JULY 28 
Dr. Yorke felt uncomfortable, be did not know 
why. 
“What if I eay ‘Yes’ now, before I hear this 
little history ?” he asked, forcing a smile. 
“ It would still have to be tom; please alt down 
and listen ” 
The pigeons cooed and flapped their wtng 3 , and 
made little excursions to neighboring roofs; a 
patch of sunshine on the garden wall; voices of 
children and the slow creak of heavy wagons 
sounded from the street. 
No. 3. 
“ If it Is that you don’t love me as I love you, 
Olive.”’the Doctor began nervously, “I will spare 
you the confession, now should It be otherwise?” 
“ But it 13 something more. It Is that—that I 
love some one elHe." 
A dead silence followed these low words, while 
Olive's heart beat fast with regret and uncertainty, 
and a strange, unwilling hope, and tho Doctor but¬ 
toned and unbuttoned his glove, aud was conscious 
of changing color. 
“ I might easily tell you.” Miss Carew went on, 
as Boon as she was able to speak, “that It is all 
over—that I hare forgotten It. Some women 
would say this, perhaps, but T cannot. I love a 
man who can never be anything to me—and that 
is all you will ever know. And now you see I was 
right In saying that It, la you who must say ‘ Yes’ 
or * No.” The Doctor did not speak. “ ir 1 were 
alone In the world—If 1 had not my boy to think 
of—and now there was a pathetic tremor In 
Olive’s voice—“ I would not marry you, for you 
deserve the best love a woman can feel, and I can¬ 
not give you such a love. I know it. Is a shame to 
offer you anything less, butsee how 1 am tempted r 
Dr. Yorke lilted her fair trembling hand and 
kissed It. 
“Do you wonder,” she cried In a sort or passion, 
“ that I cannot send you away as I should do ? I 
am so lonely—there Is no one In the world to look 
at me and speak to me kindly as you do. 1 think 
my heart. Is tired of aching ior what will never 
come back; ior It Is pleasant to know that you 
think oi me as good men think or the women they 
make their wives—that you do not take It ior 
granted I am bad because I am an actress.” 
“ Olive I” 
No. 4. 
“ Yes—I know; but men do think so, Dr. Yorke. 
How should they know what I learnt from my 
poor pretty little mother In the days when we hud 
a home and were so happy together ? She was not 
afraid to let me go on the stage, you see! She was 
not afraid to trust. Nelson to me, when she lay 
dying two yenr-s ago, and all our tears could not 
keep her with us one day longer.” 
“Olive! My child!” 
“ I cannot help crying when I think ol the happy 
old times. It Is not often I talk of myself, but I 
want you to know me better, l want you to be 
sure that the only fault I have been guilty of has 
been to think too much of a man I can never 
marry. That is all. it was very wrong, I sup¬ 
pose, and sorrowiul, but I could not help It; it is 
still a dear recollection to me, and 1 cannot pre¬ 
tend to put it out ot my heart for ever.” 
“ My dear, I will not usk you to do That.” 
“Theielsnot a thought In my heart which you 
might not read, Dr. Yorke—not one. And, ir I 
have no love to give you, at least 1 have tho 
warmest liking—gratitude—respect.” 
“ 1XK| k at me, oilvo,” Robert Yorke said gravely, 
with a sigh; ami the girl turned her eandkl eyes 
upon him at once. “ I am no longer young—I am 
not a man to win any woman's fancy, I think; 
but. If you can trust your ruture to me, I will try 
to make you happy—you and Nelson.” 
“ Dr. Yorke—I—" 
“ G,ve me your band, my dear, it’s more to me 
than another woman a heart.” 
And Olive surrendered it, cold and trembling, 
into his kind steadfast clasp. 
THE RURhl NEW-YORKER. 
Dr. Yorke went home half an hour earlier that 
evening. Gertrude, who was In the drawing¬ 
room, was startled by the click of his key In the 
door, and by hearing her sedate cousin run up¬ 
stairs two stops at a time. 
“ Good gracious, Robert!” she exclaimed, as he 
burst Into the room smiling and eager. “ is It so 
late ? r must go and dress for dinner.” 
“ Walt a bit,” Gertrude, the Doctor said, clasping 
her hand as she passed. “Never mind dressing 
for dinner to-day. I have something to say to 
you.” 
Gertrude was fluttered. In some doubt she looked 
at her dress, then at her cousin’s agitated face, 
and with a blush sat down again and took up her 
work. 
“ What Is It, Robert?” she asked, putting her 
basket of wool out of reach of bis clumsy nervous, 
Angers. “ And make haste, please, or my aunt—” 
” I want you to make me a promise, dear,” Rob¬ 
ert Interrupted, leaning hla elbows on the table, 
and looking into Gertrude's gray eyes, which fell 
betere his gaze, •• You know that Aunt Elizabeth Is 
very much attached to you, and t hinks you are, a 
dear good sensible girl.” 
“ Oh, Robert t” 
“ We have been very happy together, we three, 
haven’t we ? And It would be a pity that anything 
should occur to break up such a pleasant home.” 
No. 5. 
