THE RURAL NEW-YORKER. 
fitcraq glisccKanii, 
WEAKER THAN A WOMAN, 
CHAFTER XXVI. 
(Continued from page 46.) 
She was one of the most fearless of maidens; all 
the high courage and undaunted bravery or her 
race lived In her. She put, her drawing-materials 
aside and went towards the place whence the 
sound had proceeded. Her heart beat fast when 
she saw before her the prostrate figure of a man. 
There was no sobbing now, only a death-luce si¬ 
lence, and the man lay with Ids face downwards. 
She did uot faint, or scream, or run awuy, but she 
listened for his breathing, this dainty daughter of 
a noble race. Was he dead? Had ho swooned? 
Was he hurt? 8he grew pale and trembled when, 
on the cool greeu grass, she detected stains of 
blood. Once, twice she spoke to him, and then she 
raised his head and looked Into Ids face. How 
handsome It. was—Just such a face as she had seen 
given to a Greek god—such a face os site had seen 
in marble In the dim light of old Homan galleries. 
Then she saw that on the temple, so white, so 
rounded, so full of Ideality, there was a terrible 
wound. A moment's reflection showed her what 
the wound was. Jflat above him was the branch 
of a tree. Ife must have been running in hot 
haste, and, not seeing tho branch with its sharp, 
Jagged edge, had run against It. He had fallen 
there, and had swooned, probably because the 
blow had stunned him. 
What a handsome face it was, but how terribly 
marked with pain! What did all those great lines 
mean on the fair brow and round tho beautiful 
mouth? .Warm pity and tender compassion rose 
In her heart for him. She laid the helpless head 
on the grass again, and went and dipped her hand¬ 
kerchief in the brook, she laid It on his brow; she 
bound up the cruel gaping wound, and then hesi¬ 
tated what she should do next, lbs head lay upon 
her arm, and she looked like an angel of compas¬ 
sion bending over him. Suddenly, to her great 
relief, he opened Ills eyes and gazed at her. 
“vjoleli" he said.—-I am not Violet,’’ she re¬ 
plied. 
She saw his whole face change. 
“Oh. Eve, Eve," he said, “you told me of the 
angel of pain, but the trial was more than I could 
bear 1" 
“I am not Ere." she told him gently; but trom 
the dim shadowed look in Ills eyes she knew that 
he did not hear her. 
Gently and quietly, with softest touch, she bathed 
his hot brow with the cool water of the brook until 
she saw that his senses had returned to lilm. 
“ I found you here, badly hurt,” she^sald. 
He tried to rise, but he was quite unable to stir. 
She laid her hand upon his arm. 
she said, “you must not try to stand—you 
will feel belter soon. You are dazed and giddy— 
you must have struck your head against this 
branch. Where were you running so quickly ?” 
“ Away from the sound of the bells.” he answer¬ 
ed. “ I knew that i should not hear them in the 
depths of the Bi-amber Woods." 
“Hid they distress you V she asked. “ I thought 
them so bcauiiiul.” 
“ They drove me mad—they were killing mo,” he 
replied. Then with a low cry he bent his face 
towards the long grass. 
“I feel sure that I have seen you before," she 
said. “Ho you know me? l am Lady Maude 
Brambcr; and you—I have seen you at the Towers. 
Surely you arc Air. Felix Lonsdale, the dear old 
lawyer's sou ?” He looked at her. 
“Yes, l am Felix Lonsdale,” lie replied; “and I 
begin to think that Heaven has placed a black 
cross against my name. 1 ought to have known 
you, Lady Maude. I remember you now, but my 
head w as all confused.” 
“ Your face is quite familiar to me,” said Lady 
Maude. “ You came to the Towers with your 
father—it is four years since—and you took lun¬ 
cheon with us. I showed you some of my draw¬ 
ings, and you were very shy. it conies back to mo 
so vividly, liut, Air. Lonsdale, why were you run¬ 
ning from the sound of those bells7” 
She saw a spasm of pain pass over his handsome 
face ; Ins ups trembled. 
