and 
smote against his forehead. 
" All, the pines!” he cried. “ Dost hear them, 
Gretclien ? They are talk!ag to me.” 
And then such a far-away look came Into his 
eyes that, she felt as If an infinite space was be¬ 
tween them. And when she called Ills name, and 
lie answered not, she knew that it was the space of 
death. 
A WORD ABOUT ACTRESSES. 
Theke Is hardly a village in the land so obscure, 
or so small, but what, has In it at least one young 
girl who Is ambitious to become an actress. 
In Imagination, she sees herself the center of ad¬ 
miring hosts, the possessor of a heavy hank ac¬ 
count, and the mistress of no end ol superb cos¬ 
tumes. The road to success seems very easy, and 
she reads with a thrill of envy of the adulation 
which Is lavished on popular MISS Davenport or 
Lotta, and despising the uncongenial housekeeping 
or teaching, she sighs for an opportunity to be¬ 
come an actress. A writer In Lipplncott’s Maga¬ 
zine for January has done a wise and kindly thing 
In showing a little or the harsh reality which lurks 
beneath the romance or stage life. We give the 
article, hoping It may be the means or curing at 
least oue girl of her desire to forsake t he quiet of 
home for the glare of the footlights, anti the tempta¬ 
tions wlflch beset the life of an actress. 
“ The stage Is crowded wit h female' aspirants of a 
good figure, some beauty, an irreproachable insfc 
lor the most expensive costumes, and no genuine 
talent. 
Many young girls of wealthy families have 
sought the career of an actress from a powerful 
Impulse toward the excitements of such a life. 
Still, Judging from llic meagre results which fol¬ 
low the Indulgence of fjfclg Inclinations, l infer 
that the stage appears to t hese ambitious ladies 
merely as an arena for gaining more general admi¬ 
ration than they could in private life. There is 
small capacity for any kind of fervid feeling In 
their hearts or minds; there is little of that single¬ 
ness of purpose which is a requisite lor any excel¬ 
lence in art, and w hich must take its line abso¬ 
lutely from a shaping Instinct more powerful than 
any.extemal circumstances. The comparative suc¬ 
cess of such actresses seems to the uninitiated to 
open an easy road toward a fictitious and brilliant 
life, and on every side we see young girls undertak¬ 
ing It without any idea or the preliminary hard¬ 
ships or any realizations of the thousand impedi¬ 
ments In their w ay. Their Idea of uu actress Is of 
a charming, graceful creature whose life Is passed 
between the enjoyment of private incense and pub- 
Ue applause; and by contrast with the prose of 
their every-day existence, and the enfeebling strain 
of effort to reach the demand for thoroughness and 
liai'd work In any other line of occupation, a sort 
of glamour is thrown over the stage. 
Let us see what are choso .Inducements which 
justify so many young ladles in aspiring to a the¬ 
atrical career Without the possession of talent 
which can ensure success. In the lirst place, they 
exchange the security of a retired and guarded 
life fora publicity which rarely becomes either ce¬ 
lebrity or reputation. Generations oi light women 
have made uieimme of “actress” a synonym lor 
the worst faults of the sex; and let a gill once ap¬ 
pear behind the footlights, be she chaste as Ice, 
put© as suow, she cannot escape calumny. This 
is, of course, ciuel Injustice, and does great wrong 
In a hundred cases, still, no one thinks of denying 
that the majority Of t he profession lead lives which 
separate them from their more scrupulous sisters. 
Thus, tlic very factor a girl's becoming an actress 
induces a doubt of her possession of the trails most 
pleasing In women. Let her remain absolutely im¬ 
maculate, she is yet jostled against w omen whose 
character she knows to be more than dubious; she 
becomes familiar with the idea of vice -la quick to 
learn that in the life slie has entered one cannot be 
over nice ami particular, it requires the lorticst 
ideals or the genuine impulse of a severe and con¬ 
scientious pursuit of perfection In ai t not to suffer 
an indescribable lowering of tone from this con¬ 
stant association. 
Another point Is this; Nothing Is so Important 
for a mediocre actress (and we are writing of no 
others) as the matter of eusLume. Even with a 
continuous engagement, it Is Impossible, with the 
salary paid to second-rate professionals (ranging 
from tiuecn to forty dollars a week, and tills often 
lardy in payment, sometimes w holly forfeited by 
failures of Hie management), to provide the rich 
and varied Ureases now demanded at all the lead¬ 
ing theatres, i hus, a youug actress dependent on 
her salarj and without an accumulated ward¬ 
robe to fall back upon, liiuls herself obliged to eurn- 
peie with others whose extravagance scarcely has 
a lhnit—who may, U it suits the play, Indulge their 
love or dress by appearing m liu less titan six or 
seven toilettes of the most superb description. In 
certain theatres some or the costumes are given 
by the managers, but any actress will assure the 
novice that very few even of the “ leading ladies” 
In the profession can properly dress their parts 
on their salary. 