Gertrude’s buxom chest heaved ; the color deep¬ 
ened In her plurnp race. 
“ Now, if I were to ask you," Robert continued, 
“ to use your Influence with our good aunt to re¬ 
concile her to a step I resolve upon taking, and 
which may at first cause her some annoyance-” 
*• I don’t understand you. Robert,” Miss Fl 3 her 
Interrupted, a little pale now. “ What can you be 
going to do that Aunt Elizabeth would disapprove 
oi ? Surely, after all her kindness-” 
“Yes—yes, but there are times when a man 
must decide for himself, Gertrude, and’’—the Doc¬ 
tor leant forward and kissed her round cheek af¬ 
fectionately—“ I am going to be married, my dear 
little cousin, and I want you to love my wife, and 
be kind to her Ior m 3 ' sake.” 
The work trembled In poor Gertrude's hands, but 
she went on pulling the Ivory needle through the 
loops and meshes, trying to hide the bitter disap¬ 
pointment that was swelling in her throat and 
dimming her eyes. 
“ Come, dear, have you nothing to Bay ?” the 
Doctor asked reproachfully. 
“ 1 am sorry 1 cannot congratulate you, Robert,” 
she answered In a husky and uncertain voice. “ it 
Is to that —that person at the theatre, I suppose ?” 
With au effort Dr. Yorke controlled his annoy¬ 
ance. 
“ That person, as you call her, Gertnido, is a 
girl like yourself, good, pretty, educated. I hoped 
3 'ouwere too far above vulgar prejudices to con¬ 
demn her unknown, because of her calling." 
“ 1 have never spoken to an actress in my life,” 
Gertrude said crossly. She too had had her little 
dream, and was it likely she should feel very kind¬ 
ly towards this rival who had so soon dispelled it ? 
“ But, It I tell you that this actress is a—an an¬ 
gel of goodness, devoted to her little brother—that 
Miss Carew Is a lady In the truest meaning of the 
word, and—come, won’t you be kind to this 
girl whom I love so dearly ?” 
No. <5. 
Short-sighted Dr. Yorke! 
“ I really don’t know what ray aunt,” Gertrude 
began, but Robert made an impatient movement. 
“ For Heaven's sake, Gertrude, apeak for j-our- 
self for once!” he cried. “ Never ml ud what other 
people do or tillnlc, but promise mo that my wife 
shall have one ntend at least in her new home." 
Gertrude could not shake off the old feeling 
about her cousin all in a moment, even though he 
was engaged to be married, and the kind pleading 
voice she had learned to like so well touched her 
In spite of herself. 
“ I’m sure, Robert, I will do whatever Is right,” 
she said, rising and turning away to hide the tears 
she could not keep back any longer. “ I don't 
think poor papa ever Intended me to live In the 
same house with a public character, but I hope 
you may be happy !” 
No. 7. 
Dr. Yorke dined alone. A servant brought him 
word that Mias Yorke was indisposed, and that 
Miss Gertrude would remain with her aunt. 
“So the battle begins,” he thought, smiling 
grimly. “ Well, my shoulders are pretty broad— 
but”—the Doctor drank Ills glass of sherry, and set 
down the glass with ominous force—“ Jf they hurt 
Olive I”—To be continued. 
-- 
WHITTIER AND GARRISON. 
Tun poet Whittier, the life-long friend and co-laborer 
of Garrison, sent tho following- tribute to his memory 
to bo read at the funeral service; 
The storm aud peril overpast, 
The hounding-hatred shamed and still, 
Go, bouI of freedom, take at last 
The place which thou alone canst fill. 
Go up and on; thy day well done, 
The morning’s promise well fulfilled; 
Arise to triumph yet unknown, 
The holiest tasks that God has willed. 
Go! leave behind thee all that mars 
The work below of man for man; 
With tho white legions of the stars 
Do service such as angels can. 
Wherever wrong shall right deny. 
Or suffering spirits urge their plea. 
Be thine a voice to smite the lie. 
And hand to set the captive free. 
A TRIP TO BORNEO. 
The following extract from a letter I lately re¬ 
ceived from my esteemed, friend, Mr. F. W. Bur- 
bridge, of London, In reference to ills late trip to 
the East Indian Archipelago, may he Interesting 
to some of the Rural readers. w. r> 0 
“As to ray trip to Borneo, I got on fairly well. It. 
is a beautiful country, hi which you can go any¬ 
where and do what you like—no laws, jails, work¬ 
houses, railways, horses, carts, not even a fence or 
a board warning trespassers, so common in Eng¬ 
land—just a wild forest-land, with here and there 
a village and a few fields cut out or the wild, and 
planted with rice, caladlum esculentum, sweet po¬ 
tatoes, cotton, maize, irult trees, and a few patches 
of tobacco. Men and women are gentle a nd friendly, 
as a rule. Now and then a fellow runs -amuck,’ 
drawing his chopper and slashing at everybody- he 
meets, until somebody puts slugs through him or 
pins him with a spear. These mad fellows are 
about as rare as mad dogs in London, and about as 
dangerous. 
No. s. 