“ Do not agitate yourself,” she said kindly. “ Do 
not tell roe It It pains you." 
“ All the world—all my world—knows it.,” he re- 
pUed. “I will tell you. Lady Maude. I ran, mad, 
blind, reckless, trom those bells because they are 
chiming In honor of the marriage of the girl I 
loved—the girl who had promised to marry me.” 
“Surely,” said Lady .Maude with a light break¬ 
ing over her face, ** you do not mean your pretty 
golden-haired sweetheart, Violet, Ilaye 7 Your 
father lold its abouihor that day at the Towers.” 
“Yes; she has married sir Gwen Cliovenlx to¬ 
day, and the wedding-bells were driving me mad.” 
“ Poll- boy,” said Lady .Maude, rather to herself 
than to him, “ I am not surprised utlt. You shall 
not tell me about It now,” added Lady Maude,alter 
a silence of some few seconds. “It is the old stray, 
I suppose, of trust and love, roily and treachery. 
Tell me of your homo, your lather—I was always 
very fond of your lather. How Is lie ?” 
Sympathy was so sweet. They were sitting ' 
under the great boughs of the spreading elm. Lady 
Maude’s Just and gently heart ached with pity for ] 
him. 11 scmiicd Lo him such a relief In talk to , 
her. lie felt weak and languid—woman's sweet, , 
soft words, woman’s pity and sympathy, were very f 
acceptable to him just then. j 
He dl l not speak of violet, but he told her the i 
story of his father’s bitter trlals-how Mrs. Hard- ■, 
man’s money wag left to them, how happy it had ( 
made them, what plans and hopes they had built , 
on It; then or the disputed will, the trial, the ver- , 
diet; how his fathers business had fallen away \ 
from him, and Ids old friends hud one by one l 
deserted him, all but Eve Lester; and he told her 1 
Jiow Eve had come to Oder her fortune to them, i 
Lady Maude’s eyes filled with tears as she lis¬ 
tened. 
“ That is a girl after my own heart,” she said. 
- “ But do you mean to tell me. Mr. Lonsdale, that this 
ts the outcome of English law? qhave never 
heard of so cruel a case. All who know your father 
know that he Is as incapable of doing wrong as 
any man in England-in fact, he would not do 
wrong—he is one of the noblest, of men. I have 
always heard him so highly spoken of. You do not 
1 mean to say that Ills tellow-townsmen and the old 
friends who have known him for years stand aloof 
i from him for this ?” 
s She spoke with angry Indignation that did his 
heart good to hear. 
“it is true.” he replied; “and. what is more, 
they have withdrawn their business from him— 
some under one pretext, some under another. We 
hare had a. struggle such as few could understand, 
and my great fear is that my father will never be 
a strong man again,” 
"He wants a reaction,” she said—“something 
that would put him back Into his place—that would 
reinstate him In public opinion; and he shall have 
It. 1 will tell tills story. Just as you have told It to 
rne. to my father, and I am sure this Is one ol' the 
wrongs he will hasten to redress, l am glad that I 
have seen you. glad you have trusted me. There 
has been a gross miscarriage or justice." 
“ Human laws must always be more or less Im¬ 
perfect.” returned Felix. “It Is only the Divine 
laws that have no flaw." 
“Teh me more of Eve Lester," said Lady Maude. 
“ Your fair raise violet does uot interest me, but 
Eve Lester does. I love noble women—tell me 
of her.” 
He told ot her pa tience, her heroism, her noble, 
gentle, generous life; and Lady Maude, looking at 
him, wondered why, when he understood the beau¬ 
ty of her fair soul so well, he had not loved her in 
preference to violet. 