vve have so far spoken only or the difficulties 
tin 1 young and obscure actress must contend w ith 
after she is launched and has a secure engage- 
meut, while the metis, that it is well nlgli im¬ 
possible for her to obtain any footing at. all on the 
stage, every entrance is so overcrowded. Getting 
an engagement at first seems practicable; after a 
few failures it becomes a weary experience. Prom¬ 
ises are made only to be broken; hopes are held 
out which but the more cruelly light up the blank 
negation ot the re.diUes. To sit. with a manager 
for two hours In the morning Is to gain an idea of 
the numbers of aspirants to whom an engagement 
is a matter of vital Interest, of actual necessity. 
Women ot every uge, from the round-faced girl of 
sixteen to the pale, worn creature of forty, come 
In to Inquire if Mr.-has anything for them 
that morning; 11 Is a dreary round, and to many 
a perilous one. Few illusions remain to the neo¬ 
phyte alter tolling for weeks in this way without 
seeming near to the goal. 
The goal once reached and an engagement made, 
t in' Insecurity of things In general becomes mani¬ 
fest. on the stage, as everywhere else, If you make 
yourself essential—11 you act so well that your 
playing or your part Is an indispensable guarantee 
of the success of the drama—there is lit tle danger 
of your losing your engagement. But few cun 
adapt themselves to their roles with that flue fit¬ 
ness which precludes the idea or any one's doing it. 
better. Hence, the young actress hurts herself con¬ 
stantly In danger ol being superseded, Tile green¬ 
room is lull ol cliques whose jealousies arc of the 
most creeping and venomous kind, and a novice— 
and. above all, a novice whose standard of taste 
and morality seems disagreeably high—la a person 
to be got rid of If possible. At a time when the 
young actress needs' the most friendly support, the 
most tender palleuce and the most generous en¬ 
couragement she Is liable to be fretted and dis¬ 
heartened by a course of systematic cruelty on the 
part of some older professional, who perhaps 
lias taken a dislike to lier—perhaps wants her 
place for a friend of Ills or her own. The generosity 
of actors and act resses lias become proverbial, aud 
apparently no class of people stand by each other 
so consistent ly ; yet It is nevertheless true that In 
no other profession (unless we except the musi¬ 
cal) can t here be waged a more deadly Internecine 
war. Thus, on engagement Is often cancelled on a 
mere pretext, and the young actress fliids the 
ground cut away Hum beneath her feet. And slie 
has no redress. Her having been allowed a place 
In the play at all was a miraculous piece of good¬ 
nature on the part of the management, lor whleli 
she was too thankful to allow or her making pro¬ 
visions of safety. 
A continuous engagement lor eight months ol 
the year Is one or the rarest pieces of good fortune, 
and rarely enjoyed by any save actresses ot real 
ability. Few expect to do better than be employed 
In companies whose lease of life depends upon the 
success of tours Into the provinces. Most of these 
cud in failure, and payment for services rendered 
Is often delayed, and sometimes, it Is to bo feared, 
altogether repudiated. What then becomes of the 
young actress out or an engagement, the entrance 
to every theatre barred for that season, unless 
some lucky accident opens an unexpected chance? 
it is ou tins chance that half—perhaps two-thirds— 
of one class of actresses live. 
A reverish life It is too —of suspense, tortured 
by constant fluctuations of hope and despair; al¬ 
most certain to be hampered by debts; exposed to 
every sort of humiliation. In which sympathy and 
promises of aid are rarely anything save a source 
or unexpected dunger; the energies which unfavora¬ 
ble circumstances sometimes beget are chilled when 
resolutions of Independence and high purpose find 
themselves powerless before petty alternatives, 
each repugnant to heart and mind. 
Tills fictitious, elegant life of splendid living, rich 
drosses, waiting audiences, brilliant successes Is, 
except to the possessor of rare talent or undoubted 
genius, the poorest, tawdriest, least worthy exist¬ 
ence a woman can honestly live. It is, too, a life 
resting on a basis which renders the perceptions 
dulled and deadened to the finer uses and aspira¬ 
tions of womanhood—in which shadow is better 
than substance, tinsel than gold, and falsehood 
than truth.” x 
—-- 
WEAKEK THAN A WOMAN. 
CHAPTER XXV. 
From that day a change came over Felix Lons¬ 
dale; he went home even that same evening an 
altered man; lie opened his heart to t he love and 
sympathy that Katie showed him. 
lie did not suffer le,->a—hut. It was in another 
fashion now. lie worked harder than ever; he 
said to himself that if it were possible he would 
drown his sorrow la the hardest work he could find. 