“ One or two of the tribes inland, as the Kayans 
andMuruts, keep up the old kind of llfe.'llving 
principally by hunting wild pigs, cattle and deer, 
all their larming bring done by the women. These 
tribes are nearly always at war with one another, 
and if they kill an enemy they preserve his skull 
as a trophy. In some of their houses you may see 
a hundred or two or these skulls, but many of t hem 
very old and rotten. They use them in decorating 
their houses at their periodical reasts. Thoy make 
raids on each other, lining the men and raking the 
women and children as slaves All through the 
East women do most or the work, and arc not of 
much account; a woman and a buffalo are about 
equal lu value. 
“(’oast, and river Journeys are made by native 
boats, pulled by in or 12 men with paddles, or they 
act well with a wind. All Malays are good sailors 
and the worst pirates In the world, although not 
now so common as formerly. All inland lourneys 
must be made on the back ot a big water buffalo 
or on root. 'The roads are like sheep-tracks on the 
hills; In the valleys you are up to the knees in 
mud or up to the arm-pica m water. Sometimes 
on the plains you may go a mile or two In soft 
mud a loot thick, and the whole way through a i 
tunnel of overhanging grasses and sedges. The 
climate la the most uniformly hot, and wet, and 
feverish in the world. Snakes are plentiful; mon¬ 
keys, ourang outanga, scorpions, centipedes, etc., 
are plentiful, too. The only dangerous animal, 
however. Is the alligator, a big, ugly, voracious 
brute; and the one which gives one most trouble 
ana pain of all Is the mosquito. 
“ Plants do well here. Tree ferns are lovely, 30 
feet high; Bamboo, 60 feet high. Orchids are 
plentiful in places; Plmloenopsls granditlora Is the 
best. There are some beautiful Renantheras 
which will not bloom at home. Mangoes, Oranges, 
fine Pomaloes, Limes, Darlan, Mangosteen, Bana¬ 
nas, etc., are abundant. Grapes and bigs loll mis¬ 
erably, and Pomegranates and Melons are poor— 
too wet for them, and too uniformly hot for Figs 
and Grapes. The finest plants are Palms and big 
Nepenthes, tho latter—of which there arc four 
species on the * Bornean Andes’—are wonderful. 
They grow at an altitude of 10,000 feet, where It. is 
cool and wet, and soon go wrong on the plains. 
Their habitat is seven days’ direct journey on foot 
Inland. 
THE PHILOSOPHY OF WRINKLES. 
Time and physical suffering cause the creases 
about the eyes more than anything else. There¬ 
fore, with proper attention to your health, you 
have It In 3 ’our power to avoid many of these. 
Nervous suffering often gives a hard look to the 
mouth, and sometimes pulls It out of shape We 
all of us that are worth anything must go through 
more or less of it. But the spirit in which we bear 
it win be sure to leave Its impress about the most 
mobile ot all the features of the face. Pain of all 
No. 9. 
kinds, anguish, agony, care, wrinkle the forehead 
from temple to temple. Thought and passion 
crease It perpendicularly between the brows. All 
these outward manifestations ot the Internal con¬ 
flict that goes on in every one of us from day to 
day are, to some extent, within the control of our 
will, but they do not yield one lota to all cosmetics 
In the world. You have a certain feeling, and 
your face takes on certain lines, and in proportion 
to the recurrence of that feeling those lines deep¬ 
en. But you may, by the exercise ot your will¬ 
power, keep that feeling in check to a certain 
extent, and to a certain extent also control the 
lines ot your face. This Is all the preventive or 
cosmetic that there is for wrinkles, So save the 
money you have put aside for any other so-called 
cure of them, aud use It ior a better purpose. 
There can be no real and lasting beauty without 
truth. Try to be true to a noble Ideal all through. 
This Is the foundation. the corner stone or true 
beauty. An at tractive race Is not a made-up one. 
It is the face of one on good terms with his or her 
own soul. Yes, that is the grand secret of all effi¬ 
cacious cosmetics for the face. Be on good terms 
with your own soul; and secondly , treat your body 
with all the respect and reverence that are due to 
the temple of the soul .—Howard GlyruKm, in Do¬ 
mestic. Monthly. 
-»■ — »--— 
Tit for Tat.— When Lord Stratford was ambas¬ 
sador at Constantinople, one of the secretaries had 
an audience with the Sheikh ul Islam, who, at the 
moment of his visitor's entrance, was engaged In 
the performance of his devotions. The secretary 
sat down while the devotee finished prayers, which 
were ended by an Invocation to Allah to rorglve a 
suppliant true believer tho sin of holding direct In¬ 
tercourse with a giaour. His conscience thus re¬ 
lieved, the old multi rose from his knees and smil¬ 
ingly welcomed his guest. But this guest, who 
No. in. 
was a great original in his turn, begged permission 
to perforin his devotions. He gravely went 
through an Arabic formula, ami ended by begging 
Allah to forgive a good Christian the crime ot vis¬ 
iting a “faithless dog of an Infidel.” The aston¬ 
ished old mufti was nettled, but with true Oriental 
imperturbability he bore the Insult. 