“Men are all the some.” she thought; “a fair 
face will lead In any direction. They lose their 
heads when beauty comes upon the scone ; they 
arc not strong-minded as a rule.” Then with a 
smile site looked up at Felix. 
“The little mouse in the fable freed the lion. I 
will be the mouse in this Instance, and 1 promise 
you such help for your fal her as shall make his 
trouble really a blessing In disguise.” 
He thought of Eve's words and repeated them to 
her. She smiled. 
“ Your triend Eve Is right,” she said. “ Sorrow 
is often a blessing tu disguise, i am glad that. I 
have met you; you will go home alt tho happier 
tor knowing that the hour of your father’s triumph 
ts at hand. You will have something to distract 
your thoughts from fair, raise Violet; and, remem¬ 
bering my promise, the fourteenth of September, 
her wedding-day, wilt not be the most unhappy 
day of your life after all.” 
He thanked her until the tears *came Into her 
eyes again; and then lie told her that he was beo 
ter, and asked her to let him walk with her to the 
end of the woods. When he tried to stand up, he 
looked very white and 111—she almost feared for 
him; but the giddiness soon passed, and they 
walked together to where she had left her draw¬ 
ing-mat ctluls. He thanked her again and again 
so simply and earnestly that she was charmed. 
Then she left him, and went away home. 
Felix had Intended to take up Ills burden bravely 
and carry It nobly; but human love and human 
passion wore too st rong for him—lie could not face 
the world Just yet. lie stayed all night, in the 
shelter ol t he Beamber Woods, doing hard battle 
with his despair; he watched the sun set, and the 
moon rise; he watched the golden stars come out 
one b.v one; lie watched the chequered shadows 
that tim muon threw upon the grass; he listened 
lo the wind as It sang its sweet song; he thought 
of all the moonlit nights on which he had met vio¬ 
let. lie fell asleep lor a few short moments, and 
dreamed that, lie stood under the wet lilac-bushes 
with licr; her arms were clasped round Ills neck, 
her beautiful face was raised to hts, and she was 
scolding him that oven In a dream he could believe 
her false. He woke with a cry of rapture. There 
lav the cold moonlight, there stood the giant trees 
and Violet had married Sir Owen. 
All night he stayed there, rt was the one terri¬ 
ble battle ot his lire. He was uot ashamed to im¬ 
part all his sorrow to the listening stare. There 
were times that night when he almost went mad. 
when he filed aloud for death. But Heaven was 
merciful, and death came not. The morning light 
found him pale, weak and exhausted; but that, 
one tierce paroxysm had taken the sting of his sor¬ 
row away. It was bet ter than if lie had gone home 
and been 111 for long days and weeks. That one 
fierce night of pain exhausted him; when it had 
passed, he was too weak and too tired to suffer 
more. 
He went home In the full light of the morning, 
and found Kate watting for him she had guessed 
what liar] happened, she had not spoken of Ills 
absence, but she looked anxiously at his face when 
he came In. He bant down and kissed her. 
“Jtls all over, inadre,” he said. “Now I shall 
live down my pain.” 
Katie looked sadly at the wound on his broad 
white brow. . 
“llovv did you cut yourself so terribly, Felix?” 
slie asked; and lie lold her. It was one of Ids great 
merits that he never spoke a false or evasive word. 
On that same night Lady Chcvenlx sat with her 
husband In a llrst-class rail way-carriage on ibe < 
road to Palis. They were to spend their honey- i 
moon there, and they had left Dover by that night’s 
steamer. As the night grew darker and the red 
lights of the signals passed more quickly, she feu 
Into a deep troubled slumber. Her husbiu < looked i 
with exultant pride at the marvelous fact with its t 
exquisite, bcauly; lie was glad that she slept—it. i 
would rest her. and would help to wlille the hours 
away, lie tried to sleep, but It was impossible, He i 
was exultant, triumphant; he had won l lie only <■ 
thing wauling In complete the happiness of his v 
life. His heart hungered as he looked at the grace- ( 
ful figure ol his wife, He noted with pride and 
pleasure how tho handsome traveling-dress became 
her sweet loveliness. 