And yet he did not know ilie worst; he only knew 
that Violet laid broken lier promise, and declared 
it impossible no marry him; he had not the faintest 
notion that there was really any wealthy lover at 
hand, lie believed llrmly that lier parents had 
talked to her and argued with her until she had 
been overruled by them. Still, all Lifford—all but 
liimself—kuew that violet, was going to marry sir 
Owen; It had been kept quite secret for some time, 
but now the day was fixed—the fourteenth of Sep¬ 
tember—and there could no longer be any secrecy. 
The whole place was in a ferment over it. There 
was to be a grand dinner given t o all the tenants, 
to all uie servants and dependants; and the bell¬ 
ringers had been told how many times a merry 
peal was to be rung ou the old church bells, in 
honor of the bride and bridegroom. Tile oidy per¬ 
sons who knew nothing of all this were flic Inhabi¬ 
tants oi V;de House—the in valid father who saw- 
no one hut the doctor and Eve Lester, the kindly 
industrious young stop-mother, and the young 
lover himself. No one qaretl to apeak to them on 
such a subject, aud they were the last to hear of 
it. Even Evelyn, who never shrank from trouble, 
shrank from speaking to them about it. 
Felix wondered one night, when she came to 
Vale House, why slie was so kind, so tender and 
compassionate to him, why she hovered round him 
like a mot her over a sick child, why she spoke sueli 
low earnest words to him—so noble, so beautiful, 
that Ids whole soul was stirred by them. 
1 ' * dad almost begun to fear that there was some¬ 
thing fresh concerning that unfortunate will,” he 
said; “people have been so strange with mo. It 
cannot be my love-story; no one knows that. Peo¬ 
ple all know, oi course, that Violet has gone away 
to London; hut l do not flunk any one out of our 
own household knows that slie has broken with 
me." 
Eve could not tell him; she could help him, she 
could strengthen liis heart and his mind, but she 
could not look at him and say, “ To-morrow will be 
Violet's wedding-day.” she turned away sick at 
heart that she could not take the whole burden 
upon herself and suffer for lilni. she was brave 
enough, hut she could not say to him, •• The girl 
for love or whom yuu are breaking your heart 
thinks so little of you—so little ot your pain—that 
she is going to marry to-morrow the muu above all 
others whom you dislike.” 
Hlie talked to him uf the grandeur and nobility 
of sorrow, the bravery or bearing pain, the coward¬ 
ice of falling under a burden: and then, when she 
left him, she whispered to Katie— 
“ Be very kind to him to-morrow, madre. He 
will stand sorely in need of it.” 
But even Kute did not dream what the words 
meant. 
The harvest-moon that night shone down upon 
many different scenes. It crept Into a superb room 
in London, Where Sir Owen, flushed with love and 
w ine, told with many an oath to a choice circle of 
Mends how he had outwitted the lawyer and car¬ 
ried oil his bride. 
*' * s liall have some fine amusement with him 
when i return to Garswood,” lie said. “ He must 
have been as vain as Narcissus himself to think 
that any girl would prefer him to me." 
ills Mends drank his costly wines and applauded 
him—each Ignoble sentiment, each mean Idea— 
until they could do so no longer. 
The moon looked in at another Window—the win¬ 
dow of a magnificent chamber, wherein lay all the 
details of a superb bridal costume—a lace veil of 
priceless value, a wreath of orange-blossoms, white 
satin snoes aud white gloves, with a dress that was 
a triumph of art. it shone on a pretty white bed 
whereon a young girl lay—on golden hair that was 
all disheveled and lying in silken profusion over 
the pillow—(si a fair and beautiful face all stained 
with toare; fur on this evening something like re¬ 
morse had come to Violet, llaye, and she had wept 
with a wild cry for the lover whom she had bar¬ 
tered for gold. Even the diamonds, the costly 
gems, the rich dresses, the wealth and grandeur 
for which she hud sold herself, had not power to 
soothe her. The same moon shone Into the room 
where Eve Lester knelt, her fair face raised to Llie 
evening skies, praying lleaven to help the man she 
loved through the bitter hour of his pain and deso¬ 
lation. It shone into the room where Felix sat 
writing because lie could not sleep and was unable 
to llud rest In anything except work. The silvery 
moon shone brightly over all. 
Felix worked until his tired eyes could see no 
longer, aud then he pul away ills papers, lie had 
business tor the morrow, and, it he could not sleep, 
he said to himself that he might close Ills eyes and 
think ot that. 
lie went to the office early the next morning, and 
It struck him that, there was an unusual stir In the 
streets. A band of music passed him. He saw the 
people, gaily dressed, all going In the same direc¬ 
tion. He wondered If there was a fete anywhere, 