“ The folly or tha t lawyer to imagine that such a 
’ woman as this was born to live In a place like Lll- 
' f°rd I His year’s income would not find her a de¬ 
cent dress. He will recognize hts mistake when he 
5 sees Lady C'hevenlx.” 
It was strange that no feeling of pity for his rival 
. or remorse for tits own behavior crossed hts mind. 
[ He did not seem even to understand that he had 
done a dishonorable thing. He had outwitt ed an¬ 
other man, and lie was delighted. Then he saw 
the face that he was watching grow paler in sleep. 
Suddenly Ills young wife awoke with a loud cry. 
lie saw her look at both her hands, while her 
white lips trembled. 
“ What is It, violet?" he asked. 
“A dream.” she replied, shuddering—“only a 
dream." 
“ very horrid things they are too, sometimes,” 
he said. “ What, did you dream ?” 
She was still looking at her hands, rubbing the 
softly-tinted gloves as though she would fain rub 
something from them. She was too contused to be 
quick at Invention. 
“ What did you dream ?" he repeated—and there 
was a. certain sharpness In his voice. 
“ J thought that 1 held a human heart In my 
hand, and that It was bleeding,” she replied. 
*• That would do for a sensation novel, violet.’ 
be said, laughing. “ You have something better 
than a heart in your hand—you have a diamond 
ring on your finger worth two hundred pounds, 
and you have a wedding-ring that makes you Lady 
C'hevenlx. Go to sleep again, but dream of dia¬ 
monds, my dear, not hearts—as whist-players say, 
diamonds are trumps.” 
But sleep had gone from Violet; she watched the 
skies until morning dawned, and more than once, 
although she was Indy Cbevenlx of oarswood. one 
of the wealthiest women in England, she wished 
that It were all undone, and that she was violet 
ii aye again. 
On that same night Lady Maude and Lord Ar¬ 
lington talked long and earnestly. She told him 
the story that she had heard, and asked him for 
help. lie thought long over It. 
•• I know of one way tn which i can help him, 
Maude,” he said; “but that will require considera¬ 
tion.” Then be said a few words In a low voice. 
She clasped her hands. 
“Will you do that, papa?” she interrogated. 
“That would be one of the grandest things In the 
world. I shall be so pleased—far more pleased 
than at any good fortune which could happen to 
myself." 
" I will think of It,” replied Lord Arlington; and 
when he spoke In the tone that he did then his 
daughter knew that he was determined to accom¬ 
plish what he had In view. 
CHAPTER XXVII. 
There was great excitement In the town of Lll- 
forrl. As one man said to another, they might al¬ 
ways expect something strange when the Earl 
came horns; but this was stranger than all. The 
Earl’s tenants, and every man in Lllford with 
whom ho did business of any kind, received an In¬ 
vitation to dine with the Earl at the “Brainber 
Arms.” 
The •• Brnmber Arms ” was the chler hotel In LU- 
ford. It boasted of a large assembly-room, where 
the county-balls and the hun I-bulls were all given, 
it. was the very stronghold and fortress of the aiW 
tocracy of the neighborhood, and its resources 
were wonderful. The dinner to the tenants was to 
be served in the assembly-room. People called It a 
rent-dinner, such as the Earl generally gave to his 
tenants once a year; hut they agreed that there 
was something more in it t.liau that, or why were 
so many bidden who wore not tenants? Why 
wore the doctors, the vicar, and every other person 
with whom the .Earl had any business relations 
asked, ami many more besides ? The Karl, It was 
remarked, rode or drove through Lllford every day, 
and he was sure each day to give three or four in¬ 
vitations. Public expectation and excitement in¬ 
creased. What could the Earl mean by such un¬ 
limited hospitality ? 
The proprietor of the “Bramber Arms” gave 
glowing accounts of the dinner that was to be pre¬ 
pared. No expense was to be spared. He was to 
provide the choicest dishes. He declared that dur¬ 
ing his business career he had known nothing like 
It. 
Felix heard or the grand banquet, the rent-din¬ 
ner, as It. was called, and went home one evening 
pleased to have some news that would Interest his 
father. When he reached Vale House he was as¬ 
tonished to iind that two letters ot Imitation were 
there before him, one for his father and one for 
himself. 
“That is wonderful," he said. “Why has the 
Earl invited us?” 
Nor was Ids wonder much decreased when In his 
father's letter he read a few words written In the 
Earl’s own handwriting, and signed “Arlington” 
—a tow kindly Words, bogging Mr. Lonsdale, lr pos¬ 
sible, to lie present, ns he very much wished to see 
him. 
“That means good news for you, father,” he 
said. He had never mentioned ills Interview with 
Lady Maude, neither had lie forgotten It. 
Mr. Lonsdale shook Ids head gravely. 
“ There will be no more good news for me In this 
world, my dear boy—no second Will-o'-the-wisp will 
ever lead me astray. For the 'future I shall believe 
lu nothing but what I see,” 
“You will find that 1 am tight,” said Felix. 
“ YOU will go, will you not?" 
“ l es, I will go, just, to showiuy fellow-townsmen 
that, wlille they treat me as a thief or a swindler, 
the Earl of Arlington t reats me as a gentleman. I 
"ill go, If only to show them that. Yot I have 
some misgivings, Felix. It they avoid me as they 
have done, it will kill me. Felix, what ir his lord- 
ship has heard nothing of this story, and has In- 
\ ited me In Ignorance ? What if, when he finds It 
out, he avoids me too?” 
“My dear father, why dwell on trifles? Lord 
1 A rtlngton says expressly tba t he wishes to see you 
Surely you do not doubt his word ? He has been so 
much In Lllford lately that, you may be quite sure 
he has heard the whole history.” 
In his heart Felix felt certain that Lady Maude 
had told her tat,her all about It, and that this Invi¬ 
tation of the Earl’s had something to do with her 
communication. He placed his arm caressingly 
round his father's neck. 
“ You may get better, father,” he said, “ and 
come with me.” 
(To be continued.) 
-•-*-*-— 
WHAT HAPPENED TO SEVEN GIRLS IN 
TEN YEARS. 
MAHT WAGER-FISHER. 
(Continued from payo BO.) 
The promise was faithfully kept, and the letters, 
by a hocus poeus of circumstance have fallen into 
my hands. Before giving them below, verbatim el 
literatim , I open a photographic album and take a 
look at their faces. Herels Zethrea—a wholesome 
looking girl—round faced, red cheeked, tall and 
lithe, superb black hair, beautiful hands—feet and 
teeth ditto, only these do not show in the portrait. 
She had been educated at Mt. Ilolyoko and lived at 
Cairns Point, N. A.—a refined, affectionate and 
merry maiden scarcely out of her teens. This 
brown haired, brown eyed, smUluggtrlof exquisite 
complexion and a very fully rounded form, Is Lee 
Jaynes, she belonged to Schenectady. N. Y.—a sim¬ 
ple hearted, guileless, conscientious child. Of the 
“Cookies” it has already been hinted that one was 
(lark and the other talr. The faces of both are very 
sweet and lovely; both had an exquisite sense of 
t he ridiculous, of taste lu dress, and abounded tn 
the practical good sense ami thrift of New England. 
Their home was In Nash ton, N. H. .Mary Roswell's 
race Is not easily described. It Is rull of character, 
fuU of sadness, and some bitterness of expression 
lies about the mouth. Her life had been full of 
adventure and much too full or misfortune. She 
was born in the Sandwich islands, where both her 
parents had gone as missionaries, and where both 
died and had been burled. Orphaned, she was 
placed in charge of the Missionary Board, and 
brought back to America by way of China. During 
thl3 homeward Journey, still scarcely more than a 
baby, an accident befell her from which she never 
recovered, and vvliich made the doing of every kind 
of work more difficult for her than for those about 
her. But devoted to an unusual degree, and en¬ 
dowed with the true missionary disposition, she 
achieved great things In her way, overcoming all 
obstacles with a brave and dauntless spirit. She 
was the one person In the world that took the Lord 
at. His word and trusted in it; although there were 
many times in her life when she had reason to be¬ 
lieve that He had forgotten aU about her. in per¬ 
son she was short—she wore her dark hair 
“shingled,” which welt became her round and 
rosy face; her smile was winning and her eyes 
dark blue. She had the knack ot relating her ex¬ 
periences In a pleasing and graphic way, and some 
ot her sketches have appeared at times during 
these pasL ten years tn the columns of various 
Journals. Mary Walter was tho tallest ot the girls, 
of light, build, a ml decidedly Individual In style and 
manner. Her picture shows a largo eyndgirl, with 
a rather delicate face, with brow and temples too 
much shaded by dark curling hair; she was college 
bred, quick tempered, high-strung nature, whose 
only faults lay on the surface, and who had gone as 
an “N. T.” for Ole novelty or the experience. 
Mercy Biddle’s face would have done up well as a 
Friend's—it had a fairness and reposed ness about- It 
that savored or Quakerdom. But she was only an 
old-fashioned, plain Methodist girl, with a Saxon’s 
fairness, and a wealth of long fair hair simply colled 
at the back. Her face was one to please and to 
win confidence at a glance, A strong, earnest face, 
lull of positive convictions. 
Now for the letters, which are given in the order 
of their dates. The first Is rrom Mary ltoswell: 
San Francisco, last of December, 1870 . 
Dear old Cuums:— Ten years ! Is It. only ten 
years since we sat In Walter's room that New 
Year's night? It seems like twenty at least, as I 
look back at the past. I suppose each one’s life 
seems as eventful to her as mluc to me. But I 
hope no one else of our band lias been through as 
much as I have tn these ten years. From Rich¬ 
mond I went (after you loft for your homes In tho 
summer) to Nelson Co., Va. YOll all remember the 
circumstances: one of the F. F. Vs., with sixteen 
children, wanted a teacher for them. Sometimes I 
think r ought to have stayed longer with them; 
but 1 thought I could not, and from there I went, 
to Staunton, Va. where 1 taught a year. From 
there, after a visit North, l went to Charleston, s. 
C., commissioned as teacher to the rreedmen by the 
Presbyterian General Assembly. There l made a 
failure of teaching, as I always did In a city; after 
a few months left there utid was sent to Wlnusboro, 
8. C„ where 1 was soou .stationed by myself in the 
country. No one else would go to that station—It 
was so isolated, t lived there fourteen months, 
teaehlng in an old, dilapidated four-story brick 
building, formerly a theological Institute. I was 
often very lonely, but 1 had plenty of work and felt 
that I was doing good. I had a Sunday school and 
a night school nil the time, besides my usual day 
school. When at. lust It was deemed best lo close 
the school there, and remove me to another station, 
a colored man Indignantly exclaimed: “I'll never 
have anything to do again with the Presbyterian 
Persletj ! Here I have been seiidlu’ twelve clillen 
to you all dese fourteen mumfs and now they takes 
you away from me I” 
From there 1 went still further Into the country 
and taught In a log cabin with no windows, and 
only a hole for a door. 
ThLs was In the winter of ’Tn and 'Ii and South 
Carolina was greatly excited then. After vainly 
waiting ror a better state of things, I closed the 
school and soon after went North. 
But In the meantime. January nth, ] had been 
married. 1 cannot well speak of my marriage and 
the yearn that followed, for even now, that it is all 
